Katherine O’Neal (40 page)

He was busy looking about the room. Glancing
upward, he spied the gaslight fixture that hung from the
sitting-room ceiling. Hurriedly, he locked the door.

“When they knock, open the door fast.”

Footsteps rounded the corner right outside
their door. Mace flexed his arms, stretching them several times
back and forth, testing the flexibility of his healed arm. She
didn’t know what he was up to, but there was no time for questions.
She’d have to trust his ability to think on his feet.

Fists pounded on the door. “Open up in
there!” Mace nodded. Saranda turned the lock and flung the door
wide. As she did, Mace leapt upward, grabbed the chandelier, swung
himself back, then forward, and landed a fierce blow to the two
startled men in the doorway, a boot in each face. After a stunned
moment, they toppled to the floor, unconscious.

“What do you know?” he said, staring at them
in surprise. “It worked.”

“You weren’t sure?”

“I never tried it before.”

“Oh, great. Nothing like experimenting when
our lives are on the line.”

“We’ll discuss it later, if you don’t
mind.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him,
bounding over the bodies. Moving to the door, he checked the hall.
Several men had taken positions at the front of the boat. When
they’d heard the commotion, they’d come running, but it was clear
it would take a few minutes to reach the port deck.

“Can you swim?” he asked.

“Of course I can swim.” More than once she’d
escaped capture by diving to freedom.

“Then let’s go.” He pulled her behind him as
he made his way stealthily yet quickly to the starboard side, away
from where the steamer was tied up. They could hear footsteps
approaching and voices arguing in the dark. The men must have come
to, for they were calling to the others to halt their escape.

Mace took the bag and lowered it into the
river without making so much as a splash. Then, putting his finger
to his lips in warning, he helped her over the side and held her
hands as she stretched her arms and lowered herself into the muddy
Mississippi. It was an effort not to hiss as she hit the water. It
was warm, but it felt thick around her. Bits of something slippery
floated by, brushing against her legs. She bit her lip to keep from
gasping. God only knew what was lurking in these waters.

“They’re armed and dangerous,” a voice called
above them. “We’ve orders to shoot to kill.”

Suddenly, the water, the mud, the possible
river creatures, all seemed inconsequential. As Mace noiselessly
lowered himself into the water behind her, she fished around
blindly for the valise. If it was floating nearby, she couldn’t
find it. She was bobbing about when the current began pulling her
under so the muddy water soaked her head and filled her nostrils.
Mace pulled her up, took hold of her arm, and began to swim with
powerful strokes away from the boat.

It was hard going, the current constantly
threatening to drag them down. After a few minutes, Saranda was
panting hard, water dripping in her eyes, her clothes sucking her
down with every stroke. Her shoulders ached, and her lungs felt
waterlogged. Large branches floated by, scratching at her skin,
tearing at her dress. But when she looked back at the boat and saw
the glow of the lanterns, heard the shouts of alarm when it was
discovered they were gone, she renewed her efforts.

Still, she was slowing them down. Her skirts
were so heavy, they weighted her down like an anchor, hampering
their speed.

They swam toward shore and hid themselves
among some reeds and brush. Saranda huddled against Mace, shivering
in the night air, as the steamer passed at a snail’s gait. Men hung
over the sides, casting beams from their lanterns all around. Shots
were fired into the water as the boat passed by. Saranda pressed
her face into the swamp. There was no telling, in the darkness,
whether one of the wild shots might find its mark.

Once, the light flashed across them, and she
held her breath, certain they’d been spotted. But the boat steamed
past.

“I can’t see a thing,” they heard one man
call.

“Don’t worry,” called another. “No one can
stay afloat in this river for long. If they don’t drown in this
current, they’ll have to head for land. They can’t get far on foot
in these woods. We’ll just patrol the area till morning. Then we’ll
have ’em.”

Mace put his mouth to her ear. So overtaxed
were her nerves that she jumped at the contact.

“Our only chance is to use the river to help
us. If we can get past them, we’ll swim downstream.”

“But you heard what they said. No one can
swim for long—”

“I’m an acrobat, remember? I’m accustomed to
pushing my body to the limit.” He turned her face to him. “Come on,
love, don’t give out on me now.”

She nodded, encouraged by his confidence.

“Just hold on to me.”

She did so, and they began to swim close to
shore, gliding slowly, carefully, past the steamer, pausing only
when a light was cast their way. It was a laborious process,
throughout which Saranda could barely catch her breath. She knew
these men weren’t eager to take her back to trial. If she and Mace
were caught, they’d be killed—probably under the claim that they’d
been shot trying to escape. It was enough to render her limbs
numb.

Yet glancing at Mace in the spill from the
lanterns, she saw in his eyes the look of a man determined to rise
to an impossible challenge. She remembered that he was a warrior at
heart, accustomed to having men of corruption and power for
breakfast. She drew comfort from it and took heart.

Once they’d successfully passed by the boat,
Mace began to swim with determined strokes, putting as much
distance between them and their pursuers as possible. It was a
struggle for her to keep up with him. She was forced to grab hold
of his shoulders and let him propel her along. Presently, when they
were well out of sight of the boat, he stopped his metrical
stroking and swam around to her. His breath heaving in his chest,
he pulled her to him, grabbed hold of the waistband of her skirt,
and yanked it open. “What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of the dead weight.”

He tugged the skirt from her and flung it
aside so it began to float downriver. “Are you crazy?” she panted.
“You’ve just thrown away the only thing I have to wear. After
already having lost my valise.”

“Better your clothes than your life. We’ll
figure something out when we come to shore.”

“When, pray tell, will that be?”

“When I think it’s safe. This is our fastest
mode of travel for the present. Unless, of course, you’d like a
wardrobe of prison stripes?”

So on they swam, sometimes floating on the
river to rest themselves, sometimes swimming for all they were
worth. Saranda had to admit it was easier without the burdensome
weight of her skirts. But she was desperately tired, her arms
crying out for relief from the continual strain of holding her
afloat.

They must have swum for hours. Eventually,
the sky began to lighten in the east. Just when she thought she
couldn’t go on, he pulled up, scissoring his legs to keep himself
afloat. Not possessed of the muscles of an athlete, she began to
sink, sputtering beneath the surface, until he caught her and
heaved her above water.

“We’d best head for land,” he told her,
eyeing the sky. “At night the river’s a safe haven. In daylight we
shall be sitting ducks.”

She didn’t even have the strength to express
her relief. In a lifetime of hard traveling, this night in the
water had been the most uncomfortable she’d ever spent.

Sensing her exhaustion, he took hold of her
and swam with her to the distant shore. Once there, they slogged
out of the water with stiff legs and fell gasping onto the muddy
banks.

Saranda lay there for some time, trying to
catch her breath. The mud was cool against her face in the dawn
chill. She felt herself losing consciousness, falling into
desperately needed sleep. Only when Mace shook her did she recall
their predicament and allow him to help her to her feet.

Once standing, her brain insensible from
fatigue, she took a look around. In the daylight, the Mississippi
was as brown as she remembered it from the deck of the riverboat.
From here, she couldn’t even see the other shore. All she could
hear was the whoosh of the water, the same sound that had lulled
her for so many hours.

Her gaze fell upon her clothes, and a
strangled cry escaped her lips as she realized what a bedraggled
mess she was. She was covered in mud. Her blouse was torn to
tatters, her satin drawers ripped and clinging wetly to the outline
of her hips and thighs. Mercifully, the streaks of mud kept prying
eyes from seeing through it. But her hair, now a murky brown, hung
in wet tangles. Strings of bark and small twigs formed a nest in
the snarls. She could feel the grit on her face; she could see it
in the cracks of her palms and underneath her nails.

“Look at me!” she cried, forgetting her
fatigue.

“I was doing just that.”

She turned to him. Mace didn’t look much
better. His pants were as torn as her blouse, and just as dirty.
His chest, shirtless in his hurry to escape, was so heavily smeared
with mud that he looked like some pagan statue made of clay. Dirt
streaked his hair and his face. When he ran a hand across his
forehead, it smeared even more.

“I feel like I’ve been rolling around in a
pig trough,” she complained, trying to scrape the mud from her
face.

“Actually, you look rather fetching,” he
said, taking her in his arms and pulling her close. “Maybe I should
reconsider and call you Dusty. Or better yet, Muddy.”

“Just the sweet nothings a woman wants to
hear.”

“Would it help if I told you you’re as
beautiful as the Nile in the moonlight?”

“No allusions to rivers, please. I’ve had
enough of this blasted river to last me a lifetime.”

They looked around. There was nothing in
sight but the river on one side and woods on the other. The woods
looked dense and hostile, but at least they weren’t wet. “You may
have to learn to love it yet again. I don’t know where we are. Some
way or other, we must get to the nearest town and from there to New
York.”

“I don’t care how we get there, so long as we
don’t swim.”

“Our first order of business is acquiring
some clothes. Then we’ll see about a ride into town. If there is
such a thing in these parts. Which, given the lack of options,
means we walk for now.”

“Walk? When do we sleep?”

“When we no longer look like creatures from
the netherworld.”

She tried rinsing herself off with river
water, but to little avail. “Oh, Mace. I’ve never felt more clammy
or dirty or absolutely repugnant in all my life. How are we ever
going to get clean?”

“You tell me,” he suggested, a provocative
twinkle in his eyes.

“By—finding some people and clipping them out
of a bath, some clothes, and a ride into town?”

“Now you’re thinking like the woman I fell in
love with.”

“This I’d like to see. What shall we say that
might convincingly explain why we’re in such a state?”

He kissed her and laughed when she squirmed
away from his mud-caked lips. “Let’s just see what the inspiration
of the moment brings, shall we?”

“I must say you’re in remarkably good
spirits. Considering you’re drenched to the skin, covered with mud,
and without a possession to your name.”

“Well, Princess, the way I look at it, we’re
alive and we’ve got each other. What’s a little mud, compared to
that?”

Her heart swelled with a sudden burst of love
for him. Suddenly, the muck didn’t matter. She kissed him hard,
thrusting her tongue into his mouth and clinging to his muddy skin.
When she finally came up for air, she was as full of optimism as
he. “Let’s go con the pants off the first farmer we meet.”

* * *

It seemed hours before they detected the
smell of smoke. Hours of trudging through the woods, of scraping
their limbs on brambles, of feeling stiff as mummies as the mud
dried and hardened on their skin. As the sun rose in the sky, the
heat became oppressive. Soon, sweat mingled with the mud to form
rivulets that ran down their faces and into their eyes.

They came to a clearing suddenly where the
smell of cooking filled the air. All at once, Saranda’s exhaustion
fell away. Beyond the next wood was the promise of a bath, of clean
clothes and warm food. With nothing but their wits to sustain them,
they would have to think of something clever to make their
situation seem plausible, even to simple farmers.

They stopped and gave each other one last
preparatory look. Saranda could see the same thrill of the
challenge in his eyes. She felt alive suddenly, felt her blood
surging like the Mississippi through her veins.

“You lead, and I shall follow,” she told him,
and gave him a quick kiss for luck.

“I have the perfect story,” he told her with
a grin. “It’s so absurd, they’ll have to believe it.”

Together, they stepped into the clearing.
Walking confidently, they made their way across a small planted
field. There was a structure in the distance; smoke wafted skyward
from the chimney.

But as they approached, they slowed their
steps. A closer look showed it was little more than a
sharecropper’s farm. The structure was a meager shack, leaning and
badly in need of repair. A single hog nudged around in the mud,
surrounded by a wobbly fence. Out front, an old iron pot was
boiling away over a fire. A woman, looking old and work-weary,
scrubbed clothes on a washboard in a tub. She was surrounded by at
least eight children, all looking to be under twelve years of age.
They were scrawny, some with teeth missing, dressed in little more
than rags. The hollowness of their faces clearly signaled their
scandalous lack of food.