“Mama!” Killian’s raspy little voice broke through my thoughts right before he launched himself at my knees. I braced for the impact, reminding myself that he’d have to stop doing that at some point, lest he do some damage. I needed my knees in tip-top working condition if I was to stay in favor with Marek. He didn’t have any patience for injuries or illness, and I couldn’t afford to lose my spot in the lineup. I’d worked hard to get where I was, and I wasn’t about to relinquish it. Not after all I’d sacrificed to get there.
I crouched down and wrapped my arms around Killian, soaking in the heat of his little body, pressing my cheek to his sun-warmed hair. It was as mine had been as a child—stick-straight and the color of strong tea, amber hues drawn out by the hours he spent outdoors. He reached up and patted both my cheeks with his grubby hands, making me grimace and giggle simultaneously. I didn’t pull away, though. I never wanted him to doubt, even for a single moment, how much I loved everything about him, from the top of his head to his Fred Flintstone toes. “So, little man, did you see Groot?”
And he was off, features animated as he filled me in on his adventures. It didn’t matter to either of us that I didn’t understand most of what he said. He pointed and gestured with his chubby hands before grabbing one of mine and attempting to drag me away in his earnest desire to show me all he’d seen. I stood and scooped him up in my arms, nuzzled my face into his neck that smelled of tender skin and little boy sweat, and blew raspberries into the soft hollow. Killian burst into shrieks of laughter, pushing me away, but every time I stopped, he cried out, “‘Again, Mama, ‘gain!” Of course, I obliged him.
A movement at the door I’d just passed through caught my eye, but instead of Marek, whom I’d expected to come bursting through in a controlled rage, it was Jordan. My heart lurched to a stop for what seemed like several moments before kicking back into high gear. I glanced around quickly, finding Sasha sitting on a blanket under the troupe’s communal canopy, a plate of food in hand. “Sasha!” I called out. “Look after Killian until I get back? It’ll be a few minutes.”
The girl smiled and held out her hand to my boy, who left my arms and ran to her. He always ran. Everywhere Killian went, he ran. Oh, to have that kind of fervor for life.
Jordan stood just inside the door, his hand still clutching the curtain as though he hadn’t quite decided whether or not he was staying. Well, he wasn’t. For one thing, he wasn’t allowed back here. This was a private area for the troupe only and patrons were not allowed backstage. If any of our members chose to consort with a guest, it happened somewhere else. He also couldn’t stay because if I knew Marek, I knew the man would not let this incident go lightly. He might charge back here at any moment and confront me… or he might play nice the rest of the day, smiling and handing out tender caresses to keep me guessing, and then rage against me in the privacy of our trailer the moment I let my guard down.
Jordan finally spotted me and waved. I hurried to his side and ducked my head out, searching frantically for Marek.
He must have known who I was looking for. “He left just now with some woman dressed like a fortune teller. She said she needed him to help her fluff.”
I felt the flush creep up my neck and hoped either he wouldn’t ask for an explanation, or that he was already enlightened enough about the process of corseting women that the term used to manually elevate the bosom to its most enticing heights would be evident. There was no shortage of fluffed cleavages at any Renaissance Pleasure Faire.
Besides, I knew exactly whom Jordan was speaking of, and I knew Marek was not immune to Cassandra’s wiles. The woman’s booth was two spots down from ours and on opening day, she’d set her sights on Marek. Cassandra was remarkably beautiful with her jade-green eyes and thick, black hair swept back from her face in colorful scarves. She wore chunky jewelry on all her fingers, huge silver hoops in her ears, and she had one of the fluffier décolletages I’d seen in all my Faire days. But her beauty, like Marek’s, seemed only skin deep, and I waffled between the compulsion to warn her about him and the desire to wish them both good riddance, and then relish in the moments of relief I’d get if she kept him busy.
And I really needed a moment of relief right now. “You can’t be back here, Jordan.”
“I know. I was already stopped once, but I told the woman I knew you personally. I still had to gag her and lock her in a Porta-Potty…” His shrug was indifferent.
“Not funny,” I snipped. Although in any other circumstances, the idea might have made me laugh. The Jordan I knew would never hurt a flea. Well, actually, he might have gagged and hogtied his own sister in the past, but that was different.
“Sorry. Can you come out and talk to me? Your show doesn’t start for another half an hour.”
So he’d checked. I glanced over my shoulder to see Sasha and Killian heading over to a table that held huge coolers of water and lemonade. Sasha caught my eye and waved, then made a shooing motion with her hand, letting me know they were fine for the moment.
Turning back to Jordan, I mumbled, “You have five minutes.”
“Ten,” he countered.
“Four.” Narrowing my eyes, I crossed my arms, hoping he didn’t think I was playing games with him. I was not prepared for this encounter, and I didn’t think five minutes or less would allow much of an exchange of information.
“Fine. Five minutes. Is there somewhere we can go to talk privately?” One of the musicians brushed by, shooting us both an appraising look, but he didn’t say anything.
“Sorry. I need to be here when Marek gets back. We can go sit on one of the hay bales.” Out in the open where no one would misconstrue what was going on and report to Marek. Where Marek would have little to question me about if he, himself, came upon us. Besides, the crowd had dissipated and most of the bales were empty now. We’d practically be alone for the next five minutes.
I swept back the curtain from the door, peered out one more time to make certain Marek wasn’t on the other side, then stepped through and led Jordan to a bale on the far side of the rows of seats where a large mulberry tree offered shade. Sitting down beside him, I folded my hands in my lap, my gaze fixed on the lane leading to Cassandra’s booth.
“Will you really be in some kind of trouble for talking with me?” The look on Jordan’s face was a mixture of frustration, disbelief, and something else I couldn’t interpret.
“Of course not,” I assured him. Although, even to my own ears, I didn’t sound very convincing.
“So all that ‘unhand my woman’ stuff was just… for show?” He still sounded a little shell-shocked by the whole encounter.
I couldn’t blame him. I was finding it difficult to take a deep enough breath, so I just shrugged. I could feel his eyes on me, but when I turned and caught him staring, he didn’t look away. His gaze was open, curious, and gentle in a way I wasn’t accustomed to.
“I’d better go,” I said. Now that he knew where I was, what I was, I wanted to run and hide, lest he find out the rest of my secrets. I started to rise.
“No, please.” He touched my forearm. His fingers brushed over the skin in a brief caress, making my hair stand on end as though he’d infused his touch with an electrical current. “Wait.”
When I sat back down, he folded his hands in his lap. I tried to relax, but my shoulders felt tethered to my ears. I crossed my arms over my bare midsection, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious about my costume. It was quite modest compared to what many of the dancers in our troupe wore, but even so, it had taken me a while to get comfortable with showing so much skin. And I knew for a fact that Jordan had never seen me in anything even remotely as sexy as my Gypsy garb.
We weren’t traditional Middle Eastern belly dancers; we were Romani, a Gypsy troupe traveling by caravan—a modern-day version of the caravan, at any rate, in our trailers and RVs that we decorated like Gypsy wagons once we set up camp wherever we were performing. Most of us were Romani in name only. Even Marek was only part Romani on his father’s side, but he looked it through and through. He made sure his Gypsy followers looked the part, too. And because of the perceived authenticity we presented, our group was in high demand at historical reenactment fairs like these.
I should have felt honored to be a part of it all.
“Stop staring at me. You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little blown away at finding you.” He reached up and touched a bead on the end of one of the myriad of tiny braids woven through my hair. “You look so… so different, but—” He lowered his hand and softly cleared his throat. “But you’re still you. After all this time.”
An overwhelming desire to weep washed over me and I clamped my jaws together, resisting the wail that seemed to be working its way up the back of my throat. How could he possibly know how badly I needed to hear those words? It mattered little that I couldn’t act on them—my past had to stay in the past— because lately, I had begun to believe I had disappeared altogether. That the Savannah I’d once been had faded to black.
Now here was Jordan Ransome, the guy I’d crushed on relentlessly from the time I was old enough to understand why I felt lightheaded around him. I was too young for him; I knew that. But some things simply don’t matter to the heart. When I was ten and he was fifteen, I sat in the huge sycamore tree in our front yard in the afternoons, knowing he’d pass by on his way home from school. I wasn’t sure he ever even knew I was up there. He got a car his junior year, a beastly old clunker that he’d worked on in his driveway the whole summer before. I knew this because the Ransome family lived only five houses down from us. I’d listen for it—you could hear it coming at least a block away—and if I didn’t have time to make it up into my tree, I’d dash out to the mailbox in hopes he’d happen to glance over and notice me. I never knew if he did or not. I was always too afraid to look at him as he drove by.
His senior year, he nearly broke my heart. I finally worked up the courage to wave at him as he drove by. For the first few weeks, he smiled and waved back, sometimes even calling out a loud “Hello, Savannah Clark!” But that October, a girl showed up in his passenger seat… and she didn’t go away. Jordan often drove around with friends in his car, even girls, and there were a few who seemed perhaps a little more than friends, but nothing that ever blossomed into anything long term or significant.
This time, it was different. This time, it was always just Jordan and that girl. Sometimes, he drove by without even noticing me perched on a low branch, waving at him like a lovesick puppy.
I was almost relieved when he went away to college the next year. I couldn’t bear to see him with her every day. But I missed him, just the same.
“Savannah?” His voice was quiet, pulling me out of my reverie. “Are you okay? I mean, is he—Marek—okay?”
I knew instinctively what he was asking. I also thought I knew what he wanted to hear. “I’m fine. He’s a great guy.” I lifted my gaze to the stage where I performed six shows a day, six days a week, six weeks at a time. It didn’t slip my notice that three sixes was considered the mark of the devil where I came from. “And you can’t call me that. I’m Savah here.”
Jordan frowned at that statement, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, he said, “You seem… I don’t know. Maybe a little worried about him? And he seems kinda—”
Straightening, I pushed my shoulders back a little, lifting my chin, too. I met Jordan’s concerned gaze, forcing the resolve into my tone and posture as I cut him off. “He’s my boss, Jordan. He’s protective of us girls. We often have to fend off unsolicited and unwanted attention from audience members who imbibe too much or who read too much into our performances.”
He flinched, actually jerked back just the tiniest bit, but I saw it. Like I’d hit him.