A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  This dance ended with Marek untying the scarf from his waist and swirling it around me, the fire of a man’s passion consuming a woman, claiming her as his possession.

  In some ways, the dance was a representation of my relationship with Marek. And every time I performed it, I felt the same electrical current of need, shame, and hopelessness sparking through my body.

  I dreaded this last dance more than anything. As I waited behind the curtain, readying myself to go on stage one last time, I found it almost impossible to quiet my spirit.

  I sensed Marek’s presence even before he spoke, before he rested his long-fingered hands around the curve of my hips to draw me back against him. “You are ready for our finale, my love?”

  I hated it when he called me that. He didn’t love me. He loved the ‘my’ part, the owning of me.

  I hated his fake accent, the one he’d practiced and performed for so long now that even he believed it was real.

  I hated the version of Savah I became around the Marek he had become; she only showed up when he was around.

  At my insistence, Pella took Killian on a walk to the other side of the fairground when Marek and I performed this dance—far, far away where my son would not have to see me like that. Where he would not have to watch Marek conquer me again and again.

  I prayed fervently that Jordan Ransome, too, was on the other side of the fairground, far away from our stage and the rows of hay bale seats out front. Too far away to watch the sordid truth of my life being played out before a rapt and appreciative audience. The crowds loved this dance. When I flitted through the milling people after it was over, I received far more than just tips in my basket.

  Marek, surrounded by his own bevy of female admirers, usually lingered close by, just in case the adoration of my admirers got too personal. His black-souled eyes could freeze the very marrow of any who might wrongly believe that any more than a sordid leer and inappropriate comment would be welcomed by me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had almost reached the narrow opening in the facade set up to separate our troupe’s backstage area from our audience when someone stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. The touch was gentle, brief, just a means to get my attention, but I was on edge, every muscle in my body tense with anxiety and frustration. I froze, finding it almost impossible to paste a smile on my face again. But keeping fans happy was my bread and butter.

  “Excuse me.”

  Oh, no. Please no. Not Jordan—anyone but him. I couldn’t turn around. I had no veil to mask my features, no disguise to hide behind. I quickly swept my long, bleached flaxen hair forward over my shoulders, dipping my head so it fell loosely around my face, doing my best to play the part of the shy innocent I’d just portrayed at the beginning of mine and Marek’s dance together.

  “I am sorry,” I said, my accent intentionally thick and brusque. “I am in a hurry.” I could think of nothing else to say. “My troupe is waiting for me.” I took a step away from him.

  “Please wait,” he said, his voice low but fervent. From the corner of my eye, I saw his head dip as he tried to get a better view of my face. “Is your name—are you—?”

  “I must go now,” I interrupted, more firmly this time.

  “Savannah? It is you!”

  Like a beach ball with the plug pulled, I felt the breath I’d been holding leave my body in a long, slow exhale. No one had called me by my real name in a long, long time. I wouldn’t look at him, but I no longer pulled away. If Killian was back from his walk and waiting for me, I’d already know it. His noodle arms would be wrapped around my knees, his face pressed against me, smudging my skirts with a day’s worth of grime made up of dust, little boy sweat, and the smeared remains of anything he might have eaten. His husky little voice would have already interrupted whatever conversation I was having. Maybe I could hurry him along if I responded—I knew he’d figure out my identity and be back for me, but that didn’t mean he knew about Killian. I had to say something that would make him leave.

  But I still couldn’t bring myself to lift my eyes to meet his. I didn’t want to see the questions, the assumptions, or the accusations there.

  “Savannah.” There was no doubt in his voice this time. He stretched a hand out to me, let it hover just above my forearm, and then withdrew it again. Maybe he was as uncertain as I was about what came next.

  Jordan Ransome. My only connection to home. My only link to my parents—to my old life. But I hadn’t seen him in almost three years. I hadn’t seen him since the day I ran away from home, taking my shameful secrets with me.

  “How did you find me?” I asked, staring at his dusty shoes, my voice scratchy with tension. My fingers trembled as I toyed with the scalloped edge of the sash around my waist.

  “I didn’t find you; I wasn’t looking for you,” he assured me. I’d made him promise not to. “You practically ran me over half an hour ago, remember?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, and I wondered if his fingers were shaking, too.

  “I didn’t think you recognized me.” I sounded petulant, like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, trying to pin the blame on the one who’d caught her.

  “I didn’t at first. Your hair. That veil.” He’d only ever known me with my dark brown curls and barely there makeup. A fresh-faced teenager untainted by the darkness of the world. “I saw in your eyes when you recognized me, though. At first, I just thought you had mistaken me for someone else. After I walked away, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me, like I should know you, too. So I grabbed a soda and came back.” He held up a paper cup and swished the ice around as proof.

  I pressed my lips together, refusing to ask the question trying to push its way out of my mouth. Did you see that last dance?

  “I got here just as you were being swallowed up by the crowd, and I lost you for a minute. They really like you here, don’t they?”

  How was I supposed to respond to that? And what was he really saying, exactly? I lifted my head then, my chin jutting out with all the defiance I could muster. “Yes, they do. Because I’m good at what I do. People come here to be entertained; I give them what they pay for. And when I do my job well, they express their appreciation well, too. It’s a good living.” I did look at him then, and my breath hitched in response to what I saw on his face.

  His eyes glistened, his expression a potent combination of emotions. Hope, relief, fear, frustration… but not an iota, not a hint of condemnation or judgment.

  He didn’t know. Thank God, he didn’t know. Oh, please keep Killian away. Please keep him busy a little longer.

  “I’m glad to hear that. I’m glad for you. I—I’ve worried about how…” He paused a moment before continuing. “I’ve wondered how you were making ends meet. You never said.”

  I snorted softly. “No. This isn’t something the folks back home would want to know, though, is it?” I turned slightly so I could watch over his shoulder for my son’s approach, but I angled my gaze toward Jordan.

  “I’m not folks back home.” He kicked at a clump of wood chips near his feet. “And just to assure you again, for the thousandth time, I haven’t said a word to anyone, just as you wanted. Why would telling me automatically mean the folks back home would know?” A tinge of something I could only attribute to anger tightened his voice, and his eyes narrowed. “I have done everything your way, Savannah. I stayed silent while everyone you left behind searched for you, missed you, grieved for you. And I stood by when your parents released you, because you demanded it of them, of all of us, and I didn’t say anything.”

  I took a step back. His words were fists, and I felt every blow land.

  “I see you have a suitor, my love.” Marek’s voice slithered around me as he stepped through the door behind me and drew up close, one arm encircling me and pulling me tight against his side. He flashed Jordan a wide smile as disingenuous as his accent. “Savah is mine, my friend. Did you not witness me claiming her mind, body, and soul just n
ow?” To an outsider, Marek may have sounded like he was teasing, but I knew his words for what they were. Threats and staked claims. “Come, my love. We have much to do before our next performance.”

  “Savannah, wait.” Jordan shot his hand out, grabbing my wrist to make me stop, and Marek’s smile disappeared. Jordan, brave, foolish man, didn’t let go of me.

  “You will unhand my woman. And her name is Savah.” I could easily imagine wisps of black smoke seeping out between Marek’s clenched teeth.

  “Seriously? Unhand your woman?” Jordan’s eyebrows rose in disbelief at the melodramatic command.

  “Unhand her now.” Marek’s voice lowered menacingly.

  “Please,” I murmured as I pulled my arm free from Jordan’s grip and twisted away from Marek, too. “I need to find Pella. I’m sure she’s looking for me, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.” I didn’t want this to escalate into something more than it already was. It was rare that anyone challenged the imposing Gypsy King, and Marek didn’t take kindly to it. The guy was tall and beefy, like something right off the cover of a romance novel, with his long, mahogany hair and silk shirt opened nearly to his navel. An impressive six-pack below shapely pecs only added to the intimidation factor. When his charisma didn’t do the job, he had other ways of convincing people to give him what he wanted. I had bruises to show for it.

  I ducked through the curtained door, making certain the panel of turquoise silk fell back in place behind me, leaving the two of them to beat their chests and growl at each other. I prayed it wouldn’t amount to any more than that. My mind was reeling with what this meant, with what I must do now to preserve this new identity I lived under. To protect Killian at all cost.

  What was Jordan doing here? He just didn’t seem to me like a Renaissance Faire kind of guy. And of all the people to run into—literally—out of the hundreds of thousands of people who cavorted with the Faire Folk during these seven weeks each summer—out of all of them, it had to be Jordan Ransome.

  Last I knew, he’d graduated from his fancy program in Hollywood and headed back to Midtown, having landed a job with Mid-U as a set designer for their drama department. “Duh,” I muttered, smacking my palm against my forehead a few times. “Set design. Of course.” He was probably here for research reasons. The Southern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire was the original modern historical fair of its kind in America. The stages and set designs, coupled with the architectural elements that went into putting the Faire together, was nothing short of brilliant, making the place an endless source for creative, structural, and versatile design ideas. Now that I thought about it, I was almost surprised I hadn’t seen Jordan before. This was my third year doing the historical fair circuit with Marek and the Gypsies.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “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 playin
g 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.