Fair Is the Rose (51 page)

"I wasn't going to take the chance. If he's who he says he is
,
you'll see him at your sister's side when the train pulls into Manhattan."

She looked at him. There were lines worked deep into his cheeks. She couldn't remember him looking so tired, so worried. "Don't be afraid for me, my love. I'm no longer afraid. What's going to happen will happen." She locked gazes with him. She had never told him how useless the appeal was. He would find out the hopelessness of her case soon enough. In the meantime, she had found some happiness in his arms, late at night when he was angry at the world, but gentle with her.

He tore his gaze away,
then
walked to the door to lock it. She watched, knowing he was hurting with every protective gesture he made. He couldn't protect her forever and that was what was eating at him.

"It's out of our hands."

"No." He walked to her and paused, inches away. His voice was raspy and full of emotion. "I'll fight to the death to see you free, you know it, girl."

"But it's like the war, Cain. You just may not win."

His hand cupped the back of her head. He kissed her, his mouth hard and angry as if somehow he could purge his frustration with the violent possession of her mouth.

"This is just like the war," he groaned, burying his face in her hair. "If I can't see you freed then there's no right —no wrong—no end."

She brought his head down to hers and placed her lips softly on his mouth. "I thought once I would have you run from this, as I've done all these years, but time for running is past, and you, my love, are not a man to run away. If you found nothing in that war, you found your honor and that is why I love you."

"Christal," he groaned, his hand rough, possessively cupped over her breast as if she were his and he was suddenly desperately afraid he would lose her.

She whispered, "There is an end, my love. New York will be the end. But I wish you wouldn't come with me. Remember me now, like this. Oh, God, I can't bear to have you see me otherwise ..."

She could no longer speak. His lovemaking became too fierce. It was as if he was seeking catharsis for an old and deep pain. He whispered her name only one other time.
Just before he found his peace.
Just before she felt her cheek damp with her own tears.

We have shared the incommunicable experience of war. We felt—we still feel—the passion of life to its top . . .

O
liver
W
endell
H
olmes

The marshals were late. Jericho had left weeks ago and still there was no word on his whereabouts.

Meanwhile, springtime dripped all over town and ran in little rivulets out to the prairie, feeding the tender shoots of green that thrust up bravely through the snow. From the back window of Macaulay's bedroom Christal watched the patches of snow diminish, every day taking on a new and lesser shape, like clouds after a thunderstorm. But the promise of spring didn't cheer her. It didn't stop destiny. If anything, the better weather should have spurred it on. But still the marshals did not arrive.

"Should you ride out and wire them?" she asked Macaulay, turning away from the window.

He stared at her from a chair, his arms crossed, his legs stretched out, feigning an indolence she knew he did not feel.

"They'll come eventually," he said, a grim cast to his mouth.

"Something might have happened to Jericho. I worry about Ivy all alone at the homestead."

"I'll go out there this afternoon."

"Take me with you." She looked at him, hope in her eyes. What wouldn't she give for a ride out on the
prairie.
One last moment of strong winds, wide sky, and freedom.

"I won't leave you here. We'll go in an hour." He stood and stared at the bed. The blue dress was carefully laid out on it. "You finished the dress. Why aren't you wearing it?"

"I'm saving it for a happy occasion."

He glanced at her, his cold eyes filled with anger and pain, like those of a wolf caught in a trap. "You'll wear it soon. I promise, girl."

She only smiled, hoping the sadness wouldn't show.

Ivy nearly wept when they showed up at the homestead. She was worried sick about Jericho, and though the shack was well supplied, it was not nearly as comfortable as the room in the saloon. Without Jericho, Ivy was having a difficult time managing.

Ivy and Christal drove the mule cart while Cain, on the
Ap
, scouted the driest path ahead. By evening they rolled into Noble, the mule covered with as much mud as seemed to lie at their feet.

The smithy was ready to take the wagon and the animals,
then
he gave Cain a short message that caused Cain to turn his head toward the jailhouse.

There were five horses tethered at the rail. The marshals had arrived.

"C'mon, darlin'.
It's time." Cain wrapped his arm around Christal's waist while Ivy stared at the marshals' horses, unable to hide the worry in her eyes.

Christal walked with him along the boardwalk as if they were just a couple taking a stroll. Cain felt strong and sure beside her. She made a point not to look at his eyes. XXX

"Are you sleeping?"

Christal shook her head and continued to look out the train window. They'd ridden south and caught the Union Pacific at Addentown, and now they bulleted east across the plains.
Flat, snow-patched monotony.

"You don't ever seem to sleep anymore, girl. You've got to be tired." Cain shifted in his seat. The car was crowded with people. Two women nursed their babies by the stove while strings of woolen laundry dried above their heads. In the coldest corner Rollins and some other marshals she'd never seen before played cards on the wooden benches with the other men. The car generally stank of cigar smoke and wet sheep ready for the shears.

Macaulay and Christal sat apart from the rest of the people in the car. They had quiet conversations broken only when Christal would lapse into slumber and loll her head on Cain's chest. Everyone seemed to leave them alone, as if knowing that to intrude upon them was to intrude upon lovers.

"Where do you think he is right now?" Christal whispered, gazing sightlessly out the window to the sun-flooded grassland.

"Your uncle?"

"Yes."

"I don't know."

"He could be anywhere.
Anywhere at all."

"I'll find him. I've got every man who owes me a favor asking around for him. With me and your brother-in-law looking, it won't take long."

She didn't answer. She just snuggled closer and closed her eyes, letting the clackety-clack sound of the train soothe her tired body and weary heart.

The Fairleigh Hotel was packed that Wednesday night with a whole trainload of wealthy passengers from Pittsburgh. There wasn't a room to spare but when one certain gentleman entered the establishment, his suite seemed to appear on the register as if from nowhere, causing no small amount of dismay and dissatisfaction among the persons milling in the lobby on the slim chance a registered guest might not appear.

The gentleman had an edge the others did not. He was regular as clockwork, appearing at the Fairleigh on the third of every month, a paying guest come good times and bad, snow and sunshine. So he was treated like a king.

Thus, the gentleman's luggage, which consisted of strange and numerous pieces, was hefted into the arms of no fewer than three bellboys and taken to his room, and the gentleman, with nothing but leisure time on his hands, took to the bar, as if longing for the comfort of the bartender's famous rum punch.

The gentleman commented to the man next to him as he eased his large girth behind the table, "It's certainly been too long since I've been in such elegance."

"Where have you been traveling?" the other man asked.

"Oh, here and there and everywhere.
Wyoming Territory mostly."

If the man were a dog, his ears would have pricked up. "Wyoming, you say? I suppose you've seen just about all of it the way you travel. Name's Didier, Baldwin Didier, of New York."

The gentleman smiled, always ready to make an acquaintance, and thus a potential customer.
"Very good to meet you, sir.
And I am Henry Glassie of the Paterson Furniture Company, Paterson, New Jersey. That makes us practically
brothers
way out here."

"So it does, so it does." Didier stood and neatly smoothed down his well-cut Vandyke. "May I?" He gestured to the chair at the salesman's table.

"Certainly.
I need a good conversation. On this trip, I've seen one too many corrupt Indian agents and one too many sad redmen to shun jovial company. What do you do, Didier?"

"Right now, I'm looking for someone.
In Wyoming actually.
Perhaps you may help me. It's my niece. I fear she's come to a bad end. It's been almost four years since she's been gone and I find myself desperate in my search for her."

Mr. Glassie put down his drink. "What a tragedy. How did she end up way out there?"

"Ran away."

"Eloped?"

Didier smiled. He didn't quite give an answer.

Henry Glassie shook his head as if not quite able to understand the impetuosities of youth, at least, impetuosities that didn't concern buying furniture.

"If you wouldn't mind my scouring your mind.
Any news at all would be most appreciated."

"I'd be happy to oblige. What does your niece look like?"

Didier rubbed his palm. "She's very pretty, fair, about twenty years old.
Blue eyes.
The color of the sky."