Katherine O’Neal (42 page)

He smiled. “I was hoping to reassure you that
you’re safe while I still live.”

“Safety isn’t something I’ve sought in my
life, Mace. Given a choice between being safe and being with you, I
most cheerfully choose the life of a fugitive. Yet—” She paused. “I
confess your words leave me feeling empty-handed. I have nothing to
give you in return that would match your willingness to sacrifice
your life for my sake.”

He took her hand from his hair and pressed it
to his lips. “Don’t you?”

She thought of the farmer’s children and
dropped her gaze. “How were you so certain the farmer wouldn’t run
for the authorities?”

“You forget, I’m an excellent judge of
character.”

“I don’t know about that. You love me, don’t
you?”

“I’ve just told you. More than my life.”

It was wondrous, that someone loved her so
completely. So why did it fill her with such fear?

“I’ve run from trouble before,” she told him.
“But I have to admit how much better it is, not having to run
alone.”

“When I’m through, you won’t have to run ever
again.”

“Sweet words, but I doubt that’s possible. My
cover has been blown before the entire country. I’ve been exposed
as a confidence artist. Even if we’re successful in clearing my
name, I still have no base of operation left.”

“Do you require one?”

“I’m not certain what you mean,”

“I mean is it your intention to continue with
your career? If you could reclaim your anonymity, would you?”

She pulled her hand from his. “That’s the
question of the hour, isn’t it? Having seen the light, will the
lady libertine cease her despicable acts? I don’t have an easy
answer. What happened to Winston and Jackson horrified me, made me
realize that, my code of honor not withstanding, my actions were
hurting people.”

She took a breath before going on. “I have a
deep desire not to do so anymore. Being on this farm—if you can
call it that—has shown me that more than anything. Yet what else
can I do? I was trained from birth for only one thing. I can do a
number of things well, but they all serve the larger purpose. I
have only one real talent: to make people trust me so I can pilfer
their goods. As much as I hate to link my name in the same breath
as his, I’m much like Lance in that respect. Like you, I want to
lead a more useful life. But I can’t see a role for myself in the
respectable world.”

“You were willing to marry once.”

“Yes, but I was doing it to con you. Had
Winston lived, my life would have been one long pretense, playing
the role of Mrs. Van Slyke to an unsuspecting world. This time,
it’s different. This time I have no role to play. I couldn’t be
married with nothing to do. I’ve spent my life working. So I seem
to be caught in this vast nowhere land. Even if I don’t hang for
murder, there seems to be nothing I’m fit for.” Saranda looked
disconsolate.

“I don’t know about that,” he murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“What?” she asked. “Tell me.”

He glanced out the solitary glassless window.
“Some other time, I promise. It’s growing dark now. We need to
leave. We’ve but a week and a half left to make it back to New
York. We can’t afford to waste a moment.”

The farmer had caught a rabbit, which was
divided between the twelve of them in another stew. They ate
quickly, eager to be off. Saranda wasn’t looking forward to braving
the river again so much as she was to questioning Mace further. She
couldn’t wait to find out what he could possibly have in mind.

* * *

They pushed off in the raft just at dark. It
spun in the waters until Mace, using the oar the farmer had
provided, was able to set it straight. Looking back at the family
who stood waving on the banks of the river, lit by the pale glow of
a single flickering candle, she wondered what lay ahead for them.
Maybe she and Mace could help provide them with a better life—if
they succeeded.

The raft began to pitch through the darkness,
over the onrushing waters. Saranda and Mace settled at opposite
ends, each using an oar, fighting to keep a steady course. The
water sprayed their faces and dampened their clothes. Once or
twice, they were tossed so perilously, they threatened to lose
their balance on the slippery logs. But eventually they settled
into a rhythm of alternate strokes to keep the raft straight and
true.

Saranda brushed the sodden hair from her face
and called over her shoulders, above the din of the torrent, “What
did you mean when you said you had a few ideas?”

“Ideas about what you can do in the so-called
respectable world,” he yelled back.

“For instance?”

“For instance, something that will satisfy
your newfound thirst for truth and utilize your talents all in one
masterstroke.”

“And what might that be?” Was he going to
make her pry it out of him?

“A reporter.”

“A
reporter?
”

“Why not? You want the truth, go out and find
it for yourself. You’d be perfect.”

“I know nothing about it. I don’t even know
if I can write.”

“Ah, there’s nothing to writing news. Who,
what, where, when, why. I can teach you that. The
creativity
comes in having the ability to ferret out the real story. The story
they don’t want to tell you. That’s something no one can teach you.
That’s where your particular genius comes in. I defy any man to
look in your eyes and not be tempted to bare his soul.”

The raft swayed to the left, and she paddled
hard, bringing it around. Her arms were aching already from the
effort. “I don’t know, Mace. I’d have to think about it. I have
this desire suddenly to help people better their lives. I keep
thinking there must be a way of opening people’s eyes to what harm
they do to others with their narrow thinking and hypocrisy and
greed.”

“As a reporter, you’d have an obvious
platform.”

“I can’t see how covering ladies’ teas and
factory fires will help change the world. Besides which, it sounds
awfully dull. Say what you will of my life, it’s never been
boring.”

“Suit yourself then. But I’ve found that most
people balk when they come face-to-face with their destiny. A
person destined to save lives with his skill as a surgeon might
just as likely prefer to be a carpenter. But reject it as we may,
I’m convinced that destiny is often staring us in the face. Only
we’re looking so hard for it, we can’t see it.”

As she considered his words, an idea struck
her. “I’m not interested in ladies’ teas and such rubbish, but
there
is
one thing I could do.”

“What’s that, Princess?”

“Go undercover to get a story.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“I could work in a factory and expose the
awful conditions. Get myself admitted to an insane asylum and write
about how they treat the patients. It’s perfect.”

“Dangerous is what it is. You’ve risked your
life more than I’d like already.”

“I see—it’s fine for a man like you to risk
your neck for a story, but not a woman.”

“Not the woman I love.”

“But, Mace, think of it. You said I could be
a reporter. But I’ve never been direct in my dealings. The thought
of interviewing someone
honestly
makes my hair stand on end.
But to do what I’ve always done—to play a role, to make someone
trust me, to extract something from them as a result—information
this time instead of money—
that
I can do! It’d be a way to
help change the world. A way of conning people for
good.
”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

Her throat by now was raw from shouting. It
was difficult to talk over the noise of the river, so she let it
go. But she couldn’t help thinking about it as they rushed through
the dark night, pulled along by the current.
Could
this be
an answer? Could it be that what she’d been looking for was under
her nose all this time?

In Memphis, Mace won enough money in a poker
game to buy them a bath, some unobtrusive clothes, and train
tickets to Ohio. Then he wired his people in New York requesting
information and told them to reply under the name of Sanderson in
Columbus.

The telegram was waiting for them when they
arrived. Mace read it immediately. Saranda saw his face harden.

“What is it?”

He glanced up and noticed the telegraph
officer peering at him with curiosity. “Let’s get out of here,” he
said, and steered her down several side streets before he told
her.

“McLeod is acting as publisher of the paper,”
he told her in a dull voice.

“Oh, Mace, no!”

He leaned back against a brick wall and
closed his eyes. His jaw was clenched tight, his hands convulsed
into fists. His breathing was ragged.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“First we have to get back to town. Even
though my contact warns against it. Says the authorities are
checking every boat and train coming into the city. With the
deadline close at hand, they’re questioning every passenger. Even
streetcars are being searched.” He took the telegram from his
pocket and read aloud: “ ‘Don’t even try to come. You won’t make
it. They’re out for blood.’ ” He balled it in his fist. “We could
use disguises, but with that sort of scrutiny, we’d be risking too
much. I’m not going to walk into a trap. And I refuse to put you in
any more danger than I have to.”

“We shall just have to find another way.”

“How? With three days left, we haven’t the
time to ride in on horseback. We certainly can’t walk.”

For the first time, he seemed genuinely
discouraged. “There’s always a way,” she said. “If one idea doesn’t
work, it’s simply a matter of finding something else. The word
‘defeat,’ ” she added, mimicking him, “is not in my
vocabulary.”

She could see he wasn’t listening. His
handsome face was etched in angry lines. “If they’re letting McLeod
run the paper early, they must be terribly sure of the outcome.
Which means they must have evidence that’s irrefutable. Can you
think what it might be?”

She thought for a minute, then groaned.
The letter of confession she’d shown Jackson the night before
the wedding, outlining how she’d set out to con them and marry
Winston.
She told him about it.

“I never thought of it again. There was no
reason to. It had already served its purpose.”

He shot her a bleak look. “Now it just might
serve McLeod’s.”

* * *

He was restless and gloomy all day. She tried
to keep his spirits up, but all in vain. He couldn’t sit still. So
they wandered the streets of Columbus, talking little. Saranda
spent the time racking her brain to think of ways of traveling
undetected from Ohio to New York in time for the deadline. Nothing
she came up with made any sense.

“Maybe we could get to the outskirts of the
city,” she mused. “Then your contacts at the paper could meet us
and sneak us in.”

“Impossible. There’s a guard at every bloody
door.”

“Well, there has to be
something
we
can do!”

“I don’t know. We may just have played into
McLeod’s hands.”

“McLeod and your brother, Lance,” she
reminded him gently.

“Lance may have pulled the trigger. But it
was McLeod who killed the Van Slykes. I swear to you before God,
one way or another, I shall make him pay.”

His defense of his brother sent her spirits
plummeting.

* * *

They spent that night in a hotel and ate
their first real meal in weeks, but it did little to alleviate
Mace’s brooding. None of Saranda’s efforts to cheer him were of any
avail. Even her attempts to get him into bed went unheeded. He
turned his chair back to the room and sat staring out the window
for most of the night. Even when she fell asleep, he didn’t abandon
his vigil.

The next morning, he was in a foul mood. She
bent over him, wrapping her arms around him from behind, and kissed
his cheek. “Haven’t you moved?”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice seething with
disgust. “I’ve come up with nothing.”

“You need some rest, darling. You can’t
expect to think clearly without any sleep.”

“I don’t have time to sleep. We’re almost
there. Two more days, and it might as well be two minutes. We’re so
close, I can taste it. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Let’s just ride the rails through
Pennsylvania. Perhaps along the way we can come up with—”

“What? Shall we hide ourselves under a
haystack and ride into town on a wagon?”

“If necessary.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“And don’t
you
be rude!”

He looked up to see her glaring at him, her
hands on her hips, and sighed. “I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to—I’m
not accustomed to being at a loss for ideas. If it were only me, it
would be one thing. But I have you to consider now.”

“Don’t think about me, if it’s causing you
distress.”

“You might as well ask me to stop breathing.
But you’re right. I shouldn’t take it out on you. This is my
problem.”

She hugged him close. “It’s
our
problem. Somehow, we shall think of something together.”

He stood abruptly, shrugging her off. “Let’s
get out of here. I can’t abide these walls for one minute
more.”

It was a gorgeous warm day with not a cloud
in the sky. But his surroundings went unnoticed as Mace walked up
one street and down another, his brow creased in thought.

They roamed the streets for what seemed like
hours. Mace seemed to be on some sort of quest. Yet even he was
hard-pressed to define what he was seeking. Some source of
inspiration, something to spark an idea.

“Mace, I can’t go on,” she said when her feet
were too sore to continue. “Let’s just take the train east
and—”

Suddenly, he stopped. His hand at her arm
arrested her, and she lost her train of thought. She looked about
to see what might have caught his interest. They were on the edge
of town, surrounded by green fields. The only thing visible was a
man standing beside some sort of huge wicker basket. On the ground
beside him was an enormous bunch of brightly colored material in
yellow and red stripes. A few onlookers were watching him as he
spread it out on the ground. Propped beside him was a sign that
stated: RIDES FIFTEEN DOLLARS.