Fair Is the Rose (36 page)

Jericho gave a defiant shrug. He donned his enormous bearkskin coat and hat. With a nod to Macaulay, he stepped out of the small jail and disappeared into the cold night.

"He shouldn't have to sneak around to see Ivy. She loves him, he loves her. It isn't right they can't be together." She watched Macaulay.

"It's the law. He can't go into a saloon that won't accept coloreds."

"It's an unfair law. I'm glad you don't really believe in it."

"Whether I believe in it or not makes no difference. Until the
law's
changed, I'll enforce it."

"You're not that cruel."

He stared at her, placing his hand against her cold cheek. "But I am cruel, darlin'."

Fear began to twitter in her stomach like a trapped butterfly. His threat didn't bother her
so
much as the tone he used. She looked deep into his eyes and an ominous feeling of foreboding took hold. "But if you're so cruel, you would have arrested Jericho tonight and you didn't."

"He wasn't in the saloon. You invited him into the kitchen—and, I might add—proved stupidly brave in confessing that you had. Faulty could have caused a lot of trouble on that point, you know. I might have had to lock you and Jericho up."

A chill ran down her spine. She never thought he might have arrested her for defending Jericho. "Must you be so literal? You know as well as I do what happened tonight was ridiculous—"

He touched her lips to quiet her. "I'm the sheriff and I uphold the law. That's all I did."

"But you saw that the end was just."

"The end is usually just when you follow the law."

She stared at him, unable to agree.

He slowly smiled.
"Why'd you come here tonight, Christal?"

"Just to thank you.
I was glad you didn't hurt Ivy and Jericho."

"And you
were wantin'
to talk, weren't you?"

Her stomach dropped. He seemed to be waiting for a confession. Suddenly she no longer felt like talking. "I must be going. It's very late."

He slid his hand beneath the cloak and put an arm around her waist. He pushed her against him and said gently, "Answer one question. If you do that, I'll let you leave."

Her eyes glittered with anxiety. "What's the question?"

"You must promise to answer it without knowing what it is. Otherwise I think I might keep you here indefinitely." His arm tightened. He almost smiled.

She stared at him. He was bound to ask her where she came from, or her sister's name, or such. But she could get around the question somehow. Surely she could. "Go on, ask your infernal question."

"You'll tell me the truth?"

She watched him, her gaze direct and cool. "If I lie, it's only by omission."

His smile was strangely not reassuring. He pulled her down to a chair at the table. With both hands capturing her face, he said, "Tell me, who is the one person you love most?"

She couldn't hide her surprise. It was an unexpected question. The answer was Alana, of course. All she had to do was utter the words
my sister
and she could leave the jail.

But when she met his gaze, a sudden and terrible emotion hit her. She loved her sister deeply, yet perhaps because she hadn't seen Alana in four years and the despair of ever seeing her again ran deep, she wondered if the answer was as simple as she thought. Her sister might have forgotten her by now. Alana Sheridan had a life in New York complete with husband and by now, no doubt, babies. Sometimes Christal even wondered whether Alana would want her back. Christabel Van Alen was different now. Didier and Wyoming had made her hard. She didn't fit into the Knickerbocker life anymore. Maybe, despite everything, she never would again.

And maybe that was why she couldn't say her sister was the true and only answer to Macaulay's question. But she knew it wasn't. Her love for her sister was still as strong as ever, yet looking into Macaulay's eyes, she knew there was another answer to his question. It echoed through her heart, whispering,
You
.

He lifted her chin, her silence clearly bothering him. Gently he said, "What's wrong, Christal?"

She didn't look at him. "I can't answer your question after all."

"Does the memory"—his voice grew husky—"hurt?"

She shut her eyes in despair.
I was in an asylum for the criminally insane. Do you believe me? Do you believe me?
She shoved aside her tortured thoughts. "I won't talk about it. Really, I must go—"

"Was it a man who led you astray?" His voice turned quiet.
Jealous.
"If a woman's come out here, the cause is always a man. They either die on you or abandon you. Which was it happened to you?"

"I can't talk about this—"

"Is he comin' back for you? Is that why you left Camp Brown the way you did? Are you covering for him? Or are you covering for yourself?"

She stood, the chair screeching violently across the raw floorboards. "I won't talk about it. I've told you that a million times."

"Goddammit, I'm sick of begging! Is he coming back? What kind of trouble are you in, girl?" The desperation in his voice made her look at him. He held on to her arm until she nearly moaned with pain.

"Please . . ." she whispered, knowing any second she was going to confess what was in her soul and doom herself.
I was in an asylum for the insane, the demented,
the
mad. I didn't do it, I tell you. . . . You do believe me. . . . Why, you must believe me. . . .

"Tell me, just tell me . . ."

She put her hands to her ears to shut him out. On the brink of tears, she said, "There is no man. No one's coming for me. No one I care about."

He studied her for a moment, as if trying to decide for himself whether she was lying. Then, as if he couldn't decide, or no longer cared, he pulled her down to him, branding her mouth with his own. A kiss that said he would never relinquish her. She could taste the whiskey he'd been drinking, and though it should have repulsed her, it didn't. Deep down she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to taste him, touch him,
hold
him. She was in love with him. She wanted intimacy.

"Let's go upstairs." He roughly took her hand.

She studied his face in the flickering lantern light. He'd never know how much she wanted to say yes. If there was a man for her, the one she wanted was the one standing before her. Her need for him was like an ache only he could ease. She was so desperately weary of standing and fighting all alone. And he was so strong.

"Make me trust you, Macaulay," she whispered.

His breath was heated and quick against her temple. "If it's fear stoppin' you, girl, then know this: I fear you equally. I want to be free, but you're my obsession. And if I want you above all else, so must I fear you above all else."

"Is obsession love?" she whispered almost to herself. She stared deep into those fathomless cold eyes, and couldn't find the answer. She wasn't sure he knew himself.

Silently he took her hand and pulled her toward the stairs. She hesitated, wanting to follow, at the same time wanting to flee. Perhaps it was the drink, but he handled her more roughly than necessary. As if he were the outlaw and she, again, his captive, he pulled her ahead of him and gestured for her to lead the way upstairs.

"No, not tonight," she whispered, sentencing herself to another night of unfulfilled desire and dreams.

"Yes.
Tonight."

"No," she answered, pulling away.

"I want you. You want me. If there isn't another man, what's stopping you?"

Her gaze slid to the star still pinned to his shirt.
Six little points of tin.
It stopped her more resolutely than a gun.

Slowly he followed her gaze. He reached for the star and unpinned it from his chest. It dropped to the ground almost noiselessly.

"Removing the star doesn't remove the sheriff."

"Tonight it does."

"It's only pretend."

"It's always pretend." He stroked her hair, her cheek, as if unable to get his fill of her.

"No, you said yourself you abide by the law. You don't know who I am, Cain. You don't know what I've done."

He grabbed her by the arms and shook her. There was gentleness in his touch but the restrained violence in his actions made her think of the outlaw Cain. "Maybe I don't want to know. Maybe I've sat here for nights on end wondering whether I should telegraph Rollins and put out a description of you. I've wondered about it until even the whiskey couldn't make the questions go away. But I haven't done it.
Why, Christal, why?"

"The wires are down all over the territory because of the snow. If you haven't wired maybe it's because you can't," she whispered.

"You know it's a lie." The edge in his voice frightened her, so did the sheen of desire and desperation in his eyes. Doubt tortured him. Strangely, she could understand. It was just like when she was at Falling Water needing to trust a wild renegade. But now the roles had reversed. Now he was the law-abiding, and she the renegade.

"Maybe everything's a lie," he answered, his words low and harsh, "but this isn't a lie. Even you know this isn't a lie." His lips came down on hers, moving roughly in a gesture of possession. She wanted to resist, but he spoke the truth. What they had between them had been wrought out of danger, fear, and need. He was like no other man she had ever met, would ever meet. Their future, even if they had one, was bleak. But as he thrust into her mouth, and the heat of his onslaught built a fire in her loins, she didn't know how she could fight him when she wanted this moment with every breath she took, every mile she'd run.