by Crooks, Pam
She stared at him long after his breathing settled into a deep, even rhythm. He seemed not to give her a second thought. What did he care if she stayed or left? Did it not matter to him that her family had been lost to her this night, that they could be anywhere on the storm-torn Nebraska prairie?
Or that she had no idea where?
The flames hissed and spit in the block, as if to remind her the hour had grown late, that she must sleep, too. She wearily speared a hand through her hair, and, rising, pulling the oilskin closer against the cold, she stepped past the quilt partition and peered outside.
An endless sky shone brazenly where the roof had once been. Thick clouds hid the moon and stars, painting the night as black as pitch tar. Rain fell, as if from a mammoth watering can, and pockmarked the land with countless puddles.
Liza knew she could not leave. Not yet. The drenching she had received earlier still lingered vivid in her mind. She had no desire to go through it all again. But, surely, in a few hours’ time, the clouds would thin and break up. After a little sleep, she would check the sky again.
When the storm ran its course, she would bid good riddance to Reese Carrison, flee the cabin and somehow find her way back to the kumpania .
The vow strengthened her, gave her something to cling to. She slipped behind the quilts once more, to the relative security of the tiny shelter, and shivered. The damp night air had chilled her bare feet, and the wooden floor offered little warmth. Tiptoeing gingerly toward the sideboard, she retrieved her dry chemise and wriggled back into it, glad to have the undergarment next to her skin again.
With the oilskin draped around her shoulders, she returned to the fire. The Gajo had shifted his position; he lay half on the tablecloth, half off, as if to keep as much space between them as possible. Most of the quilt had slid from his long body, gathering in a heap on her side of the makeshift bed.
In the soft, golden firelight, she studied him. A fine sampling of masculinity, this Reese Carrison. A man of his word. A man with honor. For a Gajo, he seemed a man she could trust. She could have done worse by him. Much worse.
He would not touch her tonight. That she could be sure. If he intended to ravage her, would he not have done so long before now? Instead, he had simply rolled over and gone to sleep.
And he had promised.
Her mouth softened. Perhaps she had worried for nothing. In repose, he appeared incapable of all the distasteful things Mama claimed the Gaje were wont to do. Liza sensed this one would be vastly different.
Her hands lifted to the oilskin and pulled it from her shoulders. Carefully, lest she wake him, she laid the coat over his lean length, giving him the warmth that the quilt had denied.
He did not stir. Relieved, she hastened to her side of the tablecloth and slipped beneath the blanket. She lay down, shifting her position so that she faced the fire.
The flames writhed and snapped in the block. Like melted butter, the brilliant red-orange hues drizzled heat over her body, inviting sleep. But it would not come. The blaze held her pensive gaze, throwing her back to a time not so long ago when she had hunkered before the fires of the kumpania surrounded by her family, a passel of yapping dogs, and Rollo, her brother Hanzi's scruffy but charmingly talented dancing bear.
But there would be no fires tonight. Not in the rain. Instead, her people would huddle inside the high-wheeled wagons, all of them warm from their stoked stoves and thick eiderdowns.
Loneliness welled within Liza's breast, and she pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle a sudden sob of despair. She could not let Reese Carrison know of her homesickness. How could he understand when he had no family of his own?
She closed her eyes tight and prayed to God her people were all safe, that they had survived the tornado, and they would not worry about her too much.
For she would be back with them again. Soon.
“Mama? Are you awake?” Paprika's whisper skittered through the wagon's darkness, silent but for the endless pelting rain outside.
“Yes, daughter.” A quavery sigh followed the hushed reply.
Paprika doubted her mother would sleep a minute the entire night.
“Oh, mama,” she said in sympathy and turned on the cot, searching for her mother's prone form next to Nanosh's. “Liza is very smart. She will not let herself get into any trouble with the Gaje.”
“But how can she not be in trouble with them? She would be here with us if she were not.”
“I know, I know,” Paprika soothed, hoping not to wake Putzi beside her. “Something has happened. I do not know what, but she will come. She promised me.”
“We should not have left without her. What if they keep her in their filthy jails? Or what if she lost her way trying to find us? The storm . . ..” Her voice, heavy with despair, trailed off.
“The tornado was a terrible thing,” Paprika murmured, shuddering from the memory. “We were lucky to miss it.”
When she and Putzi had returned to the camp with the frightening news the Gaje were in pursuit and that Liza had urged them to flee, Nanosh, fearful of arrest, had pulled up stakes in great haste and led the kumpania away from Niobrara City. Then the skies had opened, unleashing their own fury on the land, forbidding Mama to leave behind the vurma Liza needed. The wagons had fled as far as they could, until they could go no longer.
“Lucky?” Mama wailed, heedless of her sleeping family. “What of Liza? How can she have luck when the mulo, the evil spirits, are angry and punish us all with a tornado?”
As if her grief had become too much to bear, her cries grew louder. Nanosh awakened, grunted with thin patience, and rubbed a hand over his swarthy face. “Wife, what is this squalling? Go back to sleep!”
“You leave Liza behind because she is not from your seed!” Mama twisted on her cot and thumped his chest with her fist. Paprika had never seen her so distraught. “But she is mine, Nanosh. And we cannot leave Nebraska without her.”
Reluctant to witness this private exchange between her parents, Paprika held her breath. Until now, she'd only sensed that Liza, Mama's bastard daughter, had always been an unspoken rift between them.
“Mama speaks the truth.” From his own cot near Paprika's, Hanzi's deep voice pierced Mama's tirade. “We will go back for her.”
“The wagon wheels are sunk in the mud to their hubs,” Nanosh said. “We cannot go anywhere until the ground dries enough that we can travel again.”
“Then I will go by foot.”
Paprika's heart surged with pride for her older brother. At seventeen, he was two years younger than Liza, but he had the wisdom and bravery of a man. If anyone could find Liza, Hanzi could.
“I will go with you,” she said.
“You will stay here. You are only a girl.”
Only seconds ago filled with love for him, Paprika sputtered in sisterly outrage. Nanosh hushed their argument with a curt word of command.
“It is settled, then,” he said. “Hanzi will return for Liza as soon as he can. We will follow when we are able.” He glanced down at Mama. “Is that better, wife?”
“Yes.” She sniffed loudly and scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks. “Thank you, Nanosh.”
“Did you really think I would not go after her?” he chided and scooped her up against his chest. His smile, not too often given, showed the glint of his gold tooth. She snuggled against him with familiarity.
“You left so quickly. Without thought to Liza.”
He shrugged. “I was afraid.”
“But not afraid for her?” Mama demanded.
A long moment passed. “She is not of my blood like Paprika or Tekla, it is true. But I did think of her. How could I not? I would have returned for her. When the weather cleared.”
“Only then?”
He made a sound of impatience. “Enough of your nagging, wife. Hanzi will return to Niobrara City. Until then, we will not speak of this again.”
Mama held her tongue and seemed satisfied. Thoughtful, Paprika burrowed deeper into the
eiderdown and cuddled Putzi closer.
Her little brother normally slept beside Liza who spoiled him with hugs and kisses until he fell asleep. He'd been devastated when she didn't return and had cried himself into an exhausted sleep.
Paprika kissed the top of his head. Mama and Putzi weren't the only ones who missed Liza with a fierceness deep in their hearts. She did, too.
Her mind turned to Reese Carrison, the handsome Gajo who'd showed great pride in the train at Niobrara City. He'd led the angry Gaje in their chase after Liza, and Paprika sensed he wouldn't be a man Liza could elude easily. Paprika guessed, of all the Gaje, he'd be the one shrewd enough to catch her.
Had Liza fared well with him? Or made her escape? Had she found protection against the storm? Against the Gaje?
Paprika had no answers to the questions spinning inside her head. But she had a feeling, a Gypsy premonition, that wherever Liza was, Reese Carrison was with her
Chapter 6
A delicious warmth shimmered through the depths of Liza's slumber, and she lingered in the lazy netherworld, reluctant to step over the threshold into full wakefulness. A heaviness draped over her waist, and she knew, without looking, that Putzi had crawled into her bed again, as he often did, and laid sprawled beside her, a jumble of little boy arms and legs.
She would not disturb him. Instead, she burrowed deeper into the warmth, closer to the heaviness against her, and waited for sleep to return.
Rain pattered on the wagon's roof. A damp chill had seeped inside, cooling Liza's nose and cheeks. Nanosh must have let the fire in the stove die out, she mused, finding herself more awake than she wanted to be. Perhaps she should rise and stoke it to save him the trouble. After all, the weather would keep the kumpania sleeping in their wagons much later than usual.
Her ear sought his noisy snores. She heard nothing through the sprinkling raindrops, nothing but the slow, steady breathing of someone close beside her.
Her eyes flew open. And she remembered.
Her gaze fastened on the rough-hewn planks of the cabin, the fireplace, the wall of quilts. Reality hit hard, sweeping aside thoughts of a past life and pulling her down to one in the present.
She lay very still beside Reese Carrison. Sometime during the night, he had spread the oilskin over them both, sharing the coat's warmth and that of his own body with her. She had slept with the bliss of a newborn babe, and her intent to check the storm's progress had faded with the night.
Now, it was long past dawn. And here she lay, nestled like a wife against her husband, no closer to returning to her family than she had been before.
Oddly, the wave of shame she expected did not come. She had survived sleeping with Reese Carrison. Nothing had changed between them. Nothing had changed her. Perhaps it had not been as bad as she thought.
She ventured a peek downward. His long arm rested over her waist and reached past the edge of the oilskin, his fingers curled in a relaxed fist. Thick veins corded his muscular forearm; dark hairs coiled against sun-bronzed skin. The weight of his arm over her was not…unpleasing.
Something inside her melted. She dragged her gaze away and attempted to extricate her bare foot, which had mysteriously found its way tucked against his shin.
He stirred. His arm drew back slowly and then halted, fingers splaying over her belly.
“Still raining?” His voice, husky with sleep, was muffled against the top of her head.
“Yes. Can you not hear it?” The words sounded rushed. She had a sudden urge to comb her hair and wash, to prepare herself for him. She inched away.
“Don't get up,” he mumbled, his hand tightening to keep her near. He had yet to open his eyes. “Too cold.”
“I must.” Like a mouse freed from the trap, she pushed his hand away and skittered from beneath the quilt. Gooseflesh seized her skin, for her thin chemise offered scant covering and even less warmth. She hastened to the woodpile and threw kindling in the block. Soon, the fireplace crackled with flames.
She dressed hurriedly. Fastening the last of her skirts, she remembered the Gaje dollars she had earned selling baskets. Her hand dipped into a pocket and found the wad of bills safe inside. If needed, the money would be invaluable for her return to the kumpania .
Her spirits lightened. The rain would be ending soon; she was a day closer to being back with her family. After breaking her fast, she would check the clouds and hope the sun had broken through so that she could leave.
She combed and braided her hair, splashed her face with cold water, and, with coarse grains of cooking salt, rubbed her teeth clean. The routine complete, she hummed an old Gypsy tune and set about preparing a simple breakfast of biscuits and coffee.
“Are you always so damned cheerful in the mornings?”
Liza stopped stirring the dough and glanced over her shoulder. Reese scowled and flung aside the quilt and oilskin. He sat up slowly.
“Usually.” She smiled at his frown. “Are you always so grouchy?”
“Only when I sleep on a floor that's hard as rock.” He worked the muscles in his back and arms with a grimace.
“You are used to your own bed with its fluffy mattress and pillow.”
“l am.” He finger-combed his hair and regarded her. “Aren't you?”
She shrugged and resumed stirring. “Sometimes I use a cot. Sometimes I do not. It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I choose to sleep inside our wagon or outside under the stars. The floor is no different than sleeping on the ground. I did not find it uncomfortable.”
He grunted. “You bested me on that count, then.”
“The Gaje lead pampered lives.” She dropped spoonfuls of dough onto a pan and slid it into the hot oven. “The Gypsy does not need fancy things like a big house or a soft bed to be happy.”
“I've spent my share of nights in a bedroll next to a campfire. It's just been a while, that's all.”
He looked so defensive Liza almost regretted pointing out their differences. The comers of her mouth twitched. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Perhaps it will take away your stiffness.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
He made no attempt to get up. She handed him a cup of the black brew, and, for the first time, noticed his fingers massaging his knee, swollen double its normal size.
Compassion stirred within her, and she clucked her tongue in sympathy. No wonder he looked as cross as an old rooster.
“Why did you not tell me you were in pain?” she scolded, gently prodding the swelling with her fingertips.
“What? And have you tell me that Gypsies never complain? Or get hurt? Or--”
“Oh, hush!” Exasperation threaded the words, though his taunt bore the truth. “I do not wish to listen to your whining. Sit still while I see what I can do for you.”
Memories of her flight from Niobrara City and the ensuing scuffle at the riverbank when he tried to pull her from his horse reminded her she had been the cause of his wrenched knee. Guilt hurried her movements, and she dipped a length of toweling into a cast-iron pot boiling with rainwater. Thank goodness she had prepared the water for washing their dishes. The heat would be good medicine.
Using a wooden spoon, she carried the dripping towel from the pot over to him. Without fanfare, she dropped it on his knee.
He yelped and nearly spilled the coffee. “Good God, woman! You'll scald me to death!”
“I will not. It is what you need. The towel will cool soon enough, and we will see what a difference I have made.” She swathed his knee with the steaming fabric and, nodding in satisfaction, sat back on her heels. “There. Is that better?”
“How do I know? The knee is damn near numb by now.” His features pulled into a masculine pout. “I'll probably never walk again.”
“Oh, Gajo.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You are such a baby. You will walk again, I promise.”
“Go ahead,” he growled. “Laugh all you want, but I'd warrant you'd sing a different tune if you were in my pl
ace.”
“I doubt it. Men can be weaklings at times. In many ways, we women are by far the stronger sex.”
“Think so?”
She thought she detected a rare twinkle in his eyes. “I know so. Try birthing a baby sometime. Then you will agree with me.”
He chuckled outright, all signs of his frown gone, and Liza relished the sound. His amusement spoke of an ease between them, one she never thought she would share with a Gajo, and one that stirred within her an unexpected pleasure.
“Guess I'll never get the chance,” he said finally. “I'll leave birthing to you women.”
“It is best that you did, Gajo. We are far better at it,” she said pertly.
A grin lingered on his lips, but he made no further reply. His tiger-gold eyes drifted over her with an intensity that seemed to bore right through her, leaving her feeling naked beneath his perusal.
She fidgeted and groped for something to say, something to do. She spied his tobacco and papers near the hearth, out of his reach.
“The biscuits are nearly done. By the time you finish a smoke, they should be ready to eat,” she said. Without a second's thought, she snatched the tobacco and papers up, expertly rolled a cigarette and tucked it between her lips. Reaching for his metal matchbox, she withdrew a wooden match, struck a flame, and lit the tobacco.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, one brow raised.
She exhaled and handed him the cigarette, the unlit end first. “I do not remember. It was a very long time ago.”
“You've been smoking since then?”
She shook her head and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I have never learned a taste for the tobacco, though many women enjoy it. The Gypsy often starts smoking at a very young age. As children.”
“You're kidding.”
“You do not approve?”
“Can't say as I do.”
“Another difference between us, Gajo.”
A long moment passed between them. He nodded pensively. “Yes. Another difference.”