Katherine O’Neal (48 page)

“Archer?” she asked, feeling more than a
little dazed from her sojourn in the dark and her lack of food.

“You remember Archer, don’t you? The man who
aided you in eluding the authorities for so long. Who, by doing so,
made himself an accessory to your crime.”

It occurred to her that Lance was protecting
his brother’s identity. But for how long? What ammunition would he
call forth to destroy him?

“Speaking of Archer,” McLeod continued,
“we’re curious as to his whereabouts.”

“Since you’re aware Lance visited me, you
know I’ve already said I don’t know where Archer is.”

“Please, Miss Sherwin, don’t insult our
intelligence. You don’t actually think we’re going to believe
you?”

“It’s the truth. Just as it’s true I didn’t
kill the Van Slykes. But then, you already know that, don’t you,
Sander?”

She saw the flick of apprehension in his eyes
before he turned to the warden. “See what you can do to loosen her
tongue.”

The warden nodded, and they turned to leave.
Saranda stood in a single, impulsive gesture. “You’re not going to
leave me here in the dark, surely?”

The warden’s uncompromising glower was made
more menacing by the obvious pleasure he derived from her words.
“That,” he warned her, “is up to you.”

“I’ll just have a word with her alone, if you
don’t mind, Warden.”

“Take all the time you need.”

The door was closed behind them, and they
were alone. The scene had told Saranda more than what was said on
the surface. The easy manner by which McLeod secured the warden’s
cooperation spoke volumes about the power the man wielded. She had
no doubt if Sander ordered her beaten, it would be done.

“I thought you’d like to see this morning’s
headline. It’s exclusive, by the way. We were the only paper to get
the news in time for the morning edition.”

He withdrew a folded section of the paper
from his back pocket and, unfurling it, held it to the lantern. She
read the headline with a sinking heart.

PRINCESS OF THIEVES

BROUGHT TO HEEL AT LAST

“I’d let you read the rest, but it would only
dishearten you. Suffice it to say, by the time I get through with
you, you won’t have a supporter left in the whole country.”

It was a particularly bitter blow. She and
Mace had spoken often of how they’d use the paper to help vindicate
her. To have the same powerful weapon turned against her seemed the
final humiliation.

“It will prove difficult, nonetheless, to
best us with trumped-up allegations,” she bluffed.

“Trumped-up?” He withdrew a piece of paper
from his coat pocket and unfolded it. “Tell me, Miss Sherwin, is
this or is this not your own handwriting?”

As she’d suspected, it was the confession
she’d written up in case Jackson learned the truth. Her heart sank.
“Now,” he said, in a change of tone, “where is he?"

“You must be hard of hearing. I’ve told you I
don’t know.”

“You might as well tell me. We’re going to
find him eventually.”

“Then you don’t need my help.”

He studied her a moment as he replaced the
paper. “The way I figure it—and tell me if I’m wrong—is, Archer
wouldn’t have brought you in if he didn’t have proof you didn’t
kill the Van Slykes. Oh, don’t look surprised. We both know you
didn’t. Behind closed doors there’s no need for pretense between
us, is there? Nothing I say here will stand up in court. They’ll
rule it as hearsay. Besides, who would believe an adventuress over
a reputable member of society?”

“And if there were proof? To counter your
proof?”

“That, of course, would make things more
difficult. So I’m sure you can see why it’s imperative I find your
friend Archer before your case goes to court.”

“I was under the impression that you had the
courts—sewed up. Is that how you say it?”

“Well, it never hurts to be prepared for
anything. No doubt you’ve found that to be true in your profession
as well.”

“Are you complimenting me?”

“I have to admit you had us all fooled. I’m
not sure I’d even recognize you, without your Sarah Voors getup.
It’s why I sent Lance after you. He’s the only one who knew what
you really looked like.”

“Has it occurred to you to ask how he
knew?”

“That’s unimportant.”

“You’re a fool if you trust Lance
Blackwood.”

“I trust no one, little lady. I merely reward
people for services rendered. That way, they remain loyal.”

“Some loyalties can’t be bought.”

“Have you ever found one that couldn’t?”

She lowered her eyes.

“Just as I thought. You’re a beautiful woman.
I imagine men would walk through fire if you asked them.”

She looked up with some of the old sexual
confidence blazing in her eyes. “You’d walk through fire for me, if
I wanted you to.”

He smiled as if she’d proved his point. “And
what would Archer do for you, I wonder?”

* * *

She’d been in prison for two weeks—or so she
was told, while she grew weaker and more dispirited by the hour.
For two torturous weeks, she was questioned day and night in a
relentless effort to discover her lover’s whereabouts. When she
refused to speak, her inquisitors played cruel games with her
mind—telling her one thing, then another, to throw her off-balance.
They hit her with such a barrage of accusations and questions that
she ached for peace and solitude. Yet when they left her alone it
was worse. The darkness, the eerie, tomblike silence, the absolute
isolation plagued her. She saw the guards in her cell, but a moment
later couldn’t tell if they were real or imagined. And always, she
heard their snarling voices ringing in her ears.

They brought in trays weighted with tempting
foods. Succulent meats, with vegetables so fresh, they looked as if
they’d been picked that afternoon. Tender lobster in a cream sauce
that smelled like heaven. Fluffy biscuits oozing with butter and
dripping with sweet honey. Desserts to make her mouth
water—chocolate concoctions and creamy fruit tarts. Each dish was
carefully chosen not just for its physical presentation but for the
aroma it exuded in the confines of her cell. As they questioned
her, the rich odors distracted her, causing her stomach to cramp
and growl. She was so hungry, she could barely concentrate on what
they were saying. But when she refused to talk, they took away the
sumptuous foods and left her only a bowl of broth and a cup of
water.

The psychological games were more wearing and
terrifying than any beating. She could have endured the lash of the
whip. Eventually, she’d pass out and find merciful black peace. But
they kept her on tenterhooks the entire time, telling her of the
manhunt going on for her lover. How he’d been spotted and almost
captured. How he’d been wounded getting away. How it wouldn’t be
long before he was dragged into an adjoining cell in chains. How
he’d be hanged at her side as accessory to murder. And always—the
endless interrogation: Where is he hiding? What are his plans? What
evidence does he have?

All the while, she asked herself the same
questions. Where was Mace? What was he doing? She’d half expected
that, even safeguarded as she was, he’d miraculously appear and
steal her away.
Mr. Blackwood seems to be of the opinion that
your partner in crime is more than capable of breaking you out of
jail,
Sander had said. Half-crazed by her stark conditions, she
came to believe it was true. If Lance thought Mace would come,
surely...

But in her saner moments, her rational mind
told her it wouldn’t happen. It wasn’t Mace’s style to swing in and
rescue her with guns blazing. His weapon was his mind. If she was
to be rescued, it would come subtly, brilliantly. In the most
unexpected way.

Then one day Sander McLeod entered with a
smile of satisfaction on his face. “We got him,” he announced.

“Who?” she whispered.

“Archer—who else?”

Weak as she was, she forced herself to sit up
in the gloom. “Where is he?”

Sander grinned cruelly. “Dead.”

She wouldn’t believe it. It had to be a
trick, another twisted game to throw her off-guard, make her
confess. But Sander told her of Mace’s death in such gory detail
that, even as she refused to believe, she put her hands to her ears
to shut out the awful words. When she looked up, he was gone,
leaving her alone to relive the ghastly images he’d planted in her
mind. Had she found him after the tornado, only to lose him
now?

So she waited. And despaired. Until one day
the guard came in with her meager fare and a smile of anticipation
on his face. “Your trial’s set for Monday morning,” he
announced.

“Monday? What day is it?”

“Friday. Looks like the waiting’s about
over.”

Two more days
. She began to doubt for
the first time. What, she wondered, was she waiting for? A miracle?
Or a rendezvous with a noose?

Because surely if Mace were alive, he’d have
found a way to send word. She hadn’t been bothered by the warden in
days. At first he’d made daily visits to taunt her, threatening
retribution if she held to her silence. But lately the hours, the
days, had drifted by, and no one had come but the guard.

She was weak and feverish. Sometimes, she
caught herself talking aloud, just to hear the sound of a voice.
Sometimes she realized the guard was standing there, and she hadn’t
even known it. Then, alarmed, she wondered what she’d been saying.
Had she told them something that had led them to Mace? Was that why
they’d stopped questioning her?

Once, a presence in the cell awoke her.
Groggily, she was aware of a man looking down on her. “I’ve been
appointed by the court to be your attorney,” he said.

“Attorney?” she managed to mutter.

“Naturally, I intend to plead you guilty so
we might spare the taxpayers the expense of a lengthy trial.”

Seeing the futility of a conversation, she
merely sank back to sleep.

It seemed only a blink of an eye before the
guard came back, nudging her with his shoe. When she sat up, her
hair falling about her face, she realized he was speaking. “What
did you say?” she asked with difficulty.

“I said, say your prayers, lady. Your trial’s
in the morning.”

* * *

Feeble as she was, she couldn’t sleep. Her
defenses had been battered to the point that she could no longer
hope. If Mace hadn’t sent her word by now, it had to be one of two
reasons: He didn’t know where she was, or he was dead. He could be
waiting to make his move when she arrived at the courthouse, but
instinct told her it would be too late. Once McLeod had her in
court, he wasn’t going to let her get away. And if Mace showed up
and presented his evidence, Sander would have him killed. Then
Lance could discredit him by disclosing his real identity, and it
would all have been for nothing.

If Mace didn’t make his move before she was
brought to trial, he’d never have the chance.

If he was alive.

* * *

She knew it was morning when she heard the
key turn in the lock. A matronly woman entered to ready her for
court. She helped her change into a fresh dress, sponged the soot
from her face and hands, and brushed and dressed her hair atop her
head. Then the matron told her to wait, that they’d be along for
her in a few minutes.

Saranda sat like a stone on her cot, staring
straight ahead. The time had come. She’d be set up for derision and
ridicule in a public courthouse. She’d be accused of murdering two
people she cared deeply about. And she’d be found guilty and
sentenced to hang. She doubted the proceedings would take more than
a few hours.

She must steel herself to present a brave
facade. She had to con them into thinking she wasn’t as scared as
she was. But she was so disoriented, so woozy from hunger and
fever, that she couldn’t seem to summon the effort.

The key turned once again. It was time. She
rose on quivering legs and stepped forward like the walking
dead—only to stop cold in her tracks.

She couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or
awake. Her head was spinning and her vision unclear. Had she
completely lost her mind? For coming through the door were Bat
Masterson and Wyatt Earp.

They stood in the doorway in black suits and
brocade vests, boots and spurs, with two guns strapped to their
hips and Big 50 Sharps rifles cradled in the crooks of their arms.
Rifles that could shoot a hole through a buffalo at fifty
paces.

There was a scuffle as the guards protested
the intrusion. Wyatt’s voice cut in, harsh and curt, saying
something about a warrant, a prior claim. Saranda’s head was
spinning so, she couldn’t follow it. She took a step toward them,
saying softly, unbelievingly, “Bat?”

Wyatt leveled his rifle at her and jerked his
head toward Bat. “Get the cuffs on her,” he ordered. “And keep her
quiet. Move it, by God! I haven’t got all day.”

It was neatly accomplished. She was
handcuffed and dragged, by virtue of the rifles leveled at the
guards’ stomachs, down the dank corridors and out into the blinding
sun. They thrust her into an open carriage as the warden came
running. “Guard her while I take care of this cactus burr,” Wyatt
told Bat under his breath. “If I’m not back in one minute, leave
without me.”

Bewildered by the sudden events, Saranda
allowed Bat to settle her in the carriage, staring at him as if she
still couldn’t trust her eyes. He looked so dear to her, looked
just the same with his thick black mustache and cold-as-ice eyes.
“How did you... ?”

He held a hand up for quiet, listening
through the carriage window as Wyatt explained the situation to the
warden. Then Wyatt, with his best western swagger, returned to the
coach and barked an order for the driver to take off. The warden
and his guards were left staring after them in angry confusion. No
one dared question the gunmen’s authority. Not with a warrant from
Washington to back them up.