Fair Is the Rose (31 page)

"What is this about?" she asked woodenly as he led her to the door.

"You'll see" was all he offered.

They walked next door in silence. The bitter cold weather didn't help her uneasiness. The wind whipped down the center of town, skimming across the frozen ruts in the road, whistling through loosened clapboards, rattling unpainted false fronts. From the east to the west, there was no one in sight on the road. The frozen silence in the middle of town was eerie.

"In here," he said, and waved his hand through the door. She stepped into the jail. She already knew it well. Many a time Faulty had had her pick up the saloon's liquor there. It was now converted to a jail, and she was surprised how little had changed. The walls were still crumbling whitewashed
brick,
steel bars still divided the room where the kegs used to be stored. She stared nervously into the new jail cell. A canvas army cot and a bale of hay were the only things it contained. A rush of anxiety passed through her. She wouldn't let him—or anyone —put her in there. After the asylum, she wouldn't be locked up again.

"Sit down."

A table and chairs had been brought from the store. Reluctantly, she allowed him to seat her. On the opposite wall, a store-bought calendar caught her attention. The picture of a rosy-cheeked blonde dressed in ermine and blue satin stared at her from the top of the calendar. The date "1876" was printed in gold embossed letters across the girl's plumed chapeau.

1876.
It was going on four years since she'd run away. The thought depressed her. She had so much to accomplish, and yet all she did day after day was struggle for survival. Dismally she wondered if she wasn't being a fool in thinking that she'd get revenge on Didier. Without money she was powerless, and her time and energy were overwhelmed in fighting for subsistence. Suddenly she was as close to giving up as she'd ever come. That blue wool at the mercantile beckoned her. It was so warm ... so soft . . .

But then her eyes met Macaulay's and she knew the fight was still in her. She wouldn't let him see her shame herself. He already had a low opinion about her character. He thought her a whore. She wasn't about to prove it to him.

To prove her nonchalance, she loosened her shawl, letting it drop around her arms. The room was well heated, a delightful change from the drafty saloon. During the winter, the liquor depot was always die warmest place in town. Jan kept the stove burning night and day to keep the whiskey bottles from shattering.

Macaulay walked to a small desk where some papers were stacked. He retrieved something. Without a word, he slid it in front of her. As if he simply wanted to see her reaction.

It was a daguerreotype of her and her sister. Alana had been perhaps fifteen; Christal, twelve. Christal had taken the picture with her when she'd fled New York. It was the only memento she had of her family. The daguerreotype was in the trunk that Kineson and his gang had pilfered after they'd removed it from the roof of the Overland stagecoach.

"You've returned my money.
And now this.
So where are the rest of my things?" she asked in a controlled voice that hid how unsettled she was.

"I can wire Rollins and have them sent here. There's not much."

"What Kineson stole from the coach was everything I have in the world."

"You could have had all your belongings and five hundred dollars if you'd only waited an extra day at Camp Brown. Now you'll have your things in due time." His hand rested on her shoulder. For strength, or intimidation, she didn't know. "Tell me about the picture."

She stared down at the daguerreotype. "Why did you bring it with you and not the rest of my belongings?"

"I'm not a courier. The picture's what interested me."

His hand lowered
to her own
. He slowly removed her right glove. One instinct told her to pull her hand away, the other told her to stay and not look guilty. Without even glancing at the scar on her palm, he grasped her hand in his. The warm shock of his skin against hers sent a tingle down her spine.

"Tell me about this," he
said,
his voice a coaxing deep rumble in her ear. "The girl next to you must be your sister. She looks like you. What's her name?"

"A—" She closed her mouth, unable to speak. She couldn't tell him. Revealing even a little detail like Alana's name would be stupid.

"Who is Sarony?"

She stared down at the picture. The name
Sarony
flowed across the lower right-hand corner. Napoleon Sarony was the premiere New York daguerreotyper. Just going to have the picture taken had been a momentous occasion; there weren't many of her social class who had stood for a daguerreotype. Knickerbockers had had their portraits done by great painters like Stuart and Copley. Photography was something most members of their class dismissed as fleeting and inconsequential. Nonetheless their mother insisted the two Van Alen girls be photographed.

Sarony's studio was at the top of a four-story building with bays of La Farge stained glass and skylights flooding it with sunshine. It was an entrancing place, but what had captured her thirteen-year-old heart was Sarony's collection of exotica. Leopard skins dotted the
floors,
potted palms swayed over doorways, and in one corner, Persian couches upholstered in red and purple flanked a strange fox-red monkey called an orangutan that was trained to cool seated guests with an ostrich fan.

She smiled to herself at the memory. Their mother had thought Sarony was crazy, but she was still insistent upon the daguerreotype.

Feeling
a tightness
in her throat, Christal forced herself to look at the picture. Both girls were dressed in serious umber-colored satin gowns, an indicator of their exalted family lines. Her sister, Alana, though barely sixteen, appeared calm and serene, even regal.
But not Christal.
In her eyes there was such a twinkle of happy mischief that she couldn't help but wonder if it was still there, ready to come alive again should her fortunes change.

She tried to hide how much the daguerreotype meant to her, but that was difficult, especially when she could relive that day completely in her mind. When Mr. Sarony had all his apparatus in front of them, she could remember, a twinge of anxiety had passed through her.

It was as if she were worried that the magic of taking their images might also take something they could never get back. But just as she was ready to ruin the picture, Alana had reached over and taken her hand in her lap, somehow possessing a big sister's instinct that she needed reassurance.

Even now Christal could see the "ghost" image of Alana's arm as she pulled her sister's hand into hers. And now Christal was grateful to Sarony, so grateful that if she ever met the man again she would throw her arms around him and kiss him on both cheeks. He hadn't taken anything from them at all; he'd given them a moment that would remain forever, undimmed by cruel mortal memory.

Her gaze rose from the daguerreotype to Macaulay's hand wrapped around her own. Sisters held hands.
Friends and families.
She missed it. It was comforting and genuine: one hand perfectly meshed into another, as hers was in Macaulay's.

She stared at the physical bond of their hands. It looked so right. Her hand, fragile and pale, covered with another, one strong, corded, the back sprinkled with dark hair. These were the clasped hands of lovers.

Lovers.

"Thank you for bringing this to me. I must be going now." She stood and shakily pulled on her glove.

"I know she's your sister. Why won't you even tell me her name?" His face was taut with repressed anger and frustration.

"Her name is unimportant."

He slammed the door closed just as she opened it. She shivered in the gust of frigid air.

"If it's unimportant, you would tell me. So I can only conclude it's of supreme importance." He looked down at her and she could see every silver fleck in his eyes. "What—is—her-—name?" He paused. "Is she dead?"

She was silent.

He looked as if he could beat her. "What must I do to get you to talk? Jail you on some offense and starve you with bread and water?"

"I'm never going to tell you anything. Don't put us through this torture."

"You were rich, weren't you?" He ripped the daguerreotype from her hand and pointed to the gowns. "These dresses are satin. Only rich girls wear satin."

She was silent. He looked down at her, his handsome features ravaged by frustration. She almost toyed with the idea of telling him all kinds of lies so that his curiosity might be satisfied and he might go away.
Might.

Contempt curled his lip. "I can't help but get the feeling if I was some lonely renegade you'd be purring every night to tell me all about yourself." He shoved her aside. "You're just like every other fallen woman I've known. You don't like a man unless he's criminal and treats you bad."

Her eyes sparked with fury. There was nothing more to say. "I've got to go. I've got people waiting for me."

"I'll bet," he spat out in disgust.

"I meant Faulty!"

"Fine!
You go back to that saloon. It's where you belong anyway."

"I'm not a whore. You know it," she said, blinking back angry tears.

"Then prove it." His voice was low and desperate. "Tell me something about yourself and
prove
it
. '
Cause if you don't, I'm going to put Faulty's, and every other establishment like it, out of business for prostitution."

She ached to slap him. "Don't bother with Faulty. I won't be working for Faulty anymore. He's shown me too much kindness for me to let you ruin his livelihood. I'm leaving tomorrow when the wagons arrive from Fort Washakie. Go ahead and follow. We'll just go from town to town destroying each other."

They stood, braced for combat, glaring at each other.

Finally he shook his head in resignation. "If you run, I can outlast you. But I believe you'd rather die than tell me anything, and I don't hanker to bury you out there on the prairie."

"Then why don't you go back to Washington? Nobody here wants a sheriff anyway, except Jan."

"I looked forward to this job. It's peaceful and there's no runnin'. I'm here to stay for a while. I'm not ready for Washington."

"You're a one-man club, then. Nobody wants to be here but you." She glared at him. "May I leave, Sheriff?"