Katherine O’Neal (55 page)

“It was fortuitous, you showing up when you
did. I know I’m leaving the paper in good hands. Just don’t forget
our deal now. One slanderous story appears in this paper about me
and—”

“Don’t worry yourself, Mr. McLeod,” drawled
the buyer. “So long as I own this here paper, you can put your
misgivings to rest.”

He took up the pen, gave a little cough, and
signed his name on the line provided. Dr. John Henry Holliday, of
Griffin, Georgia.

* * *

Suddenly, it was over. Bat showed up with the
deed to the
Globe-Journal
in his hands and a triumphant
smile turning up the corners of his mustache. “You’re a lucky man,”
he told Mace. “It was only Wyatt’s influence that convinced Doc to
sign the paper over to you. He was fixing to hang on to it.”

Mace took the deed and shook his hand.
“You’ve been a tremendous help,” he said. “If there’s anything I
can do to help you in the future, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Why don’t you stay and celebrate your
victory?” Saranda suggested.

“No, thanks just the same. I reckon you two
would like to be alone at a time like this.”

Alone was just what she didn’t want to be.
Bat gave her a wink and turned to Mace, extending his hand. “You’ll
do to ride the river with,” he said gravely. It was the highest
compliment a westerner could bestow.

When Bat had gone, the room seemed suddenly
too small, too confining. Saranda glanced up, and their eyes met
for one intense moment before they looked away.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly. “You got
what you wanted.”

“At one time, I thought it was what
we
wanted.”

She heard the hurt in his voice. “It was,”
she said. Then she corrected herself: “It is.”

Mace turned and went to the window to look
out over the street below. Tapping the deed against the knuckle of
his other hand, he stood there, looking out for a long time without
saying a word. When he did speak, it seemed he did so more to
himself than to her.

“Odd,” he murmured, “how empty some victories
can be.”

She stared at him for a long time. Again, she
knew without knowing how. Knew he was thinking of what he’d
sacrificed for this victory. Knew he was thinking of Lance. She
turned quietly and left the room.

A month later, Saranda stood on the rail of a
riverboat heading south, looking out over the muddy Mississippi,
remembering happier times. It was here on a boat like this that she
and Mace had once confessed their deepest feelings for one another.
She’d left feeling healed, feeling that nothing could harm them
again. But like everything else in her life, it had been an
illusion...

They’d been successful in taking over the
Globe-Journal
as planned. Once he was back at the helm, Mace
wrote a series of articles disclosing the truth. His words were so
audacious, they seemed to have been fashioned from lightning and
hurled from stormy skies. Once again, he proved the power of the
press. With Jackson’s letter printed in the
Globe-Journal
,
the other papers quickly picked up the story. Sander was arrested,
and Saranda cleared of all charges. But that wasn’t all. Bluffster
that he was, Mace painted such a heroic picture of his and
Saranda’s participation in the deed that overnight they became
glamorous figures. Two confidence artists who, having discovered
the murder of two of New York’s most noble citizens, had conducted
an elaborate deception to bring the murderer to justice. They were
welcomed back, not just to the
Globe-Journal
, but to
society, with open arms.

Since Saranda had been cleared of all
charges, the
Globe-Journal
reverted back to her. The courts
ordered McLeod to refund the payment he’d received—leaving Mace and
Saranda with an extra hundred thousand dollars of McLeod’s money in
the bank.

They should have been happy. They tried their
best. They’d never spoken about it openly, but each knew that
something vital had died. In an effort to rekindle the love they’d
had, they decided to go through with their marriage. Tired of
public spectacles after the ballyhoo of Sander’s arrest, they chose
instead to be married, quietly and simply, by a justice of the
peace. It should have been the happiest day of their lives. But at
the final moment, they looked into each other’s eyes and saw the
doubt.

Since Lance’s death, Mace had been behaving
strangely. He’d taken to carrying a gun, something Saranda hadn’t
been able to convince him to do in the wilds of the West. Often,
when he thought she wasn’t looking, he’d stop with his head cocked,
as if listening for something. He never told her what it was he
feared, which served to distance them all the more.

But she knew he was mourning Lance’s death.
And she suspected he blamed her. Could he be thinking that if Lance
were still alive, they could help him? Even now, she decided, Mace
refused to understand the extent of his brother’s madness.

After the wedding, they’d returned to the
hotel where they’d been living. It had been too painful to go back
to the Van Slyke mansion after all that had happened, but buying a
house seemed somehow too permanent in their present state. So
they’d been content to remain in the hotel. On their wedding night,
however, it had seemed a sterile, empty place. They’d lived too
long like vagabonds, yet now that they were married it seemed that
nothing in their lives had changed.

They’d been undressing for bed—awkwardly,
almost dreading what was to come—when suddenly, Mace had grabbed
her by the shoulders with some of his old spirit. “Let’s get out of
here,” he’d pleaded. “Now. We’ll take the first train out to Saint
Louis. Take the riverboat back the way we came. Call it a
honeymoon. What do you say?”

She knew he was trying desperately to
recapture what they’d discovered on that fateful voyage, yet
standing on the deck now, looking out over the mighty Mississippi,
she could feel herself trembling with trepidation. That trip north
had been a surrender of sorts. A time when she’d learned to trust
him, when she’d freely given him her heart and soul. She wasn’t
sure she could do it again. She wasn’t sure she believed it would
do any good.

Yet Mace swore to her that it would be worth
the pain. He was so insistent that she’d finally agreed to reenact
the entire night, to allow him to tie her to the bed and try to
rediscover the love and trust that had perished that night along
with Lance.

The smell of the river was recalling memories
of her first journey on the boat when he came up from behind.
They’d been traveling for hours, and night was falling. The sky was
a deep purple, streaked with midnight blue—the color of Mace’s
eyes. She knew the moment was upon them. Yet she’d been delaying it
for as long as she possibly could.

“Ready?” he asked, as if a stranger was
inquiring after her health.

She turned and looked at him. At the dear
face that made her heart ache to gaze on it.
If only
...

She couldn’t think of that now. She’d made a
commitment. She must honor it as best she could. Perhaps Mace was
right. Perhaps it
would
help.

Then why did she feel as though she were
being given a last cigarette before the firing squad took aim?

She squared her shoulders and moved from the
safety of the rail. “I’m ready.”

* * *

Their cabin was larger than before, more
luxurious since they now had all the money in the world to spend.
Mace, however, had gone to a great deal of trouble to reconstruct
the scene as it had been. He’d brought along a white scarf to bind
her hands to the headboard. And as before, he used braid from the
canopy to tie her legs.

Naked and spread-eagle, waiting for him to
finish his handiwork, she’d never felt more uncomfortably exposed
in all her life. It was as if she were bared before a stranger. She
was beginning to wish she’d never agreed. But the look in his eyes
kept her from speaking. She saw there a love for her she couldn’t
deny. Squirming uncomfortably in her bonds as he rounded to the
other side of the bed, she had to wonder, Was it enough?

Because the truth was, she still felt
betrayed. Mace had had his opportunity to prove his loyalty to her,
and he hadn’t taken it. He could have carried a gun with him the
night they’d gone to face Lance. He could have done the killing
himself, as one would mercifully end the life of a rabid dog. He
could have kept her from having to do it for him. But he hadn’t.
He’d stood by and watched as Lance threatened her. As he’d almost
killed Mace. Did Mace even realize how close he’d come to being
murdered by his scoundrel brother? Alone at night, did he ever face
the truth? Or did he still think he could have talked him out of
it?

Now, when it was too late, he kept a gun
tucked inside his coat. Did he think that would make up for it?
That he would protect her from now on?

It pained her just to think about it. Because
in spite of everything, she loved him more than she ever had. She’d
given him all she had to give. She’d changed because of him. In
spite of her fear, she’d been willing even to give him children,
because he’d made her believe she could. But how had they come to
this point where they had to play games just to make love to one
another? Just to feel close.

Maybe it was the nature of the beasts, she
thought as he tightened the cord at her ankle. Maybe con artists
needed a role, and without it, they felt naked. The sad thing was,
it hadn’t always been that way.

Mace was just taking her last hand to fasten
it to the bedpost when there was a knock at the door. “Mr.
Blackwood, come quick,” pleaded a steward’s trembling voice. Mace’s
fingers stilled, and they exchanged startled looks. He’d asked not
to be disturbed. Something must be wrong. The steward was banging
on the door as if the ship were on fire.

“It’s an emergency,” came the urgent
voice.

“I’ll be right back,” he told her.

“Don’t leave me here like this!” she cried.
But he was already striding off.

She heard the door open and close again, then
some sort of thud. She listened for the turn of his key in the
lock. It didn’t come. Had he left her here, tied naked to the bed,
with the door unlocked? What if someone came in?

She reached over with her free hand and tore
at the knot binding her other wrist. Something was amiss. What sort
of emergency would require Mace’s immediate presence? Why only him?
Because if all the men had been similarly summoned, wouldn’t she
hear their footsteps on the floorboards outside?

As she was struggling to untie the stubborn
knot, the door opened. “Mace?” she asked.

She heard a soft gasp. Very softly, almost
unintelligibly, he spoke. “Holy Christ.”

“What is it? What happened?”

“Nothing,” he whispered.

“But why did they call you?”

“It was a mistake.”

He was coming toward her from behind. She
could hear his soft footfalls on the carpet. Pausing on the
threshold of the bedroom, he turned down the gas lamp, casting the
room into dark shadows. The porthole curtains were pulled. For a
moment, there was an eerie expectant stillness in the gloom. Her
heart was beating an odd rhythm. Usually, Mace left the lights on
when they made love. He liked to see her face, to watch every
nuance of her body as it moved beneath his. But tonight the shadowy
dimness was a relief. A damp sheen of perspiration dotted her naked
skin. Even now, she didn’t know if she could go through with this.
Some instinct was screaming at her that it wasn’t right.

As he came closer, she reached out to him
with her free hand. She just wanted to hold his hand a moment, to
calm herself, to feel some intimate contact without pressure. Just
some time to ready herself for what was to come. Physically.
Emotionally. In every way.

But he misread her intentions. Instead of
taking her hand in a tender caress, he grabbed the wrist and,
retrieving the silk tie, bound it with quick efficiency to the
bedpost. The scarf was tied tighter than the other, cutting into
her flesh. “That hurts,” she protested.

He walked to the dresser and picked up
something, dangling it in his hand.

“Mace, it hurts. Just loosen it a bit.”

He came toward her, and she felt something
soft graze her cheek. She could see him silhouetted before her for
just a moment before he brought the length of silk to her mouth and
tied it behind her head. With a start, she realized he’d gagged
her. It was utterly unexpected. A blindfold, perhaps, to play into
his love of masks. But what was the point of silencing her?

She struggled madly for a minute, pushing
with her tongue in an attempt to expel the gag from her mouth. He’d
tied it too tightly—so tightly, in fact, that it was cutting off
her breath.

What was going on?

The bed shifted as he sat down beside her.
His hand touched her belly and wandered up to touch her breast. She
arched up, moving away from his hand, but bound and gagged as she
was, she couldn’t escape his grip.

She tried to think of other times with him.
Of the night he’d bound her wrists with ropes at the masked ball
and kissed her breathless, then left her suddenly, stunned and
aroused by his maleness. And the sweet and tender time they’d spent
at the dirt farmer’s in Tennessee. When they’d lain in that
dilapidated bed with the children all around them, and Mace had
spent the afternoon, when he was so tired, entertaining them with
stories of the circus. Odd she should remember that as the happiest
of times—how warm and cozy they’d been... and how very much in
love.

He leaned over and kissed the round of her
shoulder, but it was more as if he was inhaling her skin rather
than showing his love. Then his mouth moved to her breast. He
seemed different—more possessive, more aggressively inquisitive.
His teeth nipped at her flesh.