by Crooks, Pam
She wondered what he was thinking, of whom he was thinking. Suddenly restless, Liza rose and stepped to the stove. Using a wadded rag, she pulled the hot pan from the oven and set it on top of the stove to cool. She stared at the golden biscuits without really seeing them.
“l suppose your Rebecca Ann does not smoke,” she said, her back unusually straight.
He snorted with amused disdain. “God forbid. She would die first.”
“I see.”
“Ladies don't smoke or swear or drink in my society. It's not proper.”
“I see,” she said again. She bit the inside of her lip and hated the twinge of hurt his words gave her. How shamed he must feel to be here with her, a Gypsy woman who condoned all the things the women in his world did not.
Women like his betrothed, Rebecca Ann.
“Liza, look at me.”
“I cannot. I am busy.” She briskly plucked the hot biscuits from the pan into a bowl.
His heavy sigh sounded behind her. “I don't think any less of you or your people for the things you do, smoking or otherwise. You have your customs. We have ours. Okay?”
She lifted her chin and turned, the bowl in her hand. “Of course.”
His eyes, sharp and piercing, never left her face. Liza's lids lowered. She could not meet his gaze, could not let him see how torn she felt, straddling her world and his.
She set the biscuits before him, opened a jar of peach preserves, refilled his coffee cup, then hers. He made no move to eat. She busied herself dividing the bread between them.
“Liza.”
She ignored him and gathered her share into her skirt, vowing to sit closer to the fire, away from him and his shrewd, penetrating gaze. But his long arm reached out and grasped the gold beads around her neck. He gently tugged, bringing her closer, persistently closer. Fearful the strands would break, Liza did not resist and eyed him warily.
“I'm starting to like all this, you know.”
His change of topic flustered her. His voice, sultry, seductive, hardly more than a whisper, wrapped around her like the finest goose down. Her heart pattered a little faster within her breast.
“Like what?”
“This. Being taken care of by a woman. By you.”
Her pulse hammered a steady beat; she was certain he could hear the blood pounding through her veins.
“It is best that you do not, Reese Carrison,” she said, her tone quavery. “I will not be with you much longer.”
Something flickered over his features, something she could not define. His nearness disconcerted her and left her feeling out of sorts. Did all Gajo men have that power?
“You're different from other women I've known,” he murmured. “Stronger. You roll with the punches and come out standing on both feet.”
The scent of him, dusted with tobacco, surrounded her. Morning stubble darkened his cheeks, giving him a primitive air, a wildness that incited shards of awareness within her. His chest, bare to the waist, rippled and bulged with muscle, and invited her palms to explore the manly contours.
“Roll with the punches?” She could hardly think straight. Her fingers tightened into a fist. She must not touch him, must not give in to the weakness that these strange longings brewed deep inside her belly. She eased away, but he only tightened his grip on the beads.
The firm line of his lower lip softened. “Let's just say Rebecca Ann would never have lasted through what we went through. Not the way you did.” His voice deepened and stroked her with its smoky timber. “You're quite a woman, Lady Gypsy. Y’know that?”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. A man's mouth. Meant to pleasure a woman. Liza held her breath, knowing that if he wanted, he could easily, so very easily, rest that mouth against hers, and she would let him.
Slowly, he loosened his grasp on the gold beads. Her lashes lowered, hiding the yearnings that surely showed in her eyes. She would not think of the feel of his arms around her, of the strength he possessed, or his warmth and tenderness. She would not think of lying beside him, of feeling the weight of his body against hers. She would not think of Reese Carrison in that way.
He was a Gajo.
And he belonged to another.
The stallion nuzzled Liza, his black nose poking her braid beneath the striped kerchief. She laughed, crooning in some Gypsy lingo Reese didn't understand, and lifted her arms to circle the horse's sleek neck.
Reese marveled at the sight. She'd bewitched the animal. She'd bewitched him. All with a few soft words and gentle touches and a wealth of loving care.
He could hardly tear his gaze from her. Her vitality shone amid the gray clouds and puddles of mud; her spirit, unfettered from convention, flew free. She had a quiet, unassuming allure that touched him in places he'd never been touched before.
Deep inside. In his heart. In his soul. She forced him to realize, for not the first time, she was like no other woman he'd ever met, a difference that went far beyond gold hoop earrings, ebony eyes, and hair like gleaming copper.
And she wielded that same power over his horse. Normally high-strung and skittish, the stallion allowed few near him, but like an eager puppy, he'd scampered to his feet to greet her this morning and had endured her inspection of his lame leg with amazing patience. She'd rewarded him with a treat of succulent corn husks, and Reese knew his prized mount had been lost to him for good.
Behind the cabin, the lean-to protected them from the heavy mist coating the dreary day. Bullfrogs croaked in the distance, their calls blending with the caw-caw cries of crows flying overhead. Reese tossed Bram's sorrel the last of the oats in his bucket, and leaning heavily on his crutch, limped over and patted the stallion's neck.
“His leg is better today,” Liza said and pulled the last husk from the oilskin's deep pockets.
Reese's glance fell to the right hock. The swelling had gone down; the sprain was healing. Obviously, last night's dip in the cold Niobrara had paid off. He nodded his approval. “You're as good as any vet. Maybe better.”
Her kerchief-clad head cocked to one side. “Vet? I do not know that word.”
“Veterinarian.” He gestured vaguely and tried to think of a way to make her understand. “Animal doctor.”
A tentative smile scooted across her lips. “Ah. That pleases me, then. The Gaje put great trust in their doctors.”
“We do.” The stallion gobbled the husk and rooted against her pocket for another. “How do you know so much about horses?”
“From Nanosh. Since I have been old enough to ride, he has taught me their ways. Gypsies are not so different from the horse, you know. Like the wild mustangs, we love the freedom of roaming the land, feeling the sun against our backs, the wind in our faces.”
“Who is Nanosh?” Her past intrigued him. Reese wanted to know everything about her, her family, friends, the life she led in that elusive world so opposite from his.
“My mother's husband.” A veil of sadness drifted over her features and pulled at Reese's heart. “He has given me little since I have been born, but at least he has shared with me his gift with horses.”
“He's taught you well,” Reese said softly, knowing instinctively that this man whose love Liza craved had been the one to hurt her the most. Not wanting to see her pain, he steered his questions onto a different course. “Do you have brothers? Sisters?”
Her expression softened. “Two of each. Paprika and Putzi, who were with me at the train depot, and Tekla and Hanzi.”
He tested the strange names on his tongue. “What are their ages? Are you the oldest?”
She laughed and reached toward him, touching her fingers to his lips to silence his curiosity. “So many questions, Gajo. There is time for answers later, but now, I must see to your horse.”
The movement was a simple one, that of laying her fingers against his mouth, yet it urged within Reese a need for more. Much more. Without thinking, he curled his hand around her wrist, keeping her near. Her words from earlier that morning--that she'd be leaving
soon--returned to haunt him.
“Will there be a 'later,' Liza?” he murmured.
Her gaze wavered against his. She pulled from his grasp and ran a troubled eye over the rainy horizon. “I cannot leave yet. Not in this weather.” Her chin lifted; she faced him again, her stance defiant. “But soon I will.”
In spite of the stubbornness in her tone, he realized the words bought him more time with her. And he relished the thought.
As if jealous for attention, the stallion nudged her. She crooned softly and rubbed his velvety nose.
“Do you have a name for him?” she asked.
Reese shook his head. “Most days, ‘fella’ works just fine.”
“I shall call him Zor, then.”
“Zor?”
“It means 'strength.”' She smiled. “Because he will be strong again very soon.” Her admiring glance drifted over the black, gleaming flanks. “He is such a fine horse. Nanosh would pay you well for him.”
Reese grunted. “He's not for sale.”
She smiled. “I thought not.”
He remembered his attempt to spare the horse pain and misery, and Liza throwing herself between them. She'd saved the stallion's life, and for that Reese owed her.
Now, he longed to get the horse back into prime condition, to see him as swift-footed and graceful as before. Reese could hardly wait to mount him, ride him hard and fast, feel the power in the muscular limbs. Under Liza's care, it wouldn't be long.
He stepped closer to examine the sprain and gauge the heat that concerned her so. The horse snorted and shied.
“Whoa, boy,” Reese murmured and stroked the broad back. He bent, running a hand along the hock. The stallion twisted toward him, his lips parted and giant teeth bared.
Reese narrowly missed the bite and swore. Liza gasped and tugged at the bridle.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked, dark eyes wide with concern.
Reese straightened and glared at the horse. “I'm fine. But he nearly took a piece of my hide.” He tossed her a petulant glance. “Something he's never tried with you, I'd warrant.”
“He is te'sorthene, my friend, bonded by heart and spirit.” An impish light danced across her face. “Besides, he knows you tried to shoot him last night. No wonder he wants to bite you today.”
“Well, hell,” Reese said, defensive and frowning.
“Watch your language, Gajo,” she said, not looking the least bit offended. “Is it not improper in your world to swear in front of a lady?”
“It is.” He inclined his head. His defenses fell away, and he hid his smile. “I apologize, Miss Liza, for you are, in fact, a true lady.”
His off-hand compliment seemed to fluster her. A faint blush crept across her cheeks; her lashes lowered, and he knew his words pleased her.
With a swift flare of skirt hems, she pivoted. One hand on the stallion's bridle, she stepped out from under the lean-to into the misty rain.
“What're you doing, Liza?” Reese hobbled after her, stopping just beneath the end of the slanted roof. He had no desire to get a good soaking all over again or to dodge the muddy puddles and storm-tossed debris scattered everywhere.
“Zor must have more cold water for his leg,” she called back.
The soggy ground failed to deter her. Barefoot, she picked her way toward an overflowing horse trough. Reese leaned against the structure's edge, hitched his shirt collar closer to ward off the damp chill, and watched her.
She was amazing. How she managed to coax the strong-willed horse to stand placidly while his hind leg soaked in the trough, he'd never know.
Unbidden, thoughts of Rebecca Ann seeped into his mind, distracting him from the sight before him. Though he tried, he failed to form a vivid image of her, as if they'd been a lifetime apart, as if he'd almost forgotten her.
Maybe he had, a little. Too soon, he'd return to Niobrara City and ask for her hand in marriage. Too soon, Liza would return to her people, and he'd never see her again. Their lives would go on as planned.
He squinted an eye toward the sky and found no break in the clouds. Until the sun broke through, Liza would stay. As long as it rained, he would, too.
He found himself wishing it would rain a very long time.
Darkness had long since fallen. Pensive, Liza squatted on her heels near the fire and listened to the steady rain outside. Reese had allowed her a few moments of privacy, then had stepped outside for some time of his own. Though she had been bitterly disappointed at being forced to spend the day away from her family, the hours with him had not been unpleasant.
Best of all, he had called her a lady.
She basked in the memory. It had long been a secret dream of hers. To be liked and admired and respected. To shed the scorn the Gaje showed whenever they looked at Gypsies. To be above their contempt.
A lady.
If only it were true. She could enter any room, walk down any street, mingle with the Gaje and be above their ridicule.
Would it ever be possible?
Liza closed her eyes and let the dream take flight. She would wear dresses that cost more Gaje dollars than she had ever seen in her lifetime. She would smell of the finest perfume, one that came in a tiny crystal bottle from a faraway place called France. Fine jewels would grace her ears and fingers and neck, jewels that glittered and shined, nothing like the cheap tin--.
Shame burned her cheeks. What was she thinking? Where was her pride? How could she let herself be so weak, pretending to be one of them?
There was great honor in being Gypsy. She must never forget that. Honor in being free, of needing nothing more than what nature offered. She had gifts, strengths, that went far beyond other Gaje women.
Had Reese not told her so?
She stared into the brilliant orange and yellow flames. What did it matter that her clothes were mismatched and often torn? Or that she wore necklaces made of old coins and worthless beads? Or that her hair glinted with shots of copper and gold instead of the blue-black hues of her people?
She was Gypsy. Why was that not enough?
A wave of despair crashed through her, for she knew the truth. She would never be the lady in her dreams. She would never be like the perfect Rebecca Ann, all soft and fragile and beautiful. She would never have the respect she longed for, not from her own kind and certainly not from the Gaje.
Because of Mama's sin.
Her lip curled. She cursed her Gajo father and his lust. She cursed the Gajo blood swimming in her veins.
And she cursed Reese Carrison for making her want to be part of his world.
Chapter 7
Liza hardly noticed when he returned. Her troubled thoughts held her in their grip; she struggled with their power to draw her back into the dream she had long harbored even as a child. The allure of what could never be was far more difficult to shed than she ever imagined, and for that she blamed him, the Gajo with whom she shared this storm-ravaged cabin, the man who ignited forbidden feelings within her like a match to dry tinder.
She thought of Mama instead. Her scorn and mistrust were easy to recall. In her mind, Liza heard the stories her mother often told with bitter relish. Liza nurtured the familiar hate, clung to the loathing, relived the disgust every Gypsy felt for the dishonorable Gaje.
And soon, like unwanted dirt under a rug, she was able to thrust aside the dream, a dream that was silly and foolish and totally impossible to achieve. She allowed the old cloak of revulsion to wrap around her, and she held herself tight within its folds.
“That's a mighty fierce some frown you're wearing,” Reese said, his low voice vaguely bemused.
Liza finally turned from the fire. He was sprawled behind her, his hurting leg stretched out before him, his good knee raised in a casual masculine stance.
Her heart tripped an odd beat. It seemed he cared little for wearing a shirt, even in the cabin's chill, and the firelight's play on his taut-muscled chest threatened to melt her resolve.
“What do you care of my frown?” she
demanded, shifting from her haunches to face him.
His brow arched at her shrewish tone. “I prefer a smile. It becomes you,”
She had not expected the compliment and steeled herself against its impact. “I have little to smile about.”
The flames sizzled in the block, the crackling sounds muted against the pelting raindrops outside. He regarded her intently. “Missing your family again?”
“Again?” Haughtiness veiled the query. “I have not stopped missing them.”
“Of course not.” His piercing gaze remained steady. “I'm sorry they're not here with us, Liza. If I could bring them back to you, I would.”
Liza fought the sudden sting of tears. His kindness would be her undoing.
“It does not matter,” she said and glanced away.
“Like hell it doesn't.”
She bit her lip. She could not tell him of Mama's hate, or of her dream and the sheer futility of it, or how out of place she felt in his world. He was only a Gajo. How could he possibly understand?
“I had a schoolmarm once who always wore a frown. We called her Pickle Puss because her face was all pinched and wrinkled like a pickle.”
Liza's eyes widened. “I do not look like a pickle!”
The comers of his mouth crinkled. “If you keep frowning, that's exactly what you'll look like.”
Of its own accord, her mind conjured the image of a green-faced, sour-looking Gajo woman. Liza dipped her head. She did not want to smile.
“So tell me about Gypsies.” Reese settled more comfortably on the floor, rolling to his side and propping his head up with one hand. He waited expectantly.
She peered at him from beneath her lashes. “What do you want to know? You have already asked many questions today.”
He grinned and charmed her fickle heart. “Can they really tell fortunes?”
“What do you think?” she hedged.
“I think it's all trickery.”
She shrugged. “Telling fortunes takes great skill. Gypsy women practice many years to learn how. It is a very honorable thing to make money telling fortunes to the Gaje.”
“And my people actually believe that stuff?”