Belle’s lips pursed and her nostrils flared. She swung around, pacing the length of her tiny vintage Airstream. Two steps took her past the entryway and the open bathroom door. Another step into the living room, padding across the thick Oriental rug that her father had dragged from a dumpster and cut down to size with its scarlet threads and golden swirls. Half a stride more and her foot banged against the combination stove-refrigerator that made up her kitchen. Spinning, she took four short steps back to the bedroom alcove to look at the unconscious man sprawled out across her sky blue sheets. The clowns were unhappy, that was a fact, but she’d never thought that they’d take their anger out on an innocent bystander or—worse—that other members of the circus would join them. It hadn’t just been the clowns circling the man’s prone body. There had been others; acrobats, strong men, and tumblers; even the roustabouts, the brute force of the circus, who strained to carry heavy boxes and assemble complicated machinery on little food and less sleep.
