Katherine O’Neal (23 page)

“There’s a bathhouse up the street,” Mr. Cox
offered. “Two bits for a bath that’s been used not more’n three
times. A dollar if—”

Assuming the imperious look of an outraged
attendant, Mace looked down his nose at the man and sneered, “You
wouldn’t expect her ladyship to bathe in a common bathhouse,
surely!”

“Well, no, course not. I didn’t mean no
offense.”

“The rooms, if you please.”

He held out his hand, and Cox jumped to
oblige, dropping two keys into his waiting palm. “Thank you, sir,”
Mace said crisply. “You are most kind.”

“If you need anything—”

“Please don’t trouble yourself. I shall
discharge the requirements of her ladyship myself.”

He took the keys and headed for the stairs.
Amused by his performance, and by her choice of roles for him,
Saranda stood her ground and called, “Oh, Jenkins.”

He turned.

“The bag, if you please.”

There was a moment, when he looked from her
face to the bag on the floor and back again, when she held her
breath. Something in his manner warned her not to push him. But she
couldn’t help herself. Suddenly, she was having a marvelous
time.

“Of course, my lady.” With a bow worthy of
the humblest servant, he picked up the bag with exaggerated
dignity, as if the picking up of such bags down through the years
had been his supreme source of pride.

She cast a sly look at the proprietor. “He’s
a treasure, really. I don’t know what I should have done without
him.”

“Well”—Mr. Cox cleared the obstruction in his
throat—“enjoy your stay—again—Your Highness.”

Once inside her room, she fell onto the bed,
laughing. “I rather fancy being called ‘Highness.’ ”

He glowered at her, tossing the bag aside.
“You rather fancy getting the better of me. Would her ladyship like
me to unpack? May I attend you in any way? Perhaps you’d like me to
help you undress.”

He yanked her from the bed, unbuttoned her
jacket, and pulled it from her savagely, thrusting it aside. Then,
looking down at her startled face, he dropped her arm and turned
from her with an air of defeat.

His reaction piqued her curiosity. Obviously,
she’d hit a nerve. “If I’d known it would bother you so, I might
have—”

“What?”

She gave a saucy smile. “Enjoyed it all the
more, I daresay. I had to tell him
something
, didn’t I?”

“Did it occur to you to tell him I was the
earl?”

“Did you see the look on his face? He
probably thinks I keep you along just to—how would a countess put
it?—satisfy the tender cravings of my flesh.” He wasn’t amused.
“Oh, do buck up. Unless, of course, there’s some reason you’re not
telling me? You haven’t been abused by the aristocracy or anything
like that?”

For just an instant, the look he gave her was
stark with pain. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Don’t
be absurd.”

She’d seen something in that look that
softened her heart. He’d been hurt somewhere along the way, so
deeply injured he couldn’t even admit it. She knew about that sort
of pain.

“Would you care to talk about it?” she
offered more kindly.

“There’s nothing to talk about. And if there
were,
Countess—
”

He broke off abruptly.

“Let me finish it for you. I should be the
last person you’d tell. Is that it?”

He went to the window, parted the gingham
curtains, and peered out on the rainy street below. She had the
feeling she’d wounded him, but she couldn’t know why. After the
tenderness he’d shown her, it seemed a sorry reward. Yet he’d
touched a chord in her that no one had ever known existed. He’d
caught a glimpse of a wound so raw that, even after all these
years, it refused to heal. She didn’t know how to react to that.
She wasn’t accustomed to having someone perceive her pain. So she’d
acted heartlessly, to punish him for seeing through the act.

She wanted to apologize, wanted to help. But
she didn’t trust him. She didn’t even know if this was real or an
act. If she went to him and offered succor, would he— like the
child who’d faked an injury—jump up with a laugh and claim he’d
fooled her?

“I’d intended to compliment you. I’ve rarely
seen anyone as speedy on the uptake as you were downstairs. You’re
quite the artist, aren’t you?”

He turned after a moment and gave her a
pitiless stare.

“Oh,
do
stop pouting,” she persisted.
“I was merely having a spot of fun.”

“It’s getting dark,” he announced abruptly.
“I’m going out.”

“Out? Where?”

“To play poker.”

“Poker? Do you mean to tell me you brought us
back here to play poker?”

“That’s exactly what I mean to tell you.”

“You could have played poker with me.”

“Ah,” he said, putting his hat on his head,
“but you forget one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t play fair.”

He left her feeling as if he’d just slapped
her in the face.

Suddenly, she realized he’d intended this
reaction. To numb her. To distract her from what he was doing. It
made no sense that he’d come all the way back to Dodge just to sit
in on a game of poker.

What
was
he up to?

There was only one way to find out—follow him
and see.

Once on Front Street, she had to weave her
way through a wave of cowboys in order to keep Mace in sight. He
walked purposefully westward, as if he knew where he was going. As
they passed the boot shop, the bakery, the butcher, and a handful
of saloons, the wide wooden sidewalks creaked beneath the crush of
humanity.

Mace stopped once along the way in front of a
pair of brightly painted wagons parked along the street. Pausing to
look them up and down, he continued on his way. When she came
alongside of them, she saw painted on them, in flourishing red
script, HAVERSTAM’S AMAZING TRAVELING TROUPE. No doubt, she
guessed, he was recalling memories of his acrobatic past.

They crossed First Avenue, and to her
surprise, Blackwood passed the dry goods and the Alhambra and
turned into the Lone Star—the saloon owned in part by Bat
Masterson.

She stood outside a moment as a throng of
bull-whackers pushed by her through the front doors. Peeking
inside, she could see Bat dealing faro at the long green table. A
sign outside, bearing the likeness of the tiger, advertised that
faro was played on the premises. Playing against the faro bank was
consequently known as bucking the tiger, she remembered.

Saranda grabbed one of the men as he was
about to enter—a blood-smeared hunter who wasn’t likely to run into
her in her guise as the countess. “Sir,” she asked in her Kansas
accent, “would you be so kind as to ask Sheriff Masterson to step
outside for a moment?”

He agreed, no doubt assuming she was too shy
to go inside, and went in to find Bat. As she waited, she saw Mace
through the smoke, settling himself down at a round wooden table
where a group of men were involved in a game of draw poker.

It was clear, from the expression on Bat’s
face, that he was annoyed with her. “I thought I told you to get
out of town.”

“I’d be only too happy. Except when we should
be running for our lives, your new best friend, Mr. Blackwood, is
possessed of a sudden hankering for a game of poker.”

“So you reconciled.”

“Reconciled seems to be a matter of opinion.
I found out he was telling the truth. At least about Lance.”

“I figured he was. Remember that Pinkerton I
told you about?”

“The one you took for a drink?”

“That’s the one. He came in here last night
feeling talkative. They’re not just after you, honey. They want
Blackwood, too.”

“The Pinkertons?”

“Of course they don’t know he’s Blackwood.
They’re after Archer—and get this. The orders are dead or
alive.”

“But why?”

“Ask him. This Pink says they nearly got him
once. Except he outsmarted them and got away. I’d say that puts the
two of you on the same side.”

“Still... He’s hiding something. I don’t know
what it is, but I should like to keep an eye on him. You can help,
if you would.”

A reluctant smile turned up the corners of
his mustache as he sensed the wheels turning in her brain. “All
right,” he said grudgingly. “What now?”

* * *

In the cramped back office, she dressed in
the clothes Bat had brought her. The dress was short, a
goldish-yellow satin that showed her trim legs and laid bare her
shoulders and half her bosom. She wore a black wig, darkened her
eyebrows, and reddened her lips so she looked every inch the sultry
and exotic dance-hall girl. Except that most of the soiled doves
were plain, quarrelsome creatures. In her dark wig, Saranda
possessed a cool, elegant beauty that was sure to turn heads.

She came out into the saloon to a burst of
noise. True to form, two of the girls were fighting over some minor
slight, rolling on the floor and pulling each other’s hair. Some
nearby men were placing bets on the outcome, but most were too busy
to pay much mind. Even among the women, fights were such a
commonplace occurrence that they rarely elicited much comment,
unless one of the participants was killed.

She spotted Wyatt Earp, playing monte and
winning. But she was distracted by some raised voices coming from
Blackwood’s table. One of the gamblers, a border ruffian from the
looks of him, had just accused Mace of cheating. He did, in fact,
have a stack of chips in front of him, while his fellow gamblers
were growing poorer by the minute. The tension was thick. Saranda,
from her vantage point, could see the ruffian’s hand balling into a
fist. He wasn’t carrying a gun, but his face was strained, and
clearly he was itching for a fight.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to play poker,
gentlemen,” she interceded in her Kansas accent. “You wouldn’t mind
if I sat in on a few rounds, would you?”

Their surprise broke the tension as they
looked askance at one another. Mace was peering at her closely, as
if trying to decide if his suspicions were true. A hint of a smile
curled the corner of his mouth.

“By all means,” he said in the exaggerated
tones of the manservant. “Perhaps if you were to win a hand or two,
it would convince our companion that it’s lack of skill on his
part, and not the manipulation of it on mine, that accounts for his
poor luck.”

“I never had
this
kind of rough luck,”
the ruffian grumbled.

“Then I appoint
you
to tell me the
rules of the game,” Saranda said, smiling sweetly. “Maybe we can
show this foreigner a thing or two.”

Thus encouraged, the ruffian swallowed his
irritation and hurriedly, embarrassedly, explained the game. They
began to play. After losing two rounds to Mace, she suddenly showed
three queens, and the deal passed to her. Blackwood, handing over
the cards, gave her a wry look.

She shuffled, making it appear awkward, then
let the ruffian cut the deck. Asking ignorant questions the whole
way, affecting a believable innocence, she allowed each man at the
table a few wins to soothe their ruffled sensibilities. When she
offered to pass the deal, they declined. They were doing far better
under her awkward ministrations than they’d done under the
dealership of the Englishman.

When she’d pacified them to her satisfaction,
she began to win. Then, to her amazement, Mace showed two aces she
hadn’t dealt him, and won the hand. Supremely confident of his
abilities, he allowed her the deal.

It soon became a contest of wills. She’d deal
Mace a hand, knowing full well every card she’d passed him, and
he’d turn over a completely different hand. It challenged her to
think ahead, to decide what cards he might choose, and to better
him without making anyone suspicious. She began to enjoy herself.
It was like a masterfully played chess game, the give-and-take
flowing smoothly, the thrill of the challenge making it difficult
to keep a straight face. She began to crow every time she won,
disguising it in the feminine nonsense of clapping hands and
statements like, “I can’t believe I won
again!
”

She won, in fact, round after round, until
she’d not only cleaned out everyone else’s money, she’d
systematically taken every last dollar from Mace.

A crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle.
While the men losing at the table weren’t happy about relinquishing
their money, they took the philosophical attitude that it was
better to lose to a beautiful woman than to a suspected cardsharp
who wasn’t even American.

Meanwhile, she’d heard a number of comments
and questions thrown at Bat regarding his “new girl.” When she
heard him taking appointments, she knew it was time to disappear.
Bat knew he was doing it in jest, but these hardened warriors,
wanderers, and explorers of the harsh Kansas plains didn’t look
like men who easily took no for an answer.

She was about to excuse herself when
Blackwood said, “What say you, my man, to one last round?”

Saranda suddenly noticed something she’d
missed in her absorption with beating him at his own game. He was
here for a reason. She looked around the table and noted the man
he’d spoken to. A middle-aged chap with slicked-back hair, a
checked jacket, and colorful bow tie, he ruminatively chewed his
cigar. She recognized the look in his eyes at once and cursed
herself for a fool. Mace had known all along what she was belatedly
just discovering: that this man would gamble anything, just to play
the game.

Looking at Blackwood, she understood
something else. That her interference had caused just the diversion
he needed to maneuver his mark where he wanted him.

“I’m dead broke, mister.”

“Cash poor, perhaps. Who at this table isn’t,
with the exception of the young—lady. But I should wager you have
something of value that you might put up. Against, say, a thousand
dollars’ worth of mining stock?”