The Law and Miss Penny (9 page)

Agreed, seconded, and carried, she thought to herself. The man was not working out the way she thought he would. But still hoping for a miracle, Mariah kept those concerns to herself and helped Cain out of his shirt.

Trying to help him out of his sour mood as well, she said, "Don't be so hard on yourself. You've probably just got a little case of stage fright. Everyone in the business gets a squirrelly stomach now and again, even after years and years of putting on shows. You'll do just fine."

Over his muttered doubts, Mariah tore open the smallest package and withdrew a white dress shirt. As she slipped the cuffs over his wrists and drew the garment up to his shoulders, she couldn't help but notice the way the silk fabric whispered against his naked skin and how the muscles of his back rippled as he shrugged into the new shirt. It reminded her of the way he'd looked down at the river a few days past, and Mariah found she had to turn away and pause a moment in order to catch her breath and her wits.

When she'd collected herself, she tore into the other package and handed Cain his new coat and hat. As he finished dressing, she gathered up the shredded paper and tossed it out the door.

"Well," Cain said a few moments later. "Here he stands. The one... the only... Brother Law—impostor extraordinaire."

At the self-ridicule she clearly heard in those words, Mariah slowly turned to find Cain standing in the center of the aisle. His hands were clasped at his waist in pious, mock humility, his full mouth turned down in a grimace. A beam of morning light shone in through the back door to land on this fictitious cousin of hers, illuminating his features with an unnatural radiance.

Cain still wore his own boots and jeans, but with the addition of the gleaming white shirt, knee-length frock coat of fine black broadcloth, and flat-brimmed hat of charcoal felt, the man was positively dazzling. Mariah's throat went dry. Had she once thought of him as less than handsome?

At her look of consternation, Cain's already deep frown slid into a scowl. "Between this stupid hat and preacher's coat, I must look like an Amish farmer without a crop to plow."

Mariah shook her head. "No, no you don't. In fact, you look great. Turn around."

"Seems like a waste of time, but all right."

Cain spun in a slow, careful circle, giving Mariah a clear view of the way the coat hugged him across his broad shoulders, then tapered in at the waist and hips. Zack had chosen precisely the correct size and cut for the lawman, and the fit was perfect.

When he'd completed the circle, again Cain linked his fingers at the waist, but this time, his expression was anything but humble. "I think by now it should be fairly obvious to us both—I'm not much good as Brother Law, and all the preacher clothing in the world isn't going to change that fact. Go ahead and say it. I simply won't do."

Mariah ignored his words and looked him over instead, beyond the new clothing and "honest Abe" beard, to discover that most of the harsh lines around his mouth had faded, and that his dark green eyes exuded none of their previous malevolence. He would more than "do," she thought, forgetting herself for a moment. In fact, he exuded a certain charisma, a forthright and upstanding facade, but at the same time, he fairly glistened with a frank sensuality that set her pulse to thundering and her heart racing to keep up with the flow.

"I—you look exactly the way you ought to, Cain." She swallowed hard. "And don't worry your head none about your part in the show. You'll do just fine. Why don't you go on out back now and preen your feathers for Zack and Oda. I have to get into my greasepaint and costume now."

"Not yet." His voice was soft, more of a croon than a growl. He sat back down on the mattress and patted the spot beside him. "Come here a minute."

"We don't really have time for yakking just now, Cousin Cain. Oda's fretting to get to town."

He captured her wrist and pulled her down beside him. "She can wait a little longer. We have to talk now."

Mariah raised her chin and looked him full in the face. His eyes weren't entirely green, she noticed, but shot through with shards of amber. Gemlike.

Although she was gawking at him, her lips parted and moist, Cain cleared his throat and went on. "I'm not ready to take part in this show, and I don't think I ever will be. I thought it best to let you know that before we head into town."

"Umm . . . really?" she managed to say, even though she'd become a creature of pure sensation, not logic. All she really cared about at that moment was the fact that their knees were touching. Actually, just the fabric of his jeans had brushed against her muslin skirt, but the heat generated in that brief contact was almost enough to put Mariah into a swoon. She laughed, the sound oddly girlish to her own ears. "You're much too hard on yourself, Cousin Cain. All you need is a little more rehearsal and—"

"What I need," he said, finishing her sentence with a candor that surprised him, "is to believe in the products."

"The products?" She blinked, trying to understand what he meant. "I don't follow you."

"I'm talking about your medicines. It seems to me that in order to perform as Brother Law, I should at least be able to pretend I like Kickapoo Wizard Oil."

She laughed again, this time sounding more like herself. "Is that what this is all about?"

He gave her an awkward shrug by way of an answer.

"Oh, Cousin Cain." She slapped his knee, and then left her hand to rest there. "You don't have to actually take any of our medicines if you don't want to—except, of course, for Number Twenty. You might want a dose of Zack's compound now and then for the black-draught effect, but other than that, you seem healthy enough without the rest."

At her touch, that familiar tightening grew to uncomfortable proportions. Cain lifted Mariah's hand from his knee and dropped it between their bodies. It was a snug fit; her knuckles pressed up against his thigh. The change of position didn't do much to relieve the tension coiled in his gut, but he went ahead with what he had to say. "Black draught. Isn't that just—"

"It's a purgative known to clean you out and then some. That's why Zachariah's Compound is so popular. We make it with black draught, Epsom salts, a little cake coloring, and a healthy dose of Zack's old moonshine. It's supposed to perk a body right up."

"Moonshine, huh?" He shook his head. "I think you just made my point for me, Mariah. I don't seem to have it in me to go around selling worthless 'medicine' to folks who barely have enough money to put shoes on their feet. I just can't hawk this... this glorified moonshine the way you want me to. I think it'd be best for us all if I, well, if maybe I just... you know."

She did. Cain didn't have to say the words. Mariah could almost finish the sentence for him. She saw it in his expression and in the nervous way he'd linked his fingers, tenting and flattening them over and over. He was thinking of parting company with the medicine show. Forever. And at that moment, Mariah didn't know which disturbed her the most: his low opinion of her family's business, or the fact he wanted to move on.

Calling her carefully prepared elixirs "glorified moonshine" brought out her fighting side, but the thought of Cain's leaving the show made her heart kind of freeze up and then resume beating with a vengeance, bumping against her ribs with what felt like enough force to crack them. Maybe, she reasoned, if she could explain her medicines to his liking, both of her problems would be solved.

Mariah reached across the aisle to take a tin of her father's Magic Corn Salve from the lower shelf. "Zack makes this ointment with collodion, camphor gum, sassafras root, and a couple other ingredients known only to him. More often than not, it works, but even when it doesn't actually help to remove the corn, it at least soothes the pain to a more bearable level."

"Selling me on the worthiness of your father's salve isn't going to—"

"Please," she said, cutting him off. "Let me finish what I have to say. I understand some of your doubts, especially if you've had occasion to run across a few of the less-than-honest operations roaming the countryside these days." She glanced at the tin of salve, and then tossed it in Cain's lap. "Did you know that better than half of the farmers who think they have corns have nothing wrong with their feet but dirt calluses from wearing boots with cracks and holes in them?"

"No, I can't say that I did know that."

Catching the sparkle in his eye and the levity in his voice, she relaxed and went on. "I don't mean to go into the whole spiel, but I do want you to understand how hard we try to be a legitimate troupe. A lot of traveling medicine shows do sell these poor farmers nothing but boiled-down soap wrapped up in little papers with a label glued to it. But if a fellow actually follows instructions—-soak your feet for ten minutes and rub this bar of salve on the corn—well, he'd be cured for life."

Laughing, Cain said, "Oh, Mariah; I wish you could see the color of your face right now. If you can just keep it that shade for a few more hours, you won't be needing your greasepaint today."

She blushed, deepening the rosy hue that swept over her cheeks. "I'm sorry for getting so worked up. I suppose the whole family has been a little defensive since we quit working for the Healy and Bigelow Kickapoo Indian Medicine Company and went off on our own. I'm not saying that organization is crooked exactly, but they have close to a hundred troupes touring the countryside in their name from here to the East Coast, and they can't watch over all of them. Let me just say that several of those operations are a little on the shady side. Perhaps you're confusing our show with one of theirs."

Cain really had no way of knowing what memories had prompted his distrust of Zack's medicine show, but Mariah's explanation seemed perfectly reasonable. Except for one little thing. His expression more of a smirk than anything, he touched her cheek as he said, "Don't you think smearing greasepaint all over your face and fooling the public into believing that you're a Kickapoo princess is just a little on the shady side?"

So proud was she of her business ethics, down to and including the small deception she practiced with her identity, Mariah would have answered that question in an instant at any other time. But she found she couldn't speak, not with Cain's fingers still brushing her cheek, heating her through and through. Was this a normal reaction? How could something so insignificant, the mere touch of his fingertips—the pads a little rough, yet somehow smooth and silky, too—affect her so intensely? Mariah almost swooned as she imagined those hands dipping lower, caressing her throat, then moving lower still to—no. She had to think, to clear her suddenly muddled brain, to answer Cain's accusation.

"Most, ah..." Mariah drew in a breath and forced herself to concentrate. "Most all medicine shows feature some kind of Indian, and of course, the Healy and Bigelow shows swear they have the only authentic Kickapoos. I've never met a real Kickapoo Indian, and I don't think Mr. Bigelow did either. He just happened to like the way the name sounded. Why, even the Indian he started us out with a few years back was a Sioux who couldn't stand reservation life."

"But how can you call your medicine show authentic, when you're so obviously fooling the public?"

"It's not as bad as it sounds. We're just giving the customers what they want when I dress up as Princess Tanacoa. At least half the attraction to our show is the entertainment we provide. I'm just an actor being who the people want me to be, and as long as I don't sell phony or dangerous medicines, I don't see the harm."

Now that she'd fully explained the Penny operation, neither did Cain. Most of all, he knew for sure that he didn't really want to just pack up and leave the show. Not until he knew more about himself. And not until he knew more about her.

He replaced the tin of corn salve on the shelf. "I only know two things right now. One, I am confused, but only about myself. And two, if you'll still have me, I'd like to stay and be of some help to the show. Trouble is, even if I believe in these medicines, I know I'm simply not cut out to hawk them. Is there anything else I can do to be of some value?"

Mariah had been considering that very thing. She smiled. "All we really need, Cousin Cain, is for you to drive the mules and do the heavy chores that are so hard on Zack. During the show, you can mingle with the crowd and show them your muscles—you know, like a saloon bouncer."

"A bouncer?" He turned to her, finally allowing himself to look into those beautiful eyes. They were a rich violet color this morning, complimented by her soft apricot dress, and her lovely face was beaming with enthusiasm and something he couldn't identify. He may have solved his problem about how to help the family, but if he stayed on with them, how in hell would he ever get over this insane attraction for Mariah? Could he risk being around her any longer? He didn't know. "Are you sure I'd be worth the trouble as a bouncer?"

"Of course. We could really use someone to remove folks who put us in the same basket as the crooked medicine shows. You know, the kind that call us names and try to have us run out of town."

The way you did the day we met, she silently added.

Cain sighed with both resolution and defeat. He would stay and help them as long as they needed help—or as long as they'd let him stay. But he did have one other, very real concern, one he had to make Mariah aware of before anything was settled. "I'll do the best job I know how as the show's bouncer, but there is something else to consider before you make any firm plans that include me. I'm a little worried about what's going to happen when my memory returns."