Chapter One

 

South Dakota 1870’s

“Is he here tonight?” Tess asked frantically, too nervous to peek through the striped canvas curtain.

“Yeah, in the front row like the last two nights,” Louie said.

Tess leaned down to put herself at eye level with the little be-whiskered juggler. “Who is he?”

“Nathan Montgomery, he owns a saloon, The Black Garter, in Deadwood,” Louie said.

Dressed in diaphanous harem pants with a matching bolero top of pale blue trimmed with gold lace, Tess gnawed at her fingertips. “I…I don’t think I can perform tonight with him watching.”

“The show must go on,” Louie said. “No matter how we feel about Rolf dying, he always said that. We’ll be heading to Londrigan next week, and the likes of Nathan Montgomery won’t travel too far away from the fleshpots of Deadwood if I’m any judge.”

She hoped so. Please, God, she inwardly prayed. Make him go away. She didn’t know why the dark haired man with the vivid blue eyes disturbed her. She put it down to the shock of Rolf’s death, but deep down knew it was something more.

Nathan Montgomery was a rich, powerful man. Hatred of his kind churned in her breast as memories, suppressed for over three years, suddenly surfaced. A shaft of cold fear shot down her spinal column.

She took several deep, steadying breaths and willed her hands to stop trembling. She couldn’t let the circus down; she owed it to Rolf’s memory. He had saved her life, given her a home, and treated her like a daughter.

She scrubbed at a wayward tear. Thankfully, Grenadier, the white stallion she rode, knew the routine as well as she did. Putting two fingers into her mouth, she emitted a low whistle and within seconds her loyal steed appeared in the mounting yard behind the striped canvas curtain. Vince followed a step or two behind. He was a swarthy, overweight gypsy who she detested and feared. His black hair hung in dirty rattails around his neck and she shuddered with revulsion. How could Rolf have such a horrible nephew?

She put her foot into his cupped hands and mounted Grenadier. Her flesh crawled when he ran his hand up and down her leg. She gritted her teeth to stop herself from slapping the leering, lecherous smirk off his face. And he thought she would marry the likes of him? No decent man would want a soiled dove like me. They only wanted virgin brides, but she would rather be an old maid than let Vince paw her.