Cinnamon and Roses (11 page)

Even as she contemplated it, though, she knew she could never bring herself to kill her child.

She could give the baby
away,
turn it over to an orphanage. But she could hardly stand the thought of that, either.

Even if she did decide to give the child away, what would she do until it was born? She couldn't stay in Leavenworth if she ever expected to keep her business and her reputation.

The one thing that came to mind time after time seemed to be her only option. She would have a place to stay, perhaps even be able to raise the child herself. And in exchange ... well, she wouldn't worry about that now.

Rebecca straightened from the couch, wiping her eyes, trying to compose herself long enough to pack. A change of clothes, her hidden stash of money...?

She wouldn't need much to work at the Scarlet Garter.

Standing in the middle of the street, Caleb squinted, trying to make his vision clearer. From the corner of his eye, he had seen Rebecca stumble out of Doc Meade's office. He'd turned and watched her run home. She looked upset. He even thought he'd seen tears.

Caleb scoffed. He didn't know why he cared. Rebecca had kept her pledge; she hadn't been anywhere near him for the past month. She refused to even acknowledge him with more than a curt nod when they met in public, while he was almost always aroused now, wanting her.

His only hope was to get away from her.
Far away.
Where memories of her might cease to plague him.
But here he was, still in Leavenworth, when he should have returned to
New York
weeks ago. For his father showed no signs of recovering from whatever ailed him. He still hacked and coughed and reminded Caleb that he needed someone to help run the Express.

"Look out, mister!"

Caleb moved just in time to miss being trampled by an oncoming feed wagon. He shook his head and continued toward his destination. He'd promised to post Megan's letter—along with a short note of his own—to Mother. Veronica had written often of late, fretting over Megan's well-being and Caleb's extended absence. She'd even threatened to travel to
Kansas
herself, just to make sure Holbrook was handling everything properly.

When he left the post office, his head automatically turned in the direction of Rebecca's house. Why had she been to see Doc Meade? And what had upset her to the point of tears?

His feet began to move, stopping only when he found himself standing on her front porch. Slanting his head, he tried to spot her through the glass, to no avail. The curtain kept him from seeing inside.

He thought he heard movement through the open windows.
Footsteps.
Something clanging to the floor.
Using the knuckles of two fingers, he tapped lightly. A second later the door opened with a harsh whoosh. Rebecca stared up at him with glossy, red-rimmed eyes. She made a sound deep in her throat and slammed the door in his face.

Before he could think, Caleb pushed open the door and walked into the house.

Rebecca turned, halfway to her bedroom. “Get out."

He ignored her demand. “Are you all right?"

"Get out,” she repeated. Grabbing the nearest thing—one of many tea tins scattered across the floor—she drew back her arm and hurled it at his face.

Caleb ducked, and the object glanced off his shoulder. “Don't,” he warned when she reached for another.

She paid him no mind. The second struck him in the jaw.

Tea tins rained down upon him, and he could do nothing but wait until she ran out of ammunition. When she did, Caleb looked up to see her grab the leg of a small end table. He stalked forward and captured her arms, tightening his grip until she released the piece of furniture.

She struggled and managed to get one arm loose. Snatching up a leather-bound book, Rebecca pulled back and smacked him over the head with the thick volume.

"That's enough!” Caleb bellowed. He shook Rebecca's hand until the book fell to the floor. Then he wrapped her in an iron grip, pinning her arms to her sides with one of his own, her back to his chest.

"Goddamn,” Caleb swore, rubbing his head. “What's wrong with you?"

She kicked his shin with the heel of her shoe, making him yelp. He let go, and she staggered to the wall. She leaned against it for several seconds, her breathing ragged. Caleb kept her in sight, one hand on his stinging leg, the other massaging the bump on his skull.

"Would you like to tell me what the hell is going on?” he
asked,
his voice much calmer than he felt.

"I want you out of my house,” Rebecca said.

"Yes, I gathered as much. My question is, why? I understand that we didn't part on friendly terms the night of the dance, but I hardly thought you would try to kill me the next time I set foot in your house."

"You thought wrong. Get out.” Rebecca turned and disappeared into her bedroom.

Caleb wondered if she really expected him to leave. He had no intention of doing that, however. Not until he got some answers. He strode over to the curtain and yanked it aside. Rebecca stood at the bed, shoving garments and personal items into a faded carpetbag.

"What are you doing?” he asked.

She didn't spare him a glance.
“Packing."

"Why?"

"I'm leaving Leavenworth."

He frowned. “Where are you going?"

Silence.

"
Why
are you going?"

Still no answer.

He tried another tack. “I thought you liked living here. You have this little house that you've decorated so nicely. I'm sure it took a lot of time to sew so many pretty curtains. I'll bet you made this, too.” He ran a hand over the patchwork quilt on the bed.

He saw tears well in her eyes and knew she didn't want to leave. So why was she doing just that?

"And your business,” Caleb pressed, his voice soft and encouraging. “You've become a successful seamstress with a loyal clientele. Why would you want to give all that up?"

"I don't,” Rebecca cried. “I don't want to give up any of it.” She grabbed the handles of her valise and tried to pass into the other room.

He caught her arm and turned her to face him. “Then why are you?” he asked quietly.

"I don't have a choice.” Her voice grew louder with every word. “I can't stay."

Caleb lost his patience.
“Why the hell not?
Why all the goddamn secrecy, Rebecca? Are you rushing off to meet a lover?"

Rebecca's small hand felt like a two-by-four when it came in contact with his cheek. Caleb bit down on his tongue, resisting the urge to throttle her.

"What a cruel question,” she said in a tone of voice that let him know she thought him despicable. “Do you want to know why I'm leaving? Do you really want to know?"

"Yes,” he bit out, exasperated.

"All right, I'll tell you."

"Good.” He exhaled a long, ragged breath.

"I'm going to have a baby."

The sting of Rebecca's slap was nothing compared to the burning Caleb now felt in his belly.
Like flames igniting and climbing up through his chest.
An annoying hum sounded in his ears, and he swayed slightly. “What did you say?"

"You heard me. I'm going to have a baby."

When he didn't respond, Rebecca turned and walked away. He watched as she passed through the flower-curtained doorway, sidestepped the clutter from their battle in the parlor, and moved on to the kitchen. She turned then, dropping the valise to the floor and crossing her arms over her chest.

Caleb thought she looked expectant in another way.
As though she wanted something from him.
And somehow, despite his earlier offers to give her whatever she desired, it disappointed him. Angered him, the more he thought about it. For maybe she'd found his initial offer too paltry for her tastes.
And had invented a way to demand much more.

He caught a thumb in the pocket of his pants and smiled grimly. “Nice try, Rebecca."

Her lashes lowered, brows coming together in a frown.

"You're a good actress, I'll give you that. There for a minute, I almost believed you were actually pregnant."

"I am,” she said softly.

"Oh, yes. And I'm supposed to do right by you, is that it? How long after the wedding will you come, teary-eyed, to tell me you lost the baby?"

A hand dropped to her stomach protectively.

She's quite convincing,
he thought. If he hadn't seen the drama played out by some of the most skilled courtesans in New York City, he almost would have believed her.
Almost.

"Better luck next time, sweetheart,” he said in her ear as he passed.

The front door crashed back against its frame, and Caleb took the porch steps two at a time, heading for the Dog Tick. The saloon opened just as he arrived, and the barkeep showed a yellow-toothed smile as he handed Caleb a bottle of the establishment's finest bourbon.

Caleb sat at a corner table and poured three fingers of whiskey into a spotty glass. Knocking it back and pouring another, he balanced his chair on two legs but didn't drink again. An index finger circled the rim of the glass as he stared intently into the brown liquid.

A fire blazed in his gut. Not from the alcohol, but because, for all his doubts and vows to the contrary, he had begun to let Rebecca into his heart.

Oh, he didn't fancy himself in love with her. Nothing as poetic as all that. But he had begun to ... care. He'd found himself thinking of her at the oddest times. And once—though Caleb was loathe
to admit
it—he had even envisioned coming home to her at the end of a long day, eating dinner with her, talking with her, making love with her.

He shook his head and emptied the glass.

She was trying to force him into marriage. Rebecca hadn't said as much, but what other reason could she have to fake a pregnancy? The Adams name would bring her wealth and prestige, things she could never gain on her own.

But what if she really was pregnant, as she claimed?

The idea brought the front legs of his chair to the floor with a thump. If there was a child, Caleb had no doubt of its parentage. He'd accused Rebecca of having other lovers, but only out of anger and frustration. He was the first and only man she'd been with, of that he was certain.

With this new and disturbing thought racing through his brain, Caleb pushed back his chair and walked out of the saloon, the bottle of bourbon on the scarred tabletop forgotten.

He crossed the street to Doc Meade's office and pushed open the door. A plump young woman sat with a runny-nosed boy squirming on her lap, another playing at her feet. Caleb took a seat, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the doctor to examine the woman and her—three, it turned out—children.

When the sneezing, sniffling family left, Caleb leapt to his feet and met Doc Meade coming out of the examining room. The doctor's bushy gray eyebrows weaved together as he contemplated Caleb. “Caleb, is something wrong? It's not your father, is it?” He reached for his medical bag, ready to head out the door.

"No,” Caleb said, stopping him. “Dad's the same."

"Not better yet?” he asked, dropping into one of the
straightbacked
chairs that lined the wall. “I tell you, I can't figure it out. Holbrook is as strong as an ox otherwise, but I don't know what's causing that blasted cough."

Caleb nodded distractedly. “I'm here about something else."

"Well, what is it?” Meade asked, pulling a chair away from the wall and motioning for Caleb to sit.

Caleb rested his arms on his knees as he leaned forward in his seat. “Did you see Rebecca this morning?"

The doctor sat back and shook his head. “You know better, young man. I'm not going to tell you about any of my patients."

"I understand that you
wouldnt
under normal circumstances, Doctor Meade, and that's very admirable of you. But in this case, I was hoping you'd see the importance of my knowing about the examination. You see, Rebecca says she's carrying a child."

The doctor crossed his arms over his chest but said nothing.

Caleb cleared his throat and continued, uncomfortable with what he was about to reveal. “If this is true,
sir, then I deserve
to know, because that would mean I am to be a father."

To his credit, Meade's face remained impassive.

"So I'm asking again. Did you tell Rebecca this morning that she's with child?"

The doctor pushed back his chair and stood. “If the young lady told you she's
havin
’ a baby, and you're the father, why don't you believe her?"

Caleb shifted uncomfortably under the elderly man's intense scrutiny. “The young lady and I shared words, sir,” he explained without elaboration. “I have reason to believe she may be telling me this only to ... complicate matters."

"Yes, well...” The doctor cleared his throat. “I've known Rebecca for years. She's not the kind of a girl to tell lies. I suggest you two work things out.” He walked toward the other room.

Caleb stood. “Yes, sir, I intend to. Sir, about the—"

"Child.
Yes. Rebecca came to see me this morning, and I told her she's a little more than a month along. I hope you understand that I'm only telling you this because a child needs a father.” The doctor looked pointedly at Caleb. “And Rebecca will
be needing
a husband."

Rebecca took one last look at the room that had been her home for the latter part of her life. The setting sun shone through a west window, casting a bright streak of light across the floor and rocking chair. She squeezed the handle of her valise and willed herself not to cry, thinking of all the evenings she had sat in that very spot to sew, basking in the warm glow. Now she was going back to the very place she'd run from as a girl, to the same sorry life her mother led. Soon she would have a child of her own to
raise
. That child would grow up in a whorehouse, too, and probably run away at the age of thirteen.

She sniffed and ran a hand across her face, surprised to find it wet with tears. Why did something like this have to happen? Just when she had begun to sleep through the night without fearing she would awake in the back room of a brothel.

The front door opened without warning, and Rebecca looked up to see Caleb standing there. Her jaw clenched, and she straightened her spine. “What are you doing here?"

"I came to take you home. Come on.” He came forward and put a hand out for her bag.

She swung the valise behind her, out of his reach.

"Look,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I want you to come home with me tonight. I talked to Reverend Patterson, and he agreed to the necessity of a quick wedding. He'll be at the house in the morning to conduct the ceremony."

Rebecca
retreated
a step. She looked at Caleb in astonishment. First he accused her of trying to trap him into marriage; now he stood in the middle of her house, insisting they be wed. Her stomach began to roll, and she took a deep breath, fighting the need to run. She closed her eyes to keep the room from spinning.

"Absolutely not.
You have no right to make plans for my life. Who do you think you are?” Her voice rose, and Rebecca could feel herself shaking.

"The baby's father,” Caleb replied calmly.

"Two hours ago you didn't even believe I was pregnant,” she reminded him, glaring.

He glanced at the floorboards and shifted, sticking his hands into his pockets. “How do you plan to provide for the child?"

Rebecca thought of the tiny, dark room at the Scarlet Garter that she had lived in for thirteen years. And the larger but not much nicer rooms
Lilah
provided for the girls. She could survive there, but what right did she have to consign an innocent child to that kind of hell? Or the hell of growing up in an orphanage, abandoned by those who were supposed to love him most of all?

She looked into Caleb's eyes, trying to see something there. That he cared, just a little, for her or the child they'd created together. She saw nothing but determination and ... bitterness.

Rebecca certainly understood that. She was bitter, too. Since the moment Caleb Adams had brought his mistress to her for a dress, he had turned Rebecca's life upside down. Now he was trying to goad her into a loveless marriage. Ha! Love—or lack of it—was the least of their problems. She and Caleb couldn't be in the same room without wanting to do murder.

For the benefit of the child, could she take vows with him?
We don't even much like each other,
she thought.

"We don't have to,” Caleb answered, and Rebecca realized she had said it aloud. “We just have to give this child a name."

The back of her eyes began to sting, and she blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. By marrying Caleb, she could give her child a name, something she had been denied.

"Come on.” He took her hand lightly in his own and led her toward the door.

Rebecca thought she had put all doubts out of her mind, but the minute Caleb led her into the Adams home, she balked. She didn't belong in this fancy house, with these sophisticated people. She was only a seamstress, the daughter of a prostitute, for God's sake.

She turned and headed back out the door. “I can't,” she mumbled.

He held her arm. “Yes, you can."

"No.” She lifted her head, meeting Caleb's burning gaze. “I don't belong here.” His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arm, and she winced.

"We are going to sit down to a nice meal with my family, do you understand? All you have to do is smile. I'll explain it to them later."

She watched Caleb set her carpetbag at the foot of the stairs before following him into the dining room. Holbrook and Megan were seated at the table, awaiting the evening meal.

"Everyone,” Caleb announced, “Rebecca is going to be staying with us for a while."

Megan jumped up from her chair, ran around the table, and hugged Rebecca. “Oh, that's wonderful. I'm so glad you're here. How long can you stay?"

"Let's just sit down and eat dinner, Megan.
All right?
I'll answer your questions later.” He guided Rebecca to the seat across from his sister before taking his own place at the table.

The meal passed in relative silence. Megan tried several times to start a conversation, but each attempt was met by tense silence. Holbrook looked on with mild curiosity as Caleb brooded and Rebecca pushed the food around her plate nervously.

Finally, giving up the pretense of a quiet family gathering, Caleb stood, pulling Rebecca's chair out to help her stand.

"Now will you tell me what's going on?” Megan asked, joining them on the other side of the table.

"Later,” Caleb said brusquely. “Why don't you show Rebecca upstairs and help her unpack. Her bag is by the steps."

Megan huffed about being left out yet again but led Rebecca away without a quarrel.

Caleb took one look at his father's face and sighed. “Perhaps we should talk in the study,” he said, starting in that direction.

His father sat down behind his desk, sucking on a large cigar, while Caleb leaned back in a brown leather chair, resting an ankle on his knee. “Maybe your cough would get better if you stopped smoking those foul things."

"A man needs to relax at the end of a long day, Caleb."

He shrugged, knowing arguing was futile.

"So, are you going to tell me why you brought her here?"

"We're getting married."

Holbrook did cough then, exhaling a gray haze of smoke. When he regained his breath, he looked at Caleb with wide eyes and demanded an explanation.

Caleb thought about breaking the news gently but knew his father would rather hear it straight. “She's pregnant."

Caleb expected his father to start another round of coughing. He was more surprised when Holbrook didn't breathe at all for several seconds before speaking.

"Are you the father?"

"Yes.” Caleb braced himself for a
lecture,
sure his father would have something to say about letting his member lead him in the wrong direction.