Katherine O’Neal (3 page)

It was obvious that the Van Slykes cared
deeply for Saranda. He wasn’t sure which of them looked at her with
more love in his eyes. More baffling still was the fact that she
returned their smiles with what seemed to Bat to be genuine
affection.

Jackson broke the tender silence. “As you
know, my dear, we’ve asked Mr. Masterson to come and illuminate for
our readers his life on the frontier.”

“Then the man you’ll want to talk to is
Archer, Mr. Masterson,” she said.

Bat watched her intently. There had to be
more to this than she was letting on. If Saranda wanted him to meet
this man Archer, he wanted to know why.

“Yes, he should be here any—” Jackson turned
at the commotion at the other end of the room. “Oh, here he is
now.”

An excited murmur rushed through the small
crowd as they turned to behold the man who’d just made his
entrance. He was tall and devilishly handsome, with black, tousled,
thickly curling hair that made all the women present want to reach
up and brush it into place. He gave the overall impression of a man
of unstoppable action, a man you couldn’t help noticing when he
swept into a room.

As Bat watched, Archer’s gaze roamed over the
heads of his admirers and came to rest at last on Saranda. His eyes
hooded, he swept her with a look of such intimacy that it bordered
on impertinence—a daring, possessive glimpse that quirked his
handsome mouth into a slow, impudent grin.

Bat glanced back at Saranda, astonished to
see the expression on her face as she gazed at the newcomer. Her
eyes were glittering, her lush breasts rising and falling with
sudden explosive breath. Her skin took on a rosy hue, and she
looked even lovelier, if that were possible, than the moment
before. She looked as if, with Archer’s arrival, she’d suddenly
come alive. She looked, Bat reflected resentfully, and with more
amazement than he cared to admit, like a woman in love. Gazing at
the melting look of sensuality in her eyes, he felt himself go
hard.

“In his own way,” Saranda was musing,
“Archer’s as much of a legend as you are.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bat grumbled, feeling
that his thunder had been stolen out from under him. “But who is
he?”

“Archer?” asked Jackson, as if he assumed
everyone would know him. “Why, he’s the man who made the
Globe-Journal
what it is today. He’s my managing editor, my
right-hand man, and—if I had anything to say about it—would be my
adopted son as well. He’s the one who’ll be interviewing you over
the course of the week.”

“He’s like something out of fiction,” said
Saranda, casting Bat a pointed look. “Arrived from out of nowhere
three years ago and took New York by storm.”

“It was, in fact, Archer who suggested we
bring you to New York,” Jackson explained.

“Then I’m obliged to him. Does he have a
front name?”

Saranda smiled. “No one knows. He writes for
the paper under the name
‘M. Archer.’
”

A pretty young socialite with dark curls and
bright pink cheeks said in a dreamy voice, “I once heard someone
ask him what the M stood for. Do you know what he said? It was
delicious, really. He just flashed one of those grins of his and
said, ‘Mister.’”

They chuckled approvingly, as if not knowing
added a happy measure of spice to their lives. Bat turned back to
Saranda with a questioning look.

“He’s quite the man of mystery,” she said.
“Speaks with the faintest trace of a proper English accent, but no
one really knows who he is.”

That, Bat suspected, was a clue. Normally,
Saranda spoke with an English accent herself, but she was
disguising it with incredible skill. So Archer was English, just as
Saranda was. What did it mean?

“
I
think,” said another young woman,
“he’s an impoverished nobleman. He talks like a prince.”

Saranda broke into a gleeful grin.

“Well,” said Bat with an impressed whistle.
“Sounds like a man who don’t use up all his kindlin’ to get a fire
started.” They gave him a blank look, as if he were speaking a
foreign language. “Can’t hardly wait to meet the man,” he
explained.

Saranda’s mouth twitched. “I promise you, it
will be worth it.”

“Well,” said Jackson jovially, “let’s go see
him. It looks as if Archer could use some rescuing.”

They moved across the room to where a man had
cornered Archer, speaking to him in a low, urgent tone. He was a
man of corpulent girth and an air of authority that spoke, along
with the impeccable tailoring of his evening clothes, of his wealth
and position. Like many moguls of his day, he wore his bulkiness
like a badge, as if to show the outside world he was a man who
could well afford the finer things in life, and as much rich food
as he damn well pleased. His head was nearly bald, with just a few
solitary strands of red hair, but he made up for it by wearing
fringed Dundreary whiskers that nearly met at his chin.

“Perhaps we could talk about this later,
Sander,” Jackson said in a soothing tone. “In private.”

Unhappily, the man dropped the subject, but
it was clear that he was waiting to get Jackson alone.

Jackson made the introductions. “Mr.
Masterson, may I present Sander McLeod, one of our more prominent
businessmen. And this is Archer.”

Archer stepped forward with a bold,
unmistakably self-assured smile, shaking off the confrontation with
McLeod as if it were unimportant. “Sheriff Masterson, it’s a great
pleasure to finally meet you. I apologize for not greeting your
train. The paper keeps me busier than I’d like sometimes.”

He extended a large hand. Bat shook it,
taking the opportunity to study the man at greater length. In his
mid-thirties, he was as modishly dressed as the rest of the men,
the black of his evening suit and the white of his shirt setting
off his dark coloring to perfection. But there was something
different about him. Beneath the polished veneer, he radiated an
innate sense of strength and virility, a manly, rugged vigor
reflected in the hawklike nose, the prominent brow, the eyes, dark
and flashing as the midnight sky, piercing like spears. His jaw was
sculpted, solid as granite. Clean-shaven as he was, his beard was
so heavy, Bat could detect the threat of a dark stubble. His mouth,
large, obvious, firm, and sensual, had teeth so white and strong,
they reminded Bat of a wolf’s. There was a dimple on either side of
his mouth. No demure little thumbprint, either, but long, vertical
creases that, when he smiled, gave him a mischievous, wicked look.
It was an arrogant smile, a ruthlessly confident grin that, when
combined with the penetration of his gaze, caused the ladies
present to fan themselves unconsciously. Yet, despite the
intoxication that accompanied his presence, despite the fact that
the air around him seemed to crackle with an enviable vitality, he
looked at Bat as if he were the only person in the room.

He spoke charmingly, as if nothing gave him
greater pleasure than to shake hands with the Kansas lawman he’d
been waiting all this time to meet. He’d moved through the roomful
of socialites with a polished ease that he wore like his natural
birthright. But there was that puzzling something... It seemed to
Bat that he looked more like a Gypsy than an English gentleman.
That would explain the swarthy features, the air of the pirate
about him.

“Your visit should be quite interesting, Mr.
Masterson,” Saranda said in her American accent. “I believe Mr.
Archer has a number of amusements planned.”

“We thought we’d take you on a tour of the
city, naturally,” Archer said with an ingratiating smile. “And the
newspaper, if it interests you. Tomorrow night there’s a masked
ball to raise funds for the Museum of Natural History. Madame
Zorina will be there, giving readings.”

“Who,” Bat asked, “is Madame Zorina?”

The fat man who’d confronted Archer earlier
snapped out of his black mood and joined the conversation. “Madame
Zorina,” he said, “is only the most famous fortune-teller in the
world. She’s coming all the way from Hungary to be with us tomorrow
night. It’s a great honor.”

“I’m obliged for all these
honors
,”
drawled Bat, who couldn’t care less
how
famous this Madame
Zorina was. “But just out of curiosity...” He glanced at Archer.
“Why me?”

“
Why you?”
Archer’s voice was so deep,
it rumbled in his chest. Smacking faintly of an aristocratic
English accent, it was the antithesis of the gentle, effeminate
sneer of the majority of British men. It was aggressive, decisive,
vigorously forward-moving, like the rest of him. As he spoke, he
seemed to hypnotize with his voice. “You might as well ask why Wild
Bill? Or Buffalo Bill Cody? Ned Buntline may have originated the
concept, but it’s become an image that ignites the fires of our
imagination. The lone man poised on the sun-drenched street, sixgun
in hand, fighting the loneliest battle—to bring law and order to
Dodge City, the toughest town of them all. Sheriff Masterson, it’s
what legends are made of.”

Bat had the grace to blush. “Well, it ain’t
all that glamorous,” he admitted. “I mostly chase after horse
thieves.”

“Let’s not be
too
modest. We need our
heroes, Sheriff, like we need music to soothe our souls and great
pictures to rest our weary eyes. Life is a dull existence without
something to believe in. Our heroes inspire us. They make us dream
that we, too, might rise to the same heights of glory. That we can
transcend the pettiness of our inclinations and do something noble
for the common good. You, Sheriff Masterson, are as important to
our huddled masses as Shakespeare and Sarah Bernhardt.”

Stunned by this tribute, Bat glanced around
him at the glowing faces, readily accepting the fiction this man so
convincingly stated as fact. It was an era of culture and
sophistication in New York City, but in February of 1878, gunmen
still prowled the streets of western Kansas, and shooting a man
before breakfast was a common occurrence. Everyone here believed
it, had been primed for it.

“I never figured it that way,” he said with a
grin. “By God, Archer, I’ve an inclination to shake your hand.”

There was a burst of applause as Archer
obliged him by stretching out his hand. Caught up in the spell he
was weaving, Bat clasped it as Saranda looked on and pursed her
lips.

A quartet began to play in the adjoining
ballroom, giving Bat the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Turning
to Winston, he said, “I’d like to have the honor of a two-step with
your fiancée, Mr. Van Slyke—if it wouldn’t inconvenience you.”

“Not at all.”

Taking Saranda in his arms, he whirled her
safely away from the crowd. “What goes on here?” he asked.

She gave him an impersonal, artificial smile
for the benefit of onlookers. “A fetching greeting, I must say, for
a long-lost friend.” Her voice sounded completely different in her
natural English accent—lilting, breezy, richly sensual.

“Don’t put me off, honey. You’re pulling some
doozy of a scam, and I’d like to know what it is before I trip over
my own tongue.”

“I can’t talk now, Bat. Besides, it’s too
complicated to go into. It won’t be a minute before Winston cuts
in. He always does,” she said quickly.

“They’re all in love with you, I reckon,
these city men.”

“Every one.” She laughed at his disgruntled
look. “Don’t pout, darling. I shall find a way of disclosing
everything tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s too long to wait, for a fella
with his spurs tangled up.”

“What confuses you, pray tell?” Her smile was
teasing now. She was enjoying stringing him along.

“I didn’t notice much excitement when you
looked at your intended. But, by God, did your eyes light up when
this fella Archer appeared. What goes on here?”

Other couples joined them on the floor,
swirling about them in their finery. She put her mouth to his ear
and confessed in a voice crackling with excitement, “Archer is an
imposter.” Then she drew back and stared into his eyes, waiting for
his reaction.

“Imposter? Who is he?”

She glanced about to make sure no one was
looking. Winston was already heading their way, weaving through the
dancers with the intention of cutting in. Before he could reach
them, she whispered heatedly, “He’s the blackest bloody con man
England ever produced. And I’m out to destroy him!”

Bat awoke with a start, lunging for the gun
he always kept hanging from the post of his bed. The holster was
there, but the gun was missing. Alarmed, he shoved himself up and
stared at the apparition before him.

Saranda sat at the foot of his bed in a white
lace nightgown and filmy wrapper that hung open in soft folds.
Somehow, she’d managed to light a small gas lamp just enough so the
slight illumination spilled over her like starlight. She held his
sixgun in one hand, the bullets in another. Dangling the gun from
her fingers, she whispered with a provocative smile, “Is this what
you’re looking for?” Playfully, she rattled the bullets in her palm
like dice.

Without cosmetics, she looked young, fresh,
disarmingly natural. Her sensuality was innate, not studied. Her
skin glowed with an inner radiance and an odd, unsettling aura of
innocence—considering her line of work, and the all-too-obvious
fact that she was sitting on his bed in the middle of the night in
a nightgown that did little to hide her womanly curves. The
shadowed V of her cleavage drew his gaze. He barely had time to
wonder if he really could see her nipples through the lace before
he noticed something equally significant. She had tucked within the
peekaboo bodice a number of crisp new bills that he recognized as
those given him by Jackson Van Slyke. Glancing at the dresser, he
saw that his billfold had been rifled, some of the same new bank
bills jutting out from the pocketbook as if replaced in a
hurry.