Thinking quickly, Cecily cast through her memory for characters who might fit such a vague description. Who on earth would take such a creature as Tamar for a lover? Whom would she pursue?
Who but one equally as bizarre? Not the dwarf, surely. The albino clown, perhaps—
No. The answer was evident. Which trouper had taken such a strangely personal interest in Athena that first day on the lot? Who had been standing so close, so protectively, to Athena’s chair as if he had some special right?
“Morgan Holt,” she said. “It is him, isn’t it?”
Tamar hissed. “He is my wolf. Mine alone. She will not have him.”
Her wolf? Of course. The Wolf-Man. Morgan Holt is the Wolf-Man!
And he had set his sights on Athena.
Cecily smiled. “Let me be sure that we understand one another. You will act on my behalf to keep the girl away from Mr. Munroe, and I will do what I can—within reason, of course—to do the same with Athena and Morgan Holt.”
“Then we understand each other.” Tamar glanced toward the tent. “Use what I have told you. You will tell me where to send messages when I learn that which is of interest to us both. And you will help me when the time is right.”
“Unless, of course, I persuade Mr. Munroe to do as he originally intended, and send your circus away. Then we shall both have what we want with no further trouble.”
Tamar inclined her head. “I shall be most curious to see if you succeed.”
Cecily found a bit of paper and a pencil in her chatelaine bag and wrote out her address. A definite risk to trust this creature, but she was confident that she could control their partnership. If not, she might as well pack her bags and leave Denver tomorrow.
She passed the folded paper to Tamar and quickly withdrew her hand. “Send a message to me if you learn anything more of use, but be discreet. If you cause me embarrassment, I can assure you that it will become most unpleasant.”
“Threats?” Tamar laughed, a husky rattle from deep in her throat, like scales against stone. “I, too, can make threats. But it is better not to be enemies, no? Go to your fine lover before it is too late.”
She turned and, with a swing of her hips, left Cecily alone to consider the wisdom of pacts with the devil.
The white-haired doctor put his implements, bottles, and bandages away in his bag and shook his head. Morgan knew that no one else was meant to see the gesture; he glanced at Athena in the chair beside him. She had missed it. Caitlin had not.
“It is so bad then, Doctor?” the equestrienne said, grinning crookedly. “Must I start planning my funeral?”
The old man glanced at Niall Munroe, who crouched at Caitlin’s other side. He had hovered over the girl ever since his return with the physician, as possessive as a puma with a fresh kill. Munroe probably didn’t think anyone noticed that, either.
“Perhaps we should speak in private, Miss Hughes,” the doctor said.
“These are my friends,” Caitlin said, bravely ignoring her pain. “I am not afraid for them to hear.”
The doctor sighed. “Very well. As I told you before, your leg is broken. I have done what I can to set and stabilize it with a plaster of Paris cast, but time must do the healing. It is my considered opinion that you must have several months of complete bed rest if you ever wish to walk again. If you do not, I fear that you will be permanently—” He hesitated, looking from Niall to Athena.
“Please speak frankly, Dr. Brenner,” Athena said. “I am not afraid to hear the truth.” She reached down and squeezed Caitlin’s finger. “Dr. Brenner has been our physician for many years. I trust his judgment completely. That is why you must do exactly as he says and have rest in a quiet place where you can be properly cared for.”
An expectant hush fell over the group. Morgan stared at Niall, bracing for his reaction when Athena proposed her scheme for Caitlin’s recovery. He moved an inch or two closer to Athena, his hip against her chair. Not quite touching her, oh, no; if he were to touch her now, after what had happened in her bedroom, he didn’t know what he might do.