Fair Is the Rose

by Meagan Mckinney

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. Looking as he did, he almost could have been one of the gamblers who'd come into the saloons she'd worked at, wanting to spend—or make—an ill-gained fortune. The gamblers she'd encountered had been powerful and violent men, men who gained on looks alone. They'd possessed enormous magnetism, and she'd always made a policy of avoiding them. But even they paled against Macaulay Cain.

  She stepped away from the door, unsure of what to say. She didn't look at him; she didn't ask him to enter. She knew he would come in whether she permitted it or not.

  "That dress is too big," he said, closing the door behind him.

  She hugged the faded silk to her. "I need to take it in."

  "So I see." His gaze caught hers. From the gleam in his eye, it was clear he approved of the dress. He was waiting for her to fall right out of it.

  She turned away, suddenly, irrationally, embarrassed. They'd kissed, they'd slept together, they'd fought. But now he was a stranger to her. A very threatening stranger. The outlaw she'd grown to care about was gone and they had nothing to talk about.

  Yet so much to talk about.

  Gathering her courage, she still looked steadily away and said, "You should have told me that you were a marshal. It would have made things easier."

  "I wasn't sure of your acting skills. I didn't want you to get hurt. Or get myself killed," he added.

  "I understand." She glanced down at the dress. One shoulder had fallen revealing an expanse of smooth skin that plumped into the beginning of a breast. She pulled the gown up, hoping he hadn't seen much. But he'd seen it all if the fire smoldering in his cold eyes was any indication.

  There was a long, difficult pause while they stared at each other. She broke it by saying, "Things are very different now, aren't they? You're very different."

  "Things are better; I'm better," he countered, running a callused thumb along her collarbone. "I can talk to you now. I can tell you anything—you can tell me anything. I'm no longer your kidnapper. I'm just a man. A man you can trust." His gaze met hers. Probing.

  "I had begun to trust you anyway," she answered. Uncomfortable beneath his stare, she breezed past him to the mirror over the oak bureau and began plaiting her hair. All she thought about was running. She was afraid of his being a lawman, but mostly she was afraid of his being a man. He'd already taken her emotions and twisted them until she hardly knew what she was feeling. She couldn't let him continue. If she fell in love with him, with what she knew about him now, it would be suicide.

  He came up from behind and watched her in the mirror. Not touching her, he said, "I get the feeling you trust me less now that you know I'm no outlaw."

  The task of braiding her hair defeated her, and she dropped her shaking hands. A shot rang out—the cavalry going through their maneuvers on the drill field—and the noise frayed her nerves even more. Pushed to the edge, she snapped, "I just don't understand it—you call yourself a Rebel—you fought on the Confederate side-how can you work for Federals now? I just never expected—" She shook her head. Words escaped her; she worried she might have given away too much.

  The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "You almost talk like a Secesh yourself. But you're just another protected Northern lily who had to be told about the war like a bedtime story. You must have been particularly fortunate, Christal. It took ten years for that war to be done and gone before you ever bothered to ask anyone about it."

  Anger flared within her. She might have been a protected Northern girl for part of her life, but after that she'd had her own war to fight; she couldn't have gotten involved in his. Tersely, she answered, "I asked you about the war because I wanted to know about you. But everything about you has been a lie. And your Rebel background must have been a lie, too, because I don't understand how you can be a Confederate one minute and a Federal the next. A Rebel just couldn't do your job. Not a real one, anyway."

  "It's because I was a Rebel that I can do this job."

  She expected the anger but not the bitterness. The emotion in his words made her ache.

  "What do you think I got out of the war? You think I won it? You think I found honor and pride?" He took a deep breath. It seemed painful for him to speak. "I didn't find anything in that war except death and blood and loss. It's been ten years and I still can't find any meaning to it I can live with. The right and wrong is all messed up within my head. I know 'cause I look for it every day. That's why I can work for the Federals, Christal, because the damned war is long over. I'm no longer a man from Georgia, I'm a citizen of the United States, and the job I do is black and white. Right and wrong. What Kineson did was a crime. Justice has been served. I can move on to the next job without it eating my in-sides."

  "But things aren't always that clear." She damned the panic in her voice. "Sometimes a crime isn't what it seems. You may have the facts, but the facts lie—"

  "What are you talking about?"

  She looked at him in the mirror. A frown marred his forehead. She couldn't tell him anything. After what he'd said, he'd have her tried and hanged before her uncle could even get to her.

  "Christal, what is it?" His hands went around her waist, his warm, sure grip melting her sides. She fought the urge to draw back against his chest. But that chest beckoned her, and she longed to be enfolded in his arms, to touch him, kiss him. She wanted to make him understand things she thought the outlaw Macaulay Cain already knew: that sometimes there were reasons for crimes, sometimes crimes were misjudged.

  But now there was another Macaulay Cain beside her. A man who didn't think at all the way she did, and from whom her only protection was a wall of silence.

  "Don't treat me like a stranger, Christal," he said, his words a deep rumble. "I know you've been through a lot, but—"

  "But we are strangers," she interjected. Desperately trying to distance herself from him, she said, "We went through some very difficult days, but now they're over. We can get on with our lives. I'm anxious to see that Overland coach and be off." She turned and faced him, needing to be honest one last time. "But you'll never know how relieved I am that you weren't killed. I'ml^-I'm glad you're a marshal. I couldn't bear to have seen you hanged."

  There was an edge to his voice, as if he wanted to shake her. "You care for me, so let me care for you too. Don't pull away."

  "I'm not—"

  "You are." He looked at her face in the mirror. His hand came up, and he caressed one cheek. "I need to know about you, Christal—where you're from, who your husband was, where you were headed that day in the coach."

  "My life is dull. My past would bore you."

  "You've never told me anything—"

  "There's nothing to tell."

  His hand grasped her chin and forced her gaze to his. "If there's nothing to tell, then why won't you tell it? I thought you wouldn't talk about yourself because you thought I was an outlaw—a man who kidnapped you. Now I wonder if it's not something more than that."

  "We're strangers who shared a bad experience," she said, closing her eyes and willing herself to be strong. She wasn't going to let him see inside her. Not while she was determined to flee at the first opportunity. "We've just got to go on with our lives. I'll be going my way and you'll be going yours—"

  "No."

  Her breath caught. Her eyes flew open. A small stab of fear sliced through her heart. "What did you say?"

  "You heard me. I said no. We aren't going our separate ways. Not yet."

  "You have no right to hold me any longer than—"

  "I have every right."

  She stared at him. The blood thrummed in her head. "Why?" she asked, her voice barely above a sigh.

  "You know why." He turned her to face him. He ran one finger over her lips. "You know it," he whispered.

  The words died on her lips.

  They stood there, neither of them winning, neither willing to surrender. Finally, he nodded to the window, and the cavalry still going through maneuvers in the dust. "You're
back in civilization, girl. It may not look like much, but civilization's rules apply here just as they do in Fort Laramie, or San Francisco, or Denver. You're a woman alone and tonight you'll sleep in this room, protected from any man who might want to bother you . . . like me."

  A lump came to her throat. She didn't want him to continue. He was bound to make something out of their time in Falling Water, and she couldn't let him. If he gave it meaning, then it would be difficult to leave him. Even more difficult than it already was.

  He lowered his voice; his eyes became shadowed. The words to stop him wouldn't come to her.

  "I won't be with you tonight," he whispered. "I won't feel your softness against me, or hear you breathe deeply in slumber. I can't ruin your reputation because the rules apply now. You're what's known as a lady, Mrs. Smith; I'll treat you like one. But I want you to know I curse the rules. Whatever happened between us back in Falling Water shouldn't have happened, but sayin' that doesn't change the fact that it did. Tonight you should be in my arms. And you know that, just like you know your heart beats . . . right here." His knuckles grazed down her collarbone, then his palm opened and he laid it against the top of her left breast, where they both could feel the drum of her heart.

  She looked away while tears welled in her eyes. His words scorched her with veracity. He'd said everything she prayed he wouldn't. His words made her soul weep. They made leaving him excruciating.

  For the first time in years she felt one hot tear trail down her face. It had been appropriate that she'd met him dressed in mourning. For six long years she'd mourned the loss of her childhood, the loss of her former life. But mostly she mourned her loneliness, a curse that doubled as she became a woman, because now she wanted flesh not fantasy with her at night. In Falling Water she'd been taunted by the hope that she might have found someone she could be with. There'd been moments she'd looked at Cain and could almost see staying with him. He was not the man she pictured in her dreams, but dreams were for foolish young girls who could afford them. And the outlaw she'd slept with, talked to, kissed, was flesh and blood—substance not shadow—and just enough on the other side of the law to understand her.

  Now he was gone. As dead as if he'd been shot by Kineson. Macaulay had often wondered about her husband. Suddenly she discovered the one she'd mourned for. It was Cain.

  "Why are you doing this?" she finally whispered, angered that he'd pushed her so far.

  "Because I want you" was all he said.

  She closed her eyes. Whispering, she countered, "If I whore for you tonight, is that how you think you might rid yourself of me?"

  "I don't want you to whore for me. If I had, I would have had you already. I could have taken you a dozen times in the days we've been together."

  "It would have been rape."

  "I could have had you, nonetheless."

  She began to tremble.

  He encircled her in his arms. "I want you to tell me about yourself." He lifted her hand, the one with the rose-shaped scar, and traced every lush petal burned into her palm. His touch was like wildfire, consuming her. "What are you hiding, girl?"

  She moaned, refusing to talk.

  He gently cupped her jaw, and she was forced to meet his steely gaze. "Answer me," he said.

  She looked away.

  "What are you afraid of?" he whispered urgently.

  "Nothing," she gasped.

  He forced her gaze back to his and looked deep into her eyes, for minutes, it seemed, as if he was assessing her answer. Then, with unexpected passion, he thrust her away. "You're lying."

  "No," she answered desperately.

  "I can see it in your eyes. They're the color of the sky, so beautiful, so blue. . . ." His tone grew ominous. "So clouded. You lie."

  Frightened, she turned and stared out the window. Her bosom heaved with a show of indignation. "You accuse me of lying, but you're the one who's lied. Who are you really? Are you one of the Georgia Sixty-seventh or are you a U.S. Marshal? Are you a Yankee or a Reb? An outlaw or a citizen?"

  His expression became rock-hard. "If I ever lied to you, I did so to save your life. But when I did tell you about myself, it was the truth."

  "It must be very convenient, then, to possess such divided loyalties." She knew she was stomping on hallowed ground, but in her fear and anger she didn't care.

  "If you're referring to my part in the kidnapping, that was my job. But"—his words became low and angry, like the rumble of a distant drum—"if you're referring to my part in the war, ma'am, then let me tell you, I'm a Rebel, and I'll always be a Rebel. And make no mistake, if it were up to me, Georgia'd be ruling you and this whole goddamned country."

  She suddenly began to cry. Why had she wanted to hurt him? All she really wanted was to get away from him, not be cruel to him. He'd been torn apart by the war. He'd said there'd been no honor in it, but there was honor. He'd stood by his country. And when that country was no more, he folded his Confederate flag and laid it respectfully to rest rather than let it become any more tattered and dirtied. He'd gotten on with his life despite the heaviness in his heart, and even then he'd done the honorable thing, by fighting his own Reb guerrillas gone bad in the lone prairies and hills of the West.

  "Don't," she heard him whisper at her tears, his voice surprisingly gentle.

  In unwilling surrender, she laid her head against his chest. He wiped her cheeks, her tears slick beneath his thumbs; she trembled, burying her face in his shirt. He'd bathed, his clothes were clean. He should have smelled like a different man. But beneath the starch and bay rum, his scent was achingly familiar, and she secretly reveled in it, wishing he could hold her forever.

  Several practice rounds were fired by the cavalry outside the window, shattering their intimacy. Still without raising her head from his chest, she spoke the words she knew she must. "When is the Overland coach arriving?" Her voice was hoarse with emotion.

  "Overland can't send one for two days," he answered woodenly.

  Her shoulders slumped. She didn't know if she could last that long.

  "Christal," he said, his hands tightening on her, "don't think about getting away right now. We've got two days. Let's have that at least."

  "Two days is a very short time ... or a very long time, depending on how you see it," she answered, her mind wild with the need to escape, her heart wild with the need to stay.

  She wiped her tearstained cheeks with the back of her hand. His silence verified her words.

  He said, "I came here to ask you to dinner. The other passengers have inquired about your welfare. I know they'd be relieved to see you at the table tonight in the mess."

  She stepped from his arms to the bureau, effectively shutting him out by presenting her back, but when she looked in the mirror, his gaze captured hers and would not let go. For one short pause in eternity, her eyes spoke to his with naked emotion. Then, forced to save herself or drown, she tore away and pretended the moment had never happened. "I'd love to go to dinner. Let me pin my hair."

  "You have beautiful hair. I never told you that."

  She closed her eyes, fighting the ache for him to run his hand down her hair as he had in Falling Water. She again met his eyes, and in those frosty depths she could see longing, perhaps even hurt. To him, the hardship and dishonesty were over with.

  To her, they were just beginning.

  She whispered, "I won't be but a minute."

  Chapter Ten

  The old fort's mess hall was a crude log building with a dirt floor. It hadn't been abandoned long because the mud still held between the logs and the cast-iron stove was still intact.

  Christal knew true terror as she looked around. The room was full of men: passengers and cavalry. And marshals. Their silver stars seemed to be on every chest, blinding her with their brightness whenever they caught the lantern flame.

  Her body tensed for flight, her mind crying for escape, she smiled and stilled the hand that lay trembling on Cain's arm. It was imperative that she avoid su
spicion until she could quietly depart with the other passengers. Still, as if by instinct, her palm curled over the rose-shaped scar, and she vowed they'd have to break her hand to reveal it in this crowd.

  Without ceremony, Mr. Glassie parted from a sea of blue-coated cavalrymen. He gave her a bear hug and she found tears in her eyes once more. Henry Glassie was a kindhearted soul, and she wished they could be friends. She pulled back from him and saw he was pale, even a little thinner—though with his girth that was hard to tell—but no worse for wear. His verdigris suit had been brushed and he looked almost as dapper as the day the Overland coach had first set out for Noble.

  "Thank God you're all right, Mrs. Smith. I can't begin to tell you how Mr. Adlemeyer and I worried about you," he exclaimed, holding her as if she were his long-lost daughter.

  Christal smiled up at him, letting her gaze move from Mr. Glassie to the "preacher." She had never known the preacher's name. He smiled back but wearily, as if he still were desperate for a drink.

  Mr. Glassie nodded toward Macaulay, who had walked over to greet some cavalrymen. "Can you believe that ruffian was actually one of the marshals?"

  Christal glanced at Cain. He laughed among the men as if one of them had told an especially funny joke. His teeth were brilliantly white, his grin wolfish. There was actually some warmth in those cold eyes. He looked relaxed, even happy. Until his gaze met hers.

  The smile disappeared like a miser's gold. She could see she troubled him. As he had troubled her back in Falling Water.

  "He's a man full of surprises," she commented, glad that Mr. Glassie's attention was on seating her and not on their exchange. She didn't want him to see how Macaulay affected her. To divert herself, she nodded a greeting to the Overland coach driver and the shotgun, who stood in a corner. Both appeared immensely relieved to be where they were. "Where are Pete and his father?" she asked, looking around.