Fair Is the Rose (8 page)

I followed Old Mas' Robert, for four years, near about,

Got wounded in three places, and starved at Pint Lookout.

I cotch the rheumatism a-campin in the snow,

But I killed a chance o' Yankees—

And I'd like to kill some mo'.

The man's singing rang in her ears. The Kineson gang was nothing more than a bunch of outlaw southern sympathizers. Thinking back, she recalled that even Cain's words sometimes relaxed into a drawl. The ill-fated passengers of Overland Express had landed in the hands of a bunch of outlaw Confederates.

One by one, all the men started singing until Christal fought the urge to put her hands over her ears.

Three hundred thousand Yankees are stiff in Southern dust;

We got three hundred thousand befo' they conquered us;

They died of Southern fever, and Southern steel and shot,

And I wish it was three million instead of what we got.

She looked over at Cain. He'd stopped polishing his revolver. On the last verse, he sang the words with the rest of the men, a faraway, melancholy look on his face.

I
can't take up my musket and fight 'em anymore;

But ain't a-goin to love 'em, now that is sartin sho';

And I don't want
no
pardon for what I was and am,

And I won't be reconstructed, and I do not give a damn.

Nervously she stirred the beans, all the while praying they never found out she was from New York. She cringed when she remembered Mr. Glassie telling them he was from Paterson, New Jersey. That didn't bode well for him.

The men called for their meal. Rebelliously she sloshed beans onto plates, and they settled down to eat, like bears stuffing their maws. Exhausted, she stood by the fire and wondered if the time to escape wasn't at hand. The men were preoccupied with filling their stomachs.

Where she would go, she didn't know. She secretively glanced at a copse of aspen beyond the firelight. If she could flee into the copse, she might be able to hide from them in the darkness. If her luck held that far, perhaps tomorrow she might stumble upon a miners' camp or a trapper who would help her.

Slowly she counted the men to make sure their attention was on their plates and not her. It was; even Kineson's lascivious looks had ebbed with the need to appease his hunger. Her blood pounded with excitement. Again she looked into the darkness to the copse of aspen. Then her gaze slammed into Cain's.

Since they'd gotten to the campfire, he'd done his best to ignore her. He was not ignoring her now. She could see in his face that he knew she contemplated escape; she could also see the slight smirk on his lips, taunting her to try. He might have unintentionally stopped the men from harassing her, but she knew he was as serious about the kidnapping as any of them. And if she ran, he would catch her.

Her shoulders slumped. She was running out of ideas. Desperate to think of another avenue of escape, she became so absorbed in thought, she didn't see Kineson until he stood in front of her.

He smiled. Anxiety shot through her veins like liquid fire. She turned away, but the chimney blocked her path. Trapped, she tried to push him away, but he was too strong. He held her face with his hands and looked down at her pale, fear-ridden features. She pulled his hands off of her but it only further amused him. He smiled again,
then
reached for her, this time using a brutal grip around her waist while she struggled to keep him from kissing her.

"She's mine, Kineson."

Kineson looked behind him. Cain stood there, his right hand relaxed at his thigh, clearly ready to shoot the man's brains out.

"Get him off me," she
gasped,
her blue eyes frightened and angry. She looked to Cain, but his eyes turned ice cold. It was clear he didn't care to help her, only to retain what he considered his property.

Nonetheless, Kineson was furious. He spat, "What you mean by that, Cain? Why you helping this girlie?
You making
a claim on her?"

"Yeah."
Cain crossed his arms lazily over his chest.

"You ain't gonna share?"

"No."

Kineson stared at him. Cain returned the stare, unflinching. Between them, they fought a silent battle. But it was a standoff. Neither man relented. Soon Kineson's hand seemed to itch for his revolver. He put his palm around the pearl handle,
then
looked at Cain's hand.
A mistake.
Cain's notoriety as a gunman came from speed, precision, and, as Christal now knew well, the fact that he could read a man's eyes and be the one to shoot first. Kineson caught Cain's stare again, and she could tell the gang leader himself knew he was disadvantaged. Kineson stepped aside.

Christal could hardly believe it. The gang had taken its name from Kineson; Cain was only one of his minions carrying out the kidnapping. But now she wasn't sure who the real leader was. Kineson could be intimidated by Cain, as the rest of the men could.

Kineson turned and abruptly pointed to her, his white hair and mustache a contrast to his angry red face. He blurted out to Cain, "She's yours for now, but I ain't gonna lay so low as to see you giving her charity. She's a prisoner and don't you forget it." With a furious nod he said, "Go on, then. Have a go at her. Make her your woman. But do it now or stand aside."

Cain's magnificent cold eyes turned to her. Kineson had offered a test of his loyalties. He would rape her and pass, or save her and fail. She felt a chill crawl down her spine. His expression was shuttered, unreadable. Her mind fooled her. For one brief second she thought he looked as if he regretted what must be done, but the emotion, if it existed at all, was gone before his hands reached for her.

She ran from him, shoving away his hold, a cry catching in her throat. Her fear gave her unexpected strength, and she pushed through the circle of men to the outer fringes of firelight. Cain had told her to obey him, and that he might prove willing to protect her from being raped by the men in the gang. But never had he said who would protect her from being raped by him.

She was almost into the safety and darkness of the woods before he caught her. In a rough, quick motion he swung her into his embrace,
then
crushed his mouth down on hers. The men hooted and hollered the more she tried to fight. Her fists pushed against his chest, but it was like trying to move granite. Her head jerked right and left as she tried to avoid the bruising kiss. But she was losing. His lips moved forcibly on hers, and his unshaven jaw scorched her soft skin wherever there was contact.

Then his tongue lunged into her mouth. She should have bitten it, but the shock left her momentarily stunned. She broke his hold by twisting her head away. In the dim firelight, she stared up at him, terror surging within her.

His face was devoid of compassion. Nothing would stop him. He had a job to do, to rape and humiliate her and prove his loyalty to the gang, and he was determined to do it. He was going to rip away her pride and dignity and self-respect, but to him that would be a small price to pay for a few minutes of pleasure.

He kissed her, and this time she had the presence of mind to bite him. She sank her teeth into his probing tongue, he jerked his head back, and she could see blood on his lip. "Christ," he muttered, looking at the crimson smear on his hand where he'd run it across his mouth. That was
all the
pause she needed. She bolted. His hand snaked out to hold her and ripped the shoulder of her bodice. Tiny jet buttons sprayed over the grass, leaving him and the rest of the outlaws a good view of the full white flesh that peeked over the lace of her corset cover. By instinct, her hands covered her chest.
A fatal error.
He quickly had her in his embrace again, triumph in his eyes, but strangely, no satisfaction.

"God have mercy on your soul if you will have none on mine," she whispered, her words like acid before he silenced her with another kiss. Subduing her with superior strength, he forced her mouth open again, and she could taste the salty metallic essence of his blood, smell the animal scent of him, a rutting scent like that of territorial wolves. She released an inward sob.

She fought him with all her strength, but she was no match for him, as he had proven in the saloon. Quickly her hands hurt from hitting him, her lips were sore from trying to break free. Little by little her strength waned, and she came under his control. Until she realized she was going to lose. He had her. All he would have to do would be to lay her on the ground, throw her skirts over her head, and rape her in front of everyone through the open seam in her pantalettes. The innocence she had protected and nurtured within her core would be destroyed, and after tonight the girl she used to be would be gone. And another girl, one damaged and diminished, would be there to take her place.

Her legs buckled beneath her; his hand wrapped over her derriere and held her up. Behind them the men continued to jeer and laugh and applaud Cain's dominance. Distantly, she wondered what kind of monster would do this to a woman. His thumb pressed against the bottom of her breast as he held her waist, but, growing numb, she hardly felt it. She was in a daze by the time he stopped kissing her and led her out of the perimeter of light. Just beyond the firelight, there was a ramshackle lean-to ready to fall to the ground. He pushed her behind it, as if somehow he had some shame and wanted his privacy.

Behind the lean-to, she heard catcalls,
then
the men began to fall silent. The show was over; they made do with listening. Cain pushed her to the ground. The pine needles, dry from the summer heat, crackled beneath her skirts, but the ground was cold and its chill gave her one last moment of strength. She struggled with him, ripping the underarm of her sleeve. The gang seemed to like the noise of tearing fabric, for they mumbled and one man let loose a laugh. Finally his hands caught hers and pinned them to the ground. He covered her.

He
lay
there, his tall, lean body heavy upon her own. Her breath came hard and fast as she waited for the onslaught. At any moment, he would start fumbling with the buttons on his jeans. Desperately she tried to separate herself from her body, so that the damage might only be physical.

"Cry out," he breathed into her ear, shifting his weight and grunting in the process.

She shut her eyes and refused his perverse
request,
glad she couldn't see him in the dark.

He groaned and shifted his weight again. "I said cry out, moan, whimper," he whispered. "Do it."

Her eyes flew open. She couldn't see his face, and now she cursed the dark. It seemed trickery, but she could have sworn there was something in his voice that seemed willing to help her.

He shifted again and his legs lay between her parted thighs. She felt every inch of his hardened frame, but he had yet to unfasten his trousers or lift her skirts.