Читать книгу Her Gypsy Prince - Crystal Green, Crystal Green - Страница 10

Careful, folks, ’cause trouble’s near—

Get the carnies out of here!

Elizabeth Dupres mumbled the Committee for Moral Behavior’s mantra, her mouth dry from Texas dust, her attention a million miles away from the Blossom County Fair’s carnival entrance as she followed the never-ending circle of the picket line. Adjusting her straw hat’s wide brim with one hand, she managed to shade herself from the overzealous burst of late-June morning sunshine. With her other hand, she clutched the yardstick she’d used to make her sign: “We love our children,” it said.

Her simple declaration clashed with the other mottos: “No more swindles!” “Carnies are slime-licking fleas on the hide of humanity!” “Bad elements make for bad times ahead!”

All the exclamation points and obnoxious neon-colored words swirled together in Elizabeth’s mind.

What was she doing here with these people?

As she rounded a bend near the carnival’s gates—which were flanked by two deputies and would be closed for another hour until opening time—Elizabeth stepped out of line, heading for a cooler that the committee kept stocked with iced beverages.

She needed something to wash away the taste of this demonstration. Ever since the fair had opened, tempers had gone up degree by degree, day by day. The chants were getting uglier, more degrading.

Sighing, she glanced toward the carnival itself. Beyond the gates, a different world bloomed. A waiting garden of color consisting of steel-fortified rides, the striped tents of the midway, the looming specter of the Funhouse in the distance. Above it all reigned the Ferris wheel, silent in its majesty. A man wearing faded jeans, work boots and no shirt started to climb it, most likely doing a safety check. With his back to her, his browned skin shone in the sun, emphasizing every line of sinew and muscle. His collar-length black hair, held back in a low ponytail that kept losing strands with every aggressive movement, hid his face from Elizabeth.

She’d seen him around before, but hadn’t gotten a good look at his features. Intrigued, she watched the carny while absently reaching into the cooler and plucking out an icy bottle of grape soda. Knowing it was too early for sugary drinks, she opened it anyway, sipped, then held the chilly glass against her face, half hoping the gesture would hide her from the picketing.

Mmmm, what a fine specimen of man, she thought, her heart skipping every time the carny moved to a higher position on the wheel, powerful arms bunching and straining.

If only…

Feeling watched, Elizabeth bristled, glancing away from him and toward her mother.

Bitsy Dupres, head of the Committee for Moral Behavior.

Even in the increasing heat of morning, she looked fresh and perfect, her blond hair held back in a classy chignon, her slim figure garbed in a pressed linen summer skirt-suit with pearls.

Elizabeth conjured her sweetest smile. Just taking a break, Mom.

She wished it could be for the rest of the year. Or maybe just for these last two weeks of the fair.

Fondly, her mother smiled back, then returned to her self-appointed job as spiritual guardian of Blossom, Texas. Like the conductor of a symphony, she led the picketing townsfolk, conviction in every beat of their chant.

Something wicked this way comes,

Carnies, vagrants, cheaters, bums!

Nice.

Without a doubt, Elizabeth was here for her mom more than anything else. And, truth to tell, she did want what was best for the citizens—especially the children—of Blossom, too. Being a first-grade teacher forced a bit of protectiveness into her soul. She could understand how her own mother and all these other concerned members felt about keeping their town safe from outsiders.

She just wished they all could exercise a little more mercy. There was no need to call them “bums,” for Heaven’s sake.

A picketer left the line to join her. Spencer Cahill, son of the local Dairy Dream owner, the platinum-haired, blue-eyed dreamboat on every matchmaking mama’s wish list.

“Mind grabbing me a soda, too?” he asked, his cheeks flushed pink.

Elizabeth felt like telling him that, the last time she’d looked, he had two hands perfectly good for picking up a bottle. Maybe her expression said it for her.

Spencer laughed. “Picketing makes you cranky, Bets.”

“I outgrew that name when we graduated from high school,” Elizabeth said sweetly. Any woman who’d reached the age of twenty-three deserved a more dignified moniker.

Besides, “Bets” was one step away from “Bitsy.” And contrary to popular belief, Elizabeth wasn’t a version of her mom. As much as they loved each other, as much as their golden hair and dark blue eyes reflected each other, they were different.

That’s what she told herself, anyway.

“And,” added Elizabeth, encouraged by her wonderfully liberating train of thought, “I’m not cranky. I’m just…”

She took a sip, wondering how much to say to Spencer. Oh, what the hey. “Why are we even out here?”

“Because these carny creeps are trouble.”

“Who’s more trouble?” she asked, casting a surreptitious glance toward the Ferris wheel man again. He was making his way to the center of the structure. “The carnival workers or the good citizens of Blossom? Seems like we’ve stirred up more trouble than these strangers could even think of doing.”

Not that her mother enjoyed hearing this when Elizabeth brought it up. Spencer didn’t seem to like it, either.

“See, now, that’s what the committee was afraid of. When those other carnies came to town, two years ago, they messed with everyone’s minds just as surely as it’s happening now. Only, back then, it was the Swindle.”

Ah, yes, thought Elizabeth, running another gaze over the brawny carny as he tested the cars on the Ferris wheel. The Swindle.

It had started when, during a previous fair, a gypsy fortune-teller predicted that certain townsfolk would see great wealth soon. Shortly thereafter, when the fair and its contracted carnival had left town, a salesman had moseyed into Blossom, schilling real-estate stock. Many of the people who had been privy to the fortune-teller’s good news had trustingly bought into the deal…and lost a lot of money.

Turns out, the stock had been phony. Elizabeth knew this better than most people because her family had been one of the victims—not that anyone except their financial consultants knew. Her father, may the optimistic family man rest in peace, had wanted to pay off Elizabeth’s college loans in one fell swoop while setting him and Bitsy up for life. Not that they’d been bad off in the first place, but with Carlton Dupres, keeping his wife happy meant everything. Oddly enough, Bitsy had never demanded this much of him, but he’d squandered their savings anyway in the hopes of keeping up their appearances as the social leaders of Blossom.

At any rate, just before Elizabeth’s father died, the fair board decided to ban another carnival from attaching itself to the annual fair in the future. Consequently, last year’s event had been a financial disaster, and the town suffered from this miscalculation even now.

It was around the time of the ban that Bitsy started the Committee for Moral Behavior—CMB for short. A group that led the fight against unsavory enemies of the town, like the criminals that had pulled the Swindle.

“Spencer,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the Ferris wheel worker, from the fantasy of something beautiful and exciting finding its way into Blossom, “we learned our lesson from the Swindle. There’s no reason to overreact now. The carnies have been here all month, and they’re not going to be forced out.”

“What about the vandalism that’s been happening since they came into town?”

Sure, some CMB members had reported stolen lawn ornaments this summer, but that had been due more to bored teenagers than carnies. More troubling, though, had been the rumors of serious sabotage within the carnival itself. This wasn’t so easily explained.

But instead of arguing, Elizabeth set her still-full bottle on the sign-in table and wandered to the front gates, her yardstick sign propped on her shoulder. She greeted the deputies as the shadow of the Ferris wheel covered her, lending her a break from all the heat, the hatred. A breeze whipped her white sundress around her legs and she removed her hat, freeing her long hair from its confines and allowing it to tumble down her back. She fanned herself with the brim, once again locking her gaze on the wheel.

With a start, she saw that the shirtless carny had positioned himself near the top, balancing there while holding on with one hand. Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest.

Was he some kind of crazy daredevil?

As if sensing her question, he swung himself outward while still holding on, moving toward the next car in line for the safety check. A white smile flashed against his tanned skin. With his hair loosening itself from the ponytail band, he looked like a carefree pirate swashbuckling from a chandelier.

Elizabeth froze, blood thudding in her veins, pounding at her chest. She couldn’t look away for the life of her.

And as their gazes connected, he didn’t look away, either.

It was as if he were the center of a steel sun, the beams flaring outward from his body, a world orbiting around him. Her world.

She dropped her hat. Everything crystallized, almost as if time had stopped, capturing the committee’s chanting in one long syllable. Reducing her body to a melting buzz of awareness.

Was this what poets talked about in all of her old college textbooks? Was this some kind of Shakespearean moment that existed only on stage and in the minds of fools and dreamers?

Surprise, excitement, even complete terror—that’s what was pumping through her right now.

Heavens, she couldn’t even smile at him, could only stand there and gape at his rugged beauty.

He raised his hand very slowly to his forehead, gave her a jaunty salute. A softer smile.

In the back of her mind, reality creeped in.

Crooks and robbers, sleaze and scum,

Go on back where you came from!

It seemed like the CMB had doubled their efforts. Elizabeth blinked, adrenaline and a dose of good old-fashioned shyness forcing her to break eye contact with the carny and to focus on the CMB. They’d spotted the shirtless man and had halted their picket line to face him, jabbing their signs in the air to emphasize their message.

Dizzy from the intensity of the odd exchange, Elizabeth bent down to pick up her hat, shook it free of dirt, plopped it back on her head and turned around to go…where? Back to picketing?

Anywhere that would stop her hands from shaking, her heart from fluttering.

But a truckload of new arrivals thankfully redirected her attention. Replacement picketers, scheduled to take the next shift. Good. Making nice with the carnies wasn’t something a girl like her did. A Dupres. An upstanding member of the community.

Cassie and Fred Twain, her mother’s most stalwart associates and friends, walked toward the picket line, their two young children running ahead of them to greet Bitsy, who was their frequent babysitter.

Cassie was a real-estate agent and attorney, a mousy woman sporting bobbed hair and a discount-catalog shorts ensemble. Burly Fred, with his prematurely graying strands and watery eyes, looked as resigned as ever. A banker at Strong Bank and Trust, he fit the part—overworked and slightly henpecked.

As Bitsy scooped the kids into a hug, she glowed with happiness, ecstatic to greet towheaded Abe and Abby no matter the time or day.

Though Elizabeth always looked forward to seeing her former first-grade students, she also knew this was no place for the Twain twins.

Setting her sign down, she made a beeline over to them. Her mother kissed the giggling children and encouraged them to return to their parents before Elizabeth got there.

“Mom—”

“I know, Elizabeth.” Her mother’s hand was cool as it rested on Elizabeth’s bare, sunscreen-covered arm. “But Cassie and Fred are our next shift leaders.”

“Cassie and Fred are exposing their children to a lot of ugliness. I’m being exposed to it, too, and it’s not my idea of a relaxing summer vacation, if you know what I mean.”

Bitsy sighed, no doubt because she and Elizabeth had discussed this over home-cooked lunches and dinners a hundred times before. “I’ll take care of Abe and Abby, bring them home with me right now. Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes, it would.” Jeez, she hated arguing with her mom. Whenever they did—which was too often—Elizabeth felt a sense of disloyalty. Her mother always got that sad, betrayed glaze to her eyes as she reminded Elizabeth of what had happened to her father. About the Swindle. About the bad elements of this world and what good people needed to do to make their homes safe again.

Knowing how the rest of this conversation would go, Elizabeth braced herself. “The CMB has made its point here. Why don’t we concentrate on something more worthwhile, like the folks in the next county who had property damaged in the tornado? Two days have gone by and they still need help.”

“We’ve seen to getting our neighbors food and shelter.” Her mother’s voice was so calm, the soft lilt of a true believer. “I’m fairly certain that the only thing that needs repairing is your attitude.”

Here they went again. Her mother’s eyes were starting to tear over. Even if her father had died a year and a half ago, the anguish was still too fresh, still too hurtful to them both. After all, Bitsy Dupres was battling “evil”—the sort that had killed her Carlton. At least, in her mind.

Frustrated by the trap she found herself in, Elizabeth couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the Ferris wheel, just to escape her mom’s disappointment. The carny was gone, the wheel isolated and cold.

It’s just a ride now, she thought. Not another world I can fantasize about.

Wanting to cool off the tension between her and her mom, Elizabeth walked back toward the gates, intending to finish her soda in peace and separate herself from this whole mess, from her own pain at losing a father so young, from losing a mother to a cause that was spinning more out of control by the month.

“Elizabeth!”

It was her mom’s voice. Startled, she stopped in her tracks. The squeal of brakes pulled Elizabeth out of her thoughts and into a dervish of dust.

Her heart punching her ribs, she faced an equipment truck that had been headed for the entrance. The driver’s door flew open and a squat carny dressed in ratty, grease-stained clothing and a cowboy hat tumbled out. He darted toward her.

“You okay?”

Aside from a decent impression of a heart attack, she thought everything was in order. “Sure, I—”

“What were you thinkin’, walking out in front of me like that? I could’ve—”

Spencer Cahill, who’d gone back to picketing since his earlier chat with Elizabeth, stepped in front of the rattled guy. “Back off.”

The former star linebacker of Sam Houston High School got into the carny’s space, tossing his picket sign by the wayside and narrowing his eyes.

The carny, though shorter by about a mile, didn’t seem to take kindly to Spencer’s bullying. He got right back in the other man’s face.

“Are you gonna be the one to back me off, Buttercup?”

Ooo, not a nickname Spencer would enjoy. Elizabeth moved forward to insert herself between the two men. “Listen, no one got hurt. Spencer, let him drive through.”

When he glanced at her, Elizabeth wanted to cringe at his bullheadedness. She’d known that Spencer had taken a hankering to her since their junior year of high school, but aside from an awkward let’s-go-as-friends senior prom date, she’d made it clear that they were as platonic as platonic can be.

“It” just wasn’t there. That spark. That…whatever she’d felt while staring at the Ferris wheel man.

“Miss.” The carny had taken off his hat, a sign of courtesy. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, I appreciate your willingness to referee this here problem, but I don’t take kindly to being ordered around by a sign-carryin’ townie boy.”

“Boy…?” Spencer’s neck reddened, the color slipping upward until he looked likely to have steam whistle out his ears. “Who’s the boy?”

They were bellying up to each other again. By now, the other picketers had ventured closer, beginning to hurl insults at the carny. Both his and Spencer’s neck veins were taut, and neither was giving ground.

Until a deep, half-amused voice sounded from across the carnival gate line. “Hudson, come here.”

Having donned a shirt, the man from the Ferris wheel was lethargically pushing open the gate, not even bothering to step across the boundary. Hinges squeaked as the crowd silenced itself, all eyes on the stranger.

Elizabeth’s skin tingled, almost as if he were standing right next to her and not five feet away. Even the hairs on her arms were alive, standing amidst the goose bumps. With the benefit of this close proximity, she could catch the details of him: his imposing height; the olive skin; the beguiling wave of dark hair as it brushed his shoulders, having maneuvered out from that ponytail; the piercing silver-blue of his eyes as they fixed on her.

Elizabeth gulped, striving for breath and balance. As she lowered her gaze from his, she couldn’t help spying the long, faded scar that stretched from high cheekbone to strong jawline.

A carny. A forbidden glimmer on the edges of her safe, boring world. If only she had the guts to glance back at him.

Clearly, his hungry stare hadn’t been lost on Spencer. Jealousy got the better of his menacing walk as he moved toward the Ferris wheel man.

“Don’t look at our women like that,” he said.

Holding back a groan, Elizabeth merely shook her head. Testosterone. “Cut it out, Spencer.”

Her platinum-haired friend planted himself in front of the stranger. “Next thing you know, these creeps will be combing our streets and getting you women into trouble.”

“Would you come out of your cave and let the truck through?” At this point, Elizabeth wanted to sock Spencer herself. Civilized people didn’t act this way, especially ones that had been carrying morally superior picket signs only moments ago.

However, the truck driver beat her to it.

With a burst of speed, the shorter man yelled, “You don’t talk to him that way, Buttercup!” and gave Spencer a good shove.

While they wrangled with each other, the picketers swarmed closer to the gates…

…until a crowd of carnies blocked the entrance, buttressing the sides of the Ferris wheel man.

Since the CMB consisted mainly of middle-aged couples, senior citizens and a few church-going under-twenties, they weren’t exactly in fighting shape. But they could sure tongue-lash with the best of them.

As the bitter comments roared around Elizabeth, she caught sight of her mother herding a frightened Abe and Abby together while trying to pull her committee back. In the meantime, the Ferris wheel man shook his head and blew out a deep breath, hands on his jeaned hips.

Then the unthinkable happened.

The committee had vowed not to step foot inside the carnival, but with the force of traded punches, Spencer and the carny stumbled over the line. Right next to the Ferris wheel man.

Everything happened so quickly, Elizabeth didn’t even have time to inhale.

After a particularly solid punch, Spencer held the weakened carny by the collar, then cocked back his fist for another go. That’s when the Ferris wheel man stepped in.

He gripped Spencer by the wrist, stopping the forward arc of his intended punch.

For a split second, no one moved. But then Spencer tugged at his hand, dropped the carny to the ground, and in a flurry of energy, jammed his fist upward, right into the Ferris wheel man’s cheek.

The powerful carny merely kept holding Spencer’s fist, looking only slightly put out by the assault. Even so, Elizabeth saw a slice of blood emerging on his darkened skin. A cut from Spencer’s high-school ring.

“Spencer!” she yelled, rushing over and yanking on his other arm to bring him back to the town side of the line.

He seemed chastised by her schoolteacher tone, by his ridiculous show of violence. When she pushed him farther into the quieted crowd of picketers, he didn’t resist. Her mother leveled a lethal stare at him, then led him away by the button-down sleeve toward the cars, with the twins following behind.

Elizabeth turned her back to all the carnies: the heavily made-up women in their exotic satin costumes, the barkers who manned their games with their white straw hats, the sweating men in grimy T-shirts.

“I can’t believe you all…us all,” she said to the CMB, voice quivering in pent-up shame. “Is this what we’ve come to?”

She whipped around, face to chest with the Ferris wheel man. Her heart caught in her throat as she tilted her gaze upward and he locked eyes with her once again.

Knees turning to liquid, she took a deep breath and gathered her courage, reached up and touched his wound with a sense of wonder. Today’s slight injury was positioned just below the longer scar.

I’m sorry, she thought. So sorry.

Once again, time slowed, floated around them, preserving the electric contact of her innocent caress.

Seconds, hours. The longing of an endless sigh.

Someone in back of her gasped, jarring her out of the moment. She’d gone too far, hadn’t she?

When Elizabeth blinked, the Ferris wheel man did, too. Then he jerked back, a delayed reaction to her unexpected gesture.

She was a townie, a picketing one. What was she doing making overtures to the so-called enemy?

As she searched for an answer, the shock faded from his expression, replaced by that carefree smile she’d first seen when he’d been balancing on the Ferris wheel.

The sexy acknowledgment that she had been staring at him, that she had been interested.

Still, he kept backing up, into the crowd of carnies, their postures wary.

“No need for lectures, Miss,” he said, voice light, as if he tolerated punches to the face every day of his life and had learned to enjoy it. He gave her an easy wink. “You just stay on your side, and we’ll stay on ours.”

He glanced pointedly at her sandaled feet, and without thinking, Elizabeth stepped back, knowing she wasn’t welcome on this patch of territory.

As soon as she got to the line, she felt a hand close over her arm, pulling her back into the committee. Returning her to where she belonged.

It was Cassie Twain. As they walked, they passed the fighting carny—Hudson. He stared at Cassie, his bloodied brow wrinkled. She ignored him and kept moving.

“Uppity, aren’t they?” she asked. “I hope this episode makes them reconsider and pack it up.”

A response stuck in Elizabeth’s throat as the CMB took up chanting again, their message louder than before. They’d been energized by the fight, hadn’t they?

One last time, Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, finding that the Ferris wheel man was walking backward, watching her, too.

Then he was erased by a surge of his own people as they surrounded him.

The gate slammed shut, telling Elizabeth once and for all that she was locked out.