Cinnamon and Roses (15 page)

"We'd better go in,” she said, rising carefully to keep her stomach from protesting. “It's about time to start supper.” She had no idea how she could deal with preparing a meal on top of everything else that had happened today.

Rebecca tensed when Caleb entered the bedroom, not turning to face him. She had avoided meeting his gaze all through dinner, taken an extra-long time to clean up, and sneaked upstairs before he and his father had finished their nightly discussion in the study over a cigar for Holbrook and glass of brandy for Caleb.

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the side of her neck.

"Something's different,” he said, licking the lobe of her ear.
“Flowers."

"Roses,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Megan let me use her rose perfume."

"
Mmm
.
Then why do you still smell so spicy?"

She leaned back against him, for a moment feeling safe and protected, as she had of late, in his arms.
“Because I threw a cinnamon stick in my bath water, as usual."

He groaned and pulled her closer, if that was possible. “The combination is irresistible."

"I don't know if Megan will want me borrowing her perfume all the time, though.” Her heart beat a little faster when Caleb's hand trailed down the outside other thigh. It delighted and excited her that he'd not only noticed her new fragrance but also seemed to enjoy it.

"To hell with Megan,” he said, cupping her breast in his hand. “I'll buy you your own. Damn. You keep smelling this good, and I'll buy you a bucket of the stuff."

She laughed. “You like it then?"

He growled and bit her collarbone, dragging the thin lawn nightgown up to bunch at her hips.

Rebecca sucked on her lower lip, knowing what she must do but dreading it all the same. She had to do it now, before Caleb made love to her and drifted off to sleep.
Before she started feeling warm and tingly and guilty as sin.

"Caleb, I need to ask a favor."

"Hmm?"

"Caleb, this is serious.” She turned in his arms, trying to distract him from an overly sensitive spot he'd discovered just below her right breast.

"I'm listening,” he said, his lips moving against her throat.

"The Wednesday Group dropped by today, and—"

"Who?"

"The women who used to come to me for dresses.
Caleb!
” Rebecca swatted at his hand when it swept between her thighs.

"What about them?"

"I agreed to continue sewing for them."

"Good,” he said, and she knew he was hardly paying attention to a word she said.

"Could I borrow some money? I have to buy supplies.” The lie slipped past her lips a little too easily for her comfort.

Caleb put his hands behind her knees and lifted her legs around his waist, heading for the foot of the bed, “I'll leave you a bank draft in the morning. Take as much as you need."

"Thank you,” she said, gasping as her buttocks rubbed against the cool wood of the bed frame.

"No. Thank
you,
” he said, and let her fall back onto the mattress.

As he'd promised, Caleb left a blank bank draft on the desk in the study. When Rebecca walked in and saw it lying there, she sat down and cried. She tried to tell herself that she was just being emotional because of the baby, but even as her mind registered that excuse, she knew it wasn't true. She cried because things had been going so well, and because—damn it all!—she was starting to fall in love with Caleb.

When their marriage started they had been as ornery as two stallions fighting over a herd of mares, but since then things had calmed down considerably. They had come to something of an unspoken understanding, and Rebecca couldn't deny that she looked forward to watching the sun go down, knowing that in those dark hours of the night Caleb would make her feel things she had never thought possible,
do
things to her body that she had always considered taboo.

But it was more than the physical pleasure. It wasn't just that making love with Caleb didn't make her feel cheap and tawdry, as she'd always expected it would. It was that Caleb seemed to ... care.

Each day when he returned home from work, he sought her out and asked about her day. He kissed her considerately on the cheek if they were not alone, passionately on the lips if they were. And how could she miss the way he rushed through the meetings with his father to retire early with her?

Caleb made her feel the way she'd always dreamt of feeling. Their wedding had been hurried, the joining far from idyllic, but somehow he made her happy to be his wife.
And proud—so very proud—to be carrying his child.
A child she would always love and cherish with all her heart and strength.

Rebecca spanned the slight swell of her abdomen with her hands, still utterly amazed that a life was growing there inside, her. A life that she already loved and would risk all to protect. The reason behind what she was about to do.

In the long hours of the night, while Caleb dozed beside her, Rebecca had thought a lot about her own mother's threat. She didn't fear for herself. Not really. Caleb would surely be furious to discover her secret, and perhaps he would even send her away, opting to provide for his child from a distance. Or maybe he would want to protect the child by being rid of its mother completely. The thought of divorce hurt too much to even consider.

Still, she was not paying her mother off to protect her own reputation; she was doing it for her son or daughter. What child should have to deal with the taunts of others because of his mother's past, because she had grown up in a brothel?

Her child would not. If she had to
lie
, cheat, and steal, Rebecca swore that her child would never have to suffer even a fraction of the pain she had growing up.

With renewed determination, she dried her eyes and picked up the paper that held their entire future in the balance. She offered up a short, desperate prayer and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.

"Mrs. Adams.
How nice to see you.”
The bank clerk beamed at her from behind the counter.

She swallowed, uncomfortable at being called Mrs. Adams after so many years of being just plain Rebecca. She smiled nonetheless.

"Your husband said you would probably be stopping in today."

"Caleb was here?” Her throat became suddenly dry.

"Yes, ma'am.
He came by to tell us you were allowed to draw money out of his account."

"Yes,” she said. “He left me a bank draft."

The clerk nodded. “I know you're his wife an’ all, but you couldn't have made use of his money without his written permission. Bank policy, you know."

"I see,” Rebecca said. A trickle of perspiration was beginning to gather between her breasts, and it had nothing to do with the hot August sun.

"So then, what can I do for you?"

She removed the paper from her reticule and smoothed her hands over it before sliding the bank draft across the countertop. “You can show me how to fill this out for five hundred dollars."

Rebecca saw the clerk's mouth drop open and his eyes bulge. He reacted the same way she had, the same way she would expect of anyone within earshot of the huge figure.

"
Fi
—five hundred?"

Rebecca smiled as though she spent that amount every day of her life. She was, after all, an Adams now.
Time to start thinking like one.
She tried to incorporate some of the self-assurance Caleb always exuded into her demeanor.

"Yes. I'm planning many household improvements."

The clerk was still in a dazed state when Rebecca collected her money and waved good-bye. By then, her camisole was clinging to her damp skin, and her nerves were worn down to mere pinpricks racing the length of her spine.

The large grandfather clock in the bank showed it to be two-forty-eight, so Rebecca made her way along the boardwalk, smiling and nodding to everyone she passed. She avoided the Adams Express office altogether, afraid she would not be able to keep up her brave front with Caleb.

As inconspicuously as possible, she walked around the Dog Tick Saloon, careful not to step in broken glass or any of the foul-smelling puddles that lined the side of the building. Rebecca remembered only too clearly the number of visitors to the Scarlet
Gastor
who had slept off the evening's alcohol in alleys, along with the stench of urine that often accompanied them.

She raised her head, expecting her mother to emerge from the back door of the establishment. But she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Kate, dressed in one of her usual flashy dresses and stuffing a dangling lock of fire-red hair back into its arrangement, coming toward her from the opposite direction, a smug smile plastered to her face.

Kate's smile never wavered as she waltzed up to her daughter, hips swaying. “I knew you'd come,” she said, gaily patting the bodice of her gaudy working-girl garb. “Just conducting a little business out back of the livery while I waited."

For one brief moment, Rebecca thought about running away and never looking back. But Kate's threat echoed in her mind, and she knew she had to appease her mother or risk having her child's life ruined by the bitter, hateful woman.

Rebecca knew her mother was waiting for a reaction to the remark—shock, aversion, indignation—but she remained silent, impassive, feeling only a deep sense of sadness and pity.

"Did you bring it?” Kate demanded.

Rebecca clutched her reticule more tightly and swallowed, her brain racing to find some other option, some other way to pacify her mother's resentment and greed.

"Did you bring the money?” Kate's voice remained low, but urgency edged her words this time.

"Yes."

Kate blinked but didn't move. “All of it?"

Rebecca nodded.

"Give it to me.” Kate came forward with the speed of a raging tornado. She yanked the bag from Rebecca's hands and ripped it open, dragging out the packet of bills. She rubbed them between her fingers, even brought them to her nose to smell.

Rebecca stepped back, only too eager to be away. She tugged at the drawstrings of her bag and turned to leave.

"You got this awfully fast."

Rebecca stopped in her tracks. The blood in her veins seemed to chill.

"I'll bet you didn't have a wink of trouble, either."

Rebecca took another step, then another, hoping to get away from Kate before she said anything else.

"I want more."

That made Rebecca spin
to face her mother once again. “What you have there is more than enough."

"I've changed my mind. I want a thousand."

Rebecca stared in shocked disbelief. “I can't possibly get another five hundred dollars."

"No, no.” Kate laughed, fondling the money in her hands. “I want a thousand more.
One thousand more U.S. dollar bills.
Crisp, clean, and all mine. Bring them here tomorrow afternoon."

"Caleb would never let me have that much. I've already gotten five hundred. Don't you think he'll become a little suspicious if fifteen hundred dollars suddenly disappears from his bank account?"

"I don't care. That's not my problem. Just get it."

Rebecca closed her eyes and let her shoulders go slack. “I can't get it by tomorrow. I'll need more time."

"Tomorrow.
Right here.
One o'clock.” Kate stuck a finger in her daughter's face. “Don't cross me, Rebecca. There are a lot of people right inside that saloon who would love to know who the new Mrs. Adams really is and where she came from. Just remember that if you start thinking I'll go away easily."

Kate strutted through the back entrance into the Dog Tick.

Rebecca headed for the buggy parked in front of the bank, then drove to her old house. She felt cold and disoriented, unconscious of her movements, unable to register the fact that she had to find so much more money for her mother. She only knew that she had to have extra sewing supplies when Caleb arrived home this evening, to help account for her bank withdrawal.

The first thing she noticed about her cabin was a thick layer of dust on the porch and steps, blown up from the street. A few barely visible footprints led to the door, but Rebecca thought nothing of it. Someone had probably come needing the craft of a needle, only to find the house empty.

She twisted the key in its hole, and the lock clicked open. Rebecca stepped into the house and gasped at what she saw.

The stove top looked like a mountain peak covered with thick white snow. Canisters had been upset and tossed to the floor—flour, salt, sugar, all her spices spilled. Rebecca could see a fine cloud of powder whirled about by the slight breeze drifting in from the open door.

The parlor was also in shambles, bolts of fabric strewn from one end to the other, every inch of material ripped and ruined. Strips of lace lay in tiny ragged pieces. Buttons, hooks, and needles were scattered across the floor. Spools of thread were unbound and left in clumps like tumbleweeds.

She took a step forward, her foot crunching on the shards of a broken tea cup. Rebecca bent to pick up the fragment of china. Half of a small, delicately painted blue flower filled her vision. Widow Fitzgerald's most prized tea service. In the years since Octavia's death, Rebecca had only ever chipped the rim of one cup. It had taken her two hours to mend it properly, but after all that work, the nick had been nearly invisible. And now the china lay smashed into millions of tiny pieces, dust beneath her feet.

At the sound of someone behind her, Rebecca swung around, still in a crouch. When her legs twisted in the fabric of her petticoats, she put a hand out to catch herself, mindless of the broken china that would most certainly shred her palms to ribbons.

"Careful,” Caleb warned, grabbing her upper arms and helping her to stand. “Christ. What the hell happened here?"

Rebecca's face had lost all color, and she weaved slightly.

"Are you all right? Did you cut yourself?” He grabbed her hands, searching for any sign of blood. Then he lifted her skirt, examining the folds for tears. He shook the hem to dislodge a few clinging china shavings, patting her legs and waist for any sign of injury.

"I'm fine,” Rebecca said, pulling the fabric out of his hands. “Why are you here?"

Caleb straightened. He narrowed his eyes and studied
her,
curious to know why she was being so aloof toward him. Perhaps she was in shock over the damage to what used to be her home. “I was running an errand and saw the buggy here. I came to check on you,” he said in a quiet, neutral tone. “Who did this, Rebecca?” he asked.

"I don't know,” she answered.
“Probably some drunken cowhands."

"They never bothered you before, did they?” His heart lurched in his breast as images suddenly filled his mind. He didn't think he could live with the knowledge that Rebecca had been harmed or even dangerously harassed.

"No. But they probably discovered the house empty and decided to have a little fun."

Caleb wanted to pull Rebecca into his arms and comfort her, but he didn't think she would welcome the gesture just now. Though her eyes were wide, he noticed the tight set of her jaw. Rebecca was no wilting lily, and he doubted she would appreciate his treating her as such.

"I wonder,” he answered and stepped farther into the parlor. His boots grated over broken china. “Leavenworth men may get drunk, and they may get rowdy, but I've never known them to be purposely destructive.
Especially to someone else's property."

He swept back a length of turquoise satin that had been draped over the settee. Stuffing poured out of the cushions like a frothy waterfall. Caleb let out a muffled curse and threw the fabric back over the ruined piece of furniture.

"Then who could have done this?” Rebecca asked.

"Was the door locked?"

"Of course,” she snapped.

Pink began to seep back into her cheeks, and Caleb lowered his head to hide a smile. It would take more than a few torn pieces of fabric to keep his Rebecca down.

He stepped toward her, but as he did so, the toe of his boot sent some small object flying. It slid across the floor and clanged into the leg of the stove. Caleb leaned over to retrieve it and came up with a pair of shears.

"These yours?”
The scissors swung back and forth on his index finger like a pendulum ticking away the time. The blades were nicked in several places, the tips bent.

She nodded.
“My extra pair.
I don't use them often. The good pair is at your house. Those I kept in a box under my bed."

Rebecca's face whitened.
“Oh, God.”
She pushed past Caleb and ran for the bedroom. She held aside the curtain that separated it from the rest of the house and stared. Her quilt lay in shreds, taken apart almost piece by piece but by no means neatly.

Caleb saw the damage, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Who would have done something so destructive, so hurtful?
Surely not someone who had stumbled in from the street.
He could understand if things had been stolen, but whoever did this must have been truly demented.

"Come on,” he said, taking her shoulders and turning her toward the door. “I'm sure this is all somebody's sick idea of fun. I'll report it to the marshal."

"Who would do this?” Rebecca asked. Her words were laced with fury.

He turned her face up to his. “Don't you worry about it, do you hear me? I'll see to everything.” He put an arm around her shoulders and helped her through the house to the front door.

"
Dammit
!” Rebecca cursed for the hundredth time and stuck a stinging finger into her mouth to absorb the small bead of blood there. She was preparing a roast for dinner but slicing her fingers more than the carrots or potatoes.

Her mind was on other
things, that was
for certain. After everything that had happened already today, it was no wonder her head throbbed.

She probably should have been worried about who had destroyed her house, but that wasn't what caused the sledgehammer pounding in her brain. She had to come up with a way to explain her huge bank withdrawal to Caleb—and to get one thousand dollars more from him. If only she could sell her little cabin overnight and get some funds quickly. Now however, that would be more impossible than ever.

Replacing the ruined supplies from her house was one excuse to give Caleb, but what would she say if he finally started noticing there were never any new materials around? She couldn't pay off her mother and buy a huge new sewing stock.

The front door slammed, and Rebecca nearly dropped to her knees, sure her head was about to explode.

She heard heavy feet stomp up the stairs, still for a moment, then begin again. Through her headache she dimly wondered what Caleb seemed to be searching the house for.

She guided her paring knife over a large potato and watched the skin peel off onto the pile of other scraps. When the kitchen door crashed back against the wall behind her, she jumped. The blade of the knife slipped and hit the palm of her hand. It was a small cut, but it hurt nonetheless.

Rebecca whirled around, pressing her otherwise white apron to the wound. “Would you like to try again?” she asked, her voice sharp with her frayed nerves. “Maybe next time I can manage to sever my wrist."

Caleb stalked over and grasped her arm. He lifted the apron and dabbed away the blood. “It's going to be all right,” he said.

"Well, it hurts like the devil,” she told him, pulling her hand away and turning back to the counter. She didn't bother to mention the half dozen other pricks on her fingers.

"It'll heal. Rebecca, I need to talk to you."

Rebecca noticed a cold edge to his words and gripped the knife handle until her fingers turned white. “So talk,” she said, trying to sound flippant. In truth her heart beat ten times faster than normal.

"In the study,” he said, walking toward the door.

Rebecca stood at the counter, frozen in place.

Caleb came back and grabbed her elbow in a tight grip.
“In the study.
Now."

For a split second, she considered taking the paring knife with her, just in case. But logic soon broke through her fear, and she put down the would-be defensive weapon.

She went with Caleb, his grip never loosening. “Let go,” she said, shaking her arm. When he didn't respond she stopped dead in her tracks, digging her heels as best she could into the hardwood floor. “I'll come with you, but let go."

He stopped and gazed at her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he dropped his hand from her elbow and continued on to the study. Rebecca followed more slowly, stopping just inside the door.

"Sit."

She raised an eyebrow. No matter how much trouble she was in, she had no intention of taking orders from some cold, rude, short-tempered barbarian.
Even if he was her husband.

"You needn't order me around. I'm quite comfortable standing, thank you. And if you wish to discuss something with me, try speaking like a human being rather than a beast
who's
lived in a cave all its life. Complete sentences would be a good place to start.” Her words were brave, but inside, Rebecca's stomach was trying to turn itself inside out.

Caleb inclined his head.
“Very well.
If the lady wishes for complete sentences, the lady shall get complete sentences.” He strode to her side and propelled her forward, at the same time throwing the door closed behind them. “You may sit down of your own accord, or I will tie you into the chair. Is that understood?"

Rebecca pursed her lips primly, deciding not to call him on this particular bluff. “Quite.” She moved in front of the leather armchair and smoothed her skirt before perching on the edge of the seat.

"What did you do this afternoon?"

Her heart thudded in her breast, but she kept her voice even. “Pardon me?"