Rafe hovered over Dimitri, but his attention was on his own wagon. He watched Talbot emerge, carrying his little bundle, and go look for Crooked Pete. Good. No more temptation lying on the floor beside him tonight. His thoughts turned to the few minutes they’d groped each other in his wagon, and he shivered at the memory. Jonah’s obvious experience had taken him by surprise. The way he touched and kissed demonstrated a fluency in a language Rafe barely knew. Such a contrast to the man’s innocent face and demeanor—a mirror shifted, and a different aspect was revealed. Hell, maybe country boys got up to all sorts of grappling with one another in haymows.
But Rafe didn’t want to think of sex anymore. He shut down that part of his mind and focused on getting the crew moving, since Dimitri had announced the axle was “patched for now.” The caravan got back on the road not fifteen minutes later as Dimitri had promised, but almost a full forty-five.
They didn’t reach Bartonville until after dusk. Rafe made sure their advanceman, Jack Treanor, had paid the men in charge the proper bribes before the carnival began setup.
Men trailed after him as he raced through the site, finding the perfect location for the gumshoe—a sturdy, round block of wood that would be the main support for the big top. He strode on, waving at the spots for the smaller tents and pointing to where the wagons should be placed. Once the poles and lacing were laid out, everyone took his position by the canvas, ready to haul. The horses snorted and shook their manes as they waited. He couldn’t resist the dramatic pause—he was a showman, after all—before he blew the whistle and the steady, slow pull on the ropes, the shouts, and the chantey began.
All right; this was the part he loved best. It was grueling work, and the carnival wasn’t fully erected until late at night, everyone working in the light of kerosene lanterns to finish up. Rafe caught glimpses of Jonah now and then, once with a bucket of sloshing water suspended from each straining arm, another time helping Dimitri lay the iron boundaries of the ring Rafe had just carefully measured out in the main top.
When Rafe finally retired, exhausted from overseeing every aspect of the setup, his trailer had never seemed so quiet. Usually he found the silence a blessing after the constant noise and confusion of the carnival, but tonight it just seemed empty, not peaceful at all. And his body ached, not from the physical labor he’d engaged in—for he always worked right alongside his rousties—but in deeper places than mere muscles.
He wanted. He needed. Knowing the object of his want and need was so close yet inaccessible drove him crazy. Crazy he didn’t need. Rafe shoved sexual desire away from him like a man rejecting an ill-fitting suit of clothes and forced himself to sleep.
* * *
The week went smoothly, though every day had its challenges. Four days after picking up Talbot, the show’s morning dawned, stretched, yawned, and started out with a fight that Rafe had to break up. The “Signortoris” again. Although Henry and Ellen Fisher were actually from Bangor, Maine, they’d somehow taken on the personas of the fiery-tempered Italians they’d played in their act for so long. When they yelled at each other, Ellen even used her adopted accent. She was screaming now, accusing Henry of cheating on her, of being a no-good drunk, and of trying to kill her during their knife-throwing act. Rafe knew two out of three of those things were true.
Their three kids seemed inured to their parents’ quarrels—perhaps the drama of the carnival made them think this too was make-believe. Rafe only hoped they were as indifferent to the yelling as they seemed. He liked the occasionally insolent but always hardworking Fisher kids. When it came to learning routines for their acts, they were serious and as professional as any artiste he’d seen.The oldest, who was sixteen, rolled his eyes, grabbed his twelve-year-old sister’s hand, and walked away.
By the time Rafe had soothed the Fishers, listened to Miss Jamie’s petition for new costumes for the dogs and ponies in her act, and dealt with Sam’s complaint that he didn’t feel well enough to be “Kaspar the Giant” today—Rafe reminded him that all he had to do was sit in a tent and be gawked at, which didn’t take much effort—it was late morning and time to open the gates to customers.
Jack Treanor had done a good job of announcing their arrival. Posters were plastered on shop windows in town and on signposts and trees beside rural roads. Word of mouth spread quickly in this countryside, where a carnival coming to the area was akin to a Shakespearean festival. The hayseeds were thrilled to have any entertainment in their humdrum lives.
Rafe stayed busy putting out fires, since luck was apparently against him today and nothing would run smoothly. One of the miniature ponies got feisty and nipped at a little girl who was taking a ride. Miss Jamie usually handled such situations with aplomb, but the young woman was not herself lately, and Rafe ended up having to mollify the girl’s family. His presentation of a candy apple to the little girl stopped her bawling, and the full force of his charm was enough to calm the upset mama.
Then Sam proved to be as sick as he claimed to be, vomiting right in front of the customers who’d come into the freak tent to see the tallest man on earth. Guilt-stricken, Rafe sent Sam to his quarters and Mindy to look after him, which left him more shorthanded than he already had been. The carnival was small enough that everyone had many roles to play, and he allowed no complaining from the “talent” when they had to do other labor.
Rafe ended up calling for the freaks himself, enticing people to come inside and see the marvelous vagaries of nature for a nickel. Other than Claudia, the fat lady, and Sam, there was a two-headed chicken and other anomalies pickled in brine. It wasn’t much of a freak show. The midget, Alan Henderson, had walked off the job last month to join a much larger outfit, the Orcully Brothers. That was a huge loss. Perhaps it was time to invent a gill-man or a he-she—half man, half woman by costume only, not a true hermaphrodite. Both required only the application of a little stage craft. Meanwhile, Rafe talked up the mysteries to be seen inside the tent until he was hoarse, and the customers who came out of the tent seemed satisfied despite the lack of a giant.
It was late afternoon when Rafe caught sight of Jonah hurrying past on some errand. Rafe beckoned him over. “I need a break. You take over here.”
“What? I’m no barker. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“The term we use is ‘talker.’ You know how to talk, right? Just open your mouth and say anything—loudly. Entice people inside. Promise marvels such as they’ve never seen before. You’ve heard the patter.”
He didn’t give Jonah time to argue or to look at him. Those soulful green eyes tied his stomach in knots. They’d make him do something else stupid if he allowed them to, and he couldn’t afford for his dick to take over his brains right now.
Rafe jumped off the platform and walked away as if he had no doubt Jonah would obey him, but hid by the nearest booth and watched. Instinct told him that Jonah, despite his diffident manner, had the heart of a showman. The man loved Shakespeare. He probably harbored a desire to be an actor; Rafe had been around the show long enough to spot the ones who loved performance. Talbot’s speaking voice was a pleasure to listen to, soothing and warm—enticing, which was just what the job called for. He’d have to make sure the volume was there, of course.
Rafe listened. Yes, there it was, a few tentative words about the jaw-dropping beauty and terror to be found within this fascinating little world of wonder. Fairly good stuff. More alliteration would fit the ticket. And certainly Jonah could use more assurance, conviction that he believed every word he shouted. But that would come—if he stayed on. Rafe knew better than to count on that happening. The road life wasn’t for everyone. Likely once he’d gotten far enough away from whatever devils chased him, Jonah would leave. Rafe only hoped he’d spare the time for an honest good-bye instead of slipping off in the middle of some night—rather as he’d done himself when he’d left England.