Katherine O’Neal (33 page)

“But to face all that again. I’m afraid—”

“Of the posse? Or of what’s between us?”

She lowered her eyes. She’d forgotten his
uncanny ability to read the secrets of her soul.

“I know you’re afraid. So am I. But if we
don’t face this, we shall never resolve it.”

“We will if we try. Mace, don’t you see? I
don’t care about this fight. I just want us to be happy. I just
want to—”

“Escape?” She looked up to find his eyes
piercing hers. “We can’t escape from ourselves, Saranda. I know you
want to go to Mexico because you feel by avoiding the past, we can
forget all that’s kept us apart. But you’re wrong. If this
separation has taught me anything, it’s that neither time nor
distance nor outside forces threaten us. I never felt as close to
you as I did while you were away.”

“You, too?” she whispered.

A spark of truth passed between them. She
felt raw suddenly, as if in that moment, for the first time, they’d
communicated honestly and from their hearts.

He smiled. “You see? The past will be between
us no matter where we go, until we face it.”

“But the danger if we go back to New York...”
The very name tasted bitter on her tongue. New York, at this
juncture, seemed like another world. She couldn’t see herself in
the city again, couldn’t imagine resuming a journey that had lost
all meaning for her. To risk his life on something so
meaningless... To risk whatever happiness they might have by
resurrecting the nightmare of the past.

“Do you think I want to lose you anymore than
you want to lose me? But neither do I want to wake up one morning
and find you shot on the way to the market for a ten thousand
dollar reward. Saranda, we can do this, love. We just have to be
brave.”

She knew he was right. Swallowing nervously,
she nodded.

He squeezed her hand tighter. “That’s my
girl. Can you travel?”

She wanted this to work more than she’d ever
wanted anything in her life. She wanted to feel in his presence the
overwhelming willingness to sacrifice herself for his happiness—the
way she had felt when they’d been apart. She wanted to feel so
close to him that nothing on earth could ever pry them apart.

With a valiant smile, she said, “I can do
anything if it means being with you.”

She hoped it was true.

Finally, they reached the sweltering, humid
swampland bordering New Orleans. After months of crossing the
plains, stopping only in small towns along the way, it felt odd to
be in a city again. New Orleans was particularly disorienting
because of its European flavor. The narrow streets and ancient
buildings, the foreign lilt to the voices, served as reminders of a
continent they’d long ago left behind. People of varied races and
colors strolled the avenues, the women shaded beneath parasols to
shield their skin from the tropical sun, the servants in colorful
turbans, with baskets of fish or fresh fruit carried upon their
heads. As they wove their way through the crowds, Mace and Saranda
heard French spoken more often than English.

They sold their horses, bought new clothes
and, dressed as tourists, headed straight for the ticket office.
Saranda wore a dark wig, wrapped with a long white silk scarf that
she’d thrown over her shoulder and across the lower half of her
face. Mace slanted his fedora down to cover his eyes. Dressed in a
white linen suit to escape the stifling bayou heat, he looked cool
and distinguished, a far cry from Tommy Ward of the traveling
troupe. Saranda envied him. In the heat, the wig felt heavy and
oppressive. She couldn’t wait to find a hotel room and yank it off.
To run her hands through her own freshly washed hair, relishing the
feel of freedom from restraint. To lie naked on cool sheets behind
shutters that kept out the glare, the insects, the heat.

The shipping office swarmed with people.
“Good, it’s busy,” Mace said quietly. “Less opportunity to be
noticed.”

“Let’s accomplish this with a minimum of
fuss, shall we? I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.”

He angled his head and looked at her through
shaded eyes. “Is that a proposition?”

She could feel the heat of his gaze spark in
her loins. All the way to New Orleans, both had become keenly aware
of the change in their relationship. The next time they touched, it
would be with a new awareness, a new emotional intimacy. At last
they would come together as lovers, vowed to heal the ravages of
their souls. Yet each time they looked at one another, there was an
awareness of what hadn’t been spoken. Lance still stood between
them. Nothing regarding him had really changed. So they kept
putting it off, embracing action as a way of avoiding the
inevitable.

“A proposition? That depends on how well you
perform today,” she replied lightly.

“An interesting choice of words.” He smiled.
“I assure you, I can perform equally well—day
or
night.”

“You might want to keep your mind on the job
at hand. I should hate to be killed before—”

“Before... ?”

“Before we’re afforded an opportunity to test
your boasts.”

He grinned. “I assure you, love. I have no
intention of allowing anything to interfere with that. As to
boasts—”

“You’re mighty bold, all of a sudden, I must
say.”

He was looking at her with a gentle gleam in
his eyes. “Perhaps it’s the thought of not having to run anymore.
Of being alone with you on a ship bound for New York—locked in a
cabin with nothing else to do.”

She shivered at the thought of it. It was
what she’d wanted for so long. Yet...

“We’d better get those tickets or the ship
will sail without us,” she threatened, her voice teasing.

She took his arm, slapped it when his hand
circled her waist and dropped lower for a quick caress of her
backside, then settled her face in respectable lines and walked
inside with him.

There was a line of ten or more people
purchasing tickets for a riverboat sailing up the Mississippi that
afternoon. Saranda took the opportunity to look around her. There
were a number of men at the counters lining the windows, most of
them dressed like Mace in light linen suits, some reading
newspapers, some checking schedules, one or two writing out what
looked like bank drafts with the pen and inkwell provided. No one
seemed to be paying undue attention to her or anyone else. Yet she
felt Mace stiffen beside her. When she looked up at him, she
noticed he was frowning thoughtfully.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he muttered as if he hadn’t
truly heard her but was still lost in thought. She watched as he
casually glanced about the room. On the surface, everything
appeared quiet. Nothing suspicious. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Yet she could feel his muscles tighten beneath her hand, as if he
was readying himself for flight.

He’s just being cautious, she told herself.
There’s nothing to fear.

Yet her pulse was racing by the time they
stepped up to the window. The ticket agent looked from one to the
other questioningly. Mace nudged her with his elbow, encouraging
her to speak.

“We’d like two tickets to New York, please,”
she said in her best mid-Atlantic accent. “Day after tomorrow.”

“New York, you say?”

There was nothing overt in the agent’s eyes.
Just the slightest hesitation as he glanced toward the far windows.
Instantly, Mace’s hand tightened on her arm. “Let’s go,” he
whispered.

Before she could blink, he’d jerked her away
and was running, dragging her behind, to the door.

In the surprise of it, she barely had time to
glance around. In doing so, she caught a flash of one of the
white-suited men drawing a pistol from his breast pocket and aiming
it at them while two other men leapt from their stations in
pursuit.

As Mace slammed the door behind them, the
instinct for survival flooded her veins. He dropped her arm and
took hold of her hand in one swift motion. Held with an unrelenting
grip, spurred on by the power of his stride, she flew across the
wide boulevard and into the nearby street, her feet barely seeming
to touch the pavement.

Strangers to the city, they ran blindly.
Moving into the Vieux Carré, they skirted narrow streets lined with
old brick buildings and balconies of wrought-iron lace. Heavy
scents of food and something more earthy spiced the air. Walls of
aging stucco rolled by them as they headed through alley after
alley, hearing the voices of men in hot pursuit. Once, as they
reached the end of a street, a gunshot rang out and pieces of brick
shattered inches from Saranda’s head. Catching sight of the gunman
in a nearby entryway, Mace glanced at a stone wall twelve feet
high.

“Get over it,” he ordered.

She looked up at the wall, choking with the
knowledge that she could never climb it. Her fear of heights froze
her in place, even as the man raised his gun to fire again.

Mace, however, didn’t pause. He shoved her up
from the knees so she was forced to clutch the top of the barrier
or fall. Scrambling to keep her legs beneath her, she closed her
eyes as the ground began to spin. In spite of the danger, she was
paralyzed.

“Move!” he called to her. “Jump down on the
other side.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

She looked back at him, and he saw her panic.
“I can’t!”

Crouching, he took an acrobatic leap into the
air that landed him nicely on top of the enclosure just as a bullet
put a hole in the bricks six inches below. In a single motion, he
put his hands to the top and swung himself down to land, as easily
as a cat, on his feet below.

“Jump into my arms,” he called.

“Are you daft?”

Another bullet sounded closer, this one
catching her skirt and ricocheting off the wall. She knew she had
only two choices: Jump and be saved—or stay there and die. She
wanted to live, yet she was so petrified, she couldn’t bring
herself to move.

“What is it?” he shouted.

“I’m scared of heights.”

He looked at her for a moment as if he
couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing. “A fine time to tell me,”
he grumbled.

The gunman was moving closer. She glanced
back to see him approaching, raising his gun again. “You might as
well give yourself up, Miss Sherwin,” he called out as he carefully
took aim. “We have you surrounded. You’ll never make it out of here
alive.”

She knew, in that moment, that it was true.
“Go on without me,” she told Mace over her shoulder. “I can’t do
it.”

Then she felt a whoosh of air beside her.
Turning, she saw Mace crouching next to her as if he’d flown on to
the top of the wall. He turned his back to her. “Get on.”

“What?”

“Get on and hold tight.”

“I ca—”

He grabbed her arms, jerked them around his
neck, and settled her on his back. Then, without so much as an
instant of preparation, he leapt into the air as their pursuer was
taking aim just below.

Her arms convulsed around him. The ground
rushed up to meet them. The sensation of floating through air
terrified her, yet morbidly she couldn’t close her eyes. To do so
would mean some loss of control. Instead, she clutched him so
tightly about the neck that by the time they’d landed, he was
choking. He had to pry her hands loose from his throat and slide
her down his back.

For a moment, her legs wobbled so she
couldn’t stand. Gripping his arm to find her balance, she slapped
at it with all her might. “Don’t ever do that again!” she screamed,
panting and clutching her stomach.

“Would you prefer a bullet in your back?”

It was beginning to dawn on her that she was
safely on the ground, that their pursuer was a very high wall away.
She looked back at the rampart, fighting to breathe. Clammy
perspiration caused her stays to cling damply to her ribs, cutting
off her breath.

“We’re safe?” she cried.

“For the moment. Remind me, though, never to
save your life again.”

Her panic was receding. “Did I give you the
impression I was ungrateful?”

“I have the bruises to show it.”

He was looking about them. They stood now in
an equally short, narrow street, with only one exit straight ahead.
Another street bisected it, forming a dead end. If someone were to
block it, they’d be surrounded front and back, with tall buildings
on either side. They could hear footsteps all around, and the angry
shouts of the man they’d just left behind. Lucky for them, Saranda
thought, he wasn’t the athlete Mace Blackwood was.
No man
was
.

Just then, a closed black carriage drew up,
blocking the exit. Mace caught her hand, stilling her. The shades
were drawn, hiding the person inside. It could be anyone.

He looked around again. Alone, he might scale
the side buildings. But with Saranda, it was impossible. They were
caught in a trap, boxed in from all sides.

The carriage door opened. They could see a
masculine hand and part of an arm, but nothing else. “There’s no
time,” said a low voice. “Get in.”

Mace guided Saranda behind him, shielding her
with the mass of his body, as they cautiously approached the
carriage. She could almost feel the wheels in his brain working,
anticipating ways of extricating them from a threatening situation.
Trying to figure out who might be lurking in the shadows of the
closed coach.

“Hurry up, for Chrissakes. They’re on my tail
as it is.”

Mace and Saranda exchanged puzzled glances.
Impatiently, the man stuck his head out the door.

“Bat!” cried Saranda, dropping Mace’s hand
and running to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I figured you’d be in New Orleans by now,
and I thought you might need some help.”

He gestured them inside. Saranda took the
empty seat, and Mace sank in beside her. The gesture wasn’t lost on
Bat.