Even so, he was tempted. His body was hungry for the release it had been denied so long. Sex was touching without true intimacy, pleasure without commitment—not as it was among the wolves. Tamar might be satisfied to know she had conquered him, if only for a night.
A slow smile curved Tamar's lips. Her hands left his arm and wandered lower. He flinched. She laughed under her breath.
"My poor, poor wolf. You are sick. Tamar can ease your pain." She cupped him boldly. "No one understands you as I do. Come, my fine stallion. We will ride fast and far."
Caitlin made a rude noise, jerking Morgan from his daze. "The man who wrote about the subtlety of serpents cannot have been thinking of you, Tamar."
"And no man would want you," she hissed. "You stink of horses. You are shaped like a stick. Morgan would not have you if you begged him."
"Morgan is my friend." Caitlin cast Morgan an apologetic look. "I don't seduce my friends."
"I do not think you are a woman at all. Why don't you find another girl to play with?"
"That is hardly an insult worthy of you, Tamar. Where's the poison in your tongue?"
Morgan growled. Two pairs of feminine eyes fixed on him, and Tamar shut her mouth. Caitlin folded her arms across her chest and started to speak.
"Be quiet," he said. "If you want to fight, wait until I am gone."
"Gone?" Caitlin repeated.
"I'm leaving tonight."
Tamar clutched his arm. He shook off her grasp and met Caitlin's stricken gaze. "The Professor said I should tell you before I go."
"How very kind of you. How gentlemanly."
"I never claimed to be either. I have repaid the debt—"
"And now you go on your merry way without a thought for what you're leaving behind."
"I made no promises."
"Good riddance, then."
"You are strong, Firefly. The strong survive."
"If you don't say good-bye to Harry, I will hunt you down and kill you myself."
"I would be a fool to risk your anger."
"You would never make a good clown, Morgan Holt," she said, tears thick in her throat. "Go on. Go." She ran back into the big top as the band struck up the finale.
He obeyed before she could change her mind. Tamar had already slipped out of the pad room, for which he was profoundly grateful. But he hadn't come away unscathed. The unfamiliar, bitter taste of regret burned on his tongue.
This was sadness. Guilt. He had let himself grow too close to Caitlin—and to Ulysses, and Harry. There was still one final ordeal ahead.
He waited by himself at the edge of the lot until the stream of townies emerging from the big top heralded the end of the show. Laughter and excited chatter dwindled and faded, only a few children lingering to catch a final glimpse of the freaks by moonlight. The rest drifted past the ticket wagon, down the midway and toward the town lights.
The performers came next—Florizel and the clowns, Vico with his dogs, Caitlin and her assistants leading the horses to their pickets, Regina the bird-boned rope-walker, Tor the strong man, and all the others. They left the tent singly or in small groups, each to his or her own wagon or tent. The roustabouts and crew would work through the night to tear down the big top and prepare the troupe for departure before dawn.
But even the rest would not sleep. It was a time for celebration, because at last the troupe could afford to take up winter quarters and rest until spring without fear of disbanding or starvation. The "freaks" of French's Fantastic Family Circus would keep their beloved home and sanctuary for another year.
And Morgan would abandon it as he had every other home he had ever known.
The last, solitary figure to leave the big top moved with the deliberation of a man who suffered the aches of old age and believed no one was watching. Morgan skirted the edge of the lot and paused just outside of Harry's tent until he heard the sound of pouring liquid and a satisfied sigh.
Bloodshot brown eyes looked up as Morgan entered. Harry set down his glass, and his snowy moustache lifted in a grin.
"My dear boy," he said. "Pull up a stool. I believe that we can call our final performance in Colorado Springs yet another triumph, don't you agree?" He lifted his bottle. "Perhaps tonight? No, no, of course not." He took another swallow and smacked his lips. "All the more for me!"
Morgan ducked his head. In many ways this was the most difficult, this farewell. Caitlin was not naive, in spite of her small size and pixie's face. Ulysses was too pragmatic to believe that Morgan would stay. But Harry… Harry French was still a child, unaffected by the punishing hand of experience.
"It's all thanks to you, of course," Harry continued. "We have already found a lovely spot for winter quarters, in Texas. Far better than the old one in Ohio. We will all have plenty of rest and time to improve our acts." He chuckled. "No point in confining ourselves to the smallest towns. All we need do is take care to avoid direct competition with the big outfits. We may not be large, but we have the finest attractions in the west!"
"Harry—"
"Yes? Did you say something, my boy?"
Morgan steeled himself. "I am leaving, Harry."
Harry grew very quiet. He set down his glass. "Well, well. We knew this day would come, didn't we? Though I had hoped—"
"I am… grateful for what you did," Morgan said. His voice sounded rough and harsh, and he made an effort to soften it. "You know that gratitude does not… come easy to me."
"Ah, yes. Yes, I know." He gave a small laugh that blew out his whiskers. "That makes it so much more important when you give it."
"Don't, Harry. I am not worth… this—"
"Feeling?" Harry didn't raise his eyes. "Feelings are difficult for you. I know that, too. You are a man of few words, and yet…" He looked up, tears in his eyes. "I do not believe you are a man of no sentiment. Otherwise you would not have come to make your farewells."
"You see what you wish to see."
"My eyes are old and weak, but some things one sees with the heart. In some ways, for all your abilities, you are blind, my son."
"Do not call me that."
Harry flinched from his snarl but remained where he was. "Forgive an old fool, Morgan. I have made it a policy never to seek into the pasts of my people, and I have broken that rule with you. I only wish… that I might convince you that you are a better man than you think."
Morgan's temples had begun to throb. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the premonition of disaster. "I came to say good-bye, and to… thank you." He backed toward the tent's entrance and stood awkwardly for a final second, despising his hesitation, and strode from the tent.
He got no farther than the foot of the hills. He had not Changed. His heart weighed him down, cold and smothering like a heavy snowfall. He would have welcomed a strong snow now. It would disperse the scents of those he left behind, and draw a veil between the world and the wordless silence of the wild.
The solitude. The loneliness. A howl built in the back of his throat, the only sound of grief he could make.
But the snow did not answer his summons. The sense of wrongness he had felt in Harry's tent had grown. An evil scent wafted up from the prairie, the acrid smell of smoke.
He turned to face the east. A roiling cloud rose from the circus lot far below. Something very large was burning.
He ran more swiftly than any human, bare feet finding purchase on loose pebbles and sharp rock. The smoke curled inside his lungs and stung his skin. Soon the light of a towering fire obscured the moon and stars. By the time he reached the lot he had to force his way through the crowd of onlookers drawn by the spectacle of a large and destructive blaze.
Flames devoured what was left of the big top, and several other tents and wagons were burning as well. Troupers stood about in forlorn knots, helpless, as the local volunteer fire department struggled to extinguish the conflagration.
But the damage had been done. The prop wagons had been among those destroyed, along with a number of tent
s and most of Harry's office wagon—the one that held the troupe's wages and savings.
Sifting subtler scents from the overwhelming stench of smoldering ash, Morgan found his way to Harry.
The old man was not alone. Caitlin and Ulysses stood with him. Firelight picked out the grief on each upturned face. All the progress the troupe had made since Morgan's coming had been undone in an hour.
"Harry," he said.
The old man turned, his eyes wells of misery. "Morgan?"
"You've come back?" Caitlin asked. Her face broke into a broad grin. "You couldn't abandon us, not now. Not ever." She flung herself at him and embraced him tightly. Morgan endured the touch in stoic silence.
Harry's eyes met his over Caitlin's head. "You are a good man, Morgan Holt."
Caitlin stepped back and wiped at her face with her coatsleeve. "What do we do next, Harry?"
He looked at the billows of smoke that rose from the dying fire. "We continue, as we always have. We find a way to go on, even if we must perform through the winter."
"We go on," Caitlin agreed. "And we stay together."
Ulysses moved to Morgan's side. "I hope that Caitlin does not suffer a grave disappointment," he said softly. "It is much worse than Harry admits."
"I know."
"You are remaining with us?"
"I will stay. I have no choice, do I?"
"I sometimes wonder," Ulysses said, "if Caitlin is not right, and there is a reason for such events—one beyond our understanding."
"Then whoever makes such reasons has no love for me—or you."
" 'The heart has its reasons which reason knows not of.'"
"You are a fraud, Professor," Morgan said. "You still listen to your heart."
"And you do not?"
Morgan turned on his heel and walked away.
Chapter 4
The fire had drawn Niall, though he might have missed it had he not left his hotel for a late-night stroll. Colorado Springs was not so great a town to ignore a good-sized conflagration, especially when it was burning up a visiting circus.
So Niall followed the crowds to the outskirts of town, where most of the blaze had already been extinguished. He had not seen the circus perform, preoccupied as he had been with the business he had recently completed in New Mexico, but he recognized disaster when he saw it. He watched with detached curiosity as the circus people ran to and fro, gesticulating and crying out as some new loss was discovered.
He could almost pity them. His father had suffered such setbacks in his early years of business in Denver, but he had persevered and overcome them. He had been daring and ruthless as well as shrewd, as one had to be in these times. Niall had carried on in his footsteps. The Munroe fortune had doubled in the seven years since Niall had taken control.
But he had started with an advantage. These people, vagrants and mountebanks, lived on the edge of ruin. He doubted any of them would accept a decent, steady job in place of the life they lived.
Once he had considered the wandering life himself. Once he'd had no thought of the future beyond the next five minutes. Athena had paid for his folly. Now he spent every day trying to make it right. And failing.
He pushed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and remembered his last conversation with Athena. "Where did you get your hard heart, Niall?"
She simply could not understand. How could she, sheltered as she was? And he intended to keep her that way. She had no conception of the dangers of the world, the cruelties it held for a young woman foolish enough to believe she could change it.
Niall sighed and looked at the stars, visible now that the smoke had begun to clear. When was the last time he had glanced up to notice the constellations, or walked for the sake of walking? He took for granted what Athena was unable to do, because of him.
Well, now he had an opportunity to prove Athena wrong about the nature of his heart, if he chose to take it.
He dropped his gaze and followed a lone figure as it crossed the lot with a purposeful stride. One of the performers. A woman—by no means curvaceous, almost childlike—but graceful nonetheless. In fact, the way she moved was arresting, and he found himself staring after her when she disappeared into one of the undamaged tents.
It wasn't until he was almost there that he realized he had been walking toward that very tent. He stopped, considering retreat. This was not his world, or his business.
But his sudden impulse to help demanded that he find someone to accept his generosity. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and examined the contents. A hundred dollars would be more than adequate.
A head poked through the tent flap. It was crowned by an untidy cap of curly red hair, and the face beneath was attached to the young woman he had followed.
She stared at him, nonplussed. He tipped his hat.
"Forgive me," he said, "but have I the pleasure of addressing one of the performers of this establishment?"
The girl burst into laughter. "You talk like Ulysses. Who are you?"
It was his turn to be taken aback. That she could laugh at such a time amazed him, but her bluntness was astounding.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "My name is Niall Munroe. I could not help but notice the damage you have suffered as the result of the fire—"
"Did you?" She stepped fully from the tent, and he got his first good look at her. His initial impression had been correct: she was slight, boyishly slim in an oversized coat, and elfin in size and bearing, but her eyes were bright and her smile dazzling. "And why should you care, Niall Munroe?"
Indeed. He thought once more of walking away, but her eyes held him rooted to the spot. "I had thought to offer my assistance," he said stiffly, "but if you have no use for it, Miss—"
"Hughes. Caitlin Hughes. And I still wonder why a towny should care what happens to people like us."
Towny. She spoke the word like an epithet. He drew himself up to his considerably greater height. "In Denver, it is customary for the fortunate to assist those who are less so. When I noted the degree of your misfortune, I hardly thought that you would be likely to reject any offer of help."
"Oh." She widened her eyes. "I understand. You are a very rich man from the big city, and you wish to give us charity."
He slammed his hat back on his head. "I see I have offended you, so I will be on my way—"
"No. Wait." She bit her full lower lip and sighed. "I'm—we are not very used to townies offering help. Most of the time, they—" She broke off. "You'll have to speak to Harry."
"Harry?"
"He is the manager and owner. I'm sure he'd be very happy to see you, Mr. Munroe."
He had the absurd desire to ask her to call him Niall. "I would be obliged, Miss Hughes."
She flushed, raising freckles on her pale skin. He wondered again how he could possibly find such a ragamuffin attractive.
Caitlin looked up the long, slim length of the gentleman and cursed herself for an idiot. She knew as well as anyone that the troupe was in dire straits, even if she pretended otherwise for Harry's sake. If some towny wanted to offer help, who was she to say no? Even if all of the alarm bells in her head were going off at once.
Yet, she had to admit, this fellow was no ordinary towny. He was dressed like someone with a great deal of money. He carried himself like a prince. He was handsome, in a cold sort of way. And he looked at her with a strange intensity she couldn't ignore.
Morgan had that intensity. But when he looked at her, she saw only a friend. She felt no prickling in her belly, nor heat in her cheeks.
"I'll tell him that you have come," she said, retreating quickly into the tent.
"Back so soon?" Harry said, looking up from the chaos of ledgers and papers he had salvaged from the office wagon. His face was drawn and haggard. "What is it, Firefly?"
"There is a man outside—a towny—who… well, as peculiar as it seems, he wishes to help us."
"Indeed?" Harry pursued his lips. "That is peculiar. Well, send him in, by all means!"
Caitlin nodded and went outside to Niall Munroe. He was fidgeting, something she hadn't expected to see in such a dignified gentleman. It made him seem more human, somehow.
"Harry—Mr. French—will see you now," she said.
"Thank you." He nodded and stepped into the tent.
Caitlin waited outside, pacing back and forth. The scent of burnt canvas and wood was choking, but the tingling in her nerves only heightened her hope. Could Niall Munroe's appearance be yet another miracle? Several months ago, she'd been certain that Morgan had been meant to come when he did. Now her intuition was telling her the same thing of the gentleman stranger.
Your intuition, or something much more physical?
She shook her head in self-disgust, but waited out the long hour while Munroe consulted with Harry. Munroe emerged at last, settled his hat on his head, and buttoned his coat against the night's chill. He did not seem surprised to find her still there.
"Good-night, Miss Hughes," he said. "We shall meet again."
She flushed at his bow and looked elsewhere until he was some distance across the lot and headed toward town. Harry appeared a moment later.
"You will not believe this, my dear, but we are saved yet again!"
"Saved?" she murmured.
"That gentleman, Mr. Munroe, has offered us an engagement in Denver, a private performance for his family's orphanage. The Munroes are very important people in Colorado—I have heard of them myself. They are extremely wealthy and influential. Mr. Munroe's sister is quite a central figure in Denver society and does much good work. He wishes to contribute to her charities in a most novel way. He has agreed to replace our tents, provide us with a lot on land he owns, and pay us very well indeed. So well, in fact, that it will more than make up for this night's losses."
"So much?" Caitlin could no longer see Munroe's form, yet she continued to search against all reason. "It is so late in the season—"
"One last performance, and then we may have enough to winter over as we had planned. How can we turn down such an opportunity?"
We can't. Of course we can't. Yet Caitlin felt a wild see-sawing of dread and anticipation, as if she were attempting a new and very dangerous stunt.
TO CATCH A WOLF Page 5
