The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1)

by Sarah Wathen

  The gentleman on center stage brought his fiddle to his chin and straightened his back, breathing in deeply and loosening his shoulders. He brought his bow up to the strings and pulled a long, cool, high note before erupting into song. The dancers flowed with him; it was a song they all knew well.

  “Oooh, Mountain Waltz,” Candy said, dreamily. Her impromptu clapping ended in cherished fists clasped to her chest.

  “Fuck it,” she heard Sam mutter next to her.

  “Huh?”

  He grabbed both of her hands in his and pulled her towards the center of the clearing.

  She pulled him backwards in a panic, “No, I can’t waltz!” She had always wanted to learn, watching the adults covetously since she was a kid. But no one ever taught her. She looked around, wild-eyed; Sam was so strong, he had moved them to the dance floor with little effort, even with her protestations.

  “Well, I can.” He held her still with his eyes and positioned their hands for the dance, squaring his shoulders in a solid frame. “Just follow me.”

  He pushed forward, his body a driving force, and she fell back into his momentum, their bodies locked together, spilling into the rhythm of the dance floor. The fiddler turned the love song into a bittersweet lament; his high notes masterfully off tune, hopeful and desperate, and his low notes lengthening into mournful regret. As Sam and Candy whirled in a slow, sweeping rhythm, the strings wailed against the circle of enclosing trees and the noise of the crowd escaped into waves of afternoon heat drifting into the open sky above. He spun her around in a perfect twirl, and pulled her back into a strong embrace, reclaiming her eyes with a sure, steady gaze.

  “I… I didn’t know you could dance,” she spluttered. “How do you know how to dance?”

  “How does anyone know how to dance?”

  He spun her out and pulled her back in. Artful. She smiled up at him, entranced and tongue-tied.

  “Someone taught me, Candy.”

  “But…”

  “Never would have thought?”

  “No—I mean, who?” Sam hadn’t told her much about his family beyond snippets. “Your mom taught you?” she asked doubtfully. When he remained quiet, her face darkened, “Some girlfriend?”

  He laughed, “My grandmother taught me how to dance.”

  “You have a grandmother?”

  “Candy.” He dipped her with a flourish. “Just dance with me.” He held her inches from the ground. His face was silhouetted in shadow, but the sunlight behind him lent a halo to the edges of a dark, tousled mantle.

  Well that’s a sight to keep from your mama, if ever there was one. If she had a mama. She blinked hard. Oh, screw it. Her surrender was complete. She heard the music and felt Sam’s body, reacting to every nuance, as he moved them around the floor. He watched her face and let her lose herself, his eyes glinting when she opened hers and focused. She smiled and melted into him, feeling herself glide along with his steps. Effortless. What is happening? Is this really Sam?

  The song was over before it had begun, and Candy felt empty as the crying fiddle went silent. When would she ever feel so strange and lovely again?

  The cloddish emcee was back, barking into her consciousness. “Okay, y’all. The results are in.”

  In silent accord, Sam and Candy slipped away from the announcements to the shade of the trees. They sat together on the limb of an old oak; Candy snuggled into the nook of Sam’s arm. Four fiddle contestants returned to the stage and formed a line, awaiting the results.

  “Oh, it’s Carol,” said Candy, pointing to a red-haired thirteen-year-old who was waiting close by, fiddle and bow in hand, for her placement to be announced. “I wasn’t sure if they were coming.”

  “Who?”

  “My Uncle Pat and fam—Pat is Carol’s dad. They’re my favorite cousins, that’s cool you’ll get to meet them. If Pat is here, everybody’s in for a celebration, family style. He just doesn’t know any other way to be, and neither do his kids.”

  They watched the results from their hiding spot and Candy cheered inwardly, not ready to be found just yet. But, it was only a matter of time if Pat were there. She bounced up and down and grinned ear to ear as each musician was given some kind of award. Her cousin took third place and the eight-year-old girl in the flowered dress won first prize. “Huh, you never know,” she whispered. “Cuteness tempers the sound of the music, I guess.”

  Sam looked offended. “I thought she was great.”

  “Nah, now you’re gonna see the good stuff,” Candy murmured and pointed to a musical troupe too large for the stage. They were setting up around it, in haphazard arrangement.

  The unnamed band was always changing, but that day Candy counted three fiddlers, two guitarists, and a woman dragging over a chair and pulling out what looked like one of the mountain dulcimers that Erica Norman’s father made. A bearded man pulled up a chair next to her, with no apparent instrument, and another lady wheeled over a cello case. Before all the others were even set up, a beautiful Asian girl in a sundress, her long hair tied to one side in a leather thong, hopped up to sit on the stage with her fiddle. Her boots dangling over the edge, she began playing casually. The bearded man pulled out two spoons from his back pocket and, after listening to the fiddler for a few beats, joined in. He used not only his spoons and hands, but also his legs, chair and even his shoes for percussion. His rhythm was simple at first, then gained in complexity, as he found his groove and others joined in. Before long, the whole ensemble was rolling along together, meandering in and out of a basic melody, each player randomly assuming the lead and taking up a complicated solo. A banjo player from the crowd sauntered over and took up the song, the cellist nodding and smiling at him in encouragement.

  Most of the band was tapping their feet already, and then the first fiddler hopped from the stage while taking a solo. She began to shuffle her feet in time, almost as if beyond her own will. Sam seemed to understand the inclination; his thumbs were tapping out the beat of the joyful music on Candy’s thighs. The audience seemed to agree, and several old men began a shuffling dance, similar to the fiddler’s.

  “Is that clogging?” asked Sam.

  “Buck dancing.”

  A large woman in the center of the clearing was directing people to stand in formation, and others to move back. She assumed her own place next to a man in a cowboy hat who clapped in time, standing alone in the configuration. “Two, three, four.” The whole group of dancers sprang into motion, keeping time with the band and passing partners between themselves, spinning and whirling.

  “Square dance.” Sam said. “I don’t believe it. They all just started square dancing.”

  Candy shifted around to look at him, bemused. “Well, yeah. You act like you’ve never been to an Old-time Musical Festival.”

  He grinned. “I haven’t.”

  “Want to dance?”

  Sam’s smile disappeared and his eyes flicked to the dance floor. “I’ve taken the odd square dance class in gym…”

  Candy winked, taunting him.

  “I can’t square dance, sorry,” he admitted.

  “Well, I can,” Candy said, raising an eyebrow in challenge to his earlier boast.

  Sam looked towards the group of well-acquainted dancers looping arms and swinging each other around at an increasingly rapid pace, obviously willing to try it rather than back down.

  “I’m not serious, Sam!” She broke into a fit of laughter at the very thought. He buried his face in her hair and she felt him shaking with mirth against her back. “I’m not really in the club either,” she said, when the giggles finally subsided. “I can buck dance, though. Used to take lessons with my cousin when I was little. Want to see?”

  He released her and leaned back on their tree limb to watch. “Definitely,” he said, his voice still uneven and his eyes still alight.

  She stood up and waved her
hands around to make sure she had elbowroom in their snug clearing. “Have you ever done any clogging at all? That’s where it comes from.”

  Sam shook his head and smiled in anticipation.

  “Well, you start with a rock step, like this. Step, step, rock step. Step, step, rock step.” She watched her feet, each clomping down next to the other, then one stepping back, like a swing step. She was a little rusty, but she warmed up as she gained the rhythm. “And you can add a scuff, like you’re trying to get gum off the bottom of your shoe,” she said, kicking her foot forward in a low slide and pulling it back hard.

  “I like it.”

  “Let’s see. You can do a knee lift like this.” She raised her knee up level with her hips on one shove-and-pull. “Or a dip,” and she clicked her heels, bringing her knees in together for quick bop to each side.

  “Never with a partner?”

  “Well, people can dance off of each other, but it’s pretty much a solo dance. Of course, it gets harder when you speed it up to the music.”

  She quickened her pace in time with the band playing in the clearing. Picking up the quick banjo and lilting fiddle, her feet got away from her and she spun around out of control. Unable to help herself, she bobbed her head and clapped her hands, laughing with glee, and grinning up at Sam. He grabbed her arm on her next spin and pulled her in for a kiss, but she was too electrified and spun back out again, cackling. By the end of the jam, though, she was out of breath and was ready to collapse against him for relief.

  “I love it,” said Sam, her breath blowing his hair in wisps.

  She clamped her mouth shut, remembering that cucumber mint sauce. “Whew! I forgot what a workout that is.”

  Feedback from the stage made them both wince, then the emcee announced, “Alright, y’all. Next up is the buck dance competition.”

  Candy and Sam burst out laughing. “Hey, you should have entered.”

  “Me? Oh no, I’m not very good,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed one of the dancers waiting by the stage. “Oh my god, that’s my cousin Reagan up there. She was who I took lessons with when I was little. You’ll see the difference—she’s incredible. Way better than me.”

  “Such a talented family.”

  “I wish I had gotten some of that talent. Or, maybe I just haven’t found mine yet.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Sam regarded her, confused. “What about all the painting?”

  “I’m okay,” she allowed. “Not as good as you.”

  He frowned at her like she was crazy.

  “I’m not trying to be modest—trust me. I mean…” How could she explain? “Don’t you ever feel like there’s something just around the corner? Something you’re waiting for. Like, that you’re really meant for?”

  Sam’s face changed. Darkened. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes shifting away from hers.

  Candy had the feeling they were talking about two different things entirely. “But, when me and Reagan used to dance together…” She began prattling away about her childhood lessons, desperate to take the coldness out of Sam’s eyes. She snuggled back under his arm and he hugged her in closer, asking polite questions to move her story along, content to keep moving away from whatever had spoiled his mood. The band resumed playing, gradually rolling into a discernible melody. A tune close to “Oh Susanna” emerged and one of the waiting contestants, with a nod to the emcee, climbed the rickety stairs to take center stage. The dancer picked up the rhythm in a more methodical way than the impromptu audience members had, stamping his shoes loudly. The boisterous audience clapped along, cheering the contestants. Candy joined in atop a tree stump with hoots and catcalls when Reagan took the spotlight. The girl recognized her and made a bee-line for their hideout as soon as she was finished with her performance.

  “Hey, you,” Reagan bellowed, grabbing Candy in a fierce bear hug. “I wondered where you went, after the waltz.”

  “Oh yeah, you saw us dancing?” Candy stuttered, looking to Sam. He had regained full composure and was smiling serenely. “This is Sam. Sam, Reagan.”

  Reagan’s eye went wide, and Candy knew exactly what she was thinking. Please don’t say boyfriend or anything, please, please. Sam would be her first. If he even was her boyfriend.

  “So nice to meet you, Sam. You’re quite the dancer, aren’t you?” Reagan insisted on hugging him like he was already family.

  Sam’s voice was muffled by the embrace, “Pretty good yourself.”

  “Should be, after twelve years of lessons every weekend. Too bad Candy dropped out. Spoil sport.”

  “Oh come on, it was just a kid thing,” Candy muttered. Please don’t embarrass me, Reagan.

  “Yeah, and you’re a bad girl,” Reagan said, her eyes narrowing. A hand darted out to tickle her cousin’s ribs and Candy jerked away with a sour chuckle.

  Here it comes…

  “Sam, you should give your girlfriend a spanking.”

  chapter twenty-one

  After a few minutes of small talk and promises to reconnect later with more of the McBride clan, Sam decided to let the two girls catch up and left them gossiping about the day’s juried events. He wandered back down the broad lane of booths and tents, meandering through the crafts for sale and munching a pulled pork sandwich. Candy was right, of course; the barbeque wasn’t the best—sort of like dry meat soaked in ketchup. A flash of light caught his eye and he looked toward it; there was a tent larger than most, shadowy inside, with bright flecks glinting off of what seemed to be gems hanging from the roof. He trashed the rest of his mediocre meal and went inside.

  The space was more of an environment than a simple craft tent, like the others. He smelled Nag Champa incense burning and heard ambient music tickling his eardrums. Sam smirked in response; he’d met more than a few earth children in his travels across the States. The gems he had seen were actually glass beads, sparkling with iridescent spiraling wisps within, and there were many more hanging about in a myriad shapes and sizes. Larger, more intricate glass sculptures stood on pedestals draped in velvet around the space, each piece enhanced by individual track lights. Mesmerized by the atmosphere, so quiet and cool, with most of the festival attendees gathered for the show on the dance floor, Sam jumped when a woman’s voice broke the spell.

  “You must be Sam.” She was holding out her hand to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He let out his breath in a chuckle, “That’s okay.”

  “I’m Rachel.”

  Sam shook her hand, his eyebrows knitted in question. “Hello.”

  “I saw you dancing with Candy earlier.”

  “News travels fast?” asked Sam, still not understanding how the strange woman knew his name.

  “She hasn’t mentioned me? She’s told me a lot about you…your build particularly.” She walked around him to appraise all sides, boldly sizing up his physique. “But she never mentioned those cheekbones. Who needs a diamond wheel for cutting when you’ve got those? Black hair and olive skin—Russian descent?” Sam’s eyes followed her as she came back around to face him. “Candy has shown me your work. It’s fascinating, Sam. I’d love to talk with you about a particular drawing. Such passion,” she hissed, holding his gaze.

  Sam let the silence stretch between them. She was attractive, though much older, and her frankness was refreshing in a small town full of guarded looks and whispers behind hands.

  “I know too much about you for your comfort, don’t I?” she finally asked, though Sam was sure she already knew the answer. “And you know nothing at all of me. I have an apprentice position open that your friend Candy thought you might be interested in.”

  Oh. He relaxed his shoulders, no longer wary. “A glass apprentice? I was actually admiring your sculptures, before you came in.”

  She waved a dismissive hand at the sculptures. “Bongs.”

&nbs
p; Sam took a closer look at the nearest; a green glass smoke chamber, encrusted with a golden patina, twisted up into an inhale hole at the top, with a delicate stem jutting out at the bottom. The bowl was a tiny, pink flower bud. Huh. Sure as shit are.

  “They’re a lot of damn work, and I’m tired of doing it.” Rachel threw her arms overhead and whirled around, motioning to the jewels hanging around their heads. “Honestly, this stuff is my bread and butter, though. Anyone loves pretty beads and tabacco bongs, especially at a festival like this—my real work would never sell here. I’ve got to churn this stuff out, and Rudolfo quit on me last week. I need to get back to my work, Sam. Are you interested?”

  “In…the apprentice position?”

  “Well, what other positions should we be talking about?”

  Oh, you’re a handful, aren’t you? Sam watched the aging hippie with mirth.

  “It’s hard, sweaty work, Sam. I’m not going to lie to you,” she said, gripping his shoulders. Her face was close enough for him to smell her Patchouli cologne. “You have to want it. There could be blood. Do you want it?”

  Sam had absolutely no idea what a glass apprentice position entailed, but this Rachel creature was already easier to take than Larry.

  “You’ll be my slave at first, until you can handle the torch. But, you’ll be learning every minute, and you will never be bored. Grinding, blasting, painting, firing, and at last…the flames—molten glass over two-thousand degrees. What do you think, Sam?”

  She had started pacing around patting her pockets, looking for something important. She found her object of desire, and breathed a sigh of relief. She lit her cigarette with a monogrammed butane lighter and inhaled deeply. Superficially calmed, with her arms crossed over her chest, she awaited his response

  “When—”

  “I know you’re still in school, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your studies,” she waved the unasked question away with a flutter and tapped the slender fingers of her other hand against an elbow, watching him intently.

  “When can I start?”

  “Marvelous,” Rachel intoned from deep within her chest.