She stared out at the breathless expanse, the sky yawning above the land in an intense blue. The prairie beckoned her. It promised space and anonymity. She couldn't give up that anonymity now, not even when something deep inside her desired to trust him, to tell him about her uncle, how he was searching for her, that she'd been accused of his crimes, of killing her parents. Perhaps she wanted to tell him about herself in the hope that he might see they were alike and that she was worthy of saving, along with the other passengers.
But she was afraid she would never convince him, and then she would have jeopardized herself for nothing.
She took a deep breath and embraced the wide open space around her. Back in New York, she'd spent three brutal years locked in an asylum, confused and tormented, afraid that all the lies her uncle told might be true. Then, as if she had awakened from a bad dream, her memory and the truth had returned. She believed one day she would find justice. Or one day her uncle would find her. Neither day had come. Until then it was best to keep her mouth shut.
"What did the son of a bitch do to you?" He put a callused finger on her cheek and turned her head so she'd be forced to look at him.
She could see he was troubled by her gaze. Most people were. Her eyes held the pain of an inexplicable and crushing blow.
"What does it matter?" she whispered. "My past is my own. I wanted you to know I see reasons for the life you lead. I have my reasons too."
"I'm an outlaw. A woman like you should have nothing in common with me."
She couldn't miss the reproof in his voice. "And what do you know of women like me?"
"I thought I knew plenty."
Her eyes locked with his. "Run, Cain. Let's save those men back in Falling Water, let's save ourselves. Then you can run and never look back. We both can."
The prairie breeze kicked at his hair, the sun glittered in his eyes, eyes like pieces of a winter sky. For one brief second, she believed they had connected, that they had formed an understanding, become like two creatures in the forest who recognize each other despite the cloak of darkness surrounding them. But the moment shattered. Cain spurred his Ap into a gallop. They rode back to Falling Water as if wildfire licked at their heels. Christal returned to the camp disheartened by the fact that Macaulay Cain was not the man she hoped he was.
Chapter Five
It was dusk when they returned to camp. Cain watered and fed his horse before he freed Christal to begin another supper of beans and biscuits. Her spirit rebelled at being a slave, but her mind wanted survival. She accepted for the moment that she had no choice but to stumble her way through the preparation of another meal for her keepers.
She stirred the beans, the heat of the campfire nauseating her. The smell made her light-headed and more than once she was forced to sit down. Besides a half-eaten biscuit that morning, she'd not eaten since she was kidnapped. She had to keep up her strength, but if tonight was like the last, the offer of food would be too little, come too late. She was supposed to serve the men their meal, prepare the pot that was to be taken to feed those up at the saloon, and put another pot on the fire to boil to wash the rancid grease from the tinware. Last night, by the time she had done everything, the meal was over with, the beans eaten; all she had left was the gang's leavings. She vowed to die of starvation rather than feast upon Kineson's rejected beans.
She served the men, then rested her head on the stones of the fireplace and closed her eyes. Cain had just helped himself to another plate, finishing off the pot. There would be no dinner for her again tonight.
She slid to the ground and tried not to think of her hunger. Every muscle in her body ached with fatigue. The ride on Cain's Ap had made her derriere sore, the lugging of iron pots strained her back. With no food to sustain her, she could feel her energy and spirit seep from her soul.
Cain nudged her shoulder and she opened her eyes. He had finished, but instead of abandoning his plate on the needle-covered ground, he held it out to her. Half full.
He was the captor taking care of his captive. She could find the strength to eat his leftovers or starve. She looked down at the fork, the fork that he'd eaten from, that had slid between his tongue and palate, the way his tongue had slid in her mouth when he'd kissed her.
Every reason told her to save her pride and reject his offer, but the instinct to survive overruled reason. She accepted the plate and ate Cain's beans. And despite her attempts to will it away, that strange guilt-ridden gratitude came slinking back because he'd spared her from having to eat from a more vile man's plate.
He waited for her to wash the dishes before he took her into the woods. All the men watched when night fell, night that came early and cold in the mountains. Like coyotes waiting to move in on another's kill, they watched her, some licking their lips as if she were some land of delicacy they wanted to taste again. She was almost grateful when Cain grabbed her by the hand and led her outside the ring of firelight. He didn't pull her behind the shed; instead they walked deep into the woods, and her heart pounded with renewed anxiety, the men's laughter following her like the howl of predators.
They wandered to the bottom of the falls where the water thundered down into a pool, the noise deafening because it was night and she couldn't see it. Cain led her to a boulder, moving in darkness as if he were a cat, sure and lithe. He pulled her up against him and they sat for a very long time, hearing only the Wind River tumble from above, seeing only the few stars that could wink between the silhouetted canopy of fir.
It was a strange communion. They were there because he was supposed to be raping her and by some wild mercy chose to spare her. They sat on the large cold boulder waiting for the appropriate amount of time for the offense to be committed, Christal held prisoner by an emotion that intertwined gratitude and hatred until she couldn't discern either, Cain silent, his emotions, if he possessed any at all, undisclosed, unfathomable.
He held her lightly, not touching except for his arms that wrapped around her waist like warm chains. It was August—the days were hot and swarming with mosquitoes—but the nights were bitter cold. She shivered against her will and longed for the shawl that had been packed in her trunk, last seen lashed to the top of the Overland stage. Around her, the woods were menacing in their frozen stillness, and she frightened herself when she thought about the creatures out there, unseen night animals that could see them.
"Should we be here?" she asked softly. They were close enough that despite the roar of the fall, she knew he could hear her. "Might there be bears out here?"
"Are you bleeding?"
"Bleeding?"
"Are you wearing rags between your legs? Are you having your monthly time?"
For one brief second she was struck by the awful terror that he needed to know such an intimate thing because he did intend to rape her. She stuttered, "W-why do you ask?"
He answered succinctly. "Because bears can smell blood a mile away. It's only dangerous to sit here if one of us is bleeding. Are you?"
"No." She was grateful for the darkness because it hid her blush. Miss Bulfinch, her beloved governess from years ago, would roll in her grave if she knew her charge had been forced to discuss her female nature with this outlaw.
Cain grew silent, as if he was pondering something. He'd been brooding all evening and his mood made her uneasy. She shifted nervously within his embrace until his arms became steel and forced her to be still.
Finally he said, "I've been wondering. . . . Why would a woman such as yourself be traveling alone on that Overland coach? We didn't expect to find a woman on that coach. It wasn't planned for. Where's your people? Where's your family, Christal?"
His use of her first name made her pause. Her answers—lies—were on the tip of her tongue before his questions were out, well rehearsed after three years of use. But when she heard her name, spoken in his rough, low voice, his questions became unbearably personal. And she found she didn't want to lie to him.
"You're not answering me, girl."
"I don't want to talk about myself. I told you that."
"You have no choice. I'm making you. Tell me where you were going the other day. And tell me why you had to go there."
"No," she whispered, bracing herself for the onslaught of anger. She didn't have to wait long.
He gripped her arms. His voice had an accusatory edge. "You're running, aren't you?"
She didn't answer. He grew furious. "I want to know why and I want to know who you're running from."
She tensed, and she knew he felt it because he pulled her back against his chest, trapping her. "Tell me," he said, his breath hot against her cheek, hushed by the roar of the falls.
She again felt that strange urge to trust him. They had so many things in common. His home had been destroyed and so had hers; he was on the run and so was she; he had felt the noose around his neck, and every nightmare she had ever had about the death of her parents had ended with her at the gallows, soon to be executed for Baldwin Didier's crimes. But was that enough to trust him? She couldn't be sure.
"What does it matter why I was on that coach?" she whispered. "We'll never see each other after Tuesday. This is all for naught." And when that ransom comes, you'll be running for your life from the marshals. In fact, I won't be surprised if they shoot you dead before you can even leave Falling Water. The thought made her heart drop. For some reason, the thought of him dying bothered her. There was a kinship between them, an understanding that could have, in different circumstances, led to something more. She believed he was another man deep down, a good man, but hidden and scarred by a violent exterior. He'd yet to really harm her except to take away her freedom and he'd protected her, even at the risk of his own hide.
Against her back, she felt his heart beat in tandem with the rush of water, his body heat a blanket around her. She tried to erase the picture of him bleeding at her feet, mortally shot by a marshal come to save them, but she couldn't and a strange, unwanted regret filled her.
"Let's go," he said, shoving off the rock.
She followed, unable to think of anything except the dreaded moment when the hand clamped warmly on hers would turn cold.
"Gimme that mirror," Boone growled at Jake.
Cain and Christal had just returned from the falls and they stood in the shadows, watching the scene play out before them. Christal was glad there was going to be a fight. She hated both men, Boone, for his crude stares, and Jake, for his skeevy smile. Besides, the simmering hostilities between the two took the attention from her. And she didn't want the men's stares. Not after going into the woods with Cain. Her unwanted sense of shame was enough.
The tensions ran high as Boone and Jake circled each other in the glow of firelight. Boone reached for the mirror once, twice, then without warning, punched Jake right in the gut. A scuffle ensued and Jake came at Boone with flying fists. Zeke tried to split the men apart, but then Zeke caught a punch across the jaw and joined in the fray, quickly forgetting he was there to stop it. A full-scale war was about to ignite when Cain stepped into the crescent of light.
All the men paused, clearly terrified of irritating him. Cain glanced at them, his expression vaguely contemptuous, before he sat by the fire. The unspoken threat alone caused the men to drop their fists. They eyed Cain belligerently, as if they were children—albeit dangerous children—who'd just been caught by the schoolmaster. The gang members went their separate ways, Jake grumbling and tossing the mirror into a pile of clothing.
Christal stared at the pile, the clothing suddenly familiar. She ran to it, spurred on by the realization that these men had been fighting over her belongings. She frantically began to grab at the articles, hating the thought that these outlaws had touched her only possessions with their dirty hands. But before she could gather much, Kineson ambled down the path from the saloon.
"Git away from there, girlie. Them things belong to us now," he said, a nasty smile lurking behind his lips.
"But they're mine! You took them from my trunk!" she gasped, anger staining her cheeks. She clutched at her only other dress—a faded blue calico—and retorted, "You'll be getting enough money from Overland. You don't need to peddle my meager possessions!"
"If we can get a penny fer 'em, then that's a penny well take." Kineson stepped to her to remove the dress from her hands. She pulled to take it back and they got into a tug-of-war. He let go; she stumbled back, almost into Cain's arms.
"Have the rest of them been stripped?" Cain asked, ignoring her.
Kineson smiled. He looked behind him at the two gunmen coming down the path from the saloon. They were both holding piles of clothes. At the top of one pile was Mr. Glassie's verdigris suit.
"Left 'em with just their union suits." Kineson laughed. "And there was a mess of gold in that old fellow's vest. Yes, sirree, he was spitting mad when I found it and took it away from him."
Christal was heartsick. Pete's father's money had been taken away. All their futures were drying up faster than commerce in Falling Water.
"Take off your petticoats, girlie," Kineson said, turning to her again. "We'll take them as well. Women's things fetch a lot more than men's out here."
"I will not," she spat. She had more to lose than just her modesty if she handed him her petticoats, and she vowed to keep them.
"I said take 'em off."
"I won't," she said, daring him to touch her.
"Take them off," Cain said behind her.
She spun and looked at him, hurt by his betrayal. For some strange reason, she expected him to stand up for her. But that was asking too much of an outlaw. Damning his soul, she faced Kineson again and said, "My possessions are mine and I'm keeping them. Stay away from me."
Kineson only laughed. His hands were on her in seconds, reaching beneath her gown to rip away her petticoats. She screeched in outrage, but before she could pummel him off her, he had her three petticoats in hand, each petticoat dropping gold pieces in the dust.
"What have we here?" Kineson said, picking up a piece.
Seven was certainly an unlucky number. For three years she'd worked to save seven ten-dollar gold pieces. She done without food in order to add to her stash because what drove her was stronger than even hunger: revenge. She was going to redeem herself and prove her uncle guilty, but she needed money to do it. Now she'd saved, only to see her seven precious gold pieces, sewn carefully into the hem of her petticoat, thrown to outlaws like worthless trinkets in a parade.
Past the point of caution, she ran to Kineson, desperate to fight and take her money back, but Cain held her back. Outraged that he would stop her, she raised her hand to strike him, but he gave her such a look, she felt as if a frigid wind had just passed by.
If she struck him, he would be forced to show his dominance in front of Kineson. He'd be forced to strike her back, and hard. Blinking back tears of frustration and anger, she lowered her hand. "That's all I have in the world. Seven gold pieces. Don't let him take it from me," she whispered, proud that she kept the tears from her voice.
"I know" was all Cain said. Kineson laughed and tossed a coin in the air, taunting her. Cain nodded for her to return to the fireplace. She stared at him for one excruciating moment, silently pleading for her gold; then she lifted her chin and walked away, refusing to let him see her devastation, or the tears that finally blurred her vision as she poked vengefully at the fire.
An hour passed as the men settled down to sleep. Kineson snored at the edge of the firelight. Christal watched him, fantasizing enormous wolves coming along and dragging him off. She should have been sleepy herself, but the tensions of the day wouldn't let her relax. She had no money now. Not a dime. She would have to begin all over again. The thought depressed her as no other. She supposed she should be grateful if she survived to have the chance to start over, but at that moment, having been stripped of every protection save the dark, brooding outlaw who sat next to her, she couldn't feel optimistic. Cain's protection was a tenuous thing at that. He could have saved her money for her.
She knew he could have. The outlaws scurried away like roaches in daylight when he walked by; he had proved he could win dominance over Kineson, obviously Kineson's greatest fear. Yet Cain remained under the gang leader's orders. And why? Because he was as immersed in this gang as anyone, maybe more so.
Her gaze trailed to Cain, and she was shocked to find him staring at her. His gaze wasn't so cold in the dying firelight, his face not nearly so hard. He had a strange, taut expression as he stared, almost as if he was trying not to look at her, but was somehow helpless not to.
Her gaze met with his and held. She fascinated him, for whatever reason. Her past, which should have been unimportant to an outlaw, seemed to intrigue him. She could tell it by his questions, and now by his stare. Perhaps she was getting to him. It was playing with fire to think of becoming entangled with a man like Cain, but if she could gain his confidence, find a chink in his armor, she might convince him to see her side and assist her.
She looked down and noticed he'd been polishing his revolvers again. His energy in that matter was endless. It was as if he was always preparing for a showdown. She wondered if this unnerved the other gunmen.
She walked next to him and tried to draw him into conversation. "Those must be extraordinary guns for all the attention you give them."
"They're nothing a million men don't own." As usual, his answer was terse. He dropped his gaze to his task, appearing unapproachable and intimidating as he polished the unusually long bore.
"Those guns were Confederate issue, then?"
Fair Is the Rose Page 7