"Pete's watching maneuvers. Old Elias, I understand, is arguing with Rollins about when his money will be returned." Mr. Glassie chuckled. "Seems he's sore about them keeping it a moment longer than they have to."
Christal could have laughed, picturing the grizzled old man up against Rollins, but she was too absorbed in wondering when she might expect her own money to be returned. She longed to feel the weight of her precious seven gold pieces in her palm once more.
A hand on her shoulder made her look up and she found Cain standing there, drink in hand.
"Here. This will help you sleep tonight." He gave her the tin cup.
"Thank you . . ." She paused, wondering what name to call him. The name Cain didn't seem to fit him or their relationship any longer.
"Macaulay," he answered, as if reading her mind.
"Macaulay," she whispered, and accepted her drink. Then she turned away, too frightened to look at him, too frightened to let him see her eyes full of worry, her heart on her sleeve. He had gotten close to her when she thought him an outlaw. It was time, indeed it was imperative, that she back away.
Taking one small sip from the cup, she found it was hot coffee well laced with whiskey. As she refused to meet Macaulay's gaze the tension between them mounted. This time Henry Glassie didn't miss a second of the interchange.
Macaulay soon returned to the men to help them carve the venison and Mr. Glassie pulled up his chair. He took her hand and said, "I'm glad we've got a chance to speak, Mrs. Smith."
"Please call me Christal." She tried to smile, though it was difficult considering the situation.
"I'm honored to be counted as one of your friends, Christal, but ..." Glassie's troubled gaze wandered once more to Macaulay. "I can't help but think how you looked when you came up to the saloon the other day." His kind voice lowered to a whisper. "Your clothes were torn. Cain handled you in front of us. Shoved you. Dragged you off."
"He didn't hurt me. He never hurt me," she whispered, wondering why her voice began to tremble.
"It was a terrible time. But I want you to understand whatever was done to you can be recompensed. If Mr, Cain took advantage of you during your captivity, I'll see to it that the right thing is done. I'll make him marry you—"
"No," she answered, cutting him off with more passion than she wanted to show.
"There, there, Mrs. Smith. I didn't mean to upset you."
She quavered a smile. "Please forgive me. I'm not upset. Mr. Cain did nothing he need regret. I'll be fine as soon as the coach comes. I find I must leave."
"You can't want to leave so soon!" He laughed. "Why, Terence Scott himself is coming up from the Union Pacific to give us a hefty sum to recompense us for our troubles. I understand he'll be here late tomorrow."
Christal couldn't hide the shock on her face. She never dreamed they'd get any kind of monetary apology from Overland. The money might actually be enough for her to expose Didier. It was difficult to imagine but her fortunes were actually looking up. "Do you have any idea about how much he's bringing?" she asked, knowing she was being indelicate but unable to help herself.
"No, no! But it's sure to be a fine sum. Especially for you, Christal. I understand they never thought a woman would be on that coach. They're very sorry for what they've put you through."
"I see."
He rambled, "Now, I myself must miss the presentation, but I've got Paterson Furniture to recompense me. And they'll give me a tidy sum. I'm a very valued employee, you see. They've already got me a coach so I may start out first thing in the morning and get to my accounts." He straightened the lapels of his coat. "I can't afford to dawdle here and lose my sales."
His words took a moment to sink in. Finally she sputtered, "You're leaving first thing in the morning? You're not waiting for the Overland coaches?"
"I can't miss another day at my accounts. I'm very behind."
She tapped her fingers on the splintery wooden board of the table. Her desire for the Overland money was palpable. But it would be prudent to see if she could leave in the morning. Should she do the intelligent thing and leave? Or should she throw caution to the wind, grab at the Overland money on the chance that it might be the thing to solve all her problems?
"A penny for your thoughts?"
She stared at Mr. Glassie. "I—I was just envying you your quick departure. Macaulay—er—Mr. Cain told me the Overland coaches would take two days."
"Are you in such a hurry, then?"
She bit her lower lip and thought about Cain. She could have a pleasant two days with him and he would never discover who she was. Or he could seduce her into his bed, seduce her into giving him her honor and the truth about her past, then throw her to the wolves she called U.S. Marshals. Her eyes clouded. "I—I may need to leave earlier."
"Well, if need be, I most certainly could take you in the morning. Paterson has telegrammed that I'll have a coach at dawn. But where do you want to go?"
She paused, unwilling to say she didn't care. That would raise too many questions. "Where is your first stop?"
"South Pass."
She smiled a beautiful, warm smile. South Pass was only a stone's throw from Noble, her original destination. "Perfect. If I decide to leave, I'll meet you at the coach at dawn."
"With no escort?"
"I'll be all right." She smiled again, dazzling him. "You won't mention this to anyone, will you?"
Mr. Glassie nodded, clearly enchanted. "Why, of course not. This is just between us."
The Mandan women began serving the meal, ending their conversation. Macaulay sat beside her, and she quickly commented on how difficult it was to find good quality furniture out west, which spun Mr. Glassie off on a twenty-minute commentary. Christal ate in silence, half listening to Mr. Glassie, acutely aware of Cain's every breath, every sip of whiskey, every shift of weight on the crude bench. She wondered if he was as aware of her, and whenever she would chance to look at him, their eyes would meet. A silent clash of lovers.
After dinner, Judd, the Overland driver, took out a fiddle and played a soothing waltz. The coffee and whiskey went down easily, even though Christal wasn't used to drinking. She wanted to relax—an impossible task while she was still in the fort, surrounded by lawmen.
Macaulay leaned back in a chair and irreverently placed his booted feet on the bench on which she sat. She looked at him, wondering how to approach the subject of the Overland money. If their compensation wasn't going to be much, her decision to leave with Mr. Glassie would be easy. If it was a king's ransom, then she'd stay, despite the risk. But now she didn't know which it would be. She had until dawn to find out.
"When do you suppose we'll be getting our possessions back?" she asked, glancing around the room as if she wasn't really that interested in his response. "You have seven gold pieces of mine, you know."
"Well, don't worry. There's nothing to spend it on here."
"Yes, but—"
"Besides, you'll have more than your seven gold pieces when Terence Scott arrives. I hear he's paying y'all pretty for your troubles."
"How pretty?" She frowned. Was there too much anxiety in her voice?
"Greedy, are we?"
She looked at him.
He gave her a rakish grin.
"No—well—all right, y-yes," she stuttered. "It's just that I haven't a lot of money. I never thought we'd be recompensed for our troubles."
"I hear he's bringing five hundred."
Her eyes opened wide. "Dollars?" she gasped.
"He ain't bringin' buffalo chips."
She took another sip of brew. Five hundred dollars split among seven passengers would be around seventy apiece—a good parcel. She again thought of her seven gold pieces and how hard they had come. She could almost taste her desire for more.
"What are you schemin' in that head of yours, dar-lin'?"
Her gaze returned to him. Macaulay made her nervous when he drank. Those eyes of his seemed to see right through her. It was as if he could read he
r mind. And his accent was much more pronounced. She really wasn't sure she liked that. His lazy words were ... seductive.
Coolly she said, "I was only thinking about a new dress. Seventy dollars can buy a lot of new dresses."
"Seventy? I said five hundred. Apiece. And you'll probably get more, seein' as how you're a lady, and all. They feel real bad about you gettin' tangled in this mess."
The whiskey burned down her throat, nearly choking her. She was in shock. Her dreams had come true. She could get Didier with five hundred dollars. She could hire a lawyer, even a Pinkerton man to build evidence against him.
He smiled as if he knew something she didn't. "Too bad you don't have that new dress now. That pink one is fallin' right off you." His gaze lowered to a point between her chin and her waist.
She blushed and looked down. Her entire shoulder and not a little of her bosom were exposed. She discreetly pulled up the pink silk.
"Better get them Mandans to take that gown in tonight. You want to look pretty in your picture when Scott presents you with your money."
"Picture?"
"That's right." He released a cynical little laugh. "You don't think that Yankee's gonna come all the way out here to give you some reward money and not get the credit for it? That ain't the way them Yankees work, dar-lin'. In fact tomorrow there's gonna be so many newspaper reporters here to take your picture, you'll be famous. After Scott's through with you, Barnum himself ll probably sign you up to be an attraction at his show." He laughed, disgust all over his face. "I can just see it now: The Wild West Widow." He took another sip of whiskey and said grimly, "Don't let him do it to you, Christal."
But Christal hardly heard it. Terror caused her to go deaf after he spoke the words newspaper reporters. She curled her branded palm around the warm tin cup, hiding it. Stuttering, she asked, "But—but how could reporters get here so quickly? We've only just been rescued."
Macaulay sat back in his chair, arms arrogantly crossed over his chest. "Darlin', this is a Yankee we're talkin' about. Terence Scott, that damned carpetbagger, had 'em sent up here days ago to get publicity from all this. Fort Washakie's just crawling with reporters. I heard tell they got 'em from as far away as Chicago. Even New York." He grunted in disgust. "The show-off."
Her hands began to tremble. She clasped them in her lap.
"What is it, girl, you don't look too well."
"I—I guess the whiskey didn't agree with me," she stuttered. Trying with all her might to stay calm in the face of catastrophe, she said, "Do you mind if I go to my room? If tomorrow's going to be as you say it is, then I'll need my rest."
She stood and didn't know if it was whiskey, fear, or just plain exhaustion, but suddenly the room began to spin. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself and received two splinters in her palm for the effort.
Macaulay's arm came gently around her waist. His finger brushed the faint lavender smudges beneath her eyes, proof of her weariness. "I guess you oughta be in bed, girl," he conceded.
But a hostile voice halted their departure. "Haven't you bothered her enough, Cain?"
Christal looked behind Cain and found Pete in the doorway, his sullen, angry expression epitomizing his youth.
Cain didn't answer. She knew his shoulder was still sore from the wound. Fighting with Kineson had opened it again and he'd spent that afternoon with the doctor. Now here was Pete, the boy who shot him, tempting him to pull his gun.
"You shouldn't let him near you, ma'am," Pete said, snatching his hat off his head in a show of respect. "I don't care what he is now, he treated you bad at the saloon. We all saw him."
"He had no choice," she said, her head beginning to throb. She couldn't deal with Pete right now. Not when she'd just lost five hundred dollars and her chance to find justice, and reporters were descending on Camp Brown first thing tomorrow.
"Didn't he?" The boy's lip, dusted with downy adolescent facial hair, lifted in contempt.
"I'm not in the habit of shootin' boys, son," Cain interjected in a voice cold enough to freeze. "But you better know, you're temptin' me, sorely."
"Yeah, I'd love a showdown with you, Cain. You need to learn how to treat a woman."
Christal shuddered. The boy's bravado was going to be the end of him. "No, Pete. Don't even think of it. He didn't hurt me. Not really. And what he did . . . well, he had to do it. He had to convince them that he was genuine. I've forgiven him. So must you."
"He was rough with you." Pete turned to her. She could see the worship in his eyes. If she didn't know better, she'd think the boy—though barely sixteen—had somehow fallen in love with her.
She touched his arm. "What's done is done, Pete. If Macaulay was less than gentlemanly, it was because he had to be. I'm not angry about it. Neither must you be."
"He still ain't good enough for you, ma'am." He looked at her and his eyes turned hopeful. "A woman beautiful like yourself needs courtin'. I—I can do a lot of that now that me and Pa got our money back."
The boy's passion and sincerity touched her. During the entire kidnapping, during all the years she'd spent out west, he had been her only knight. Impulsively she put her hand on his smooth cheek and ached over the fact that she would never see him again. "How I've longed to hear words like that, Pete," she whispered affectionately. "You'll never know how I'll cherish them in the years to come when you've married and long forgotten me."
The boy didn't seem to have the courage to touch her back. He stood there, planted in one spot, the emotion in his eyes churning as he appeared to squelch an inappropriate confession of love. Then, unable to help himself, he blurted out, "Mrs. Smith, I must tell you—"
"Some other time, kid," Macaulay interjected, casually putting his arm around her waist. He led her away and Christal went, relieved that Macaulay had made it unnecessary for her to discourage Pete's affections; and saddened, knowing she would never see the lionhearted boy again.
"You could have been kinder to him," she admonished when they crossed the fort's drill grounds.
"The damn fool kid shot me. Why should I be kind to him?"
"He thought you were an outlaw."
"He's too uppity—playing suitor to a grown woman."
"He's not that much younger than me."
His smile was derisive. "Why are you defending him, Christal? You got a penchant for robbing the cradle?" He suddenly laughed. If she hadn't had so much on her mind, she might have laughed also.
They came to the door of her quarters. Cain halted and looked at her.
"Well, I must go now. I—I really need some sleep." She suddenly felt bereft. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but there was no opportunity, or time. She would probably never see him again. In the morning, she would be gone. And Falling Water would become just a memory.
He tapped his boot on the plank walk. She could see the frustration in his eyes. He wanted her to stay the night with him, but there was no way to do it now that they were in civilization.
"Pete's right, you know," she said, thinking about all that Cain wanted and how shockingly improper it was. "You're not much of a gentleman. I know it just by looking into your eyes."
"Damn this situation. It's foolish for me to think of bringing you posies and courting you in the parlor after what we've been through."
"Yes, it is." She was silent for a moment, thinking how painfully true those words were. With her background, she was no longer a woman to be swayed by courtship. And he was no Romeo. She had seen him kill in Falling Water. She had glimpsed a side of him that was hard and violent, too unused to mercy and gentleness. The government certainly had a good man; the war had taught him well. It had taught him how to fight; how to win and how to lose. Macaulay Cain was a man who did what he had to do no matter how difficult, and he expected the same of others. That hardness attracted her; deluded her into believing it could protect her, but it couldn't. It made him that much more dangerous. Because to him, there was right and wrong and nothing in between. Losing the
war had left him nothing to cling to but that ideal, and knowing him as she knew him now, she understood why he had become a marshal. His world had lost order; the law restored order. If he found out she was wanted in New York, he had a deep, personal need to see justice done. And that was what frightened her most. Because she didn't believe in justice anymore.
Resigned to leaving at dawn, she looked at him and wondered how she would say good-bye.
He whispered, "Will you sleep all right tonight?" Alone went unspoken.
She didn't answer. If he heard regret in her voice, he'd never let her go.
"I'll miss you tonight, darlin'," he said softly.
She closed her eyes and smelled whiskey on his breath. She longed to taste it. Unnerved by her reaction, she looked down and touched the splinters in her palm. Two crimson droplets marred the rose. Teardrops. Her voice was husky. "You never told me, Macaulay. What are your plans now? Where are you going when you leave here?"
"I've run with my last gang. I'm gonna settle down and get a nice, quiet job. I've heard rumors that one's waiting for me in Washington."
"Whatever you do, you'll do it well."
"Would you come with me to Washington?"
His offer shocked her. It was so unexpected. "I—"
"We could go for a while," he said, cutting off her answer. "We could even take a trip to New York. I'll buy you the finest dress this side of the Atlantic."
Her heart stopped in her chest. She gave a silent prayer of thanks they were in shadows so he couldn't see the horror on her face. "I—I can't—go there with you. I've—I've got to be other places."
"Where?" he asked, his tone daring her not to answer him.
Fair Is the Rose Page 13
