Katherine O’Neal (27 page)

“You could have a
little
faith in
me.”

“You could be killed—”

“If I get killed, it’s because of you.”

She stared at him, horrified.

He shook her. “Goddammit, don’t you know what
you do to a man?”

She looked into his eyes, which were as cold
and hard as stone. Terrified for him, she murmured, “Mace—”

But he wasn’t interested. His eyes flicked
over to the Indians, who were inspecting the horses’ teeth. “Get
the hell back in that wagon before you find out.”

Reluctantly, she returned to the wagon. The
air inside was thick with fear. “Did he take it?” Abby asked.

“No.” Saranda took the pistol from her pocket
and laid it on the bunk.

“They’re leaving,” Lucy shouted out.

The twins ran for the window. “With our
ponies!” They tripped over their skirts in an attempt to get
outside. “Wait!” Abby called after the retreating braves. “Come
back!”

Mace grabbed her and put his hand to her
mouth to silence her. “Fool! Do you want them to come back for
you?”

She wrenched her mouth free. “You gave away
our horses. How are we supposed to perform our act?”

“Would you prefer I gave them you?”

The women stared at him. He’d forgotten
himself and used his real voice. The silence that followed was
oppressive. They kept staring at him as if he’d betrayed them.

“They took the horses in exchange for
water.”

He held out a skin full of water, and one by
one, the women drank, but sullenly, as if he’d put a gun to their
heads.

“We had those ponies for years,” Abby said in
a little-girl voice. “We trained them ourselves. You should have
killed those Indians before you let anyone take them away.”

When the twins and Lucy returned to the
wagon, Flying Dove turned back to Mace. “They have no understanding
of the danger they were in.”

In her eyes was the promise that she did.

* * *

They spent the day traveling south, trying to
put as much distance between themselves and the Indians in case
they decided to return. Flying Dove assured him the ponies were
fine enough that the braves would feel satisfied. But the air was
so stagnant and bitter that Mace pushed them ever southward, hoping
to dispel the mood.

That night, the tension was so thick, Saranda
decided to go out for some fresh air. Lucy and the twins stayed in
their wagons. But as Saranda passed by the fire, she heard a
woman’s voice. It was Flying Dove, sitting across the fire from
Mace.

“You saved me today from a very bad fate,”
she said.

“I did nothing. Only offered them some horses
in exchange for water.”

He didn’t bother with the cockney accent.

“You did much more than you’ll ever know. It
would have killed me to go with them. A half-breed is not treated
well. It’s why I became what I am. Selling my body in your world
seemed preferable to what I left behind.”

“You don’t have to worry. No one’s taking you
anywhere.”

“I believe you. I wanted to—thank you. For
your kindness.”

Pulling him to his feet, she put her arms
about his waist and kissed him.

Saranda’s heart lurched in her breast. The
impulse to rush forward and yank the woman away was so strong, she
had to clench her fists to keep rooted in the shadows. Because,
much as she longed to claim him, she didn’t have the right. Mace
was free to dally with whomever he pleased.

The Indian’s hands crept up and spanned the
broad expanse of his back as she deepened the kiss. Her jealousy
festering, her fingers hungering to thrash the predator, Saranda
turned away.

She was stopped by the Indian’s disappointed
sigh. “Please,” the woman said, “allow me to thank you.”

Saranda turned back in time to see Mace take
the woman’s hand in his and kiss it tenderly but dismissively.
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he insisted.

It was gently put, but the woman understood.
Wistfully, she gazed up at him a moment, then withdrew her hand and
left.

Saranda stood as she was for a moment,
watching as Mace squatted down by the fire and clenched his hands
together.

“Poor Mace,” she said, moving into the light.
He looked up, startled out of his thoughts. “The other women won’t
speak to you. And that one can’t keep her hands off you. Your life
has become rather complicated, since taking me on.”

His devilish mouth lifted in a wry smile. “In
the old days, it would have been simple,” he agreed.

She sat down across the fire from him. “In
the old days, you’d have slept with them all and used your charms
to keep them in line.”

“Something like that.”

“And now?”

His gaze lifted to her face. She caught a
certain sadness as he studied her. “Now I have you to
consider.”

“What does that mean?” Her voice had become
breathy with hope.

He held her gaze for a full minute, and she
felt herself drawn into the dark magic of his eyes. Then, as she
watched and waited, she saw him harden himself against the promise
he read in her eyes. His hands balled into fists, and he became a
Blackwood once again.

“It means if I want that paper, I have to
keep my mind on business.”

She dropped her gaze. “I see,” she said
quietly. “I had thought, at this late date, we might have moved
beyond playing games with one another.”

“But in the end, love, there’s nothing left
but the game. We’re both damned good at what we do. You can make
any man on earth do your bidding—”

“
Any
man?”

“And I can talk a war party out of killing us
and raping the women. Sometimes it’s so easy, I find myself trying
to talk people into outrageous things, just to see if it can be
done.”

“And it always can.”

A look of disgust flashed across his face.
“Always. But never forget one thing: we’re great at the illusions
because we have to be. Because there’s nothing else inside.”

She sat for a moment, watching the firelight
play across his face. For an instant, she saw a trace of the
torment she’d witnessed during the tarot reading that had pained
her as much as it had him.

“Are you certain?” she asked. “That’s there’s
nothing inside?”

He looked up, and she knew she’d never seen a
more haunted look in a man’s eyes. “There can’t be,” he told her.
“It’s too late.”

As they approached the Arkansas line,
resentment was running high. To replace the pony act, Mace and
Saranda—dressed in her Gypsy attire—went out into the audience with
a mind-reading act. Mace didn’t have to teach Saranda the code.
She’d known it from the age of six.

The surprise was how well they worked
together. Once they decided they were on the same team, there was
no hesitation, no resistance. The words flowed between them like
poetry. They began to lose sight of the audience, to gaze into each
other’s eyes, as the energy crackled between them. Never had
Saranda worked with anyone as good. Even her father, whom she’d
thought to be the best in the business, couldn’t hold a candle to
Mace Blackwood. The thrill of it was intoxicating, the verbal
exchange as titillating as the most languid foreplay. It was so
highly charged, it was like making love in public.

They weren’t the only ones to feel it. The
act was wildly successful. They made more money that night than
they ever had. There was a long line waiting for readings after the
show. The twins, deprived of half their livelihood, and Flying
Dove, sensing the chemistry between Mace and Saranda, sulked and
complained that Mace was featuring Saranda to the exclusion of
everyone else.

“I’ll bet you got rid of our horses
purposely,” Abby accused, “so she could take our place!”

It was just the beginning of his problems.
After the show, a frantic mother rushed up to Mace with the news
that her small son was missing. Saranda had disappeared, so the
others banded together, searching the grounds for the boy. Half an
hour later, with the mother dissolved in helpless tears, Mace
ordered the women to stay with her while he made a more thorough
search.

His exploration of the premises turned up
nothing. As a final resort, he thought to check the wagons. The
first two were Empty. But a small light flickered in Saranda’s. He
climbed the steps, opened the door, and stopped in his tracks.

Saranda sat on the floor with her back to the
door, rocking the four-year-old boy in her arms. A single candle
sat beside them on the floor, casting a quivering glow. But what
arrested him was the sound of Saranda’s voice. Rocking the child,
staring off into space, she sang a lullaby so sweetly, so lovingly,
that it all but broke his heart. He had to clutch the doorknob to
steady himself.

As she sang, she unconsciously lowered her
head and kissed the child’s dark hair. Her lips lingered in the
shining locks, as if she couldn’t bear to pull away. She presented
such a picture of cherished devotion that Mace, feeling like an
intruder, began to back away.

Through her fog, she felt the wagon move. She
turned and saw him there, staring at her with tears in his eyes.
His face was so shattered, she thought for a moment she was staring
into a mirror. Some sane part of her brain told her why he was
there. But she’d been so deeply entrenched in memories that she
couldn’t distinguish, in that moment, what was real and what was
remembered. Standing awkwardly, with the child still clutched in
her arms, she gave him a last kiss and handed him forth.

“Take him,” she said in a gasping voice. “I
can’t take care of him.”

Alarmed, Mace took the child.

The boy looked from one to another. “Why is
that lady crying?” he asked.

She hadn’t realized the tears were streaming
down her face. Putting a hand to her cheek, she turned away and
leaned her head against the rail of the top bunk.

“She’s crying because she likes you,” Mace
told him.

“I like her singing.”

“So do I. Come along, little tiger. I shall
take you to your mum.”

The walls of the wagon seemed to close in on
Saranda in the silence they left behind. It all came back to her in
a rush—the dreaded memory. How it felt to return to that
bitter-cold room, with the rats and the smells, without her child
in her arms. The hollow, aching loneliness of knowing she’d done
the right thing. The realization that she couldn’t do anything
else. The racking guilt that came from knowing the insufficient
coldness of her own heart.

She shoved her way out of the wagon and went
to hide herself away in her tent. He’d be back. He’d come to find
her. And what could she say? What could she tell him? How could she
tell anyone that she’d caused her own child’s death?

* * *

Mace found her eventually, after he’d
returned the child to the hysterical mother. Saranda was standing
by her little reading table, staring down at it. When she looked up
and saw him, she turned away. As she leaned her head against the
center pole of the tent, her shoulders began to shake with her
sobs.

He came up slowly behind her. “Saranda,” he
whispered.

He put his hand to her shoulders. The touch
was warm, comforting. It made her feel lonelier than before he’d
come.

He turned her, tilting her head up to face
him. Slowly, and with infinite care, he used the back of his
knuckles to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Looking up, she saw
such compassion, such empathy, in his eyes that she began to sob
again.

“Tell me,” he coaxed.

She’d kept it secret for so long. The words
burned in her brain, tasting on her tongue. But she shook her head.
How could she tell him, of all people?

“Would you do something for me?” she asked
softly.

“Anything.”

“Kiss me. Make me forget what I can’t bear to
remember.”

He contemplated her a moment, then stepped
closer and took her in his arms. They were strong and warm. Arms a
woman could lose herself in. Arms that could keep away the cares of
the world, make her feel safe and protected. He bent his head and
took her lips with his.

For an instant, she thrilled at the familiar
soaring inside. Her head spun, and she molded herself to him,
losing herself in the pleasure of his kiss. She would put it all
aside, she vowed, never to be thought of again.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw Lance’s
face. Strangling with panic, she made a mewing sound deep in her
throat and thrust Mace away.

“Forgive me,” she gasped, crying once again.
“I can’t kiss you without seeing your brother.”

“What does he have to do with anything?”

“I wish to God he was never born.”

“Tell me, Saranda. What did Lance do to
you?”

“I can’t. Mace, please—”

He pulled her close, holding her protectively
in his arms. “Tell me, Princess.”

Where once he’d used the nickname to taunt
her, it was now a tender endearment. But self-preservation was an
instinct too strong to easily ignore. The fear she’d felt for
twelve long years engulfed her now. She knew what he’d think of her
if he knew the truth. She knew, too, that loving him as she did,
she couldn’t bear to see that look on his face.

Better to hurt him over something trivial
than to destroy him completely.

She pulled away. “Is this another experiment?
To see what you can talk someone into
this
time? Can you
make the secretive adventuress spill the dark secrets of her soul?”
She’d wounded him. In his anguish, he didn’t even bother to hide
it. The look in his eyes at the undeserved attack pierced her heart
and shamed her. She began to cry again. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired of
hurting people. But I don’t know how to do anything else.”

He was unrelenting. Slowly, patiently, he
took her in his arms and pulled her close one more time. “Tell me,”
he insisted.