Behind her, Mr. Coleman stuttered a terror-filled whisper. “T–t–t–tiger.”
“They’re down there!” The clown squealed like the rat he was.
God, please,Kit silently prayed.I got us into this mess, but I cannot get us out. Help!
Without waiting for an answer, she crawled at top speed towards the wall of the tent. Hopefully Mr. Coleman kept time at her heels, though he probably did, judging by the next tiger roar. No doubt they looked like tasty treats to the big cat, or maybe something to play with. Surely that cage was constructed to prevent the swipe of one of those great paws…wasn’t it?
Ahead, light seeped through a gap between canvas and ground. Flattening to her belly, Kit shimmied onward, once again grateful the man at her back was hardly any larger than she. At this end of the tent, mud coated the ground, sticking to her chin, hands, sleeves, gown, making it hard to slither fast.
At last, she cleared the tent and pushed up to all fours, then staggered to her feet. Mr. Coleman did the same as she tried to bat away a bit of the muck—until a trumpeting blast made her immediately cover her ears. She spun.
And faced an elephant rearing its great trunk in the air.
The trainer tapped the beast on the side with a rod, glaring at her. “What do ye ken ye’re doing, muddy lassie?”
She spread her hands, backing away. “Sorry! We were just leaving.”
Grabbing hold of Mr. Coleman’s hand, his skin just as grimy as hers, she retreated, one eye on the elephant while regaining her wits. If they just followed the side of the big top to the front, they could disappear into the crowd that was surely pouring in by now. A good plan. Solid. And most importantly, the only one she had at the moment.
She set off, cutting Mr. Coleman a sideways glance. “Why is Carky trying to kill you? What is going on?”
He shook his head. “That is a long—”
“Save it!” She spotted Carky from the corner of her eye. The woman stood in one of the big top’s doorways, shading her eyes as she scanned the grounds, gun in her other hand, looking their way. Surely she wouldn’t take a shot in this mob and risk hitting an innocent.
Then again…
“Faster, Mr. Coleman.” Kit skirted a woman pushing a trolley of chickens stacked in crates.
Sure enough, a shot cracked through the air.
Mr. Coleman stumbled, a painful grunt competing with the scream of the chicken woman.
Oh God, no!
He wrenched from her grip, slapping his hand against his opposite upper arm.
Just as another shot rang out.
Kit tackled him an instant before a bullet whizzed over their heads.
More screams. Running feet. Chaos.
Was this it? Were they to be taken out here on a dirt path in a circus? Jackson would be furious, and Bella…sweet innocent girl…would have no mother. The same awful fate Kit had lived out her whole life.
Fury pushed her to her feet. If she were to die, then she’d meet the next bullet head-on. At least Bella would know her mother hadn’t died on her belly, face down in the dirt.
“Let’s have it, then, Carky!” she shouted. “Let everyone see…”
Her words died as her gaze skimmed the melee around her. Monkeys scampered by. Circus performers in various states of dress rushed about, voices raised, some calming animals, most heads turning to ascertain where the shots came from.
But there was no crazed woman aiming a revolver.
There was no Carky whatsoever.
Kit wheeled about at the pounding of boots. At least a dozen bluecoats ran her way—Charles Baggett leading the charge. No wonder the woman had vanished.
A moan from the ground dropped her to her knees where Mr. Coleman sat, face white as a January sky, clutching his arm. Red blossomed into a splotch on the fabric of his sleeve, but the rest of him appeared to be whole and hale.
