Fair Is the Rose (43 page)

"Christal," she whispered, growing more afraid of that stare with every passing second.

The expression on his face was one of deep satisfaction.

"Where are you from?" For some reason, she had a burning need to know about him. Her instincts told her it was important.

"I just came from Laramie.
Before that, St. Louis.
You been to St. Louis? Women there aren't near as beautiful as you."

His thumb ran along her scarred palm, and for some reason Christal felt her knees give way. Terror ran liquid through her veins. Suddenly she couldn't wait for Macaulay to darken the door.

"Please—let me give you your nickel back—suddenly I don't feel well—"

"I want to keep dancing. I don't get chances to be with women like you . . . and time's almost up."

She stumbled. He kept his hand locked on her waist. He turned the corner with her, his inexperienced feet treading on her own as if he didn't care at all about the pain he caused her.

"No—please—we must stop—"

"I
like it." The half-breed answered as if he wasn't really talking to her, but to himself.

"No, no . . ." She tried to stop, to gracefully pull out of his arms, but he was a big man and she, only a petite woman. The only way she was going to get away from him was to cause a scene.

"We must stop right now.
I
don't feel well." She looked at him, but he didn't even see her. He was running his thumb again and again along the ridges of the scar on her palm.

She froze, inexplicably terrified, every muscle in her body tensed as if for a fight. He started to waltz again, but she tossed his nickel at him, the coin bouncing off his shoulder and clattering to the floor, a noisy, humiliating rejection. He wasn't even angry. He just kept on dancing, dragging her with him like a predator with prey.

Until a voice cracked like thunder behind her.

"What the hell are you doin', girl?"

One by one, heads turned until even old deaf Joe quit playing the upright and wheeled around on his stool to stare. From the corner of her eye, Christal saw that Faulty looked about ready to roll back on his heels and faint dead away. She watched him take a fortifying gulp of firewater and amble from behind the bar.

The half-breed released her, picked up his coin, and retreated to his table like a kicked dog. Christal was flooded with relief. But then she faced Cain.

He stood by the door, his arms crossed ominously across his chest. Even though she expected it, the fury on his face daunted her.

"I told you no more dances," he said, a deadly calm in his voice.

"I was helping Faulty," she answered as defiantly as she could beneath that cold stare.

"Faulty can go to hell."

"A lovers' quarrel, now don't that beat all!"
Faulty came running up, releasing a nervous, high-pitched laugh.
"Christal, you gotta be nice to Sheriff Cain here. If he
don't
want you dancin', then—"

Macaulay turned his eyes to Faulty only once, but the one cold glance was enough to cut off Faulty's words as if Cain had reached into his throat and pulled out his vocal cords.

He turned back to Christal. "I suggest we take this discussion elsewhere. Upstairs would be my preference."

From the corner of her eye she could see the half-breed staring at them. Macaulay particularly seemed to interest him.

Faulty scurried back to the cover of the bar. It was as if everyone in the saloon were preparing for a gunfight. There would be a showdown all right, but it would take place here in the saloon, not upstairs on her mattress. She would make sure of it.

"No, Cain. You can't tell me what to do. I want to help Faulty tonight and that's just what I'm going to do." She hid her gaze from the angry question in his eyes. She understood his bewilderment. He'd arrested Dixi in part to shield her. Now he'd come back from the jail only to find her coldly accepting his company and defying his every wish.

"If you think I'm just going to stand around while any man who wants to puts his hands on you, you've gone loco, girl." He lowered his hat over his predatory eyes. "Go get your
things,
you're coming with me to the jail."

"Are you arresting me?"

"Do you want me to?" There was more than an imagined threat in his words.

"No," she whispered, backing away.

"Then go get your things, Christal."

"No. I have rights. You may be sheriff of this town, but you're not a slavekeeper."

He took a step toward her, his expression angry bewilderment.

She backed away.

He took another step.

She turned to the staircase to bolt, but she stopped in her tracks. Ivy stood there, as pale as death.

"Oh, my God, what happened to you?" Christal whispered.

Ivy lifted her face. There were bruises on both cheeks and one eye was puffy, swollen, and purple. She appeared faint and had to steady herself on the wooden banister.

"Who did this?" Christal exclaimed, growing irrationally angry. If it wasn't for the memories of her father, she'd hate every man who walked the earth at that moment.

"That cowboy from the Henderson ranch."
Ivy's words were a bit garbled. Christal could see her jaw was nearly swollen shut.

Macaulay gave Christal an angry stare, as if to say,
we're not through,
then
gently led Ivy down the stairs to a nearby chair. "I'll go after him."

Ivy caught his hand. "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Cain snapped. "A man can't go beating on a woman as if she were some kind of green horse that refused to be broke."

"He's gone. There won't be any justice for me anyway. You know it as well as I
do
, Sheriff." Ivy wiped the tears that began falling. "He told me never to tell anyone and he'd not come back."

"He ought to be horsewhipped. I'll see to it he is."

Faulty appeared with a rag stuffed with snow and Christal began ministrations on Ivy's face. The men in the saloon spoke in low whispers.
Except for the half-breed.
A chill ran down Christal's spine when she saw his gaze still trained on Cain.

Ivy clutched Christal's hand. "Don't tell Jericho. He's supposed to show up tonight. Just tell him I'm ill. He'll go crazy if he sees me like this."

"How can I hide this from him? I've got to tell him," Christal pleaded.

"No need now." Macaulay nodded toward the back of the bar. Jericho stood there in his bearskin coat, his features hardened with rage as he stared at Ivy.

"You go home now, Jericho! You ain't got
no
cause to be here! You know the policy!" Faulty shouted at him.

Macaulay shut him up with one glance. Then he turned to the customers and said, "Go on home. The saloon's closed for the night. Y'all can come back again tomorrow night."

"Yeah, that's right," Faulty chimed in. "Ain't
no
darkies allowed in here. Tomorrow night you'll see it's so!"

Slowly the men dribbled out the door. The half-breed was last, shuffling his large feet, strangely reluctant to go. He paused only once. He stared at Macaulay and this time Macaulay stared back. The instant dislike between the men was almost palpable.

"Go on with you," Cain growled.

The half-breed shuffled out into the freezing night, his destination unknown.

"Take me with you, Sheriff. I know better than you where the Henderson ranch is," Jericho said, ignoring Faulty's glare.

Cain nodded. "We'll go right now, before the bastard's got time to run." He looked at Faulty. "Lock this place up tight." He pointed to Christal without even looking at her. "She's your responsibility while I'm gone. I want you watching her every minute. And don't take any lip. If you have to, lock her in her room."

"What?" Christal gasped. She could hardly believe her ears.

"That's right." Cain turned to her, his face still harboring a previous anger. "I don't know what you were up to tonight, but from this moment onward, you're in my custody. Consider Faulty your guardian till I return."

She stared at him, mute with fury.

He and Jericho left without another word.

Cain and Jericho were back by morning, conspicuously absent a prisoner. They had taken so long that Christal had begun to worry. Even the fright of the half-breed dimmed in the wee hours of the morning as her anxiety grew. There were a hundred innocuous reasons for Cain and Jericho's delay, but instead of thinking of lame horses and bad weather, she thought of grizzlies and gun-toting renegades unwilling to be captured.

Christal had stayed with Ivy all night. She'd tended to her with compresses and hot broth, but the girl cried until she fell into an exhausted sleep. Deep inside, Christal cried too. They'd all had enough of the misery of their lives. At least Ivy's misery would end when Jericho took her away.

From the window, Christal watched Cain dismount. His spurs cut into the ice of the road as he handed the horses to a boy from the stable. He hadn't shaved that morning and his jaw was covered by a dark beard that only accentuated the icy gray of his eyes. He wore a battered fringed jacket she remembered from Falling Water, and chaps, those same chaps worn smooth along the inside of the thighs, and that now made her want to slip her hand between his legs to remember just how slick and hard and warm those chaps were.

He turned around toward the saloon, and as if by instinct he looked up at her window. Their gazes locked.
A grave error.
Christal saw too much, she revealed too much. Her love for him left her breathless, but it sliced through her heart to think of the future. In the small dark hours of night, she'd longed for him to slip into bed beside her and erase all her tortured imaginings. But now in the cold light of morning, she was glad he had not come. Her practical side had taken hold once more and she was convinced it was best. He could only betray her. Keep him at bay, she told herself. His anger was a good thing.