Fair Is the Rose (6 page)

He leaned over her, his tall form intimidating. She met his gaze; her eyes glittered with defiance. She'd spent three years protecting
herself
from men like him, three years of struggling and running. Women around her surrendered their honor in the name of hunger and need, but she hadn't, even though she'd gone hungry because she couldn't find enough decent work to still the gnawing in her belly. But she had never succumbed to whoring. And she never would. Her outside was hard and cool and aloof; she was the creature her life had forced her to be. But it was all to protect an inner core that was soft and fragile, gently reared and decent. Inside she was still the girl she'd been in New York before her uncle's crime had ruined her life, a girl who wanted to trust and give, to love and be loved in return. And this outlaw wasn't going to rape her and take that fragile inner girl away. Not while she still lived and breathed. She would preserve that girl at all costs.
Because if he destroyed her, he'd shatter all reasons for fighting and surviving.
If that girl was gone, Christal Van Alen could never go home. And she could never be that girl again.

He touched her jaw and looked as if he wanted to say something. But she refused to hear him out. Like a Roman candle, she lit into him, vowing to break an arm to keep him off. He grunted something and tried to stop her, but terror momentarily gave her a strength and speed she didn't normally possess. Her fists punched at his body, drumming wherever she thought it would hurt. She did her best to inflict damage, but it was disheartening to meet with so much rock-hard flesh. And her heart sank when she saw nothing in his expression, no pain or anguish; nothing except surprise. But still he didn't have control over her. So she kept fighting, until he caught one flailing arm. Then, in a learned reflex, she took her free hand and slapped his face so hard it gave him a split-second pause.

"Hellcat," he rasped before easily capturing the offending hand.

"I won't let you do this, I won't!" She opened her mouth to bite him. He jerked back and nearly roared in anger.

Finally, their gazes locked in a standstill, they came to a pause. She looked up at him, noting his mouth was set in a grim line. He rubbed his jaw where she hit him and there was a patronizing anger in his eyes, as if she were a truant child.

"Let me give you some advice, Mrs. Smith," he whispered harshly, "you're a beautiful woman and you better know right now who to obey. We've got a lot of lonely men in this camp."

She bit her lower lip, refusing to allow him to see it quiver.

He leaned closer. She saw every silver fleck in those incredible eyes. "You think you're brave, but you're not.

Without me you haven't got a chance. Out here, a man can smell a woman a mile away."

"
Wh-
what do you mean you can smell me?"

His hand touched her hair. His eyes never left her. "What I mean, lady, is that I can
smell
you.
Everything about you.
Your hair was rinsed in rosewater, probably this morning. I'd say you don't wear this gown often— you got it out today—because I can smell the lavender you packed it in to keep away the moths. You don't wear perfume and I suspect it's because you can't afford it. But you still smell better than anything because when I move close to you you have that woman smell and if I described it to you any more you'd slap me again." His voice grew ominous and low. "What I'm saying to you, lady, is this all makes a man think. And
want."

"I'll fight you," she whispered.

He laughed mirthlessly. "You won't win." He turned grim. "But if you listen to me and
me alone,
you might get to Tuesday without having to be passed around like a used rag. Understand?"

Her face paled; her eyes kindled with fear. She nodded. She did understand. He wanted the sole right to rape and
abuse
her. But she would defy him all the way.
To her last breath.

He stood. A swell of panic hit her as she waited for him to strip off his dusty shirt. She crawled to the back of the bed, ready to bolt the second she felt him come down on the mattress. She heard him say, "It's going to be a hard week, Mrs. Smith. Brace yourself."

Then he walked out, bolting the door behind him.

Stunned, she stared at the closed door for almost half a minute. By some miracle, she'd escaped being raped. And by a man whose eyes said he'd never felt pity or warmth in his entire life.

But it had only been postponed. He would return. When there were no more men to direct, or passengers to deal with.

Panicked, she ran to the chair that held her purse. Her fingers trembled so badly, she almost couldn't open it, but soon the pistol was in her possession. Then, dragging the rickety chair to the far corner, she sat, and with her black-gloved hands, she pointed the gun at the door.

Christal moved in the darkness of the bedroom like a shade, her black-swathed figure blending with every shadow. She'd been in the room for hours, until daylight melted away, along with her hopes of being rescued. She still wasn't sure why the outlaw had left her unscathed. Pete had mentioned the gang was named after a man called Kineson. Cain probably had to answer to him, so he'd been forced to miss his chance. But surely he'd try to make up for it. She pulled her arms across her chest and shivered.

A lamp shone beneath the locked door. She stepped to the other side of the bed, unsure whether she was terrified or relieved her fate was finally to be decided.

Cain entered the room, lantern in hand, the glow illuminating his lean features. His face was as barren of emotion as the room was of furniture, but she stared at him, thinking he was what the saloon girls of her acquaintance meant by a handsome devil. In his case the emphasis was on
devil.

He held up the lantern to better see her. She was duly heartened to see the brief flare in his eyes when he saw what was in her hand.

He said quietly, "You're full of surprises, ma'am."

She stared at him from across the bed, her face pale and determined.

His eyes lowered to the pistol. "That's the smallest gun I've ever seen. It's old." His gaze met hers. "You've only got one shot."

"That's enough."

"Yeah, that's enough. If you don't miss and just wound me." He took a step toward her.

"Stay back." She shoved the gun out in front of her. He paused.

"Give me the keys." She held out her hand.

He dangled them. "Where you gonna go, girl, way out here with nobody around?"

"I'm going to go very far away from you."

He chuckled. It wasn't a very jovial sound. "There's a lot worse out there than me."

"I'll worry about that when I come to it." She took a brave step forward. "Give me the keys."

He eyed her, the keys jangling as he swung them like a pendulum. She shivered,
then
realized she was standing near a broken pane in the window where cold mountain air rushed in. She sidled from the window, never taking her eyes from him.

"You want these?" He gripped the keys in his palm.

She nodded.

"They're all yours." He threw them at her, putting all his weight into the throw. The iron keys shot through the air like a bullet, too quick for her to catch, and smashed through one of the window panes, showering her in glass.

She gasped in dismay. But she didn't take her eyes from him. She'd expected to be tricked.

But if the diversion wasn't enough for him to take the gun, it was enough to gain ground. Instead of being across the bed, he was now not two yards from her.

"Go on. Leave, girl," he taunted. "Run on downstairs and get the keys where they lie in the dirt. I'll stay right here, and you can lock me up when you get back."

Her hand trembled as she raised the gun toward him. Their gazes clashed. Her eyes were somber and determined; his, mesmerizing, menacing. She couldn't tear her gaze away. "I'll shoot you if you come closer," she said.

"You can't control this situation all by yourself. There's too much you don't know. You'll get yourself killed. Give me the gun, girl." He inched forward.

She waved the pistol to warn him back.

He didn't surrender an inch.

"Do you want me to shoot you?" she asked, disbelief threading through her voice. He was a madman to test her the way he was.

He whispered, "But you're messin' up my plans, Mrs. Smith. I can't let you do this."

"You have no choice. Get back!" Her hands quaked. She wrapped both of them around the pistol to steady it.

He moved forward, like a wolf hunched down, eyeing its prey. She bit her lip, desperately wishing it hadn't come to this. She'd never killed a man. She didn't want to have to kill him.

Her back met the wall; she hadn't even realized she'd been backing away. He took another step, then another, all the time keeping her gaze captive to his.

She pulled down the hammer.

He stopped.

The seconds passed like years while they stared at each other, assessing. He behaved as if he didn't quite believe she was capable of pulling the trigger. But she knew she was, and she desperately wished he would retreat. To her unspeakable relief, he took one small step back.

Then he lunged for her. She screamed and pulled the trigger. But her hand was slammed against the wall. Just in time to save him. The bullet ricocheted only once before it burned into the ceiling.

"How—how did you know I was going to shoot?" she cried, frustration and anger tight in her throat.

"It's all in the eyes, Mrs. Smith." He drew his body closer to hers, as if to threaten her. "If a man's got a gun on you, you don't watch his hand. You watch his eyes." He released her with a violent shove. She scrambled out of his reach, still brandishing the now useless pistol.

He walked over to the bed where her black grosgrain purse lay. "No!" she gasped, but he paid her no mind. He opened the bag and dumped the contents out onto the mattress. Out fell a small ivory comb, two bits in change, and five paper-wrapped cartridges. As if all too familiar with the task of muzzle-loading a gun, he bit off the twisted tops of the cartridges, spit the paper on the ground, then poured the gunpowder and bullets out the window to the dirt below.