He kicked his horse into a brief but satisfying canter that carried him to the farthest outbuilding. Smoke rose in dark plumes from several chimneys, and he noted that there was considerably more activity among the circus people than he had seen before. People and animals moved to and fro. Wagons stood in the half shelter of buildings, and men were loading the vehicles in preparation for a journey.
Niall could not mistake what he saw. The circus was getting ready to leave the ranch, livestock, tents, and all. Was Harry French mad, or simply an idiot?
Or had he guessed that the troupers wouldn’t be welcome at Long Park after the display in Athena’s bedroom? In that, at least, he wasn’t wrong. Niall had been too angry at Cecily’s revelation to consider what he would tell French when he arrived. He might have decided to let the circus stay—except for Morgan Holt.
But if they had already chosen to run, well…
His horse attempted to head for the barn, and Niall pulled it about toward the main house. He dismounted at the steps to the wide, snow-blanketed veranda. A ranch hand conveniently appeared to take the animal to a stall, and Niall ran up the stairs and through the front door with hardly a pause to kick the snow from his boots.
After the noise and bustle outside, the house was very quiet. Niall paused in the parlor to consider his course of action. Morgan might be here, or he might already be gone. Harry French wasn’t likely to reveal the truth either way.
Nor was Caitlin. Yet his feet inevitably carried him down the hall as if she had lifted her voice in a siren’s call, summoning him to destruction.
He opened the door to her room as silently as he could. She was there, in her bed. He had half expected to find her on her feet, no longer compelled to keep up the pretense of serious injury. But she was quite alone, plucking at the edge of her blanket with nimble, nervous fingers. Worried, he thought. Worried about my sister—and Holt.
He slammed the door shut. Caitlin jerked and turned to stare at him, and he noticed for the thousandth time the way her freckles only added to her allure instead of decreasing it. The way her hair seemed to blaze in any kind of light, as if illuminated from within. The way her eyes…
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Where is Athena?”
He laughed. It was no better a welcome than he had expected.
“Athena is safely at home,” he said, walking toward the bed. “Where she will remain. I am… grateful to see you looking so well, Miss Hughes.”
“You do not look well at all,” she said, studying him with a frown. “You must have left Denver almost as soon as you got back. Did you ride all night?”
Was that worry in her voice? “Aren’t you interested in the reason I returned so quickly?”
She settled back on her mounded pillows with a false air of nonchalance. “I do not even try to guess what may be passing through your mind, Niall Munroe.”
“And you are a liar.” He found a chair and pulled it alongside the bed. “But I’ll tell you anyway. Where is Morgan Holt?”
She showed no surprise at his question, and he wondered how much she really knew. “I have no idea. We haven’t seen him since you left. You should be glad that he’s gone—” She narrowed her eyes. “Or aren’t you?”
“It depends upon whether or not I wish to see a killer run loose.”
That caught her attention. She straightened, holding his gaze with eyes as frank and fearless as a child’s. But this was no child… far, far from it. “Are you calling Morgan a killer, even though he had the chance to hurt you and didn’t?”
“I’m calling him what he is,” Niall snapped. “I’m surprised you are so sanguine about having such a creature in your midst, you and French… and yet you defended him. Encouraged him—”
“Even though he is not quite human?” She smiled, and her eyes crinkled at the edges. “I sometimes think he is more human than anyone I know.”