Defiant Rose

by Colleen Quinn

  Downing another swig of whiskey, she relished this moment of privacy when she could be herself. Alone in the tent, the rain unable to penetrate the thick canvas walls, she could relax. Here she was no one’s boss, not Carney, just Rosemary, and it was the only place she’d ever admit that at times she was lonely. She had the troupe, of course, but she was their boss. She couldn’t share all of her fears and concerns with them. Clara was the closest thing she had to a best friend, but there were times when the gypsy woman didn’t appear to notice that she’d grown up. Clara seemed to think of her as little Rose, much the same as Sean had done.

  So there was no one she could confide in, no one to explain the restlessness she was beginning to experience, a kind of feeling she saw in the horses as they galloped endlessly in the fields, as if searching for something. She had strange dreams that didn’t make much sense, and when she awoke, she often felt as if she hadn’t slept at all.

  Disturbed by her thoughts, she replaced the clipping and began to rummage through the trunk to distract herself. She smiled at the keepsakes, the clippings, and the outfits that were vivid reminders of her father. Here was Sean Carney’s old megaphone, a worn and rain-spattered poster, a beat-up guitar, and a mouth harp. Swiping at a tear, she unfolded the lovely satin dresses and gypsy scarves that had belonged to her grandmother, who’d read tea leaves for the troupe back in the old country.

  My God, it was in her blood, too.

  There was a tent in the distance. Michael could just make out the gray canvas enclosure looming before him, joined by the big top and several smaller tents. Carney’s, they’d told him, was the smallest enclosure facing the privacy of the woods. He’d had to walk through the whole encampment to reach it, and if it wasn’t for the rain, he was sure someone would have stopped him.

  He paused in front of the diminutive tent, surprised that the owner of the troupe would have such a tiny home. Shrugging, he looked around for a way to announce his presence, but he discovered that tents had no knockers and no butlers. Thrusting open the flap, he stepped inside, shaking like a wolf to rid himself of water. It took him several seconds to adjust to the dim lighting, and several more before his mind registered the fact that he was not alone.

  A clown was seated in the middle of the floor on a crate, but he was far too young to be any circus owner. By the light of a single taper Michael could see the jester’s upturned nose, the bright smears of paint on his eyes, and the red, perpetual smile. Garbed in a yellow costume that billowed like a lemon puff and enormous red shoes that looked more like miniature boats than foot coverings, the apparition reminded him of the drunken clown he’d watched appreciatively that evening.

  “It appears I have the wrong tent,” Michael said disdainfully, breaking the silence. “I am looking for Carney.”

  It must have been the whiskey. Nothing else could have conjured up this elegant and handsome man who stood casually inside Rosemary’s tent as if he’d just stepped out of an English carriage. His hair was black, jet-black with the rainwater, and his face was chiseled, firm, and masterful. Yet there was a touch of arrogance about him, a cold purpose that aroused her instincts. Recovering quickly, Rosemary glanced at the whiskey glass. It was still half full.

  “There is no one here but me; you can see that yourself. If you’ll be looking for a job, go to the third tent down and ask for Griggs.” She turned abruptly and dismissed him, as if he were some schoolboy.

  Annoyed at the clown’s cocky manner and remembering the downpour outside, Michael sat down. This circus buffoon would talk sooner if he made him uncomfortable, and for some reason he was enjoying doing just that.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I hate to correct you, but you’ll find out soon enough. This is my tent, along with everything else in this damnable place. I refuse to leave until I find Carney.”

  Rosemary stared, her painted eyes narrowing. He was going to be difficult. Normally, she could just call for help and one of the performers would gladly toss him from her tent, but tonight they were all at the local pub. There was nothing left to do but brazen it out. She couldn’t stay here alone with him—at any moment he could discover that she was a woman, and a Carney, no less. Approaching the man with a friendlier attitude and a hand extended, she appeared to accept the situation. But when Michael reached up, she blithely kicked his swollen ankle out from under him, unaware that he was hurt.

  “I guess you will be going after all. Good day, gent, and do come back.” Rosemary brushed off her hands, satisfied with the result of her work.

  She no sooner had gotten one foot away than Michael grabbed for her, his fingers digging into her slender shoulders. Fury engulfed him, and he stared down at the clown in a red haze of pain.

  This was the final blow. He’d been thrown from a hack horse, hurt his ankle, nearly drowned, and now a nameless circus clown had the gall to kick him as if he were no better than a mule.

  “Let go of me!” the little clown shrieked in an Irish brogue and struggled violently, accidentally kicking the injured ankle once more. Michael groaned, his eyes sparked with pain and his face darkened with fury. Realizing that he was in a dangerous position, the clown tried to dart past him, but Michael snatched at his arm and pulled the youth closer.

  “You little guttersnipe! By the time I’m done with you, you’ll have more respect for your elders….” He shook the clown violently, his hand wrapped in the saffron silk of his costume. The red wig tumbled to the ground, and a brilliant red-gold display of hair cascaded over the clown’s shoulders.

  “My God!” Michael exclaimed, cupping her face in disbelief. “You’re a woman!”

  Rosemary sneered, all hell in her green eyes. “Take your hands off me!”

  Michael obliged to the extent that he released her face, but he continued to hold her wrist, as if he’d captured a wild animal that would bolt the moment he released her. When she tried to do just that, he pulled her against him to prevent her escape. Wiggling between his legs, her body came into abrupt and shocking contact with his muscular thighs and drenched linen. Gasping as the water penetrated her suit, she fought him even harder, but he refused to lessen his grip.

  “Who are you and what are you up to?” Michael demanded hoarsely, shaken by the discovery.

  Rosemary’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought she might kick him again. She appeared to think the better of it, for she stopped her struggling and faced him defiantly.

  “That is my own business, and none of yours. Now, get the hell out of my tent.”

  “No. I’m not going anywhere until I get a few answers.” His hand clasped her wrist like a steel band. She bristled at his response, but he couldn’t release her, not yet.

  A girl clown. His mind flashed back to the show, when this very same buffoon had fallen repeatedly from a horse, a dangerous stunt in retrospect. Even more daring was the backward flip. And yet this painted comedian who tumbled amid the sawdust was a young woman!

  Her body seemed to burn into his, and her unusual eyes, fringed with long black lashes, stared out of the clown mask, taunting him. He tightened his hold on her wriggling body, mentally trying to peel away the makeup to the woman’s face beneath. She stood in front of him, her hair falling around her like raw silk, her body painfully thin beneath the slippery material.

  It was amazing that she’d fooled him as long as she had. Up close, he could see her thick eyelashes, her upturned nose, her well-shaped mouth. She sneered, fighting the panic that threatened to overcome her. Desperately she attempted to pry his fingers from her wrist, but he stilled her motions with his strong, lean body.

  “That’s enough. Stop it, and don’t even try screaming. I own this damned place, so it won’t do you any good.” He saw the look on her face and had rightly guessed her next course of action. “Sit down and calm yourself. I don’t mean you any harm.”

  “You spineless cur! I suppose bullying women and barging in on their privacy means nothing to you!” She didn’t like his threat, but his word
s stopped her, and as she weighed her options, she obviously decided to temper her impulse. Lowering herself onto a crate, she did as he demanded, her painted face registering her fury.

  “That’s better.” Michael slowly released her wrists, watching her every movement. Her hair settled around her like a lion’s mane, and her clown suit puffed like a shimmering yellow balloon.

  “Now, I won’t ask you again. Who are you and why are you dressed like that?”

  Rosemary glared, but managed to speak in a fairly civil tongue. “If you don’t mind, it isn’t exactly wise of me to speak my piece with a perfect stranger. You keep saying you own this place when everyone knows ‘tis Carney’s Circus.”

  She had a point, and if he hadn’t been so stunned or angry, he’d have approached things differently. Realizing the justice of her words, he nodded and explained.

  “My name is Wharton. Perhaps you may have known my father. He advanced quite a bit of money to this Carney. I’m here to reconcile the debt.”

  “Doc Wharton?” Rosemary struggled with the memory. Rosemary’s nose wrinkled as she recalled the Philadelphian doctor, the one who had bandaged her knee so long ago. She’d taken a rough fall from a horse, and her father, frantic, had called out for help. Jonathan Wharton had immediately vacated the seat he’d purchased to help the little girl and had spoken to her in such calm, reassuring tones that she’d let him straighten her leg and apply the stinging medicine. He’d smiled at her through her tears and told her she was his best and prettiest patient. He’d had her grinning by the time he was done, and he and Sean Carney had become good friends.

  Later, when Sean wanted to expand the show’s holdings, Doc Wharton had lent him the money, telling him not to worry about the debt. But all that was a good ten years ago, if a day. Surely he hadn’t sent a debt collector after all this time.

  “Excuse me,” he said coldly, his gray eyes boring into hers. “I am Michael Wharton.”

  “Michael?” She repeated weakly.

  “Dr. Wharton’s son,” he reluctantly admitted. “I am a banker by trade. This Carney owes my family a considerable debt, and I aim to collect. I want to meet him. Now.”

  Something in his tone brooked no disagreement. Chastised at last, the little clown looked meekly down at the ground. Now she understood. The father had lent the money, and the greedy son was appearing like the avenging angel, determined to collect. When her face lifted, Michael could see her solemn expression, but something in the jester’s eyes glittered mischievously. Her huge shoes peeked out from beneath the hem of her costume, and he distinctly smelled whiskey. This chit was up to something; he was certain of that.

  “I’ll be happy to arrange it.”

  Michael watched in confusion as the clown turned to the dressing table. She dipped a cloth into a vat of cold cream and wiped away the greasepaint, watching his expression in the mirror. Michael’s eyes narrowed as the clown disappeared and a woman stared back from the minor, her Irish eyes brimming with laughter. Finally she turned around and grinned.

  “I am Rosemary Carney.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MICHAEL STARED in amazement at the woman before him, her clown suit rustling.

  Carney. God, he should have known. Percy had given him a description of Sean Carney: green eyes, freckles, carrot red hair, and a pugnacious attitude. Here was the exact same description in female form. Worse, the wench seemed to be laughing inwardly, betrayed by the twitch of her soft pink lips and the twinkle in her eyes.

  “Rosemary Carney,” Michael acknowledged coldly. “I suppose you are Sean Carney’s daughter?” She nodded. “It surprises me that a man who owns a circus would permit his daughter to dress up in that manner and parade before a hooting audience. Although he doesn’t seem to have taught you many manners, either, since you kicked me within a few minutes of my arrival. None of that is my concern, however. I came to see your father. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, would you mind fetching him?”

  “I’m sorry, but that presents a wee problem,” Rosemary responded gravely, mimicking his formal tones. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Michael stared at her in disbelief.

  “As a doornail,” Rosemary said. “I can produce the paper if you’re not willing to take my word—”

  “No,” Michael said quickly. “I understand that circus folk, while a transient and reckless lot, have a loyalty to their own kind. If you tell me your father is dead, I have no reason not to believe you.” He glanced at the tent, understanding the single bed, the dressing screen draped with costumes, the crates, and the solitary trunk. “Who, then, runs the troupe?”

  “Me.” Rosemary smiled at his dubious look and indicated a stack of books. “I own Carney’s now. My father left it to me as my inheritance. Seems he thought a female capable enough should be given the job, clown or not.” She hid her smile as she saw his color deepen. “Perhaps it was that strange circus loyalty.”

  “Enough!” Michael’s patience with this wench had run out. “If you do run the circus, then you are aware of the reason for my visit. As I mentioned before, Carney’s owes a great deal of money to my family. The debts are clearly documented here, as well as the feeble attempts to make payment.”

  He extended a ledger book, neatly columned with numbers and figures. Rosemary glanced at the page and nearly choked.

  It was a small fortune. Although she knew her father had borrowed from Doc Wharton, she never dreamed it was so much. Worse, interest had been calculated annually, inflating the original principle until it was now nearly double the amount of the loan. She’d sent some money occasionally, almost three hundred dollars last year. But that had scarcely made a dent.

  “No one said anything about interest,” Rosemary protested, her head snapping up. All signs of gaiety gone, she faced her adversary like a cornered lioness. “Your father said not to worry about paying it back. I thought—”

  “My father was a soft touch for anyone with a sob story and an empty purse. He allowed a lot of people to make a fool out of him, but he is gone now and I’m reconciling the books. Your account is significantly past due. I am here to collect payment.”

  “It’s impossible.” Rosemary sighed, thrusting her chin up and refusing to back down. “It simply cannot be done.”

  “Are you defying me?” Michael’s eyes narrowed, and she suddenly noticed that they were gray, almost silver in his fury. “Do you realize that I can collect in any manner that suits me, including foreclosing and then selling off your assets?” He indicated the interior of the canvas enclosure.

  Rosemary gasped. “But you can’t! This is Carney’s Circus! It always has been, since my grandfather in the old country, and his father before him. ‘Tis a tradition.”

  “I can and I will!” he thundered. How did one get through to this clown-woman? “If I have to sell off every damned elephant and tent, I will get my due. Do I make myself clear?”

  “As ice water.” She shuddered. The man had no heart. Forcing aside her own emotions, she tried to appeal to his business sense. “Do you know anything of the way a show is run? Any cash that was available has been spent on food for the animals, land rents, posters and advertisements, salaries for the performers. No one makes money until the end of the season.”

  “I don’t believe that.” He colored, furious. “No business is run that tightly.”

  “See for yourself.” Rosemary opened her own ledger book and pointed out the original equity investment, and then the expenses.

  It was true. Almost all of the initial funds were depleted by the operating expenses. The amounts scrawled in were enormous, and he stared in desperation as he read the notation ledger: Miller’s Feed Store, $125. Poster paint, $13. Groceries, $75. Whiskey, $17. The figures astounded him, especially when he got to the bottom line. Carney’s was in the red long before the show started.

  “But the ticket money!” He recalled the long lines of farmers standing in the pouring rain, just to see Carney’s. “Where are those am
ounts entered?”

  “Here.” Rosemary showed him the second page, which indicated income. “Up until now the ticket money has been used just to pay expenses. By the end of the season this column will be much larger and will show the net profit.”

  “And last year’s income?”

  She closed the book and shrugged. “Expansion. To stay alive in this business, you have to be bigger and better each year. Eventually the show will be worth quite a bit of money, but not until all the initial debts have been paid and we stop growing. I don’t see that happening any time soon, but it hardly matters, as long as the show goes on.”

  Michael stared at the wench in complete bemusement. This was madness! Her bookkeeping made sense, but her reasoning would drive any accountant to drink. No one ran a business just to continue it. Anyone with any brains at all looked to make a profit, and not an eventual one at that. Apparently, these Carneys thought only of continuing the circus, at any price.

  “So if I understand you correctly, the first opportunity to obtain payment would be this winter? At the end of the show season?”

  “That’s right,” Rosemary announced triumphantly. “You could do as you threatened and sell the animals, but I don’t think you’d be getting their worth in the middle of farm country. There isn’t much demand for elephants in Kansas.” She regretted her glibness a moment later when he glared at her, but she couldn’t resist. God, there was something about this man that made her long for a pin, just to burst his bubble.