Lady Gypsy

by Crooks, Pam

  The child, Margaret Michelle, would be with her people now. Safe, unharmed. Her mother would be happy and relieved. Yet the Gaje would not let the matter rest, would not let a Gypsy go without stern words of warning or worse, and she must spare her brother and sister the humiliation.

  The Gaje sounded close, so close. Liza knew they would not be able to outrun them, not with Putzi and his short legs to slow them down. She turned to Paprika.

  “You must go without me,” she said. “Run with Putzi back to camp. Can you find the way?”

  Frightened tears trailed along Paprika's cheeks and mingled with the giant raindrops that had begun to fall. “Yes, but I won't leave you. I won't!”

  “You have to. Tell Nanosh the kumpania must leave, or the Gaje will come looking for you and take you away. I will lead them on a wild-goose chase.”

  A sob escaped Paprika's throat, and she nodded. “But how will you get back? The storm is already here.”

  Liza shrugged. She was not afraid. “I will follow the vurma Mama and the others will leave for me.” She scooped Paprika against her in a quick embrace. “Do not worry, sweet sister. Be strong for Putzi.”

  He was crying, too, and his tears moved Liza, as they never failed to do. She bent and kissed the top of his tousled head. “Run fast for Paprika, little one. I will see you soon.”

  He hugged her fiercely. With the miniature flag still gripped in his pudgy fist, he and Paprika sprinted away from the old shed, away from the depot, away from the troubles in the Gaje world to the refuge of their own.

  Liza swallowed down a sudden surge of emotion at watching them go. Taking a breath, blinking against the pelting raindrops, she lifted her skirts and dashed into the street.

  And ran right into Reese Carrison.

  It was like hitting a giant oak. His tall, muscular body, solid from head to toe, nearly knocked her over, and she had to step back swiftly to keep from falling.

  He looked as surprised as she. His gaze bolted behind her and caught Paprika's and Putzi's tiny receding figures, then slammed into hers. His eyes narrowed, the tawny depths no longer burning and intense as she remembered, but instead, cold and harsh.

  With a cry of alarm, Liza scrambled away, evading his grasp with more luck than skill.

  “Bram! She's coming your way! Grab her!”

  Liza's heart pounded in terror. Shouting, angry Gaje appeared from everywhere, and though she once judged the man with the pipe to be kind and compassionate, she knew he was now as determined to capture her as Reese Carrison.

  How could she outwit them all?

  She had been a fool to think she could. There were too many against her. Never did it occur to her to surrender, to try to explain that she had no intention of stealing the lovely child they called Margaret Michelle, that the whole thing was all just a horrible misunderstanding.

  Because she was a Gypsy. And they were the Gaje.

  But she could not outrun them. They were all closing in on her. Even Reese Carrison.

  Horses were tethered in front of the Grand River Hotel. Liza's practiced eye found the finest in the row, a midnight black, pure-blooded stallion, the choicest piece of horseflesh she had seen in years. She knew instinctively that this animal would be her salvation, strong enough and fast enough to save her from the vengeful Gaje.

  And she made her decision.

  From almost a block away, Reese slowed his run. On a wave of disbelief, he watched her sprint toward the line of horses, her bright, colorful skirts flying about her ankles, the ends of her striped kerchief flapping in the rain-filled breeze. Of the entire row, she chose the horse in the middle. Without a second's hesitation. As if she knew exactly what she was doing. Her movements deft and sure, she untethered the reins, vaulted into the saddle with more fluid grace than most men he'd known, and maneuvered the stallion into a smooth turn. The giant beast responded to her command, as if she'd trained him from birth, and fairly flew down the street and out of sight.

  With the wind and rain swirling about him, Reese tilted his head back and hurled a vehement curse into the stormy heavens.

  On top of everything that had gone wrong all damned day, the beautiful Gypsy woman had just stolen his horse.

  Chapter 3

  “What're you waiting for, Reese?” Bram panted to a stop, his near-fifty years sapping the breath from him. “Go after her!”

  “How the hell am I supposed to catch her? She took my horse!” Through the curtain of rain dripping from his hat brim, Reese glared at the empty spot only seconds ago filled by the stallion.

  “Yours the only one that can run?” Bram shoved him toward the row of horses tethered at the hotel. “Take mine! Find her! She can't get away with trying to steal my grandbaby!”

  Half-hearted grunts of agreement filtered from the men who lagged behind them, their quest for justice fast washing away in the blowing rain. With the Gypsy woman gone and her kidnapping attempt foiled, the need for chase seemed unnecessary. Except for Bram, no one cared whether they caught her.

  But Reese cared. A lot. He had a fortune tied up in that horse. Sired in Kentucky, shipped to Nebraska with the best care money could buy, its bloodline was impeccable. For the past six years, the N & D had taken nearly every dime, nickel, and penny Reese had earned. The stallion was the one extravagance he had allowed himself.

  Yes, he cared. And he'd be damned if a troublemaking Gypsy was going to steal it from him.

  His stride lengthened into a full-blown run toward Bram's sorrel. Bram shouted something, but his words were lost in the wind. Reese yanked at the reins and leaped into the wet saddle.

  From the hotel, he cut between the Empty Saddle Saloon and the barber shop. The sorrel gathered speed as they fled past Gardner's Liquor Store, Masterson's Grocery, and the Niobrara City Bank. One block, another, and then another, until the town faded into a storm-filled blur behind him, and only wide-open country lay ahead.

  Which direction had she gone?

  The possibilities were endless, and frustration welled up inside him. He gritted his teeth and reined the sorrel to a stop. Rain pelted his back, plastering the wool suit against him like a second skin. Grimly, he ran a thorough glance over the sprawling grassland.

  He spotted her on the crest of a bluff. She, too, had halted, seeming to search for him as he searched for her. Like lightning, their gazes bolted together, and she started, as if not expecting to find him watching her.

  She recovered quickly. The stallion, poised for her command, charged into swift flight, heading northward along the river. Reese vaguely recalled her people were camped to the south. Would she circle the town and return to them in a roundabout way? Or had she grown disoriented in her haste to lose him?

  He tossed aside the thought. She knew what she was doing. She hadn't evaded nearly a dozen men not to.

  Determination raged anew to reclaim what was his. With a yell, Reese kicked the sorrel into a run, giving him full rein for the chase. The rain-softened earth gave way beneath the pounding hooves, spewing clumps of mud and grass in their wake. He squeezed his knees against the horse's belly and leaned into the ride, rueing that twist of fate that forced him to pursue his own mount.

  Only now did he realize the stallion's speed. It had been important to have the finest horse in Nebraska. A thoroughbred. Strong and lean. Swift-footed. A horse so fast Bram's sorrel didn't have a chance in hell to catch up with him.

  Yet the Gypsy rode him well. Had he been of a mind to, Reese would have marveled at her skill. But right now he only wanted to get his horse back and give her a tongue lashing the likes of which she'd never had before.

  Needle-sharp with vengeance, his mind raced to devise a strategy. His only hope to catch her was to head her off, to beat her at her own game. He squinted into the distance and gauged her destination. She seemed to follow the river's meandering course, continuing her flight northward, leaving her people farther and farther behind.

  And he knew a shortcut.

  Tight-mouthed, h
e maneuvered the sorrel into an abrupt turn and rode into the wind. The gusts threatened to swipe the clothes from his back, forcing him to ride with one hand on his hat, the other clutching the reins. He laid low over the sorrel's neck, giving his body less resistance against the wind.

  Visibility was lousy. Anyone would lose their bearings in the heavy rain, and he understood the Gypsy's reasoning to keep to the river. He glanced over his shoulder, saw her disappear over a bluff, and grunted in satisfaction.

  The sorrel galloped through Jack Hadley's cornfield, past the barns and outbuildings, and skirted a windmill. Ever faster he fled over the drenched grassland until, at last, they reached a drop-off leading to the river.

  Thick brush lined the bank. Like long, bony fingers, tree roots poked and curled around huge outcroppings of rock wedged among the dirt and sand. Reese gave the horse his lead, letting him pick his way down the embankment. Mud slid and squished beneath the iron-clad hooves, and Reese tensed, fearful the horse would slip and go lame.

  But they reached the river's edge without mishap. The current pooled and swirled in angry response to the storm. Here, the Niobrara formed a loop as it twisted and turned through the gently sloping land, and it was here Reese hoped to catch the Gypsy woman by surprise, to end this skin-soaking chase she'd led him on and get his prized horse back.

  The ground leveled out along the bank, forming a narrow path. It would be easy to see her when she came around the bend, and Reese turned the sorrel in that direction, the taste of imminent victory sweet on his tongue. He'd be ready for her.

  And then she was there. The stallion bore down on them at alarmingly high speed, defying the intensity of the wind-driven storm. Reese couldn't see her face. The rain slanted directly at her; she kept her head angled against the force, trusting the stallion in his run, as if the fierceness of the downpour had become too much for her.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  Too late, Reese realized he didn't know her name, that he couldn't get her attention except through his frantic yell, that, because of the silver-thin path and the river on one side, the steep bank on the other, the stallion had nowhere to go but to ram them straight on.

  At the sound of his voice, her head jerked up. Her eyes widened. Immediately, she reacted, yanking the reins tight to halt the stallion's flight. He screamed and reared, his mighty forelegs slashing the air. She nearly lost her seat, her mastery over the horse gone as he pounced and lunged against the muddy riverbank.

  She cried out and dropped the reins, clutching the black mane and hanging on with a white-knuckled grip. Fearful she'd fall and be trampled beneath the horse's powerful hooves, Reese swore viciously and spurred the sorrel closer.

  Again, the stallion reared up on his hind legs. Reese leaned over and tried to grab the bridle, but missed.

  “No!” The Gypsy tried to evade his grasp. “Leave me alone!”

  “Are you crazy?” Reese shouted and reached for the bridle again. “You'll be killed!”

  “Stay back!” She angled away from him even as she clung to the mane for dear life. “Do not touch me!”

  She was crazy. Reese rose in the stirrups and bent toward her, snaking his arm around her waist, hauling her from the saddle with much determination and little fanfare. She fought him like a she-cat, refusing to relinquish her hold on the stallion's mane. Bram's sorrel shied from the frenzied animal, and Reese almost lost his grip on her. Each horse dodged the other, their flailing hooves desperate for firm footing on the muddy bank. Through sheer superior strength, Reese overpowered the Gypsy, and she tumbled from her horse onto his.

  The sorrel fought for traction. Reese had all he could do to hang onto the squirming woman and stay seated. The stallion stumbled toward them; the sorrel tottered against his weight. Reese instinctively kicked free of the stirrups and pitched sideways from the saddle.

  He twisted to take the brunt of the fall. Holding the Gypsy tightly to him, he hit the bank feet first. Pain shot through his knee, and he buckled to the ground, taking her with him, twisting again, rolling, rolling, to avoid the horse’s crushing bulk.

  They tumbled to a stop. For a moment, he laid there, caught in the tangled yardage of her skirts, with her body sprawled on top of his, and wondered if he'd broken his leg. Jesus, it hurt. Fire flowed up his thigh and down to his ankle. He drew a breath.

  The Gypsy scrambled to her feet and took a cautious step backward. She seemed poised for flight, ready to bolt should he take off after her. Reese groaned aloud and forced himself to sit up. He doubted he'd ever walk again.

  She watched him warily. He struggled to get a hold on the pain, relaxing in slow degrees while the fire ebbed to a dull, persistent throb. He gripped his knee and felt the swelling that had already begun.

  “Are--are you all right?”

  Her uncertain question stirred his temper, and he fixed her with a menacing stare. She flinched from the intensity of it. “What the hell do you think?”

  She looked like a half-drowned mutt with her hair smeared across her scalp and cheek. The striped kerchief, its colors once vibrant in the sunlight, laid over her shoulders like a limp rag. Rivulets of rain streamed across her face, dripping steadily from the edge of her chin onto her blouse.

  A single drop caught his attention. It snaked a path down her neck, past her collarbone, and settled in the valley of her breasts. The drenched garment clung to the full mounds, highlighting her nipples as if she wore nothing at all.

  Something stirred inside Reese, but his foul mood neglected to identify it, refused to let it take root. His gaze slammed back to hers. “This is all your fault.”

  She gasped, the sound barely audible in the falling rain. “Mine?”

  “Yes, yours.” In the back of his mind, Reese became aware that the storm had lessened its roar, that the wind had died to a crisp breeze. “Gypsies bring trouble wherever they go. You damn well brought your share of it.”

  Her chin snapped up, her nostrils flared.

  “If you hadn't tried to snatch Margaret-Michelle right out from under our noses--.”

  “I never!”

  “--then lead me on a wild-goose chase on my own horse in the middle of a damn storm--”

  A strangled sound escaped from her throat.

  “--then none of this would have happened.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Call me what you want, Lady Gypsy,” he snarled. “But this is all your fault.”

  “Stupid Gajo!”

  “You think I'd be sitting here in the mud, my knee wrenched all to hell if not for you?” Her ire failed to sway his own. His reckless accusations flew free. “Now we're soaking wet, miles from home, and my horse--”

  A whimpering nicker stilled the words on his tongue. His glance swung toward the sorrel and found him calmed, his nose at the river's edge.

  Reese automatically searched for the stallion at the base of the riverbank. The animal writhed in the mud and tried to get up on all fours. Reese's gut twisted.

  “Saints in heaven!”

  Her features horrified, the Gypsy woman lifted her voluminous skirts high about her ankles and hastened to the stallion's side. Reese bellowed a blue oath and tried to stand. His throbbing knee protested every movement and sent shards of pain clear to his hip. He gritted his teeth and managed to pull himself upright anyway, giving his uninjured leg all his weight. He hobbled to a cluster of low-lying branches drooping over the bank, gave one a savage yank and tested its sturdiness.

  It proved to be a fine enough crutch. He limped over to the stallion and halted. The animal lay unmoving, as if his agony had become too much to bear. His eyes were glazed, wild, filled with panic. Despair washed over Reese.

  “He's lame, isn't he?” Reese's voice rasped with the weight of the words, knowing they were true, but wanting her to tell him they weren't.

  The Gypsy's hand stilled over the horse's hind leg. Her gaze lifted, meeting his, the dark orbs pools of sympathy. “Yes.”

  “Damn.”


  The stallion meant the world to him. A symbol of his success almost more than the N & D. Any man appreciated a good horse, and this one had been one of the best. Grief sagged inside him. He would miss the stallion sorely.

  What else could go wrong? The day had been one disaster after another. He'd had a feeling, from the minute he'd first laid eyes on the Gypsy camp outside of Niobrara City. . ..

  And this woman was a Gypsy. She was part of the trouble, the reason why they were out here in the middle of nowhere, his horse lame and useless.

  The stallion nickered again, low and anguished with pain. Reese identified with that pain. Didn't he feel it as deeply in his own knee? Didn't he know what the stallion was going through?

  A solemn resolve filled him, leaving him empty, dispassionate. He hobbled over to the sorrel, to the saddlebag where Bram always kept a pistol.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Reese ignored the woman's wary question and checked the chamber. All six bullets were intact.

  She straightened, moved to his side, and tugged on his arm.

  “I will not let you do this.” Her small hands gripped him with the same intensity as her words.

  The rain had dwindled to a mere sprinkle. Droplets clung to her lashes, surprisingly long and thick. Reese pulled his glance away and shrugged free of her touch. His lip curled. “Think you're going to stop me?”

  She flinched from the nasty drawl in his tone.

  “Yes.” Her chin lifted. “I can help him.”

  He snorted in derision. “You've been a big help already, sweetheart. Move.”

  She remained where she was, steadfastly between him and the stallion. “No. You must trust me.”

  Trust a Gypsy? He'd never known a more conniving, thieving, underhanded, elusive people in his life. Or one that brought more trouble. “Uh-uh. I don't think so.”

  He put his hand out to thrust her away, but she swiveled out of reach. Grimly, he lifted the pistol and took aim. Right between the stallion's eyes. His thumb pulled back the hammer--