* * *
“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.”
From upstairs she could hear him shouting for Mrs. Bronson and Mrs. Feather.
While she listened, purely enjoying hearing the sound of his voice, she glanced around the parlor.
Opulent was the best word she could think of to describe it.
Not a cozy place like the Lucky Clover. The ranch was grand, to be sure, but for all its grandness, it never felt stuffy or overdone.
Did William feel comfortable with all this fuss and frippery? She did not—although he was right about the divan, it was a nice place to sink into.
Heavy brocade drapes hung on every window. Regal paintings adorned the walls.
She wondered if his ranch near Cheyenne had this royal look.
It sure was noisy outside, with the wind slapping the walls. It wasn’t hard to imagine the sound being Frenchie Brown’s fist pounding out his anger.
She wanted to cower in a corner remembering the way that hand had looked like death coming upon her, dripping blood and wrath.
Straightening, she stiffened her back, pictured energy and strength pulsing through her muscles. Even if William had not stopped Frenchie’s blow, the worst she would have been was bruised, or maybe had a bone broken.
Compared to other things she had been through in her life, a bruise was insignificant. Nothing could be worse than helplessly opening her mouth and allowing Mrs. Brunne to pour laudanum down her throat.
There had been a time, before Ivy came home, when she had called that woman Mother. Nothing, she now knew, could be further from the truth. All Agatha ever was to her was a replacement for her own lost daughter. There were times when her nurse did not know the difference between Agatha and the kidnapped Maggie.
In the end, Hilda Brunne’s perception of what was past and what was present had become blurred and driven the woman insane.
Something smacked the window hard, might even have cracked it. Crossing the room, she drew the heavy curtain aside.
The night was dark. Dirt and sand blew everywhere. By the light of the lanterns lining the sidewalk, she saw folks hurrying along, bent against the wind and blocking grit from their faces with lifted arms.
A group of young ladies crossed through a beam of light, all of them looking well-to-do.
One of them stopped to stare at her. She recognized her even though she’d only seen the woman from behind while she clung to William hoping for the fortune-teller’s blessing.
The lady pointed her finger. Her companions gawked, nudging each other in the ribs.
It was understandable. Who would not stare at someone dressed the way she was? Indecent was how she looked.
“Oh, my!” It suddenly occurred to her that everything she owned was in her trailer back at the circus encampment.
She was not going back there! Elephants could not drag her back down that hill. Which meant this was all she had to wear.
When the women on the sidewalk did not move on, but continued to look at her as though she were a sideshow attraction, she let go of the curtain.
All of a sudden her arms ached, and her legs. The altercation with Frenchie must have taken more out of her than she first thought.
With some effort, she returned to the couch. Lying down, she motioned for Miss Valentine to join her. It would be polite to ask William if dogs were allowed on his furniture, but that would mean hunting up her prince.
She hadn’t the strength for that.
One day she would, though. One day she would run for a mile and not become winded.
For tonight, she was going to sink into this couch, close her eyes and find comfort in the small but solid weight of Miss Valentine pressing into the curve of her belly.
*