"I've got to resume my life."
"But where" he demanded, his patience coming to an end.
She gazed up at his face, so close, so angry. Seconds ticked by; time, all she had left, fell through her fingers like grains of sand.
"We'll talk about it in the morning." She grasped the doorknob of the captain's room, then the finality of their parting struck deep within her heart.
She would never see him again. Never watch his lean, hard features soften in moonlight. Never hear his harsh command, or whispered need. There were no more possibilities.
Unable to hold back, she took his face in her hands and pulled him down to her, kissing him as if she could never bear to let him go. She kissed with a longing not fated to be satisfied, and that made it all the more bittersweet, all the more imperative that her lips drink fully of his, that her mind remember each tiny detail: the way his chest hardened against hers as he wrapped her in his arms, the way his breath came quick and shallow when she opened her mouth and let him in. She must seize the moment now, so that in the lonely nights ahead she would have some comfort.
He groaned, and she felt his arm go around her bottom. His excitement was all too apparent. If she'd let him, she thought, he'd take her right where they stood, skirts and rough planking be damned. But if they consummated their relationship, then she would never leave tomorrow. And if she didn't leave on that stage at dawn, she was doomed.
With near violence she ended the kiss, stepping away while her lips trembled with a muffled sob. He whispered her name like a man in agony, but she shook her head, unable to look at him and show him her tears. She left him and closed the door, wiping each moist cheek with the back of her hand. A moment of silence passed, broken only by his curse. The last thing she heard was his boot heels on the rough floorboards, walking away.
Damn him! She never cried and now it seemed she couldn't stop. She longed to wallow in her grief, but she couldn't afford the luxury. She had a million things to think about, a million things to fill her mind. But she could only think about the sound of those boot heels, echoing over and over again in her heart.
Chapter Eleven
It was almost dawn when Christal heard the door slam in the room next to her. For hours she'd been sitting on the edge of her bed waiting for the first rosy hint of sunrise. Her room was still in total darkness; she didn't dare light a lantern and arouse suspicion.
A loud curse, then the sounds of a body stumbling into a chair emanated from the plank walls. Against her better judgment, she rose from the bed and put her ear to the wall. She was sure it was Cain. There was another bump, then another curse, and she knew it was. Especially when he started drunkenly singing "The Bonnie Blue Flag."
"Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern Rights, hurrah!" First one boot, then the other clunked to the floor. There was a pause in the singing, and she bet he was swilling from a bottle. Her lips curved in a cynical smile when he burped.
"Hurrah! for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star!" The sound of a bunch of coins being flung onto a bureau rattled through the wall. Then the voice became morose. Inexplicably, he changed songs. He sang in a rude drunken voice, "In Amsterdam I met a maid, mark well what I do say!"
A body fell onto a bed that was not six inches from her hand. "In Amsterdam I met a maid, and she was mistress of her trade. I'll go no more a-rovin with you, fair maid!" He banged on the wall with his fist. If she didn't know he was drunk and irrational, she'd think he was trying to wake her up to anger her with the words of his song. "A-rovin! A-rovin! Since rovin's been my ru-i-in." The body rolled over. "I'll go ... no more . . . a-rovin' . . . with you . . . fair . . . maid. . . ." She could hear deep, even breathing. He'd fallen into a drunken sleep.
Nonplussed, she sat back on her bed, but her mind kept wandering to the coins. She was as destitute as she had ever been. Sometime that day she would arrive in Noble with only the dress on her back, and one much too large for her at that. Everyone would think she was a whore. It would be hard to disprove. But if she had a few coins, she could take a room overnight in South Pass, purchase a needle and thread, and reconstruct the ballgown into something more modest. Then at least she'd have a chance at a decent job dealing faro, or pouring drinks, or selling dances.
Outside, the sky was lightening to a lead gray. There wasn't much time.
She silently opened her door. The fort's gate was closed, the sentries posted. The coach hadn't arrived yet. Sliding along the shadows, she walked to the door next to hers. She put her ear to the keyhole. The breathing was steady and loud. Cain was dead asleep.
She opened the door. It made a sorry-sounding creak and she stopped in her tracks. But Cain didn't move. Feeling braver, she walked into the tiny room. He was sprawled across a canvas army cot clad in only his black pants and suspenders. His chest, sprinkled liberally with dark hair, rose and fell with his heavy breathing. One arm was flung across his eyes, his mouth was slightly parted. He reeked of whiskey. Next to him was a small table, coins scattered across it and on the floor.
Tiptoeing to the table, she was blessed as the sun finally broke the horizon and thin gray light filtered in through the tiny window. She knew she should be about her business, but she was unable not to take just one last look at him.
Time suspended for a moment as she stood over him. Cain made a disgraceful sight. His hair was tousled, almost black against the white canvas of the cot. He'd been clean-shaven the night before, but now there was the dark shadow of a beard across his jaw. She didn't know why he'd decided to go out and get drunk. Perhaps for part of the reason she was running away. They were drawn to each other. But it never seemed right. It never would be right.
It hurt her to think about it, but she couldn't erase the picture in her mind that one day his wife would look down upon him just as she was now. She'd be up early, perhaps to make his coffee, and she'd find him sprawled as he was now. She would tenderly touch his brow and smile a secret smile as she thought of the fury of the night before. And then, when she was ready to depart for the kitchen, Cain's hand would reach out and pull her back to bed . . .
Cain suddenly let out a loud, drunken snore, startling Christal back into reality.
Quietly she began groping for each penny scattered on the floor—a pittance compared to the seven gold pieces she'd have to leave behind with him. All told, there was at best a couple of dollars. He'd probably spent most of his money on the bottle that, now empty, lay on the floor beside the cot.
She found his old bandanna on a peg with his coat and tied up the coins in it. She stuffed them down her dress between her corseted breasts. With any luck—of which she had none lately—the money would be safe there.
He groaned and her heart quickened. She took one step for the door but was so nervous, her toe hit the upended whiskey bottle. It rolled across the raw floorboards, making a clatter when it thunked against the wall.
Still as a mannequin, she watched him, stricken by the terrible thought that he'd awakened. Staring down at him, she was relieved that he didn't move, but his breathing had become quieter. Suddenly he groaned and rolled over, revealing much of his backside from the loosened lacings that fitted the waist of his pants. The snoring resumed once more.
Grimly, she wiped the sheen of unshed tears from her eyes. There was no more time. Reporters were headed toward Camp Brown even now. She looked down at him one last time. On impulse, she lowered her head and gave him a feather-light kiss on his cheek. Like his wife, she tenderly caressed his brow.
She crept from his room, heartbroken.
She placed her hand upon my toe,
Mark well what I do say!
She placed her hand upon my toe,
I said, "Young Miss, you're rather low!"
I'll go no more a-rovin' with you, fair maid.
Cain groaned and tossed on the cot. It was a dream and the reason he knew this was because his head didn't pound as it surely was going to when he woke up. He wasn't one to drink the way he had last night, b
ut the lack of a hangover didn't make her any less real to him.
It didn't take the edge off the fear.
He sat up naked on the cot, still dreaming. She stood in the doorway in her weeds, dressed in black from hem to head, the jet-colored veil swirling around her face. An angel in thunder clouds.
He stared at her, unable to look away. The fear was like a cold ball in his gut. He wanted to protect her. She needed protection. But he didn't know how.
"Who are you?" he rasped, the need to know burning within him like the whiskey he'd drunk.
She walked toward him, her black-draped body sinfully cinched and curved, her clothes accentuating what they most sought to hide, forbidden to him, yet wanton. He held his breath.
At the cot, she paused, and he hesitantly reached out for the veil. Death. He hated it. He'd eaten it like beans and hardtack during the war. Mercilessly he ripped it from her face. Her beauty hit him like a fist in the groin. It was those eyes. As blue as the prairie sky, as haunting as a Paiute ghost chant.
"Who are you?" he whispered, unable to close his eyes to the sorrow fleeting across her features. She was afraid, she was running from something that frightened her. She was alone.
But he was the one who was helpless. What could he do for her? Nothing—another facet to the fear. He wasn't even sure he knew her real name. He wasn't even sure she was a widow. There was a toughness about her that unsettled him. She'd seen more of the world than she wanted to. She kissed him.
Her lips took his like a flower, petals opened wide, beckoning. Her softness had the opposite effect on him. He wanted to control it, but he couldn't. She made him do, and think, and feel, even when he didn't want to.
Another facet of the fear.
Her mouth moved lower. To his neck. Her tongue licked his scar. Her teeth pulled and sucked on his skin. She liked what she was doing to him, she liked the power. Women always did. But she was different. The sadness never left her eyes.
"Who are you?" he choked out as she kissed his flat, small nipple. Her mouth trailed down his chest to his navel. She didn't answer. He wrapped his hands in her hair. Gold silk. He wanted to see her face. Her expression. Anything but that small, pink, wet tongue that heated his skin.
"Tell me who you are. Let me help you. I'm the law . . . I'm the law . . ."
She moved lower.
"Christ, who are you?" he demanded between gnashed teeth. Groaning, he fell back against the cot. She couldn't answer.
"Tell me . . ." he whispered, his words becoming uneven, his sight losing focus. Excitement pumped through him as acute as the fear he felt for her. She was in trouble. He knew it. But he could help her. He was no poor Southern boy looking for a handout. He was the law now. Things were finally under his control and he could help her. If she would just trust him. Trust him.
"Who are you?" he whispered, forcing an answer with every quick breath he took. "Who are you?" he demanded, caressing and stroking her hair. Until words became too difficult.
Cain's eyes shot open. He was sweating, though the room was so cold there was a transparent layer of ice in the washbowl. Disoriented, he looked around, not sure of his surroundings. Then he looked down at his pants. Christ.
He stumbled to his feet, his limbs leaden, his head pounding like the entire Maine 34th was thundering over it. With a shaking hand, he slicked back his hair.
He had to see her.
He grabbed for his bandanna to clean himself, but the bandanna was gone from the peg. His money was gone too. The coins he vaguely remembered throwing on the table had been picked up. The only evidence they'd been there at all was one forgotten copper penny wedged between the cracks in the floorboards.
Gritting his teeth, he broke the ice in the bowl and washed himself. He didn't know why he rushed. He knew what he'd find. That terrible feeling he'd had in the last years of the war came back to him. The Cause was hopeless. Some things just couldn't be saved, no matter how a man tried.
Dressed at last, he slammed into the room next to his. She wasn't there. He could look in the mess hall, but it was no use. In his gut, he knew she was gone. Escaped like a criminal on the run.
"Who are you?" he whispered to the empty room, wishing there was something of her left behind that he could touch, smell. He remembered something and dug inside the pocket of his vest. Seven gold pieces flashed in his palm. He couldn't understand it. In her hurry to flee, she'd taken pennies when she could have had a fortune.
His cold gray eyes sparked with anger. As if he was making a silent vow, he clutched the coins in his fist. He would understand why she fled someday.
And he would see to it that she personally was the one to explain.
Chapter Twelve
I gave this Miss a parting kiss,
Mark well what I do say!
I gave this Miss a parting kiss,
When I got on board, my money I missed.
I'll go no more a-rovin' with you, fair maid.
November 1875
"Obsession has many symptoms. He has all of them, I fear." Rollins shifted in the oxblood leather chair, uneasy in the presence of the gentleman standing across the desk. The man looked pensively out the window. A snowstorm had hit the city. Carriages had replaced their wheels with runners, sleighs now outnumbered hacks on the avenue. Willard's City Hotel was unusually quiet in the inclement weather. The hotel's windows, which had for years stared dispassionately at the churnings of power, corruption, and—rarely—heroism, were now sheeted in falling white. In the blizzard the building looked like a squat, vacant-eyed ghost.
"I thought Cain was going to quit all that hard riding."
Rollins's answer was a chuckle.
The man caught the joke. "A woman, then, is it? God save us all. Is that what made him turn down the offer?"
"If Cain survives this one, he'll be more than ready to
work for you, sir. Give him a year and he'll be scratching at the door of the Treasury to get in."
"Why is he deciding this now? I thought when he came here to Washington he was going to be ours."
Rollins shook his head. "He was going to forget about her, sir, but that's how it goes. Trying to forget an obsession only makes it grow bigger."
"We need Cain here. I've been impressed with him ever since I faced him at Shiloh. His work for the marshals has been unparalleled. He's the right man for the job."
"The Secret Service will still be here in a year. And when Cain comes back, I assure you, Mr. President, he'll be able to give it his full attention." Rollins gave a wry smile. "Unlike now."
Grant finally turned from the window. Rollins remembered him as impressive. The last time he'd seen him was in the Wilderness. Grant rode among the troops, his blue lieutenant general's uniform as soiled as the rest of them, but even with the lieutenant general's gold braid ripped and dulled by mud, there had been no one more dignified, no one possessing more valor and honor than Grant. Except maybe Lee.
Now Grant was much heavier. And he looked weary. Corruption, Rollins assumed, made a tiring bedfellow.
"So where's that Reb off to? I think I have a right to know if I've got to wait a year for him. That's a long time." Grant raised one eyebrow. "I needn't remind you —this is my second term."
Rollins released an exasperated sigh. Cain was behaving like a madman. Ever since that woman had disappeared from Camp Brown last August, Cain just couldn't get her off his mind. Sure, he'd vowed to. When she had trotted off, Rollins swore he'd never seen Cain so angry, so quiet. Rollins and some of the other men had offered to go after her, but Cain wouldn't budge. There was betrayal on his face when he'd said there wasn't a woman alive worth chasing all across hell and damnation.
But there was something else on his face too. And the emotion had grown every day since the girl had left him. Rollins wasn't sure he could explain to the President what Cain was about; he wasn't sure he understood it himself. All he knew was that Cain couldn't stand it anymore. The girl had a pull on him that he was finally giv
ing in to. Cain was leaving for Wyoming Territory in the morning. Spurred on by the fixation of his own imagination.
"So tell me about her. Tell me about this woman who has captured Macaulay Cain."
"She's in trouble. I know that for sure." Rollins cast his eyes downward. "I keep telling Cain she might be more trouble than she's worth. You should have seen her face when she found out Cain was no outlaw but a marshal. I thought she might faint right there in the middle of the prairie. The girl was more terrified of him then, than she was of the entire damned Kineson gang."
"You think she's hiding out west, running from Confederate crimes?"
"Couldn't be. Too young. Besides, she's a Northern girl. I'd stake my life on it. Something about the way she walks. Very upper class. She made me think of the women you see in Newport or Saratoga Springs. Rich. When you see her, you think rich."
"Was she rich?"
"I doubt anymore. Would she have been on that coach if she was? Besides she was wearing widow's weeds. Her husband probably left her poor."
"So maybe the family's running after her."
"We thought of that, me and Cain. But if she was some merry widow who'd up and killed her husband, why would she be mourning him in weeds? And even more important, why wouldn't she have some money?"
"The woman's an enigma, I'll hand you that. Where is she now?"
"Cain tracked her down to some dead, nowhere mining town in Wyoming. I told him to just go there and get the woman out of his system, but he's convinced that approach won't work. He's terrified of frightening her off. She could run so far he'd never find her. She's working in a saloon there in Noble—that's the name of the town—and I think she's selling more than . . . well, I hate to be indelicate . . ."
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