by Crooks, Pam
The hominess of the room called out to her and offered a glimpse into his life and loves. Even the furniture, as strong and solid as the man himself, reflected a stability so much a part of him.
“What do you think?” he asked, plucking a shirt from the back of the sofa and tossing it into a woven basket overflowing with laundry near the door.
“It is beautiful,” she breathed.
He grinned, his pleasure obvious. “I built this myself, when I could spare the time away from the N & D. Took me forever.” His glance blanketed the room. “But it's mine,” he said softly. “Every sliver and nail.”
“You should be very proud to own such a fine home.”
“I am.” He grimaced and scooped up a stack of newspapers from the floor. “I'm not much of a housekeeper, though. Don't have the time for it.” He dropped the papers next to the laundry basket, then seemed to forget them. “Are you hungry? I'll find us something to eat. The kitchen is back here.”
On his way, he peeled his suit jacket off and flung it over the back of the sofa, on the same spot where he'd retrieved the shirt in his attempt to tidy up for her. Liza doubted he even noticed, and a small smile found her lips.
He disappeared into the kitchen. Careful not to touch anything, Liza trailed after him and paused in the archway dividing the two rooms.
A sigh of delight escaped her. What a pleasure this kitchen must be to work in, she thought longingly, charmed with the yellow checkered curtains and whitewashed walls. She eyed the big cast-iron stove with reverence. A far cry from cooking over an open fire. And while Gypsy women had prepared meals that way for generations, Liza knew the stove would make the chore much easier.
Reese pulled out a pitcher of lemonade from the icebox. She stared in wonder. An icebox. She had seen them in the Gaje stores before when the kumpania had ventured into the big cities, and this one was as nice as any of them with its polished hardwood door, carved panels, and shiny brass hinges. She could not imagine owning such a luxury.
“Ham sandwiches okay?” Reese asked, pulling a plate of the smoked meat from the icebox's compact shelf. “It's nearly lunchtime.”
Liza's stomach gurgled, reminding her they had had no breakfast. “Yes. A sandwich will be delicious.”
He set a bowl of fruit on the wooden table with one hand and balanced a cutting board and loaf of wrapped bread in the other. Opening a drawer, he retrieved a knife and pushed the drawer shut with his hip.
“Grab some glasses from that cupboard over there, will you?”
She did as he requested, picking two that looked as if they had never been used before, and set them on the table next to the pitcher. He began slicing the bread, wielding the knife in sure, even strokes.
Not knowing what else to do, Liza stood to one side, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. It did not feel right, a Gajo preparing her meal, even one as simple as a ham sandwich. And it did not feel proper to accept his hospitality so quickly. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. The slicing motions stopped.
“I will pay you for the food I eat,” she said firmly.
He set the knife down and regarded her. “I don't want your money, Liza.”
“I cannot take advantage of your generosity. You wait on me as if I were a helpless child.”
“Helpless? Hell.” His piercing gaze seemed to bore through to her soul. “Has a man never showed you kindness before?”
Reluctant to admit the truth, even to herself, she sniffed with disdain. “That is none of your concern.”
A tiny muscle moved in his jaw. “Maybe it isn't. Sorry.” But his features showed no remorse. “Let's get one thing straight right now. We have a business arrangement here. You take care of my horse and make him well again. In the meantime, I give you a place to stay and food to fill your belly until I can find your family. Got it?”
She wavered. His horse was strong. His leg would heal soon enough with only a little skill on her part. Reese's end of the bargain required far more effort. Finding her family would not be easy.
“I will cook for you, then.” She pushed his tall frame aside and picked up the knife. “It is the least I can do. And maybe wash the laundry, too. I do not mind.”
“I have a laundress in town, Liza. I don't expect you to clean my clothes.”
“Hush. I will not take no for an answer this time.” She heaped portions of ham on the bread with an efficiency borne of many years at Mama's side at mealtime. “Do you want one sandwich or two?”
“Make it three. I'm starved. You're a stubborn lady, y'know that?”
A pleasant sensation wrapped around her. She would never tire of him calling her a lady, even if she were a stubborn one.
They ate in a companionable silence. Afterward, Reese departed to return to the Hadleys' and bring the stallion back. Before he left, he surprised her by dragging a copper-lined tub into the kitchen so she might bathe.
She warmed at his thoughtfulness. A bath. In a real tub. What a treat that would be, and she hastened to heat plenty of water. With the table cleared of their lunch and the dishes cleaned, Liza shed her clothes and kerchief, leaving them in a pile on the floor.
She tested the water with her big toe before gingerly slipping into the lusciously hot depths. Water lapped about her and cocooned her in luxury. She sank deeper, bringing her knees up at one end and resting her head on the back of the other.
Saints in heaven. A bath in the middle of the day. How lucky she was. And how wickedly lazy.
She sighed and closed her eyes. If only Mama and Paprika were here. They would enjoy it just as much, taking turns washing and splashing in the splendid tub and feeling rich and spoiled.
Liza basked in the quiet and privacy, a rare thing when traveling with the kumpania . Of their own volition, her thoughts turned to Reese and the bargain they had made.
If anyone could find her family, he could. She trusted him in that. She had learned many things about him in the time they had spent together. His honor bound him to see the promise through. He would use every means within his power to ensure that soon, very soon, she would be reunited with the kumpania .
Ah, a fine man, Reese Carrison. Smart and generous and thoughtful. Even Mama would have to agree.
Liza did not feel so lonely now, in his house, in his tub. He wanted her to stay here with him. He would not mock her or show contempt, not like his hateful friend, Jack Hadley.
The water lapping about her shoulders and neck eventually cooled, taunting her skin with a chill. Abruptly, she sat up and soaped a thick washcloth. She had been lazy long enough. There was work to be done. She had a promise of her own to keep.
And Reese would be home soon.
George Steenson dried the last of the whiskey glasses and set it on the shelf beneath the mahogany bar. Out of habit, he swiped his towel across the glistening top, then folded the damp fabric into a neat rectangle and draped it over a brass knob. He sighed heavily.
At a far table, several cowboys, the only patrons in the saloon, gambled their wages on a quiet game of poker. George had little inclination to join them, as was his custom when business was slow at the Empty Saddle. He just wasn't in the mood for it.
He'd had no word on the whereabouts of Mr. Carrison. No one had. If he'd been found, or even that dadblamed Gypsy girl he went chasing after a couple of days back, George would've heard by now.
He expected the worst. Reckon everyone did.
And a damned shame it was, too. Mr. Carrison and his railroad were the best thing that had happened to Niobrara City. He'd taken the little town under his wing and made it grow. He gave Niobrara City respect, a sense of purpose, a place of prominence on the Nebraska prairie. Just wouldn't be the same without him.
Splaying his arms wide, George gripped the edge of the bar with both hands and gazed unseeing out a saloon window. He shook his head grimly.
Bram Kaldwell sure was taking it hard. Yesterday, after spending long hours in the rain with other concerned citizens looking fo
r Mr. Carrison, he'd come back, defeated and worried. Didn't seem fair to lose a good friend like that, George mused. Not with Bram hoping to marry his widowed daughter off to him and all.
Shrugging aside his troubled thoughts, George turned and made a half-hearted attempt to take inventory of his liquor supply. If he intended to get an order sent to Omaha, he'd best quit feeling so danged morose and get back to work. He had a saloon to run.
Dutifully, his pencil scratched across a sheet of paper. Though intent on his task, his practiced ear detected the soft scrape of a boot sole on the wooden floor behind him. George lifted his head and glanced into the large mirror hanging behind the bar.
A Gypsy stared back. Stiffening, George set the pencil down and faced him.
“What'll it be, son?”
He asked the same question of every customer who patronized the Empty Saddle, but his gaze darted suspiciously about the room. He half-expected to see a whole group of the dark-skinned people, none of whom could seem to go anywhere without their father, brother, uncle, or cousins tagging along.
Yet the young man was alone. George relaxed. One Gypsy wouldn't be too much trouble.
“A beer.” Brown fingers slid a gold coin across the bar.
“Comin' right up.” He tilted a glass beneath the barrel shaped keg's tap and covertly watched the Gypsy in the mirror.
George guessed him to be about seventeen. A dusty wool cap covered most of his shaggy, jet-black hair. Several days' growth of youthful stubble shadowed his chin and upper lip, and a weariness dulled the piercing, black eyes. The kid looked like he could use a good night's rest.
“What brings you to these parts?” George asked, setting the glass in front of him. Beer sloshed over the edge and slithered down the side; he dropped the coin into the till.
“I am looking for someone.” The Gypsy lifted the glass and gulped heartily, his throat bobbing with every long swallow.
“Reckon I know most everybody around here. This someone got a name?”
He eyed George with obvious distrust. “You would not know her.”
“I might.”
Contempt flashed across his features. He dragged his threadbare shirtsleeve across his mouth. “She would not come in here. How would you know her?”
George fingered his graying, handlebar mustache thoughtfully. “Not much happens in a town this size that everyone doesn't hear about sooner or later. Maybe I can help you, son. You lookin' for kin?”
The fight seemed to go out of him. He nodded. “My sister.”
George had heard enough about Gypsies to know they would never voluntarily leave their womenfolk behind. Especially one alone. Sympathy welled inside his chest.
“The only Gypsy I know about got in a bit of trouble here a couple of days back. Something about trying to steal a little girl. Might she be the one?”
Outrage sparked from the ebony eyes. “She would never steal a Gajo's child! Only the Gaje would accuse her of something so foolish!”
George held up a hand. “Simmer down now, son. That's not the point, is it? Point is, might she be the one?”
Pride stiffened the young man's spine. “Your people are too quick to blame the Gypsy. Yes, she is the one.”
“I see.”
George wrestled with the notion of telling him Bram and the others had found no sign of her and Mr. Carrison, that the Niobrara had been a raging monster, and the storm had been heartless, that they all feared the worst.
Furrowed lines at the ends of the young Gypsy's mouth and between his dark brows revealed the responsibility he carried on his shoulders. The desperation to find her. The panic and fear that he would fail.
George decided he had a right to know.
“There was a chase,” he began quietly. “Mr. Carrison, a respected townsman here in Niobrara City, took after her. Seems she stole his horse. Naturally, he wanted him back.”
“Liza was riding a horse?”
He nodded. “A fine horse. Mighty fine. Mr. Carrison had a hell of a run on his hands. That horse can't be beat.”
The Gypsy appeared to take hope from the news. “Do you know where she--they--went?”
“That there's the problem, son.” George grimaced. “They haven't been found yet. Far as I know, nobody's seen hide nor tail of 'em in all this time.”
“None?” Stricken, the young man stared. A low, moaning sound slipped from his throat, and his chin dropped to his chest, his head rolling back and forth in obvious despair.
“Now that don't mean they aren't doing just fine somewheres,” George hastened to reassure him. “We just haven't found them yet.” He hesitated. “Have you checked the jail?”
“I have checked everywhere. And I will not give up until I find her.” Proud determination seemed to inject a new energy into him. He lifted the glass to his lips and finished off the remaining beer in one gulp. He stepped away from the bar.
“They headed north, if that's any help to you,” George said softly.
Gratitude flittered across his features before the Gypsy banked it with a veil of haughtiness. “My sister is very strong. With a horse beneath her, Liza will save herself. I know I will find her.”
“Good luck to you, son.”
With a curt nod, he headed toward the saloon door, then disappeared into the street.
His visit did little to salve George's troubled mood. With another heavy sigh, he dropped the beer glass into a pan of soapy water and wiped the beer spill until the bar reflected its usual shine. That done, he picked up his pencil and forced his attention back to the liquor supply list.
“What's a man gotta do to get a drink around here?”
George jumped at Bram Kaldwell's gruff greeting. He set the pencil down again.
“Sorry, Bram. Didn't hear you come in. Reckon I got too much on my mind.” Dismayed at his carelessness, he scrambled to serve his old friend. “What'll it be? The usual?”
Bram nodded, and George reached for a bottle of Old Town gin and splashed an exact amount in a small glass.
“Found Reese and the Gypsy girl today,” Bram grunted with a frown.
Gin jerked over the edge of the glass and onto George's hand. “What?”
“Just this morning. They've been staying at Jack Hadley's place all this time. Both of them fit as a fiddle.”
“Lord Almighty.” George set the glass down with a sloppy thud and scuttled around the end of the bar. With as much speed as his arthritic knees would allow, he hurried to the saloon's door and thrust it open wide.
He found no sign of the young Gypsy. Stepping onto the boardwalk, he scrutinized both sides of the street, his gaze darting right and left and all around the townspeople, horses, and rigs for a glimpse of him.
But the dark-skinned youth had already disappeared. George cursed himself for not taking better note of the direction he'd gone. If only Bram would have arrived five minutes sooner. . ..
Saddened by the poor timing, he returned to the bar.
“What was that all about?” Bram asked and propped one boot heel over the brass rail.
George refilled the glass with the proper amount of gin and reached for the tonic water. “That Gypsy girl you found with Mr. Carrison. Her name Liza?”
“I believe that's what he called her. Why?”
“Her brother was just in looking for her. The kid was pretty worried.”
Bram scowled and downed the drink. “Rotten luck he couldn't have found her sooner and taken her back with him. The girl is going to be nothing but trouble.”
“That so?”
“Yes.” His features sullen, Bram handed him the empty glass in mute invitation for another. George obliged him. “Worst of it is, I think Reese has taken a fancy to her. And where the hell does that leave my Rebecca Ann?” He tipped his hat onto the back of his head and wearily rubbed a hand over his face. “The Gypsy is no good for him. Why can't he see that?”
“Maybe he will, Bram. In time. Going through a twister together like they did is bound to make fr
iends out of ‘em. Reckon it's harmless.” Tending bar at the Empty Saddle Saloon had taught him a skill for lending an ear to a man's troubles and offering advice. Words of comfort came easily. “Rebecca Ann's a mighty pretty woman. They'll be married one day. She'll make him a fine wife. You'll see.”
His features doubtful, Bram fell silent. George wiped his hands on his apron and left him to his drink. He picked up the pencil.
Mr. Carrison was safe. George delighted in the news and admitted to a burning curiosity about this Gypsy girl named Liza. If she'd managed to catch Mr. Carrison's eye, she must be one hell of a woman.
Chapter 10
Reese slid the wooden bar across the barn doors, straightened, and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. God, he was tired. It’d been a hard day.
Dusk had long since settled over the prairie. He should’ve been home hours ago. But there’d been endless chores to do at Jack and Maudeen’s, and he’d lent a hand organizing neighbors to help clear their place of the storm’s wreckage. Afterward, it’d been slow going hauling the stallion home in his wagon. He’d been careful not to jar the lame leg while driving over the muddied roads.
Now, with the horse bedded down for the night, Reese looked forward to calling it a day. He headed for the house and halted in mid-stride. A light shone in his kitchen. The golden glow reached out to him with welcoming arms and touched a corner of his soul.
His fatigue fell away like an unwanted cloak. It was a strange thing, having someone waiting for him when he came home. He couldn’t recall having the pleasure before. He’d lived alone too long.
Liza. Knowing she was inside warmed him. He’d been half-afraid she’d be gone when he returned. She’d been on his mind all day.
His step quickened as much as his throbbing knee allowed, and he took the back stairs in a couple of awkward leaps. He pushed the door wide open. The scent of cinnamon and raisins assailed him. The kitchen blazed with brightly lit kerosene lamps and a homey warmth from the cast-iron stove. A pair of delicately browned loaves of bread sat cooling, and next to them, a cake.