A Big Sky Christmas (9 page)

“I swear, she's lookin' right at you.” Three-Finger Jake dug an enthusiastic elbow into Bodie's ribs. “She must be sweet on you!”

“I don't even know the girl,” Bodie protested. “I mean, I know she's Miss Savannah McCoy, but that's all.”

“That's what the fella said when he introduced her.”

“I would have known it anyway. I would have recognized her from her picture on the poster.”

It was true. The artist had done a good job of capturing Savannah McCoy's likeness. If anything, she was even prettier in person than she was on the poster, although before he saw her Bodie wouldn't have thought that was possible.

She sang beautifully, too. Cyrus O'Hanlon had been right to describe her as a songbird. Savannah was lovely and talented, and if Bodie hadn't known better, he might have said that he was smitten with her.

But that was loco, of course. He could tell just by looking at her that she was a real lady, despite the immoral reputation that actresses and entertainers sometimes had. She wouldn't ever have anything to do with a lawless ruffian like him. For all he knew, she might already be married to one of the other members of the troupe.

Just sit back and enjoy the show, he told himself, and stop thinking about things that could never be.

The show was certainly enjoyable. After Savannah's song, a couple jugglers came out and entertained the crowd for several minutes while the curtains were closed behind them. Bodie heard people moving around back there and figured they were getting ready for something else.

He was right. When the jugglers finished and the curtains were pulled back, several fellows with what looked like bed sheets wrapped around them were standing on steps with white-painted columns at the top. One of them stood a little apart from the others and started talking, but as he did so, several of his companions took out knives and began to sneak up behind him with evil expressions on their faces.

“What the Sam Hill!” Jake exclaimed. “They're gonna stab that hombre like they was red Injuns!” He reached for the gun on his hip. “I'll stop 'em!”

Bodie's hand shot out and closed around Jake's wrist before Jake could draw the revolver. “Hold on!” Bodie whispered. “I think it's all part of the show.”

Not everybody in the audience figured that out as quickly as he did. Several men shouted warnings, which the sheet-wrapped figures on stage ignored. A nervous tingle ran through Bodie's brain. What if he was wrong? What if they were about to commit cold-blooded murder right there on the stage?

That was loco, of course, and a moment later he saw proof of that as the men with knives pretended to stab the fellow who was spouting words. They didn't even do a very good job of pretending, but it was enough to make the audience hoot and holler in enthusiasm. The supposed victim of the assault staggered around and made a real production of dying.

Once he had slumped onto the steps and wasn't moving anymore—except for a twitch every now and then that Bodie could see—Cyrus O'Hanlon came out again, dressed in a sheet like the others, and started making another long speech about burying Caesar. Bodie couldn't follow all of what O'Hanlon said, but the whole thing was stirring, no doubt about that.

O'Hanlon finally shut up and the curtains closed again. An older but still attractive woman came out and sang a song. She was good, Bodie thought, but not as good as Savannah. Then she danced with a young man while another man with a walrus mustache played a piano at the edge of the stage. She was pretty light on her feet, despite her hefty build.

After that, everything started to run together a little for Bodie. There were more dramatic scenes, more singing, more dancing, even some acrobats, one of whom was a gal in a scandalously scanty costume that exposed her knees. But he was waiting to see Savannah McCoy again, and when she didn't appear he began to get a little impatient.

Cyrus O'Hanlon came out in that silly hat with the feather on it again. “Finally, ladies and gentlemen, to conclude our performance tonight we are proud to present one of the most famous scenes in the illustrious history of the theater . . . the balcony scene from the great tragedy
Romeo and Juliet
, as written by Mr. William Shakespeare. It will be performed by yours truly and Miss Savannah McCoy.”

Bodie sat up straighter in his seat and thought that it was about time.

Jake elbowed him again. “She's the only one you like, ain't she?”

“Shhh,” Bodie said. “They're about to start.”

The curtains parted and went back. Some fake bushes had been placed around the stage to represent a garden of sorts, and to one side rose a wall with a window in it. Bodie edged forward in his seat as Savannah appeared in that window and leaned through it so the audience could get a good look at her.

She was worth looking at, wearing a thin gown that was cut almost sinfully low in front. Bodie felt vaguely embarrassed for her having to wear such a getup, but at the same time he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was so attractive that just looking at her felt almost like a punch in the gut to him.

Cyrus O'Hanlon strode onto the stage, wandered through the fake bushes toward the wall, and stopped to throw out an arm and bellow, “Hark! What light through yonder window breaks? 'Tis the east, and Juliet is the sun!”

Savannah was as bright and pretty as the sun, that was for sure, Bodie thought. He could have sat there and watched her all night, but the scene was over all too quickly as far as he was concerned. The curtains swept across the stage again. Bodie sighed. He didn't want the performance to be finished, but there was nothing he could do about it.

The whole troupe came out for a curtain call as the audience cheered, whistled, and applauded, so he got to see Savannah again, if only for a moment.

Finally, the audience began to file out of the theater.

As they left, Jake said, “Now, ain't you glad we came to Kansas City? If we hadn't, you never would've seen that brown-haired gal. You were practically droolin' over her all night like a dog with a big ol' soup bone.”

“No, I wasn't,” Bodie said. “I think she's pretty, but—”

Jake's snort interrupted him. “I reckon you'd marry her if you got the chance—which is a durned fool way to feel, if you ask me. You know what actresses are like. You might as well marry a—”

Jake stopped short as Bodie stiffened. He had seen enough gunfights to recognize Bodie's stance as that of a man who was ready to hook and draw.

“Sorry,” Jake muttered quickly. “I reckon I was all wrong about Miss McCoy.”

“I reckon you were,” Bodie snapped. He forced himself to relax. Jake Lucas was his only real friend in the gang, and he didn't want to lose that friendship. He put a smile on his face, even though he was still a little irritated.

As they reached the sidewalk in front of the theater, a very well-dressed man with dark blond hair under his black hat and a neatly trimmed mustache of the same shade bumped hard into Bodie's shoulder. “Watch where you're going, cowboy,” the man snapped as he brushed past.

“Hey,” Jake said angrily. “You're the one who ran into my pard, mister.”

A couple of larger men in cheap suits were trailing the well-dressed gent. Bodie noticed them and realized they were probably bodyguards. Bulges under their coats told him they were carrying guns.

The blond dandy glared at Jake and demanded, “What did you say, Tex?”

“I'm not from Texas,” Jake shot back as he squared himself up for trouble.

Bodie put a hand on his friend's arm. “Let it go, Jake.”

“But this galoot ran into you and then acted like it was your fault,” Jake protested.

“It's not worth causing a ruckus over.” Bodie steered Jake away from the dandy.

The man gave them a sneering smile as they turned to leave. “That's right. I'm an important man in this city. Trifle with me and you'll regret it.”

Jake looked back over his shoulder and said hotly, “Oh, yeah? Well, you'll regret—”

“Come
on
.” Bodie lowered his voice and added, “We don't want the law talking to us, now do we?”

“Oh,” Jake said in sudden understanding. “No, I reckon we don't.”

Bodie glanced back at the dandy. The man's arrogant attitude rubbed him the wrong way. If it came down to a fight, Bodie figured he and Jake could have held their own against the bodyguards, whether with fists or guns.

But that would have almost certainly landed them in trouble with the law, and they sure didn't need that. If they were arrested, somebody might figure out they were part of the gang that had held up the train in Kansas. At the very least, Eldon Swint might take it as an excuse to split their shares among the rest of the outlaws . . . or just keep that money for himself.

Bodie wouldn't forget the blond man's face, though. Maybe one of these days their trails would cross again under different circumstances. If that ever happened, Bodie figured he would give Mr. High-and-Mighty a little lesson in manners. If that meant gunplay, then so be it.

In the meantime, he told himself to forget about that hombre and think about Savannah. He just wished there was some way he could let her know how much he had enjoyed her performance.

Since there were only a few female members of the troupe, they used the same dressing room, with the exception of Dollie who shared a dressing room with Cyrus. Savannah was sitting at one of the tables in front of a mirror, removing the makeup she had worn as Juliet, when Cyrus knocked on the door and poked his head into the room.

“Ah, ladies, you're all decently attired,” he said.

As usual, Savannah couldn't tell if he was relieved or faintly disappointed by that.

“Savannah, a word with you, my dear?”

“Of course. Was there something wrong with my performance tonight?”

Cyrus shook his head. “Not at all, not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. There's a gentleman out here who was in the audience. He wishes to convey his compliments to you in person.”

Savannah frowned slightly. That was unusual but not unheard of. Sometimes members of the audience—usually middle-aged or even older men—came backstage and tried to approach the women in the troupe, probably because of the reputation that stubbornly clung to actresses.

Cyrus fended them off most of the time, but now and then—when he judged that the would-be suitor had plenty of money and might be persuaded to make a donation to the troupe—he allowed them to talk to the women.

That bothered Savannah, but she recognized it as a part of her job. She had to be nice to the people who bought tickets. That didn't mean she had to go beyond politeness and surface friendliness, and she never did. “Would you like for me to talk to this man, Cyrus?”

“I think it would be a good thing if you did. It shouldn't be too terrible an ordeal. He's rather attractive, you know, and much younger than some of your, ah, admirers.”

She supposed it wouldn't hurt anything. She nodded. “All right.”

“The rest of you ladies, let's give Savannah some privacy, shall we?” Cyrus ushered the other female performers out of the dressing room, leaving Savannah alone.

She picked up a dressing gown and shrugged into it. She was still wearing the costume she wore as Juliet, which was daring enough onstage. In close quarters, it definitely would be immodest.

A moment later a man appeared in the open doorway, holding his hat in one hand. Savannah could tell that the suit he wore was very expensive. He had the unmistakable look of wealth about him, from his carefully barbered dark blond hair to the soft hands to the shoes on his feet that probably cost as much as Cyrus paid her in a year.

“Miss McCoy,” he said, his lips smiling under the neatly trimmed mustache, “I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance tonight.”

She returned the smile. “I believe you just did, Mister . . . ?”

“Kane. Gideon Kane.”

He moved closer to her and put out his hand, and without thinking she reached to take it. Instead of shaking hands with her, he turned her hand, held it, lifted it, and pressed his lips to the back of it.

She had played scenes where a man kissed the back of a woman's hand, but she had never seen it happen in real life, only on the stage of a theater. Certainly she had never had it happen to her. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or be touched by the melodramatic gesture.

She settled for saying, “I'm Savannah McCoy.”

“I know. Just as I knew when I saw your picture on that poster outside the theater that I had to attend tonight's performance. Kansas City is a rather squalid place, Miss McCoy. I'm not sure a sight as lovely as you has ever been seen here before.”

Savannah forced a laugh. “You're flattering me, Mr. Kane—”

“Call me Gideon,” he suggested. “It's not flattery when it's true.”

She tried to change the subject. “You're in business here?”

His smile twisted a little. “My family is. We own stockyards and slaughterhouses and have interests in the railroad as well as other enterprises. All quite successful, of course. None of it particularly interests me, though. I'm more fond of the arts, such as the theater.”

“It's my calling,” Savannah said.

“Anyone can tell that by watching you perform. You bring such life and passion to your roles, and you sing wonderfully. I plan to be in the audience every night while your troupe is in Kansas City.”

“Oh, you wouldn't want to do that. The show doesn't really change. Of course, there are minor differences in every performance, but really, if you've seen one of them—”

“Seeing you once is not nearly enough,” he broke in. “I don't care about the rest of the performance. I want to see you. Every night.”

She was starting to get uncomfortable. She had been looked at by men often enough to recognize lust when she saw it. In Gideon Kane's eyes it bordered on obsession. It was time to ease him out of the dressing room. . . .

Using the heel of one of those expensive shoes, he closed the door behind him.