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Authors: Susan Krinard

BOOK: To Catch a Wolf
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had so far, or he would be forced to tell her his real reason for wanting the troupe—and

most especially the "Wolf-Man"—out of her reach.

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"If you do this, Niall," she said, "I'll stay away from the lot until the day of the

performance.”

"That is not enough. If I allow the circus to remain, you must promise to curtail some of

your more intemperate activities.”

Athena closed her eyes. She knew that he was using this as a means to do the very

thing Morgan had accused him of—control her. "You ask a great deal," she said.

"So do you." The mattress creaked as he sat down again. "I am willing to compromise,

but only if you will do the same.”

Compromise? she thought with unaccustomed bitterness. Negotiate is too nice a word.

Manipulate is more accurate. You have all the advantages.

"Very well," she said. "Will you send a message tomorrow morning?”

"Yes." He patted her hand. "It's for the best, my dear. The performance is to be on

Sunday. I foresee no trouble as long as you remain at home until then.”

Athena was very tempted to argue. She did not enjoy arguing, and she'd had her fill of it

tonight with Morgan. But a kernel of anger lay hard and cold in her heart, threatening to

grow into something larger and much more intractable. Something with claws and fangs

and the tenacity to drive every obstacle from its path by any means.

Exactly like Morgan Holt.

She tucked her hand under the covers. "I am tired now. I think I would like to sleep.”

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"Good." He got up and went to turn off the lamp. "I'm sure that you will have plenty to do

until Sunday. I'll ask Miss Hockensmith to visit and bring your friends.”

She didn't answer. After a while the light went out, and the door closed softly. Niall's

footsteps retreated down the hall to his own room. Another door closed. All was silent

save for the tapping of cottonwood branches on her window.

Athena lay cold and stiff under the blankets, fighting to control her unreasonable

passions. Her stomach clenched and roiled as if she had digested every last shred of

the contentment she had cultivated since the accident.

You lied to me, Niall. You treat me like a child, and I ceased being a child when you

carried me out of that snowdrift.

A child. To Niall, she would always be that, dependent and unable to guide her own

destiny.

Morgan Holt did not see her that way. She shivered, remembering the kiss, and the icy

kernel in her heart was all but consumed in a blaze of sheer physical yearning.

Morgan Holt believed she was brave and capable. He saw her as a woman grown. He

didn't give her pretty words. He was barely courteous. Yet his actions spoke more

eloquently than the most cultured speech.

And he had kissed her.

She touched her lips. It was just as well that she must stay away until the performance.

If she met him again in private, she didn't know what she would say or do. What he

would say or do, when there was no future to be shared between them.

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In dreams, she could walk, and run, and even Change again. In dreams, all the barriers

between her and Morgan Holt dissolved like snow in a teakettle, and she forgot that her

life was laid out now as it would always be.

She closed her eyes and willed the dreams to come.

Niall ushered Athena, Miss Hockensmith, and the few friends who had chosen to attend

the performance to the special seats set aside for them at the very edge of the ring.

Workers were busy making final adjustments to the props to be used by the

performers—the high wire, the trampoline, the various balls and banners and hoops.

Scaffolding for the aerialists hung overhead. An off-key trumpet sounded outside the

trouper's entrance at the opposite side of the ring, and teachers from the orphanage

herded the last of their charges in the common seating area, which the circus people

called the "blues.”

Children's voices rang and echoed under the artificial cave of the tent. Sounds of

innocent, uncomplicated joy. Niall glanced at the happy, upturned faces, and was glad

he had not begrudged the orphans this small pleasure. Athena had invited the residents

of Denver's other orphanages in addition to her own; nearly a hundred youngsters filled

the blues.

Athena had been true to her word. She'd kept quietly at home until this afternoon. If

there had been a slight strain between him and his sister, Niall had dismissed it as

minor pique on his sister's part. She would get over it—she always did. No one in the

world was less apt to hold a grudge than Athena.

Niall knew that better than anyone.

As confirmation of his judgment, Athena beamed impartially at him and at anyone else

who came in sight, including Harry French. The old man had personally attended them

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and arranged for refreshments to be provided, bobbing up and down the while with

ingratiating humility. Fortunately, he had not found the temerity to ask Niall why he had

changed his mind about allowing the performance, though Niall had made certain that

the "Wolf-Man" stayed away. There was little risk that Athena would be reminded of

things best left buried.

Cecily Hockensmith touched his arm. "Oh, Mr. Munroe, I am so glad that you found a

way to permit the show in spite of our concerns," she said. "Athena looks so happy. You

were very clever to find a solution that pleases everyone.”

"I do not like making my sister unhappy," he said, sparing her a glance. "There is no

reason why such matters cannot be settled in an equitable manner.”

"Indeed. My father has often said how much he admires your skills of negotiation.”

He murmured some rote courtesy and gazed about the ring. If not for Athena and her

friends, he would have preferred to remain in the office at work, Sunday or not. But this

was a moment of triumph for Athena, and he would not ruin her pleasure in it.

He didn't know why he continued to scan the tent while Cecily Hockensmith chattered

away beside him. When Harry French, replete in bright coat and vest, entered the ring

to announce the start of the show, he listened for a while and then let his mind wander

to the latest reports from his mining investments and banking interests.

The performance began with the inevitable clowns. They gamboled about the ring,

playing out skits and teasing children in the audience with their absurd antics. Niall

watched the first act, decided that it was competent and quite harmless, and returned to

his calculations of profit and loss. The laughter and cries of children, punctuated by the

occasional gasp or comment from Miss Hockensmith, hardly disturbed his ruminations.

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A blast of music from the small band marked the change to the next act, a motley pack

of trained dogs. It flew by like the first. Niall made a few changes to a contract written in

his mind. Another performance, by a trio of acrobats, followed the second, and he

composed a letter to the manager of his smelting operation in Argo.

It was only when the fourth act began that he finally took notice, though he could not

have said at first why he did so. A line of caparisoned gray horses trotted into the ring,

necks arched and plumes waving proudly. Behind them, light as a fairy, bounded a girl

in tights and short skirt, her red hair burning like a halo about her piquant face.

That was when he knew what he had been watching for.

Facts and figures vanished from his mind like chalk erased from a slate. Caitlin Hughes

danced gracefully to the center of the ring, an ornamental whip in hand, and called out

to her horses. They reared up in perfect formation, much to the delight of the children.

"I believe I recognize that girl," Miss Hockensmith said. "A tiny thing, is she not? I

cannot imagine what sort of upbringing she must have had.”

Niall barely heard her. He was remembering his last conversation—argument—with

Miss Hughes, and how she had pulled back that remarkable hair to reveal her delicately

pointed ears.

Ears like

like an elf out of legend. And she had been so defiant. Her eyes had flashed

like the sapphire earrings Niall had given Athena two Christmases ago.

The girl was too far across the tent to see him now. His gaze followed her every motion

as if she had cast a spell upon him. Once or twice Miss Hockensmith spoke, but he

heard only her voice and not the words.

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How remarkable Miss Hughes was. Niall tried to remember her coarse ways, her

rudeness, and her physical oddity, but it grew increasingly difficult to do so. She

handled the horses as if she spoke their language; they reared and bowed and frolicked

at her slightest invitation.

All too quickly an assistant came to retrieve the horses, leaving one in the ring with her.

She leaped up upon the animal's bare back and balanced there while her helpers

positioned themselves at various points on the ring, suspending banners in the path she

and her mount would follow around its circumference.

The horse began to trot and then broke into a canter. Caitlin might as well have been

flying. As her mount approached a banner and ran underneath, she sprang straight up

and over the stretched fabric, performing a double somersault and landing precisely on

the animal's back. The ladies gasped and applauded.

Miss Hockensmith tugged at his sleeve. "Mr. Munroe—”

He pulled his arm away. Caitlin did a series of jumps and acrobatic feats, each more

perilous than the last. A second horse was brought out, and she leaped from one back

to another as they ran, sometimes somersaulting between. Niall forgot to breathe.

Caitlin followed the curve of the ring toward the seats and looked directly at him.

It was impossible, but he could have sworn that their eyes met and locked across that

distance. Something snatched annoyingly at his sleeve. He disregarded it and held his

breath as Caitlin smiled.

Canvas cracked loudly overhead, tossed by the wind. Caitlin's mount approached the

next banner and plunged sharply to the left, its hoof striking the wooden ring. Caitlin lost

her balance—only for a moment, but just long enough to leave her unprepared for the

next banner.

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Niall shot to his feet. Caitlin struck the banner at an awkward angle and flew in the

opposite direction to her shying mount. She hit the ground hard.

"My God!" Athena cried. "Niall!”

He needed no further encouragement. Hopping over the low barrier between the seats

and the ring, he dashed to Caitlin's sprawled form. If she had been hurt

if she were—

She opened her eyes. "Oh. It's you," she said, slurring her words. "I cannot understand

it. Pennyfarthing has always been my best gelding.”

"Don't try to speak," he commanded. He stripped off his coat and spread it across her.

Others had come, forming a worried wall about them. Harry French pushed his way

through.

"Firefly! Are you hurt?”

Caitlin grinned weakly. "I have been better.”

Niall glanced up at Harry. "The children should not see this. Please ask the teachers to

take them out, and be so good as to distract them in some way until

until this is

resolved.”

"Naturally, naturally, just as you say," Harry said, looking very near tears. "But we must

get a doctor—”

"Of course. Niall, you should send for Dr. Brenner at once.”

Athena. Niall cleared his mind enough to look for her, and found her reclining in the

arms of the man he recognized as Morgan Holt. He stared into Niall's eyes with

unmistakable challenge.

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Holt. Niall remembered how the ruffian had remained close to Athena during her first

visit, but now he began to wonder what interest Holt had in her. Who was he?

"Please, Niall," Athena said, all brisk purpose and unconcern for her compromising

position. "We do not know how badly Caitlin is hurt.”

She was right, and he had no time to worry about Morgan Holt at the moment. He

turned back to Caitlin and tucked his coat more snugly under her chin. Her face was

creased with pain.

"Lie quietly," he told her. "The rest of you, make sure she is kept warm and still. Her

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