Fair Is the Rose

by Meagan Mckinney

  "Christal," he groaned, his hand rough, possessively cupped over her breast as if she were his and he was suddenly desperately afraid he would lose her.

  She whispered, "There is an end, my love. New York will be the end. But I wish you wouldn't come with me. Remember me now, like this. Oh, God, I can't bear to have you see me otherwise ..."

  She could no longer speak. His lovemaking became too fierce. It was as if he was seeking catharsis for an old and deep pain. He whispered her name only one other time. Just before he found his peace. Just before she felt her cheek damp with her own tears.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  We have shared the incommunicable experience of war. We felt—we still feel—the passion of life to its top . . .

  Oliver Wendell Holmes

  The marshals were late. Jericho had left weeks ago and still there was no word on his whereabouts.

  Meanwhile, springtime dripped all over town and ran in little rivulets out to the prairie, feeding the tender shoots of green that thrust up bravely through the snow. From the back window of Macaulay's bedroom Christal watched the patches of snow diminish, every day taking on a new and lesser shape, like clouds after a thunderstorm. But the promise of spring didn't cheer her. It didn't stop destiny. If anything, the better weather should have spurred it on. But still the marshals did not arrive.

  "Should you ride out and wire them?" she asked Macaulay, turning away from the window.

  He stared at her from a chair, his arms crossed, his legs stretched out, feigning an indolence she knew he did not feel.

  "They'll come eventually," he said, a grim cast to his mouth.

  "Something might have happened to Jericho. I worry about Ivy all alone at the homestead."

  "I'll go out there this afternoon."

  "Take me with you." She looked at him, hope in her eyes. What wouldn't she give for a ride out on the prairie. One last moment of strong winds, wide sky, and freedom.

  "I won't leave you here. We'll go in an hour." He stood and stared at the bed. The blue dress was carefully laid out on it. "You finished the dress. Why aren't you wearing it?"

  "I'm saving it for a happy occasion."

  He glanced at her, his cold eyes filled with anger and pain, like those of a wolf caught in a trap. "You'll wear it soon. I promise, girl."

  She only smiled, hoping the sadness wouldn't show.

  Ivy nearly wept when they showed up at the homestead. She was worried sick about Jericho, and though the shack was well supplied, it was not nearly as comfortable as the room in the saloon. Without Jericho, Ivy was having a difficult time managing.

  Ivy and Christal drove the mule cart while Cain, on the Ap, scouted the driest path ahead. By evening they rolled into Noble, the mule covered with as much mud as seemed to lie at their feet.

  The smithy was ready to take the wagon and the animals, then he gave Cain a short message that caused Cain to turn his head toward the jailhouse.

  There were five horses tethered at the rail. The marshals had arrived.

  "C'mon, darlin'. It's time." Cain wrapped his arm around Christal's waist while Ivy stared at the marshals' horses, unable to hide the worry in her eyes.

  Christal walked with him along the boardwalk as if they were just a couple taking a stroll. Cain felt strong and sure beside her. She made a point not to look at his eyes. XXX

  "Are you sleeping?"

  Christal shook her head and continued to look out the train window. They'd ridden south and caught the Union Pacific at Addentown, and now they bulleted east across the plains. Flat, snow-patched monotony.

  "You don't ever seem to sleep anymore, girl. You've got to be tired." Cain shifted in his seat. The car was crowded with people. Two women nursed their babies by the stove while strings of woolen laundry dried above their heads. In the coldest corner Rollins and some other marshals she'd never seen before played cards on the wooden benches with the other men. The car generally stank of cigar smoke and wet sheep ready for the shears.

  Macaulay and Christal sat apart from the rest of the people in the car. They had quiet conversations broken only when Christal would lapse into slumber and loll her head on Cain's chest. Everyone seemed to leave them alone, as if knowing that to intrude upon them was to intrude upon lovers.

  "Where do you think he is right now?" Christal whispered, gazing sightlessly out the window to the sun-flooded grassland.

  "Your uncle?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know."

  "He could be anywhere. Anywhere at all."

  "I'll find him. I've got every man who owes me a favor asking around for him. With me and your brother-in-law looking, it won't take long."

  She didn't answer. She just snuggled closer and closed her eyes, letting the clackety-clack sound of the train soothe her tired body and weary heart.

  The Fairleigh Hotel was packed that Wednesday night with a whole trainload of wealthy passengers from Pittsburgh. There wasn't a room to spare but when one certain gentleman entered the establishment, his suite seemed to appear on the register as if from nowhere, causing no small amount of dismay and dissatisfaction among the persons milling in the lobby on the slim chance a registered guest might not appear.

  The gentleman had an edge the others did not. He was regular as clockwork, appearing at the Fairleigh on the third of every month, a paying guest come good times and bad, snow and sunshine. So he was treated like a king.

  Thus, the gentleman's luggage, which consisted of strange and numerous pieces, was hefted into the arms of no fewer than three bellboys and taken to his room, and the gentleman, with nothing but leisure time on his hands, took to the bar, as if longing for the comfort of the bartender's famous rum punch.

  The gentleman commented to the man next to him as he eased his large girth behind the table, "It's certainly been too long since I've been in such elegance."

  "Where have you been traveling?" the other man asked.

  "Oh, here and there and everywhere. Wyoming Territory mostly."

  If the man were a dog, his ears would have pricked up. "Wyoming, you say? I suppose you've seen just about all of it the way you travel. Name's Didier, Baldwin Didier, of New York."

  The gentleman smiled, always ready to make an acquaintance, and thus a potential customer. "Very good to meet you, sir. And I am Henry Glassie of the Paterson Furniture Company, Paterson, New Jersey. That makes us practically brothers way out here."

  "So it does, so it does." Didier stood and neatly smoothed down his well-cut Vandyke. "May I?" He gestured to the chair at the salesman's table.

  "Certainly. I need a good conversation. On this trip, I've seen one too many corrupt Indian agents and one too many sad redmen to shun jovial company. What do you do, Didier?"

  "Right now, I'm looking for someone. In Wyoming actually. Perhaps you may help me. It's my niece. I fear she's come to a bad end. It's been almost four years since she's been gone and I find myself desperate in my search for her."

  Mr. Glassie put down his drink. "What a tragedy. How did she end up way out there?"

  "Ran away."

  "Eloped?"

  Didier smiled. He didn't quite give an answer.

  Henry Glassie shook his head as if not quite able to understand the impetuosities of youth, at least, impetuosities that didn't concern buying furniture.

  "If you wouldn't mind my scouring your mind. Any news at all would be most appreciated."

  "I'd be happy to oblige. What does your niece look like?"

  Didier rubbed his palm. "She's very pretty, fair, about twenty years old. Blue eyes. The color of the sky."

  Glassie grew solemn. "There was a girl who fit that description I met once. But if her eyes were blue, I didn't notice. They were too filled with sadness and grief."

  "My niece is quite distinctive. Beyond her beauty, she possesses a unique mark." He began to draw concentric circles into the palm of his right hand, as if demonstrating. "Christal has a scar, a most unusual scar on the palm of her right hand, in th
e shape of a rose."

  Mr. Glassie sat straight up. "Christal did you say her name was?"

  "Yes, Christabel Van Alen. Have you seen her?"

  "I am most sorry to tell you, sir, she has lost her husband. She was wearing weeds when we met."

  Didier's chilling eyes grew wide in wonder. "Are you certain it was her?"

  "Indeed. The woman I know was named Christal and she had the scar. I only saw it once, that night we had dinner in Camp Brown, but it was there, right on her palm as you describe."

  "I must go to her." Didier stood, concern too dramatic and deep in his expression to be totally genuine. It was the first pang of uneasiness Mr. Glassie felt. "You say you saw her at a place called Camp Brown? Where is this Camp Brown? How may I get to it? It's of the most dire urgency. I cannot wait another minute."

  "My good man, there's no hurry. Unfortunately, your dear niece's fate has already been decided."

  "What are you talking about?" Didier snapped.

  "The papers. The St. Louis Chronicle. Haven't you read today's headlines?"

  "Where can I get a paper?" Didier snapped.

  "Why, I have one right here." Glassie handed him the one folded inside his suit breast pocket.

  Mr. Henry Glassie had seen a lot of things in his travels, he'd even been kidnapped by an outlaw gang; but he had never seen a man's face drain completely of all blood, not even a man ready for the hangman. "Are you all right, man?" he asked suspiciously.

  Didier threw the paper onto the table. The headlines blared:

  Missing Heiress Found! Christabel Van Alen to face charges in New York—Trevor Sheridan vows millions for her defense!

  Mr. Glassie cleared his throat. "Of course, this is all quite a shock. Anyone who's met the poor child knows she must be falsely accused. When I knew her, she was a most respectable woman. The charges drawn against her cannot be true. I'll never believe them. But not to worry, my good man. If the Sheridan fortune can't resolve this matter in the girl's favor, then nothing can help her."

  "I've got to go." Didier suddenly looked around the bar as if any moment he might meet someone he knew and dreaded. Glassie wondered who it might be.

  "But you're not going to meet your niece? You search for her for four years then flee the moment she's due to arrive?"

  "What are you talking about?" The concern was leaking out of his voice, quickly being replaced with a strange anger.

  "The paper. You didn't finish reading the article. The Union Pacific pulls in tomorrow. Your niece will be on it, headed to New York."

  Glassie wasn't sure, but he read joy all over Didier's face. It could be joy over seeing a long-lost niece, but suddenly he doubted it.

  "Of course, I must see her." A smile cracked Didier's face. Glassie thought the sight decidedly unpleasant.

  The men stood, a sudden chill between them. Glassie dropped a twenty-flve-cent piece down on the table, not offering to buy the other man's drink as he might have done if the uneasiness were gone from his gut. "Good night to you, sir. I wish you luck in your rendezvous with your niece."

  "Thank you." Didier's eyes were like the ice off a pond.

  Henry Glassie left the bar. Suddenly all he wanted to do was warm himself by the stove.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The train stop in St. Louis was to take over two hours. Passengers were invited to step outside and partake of the fresh, cold spring air, or perhaps a rum punch at the famous Fairleigh Hotel.

  Christal was offered no such luxury. She remained in the custody of the marshals in the stuffy car, content simply to doze against Cain's chest while he read the St. Louis newspaper.

  They were on their way in no time, the train lurching and chugging to a start while steam billowed across the muddy, torn-apart station. It had just been built and it was already under construction to be expanded. The great Wild West was soon to be tamed.

  Hours passed as they railed along more open prairie, the ground broken more and more often with farmland and trees. Christal was fast asleep when the familiar voice rang in her ears.

  "My good man! And Mrs. Smith—or should I say Miss Van Alen! How wonderful it is to make your acquaintance again! I have thought of you both often! Often!"

  Christal opened her eyes. It wasn't a dream, it was true. Mr. Henry Glassie was standing before them, looking as dapper as when he'd first boarded the Overland Express.

  "Glassie," Cain greeted, standing. "What brings you here? You board at St. Louis?"

  "I did indeed. I'm headed back to Paterson to have a meeting with the company president. Sales have been good, you know—quite delightful, actually. Yet I was saddened to read about Miss Christal's circumstances. How have you been, Miss Van Alen?"

  "I'm holding up and getting good at it, as you might guess, especially given the circumstances of our last meeting." Christal wavered a smile.

  Henry Glassie nodded in sympathy. "Never fear, Miss Van Alen. I see you've the famous lawman Macaulay Cain behind you. I've heard much about him since our days in Falling Water and all of it is impressive. I've no doubt you will be fully vindicated, my girl."

  Christal gave him a tremulous smile. She figured Glassie knew the whole story by now. There was talk that she was in the papers, but she hadn't had the heart to read the ones brought aboard.

  "I was just taking a walk. My berth is in the front of the train and I said to myself, 'Glassie, old boy, it's time for you to seek out your old friends.' I must say, Miss Van Alen, you have me surprised. I thought I'd find you with your uncle."

  Christal's blood froze. She felt Cain stiffen. "What did you say, Mr. Glassie? Have you seen my uncle?"

  "Baldwin Didier was his name. A nice enough fellow. Don't care for his eyes though. I met him at the bar in the Fairleigh. He was beside himself to find you. I thought he'd be aboard."

  Christal's hand went to her throat as if for protection. Her words were choked and forced. "You met my uncle in the Fairleigh—back in St. Louis—where we just stopped?"

  "He's not your uncle, is he, child?" Glassie's plump, fatherly face shadowed with doubt. "I thought there was something untrustworthy about the gent. I'm glad I came aboard so I could tell you about him."

  "He is my uncle, Mr. Glassie, but he is not to be trusted. He is the one who committed the crimes of which I am accused. I fear he wants me dead."

  Mr. Glassie looked deeply troubled. "It was I who pointed out to him that you were to be on the train. I hope I haven't endangered you, but when he asked if I'd ever seen a woman such as yourself in the territory, I fear I wasn't thinking. I figured his concern was real. At least I thought so for a while."

  "Have you see him on the train?" Cain broke in. Christal looked at him, surprised by the blood lust in his eyes.

  "I have not. Perhaps he didn't board after all."

  "Or perhaps he's in disguise." Cain turned to her. "Christal, you're the only one who knows what he looks like. We'll have to go through the train person by person. We've got to make sure he's not aboard."

  "Let me help. I feel responsible to a degree. If I had only kept my mouth closed, the train might have come and gone without this man seeing Christal's schedule in the papers."

  "Fine." Cain nodded behind him. "You check out the baggage car. The men, Christal, and I will walk forward and check out all the passengers. If it's all clear, we can rest easy until we stop again. If not, we have enough men to take care of it."

  Mr. Glassie rolled back the door to the baggage car. He stood between the cars, the ground rushing below him, the wind whistling in his ears. All that stood between him and disaster was a tiny platform with a thin railing that couldn't have held back a child let alone his generous girth should he slip. He found it a relief to enter the baggage compartment.

  There was not much room to walk. Canvas sacks stamped U S. Mail were piled high in one corner. Along the sides, row after row of wooden boxes marked in Chinese filled the compartment. Excelsior peeked out of many of them, a clue that they contained porcelain imp
orts taking the short route across the prairie from San Francisco. The passengers' baggage filled in wherever there was free space—except in one corner where a leak in the roof constantly dripped melting snow. The only other baggage of note was a fine leather trunk or two, but the rest of the compartment was filled with common wicker baskets and large raggedy portmanteaus that had clearly belonged to ancestors.

  Glassie sighed. There was no one here. He turned to go back to the forward cabin.

  He never saw the billy club come down on his head.

  "There doesn't seem to be anyone on this train who could be this girl's uncle," Rollins whispered to Cain. He peeked at Christal, who was nervously surveying the farthest-forward cabin. "We've checked the entire train out. I think it's safe to return to our car. When we stop at Abbeville, I'll make sure every new passenger passes inspection."

  Cain glanced at Christal. He nodded.

  Rollins stared at Christal too. "You know, Cain, they say—"

  "I don't care what they say. She didn't do it." Cain's whisper was like a hiss of steam.

  "But what if she did? What if this story about her uncle is just fiction—a diversion so she can find an escape?"

  Rollins stepped back from the arctic blast of Cain's gaze. "I'm going to tell you only once: She didn't do it." Cain resumed his detached manner. "Besides, Henry Glassie spoke to her uncle. If the man doesn't exist, how could Glassie have seen him?"

  "Perhaps the uncle was trying to find her. If she escaped from an asylum—" Cain gave him another icy stare, but Rollins continued bravely, "She did escape from an asylum, you can't dispute that, and her uncle could have been genuinely worried about her welfare and gone to look for her. Now that she's found, he's headed back to New York to be with the rest of the family." Rollins softened. He nodded to Cain with commiseration. "She's a beautiful girl, Cain. A real heart-breaker. Anyone could understand your falling in love with her. But, you know, she could be a little tetched. She's been through a lot—seen her parents die in a fire, been put into an asylum—God only knows what she went through in there—maybe these stories about her uncle are just delusions."