Rafe headed toward his trailer, dead on his feet after another day of travel and setting up in a new location. Three days since you touched Talbot and he touched you, his mind helpfully reminded him. You could have him in your bed tonight if you wanted to. Don’t you want to?
Rafe grunted and shut down the insidious voice.
Everything was secured for the night, all the crew in their beds—or someone else’s. He’d done his last walk of the perimeter. They always had a night guard keeping watch to make certain no unexpected trouble came from the locals. It seemed unnecessary, but Rafe had been in the business long enough to know that a situation could blow up fast and hard. And when trouble came, it often seemed to be under the cover of night.
Which brought his mind to the stranger who’d been looking for him a few nights ago. That couldn’t be good. Jonah had said the man had a British accent, which suggested someone from back home was looking for him. If the family had bothered to send someone in search of him, it must mean something had happened. Perhaps a death. But he didn’t want to know about it, didn’t want to turn his mind to look back at the world he’d left behind. He’d cut himself off from his family for a reason, and even death wouldn’t change the fact that he wanted nothing to do with them.
Rafe stopped walking. A light shone from inside his wagon. His heart sped up along with his feet as he hurried to it. A part of him was positive he’d find Jonah waiting inside. But when he threw open the door and bounded up the step, he was disappointed to find Henry Fisher sitting with a glass in one hand and a bottle in his other, singing along with the ballad that crackled from the Edison phonograph cylinder.
“She and I will never be one. Alas, for the stormy sea,” he sang.
Rafe sighed. It seemed the Fishers were more on the outs than the ins these days, and he was getting a bit tired of listening to Henry’s litany of woe.
“Ellen threw you out again?”
Without answering, Henry clinked the bottle against the rim of the glass, then pushed the fresh drink across the table toward Rafe.
Rafe picked up the whiskey and downed it in a gulp. He licked his lips and blew a breath. “I needed that. Long day.”
He straddled the other chair and waited for Henry to talk. He didn’t say “tell me about it.” He’d be getting an earful soon enough, more details than he ever wanted to know about the “Amazing Signortoris” life of wedded bliss.
Rafe poured another glass full of the cheap whiskey and wished it was Craggenmore. He studied Henry’s sharp features—the hatchet nose and long chin; beneath a thin mustache, a wide mouth that was quick to smile; heavy brows that were quick to frown. Henry used black hair dye to add to the illusion of being a knife-wielding Italian and always had a dark stain at the edge of his hairline, but Rafe could see mingled white and brown hair creeping in at the roots.
After listening for as long as he could stand to the man’s laundry list of complaints about his wife, Rafe finally interrupted. “Why do you do it? Why do the pair of you continue to claw at each other year after year?”
“What do you mean?” Henry stared at him through bleary eyes.
“Why don’t you give each other some peace and go your separate ways?”
“Are you crazy? We’re married,” the other man replied, as if that explained everything.
“People get divorced.” Rafe heard his own voice slurring a little and realized he was pleasantly squiffed. “Or at least live apart. If they don’t, a lot of them should.” He thought of his own parents, who’d battled each other in a much icier fashion than the fiery Fishers.
“Phah,” Henry scoffed. “I couldn’t live without Ellie. What would be the point of anything without her?”
His vision shifted, and perhaps for the first time, Rafe understood the Fishers’ relationship. They were happy causing misery to each other. Henry threw knives at his wife on a daily basis. In return, she threw verbal knives at him. It was their own private juggling act, and they loved it.
“Anyway, making up makes the arguing worthwhile, don’t you think?”
“Mm,” Rafe replied. He’d not had any such experience, because he’d never had that deep of an involvement with anyone. “I suppose.”
Henry chuckled. “I promise you, it does. With Ellen, it’s never sweeter or stronger than after a storm’s blown itself out. That woman can…” And he was off again, sharing intimate sexual details that made Rafe take a pull direct from the bottle.
“Hey,” Rafe finally interrupted the drunken rambling. “Did you see a man around here a few nights ago? A gent with a big white mustache and a cowboy hat? I heard someone like that was looking for me? The rumor is he was hanging about the show a couple of nights ago.” And ducking the stranger had been difficult though not impossible to do. The trouble was, someone had mentioned spotting a man matching his description lurking here too. He’d followed them.
“The one who looks and sounds like he’s been punching cows all over London? Yeah. Looking for you. I said I hadn’t heard of you in my life. He don’t believe me. What did the fake cowboy want?”
Rafe shrugged. “No idea, but it’s best to avoid strangers asking questions.”
“Amen to that.” Henry got up and staggered to his bedroll. “Is your injured Lamb of God coming back here tonight?”
“Who?” Rafe scratched his cheek. He needed a shave.
“The preacher’s son, Ahab. No… Jonah. Knew it had to do with whales.”
“Who told you he was a preacher’s son?” Rafe got up and put their mugs in the dishpan.
“Come on, Grim, you know Treanor knows everything about every town we roll through. He told me his guesses about our little lost lamb.”
Rafe wanted to learn more but didn’t want to express too much interest. “Oh?” he said with an air of supreme indifference as he sat on the bed to pull off his boots.
Luckily Henry was in a chatty mood. And even better, he’d dropped the Italian accent. Now he was nasal New England. “Reverend Talbot’s a big noise in that little berg back where we picked up the boy. Couple of years ago showed up at some council meeting, Treanor said, to tell ’em to drive us outta town. And ’parently he’s a minister who likes his hell. Not as showy as some of those Southern preachers, but as grim and God-fearing as you could ask for.”
“What else did Treanor say?”
Henry yawned and muttered something about needing another drink. He sat up then must have spotted the cups resting in the enamel dishpan, because he lay back on the blankets and sighed.
The subject might be over as far as Henry was concerned, but Rafe was still curious. Far too curious.
“Maybe Talbot has had a falling out with his family for some reason,” Rafe wondered aloud. Not difficult to guess why, of course.
“Even Treanor’s not that good at picking up local gossip. Just that he swears Talbot senior resembles our Jonah. And there’s the name, of course.” He rolled over and squinted at the bottle still sitting on the table. “Maybe we ought to have a drop more.”
“I think not, lad. We’ll have work in the morning. And you’ll have to do some begging and groveling with your missus.”
Henry gave a crooked grin. “I do enjoy that begging and groveling.”
Rafe groaned. “Spare me any further details, I beg of you.”
“Fair enough, since you spare me yours.” Henry gave a jaw-cracking yawn and stretched his thin arms overhead. “Speaking of which, that why you had to leave home?”
The hair on the back of Rafe’s neck rose. He forced a laugh. “You’ve had a fair snoot-full if you think I’m going to talk over my private affairs with you, signor.”
“First I figured it was something like thievery,” Henry said. “But I see how you don’t take any women to bed, so I supposed your inclinations might have led to your putting a sea’s worth of distance between you and your family.”
“Christ Almighty, Henry. Since when did you turn into a gossip?”
Henry went on as if he hadn’t interrupted. “And I saw the way you looked at that preacher’s kid.”
Rafe reminded himself he didn’t want to beat the snot out of Henry, no matter how tempting it might be. Instead he opted for the truth. “My family couldn’t care less if I bedded a man, a woman, or a ruddy pig.” He could do whatever he liked as long as he was discreet. After all, his brother had done much worse. He finished with, “So no, the reason I left home had nothing to do with who I slept with.”
“I was closer with the guess about thieving, then?”
“Shut up or get out,” Rafe said without heat. “And next time your wife kicks you out, go sleep with Lance. The cat’s the only one who’ll put up with you when you’re like this.”
Henry mumbled something about Sir Lancelot and farting, then fell silent.
Rafe had thought he was exhausted, but now he lay wide awake. Perhaps his brother had hired the man who was looking for him. If that was true, he’d have to be careful. Edward would be the last man to want him to return to England, but Rafe had never truly understood what drove his brother. He’d thought he’d known the boy and then the man behind the smile, but he hadn’t known Edward at all.
He rolled onto his side and counted Henry’s snores. God, and now Henry knew about his vice. Another problem he must face. Rafe had been too obvious about his attraction to Talbot. He’d have to do an even better job of ignoring the preacher’s son, but the blasted man bore that ineffable appeal that made Rafe hungry for every brief encounter, from the simple exchange of conversation to what they’d done in this wagon. Even with all the bruises, Talbot was appealing—his voice, the way he held perfectly still when another spoke, listening as if that person were the most fascinating being on earth.
Rafe didn’t trust charm. God knew he could wield it himself. He’d had lessons from the best. He recalled his mother, one dainty hand on the sleeve of a boring politician, leaning forward, her eyes wide as she listened to the man’s dull conversation, and then her contagious laughter as she ruthlessly and accurately imitated the man later. She didn’t have the shadow of a conscience under her layers of charm, even as she’d fought to keep Edward, her older son, from facing the consequences of his actions.
Could Talbot be another like Edward, who appeared guileless and transparent but harbored murky depths? It was dangerous to be taken in by appearances. Rafe had learned that the hard way from his brother. The carnival wasn’t the only home of dangerous illusion.
He sat up, tired of his useless thoughts. The tiny room had grown stuffy. He threw aside his blanket and rose from the bunk. If he wasn’t going to sleep, Rafe might as well take over guard duty.
Outside he strolled through the cool night air, jumping over the stakes and ropes in the dark. No matter where they set up, the pattern of wagons and tents was the same. He found Crooked Pete dozing by the tethered horses and nudged the man awake. “Go find your bedroll,” he said. “I’ll take over.”
Pete yawned and stumbled to his feet. “I was awake.”
“Awake enough,” Rafe agreed. “We’re not at war here. It’s a good little town.”
Pete pulled out paper and tobacco and rolled a cigarette with his stubby fingers. “So what’s the preacher’s boy going to be useful for?”
What a small world they inhabited. For all the talk of never mentioning the past, poor Talbot apparently had dragged his along with him.
“Claudia says he did a fair job of shouting her charms the other night. And he’ll regain his strength soon enough,” Rafe said.
“Too old to learn useful skills like tumbling,” Pete muttered. That was a good sign. If he was trying to think of where to put Talbot, then he had come to some form of acceptance. “He might be good with the animals, but all that slow moving might be his injuries,” Pete went on. “He’s wholesome and good-looking, so he shouldn’t hide behind the scenes shoveling shit. He could be the shill. A natural for that. He’s got that trustworthy kind of face.”
Rafe watched the red end of Pete’s cigarette glow bright. It was rather astonishing that Pete, a man who hated to do any more thinking than necessary, would expend this mental energy for Talbot. Perhaps the earnest young man had engaged him as well.
“Can’t have a useless body eating a share of rations and not providing his share of work,” Pete said. So much for the theory that Talbot had won him over.
“True enough. Go to sleep,” Rafe said. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”
Pete raised his foot and carefully extinguished the cigarette against the sole of his boot. He put the butt in his pocket to separate the paper from the unsmoked tobacco later. Rafe wanted to tell him to stop worrying about every strand of tobacco, that the lean times were over for the show, but he didn’t want to lie.
Stretching his arms high, Pete ambled off in the direction of the wagons.
Rafe leaned against a post they’d pounded into the ground to stretch the rope for the corral. The horses stood mostly silent, sleeping. The rain still hadn’t come down, but clouds blocked the stars and scuttled over the face of the moon.
He smiled up at the moon and breathed in the scent of horses, meadow, and wood smoke spiced with an occasional hint of distant honeysuckle. He was alive and at peace with the world again, so he almost resented the voice that interrupted his solitude.
“Sir? I mean, Mr. Grimstone.”
His heart beat faster. Now there was godforsaken desire added to the mix. He’d been so content. “Talbot. You should be asleep.”
“I suppose so.” The dark figure stopped by the next stake, moonlight gilding his pale hair. “I’d hoped I might find you here.”
“You were looking for me?” Rafe became aware of his hands, as if the need to pull the other man close came from his fingers instead of his damnable brain. “Is anything wrong?”
“No.” Talbot drew a breath. “Yes. I think I should apologize.”
“Oh?” This would be interesting. Was the preacher’s son a thief after all and that was the reason he’d fled town? That would put the finishing touches on Rafe’s current disgruntled state. It’d be hard to learn he’d lost his ability to read anyone.
“What I did in your wagon the other day… I was pushing you. I shouldn’t have gone after you like that.”
The stumbling speech made it seem as if Talbot imagined he’d besmirched a virgin. Rafe gave a bark of surprised laughter.
“You, after me? Think back. Who touched whom first? We’ll share blame if there’s blame to assign in the matter.”
“You’re not upset?”
“No. I’m not,” he snapped.
“You’ve seemed angry these past few days.”
He wanted to hit something. “No. But I promise I will grow angry if you keep asking me about my mood.”
Rafe was astonished to hear Talbot snort in derision. “That is exactly the sort of thing people in a bad mood say.” The young man no longer sounded careful and hesitant, which suited Rafe. He didn’t want to kick at an injured lost lamb. And he felt like kicking something.
“If someone is in an ill temper, do you honestly think it best to keep pestering him?” Rafe shoved his hands in his trouser pockets but took a step toward Talbot. Hot with restlessness, he felt dangerously close to starting a brawl—or grabbing at the man for entirely different reasons.
“If I believe something I’ve done might have contributed to his bad mood, yes, I do think I should try to amend the situation. It’s the Christian thing to do.” The last was said without a trace of irony, and Rafe nearly smiled at the contradiction between Jonah’s wholesome beliefs and the unholy act he’d engaged in with such eagerness. The boy was full of unexpected contrasts, which somehow didn’t come across as hypocrisy.
Jonah took a breath. “I like you, Mr. Grimstone. I’ve watched you. You’re fair and strong. I’ve heard all about you from the carnival folk, and they admire and respect you, for the most part.”
Rafe waited, but that seemed to be the end of Talbot’s speech. The man backed away now, seemed ready to take off, but Rafe stopped him with a growl. “What the hell do you want from me?”