Fair Is the Rose (11 page)

"They had any water today?" Cain asked.

Boone shook his head.

"Then go fetch some."

Boone nodded.

Cain gazed at the passengers. Satisfied by their condition, he grabbed her hand and left, ignoring Pete's baleful stare.

They descended the staircase. Unable to stop herself, she said, "What's the chance we'll all see Tuesday?"

Cain glanced at her, his mouth a grim line.
"Why don't you just worry about whether
you'll
see it or not?"

Her gaze locked with his. She thought about last night, how he'd saved her. "You won't let us die," she whispered with conviction.

He looked away. His eyes grew cold and restless. "I don't make any guarantees."

Cain paced his Appaloosa along the train tracks. They were down on the plains, beneath a rickety water tower, the sun shining hot on their backs. He studied the tracks, the ditches,
the
lay of the land. By instinct, Christal knew this was where Overland Express had been told to drop the payroll.

"Are you the one to meet the train?" she asked, riding bareback on the
Ap
with him, his arms encircling her. After they left the saloon, he'd hauled her on his horse, and they'd ridden down to the plains, not speaking.

"Kineson'll be there with me. The rest'll either be over there lying in the grass or back at the saloon."

He reined the
Ap
to the left, and they crossed the tracks.
Christal white-knuckled the mane.
Riding in Cain's arms made her nerves hum. She could feel every muscle in his chest, every sway of his hips against hers as the
Ap
jogged. There was strength in his body that far surpassed
her own
. The only way to escape him would be through her wits.

"What happens after you and Kineson have the money?" She dreaded the answer to that question, but the crime of kidnapping and robbery was so great, she couldn't rid herself of the terrible fear that Kineson wasn't going to allow any witnesses.

Cain paused. His face hardened.

In a quiet steady voice she asked, "Do they plan on killing us?" When he didn't answer, she continued with "I say
they
because—"

"I know why you said it."

"We were just passengers on that stagecoach. We don't have any involvement in any of this."

"You're the means to the end. Kineson and I were in the same Georgia regiment that got blown to hell at Sharpsburg. Terence Scott, the man who owns Overland, was the commander of the Union regiment that went against us."

Cain was from Georgia. She stored the little tidbit of information for future use. "So you're getting back at Mr. Scott this way? By stealing from him? You're cowards."

She readied herself for his anger, but Cain only said, "Terence Scott's a damned bluebelly and Kineson's a Secesh. There ain't
nothing
to be done about it." This time she noticed the slight drawl.

"You can do something," she insisted.

Finally the anger came. His voice was like acid. "I do what Kineson tells me to do. You remember that fact as if your life depends on it, because it does, Mrs. Smith, it does."

"You don't always do what he tells you." She remembered last night. He was just about to refute it, but she said, "We could escape, Cain. You and I, we could go back to Camp Brown and tell the authorities where the men are. I'll see that they exonerate you. Mr. Glassie, Pete, they'd be so grateful to be freed, I know they wouldn't press charges."

He looked her dead in the eyes.

She couldn't keep the desperation out of her voice. "You
can
do it. That man last night, he didn't want to hurt anyone. You're in with a bad lot. The war is over, Cain, and you and
Kineson,
you're never going to resurrect it."

"What do you know about the war? You're just a Yankee girl that was probably too young to even remember it."

She gasped. "How—how do you know I'm from the North?"

He smirked. "You got
Yankee
written all over you. You don't dress too proud, but you're used to money and nice things. I can see it in the way you carry yourself. You got your nose up in the air all the time. I don't know any Southern women who can afford that anymore."

She was shocked that he knew so much about her without her telling him. He knew she wasn't one of his own, and that would make her plea more difficult. But he had still helped her last night, even when he knew she was a Yankee. There was a good man inside him somewhere. If she could find that man, maybe she could save the lot of them. "If we run, Cain, if we escape, maybe we could help you. Mr. Glassie's company would be grateful, and"—she thought of Pete's father claiming he and Pete had struck it rich—"maybe we passengers could get some money together and give you a reward. You could go home to Georgia. Make a new life for yourself."

"I haven't got a home anymore. Sherman made sure of that when he went to take a piss in the Atlantic."

She paled. She was losing ground fast. This man had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. There was no reaching him. Finally she said, "You must have something you want that we could give you."

He looked at her, his gaze lowering to her torn and dirty bodice where it drew tight across her bosom. His glance nearly burned into her skin. He didn't speak at all. He didn't have to.

She grew quiet. She would never bargain with her body. The honor and pride inside her was something she would live with, or die with.

His eyes
raised
to see the defiance in her own. He quit his staring. "I'm not going to set you free no matter what you do, no matter what you give me." He stared out at the wide grassy prairie that surrounded them. "If I rode into town with you, they'd see me hanged for this one for sure." He pulled down the dingy scarlet bandanna tied around his neck. The raw scar still shocked her. "I'm not going to have another bout with the hangman and win."

She played her last desperate card. "If you take me to Camp Brown, I'll never speak a word about you. I'll tell them about the other
passengers,
you can just leave the fort.
Escape."

"I can't."

"But don't you see Kineson hates you? You want your gold but what if Kineson isn't planning on sharing?" A sob of frustration caught in her throat. "I'll never give you away if you take me to Camp Brown. Save yourself. That man last night had a good heart—"

"Forget about last night," he snapped. "If you think I can change the plans, I can't. What's going to happen is going to happen. If you cooperate, then maybe we'll all get out of this alive."

Her hopes trickled away like water during a drought. She withdrew from him, staring out at the wide, grassy prairie. There was nothing more to say.

Angrily, he pulled the
Ap
to a halt. "What does savin' my neck got to do with you anyway? You got enough troubles just savin' your own ass."

She didn't answer; he shook her. "Why do you care so much?"

Her gaze riveted to his. She was as angry as he was. "You and I are alike, Cain, that's all. I understand you. We've both been hunted like animals. I don't deserve it. Maybe you don't either. So prove it. Take me to Camp Brown."

His grip on her tightened.
"That husband of yours . . . is he the one hunting you or . . ." His words dwindled as he thought of all the possibilities.

"Go ahead, think the worst. Everyone else has." She didn't need to be reminded how bitterly true her statement was.

He searched her eyes, eyes that were crystalline blue in the brilliant sun. Slowly, he said, "No . . . you didn't kill him. You wouldn't be wearing those weeds if you'd killed him. You don't go mourning a husband you've murdered."

"No, you don't," she whispered, again feeling that troubled gratitude. She'd been running for three years. Macaulay Cain was the first person to find her innocent before proven guilty.

"What was he like?"

One simple question, impossible to answer.
He asked about her husband, but she could tell he really wanted to know everything. He wanted to know why she was on that Overland Express stagecoach, where she was destined, why she had no wedding band, why she had no babies. He wanted to gauge her marital bliss, pass judgment on her past, and predict her future.
If she had one.

She stared out at the breathless expanse, the sky yawning above the land in an intense blue. The prairie beckoned her. It promised space and anonymity. She couldn't give up that anonymity now, not even when something deep inside her desired to trust him, to tell him about her uncle, how he was searching for her, that she'd been accused of his crimes, of killing her parents. Perhaps she wanted to tell him about herself in the hope that he might see they were alike and that she was worthy of saving, along with the other passengers.

But she was afraid she would never convince him, and then she would have jeopardized herself for nothing.

She took a deep breath and embraced the wide open space around her. Back in New York, she'd spent three brutal years locked in an asylum, confused and tormented, afraid that all the lies her uncle told might be true. Then, as if she had awakened from a bad dream, her memory and the truth had returned. She believed one day she would find justice. Or one day her uncle would find her. Neither day had come. Until then it was best to keep her mouth shut.

"What did the son of a bitch do to you?" He put a callused finger on her cheek and turned her head so she'd be forced to look at him.

She could see he was troubled by her gaze. Most people were. Her eyes held the pain of an inexplicable and crushing blow.

"What does it matter?" she whispered. "My past is my own. I wanted you to know I see reasons for the life you lead. I have my reasons too."

"I'm an outlaw. A woman like you should have nothing in common with me."

She couldn't miss the reproof in his voice. "And what do you know of women like me?"