The Flying Circus (13 page)

“If Captain Gilchrist isn’t at the start line in time, then it’s too bad for him.”

Just as Cora rounded the fourth turn, Gil’s plane swooped low.

Henry was transported back to that day on the Fessler farm. The sight of those two machines matched against one another still set his heart racing.

It was anyone’s race. As it had been that day.

Just short of the finish, he heard Gil throttle back ever so slightly.

Cora’s string of flags snapped free and trailed her around the first curve.

“Sorry, gents!” Henry called. “Looks like our time as masters of machines has come to an end. Let’s hear it for Cora Rose, woman daredevil, faster than a man in an aeroplane.”

Henry thought he heard more daintily gloved hands clapping this time than men’s bare palms.

After Gil landed, Cora stomped up to him. “You’ll do anything to keep me out of that plane, won’t you?”

Gil looked perplexed. “You think I’d
let
you win? In front of all of these people? Concede for all men around the world?”

She smiled falsely and waved to the crowd. “Henry?”

Henry knew she couldn’t have heard the break in throttle. Gil’s stern gaze landed on him.

“You won fair and square. Now see what you can do to toss his ass off of that motorcycle. The people are waiting.”

According to Cora’s rules, the loser’s penance had a three-minute time limit. Cora used every second of it. By the end, Gil’s palms were raw and his legs black-and-blue. As she stopped to let him off, she said, “Next time I
win
a race, I’m going to think of something much more . . . damaging.” Then she gunned the engine and sped off.

The dirt sprayed both Henry and Gil.

The crowd roared.

A
t the end of that day, Cora asked Henry about the take. “A hundred and ten dollars in rides, plus fifteen extra dollars for kids on someone’s lap.”

Gil nodded. “A good day.”

“And?” Cora had quirked an eyebrow at Henry.

“And the tips are in pennies, nickels, and dimes. You’ll have to count them yourself.” Henry felt he’d owed Gil a little solidarity.

“If you and Gil each get thirty percent of the tips, you should help count.” Even as she said it, she stuck out her hand with a resigned look on her face.

Henry handed the one-pound coffee can over. It was so full a few coins slid off the top and hit the ground.

“Golly”—she hefted the weight in both hands—“people must think Mercury and I are worth something.”

“I didn’t say you two aren’t worth anything,” Gil said. “Hell, everybody loves a dog. What I
said
was, it’s impossible to charge admission when all people have to do is stand on the other side of the fence and see everything.”

“Today we could have charged for the grandstand.”

Gil groaned.

She tapped her chin. “Hey, what if we blocked off the road when we’re in a farm field? People coming to the show pay. Those traveling on through don’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gil said.

“Well, we don’t have to make it so easy for them,” Cora said. “At least we can perform in a pasture farther from a main road. We could charge people to come down the farm lane. Or”—she was almost breathless with her idea—“what about exclusively booking our act with county fairs and racetracks? They already have gates. And we’d be guaranteed a crowd.”

Henry cringed at the word
booking
. That meant something planned. Something permanent. A commitment. All things sure to set Gil off.

“No,” Gil said.

“You can’t just keep saying no without a reason. You’re not the only one in this act.”

Gil looked her in the eyes. “I can be.”

Henry finally stepped between them. “Let’s get the Jenny tied down. Then we need to get fuel out here for tomorrow.”

After they’d turned their backs, Cora rattled the coins in her can. Her version of the last word.

T
hree days later they were in yet another Illinois town that had proven fruitful enough to warrant a second day. Early in the morning Cora came dragging some scavenged boards into the pasture with the idea of Henry’s building her a ramp. There wasn’t enough lumber to build it right, so he refused. He shouldn’t have been surprised when she started to work on it herself. In the end he figured her chances of coming out in one piece were better if he constructed it, so he did.

At least Gil wasn’t around to grouse about it. He’d gotten in a dark mood—dark even for Gil—last night when one of the men from the local VFW had tried to get him to come and talk to the
veterans at the local post. Cora had tried to coax him out of his glumness, an effort that backfired completely. Soon after that he’d disappeared.

“This is a bad idea,” Henry said as he looked over his best effort with the materials he had. “It’s way too narrow and too steep.”

“It’s good enough to at least give a try. Then we can figure out how to improve it.”

“I
know
how to improve it. No need to risk your neck.”

“I’ll take it slow and easy.”

“It’s a ramp. Slow and easy will just land your front wheel first and you’re guaranteed a crash. You have to hit the ground rear-wheel first—both level at the very least.”

“I know that.”

He looked at her. “But did you before I said it?”

“Good Lord, Henry, I’ve spent every day for over two months on that motorbike. I know how to handle it. Besides, today’s my birthday. Even Mother lets me have my way on my birthday.”

Henry had almost forgotten about celebrating birthdays. Ever since Peter had left, Henry’s had passed unnoticed by him or anyone else. The last one that counted, Henry’s tenth, Peter had made a cake that had fallen apart when he’d taken it out of the pan. He’d poured icing all over the broken-up pile, and he and Henry had eaten the entire thing right off the serving plate in one sitting.

“Well, happy birthday, Cora. I’ll take you to a bakery for a cake later. But right now I’ll take the first run at that ramp.”

“Bushwa!” He didn’t know why she thought saying that was any better than saying
bullshit
outright. “It’s my stunt. What good does it do me to know
you
can do it?”

He’d been through this argument enough to know it was pointless. The first time had been when he’d tried to switch with her when they traveled from town to town. A woman alone out on the road was just foolish. She’d stuck to her guns, accusing Henry of trying to give Gil a reason to boot her from “the team.” When he’d appealed to Gil, he’d gotten, “She’s woman enough to live up to her bargain. No special
treatment.” It had taken two weeks before Henry’s gut had grown accustomed to the wait for her safe arrival.

She handed Mercury over. Then she rode the motorcycle to the far end of the pasture.

Henry shouted, “Be sure and hit it square!” She waved, but he doubted she’d heard him.

When she revved the engine, Henry’s pulse accelerated, too. The longer they were together, the more stunts she did, the more nervous he got for her. It seemed counter to logic.

She raced across the field. It was too rough for a stunt like this, even with a decent ramp.

Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

Her approach angle was off!

She swerved at the last second, racing past the ramp.

Henry waved her to come back, but she rode to the far end of the pasture again.

As Henry watched with a dust-dry mouth, she came at it again. Better approach.

Twenty feet. Ten. Five.

She hit the ramp square and was airborne. The engine whined high. Henry had a flash of her unmoving body floating facedown in that pond.
I can’t lose you now.

She landed on the front wheel. The handlebars jerked to the side. The bike got sideways and slid out from under her. She hit the ground and rolled like a rag doll.

“Cora!” Henry set the dog down and ran, his heart in his throat.

She was on her side, facing away from him. The motorcycle engine chugged to a stop.

He slid the last three feet on his knees.

Just as he reached her, she rolled onto her back. “Uuuuugggghhhhh.”

She was blinking under raised brows, as if trying to get her vision to clear.

“Hold still!”

Mercury lay down and put his face next to hers and laid his head on his paws. His questioning brown eyes shifted between Henry and Cora.

“I’m . . . I . . . I’m all right.” She blew out a breath that puffed her cheeks.

“How do you know? Your eyeballs haven’t stopped rattling around in your head yet.”

She started to sit up.

He grabbed her shoulders and held her down. “Hold on.” He needed a minute to get his heart tapped back down into his chest.

That she lay back without a bunch of sass told him just how shaken up she was. He unbuckled and pulled off her leather helmet, then explored her head for lumps with his fingertips. From there he checked her neck, arms, and legs, running his hands over her limbs, gently checking flexibility and probing for broken bones.

“See? Fine,” she said, seeming to get some of her starch back.

Mercury inched closer and licked her cheek.

“Unzip your jacket.”

“Why, Henry, you rascal . . .”

He rolled his eyes. “I want to check your ribs.”

“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard from a fella trying to get in some heavy petting.”

“Shut up.” But now that she’d said that, when he put his hands on her midsection and ran them over her sides, all he could think of was the way she’d looked in that wet blouse. When he pushed that image away, the sight of her in her fancy dance dress crept right in and took up residence in his head. “This hurt?” He gave her sides a squeeze.

She kicked her legs and swatted his hands away. “Tickles.”

At that he pronounced her intact enough to get up.

“How’s the motorcycle?” she asked as he helped her slowly to her feet.

She wobbled. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest. “Just stand here for a second.” He pressed his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes. After all of his years alone, he’d forgotten how good holding another person could feel.

She pulled away slightly and looked up at him. “You’re shaking.” Touching his cheek, she said, “And white as a ghost.”

Mercury jumped up and gave a bark. It brought Henry back to his senses before he lost his mind completely and kissed her. There were a hundred reasons why he couldn’t let that happen.

Letting her go, he said, “I get a little shaken up watching bullheaded recklessness resulting in near death.”

She blinked and the soft kiss-me look left her eyes. “You’re being melodramatic. I wasn’t even hurt.”

“Keep doing stupid crap like this and your luck will run out.”

“The ramp worked! I just needed more speed and to shift my weight a little more.”

“No. No. No. No more on this ramp. You’ll have to wait until we can build a proper one.”

“If we spend money on it, we’ll want to knock it down and take it with us. And we can’t do that without a truck.”

This kind of talk always led to the flint-and-steel sparks between her and Gil. Expand. More exciting stunts. More daring exhibitions. She sang that song morning and night. Some of her ideas were crazy, sure, but a lot of them were good. But Henry was the only man balancing the canoe, so he had to act accordingly. He’d grown accustomed to his role as referee and peacemaker, quietly nudging Gil this way and Cora that. But he had a growing feeling Gil had just about hit his limit. Henry feared the next clash would spell doom for their partnership.

Reason 101 why he couldn’t let himself fall for Cora.

G
il returned just before showtime, looking like a man who’d spent his night making love to a bottle of bootleg. Henry wanted to take the man by the shoulders and give him a solid shake, one that would no doubt send Gil’s hungover head off his shoulders. If people saw him like this, their show was doomed. Goddammit, didn’t he know what was at stake?

It hit Henry just then. Gil didn’t
care
. None of this mattered to him.

For some reason that made Henry angrier. He gritted his teeth and breathed deeply before he did something that would just make things worse.

Gil probably wouldn’t even have noticed the ramp if Cora hadn’t marched right up to him and said, “Don’t even waste your breath trying to kill this idea. It’s going to be a great draw. I’m thinking of raising the Flaming Arch so I can vault from the ramp right through it.”

For crying out loud.
They weren’t even incorporating the ramp yet, let alone adding fire to it. Did she think getting a preemptive volley in was some sort of achievement in itself?

The truth was, Gil didn’t usually actively object if additions were quietly incorporated; approval by abstention. But for some reason Cora felt the need to go after everything head-to-head. For a woman with a fancy education and fine social graces, she sure didn’t grasp the concept of finesse. Or maybe she just liked fighting. Henry couldn’t tell for sure.

Gil stared at her with bloodshot eyes. Before he gathered his ammunition for a return barrage, Henry stepped between them. “You look like hell. We need to get you cleaned up. You’re intimidating enough to the customers without this added air of . . . degenerate drunkard.” He nudged Gil toward their camp setup. “I left water by your shaving kit.”

After Gil walked away, taking the fumes of residual alcohol with him, Cora asked, “Why do you always step in like that?”

“Why do you always want to fight?”

Cora looked momentarily startled by the biting anger in Henry’s voice. She seemed to weigh her options. Then Henry saw belligerence win over good sense. “You
never
want to go against him. Why?”

The show was in less than a half hour. Someone had to put an end to this foolishness.

“He’s been nice to me.” He sounded like the pathetic orphan he once was.

“Well, isn’t that just ducky. I suppose I haven’t? Honestly, what has Flyboy done for you, other than keep you from your job in Chicago?”

She referred to that job as if it lived in the same universe as unicorns. Which was pretty darned accurate.