Fair Is the Rose (29 page)

"Maybe you have me all wrong, Macaulay. Maybe I wanted to come here. Maybe I'm doing just what I want to do.
With no man directing me all the time."

"So that's why you ran from five hundred dollars?
To keep your independence?"
His harsh laugh cut her. "No, girl, you came here 'cause you had to. And I've come here to find out why."

"There is no reason why. I like it here. I'm doing just what I want to do."

He grabbed her arm so tightly it hurt. The anger on his face took her breath away. "Whoring? Is that doing what you want to do? I don't believe it. The woman I knew back in Falling Water was no whore."

"Maybe you didn't know all about that woman back in Falling Water," she gasped, tugging on her arm. She hated confirming what he thought, but that was the only way she could think of to make him lose interest and go home.

"Are you a whore, Christal? Have you come to like it since I last saw you?"

His contempt hurt like a twisting pain in her chest, but she refused to let it stop her. They had no chance. They never did. So why prolong the inevitable? He needed to go back where he came from and she needed to get on with earning enough money to get her uncle. She could never tell him the truth with that tin star pressing in on her; she had no evidence to vindicate herself other than her word. A confession would shatter either his belief in the law or his belief in her. And she'd rather shame herself by confessing to being what she was not than confront the fact that his belief in her—and his feeling for her—was not that strong.

"Why don't you just go back to Washington, Macaulay?" Her voice was a low, desperate whisper. "None of this concerns you. There's nothing in Noble for you, so why don't you just head back east?"

He stared at her for an ungodly amount of time, as if trying to reconcile himself to what he feared she had become. She could see the tug-of-war inside him and she wasn't sure which side won when he reached for the carpetbag and dumped the contents out onto her thin, straw-stuffed mattress.

It was the widow's weeds that captured him. He touched the black gown, reverently running his hands along the bodice and skirt. She stepped
away,
frightened by his seemingly meaningless obsession, but he grabbed her by the waist and held the black gown to her as if he was trying to remember what she looked like in it.

"Please." She began to pull away, but he wouldn't let her.

"These damned weeds haunt me." He stood so
close,
she could feel his breath against her cheek. "You looked pretty fine in these weeds, girl. Your hair is like spun gold against the black. Your skin is . . . pink and fragile. When I saw you in these weeds I wanted to protect you. But now you tell me it was all an act. You're not a widow, are you?"

Surrendering the lies for a moment, she slowly shook her head.

He looked deep into her eyes. She could see the gleam of cynicism that was growing in his. In Falling Water, there had been a kind of respectful distance he'd kept from her because he'd thought she was a lady. Now that she'd all but confirmed his worst thoughts, the respectful distance was gone, and in its stead was a kind of familiarity that stripped her of her feelings and uniqueness. He looked at her now as if he'd seen a hundred women like her before. And though she told herself that was just what she wanted, perhaps even needed, it still sliced her to the core.

"Were you swindling someone? Is that why you were dressed like a widow?
To fool them?"

She shook her head, suddenly finding it difficult to look into his eyes. "I dress that way when I travel. I'm treated better."

"I see. I guess I might've done the same. Even I have to admit, if I'd have known you were just another whore, I might not have been so chivalrous."

Her cheeks reddened with anger, but she didn't deny it. The sooner he had his fill of contempt for her, the sooner he'd be on his horse heading out of town. "I didn't ask you to cause me all this trouble. If you came here to get your questions about me answered, then they're answered. You believe I'm a whore, go ahead and believe it if that'll get you back on your horse and out of town."

"I didn't come all this distance to just up and leave." His eyebrow lifted as he stared down at her. At first it was damning, condemning her with each flicker of his eyes, but soon his gaze grew taunting. He missed nothing, not the shortness of her gown, nor the bells tied around her scarlet-stockinged ankle. Slowly he moved to her chemisette. Behind the gossamer of cotton, there was just the slightest hint of bosom, more than was proper for a lady. When he met her eyes again, she ached to slap him.

"I won't whore for
you,
Cain, if that's what you're thinking." Her fury turned her cold and aloof. If she could freeze him out of town, she would.

He only gave her a cynical twist to his lips. "I'm glad to hear that, Widow Smith
. 'Cause
I
don't
intend to pay."

She broke from his hold, her eyes like ice. "You're not getting anything, whether you pay or not."

"Faulty gave me a token for you. He implied the thing was just a little souvenir of the saloon, but I know what he gave it to me for. 'On the house,' he said. He all but told me I could have you."

"He had no right."

He grabbed her again,
then
fished through a pocket in his silk vest. When he found what he was looking for, he pressed the token into her hand. He growled, "If you really are a whore, darlin', you won't refuse this. So prove to me who you are, one way or the other.
Tonight."

She opened her palm. The brass token was pierced with a heart. On one side, it was embossed:
Mrs. Buck-ner's Parlour House, Fort Laramie.
On the other side, which his thumb now stroked, it read in crude capitals: GOOD FOR ONE SCREW. Faulty had a coffer of them, all useless, from an out-of-business cathouse. Dixi and Ivy didn't honor them, so she sure as hell wouldn't.

"Give this to Dixiana." She threw the token at him, her face alive with indignation and anger. The brass coin clattered to the floor.

He stared at her, his expression just as angry, just as desperate. "So are you or aren't you?"

"What you're suggesting,
Sheriff,
is illegal." She spat out, "I don't think the circuit judge would be pleased to hear about it."

His arm lowered to her waist and he roughly pulled her against him. "And you'd just love to go against the circuit judge, wouldn't you, darlin'? With your penchant for running from the law ..."

His words struck her like a knuckle across the face. By his expression, she knew he hadn't seen the wanted poster. Most likely he believed her a whore who'd committed some petty thievery, then
run
from the law only to end up in Noble. But she couldn't allow his speculation to continue. If he hung around, digging into her past, it wouldn't be long before he discovered who she really was.

"So what's it to be, Christal, truth or dare? Are you going to tell me why you left Camp Brown the way you did, or are you going to lie back on that bed and honor this here token?"

She didn't even breathe.

His hand rode up her waist until it rested beneath the swell of one corseted breast.

"If you're a whore, you'll honor that token just to be rid of me," he whispered against her hair.

His hand rode higher.

Her heart beat harder. Inside she felt a war was being waged. He might go away if she relented. But if she relented—

"Stop."
She pushed his hand away before he cupped her breast. Stumbling from his arms, she went to the bed, where her possessions lay scattered across the mattress. Without forethought, she began stuffing them inside her carpetbag.

"You aren't a whore, are you?" he asked softly, watching her.

She didn't deny or confirm his words. She just kept packing.

"You're still the woman I knew back in Falling Water," he whispered reverently. "You're still fighting to keep your honor. So why are you here, Christal? Faulty's not beating you into working for him—he's too good-natured. There's no apparent reason on earth for you to be here, doing what you're doing. So why are you here, Christal? Why?"

Tears threatened. She didn't dare answer; she just kept cramming all her worldly belongings into the small, worn carpetbag.

He put a hand on hers and stopped her. Slowly he lifted her hand and turned over the palm. The scar gleamed in the yellow lamplight. He met her gaze. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. The questions went unspoken.

Laughter from the barroom filtered through the floorboards, shattering the moment. Hastily she pulled her hand away and, like a madwoman, continued packing.

He laughed. "What do you think you're doing? You think you're just going to ride out of town like you did last August?" He nodded to the window, which had three inches of snow clinging to the sills. "You're not going to get out of here till the spring thaw." He stepped over and took her bag. He set it on the bureau, far from her reach. "That's
right,
it's just going to be you and me. . . . For months, darlin' . . . That oughta be time enough to get you out of anybody's system."

"I can leave whenever I want to."

"You'll leave when I let you leave." His smile never reached those ungodly cold eyes. "I'm the sheriff, remember? Nobody here wants me angry and snooping into their business. If it means they've got to tell me when you left and where you were headed, then so be it."

She stared at him, defiance hot in her eyes, but she could find no way out of his trap. She wasn't going to get far in winter, not in Wyoming. Until the thaw and until his back was turned, there seemed no other choice but to play the game his way.

"You've nothing to gain by staying in Noble. I won't honor that token." She tightened her lips.

"When it's time, I won't need a token."

Angered anew, she held her breath and walked past him to leave the room.

His arm shot out to stop her.

"I've got customers," she said through clenched teeth.

"I told Faulty when he suggested—ever so legally, mind you—that I might enjoy the company of one of his girls, that if I liked one in particular, my girl wasn't to be with any other man but me. That was our little understanding."