Katherine O’Neal (26 page)

She knew she was lovely because she’d looked
in the mirror. She knew the pink costume hugged her curves,
accented her breasts, and made her thighs look like an invitation
to delicious intimacies. With her blond hair tumbling to her
shoulders, she looked like some enchanted fairy come to life. She
was ripe and curvaceous, a vision of sumptuous female flesh. All
this she knew. But she hadn’t expected this reaction from such a
calculating man.

Suddenly feeling rather cheerful, she turned
as if exhibiting her costume so he could catch a healthy glimpse of
her backside. It was so tightly clad in the gold-trimmed hip band
that each softly rounded arc was visible. She walked forward a few
steps and heard him catch his breath.

“Perhaps we should reconsider this,” he said,
as intimately as if his lips were at her ear. Her heart thrilled at
the possessiveness of his tone. It was clear he’d underestimated
her effect in the ensemble.

She decided then and there to wear the ruddy
costume if it killed her.

In the next town, they began to hit their
stride. Saranda sang the added songs and was rewarded as the
audience tossed coins at her feet. As the twins were hanging upside
down from ponies and shooting at stuffed birds, she disguised
herself in dark wig and bright colors as a Gypsy fortune-teller and
told prophecies to lonely pioneer men. She’d learned the art from
her mother, using a combination of tarot, astrology, and the
ancient runes, along with a smattering of a science her mother had
developed analyzing peoples’ names. It would have been easy enough
to slide by, telling them the usual things lonely men wanted to
hear. But she was a perfectionist. Without having planned it, she
gave genuine readings that left each patron more astonished than
the last, and a growing collection of coins in the silk pouch in
her bosom.

After the crowds had left, she was getting
ready to dismantle her operation, when the tent flap opened and
Mace walked in. The tent was small, and he seemed to fill it with
his presence. Even exhausted from the show, he radiated more
charisma than any man she’d ever known.

She took the money from her bodice and handed
it over. He dumped the gleaming contents into his palm and gave a
low whistle. “Quite a tidy little haul.”

“Gypsies, it would seem, are
irresistible.”

Their eyes met.

“This Gypsy, it seems, has an uncanny ability
to read a man’s most secret thoughts. I’ve been hearing about you
all evening,” he said.

She assumed her Gypsy accent and the manner
of intrigue, and said in a husky voice, “No man’s secrets are safe
vith me.”

“What’s this I hear about you reading
names?”

“Oh, that. Mother taught me. She believed a
person’s name could tell a great deal about the person. It’s
tricky, though, out here. One never knows if the name one’s given
is real. But the pseudonyms people choose can be quite
telling.”

“I’m intrigued. What, for instance, would you
say to Tommy Ward?”

“Officially?”

He shrugged.

“Have a seat.”

He sat across the table from her. A single
kerosene lantern lighted the tent, throwing pointed shadows about
the room. She turned it lower, as was her custom with a reading. “I
warn you. This will cost you.”

His eyes never left hers. They both knew she
wasn’t speaking of money. Fascinated, he gestured for her to go
on.

“Very well. Ward means a guardian, or
watchdog, which is interesting since you’re in essence guarding me.
But Tommy—that’s the truly interesting choice. Thomas means twin. I
should say it speaks to your awareness of being a person of many
faces. You were named for a weapon. Yet in a pinch, you choose the
identity of a man of multiple facets. In short, a con man.”

“What else do you know?”

“That your mother was undoubtedly an admirer
of medieval literature.”

“How did you—”

“Oh, that’s easy. She named her sons Mace and
Lance. Medieval weapons. What else would you like to know?”

His mouth twitched. With an amused,
patronizing smile, he sank back in his chair, brought one foot to
rest on his other knee, and settled back. “By all means. Tell me my
secrets.”

“I shall need the tarot for that. And your
cooperation.”

“Anything you say.”

“Shuffle the cards for me.”

He took them and shuffled them like a
cardsharp, fanning them from hand to hand. Obviously, he intended
to make a joke of it.

“Lay them in three piles.”

With a mockingly serious frown, he obeyed.
Stacking them, she laid out a center card.

“Aha,” she said in her husky Gypsy voice,
“the guides varn you to stay avay from Indian maidens.”

He looked up from the table and laughed. “You
phony.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Just show me the tricks of the trade.”

“I’m not sure I care to.”

“Afraid?”

“Perhaps.”

“Because I might spot the weaknesses?”

“No. By now, I should expect you to.”

“Ah, a compliment. What, then?”

“I’m afraid of finding out something I don’t
want to know.”

“You’re telling me this works?”

“I don’t know how it works. But sometimes I
see things—
understand
things—I wouldn’t normally.”

They were silent, staring into each other’s
eyes. She caught the flash of hesitation as his narrowed in
assessment. “I say we risk it,” he said finally.

“Which means you don’t believe me.”

“Does it?”

“If you really thought I could discover your
secrets, you wouldn’t touch those cards.”

He grinned. “Very well. I confess to
doubts.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Replacing the card, she handed the deck back to him. “Take these in
your hands and think of your deepest secret.”

He took them, but his grin widened as he
allowed his gaze to travel the line of her breasts.

“That’s no secret,” she snapped.
“Concentrate. Bring it all back to you. Transfer it from your mind
into the cards.”

He held her gaze for another moment. She
caught the change of expression, saw the moment when he decided to
rise to the challenge. He closed his eyes. The vein in his temple
throbbed. She felt the atmosphere in the tent settle and focus.

“Done,” he said.

“Shuffle them again until they feel right.
The whole time, concentrate on the one thought. Then, when you’re
ready, replace them in three piles.”

With the cards back in her hand, she laid one
face-up. “That’s you,” she said, pointing to the Chariot. He
studied it intently. “It speaks of having a balance, but perhaps
not realizing it. See how he’s holding the reins and balancing two
worlds—the spiritual and the material.”

She laid down more cards, face-down this
time, making a pattern. Then, slowly, she turned over the ten of
Wands.

“Well, this is no surprise. You’re searching
for an identity. You’re in the process of changing, but there are
so many identities from which to choose, that you—you’re looking
for the right one, the
real
one. Who you really are.”

“A fine reading to give a flimflam man.”

“This is your past.” She turned the card over
and flinched. Thoughtfully, she turned over another card. Turbulent
pictures whirled through her mind, like memories she’d had no part
of. “The cards say you’re a deeply tortured man. You hide it behind
a mask, yet there’s a part of you that’s like a beaten animal
licking his wounds. It’s murky—dark—I feel that you’re grieving for
the family you lost. It’s confusing. I think this is your brother.
He caused the loss of your family, which would point to his
botching of the job that led to your parents’ death. But this
indicates something I don’t understand. It implies the loss of a
child. Says the loss devastated you, never stopped haunting you.
That you suffer every day of your—”

His fist slammed down on the cards,
scattering them. She jumped. She’d become so engrossed in the
reading, she’d almost forgotten he was there. She looked up to see
etched in his face the same black torment that had screamed at her
from the cards. The intensity of it frightened her. But she’d seen
something in the cards that had touched the bleakest corners of her
heart. “You had a child,” she whispered.

His mouth quivered. He rose and stood with
his back to her. The air in the room was so charged with pain that
she wept for him inside.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling wretched. “I
wish I’d never started this.”

He turned. “By all means, finish it,” he said
bitterly. “Dredge up the rest.”

There were still a few cards lying face-down
on the table. With a shaking hand, she gathered them up.

“I don’t want to know,” she said softly.
Then, lifting her eyes to his, she corrected herself. “That isn’t
true. I want more than anything to know. I want to know everything
about you. What you hope for, what you dream about, why you suffer.
But not this way.”

“If you’re so curious—not to mention so
talented
at telling fortunes—why do you care how you find
out?”

She stood and went to him, taking his hand in
hers.

“I want to know because you trust me enough
to tell me.”

He gave a harsh sound that passed for a bark
of laughter. “Trust. A charming word, between the likes of us.”

He tried to pull his hand away, but she held
it tight. “Just tell me one thing.”

The pain in his eyes was receding, replaced
by a guarded shield. “What’s that?”

“Is it true Lance ruined
your
life, as
well?”

“If you mean that job, you have to
understand. Lance was... ill. He wasn’t responsible for his
actions. He thought he was helping—”

He broke off suddenly. She didn’t need him to
continue. His justification told her more than she wanted to know.
As long as he lived, Lance Blackwood would have a protector in his
brother, Mace.

“You’re wrong,” she told him. “I don’t have
to understand anything. Your brother is a reprehensible wretch,
undeserving of your loyalty or your protection. I only pray God my
life doesn’t hang in the balance.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Tell me, Mace. Given the choice between my
life and your brother’s... which would you choose?”

Several days later, they realized they were
lost. They hadn’t come to a settlement in days, and they were
running short of water. They rode for hours in the unrelenting
blaze of the desert sun, hoping to find a new supply—a river, a
stream, anything. Somehow they’d strayed off-course.

* * *

After two days of wandering without water,
with the women on the verge of mutiny, they ran into Indians. There
were ten of them, young, virile braves, painted for war.

As they reined up, Flying Dove moved to
Mace’s side. “They’re Pawnee,” she told him softly. “Looking for
trouble. You must kill them, or they will kill you and take the
women.”

The braves began circling the wagons.

“Can you speak the language?”

“Enough.”

“Get inside,” Mace ordered the other women.
Then he turned to Flying Dove. “You come with me.”

Abby handed him the rifle she’d retrieved
from her wagon. But he merely shook his head.

From inside the wagon, the women looked out
on the scene. Mace and Flying Dove walked forward slowly toward an
older brave who was apparently the leader.

“He’s going to try and talk to them!” Abby
marveled.

“He’s going to get us all killed,” grumbled
Lucy. “Or worse.”

Saranda watched as the braves dismounted and
took hold of Mace, holding him spread-eagle as Flying Dove spoke
hurriedly. “Do you have a pistol?” she asked Abby.

“Yes.”

“Give it to me.”

She put the gun in her pocket and stepped out
into the heat. Shading her eyes with one hand to distract them from
the other hand in her pocket, she walked slowly to Mace’s side. The
braves paused and stared at her.

“I told you to stay inside,” Mace snapped,
still held pinned by the Indians.

“Do they speak English?”

“No,” said Flying Dove.

“I have a gun in my pocket. Take it and use
it, before it’s too late.”

“I don’t want it,” he insisted.

The braves who weren’t holding Mace began to
circle her. One touched her silvery hair, another pinched the
material of her dress. They made a tight circle, their mouths
widening in appreciative grins.

“These men haven’t had a woman in some time,”
Mace warned. “Unless you want—”

“I want you to take this gun and use it.”

One of the braves grabbed the hair at the
nape of her neck and roughly pulled it back so that her face tipped
up toward his.

Mace’s face hardened, and his voice cracked
out like a bullwhip.
“Saranda, get in the goddamned
wagon.”

Flying Dove registered surprise at his use of
the strange name. But she spoke sharply to the braves, and they
moved away.

“Why be so stubborn—”

His eyes narrowed, and he growled at her,
“Get out of here.
Now.
”

One of the braves spoke. “He says they’ll
leave us—in exchange for a woman,” Flying Dove whispered.

“Tell him no deal.”

She touched his arm. “I’ll go with them.
I’ll—”

“Tell him my women aren’t worth my life. Tell
him they’re useless. They’re weak. They can’t cook, they can’t take
care of a man. Tell him I spit on my women. My ponies are of more
value. But I give those ponies to no one.”

She translated as he spoke.

As one, the braves looked back at the wagons,
noting the sleek ponies. The men who were holding on to him let him
go as they moved off to inspect the horses. Freed, Mace grabbed
Saranda’s arm with such force that she felt his fingers bite like
brands into her flesh. He jerked her to him furiously.