Fair Is the Rose (4 page)

"Where?"
Pete asked bravely.

Cain shot him a stare. "A town called Falling Water. You ever heard of it, kid?"

Pete hardened his chin. "Sure. It's a damn ghost town.
Nobody been
there for years."

"That's right. But you'll be there."

"
You kidnapping
us?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Christal clutched the door, waiting for the answer. She wondered whether this was merely a simple robbery, or something more complicated and sinister. Her mind played out one scenario after another. The worst was that somehow, some way, she'd been found by her uncle.

"The Overland Express has its payroll coming in Tuesday. We're holding you all for ransom." Cain stuck the kid's six-shooter into the waist of his own chaps. "You men walk behind the stage. If you get outta line, Zeke here's got permission to bullwhip you." The man named Zeke edged his sorrel toward the group. In his right hand was an enormous, wicked-looking whip, the kind that could easily flick the skin from a man's back.

Christal watched the numb horror seep into the other passengers' expressions. She was frightened, but she took consolation in knowing that her uncle wasn't behind any of this. If Baldwin Didier had found her, she wouldn't live to see tomorrow. With these outlaws, she had some chance.

"You can't hold us that long! Tuesday's four days away!" Mr. Glassie exclaimed, obviously thinking of his accounts.

Cain shrugged, obviously not caring.

"Who are you, my good
man, that
you think you can do this to us?"

"Macaulay Cain."

Pete gasped. "Macaulay Cain! Macaulay Cain was hanged in Landen over a month ago!"

"Some say that."

"And some say Macaulay Cain got out of the hangin' and met up with the Kineson gang. Is this here the Kineson gang?" the boy's father inquired, dread on his face.

"It could be, and if you're right, you'd best not be causing trouble." Cain's words were so low, Christal wouldn't have been able to hear them if he weren't standing right next to the stage. The menace that edged the man's raw voice sent a chill down her spine. She quickly saw she had been too confident. These men were outlaws. They'd done awful things, perhaps even killed men. They were wanted, desperate. And she was a woman alone.

Another man rode up from the bridge. Leading the last two horses by their reins, he hitched the two to the coach and fell in with Zeke. Christal was nearly hanging out the window when Zeke pushed the six men, including the driver and the shotgun, to the back of the coach where she could no longer see them.

Christal bit her lip and resumed her seat. If there were two horses hitched, one of them belonged to the outlaw who would be driving the carriage. That left one other gang member either to walk or ... to ride in the carriage with her.

A sudden overwhelming panic seized her, and she wanted to run out of the coach and fall in with the other passengers. She didn't want to be alone in the stagecoach. More than that, she didn't want to ride with one of the outlaws, particularly the one with the cold gray eyes.

"You better treat that widow right. We ain't gonna stand for you mistreatin' her," she heard Pete demand from behind the carriage. His words tugged at her heart. He was brave to say such things. She couldn't remember the last time a man had cared about her welfare.

The sound of a high-pitched laugh crawled down her spine. "She'll be all right. She's going to ride with me."

"I'll be riding with her." A second voice brooked no debate.

There was a long, resentful pause before the other outlaw said, "Sure, Cain. You go ahead and get a peek at her. She's probably too old to fiddle with anyway."

The coach creaked as the iron-clad wheels waited to roll again. The number of horses had doubled, and there was that much more jangling of harnesses. Zeke cracked the bullwhip, but it must have been for intimidation because none of the passengers cried out. Still, the sound reverberated over the open prairie like a gunshot.

Christal's heart hammered with dread. She had a small muff pistol in her purse, so named because ladies in London carried such miniature guns hidden in their muffs when they were forced to walk through less than savory neighborhoods. But she had only been able to afford the pistol because it was more than fifty years old and carried only one shot, unlike the modern repeating gun. It would be foolish for her to reveal the gun now, in the coach surrounded by outlaws. Her only chance was to swallow her fear and wait. So she clutched her small grosgrain bag and watched the door open.

The outlaw named Cain jumped in, rifle and all. He slammed the door behind him and knocked twice on the roof with the butt of his rifle, and the stagecoach lurched to a start. Without acknowledging her, he slouched down on the dusty velvet seat opposite, kicking Mr. Glassie's prized bureau to the center of the coach so he could stretch his legs out on it.

She stared at him through the veil, her blood thrumming with fear. He rested his rifle across his knees, drawing her eyes to the length and power of his legs. He wore chaps, the leather rubbed smooth along the inside of the thighs from long hours in the saddle. The brass spurs lashed to his boots irreverently scarred the fine wood of the bureau. He was dirty, covered in dust and sweat. His presence filled the carriage with the scent of fired gunpowder, which stained his hands and shirt. She expected a bad animal-odor from him, as she would have from that first outlaw who had the rotten teeth. Instead there was a musky kind of man smell to him that repelled her and intrigued her at the same time.

It was hot in the carriage. The sun was now at high noon, and the dust kicked into the window with a new ferocity. Christal longed to pat away the perspiration on her face, but she didn't. She kept her hand on her
purse,
her palm curved against the pistol's curled handle, and watched him covertly from behind the veil. The sweat trickled down her temples and between her corseted breasts.

He stared out the window, rubbing the sweat from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he pulled at the faded scarlet bandanna, untying it so that he could wipe his face.

She gasped. The man's neck was circled with an angry ragged scar. She could think of only one thing that could give a man a scar like that.

That cold, steely gaze riveted on her. He touched his neck and flashed a cynical smile, revealing strong white teeth.

He leaned toward her. "You ever felt the noose around your neck, ma'am?" His laugh was rumbling and husky.

Unconsciously, her hand went to her neck. The other hand, the hand with the scar hidden by her black glove, curled as if to protect itself. She swallowed, not wanting to think of her past, of Baldwin Didier. Her uncle wanted to dance on her grave. He would have seen her hanged if he could have. Instead she'd been spared by her youth. She'd been in Park View Asylum until three years ago.

The outlaw sat back and perused her black-clad figure. Without warning, he raised his rifle and pointed it at her. Her heart stilled. She waited for him to pull the trigger, but he put the muzzle beneath her veil and began to lift it.

Her gloved hands gripped the barrel to stop him. She needed the protection of the veil. Just looking into those eyes told her so. She didn't want him to see her face. She didn't want to be that vulnerable.

She slapped at the gun, but he held it firm. Suddenly trapped by the terror of the looming muzzle, she stared at him, still hidden by the gauzy black material.

He tipped up the veil. In a flash, the netting was up and off her face.

Surprise and appreciation flared in his eyes. He clearly didn't expect what he saw, a blond nineteen-year-old girl whose eyes clashed defiantly with his.

He didn't say a word. They stared at each other for one long moment, each assessing the other. She was afraid, but experience had taught her never to show fear. She presented a face as haughty and cold as a marble statue, an easy task for a girl bred of the aristocracy of Knickerbocker New York. He stared right back, an enigmatic expression in his eyes.

She turned her face away and gazed out the window, dismissing him as she might a servant.

He placed the barrel against her cheek and forced her to turn her head back to him.

Her eyes glittered with anger and fear. She met his gaze once more. His eyes were as cold and steely as the smooth rifle barrel
laid
across her cheek. Then he did the strangest thing. Slowly he lowered his rifle. Her heart lurched when he reached over, but he did so only to cover her face once more with the veil. He sat back, gave her one inexplicable glance, and again looked out the window, absorbed in thought.

"Why did they hang you?" she gasped.

He turned back to her, his gaze slamming into hers as if the veil were no longer there. She believed his every word.
" 'Cause
maybe
I
needed hanging."

She drew back against the seat, her fear a small choking sound in her throat. His smile was both mirthless and satisfied. Then he resumed looking out at the wide stretch of prairie as if she were no longer there.

The ride became hilly as they headed west and the flat prairie of sage and wheatgrass grew vertical into forests of lodgepole pine. Through the open window, Christal could hear the other passengers grunting and cursing to keep up with the stage, but as the terrain grew difficult, their voices became more and more faint.
Until silence reigned.

The stage climbed into the threshold of the Rockies. Granite peaks iced with snow towered in the distance, and atop one particularly steep incline of the road where the backbone of mountains melted into sky, Christal swore she could see into heaven. But the going was difficult, and she had little time to be in awe of her surroundings. The coach lurched and lunged along an ill-used path, and she spent most of her attention clinging to her seat in fear she might land on the floor, or worse, in the outlaw's arms.

Finally, the stage lurched to a stop. She stole a glance out the window; all she could see were more pines, more boulders, and the rocky trail ahead, pitted and gorged by the weather. Frightened, she turned accusing eyes to the outlaw sitting in front of her.

Cain removed his booted feet from Mr. Glassie's prized bureau, hardly disturbed by the rough ride. He didn't look at her. Instead, he threw open the door and motioned for her to get out of the stage.

Half of her was desperate to scramble out to see if the other passengers had caught up, but the other half didn't want to move and risk releasing her grip on the handle of the pistol inside her purse.