Fair Is the Rose (5 page)

"I don't see your feet moving, ma'am."

She stared at him. Even through her veil, she could see those amazingly cold eyes. Bravely, she stepped out of the stagecoach.

To her surprise they were in a town. There were three buildings ahead, two of them decrepit and skeletal, blue sky peeking through the walls like pieces of a puzzle. The third had once been a saloon, but the top of its false front had long ago tumbled to the ground and blocked the entrance. She raised her hand to shut out the sun's glare. A sign still hung over the saloon's swinging doors, so full of bullet holes it was illegible. The sound of rushing water from the gorge behind the saloon was the only clue to her whereabouts. They had said they were taking them to a ghost town named Falling Water. Clearly they had arrived.

She turned to look at her captor. None of the other passengers was visible down the dusty road, but three men with shotguns appeared from behind the saloon. Cain stared at them, his expression unreadable.

"Where are the rest?" one of the men asked, an outdated Sharps rifle crossed over his chest, ready.

Cain jerked his head in the direction of the road.
"Coming."

The men let out a
holler,
tiien picked their way forward through the fallen planking, their uneasiness melting into jubilation.

"We got 'em, eh! We got em!" one man chanted. The other hooted, while the third rushed up to Cain.

"Found a room to lock 'em in, Cain, just like you asked." The man was thin and pimply. Even though she was hidden by her veil, he gave her a skeevy smile that made her draw back. "It's at the top of the saloon.
Couldn't ask for better.
No, you couldn't ask for better."

"Where's the key?" Cain demanded, not touched by the men's excitement. He held out his hand. The man obediently handed it over.

"What we got here?" The second man came around, a big, ugly brute with greasy hair tied back with a strip of leather. He had more than curiosity on his face when he reached out to lift her veil. Christal skittered back only to land solidly against Cain's chest.

"Enough," Cain growled to the brute.

The man retreated.

Cain continued, putting an ironlike arm around her waist, either to keep her from fleeing or to keep them from attacking. "We got work to do before the others arrive. Boone," he said, motioning to the brute, "get the horses watered." He turned to the man with the smile and the third, an older man near sixty, who was just now stumbling over the last of the planks. "You two go get a stag. I'm going to get hungry and I get mean when I'm hungry."

The two nodded, swung their shotguns over their shoulders, and disappeared behind the saloon. Boone took another glance at Christal before he and the outlaw who had driven the stage walked the horses to the paddock south of the saloon.

She was again left alone with Cain. It was just him and her, empty buildings, blowing dust, and sky. She
swallowed,
her throat as dry as the road. She didn't want to be taken anywhere without the other passengers, and her mind whirled, desperately trying to think of some way to flee. Her
hand tightened on her little grosgrain purse
, her finger quietly searching for the trigger, but before she found it Cain's manacle grip took her arm. Her instinct was to run, and she stumbled back, trying to gather her skirts to do so, but he had her in both hands and began dragging her toward the saloon before she could gasp a protest.

"Where are we going?" she demanded, struggling to release his viselike hand on her arm, her heart beating a staccato rhythm in her chest.

He stopped. He ripped the veil from her face and threw it in the road. A wind kicked up, and it rolled away like
a tumbleweed
.

"I needed that veil," she said, her defiant expression hiding the fear that pumped in her veins.

For the first time she saw a small glimmer of compassion in his eyes. Quietly he said, "Yeah, you ought to hide that face from these men. But in the end it isn't going to do you any good. And right now I want to see who I'm talking to." He squeezed her arm and shoved her in the direction of the saloon. Her purse—and her pistol—dangled just out of her reach from her only free hand.

A small path had been cleared in the fallen lumber. He forced her through the swinging doors and let her go. Christal walked a few steps, hardly believing her eyes. The saloon was no better than the road. Pale blond dust covered everything, the raw floorboards, the bar,
the
rickety chairs.

"Up the stairs."

Her breath caught in her throat. She whipped around to face him. She wasn't going to go up to the saloon's bedrooms with him. She would shoot him dead on the spot rather than let him rape her.

"Go on," he said.

She glanced around to see if there was a way to escape. The only door was blocked by him.

He stepped forward, the planes of his face hardened by the saloon's deep shadows. "What's your name?"

"Christal," she whispered, not looking at him.

"Christal what?"

"Christal Smith."

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Not Mrs.?"

"Yes.
Mrs.
Christal Smith," she spat.

"How long has he been dead?"

She almost asked "who" but quickly collected herself. "My husband's been dead six weeks."

"You couldn't have been married long."

She didn't answer.

He shrugged. In a low rumble he said, "We all gotta die."

She wondered if she heard compassion in his voice. If it was there, she prayed she could appeal to it. If it wasn't, with his cold eyes, God have mercy on her soul.

"Do you want to know who I am?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest. His shotgun had been left in the stage, but he didn't need it by the looks of the two six-shooters slung low on his hips.

He stepped toward her.

She tried to keep her voice cool and even. The closer he walked to her, the farther he was from the door, the better her chances of escape. Slowly she said, "I know who you are."

He smiled.
"Who, then?"

She eyed the door one last time, her nerves on fire for her escape. "You're Macaulay Cain.
The outlaw."

He took one more step; she bolted. She ran as if from wildfire, hope blooming when she cleared the swinging doors. But he easily tripped her in her cumbersome skirts. She tumbled to the dirt road and her purse and the pistol within it fell in the dust, maddeningly out of her reach.

He dropped to his knees, straddling her, and pinned her arms over her head. She struggled, his face dark and anonymous against the glare of the sun. Her knee jerked up to kick, she pushed against him like a filly trying to buck him off, but he only chuckled. She could have shot him just for laughing. Groping for her purse with what little leeway the grip on her wrists gave her, she could almost feel the silk cord of the handle. Her fingertips reached it, but with immaculate timing, he thrust her arms to her sides, far away from the vicinity of her purse. She was trapped.

Her breath coming in short, angry puffs, she stared up at him. He paused. Then he touched her hair.

She released a moan of fury. Captured as she was, she couldn't stop his hand from stroking the thick tangle that had fallen out of its pins. He picked up a curl and the pale color made a striking contrast to the dark hairs that sprinkled across the back of his hand. "Let me go," she spat.

"Your
hair's
like butter, did you know that?" His mouth pulled at the corner, as if he were biting back something he didn't want to feel.

"I said let me go."

He fingered her high collar that proved she was too impoverished even to sport a cheap cameo. Cupping her chin, he forced her gaze to his. "Now that I can see them, you got beautiful eyes too.
The color of sky.
Did your husband ever tell you that?"

"What business is that of yours?" she asked in a low, angry tone.

He ignored her retort. His hand fell to her waist. She squirmed; he didn't give an inch. He caressed the shoddy black crepe of her basque,
then
ran his knuckles across the swag of bombazine at her hips. His voice became husky. "And your waist is very small. Very small," he repeated, almost against his will.

Slowly his gaze rose to her breasts. She could see in his expression that he liked the way they rose and fell with anger and exertion. He liked it a lot.

She screwed up her lips to spit. No one was allowed to look at her that way.
No one.

"You spit at me, ma'am, and I'll make that Yankee general Butler look like a goddamned knight."

Fury met ice. Her knowledge of the war was limited, but she knew who Butler was. He had the women of New Orleans locked up as prostitutes when they dared spit on one of his troops. Her lips parted in surrender.

She released an angry squeal of frustration, and he hoisted her onto her feet. She grappled to get her purse, but he scooped it from the dirt by the silken cord. He took hold of her waist, and she scratched and kicked and hit to keep from reentering the saloon without her weapon, but the man's enormous strength controlled her as if she were nothing but a doll. She lost the battle.

He dragged her through the swinging doors and stepped onto the stairs, shoving her in front of him. She fought like a cat to be freed, but he took one step, then another, and another, his boots hitting the boards like a drumbeat.

"No," she gasped, and pried at his hands on her arm and her waist, but he put down her rebellion once and for all by heaving her onto his shoulder. She kicked and wiggled until the froth of her petticoats was nearly to her thighs, but to no avail, she couldn't get free. At the top of the stairs, he entered a room, dumped her on a soiled feather mattress, and dropped her purse on a chair, out of her reach.

She stared at him in the dust that billowed from the mattress. He blocked the path to her purse, rendering her pistol useless. She had no way to win; he was going to rape her.

But he would have to kill her first. She wouldn't go without a fight.