But then her eyes met Macaulay's and she knew the fight was still in her. She wouldn't let him see her shame herself. He already had a low opinion about her character. He thought her a whore. She wasn't about to prove it to him.
To prove her nonchalance, she loosened her shawl, letting it drop around her arms. The room was well heated, a delightful change from the drafty saloon. During the winter, the liquor depot was always die warmest place in town. Jan kept the stove burning night and day to keep the whiskey bottles from shattering.
Macaulay walked to a small desk where some papers were stacked. He retrieved something. Without a word, he slid it in front of her. As if he simply wanted to see her reaction.
It was a daguerreotype of her and her sister. Alana had been perhaps fifteen; Christal, twelve. Christal had taken the picture with her when she'd fled New York. It was the only memento she had of her family. The daguerreotype was in the trunk that Kineson and his gang had pilfered after they'd removed it from the roof of the Overland stagecoach.
"You've returned my money. And now this. So where are the rest of my things?" she asked in a controlled voice that hid how unsettled she was.
"I can wire Rollins and have them sent here. There's not much."
"What Kineson stole from the coach was everything I have in the world."
"You could have had all your belongings and five hundred dollars if you'd only waited an extra day at Camp Brown. Now you'll have your things in due time." His hand rested on her shoulder. For strength, or intimidation, she didn't know. "Tell me about the picture."
She stared down at the daguerreotype. "Why did you bring it with you and not the rest of my belongings?"
"I'm not a courier. The picture's what interested me."
His hand lowered to her own. He slowly removed her right glove. One instinct told her to pull her hand away, the other told her to stay and not look guilty. Without even glancing at the scar on her palm, he grasped her hand in his. The warm shock of his skin against hers sent a tingle down her spine.
"Tell me about this," he said, his voice a coaxing deep rumble in her ear. "The girl next to you must be your sister. She looks like you. What's her name?"
"A—" She closed her mouth, unable to speak. She couldn't tell him. Revealing even a little detail like Alana's name would be stupid.
"Who is Sarony?"
She stared down at the picture. The name Sarony flowed across the lower right-hand corner. Napoleon Sarony was the premiere New York daguerreotyper. Just going to have the picture taken had been a momentous occasion; there weren't many of her social class who had stood for a daguerreotype. Knickerbockers had had their portraits done by great painters like Stuart and Copley. Photography was something most members of their class dismissed as fleeting and inconsequential. Nonetheless their mother insisted the two Van Alen girls be photographed.
Sarony's studio was at the top of a four-story building with bays of La Farge stained glass and skylights flooding it with sunshine. It was an entrancing place, but what had captured her thirteen-year-old heart was Sarony's collection of exotica. Leopard skins dotted the floors, potted palms swayed over doorways, and in one corner, Persian couches upholstered in red and purple flanked a strange fox-red monkey called an orangutan that was trained to cool seated guests with an ostrich fan.
She smiled to herself at the memory. Their mother had thought Sarony was crazy, but she was still insistent upon the daguerreotype.
Feeling a tightness in her throat, Christal forced herself to look at the picture. Both girls were dressed in serious umber-colored satin gowns, an indicator of their exalted family lines. Her sister, Alana, though barely sixteen, appeared calm and serene, even regal. But not Christal. In her eyes there was such a twinkle of happy mischief that she couldn't help but wonder if it was still there, ready to come alive again should her fortunes change.
She tried to hide how much the daguerreotype meant to her, but that was difficult, especially when she could relive that day completely in her mind. When Mr. Sarony had all his apparatus in front of them, she could remember, a twinge of anxiety had passed through her.
It was as if she were worried that the magic of taking their images might also take something they could never get back. But just as she was ready to ruin the picture, Alana had reached over and taken her hand in her lap, somehow possessing a big sister's instinct that she needed reassurance.
Even now Christal could see the "ghost" image of Alana's arm as she pulled her sister's hand into hers. And now Christal was grateful to Sarony, so grateful that if she ever met the man again she would throw her arms around him and kiss him on both cheeks. He hadn't taken anything from them at all; he'd given them a moment that would remain forever, undimmed by cruel mortal memory.
Her gaze rose from the daguerreotype to Macaulay's hand wrapped around her own. Sisters held hands. Friends and families. She missed it. It was comforting and genuine: one hand perfectly meshed into another, as hers was in Macaulay's.
She stared at the physical bond of their hands. It looked so right. Her hand, fragile and pale, covered with another, one strong, corded, the back sprinkled with dark hair. These were the clasped hands of lovers.
Lovers.
"Thank you for bringing this to me. I must be going now." She stood and shakily pulled on her glove.
"I know she's your sister. Why won't you even tell me her name?" His face was taut with repressed anger and frustration.
"Her name is unimportant."
He slammed the door closed just as she opened it. She shivered in the gust of frigid air.
"If it's unimportant, you would tell me. So I can only conclude it's of supreme importance." He looked down at her and she could see every silver fleck in his eyes. "What—is—her-—name?" He paused. "Is she dead?"
She was silent.
He looked as if he could beat her. "What must I do to get you to talk? Jail you on some offense and starve you with bread and water?"
"I'm never going to tell you anything. Don't put us through this torture."
"You were rich, weren't you?" He ripped the daguerreotype from her hand and pointed to the gowns. "These dresses are satin. Only rich girls wear satin."
She was silent. He looked down at her, his handsome features ravaged by frustration. She almost toyed with the idea of telling him all kinds of lies so that his curiosity might be satisfied and he might go away. Might.
Contempt curled his lip. "I can't help but get the feeling if I was some lonely renegade you'd be purring every night to tell me all about yourself." He shoved her aside. "You're just like every other fallen woman I've known. You don't like a man unless he's criminal and treats you bad."
Her eyes sparked with fury. There was nothing more to say. "I've got to go. I've got people waiting for me."
"I'll bet," he spat out in disgust.
"I meant Faulty!"
"Fine! You go back to that saloon. It's where you belong anyway."
"I'm not a whore. You know it," she said, blinking back angry tears.
"Then prove it." His voice was low and desperate. "Tell me something about yourself and prove it. 'Cause if you don't, I'm going to put Faulty's, and every other establishment like it, out of business for prostitution."
She ached to slap him. "Don't bother with Faulty. I won't be working for Faulty anymore. He's shown me too much kindness for me to let you ruin his livelihood. I'm leaving tomorrow when the wagons arrive from Fort Washakie. Go ahead and follow. We'll just go from town to town destroying each other."
They stood, braced for combat, glaring at each other.
Finally he shook his head in resignation. "If you run, I can outlast you. But I believe you'd rather die than tell me anything, and I don't hanker to bury you out there on the prairie."
"Then why don't you go back to Washington? Nobody here wants a sheriff anyway, except Jan."
"I looked forward to this job. It's peaceful and there's no runnin'. I'm here to stay for a while. I'm not ready for Was
hington."
"You're a one-man club, then. Nobody wants to be here but you." She glared at him. "May I leave, Sheriff?"
"Yeah, sure. Go on. But don't think this is over. You'll talk someday."
"I won't. I've already proved it."
"No, girl, not at all. You were close to talkin' when we were in Falling Water. You trusted me then; you'll trust me again."
She glanced at the tin star pinned to his chest. "I doubt it."
He shrugged and took out a coin from his pocket. He began flipping it. She could see it was the whore's token Faulty had given him. Newly enraged, she opened the door.
"Christal."
She paused.
"Save a dance for me, okay?" he said, a nasty gleam in his eye.
She slammed the door in her wake.
* * *
"Now he don't want you to be too friendly with the customers, Christal. He told me that last night. I guess he wants you all to hisself." Faulty wiped his hands on his white apron and poured another gent a whiskey. The evening's business was light. The new sheriff had been in town less than a week and already things were slowing down.
"You're making him think I'm a—" Christal eyed Dixiana and Ivy. She didn't like saying the word around them. Whore had no meaning other than the physical one. It had no heart to break, or dreams to tarnish. She finished, saying with ire, "You just shouldn't have implied that I did that kind of thing, Faulty. You've given him expectations. He's going to be mad when I don't honor the token."
Faulty clasped his hands in surprise. "Didn't he already use the token?"
"No," she answered, disapproval on her face.
"Oh, my saloon!" he gasped, looking heavenward. He grabbed her. "Is that why he comes here every night? He's waiting to use the damned token? Christal, you gotta get him to use it! He's ruining business. Folks just don't want to come here with him sitting there every night, glaring at every man who touches you. You got to be nice, girl. You gotta save my saloon!"
"I'm not going to be that nice, Faulty." She glared at him. "Besides, I'll be gone as soon as I can get a wagon to take me out of here."
"And where would you go? Come on, Christal, the other girls do it."
"But I don't! You should never have given him that token!"
"How was I to explain you're different? He wouldn't have believed me."
She hid her wounded feelings. Perhaps she no longer had a right to her pride. But she was a Van Alen, a Knickerbocker from one of the most illustrious families of New York. Pride was something she would never relinquish.
Handing him her tray, she ordered three whiskeys. Faulty poured them, his forehead lined with worry. Suddenly she couldn't be angry with him over the token. He'd been a godsend when she'd had nobody to help her. Saloon owners weren't known for their charity. Once in Laramie, one had tried to beat her into going upstairs with a customer. She had left that night and never looked back. But running was a difficult life. Coach fares were costly; it cost her a ten-dollar gold piece every time she went on one. In many ways, Noble offered respite. Faulty wasn't too ambitious. He couldn't afford to be with his cheap customers.
She took the three whiskeys and gave two of them to a pair of cowboys who were playing a hand of poker. She walked with the last one over to a table in the corner and set it down, pointedly not looking at the customer. Joe played gaily in the background and a drunken cowhand pressed a coin into her hand and dragged her to the dance floor.
In the corner, Macaulay took the whiskey, kicked a chair in front of him and put up his feet. He eyed the men in the bar, but none of them held his attention like the one who had Christal in his arms.
But he made no protest; started no fight. Instead, he did exactly what he'd done the night before. And the night before that.
He drank and he stared.
Chapter Fourteen
SOMEBODY'S DARLING
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of his fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mold,
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now-
Somebody's darling is stiff and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from his fair mates take—
They were somebody's pride, you know.
Somebody's hand has rested there:
Was it mother's, soft and white?
Or had the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! He has somebody's love,
Somebody's heart enshrined him there,
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the winds of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave and grand!
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And his smiling, childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's darling slumbers here."
Penned by Marie Revenel La Coste,
who tended confederate soldiers in the wards of
Savannah and who lost her betrothed to the Cause
Macaulay closed his eyes, grasping for sleep that seemed always beyond his reach. The whiskey was keeping him axvake, he rationalized, but he knew what it really was. It was the girl. She was in his blood, a heat pounding through his veins. She ran through him, capturing him. He couldn't let her go.
He placed his hands at the back of his head and stared at the dark ceiling. The night was silent. Across the street the lights at the saloon had long since gone out.
Was it lust that had driven him here? She was beautiful. God, she was beautiful. Classic blond perfection. But he'd had women that were just as beautiful, and far less trouble.
As if seeking the answers, he let his mind wander. He found himself in the past. Growing up at the farm in Georgia, they'd had a dog, an ugly, scarred mongrel that looked as if God had put it together from leftover parts of other more sleek and beautiful breeds. The thing had appeared in their lives one day dragging itself onto the property, starved and chewed up from a fight. His mother had taken pity on the creature and nursed it back to health. For twelve long years the cur was his mother's shadow, trotting happily at her side as she swung her willow marketing basket on her arm, or sleeping by the stove as his mother cooked when its joints became stiff with age. He himself must have been nine years of age when he looked up from his morning porridge and watched his mother feed the hideous thing potatoes and bacon grease. "Why do you care for that creature, Mama? He's hard on the eye," he'd said smartly, always all too sure of himself. But then his mother had stepped up to him and caressed his smooth, boyish face, resting her hand beneath his jaw. " 'Caulay," she'd said, tenderness for him in her eyes, "remember this well: There's no face more beautiful than one well loved."
The memory burned into him. So did he love Christal? Was love what had brought him here? He didn't think so. He cared for the girl, and he sure as hell lusted after her. But love—not yet. He didn't know enough about her yet. All he knew was . . .<
br />
Memory came back again, this time of war. Unwanted pictures assaulted him. Armies of skeleton boys on crutches—all of them with faces like his brother—defeated yet not dead, with war in their eyes. Because as obscene as they looked, what they had witnessed was even more obscene.
Their ghostly memory trudged by, hundreds of them moving in an imaginary line through his room, all young boys betrayed by the notion that manhood and war walked hand in hand. He whispered in the dark some lines penned by a Confederate patriot,
And in our dream we wove the thread
Of principles for which had bled,
And suffered long our own immortal dead,
In the land where we were dreaming.
He said the last line twice, feeling his gut twist in longing and remembrance. And then he knew the lure that had brought him here. The girl had something he'd rarely seen in a woman. And because he'd looked once, now he found he couldn't look away.
She had war in her eyes too.
Chapter Fifteen
"Ivy, you're just talkin' that way because Jericho's in town tonight. My, my, don't you get uppity when he comes sniffin' around Tuesday evenings? Well, Ah don't care. Give me some fine-looking young cowboys and you can have all your Jerichos and then some." Dixiana fell onto the bed, clad only in her knickers, chemise, and corset. She studied her fingernails, each filed to a sharp point.
"You just leave me and Jericho alone." Ivy sat on a wooden bench staring at her face in a tarnished vermeil hand mirror. Christal stood behind her, weaving her thick, dark hair into a chignon.
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