Fair Is the Rose

by Meagan Mckinney

  "It's beautiful. Thank you." Slowly she rewrapped the fabric and wondered if this trip they were about to take was only a delay, an artificial manufacturing of time. She never told Cain about it, but the half-breed still haunted her, touching an innate fear even when all logic told her he had moved on. Still, when she closed her eyes he was there, staring at her with the same soulless expression as her uncle's, reminding her that at any time, all she had to live for might be taken away.

  "We got a long ride to the cabin." He took the package from her.

  "Whose cabin is it?"

  "It's just a place I used to go when I rode with Kineson. We'd hide out there after a robbery. It's a trapper's cabin in the middle of goddamned nowhere. If you want to lose yourself, girl, it's the place to be."

  He led her outside. His old Ap was waiting, loaded with saddlebags full of provisions. Above, the night sky was scattered with stars so white and radiant, they seemed as unreal as fairy dust.

  Macaulay helped her mount, then swung up behind her. "Say good-bye to Noble, Christal," he said as the Ap began to jog eastward. "If it's up to me, you'll never see it again. We'll go to Washington in the spring."

  She gazed at the snow-patched prairie tinged indigo in the moonlight and thought of her uncle. Where was he now? Hot on her trail or halfway around the world? She didn't know. That was the nightmare.

  "You're so sure about everything, Macaulay, but you don't know what waits ahead."

  "The only thing waiting is this."

  He turned her head and surprised her with a kiss, one that was long and lingering and made her forget everything but her need for him, a need she resented as much as she embraced because it was not under her control. Proof of this fact came when she found her hand clutching the scratchy wool of his greatcoat as if begging for more, and ultimately, it was he who ended the kiss, to calmly rein the Ap eastward, where the mountains rose above the night clouds like a great blue heaven.

  By morning they had reached the cabin, following the North Popo Agie River to its source, a lake breathlessly suspended between glacier and mountain. The log cabin stood in a valley that in springtime would be covered by tender green grass. Now it was only a snowy crevice, wedged between cathedrals of rock.

  At first, Christal wondered how they would fare in the one-room cabin with no windows or comforts, but after Macaulay built a fire in the hearth, she found the stone fireplace large enough to keep the room quite warm. And at least there was furniture, if one counted chairs made of twigs with the bark still on the wood, a rickety table as scarred as the Southern army, and a bedstead, again made of rough timber, the corners held together with rawhide. Outside, there was timber to burn, and the lake held plenty of fish. They would do all right. For a while.

  She placed the bolt of sky-blue wool on the dusty table. Sunlight streamed into the cabin through the open door. Outside, she could see Cain hobbling the Ap. The sun was just appearing over War Bonnet Peak and on the other side of the valley, the top of Pingora was tinged a rosy pink, the colors in the sky a sight no painter could ever capture. Beneath the blue granite, an azure lake was alive with light bouncing off the snow. Cain had called it Lonesome Lake, and Christal could understand why. The little valley was surrounded on three sides by walls of stone that shot into the sky. It was the perfect hiding place, even more isolated than Falling Water. She doubted even Indians had showed up here but once a millennium.

  Cain stepped into the cabin, temporarily blocking the light. The fire crackled and spewed in the hearth, casting his face in shadows.

  "Can we stay here forever?" she asked quietly.

  He heaved the heavy saddlebags onto the table, his eyes warming as he looked at her. "That's fine with me."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "The better question is: can you cook? I still remember those beans back at Falling Water."

  She bit back a smile and stepped to the saddlebags.

  He closed the door, plunging the windowless cabin into night, the only illumination the fire dancing at the hearth.

  They were alone. Utterly, completely alone. Adam and Eve in a snowy paradise. For once she didn't have to worry about the outside world intruding; there was no outside world here, just the fire, the darkness, him.

  He touched her hair first. His hand ran down its length, as if paying homage to a deity. He hadn't let her pin it up before they left. He'd said he liked it down and wild. She didn't bother to fight him about it.

  He bent to kiss her. He tasted good. She blushed, recalling how shameless she'd been the last time they'd made love. His power over her disturbed her.

  He pressed his lips against her hair. His arm crossed her chest, holding her back against him. "You love me, Christal," he whispered. A statement, not a question.

  She met his gaze, never knowing all the hurt she showed in her eyes. "I could tell you I don't."

  "But you do."

  She looked away, unable to take his honesty. It left her unprotected.

  "C'mon. Let's go to bed."

  She shivered and hugged her arms. Though she had done everything imaginable with this man in bed, it still filled her with reluctance. There was something not right about it. No matter how wild Wyoming had made her, the need for marriage was still ingrained in her.

  Sensing her hesitation, Cain whispered in her ear, "I know we're different, Christal. I see that every time you speak, every time you lift that chin in defiance. I know you come from a good background—rich, even—I can see the wealth in the picture of you and your sister, and in your manners. But for some reason, a reason I may never know, all that wealth's gone. Holding on to your rich girl's morality won't bring it back."

  "And you grew up with no morals? No wonder Georgia lost the war." She turned away from him, unwilling to show him the contrition in her eyes. When would she quit flailing him with the war every time they argued? She hated herself when she did that, but he bull's-eyed her emotional target every time; he left her so defenseless, she resorted to cowards' tactics.

  "You may think I'm poor white trash, but I'm not the one running." He didn't bother to hide the bitterness in his voice.

  She felt the stab, as if he'd just sunk a knife into her heart. They were even.

  He caressed her cheek. Slowly he took her into his arms, slowly she acquiesced.

  "We're here not to think about this," he said quietly.

  "It's there. How can we not think about it? Fight about it?"

  He laughed. "My parents fought like the devil. In fact, I don't remember a day when they didn't have a knockdown-drag-out fight. My ma one time beaned my pa on the head with a frypan, and he didn't wake up for two whole days."

  She looked at him in horror. Not in her wildest imaginings could she picture her parents doing such a thing.

  His mouth twisted in a wry grin. "I know that's a bit out of the realm of your experience, but I'll tell you this: when they made up, they sent me and my brothers packing. Sometimes all day. I can only guess what they did in all those hours in the bedroom. I can still hear them laughing and carryin' on." He took her face in his large hands. "You know, my ma must have known Pa was gone. She just gave up."

  The sorrow in his voice moved her. It made her think of her own parents. They had died together and she took comfort in knowing they would have wanted it that way.

  He took her hand to lead her to the bed, but still she paused.

  "What's stopping you? Don't you like it? I want you to like it."

  She turned away. "You know I like it. I like it too much. I can hardly keep up with you."

  "You can. And you did. And you will."

  Her gaze locked with his. In some ways he might claim to be a simple Georgia boy, but the man who looked at her now was hardened and schooled by bloody battle. He knew what he wanted; he saw no point in wasting time. The thought left her breathless, frightened, and unaccountably intrigued.

  She felt the comforting circle of his arms, and she was afraid of getting used to their protection,
when his love for her hung by a silken thread, one that could snap the second he saw the wanted poster.

  "The mattress is dirty," she whispered, feeling the hot trail of his lips down her vulnerable neck.

  It was. The soiled ticking was stuffed with dried grasses that poked through the worn material. There were no blankets and no sheets.

  Undaunted, he tossed his blue greatcoat over the mattress, covering it. Slowly he lowered her down, wrapping her in the intimacy of his warmth that lingered in the coat. They made love slowly, believing that the world would never intrude upon the one that they were forging. Afterward, lying safe in his arms, she closed her eyes and began to dream.

  Her lover was Cain. But he was no longer a renegade or sheriff. In her dream he was a gentleman caller, arriving at the doorstep of the Van Alen brownstone on Washington Square. He wore a black coat, an equally restrained cravat, and no hat. Her mother didn't quite approve.

  "He's not quite tame," her mother told her, eyeing Cain at the open door as if he couldn't see or hear her. Christal could only agree. Nonetheless she invited him inside, thinking that black suited him, it suited his moods, and his eyes, pale like ice.

  He had a drink with her father in the library while she and her mother took their cordials in the parlor. Not once, during her dream, did she think this odd. In life she had never had a beau come to call, she had been too young. Even so, it was not difficult to imagine how it would be choreographed.

  Father, naturally, liked her beau. His laughter boomed through the oak pocket doors, encouraging her. Cain was a man other men either liked and respected, or feared. There was no in-between.

  "Will I have his sons, Mother, and will they be strong and wild and handsome as he?" she asked, the nonsensical nature of dreams giving her freedom to ask questions she never would have dared ask in real life.

  "We always wanted sons in addition to you and your sister. Yes, my dear little Christal, you must have Macaulay's sons." Her mother patted her hand. Her angelic smile beamed upon her. Then she returned to her needlework.

  "But will he ever love me, Mother, as Father loves you?" Even she could hear the sorrow in her voice.

  "Of course, of course, or we won't let him marry you. How foolish you are, child." Her mother patted her hand again. Christal turned back to her own needlework, something she was never very good at. Alana was the artist with her needle, not she.

  "See here!" Suddenly her father's voice boomed out, angry and tinged with fear. "I said see here, my good man! You can't do that to this fine fellow! He's going to marry my daughter!"

  Her mother leapt from her cushion by the fireplace and slid open the pocket doors. A scream curdled in her mother's throat, sending icy shivers down Christal's spine.

  Slowly, as if fear made her aged and gouty, Christal shoved aside the needlepoint frame and rose to her feet. Somehow, knowing what she was going to encounter, she reluctantly walked to the library entrance.

  Didier had arrived.

  The library was cast in darkness, the only light from the fireplace illuminating her uncle. He wore a blue coat and a paisley silk vest that elegantly covered his expanding paunch. Seeing him now, she could understand how her aunt could have been attracted to him. Baldwin Didier was a handsome man, regal in his Vandyke beard, arresting, with a cold, piercing gaze much like Cain's. But in Didier's eyes there was no soul that cried out for salvation, no boy who needed warmth and love, as she had seen, rarely, in Cain's. When she looked deep into Didier's eyes there was only an icy void from which there was no return.

  She spun around, clawing at the shadows to see her father, to find help, but her father was gone, disappeared into blackness, with her mother.

  Then the shadows parted. And she saw what had made her mother scream.

  Macaulay was gagged and blindfolded, a noose around his neck with Didier poised to kick the stool from beneath his feet.

  "You've been a bad girl, Christal. . . . How will you take your punishment?" Didier asked, his blue eyes shooting chills down her spine.

  "How—how have I been bad?" she choked out, her own gaze glued to Cain, who stood motionless on the stool.

  "Perhaps if you'd been a better child I wouldn't have killed your mother and father. Perhaps if you had come into their bedroom sooner, you might have interrupted me, kept me from doing away with them. What have you to say for yourself, young lady?"

  "How was I to know you were going to kill them? I awakened. I heard a noise and I came. I wish I could have saved them. I loved them." Her voice was harsh with longing and despair. "I beg of you, don't take Macaulay too. I beg of you. He's all I have now."

  "What do I care?" Didier placed his spit-polished shoe on the top rung of the stool, pretending to push it away. "You've been a bad girl, Christabel Van Alen. You could have saved your parents, but you didn't. You didn't come in time. You don't deserve this man. I'm taking him away."

  "Don't! I beg of you! I beg of you!"

  She screamed. The blackness around her rushed in.

  Didier pushed away the stool.

  "Christal . . . Christal . . ." The voice cut through her crying, a rough, deep murmur that made her weep.

  "Don't take him away. I beg of you!"

  "It's only a nightmare. Don't be frightened."

  She fought with the greatcoat that was wrapped tight around her. Struggling, she opened her eyes and sat up in the cabin's crude bed, clutching at Macaulay as if he were still the outlaw ready to be taken away in chains.

  "Don't let him take you away! I'm sorry! Oh, God, I wish I'd gotten there sooner!" She gasped for breath. Tears poured down her cheeks.

  "You've had a nightmare. That's all it is, girl. Nothing's going to hurt you. I swear it." Macaulay brushed away the hair that clung to her sweaty brow. "You see? You're here with me. You're safe. No one's going to take me away."

  "Make love to me," she whispered against his chest.

  "You've had a fright."

  "Make love to me," she repeated, holding on to him as if she couldn't quite believe he was there, warm, vibrant, and alive.

  "Tell me about the dream—"

  He couldn't finish. She rose on her knees and kissed him, demanding he do as she asked. If before she had been a reluctant maiden, now she was a fiery siren. She wanted to forget. She would do anything to forget.

  He groaned and stiffened beneath her hands, as if he was afraid of taking advantage of her. But the gentleman in him had his limits. With every soft, needful kiss upon his mouth, his resolve seemed to weaken. Until finally the gentleman disappeared, and in his place was the outlaw Rebel she knew so well, the one with proven carnal appetites, the one who took before asking.

  With a moan of satisfaction, she felt him return the kiss, his arms iron-hard with the fury of his desire, his lips rough and devouring, his tongue grinding against her teeth until she shook with the pleasure of his first thrust into her mouth.

  "More," she demanded, breathless after they separated.

  "Tell me what frightened you."

  Her hands trembled as she reached for him. She needed to feel him on top of her, his hard body pounding life into her. "Afterward."

  He took her hands captive in his and stopped her roaming, even though his eyes flickered down at her breasts. "Tell me now, Christal. I need to know what frightened you."

  "Afterward." She twisted her wrist, frustrated that he was stopping her. Eventually she quieted, and looked into his eyes. He wanted an answer. Slowly she broke down. "Promise me there'll be no other time, no other place but now and here."

  His face was grave, etched with concern. "If that's what it takes. Just tell me. For once, trust me, Christal."

  "I will," she sobbed. "I will trust you. But now take me and make me forget. Just for a little while."

  He nodded, then kissed her, long and deep, moving his lips to her face, her neck, her breasts, as if his passion might take away some of her fear.

  "Take me," she whispered, wanting nothing more than to feel hi
s heart beat against hers, feel the cold air racing her blood, his naked body, racing it even faster.

  He uttered die words like a vow. "From now on, there is no man but me, no place but this, no past but the one we are going to make right now."

  He brought himself up on his arms. She parted her thighs, desperate for him to fill her, to take away the emptiness she felt whenever she thought of life without him.

  "I love you, Macaulay. No matter what happens, I love you. I love you," she whispered as he thrust into her, as his lips burned in the hollow of her throat, as his hungry soul assuaged her own.

  The half-breed followed the Appaloosa's tracks in the snow, his own paint not nearly so nimble, or so quick. Still, he made progress. He was halfway down the valley, past Dog Tooth Peak and the Meadows. Cirque of the Towers lay ahead, the setting sun blinding him as he headed west.

  He'd found her. The girl he'd danced with last night was the girl the man in St. Louis wanted dead.

  Dead. He thought upon it, his eyes squinting as he did. He'd never killed such a pretty girl before. There was that woman in Laramie. She'd been pretty too. But not quite as pretty. The blond hair made all the difference. Perhaps because he was dark, he wanted to see what that girl's blond hair looked like twisted in his hand. If he could have, he would have touched her hair last night, but he knew she wouldn't have let him.

  He smiled. There was something about killing a woman that made the power of it rush through his veins like the wind rushed through the grass on the prairie. Even as a child he'd thought about killing women.

  Stopping the paint, he let it drink in the shallow waters of the Popo Agie. He was going to have to kill the man too. It'd been a stroke of luck finding him. He'd asked about the girl in Camp Brown. Nobody really knew her. But they remembered a man brooding after a girl with her description a few months back. The man's name was Macaulay Cain and they told him he was now some kind of sheriff up by South Pass. It had taken less than a day to find him in Noble. And less than an hour for him to find the girl herself, guilelessly selling dances in a two-bit saloon.