Cinderfella by Linda Winstead Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

devastated. Maureen was right. Charmaine was still a child, in many ways, spoiled and unreasonable and occasionally intolerant. For all her education and damned seminars, she still had so much to learn.
    â€œThen I apologize,” he conceded. “I should have passed the news along.”
    The apology seemed to appease her, as he’d hoped it would. Damnation, she was beautiful, so much like her mother, and while he couldn’t say he cared for this sort of fierce independence in a female of any age, there was something special about Charmaine. A spark, a brightness. When she turned her devotion in the right direction — her family, her home — she was going to be quite a woman.
    But for now, for the moment, she was still his little girl.
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    Four
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    Ash was headed in for the day when he was stopped by the sound of squeaking wheels and slow, tired hoofbeats on the road. The sun was setting, and it was the middle of the week. Who would be paying a call at this time?
    A friend of Verna’s, he imagined with a sigh. One of those high-hat women from town she occasionally invited for dinner. But on a Wednesday? He had a stray and unwanted thought that perhaps it was Charmaine Haley, come to torment him as she had just four days earlier. But of course if Charmaine were to come again it would be on a fast white horse by the bright light of day, not in a lumbering wagon at sunset.
    When the wagon came into view, Ash’s dismay disappeared.
    The conveyance that crept toward the barn with an occasional lurch was a boxy enclosed wagon with the words “Sweet’s Traveling Thespians” painted on the side in fading red paint. The wagon had seen better days. There were large sections of rotting wood on the side Ash could see, and a good-sized hole in the roof; and the entire conveyance canted oddly to one side. The nag that pulled the wagon, Pumpkin by name, was a red roan the unfortunate color of the vegetable she was named for. And the man driving the wagon looked as run-down as Pumpkin.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Ash said as the lumbering wagon came to a halt. It had been three years since he’d seen his godfather, the eccentric actor Nathan Sweet, though they had corresponded by mail sporadically. There was more gray in Nathan’s hair, a little more meat on his tiny bones, but other than that he was unchanged. Five-foot-four standing ramrod straight, he’d always been given to expensive clothes that had no place on a farm. His traveling ensemble consisted of a bowler, fancy shoes, and a gray Easterner’s suit given a splash of color by a bright yellow scarf.
    The years had left their mark, but Nathan’s aristocratic features were the same, as was the drooping and well-groomed moustache.
    â€œAfter all this time,” Nathan said wearily as Ash assisted him to the ground, “that’s the greeting I get?”
    Ash gave his godfather a hearty hug that lifted the older man from the ground. “It’s good to see you.”
    When Ash stepped away, Nathan smiled and smoothed back his mussed hair. “Much better.”
    There was no movement from the wagon, no sound but the labored breathing of Pumpkin.
    â€œYou alone this time?” Ash asked, and Nathan nodded once.
    â€œIt’s just Pumpkin and I, this visit,” he said. “Two weary travelers in search of solace and the occasional adventure. I hope you don’t mind if we stay for a while. I felt the need for the simplicity of the country — fresh air, wide skies, honest people.”
    â€œMind? Of course I don’t mind. How often have I asked you to visit?”
    â€œI wanted to come earlier, really I did, but the troupe’s been busy,” Nathan said grandly. “San Francisco, Denver, St. Louis, and everywhere in between.” He gave a grandiose sweep of his hand. “Sold-out performances across the West, standing ovations, extensive