Which let Dane relax and relive a special joy as he watched her and the reactions of the crowd—and also renewed his interest in Mr. Computer. The man’s eyes seldom lifted from the glowing screen before him. As a matter of fact, it was during the most dramatic moments of Eloise’s act, when the illusions were at their height, that he leaned toward the screen, swiped his fingers over the touch pad, tapped the keys.

This was no disinterested computer user just getting some work done over a cup of coffee.

He was in his forties, to guess it. He was small in stature with thin, graying hair, wire-rimmed, professorial glasses, very focused demeanor. He was interested in only two things: what Eloise was doing and what his computer was apparently telling him about it.

It was while Eloise was in a prime moment, engaging everyone’s attention—which was just about constantly; he’d have to commend her on that—that Dane slipped toward the back of the room and from there, ever so casual, ever so passive, he drifted sideways to where he could see the reflection of the computer screen in the window.

The image was angled and reversed, but he could recognize numbers in columns, bar graphs that twitched up and down, undulating lines, and wispy blue waves that seemed to move whenever Eloise moved and rest whenever she stood still.

Now Dane was craning to find the visitor but could go nowhere as well-meaning fans stood in his path to ask him how Eloise was.

Eloise withdrew the napkin to check the bleeding of her nose. It hadn’t stopped yet and the napkin was scary to look at. Abby brought a fresh tissue and a few extras. “Rest your head back,” she said. Eloise complied. The pain was starting to register. Her head was throbbing and her whole right side ached.

“Maybe we should get her to an emergency room,” said Roger.

How many times would she have to say it? “No. Don’t even think about that, please.”

“What if you’ve broken something?”

“I haven’t broken anything.”

Seamus asked Roger and Abby, “Could you give us a moment?”

Roger and Abby weren’t so comfortable with his request, but they stepped through the curtain.

Seamus leaned close and spoke quietly, “Was all this Collins’s idea?”

What kind of a question was that? “What?”

“The levitation with all the risk involved.”

Was he being … ? He sounded so childish. “Absolutely not!”

“He didn’t pressure you into it?”

This was just the kind of conversation she needed while staring at the ceiling with a bloody napkin at her nose and an ice pack against her face. She could feel some swelling. “No. I wasn’t even going to do it.”

“Then why did you?”

“That guy back in the corner.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do the levitation! Do the levitation!” the man had called out, which got everybody else calling for it, and all along Dane could tell Eloise didn’t want to, that she was actually afraid to go there, that her dark and mysterious approach to the illusion was no act at all.

But many had heard about it, some had brought friends they’d told about it, they would have been disappointed, so Mr. Computer got the illusion and plenty of numbers and undulating patterns to watch and now Dane was kicking himself. He should have warned Eloise, given her more complete coaching: yes, of course the show is for the audience, it’s about them, but not to the point of endangering yourself. Whatever it is you’re doing up there, the risk has to be strictly illusory. You never take chances!

Dane’s first priority had been to corner that guy immediately after the show, but Eloise’s nasty fall preempted that. Now she was safe and stable—and the man’s table was empty. Dane weaved and jostled through the crowd to the front door and pushed through to the sidewalk, looking up and down the street.

Of course, the man was gone.

“Aren’t you acting a little … young?” Eloise wanted to know.

Seamus was trying to keep his voice down, but a temper was showing. “You just about killed yourself out there.”

She brought her head forward and checked the bloodied napkin. “I’m abundantly aware of that.”

“And this”—he indicated her appearance—“was this another idea of his, this … what is this, your new look?”

“Seamus, you helped pay for it. And I like it. I like being myself.” It dawned on her and she stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

He rolled his eyes. “Have you noticed any pictures of his wife around the house?”

“No.”

“Does he ever talk about her?”

“Seamus, aren’t you the one who laid down all the rules about he and I not getting into personal matters?”

He came in close, finger pointed. “This could get personal if—”

“If what?”

“If—pardon me—if he happens to be a lonely old widower who enjoys the company of a pretty young girl.”

“Woman.”

That stopped him short. “Now, I find that interesting.”

“Seamus. I’m going to tell you this one last time, and I’d like it to be a matter of record between us: if anything, Dane Collins is like a father figure to me. That’s my own view of it, I haven’t given him any indication that I feel that way, but I’m not ashamed of it.” She kept looking him in the eye. She surprised herself.

“So noted.” He looked away as if reading labels on the coffee bags, then deflated a little as he let out a sigh. “By way of explanation, I guess I’ve gotten a little attached to you.”

She applied a fresh napkin to her nose. “Well, I’m flattered.”

Which was all she wanted to say about that.

chapter

27

It snowed on Monday morning, so Eloise left for the ranch early. The little Bug made it to the gate and up the long driveway with time to spare—time to tap on the door—“Come in!”—go into the kitchen without taking off her coat and ask just to know for sure, “Is everything okay?”

Mr. Collins was just finishing his oat flakes and toast, and looked at her over his last sip of coffee. “I would say so, especially now,” he said. “How are you?”

“I just …” Groping for words again. One of these days, she deeply hoped, she’d be able to tell him everything.

“Your face looks like you lost a fight,” he said. “How’s the rest of you?”

“Sore.” She’d spent Saturday and Sunday trying to find a comfortable way to lie down while waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in. “I had to cancel the rest of the weekend.”

“I figured as much. Have a seat. Want some coffee?”

“Oh, no, thanks. Shirley wants to check me out on the tractor so I can plow the driveway. I just wanted to make sure … you know …”

“This’ll be on company time.” He gestured at the chair across the table from him, and she plopped into it with her coat still on. “You’re still troubled over Friday night.”

“Way troubled. It was a disaster.”

He put up his hand. “No, no, now don’t say that. The ending could have used a little work”—he winked at her—“but overall you pushed on through and made the best of it. I couldn’t have asked for more under the circumstances.”

A sack of bricks lifted from her shoulders and she let herself smile. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

He smiled back. “I’d just like to know, what were the circumstances?”

“What do you mean?”

He set down his coffee cup with a firm motion that sent the same message she could read in his eyes. Daddy used to do the same thing. “You know better than that.”

Her eyes dropped. It would be quite a list if she told him all about the tea-stained soup of hallucinations that messed up her show and got her hurt, the miserable night she spent in her apartment going over and over what happened and wondering if she’d gotten mixed up in the occult or a permanent drug trip or was being tormented by aliens or was just plain nuts and bound for worse and never better. That would be just the thing to tell him when all she could conclude during the last two miserable days was that she wanted to be here in this safe, real place more than anywhere else in the world.