The Truth About Love and Lightning by Susan McBride Page A

better, a place he could make his own. Not only did the deed to the Missouri farm give him that, but he intended to take Nadya with him as soon as they could leave, especially since her costumes were becoming noticeably snug. When he helped to corset her in, he had to leave the stays wider and wider. She wasn’t far along into the pregnancy—two months, by her best estimate—but then she was slender, leaving little room to mask her growing waistline. Soon it would be impossible to hide, at which point the jig would be up whether they were ready to leave the troupe or not. There was no room for a woman with a baby in vaudeville.
    When morning sickness struck Nadya so badly she could barely stand and smile, faking her way through the magician’s set without running off the stage to puke, Hank decided it was time to talk to his boss. On the morning after the first of three sold-out shows in Omaha, he determinedly knocked on Coonts’s hotel room door, hoping he’d find him in a generous mood. He meant to ease into the conversation, but it didn’t work out quite the way he planned.
    “I appreciate my time with the show, but my run is nearly over,” he said without prelude, instinctively touching the newfound lines on his face. “I can’t keep up the pace, and I’m not sure I want to. I’m growing old before my time, and I need to live my life before it’s too late.”
    “On the contrary, son, I believe your run with the show has barely begun. As for that white hair and shopworn look”—Coonts shrugged, hardly appearing as upset as Nadya about Hank’s transformation—“they only make you appear more legit. It’s time you let me convince you that this Wild West show is your future. Our future,” his boss told him, flushed and bright-eyed from counting the previous night’s receipts. “There’s a lot of money to be made before the tide turns and the crowds want a dancing pig instead of a rain-making Injun.”
    Hank’s mouth went dry. He didn’t care about the money. He was tired, plain and simple: tired of performing and of using a sacred tradition as entertainment. Maybe it hadn’t bothered him so much in the beginning when he was hell-bent on making a name for himself, but it weighed on him now.
    “You have your dreams,” he told Coonts, “and I have mine. They’re not one and the same.” He shook his head. “I’ll stay with the troupe through this last leg and finish the dates, but that’s it.” He wasn’t willing to risk any more than he already had simply to plump Coonts’s bank account. “After Omaha and Des Moines, I’m done and so is Nadya.”
    “Is that right?” His boss clasped fingers over the straining vest buttons on his belly, his thick eyebrows coming to a peak as he stared at Hank point-blank. “Our deal was that you’re in my act as long as I’m happy, and I’m happy as a pig in swill. We shook on it. You’re not going back on your word now, are you, Chief?”
    “But it was all on your terms! I don’t remember getting a say in things,” Hank said, frustration rattling his voice.
    “That’s right, boy. You didn’t.” Coonts’s eyes narrowed on Hank, as if daring him to put up a stink. “So get any wild ideas of running off out of your head,” he added, waving a hand dismissively. “You and your gypsy whore are staying put until I say otherwise. You got that?”
    Gypsy whore?
    “What did you say?” Hank blinked.
    “You think I don’t know what’s going on with you two? Hell, boy, I’ve got eyes.” Coonts laughed. “I know she’s in the family way. She doesn’t exactly fit her costumes the way she used to, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how green she is around the gills, too. I’m already casting for her replacement.”
    “You’re firing her?”
    “You heard me,” Coonts said and smiled in a way that proved he’d gotten the reaction he wanted. “Pretty girls willing to show off their gams and hold magicians’ props are a dime a dozen. I