A Willing Spirit, A Ghostly Romance

by Cynthia Sterling

  #

  Nixie Dengler jumped as the door of the caravan slammed shut behind her, and blinked at the sudden dimness. Gradually, she could make out calico curtains on either side of a narrow passage leading toward the stage at the rear of the wagon. The stage area was further divided from this passage by a set of red velvet drapes. Yes, this looked like backstage at the Gospel Show, but where was everyone?

  Surely they hadn't started without her. She'd meant to be on time, but a combination of nerves and a second cherry phosphate had necessitated a quick trip to the women's latrines, and then she had become disoriented in the press of people. Thank goodness, the gentleman outside had spotted her. . .

  All thought flew from her head as a man emerged from between the velvet curtains and started down the passage toward her. He was dressed all in white, his broad shoulders practically filling the passageway. Was he one of the evangelists with the show?

  "Who are you?"

  She jumped at the suddenness of the question and the harshness of his tone. "N. . . Nixie Dengler," she stammered.

  The man frowned. "What kind of a name is Nixie?"

  She flushed. "My real name's Nanette. But my father has called me Nixie since I was a little girl. It's some kind of German water sprite."

  "And who's your father?"

  "Dr. Hamlin Dengler."

  "Your father's a doctor?” The frown deepened.

  Why all these questions? She struggled to quell her irritation. Maybe the preacher just wanted to know about everyone in the show, even local volunteers like herself. "My father operates the health resort at Welcome Springs."

  "Then what brings you here today?” Was she imagining it, or did his voice hold an edge of impatience?

  "I'm one of the singers. I --"

  "Singers?” The man positively scowled. If this was an evangelist, his specialty must be fire and brimstone. "I suppose my father sent you?"

  "Your father?” Nixie's heart pounded. A terrible suspicion swept over her. Maybe she wasn't in the right place after all.

  “Who sent you in here?" the man demanded.

  "I. . . I don't know. I didn't exactly see him --"

  "That was my father all right.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked her up and down. "You're a sight prettier than most of the women he hires. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give you a try.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the stage. "We'd better hurry. The show's about to start."

  "I don't think --” She tried to free herself, but her hand was trapped in his warm grasp.

  "I'll do the thinking.” He pulled her through the velvet drapes and gave her a gentle shove toward the side of the stage. "Just do what I tell you and you'll be fine."

  She opened her mouth to protest, but her captor had turned away. The murmur of voices drew her attention to the area in front of the stage. "Oh my!" she gasped. At least two hundred people crowded around the small stage, with more arriving by the minute. Her legs began to tremble beneath her skirts at the thought of standing up here before all those people. She'd been nervous enough about singing with the McKenna Sisters, but the Gospel Show never drew this kind of crowd.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present my lovely assistant, Miss Dixie.”

  Her captor's booming voice startled her from her daze. "That's Nixie," she hissed, but he ignored her.

  "Friends, my name is Jedediah Hawkins, and I'm here to talk to you today about the marvelous healing powers of Caesar's Celebrated Curative.” His voice carried over the crowd, rich tones vibrating right through Nixie. He smiled, and his face was transformed into one of breathtaking handsomeness. He swept his hand around them. "Do you feel overwhelmed by the burdens of life, friends? Do you suffer from poor health, ill temper or fits of melancholy? Then draw near and hear the message I bring to you today."

  Realization swept over Nixie like a bucket of cold water. Somehow, she'd ended up on the stage of a . . . a medicine show!

  Mr. Hawkins stood before the crowd with his arms uplifted like the revival evangelist she'd mistaken him for. She wanted to run away and hide, but her feet remained frozen to the stage. "I bring to you today the solution to many of the ills that plague you," Mr. Hawkins continued. He turned toward Nixie. "Miss Dixie, would you be so kind as to hand me one of those bottles?"

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  "The bottles!" he said through clenched teeth. "Behind you. Hand one to me."

  She turned, almost knocking over a table, with its pyramid of bottles, the amber glass glinting in the sunlight. Snatching one up, she hurried over to Mr. Hawkins with it.

  "Will you loosen up?" he whispered. He rolled his eyes. "Why couldn't Papa at least have found me a girl with talent?"

  No talent! She bristled. Why, she'd been the understudy to the second lead in last fall's production of The Little Match Girl, and she sang every Sunday in the choir at the Wesley Fellowship Church. What did this -- this snake-oil salesman know about talent?

  Chin up, she stalked back across the stage and stood beside the table, glaring at him.

  He held up the bottle and studied it, brow furrowed as if considering a great mystery. "Everything we need for good health and full life has been provided for us on earth," he said. "Amen!” came a voice from the crowd. Others murmured in agreement.

  Mr. Hawkins nodded. "The secret is in finding out the right combination of elements to cure the ills that plague us.” He extended his empty hand toward Nixie once again and snapped his fingers.

  "The stool. He wants the stool.” Nixie jumped as the gravelly voice that had gotten her into this mess in the first place came through the curtain behind her. "He's going to sit down and he needs the stool."

  She looked around and spied a tall stool next to the table. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that though Mr. Hawkins' face remained passive, his eyes sparked with impatience.

  With an exaggerated smile, she picked up the stool and sauntered toward him, as if she had all the time in the world to make her delivery. She set it down behind him and made a great show of dusting off the seat cushion. A thrill of delight ran through her when the crowd responded with laughter.

  At last, he lowered himself to the stool and nodded to her in a gesture of dismissal. "Please, have a seat, Miss Dixie."

  She strolled back across the stage, feeling the gaze of the crowd following her. Someone had shoved a chair over to the table. She studied it. When she sat, she'd be almost hidden behind the tower of bottles. A meek little servant, awaiting Mr. Hawkins' next bidding.

  I should leave right now and hurry over to the Gospel Wagon, she thought. I might still have time to make the performance. She glanced at Mr. Hawkins, at his handsome, haughty profile. He probably thought she was shaking in her boots before him. He'd have no reason to think differently if she ran away.

  "My father, Caesar Hawkins, spent many years as a student of the elements," Mr. Hawkins said. "He spent many more years perfecting the formula for his remarkable curative. He was . . . “ His voice faded as he watched Nixie walk toward him, carrying her chair.

  Smiling to the crowd, she placed the chair next to the stool, then sat, hands demurely in her lap, and gazed up at Mr. Hawkins. "Do go on with your story," she said.

  His eyes narrowed in warning, but she continued to stare up at him, feigning wide-eyed innocence. He wrenched his gaze back to the crowd and continued speaking. "Caesar Hawkins. He spent years studying herbs and flowers and all manner of plants."

  His voice was deep, with a soothing, hypnotic tone. As he told a tale of his father and the healing secrets he'd discovered, Nixie found herself drawn in to the story. She might even have believed he was sincere about the wonders of his product. But then, these traveling salesmen could lie with all the charm of the serpent in the garden. Like Eve, Nixie had learned that lesson the hard way.

  She tore her attention from his words, and let her eyes drift over him. Though he dressed like a wealthy dandy, up close he showed signs of neglect. His h
air curled up at his collar, in need of a trim, and that collar was noticeably frayed. She'd wager Jedidiah Hawkins had no woman in his life to see to these details.

  She had never seen a man in a white suit before. Her father always wore black. Some of the younger men of her acquaintance might hazard gray or brown, or perhaps even a daring blue. But none had ever appeared in white.

  Whether it was the color or the cloth, she was sure a man's shoulders had never looked as broad as Mr. Hawkins' did. They seemed wide and solid beneath the perfect tailoring of the suit coat, and she felt an illicit flutter in her stomach as she let her eyes linger over that broad back. She'd mistaken Mr. Hawkins for a man on the side of the angels, but now it was obvious he was the most handsome devil she had ever seen.

  Troubled by such thoughts, she quickly dropped her eyes, but found herself looking through veiled lashes at Mr. Hawkins' long legs, stretched out before him as he leaned against the stool. She couldn't recall paying much attention to a man's legs before. Did they all possess such muscular thighs, such long proportions?

  She shook her head to clear it. "Is something wrong, Miss Dixie?"

  Looking up, she found Mr. Hawkins staring at her. A burning flush crept up her neck as she became aware of the crowd watching her as well. She swallowed, trying to think of something to say. "That story of yours," she said after a moment. "Is it true?"

  He clamped his lips together in a tight line and blew a breath out his nose. "So you're a skeptic, are you?" he mumbled under his breath. He shook his head. "I should have known."

  The laugh he gave sounded forced. He looked back at the crowd. "A lot of you out there are probably wondering the same thing, aren't you?" he asked. "Can one product truly possess all the amazing powers with which this one is endowed?"

  Nixie saw heads nodding, and allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction.

  Mr. Hawkins stood. "Yes, my story's true. And today, I'll let you in on a little secret few are privy to.” He nodded toward the table at the far end of the stage. "Miss Dixie, will you be so kind as to bring me the small blue flask behind the bottles of Curative?"

  For the first time, she noticed the ornate blue glass bottle on the table. Propelled by curiosity, she went to fetch it, though she took her time doing so. It wouldn't do for Mr. Hawkins to think she was hurrying because of him. She returned to his side and held the bottle up, examining it, ignoring his outstretched hand. Inside, she could make out half a dozen shriveled pods of some plant material. "What is it?" she asked.

  The lines around his mouth deepened. "This is the secret to the potency of Great Caesar's Curative. A plant whose medicinal power my father discovered in his years of study. Half a dozen of these go into every batch of Curative."

  She eyed the contents of the bottle skeptically. "They look like shriveled up okra pods to me."

  The crowd erupted in laughter again. Jed Hawkins curled his hands into fists. "You may laugh," he said. "Or you may avail yourselves of the opportunity to test my claims for yourself. Satisfy your own curiosity as to the power of Caesar's Celebrated Curative.” He held the amber bottle of the remedy aloft. "One dollar a bottle. If it does not alleviate most common dyspepsia, malaise, fatigue, aches and pains, summer complaint and a host of other ailments, when used according to the directions on the bottle, your money will be cheerfully refunded."

  A murmur swept over the crowd, and people began to press against the stage, arms outstretched. "Give me two bottles, Dixie honey.” An old man pressed two bills into her hand.

  "I'll take one!” A very large woman waved a dollar at her.

  "Here.” Mr. Hawkins shoved a bottle of Curative toward her. "Give the people what they want."

  Nixie slipped the flask of 'secret ingredient' into her skirt pocket and began handing out Curative and collecting money. When she glanced back, she could see the top of Mr. Hawkins' head, sunlight glinting on the golden strands in his hair as he sold bottle after bottle of his product.

  At last, the crowd dwindled. "Thank you, folks," Mr. Hawkins said as the last few customers drifted away. He shut the lid on his metal cash box. "Be sure and tell your neighbors."

  He was still smiling when he took Nixie by the elbow and led her through the red velvet curtains behind the stage. "Just what did you think you were doing?" he asked, turning on her, his smile abruptly absent from his face.

  Nixie drew herself up to her full five feet, which still left her a foot shorter than Mr. Hawkins. "Why are you so upset? The audience liked me."

  "They were laughing at you when they should have been listening to me."

  She raised her chin. "Well maybe you take things too seriously. You should be thanking me for injecting a little humor into your show."

  He put his hands on his hips and leaned toward her, so that the scents of Bay Rum, masculine sweat, and another, more woodsy fragrance filled her nostrils. She could feel the warmth emanating from his body, see the pulse pounding at his temple. "Your job is to assist me," he said. "That's all."

  "My job?” She practically shrieked the word. "Wait just a minute. I was lured in here under false pretenses, then forced onstage against my will, where you attempted to make me the laughingstock of everyone I know--” The enormity of what had happened overwhelmed her. What if someone she knew had seen her on stage with Jedediah Hawkins? Being a twenty-five year old spinster was already enough to set tongues wagging if she so much as looked at a man. Forsaking the McKenna sisters for a patent medicine peddler would keep the gossips busy for weeks to come.

  "I have to go!" she blurted, shoving past him.

  "Wait!"

  His cry only spurred her onward. She raced down the wagon steps and darted among the milling people in the alley outside, ignoring the curious glances and startled cries that followed in her wake. When she reached the midway, she forced herself to slow, walking as quickly as she dared in the direction of the Dengler family buggy. How was she ever going to explain her absence from the Gospel Show to her family?

  #

  "Whoever she was, she was good for business.” Caesar, backstage once more, thumbed through the stack of bills in the cash box. "It's a new sales record.” He grinned and shut the lid with a solid click. "I guess they like that virginal look."

  "Hmmmph!” Jed turned away. He could still see the little blonde’s eyes blazing at him, all bowed up like a cat with her tail trod on. How was he supposed to know she wasn't an actress his father had hired?

  He scratched the back of his neck, frowning. He'd admit no actress he'd ever seen had looked like that -- hair the shade of new corn silk, and a perfect peaches and cream complexion, a slight dusting of freckles across her upturned nose. And those eyes -- a golden-green hazel, like verdigris on bronze, practically shooting out sparks when she'd glared at him.

  He chuckled to himself, remembering the way she had paraded across the stage with that stool and pantomimed dusting it off. He'd been annoyed with the delay at first, but then, the audience had laughed.

  "I liked the way she scooted her chair right up next to you on stage, then looked up at you with those big doe eyes," Caesar said. "The audience liked it, too."

  Jed nodded. He'd been all too aware of her, sitting so close. For the first time in memory he'd been rattled, almost losing his place in his spiel. Doe eyes? More like a tiger's gaze. Despite her virginal appearance, there'd been something not quite innocent in the young woman's study of him.

  "Any chance we can get her back?" Caesar asked. "She was great for sales."

  Jed unbuttoned his collar and shook his head. "Not likely. She was mad enough to spit nails when she left here."

  "We could go after her. Where did she say she lived? Something Springs?"

  "Welcome Springs. Her father's a doctor there. Can you imagine?” He sighed and tossed the loosened shirt collar aside. Truth be told, he wouldn't have minded getting to know the lovely Miss Dengler better. But wasn't that the way it always worked? About the time he developed an interest in someone, it was t
ime to move on to the next town, the next show, the next night alone.

  "I always got along pretty well with the medical establishment," Caesar said, from somewhere over by the wardrobe chest. "At least, those enlightened enough to listen to my theories with an open mind. Perhaps I could talk to Doctor Dengler. . . "

  Jed sighed. "Papa, you can't just go up and start conversations with people anymore."

  A long silence. A chair across from Jed moved back a foot, and the seat sagged as if a weight were settling in it. "I suppose the accident did cramp my style somewhat," Caesar finally said.

  Jed turned away, not wanting his father to read the disappointment in his eyes. The 'accident' had been an explosion that destroyed their wagon and everything in it, including Caesar Hawkins himself. But Caesar, in customary fashion, ignored any reality he didn't agree with. Jed hadn't yet figured out how to handle a ghost who refused to believe he was a ghost!