The Ringmaster's Wife (34 page)

Rosamund managed to calm them down, hushing them with soothing words and the steadiest tone she could manage.

The band still played, though the roar of wind outside battled for its own attention. It agitated the crowd enough that some patrons stood. Even edged toward the exits. And the band suddenly stopped, all of the instruments shrieking to an off-key halt.

Alarm bells sounded in Rosamund's head the moment she heard the new tune.

Every performer knew that the playing of “Stars and Stripes Forever” indicated a matter of urgency under the Big Top; it meant something was terribly wrong and was a cue to put everyone on full-scale alert.

She looked from her left to her right, scanning the walls of canvas and the growing agitation in the crowd.

There was no way they could perform now and do it safely. Not when the storm was causing such a stir. Parents were tugging frightened children along, clogging the exits as the band continued to play.

Rosamund glanced up ahead, struggling to see where Owen stood, looking for direction.

He'd raised his hand out in front of their troop.

She caught his gaze but Owen shook his head, telling her to hold fast.

In the many months she'd traveled with the circus, Rosamund's
strength and intuition had grown. From unwelcoming crowds in some towns, to sick animals and the unfortunate accidents that could plague a traveling circus, the unexpected had become quite commonplace. There were injured men. Illness. The responsibility to care for animals and watch for abuse, even in the actions of friends who worked around you.

And then there was the coil of nervousness in Rosamund's midsection, ever-present as she remembered the threats that had been aimed directly at her. Any strength she'd built up seemed fleeting now as the sky bled ferocious tears.

The wind tore at the tent like a child throwing a toy. At that moment the interior lights failed. In an instant the Big Top became a prison for frightened performers, with the fierce trumpeting of alarmed elephants and the horrifying shouts of guests trying to flee for their lives through a pitch-black death trap.

Blood covered Rosamund's hands.

It was sticky and wet, causing her fingers to slip as she kept fabric torn from her costume in a tight compression on the girl's thigh.

“You're going to be all right,” she cooed, brushing strands of mud-caked hair back from the little girl's brow.

Rosamund tore her eyes away, looking up and down the back lot alley.

It was still dark, the skies echoing gray overhead. It was no longer the line of deep purple and black they'd seen before the storm rolled in, and she took that as a good sign.

Performers had scattered. Guests ran past the tents anchored at the far end of the alley. All were soaked and most were terrified, though some had the presence of mind to stop and loot from damaged tents.

Rosamund cried out, calling to them. Desperate for help.

“Rosamund?”

She looked up, relieved to find Jerry crouched at her side. He turned his head down, keeping it out of the wind, and looked her over.

“No.” She shook her head. “It's not me. It's her.”

He pulled the blood-soaked fabric back, inspecting the wound.

“She's bleeding and . . . not crying anymore . . .”

Jerry unbuckled then tore off his belt. “Help me lift her,” he instructed, pushing his glasses back on his nose with his index finger.

Rosamund nodded, slipping her hands under the girl's leg as he eased the thick strap of leather under it. He pulled hard, seeing that the leather was taut.

“I've got her,” he said, scooping her up in his arms. “If you find her parents, say I've taken her to the hospital tent.”

She knelt in the mud, the wind spattering her cheeks with rain, and watched as Jerry ran off with the child bundled up in his arms.

Dazed, she looked around. Canvas and steel anchors of tents had been torn to bits like they were made of rice paper and string. They marred the landscape like casualties of war. And the animals—who knew where they all were—made horrific, guttural moans and cries in the distance, followed by human shrieks and cracks of thunder.

Please, God. Don't let the lions be loose.
She got to her feet, limbs shaking. If the big cats smelled blood . . .

Leaves flew past, mixed with circus programs and rain-soaked popcorn bags, littering the air like butterflies tossed in the wind.

“Rose!”

She turned, hands shaking, the rain spreading the blood from her hands to stain the front of her costume in crimson.

Colin emerged from the chaos, rushing through a line of people like a warrior tearing through battle. He was without his vest or hat, his shirt covered in mud and clinging to his skin, taking in heaving breaths with a rise and fall as though he'd been running for miles. His arms were braced at his sides, his hands balled up in tight fists as if he'd been ready to fight the storm with his bare hands.

He locked eyes on her, and immediately the tension eased from his stance.

Rosamund ran to meet him at the entrance of the ring stock
tent as water dripped from the overhang and gathered in puddles between them.

“You're hurt?” he said. Words clipped. Eyes begging for an answer.

She shook her head. “No. There was a girl. She was injured and . . .” She ran her hands down the front of her costume on instinct, as if she could simply brush the blood away. “I'm okay. Come in out of the rain. You're soaked to the skin.”

Colin obeyed, moving past her as a roar of thunder clapped behind them. He stepped into the tent with her, easing into the opening by the horses.

“See? I'm fine.” She shook her head, then wiped the dampened hair that had fallen down in her eyes. “What happened after the lights went out? I heard the elephants . . .”

“Lightning struck just outside the Big Top, and Nora went mad. Tore through the side of the tent.” He shook his head. “She's . . . she's dead.”

Rosamund's hand flew up to her mouth. “No . . .”

Not the kind-eyed mother elephant that she'd first met on the lot.

“The police followed her as she rampaged into town. I tried to get there in time. They put her down, Rose. Right there in the middle of the street.” He slapped his hand on his leg. “What a waste. She must have been terrified—she couldn't have known what was happening.”

Rosamund's heart squeezed in her chest as she watched the anguish on his face. Behind them, the rain was now coming down in sheets.

“And then I came back to this—disaster everywhere. Some are badly injured.”

“God in heaven . . .,” she whispered. “How could this happen?”

“It just . . . happens, Rose. I've seen every kind of accident you can imagine. This is the life. Don't you remember me telling you that?” There was frustration, even anger, in his voice.

“Of course I remember!”

“Do you also remember the deal we made after you were attacked? If anything happened on the lot, you'd bring the horses back and wait for me here? I came back and found this tent empty, Rose! All the while, we've got a tornado blowing through the Big Top and wild animals running loose, and I'm trying to track down a lost bareback rider like a needle in a haystack. Because she's too willful to do anything I ask of her.”

“Owen and I—we did come back. We had to get the horses to safety. And I did wait here at first, but there were frightened people everywhere, running all over each other. And when the little girl fell and cut her leg, I couldn't just stand by and do nothing.”

“I looked for you in every corner of this tent, and in the Big Top. I crawled through piles of overturned chairs and sawdust on my hands and knees in the dark, looking for you. Scared I'd find you with another knock on the head, or worse this time.”

“But I've been here, Colin.” She exhaled the breath she hadn't known she held, incredulous. She held her arms out at her sides, the wet sequins pricking at her skin. “Look at me. I'm . . . I'm fine. See? Nothing's happened.”

Colin shook his head. “I pulled you out of a raging river once before,” he told her, hands clenched at his sides, emotion barely restrained. “Remember? And I won't do that again. Do you hear me? I can't do my job if there's any chance you're in danger. Love does that to people, Rose. It takes over every part of you so that you can't think straight. Everyone out there is demanding answers from me about what to do, and all I can think about is finding you! So yes—I think I am entitled to be a little angry right now.”

Rosamund froze.

She blinked. Hearing only the sounds of her own breath and the intermittent neighing of the horses behind them. Replaying what she thought he'd just said in her mind.

“What did you just say to me?”

Colin ran a hand through his hair—his telltale sign of acute frustration.

He exhaled. “I'm trying to tell you that I love you. That your safety means more to me than anything or anyone.”

The same instinct that had frozen her feet in place only moments before now prompted her to take a step toward him.

He did the same. Looking at her. Searching her face for a reply.

“It's why I stand by to watch every performance. Why I played for you in the ring that night last season,” he said softly. His brow was furrowed. Almost pain-wracked. His stare ardent. “It's why I'm standing here right now.”

“And I told you I'm here,” she whispered. “See? I'm fine, Colin.”

“Yes. I see you, Rose. I've always seen you.”

He lowered his voice to a rough whisper, just low enough that he'd have to step closer so she could hear each word over the pattering of rain on the roof.

Colin looked up. “It seems like we're always surrounded by storms, doesn't it?”

“But we don't have to be.”

He stepped toward her, then edged the hair back from her forehead with his palm. Looking over her face, wiping at a smudge on her cheek. Looking down on her the way no man ever had, and she was sure no one would again.

“When I saw you riding in the field at Easling Park that day, I thought my heart was going to burst right out of my chest.”

Rosamund fell into his embrace, forgetting about the storm or
her fear or the crumbling show around them, and accepted a kiss that was long overdue. She wanted nothing more than to hear him say those words again, and to return them with her own.

With a stomping and splashing of puddles, Ward suddenly burst into the tent, soaked to the skin and covered in mud up to his knees.

Colin and Rosamund broke apart and she turned away, shoulders shaking.

“Thank God I found you, Colin,” Ward exclaimed. “We've been looking for you everywhere.”

She looked up to find Colin's gaze still lingering on her. He kept the connection with Rosamund's eyes. “Please, Ward. I just need a moment,” he snapped.

“No—you need to come quick, Boss,” Ward ordered, urgency weighing his voice. “It's Bella.”

The thought of popping by Bella's tent after what had just happened between them wrenched Rosamund's breath away. She had no idea what she and Colin would encounter, or whether the flyer would be in top form to offer her usual helping of condescension. But when they reached the private tent, Rosamund's concerns were silenced.

Bella was on the ground by her dressing table, curled over and coughing in mad fits. She lay on her side, an oriental robe of red silk over her flyer's costume, her hair laced with straw and patches of dirt. Frankie knelt behind her, trying to pull her up to a sitting position.

Colin tore in, rushing to kneel at her side. “Bella?” he whispered. He patted her face, trying to get her eyes to focus on him.

The beautiful flyer's complexion had dimmed to a pale gray. She continued coughing, deep rumbles that rattled low in her chest, shaking her entire body. She fought to cover her mouth with a kerchief clutched in her hands.

Its edges were tinged with the bright, shocking color of blood.

Colin took the kerchief and dabbed at the spot where more drops had gathered. He pressed his hand to her brow.

“She's burning up,” he muttered. “How long has she been sick?”

Frankie stood back, wringing her hands. “It wasn't quite this
bad yesterday.” She held up a near-empty bottle of tonic. “I thought it would pass if she drank more cough syrup.”

“That stuff? It's pure alcohol, Frankie! How did she even get it? You forget that she's not supposed to have any?”

“A doctor prescribed it for her cough a couple stops back.”

“You mean she's been performing like this?” Colin demanded, glaring. “Why didn't anyone tell me?”

“You're not exactly a confidant at present, Colin. She swore me to secrecy. I didn't want her to go out and perform either, but she insisted. I would have come to you after the show. But then all this happened with the storm and no one could find you. We looked everywhere.”

He stole a quick glance at Rosamund.

“Well, your promise may well have killed her. Back up,” he ordered, slipping his arms under Bella's legs to scoop her up from the ground. He moved past Frankie and gently laid Bella down on the cot in the corner of the tent.

Rosamund and Ward stood planted in the doorway, watching.

Ward shifted nervous glances from Bella back to Rosamund, perhaps processing what he'd just witnessed—or almost witnessed—when he'd found them together.

“Somebody get her some water,” Colin ordered over his shoulder.

“Got it, Boss.”

Ward disappeared in a blink, sailing out into the deluge without stopping to inquire about any details.

Colin patted Bella's cheek. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. A smile eased over her lips when her eyes focused on him. He seemed to pull his emotions into check then and softened his features considerably.