Cain and Kineson jogged their mounts to the waiting train. Cain was the one to approach the car and Christal clung to him like a frightened kitten. He inched the Ap forward and banged the butt of his rifle on the door.
The door opened six inches.
Without pause, a small canvas bag was shoved out the space, dropping with a thud to the ground. Then another, then another, until there was a large pile on the side of the tracks. Kineson released a loud, gleeful chuckle as he eyed the pleasing glitter of gold from a bag that had broken open.
The final bag shoved out, the door slammed and the train chugged to a start. Christal watched it depart, not realizing her nails dug into Cain's back. When the train was a speck miles down the tracks, Kineson dismounted. The outlaws who'd been hiding in the grass stood, whooping and shouting like Indians while Kineson filled his shirt with as many canvas bags as he could carry.
"Get them horses over here and we'll load the rest up," Kineson shouted over the din. Boone nodded, the first one to run to the cottonwoods, eagerly hitching up his jeans in his greed to have at the loot.
"Gimme the girl, Cain." In the excitement neither Cain nor Christal watched Kineson. Kineson had mounted and now stood at their side, his shirt bloated with bags of money.
Cain grabbed his revolver. It was trained on Kineson before Christal could blink. "She's not going with you, Kineson. Get that through your head."
"The only thing going through your head is a bullet. Look behind you, Cain."
Christal turned her head. One of the outlaws had a rifle pointed at them. They'd planned Cain's execution just as she'd suspected.
Her heart died in her chest. She held on to Cain and vowed never to let go. For some crazy reason her mind couldn't accept that this was how she was going to watch him die.
"What is it, Kineson? You think I betrayed you?" Cain's every word was slow and cautious.
"Hell no. You're just too uppity, Cain. Now that we've got the money, we don't need you anymore." Anger cut into Kineson's features. He nodded toward Christal. "And I don't appreciate the fact you don't share, boy. So gimme the girl, or the both of you gonna be blown to kingdom come."
Cain was silent. Then all at once, he nodded for her to go to Kineson.
"No, Macaulay," she whispered urgently. "They're going to shoot you the minute I get off this horse. Don't let them. Don't!"
"Take her, Kineson! She's all yours!" Cain said, refusing to look at her.
She clawed at his back, desperate to stay with him. "They're going to kill you!"
"Or they're gonna kill both of us." His eyes heated with anger. "Do it. Go to him."
An arm went around her waist. She held on to Cain, but Kineson was too strong. He had her in his lap in seconds.
"Let go of me!" she spat, doing her best to dismount and stop the outlaw who held the rifle on Cain.
But suddenly a man's panicked shout echoed through the prairie. She turned her eyes to the cottonwoods and gasped.
Like spectres in a graveyard, dark-coated men astride army-issue geldings had sentineled behind the trees, surrounding the outlaws' tethered horses. Christal held her breath, torn between elation and fear.
The outlaws running for their horses skidded in the tall grass. They took barely a moment to assess the situation before they scattered through die brush like ferrets.
Kineson cursed. The man who held the rifle behind Cain had run too. Cain was now the only one armed.
"Let her go," Cain said ominously.
Kineson's horse reared; he spun it on its hocks, holding her to his lap with an arm of iron. "She's my insurance now." Viciously he spurred his horse into a gallop.
Christal fought to be free, but Kineson was almost as strong as Cain. She looked behind her with frightened eyes. Cain followed, his face a mask of unadulterated rage.
They flew over the train tracks and into the wide-open prairie. "I'll take you down, Cain!" Kineson roared. He drew his six-shooter; Christal released a cry of fury. She tried to get it from his hand, but he knocked her back with his elbow. Undaunted, she fought, her fists hitting the gold stuffed in his shirt, her fingers clawing at his sweat-drenched chest. She clamped down on his wrist, but Kineson backhanded her with the arm that held the gun. She drew back, holding her cheek, moaning from pain. Kineson aimed at Cain again, but she lashed out once more and gave a violent tug on the side of the horse's mouth. The animal slowed. That was all Cain needed.
He released a savage yell and threw himself on Kineson. All three tumbled to the ground.
"You'd let yourself hang for this woman? You're a fool, Cain! Let's get on our horses and get out of here!" Kineson growled when he scrambled to his feet, gun in hand, only to come nose to nose withdain's Colt .45.
Cain dragged her to her feet and shoved her behind him. In the distance, she could see dark-coated men loping across the railroad tracks like steers. It would only be a matter of time before the marshals caught up.
Cain said softly, "You'll never have her, Kineson. Never."
"My God," Christal sobbed from behind him. "He's right. Get on your horse and get out of here. Kineson doesn't matter anymore, Macaulay. Whatever I say in your defense, they'll hang you anyway. So go. Go!" she nearly screamed.
The two men were in a standoff, both with guns drawn beneath the bright prairie sun. But Kineson seemed to be the more desperate. He eyed the marshals again and again. Cain kept his eyes only on him.
"Forget the woman," Kineson begged. "We're men of the Sixty-seventh. We've got to stick together. We can't surrender to Yankee scum!"
"I'm sorry," Cain whispered, his face ravaged by an honor the war had torn in two directions. "It's not Georgia we're fightin' for anymore. It's just us, Kineson. Just us . . ."
Rage distorted Kineson's features.
Christal cried out and tried to pull herself from behind Cain, but he held her to his back with an arm like a manacle. She screamed that Kineson was going to shoot, but Cain just stood there. Staring at Kineson's eyes.
He'd once told her that a gunman knew when to shoot by watching a man's eyes, not his hand. But Christal was no gunman. Her gaze was riveted on Kineson's finger. Later she didn't know if the loud ringing in her ears was from the shot or her own screams.
The report echoed across the wide-open grassland. She grabbed Cain, expecting him to fall to the ground, mortally wounded, as she had pictured it a thousand times in her head. But he didn't fall. He put his unfired gun into its holster and watched Kineson.
Shock riddled the man's features. The outlaw stared down at the hole in his chest that poured gold. But it was not really gold at all. Kineson's eyes widened in horror as he looked at the ground. At his feet were chipped, gold-painted tin tokens splattered with his own blood. With a gasp of betrayal, he fell backward, dead.
"Well, I got that one just by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin," said an unfamiliar voice.
Christal whipped around to see a rotund man ease off his horse. His Winchester still smoked. He had a huge mustache and wore a red shirt common to miners, but she saw the army-issue dark blue greatcoat strapped to the back of his saddle. There was no mistaking the gleam of the silver star pinned to it. Her heart shattered.
"How are you, ma'am? Name's Mr. Rollins." He tipped his Stetson and walked to her. She drew back, helplessly watching other marshals—hundreds it seemed —trot up to them on their mounts.
"I apologize for your ordeal, ma'am. When we knew the stage was likely to be ransomed, we didn't figure there'd be a woman aboard." Rollins sensed her discomfort. He looked down at the mound in the grass that was Kineson's body. "Why didn't you pick him off, Cain? God knows you were born with the devil's hand when it comes to shooting."
Cain's words were terse and unfathomable. "You got him. Saved me from having to kill one of my own."
Rollins just nodded, as if respecting Cain's reasons.
Other marshals dismounted. Cavalry had been sent with them. They were surrounded by men in blue. Choking back a sob, Christa
l waited for them to take Cain away in irons. She formulated in her mind everything she could say in his defense, but when Rollins stepped toward them, her reasoning flew. She could only step in front of Cain as if to shield him and blather nonsensical words in his defense, unable to drink of anything except the picture of him swinging from the gallows, his strong, scarred neck snapped in two.
"You don't have to protect me, Christal."
Cain's words broke her. She turned and threw herself in his arms. She'd always thought herself a strong woman, but suddenly the thought of them taking him away was more painful than a shot through the heart.
"What's this?" Cain asked softly, clearly taken aback by her emotion. He laid a gentle hand on her brow to brush the hair away from her glistening eyes. "You're safe now, Christal. Everything's gonna be all right."
"No," she choked, unable to take her eyes from him. "Everything's not all right. Can't you see? They're going to take you away and hang you." Desperate to find his salvation, she watched the men approach. She ached to turn back the clock, unable to accept that any second they were going to take him away and demand justice for his crimes. A bitter regret seeped into her soul. They had never had a chance. From the beginning, everything including their past and their future was against them.
The seconds ticked cruelly by.
Rollins stepped toward them; she dug her fingers into his arms to hold Cain more tightly.
"Girl, it's gonna be all right," Cain whispered against her hair.
"They can't take you. They can't . . ." she said, fiercely clinging to his shirtfront.
His arms tightened. He made a hush noise as if to reassure her. Then he said, "But I'm still armed, Christal. Think about it. Would these men let me hold you like this and leave me with my guns?"
She tilted her head to look at him. He didn't appear afraid, or even worried. Around her, marshals were tending to Kineson's body. In the distance, cavalry shackled the other gang members. She counted five. They'd captured all of them.
But Cain.
Her gaze again lifted to his. He was almost smiling.
"I—I don't understand . . ." she murmured, unsure of herself.
"He's with us, ma'am," Rollins piped up, a broad grin on his face. "Has been all along."
"But he's an outlaw . . ." She looked at Rollins, wild-eyed with confusion. "He's even been hanged once. In Landen."
"You want to explain that one or should I?" Cain said dryly to the man.
Rollins winced. "Ah, well, that was a mistake." He couldn't help himself and laughed. "But then, mistakes happen, don't they? On behalf of the U.S. Government, we're just glad that this one went off without a hitch." His gaze went to Kineson's body, then dragged to Christal, who clearly had not been in the plans. "Well, almost without a hitch . . ." he finished.
Christal stared at Cain. They weren't going to hang him. He was safe. He would live because . . . Her knees gave way. Cain caught her; she almost fainted.
"Easy there, girl," he whispered.
"You're—you're a marshal?" she stuttered, her heart constricting with fear.
"Were you really so afraid for me?" He looked tenderly down at her.
She stared at him wild-eyed. She didn't answer.
His knuckles, rough yet tender, stroked her cheek. "We got a lot to talk about, Christal."
She still said nothing. He was a U.S. Marshal.
Unconsciously, her palm curled over her scar. If she'd wanted to escape before, now the need had multiplied tenfold. Her blood fairly gushed with the desire to run. Her gaze traveled to all the men surrounding them. She was standing in the middle of an empty prairie with more lawmen than she'd ever seen in her life. Her eyes settled on Cain. She couldn't accept it. He was a U.S. Marshal.
"We found the other prisoners and the man who held them at Falling Water," Rollins said, shattering her concentration. "The gang'll go directly to Fort Laramie for trial—we got a judge there. But we're taking the passengers to old Camp Brown to recuperate, it's closer. Then Overland's promised coaches to wherever they want to go." He tipped his hat to Christal. "That goes for you, too, ma'am. I hope you don't mind riding once more with Cain to the fort."
She didn't protest. She was numb. All she could do was woodenly comply. She had to get through the formalities and do her best to hide her identity. Then she had to run.
Cain put her on his saddle and they set off at a lope toward Camp Brown. Once more in his arms, stunned at the about-face of her circumstances, Christal gazed at the flat landscape, her entire being consumed with the need to flee. In truth, she didn't want to go, to leave him. Now that they'd both faced death, she knew a lot more about her feelings toward him, and the thought of leaving sent an ache through her soul.
But if he had been dangerous before, now he was suicide. All along she'd known that a lady had no business falling in love with an outlaw.
But a woman who was wanted in New York could never even look at a lawman.
Chapter Nine
Christal didn't know how to flee. Running from outlaws was simple. They expected runaways and they felt no moral duty to bring them safely back to camp. But the cavalry was something else. When they rescued a white woman from a band of renegades, they expected the woman to rest, to need time to recuperate from her trauma. They didn't expect her first desire to be escape. And if such a strange occurrence happened, and the girl did flee, then they would feel a deep moral obligation to go out and "rescue" the poor confused maiden, and Christal knew they would do it again and again, if need be, until she understood they meant her no harm.
Though she'd been there only a few hours, she let out a quiet moan as she despaired of leaving Camp Brown. The old abandoned fort was miles from everything. The closest settlement was the Wind River Indian Reservation and she had no business there among the Shoshone with her flaxen hair.
Raising her hands, she let the women around her dress her in a much too large ratty pink silk ballgown. Indian squaws tended to her, Mandan women, known for their free ways among white men. Christal had seen many of them in the plains towns. Their tribe had been decimated by smallpox, so they scraped together an existence by frequenting forts and mining towns, and taking the leavings of the girls in the saloons. Coarse-featured, brown, and husky, they rarely got treated well. Now Christal felt even more empathy for them. They shared a strange sisterhood. The squaws were held captive by need as much as she was by fear.
The Mandan women left and Christal walked to the small window in her room, which she believed was the captain's former quarters. She was exhausted, but sleep was out of the question; too dangerous. Besides, there might be an Overland coach that afternoon to take passengers away. She wouldn't miss it, even if it meant giving up her seven gold pieces.
Wiping the glass of the window, she looked out into the center of the fort. The August sun hung on the horizon. Sweat beaded her brow and dust again dried her throat; she'd forgotten how hot it was on the prairie. She looked to the fort's gates and wondered if she could get past the two cavalry officers who had been posted there. They had no right to keep her, really. She could demand her gold pieces from Rollins and walk past the guards and just keep on walking. Her eyes darkened. But the marshals wouldn't like the fact she'd left without talking to them about the kidnapping. With all the cavalry at their disposal, they'd return her to "safety" in a matter of minutes. Then they'd want to know why she had run. And then she would have two choices: She could refuse to answer their questions, and thus raise their suspicions, perhaps even to the point that they would find out about her scar (the far better choice); or she could lie to them, claim abuse by the kidnappers, such terrible abuse that any men frightened her and all she had wanted to do was leave the fort and get away from so many of them. The marshals just might believe that story, but Cain would know she was lying. And his suspicions were far more frightening to her than those of the entire cavalry that now maneuvered on the drill field in the center of the fort.
She took a deep breath
and ran shaky hands down her hair. Being surrounded by the law was her worst nightmare come true, save meeting face-to-face with Baldwin Didier. The Overland stage couldn't come quick enough, even if the prospect of leaving tore at her heart.
Macaulay Cain. Macaulay Cain. The name echoed through her mind. She never wanted to think of him again. There was no good to come of their relationship before they'd been rescued. And now it was even worse.
A knock sounded at the door, snapping her out of her dark musings. She pulled up the shoulders of the faded pink gown, embarrassed that her bosom peeked out from beneath her chemise every time the dress slipped.
The knock sounded again, this time more urgent, and terror gripped her heart. She was consumed by the irrational thought that they'd discovered her, but sanity took over once more, and she realized it was unlikely. Twisting her hair in her hands and wishing she could pin it, she threw it over one shoulder and opened the door.
Her heart froze. Cain stood there, looking very different from the man she knew. He'd shaved and a strong jaw appeared where rough dark beard had been. With the beard gone, she realized he was far more handsome than she'd suspected. But he was still Macaulay Cain. The hard mouth and ice eyes were the same, and the combination, as always, proved mesmerizing.
She lowered her gaze to the rest of him. He'd bathed and donned civilized dress: dark trousers, white shirt, and a burgundy silk vest. His hair was slicked back and smelling of bay rum. If she'd been attracted to him as an outlaw, she had to admit she was even more drawn to him now. He was clean-shaven and restrained, and the facade suited him. Now his danger was subtle, as a whisper is more erotic than a shout.
"I hardly know you," she said in a low, cautious voice.
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