Fair Is the Rose

by Meagan Mckinney

  Cain grabbed the man around the throat, screeching a chair across the floor with a violent shriek. Christal gasped and ran to him to keep him from killing the man. She didn't know what triggered Cain's anger—whether it was his fear that the man wanted to prosecute her or whether it was because he had called her a whore— regardless, he quickly had Jameson in a death grip.

  "What are you going to do, Sheriff?" the rancher choked. "Kill me? My money was stolen and here I'm treated like the criminal!"

  Sanity seemed to take hold once more. Macaulay released his hand. He looked at Christal and seemed to weigh the circumstances.

  She could feel the blood drain from her face. If she was prosecuted with Dixi, the judge would probably ask the sheriff to wire their last place of residence to see if they'd committed any other crimes. He'd be obligated to wire New York; then everything would be over.

  His face was taut with frustration. In a hard voice, he said to Dixiana, "C'mon. I've got to lock you up."

  "Oh, God . . ." Dixiana sobbed into her hands.

  Christal was numb. She couldn't stand seeing Dixi locked up. She was sure she was innocent. But if Cain didn't lock up Dixi, Jameson would see the rest of them prosecuted, their pleas be damned.

  "No, wait!" she choked out to Cain, wondering if she was committing suicide. "Cain, you know this man doesn't have enough evidence to prove Dixi stole anything. Don't do this for me. . . ." In desperation, she lifted the hem of her gown and began ripping the seven gold pieces from her petticoat. "Here," she said, turning to the red-haired man, her voice trembling with desperation, "take this for your lost money and go away!" She thrust the coins into the man's hand.

  "This isn't enough," Jameson complained.

  "But that's all I have!"

  Cain took the gold pieces from the man and placed them into Christal's palm. She was about to protest when he pulled her aside and warned, "Stay out of this. It's more trouble than it's worth."

  Her gaze was riveted to his. He was trying to protect her. Even at Dixi's expense. But if Cain could brand Dixi a thief on circumstantial evidence, then what would he do if he should ever come across the wanted poster with her face on it? A searing panic shot through her. Cain would go crazy, was what.

  "You can't do this to Dixi, Cain. You just can't," she whispered helplessly, her eyes begging him for mercy. "She didn't do anything. You know she wouldn't steal."

  "I don't know that. All I know is that Dixiana's a saloon girl and saloon girls are known for stealing their customers' money." He looked at her. "And you had nothing to do with this and I'm not going to let Jameson drag you into it."

  Devastated, she watched him step to Dixiana and take her by the arm. Dixi was still crying; Christal felt tears well in her eyes also. It had all been a dream. Her hopes of confiding in Macaulay and believing he might help her were gone. The dream had ended. She was fooling herself to think his love for her would override Cain's duty as a sheriff, and his weakness as a mortal man. He would react to her supposed crimes as any man would react. And as a sheriff, he'd proved more than once he'd do his duty first and foremost. And he would find his duty easy to do when he saw that wanted poster.

  Christal watched in silence as they left the saloon. Deep inside she could feel her fragile, vulnerable heart grow cold. She had opened herself to him and let him briefly glimpse inside, but now she could never be so foolish again. The lesson was learned. She had to keep away from him. He'd made her promise to never run from him, but she would break that promise and run as fast and far away as she could. No matter how hard and lonely running made her, she had no choice but to protect herself.

  "What will happen to her?" Ivy whispered behind her.

  Christal turned around, her face pale and desolate. "I don't know."

  "Lord have mercy . . . this is going to destroy Dixi . . ."

  Christal didn't deny it. It had already destroyed her.

  Chapter Twenty

  "Lord, you are the coldest man!" Dixi came down from her tiptoes. Cain walked away from the other side of the bars.

  He folded his arms across his chest. "What can I tell you, Dixi darlin', you can't get out of jail this way. We're just going to have to see the judge on this one."

  Dixi started bawling. Her tears came in great dramatic breaths.

  Cain was unmoved. Perfunctorily, he said, "C'mon now. It won't be that bad."

  "Yes! Ah'm a prisoner! Ah have to stay in this filthy jail cell!"

  "Filthy? Dixi, it's never been used!" Cain chuckled.

  "Oh, you cruel man. Isn't there anything Ah can do to get out of this?" She turned tear-reddened eyes to him. "Anything?"

  He shook his head.

  Hurt creeped into her eyes. She turned away and bravely wiped at the tears on her cheeks. "Is it because Ah'm a mite older than the other girls? Is that why you don't want me? You think Ah'm—too old?" The last two words came out hushed, as if she were speaking of the dead.

  "You're a fine-looking woman," he said gently. When she didn't respond, he put a hand through the bars and touched her shoulder. "You know, there were times, Dixi, I was running with the gangs up in the Wind River and I'd have paid a fortune for a night with a woman like you."

  Dixi took a peek at him and sniffed. He handed her his bandanna.

  "I'm just not looking right now, is all. It's Christal. She makes it hard for me to think of other women."

  "You in love with her?"

  He was silent, as if he'd been asking himself that question for a long time. Quietly he answered, "Whatever it is, I know I got it bad." His expression lightened. "C'mon, Dixi. Spend one night here and I'll wire to Fort Laramie to find out when we can expect the judge. I think I can convince Jameson to let you stay in the saloon until then. I'll ride out to see him tomorrow."

  She gave him a tremulous smile of thanks. "You goin' to the saloon in the morning? Could you ask Christal to bring me my perfume and a change of undergarments?"

  "It'd be my pleasure, ma'am," he answered in his most seductive drawl.

  Dixi smiled behind the bars. "Thank God for Georgia gentlemen like you, Macauley Cain. I do believe the South is not dead after all."

  He shot her a blinding smile and tipped his hat. "No, ma'am, she's not dead at all."

  The bar was like a morgue that night. Everyone in town knew about Dixiana. Macaulay didn't return from the jail and Christal told herself she was glad. Much to Faulty's distress, she'd gone back to selling dances. It was mosdy to fill the void Dixi's absence created, but also an act of defiance. Cain wouldn't like what she was doing, but that was probably for the best. She wanted anger between them because with anger there was distance, and she was desperate for distance.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Macaulay had seduced her into trusting him, and through want and need she had desired the seduction. Every minute with him had made her want to tell him the truth. Thank God she hadn't. In perspective, she could now see that she had toed right up to a precipice and stared down at her doom. But she hadn't walked off the edge, nor would she. She had pulled back. Though to walk away meant to walk away from love, she steeled her heart and knew she would do it. Her instinct to survive was too strong, too well honed from years on the run.

  There was no need to search for dance partners that night. Dixi was at the jail and Ivy had walked a customer upstairs. The girl was taking much longer than normal and Christal had asked Faulty at one point if she shouldn't go knock on her door, but Faulty had said the gentleman had paid a goodly sum up front and there was no point in upsetting him. Ivy could take care of herself.

  "Gimme another drink, will you?"

  As if snapping out of a trance, Christal looked down at the half-drunk man seated beside her. He repulsed her. More than anything in the world she wanted to get away from men like him, and never again feel them paw her during a waltz. But for now, that was the price of freedom. And she would pay it.

  "Another whiskey, Faulty," she said at the bar.

  "Christal,
Cain's gonna kill me when he walks through that door. He told me no more dances."

  "I don't care what he told you. It's my business and I know it's perfectly legal to sell a dance. He has no say in the matter."

  "God save me! Why'd I hire all you girls? All of you, you're nothing but trouble with a capital T!" Faulty slid another whiskey to her.

  She handed the drunkard his drink and surveyed the room. The men were all regulars tonight, except one. The newcomer sat at Cain's table, off in the corner, by himself. He was unusually tall, with dark hair plaited like an Indian's. If he was a half-breed, he was a handsome one, but despite his physical appearance, she hadn't enjoyed her dances with him. There was an animal odor about him that nearly made her gag when she waltzed too close, and his clothing was dirty, especially his vest, a patchwork of thin, greasy rabbit skins. But the worst thing about him was his stare. His brown, rather inhuman eyes hadn't looked away from her all night, and it was becoming unnerving.

  "You're just working this one night while Dixi's gone. Now, you promise, won't you?" Faulty nervously handed her another whiskey.

  "Don't worry, Faulty. I won't be working long." She walked away with the drink, not having the heart to tell him about her plans to escape with the next cowpoke who could give her a ride to South Pass.

  Christal delivered the drink, but not without catching the eye of the half-breed. He motioned for a refill. She went to the bar for the bottle.

  "No. Another dance."

  She inwardly cringed. Returning the bottle, she walked back to the table, mentally forming her excuse. "I'm—I'm rather tired—"

  Without warning, the half-breed grabbed her hand, running his grimy forefinger along the ridges of the scar on her palm. She pulled it away as if burned.

  "Can—I get you—something else?" The words were hard to choke out. He frightened her, but it was difficult to pinpoint why.

  He nodded to the stairs.

  She shook her head. "No, I—"

  "Another dance, then." He stood and handed her a nickel. There was no way to refuse without him starting a fight with Faulty. Reluctantly she let him put his hand on her waist while Joe played "Devilish Mary."

  "What's your name?" he grunted.

  "Christal," she whispered, growing more afraid of that stare with every passing second.

  The expression on his face was one of deep satisfaction.

  "Where are you from?" For some reason, she had a burning need to know about him. Her instincts told her it was important.

  "I just came from Laramie. Before that, St. Louis. You been to St. Louis? Women there aren't near as beautiful as you."

  His thumb ran along her scarred palm, and for some reason Christal felt her knees give way. Terror ran liquid through her veins. Suddenly she couldn't wait for Macaulay to darken the door.

  "Please—let me give you your nickel back—suddenly I don't feel well—"

  "I want to keep dancing. I don't get chances to be with women like you . . . and time's almost up."

  She stumbled. He kept his hand locked on her waist. He turned the corner with her, his inexperienced feet treading on her own as if he didn't care at all about the pain he caused her.

  "No—please—we must stop—"

  "I like it." The half-breed answered as if he wasn't really talking to her, but to himself.

  "No, no . . ." She tried to stop, to gracefully pull out of his arms, but he was a big man and she, only a petite woman. The only way she was going to get away from him was to cause a scene.

  "We must stop right now. I don't feel well." She looked at him, but he didn't even see her. He was running his thumb again and again along the ridges of the scar on her palm.

  She froze, inexplicably terrified, every muscle in her body tensed as if for a fight. He started to waltz again, but she tossed his nickel at him, the coin bouncing off his shoulder and clattering to the floor, a noisy, humiliating rejection. He wasn't even angry. He just kept on dancing, dragging her with him like a predator with prey.

  Until a voice cracked like thunder behind her.

  "What the hell are you doin', girl?"

  One by one, heads turned until even old deaf Joe quit playing the upright and wheeled around on his stool to stare. From the corner of her eye, Christal saw that Faulty looked about ready to roll back on his heels and faint dead away. She watched him take a fortifying gulp of firewater and amble from behind the bar.

  The half-breed released her, picked up his coin, and retreated to his table like a kicked dog. Christal was flooded with relief. But then she faced Cain.

  He stood by the door, his arms crossed ominously across his chest. Even though she expected it, the fury on his face daunted her.

  "I told you no more dances," he said, a deadly calm in his voice.

  "I was helping Faulty," she answered as defiantly as she could beneath that cold stare.

  "Faulty can go to hell."

  "A lovers' quarrel, now don't that beat all!" Faulty came running up, releasing a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "Christal, you gotta be nice to Sheriff Cain here. If he don't want you dancin', then—"

  Macaulay turned his eyes to Faulty only once, but the one cold glance was enough to cut off Faulty's words as if Cain had reached into his throat and pulled out his vocal cords.

  He turned back to Christal. "I suggest we take this discussion elsewhere. Upstairs would be my preference."

  From the corner of her eye she could see the half-breed staring at them. Macaulay particularly seemed to interest him.

  Faulty scurried back to the cover of the bar. It was as if everyone in the saloon were preparing for a gunfight. There would be a showdown all right, but it would take place here in the saloon, not upstairs on her mattress. She would make sure of it.

  "No, Cain. You can't tell me what to do. I want to help Faulty tonight and that's just what I'm going to do." She hid her gaze from the angry question in his eyes. She understood his bewilderment. He'd arrested Dixi in part to shield her. Now he'd come back from the jail only to find her coldly accepting his company and defying his every wish.

  "If you think I'm just going to stand around while any man who wants to puts his hands on you, you've gone loco, girl." He lowered his hat over his predatory eyes. "Go get your things, you're coming with me to the jail."

  "Are you arresting me?"

  "Do you want me to?" There was more than an imagined threat in his words.

  "No," she whispered, backing away.

  "Then go get your things, Christal."

  "No. I have rights. You may be sheriff of this town, but you're not a slavekeeper."

  He took a step toward her, his expression angry bewilderment.

  She backed away.

  He took another step.

  She turned to the staircase to bolt, but she stopped in her tracks. Ivy stood there, as pale as death.

  "Oh, my God, what happened to you?" Christal whispered.

  Ivy lifted her face. There were bruises on both cheeks and one eye was puffy, swollen, and purple. She appeared faint and had to steady herself on the wooden banister.

  "Who did this?" Christal exclaimed, growing irrationally angry. If it wasn't for the memories of her father, she'd hate every man who walked the earth at that moment.

  "That cowboy from the Henderson ranch." Ivy's words were a bit garbled. Christal could see her jaw was nearly swollen shut.

  Macaulay gave Christal an angry stare, as if to say, we're not through, then gently led Ivy down the stairs to a nearby chair. "I'll go after him."

  Ivy caught his hand. "No."

  "What do you mean, 'no'?" Cain snapped. "A man can't go beating on a woman as if she were some kind of green horse that refused to be broke."

  "He's gone. There won't be any justice for me anyway. You know it as well as I do, Sheriff." Ivy wiped the tears that began falling. "He told me never to tell anyone and he'd not come back."

  "He ought to be horsewhipped. I'll see to it he is."

  Faulty appeared w
ith a rag stuffed with snow and Christal began ministrations on Ivy's face. The men in the saloon spoke in low whispers. Except for the half-breed. A chill ran down Christal's spine when she saw his gaze still trained on Cain.

  Ivy clutched Christal's hand. "Don't tell Jericho. He's supposed to show up tonight. Just tell him I'm ill. He'll go crazy if he sees me like this."

  "How can I hide this from him? I've got to tell him," Christal pleaded.

  "No need now." Macaulay nodded toward the back of the bar. Jericho stood there in his bearskin coat, his features hardened with rage as he stared at Ivy.

  "You go home now, Jericho! You ain't got no cause to be here! You know the policy!" Faulty shouted at him.

  Macaulay shut him up with one glance. Then he turned to the customers and said, "Go on home. The saloon's closed for the night. Y'all can come back again tomorrow night."

  "Yeah, that's right," Faulty chimed in. "Ain't no darkies allowed in here. Tomorrow night you'll see it's so!"

  Slowly the men dribbled out the door. The half-breed was last, shuffling his large feet, strangely reluctant to go. He paused only once. He stared at Macaulay and this time Macaulay stared back. The instant dislike between the men was almost palpable.

  "Go on with you," Cain growled.

  The half-breed shuffled out into the freezing night, his destination unknown.

  "Take me with you, Sheriff. I know better than you where the Henderson ranch is," Jericho said, ignoring Faulty's glare.

  Cain nodded. "We'll go right now, before the bastard's got time to run." He looked at Faulty. "Lock this place up tight." He pointed to Christal without even looking at her. "She's your responsibility while I'm gone. I want you watching her every minute. And don't take any lip. If you have to, lock her in her room."