Fair Is the Rose (9 page)

"I said whimper, God damn you," he grunted, and rustled the pine needles some more.

She whimpered.

It didn't take much for it to be convincing for she was shaken and confused. The sound came out as a wavering, feminine plea, and she could hear the men twitter beyond the lean-to, excited by her submission.

"Again," he groaned, now grunting in earnest.

She suddenly understood what he was doing. A sob caught in her throat. This outlaw played God with her life, her doom or salvation utterly under his control. And now he'd chosen to spare her. He was a criminal, sparing her from crimes he himself would commit, yet she was overwhelmed by a strong, insane gratitude that he chose to spare her at all.

He grew louder and more urgent. She began to weep, unable to deal with her conflicting emotions. Finally, he released a savage sound from deep in his chest, and lay over her, silent, waiting to see if they were believed.

The only sound was her soft crying. Beyond the lean-to the men were quiet. Then they began to talk as if they hadn't been listening at all.

Her senses came back to her. She could feel Cain's weight upon her. Her back felt like ice, but her chest where he covered her was warm. He breathed heavily. They were so
close,
she could feel his heart pounding.

"Why—?" she whispered, but he touched her lips, silencing her.

His words were low and harsh. "If you speak of this, you'll get me killed. Worse than that, you'll get yourself killed."

She nodded, but still she questioned why he'd helped her. He had every reason to carry out the rape, and he'd given an elaborate show to convince the other men. Yet he hadn't harmed her. Despite how she rebelled at the thought, she wondered if maybe he wasn't a bit like herself, that maybe his hard, cold renegade exterior hid another person, a person raised decent and kind,
one
who knew about compassion and mercy, yet who'd been forced by injustice to hide and seldom emerge.

Her emotions rent into tatters, she watched as he rolled off her. Tears still fell down her cheeks. Her nerves were overwrought, her feelings utterly confused. Macaulay Cain was the devil incarnate. He'd kidnapped her and treated her little better than a slave. Yet when her fate had been in his hands, he'd saved her and now his charity appeared five times more than it actually was because it came from an outlaw, a man who was not expected to show charity at all.

He sat up and his fingers caught in the tear at her shoulder. Hesitantly, he caressed her there, just once, his callused fingers on tender skin. Then he heaved himself to his knees, pulled out his shirttail, and unbuttoned his trousers. She
shivered,
the warmth of his body gone. He dragged her to her feet, and she wiped her tears, her emotions still in turmoil.

Grimly he pushed her in front of him as he had so many times that day. They walked back into the firelight, she looking stunned and ravaged, he, satisfied and dominant, slowly buttoning his pants and tucking in his shirt-tail. The outlaws were pleased. Kineson looked at her disheveled appearance and said snidely, "Here
comes
the merry widow now."

They all laughed.
Except Cain.
He gave her an indecipherable look,
then
returned to polishing his gun.

She sat by the fire, unable to think of anything but what had just happened. The men began to retire to their bedrolls and an outlaw brought back the dishes the passengers had used up at the saloon. Grateful to have something to occupy her, she gathered all the tin plates scattered among the men, removed her black cotton gloves, careful to hide her scarred palm, and washed the dishes. When she was done, she put on her gloves,
then
sat by the fireplace, her head leaning wearily against the rock.

She hadn't eaten all day, and she was exhausted. But she had no need for food or sleep. Fear left her every sense attuned to only what was around her, not within her.

There were more and more snores as the outlaws drifted to sleep. From where she sat, she could feel Kineson's gaze on her as he lay in his bedroll. After a long time, she finally had the courage to look over at him. She was unspeakably relieved that he, too, had fallen asleep. Briefly she mulled over the possibility that all the men would fall asleep and she could sneak off into the woods. But she knew it wouldn't happen. Cain was not going to allow it.

She watched him place his bedroll alongside the back of the fireplace, the choicest spot in the entire camp. She wasn't surprised the gang allowed him such a spot, only that such a hardened outlaw would require the comfort of the fireplace. But then her heart skipped a beat when she realized he might want it if he were sleeping with a woman. Her gaze never left him as he bent and untied the thongs around his thighs that secured his holstered guns. Slowly he unbuckled the holster. He held it with one hand and reached for her with the other.

She should have expected he would make her sleep with him. The gang considered her his woman and it was necessary to keep her from escaping; still, she drew back, and he had to force her down onto his blanket. With unexpected chivalry, he put her next to the heat of the fireplace, his own back to the cold night air. The holster he stuffed between them, shoving it low where he could get to his revolver quickly. Then, without a word, he pulled the blanket across his shoulders and closed his eyes.

An hour passed as she stared at the back of the fireplace. She was warm, unbelievably warm,
so
warm that she actually had to fight off sleep. But what kept her awake was the thought of those six-shooters pressed into her buttocks. She couldn't get around the notion that if she could take Cain's gun, freedom would be hers.

Another hour passed. Slowly she turned on her side and faced him. His breathing was regular and deep. Inch by excruciating inch, her hand slid down the blanket until it reached the smooth handle of one revolver. The rapid fire of her heartbeat drowned out the distant lone howl of a wolf. Her finger wiggled through the trigger guard until it rested on the trigger. Her other hand reached down and took hold of the holster. She pulled on the gun. A hand clamped down on her wrist.

"You go reaching down there, Mrs. Smith, you just might find something."

It was too dark to see his face. She released a small moan as he squeezed her wrist. A pain shot through her arm. She surrendered her hold and tried to draw back her hand, but in punishment, he wouldn't let her. He held her hand down between them until she felt the hardness. It singed her hand.

Crying out, she struggled to pull away. This time he let her, shoving her away while he removed the holster from between them. She began to scramble out from beneath the blanket, but before she could, he thrust her back against his chest and threw his arm around her, its weight effectively rendering her own arms useless. The holster was in his hand, the guns right beneath her nose, so close, yet so far away.

She could tell by his breathing that it took him a long time to go to sleep. Unable and unwilling to move, she lay against him, his hardness burning through her skirts into her flesh. They lay there for a long time until, seemingly out of the blue, he asked in a low, surprisingly gentle voice,
"
You have any babies missing you right now?"

She could barely whisper, "No."

He released a long breath, almost as if in relief. Then, being an outlaw, he went to sleep just as he awoke.
Quickly.

In the darkness, the memory of his near rape came back to her. Unbidden, she recalled his movements, his groans, and finally that deep animal sound that had seemed to emanate from his very soul. He made her feel things she wished she didn't. She cursed him, unable to move beneath the rocklike muscle of his arm. Sleep took a very long time to come.

"Git along there, girlie, and fetch me another biscuit," Kineson said, looking as if he might kick her.

Christal wiped the sticky blond strands of hair from her eyes and shot him a killing stare. Having no choice, she slid another biscuit from the frypan, put it on a plate, and walked over to him.

The morning was cold but Christal barely noticed as she patted her face, flushed from the heat of the camp-fire. The sun was up late in the mountains, and it just now fired the tops of the aspens. To the west the sky was a clear azure, but the granite face of the gorge cast a long shadow over their camp. She cast her gaze up the rocky path that led to the town. She could just barely see the roof of the saloon at the top of the gorge. The other passengers might have an escape plan, but she would only be able to go along if she knew what it was, and she longed to speak with one of them. Her gaze slid to her captors. Boone lounged alongside the chimney, watching her with his brutish eyes. The oldest outlaw—she didn't know his name—flexed his knees while he walked around camp, as if he was prone to rheumatism. Three men sat around the fire eating biscuits, Kineson included. She didn't know where the others were.

"How come you never take those gloves off, girlie?"

She handed Kineson the biscuit plate and ignored his question. When she turned from him, though, she curled her palms, the black cotton gloves stiff from sweat and grease.

Cain walked in front of the chimney, suddenly appearing. His hair was slicked back as if he'd just bathed, and she noticed that, wet, his hair looked black. He hadn't shaved, but he must have performed some sort of morning ablution in the falls that thundered beyond the copse of aspen.
Which was more than the rest of the gang did.
Rags and fleas, the trademark of the Confederacy, was their trademark as well. Their stench repelled her.

"Get some of them biscuits. You can take them to the saloon." Cain hardly waited for her to pile them on a tin plate before he took her arm and led her up the path.

She tripped and stumbled, dreading the day ahead. Her attempts at escape had proved futile, now it seemed her only hope was waiting for Tuesday—if Tuesday ever came. Though there was a part of her, a very small part, that trusted Cain after what he had done last night, still he was the outlaw, and she his captive. She desperately needed the assurance that she would survive the kidnapping. If Overland Express came through with the ransom, she could wait it out until Tuesday—with his protection. If things were to go wrong, she needed to know how bad they might get.

It was difficult to balance the biscuit plate and climb. She stumbled on the rocky path, loosing several black, half-cooked biscuits before his hands reached out to steady her. But when she was righted, she shunned his hold as if he were a leper. She didn't like his hands on her. His touch was like a primeval memory and against her
will,
she began to remember the morning.

At dawn, she had awakened and felt icy air at her back. Shivering, she sat up and found Cain buckling on his holster, staring at her. His face became clearer in the whitening shadows. She noticed his eyes had lowered to her hair. Self-consciously she ran her fingers through the tangle. It was a mess; most of her pins were gone from her struggles. As if he could read her thoughts, he'd reached down and ripped another piece of fringe from his worn chaps. He handed it to her, a strangely considerate gesture, and she accepted it, hating the rush of gratitude that hit her.

And hating the way his stare quickened her pulse.

The remembrance of that stare even now distracted her. Her skirts tangled in her boots, and she tripped. The biscuit plate flew from her hand as she grabbed a branch to keep from sliding back down the trail. But the sharp, broken branch caught on her glove and scratched down her palm. She moaned in pain.