Fair Is the Rose (52 page)

Glassie grew solemn. "There was a girl who fit that description I met once. But if her eyes were blue, I didn't notice. They were too filled with sadness and grief."

"My niece is quite distinctive. Beyond her beauty, she possesses a unique mark." He began to draw concentric circles into the palm of his right hand, as if demonstrating. "Christal has a scar, a most unusual scar on the palm of her right hand, in the shape of a rose."

Mr. Glassie sat straight up. "Christal did you say her name was?"

"Yes, Christabel Van Alen. Have you seen her?"

"I am most sorry to tell you, sir, she has lost her husband. She was wearing weeds when we met."

Didier's chilling eyes grew wide in wonder. "Are you certain it was her?"

"Indeed. The woman I know was named Christal and she had the scar. I only saw it once, that night we had dinner in Camp Brown, but it was there, right on her palm as you describe."

"I must go to her." Didier
stood,
concern too dramatic and deep in his expression to be totally genuine. It was the first pang of uneasiness Mr. Glassie felt. "You say you saw her at a place called Camp Brown? Where is this Camp Brown? How may I get to it? It's of the
most dire
urgency. I cannot wait another minute."

"My good man, there's no hurry. Unfortunately, your dear niece's fate has already been decided."

"What are you talking about?" Didier snapped.

"The papers.
The
St. Louis Chronicle.
Haven't you read today's headlines?"

"Where can I get a paper?" Didier snapped.

"Why, I have one right here." Glassie handed him the one folded inside his suit breast pocket.

Mr. Henry Glassie had seen a lot of things in his travels, he'd even been kidnapped by an outlaw gang; but he had never seen a man's face drain completely of all blood, not even a man ready for the hangman. "Are you all right, man?" he asked suspiciously.

Didier threw the paper onto the table. The headlines blared:

Missing Heiress Found!
Christabel Van Alen to face charges in New York—Trevor Sheridan vows millions for her defense!

Mr. Glassie cleared his throat. "Of course, this is all quite a shock. Anyone who's met the poor child knows she must be falsely accused. When I knew her, she was a most respectable woman. The charges drawn against her cannot be true. I'll never believe them.
But not to worry, my good man.
If the Sheridan fortune can't resolve this matter in the girl's favor, then nothing can help her."

"I've got to go." Didier suddenly looked around the bar as if any moment he might meet someone he knew and dreaded. Glassie wondered who it might be.

"But you're not going to meet your niece? You search for her for four years then flee the moment she's due to arrive?"

"What are you talking about?" The concern was leaking out of his voice, quickly being replaced with a strange anger.

"The paper.
You didn't finish reading the article. The Union Pacific pulls in tomorrow. Your niece will be on it, headed to New York."

Glassie wasn't sure, but he read joy all over Didier's face. It could be joy over seeing a long-lost niece, but suddenly he doubted it.

"Of course, I must see her." A smile cracked Didier's face. Glassie thought the sight decidedly unpleasant.

The men
stood,
a sudden chill between them. Glassie dropped a twenty-flve-cent piece down on the table, not offering to buy the other man's drink as he might have done if the uneasiness were gone from his gut. "Good night to you, sir. I wish you luck in your rendezvous with your niece."

"Thank you." Didier's eyes were like the ice off a pond.

Henry Glassie left the bar. Suddenly all he wanted to do was warm
himself
by the stove.

The train stop in St. Louis was to take over two hours. Passengers were invited to step outside and partake of the fresh, cold spring air, or perhaps a rum punch at the famous Fairleigh Hotel.

Christal was offered no such luxury. She remained in the custody of the marshals in the stuffy car, content simply to doze against Cain's chest while he read the St. Louis newspaper.

They were on their way in no time, the train lurching and chugging to a start while steam billowed across the muddy, torn-apart station. It had just been built and it was already under construction to be expanded. The great Wild West was soon to be tamed.

Hours passed as they railed along more open prairie, the ground broken more and more often with farmland and trees. Christal was fast asleep when the familiar voice rang in her ears.

"My good man!
And Mrs. Smith—or should I say Miss Van Alen! How wonderful it is to make your acquaintance again! I have thought of you both often!
Often!"

Christal opened her eyes. It wasn't a dream, it was true. Mr. Henry Glassie was standing before them, looking as dapper as when he'd first boarded the Overland Express.

"Glassie," Cain greeted, standing. "What brings you here? You board at St. Louis?"

"I did indeed. I'm headed back to Paterson to have a meeting with the company president. Sales have been good, you know—quite delightful, actually. Yet I was saddened to read about Miss Christal's circumstances. How have you been, Miss Van Alen?"

"I'm holding up and getting good at it, as you might guess, especially given the circumstances of our last meeting." Christal
wavered
a smile.

Henry Glassie nodded in sympathy. "Never fear, Miss Van Alen. I see you've the famous lawman Macaulay Cain behind you. I've heard much about him since our days in Falling Water and all of it is impressive. I've no doubt you will be fully vindicated, my girl."

Christal gave him a tremulous smile. She figured Glassie knew the whole story by now. There was talk that she was in the papers, but she hadn't had the heart to read the ones brought aboard.

"I was just taking a walk. My berth is in the front of the train and I said to myself, 'Glassie, old boy, it's time for you to seek out your old friends.' I must say, Miss Van Alen, you have me surprised. I thought I'd find you with your uncle."

Christal's blood froze. She felt Cain stiffen. "What did you say, Mr. Glassie? Have you seen my uncle?"

"Baldwin Didier was his name.
A nice enough fellow.
Don't care for his eyes though. I met him at the bar in the Fairleigh. He was beside himself to find you. I thought he'd be aboard."

Christal's hand went to her throat as if for protection. Her words were choked and forced. "You met my uncle in the Fairleigh—back in St. Louis—where we just stopped?"

"He's not your uncle, is he, child?" Glassie's plump, fatherly face shadowed with doubt. "I thought there was something untrustworthy about the gent. I'm glad I came aboard so I could tell you about him."

"He is my uncle, Mr. Glassie, but he is not to be trusted. He is the one who committed the crimes of which I am accused. I fear he wants me dead."

Mr. Glassie looked deeply troubled. "It was I who pointed out to him that you were to be on the train. I hope I haven't endangered you, but when he asked if I'd ever seen a woman such as yourself in the territory, I fear I wasn't thinking. I figured his concern was real. At least I thought so for a while."

"Have you
see
him on the train?" Cain broke in. Christal looked at him, surprised by the blood lust in his eyes.

"I have not. Perhaps he didn't board after all."

"Or perhaps he's in disguise." Cain turned to her. "Christal, you're the only one who knows what he looks like. We'll have to go through the train person by person. We've got to make sure he's not aboard."

"Let me help. I feel responsible to a degree. If I had only kept my mouth closed, the train might have come and gone without this man seeing Christal's schedule in the papers."

"Fine."
Cain nodded behind him. "You check out the baggage car. The men, Christal, and I will walk forward and check out all the passengers. If it's all clear, we can rest easy until we stop again. If not, we have enough men to take care of it."

Mr. Glassie rolled back the door to the baggage car. He stood between the cars, the ground rushing below him, the wind whistling in his ears. All that stood between him and disaster was a tiny platform with a thin railing that couldn't have held back a child let alone his generous girth should he slip. He found it a relief to enter the baggage compartment.

There was not much room to walk. Canvas sacks stamped
U S. Mail
were piled high in one corner. Along the sides, row after row of wooden boxes marked in Chinese filled the compartment. Excelsior peeked out of many of them, a clue that they contained porcelain imports taking the short route across the prairie from San Francisco. The passengers' baggage filled in wherever there was free space—except in one corner where a leak in the roof constantly dripped melting snow. The only other baggage of note was a fine leather trunk or two, but the rest of the compartment was filled with common wicker baskets and large raggedy portmanteaus that had clearly belonged to ancestors.

Glassie sighed. There was no one here. He turned to go back to the forward cabin.

He never saw the billy club come down on his head.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone on this train who could be this girl's uncle," Rollins whispered to Cain. He peeked at Christal, who was nervously surveying the farthest-forward cabin. "We've checked the entire train out. I think it's safe to return to our car. When we stop at Abbeville, I'll make sure every new passenger passes inspection."

Cain glanced at Christal. He nodded.

Rollins stared at Christal too. "You know, Cain, they say—"

"I don't care what they say. She didn't do it." Cain's whisper was like a hiss of steam.

"But what if she did? What if this story about her uncle is just fiction—a diversion so she can find an escape?"