She couldn't meet his eyes. Her answer was barely a croak. "Yes."
"An asylum for the criminally insane?"
"Yes."
The silence was morbid. A nightmare. More deafening than a roar.
"Were you . . . treated well there?"
"My family connections are very good. I was treated as well as one could expect." She finally broke down. "I didn't do it, Cain. I didn't. My uncle—my uncle blamed me for his crimes, and they convicted me falsely—"
She found the courage to look at him. He studied the paper in silence, as if somehow it might explain what had happened to her parents better than she could.
"Please believe me. You've got to believe me."
He stared at the wanted poster as if he couldn't take his eyes from it. "This explains so much—your odd behavior at Falling Water—your fear of the law—your dream—your guilt ..."
"I didn't do it. Oh, God, you've got to see I loved my parents. It's my uncle who did it. Please, please believe me. I'm not insane." A sob caught in her throat.
He took a long time to speak. "It's all right, Christal. If you tell me you didn't do this, I'll believe you." His voice lowered to a hard whisper. "I love you. I've got to believe you. I will believe you."
"But you won't even look at me."
"Just give me the proof of your innocence. That's all I need."
"I'm innocent. Or else why would my uncle send this man here to kill me?"
"He's a bounty hunter. For all I know he could have come here just to collect the reward on this wanted poster." He seemed to force his gaze to meet hers; his eyes remained shuttered. "Tell me more about the asylum—about why they put you there."
"It was a compromise to jail. My uncle made everyone believe he was helping me." She looked down at her hand and the cursed rose branded into her palm. "This scar proved that I was in the room when my parents died. Because of the trauma of seeing the crime, I didn't remember anything of that night until four years ago. Then I remembered that Didier was the one who killed them . . . and locked me in the flaming room to die also. ..."
"There must be evidence—"
"If there were evidence, I would have found justice and I wouldn't be running. There is no evidence but my word." She kept her eyes lowered, hiding the pain. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I could indeed be insane. My memory of the truth could be nothing more than a dream I had one night, absolving me of my guilt and pinning it on my uncle." Silent tears ran down her cheeks. "I don't know what else to tell you. I believe I'm innocent, so much so that I've been saving for years to hire a detective to find my uncle and prove I am. But maybe I am insane. Maybe my memory is all wrong and I just can't accept . . . what I've done."
"No!" He raked his hand through his hair. "You didn't commit this crime." He balled up the paper and threw it on die ground. "I'll believe you and there will be no more talk like this."
"If you believe me, let me see it in your eyes." Her voice was filled with anguish.
He didn't look at her.
Slowly he answered, his voice low and guttural, like a wounded animal's. "I went through hell during the war believing in right and wrong. In the end, everything got twisted. I can't let everything get twisted again. We've got to prove your innocence."
"And if you cannot?"
He looked at her, the emotion in his eyes unfathomable. "The decision to go to war is simple. The result is not. But if we're to have a future, you must return to New York and face the charges. We'll find a way to prove your innocence. We'll find your uncle." He finally touched her, taking her in his arms. "Will you return to New York with me?"
"Yes," she whispered, her heart filling with despair. He was doing everything she knew he would. There was no way to prove her innocence without Didier's confession and getting that was unlikely, if not impossible. She would rot in Park View for the rest of her days or, if the judge decided to punish her for her escape, be hanged. Either way, the damage was done. She'd lost him. He'd never prove her innocence and until that innocence could be proven, she never have him again.
"I wish you were an outlaw, Cain, do you know that?" she said bleakly. "I wish you really had been a member of Kineson's gang, and I wished we'd escaped that night I begged you to."
"If you didn't do this terrible thing, Christal, we'll find a way to prove it."
"Then let's return to Noble. You can wire New York and send for a marshal to take me there."
"I'll take you there."
"No." She stood her ground. "You won't come with me. There's nothing you can do. I couldn't bear to have you see me—locked up—" She lost her voice for a moment. "If I'm freed, I'll come back to you. If not. . . ." She didn't finish. There was no point. She would not come back. Her sister, Alana, had fought for her freedom for years. It was a futile effort to renew the battle, but she would for his sake. Even though this time she might be truly driven insane.
"I'll have someone in Noble in a couple of weeks to take us to New York. Argue if you must, but I'm going with you to face the charges. Get your things. We'll need to return to town." He glanced at the dead half-breed. "There's no point staying here any longer."
She nodded. Reality had come and found them anyway. She shivered, finally realizing how cold she was in just her shift.
Cain saddled the Ap while she dressed. She walked out of the cabin with the bolt of sky-blue wool clutched to her chest.
He looked at her, puzzlement in his eyes, as if he wondered why she still eared about the fabric.
"I'll make a dress while we wait for the marshals." It was the only answer she offered.
He helped her mount. They rode out of the valley, the mountains' blue icy peaks beckoning behind her, hinting of unreachable, mythical places.
Her thoughts were not so lofty and far away. She held on to Macaulay's back and thought of the gown she would fashion from the sky-blue wool. If she could prove her innocence, she wanted it to be her wedding gown. If she could not, whether she died by the hangman or aged infirmity, at least the gown would be done.
She drew closer to Macaulay and placed her scarred palm on her throat. Her skin was smooth, warm, undamaged. It heartened her. Perhaps there was still hope.
Chapter Twenty-four
The gentleman who arrived in Noble on the Overland Express coach was the subject of everyone's gossip. It was no secret he was searching for Christal. He went into Faulty's, his dignified manner at odds with the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of a saloon, and he asked about a blond girl with a rose-shaped scar burned into her palm.
Christal and Cain had been back from the mountains for two weeks. A winter storm delayed the telegraph, which, in the end, had to be sent from Fort Washakie. Jericho had ridden out with the message. He was due to arrive any day, U.S. Marshals in tow.
The stranger's appearance temporarily diverted the townfolk from the fact that Christal was being held at the town jail waiting for marshals to come and take her away. Some speculated she was wanted elsewhere and that the sheriff had discovered her crimes, while others thought the trouble began when Sheriff Cain took her to the undisclosed cabin in the mountains. Everyone knew he was in love with her. Something tormented him. He had grief in his eyes. The lights in the jail burned late into the night.
Now they had a mysterious stranger to contend with. Faulty knew right away the man wasn't one of the awaited U.S. Marshals. For one thing, the stranger's clothes were much too fine for a marshal. For another, U.S. Marshals did not arrive by Overland Express stagecoaches, especially when Overland Express had no station in Noble.
"She's over at the jail, sir. The sheriff's watchin' her," Faulty had been quick to volunteer.
The man nodded. He offered no thanks, as if thank you were two words rather foreign to him.
"There's a stranger in town asking for Christal, Sheriff. Just saw him go into the saloon." Jan Peterson stood in front of the smithy's, shivering in his shirt sleeves.
Cain straightened and dropped the Ap's h
oof, the one he'd wanted the smithy to look at. "Who is he? What does he look like?"
"He looks powerful and rich. I wouldn't want to cross him."
Cain eyed the quiet street up and down as if looking for others. There wasn't a soul in sight. The spring mud was more than even a cowpony could handle. The coach must have let off passengers down the road at Delaney's.
Without a parting word, Cain left the smithy's and walked to the jail. Jan watched him go, sensing the unease in the man's every step.
"Christal, girl, there's someone in town to see you." Cain stepped into the jailhouse. Christal sat at the table, blanketed in sky-blue wool. The dress was almost complete.
"What's your uncle look like, girl?" He flashed a tense expression. "He's—"
"He's shorter, fatter, and older than I am."
Cain whirled around.
Christal gasped at the stranger standing at the threshold of the door. He filled the frame with his tall, lithe form. She had never seen him before, but she would never forget him. He was ungodly handsome, with dark flashing eyes and nearly black hair that was slicked back with macassar oil. He entered the jail stiffly, using a black ebony walking stick with every step.
"What's your business here?" Cain crossed his arms over his chest and moved in front of Christal. Distrust darkened his features.
"It's Christabel Van Alen I've come for." The man paused by the table, as if respecting Cain's need for distance. There was a slight accent to his words. His roots were Irish.
"Do you know this man, Christal?" Cain glanced behind him, clearly uneasy.
She shook her head, but she didn't take her eyes from the stranger. He'd captured her, somehow.
"She doesn't recognize me, because we've never met," the stranger said, "but I recognize her. She looks like her sister, Alana . . . my wife."
"Oh my God." Christal sat down in her chair, shock running through her body. She couldn't take her eyes from the stranger. He was her brother-in-law. Her sister's husband. Their marriage had been hasty and secretive, Christal had certainly not had the freedom to attend the wedding. She'd never met the man her sister had fallen in love with. She only knew he was an Irisher of the name Trevor Sheridan and that Alana loved him as no other. Every time Alana had spoken of her new husband, though their exchanges had been pitifully brief in the asylum, Christal had seen the passion in her eyes for him, the man who stood before her now.
"How is my sister, Mr. Sheridan?" She couldn't hide the excitement in her voice. "Is she fine? What has she done all these years?"
"The only thing she has done, Christal, is pine for you." The man took a step toward her, but Cain blocked his path.
The two men eyed each other for a long time. Anger flared in Sheridan's eyes, but then he seemed to see something in Cain that gave him pause. He noted Cain's unyielding, protective stance, then glanced at her, studying every detail of her appearance from her unbound hair and cheap, threadbare gown, to her slim nose and full mouth, each an exact replica of her sister's.
Enlightened somehow about their relationship, Sheridan stepped back and took a seat at the table, his gold-tipped walking stick laid across his thighs. "Where do we go from here, Sheriff? I must take this girl back to New York."
"Return to New York alone. I'll be the one to bring her there."
"Let him take me back, Cain." Christal turned to Sheridan. "Please tell me about Alana. How is she? Has she had—?"
"She couldn't accompany me, Christal, although it almost killed her for me to be leaving her behind." The man's accent slipped in again. Christal could understand how her sister had fallen in love with him. He was dark, even a little terrifying, but there was something fine and honest about him, something in his slight Irish accent, in the way he gave Cain the respect he was due. "She's with child. Our third."
Her mouth opened in awe. "Nieces or nephews?"
"Two nephews. This last one we hope to be a girl. I won't know until I return. Alana was due two weeks ago. I've been gone a very long time on this trip."
"How did you find me?" She couldn't begin to utter all the questions that filled her mind.
"Alana and I have been looking for you for all the years you've been gone. Then last fall, I had a long talk with an old friend of mine named Terence Scott. His mother was from Galway, as I was. He's become rich transporting payrolls and passengers in the territories. The detectives I hired led me to believe you might be out west. I told Terence years ago to let me know if ever he might help me. Last fall he told me of a girl involved in the Overland kidnapping. She disappeared before he could compensate her. It was very strange. Her description fit you. I had no choice but to find this girl. If I hadn't gone, I know my wife would have, despite the child growing within her. Alana has never given up hope of finding you, Christal."
"And you did find me," she whispered in amazement. She reached to him, wanting to touch the hand of the man who was her only contact with her sister. She scowled at Cain, who was in the way. "Let me talk with my brother-in-law, he's come so far!"
"No." Cain's face brooked no rebellion. "You've never seen this man before, Christal. If Didier sent him, he could have come with the same purpose as the half-breed had."
"He's married to my sister!" she exclaimed, surprised at his distrust.
"You didn't attend the wedding. This man could be lying. He could be telling you these things, meanwhile waiting to get you alone. Waiting to kill you." His voice lowered. "You want me to believe in your innocence, then this is the only course."
She looked at Sheridan and could not bring herself to believe he was anyone but who he said he was.
But there was no convincing Cain, though she made one last effort.
"Surely, Mr. Sheridan, you can convince us of who you are. You must know details of Alana's and my childhood." She looked at the Irisher expectantly.
Sheridan smiled a dark, enticing smile that she knew had entranced her sister. "I could tell many things about your childhood, but nothing that Baldwin Didier couldn't have found out in the years he spent with you and your sister. I'm afraid the only proof I can offer is that Alana is indeed my wife, but to speak publicly of our intimacies, even with you, Christal, her sister, would be too indelicate."
"Return to New York, Sheridan, if that's who you really are. Christal and I will be arriving right after you. We're going to get her a new trial. She'll be acquitted."
Sheridan stared at Cain once more. His smile became more open. "I do believe, sir, that between us, we just might be able to acquit this girl."
Cain's face hardened. He didn't seem as optimistic. "I mean to see it done. So if you're who you say you are, you'll leave Noble right now and not show your face to us again until this girl embraces her sister. Because only when Christal's sister acknowledges you as her husband, will I ever trust you."
Sheridan nodded. "I understand. I know you've been through a lot with her. Terence Scott told me a man named Cain ran with the Kineson gang and saved everyone on the stage. I'm indebted to you, sir, and I have faith you'll deliver Christal to her sister safely, but still I ask you to let me take her now. I promised her sister that I'd find her. Now that I have, don't deny me the satisfaction of bringing her home."
"I'll be the one to take her to Alana Van Alen. And no one else."
The two men stared at each other, locked in a battle of iron wills. At last, Sheridan began to relent. There was something in Cain he seemed to respect. Perhaps it was only Cain's implacable need to be the one to protect Christal. Nonetheless, it seemed to impress Sheridan.
"I have only one thing to say before I leave to meet you in New York," the Irisher said.
"And what is that?" Cain didn't soften one bit.
"Christal's sister's name is no longer Alana Van Alen. She is Alana Sheridan now. Mrs. Trevor Sheridan in her circles."
Cain paused, as if Sheridan's comment almost made him believe him. "I'll remember that when we meet again."
Sheridan gazed at Christal. He bowed and f
lashed his dark eyes.
With a cry dying in her throat, she watched him leave the jail.
"Oh, I know he was my brother-in-law! I think we should have trusted him! Cain, why didn't you let him talk more—I wanted to hear more about Alana and the babies. My nephews," she whispered reverently, still unable to believe she was somebody's aunt.
"I wasn't going to take the chance. If he's who he says he is, you'll see him at your sister's side when the train pulls into Manhattan."
She looked at him. There were lines worked deep into his cheeks. She couldn't remember him looking so tired, so worried. "Don't be afraid for me, my love. I'm no longer afraid. What's going to happen will happen." She locked gazes with him. She had never told him how useless the appeal was. He would find out the hopelessness of her case soon enough. In the meantime, she had found some happiness in his arms, late at night when he was angry at the world, but gentle with her.
He tore his gaze away, then walked to the door to lock it. She watched, knowing he was hurting with every protective gesture he made. He couldn't protect her forever and that was what was eating at him.
"It's out of our hands."
"No." He walked to her and paused, inches away. His voice was raspy and full of emotion. "I'll fight to the death to see you free, you know it, girl."
"But it's like the war, Cain. You just may not win."
His hand cupped the back of her head. He kissed her, his mouth hard and angry as if somehow he could purge his frustration with the violent possession of her mouth.
"This is just like the war," he groaned, burying his face in her hair. "If I can't see you freed then there's no right —no wrong—no end."
She brought his head down to hers and placed her lips softly on his mouth. "I thought once I would have you run from this, as I've done all these years, but time for running is past, and you, my love, are not a man to run away. If you found nothing in that war, you found your honor and that is why I love you."
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