Katherine O’Neal (7 page)

“And end up in your back pockets? Your
concern for your friends wouldn’t by chance stem from the rumors
regarding your own railroads? That you bribed three separate
members of your friend Grant’s Cabinet? That you talked them into
selling you public lands for pennies on the—”

Sander leaned across the desk. “I don’t have
to listen to these lies!”

“Archer, maybe—”

Without bothering to listen to Winston’s
warning, Blackwood met McLeod’s angry gaze head-on. “Have you ever,
Mr. McLeod, been so poor you don’t know where your next meal is?
Have you ever thought what it’s like for a child of seven working
in a factory? Seven days a week, never feeling the sun on his face,
never seeing the stars at night. Never playing, never dreaming.
Just trudging home from work so beaten down, he can barely keep his
eyes open long enough to fall onto his filthy pallet on the
floor?”

“Yes,” Sander hissed, as if hating the
memory.

“Then
you
tell
me
. How does he
survive, McLeod? Where in the name of God does he find hope?”

It seemed, as he spoke, that no one breathed.
His presence and the rhythm of his words were so powerful, so
hypnotic, they lost all sense of what he was saying, so caught up
were they in his presentation. Bat looked around him at the
captivated faces and paused at Saranda’s. He’d never seen such an
arrested look on her face in all the years he’d known her.

“The
Globe-Journal
, Mr. McLeod,”
Blackwood continued, “is a well-fueled torch that’s going to shine
a beacon of hope into all the dark and stinking corners of this
miserable city. I made this paper what it is today. Me, with more
hard work than you and your friends will do in a lifetime. So you
mark me well, McLeod. I’m going to blaze a trail, goddammit, and
I’m not looking back. I’m going to hack away at this forest of
greed and corruption with a ruddy sword if I have to. Because your
friends, with their double-talk and dirty dealings, are wrong. And
sooner or later, if I have anything to say about it, they’re going
to be brought to their knees.”

“We’ll just see about that,” shouted McLeod
before he stormed out of the room, fairly knocking them aside as he
shoved his bulk out through the door.

Blackwood turned to them as the fury in his
eyes receded. In an ironic tone, he said, “Welcome to the
Globe-Journal
, Sheriff Masterson.”

Then his eyes raked over Saranda in a
sweepingly intimate look before lifting to Winston’s face.

“Thanks,” said Bat warily. “I reckon I’ve
learned a thing or two.”

Winston, clearly embarrassed and at a loss,
glanced from Bat and Saranda then back to Blackwood with a pleading
look, the light streaming in through the wooden shades glinting off
his spectacles. All too aware that she’d promised to meet Blackwood
later in the Park, Saranda wasn’t eager to stay. “Winny, perhaps
Mr. Masterson and I should continue with the tour,” she suggested
with a smile. “You join us presently.”

He gave her a grateful look. “Would you mind?
I think I should talk to Archer about this.”

“Not at all, dear. Take your time.”

As she was closing the door, they heard
Winston say in a tentative tone, “Archer, I’m not sure it’s wise to
antagonize a powerful man like Sander.”

“Don’t waste your time worrying about
McLeod,” came Blackwood’s dismissive reply. “He’s next, and he
knows it.”

Bat let out a low whistle once the door was
safely closed. “I don’t know if he means it, but that Blackwood’s
good. I never saw anyone that good.”

“I never said he wasn’t good,” Saranda
answered, irritated by his obvious admiration. “Good enough to pawn
himself off as this selfless character who cares for the poor and
the underdog. It’s the biggest joke of all.”

Bat was watching her closely as they moved
away. The hallway was empty, so he pulled her up short, a frown
creasing his brow, his thick mustache moving as he pursed his
lips.

“I’m leaving,” he told her abruptly.

“Leaving? What do you mean?”

“Going back to Dodge.”

“But, Bat, you can’t. I arranged for you to
come so you could be at the wedding.”

“Your wedding, sugar, is the last place I
want to be. Even if it is part of your big shuck.”

She lowered her voice. “It may have started
out as a con, but it
is
my wedding. The only one I shall
ever have. I was hoping you could act as my family. There’s no one
else.”

His eyes softened, but he shook his head.
“Honey, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay and watch you do this.”

Something in his tone alerted her to a deeper
significance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re playing with fire.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s the most brilliant job
I’ve ever pulled. And my last. When it’s over, I shall settle down
to being Mrs. Winston Van Slyke, and Mace Blackwood will have
received the retribution he deserves.”

“While you hog-tie yourself to a man you
don’t give a hoot about, for all the rest of your life?”

“I’m extremely fond of Winny. I may even grow
to love him in time.”

“You’ll love him when hell freezes over.”

“Why, Bat—”

His hand tightened on her arm. “I know you,
honey, as much as anyone can. And I’m telling you, you’ve met your
match in Blackwood.”

“Are you doubting my abilities?”

“I’m not talking about your abilities. I’m
talking about your feelings. This fellow has his rope on you.”

She flushed, remembering her helplessness and
her response the night before when he’d bound her wrists above her
head.

“Blackwood? Don’t be absurd!”

Someone appeared then in the hall, so Bat
waited impatiently until the coast was clear.

“I’ve always known the kind of man you’d fall
for,” he insisted in a low tone. “Someone who’s a better shuck
artist than you are.”

“He is
not
better!”

Bat shook his head sadly. “You’ve never been
up against anyone like him before. I’ve seen you make a lot of
plays, some of them so sticky I figured you’d never get out of
them. But I never saw you look at a man the way you look at
Blackwood. Or even the way you look when you say his name.”

“What utter nonsense.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself
into. Honey, I’m sorry, but I got instincts of my own. And
something tells me you’re getting in over your head.”

She jerked her chin at him. “You’re wrong,
Bat. I despise the very name of Blackwood. More than you’ll ever
know.”

“That may be. But you’re falling in love with
this
Blackwood. And I’d just as soon not be around to see
what becomes of it.”

True to his word, Bat cut his visit short and
left that very afternoon. Winston and Jackson accompanied them to
the train, disappointed that he was leaving so soon. But their
disappointment was nothing compared to Saranda’s. After a life of
being on the run, she considered Bat her only real friend.

At the station, standing amid the whirling
steam as his train prepared to depart, Bat kissed Saranda’s hand
and, for the benefit of her new family, wished her a long and happy
life.

“Be careful,” he warned, for her ears alone.
“And wire me if you need help. As long as I’m alive, you’ll have
someone to turn to.” With a last word of thanks to the Van Slykes,
he tipped his derby, chucked her chin with the gold knob of his
cane, and boarded the westbound train.

She watched the caboose chug off into the
distance, feeling a sense of loss she hadn’t felt in years. She was
alone again, facing her enemy with nothing but her wits. Turning
away, with Bat’s words of warning ringing in her ears, she readied
herself for her meeting with Blackwood.

It was an unseasonably warm afternoon in
Central Park, but Saranda was unaware of her surroundings. In a
smoky blue camel’s hair and silk walking suit with pleated train,
she’d arrived in a state of trembling anticipation, wondering what
Blackwood had in mind, what threat he posed. There were only a few
days left until the wedding. Having been interrupted in his crusade
the night before, he was likely to redouble his attack. Tense and
jumpy, she’d spent a sleepless night provisioning herself against
his next move. Bat’s words kept swimming through her mind. In
matters of the intellect, she was unsurpassed. She could pretend
any artifice and win anyone over in its execution. But in plays of
the heart—where her emotions were involved—she sensed the truth of
Bat’s admonition. She might very well be in over her head.

Blackwood arrived late, looking, she had to
admit, rather dashing in his afternoon finery, his hat slanted at a
rakish angle, his watch chain gleaming a rich, heavy gold in the
afternoon sun. It looked old and dreadfully expensive. She wondered
fleetingly if he’d stolen it. Or seduced some woman into giving it
to him.

They strolled away from the carriage road,
where the four o’clock throng was still assembling. There,
practicing their daily ritual, was a steady procession of the
wealthy, the aristocratic, and the notorious of New York society in
their various conveyances, waving to one another and calling
greetings above the din of horses’ hooves and wheels. It was a
splendid array. All the city’s elite turned out to see and be seen
amid the cool green oasis. Saranda recognized the broughams of the
Jays, the Livingstons, the Van Rensselaers, and the Stuyvesants.
Jim Fisk and other financiers flaunted themselves and their
affluence in gleaming barouches and victorias, pulled by sleek
steeds. The Beautiful Young dashed along in phaetons, waving
scarves and silk fans to draw attention to their fleeting
beauty.

Saranda looked around her, at the carriages,
the clothes, the money flaunted with such ease, the houses flanking
the elm-shaded perimeter of the Park. All of this—the blooded
horses, the mansion on Fifth Avenue, the respectability, the
permanence—all this was going to be hers.

It was a timely reminder. She was well aware
that Blackwood had brought her here to convince her to call off the
wedding. She had only to look at him to detect his reckless
confidence that he’d accomplish his task. He walked with determined
strides, his long legs moving so swiftly at times, she was
hard-pressed to keep up. Just the way he carried himself gave her
the impression he loved being in his own body—that there was
nothing more glorious than being Mace Blackwood. It made men want
to be like him, made women want to...

She shook herself, bringing her thoughts back
to the present. After last night, she was determined to be on her
guard. She’d spent the morning sharpening her wits so even he
wouldn’t find a chink in her armor.

“I hear your friend the sheriff left on the
afternoon train,” he said, breaking the expectant silence she’d
maintained in awaiting his first move.

She angled him a cautious look. “Friend? I
met Mr. Masterson only this weekend. What would possess you to call
him my friend?”

“It’s my business to read people, Miss
Voors.”

“Your business. As a newsman, you mean.”

“Naturally. Which brings us back to the
question at hand. Don’t think I didn’t notice your sidestepping. It
has occurred to me, in fact, that it was
your
suggestion to
bring Masterson to town—and not Winston’s at all.”

She was wondering how to answer when she was
saved the burden of an awkward reply. A man walking toward them
suddenly tripped and grabbed onto Mace to right himself. “I’m so
sorry!” he cried, apparently aghast at his clumsiness. He was
elderly, with a hat pulled down to conceal most of his face,
wearing clothes that had seen better days. He brushed heartily at
Blackwood’s impeccable spring suit. “Do forgive me. I don’t know
what came over me. You aren’t hurt?”

“I’m quite all right,” he replied
stiffly.

With a last apology, the man wandered off.
Astonished, Saranda realized the old man had lifted Blackwood’s
billfold!

Mace Blackwood, the reigning prince of the
Blackwood clan, had had his wallet stolen in broad daylight, in the
middle of Central Park—the safest, most patrolled area of the city!
For three hundred years, the Blackwoods had been masters of
pickpocketry and sleight of hand. It was so incredible, she wanted
to laugh.

She didn’t care that he’d had his money
stolen. She was even tempted to leave it alone, chalking it up as
punishment for the liberties he’d taken the night before. But her
professional pride was so outraged, she couldn’t resist the urge
for retribution. No street filcher was going to get away with such
a clumsy heist. Not with her around.

The trick would be to retrieve his property
without Blackwood’s knowledge. But what an achievement if she
succeeded!

The challenge conquered her earlier
reticence. Her fingers tingled as her pulse accelerated and her
mouth went dry. She felt the old love of the hunt surging through
her veins. She’d never cared about possessions. It had always been
the thrill of the sport, the shiver of excitement that set her on
fire and made her feel alive. The danger, the uncertainty, the
recklessness of the risk, all combined to stimulate her in a way no
man on earth ever had.

Until last night
.

But last night—and its inherent
uncertainties—could be forgotten in the venture ahead. This was
familiar territory. This was something she could do with her eyes
closed.

As Blackwood stared darkly after the
retreating figure of the thief, Saranda slipped an earring off one
of her lobes and pocketed it. “Why, Mr. Archer, my earbob! The one
Winny gave me! I do believe I’ve dropped it! Could it have happened
when that man bumped us?”

Let him think what he would. It wasn’t
important. She needed a reason to follow the man, and this was as
good as any.