His mouth was slightly parted and his brow was clear of the stresses that ate at him. She longed to reach out and trace the lines that ran down his cheeks, to touch a lock of his dark umber-colored hair, hair that she noticed for the first time was streaked tawny, a testament to his years spent in the saddle beneath a hot prairie sun. His chest, partly covered by the blanket, rose and fell with his deep breathing, creating a temptation for her hand once again to feel his muscles harden at her touch, to feel the erotic crispness of the dark hair that ran in a stream down his belly, to parts she now gratefully found hidden.
He groaned and rolled away, onto his back, giving her the opportunity to rise. She wanted to be dressed and gone before he awoke. It had unsettled her last night having his man's gaze on her nude body. Now, beneath the sun's bright glare, she seemed even more naked.
She slowly rose up on one elbow. The exertion of the night made her movements slow and cautious. She tried to sit up, but the length of her hair was hopelessly caught beneath his meaty shoulder.
She stared, puzzling how to extricate it without waking him up. If she had had scissors available, she would have cut it all off rather than face him nude across the bed, her emotions running the gamut of embarrassment, anxiety, longing, and fear. He had forced a promise of no more running, but in the harsh light of morning she didn't know how well that promise could be kept. It was an asylum . . . an insane asylum . . . She didn't want him to look into her eyes and see the lie she still needed to tell. Not yet.
Finding no other way, she reached across the mattress and pulled on her hair. It gave an inch or two and still he slept, heartening her. She tugged again and again, getting a bit more hair out from beneath him with each pull. Then, with a final lusty heave, she freed her hair, but not before his hand reached out and pulled her naked onto his chest.
"Mornin'," he rumbled, repressed laughter warming his normally cold gaze.
"Good morning," she said, the formality of her words making her feel stupid, especially while she was buck naked atop him, her breasts crushed against his hairy chest, her buttocks an appallingly convenient place for him to rest his hands—unbelievably warm hands.
"What time is it?" His voice was a deep vibration through his chest, titillating her own.
"Late," she whispered, not brave enough to scramble away and reveal more of her nudity.
"Then let's not get up at all." He bent his head and kissed the top of her breast.
She wanted to pull away but if she did, she knew he'd have her nipple in his mouth before she could gasp a protest. Then she'd be lost. "I—I really have things to do —please—"
"Faulty's not going to come over here and drag you away from me. You know it, darlin'." He squeezed her bottom. She couldn't believe the strength in his hands.
"But—"
He took her face and brushed the hair from her eyes. "But you're not used to making love in the daytime. Or ever, are you?"
She was silent, remembering how he'd risen from the bed after he'd taken her the first time last night. Using a chipped pitcher and bowl, he'd washed the blood from himself, then handed her a damp cloth so that she could do the same. The entire episode was performed without a word, without questions. He was solemn, almost grave, as if taking her virginity had been an undesirable, unavoidable task. But then, accepting it as done, he'd returned to bed and taken her twice more, almost as if he were trying to convince himself she'd never been a virgin at all.
"What were you saving it for, Christal?" he asked quietly, bringing her out of her thoughts.
You, she wanted to say, but didn't.
"Let me see you." He sat up in the bed and pulled her from him. She clutched the sheet, but he took it away. Kneeling before him like a slave, she felt his gaze wander freely over her breasts and thighs. She was so mortified, she couldn't even look at him.
He tilted her face up. She finally met his stare, wishing hers could be as cool and detached as his; knowing it could not.
His hand brushed the knots at the back of her head, further evidence of the fury of the night before. He looked straight into her eyes. "You're beautiful, Christal. Hide yourself from every other man, but don't hide from me."
Unable to stand his scrutiny any longer, she grabbed the twisted sheet and held it to her chest. "Please . . . you leave me no modesty."
"It's too late for modesty now." His gaze flickered over her maidenly pose as she clutched the sheet to her breasts. He suddenly smiled. "What are you afraid of? You think I'm looking for flaws?"
"Maybe. I just don't see what you find so fascinating. And it's so damned light in here." She looked around, cursing the sunlight that poured through the two long windows of his bedroom. Now she knew why Dixi and Ivy shunned the east bedroom. The morning was just too hard to face in the glare.
"I'm not looking to see flaws." He still wore that irreverent smile. "But I will say this: You're too thin. And I don't need the light to know it."
Her eyes flashed at him, her nerves taut with nervous anger. "It hasn't been easy for me since Camp Brown. What do you think, that I dine at Delmonico's every night?" She snapped her gaze away. "You just want me fat so my bust will be as big as Dixiana's."
"It's not your bust I'm complaining about." He ran his fingertips lightly along the portion of her rib cage that wasn't covered by the sheet. There was just enough rib showing to prove his point.
Disconcerted, she covered her side with the sheet, but then it fell from one breast.
He took possession of it before she pulled away.
Bending over her, his thumb doing wild things to her nipple, he whispered, "Ah, girl, don't you worry . . . your bosom is big enough . . ." His eyes flickered down to the flesh overflowing his cupped hand. "Dixi's got nothing on you . . ."
"And how would you know?" she asked, breathless at his touch, anguished at the thought he might get personal experience.
"I don't know a whore from a virgin, or a widow from a runaway, but if there's one thing I can judge, darlin', it's the size of a woman's breasts." A dark, wry smile tipped the corner of his mouth. He forced her down to the mattress with a kiss, then took his sweet time adding to the knots already in the back of her hair.
Chapter Eighteen
The half-breed took his time dismounting in front of the hotel. Traffic congested at the entrance while velvet-bustled ladies were helped from carriages, their delicate white hands stuffed into mink muffs, and thus rendered useless. The Fairleigh Hotel was the finest in St. Louis. It sat back from the railroad so that the ashes and cinders wouldn't dull the gilding. It could boast of such famous visitors as Henry Tompkins Paige Comstock, Mark Twain, and General and Mrs. George A. Custer. The Fairleigh advertised that it was just like a hotel in Boston or New York, with every modern convenience and tasteful Louis XV decor, and to the people who could afford a night on the Fairleigh's feather mattresses it was indeed a heavenly respite from the endless jarring of the Pullman car headed west.
But though the hotel rose above the muddy roads and the riffraff drinking heavily in the saloons between wagon trains, it didn't intimidate the half-breed. Not much did. Perhaps it was because of his height—White Wolf was well over six feet tall—but most likely it was because of his cold-blooded stare, given to him by his
Pawnee father who had raped his mother while attacking and setting her wagon train to flames.
No indeed, White Wolf was not a man most wanted to go up against. To the misfortune of many, his mother survived her burns to give him birth. But then, because of what his father had done, she'd felt no compunction in beating her half-breed bastard until he ran away or stopped her. At fifteen, the boy chose to stop her. He clubbed her to death, then roamed the prairie forts and reservations, and grew into a man, a man who had now been ushered to the Fairleigh Hotel. A man proficient in the skills of no mercy.
"May I help you?" An effeminate hotelier shuffled up to the half-breed and discreetly placed a hankie over his nose, softening the stench of rancid bear grease
.
The half-breed ignored him. He looked around the gilt-and-crystal lobby as if searching for someone he knew. In the far corner a man stood up from a ruby damask banquette. He was a handsome man in his fifties, with startlingly blue eyes and a gray Vandyke beard. Reaching into his sapphire silk vest, the man took out a gold watch, noted the time, then nodded.
The hotelier shook his head while the half-breed walked past, a Winchester slung over his shoulders as if he were in the wilds of the Dakotas and not in the middle of the great city of St. Louis.
Civilization has to come soon, the dapper little man tsked to himself. There was more and more building every day following the railroad, so much so that the pounding of hammers could be voted the state anthem. But in the meantime—the hotelier's shoulders slumped as he perched himself once again behind the richly inlaid walnut counter—in the meantime, it was no use trying to convince men they were in a place as cultured as an East Coast city. This was Missouri. Men could enter a hotel with their rifles. It was still the West.
The half-breed refused to sit at the banquette, probably because he was more comfortable on an ant-riddled tree stump than fine French damask. The other gentleman resumed his seat, dismissing the half-breed with a glance that said he considered him little better than the help.
"How much do you want to find her?" The gentleman lifted a gray eyebrow, his detached gaze trained on a garish gilt-framed oil painting of Prometheus.
White Wolf looked around the lobby as if judging the worth of a person who could afford to stay there. "One thousand dollars."
The man with the Vandyke beard laughed. He met the half-breed's eyes. "I'll give you two hundred and not a penny more. I've barely enough to afford this rattrap." He swept his hand in the air, gesturing to the lobby. "For the same price I could be staying in New York at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, ensconced in the finest of suites."
The half-breed took another look around the lobby. He'd never known a finer hotel than the Fairleigh. The man's disparagement confused him.
"Do we have a deal? I was told you're the one who can find her, but I know there are others who would like the chance. Look at all these Mormons who can't get to Utah. I hear they'll do almost anything—"
"Two hundred, I bring back her hair. Three hundred, I bring back this." White Wolf wiped his hands on his rabbit fur vest, then extracted a greasy piece of paper from within it. Carefully he unfolded it and placed it on a rosewood table next to the banquette. It was a drawing of a scar shaped in a rose with the word wanted blazed across the top.
Suddenly the gentleman began to laugh. He picked up the piece of paper. "You mean, for three hundred dollars you'll bring me back her hand?"
White Wolf nodded. "For three hundred you'll know she's dead."
The gentleman possessed a handsome smile and he turned it on the hotelier. "Over there—bring us champagne, will you? We have something to celebrate."
The hotelier nodded. With pursed, disapproving lips, he went to fetch the champagne.
The gentleman turned back to the half-breed. "I'll get you a room here in the hotel tonight. I've only heard a rumor this girl's out in Wyoming, but if the rumor's true the money's as good as yours. You'll go first thing in the morning."
"I'll go tonight." White Wolf didn't care about luxury. He couldn't have an opinion on something he didn't know.
"Delightful. Delightful." Beneath his Vandyke, the man smiled like a jackal. "I'm anxious to return to New York and seek my fortune on the Exchange once more, but until I find this girl, I'm an outcast. I left town with all the gold I could carry, but I'm used to better. The sooner you find the girl, the sooner I can return. No one can blame me for anything if she meets her end in the wild western territories and I can return to New York without worry that her memory might Convict me. And then I can claim her share of the Van Alen estate, whatever that cursed mick didn't already take. After all, I cared for the girl for years. I paid every dime for that expensive asylum. Am I due nothing?" His jackal's smile widened.
White Wolf watched the man pour the champagne that appeared on the rosewood table. He didn't care about this man's problems. All he was thinking of was the bounty. "Do I bring the proof to this hotel?"
The gentleman nodded. "The name is Didier. Baldwin Didier. Don't forget it."
White Wolf finally smiled. "I won't."
In the fading light of evening, Christal watched Macaulay buckle on his gun belt. He was dressed in everything but his red flannel shirt—that, she wore. She sat against the iron headboard of the bed, her knees tucked against her, her eyes saddened that it was finally time to face reality.
He went to the bureau and found a wool shirt. Shrugging it on, he said, "Let me check on things downstairs, and then we'll have some supper at the saloon after I talk to Faulty."
"T-talk to Faulty?" She tried to brush the hair out of her eyes, but the long shirtsleeves kept falling over her fingers.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. "You think I could let you stay there and sell dances? After what we've done?"
"It's nothing that Dixi and Ivy don't do every night."
He turned to her, his eyes stern. "Exactly."
She looked out the window. The setting sun painted the clapboards of Faulty's saloon a brilliant fuchsia. "This won't last forever. It can't. You know that."
She looked back at him. He'd donned his dark blue greatcoat. The cape made his shoulders look even wider; its length made him look taller. He was a large, muscular man; compared to her, he was a giant. But his heaviness between her thighs had been delicious. He'd ruined her for anyone smaller.
"Let's not think of forever. Let's just think of right now."
She nodded and looked away. "All right. We won't think about tomorrow. That is, until tomorrow comes. And it will come. Soon."
He picked up his Stetson where it lay by the door. Quietly he removed the lacy chemisette from its top and laid it on his bureau. "I'll make you a deal. You don't talk about tomorrow and I don't talk about New York."
Her blood froze in her veins. He'd never given her any indication he knew something. But he knew about New York. "How—how did you find that out?"
"You mentioned Delmonico's. I know where that is. It's a restaurant on Union Square in the city of Manhattan."
She stared at him, naked fear on her face.
He was silent for a moment, then he said, "I've never been there myself. Couldn't afford it. I was told nobody but Vanderbilt can."
She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from trembling. Mentioning Delmonico's had been a foolish detail to reveal. Now he knew more about her from that one slip than he would have in a month's interrogation.
"Well . . . I'll be back in an hour." He suddenly seemed weary. She wondered if he was losing the fight against telegraphing for information about her. After all, he'd gotten what he wanted. One mystery about her was solved. That left only one more.
"Are you going to check up on me?"
He paused but didn't face her. "I know you're running from something. Known it all along. If I check on you, what will I find?"
She stared at his back, helpless. There seemed no way to explain it all. Her story was fantastic, and he would be obliged by his duty as sheriff to bring her back to the asylum.
"I thought so," he mumbled when she didn't answer.
"Wait," she whispered, her voice trembling as violently as her hands. "My uncle—my uncle—" She choked, unable to finish, unable to surrender her fear.
"Tell me about your uncle."
She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come. She was damned by the picture of his eyes; of the betrayal she would find in them when they took her away, back to the asylum, back to her uncle looming in the shadows of death.
"Christal, tell me about him." His voice brooked no disobedience.
She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. Still the words wouldn't come.
He finally faced her. His features seemed carved in stone. "Chr
istal ... if you'd just taken Terence Scott's money and left town with the rest of the passengers, I might have let you alone. I would have figured you just couldn't fall in love with a man who'd played outlaw with you, kidnapped you, and held you against your will. But you didn't let things work out the way they were supposed to. You took my money and left behind even more of your own, and you ran away, as if something had terrified you out of your mind. ... So I couldn't let it be. I had to find you." He was quiet for a very long time, studying her, his eyes glittering with need.
"I want to tell you," she whispered, her voice full of unshed tears, her heart so tired of fighting alone. "But— but you're a sheriff. Your duty—the war—you need to do the right thing—I want to tell you . . . but I can't. I just can't." She dropped her face in her hands. The game was up. He knew just enough about her to telegraph New York. The scar would give her away. He could find out anything he wanted to in a matter of hours. In the end, it would be better just to confess. What he would find out from the authorities in Manhattan would be much worse than her explanation. And maybe, just maybe, he cared enough about her to believe her.
She looked down at the rumpled sheets all around her. Her heart felt heavy in her chest. One thing was certainly true: If he didn't care for her now, he never would.
"Tell me," he demanded again, chiseling away at her resistance.
She choked on a sob, unable to face him. "You want to know this terrible thing about me, and I'll tell it to you. But first answer me this: Would you still want to know if it meant I would be taken from here, taken away never to be heard from again? Would you still want to know if it"—she swallowed a sob—"if it caused my death?"
Fair Is the Rose Page 22
