Katherine O’Neal (25 page)

As she watched, the Indian began to show Mace
some of her routine. There was no doubt she was talented. Lithe as
a puma, she could stretch her form into contortions that seemed
impossible, balancing this way and that before effecting multiple
flips in the air. Mace watched for a time, then, with lips moving,
took her waist in his hands. The pang in Saranda’s heart was so
sharp, she clutched it. A venomous rage filled her as she watched
his hands move along the brunette’s limber body. He twisted her,
bent her, then lifted her high so she could use him as leverage and
add yet another flip to her routine.

The worst of it was how well they looked
together. Both dark and tall, both with the sleek bodies of
acrobats, they moved together with enviable grace. With an inborn
instinct, Flying Dove caught onto Mace’s ideas at once, moving her
body with and against his so they seemed to dance together in a
ballet whose music only they could hear.

Saranda had never been jealous in her life.
Yet she was so eaten up by the force of her emotions, watching his
hands travel over that woman’s body, recalling the magic they’d
performed on her own, that she could no longer stand to watch.
Taking a strong cup of tea in with her, she secreted herself back
in the wagon.

When it was dark, Mace came in carrying a
plate of corn bread and beans.

“Has she been sufficiently schooled for one
day?” she asked caustically.

He gave her a grin as he placed the food
before her, then dropped onto one of the bunks. “What’s the matter?
Feeling neglected?”

“Hardly. I was just reflecting on the
hardships of the job you’ve taken to hand.”

“Strictly business, I assure you.”

“The chat is, her acrobatics extend beyond
the show ring.”

“Indeed?” He raised a teasing brow. “You’ve
intrigued me.”

Belatedly, she cursed herself. She recalled
her father’s words in the early days of her training:
Be wary of
making a suggestion you’d just as soon not plant in their minds.
Often, the other person hasn’t thought of the idea. Once you've
placed it in their heads, they can think of little else.
She
abruptly changed the subject. “Where are we headed?”

He pulled out a map and showed her. “If we
head due east, there’s more likelihood of being detected. So, I
thought we’d throw them offtrack. Head south, hitting the smaller
towns across Oklahoma, part of Arkansas, and down to New Orleans.
From there, we can catch a steamer for New York and make up for
lost time. It’s a circuitous route, but they won’t be expecting us
to take the long way back. Although it will no doubt rob us of
precious time, it may also enable us to travel unimpeded.”

She had to agree it made sense, even if she
was anxious about the upcoming ordeal. In spite of her
protestations to the contrary, she was trusting him with a great
deal. Never before had she returned to face the music. Always, her
prime concern after the completion of a con was to disappear. It
was in her nature to run away. It made her nervous to think of
facing charges that might well end in her being hanged for murder.
Mace had assured her he’d rescue her from such a fate. But a
suspicious inner voice kept nagging her:
What if he’s leading
you into a trap?

“You seem to have it all planned,” she
commented as she sampled the beans.

His face lighted up, then, on the verge of
some glib remark, settled into suspicious lines. “What have I
neglected?”

“Oh, I was just wondering what accommodations
you’d made for the more practical aspects of this venture. The
sleeping arrangements, for instance.”

“Well, now. I hadn’t thought of it.”

“There are three wagons. The one is full to
bursting with women already. None of whom, I might add, seem too
awfully fond of
me
. The costume wagon is so jammed full of
paraphernalia that there’s no room for a body. That leaves only one
other possibility.”

“And what’s that, Princess?” he asked in a
tone that set her toes to tingling.

“You know bloody well what that is.”

“I suppose it means you’ll have to share this
wagon with me.”

“Actually, I was thinking more along the
lines of sleeping here by myself.”

“And where, pray tell, am I supposed to
sleep?”

“It’s a lovely warm night. I should think
sleeping under the stars would suit you.”

His flash of temper seared her as he stood
and towered over her. “It doesn’t suit me. You can sleep across the
room if you’re so bloody shy all of a sudden.”

“Now, darling, you know yourself that won’t
do. For strictly business reasons, naturally. Already, the women
are exhibiting signs of jealousy. I shouldn’t want them to hate me
unduly, thinking I was being granted favors they weren’t
allowed.”

He glowered at her, rankled by her cool,
taunting tone.

“You’re an impresario now,” she added. “You
must think of your cover. And speaking of covers, here’s yours.”
She handed him a blanket and pillow.

“You’re a coldhearted wench,” he
grumbled.

“That,” she said with a smile, “is what I’ve
been told.”

The first town they came to, Mace hired some
men for the day and set to hoisting the tents with their help,
spending most of his time keeping the hired men from halting and
gaping at the girls. It was good business, he explained, to show
the men a peek at what they might expect. That way, they’d brag
later in the saloons; it was the best publicity the show could
receive. After they were finished, he went into town and proceeded
to drum up business, letting the citizens know a carnival had come
to town.

That night, he took his place as hawker for
the show, but he allowed the girls to work their acts as usual. In
the big tent, the twins performed on their ponies, standing on the
animals’ backs and leaping through the air to change places. Later,
they performed feats of marksmanship that were truly impressive,
first from the ground, then from the backs of running horses. The
crowd was small but responded enthusiastically to the twins.

In between, Flying Dove came on in her flimsy
costume and performed her contortions to wild applause. On the way
out, Lucy ran her pea-and-shell game, in hopes of picking up some
extra cash for the troupe. But she was so bumbling that a good
number of men, in spite of her pretty pout, guessed and won the
pot.

Saranda and Mace watched without comment.
Once, their eyes met, and the understanding that flowed between
them was electric. This was a small-time operation that could be a
hundred times more lucrative than it was.

That night, after the crowd had departed, he
called a meeting in the big tent and announced some changes would
be made.

“The twins are fine as they are,” he
announced, causing them to giggle appreciatively. “But I’m after
something different. More variety. More—” He sought the word.

“Heart,” Saranda provided. “We’ve enough
flesh to tantalize the most contented of men. But ye’ve forgotten
the most important thing. Men living a life away from home are
lonely not just for the sight of women, but for the sentiment.
Something to remind them of days gone by. To soften them up for the
touch to come.”

“What do you suggest?” Lucy asked, looking at
Mace.

“For one, darlin’—and don’t take this
personally—you’re off the shell game. Ye might as well pay them to
play.” Her face crumbled as she turned a bright, embarrassed red.
It was her only role in the show, and she’d just been fired. “Fret
not, darlin’, we’ll find you a job more suited to yer talents.
Dusty will take over out front.”

Lucy shot Saranda a look that needed no
interpretation. But Mace continued as if nothing were amiss.

“I’ll let Dusty tell you herself what her
further contributions will be.”

Without hesitation, she said, “I shall sing
songs that remind the gents of ’ome. Then, if you’ll allow me one
of the tents, I shall disguise meself as a Gypsy and read
fortunes.”

“Excellent. And I shall join Flying Dove and
show them some feats worth writing home about. What d’ye say,
lydies? Shall we join together and take these lonely men fer all
they’re worth?”

“So long as you leave them a little pocket
change,” said Flying Dove, drifting off toward the tent’s exit and
town. “For
after
the show.”

* * *

In the next town, they tried out the new act.
At first, Mace put Lucy in charge of announcing, but her voice was
too small, and after the first few lines, she could think of
nothing to say. So he took over and offered such a litany of
praises for his women that the men were salivating, virtually
fighting one another to get inside.

That night, Mace and Flying Dove worked
together for the first time. He’d spent the afternoon limbering up
and rehearsing with the beautiful Indian. The result was a stunning
display of acrobatics that nearly brought down the roof. Dressed in
a black outfit that hugged his muscular body like a second skin,
Mace looked as sleek and deadly as a panther. In her jeweled black
sheer costume, with her straight, gleaming hair hanging down her
back, the half-breed was the perfect foil. Together they moved with
such grace, such suggestive rhythm, that it brought a hot flush to
Saranda’s cheeks. Like two jungle cats, they pranced and stretched
and leapt into each other’s arms with a beauty that was
spellbinding. The thrill of watching them was almost carnal. She
felt as if she’d been afforded an intimate view of some exotic
bedroom ritual.

The act was unbearably sensual, and as such
had Saranda quivering with rage. In her own blond hair, fixed in
innocent curls, she sang her one song so sweetly, so purely, with
such a brokenhearted tremor in her voice, that it brought tears to
men’s eyes. But her mind was so consumed with visions of Mace's
hands gliding over the Indian’s body that she barely noticed the
applause.

* * *

Every night, after the long wagon ride, Mace
and Flying Dove would practice their routine. He fashioned the
needed equipment to expand their repertoire, and that night he
suspended the Indian into the air on the edge of a long pole, where
she performed gymnastics as the muscles in his arms strained to
hold her aloft. It was a roaring success, and he immediately made
plans to add the abandoned trapeze to the act.

But he knew a good thing when he saw it, and
he’d noted the applause—and the money thrown her way—when Saranda
had sung. Passing by her one day, he informed her she’d be singing
two more songs—this time in a skimpier costume. When she rebelled,
her eyes spitting fire, he simply tossed her the outfit he wanted
her to wear and went back to his practice with Flying Dove.

It was a pink gauzy concoction that perfectly
suited her coloring but showed far more of her body than she cared
to. She put it on and marched out to the tent to show him it was
impossible.

A single lantern offered a meager golden
glow. There in the soft light, Mace and his partner were practicing
swinging on the trapeze, high above a net. Mace swung with a
powerful grace, every muscle in his virile form rippling as he
moved. Saranda stopped and watched, a lump forming in her throat
that she couldn’t quite comprehend. All her life, she’d been
contemptuous of the Blackwoods’ affiliation with the circus. It was
something that had been bred into her family for generations. Yet,
standing far below, looking up at him with her heart in her throat,
she thought she’d never seen anything more beautiful. His body
seemed made for movement, for action, for sleek undulations. It was
a body to thrill the senses.

Flying Dove waited on a bar across the tent.
At the precise moment when Mace was well-positioned, hanging upside
down from his calves, she hurled herself into the air and was
caught in his powerful hands. Saranda felt dizzy, looking on. Her
fear of heights enveloped her. Just watching them was terrifying.
She couldn’t imagine how they could fly through the air with such
confidence, such ease. She knew she couldn’t so much as climb the
ladder
—not if her life depended on it.

Again, she felt consumed by jealousy. She
envied the Indian her ability. She shared something with Mace that
Saranda never could. She was a part of his world, of his past.

The concentration with which Mace performed
his act, the time he spent practicing, spoke of his devotion to an
art form Saranda could never understand and could certainly never
share.

Or was she imagining his devotion? Was it
time spent with the Indian he relished—and not the routine?

She looked down at her skimpy costume and saw
herself for the first time. She was a woman who used sex—or at
least the promise of it—to lure men into loosening their pockets so
her clever fingers could remove the contents. Yet here she was,
behaving like some indignant matron with offended sensibilities
because Mace had demanded she do more of the same. Why did it
bother her, when it never had before?

Then she knew. Somewhere along the way, her
potent sexuality had become something she gave to him alone. The
fact that he wanted to exploit her sensual charms for money
shattered her confidence. Was what she offered him so meaningless
that he could, without conscience, barter it to others?

The acrobats positioned themselves once
again, Mace flexing his long fingers in preparation for the catch.
Saranda moved into the light below, catching his eye. He glanced at
her dismissively, then, noting her costume, turned as if
mesmerized, and stared. His partner jumped when she was supposed
to, only to be ignored by the man she’d relied on to catch her.
With a startled cry, she was hurtled to the net below.

He slipped from the trapeze so that he, too,
fell to the net, bouncing high several times. Distractedly, he made
certain the Indian was all right. But she could see his mind was
elsewhere, and she angrily brushed him off. Unfazed, he turned back
to Saranda, climbed from the net, and walked toward her as if
walking in his sleep.