Fair Is the Rose (39 page)

He took possession of it before she pulled away.

Bending over her, his thumb doing wild things to her nipple, he whispered, "Ah, girl, don't you worry . . . your bosom is big enough . . ." His eyes flickered down to the flesh overflowing his cupped hand. "Dixi's got nothing on you . . ."

"And how would you know?" she asked, breathless at his touch, anguished at the thought he might get personal experience.

"I
don't know a whore from a virgin, or a widow from a runaway, but if there's one thing
I
can judge, darlin', it's the size of a woman's breasts." A dark, wry smile tipped the corner of his mouth. He forced her down to the mattress with a kiss,
then
took his sweet time adding to the knots already in the back of her hair.

The half-breed took his time dismounting in front of the hotel. Traffic congested at the entrance while velvet-bustled ladies were helped from carriages, their delicate white hands stuffed into mink muffs, and thus rendered useless. The Fairleigh Hotel was the finest in St. Louis. It sat back from the railroad so that the ashes and cinders wouldn't dull the gilding. It could boast of such famous visitors as Henry Tompkins Paige Comstock, Mark Twain, and General and Mrs. George A. Custer. The Fairleigh advertised that it was just like a hotel in Boston or New York, with every modern convenience and tasteful Louis XV decor, and to the people who could afford a night on the Fairleigh's feather mattresses it was indeed a heavenly respite from the endless jarring of the Pullman car headed west.

But though the hotel rose above the muddy roads and the riffraff drinking heavily in the saloons between wagon trains, it didn't intimidate the half-breed. Not much did. Perhaps it was because of his height—White Wolf was well over six feet tall—but most likely it was because of his cold-blooded stare, given to him by his

Pawnee father who had raped his mother while attacking and setting her wagon train to flames.

No indeed, White Wolf was not a man most wanted to go up against. To the misfortune of many, his mother survived her burns to give him birth. But then, because of what his father had done, she'd felt no compunction in beating her half-breed bastard until he ran away or stopped her. At fifteen, the boy chose to stop her. He clubbed her to death, then roamed the prairie forts and reservations, and grew into a man, a man who had now been ushered to the Fairleigh Hotel.
A man proficient in the skills of no mercy.

"May I help you?" An effeminate hotelier shuffled up to the half-breed and discreetly placed a hankie over his nose, softening the stench of rancid bear grease.

The half-breed ignored him. He looked around the gilt-and-crystal lobby as if searching for someone he knew. In the far corner a man stood up from a ruby damask banquette. He was a handsome man in his fifties, with startlingly blue eyes and a gray Vandyke beard. Reaching into his sapphire silk vest, the man took out a gold watch, noted the time,
then
nodded.

The hotelier shook his head while the half-breed walked past, a Winchester slung over his shoulders as if he were in the wilds of the Dakotas and not in the middle of the great city of St. Louis.

Civilization has to come soon,
the dapper little man tsked to himself. There was more and more building every day following the railroad, so much so that the pounding of hammers could be voted the state anthem. But in the meantime—the hotelier's shoulders slumped as he perched himself once again behind the richly inlaid walnut counter—in the meantime, it was no use trying to convince men they were in a place as cultured as an East Coast city. This was Missouri. Men could enter a hotel with their rifles. It was still the West.

The half-breed refused to sit at the banquette, probably because he was more comfortable on an ant-riddled tree stump than fine French damask. The other gentleman resumed his seat, dismissing the half-breed with a glance that said he considered him little better than the help.

"How much do you want to find her?" The gentleman lifted a gray eyebrow, his detached gaze trained on a garish gilt-framed oil painting of Prometheus.

White Wolf looked around the lobby as if judging the worth of a person who could afford to stay there.
"One thousand dollars."

The man with the Vandyke beard laughed. He met the half-breed's eyes. "I'll give you two hundred and not a penny more. I've barely enough to afford this rattrap." He swept his hand in the air, gesturing to the lobby. "For the same price I could be staying in New York at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, ensconced in the finest of suites."

The half-breed took another look around the lobby. He'd never known a finer hotel than the Fairleigh. The man's disparagement confused him.

"Do we have a deal? I was told you're the one who can find her, but I know there are others who would like the chance. Look at all these Mormons who can't get to Utah. I hear they'll do almost anything—"

"Two hundred, I bring back her hair. Three hundred, I bring back this." White Wolf wiped his hands on his rabbit fur vest,
then
extracted a greasy piece of paper from within it. Carefully he unfolded it and placed it on a rosewood table next to the banquette. It was a drawing of a scar shaped in a rose with the word
wanted
blazed across the top.

Suddenly the gentleman began to laugh. He picked up the piece of paper. "You mean, for three hundred dollars you'll bring me back her
hand?"

White Wolf nodded. "For three hundred you'll know she's dead."

The gentleman possessed a handsome smile and he turned it on the hotelier. "Over there—bring us champagne, will you? We have something to celebrate."

The hotelier nodded. With pursed, disapproving lips, he went to fetch the champagne.

The gentleman turned back to the half-breed. "I'll get you a room here in the hotel tonight. I've only heard a rumor this girl's out in Wyoming, but if the rumor's true the money's as good as yours. You'll go first thing in the morning."

"I'll go tonight." White Wolf didn't care about luxury. He couldn't have an opinion on something he didn't know.

"Delightful. Delightful." Beneath his Vandyke, the man smiled like a jackal. "I'm anxious to return to New York and seek my fortune on the Exchange once more, but until I find this girl, I'm an outcast. I left town with all the gold I could carry, but I'm used to better. The sooner you find the girl, the sooner I can return. No one can blame me for anything if she meets her end in the wild western territories and I can return to New York without worry that her memory might
Convict
me. And then I can claim her share of the Van Alen estate, whatever that cursed mick didn't already take. After all, I cared for the girl for years. I paid every dime for that expensive asylum. Am I due nothing?" His jackal's smile widened.

White Wolf watched the man pour the champagne that appeared on the rosewood table. He didn't care about this man's problems. All he was thinking of was the bounty. "Do I bring the proof to this hotel?"

The gentleman nodded. "The name is Didier. Baldwin Didier. Don't forget it."

White Wolf finally smiled. "I won't."

In the fading light of evening, Christal watched Macaulay buckle on his gun belt. He was dressed in everything but his red flannel shirt—that, she wore. She sat against the iron headboard of the bed, her knees tucked against her, her eyes saddened that it was finally time to face reality.

He went to the bureau and found a wool shirt. Shrugging it on, he said, "Let me check on things downstairs, and then we'll have some supper at the saloon after I talk to Faulty."

"T-talk to Faulty?"
She tried to brush the hair out of her eyes, but the long shirtsleeves kept falling over her fingers.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. "You think I could let you stay there and sell dances?
After what we've done?"

"It's nothing that Dixi and Ivy don't do every night."

He turned to her, his eyes stern.
"Exactly."

She looked out the window. The setting sun painted the clapboards of Faulty's saloon a brilliant fuchsia. "This won't last forever. It can't. You know that."

She looked back at him. He'd donned his dark blue greatcoat. The cape made his shoulders look even wider; its length made him look taller. He was a large, muscular man; compared to her, he was a giant. But his heaviness
between her thighs had been delicious. He'd ruined her for anyone smaller.

"Let's not think of forever. Let's just think of right now."

She nodded and looked away.
"All right.
We won't think about tomorrow. That is, until tomorrow comes. And it will come.
Soon."

He picked up his Stetson where it lay by the door. Quietly he removed the lacy chemisette from its top and laid it on his bureau. "I'll make you a deal. You don't talk about tomorrow and I don't talk about New York."

Her blood froze in her veins. He'd never given her any indication he knew something. But he knew about New York. "How—how did you find that out?"

"You mentioned Delmonico's. I know where that is. It's a restaurant on Union Square in the city of Manhattan."

She stared at him, naked fear on her face.

He was silent for a moment,
then
he said, "I've never been there myself.
Couldn't afford it.
I was told nobody but Vanderbilt can."

She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from trembling. Mentioning Delmonico's had been a foolish detail to reveal. Now he knew more about her from that one slip than he would have in a month's interrogation.

"Well . . . I'll be back in an hour." He suddenly seemed weary. She wondered if he was losing the fight against telegraphing for information about her. After all, he'd gotten what he wanted. One mystery about her was solved. That left only one more.

"Are you going to check up on me?"

He paused but didn't face her. "I know you're running from something.
Known it all along.
If I check on you, what will I find?"

She stared at his back, helpless. There seemed no way to explain it all. Her story was fantastic, and he would be obliged by his duty as sheriff to bring her back to the asylum.

"I thought so," he mumbled when she didn't answer.

"Wait," she whispered, her voice trembling as violently as her hands. "My uncle—my uncle—" She choked, unable to finish, unable to surrender her fear.