"You can ask. I didn't do it."
She didn't quite believe him, but she buried her face in his shoulder and hid from her doubts. She didn't want him to explain. She knew he kept things from her, as she did from him. There was more to Macaulay Cain than she understood, and she thought it best to keep it that way. It was less dangerous not to know. For a while anyway.
He broke away, his fingers brushing the stray blond hair that covered her eyes. Without warning, he took her right hand in his and his lips touched her palm, electrifying the scarred flesh of the rose. "Tell me about this, Christal," he whispered, every word sending chills down her spine.
She pulled her hand from his grasp. His kiss made her feel skittish and vulnerable. Branded twice.
There was a hefty bounty on her. The marshals probably didn't know about it so far away in Wyoming Territory, but the bounty would hold whether she was found here or back in New York. All she could tell Cain was that she was mistakenly wanted for her parents' death. And though she could bare her soul and plead for his understanding and sympathy, there was still a large part of her that didn't trust him. He was an outlaw; the bounty on her might be too much temptation. Perhaps he'd even believe she'd be better off back at Park View Asylum than fighting it out on her own in Wyoming. He'd turn her in, never knowing he'd given her a death sentence.
"Tell me about it, Christal."
"Please," she gasped, suddenly afraid of the intimacy they'd woven.
"You never told me about your husband. I want to know about him—" She tried to pull away but he caught her up in his arms once more. He shook her as if that would expel the truth from her. "I want to know about him, Christal. Did he hurt you? Did he give you that scar?"
"My husband had nothing to do with this—this scar." She shook her hand at him, angry that he wouldn't let her go, angrier still that her lonely, terrified heart longed to trust him.
"I want to know if you loved him."
She stared up at him, shocked by this last inquiry, her mind whirling with all the reasons why he would want to know such a thing. Then suddenly she knew why. He didn't want another man between them, dead or alive. He wanted her to be his and his alone.
"Did you love him, Christal?" he asked, his voice rough and demanding.
"No," she choked out shamelessly.
"Tell me about the scar."
"No." She pulled away and refused to look at him. "Why won't you tell me?"
She could hear the anger beneath his words. Her past was becoming a very sore point with him. She had no other weapon but the truth. "Because you're an outlaw. A criminal. How can I tell you my secrets when I know all of that?"
He was silent, as if trying to control his temper. "Yeah," he finally said, "you see me as an outlaw, all right. That's why you can't share your past with me. But you almost spread your legs right here on the cold dirt. Don't you care you might be sleeping with a killer, girl? No, 'cause you didn't even want me to disprove it. So what kind of a lady are you?"
She gasped. Fury burned on her cheek. He had no right to say such crude things to her. He was twisting her character, he was twisting the truth. "You kiss me, then reprimand me for liking it—"
He took her jaw and forced her to meet his eyes. Nothing broke the pull of their gaze, not darkness, not the sound of the wind rustling the aspens overhead.
He growled, "I don't like that you won't talk to me."
"Get used to it," she answered icily; then she rose from the blanket, refusing to miss the warmth of his body in the frigid night air.
They walked back to camp not saying a word. The rest of the gang was already asleep by the time they crawled inside the bedroll. Exhausted and depressed, she barely felt Cain's arms around her. Everything was confused, her emotions, her desires, her future. She fell asleep, never wanting to wake to the morning, never wanting to see the moment when the outlaw next to her would be shot down like a renegade wolf.
Her escape didn't last long. She was awakened in less than an hour by a hand clamped over her mouth. She wanted to scream, but Macaulay's words soothed her. "Don't make a sound."
She complied, and he released her only to take up her hands and draw a rope around her wrists. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, further frightened when a gang member—Kineson, she thought—rolled over in his bedroll and began to snore.
"I've got some gold hidden up in the mountains near Cirque of the Towers. I don't want you or Kineson or anyone knowing where I put my stash." Grimacing because he was forced to use his wounded arm, he fastened the rope to an iron loop that held the tongs to the fireplace.
"But why are you going now? Can't it wait until tomorrow?" She was suddenly terrified. For the very first time, he was going to leave her alone.
"I gotta go tonight."
"But—" She pulled on the rope, wanting to be free. To her dismay, the rope held fast.
He shrugged in the darkness. "Can't have you runnin' when I'm gone."
"Are you leaving, then?" Forever was the unspoken word.
He leaned down to her. Their eyes met. He touched her smooth cheek. "I'll be back. Don't say a word and they'll never know I was gone."
"Macaulay," she whispered, suddenly filled with grief that she would never see him again. It was obvious he was going to take his chance and run, and he was going to abandon her there with Kineson and his men. Fear shot through her heart, but she couldn't blame him. He was an outlaw. She knew his kind well. He would always save himself first.
"I promise I'll be back," he whispered, his words urgent and strange. Then, as if to comfort her, his lips swept over hers in a quick, reassuring kiss. "Not a word now, all right?"
She nodded, turning away so that he couldn't see the tears welling in her eyes. He stood and silently walked his waiting horse into the shadows. She heard the Ap toss its head. And then he was gone.
The rider angled the rocks where the granite face of Cirque of the Towers turned midnight blue beneath the moon, his Ap managing boulder fields by tracing the narrow, almost imperceptible white buffalo paths up the mountain. He broke the treeline of the mountains, where fir gave way to tundra that finally gave way to ice, and urged the horse into a gallop. The animal took the incline at a frantic pace, its powerful hindquarters glistening with sweat, but there was no time to pause. The lamp-lit silhouette of a group of riders appeared on a perch of rock overhead, and he was hell-bent to meet them.
"What you got?" The leader, a heavyset man with an enormous gray mustache, broke ranks.
"Shit is what I got." The rider reined in his horse.
"Still mad about that hanging, aren't you, Cain?" The man chuckled.
"Oughta get me a Yankee lawyer and sue you bluebelly bastards." The lone rider grunted. "I mean, has that telegram ever arrived? What a goddamned thing to screw up."
"Reb, you're still sore you lost the war, admit it. And was it our fault the telegraph operator in Washington, D.C., had to go out for a pork dinner at the crucial hour?"
"That's Federals for you," Cain spat out in disgust. "Rollins, you just take me to that telegraph operator and I'll show you Confederate justice." Shaking his head, he muttered, "I gotta get outta this business . . . it's killing me."
"You do this one last job and you don't ever have to do it again if you don't want to. Overland's got a nice settlement for you and you can have any job in Washington. That comes from the President himself."
Macaulay grunted again. "Sure. Easy for them all to be so goddamned big. What are the odds of me surviving this one—one in a hundred?"
Rollins roared with laughter. He slapped his cow pony. "C'mon son, it can't be that bad. When Kineson gets his money from Overland tomorrow, we'll be there to round 'em all up. Then you'll have done your last and most spectacular job. Terence Scott's grateful, Cain. Overland's got a million dollars riding on this one. You'll be a hero."
"A dead hero. Scott couldn't get me at Sharpsburg, so he'll get me here."
"What's got you so ornery? Were you fo
llowed?" Rollins glanced at his partners. Both men were sitting stony-faced on their horses, repeating rifles under their arms, scanning the darkness. A silent darkness.
"I know better than to be followed." Cain reined in the Ap that jogged precariously along the edge of the cliff. "There's a woman down there, came along with the other passengers. You told me there weren't going to be any women involved." His face turned hard. "I got shot yesterday by a boy who's crazy to protect that woman's honor. My arm's nearly useless. Will be till this is long over."
"Kineson planned on kidnapping some Overland Express passengers. We had all the rosters. We didn't think there'd be a woman traveling alone. . . ." Rollins turned grim.
"This one's trouble. It's all I can do to control those men when she's around." As if he was thinking of his required nightly sojourn into the woods, Cain shook his head. "I've been forced to do things you wouldn't believe."
Rollins might have smiled, made light of Cain's predicament, but they were professionals with a job to do. A woman's presence was something neither had counted on. It was an added danger.
Rollins rubbed both sides of his mustache, a nervous habit. "We'll be there tomorrow, Cain. Until then, you've got to handle it."
"Yeah, great. What a job. Shit . . ." Macaulay said under his breath.
Rollins turned his horse on its hindquarters and motioned for his partners to depart. "We'll see you at the showdown," he said almost sorrowfully.
Cain nodded, a sarcastic, irreverent smile on his face. "Fine, but I shoulda been an outlaw. Tell them that back in Washington when I'm dead and gone. Put on my tombstone that I said there's gotta be something better than this."
Rollins let out a gust of laughter as he inched his pony down the incline. He said, "You lie, Cain. You love this job. You're the best there is and even the President knows it. Who'd ever believe that the most notorious outlaw in the West, Johnny Reb himself, is one of us."
Macaulay shook his head, thoroughly disgusted. Rol-lins's laughter echoed down the mountain. The three men left with the yellow light of their lantern glinting wickedly off their silver star-shaped badges. Each engraved: U.S. Marshal.
Chapter Eight
Christal listened to the men snore, her heart hammering in her chest while she struggled to untie her hands. Daylight would come soon, and Kineson would find Cain gone; she would be totally at his mercy if she couldn't free herself. She took a deep breath, then tried the knot again, cursing the darkness that blinded her.
She tried hard not to think of Cain. He'd taken his escape, and that was all there was to it. After all, he'd done more than could be expected to help them. He deserved to survive. But no matter how she rationalized it, she found it difficult to accept his abandonment. He'd left her alone, without any protection. And he'd left with more than fear. No matter how much it angered her, she realized she must have begun to care for him; there was no other reason for the lump of hurt in her chest. She knew if she survived the kidnapping, the fear would diminish. But she'd never forget the soul-wrenching emotion that clutched at her heart when Macaulay Cain disappeared into the night.
"Damn," she said underneath her breath, unable to see the knot. Her fingers twisted in every unnatural position, but she couldn't get it loose. Finally she used her teeth to pull on it, but the knot was as immovable as stone. She sat back, despair crashing over her like a wave.
Then a hand covered her mouth.
Terror shot down her spine. It had to be Kineson. He'd come to rape her while she was tied. He'd enjoy the abuse.
She turned her head to face him, to take her enemy head-on. And suddenly she knew it wasn't Kineson. Cain had come back. Even in the darkness, she recognized him. She knew his breathing, she knew his smell, she knew his touch.
Without a sound, he lowered his hand and untied her. She was torn between wanting to hug him and wanting to slap his terrible, handsome face. He drew her against him, she rebelliously pulled away. Without a sound, he forced her down onto the bedroll. He won the battle, as she knew he would, and soon they were lying together, both feigning sleep.
Her mind was wild with unanswered questions. She wanted to know why he had come back, where he had gone, what he was thinking, but she knew she would never get anything more than the excuse he'd already given her about hidden gold. Perhaps it was the truth. Nonetheless, she was furious that he'd left. He'd revealed emotions she didn't want and now that he was back, her terror eased, and she again felt that perverse gratitude. She vowed to do away with all her feelings for him, but that was hard while lying in the fortress of his arms. Especially because for the first time in her life, she could think of no place she'd rather be.
Until the lavender fingers of dawn crept over the mountains. Tuesday had come.
The gang rose early, keeping a fearful silence as they saddled their horses and scarfed down their breakfast. Kineson looked the most nervous. And all the while, his gaze followed Christal as if she were the ransom, not Overland's gold.
Finally, the men saddled, camp broke, Kineson sat atop his paint and mapped out the orders. "Zeke'll watch the passengers back up in the saloon while we pick up the loot." His feral gaze slid to Cain, who was astride his Ap, Christal holding on to his waist. Cain stared back, his face expressionless and hard. She knew that look well. "Cain, you and I'll get the ransom. The boys here'll cover us."
Cain nodded. Christal's heart skipped a beat. Once Kineson got that ransom, she'd bet her soul that he would return to camp alone. He was choreographing Cain's slaughter. She looked up at Macaulay, desperately hoping he saw this too, but Cain only grunted his assent.
"The woman goes with Zeke to the saloon."
"She stays with me." Cain's fingers relaxed, inches from his holster. Christal's breath suspended in her throat. Beneath them, the Ap pranced nervously, waiting for the order to move out.
Kineson's eyes lowered to Cain's fingers. "She's a liability. You can't move on that horse if she's holding on behind."
"She's insurance. They ain't gonna shoot at us when they see I've got her."
Kineson looked at Cain, then at Christal. A smile touched his lips and he said, "Sure, Cain, sure." Kineson's smile grew, and he turned his horse eastward. The men followed. Cain let the Ap have its head.
They climbed past Valentine Lake, then took a trail that wound between Cathedral and Lizard Head peaks. Mountains shot rock and snow to the heavens, a violent, awe-inspiring sight, but there was no one to notice. All were too absorbed in their own tragedies or triumphs to take note of the magnificent theater around them. Soon they reached the foothills overlooking the Popo Agie valley and in the distance they could spy smoke from the fires at Camp Brown. Only trappers and displaced Arapahoe lived there now. The government had declared the old fort abandoned, which was why Kineson had chosen the water tower near it for the drop site.
The sun rose, and it was almost warm as they descended from their mountain hideaway to the prairie below. Overhead, the sky became a huge blue dome that Christal wished was big enough to swallow her, Cain, and the rest of the Overland passengers. Like an out-of-control locomotive, the inevitable screamed toward them. Try as she might to think of a way to avoid the showdown, there seemed no escape. Her only hope had rested on Cain, that he would see the folly of going along with Kineson. But he hadn't. If anything, he'd adamantly embraced Kineson's plans. And though it broke her heart to remind herself of it, the man who had kissed her and held her last night was still the same man who had kidnapped her. Cain was as entrenched in the Overland ransom scheme as any other gang member who rode with Kineson. He was an outlaw, just as Marmet had been and Boone was. There was no denying it. There never had been.
At the edge of the plains, Christal began to remember the path to the drop site. The day Cain had taken her there seemed years ago. Silence had stood sentinel between them, as it did now, but now the silence was different. When before it had been one-dimensional, empty, mere silence, now it was almost a living thing, a fully formed figure that s
at between them, fraught with emotion and memories of what might have been. Draped in black.
Unable to accept what might come, Christal held on to Cain more tightly, leaning her cheek against the soft faded fabric of his shirt, soothing herself with the warm, hard play of muscles on his back as he rode. The girl she should have been would have never embraced a gun-fighter this way, but the girl she'd become was desolate. It was as if she had been given a glimpse of something beautiful and good and right, and just as she recognized what could be hers, the door had slammed and she was left out in the cold with nothing, all the more disconsolate for seeing what she now knew she could never have.
Sensing her mood, Cain said softly, "It's going to be all right, girl."
She didn't answer, she didn't look at him. She was too afraid of tears.
The gang arrived at the water tower long before noon. The horses were tied in a patch of cottonwoods below a ridge out of sight of the railroad tracks. Kineson and Cain stood in the shade, still mounted, ready to go. Christal, also astride the Ap, clutched at Cain's waist, feeling her terror mount as the sun marched to its zenith. The other gang members, Winchesters in hand, crawled through the high grass to position themselves strategically near the drop site.
They saw the locomotive five miles before it arrived. In the distance it looked like a puny toy, no match for a gang of cold-eyed outlaws, but as it grew closer it became more ominous. The grind of oiled steel and the flare of blowing cinders whispered fury. The release of steam was a cry to war like J.E.B. Stuart waving his plumed hat.
"We talked about how we're gonna do this. Any questions?" Kineson addressed Cain but looked at Christal. She shrank back.
"No questions," Cain answered automatically. He nodded. His eyes were frigid.
They watched the locomotive grind to a halt beneath the water tower—a strange sight with no people, no buildings, nothing but empty prairie as far as the eye could see. The train consisted of the iron engine, the wood bin, and one car, nothing more—just as Kineson had specified.
Fair Is the Rose Page 10
