It wasn’t until he was almost there that he realized he had been walking toward that very tent. He stopped, considering retreat. This was not his world, or his business.
But his sudden impulse to help demanded that he find someone to accept his generosity. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and examined the contents. A hundred dollars would be more than adequate.
A head poked through the tent flap. It was crowned by an untidy cap of curly red hair, and the face beneath was attached to the young woman he had followed.
She stared at him, nonplussed. He tipped his hat.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but have I the pleasure of addressing one of the performers of this establishment?”
The girl burst into laughter. “You talk like Ulysses. Who are you?”
It was his turn to be taken aback. That she could laugh at such a time amazed him, but her bluntness was astounding.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “My name is Niall Munroe. I could not help but notice the damage you have suffered as the result of the fire—”
“Did you?” She stepped fully from the tent, and he got his first good look at her. His initial impression had been correct: she was slight, boyishly slim in an oversized coat, and elfin in size and bearing, but her eyes were bright and her smile dazzling. “And why should you care, Niall Munroe?”
Indeed. He thought once more of walking away, but her eyes held him rooted to the spot. “I had thought to offer my assistance,” he said stiffly, “but if you have no use for it, Miss—”
“Hughes. Caitlin Hughes. And I still wonder why a towny should care what happens to people like us.”
Towny. She spoke the word like an epithet. He drew himself up to his considerably greater height. “In Denver, it is customary for the fortunate to assist those who are less so. When I noted the degree of your misfortune, I hardly thought that you would be likely to reject any offer of help.”
“Oh.” She widened her eyes. “I understand. You are a very rich man from the big city, and you wish to give us charity.”
He slammed his hat back on his head. “I see I have offended you, so I will be on my way—”
“No. Wait.” She bit her full lower lip and sighed. “I’m—we are not very used to townies offering help. Most of the time, they—” She broke off. “You’ll have to speak to Harry.”
“Harry?”
“He is the manager and owner. I’m sure he’d be very happy to see you, Mr. Munroe.”
He had the absurd desire to ask her to call him Niall. “I would be obliged, Miss Hughes.”
She flushed, raising freckles on her pale skin. He wondered again how he could possibly find such a ragamuffin attractive.
Caitlin looked up the long, slim length of the gentleman and cursed herself for an idiot. She knew as well as anyone that the troupe was in dire straits, even if she pretended otherwise for Harry’s sake. If some towny wanted to offer help, who was she to say no? Even if all of the alarm bells in her head were going off at once.
Yet, she had to admit, this fellow was no ordinary towny. He was dressed like someone with a great deal of money. He carried himself like a prince. He was handsome, in a cold sort of way. And he looked at her with a strange intensity she couldn’t ignore.
Morgan had that intensity. But when he looked at her, she saw only a friend. She felt no prickling in her belly, nor heat in her cheeks.
“I’ll tell him that you have come,” she said, retreating quickly into the tent.
“Back so soon?” Harry said, looking up from the chaos of ledgers and papers he had salvaged from the office wagon. His face was drawn and haggard. “What is it, Firefly?”
“There is a man outside—a towny—who… well, as peculiar as it seems, he wishes to help us.”
“Indeed?” Harry pursued his lips. “That is peculiar. Well, send him in, by all means!”
Caitlin nodded and went outside to Niall Munroe. He was fidgeting, something she hadn’t expected to see in such a dignified gentleman. It made him seem more human, somehow.