Finally, the stage lurched to a stop. She stole a glance out the window; all she could see were more pines, more boulders, and the rocky trail ahead, pitted and gorged by the weather. Frightened, she turned accusing eyes to the outlaw sitting in front of her.
Cain removed his booted feet from Mr. Glassie's prized bureau, hardly disturbed by the rough ride. He didn't look at her. Instead, he threw open the door and motioned for her to get out of the stage.
Half of her was desperate to scramble out to see if the other passengers had caught up, but the other half didn't want to move and risk releasing her grip on the handle of the pistol inside her purse.
"I don't see your feet moving, ma'am."
She stared at him. Even through her veil, she could see those amazingly cold eyes. Bravely, she stepped out of the stagecoach.
To her surprise they were in a town. There were three buildings ahead, two of them decrepit and skeletal, blue sky peeking through the walls like pieces of a puzzle. The third had once been a saloon, but the top of its false front had long ago tumbled to the ground and blocked the entrance. She raised her hand to shut out the sun's glare. A sign still hung over the saloon's swinging doors, so full of bullet holes it was illegible. The sound of rushing water from the gorge behind the saloon was the only clue to her whereabouts. They had said they were taking them to a ghost town named Falling Water. Clearly they had arrived.
She turned to look at her captor. None of the other passengers was visible down the dusty road, but three men with shotguns appeared from behind the saloon. Cain stared at them, his expression unreadable.
"Where are the rest?" one of the men asked, an outdated Sharps rifle crossed over his chest, ready.
Cain jerked his head in the direction of the road. "Coming."
The men let out a holler, tiien picked their way forward through the fallen planking, their uneasiness melting into jubilation.
"We got 'em, eh! We got em!" one man chanted. The other hooted, while the third rushed up to Cain.
"Found a room to lock 'em in, Cain, just like you asked." The man was thin and pimply. Even though she was hidden by her veil, he gave her a skeevy smile that made her draw back. "It's at the top of the saloon. Couldn't ask for better. No, you couldn't ask for better."
"Where's the key?" Cain demanded, not touched by the men's excitement. He held out his hand. The man obediently handed it over.
"What we got here?" The second man came around, a big, ugly brute with greasy hair tied back with a strip of leather. He had more than curiosity on his face when he reached out to lift her veil. Christal skittered back only to land solidly against Cain's chest.
"Enough," Cain growled to the brute.
The man retreated.
Cain continued, putting an ironlike arm around her waist, either to keep her from fleeing or to keep them from attacking. "We got work to do before the others arrive. Boone," he said, motioning to the brute, "get the horses watered." He turned to the man with the smile and the third, an older man near sixty, who was just now stumbling over the last of the planks. "You two go get a stag. I'm going to get hungry and I get mean when I'm hungry."
The two nodded, swung their shotguns over their shoulders, and disappeared behind the saloon. Boone took another glance at Christal before he and the outlaw who had driven the stage walked the horses to the paddock south of the saloon.
She was again left alone with Cain. It was just him and her, empty buildings, blowing dust, and sky. She swallowed, her throat as dry as the road. She didn't want to be taken anywhere without the other passengers, and her mind whirled, desperately trying to think of some way to flee. Her hand tightened on her little grosgrain purse, her finger quietly searching for the trigger, but before she found it Cain's manacle grip took her arm. Her instinct was to run, and she stumbled back, trying to gather her skirts to do so, but he had her in both hands and began dragging her toward the saloon before she could gasp a protest.
"Where are we going?" she demanded, struggling to release his viselike hand on her arm, her heart beating a staccato rhythm in her chest.
He stopped. He ripped the veil from her face and threw it in the road. A wind kicked up, and it rolled away like a tumbleweed.
"I needed that veil," she said, her defiant expression hiding the fear that pumped in her veins.
For the first time she saw a small glimmer of compassion in his eyes. Quietly he said, "Yeah, you ought to hide that face from these men. But in the end it isn't going to do you any good. And right now I want to see who I'm talking to." He squeezed her arm and shoved her in the direction of the saloon. Her purse—and her pistol—dangled just out of her reach from her only free hand.
A small path had been cleared in the fallen lumber. He forced her through the swinging doors and let her go. Christal walked a few steps, hardly believing her eyes. The saloon was no better than the road. Pale blond dust covered everything, the raw floorboards, the bar, the rickety chairs.
"Up the stairs."
Her breath caught in her throat. She whipped around to face him. She wasn't going to go up to the saloon's bedrooms with him. She would shoot him dead on the spot rather than let him rape her.
"Go on," he said.
She glanced around to see if there was a way to escape. The only door was blocked by him.
He stepped forward, the planes of his face hardened by the saloon's deep shadows. "What's your name?"
"Christal," she whispered, not looking at him.
"Christal what?"
"Christal Smith."
A shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Not Mrs.?"
"Yes. Mrs. Christal Smith," she spat.
"How long has he been dead?"
She almost asked "who" but quickly collected herself. "My husband's been dead six weeks."
"You couldn't have been married long."
She didn't answer.
He shrugged. In a low rumble he said, "We all gotta die."
She wondered if she heard compassion in his voice. If it was there, she prayed she could appeal to it. If it wasn't, with his cold eyes, God have mercy on her soul.
"Do you want to know who I am?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest. His shotgun had been left in the stage, but he didn't need it by the looks of the two six-shooters slung low on his hips.
He stepped toward her.
She tried to keep her voice cool and even. The closer he walked to her, the farther he was from the door, the better her chances of escape. Slowly she said, "I know who you are."
He smiled. "Who, then?"
She eyed the door one last time, her nerves on fire for her escape. "You're Macaulay Cain. The outlaw."
He took one more step; she bolted. She ran as if from wildfire, hope blooming when she cleared the swinging doors. But he easily tripped her in her cumbersome skirts. She tumbled to the dirt road and her purse and the pistol within it fell in the dust, maddeningly out of her reach.
He dropped to his knees, straddling her, and pinned her arms over her head. She struggled, his face dark and anonymous against the glare of the sun. Her knee jerked up to kick, she pushed against him like a filly trying to buck him off, but he only chuckled. She could have shot him just for laughing. Groping for her purse with what little leeway the grip on her wrists gave her, she could almost feel the silk cord of the handle. Her fingertips reached it, but with immaculate timing, he thrust her arms to her sides, far away from the vicinity of her purse. She was trapped.
Her breath coming in short, angry puffs, she stared up at him. He paused. Then he touched her hair.
She released a moan of fury. Captured as she was, she couldn't stop his hand from stroking the thick tangle that had fallen out of its pins. He picked up a curl and the pale color made a striking contrast to the dark hairs that sprinkled across the back of his hand. "Let me go," she spat.
"Your hair's like butter, did you know that?" His mouth pulled at the corner, as if he were biting back something he didn't want to feel.
"I sa
id let me go."
He fingered her high collar that proved she was too impoverished even to sport a cheap cameo. Cupping her chin, he forced her gaze to his. "Now that I can see them, you got beautiful eyes too. The color of sky. Did your husband ever tell you that?"
"What business is that of yours?" she asked in a low, angry tone.
He ignored her retort. His hand fell to her waist. She squirmed; he didn't give an inch. He caressed the shoddy black crepe of her basque, then ran his knuckles across the swag of bombazine at her hips. His voice became husky. "And your waist is very small. Very small," he repeated, almost against his will.
Slowly his gaze rose to her breasts. She could see in his expression that he liked the way they rose and fell with anger and exertion. He liked it a lot.
She screwed up her lips to spit. No one was allowed to look at her that way. No one.
"You spit at me, ma'am, and I'll make that Yankee general Butler look like a goddamned knight."
Fury met ice. Her knowledge of the war was limited, but she knew who Butler was. He had the women of New Orleans locked up as prostitutes when they dared spit on one of his troops. Her lips parted in surrender.
She released an angry squeal of frustration, and he hoisted her onto her feet. She grappled to get her purse, but he scooped it from the dirt by the silken cord. He took hold of her waist, and she scratched and kicked and hit to keep from reentering the saloon without her weapon, but the man's enormous strength controlled her as if she were nothing but a doll. She lost the battle.
He dragged her through the swinging doors and stepped onto the stairs, shoving her in front of him. She fought like a cat to be freed, but he took one step, then another, and another, his boots hitting the boards like a drumbeat.
"No," she gasped, and pried at his hands on her arm and her waist, but he put down her rebellion once and for all by heaving her onto his shoulder. She kicked and wiggled until the froth of her petticoats was nearly to her thighs, but to no avail, she couldn't get free. At the top of the stairs, he entered a room, dumped her on a soiled feather mattress, and dropped her purse on a chair, out of her reach.
She stared at him in the dust that billowed from the mattress. He blocked the path to her purse, rendering her pistol useless. She had no way to win; he was going to rape her.
But he would have to kill her first. She wouldn't go without a fight.
He leaned over her, his tall form intimidating. She met his gaze; her eyes glittered with defiance. She'd spent three years protecting herself from men like him, three years of struggling and running. Women around her surrendered their honor in the name of hunger and need, but she hadn't, even though she'd gone hungry because she couldn't find enough decent work to still the gnawing in her belly. But she had never succumbed to whoring. And she never would. Her outside was hard and cool and aloof; she was the creature her life had forced her to be. But it was all to protect an inner core that was soft and fragile, gently reared and decent. Inside she was still the girl she'd been in New York before her uncle's crime had ruined her life, a girl who wanted to trust and give, to love and be loved in return. And this outlaw wasn't going to rape her and take that fragile inner girl away. Not while she still lived and breathed. She would preserve that girl at all costs. Because if he destroyed her, he'd shatter all reasons for fighting and surviving. If that girl was gone, Christal Van Alen could never go home. And she could never be that girl again.
He touched her jaw and looked as if he wanted to say something. But she refused to hear him out. Like a Roman candle, she lit into him, vowing to break an arm to keep him off. He grunted something and tried to stop her, but terror momentarily gave her a strength and speed she didn't normally possess. Her fists punched at his body, drumming wherever she thought it would hurt. She did her best to inflict damage, but it was disheartening to meet with so much rock-hard flesh. And her heart sank when she saw nothing in his expression, no pain or anguish; nothing except surprise. But still he didn't have control over her. So she kept fighting, until he caught one flailing arm. Then, in a learned reflex, she took her free hand and slapped his face so hard it gave him a split-second pause.
"Hellcat," he rasped before easily capturing the offending hand.
"I won't let you do this, I won't!" She opened her mouth to bite him. He jerked back and nearly roared in anger.
Finally, their gazes locked in a standstill, they came to a pause. She looked up at him, noting his mouth was set in a grim line. He rubbed his jaw where she hit him and there was a patronizing anger in his eyes, as if she were a truant child.
"Let me give you some advice, Mrs. Smith," he whispered harshly, "you're a beautiful woman and you better know right now who to obey. We've got a lot of lonely men in this camp."
She bit her lower lip, refusing to allow him to see it quiver.
He leaned closer. She saw every silver fleck in those incredible eyes. "You think you're brave, but you're not.
Without me you haven't got a chance. Out here, a man can smell a woman a mile away."
"Wh-what do you mean you can smell me?"
His hand touched her hair. His eyes never left her. "What I mean, lady, is that I can smell you. Everything about you. Your hair was rinsed in rosewater, probably this morning. I'd say you don't wear this gown often— you got it out today—because I can smell the lavender you packed it in to keep away the moths. You don't wear perfume and I suspect it's because you can't afford it. But you still smell better than anything because when I move close to you you have that woman smell and if I described it to you any more you'd slap me again." His voice grew ominous and low. "What I'm saying to you, lady, is this all makes a man think. And want."
"I'll fight you," she whispered.
He laughed mirthlessly. "You won't win." He turned grim. "But if you listen to me and me alone, you might get to Tuesday without having to be passed around like a used rag. Understand?"
Her face paled; her eyes kindled with fear. She nodded. She did understand. He wanted the sole right to rape and abuse her. But she would defy him all the way. To her last breath.
He stood. A swell of panic hit her as she waited for him to strip off his dusty shirt. She crawled to the back of the bed, ready to bolt the second she felt him come down on the mattress. She heard him say, "It's going to be a hard week, Mrs. Smith. Brace yourself."
Then he walked out, bolting the door behind him.
Stunned, she stared at the closed door for almost half a minute. By some miracle, she'd escaped being raped. And by a man whose eyes said he'd never felt pity or warmth in his entire life.
But it had only been postponed. He would return. When there were no more men to direct, or passengers to deal with.
Panicked, she ran to the chair that held her purse. Her fingers trembled so badly, she almost couldn't open it, but soon the pistol was in her possession. Then, dragging the rickety chair to the far corner, she sat, and with her black-gloved hands, she pointed the gun at the door.
Christal moved in the darkness of the bedroom like a shade, her black-swathed figure blending with every shadow. She'd been in the room for hours, until daylight melted away, along with her hopes of being rescued. She still wasn't sure why the outlaw had left her unscathed. Pete had mentioned the gang was named after a man called Kineson. Cain probably had to answer to him, so he'd been forced to miss his chance. But surely he'd try to make up for it. She pulled her arms across her chest and shivered.
A lamp shone beneath the locked door. She stepped to the other side of the bed, unsure whether she was terrified or relieved her fate was finally to be decided.
Cain entered the room, lantern in hand, the glow illuminating his lean features. His face was as barren of emotion as the room was of furniture, but she stared at him, thinking he was what the saloon girls of her acquaintance meant by a handsome devil. In his case the emphasis was on devil.
He held up the lantern to better see her. She was duly heartened to see the brief flare in his eyes when he saw
what was in her hand.
He said quietly, "You're full of surprises, ma'am."
She stared at him from across the bed, her face pale and determined.
His eyes lowered to the pistol. "That's the smallest gun I've ever seen. It's old." His gaze met hers. "You've only got one shot."
"That's enough."
"Yeah, that's enough. If you don't miss and just wound me." He took a step toward her.
"Stay back." She shoved the gun out in front of her. He paused.
"Give me the keys." She held out her hand.
He dangled them. "Where you gonna go, girl, way out here with nobody around?"
"I'm going to go very far away from you."
He chuckled. It wasn't a very jovial sound. "There's a lot worse out there than me."
"I'll worry about that when I come to it." She took a brave step forward. "Give me the keys."
He eyed her, the keys jangling as he swung them like a pendulum. She shivered, then realized she was standing near a broken pane in the window where cold mountain air rushed in. She sidled from the window, never taking her eyes from him.
"You want these?" He gripped the keys in his palm.
She nodded.
"They're all yours." He threw them at her, putting all his weight into the throw. The iron keys shot through the air like a bullet, too quick for her to catch, and smashed through one of the window panes, showering her in glass.
She gasped in dismay. But she didn't take her eyes from him. She'd expected to be tricked.
But if the diversion wasn't enough for him to take the gun, it was enough to gain ground. Instead of being across the bed, he was now not two yards from her.
Fair Is the Rose Page 3