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A noise interrupted his thoughts.
“What was that?”
“We were discussing our wedding date?”
“I thought I heard a scream.”
“Well, my dear, this is a circus after all.”
“I’m sorry, Aimee. You’ve gotten the wrong idea about—that was a scream.”
Very clearly a woman was in distress. The trouble sounded like it came from the area where the cannon was.
The cannon that was due to spew a human being out of it.
That was one circus act he would ban when he had the power to do so.
He ought to bid Aimee farewell and send her back to her friends, but the cry was becoming more urgent.
Surely others would arrive to help before he got there, but regardless, he turned his back on Aimee and ran full out.
A few men had arrived before him. Judging by their manner of dress, they were employees of the circus. Unbelievably they shifted from foot to foot, watching silently while Frenchie Brown tried to stuff a small woman down the mouth of the cannon.
A dog latched its teeth into the leg of Mr. Brown’s pants. Luckily the critter was agile and avoided the circus owner’s attempt to stomp on it.
But the woman was not faring as well. She was no match for the brute strength being forced upon her.
While she cursed at Brown, he caught the back of her long red hair, wound it around his fist, then yanked downward, forcing her further into the cannon.
“Mr. Brown!” William shouted. “The lady is unwilling!”
“This is circus business, Mayor. You have no say-so here.”
“When I catch you trying to force a woman, it damn well is my business.”
“Boys?” Frenchie Brown stared at his men. “The show will go on. Escort the mayor to an appropriate area.”
“Where’s Mrs. Otis?” one of the fellows asked.
“Packing her bags as you’ll be doing if you don’t obey me.”
“I don’t think this here tiny lady will survive being blown out of Old Bessie,” the youngest of the men said.
All of a sudden Frenchie yelped. Blood welled from his fat hand.
It seemed the tiny lady in the cannon had taken that moment of distraction to bite him.
He lifted his bleeding fist, balled it up. William caught it on the downswing and shoved him backward.
The woman scrambled out of the cannon then crumpled on the ground, shaking.
“William?” her voice quavered under the fall of red hair that hid her face.
She knew him? There was something familiar about her voice—he couldn’t place—
“Help me up, William.” She lifted her hand toward him. Her pale fingers trembled.
He squatted beside her, drew the hair from her face.
“Agatha Magee? Is that you?”
“He’s on the ground, boys! Get him.”
Feet shuffled in the dirt. Glancing up, he gathered Agatha closer to his chest.
Two of the roustabouts were walking away, but the other two advanced, bulging arm muscles glistening, flexing.
“Oh, my word!” A woman’s gasp drew Frenchie Brown’s attention to the shadows.
William recognized her and her young fellow when they stepped into the lantern light. They had both attended today’s meeting.
“Nothing to be alarmed at folks. All a part of the cannon act.” Frenchie Brown’s voice was suddenly friendly as a slice of peach pie. “Naturally the lady was fearful, it being her first flight. But this act is widely known to be safe.”
Hell, the man lied as easily as most of William’s fellow politicians.
William stood up, keeping Agatha close to him. She was breathing too hard. Reminded him of a small bird he’d rescued once.
Scooping her up, he backed away.
“Take my girl and you’ll hear from my lawyers!”
“She’s no longer your girl.” He’d never had reason to growl, but now he thought he did it as well as the circus owner.
Frenchie Brown made a motion to run his hand through his hair, but given that he was bald, he only slapped his scalp.
“Fetch me another girl,” he said to the single remaining roustabout.
“Shut down the cannon attraction,” William ordered.
“You have no rights here!” Frenchie Brown insisted, his belly jiggling in outrage.
Maybe he did not, but he wasn’t going to take Agatha away only to have some other unfortunate girl take her place.
“Find Mrs. Peabody,” he said to the young couple. “Tell her the circus folks have gone mad in the wind. Let her know to spread the word to everyone that they should seek the shelter of their homes.”
If there were no customers, no one would be shot out of the cannon.
He strode away, hugging Ivy’s sister tight, hoping that she was strong enough to withstand what she had been through, that she would not lapse into some sort of malady or seek escape in a drug.
“Wait!” Her voice was hoarse, no doubt raw with all the screaming she had done. “Miss Valentine. I can’t leave without her.”
“We’ve got to get out of here now, honey.”
She blinked up at him. Her green eyes were prettier than he recalled them being.
“Frenchie will kill that little dog if I don’t bring her along.”
William glanced over his shoulder. Agatha was right. The wicked round man had picked up a piece of lumber and begun to swing it at the dog.
“Can you stand?”
“Of course.”
He was not convinced and set her down with care.
“Hold on to this rope.” It was one of the cables on the outside of the tent.
He dashed back, ripped the plank out of Brown’s fingers and tossed it away. He scooped up the dog, cursing at the circus owner and not bothering to do it under his breath.
Sprinting back to Agatha he found her still standing. Judging by the way her fingers looked bloodless while gripping the rope, he figured it took all her effort to remain upright.
Placing the bedraggled mound of fur in Agatha’s arms, he scooped her up again, charging quickly through the crowd.
Must have been a sight to see. The mayor of Tanners Ridge carrying a woman dressed in glittering, skintight long johns in his arms.
Sure enough, folks were staring. Especially Aimee Peller and her group of friends. Poor Aimee looked like she’d been run through.
Charging ahead, he carried Agatha around the animal trailers then started up the hill. It was a good thing she didn’t weigh more than a dime.
Glancing back, he noticed people beginning to leave the circus. Whether they believed the circus folks had gone mad, or just wanted to see what he was up to, he had no way of telling.
At least Agatha’s breathing was no longer as quick as a trapped dove’s.
First thing in the morning he was going to wire Ivy and Travis to come and fetch her.
* * *
“Mrs. Bronson!” William called, being propelled into his house by a gust of wind. “Mrs. Feather!”
His housekeeper and his cook had not gone to the circus, claiming a dislike for such nonsense.
The events of the evening had proved their wisdom.
Pushing the door closed with his backside, he called again.
“Surprised they ventured out in the wind,” he murmured more to himself than to Agatha. Was she even conscious after the rough treatment she had been through? She’d been silent all the way up the hill and the walk across town to the Mayor’s Mansion, as the folks of Tanners Ridge took pride in calling it. “Sure hope that tent holds up.”
“I’d give it only even odds.” Agatha wriggled in his arms indicating that he should put her down. “Mr. Brown does take shortcuts.”
“Let me take you to the parlor. The divan is quite comfortable.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Can you?”
Could she? Last time he’d seen her she could only manage a few steps without help.
Something about her did seem different, though. She was frail as a waif—he knew that because he’d carried her up the hill and to his house without much exertion. The difference was in her expression. Where she’d once looked wounded, cautious, she now gazed up at him with confidence. Somehow the mix of fragility and pluck touched his heart. Made him regret having to put her down right away.
“You’ve been through an ordeal.”
Why had she been through an ordeal? What was she doing so far from home and at, of all things, the circus? Perhaps she had been kidnapped! He’d always assumed she would remain at the Lucky Clover where Ivy and Travis could watch over her.
Ivy was not older by much. Truth be told it was only by moments since Agatha and Ivy were twins. But the sisters were not alike in any way.
In his mind, Agatha had seemed quite a bit younger.
“I can walk.”
Maybe so. “I’d feel better setting you safely on the couch.”
So he did, in spite of her protests.
“I’ll hunt up Mrs. Bronson to prepare your room for the night. As soon as I find Mrs. Feather I’ll have her bring you some soup. Would you like that?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nevertheless, you shall eat.”
Why was she frowning at him? He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that expression on her sweet face.
“Mrs. Bronson! Miss Feather!” he called, rushing out of the parlor and into the grand entry. The sooner Agatha was settled into a warm bed the better he would feel. “Mildred? Ida?”
* * *
As soon as William left the room in search of his employees, Agatha eased up from the couch.
She was a bit wobbly and overwhelmed by what she had been through. Defending oneself took more energy than she could have imagined—could she have imagined that she would ever be called upon to do so.
But William was wrong in his assumption that she was an invalid. She could easily have extracted herself from his big wonderful arms, had she the mind to.
“I didn’t, though,” she murmured to Miss Valentine. “And how are you, you sweet girl? I’m so proud of how you avoided getting kicked, even with your hurt foot.”
Agatha bent over, felt light-headed. She traced the line of white that shot through the tan on the dog’s forehead.
Miss Valentine turned her head, pressing her face against Agatha’s shin.
“What a sweet hug. I’ll get William to call a veterinarian to look at your foot.”
