He became gravely quiet. He didn't move. He didn't touch her. He offered no comfort, only cold, calculating silence.
She broke down in choking sobs, but to her shock, she felt his hand run down the tangled length of her hair.
"Then it's my choice, isn't it?" he said in a voice husky with emotion. "It's my honor as a lawman, or it's you."
He was silent for a long time. She couldn't bear to look at his face. Finally, in a whisper, he said, "So I choose you, Christal. God save me, but I choose you."
She began to weep quietly into her hands, relief washing over her like waves from the ocean. It was not a moment for celebrating; there was no need for him to hold her or for her to rush into his arms. It was a melancholy time when a man gave up all he believed in for a woman who might turn out not to be worthy of the honor.
He watched her forlorn figure and ran his hands once again down the long golden strands of her hair. "Get dressed," he said solemnly. "There's a lot to do. I got to talk to Faulty."
He walked to the door. But before he left, he spoke what seemed to be pressing on his mind. He paused and choked out the words. "I just want you to know, girl, that one day you're gonna tell me. I'm gonna believe you and then we're never going to speak of it again. I just want you to know that." He left the room as if anything else that needed to be said could wait until they were again holding each other.
Minutes later, Christal rose from the bed, her thoughts fearful and unclear. She wasn't sure what to do next. It tore through her insides to see Cain turn his back on all he believed in. Her instinct was to flee, to run as far away from him as she could and lose herself in another territory where they could forget they had ever known each other. But that would never happen. She would never run far enough away to forget him. When Macaulay had first arrived in Noble, she was scared and shocked and crazy with the need just to get away. But now she had ties to him that would not break. She loved him, and with nowhere to go and no way to get there, she resigned herself to dress and wait for his return.
He came within the hour and took her to Faulty's. The saloon was empty of drinkers save an old miner named Brigtsen and Jan Peterson. Dixiana was up in her room; they found Ivy in the kitchen and she served them dinner. Conversation was sparse. Christal could see Ivy was terrified of the sheriff and whatever Macaulay had said to Faulty had scared the hell out of him. The old saloonkeeper nearly bowed as she entered the kitchen. There'd never be any more talk of her taking customers to her room; in fact, by the look on his face, she thought Faulty would kill her if she even suggested the idea.
Ivy quickly departed and Faulty went into the saloon to tend to his customers. Christal and Macaulay ate their supper without exchanging a word. It was not Delmonico's; there were no virgin-white linen tablecloths or silver candelabrum, just a rough wooden table, a sputtering lantern, and a warm seat by the stove, but strangely, Christal didn't mind. The future frightened her, it was an unformed specter off in the horizon. One day she would know what it was, but for now she looked into Cain's eyes and saw no coldness there. And for the moment that was all she needed.
When dinner was over with, Macaulay took her to her bedroom. They could hear Dixi with a customer talking and giggling through the rough board walls. Quietly Cain undressed her and made love to her in silence, as if he was so unwilling to share their coupling, he wouldn't even allow another to hear their sighs. But his silent caresses brought her fulfillment quickly, and by the second time, her heart burst with greed for him and with the bittersweet joy of experiencing something wonderful that she knew couldn't last.
The passion died slowly. Eventually he gathered her in his arms and fell asleep. His breathing was deep and comforting, and she nestled against his sure, strong heartbeat, content with the lie that tomorrow would be just as fine. And that an honorable man could abandon his honor forever.
Chapter Nineteen
Macaulay was gone when Christal awoke. She opened her eyes to another morning of sun. The light reflected off the snow and blazed into her room, forming window-pane shadows across the blankets. Outside she could hear the familiar drip, drip, drip of water as it melted off the icicles on the eaves. Today would be warmer, but there would be no promise of spring yet.
She reached across the mattress and touched the pillow still bearing die concave depression where Macaulay's head had lain. The indentation was cold. He'd been up for a while.
She rose and dressed quickly, anxious to see him again, but hesitant. At some point she would speak about what she knew must finally be confessed. Pondering this, she sat for a long while by the window and stared at the daguerreotype of herself and her sister. It was difficult even thinking about telling him of her past, but only because of the bad things. The good things, the joy, she was anxious to share with him.
She touched the picture as if stroking her sister Alana's cheek. In truth, there had been much joy. Maybe too much. Maybe God was so cruel, he had wanted her to pay for all that happiness.
She shook off the notion and returned her gaze to the daguerreotype. A small bittersweet smile tipped her lips as she remembered one of the better times when she and her sister were still little girls. Their mother would come home with the latest edition of Godey's Lady's Book. Mrs. Van Alen made her girls promise every time to be neat with their cutting, then she would pass them her sewing scissors and allow them to cut out the paper dolls in the back. Even now Christal could remember the elaborate fashions created for their dolls: blue velvet riding habits with pert top hats frothed with netting, pink taffeta ballgowns flounced with alengon lace, and best of all, wedding gowns made with yards and yards of white satin. With the old-fashioned caged crinolines, her bridal paper dolls had looked like the tiny bellflowers of lily-of-the-valley. She'd loved them. But especially she loved her mother for bringing them home to her girls every month and never forgetting.
Christal's eyes glittered with memory. The day the magazine arrived was made even more special. If she and Alana were very careful with their cutting and didn't slice through a concoction for a cure for gout or the latest chignon style from Paris, their mother rewarded them by sending tea up to their rooms. They would have a tea party with all their dolls, including Mary Todd, the doll her father had bought for her after he returned from Paris. He brought back a very expensive gown of blue satin for Alana, which their mother had made Alana promise not to wear until next season—the Knickerbocker tradition of aging their possessions so that no one could mistake them for the nouveaux riches—but he'd forgotten to bring something back for Christal. Crushed, Christal had silently longed for the day when she, top, j would be old enough to wear gowns from Paris. Though she never let anyone see her disappointment, her father must have sensed it. The next day he surprised her by bringing home Mary, a fashionable doll with a china: head, kid body, and a gown of blue satin, one very much like Alana's. Christal remembered loving the doll until its clothes were threadbare and there were tiny cracks in its porcelain face. She also remembered naming it after the president's wife, and when her father found out, he'd come into the parlor, kissed her on the forehead and hugged her in a tight grip, his voice shaking as he told her that he was proud of her patriotism-She never knew until later about the terrible loss of Union boys at Antietam reported in the Chronicle that day. And she never knew what he meant about being quiet around Mrs. Maloney, their laundress. She only remembered the poor lady weeping all day into her apron. She found out later both of her grandsons had died in the battle.
But Cain had not. Christal took a deep breath and tried to hold back the hope blooming deep inside her. Cain had been at Antietam and lived to tell. A Confederate, he called the place Sharpsburg, but it was all the same battle. The bloodshed had scarred him but he had survived . . . and found her. They'd both been through so much. It couldn't all end with betrayal and Baldwin Didier. It couldn't.
She reverently placed the picture back on the bureau. She closed her eyes and made a wish, then went to seek out her lover.
White W
olf stalked his prey like his namesake, but whereas the wolf used scent and hunger to drive him toward his victim, White Wolf used cunning and anticipation of the kill. He was most times successful. He had an instinct for the hunt, but it was his particular mix of blood that drove the instinct awry and made him a ruthless assassin.
The sun broke the horizon of the prairie and yellowed the grasses with the first watery light of dawn, and he could feel the draw of his prey. It was like a knot in his gut that tightened and released depending on how close he was. He cast his gaze down on the wanted poster, touching every curve of the rose as if he were touching the girl's hand. She would not be hard to find. He was already on her trail. There weren't many women in Wyoming Territory. As he'd thought, one as beautiful as she was had been noticed by everyone.
He stuffed the paper beneath his rabbit fur vest. The knot was easing; a good sign. Laramie was far behind him and he continued moving west, toward the mountains, toward his game.
"Stop!" Christal giggled and ran farther into the snow-covered prairie. A snowball pelted her back, then another and another. If she hadn't borrowed Ivy's cloak, she'd be soaked.
"We don't get much snow in Georgia, but we Rebs know how to make the most of it!" Macaulay scooped up another handful of the freezing white stuff and ran toward her.
She screamed and ran into the endless plains. Behind her, Noble was just a tiny weatherboard outpost in a calm, flat sea of white. "This is war!" she squealed, and tried to get her own ammunition before Macaulay could catch her, but she didn't have a chance. She barely had a handful of snow before he tackled her to the ground,laughing.
"Villain!" she cried out.
"Yankee!" he retorted, as if that were the worst insult of all. But then he smiled and kissed her. And she was so distracted, she didn't see the fistful of snow until he hadsmashed it in her hair.
"Oooooh!" She shoved him off and sat up. Her hair was a thick, wet tangle, its pins scattered in the snow like pine needles.
"I win," he whispered, and kissed her again.
They'd had a wonderful morning. No one in the saloon had risen yet, so they had the luxury of breakfasting alone. Christal had fried eggs with salt pork and made a pot of thick black coffee. Macaulay had been the one to offer a walk. The sun was bright and warm, and the snow wasn't too deep; she couldn't refuse. She'd borrowed Ivy's cloak from the peg in the kitchen and off they'd walked, hand in hand. Until Macaulay had pelted her with a snowball.
"You beast, it'll take an hour for me to dry my hair," she said to him when they broke apart. In playful revenge, she gathered a fistful of snow and poised to hit his head with it. But his hand shot out and froze hers in midair; his Stetson didn't even slip from his head.
"Unchivalrous Rebel!" she whispered as he forced her
hand to her side.
"That's a contradiction in terms, ma'am." He smiled and tipped his hat to her.
A fatal error. She flipped the black Stetson off his head and, with her free hand, broke the snowball in his hair, rubbing it in for good measure.
He tumbled her back onto the ground. The snow made a cold, downy mattress. She was laughing as she struggled within his arms.
But then something in her face—an expression maybe —seemed to move him. He took her face in his hands and his gaze became solemn and piercing, as if searching to see the expression again.
Her smile began to fade.
"There's that girl," he whispered, his own expression troubled, yet exhilarated.
"What girl?" she asked, unsure what he was talking about.
"The little girl in the picture . . . when you laugh, I can see her."
Their eyes locked. Her heart filled with an old familiar pain. She wished what he said were true, but somehow it seemed impossible. The girl was gone forever. Slowly she turned away so he wouldn't see her eyes fill with homesickness and hurt.
As if a wall had been built up between them, he silently rose from her. He stood like a thrown bronco rider, stiff, broken, and defeated, his wet chaps skintight from the melting snow. He brought her to her feet and, arm in arm, they trudged back to Noble, the unasked questions a dark, thundering cloud on the horizon.
"It's a lie! A lie, Ah tell you!"
Christal and Macaulay entered the saloon to find Dixiana near tears.
Again she sobbed, "It's awl a lie!"
John Jameson, a wealthy rancher from outside the town, stood between Dixi and Faulty. He was a rusty-tiaired man in a black suit and scarlet cravat. He shot Macaulay a glance, then muttered, "You the sheriff?"
Cain nodded.
Jameson pointed to Dixi. "Arrest her, Sheriff. She stole all my money. I kept it in a green silk purse. I had it last night and now it's gone."
Faulty interjected, "Now there ain't no reason to go and accuse Dixi of nothing. She don't steal, sir, I know it."
"Arrest her, Sheriff. I had three hundred dollars in that purse!"
Macaulay slowly removed his coat. "When did you last see it?"
"I had it in the whore's bedroom. I remember quite clearly I removed the purse from my vest pocket and put it next to the bed."
"No, no, you never did! Ah never saw any purse!" Dixi began sobbing. Her rouge trickled down onto her chin.
"There, there," Christal whispered, and clasped her hand in her own. She looked to Macaulay for help.
Macaulay said nothing.
"The slut ought to be hanged for stealing a man's money. No-good whore," Jameson spat out.
"Don't talk to her like that! She didn't steal your damned money!" Christal could have bitten her tongue, but Jameson's words were too cruel. Saying those things about Dixi was like kicking a child.
"You don't have any proof she stole your money. I can't arrest the girl with no evidence of a crime," Cain said, taking a seat at one of the tables.
"Oh, yes, I have evidence." Jameson pointed tc Faulty. "This man right here saw me with the purse not 3 minute before I went up to the whore's room. I paid m) tab and he commented on the amount of money in m) purse."
"Is this true?" Macaulay asked. Faulty looked rather sick. "Yes."
"And the whore saw me put on my clothes this morning. There's no green silk purse anywhere. So where did it go? She stole it, I tell you!" He pointed to Christal. "These girls are probably all in cahoots!"
Hesitantly, Christal looked at Macaulay. His face was a cipher; she didn't know what he was thinking, and it bothered her. She, Dixi, and Ivy weren't in cahoots, but she couldn't shake the feeling a seed of doubt had suddenly been planted. She had, after all, stolen money from him once.
"I still don't think that's proof this woman stole anything," Macaulay said finally.
Jameson turned beet red, his face clashing with the red in his hair. "That's for the judge to decide, not you. Your job is to put this girl in jail until the man arrives. If I may remind you, Sheriff, I am on the town council. I was one of the men who brought you here to Noble."
Cain was silent. Finally he said, "I'll need to check out her room." He turned and went up the stairs. Christal followed at his heels.
"She didn't steal that man's purse. You know she didn't," she whispered as Cain entered Dixi's room. He went over to the rickety bureau and forced open a drawer. There was nothing in there but stockings, garters, and a patched cotton corset. He opened another and another. There was nothing but clothing.
He walked to the neatly made bed. He ripped off the covers and upended the thin mattress. No green silk purse anywhere. Quietly he looked around in every barren corner. There seemed no other place to hide anything.
"She wouldn't steal from that man. I know Dixi—"
"Christal, it doesn't matter," he said ominously, "Jameson's a pillar of this community—such as this hellhole is—and there isn't a judge in the world who's going to believe Dixi over him." He looked at her. "If you know anything about this purse, or you can persuade Dixi to tell us something about it, that's the best you can do for her. Jameson's going to put her in jail, if not."
<
br /> "No, not Jameson. You. You're going to put her in jail," she spat out, tears glistening in her eyes. "And you know she didn't steal the purse!"
Cain took her by the arms. "Listen carefully to what I have to say. It may not be pretty, but it's the truth. The judge is going to come in here and see Dixi as a known whore, a woman with a shadowy past. Nobody will believe her; everybody will believe Jameson. My protests in this matter will be a howl in the wilderness unless somebody can find that purse."
"What if he's lying?" she asked numbly. "What if John Jameson has some grudge against Dixi and he's just lying about the purse being missing because he wants to hurt her?"
Cain stared at her. "Why would he do such a thing?"
"I don't know. You'd have to ask him, and he'd never' tell the truth. So Dixi's as good as convicted. Whether she took his money or not, she's going to go to jail."
"Not if you can convince her to find the purse."
"You talk as if you don't believe she didn't steal it." Christal stared at him, trying hard to hide the pain in her eyes. An asylum for the criminally insane. You do believe me?—oh, you must believe me!
Suddenly she turned away from him, unable to meet his gaze. The end had finally come. If he couldn't believe Dixi, then he'd never believe her, no matter how emphatically he said he would. An asylum for the criminally insane. Would she see revulsion in his eyes? Her heart cracked and shattered.
"C'mon," he said grimly, taking her arm. She followed.
Downstairs Cain confronted Jameson. "I didn't find the purse upstairs. When the judge gets here you can press charges. Until then Dixiana will remain here under my supervision."
"Is that all you'll do?" Jameson turned red again.
Macaulay nodded.
Jameson glanced at Christal, then gave Cain a nasty smile. "Fine. Do nothing, Sheriff. But when I go before the judge I'll see all these girls prosecuted. This was too crafty a theft for Dixiana to do it all by herself. They were all involved, I know it, including the whore on your arm."
Fair Is the Rose Page 23