Katherine O’Neal (30 page)

“You saved our lives. There’s no way those
men were going to let us go.”

“I’m not a killer, dammit,” he snarled. Then,
calmer, he added, “I can’t say that anymore, can I? Just like
Lance. What was it you said? Once a Blackwood...”

She grabbed his arm and turned him to face
her. “No,” she cried, fighting to get through the punishing black
mist in his brain. “You’re not like Lance. If anything, this proves
it.”

“That I killed two men because it was easier
than talking them out of their intentions?”

“No. You killed them to save my life. Lance
kills because he’s full of hate. You killed because you love
me.”

He looked into her eyes and recognized the
truth of her words. With a lunge, he caught her waist and pulled
her to him, clutching her to his chest as he realized what he’d
almost lost. His head buried in her hair, he allowed her to sob
into his neck as he lowered his head and his tears mingled with
hers.

One by one, the women retreated to the wagons
and left them alone.

Never before had each allowed another human
being to see so sharply to the very core of them—the secret
emotions, fears, and vulnerabilities they’d become masters at
shielding from—and using against—an unforgiving world.

In each others’ arms, they’d finally felt
safe. Perhaps for the first time in their lives. Yet the truth of
the situation began to penetrate, to make the revelations seem
unreal, where only moments before they’d seemed the only reality in
a lifetime of fabrications.

For the fact was, they clutched each other
over the body of a dead man—a man who had sought to destroy them
both.

They separated slowly, as if the effort was
too great. Saranda felt like a woman who’d awakened in a stranger’s
bed—not knowing what to say, or what to expect. Uncertain if a
promise was implied, and unwilling to broach a subject that might
spoil the tender mood.

But this gift of being able to reveal their
true selves was too precious to return unopened and with regrets.
So Mace took her face in his large hands and wiped away her tears
with his thumbs.

“We’ve things to talk about,” he said in a
tone that promised further intimacies. “But now we’ve more pressing
business.”

Greatly relieved, she nodded. Reaching up,
she used the tips of her fingers to wipe the remaining traces of
his own tears. Then, putting her fingers to her mouth, she tasted
their salty moisture, relishing the emotion they represented.

“I think those bandits knew we’d be here,”
she told him. “Though I can’t say why I think so. Instinct,
only.”

“Let’s find out.”

He glanced down at the dead body
distastefully, then rolled it over and made a thorough search of
the man’s pockets. “Nothing here.”

Standing stiffly, he made his way to the
bandit’s horse. A search of the saddlebags brought forth a fistful
of paper. She saw Mace’s shoulders slump. Wondering at his
discouragement, she pulled the shawl tighter about her and went to
put a tentative hand on his arm.

“What is it?”

Without words, he handed her the papers. She
took them curiously. One was a clipping from the
Globe-Journal
with the picture of Lalita Van Slyke, used to
help identify Saranda. The other was a drawing that looked very
much like a younger Mace.

“How did they get this?” she asked.

“There’s only one way they could have.” He
turned, and she saw in his eyes the same tortured longing for
denial she’d seen when she’d told him about the baby. “From
Lance.”

If Lance had supplied the picture, he was
willingly sacrificing his own brother to a gunman’s bullet, which
didn’t surprise her. “How do you know?”

“That’s a copy of a picture my mother used to
carry in a locket. There was a picture of Lance on one side and me
on the other. After her death, Lance was so distraught, I let him
keep it. He still had it when I saw him in New York.”

She had a vague memory of a golden locket
cold against her skin the night Lance raped her. The urge to say “I
told you so” was so strong, she had to bite down to keep silent.
Mingling with it was a rage that the wretch could so cold-bloodedly
throw his own brother to the wolves. From the little Mace had told
her, Lance had worshiped his older brother. Why now would he
sacrifice him to the highest bidder without a qualm?

“You’re right, of course.” She could see his
relief. “If those bandits were sent, it means they know where we
are. Or Lance knows, in any case. Whom he’s told—I should like to
think he’s told no one—”

“Mace, he sent someone to kill you.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Do you honestly believe those men were
merely after our money, and our virtue?”

The tension rose between them once again. “I
don’t know what to believe. We can only go by what we know. If
Lance knows where we are, and what our cover is, it’s become too
dangerous for us to continue. We shall have to abandon the troupe
at the next town and head for New Orleans.”

“Why wait for the next town? For all we know,
your brother will be waiting for us there. One of the bandits got
away. He’s likely to go flying to Lance with the news of their
failure. Why not leave now?”

“Because aside from the Mexican’s horse, we
have only those that pull the wagons. We’d have to leave one wagon
behind.”

“So leave them all behind. Pile the women
into one wagon, for that matter.”

“And leave them without their
livelihood?”

She felt more chastened than annoyed. “Very
well. Whatever you say.”

He gave her the faintest trace of a smile,
looking once again like the Mace of old. “Are you telling me you
trust me?”

“We’ll talk about that later.” But the smile
she gave him was kind. In truth, she was touched by his concern for
women who meant so little to him, in the scheme of things, and
whose care could only place him in more danger.

He looked about him, sniffing the air as if
becoming aware of their surroundings for the first time. “You’d
better change,” he reminded her gently, pulling the torn edges of
her bodice together so his warm knuckles grazed her breasts. “It’s
late. We must make some progress before the storm hits.”

She hadn’t noticed signs of a storm, but now,
gazing across the plains, she saw dark thunderclouds gathering in
the Southwest.

She went into the wagon to change, using a
little of their precious water to sponge herself where the bandit
had pawed her. It felt cool and healing on her fevered skin, gave
her a moment of respite from the terrible events of the day. As she
pulled on the plain calico dress, the memory of Mace’s eyes—eyes
that brimmed with tears of love for her, warmed her, washed away
the pain of confrontation with the bandits as no prairie water ever
could.

Then she heard Mace’s voice calling the women
outside. She stilled, detecting a note of panic that startled her.
She’d never heard that tone in his voice before. One of the
women—Lucy?—gave a stark screech of terror. Had the bandit
returned? Had he brought more men? She looked out the window but
saw nothing except Mace and the women staring as if transfixed
across the dark distant plains. She hastily buttoned her bodice,
then stepped out into a scorching gust of wind. And saw at once
what the panic was about.

Worse than bandits. More terrifying than the
threat of violent men. It wasn’t just a storm approaching. It was a
tornado.

It approached as if from out of nowhere at an
alarming speed, a great swirling, monstrous wind, dark and
menacing, hurling dust and debris in its wake. She’d seen twisters
before, seen the awesome devastation they could wreak.

There was no time to think. In a panic, the
women ran blindly in different directions, irrationally seeking to
outrun a force that mowed down everything in its path with
incredible speed. Only Lucy dived beneath a wagon, clutching at its
wheel. Unthinking, Saranda moved to follow, only to be grabbed by a
hand that bit into her flesh and wrenched her away. The fierce wind
whipped at her hair, flinging dust and rocks at her face and body.
The noise was deafening, descending on them like some demon
unleashed from hell. Dragging her, Mace headed for a cluster of
cottonwoods, tossing her down before diving over her and flattening
himself to the ground. Following suit, Saranda clung to the
thickest trunk she could. The wind kept blowing her off the ground,
forcing her to grip the tree with arms and legs to keep from being
blown away.

Suddenly, she heard a faint scream above the
roar of the wind. Forcing her eyes open, she saw the twister lift
one of the wagons, horse and all, and fling it, like a toy,
hundreds of feet in the air. Clinging to the spinning wheel, Lucy
was cast to the ground where she fell broken, then was blown like a
human tumbleweed across the rough terrain. Then, beside Saranda, a
slender tree was sucked from the earth with a crack, the branches
scratching her face and barely missing her eye as it whirled
away.

Shutting her eyes against the onslaught of
dust and rocks and splinters of wood, Saranda clung to the tree,
terrified she was going to die. Fighting by instinct alone to stay
rooted to safety, she struggled against the power and majesty of
nature, which blackened the earth and rendered her like a stalk of
straw in the storm.

Then it was over, as abruptly as it had
begun. The wind died down, and the noise receded to a low, distant
roar. Saranda had so much dust in her eyes that for long moments
she couldn’t focus. When at last they cleared, she saw Mace beside
her, raising himself from the ground, as filthy and scratched as
she was. Relieved, she glanced behind to see the twister moving in
a northeasterly direction, but dwindling now to a smaller, swirling
column that diminished rapidly as it swept away.

She felt his hands at her shoulders. “Are you
all right?” Mace asked.

She turned to him. He looked as shaken as she
felt but appeared otherwise unhurt. He wiped a hand across her
cheek, and she saw the streak of blood from her face where the
branches had scratched her. She felt battered and sore, covered
with dust, and her cheek stung. But otherwise she was fine. They
were alive. It was a miracle. Gratefully, she nodded.

“Then I’d better see to the women.”

Saranda looked out over the plains as Mace
walked with determined strides to where Lucy’s body lay twisted and
broken hundreds of yards away. All about them was strewn the
wreckage of the gale. Horses and wagons had been flung wide, the
wagons crashing on the animals, who lay on their sides, one still,
one writhing in grunting agony. The wagons themselves had been
reduced to shards of wood, their contents hurled across the
prairie. For hundreds of yards, she could see bright bits of
material that had once been costumes or tents but were now tattered
beyond recognition. Aside from poor Lucy, she could see none of the
other women. Had they been blown too far away for Mace to find
them?

She headed in the opposite direction, moving
rigidly, feeling weighted down by the heaviness of her muscles. The
plains were eerily silent now in the aftermath of destruction. Yet
as she trudged off past the rubble in search of bodies, she could
hear traces of thunder in the distance.

She caught sight of a mound that might well
be a body some yards off. As she hurried closer, the thunder seemed
to draw nearer. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t
thunder. The roar came closer, an unbroken crescendo. With her
heart in her throat, she turned to look. Was it another tornado?
Not after—

Then she saw it. A long line of cattle,
running at full tilt, dashing, blind with terror, this way and
that, but ever forward in an unending mass. They came and they came
and they came... more cattle than she’d ever seen, thundering
across the bleak landscape—directly in Mace’s path.

She screamed to him, but he didn’t seem to
hear her, only the onrushing beasts. He began running toward the
trees to escape the horrible onslaught of hooves and pounding flesh
descending on him in a deadly arc. But they were coming too fast!
As he ran, he waved his arms to try to ward them off, but instead
they veered in his direction, charging at him as if following his
lead. Saranda had just enough time to let out a scream of horror
before the steers trampled him in a charging mass, and she saw him
vanish beneath them.

Never had time seemed to stop like this.
Breathless, she was forced to stand and watch as wave after wave of
the horde descended upon Mace, surely crushing her lover’s body
beneath its hooves. She might have screamed the entire time—she
didn’t know. Certainly, her hands were clutched over her mouth as
if to quell the awful sounds coming from her throat. Too horrified
to cry, too petrified for rational thought, she felt her body jerk
toward him in spasms as the spooked livestock swerved and jumped
and balked at the spot where Mace had fallen to the ground.

It seemed a lifetime before they finally
passed and she could run, as senseless as the cattle, across the
parched prairie to his side. She stopped just before she got to
him, letting out a cry at the sight of him. He’d been ripped to
pieces! His clothes were in shreds, his body cut and bleeding and
oddly twisted. His arms were encased around his head, protecting
it, but she could see red gashes where blood matted the black
curls. For one awful moment, she was afraid to touch him—afraid of
the cold, dead feel of his beloved body beneath her hands. Then he
moved slightly with a strangled, muffled groan. Wild with relief,
she threw herself on him, shielding him with her body as if to
protect him from any more devastation.