CHAPTER1
Cincinnati, Ohio
August 1880
MANY DIME NOVELISTS EXPERIENCED CREATIVEblocks to their writing, but Lydia Pelton doubted any of them would stoop to impersonating a clown and rescuing a three-legged goat from the circus to overcome them. A wise decision on their part, no doubt. Letting Theresa convince her this was the best solution to both of their problems bordered on lunacy. Not only had they abandoned their corsets and skirts for—Lord, forgive them—oversized trousers and red shirtwaists, but they’d concocted the most ridiculous plan of extracting a bleating goat from the circus. At night. When everything was quiet and calm.
They were fools. The stench of the outhouses they hid behind only confirmed it.
Theresa tugged on Lydia’s shirtsleeve and pointed between the wooden buildings toward the lantern light of the circus grounds’ guard.
If he adhered to the same path as last time, he’d exit from between the colored tents, then meander toward the big tent—the opposite direction of the menagerie.
Lydia scratched at the tacky white paint on her face and watched the light grow brighter.Please don’t let this go like I’d write it.
He exited and proceeded just as expected.
Good. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a catastrophe. After all, if she’d written this, the guard would have visited the necessary and discovered them. It was a perfect plot device for fiction. Not so much for real life.
Lydia leaned in toward Theresa to keep her voice low. “It’s not too late. We should leave now before we’re caught.”
“Don’t be such a coward. You’re a Guardian, and Guardians do not leave the defenseless in the hands of such negligent brutes.”
They might be Guardians, but half of their group were tucked in bed in their homes, like reasonable people. Besides, the oath they’d made during their school days to protect the defenseless hadn’t been meant to extend to animals, but that was Theresa for you. She couldn’t abide the abuse of man or beast—even if that beast were a three-legged goat owned by the Adam Beadle Circus. Lydia should have called on Nora and Flossie for help with her creative block. Maybe then she wouldn’t be in this impossible position with Theresa.
“What if we’re caught?”
Theresa readjusted the cone-shaped hat over the tight bun on top of her head. “With as often as I’ve evaded Grandfather’s and Mrs. Hawking’s supervision—tonight included—you have nothing to be concerned about. Just follow my lead. Now come on. Tipsy needs us.”
She darted to the nearest tent, leaving Lydia to debate her next action in the shadows.
Just because you would pen this as a complete disaster doesn’t mean that’s how it will happen. Just pretend you’re one of your heroines. Or better yet, Billy Poe.
The hero detective of her crime novels embodied bravery, determination, cunning, and strength. To accomplish this rescue mission, she’d take on his persona, not a damsel-in-distress heroine making stupid choices that placed her in danger. Granted, she was making a stupid decision now, but friends did stupid things for each other, right?
Lydia sprinted to Theresa’s side.
The odor of the watchman’s cigarette lingered in the air, but no one else wandered about. They dashed from one tent to the next, pausing at each one to ensure the path remained clear. Once they reached the menagerie tent, Lydia rubbed her palms over her coarse trousers and forced slow, quiet breaths. The next time she wrote a scene where someone sneaked around, she’d remember to include descriptions of sweaty palms, thumping heartbeats, and breaths held until dizzy for fear of being heard. No experience could go wasted. Not even something as absurd as rescuing a goat from the circus.
Theresa had better appreciate how much Lydia valued their friendship.
Muttered conversations and rumbling snores indicated they were close to the compact village of caravan wagons and sleeping tents. Much too close. Based on how many wagons she’d seen earlier, Adam Beadle must employ nearly one hundred people. It would take only one person to spot her or Theresa and sound the alarm.
This was their last chance to reconsider.
She crouched next to where Theresa struggled to lift the canvas bottom from between the tent pegs. “We should leave. It’s too risky right now.”
Her friend scowled. “The last show is tomorrow. It’s tonight or never.”
“Never sounds good.”
Theresa dropped the canvas and planted her fists on her hips. “Neither the Guardians nor a Plane abandons a battle plan when a life is at stake. Tipsy will die if we don’t rescue her.”
“If we get caught—”
“They’ll assume we’re clowns.”
No, they wouldn’t. Clowns weremen, and a blind person could see there was nothing masculine about either one of them. Theresa, with her small chest and petite features, might pull off the appearance of a young boy, but Lydia had curves that no amount of binding cloth could hide. Add her thick black mass of curly hair that couldn’t be stuffed inside a muck bucket, much less the triangular little hat tilting to one side on her head, and no one could deny it. She was a woman.
