Katherine O’Neal (24 page)

Mace retrieved some documents from his coat
pocket and tossed them onto the table.

Bow Tie’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “How do I
know—”

Mace shrugged, sitting back comfortably in
his chair. “Inspect them for yourself.”

Bow Tie did and, when he was satisfied, let
out a pent-up breath. “I got me a little traveling troupe.”

“Of what use would such a fortune be to
me?”

“Well, there’s three fine wagons, complete
with stoves. You could sell ’em. Or, hell, you could take over the
show. I got some mighty pretty girls, go along with the deal.”

Mace allowed himself a smile. “In that case—”
He broke off with a shrug while the men chuckled and Saranda
fumed.

What did he think he was doing?

Saranda dealt. Bow Tie held two tens, and
when he turned in his cards, she made sure he got a third. To Mace
she dealt a mixed hand, nothing significant. He called. Bow Tie
laid out his three tens. Mace spread out a hand containing three
smiling jacks.

Saranda slumped back in her chair.

“Well,” said the ex-showman philosophically,
“I had a good run. Treat the girls right, and they’ll make you a
pretty penny in return.”

Outside, Saranda asked through clenched
teeth, “What are we going to do with three wagons full of
showgirls?”

“You wanted to get out of Dodge, didn’t
you?”

“Yes...”

“Don’t forget we’ve a purpose now. Take a
look at this.” He passed her a telegram. “From my people in New
York.”

She read it through once, then went over it
again. “Six months! Isn’t that an awfully short amount of
time?”

“It is. Normally, the court might allow up to
a year to prove just cause before a venture such as the
Globe-Journal
goes into receivership. Which means our friend
Sander McLeod has used his influence with the judge.”

“But the date was set—”

“Three months ago. Leaving us less than three
months to make it back to New York in one piece, prove your
innocence, and stop the paper from being bought out from under us
by McLeod.”

“Then we should be on our way!”

“Tell me something. What do you think our
chances would be if we simply boarded a train headed for New
York?”

She hated to admit he was right. “Still, who
knows what delays we might encounter en route?”

“I’ve made allowances for that.”

“Forgive my ignorance, but this brings us
back to the question at hand.”

“Why the traveling troupe?” He grinned and
chucked her chin. “Why else? To throw the bloodhounds off the
trail.”

Once again, he’d had it planned all
along.

“English or American?” Mace asked.

“For our identities?” She thought a moment.
“They know you’re English. So American would seem the wiser course.
But then, in terms of showmanship, Americans are always keen on an
English accent. Connotes a certain glamour that might work well for
us.”

“English it is. Oxford or cockney?”

“Oh, cockney, by all means. Much more
circus-like.”

They were in their own rooms with the
adjoining door open. While she’d been packing, he’d been fiddling
with his appearance in the mirror. When he turned around, his
thick, curling hair had been slicked back with oil so it was
perfectly straight. He had a new pencil-thin black mustache that
gave him a rough-and-tumble appearance, lent him an aura of rakish
street-smarts instead of elegant sophistication. He wriggled it
experimentally. “What do you think?”

“It makes you look quite the boor.”

“Perfect. Wait till you see the rest of
it.”

He slipped into a checked jacket and bow tie.
Clamping an Irish cap upon his head, he looked every inch the
swaggering showman who might travel the country with a passel of
scantily clad girls. He swept the cap from his head, gathered it to
his heart, and gave a bow worthy of a cut-rate impresario.

“Tommy Ward, me lie-dy, at yer service.”
Straightening up, he added, “Incidentally, that frock you were
wearing—that sand-colored thing—”

“My traveling outfit?”

“That’s it, the dusty one. Leave that out. We
shall have need of it.”

“Oh, shall we?”

“I’ve asked the sheriff to spread it around
that you’ll be wearing it when we make our dash for it.”

“Have you, indeed? Shall I place a target on
it as well? So they don’t miss me when they aim?”

“Are you always this suspicious?”

“I have reason, I should think. Bat just told
me he’s been ordered by a U.S. marshal to turn me over if he
happens upon me. He’s promised to wire us with any news.
Incidentally, you didn’t tell me they were after you as well.”

“McLeod is clever enough to realize my only
chance of acquiring the paper is through you. He knows what we’re
planning, and he knows how much time we have to do it in. With us
separated, he had an even chance. If his men couldn’t track you,
they might run across me. With us together, we lessen the odds
somewhat. Particularly, if we can make a convincing go of this
traveling troupe.”

There was a knock on his door. He went to
answer it, and ushered in a man and a woman who looked as much like
Mace and Saranda as anyone could. She could see the woman was
wearing a wig, no doubt picked out by Blackwood.

Mace took the travel suit from Saranda and
closed his door on the woman while she changed, using the time to
give last-minute instructions to the man.

“Remember, if you’re detained, you don’t know
who hired you. We shall be headed for Canada, but you don’t know
that either. All you do know is you were paid rather handsomely to
board a train and ride for as long as possible.”

As he spoke, he rattled a leather bag full of
coins before dropping it into the man’s palm.

When they’d left, Saranda stared at him,
wondering if he’d guessed yet another of her secrets. “Canada? Is
that where we’re off to?”

“Of course not. But they’re bound to say
something, once they’re caught. They might as well earn their money
and divert the onward marching forces of the law for as long as is
humanly possible.”

“Downright clever, hiring look-alikes.”

He raised a startled brow. “Is that a
compliment, Miss Sherwin?”

* * *

After telling Bat their plans and saying
good-bye, they went out to meet the girls in the secluded back lot
where Mace had arranged to have the wagons moved. There were four
of them. Abby and Anna were twins, fresh-faced lovelies who looked
no older than eighteen, but who claimed to be the finest
sharpshooters this side of the Mississippi. Lucy was a redhead with
full, luscious lips capable of distracting any man alive. She ran a
sleight-of-hand booth, and Saranda could see at once what an asset
her looks were. No man could fully concentrate on finding the pea
in the shell when Lucy pursed her lips in seeming concentration.
The last of them, Flying Dove, was a tall, stately half-breed
Indian with loose-flowing black hair, prominent cheekbones, and a
come-and-get-it look in her eyes that contrasted starkly with the
hauteur of her manner. From the way she examined Mace with a gleam
in her half-lowered eyes, Saranda knew instinctively she was a
whore.

“And what do
you
do?” she asked the
Indian woman, because she hadn’t volunteered. “In the show, I
mean.”

Mace’s eyes flicked to Saranda’s face and
lingered a moment before blinking away.

“Acrobatics,” said the woman with exaggerated
dignity.

Mace’s grin split his face. “Do ye now? I’ve
a bit of the talent meself, so I ’ave.” Speaking flawless cockney,
he sounded uncomfortably like Lance. “I’ve” came out “Oy’ve,” and
the inflections were without equal. But it was the implication in
his words that galled Saranda.

Picking up on it, Flying Dove gave him an
enigmatic smile. “Then we should get together to—discuss it
sometime. We might have a partnership in the works.”

Saranda flashed her a look that said in no
uncertain terms this man was
her
partner. But the woman
wasn’t aware of it. She was still smiling suggestively into
Blackwood’s amused eyes.

“Could be, darlin’, could right well be,” he
said. “Well, lydies, I’ll introduce meself. Tommy Ward, lately of
the Ward and Powell Traveling Extravaganza in London, across the
great wide sea. And this is me fine assistant—Dusty DeVille. Have
ye been told why we’re here?”

“Benny told us he lost us to you in a poker
game,” said Lucy bitterly.

“Splendid. Then there’s no need fer
explanations, is there now, which, if ye must know, suits me fine.
I’ve won ye, and I want to set ye straight ’ere and now. I’ll not
be taking advantage of ye. If ye’ll put yerselves in me hands,
we’ll fashion a show that’ll turn the suckers’ heads and have ’em
beggin’ to put money in the plates.”

He walked around them, thumb scratching his
chin, looking them up and down. “Now, ladies, show me what it is
each of ye does best.”

Saranda didn’t even want to hazard a
guess.

* * *

After a demonstration of their talents, the
girls gave them a tour of the wagons. Each was equipped with a
stove and storage for food so they could cook meals along the way.
The first wagon belonged to the men—the drivers and the showmaster.
The second, equipped with four bunk beds like the first, carried
the women. The third was stuffed with costumes, tents, and the
various accoutrements that enabled them to put on a show. “Benny
wasn’t the most organized of managers,” the girls told them.
“There’s a lot of stuff in here we don’t even use.”

Mace dug through some of it and pulled out a
bar suspended by ropes. “What about this?”

“The trapeze?” asked Lucy. “Naw. I think
someone used it a long time ago. Like I said, Benny never threw
anything away.”

Fingering it briefly, Mace’s wide mouth
curved into a secretive grin.

While they were inspecting the ladies’ wagon,
Flying Dove motioned him outside. When they’d left, Lucy, who
seemed to be the oldest of the group, let out an exasperated snort.
“Did you see the way she looked at him? He’ll be under her spell
before you know it, and we’ll be sweeping out her tent for a
living.”

“One thing you can say about Benny, he
treated us all fair.”

“He shouldn’t have hired her in the first
place. Gives us a bad name. She goes off with the cowboys, and they
expect us to do the same.” Lucy turned to Saranda. “I’d keep an eye
on that man of mine if I was you. Before that whore gets her paws
on him.”

“He ain’t my man, luv,” Saranda protested. “I
just work with the chap.”

“You mean he’s up for grabs?” cried the twins
together. Saranda groaned, and left.

Alone with Blackwood in the prop wagon, she
fingered the gauzy costumes. “Some disguise you’ve picked for us.
Just where do I fit in?”

“I was just wondering that myself. What can
you do?”

“You mean you want me to work? In
this—rolling excuse for a whorehouse?”

“Darling, look what we’re working with,” he
said, keeping his voice low lest the girls hear his real accent.
“Twin cherubs, an incompetent cardsharp who no doubt couldn’t make
it on the outside, and a half-breed whore. I’m counting on you to
be my star attraction.”

“This is nothing but a skin show!”

“All the better. We shall need money to get
to New York. Or had you forgotten our goal?”

“I was just wondering the same about you. You
seem unduly sidetracked by your—good fortune.”

He moved closer and took her face in his
hands. His thumbs stroked her cheeks as he fixed her with an oddly
penetrating gaze. “Mark me well, Princess. I’m never sidetracked
when it comes to something I want.”

“Just so you don’t forget what
I
want
in the process.”

The first challenge came when Mace dismissed
the drivers and informed the girls they’d be driving
themselves.

“Us?” they cried.

“Drive these wagons?”

“That’s about the size of it, luv.”

“But—we don’t do those kind of things!” Lucy
informed him.

Saranda knew what the girls couldn’t—the
fewer people along to learn their true identities, the better. If
the girls guessed, they could be handled. But with three hulking
men along, who knew what danger they might be inviting? The
suspicion the move was likely to garner made it worth the added
margin of safety.

So they started out across the toll
bridge—three brightly painted wagons each with two show ponies tied
behind—in the shank of day, heading south. Somewhere, their
look-alikes were riding the rails, leaving them free, for the
moment, to plan ahead.

Saranda was exempt from driving duty, a fact
that caused the girls to close ranks. She rode in the lead wagon,
bumping along as the caravan slowly crawled across the plains.

They plodded along until sunset, when they
pulled up and made camp. Saranda was stiff from riding in the wagon
all day, while the girls were complaining about the aches in their
shoulders from holding the reins. Still, their complaining was less
bitter than in the beginning. Mace had spent the day riding with
each of the three girls who were driving, giving suggestions and
worming his way into their good graces. Before they’d left Dodge,
he’d bought them each a pair of buttery-soft kid gloves to protect
their hands. This, of course, softened the blow of having to drive,
and touched them with his thoughtfulness for their comfort.

While the other women started supper, Flying
Dove followed Mace out onto the surrounding plains. Saranda watched
as he spoke to her, noting the way the woman moved her body,
enticing him with an invitation. She could tell from his stance
that he was amused, but she wondered how long he could hold out
against such a blatant offering. The Indian was darkly beautiful,
sultry, exotic—everything Saranda wasn’t.