Cinnamon and Roses

by Heidi Betts

  As inconspicuously as possible, she walked around the Dog Tick Saloon, careful not to step in broken glass or any of the foul-smelling puddles that lined the side of the building. Rebecca remembered only too clearly the number of visitors to the Scarlet Gastor who had slept off the evening's alcohol in alleys, along with the stench of urine that often accompanied them.

  She raised her head, expecting her mother to emerge from the back door of the establishment. But she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Kate, dressed in one of her usual flashy dresses and stuffing a dangling lock of fire-red hair back into its arrangement, coming toward her from the opposite direction, a smug smile plastered to her face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Kate's smile never wavered as she waltzed up to her daughter, hips swaying. “I knew you'd come,” she said, gaily patting the bodice of her gaudy working-girl garb. “Just conducting a little business out back of the livery while I waited."

  For one brief moment, Rebecca thought about running away and never looking back. But Kate's threat echoed in her mind, and she knew she had to appease her mother or risk having her child's life ruined by the bitter, hateful woman.

  Rebecca knew her mother was waiting for a reaction to the remark—shock, aversion, indignation—but she remained silent, impassive, feeling only a deep sense of sadness and pity.

  "Did you bring it?” Kate demanded.

  Rebecca clutched her reticule more tightly and swallowed, her brain racing to find some other option, some other way to pacify her mother's resentment and greed.

  "Did you bring the money?” Kate's voice remained low, but urgency edged her words this time.

  "Yes."

  Kate blinked but didn't move. “All of it?"

  Rebecca nodded.

  "Give it to me.” Kate came forward with the speed of a raging tornado. She yanked the bag from Rebecca's hands and ripped it open, dragging out the packet of bills. She rubbed them between her fingers, even brought them to her nose to smell.

  Rebecca stepped back, only too eager to be away. She tugged at the drawstrings of her bag and turned to leave.

  "You got this awfully fast."

  Rebecca stopped in her tracks. The blood in her veins seemed to chill.

  "I'll bet you didn't have a wink of trouble, either."

  Rebecca took another step, then another, hoping to get away from Kate before she said anything else.

  "I want more."

  That made Rebecca spin to face her mother once again. “What you have there is more than enough."

  "I've changed my mind. I want a thousand."

  Rebecca stared in shocked disbelief. “I can't possibly get another five hundred dollars."

  "No, no.” Kate laughed, fondling the money in her hands. “I want a thousand more. One thousand more U.S. dollar bills. Crisp, clean, and all mine. Bring them here tomorrow afternoon."

  "Caleb would never let me have that much. I've already gotten five hundred. Don't you think he'll become a little suspicious if fifteen hundred dollars suddenly disappears from his bank account?"

  "I don't care. That's not my problem. Just get it."

  Rebecca closed her eyes and let her shoulders go slack. “I can't get it by tomorrow. I'll need more time."

  "Tomorrow. Right here. One o'clock.” Kate stuck a finger in her daughter's face. “Don't cross me, Rebecca. There are a lot of people right inside that saloon who would love to know who the new Mrs. Adams really is and where she came from. Just remember that if you start thinking I'll go away easily."

  Kate strutted through the back entrance into the Dog Tick.

  Rebecca headed for the buggy parked in front of the bank, then drove to her old house. She felt cold and disoriented, unconscious of her movements, unable to register the fact that she had to find so much more money for her mother. She only knew that she had to have extra sewing supplies when Caleb arrived home this evening, to help account for her bank withdrawal.

  The first thing she noticed about her cabin was a thick layer of dust on the porch and steps, blown up from the street. A few barely visible footprints led to the door, but Rebecca thought nothing of it. Someone had probably come needing the craft of a needle, only to find the house empty.

  She twisted the key in its hole, and the lock clicked open. Rebecca stepped into the house and gasped at what she saw.

  The stove top looked like a mountain peak covered with thick white snow. Canisters had been upset and tossed to the floor—flour, salt, sugar, all her spices spilled. Rebecca could see a fine cloud of powder whirled about by the slight breeze drifting in from the open door.

  The parlor was also in shambles, bolts of fabric strewn from one end to the other, every inch of material ripped and ruined. Strips of lace lay in tiny ragged pieces. Buttons, hooks, and needles were scattered across the floor. Spools of thread were unbound and left in clumps like tumbleweeds.

  She took a step forward, her foot crunching on the shards of a broken tea cup. Rebecca bent to pick up the fragment of china. Half of a small, delicately painted blue flower filled her vision. Widow Fitzgerald's most prized tea service. In the years since Octavia's death, Rebecca had only ever chipped the rim of one cup. It had taken her two hours to mend it properly, but after all that work, the nick had been nearly invisible. And now the china lay smashed into millions of tiny pieces, dust beneath her feet.

  At the sound of someone behind her, Rebecca swung around, still in a crouch. When her legs twisted in the fabric of her petticoats, she put a hand out to catch herself, mindless of the broken china that would most certainly shred her palms to ribbons.

  "Careful,” Caleb warned, grabbing her upper arms and helping her to stand. “Christ. What the hell happened here?"

  Rebecca's face had lost all color, and she weaved slightly.

  "Are you all right? Did you cut yourself?” He grabbed her hands, searching for any sign of blood. Then he lifted her skirt, examining the folds for tears. He shook the hem to dislodge a few clinging china shavings, patting her legs and waist for any sign of injury.

  "I'm fine,” Rebecca said, pulling the fabric out of his hands. “Why are you here?"

  Caleb straightened. He narrowed his eyes and studied her, curious to know why she was being so aloof toward him. Perhaps she was in shock over the damage to what used to be her home. “I was running an errand and saw the buggy here. I came to check on you,” he said in a quiet, neutral tone. “Who did this, Rebecca?” he asked.

  "I don't know,” she answered. “Probably some drunken cowhands."

  "They never bothered you before, did they?” His heart lurched in his breast as images suddenly filled his mind. He didn't think he could live with the knowledge that Rebecca had been harmed or even dangerously harassed.

  "No. But they probably discovered the house empty and decided to have a little fun."

  Caleb wanted to pull Rebecca into his arms and comfort her, but he didn't think she would welcome the gesture just now. Though her eyes were wide, he noticed the tight set of her jaw. Rebecca was no wilting lily, and he doubted she would appreciate his treating her as such.

  "I wonder,” he answered and stepped farther into the parlor. His boots grated over broken china. “Leavenworth men may get drunk, and they may get rowdy, but I've never known them to be purposely destructive. Especially to someone else's property."

  He swept back a length of turquoise satin that had been draped over the settee. Stuffing poured out of the cushions like a frothy waterfall. Caleb let out a muffled curse and threw the fabric back over the ruined piece of furniture.

  "Then who could have done this?” Rebecca asked.

  "Was the door locked?"

  "Of course,” she snapped.

  Pink began to seep back into her cheeks, and Caleb lowered his head to hide a smile. It would take more than a few torn pieces of fabric to keep his Rebecca down.

  He stepped toward her, but as he did so, the toe of his boot sent some small object flying. It slid across the
floor and clanged into the leg of the stove. Caleb leaned over to retrieve it and came up with a pair of shears.

  "These yours?” The scissors swung back and forth on his index finger like a pendulum ticking away the time. The blades were nicked in several places, the tips bent.

  She nodded. “My extra pair. I don't use them often. The good pair is at your house. Those I kept in a box under my bed."

  Rebecca's face whitened. “Oh, God.” She pushed past Caleb and ran for the bedroom. She held aside the curtain that separated it from the rest of the house and stared. Her quilt lay in shreds, taken apart almost piece by piece but by no means neatly.

  Caleb saw the damage, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Who would have done something so destructive, so hurtful? Surely not someone who had stumbled in from the street. He could understand if things had been stolen, but whoever did this must have been truly demented.

  "Come on,” he said, taking her shoulders and turning her toward the door. “I'm sure this is all somebody's sick idea of fun. I'll report it to the marshal."

  "Who would do this?” Rebecca asked. Her words were laced with fury.

  He turned her face up to his. “Don't you worry about it, do you hear me? I'll see to everything.” He put an arm around her shoulders and helped her through the house to the front door.

  "Dammit!” Rebecca cursed for the hundredth time and stuck a stinging finger into her mouth to absorb the small bead of blood there. She was preparing a roast for dinner but slicing her fingers more than the carrots or potatoes.

  Her mind was on other things, that was for certain. After everything that had happened already today, it was no wonder her head throbbed.

  She probably should have been worried about who had destroyed her house, but that wasn't what caused the sledgehammer pounding in her brain. She had to come up with a way to explain her huge bank withdrawal to Caleb—and to get one thousand dollars more from him. If only she could sell her little cabin overnight and get some funds quickly. Now however, that would be more impossible than ever.

  Replacing the ruined supplies from her house was one excuse to give Caleb, but what would she say if he finally started noticing there were never any new materials around? She couldn't pay off her mother and buy a huge new sewing stock.

  The front door slammed, and Rebecca nearly dropped to her knees, sure her head was about to explode.

  She heard heavy feet stomp up the stairs, still for a moment, then begin again. Through her headache she dimly wondered what Caleb seemed to be searching the house for.

  She guided her paring knife over a large potato and watched the skin peel off onto the pile of other scraps. When the kitchen door crashed back against the wall behind her, she jumped. The blade of the knife slipped and hit the palm of her hand. It was a small cut, but it hurt nonetheless.

  Rebecca whirled around, pressing her otherwise white apron to the wound. “Would you like to try again?” she asked, her voice sharp with her frayed nerves. “Maybe next time I can manage to sever my wrist."

  Caleb stalked over and grasped her arm. He lifted the apron and dabbed away the blood. “It's going to be all right,” he said.

  "Well, it hurts like the devil,” she told him, pulling her hand away and turning back to the counter. She didn't bother to mention the half dozen other pricks on her fingers.

  "It'll heal. Rebecca, I need to talk to you."

  Rebecca noticed a cold edge to his words and gripped the knife handle until her fingers turned white. “So talk,” she said, trying to sound flippant. In truth her heart beat ten times faster than normal.

  "In the study,” he said, walking toward the door.

  Rebecca stood at the counter, frozen in place.

  Caleb came back and grabbed her elbow in a tight grip. “In the study. Now."

  For a split second, she considered taking the paring knife with her, just in case. But logic soon broke through her fear, and she put down the would-be defensive weapon.

  She went with Caleb, his grip never loosening. “Let go,” she said, shaking her arm. When he didn't respond she stopped dead in her tracks, digging her heels as best she could into the hardwood floor. “I'll come with you, but let go."

  He stopped and gazed at her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he dropped his hand from her elbow and continued on to the study. Rebecca followed more slowly, stopping just inside the door.

  "Sit."

  She raised an eyebrow. No matter how much trouble she was in, she had no intention of taking orders from some cold, rude, short-tempered barbarian. Even if he was her husband.

  "You needn't order me around. I'm quite comfortable standing, thank you. And if you wish to discuss something with me, try speaking like a human being rather than a beast who's lived in a cave all its life. Complete sentences would be a good place to start.” Her words were brave, but inside, Rebecca's stomach was trying to turn itself inside out.

  Caleb inclined his head. “Very well. If the lady wishes for complete sentences, the lady shall get complete sentences.” He strode to her side and propelled her forward, at the same time throwing the door closed behind them. “You may sit down of your own accord, or I will tie you into the chair. Is that understood?"

  Rebecca pursed her lips primly, deciding not to call him on this particular bluff. “Quite.” She moved in front of the leather armchair and smoothed her skirt before perching on the edge of the seat.

  "What did you do this afternoon?"

  Her heart thudded in her breast, but she kept her voice even. “Pardon me?"

  "This afternoon. What did you do in town?"

  She swallowed. “First I went to the bank, and then I went shopping for sewing supplies."

  Caleb rested his hip on the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. “Didn't you have trouble carrying all those packages into the house?"

  Rebecca felt the walls of the room closing in on her, cutting off her air. “No, I managed."

  "Amazing.” He shook his head and whistled through his teeth. “Just how many bolts of fabric and spools of thread can five hundred dollars buy? And where have you hidden this storehouse of supplies?"

  Rebecca closed her eyes and collapsed against the back of the chair.

  "I see you don't intend to deny it. Good.” His voice became hard. “Now tell me why the hell you needed so much money."

  She turned her face into the smooth leather, absorbing its coolness on her heated skin. “I'm sorry,” was all she could manage.

  "Sorry for what?” He threw up his hands and went around to the other side of the desk, kicking his father's chair with such force that it bounced off of the back wall. “Just what did you do with it, Rebecca?"

  She opened her eyes and sat up, ready for Caleb's angry assault and more than willing to make amends. “I'll pay you back. I promise. I'll just need some time."

  "I don't want the goddamn money!” he bellowed. “I want to know what the hell you did with it. Who did you meet behind the saloon?"

  This time Rebecca's heart stopped altogether.

  "That's right, I know all about it.” Caleb ran a hand though his dark hair and sank into the desk chair. “I know that you took five hundred dollars out of my bank account. I know that you didn't do a stitch of shopping today. Marshal Thompson said he saw you out back of the Dog Tick with some painted whore. You're damned lucky he was the one who saw you. I'm pretty sure he can be trusted to keep this to himself. Otherwise the whole town would be talking about it by morning. What were you doing, Rebecca, looking for a job?"

  Rebecca guessed she deserved Caleb's fury. She had, after all, stolen from him. “I would really rather not tell you. Just please trust me. I promise to pay back every cent as soon as I can."

  "The last thing I'll ever do is trust you again."

  His emotionless gaze and cold declaration caused Rebecca's eyes to brim with stinging tears.

  "And I don't care whether you'd rather tell me or not. You damn well better if you want to see another su
nrise."

  "If I tell you,” Rebecca said, wiping her running nose on the hem of her apron, “you'll hate me."

  "It's too late to worry about that."

  She lifted her head and stared at the stem lines of her husband's face. A muscle in his jaw jumped sporadically.

  She cried harder at the thought that she had lost Caleb forever. They had just begun to get close, and now they were being torn apart. She saw in his eyes that he did indeed hate her for what she'd done. And he didn't even know about her past yet.

  "The woman behind the saloon ... She's my..."

  "Your what?” Caleb asked when she didn't finish.

  "She's my mother."

  Caleb watched Rebecca's small shoulders tremble in an effort to hold back her sobs. He shook his head slightly, thinking he must have heard her wrong. There was no way the woman Thompson described could possibly be related to Rebecca.

  "Your mother?” he asked quietly.

  "Yes,” she managed between shuddering breaths.

  His muscles relaxed, all the anger and tension pouring out of his body. He brushed back a wave of hair that had fallen across one eye. Exhaling a lungful of air, he looked at Rebecca. Usually strong and self-assured, she now seemed frail and vulnerable.

  "Maybe you should tell me more."

  Rebecca raised wide eyes.

  Caleb pushed back his chair and crossed the room to the bar. He filled two glasses with brandy and returned to her side. He coaxed a drink into her hand and tapped the bottom to get her to put it to her lips. Then he leaned on the edge of the desk and emptied his in one shot.

  "Tell me everything,” he said. “From the beginning."

  "I ... grew up in a back room of the Scarlet Garter in Kansas City,” Rebecca began haltingly. Then she went through the major happenings of her childhood.

  "I overheard Lilah telling Mother I was old enough, at thirteen, to start working. Kate didn't argue. She seemed to agree quite readily. Said we could use the extra income. That's the night I ran away. I hid with the luggage on the back of a stagecoach until it stopped in Leavenworth. If Widow Fitzgerald hadn't taken me in, I probably would have ended up in an orphanage somewhere. Or back at the Scarlet Garter."