Instinctively, she stepped over, nudging Gerry back and shielding his body with hers. Hamlet struck out, claws extended. There was a moment of blind heat in her shoulder as the skin ripped. Swiftly, she was facing the cat, holding tightly onto Gerry’s arm as they stood just out of range.
“Don’t run,” she ordered, feeling his jerk of panic. Her arm was on fire as the blood began to flow freely. Keeping her movements quick but smooth, she took the whip from Gerry’s nerveless hand and cracked it hard, using her left arm. She knew that if Hamlet continued his defiance and attacked, it was hopeless. The other cats were certain to join in a melee. It would be over before anything could be done. Already, Abra shifted restlessly and bared her teeth.
“Open the chute,” Jo called out. Her voice was cool as ice. “Back toward the safety cage,” she instructed Gerry as she gave the cats their signal to leave the arena. “I’ve got to get them out one at a time. Move slow, and if I tell you to stop, you stop dead. Understand?”
She heard him swallow as she watched the cats begin to leap off their pedestals and file into the chute. “He got you. Is it bad?” The words were barely a whisper and drenched in terror.
“I said go.” Half the cats were gone, and still Hamlet’s eyes were locked on hers. There was no time to waste. One part of her brain heard shouting outside the cage, but she blocked it out and focused all her concentration on the cat. “Go now,” she repeated to Gerry. “Do as you’re told.”
He swallowed again and began to back away. Long seconds dragged until she heard the rattle of the safety cage door. When his turn came, Hamlet made no move to leave his seat. Jo was alone with him. She could smell the heat, the scent of the wild and the fragrance of her own blood. Her arm was alive with pain. Slowly, she tested him by backing up. The safety cage seemed hundreds of miles away. The cat tensed immediately, and she stopped. She knew he would not let her cross the arena. Outrunning him was impossible, as the distance between them could be covered in one spring. She had to outbluff him instead.
“Out,” she ordered firmly. “Out, Hamlet.” As he continued to watch her, Jo felt a trickle of sweat slide down between her shoulder blades. Her skin was clammy with it in contrast to the warmth of the blood that ran down her arm. There was a sudden, vivid picture inside her head of her father being dragged around the cage. Fear tripped inside her throat. There was a lightness fluttering in the top of her head, and she knew that a moment’s terror would cause her to faint. She stiffened her spine and pushed it away.
Speed was important. The longer she allowed the cat to remain in the arena after his cue, the more defiant he would become. And the more dangerous. As yet he was unaware that he held her at such a sharp disadvantage. “Out, Hamlet.” Jo repeated the command with a crack of the whip. He leaped from the pedestal. Jo’s stomach trembled. She locked every muscle, and as the cat hesitated, she repeated the command. He was confused, and she knew this could work as an advantage or a curse. Confused, he might spring or retreat. Her fingers tightened on the stock of the whip and trembled. The cat paced nervously and watched her.
“Hamlet!” She raised her voice and bit off each syllable. “Go out.” To the words she added the hand signal she had used before he was fully trained to voice command.
As if rebuffed, Hamlet relaxed his tail and padded into the chute. Before the door slid completely closed, Jo sank to her knees. Her body began to quake fiercely with the aftershock. No more than five minutes had passed since Hamlet had defied Gerry’s command, but her muscles bore the strain of hours. For an instant her vision blurred. Even as she shook her head to clear it, Keane was on the ground beside her.
She heard him swear, ripping the tattered sleeve of her blouse from her arm. He fired questions at her, but she could do no more than shake her head and gulp in air. Focusing on him, she noticed his eyes were unusually dark against his face.
“What?” She followed his voice but not the words. He swore again, sharply enough to penetrate the first layer of her shock. He pulled her to her feet, then continuing the motion smoothly, lifted her into his arms. “Don’t.” Her mind struggled to break through the fog and function. “I’m all right.”
“Shut up,” he said harshly as he carried her from the cage. “Just shut up.”
Because speaking cost her some effort, Jo obeyed. Closing her eyes, she let the mixture of excited voices whirl around her. Her arm screamed with pain, but the throbbing reassured her. Numbness would have terrified her. Still she kept her eyes shut, not yet having the courage to look at the damage. Being alive was enough.
When she opened her eyes again, Keane was carrying her into the administration wagon. At the sound of the chaos that followed them, Duffy strode through from his office. “What the . . .” he began, then stopped and paled beneath his freckles. He moved quickly forward as Keane set Jo in a chair. “How bad?”
“I don’t know yet,” Keane muttered. “Get a towel and the first-aid kit.”
Buck had come in behind them and, already having secured the items, handed them to Keane. Then he moved to a cabinet and located a bottle of brandy.
“It’s not too bad,” Jo managed. Because her voice was tolerably steady, she screwed up her courage and looked down. Keane had fastened a rough bandage from the remains of her sleeve. Though the flow of blood had slowed, there were streaks of it down her arm, and too much spreading from the wound to be certain how extensive the cuts were. Nausea rocked in her stomach.
“How do you know?” Keane demanded between his teeth as he began to clean the wound. He wrung out the towel in the basin Buck set beside him.
“It’s not bleeding that badly.” Jo swallowed the queasiness. As her mind began to clear, she frowned at the tone of Keane’s voice. Feeling her stare, he glanced up. In his eyes was such fury, she pulled away.
“Be still,” he ordered roughly and gave his attention back to her arm.
The cat had delivered only a glancing blow, but even so, there were four long slices in her upper arm. Jo set her jaw as pain ripped through her. Keane’s brusqueness brought more hurt, and she fought to show no reaction to either. The aftermath of fear was bubbling through her. She longed to be held, to be soothed by the hands that tended to her wound.
“She’s going to need stitches,” Keane said without looking at her.
“And an antitoxin shot,” Buck added, handing Jo a generous glass of brandy. “Drink this, honey. It’ll help settle you.”
The gentleness in his voice nearly undid her. He laid his big hand against her cheek, and for a moment she pressed against it.
“Drink now,” Buck ordered again. Obediently, Jo lifted the glass and swallowed. The room whirled, then snapped into focus. She made a small sound and pressed the glass to her forehead. “Tell me what happened in there.” Buck crouched down beside her as Keane began to apply a temporary bandage.
Jo took a moment to draw air in and out of her lungs. She lowered the glass and spoke steadily. “Hamlet didn’t respond, and Gerry repeated a command, but he stepped forward. Too close. I saw Hamlet’s eyes, and I knew. I should have moved faster. I should have been watching him more carefully. It was a stupid mistake.” She stared into the brandy as she berated herself.
“She stepped between the boy and the cat.” Keane bit off the words as he completed the bandaging. Rising, he moved to the brandy and poured. Not once did he turn to look at Jo. Hurt, she stared at his back before looking back at Buck.
“How’s Gerry?”
Buck urged the glass back to her lips. A faint tint of pink was creeping into her cheeks. “Pete’s with him. Got his head between his knees. He’ll be fine.”
Jo nodded. “I guess I’ll have to go to town and have this seen to.” She handed the glass to Buck and wondered if she dare attempt to rise yet. With another deep breath, she glanced at Duffy. “Make sure he’s ready to go in when I get back.”
Keane turned from the window. “Go in where?” His face was set in hard lines.
In response, Jo??
?s voice was chilled. “In the cage.” She turned her eyes to Buck. “We should be able to have a short run-through before the evening show.”
“No.” Jo’s head snapped up as Keane spoke. For a long moment they stared at each other with odd, unreasonable antagonism. “You’re not going back in there today.” His voice held curt authority.
“Of course I am,” Jo countered, managing to keep the combination of pain and anger from her words. “And if Gerry wants to be a cat man, he’s going in, too.”
“Jo’s right,” Buck put in, trying to soothe what he sensed was an explosive situation. “It’s like falling off a horse. You can’t wait too long before you get back up, or you won’t ride again.”
Keane never took his eyes from Jo. He continued as if Buck hadn’t spoken. “I won’t permit it.”
“You can’t stop me.” Indignation forced her to her feet. The brisk movement caused her arm to protest, and her struggle against it showed momentarily in her eyes.
“Yes, I can.” Keane took a long swallow of brandy. “I own this circus.”
Jo’s fists tightened at his tone, at his careless use of his authority. Not once since he had knelt beside her in the cage had he given her any sign of comfort or reassurance. She had needed it from him. To masquerade its trembling, she kept her voice low. “But you don’t own me, Mr. Prescott. And if you’ll check your papers and the legalities, you’ll see you don’t own the lions or my equipment. I bought them, and I maintain them out of my salary. My contract doesn’t give you the right to tell me when I can or can’t rehearse my cats.”
Keane’s face was granite hard. “Neither does it give you the right to set up in the Big Top without my permission.”
“Then I’ll set up someplace else,” she tossed back. “But I will set up. That cat will be worked again today. I won’t take the risk of losing months of training.”
“But you will risk being killed,” Keane shot back and slammed down his glass.
“What do you care?” Jo shouted. All control deserted her. The cuts were deep on her emotions as well as her flesh. She had passed through a terror more acute than she had known since the night of her parents’ death. More than anything else, she wanted to feel Keane’s arms around her. She wanted to know the security she had felt when he had let her weep out her grief for Ari in his arms. “I’m nothing to you!” Her head shook quickly, tossing her hair. There was a bubble of hysteria in her voice, and Buck reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder.
“Jo,” he warned in his soft, rumbling voice.
“No!” She shook her head and spoke rapidly. “He hasn’t the right. You haven’t the right to interfere with my life.” She flared at Keane again with eyes vivid with emotion. “I know what I have to do. I know what I will do. Why should it matter to you? You aren’t legally responsible if I get mauled. No one’s going to sue you.”
“Hold on, Jo.” This time Buck spoke firmly. As he took her uninjured arm, he felt the tremors shooting through her. “She’s too upset to know what she’s saying,” he told Keane.
There was a mask over Keane’s face which concealed all emotion. “Oh, I think she knows what she’s saying,” he disagreed quietly. For a moment there was only the sound of Jo shuddering and the splash of brandy being poured into a glass. “You do what you have to do, Jo,” he said after drinking again. “You’re perfectly correct that I haven’t any rights where you’re concerned. Take her into town,” he told Buck, then turned back to the window.
“Come on, Jo.” Buck urged her to the door, slipping a supportive arm around her waist. Even as they stepped outside, Rose came running from the direction of the midway.
“Jo!” Her face was white with concern. “Jo, I just heard.” She glanced at the bandage with wide, terrified eyes. “How bad is it?”
“Just scratches, really,” Jo assured her. She added the best smile she could muster. “Buck’s going to take me into town for a couple of stitches.”
“Are you sure?” She looked up at the tall man for reassurance. “Buck?”
“Several stitches,” he corrected but patted Rose’s hand. “But it’s not too bad.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” She fell into step beside them as Buck began to lead Jo again.
“No. Thank you, Rose.” Jo smiled with more feeling. “I’ll be fine.”
Because of the smile, Rose was able to relax. “I thought when I heard . . . well, I imagined all sorts of terrible things. I’m glad you’re not badly hurt.” They had reached Buck’s truck, and Rose leaned over to kiss Jo’s cheek. “We all love you so.”
“I know.” Squeezing her hand, Jo let Buck help her into the cab of his truck. As he maneuvered from the lot, Jo rested her head against the back of the seat and shut her eyes. Never could she remember feeling more spent, more battered.
“Hurt bad?” Buck asked as they switched to an asphalt road.
“Yes,” she answered simply, thinking of her heart as much as her arm.
“You’ll feel better when you’re patched up.”
Jo kept her eyes shut, knowing some wounds never heal. Or if they did, they left scars that ached at unexpected times.
“You shouldn’t have gone off on him that way, Jo.” There was light censure in Buck’s voice.
“He shouldn’t have interfered,” Jo retorted. “It’s none of his business. I’m none of his business.”
“Jo, it’s not like you to be so hard.”
“Hard?” She opened her eyes and turned to Buck. “What about him? Couldn’t he have been kinder, shown even the barest trace of compassion? Did he have to speak to me as if I were a criminal?”
“Jo, the man was terrified. You’re only looking at this from one side.” He scratched his beard and gave a gusty sigh. “You can’t know what it’s like to be outside that cage, helpless when someone you care about is facing down death. I had to all but knock him unconscious to keep him out of there until we got it through his head that he’d just get you killed for sure. He was scared, Jo. We were all scared.”
Jo shook her head, certain Buck exaggerated because of his affection for her. Keane’s voice had been hard, his eyes angry. “He doesn’t care,” she corrected quietly. “Not like the rest of you. You didn’t swear at me. You weren’t cold.”
“Jo, people have different ways—” Buck began, but she interrupted.
“I know he wouldn’t want to see me hurt, Buck. He’s not heartless or cruel.” She sighed as all the force of anger and fear washed out of her body and left her empty. “Please, I don’t want to talk about him.”
Buck heard the weariness in her voice and patted her hand. “Okay, honey, just relax. We’ll have you all fixed up in no time.”
Not all fixed up, Jo thought. Far from all fixed up.
Chapter Eleven
As the weeks passed, Jo’s arm lost its stiffness. She healed cleanly. The only traces were thin scars that promised to fade but not disappear. She found, however, that some spark had gone out of her life. Constantly, she fought against a vague dissatisfaction. Nothing—not her work, not her friends, not her books—brought about the contentment she had grown up with. She had become a woman, and her needs had shifted. Jo knew the root of her problem was Keane, but the knowledge was not a solution. He had left the circus again on the very night of her accident. Nearly four weeks later he had not returned.
Three times Jo had sat down to write him, needing to assuage her guilt for the harsh things she had said to him. Three times she had torn up the paper in frustration. No matter how she rearranged the words, they were wrong. Instead, she clung to the hope that he would come back one last time. If, she felt, they could part as friends, without bitterness or hard words, she could accept the separation. Willing this to happen, she was able to return to her routine with some tranquility. She rehearsed, performed, joined in the daily duties of circus life. She waited. The caravan moved closer to Chicago.
***
Jo stood in the steaming Big Top on a late August afterno
on. Dressed in a leotard, she worked on ground exercises with the Beirot Brothers. It was this daily regimentation that had aided in keeping her arm limber. She could now move into a back walk-over without feeling any protest in her injured arm.
“I feel good,” Jo told Raoul as they worked out. “I feel really good.” She did a quick series of pirouettes.
“You don’t keep your shoulder in shape by dancing on your feet,” Raoul challenged.
“My shoulder’s fine,” she tossed back, then proved her point by bending into a handstand. Slowly, she lowered her legs to a forty-five-degree angle, bringing one foot to rest on the knee of the opposite leg. “It’s perfect.” She executed a forward roll and sprang to her feet. “I’m strong as an ox,” she claimed and did a quick back handspring followed by a back flip.
She landed at Keane’s feet.
The cascade of emotions that raced through her reflected briefly in her eyes before she regained her balance. “I didn’t—I didn’t know you were back.” Instantly, she regretted the inanity of the words but could find no others. The longing was raw in her to hurl herself into his arms. She wondered that he could not feel her need through the pores of her skin.
“I just got in.” His eyes continued to search her face after his hands dropped to his sides. “This is my mother,” he added. “Rachael Loring, Jovilette Wilder.”
At his words, Jo’s gaze moved from his face. She saw the woman beside him. If she had seen Rachael Loring in a crowd of two thousand, she would have known her for Keane’s mother. The bone structure was the same, though hers was more elegant. Her brows were golden wings, flaring out at the end, as Keane’s did. Her hair was smooth, brushed up and away from her face with no gray to mar its tawny perfection. But it was the eyes that sent a jolt through Jo. She had not thought to see them in anyone’s face but Keane’s. The woman was dressed simply in an unpretentiously tailored suit