The calliope suddenly began to play, but only for a moment. Then the fire destroyed the mechanism.
Finney and Jack ran up, their bare feet pounding on the street. They looked on sadly. “There goes the old Wonder Show,” Finney said solemnly. “There’ll never be another one like it.”
Jack nodded grave agreement as Rose and the girls arrived, chattering and making horrified faces.
The word spread quickly through the crowd: “Everyone was killed. Everyone except those two over there by the Model-T.” Exactly where the information had originated no one was sure, but it was too terrible not to pass on. Rose heard it and frost seemed to form on her skin.
Kelsey Armstrong!
The images she had succeeded in banishing from her mind returned, Kelsey Armstrong’s demanding mouth on hers, his hard arms around her, his naked body against hers. She felt an ache in her thighs and a hollow pit in her stomach. Then the heat of relief melted the frost and eased the ache. Now no one would ever know. The thought had nagged at her. What if Kelsey had told someone? What if he had told the other men at the tent show? What if all six of them had wanted her? What if they had crept around her house, calling her in the night? Now she was safe, now he would never tell, no one would ever find out.
Haverstock and Louis stood beside the black Model-T Ford. Haverstock watched the flames, his face complacent, the fury gone. But Louis had no eyes for the flames. Instead he watched the other man with speculation.
Across the street, behind old Miss Sullivan’s trumpet vine, Henry and Tim watched also.
Then, finally, the storm broke. Wind scattered the people like brown leaves. They scurried to their homes and storm cellars, clutching robes that threatened to whip away. Thunder blasted the cooling air, making the ground tremble. Lightning ripped the sky and lanced to the ground. A bolt found the Redwines’ native rock fence. A section of it disintegrated with a percussion that woke everyone who had managed to sleep through the fire bell.
Evelyn Bradley sat up in bed, not knowing what woke her. She went downstairs to check on Angel and found him sleeping soundly. She climbed the stairs and went back to bed.
The wind whipped the fire and scattered burning embers for a hundred yards to the north. Children scampered about in shrill excitement, stamping them out. Old Miss Sullivan raced around in her flannel nightgown, swinging her broom and swearing like a field hand.
Henry and Tiny Tim huddled behind the trumpet vine-covered trellis.
“We gotta find Angel and get out of here,” Tim said impatiently.
“But we don’t know where the doctor’s house is,” Henry said petulantly. “If we go looking for it now, somebody will see us. People are running all over the place.”
“We can’t just leave him there. What’ll he do when he wakes up in the morning? We may never find him if he goes off on his own. But Haverstock probably will.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about him going off on his own. Not as long as the girl is around.”
“You can’t be sure. She might’ve done what you said and gone home.”
Henry shook his head. “Not a chance. Our Miss Bradley is smitten. I know exactly where Angel will be tomorrow. Come on.”
They left the trumpet vine sanctuary, circled behind the old grist mill, and waded across Crooked Creek.
The citizens of Hawley cheered sarcastically when the fire truck arrived. Harley Overcash waved his grease-stained hands and explained to anyone who would listen that he hadn’t been able to get it started. Then when they got the hose going, the wind blew most of the water back on the crowd.
Rose Willet held her fluttering robe together with one hand and her hair with the other. The other girls were scattered up and down the street, some of them hurrying back to the house and others lingering at the fire.
Rose was passing the ice house when she thought she heard her name. It was only the wind, she thought. She heard it again and turned, squinting against the wind. Kelsey Armstrong stood in the shadows, beckoning to her. Joy and terror sang duets in her blood. He wasn’t dead; she wasn’t safe after all. Fear and desire mingled with the memories of him.
She walked slowly to him, forgetting her robe, forgetting her hair. He pulled her into his arms.
“They said you were dead,” she said dully.
“I was at the gin, waiting for you,” he said, hugging her to him.
“I told you I wouldn’t come.”
“I know. I took a chance you might change your mind.”
“They said you were dead.”
“I love you, Rose.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I love you, Rose. Come with me tonight.”
“No. No, I can’t.” She pulled away from him, but he still held her shoulders. “My father…”
“Damn your father.”
“No. My father would kill us.”
“Remember last night. Remember how good it was.”
“I remember.”
“We’re right for each other, Rose. We would have a wonderful life together.”
“No. My father…”
“Stop using your father as an excuse.”
Her face twisted “There’s no future with you.”
“There’s love and happiness.”
“I want more than that.”
“What more is there? Love and happiness is everything.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I’m young, Rose. I’m only twenty-two. I’m strong and I’m not stupid. I can be anything you want me to be. Please, Rose, come with me.”
“You’re too strong, Kelsey,” she said, her throat so tight she could hardly speak. “I’m afraid. Please. Go away.” She backed away from him. “Go away, Kelsey. Pm afraid.” She turned and ran down the street. She ignored the wind, did not notice that it ruined her carefully marcelled hair, did not mind that it billowed her robe and pasted her nightgown to her legs.
Kelsey watched her until she was out of sight. He felt a great hollow in his body and a weakness in his limbs. Then he went to the railroad tracks, intending to hop the next freight.
Baby Sis Redwine watched the fire from her upstairs bedroom window and wondered if she should go help. But there already seemed to be a hundred people running around down there. She decided she could contribute little but more confusion and, besides, the fire truck had finally arrived. Then she heard something above the crackle of the thunder and the roar of the wind.
Muttering, she put a pair of overalls on over her nightgown and got the shotgun from the closet.
“What’s the matter?” her mother asked. She had come into Sis’s room to watch the fire; her room was on the other side of the house.
“Something’s in the chicken house.”
She rushed from the room, her nightgown hanging out the sides of her overalls. Her mother tottered after her.
The wind caught the screen door and slammed it back against the wall. The lightning left white streaks floating before Sis’s eyes. She waddled across the porch and down the steps, listening to the panicky chickens cackle and squawk and flap.
Her mother ran after her, frantically holding her robe down with one hand as it threatened to blow over her head, and clutching the bannister with the other to keep from being blown off her feet.
Sis opened the chicken house door and looked in, holding the shotgun in readiness. The wind filled the air with feathers. The cacophony hurt her ears, but she could see a dark shape moving the storm of flapping, screeching chickens.
She raised the shotgun and fired. The tin roof rang like a bell and an unearthly squawk filled the chicken house. Lightning flashed and Sis stepped back, holding the gun in numb fingers.