Katherine O’Neal (21 page)

“Why is McLeod lying?”

“Because he wants the paper, naturally. He’s
opposed to everything it stands for. The fight to break the
stronghold of the robber barons, the championing of the plight of
the immigrants... All of it threatens not only
his
existence, but that of his chums. He’s been outspoken against the
Van Slykes for years, using everything but brute force to dismantle
the paper and its growing power. Nothing worked, until now.”

“Are you saying he had the Van Slykes killed
so he could get hold of the newspaper?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

“But Sander McLeod is one of the most
respectable men in New York—”

“Surely, you’re not so naive as to believe
the trappings of respectability. You should know as well as anyone
that looks, even actions, often have little to do with one’s real
designs. Have you asked yourself why he was at the mansion that
night, just as the murders were committed?”

“If the two of you were in it together—”

“McLeod hates me. I’m a threat to all he
holds dear. He knows that once I go after him in print, he stands
to lose everything he’s worked to build. He’d never join forces
with me, and I think you know it.”

“But it’s too unbelievable—”

“Easier to believe a con artist killed them
when his flam went awry?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have a dilemma.”

She thought for a minute while he watched her
closely. Then she looked up, straight into his deep blue eyes. “Why
do you want the paper?”

He leaned back on one elbow. “I could tell
you I want it to continue the work of the Van Slykes—to continue
the fight for the rights of the underdog—but you wouldn’t believe
that, would you?”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Very well... I want it for the power it
has—and will continue to have under my management.”

“Now
that
I believe.”

“So this is the arrangement. I shall get you
safely back to New York and clear your name, and you, in return,
are to sign exclusive ownership of the
Globe-Journal
over to
me.” Reaching into his pocket once again, he withdrew a legal
document and handed it to her. Astonished, she took it from him,
opened it, and read the first lines.

“This
gives
you the paper, lock,
stock, and barrel, for
nothing.
”

“Clever girl. Oh, don’t worry. It’s all
perfectly legal. Contingent on your name being cleared, of course,
and coming into your inheritance.”

“You had this drawn up before you left New
York? What did you do, stop at the barristers’ on your way out of
town?”

“That’s my offer... Take it or leave it.”

She tossed the paper aside. “I shall leave
it, thank you.” She stood, went to the horse, retrieved a brush
from her valise, and returned, brushing out her hair. As far as she
was concerned, the discussion was over.

“Would it interest you to know how McLeod had
them killed?”

“I know how you
claim
they were
killed. But I saw something that night you hadn’t counted on. I saw
you leaving the scene of the crime.”

“If you saw someone leaving the scene of the
crime, it wasn’t me. It was Lance.”

She wheeled on him, angry now.
“Lance is
dead.”

“I know you believe it. But he isn’t. He’s
visited me in New York on a number of occasions.”

“His ship went down at sea.”

“He wasn’t on that ship. It just seemed the
expedient thing to let everyone believe he was.”

“Your brother wasn’t clever enough to fake
his own death. Not and get away with it for so many years.”

“Why are you shaking?”

She hadn’t realized she was. She gripped the
brush to keep her hands from trembling. “Because I hate your
brother even more than I despise you. If I thought he was alive—”
Alive... after all this time... It was impossible!

“You expect me to believe you’d turn in your
own brother?”

“To save my own neck? Would you doubt
it?”

She turned and looked at him. “You’re
despicable. All you Blackwoods.”

His tone hardened. “Your objection is noted.
Do we have a deal or don’t we?”

She refused to believe Lance Blackwood was
alive. No doubt Mace was hoping to lure her back to the city under
false pretenses, turn her over to the authorities, and have her
tried and convicted for murder. Even the letter from Jackson was
questionable. A man like Mace Blackwood would have no trouble
finding an expert forger to do the job.

“I shall have to think it over,” she
said.

“You do that, Princess.”

She knew from the twist of his mouth that he
understood her motives. She had to time this just right. She must
catch him totally off-guard. A man like Blackwood would be watching
her every move. He’d expect some elaborate escape attempt.
Therefore, she must make it simple.

Minutes later, while replacing her brush in
her bag, she simply stepped into the stirrup, settled herself in
the saddle, and without so much as a fuss, rode away. When she’d
ridden some distance, she turned, waved, and noted his frustration
as he stared off after her. He’d be left alone on an empty prairie
without so much as a horse. But she had no doubt he’d find a way to
follow her before long.

Putting her heels to the horse, she headed
back to Dodge.

“Are you out of your mind?” Bat ranted when
she returned. “This place is swarming with men looking for you, and
sooner or later every one of them ends up in this office. I want
you out of here. Now.”

“You’ll protect me. Just tell them I’m your
sister.”

“Things are too hot. I’ve been asking around.
Officially, their job is to bring you in to trial. But I took one
of the Pinkertons out for a drink. Seems someone suggested that if
you happen to get shot escaping, their fee is doubled. I can’t keep
you alive if they’re gunning for you. What I
can
do is take
you to Mexico myself, to make sure you get there.”

“I’m not going to Mexico. I’m going to
Canada.”

“Mexico’s closer.”

“I’m going to lure Blackwood into a trap.
Once we’re in Canada, the authorities can take him into custody and
ship him back to England in chains. And I shall be standing on the
dock, waving good-bye.”

He was quiet for a moment, brushing his
mustache. “I did some checking.”

“On Blackwood?”

“Wired New York. Seems he quit the
paper.”

“He didn’t mention it. Why did he quit?”

“Wouldn’t go along with the reward for you.
Defended you publicly. Stormed out of the place. It made all the
New York papers. All but the
Globe-Journal
, that is.”

“He
defended
me?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“Don’t look so sanctimonious. If it’s
true—”

“I told you it made the papers.”

“—he had a good reason for doing so. Part of
the master plan.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “I believe
him. And you know I wouldn’t say so if I thought you were in
danger. Why not give him a chance, honey? Isn’t it about time you
trusted someone?”

She turned from him, stunned by the treason
of his words. “Trust a Blackwood? I’d rather stake my life on a
rattler.”

“Even rattlers shed their skin.”

“You don’t know the Blackwoods like I do.
They’re like me, but without any conscience. They take what they
want, and they don’t care who gets hurt. Well, I
care
. I’ve
had my eyes opened. The deaths of two wonderful men are on my head
because I didn’t stop Blackwood sooner. I was the only one who knew
what he really was, and I did nothing but play games with him.
No more
. It seems I’m still the only one who knows what he
really is. And it’s up to me to stop him.”

“Even if you get yourself killed by the law
in the process?”

“I won’t.”

“You’ve been too lucky. Winning streaks don’t
last forever.”

“It just has to last me to Canada. That’s all
I ask.”

She had her hand on the doorknob when his
soft voice stalled her. “He’s in love with you.”

She turned, slowly. “You think everyone’s in
love with me.”

He looked sad, resigned. “He doesn’t know it,
but he is.”

Saranda raised a brow. “Enough to kill two
men to get at me?” she asked sarcastically.

But on her way to the hotel she was finally
proved wrong. Shoved aside by a group of rowdy cowboys swarming out
of a saloon, she stopped dead in her tracks. For there, heading
away from her, was a dead man. Lance Blackwood.

As he cocked his head, laughing at his
companion’s crude joke, she recognized him with a sick convulsion
of her stomach. Appallingly reminiscent of his brother, Mace, he
was tall with curly black hair and deep blue eyes. But one of those
eyes was creased by scar tissue, looking sideways in its socket in
a lifeless leer. There were other, more subtle differences. Lance
was leaner, tougher, more transparent than Mace. Like a true
master, Mace could make his face display any emotion he wanted to
convey. Lance had always shown that brittle anger that made him
seem to vibrate even when standing still. He presented the cocksure
bravado of a peacock in full plumage. But she could see in his one
good eye the defiance of a man who knew he wasn’t up to snuff. The
pretense had worn on him over the years. Younger than Mace by two
years, he looked much older.

“Come along, blokes,” he called with a
drunken fling of his arm. “The next round’s on me.”

She knew that voice. The coarse cockney
accent he’d never been able to lose. The hard, sneering tone.

She was shaking uncontrollably. Without
knowing it, she clutched the front of her skirt in a tight-fisted
ball. She couldn’t tell if she was breathing. Sweat beaded her
upper lip. The impulse to be sick was overwhelming. She stood,
trembling, reeling dizzily, recalling that pitiless, jeering face
as the flames licked around them and he—laughing—

The memories paralyzed her. Scalding, bitter
memories rushed out of that dark corner of her mind where she’d
fought to keep them buried. Tears filled her eyes as she recalled
the helplessness, the brutal anger, and finally the consequences
that had changed her life and made her despise and fear
herself.

Isn’t it about time you trusted someone?

Thanks to Lance Blackwood, she couldn’t even
trust herself.

She wasn’t a killer, but she had murder in
her heart. In a trance, she staggered toward the closest water
barrel along the street. Bat had told her Wyatt Earp secretly kept
several rifles stashed behind the water barrels around town in case
of emergencies. If ever there was an emergency, this was it.
Reaching behind the wooden barrel, her hand came in contact with
the cold steel muzzle of a Sharps 50—the preferred rifle of buffalo
hunters along the plains.

It was a monstrous gun that would no doubt
knock her down when she fired. But she wasn’t thinking rationally.
Lance Blackwood was alive—that was all she needed to know. Laughing
with his lowlife chums as if he hadn’t single-handedly stolen all
the hope, all the goodness, in her life.

Stalking him with her rifle in hand, she
found him south of the Deadline, in front of the Lady Gay Saloon.
He was just about to enter with his group of disorderly compatriots
when her trembling voice stopped him.

“Lance...”

He turned. It took him a moment to focus his
good eye on her face. Recognition altered his features. “Go on in,
lads. I’ll be along directly.”

Eyeing the rifle, one of them asked, “Need
any help?”

“Don’t bother, mate,” Lance said
contemptuously. “I can tyke care of this snippet meself.”

When they’d departed, he swaggered toward
her, his thumbs stuck in his pants pockets, his elbows at an angle
from his body. “Well, well. If it ain’t little Saranda Sherwin.
Ye’ve turned into a ruddy beauty.”

The rifle trembled in her hands. “I thought
you were dead.”

He grinned, showing strong white teeth in a
wolfish mouth. A stab of pain shot through her as she thought of
Mace. “I scuttled ye right enough, eh?”

He was coming closer.

“What are ye goin’ to do with that rifle, eh,
luv? Have me head?”

“I’m going to kill you for what you did to
me.”

“Wot did I do, eh? Nothin’ any red-blooded
bloke wouldn’t want fer himself. But, darlin’, ye didn’t look in
them days like wot ye do now. If ye put away that rifle, I might be
persuaded—”

Enraged, her heart pounding in her head, she
raised the rifle and aimed.

Lance just laughed. The same wretched,
cackling laugh that haunted her dreams. “Ye can’t do it, Sherwin.
Yer no killer. Ain’t that wot you bloody Sherwins say? Gloatin’
about yer bloomin’ principles. Go on, then, if it makes you happy.
Pull the ruddy trigger. Prove to yerself yer just like me.”

His chest came up against the rifle. All she
had to do was pull the trigger, and she’d put a hole through him
the size of country squash. Her finger squeezed. She could feel
revenge on her tongue. But at the last minute, she couldn’t do it.
Because she wasn’t like him at all.

He chortled low in his throat. Taking the
rifle from her, he ran the muzzle tauntingly along her cheek. “I’m
tyking ye back to New York, luv. But who knows what might happen
along the way?”

She blanched with horror. She’d rather die
than go anywhere with him.

“Ye haven’t changed, Sherwin. Still afraid of
yer own shadow.”

It wasn’t true. The only person she’d ever
feared was him. But he made her feel so brutalized, so utterly
helpless, that in that moment she believed him. She felt all at
once like that girl of thirteen, being cowed by an enemy with no
compunction or mercy.

Why hadn’t she had the guts to kill him?

She couldn’t face him. The instinct to flee,
to get as far from him as she possibly could, clouded her good
sense. She could have conned anyone else. But Lance Blackwood
wasn’t just anyone. In his own way, he held her in his power every
bit as much as his brother did—but for different reasons
altogether. She was so jumbled, she couldn’t think straight. She
knew only one thing. Lance Blackwood wasn’t taking her alive.