Her chin set and she turned to Faulty. "If you made foolish promises, then there's only one thing to do. The snow isn't as heavy as before. If we don't get a blizzard, I'll leave in the morning. Then you can tell him you don't have any blondes that work for you. Not anymore."
"Christal . . . just do it once and then he'll leave us alone and you can stay."
"No." Her answer was quiet yet implacable.
". . . Oh, Christal," Faulty sighed, as if the room were caving in on him.
"I'll finish out the night. Go on downstairs."
"But what if he shows up! He'll see you and then damned Rosalie over at Mrs. Delaney's sure ain't gonna do for him. He'll never forgive me for lettin' you outta his hands."
"What kind of a sheriff is this?" she asked, suddenly angry. "He's here to protect us from gunfighting and bank robbers, not to take his fill in every saloon in town."
"I don't know what kind of sheriff he is, girl, but I'll tell you, one look into those cold eyes of his, and you can be damned sure, ain't nobody in this town gonna ask him."
He left and closed the door. She stayed behind in a dark room. A few flurries, all that was left of the storm, reflected the light from below. She looked out the window. There was a lamp burning in the building next to Peterson's—the liquor depot. Kegs were locked there, in a room that was barred and bolted from intruders. It was a good place for a makeshift jail. The light burned upstairs; probably the new sheriff's living quarters.
A figure stepped in front of the lantern and she could make out the silhouette now that the snow had fallen to a whisper. He hadn't removed his hat. It was the new sheriff. He stood looking out of the window, just as she did. Though she told herself she was standing in darkness and he couldn't see her, she'd swear he was looking right at her.
"Sheriff," she whispered like a curse, weary from running, from hiding.
The tinny sounds of the upright piano came drifting through the floorboards and she knew Joe had arrived. It was time to earn her keep. The blond man would be waiting. He had nowhere else to go in this weather.
She shook her head and wondered when it would all end. Her eyes turned back to the silhouette of the sheriff, his black felt Stetson sharp against the backlight.
Perhaps it already had.
Chapter Thirteen
Faulty's was more crowded than usual that night. The snow had been bad enough to end work early and bring in stragglers traveling on the range, but not so bad as to keep customers holed up at home. Joe, an old miner too crippled and too poor to move on, came in almost every night and played waltzes on the piano.
It was Christal's fifth dance with the blond man. He didn't say very much. He wore a fancy ruffled shirt and a dark green jacket and vest. His eyes were hazel, and not particularly kind, but that wasn't unusual. Not out west.
He flipped another nickel onto the table when the dance ended. She wanted to rest, but he pulled her to him without even asking. The bells tied to her ankles made a coy sound as they moved around the small floor. She didn't like the bells. She only wore them to please Faulty. Whores wore bells. In her mind, they got her into more trouble than they were worth. She could already see the blond man wasn't going to be too happy when she turned down his offer of a paid trip upstairs.
He spun her around, his hands cold and almost painful against her ribs. A frigid pocket of air blasted at her back as another customer entered the saloon. Joe seemed to stumble at the keys for a moment, adding to the difficulty of the waltz, but she hardly noticed; she was too involved with extracting her hair from her customer's stroking fingers. Faulty made all his girls wear their hair down. It gave them an air of innocence, he said, and men liked that. As she looked up at the blond man now she could see Faulty was right. The blond man did like it. He smiled. Though he was young, most of his bottom teeth were either crooked or gone.
The song stopped, and this time she really wanted to get away, but the man held her tight, his arm coiled around her waist like a snake. He bent to kiss her; she discreetly turned her head.
"Pay first, is it?" he whispered.
"No." She tried to remove his hands from her bodice.
"C'mon. It's time. How many dances do I gotta pay for?"
"As many as you want because that's all that's for sale."
"You teasin'?" He wouldn't let her go.
Her eyes turned as frosty as her voice. "No."
His arm became a vise. For a slim man, he was strong and wiry. "Then I want my money back."
"You'll have to take that up with the management." She dug her fingernails into the back of his hand. His hold only grew more painful. She almost couldn't breathe.
Faulty walked by, his gaze fixed on someone by the door, his eyes filled with anxiety. Normally he watched his girls like a hawk. At the first sign of trouble, he was always there. Now he went past, not even seeing her.
She was about to call to him when he announced to everyone in the saloon, "Drinks are on the house to welcome our new sheriff!"
At the word sheriff, the blond man dropped his cruel hold around her waist. Christal backed away, thankful for the reprieve even if it did mean coming face-to-face with a sheriff. She turned toward the door where all eyes were glued to the stranger.
Her heart stopped.
If she were a blind woman, she'd have known that face just by touch. There was Noble's new sheriff, his tall form slouched against the wall, still wearing the blue Federal-issue greatcoat he'd ridden into town with and the black felt Stetson, pulled low so that no one—just she alone—could see his cold gaze fixed on her. It was Cain.
Her prayers would have been answered if the earth had cracked open beneath her and swallowed her up whole. But the earth stayed as frozen solid as the prairie beyond town. She just stood there while Joe began playing "Dixie," unwittingly mocking her.
There were only three thoughts in her head at that moment. She would have sworn upon her life that it was the first time the Reb had ever worn blue. Her second thought answered the question that had plagued her since August. Had she fallen in love with Macaulay Cain? Now she knew.
Now she knew.
Someone poured the sheriff a whiskey, and he turned his eyes from her while cowhands slapped him on the back, welcoming him into town.
Her gaze didn't leave him. It would be like turning away from a poised tiger.
In shock, she still couldn't understand how he could be standing near the door, the new sheriff of Noble. She closed her eyes, clinging to the hope that her sight was lying to her, sure that the next time she looked the face beneath that black Stetson would belong to some other man, not him. But then she looked again, and her gaze met his from across the room, and there was no denying it. He'd found her. Or the most abominable coincidence ever to happen had just occurred.
Then the last thought finally hit her.
Run, it said.
"C'mon and have a drink with me."
As if waking from a nightmare, Christal blinked several times as she looked up at the blond man. She glanced over at Cain and this time found his gaze not on her but on the man standing next to her. She could see he'd seen the man dance with her. And touch her hair. And want more.
She could also see he didn't like it.
"I've got to go," she mumbled, too distracted even to look at the gent.
He grabbed her. "I still want my money's worth."
"No . . . no . . . the sheriff . . ." She nodded her head toward Macaulay.
The man looked at the sheriff and freed her. Wildly, she looked around for Faulty. He was in the middle of the fray. Men had bellied up to the bar to get their free drink. The sheriff was now talking with Dixiana. And smiling. This was her chance.
Christal slipped from the noisy, raucous crowd and tiptoed up the stairs, damning every jingle of the bells around her ankles. She got to her room and without even thinking, she pulled out a small, worn carpetbag she'd bought in South Pass. She also pulled out her "new" widow's weeds, which she'd also bought in So
uth Pass— with Macaulay's money.
She swallowed the fear rising in her throat. Numbly she stuffed her belongings into the carpetbag, not caring whether things got wrinkled or torn. She was too frightened to be bothered with details. She had stolen his money. Did he remember?
A surge of terror passed through her. Of course he remembered. She could tell just by his gaze that he remembered.
She stuffed the remainder of her things into the carpetbag. Where she would go, what she would do hadn't yet sunk in. At the moment, she couldn't be rational. Because there was a sheriff downstairs who was bound to ask a lot of questions, questions she didn't want to answer. So it was time to leave. She didn't believe in coincidence. The only reason he'd come to Noble was to see her. If he got her alone, he was going to get his answers even if it destroyed her.
She blew out the lamp and clutched the heavy carpetbag in her hands. In back of Ivy's room was a small wash porch that had stairs leading to the rear of the saloon. She would exit there and then she would go ... ?
Defying the impossibilities, she wrapped her heavy shawl around her and put her hand on the door. She would think about where to go when her feet hit the snow and the saloon was far behind.
Her palm slowly turned the doorknob; her mind whirled with unanswered questions. What had he been doing since Camp Brown? Why had he come for her now? Had he found out she was wanted? Had he come to send her back to the asylum and her uncle?
She opened the door.
And froze.
He stood there, silhouetted by the lamps in the stairwell. She tried to slam the door closed, but his hand gripped its edge and held it. Her strength was no match for his. He pushed it open and walked into her room.
She backed away in the darkness like a trapped animal. The scene at the saloon in Falling Water was repeating itself, but this time the fear was different. He wasn't an outlaw come to rape her, he was a sheriff she had stupidly fallen in love with, come to drag her back to New York and betray her need for secrecy.
"You are a cool one, girl. I'll give you that," he said in that deep, scratchy voice she had thought she'd never hear again.
She stared at his familiar form, wondering desperately when Wyoming Territory had gotten too small to hide in. "Why are you here? Why did they elect you sheriff?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he struck a phosphorus match and lit the lamp she had just blown out.
In the light, she could see every angry plane of his face. There were times after she'd left Camp Brown that she wished she could see his face just one more time. The yearning had been an ache, bitter and deep, never to be erased. But she'd never imagined she'd see him again. Especially not like this.
She wanted to stammer and weep and run. Instead she stood deathly still and in a calm voice said, "You're a U.S. Marshal. You were promised a job in Washington. I don't understand why you would even consider coming here to play sheriff."
"The last time I saw you, you forgot something." He slammed it onto her bedside table.
She looked down to see what it was. To her surprise she saw one of her seven gold pieces. Another coin was slammed onto the table. Another, and then another, until all seven coins were there.
She fingered the coins, then summoned the courage to look at him. It struck her that she had never seen eyes so devoid of warmth, eyes as frigid as the hellish winter prairie.
A cold fear settled into her heart. He was angry she had stolen from him. And perhaps angrier still she had never said good-bye.
"Why did you come here?" she whispered bravely.
"I told you I wasn't going to run with any more gangs. So why not come here?" He captured her gaze. "You're here."
She swallowed. "But I don't want to be here. No one in his right mind does."
He stared at her, his eyes not missing the smallest detail of her garb. She was dressed like a prostitute, no one could deny it. Confusion ran deep in his eyes, along with a strange kind of betrayal. "Maybe I'm not in my right mind," he whispered.
She had a difficult time keeping the fear from her voice. There was no point in delaying the inevitable any longer. "Did you come here for me, then?"
His gaze locked with hers. "Come here for you? Because you stole my money and left without a fare-thee-well? No, I don't think so. If I were to come all this way for you, I think it'd have to be for something more than that, don't you?"
She could feel the blood drain from her face. He knew about New York. That was what he was implying. She'd come to the end of the line. In a whisper, she said, "What is it you know about me that you've followed me here?"
"What do I know about you?" The betrayal deepened in his eyes, along with the confusion. His lips twisted in disgust. "Not a goddamned thing. How about that? I almost died twice for you back in Falling Water and here I'm not sure I know your real name. When I last saw you, you were the virtuous widow; now I find you here, dancing willingly in a stranger's arms, acting like a common—"
"Don't." She didn't know how she summoned the strength, but somehow she straightened her back and jutted her chin. "You don't know what I am. So don't say it."
Bitter curiosity was deep in every tanned line of his face. "Why are you here, Christal? They told me you were working in a saloon and I couldn't believe it. You aren't doing it for the money—you've got five hundred dollars due you from Terence Scott. And you had an offer from me. You had me. ..." His voice seemed to catch, but it happened so quickly, she thought it might have been her imagination.
His anger turned quiet. "I would have looked after you, girl. Hell, I asked you to go with me to Washington. Is what you have here better?" He looked around her barren little room in contempt.
She clutched her carpetbag, saying nothing. She was relieved and strangely heartbroken at the same time. He didn't know about her. She still had a chance to escape detection, but only if she could make him go back to Washington.
"Maybe you have me all wrong, Macaulay. Maybe I wanted to come here. Maybe I'm doing just what I want to do. With no man directing me all the time."
"So that's why you ran from five hundred dollars? To keep your independence?" His harsh laugh cut her. "No, girl, you came here 'cause you had to. And I've come here to find out why."
"There is no reason why. I like it here. I'm doing just what I want to do."
He grabbed her arm so tightly it hurt. The anger on his face took her breath away. "Whoring? Is that doing what you want to do? I don't believe it. The woman I knew back in Falling Water was no whore."
"Maybe you didn't know all about that woman back in Falling Water," she gasped, tugging on her arm. She hated confirming what he thought, but that was the only way she could think of to make him lose interest and go home.
"Are you a whore, Christal? Have you come to like it since I last saw you?"
His contempt hurt like a twisting pain in her chest, but she refused to let it stop her. They had no chance. They never did. So why prolong the inevitable? He needed to go back where he came from and she needed to get on with earning enough money to get her uncle. She could never tell him the truth with that tin star pressing in on her; she had no evidence to vindicate herself other than her word. A confession would shatter either his belief in the law or his belief in her. And she'd rather shame herself by confessing to being what she was not than confront the fact that his belief in her—and his feeling for her—was not that strong.
"Why don't you just go back to Washington, Macaulay?" Her voice was a low, desperate whisper. "None of this concerns you. There's nothing in Noble for you, so why don't you just head back east?"
He stared at her for an ungodly amount of time, as if trying to reconcile himself to what he feared she had become. She could see the tug-of-war inside him and she wasn't sure which side won when he reached for the carpetbag and dumped the contents out onto her thin, straw-stuffed mattress.
It was the widow's weeds that captured him. He touched the black gown, reverently running his hands along the bodice and skirt. She
stepped away, frightened by his seemingly meaningless obsession, but he grabbed her by the waist and held the black gown to her as if he was trying to remember what she looked like in it.
"Please." She began to pull away, but he wouldn't let her.
"These damned weeds haunt me." He stood so close, she could feel his breath against her cheek. "You looked pretty fine in these weeds, girl. Your hair is like spun gold against the black. Your skin is . . . pink and fragile. When I saw you in these weeds I wanted to protect you. But now you tell me it was all an act. You're not a widow, are you?"
Surrendering the lies for a moment, she slowly shook her head.
He looked deep into her eyes. She could see the gleam of cynicism that was growing in his. In Falling Water, there had been a kind of respectful distance he'd kept from her because he'd thought she was a lady. Now that she'd all but confirmed his worst thoughts, the respectful distance was gone, and in its stead was a kind of familiarity that stripped her of her feelings and uniqueness. He looked at her now as if he'd seen a hundred women like her before. And though she told herself that was just what she wanted, perhaps even needed, it still sliced her to the core.
"Were you swindling someone? Is that why you were dressed like a widow? To fool them?"
She shook her head, suddenly finding it difficult to look into his eyes. "I dress that way when I travel. I'm treated better."
"I see. I guess I might've done the same. Even I have to admit, if I'd have known you were just another whore, I might not have been so chivalrous."
Her cheeks reddened with anger, but she didn't deny it. The sooner he had his fill of contempt for her, the sooner he'd be on his horse heading out of town. "I didn't ask you to cause me all this trouble. If you came here to get your questions about me answered, then they're answered. You believe I'm a whore, go ahead and believe it if that'll get you back on your horse and out of town."
Fair Is the Rose Page 16
