Fair Is the Rose

by Meagan Mckinney

  "No—" She barely got the word out before he dragged her to her feet and pulled the glove off her left hand.

  His gaze dropped to her hand, a hand suspiciously devoid of a wedding ring, and before she could stop herself, she stumbled to volunteer a reason. "I—I needed money after my husband died. I was forced to sell my ring."

  He stared at her intently, as if homing in on her nervousness.

  "How long you been married?"

  "Two years." The lie came quickly.

  "He's been dead six weeks?"

  "Yes."

  He looked down at her finger and rubbed where the ring should have been. His mouth twitched with a smile, as if he'd trapped her. "There's no white skin."

  She didn't comment. To confess anything more would hang her.

  He grabbed her right hand and pulled on the torn glove.

  A shot of fear ran down her spine. She couldn't let him see the scar. The wanted posters might have somehow followed her west, and if he had ever chanced to see one, he'd know there was an enormous reward for her.

  She snatched her hand away, more ready to fight than to reveal what was beneath her glove. Grappling with him, she smeared blood on his shirt, but he paid it no mind, as if he were used to it and used to fighting with her. He took her hand again and this time held tight. He pulled off the glove, his eyes glittering as he gazed down.

  The scar took most of her palm. It was strangely beautiful; an exact shape of a rose, burned into her hand. She watched his reaction carefully, heartened that she only saw curiosity and, perhaps, a little shock in his eyes. But no recognition.

  He released her hand. Slowly his eyes met hers. She could tell he wanted to ask her a lot of questions; also, that he knew she wouldn't answer. Without saying a word, she knelt and began to pick up the biscuits lying in the rocky path.

  His eyes followed her every movement as if that would uncover her thoughts, her past. But she'd spent four years keeping secrets, and she kept them now. She picked up each blackened biscuit and blew off the dust, the memory of her tragedy kept painfully locked in her heart.

  She'd been thirteen when the fire occurred. Her family, the Van Alens, was one of the exclusive and illustrious Knickerbocker families of Manhattan, wealthy but restrained, living quietly in their old town house on Washington Square. Her life back then now seemed unreal, it seemed to spring from a storybook. Her parents had loved each other, and their daughters, Christal and Alana, had loved them. They were a close family who often welcomed their late aunt's husband, Baldwin Didier, into their home as if he were a blood relation. He was a frightening man in many ways to a young girl. With his gray Vandyke beard and his piercing blue eyes, Christal remembered not liking him. But he was also a man-about-town, and she remembered her parents laughing quite gaily over his dry comments, happy to have his company if only for the entertainment it offered.

  But while Clarisse and John Van Alen laughed with their brother-in-law by the dying evening fire, Baldwin

  Didier was coveting. Rumor had it that the Van Alen legacy held immense wealth: enormous stock in the old Dutch West India Company, holdings in the Knickerbocker and New-York Bank, parcels of land that stretched from Wall Street to the Harlem River.

  And very few relatives. Especially since Clarisse's sister, Didier's late wife, had died of stomach ailment.

  One night when Christal had recently turned thirteen, she awoke to the acrid smell of smoke. She leapt from her bed and followed the smoke to her parents' suite. The rooms were in flames. And Baldwin Didier stood over the bed, a pensive cast to his face as he stared at her parents lying in state beneath the bed's flaming canopy.

  She cried out. Didier fled. She prayed he was going for the fire wagon, but she knew it wasn't so when she stumbled to her parents in the smoke-darkened room and saw the blood, and the gold candlestick dented by the pressure of their skulls.

  Christal now believed it was at that point her mind snapped, refusing to recall what she'd seen, an unfortunate occurrence because her lack of memory, a fine guardian from trauma, was also the ruthless traitor that put her in the asylum. With her memory gone, she could produce no evidence to absolve her of the killing of her parents. And that she was in the room when the fire occurred was certain. One had only to look at the palm of her hand.

  The interior of her parents' suite was fitted with a set of Parisian silver repousse doorknobs, each in the likeness of a rose. Her memory had returned before she ran away from the asylum, and now Christal could relive every terrifying minute in the suite. She'd known instinctively that her parents were beyond help, and with flames licking all around her, she'd run to the door to escape. But Didier had locked it.

  Like a captured animal, she'd twisted the iron-hot doorknob until her strength was gone, and her hand indelibly branded. She recalled sliding to her knees in her white cotton nightgown gone gray with smoke. To this day, she didn't know if prayer had revived her, or something else, but somehow she crawled to the windows that fronted Washington Square and opened one. With smoke blinding and choking her, she felt her way onto the stone ledge outside. It was only a few feet to her bedroom window, and she crawled to it, unafraid of the twenty-foot drop to the street below, crying and gasping for breath in the clear night air, her entire body and soul in shock from what she had just witnessed. And strangely, she couldn't remember her hand hurting, yet it must have, terribly, for she'd worn bandages on it for almost six months. But even now she couldn't remember the pain.

  The firemen found her huddled in her wardrobe, black from head to toe with soot, her right hand dangling uselessly at her side. Her mind rejected what she had just gone through, and she found she couldn't remember enough to answer the police's questions. The fire had raged so hot that her parents' bodies had been burned beyond recognition. There was no evidence left of their bludgeoning, nor of Didier's crime. There was just the doorknob burn on her hand, damning her by placing her in the bedroom when her parents died, and the amnesia, further damning her by proclaiming her insane.

  A cloud of accusation hung over her until her uncle Baldwin mercifully bargained with the police to place her in the posh asylum out in Brooklyn. And no wonder he'd been merciful. With her sister Alana's fortune under his control, Christal's memory gone, and the rose indelibly burned into her hand, one of his own victims had given Baldwin Didier the alibi he'd needed to commit the perfect crime.

  Christal shook with anger every time she thought about the fact that he had gotten away with such a heinous crime. Now her very reason for living was to see that he was found out, but it was up to her and her alone, and the going had been slow and difficult. She refused to seek Alana's help and perhaps endanger the only person in the world she loved. Christal could still picture her sister's expression as Alana visited her in the asylum, Alana's face, pale and beautiful like their mother's, but unlike their mother's, etched with concern, hardened with determination. Alana had never believed the terrible accusations surrounding her sister. She had fought tooth and nail for years to get Christal removed from the asylum. And though Alana had never been successful, her faith kept Christal going when she despaired. And because of this, her love for her sister went beyond even her love for herself.

  Cain motioned for her to begin climbing again, interrupting her thoughts. She balanced the biscuits in one hand and held her skirts in the other. She climbed, assaulted once more by remembrance.

  Her memory had returned when she was sixteen. The asylum had thought she'd truly gone mad when she began raving about her uncle's crime. They'd injected her with morphine until she almost believed they were right. But she'd convinced the night orderly to dispense with the shots, and in the wee hours of one morning three years ago, she'd dressed in a stolen nurse's uniform and departed the asylum for good. A fugitive.

  She glanced back at Cain. Meeting his gaze, she still found no recognition of who she was, just the glint of curiosity. With no gloves to hide it any longer, she curled her palm over the scar. For years she'd w
ished she could be rid of it, but it was always there, like a shadow, ready to convict her of unspeakable crimes she had not committed. Once, she'd even thought of burning the rose scar off, but when she'd gotten the poker red-hot and held it up to her hand, she hadn't the courage to endure the pain. She'd tossed the poker into the fire and sentenced herself to a life on the run.

  Her heart ceased its hammering in her chest. She wondered why she'd been so afraid. Out west, they were all fugitives. She glanced back at Cain. Of one kind or another.

  In town, an outlaw paced the front of the saloon, on watch. Cain nodded to him, and they entered the swinging doors. The saloon was hardly recognizable. The dust had been disturbed in so many places that for the first time she could see wood. The footsteps up the staircase looked as if an army had trod there.

  She walked up the stair with Cain and knocked on the door. Zeke answered, his bullwhip replaced by a Winchester.

  Christal handed him the biscuit plate. She peered over his shoulder and counted passengers. They all looked weary. Mr. Glassie was sweating though the morning was still cool. The preacher's hand shook when he reached for a biscuit, obviously wishing it were a glass of whiskey. The driver and Pete's father slept, their heads lolled against the peeling plaster wall, the rattle of their chains waking them every time they shifted position.

  Her gaze met with Pete's. The boy was slouched in a corner, scared but defiant. Anger stained his cheeks when he gazed at her torn bodice. "Why ain't she here with us?" he demanded, refusing the biscuit plate. He tried to rise to his feet, but Boone, the other outlaw in the room, shoved him back to the floor.

  "She's Cain's woman now, that's why," Boone said. By the look Boone tossed at her, Christal knew he'd been at the campfire last night.

  "You ain't got no right—!" Pete cursed at Cain, but Boone kicked him in the stomach.

  Christal started to go to him, but Cain grabbed her by the waist and held her back. "You can't help that boy," he said gruffly.

  "Don't hurt him!" she cried out.

  Boone looked to kick Pete again. Cain said, "Leave him," and Boone obeyed. It was clear he didn't like the fact that the order had come as a result of her plea, but even he knew Cain ruled with an iron hand.

  "They had any water today?" Cain asked.

  Boone shook his head.

  "Then go fetch some."

  Boone nodded.

  Cain gazed at the passengers. Satisfied by their condition, he grabbed her hand and left, ignoring Pete's baleful stare.

  They descended the staircase. Unable to stop herself, she said, "What's the chance we'll all see Tuesday?"

  Cain glanced at her, his mouth a grim line. "Why don't you just worry about whether you'll see it or not?"

  Her gaze locked with his. She thought about last night, how he'd saved her. "You won't let us die," she whispered with conviction.

  He looked away. His eyes grew cold and restless. "I don't make any guarantees."

  Cain paced his Appaloosa along the train tracks. They were down on the plains, beneath a rickety water tower, the sun shining hot on their backs. He studied the tracks, the ditches, the lay of the land. By instinct, Christal knew this was where Overland Express had been told to drop the payroll.

  "Are you the one to meet the train?" she asked, riding bareback on the Ap with him, his arms encircling her. After they left the saloon, he'd hauled her on his horse, and they'd ridden down to the plains, not speaking.

  "Kineson'll be there with me. The rest'll either be over there lying in the grass or back at the saloon."

  He reined the Ap to the left, and they crossed the tracks. Christal white-knuckled the mane. Riding in Cain's arms made her nerves hum. She could feel every muscle in his chest, every sway of his hips against hers as the Ap jogged. There was strength in his body that far surpassed her own. The only way to escape him would be through her wits.

  "What happens after you and Kineson have the money?" She dreaded the answer to that question, but the crime of kidnapping and robbery was so great, she couldn't rid herself of the terrible fear that Kineson wasn't going to allow any witnesses.

  Cain paused. His face hardened.

  In a quiet steady voice she asked, "Do they plan on killing us?" When he didn't answer, she continued with "I say they because—"

  "I know why you said it."

  "We were just passengers on that stagecoach. We don't have any involvement in any of this."

  "You're the means to the end. Kineson and I were in the same Georgia regiment that got blown to hell at Sharpsburg. Terence Scott, the man who owns Overland, was the commander of the Union regiment that went against us."

  Cain was from Georgia. She stored the little tidbit of information for future use. "So you're getting back at Mr. Scott this way? By stealing from him? You're cowards."

  She readied herself for his anger, but Cain only said, "Terence Scott's a damned bluebelly and Kineson's a Secesh. There ain't nothing to be done about it." This time she noticed the slight drawl.

  "You can do something," she insisted.

  Finally the anger came. His voice was like acid. "I do what Kineson tells me to do. You remember that fact as if your life depends on it, because it does, Mrs. Smith, it does."

  "You don't always do what he tells you." She remembered last night. He was just about to refute it, but she said, "We could escape, Cain. You and I, we could go back to Camp Brown and tell the authorities where the men are. I'll see that they exonerate you. Mr. Glassie, Pete, they'd be so grateful to be freed, I know they wouldn't press charges."

  He looked her dead in the eyes.

  She couldn't keep the desperation out of her voice. "You can do it. That man last night, he didn't want to hurt anyone. You're in with a bad lot. The war is over, Cain, and you and Kineson, you're never going to resurrect it."

  "What do you know about the war? You're just a Yankee girl that was probably too young to even remember it."

  She gasped. "How—how do you know I'm from the North?"

  He smirked. "You got Yankee written all over you. You don't dress too proud, but you're used to money and nice things. I can see it in the way you carry yourself. You got your nose up in the air all the time. I don't know any Southern women who can afford that anymore."

  She was shocked that he knew so much about her without her telling him. He knew she wasn't one of his own, and that would make her plea more difficult. But he had still helped her last night, even when he knew she was a Yankee. There was a good man inside him somewhere. If she could find that man, maybe she could save the lot of them. "If we run, Cain, if we escape, maybe we could help you. Mr. Glassie's company would be grateful, and"—she thought of Pete's father claiming he and Pete had struck it rich—"maybe we passengers could get some money together and give you a reward. You could go home to Georgia. Make a new life for yourself."

  "I haven't got a home anymore. Sherman made sure of that when he went to take a piss in the Atlantic."

  She paled. She was losing ground fast. This man had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. There was no reaching him. Finally she said, "You must have something you want that we could give you."

  He looked at her, his gaze lowering to her torn and dirty bodice where it drew tight across her bosom. His glance nearly burned into her skin. He didn't speak at all. He didn't have to.

  She grew quiet. She would never bargain with her body. The honor and pride inside her was something she would live with, or die with.

  His eyes raised to see the defiance in her own. He quit his staring. "I'm not going to set you free no matter what you do, no matter what you give me." He stared out at the wide grassy prairie that surrounded them. "If I rode into town with you, they'd see me hanged for this one for sure." He pulled down the dingy scarlet bandanna tied around his neck. The raw scar still shocked her. "I'm not going to have another bout with the hangman and win."

  She played her last desperate card. "If you take me to Camp Brown, I'll never speak a word about you. I'll tell
them about the other passengers, you can just leave the fort. Escape."

  "I can't."

  "But don't you see Kineson hates you? You want your gold but what if Kineson isn't planning on sharing?" A sob of frustration caught in her throat. "I'll never give you away if you take me to Camp Brown. Save yourself. That man last night had a good heart—"

  "Forget about last night," he snapped. "If you think I can change the plans, I can't. What's going to happen is going to happen. If you cooperate, then maybe we'll all get out of this alive."

  Her hopes trickled away like water during a drought. She withdrew from him, staring out at the wide, grassy prairie. There was nothing more to say.

  Angrily, he pulled the Ap to a halt. "What does savin' my neck got to do with you anyway? You got enough troubles just savin' your own ass."

  She didn't answer; he shook her. "Why do you care so much?"

  Her gaze riveted to his. She was as angry as he was. "You and I are alike, Cain, that's all. I understand you. We've both been hunted like animals. I don't deserve it. Maybe you don't either. So prove it. Take me to Camp Brown."

  His grip on her tightened. "That husband of yours . . . is he the one hunting you or . . ." His words dwindled as he thought of all the possibilities.

  "Go ahead, think the worst. Everyone else has." She didn't need to be reminded how bitterly true her statement was.

  He searched her eyes, eyes that were crystalline blue in the brilliant sun. Slowly, he said, "No . . . you didn't kill him. You wouldn't be wearing those weeds if you'd killed him. You don't go mourning a husband you've murdered."

  "No, you don't," she whispered, again feeling that troubled gratitude. She'd been running for three years. Macaulay Cain was the first person to find her innocent before proven guilty.

  "What was he like?"

  One simple question, impossible to answer. He asked about her husband, but she could tell he really wanted to know everything. He wanted to know why she was on that Overland Express stagecoach, where she was destined, why she had no wedding band, why she had no babies. He wanted to gauge her marital bliss, pass judgment on her past, and predict her future. If she had one.