Authors: Colleen Quinn
No one said a word. Clara’s chastisement held a sort of truth that none of them wanted to face. “Bah!” she continued. “Instead of thinking of ourselves, we need to think of the lass. And how to help her now.”
All of the clowns nodded. If their Rose wanted Michael, then Michael she would have.
It was just that strange circus loyalty.
“I
T STILL SOUNDS
like a bullfrog, old boy,” Biddle remarked as Michael tried the calliope again. The notes wheezed out of the pipes, ending in a sour whine that made Jake cover his ears and Zachery chuckle to himself. “Maybe something got loose on the road.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Michael sent Biddle a sardonic glance while he struggled in vain to decipher the secrets of the old organ. While ledger books and the most complex figures didn’t baffle him in the least, mechanics were not his profession, and it was painfully evident.
“Why don’t you just send for Carney?” Jake asked in disgust. Seated on the cold earth, a fistful of tools in his hand, he indicated the broken pipe with a shrug. “She can fix just about anything.”
“I can do it. After all, how complicated can it be?” Michael stared at the metallic cylinder, trying to discern how air pumped through this odd mechanism could produce any kind of sound, let alone one that had a pleasing quality. Helplessly he tapped on the pipe with a wrench, then tried the instrument again. The notes wheezed through the organ, then ended with a squeal.
“Sounds like it died, mate,” Jake remarked cheerfully. “Look, if you don’t want to ask Rose, there’s got to be somebody in town that could fix this damned thing. Where are we, in Colby?”
“It looked like hell to me,” Michael replied in a voice that they hadn’t heard in weeks. He snatched up a screwdriver and attempted to unscrew the rusted bolt. “Colby, Kansas. One livery stable, one hotel that couldn’t house a tenth of the troupe, one saloon, and a dressmaker’s shop. If we could find someone who could fix us an ale, I’d consider it a good sign.” He stopped turning the tool, aware that he’d only succeeded in stripping the screw. He stared at the bulky instrument in annoyance. “Where did you get this monstrosity, anyway?”
“Sean got that.” Rags spit out his tobacco and gave Michael a grin. “Won it in a card game on a hand that my mother wouldn’t have played. A pair of twos did the trick.”
“Wonderful.” Michael rubbed the ache in his hand and rose stiff-legged from his seat on the ground. “Well, we’re just going to have to do without. I can’t fix the thing. I can’t even disable the bad pipe….”
Rags and Jake followed his stare, and they both looked just beyond the circus grounds. Rosemary strode toward them, her hands on her hips, her face a mask of displeasure as she directed the sharpshooters and the Indians. She looked stunningly beautiful in the stark morning sunlight, her hair tied back in a braid and glinting like a copper rope, her snug trousers and shirt displaying her womanly figure. Yet there was nothing warm or encouraging about her as she stepped into the center of the ring.
“All right, that’s enough for a warm-up. You’re supposed to be real Indians and cowboys, remember? That looked as authentic as my grandmother’s red hair. Let’s do it again.”
The Indians grumbled, then reluctantly let out an exuberant war hoop as they pursued the cowboys around the ring. The sharpshooters, stung by her criticism, fired with more enthusiasm until the act began to resemble a real Wild West show. Satisfied, Rose stepped from the ring and toward the men.
Michael busied himself with the screwdriver, and the others exchanged a telling glance. Rosemary had been a holy terror ever since the morning Clara had made her peculiar announcement. She had thrown herself into her work, demanding even more from the people around her until everyone was grumbling. And Michael had been just as bad, barking out orders and resisting any attempt to draw him into conversation. Biddle shook his head. If this was what Clara meant by love, something had to give. Even if it took a miracle.
Jake waited until Rosemary was abreast of him, and he grabbed her ankle, refusing to let her past.
“Rose, would you mind taking a look at the calliope? We can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. You’re the only one who can fix the damned thing.”
Rosemary shook her leg, trying to rid it of Jake’s hand. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Come on, Rose,” Jake begged. “My condition will be flaring up again if I sit on this ground much longer, if you know what I mean. And I don’t think I can take another of that old witch’s doses.”
Clara, who was wandering by at that very moment, sent him a scathing look while Rosemary sighed. Nodding reluctantly, she waited until Jake released her foot, then stepped closer to the instrument, ignoring Michael entirely. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s one of the pipes,” Michael answered quickly, grateful for the excuse to talk to her.
Forced to look at him at last, Rosemary was surprised that it hurt as much as it did. He looked more handsome than ever, his starched white shirt undone at the collar, and his sleeves rolled up to display arms that were surprisingly well-muscled. His hair had loosened in his struggle with the instrument, and a lock of curly black hair fell over his forehead in a charming tumble. Yet his eyes troubled her the most—they looked guilty, and she wasn’t at all inclined to make it any easier for him, not when his rejection still hurt so badly. The men exchanged an amused look as Rosemary picked up the screwdriver and tapped the pipe.
“This one?”
“I tried that,” Michael said quickly. She was so close he could smell the clean scent of her hair and count every gorgeous freckle on her smooth white skin. Her hand accidentally brushed his, and he was forced to breathe deeply, to stop the hammering in his chest. God, what kind of magic did these gypsies know? He cleared his throat. “Seems as if it’s loose or something. Every time you play it, it makes this awful sound—”
His voice stopped as Rosemary flicked the screwdriver expertly under the valve, jiggled the mechanism, then withdrew the tool. “Try it.”
“But—”
“Try it,” she repeated impatiently. Her eyes gleamed like shards of green ice.
Michael pumped the pedals, and the music slithered out of the calliope, soft lilting notes that belied its earlier wail. Sending him a sarcastic look, Rosemary tossed the screwdriver onto the pile of tools and continued walking as Michael stared in bemusement at the functioning instrument. Zachery laughed as he scrubbed an elephant’s foot, Jake got up in relief, and Biddle gave Michael a smile.
“Sorry, old boy,” the ringmaster said in a sympathetic voice. “But I believe I warned you.”
Michael sent him an answering scowl, while Zachery continued to smirk.
Things were going even better than they’d planned.
“You’re on, Rose. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll change the props,” Jake whispered as he lowered the line for the trapeze artists. The glittering couple waited overhead in the dark like two sapphires encased in black velvet while the roustabouts worked to ensure that everything was ready. To distract the crowd, Rosemary tumbled out into the ring, her clown suit flapping, her shoes flopping uproariously. Jake opened a crate, and a dozen little dogs raced out, each one barking and nipping at her heels. She turned to the dogs in feigned disgust, then hauled a basket of rags to a makeshift clothesline and pretended to hang the wash. One of the little dogs, a mongrel named Boo who could jump to amazing heights, raced behind her and snatched the rags from the line. Rosemary put her hands on her hips and scolded the dog while the audience roared.
It should have been wonderful. The new acts were going over in a big way; she could feel the excitement from the crowd. And within the next few days they would be heading into Colorado and playing to the miners, who were always their best audience. Ah, she had weeks of good company to look forward to, men who had forsaken everything to come out West, only to find their hopes as diluted as fool’s gold in the bottom of their pan. But they loved the circus, and Carney especially, and were wont to share their whiskey, their hopes, and their dreams.
But even that thought couldn’t fill the emptiness inside of her. No one seemed to notice as she repeated the act, and Boo raced around the clothesline, his teeth clenching the torn and tattered clothes, while the crowd cheered. She turned her back to them, retrieving the clothes, her heart heavy.
It was her own fault; she had played the fool, and this time for real. He had let her know from the beginning just what he thought of them, and her especially. He was so superior, with his Philadelphia accent, his citified clothes, and his know-it-all manner. She had actually begun to think he’d lost some of that, that he’d started to think of himself as a real trouper, but she should have known better. She’d given herself to him, in the most precious way she could have, and she had only herself to blame for the result.
The crowd roared as the act ended, and the applause was thunderous. Rosemary stood beneath the gas lamps, feeling the heady sea of approval, and wondering why even that didn’t lift the heaviness from her heart. She smiled and waved to the crowd, then picked up her basket and started toward the tent flap. It was then she saw him, and she froze.
He was smiling at her in approval, his eyes warm, his grin enchanting as he applauded with the crowd. For a moment Rosemary almost forgot what he’d said to her, his appreciation meant that much. She could feel her heart warming to him, her body instinctively leaning toward him, as if with a will of its own. Then it all came back quickly in a humiliating stab, and she turned away from him and grinned instead at Griggs, who reached for the basket. As soon as the mute clown put it aside, she hugged him exuberantly, not even looking at Michael. She missed his scowl as one of the roustabouts pulled him aside to discuss a wiring problem, but she couldn’t have cared less.
She still had her family, as she always had. Michael Wharton could be damned.
Colby, Kansas, may not have had the most luxurious hotel, but it did have a dining room that boasted fried chicken, hot potatoes and gravy, and fresh corn. After days on the road and too many of Rags’s meals cooked over a campfire, the thought of regular food eaten in something other than a canvas enclosure was enticing enough to lure all of Carney’s crew into town.
“Now, you all eat up, there’s plenty more where that came from.” The serving woman placed bowls of the steaming food on the table, giving the hungry clowns an approving smile. “My Willy is going to the show tonight, and I want him to see a good circus.”
“You may rest assured,” Biddle promised. “A Carney Circus never disappoints.”
Rags presented her with a bouquet of paper roses, and Griggs attempted to water them. The woman blushed and giggled, then brought out second helpings as the clowns teased her and practiced their tricks. Soon several of the kitchen women had joined them, and they shrieked with laughter as the clowns made them the brunt of their jokes.
Rosemary chuckled, enjoying their antics as much as the serving women. In a well-rehearsed gag she handed Griggs her hat while the other clown pulled one napkin from inside the brim, then another, then another. His face appropriately dismayed, he tugged until he had enough cloths for them all, then sat down to eat.
Everyone laughed. It felt like old times again, Rosemary mused, out with the clowns, enjoying a laugh at the expense of the gawkers and a moment of real peace. For that second she could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that it was just like last year when she was sitting with her friends in any one of a number of hotels, preparing for a show. Yet, she was different inside, and she knew it. Michael Wharton had made a woman out of her, and she was finding out just how painful that process could be. She reached for another piece of chicken, and the smile froze on her face as she saw Michael enter the room, then come to sit across from her.
“What’s so funny?”
Rosemary’s laughter died, and she returned to her food, ignoring him completely. The tension in the room became palpable as she tried to act as if everything was normal, as if he hadn’t held her in his arms just three nights ago and made incredibly sweet love to her. The food stuck in her throat, and she fought back tears. It was impossible. She could almost feel his presence, like an electric vibration that these scientists kept talking about. Griggs shrugged, and it was Biddle who responded while the others became absorbed in their meal.
“It was just a joke. The serving women hadn’t seen the act yet.”
“Do you think that’s wise? I mean, they may not buy a ticket if they can see the act for free.”
Rosemary’s chair made a loud scraping sound on the floor. She rose, wiping her mouth purposefully with her part of the yards-long napkin, then walked quickly away from them all. Her stride was graceful and determined, while her braid twitched behind her like the tail of the dreaded lioness. It was as if she couldn’t distance herself fast enough from him. Michael glanced awkwardly at Griggs, who ate silently, then Rags, who was staring right back at him, then Biddle, who gave him that superior “I told you so” smirk. Even the serving women went back to work, sensing somehow that the mood had died with the arrival of this handsome but quelling stranger.
Clara cackled at his discomfort, while the others returned to their meal. Michael gave them an impervious glance and in his best Philadelphian accent demanded, “Would you mind telling me what that was all about?”