In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “You knew how much I loved you and the Rocking M, and still you sent me away.” Sonnie fought to keep her-lower lip from quivering. “Why, Papa?”

  He shrugged. “After your mother died, I had nothing left in my heart to live for.”

  “You had me. You had six daughters who adored you.”

  His smile looked wan in the firelight. “Maybe it wasn’t enough, eh?”

  “I think not, Papa.” She steadied her breathing, forcing herself to ask a final question. “Why did you name me ‘Sonnie’? Were you so disappointed that I turned out to be another girl?”

  A long moment went by. He seemed buried in the past, then roused himself to the present with a little shake. He reached over and patted her shoulder. “So many questions, mia bambina. It’s not such a terrible name, is it?”

  He evaded the truth, and she knew the answer, as she always had. With Doc Tanner’s gentle prodding, her father turned and walked slowly across his precious rangeland to the ambulance waiting to return him to the hospital.

  * * *

  The campfire’s giant flames had dwindled to almost nothing, but Sonnie felt no loss of their heat against the warmth of Lance’s body. Nearly everyone had left Silver Meadow to return to Cheyenne. Only Tom Horn and the most trusted of the Mancuso men lingered.

  The gunfighter stretched and yawned. “Guess I’ll head back, too. Gracie’ll be wonderin’ what happened to me.”

  “Fill her in on all the details,” Lance said. “She’ll give you no rest until you do. And thanks, Tom. For everything.”

  The two men shook hands, their clasp firm and strong. “Don’t mention it.” Horn’s gaze scanned the dark horizon. “The rustling problem is far from over. You cattlemen’ll be needing me for a while yet.” He grinned. “I’ll be back.” He touched the brim of his hat to Sonnie and left.

  “Reckon I’m close enough to the main spread, I’ll just head on home,” Charlie said. “I’ve had enough excitement in town to last me for a spell.”

  “Me, too,” Cookie concurred as he scratched his head and replaced his hat.

  “Phew!” Stick gasped, jumping to his feet and moving away in search of fresher air. “What’s that smell?”

  Everyone grimaced, wrinkled their noses, and followed his lead. Only Moose, heaving a contented sigh, remained near the fire.

  Laughter bubbled in Sonnie’s throat. “Jake McKenna . . . he, uh, fed Moose some beans.”

  “Gawd.” Cookie’s features registered full-blown disgust. “Come on, you good-fer-nuthin’ dog. Let’s take you where you can pass your stinkin’ wind someplace more private.” With a gentleness that belied his gruff words, the old cowboy picked him up, mounted his horse, and settled Moose on his lap for the ride back to the bunkhouse, ever careful of the furry, injured leg. “Mind you, be a gentleman ‘til we git you there. Stupid mutt.”

  The cowboys left amid waves and sleepy good-byes. Sonnie and Lance lingered in the solitude of the Wyoming night.

  “Cold?” he asked, coming behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned into his warmth, his strength, and relished the feel of him.

  “No. Not with you.”

  He nuzzled his chin against her jaw. “Doin’ okay?”

  “Yes.” She’d killed a man tonight, an Indian as ruthless as any depicted in Jeffrey’s novels. And she’d survived. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Vince loves you in his own way. You know that, don’t you, Sonnie?” The tender reassurance came through little nibbles on her earlobe.

  “I suppose he does.” Papa would never need her as long as he had the ranch. She accepted it. She’d lived many years without him, and he’d lived many more without her.

  But Sonnie had Lance now. She understood Papa’s love for him. Didn’t she love him just as much?

  Yes, that and more. A million times more.

  She turned and lifted her mouth to his, spilling her love into the kiss in a way the little words never could.

  Lance’s breath grew ragged. “We’ll get married as soon as we can. We’ll live at the Big House--.”

  Sonnie drew back. “No, not there.”

  A tawny brow rose. She shook her head emphatically.

  “The Big House is my father’s. I want to start fresh with you, Lance. I want you to build us a home”--she paused and thought of fairies’ tears in the morning--“here. Right here in Silver Meadow.”

  The End

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  Authors Note

  Many thanks to Ms. Jean Brainerd, senior historian at the Wyoming State Museum, for her invaluable help in providing me with photographs and research materials for Wyoming Wildflower, among them Agnes W. Spring’s fascinating and detailed, “The Cheyenne Club.”

  With Ms. Brainerd’s assistance, I have been able to depict the woes of the cattlemen, the political power of the Wyoming Stockgrowers Association, and the elite Cheyenne Club with reasonable clarity. Several of the characters brought to life in Wyoming Wildflower really did belong to the Club, including John Carlisle, Hubert Teschemacher, John Coble, and the French steward, Francois De Prato.

  The famous club once stood proudly on the corner of what is today Seventeenth and Warren streets in Cheyenne. In 1936, the building was torn down and a new structure to house the Chamber of Commerce was built. The Cheyenne Frontier Days committee kept its headquarters there for many years until moving to its present location.

  LADY GYPSY

  Pam Crooks

  Copyright 2013 by Pam Crooks

  All rights reserved. No portion of this ebook boxed set may be reproduced, re-sold, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the copyright holder.

  Lady Gypsy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in these works of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by, the trademark owners.

  Brief Excerpt

  CHANGING FORTUNE

  “What do you see?” Reese asked, his voice low, curious.

  For a lengthy moment, she did not answer. Hardly aware of it, she touched her fingertip to his Heart Line, following the groove in a slow, caressing stroke.

  “You will have a great love someday, Reese,” she said softly. “A woman will wed you, and you will love her as you have loved no other. Your marriage will endure. You will be happy, and the love you have for each other will last forever.”

  A silence fell between them. Somehow, their fingers became entwined, each coiling around the other’s, their grip soon clinging and intimate.

  “My turn, Lady Gypsy,” he said quietly.

  Before she could resist, he pulled her toward him, twisting their bodies so that she lay beneath him on the tablecloth-covered floor, their entwined hands resting near her head.

  Filled with raw emotion, his gaze roamed over her face. “I predict you'll have a great love of your own. A husband who'll hold you in his arms at night and thank God with every fiber of his being that you're his.”

  Her teeth bit into her lower lip, and she turned away. “Do not tease me, Gajo. I cannot bear it.”

  Gentle fingers took her jaw and turned her back again. “It's the truth. I swear it. And he'll be a man to be envied.”

  To Gypsies everywhere, for their fascinating customs and beliefs. And for giving me Liza.

  What readers are saying about Lady Gypsy!


  “Lady Gypsy will steal your heart with charm, honor, turmoil, wit, and strong love.”

  “This novel by Pam Crooks was a fabulous book! I read it in about a day.”

  "Stirring passion, deep-seated prejudice and hidden danger make Pam Crooks' 'Lady Gypsy' an unforgettable treasure!”

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

  Northern Nebraska, 1876

  Damned Gypsies.

  Reese Carrison reined in his horse and grimly watched the colorful, high-wheeled wagons rolling along the sun-bright horizon. Like a trail of ants, they made their way around the outskirts of Niobrara City and halted near woodland bordering the river.

  There they would camp. One night, maybe two, he guessed. The trees hid them from the townspeople’s view; lush rangeland offered unlimited grazing and valuable water for their horses. And then, as quietly as they arrived, they would leave again, their destination as mysterious as the Gypsies themselves.

  Reese breathed a silent curse. He didn’t need them here. Not today. He didn’t need the problems they’d bring, problems that spawned complaints of stolen chickens, unruly children, and women begging in the streets. Niobrara City’s saloons would fill with boisterous, dark-skinned men who, in their drunkenness, hurled insults at the non-Gypsy and left a string of frustrated and angry shopkeepers in their wake.

  Reese sighed. No, he didn’t want them here today. Today was special. He’d waited most of his life for this day. Today, his railroad would finally link up with the prestigious Union Pacific line.

  The Nebraska-Dakota Railroad grew out of his sweat and blood--and every dime he owned. Niobrara City would’ve been little more than a row of shanties and false-front businesses if not for him. The N & D provided area farmers and ranchers with a shipping point to Omaha markets. It provided employment for the citizens. It put Niobrara City on the map.

  All he lacked was a wife to share his satisfaction with and sons to someday hand his hard-won legacy down to. But that would come. Rebecca Ann had traveled all the way from St. Louis for the ceremony. She would make a fine wife. Today, he’d ask for her hand.

  His mood lightened. He swept a glance toward the riverbank and the wagons spread in a wide half-circle. Already, several campfires flickered and danced.

  The little railroad was his pride and joy. He lived and breathed the N & D. It was his life. His dream. And he would celebrate its completion today.

  He tugged his hat brim lower over his eyes, then nudged his pure-bred stallion forward. He’d waited too long for this day and the ceremony that would begin in a few hours’ time. Nothing was going to ruin it for him.

  Not even a band of Gypsies.

  “Come with us, Mama.” Liza arranged stacks of woven baskets in the battered cart and cast a sidelong glance at her mother. “Our pockets will fill with the Gaje's money quickly. It will be fun.”

  “Pah!” Mama twisted and spit in the weeds. “I will not breathe the same air as the stupid Gaje! I will stay here in the camp. Far away from them.”

  “Oh, Mama.” Liza shook her head in exasperation, the gold hoops in her ears swaying with the movement. Her mother's vehemence in regard to the non-Gypsy--the Gaje--was deep-rooted and permanent. All Gypsies mocked them, but none despised them more than Mama.

  Sometimes, Liza grew tired of the hatred. It had been a part of her life since the day she was born. From the time she had been old enough to comprehend the pain the Gaje inspired in Mama, Liza was forced to live with the consequences. The shame. One Gajo had been responsible, and because of him, Mama hated them all. Because of him, Gajo blood flowed in Liza's veins. Because of him, Liza would be forever different from her people.

  But the day was glorious, and the afternoon spent in town promised to be a refreshing change from their travels. Rarely did their kumpania stop to make camp halfway through the day. Liza was determined to enjoy it.

  “Look.” Pointing a finger through the trees, she attempted a different approach to convince her mother to accompany them. “There is something special happening in”--she tried to remember what Hanzi, her brother, had called the place--”Niobrara City. See the train? Men and women come from everywhere. Perhaps it is something new.”

  “Pah! Another of the Gaje's expensive toys. I do not want to see it.” With Tekla, Liza's baby sister, toddling right behind, Mama hefted a dented pot full of water toward the newly kindled fire. “Hurry, Liza. The men have already left, and the children are waiting for you.

  “Mama, do not be so stubborn.”

  “I am not stubborn.” She straightened and faced Liza. A shimmer of tears glazed her ebony eyes. Wounded pride cried out in her sun-weathered features. “I will not embarrass you, my daughter. Go without me.”

  Embarrass her? Liza's heart plummeted within her breast. The last basket to be loaded into the cart slipped from her grasp, and she threw her arms around her mother's rigid shoulders. “You would never embarrass me. Never!”

  “I am no better than an ugly old hag. You love me too much to admit it, but it is true.”

  Liza drew away and fought the sting of her own tears. Stricken by her mother's words, she could find none of her own to offer comfort.

  Involuntarily, her gaze lifted to the faded kerchief wrapped around Mama's head. The colorful cloth helped hide her shame, her humiliation, the judgment handed down by the Gypsy court of law, the dreaded kris.

  Mama's head was shaved, the punishment for adultery. As if that were not enough, their wagon would always follow at the end of the line during their travels. For the rest of their lives, they would choke on the dust raised by the wagons ahead of them, and Mama would be deprived of the long braids other Gypsy women wore.

  It could have been worse, Liza knew. Mama could have been banished from the tribe, but the kris had given her mercy out of respect for Nanosh, her husband.

  Mama had been only fifteen, but already a young bride. A sweet-talking, handsome horse trader with hair the color of newly minted pennies had swayed her impressionable, feminine heart. By the time Nanosh finished his dealings at the horse fair, the Gajo's seed had been planted in Mama's womb. Mama never saw him again.

  Nine months later, Liza was born. Nanosh accepted her as his own, but his affections were rare. Through the years, two sisters and two brothers followed, but only Liza was different.

  “I made a mistake, my daughter. Now, I must pay for it. I will not go into the Gaje's world and hear them speak of my shame and my ugliness. They will only laugh at a Gypsy woman with no hair.”

  “You will always be beautiful to me.” Liza looked into her mother's face and saw her pride. Her skin was aged too soon from the toils of the weather, and her dark eyes often showed fatigue, but the loveliness from her youth had not been destroyed. Liza tenderly kissed each of her cheeks.

  “Enough of this. Go.” Mama gently, firmly set Liza aside. “Take Paprika with you. And Putzi is growing impatient.”

  “Yes, Mama.” For the first time, she noticed her five-year-old brother tugging on her skirt. She smiled, tweaked his nose, and hurried back to the two-wheeled cart filled with her baskets.

  She picked up the one she had dropped. Of all of them she had made, this one was the smallest. She had experimented with the design, weaving strips of bark in with the dried leaves of a yucca plant she had gathered during the kumpania 's travels.

  Most likely, the Gaje with their fussy tastes would only turn their noses up. They would not think the littl
e basket fine enough to buy. Nevertheless, Liza tossed it in with the others. She did not care what they thought. The basket was one of her favorites.

  “Are you ready, Putzi?” Liza grasped the handles of the cart and turned it toward the road leading into Niobrara City.

  “Yeth.” He spoke between two missing front teeth. “I been waiting and waiting.”

  “I know, little one. Here. Help me push. You are so strong, do you know that?”

  “Yeth.” His young shoulders squared, and he leaned into the task with all his weight. Liza pretended not to help.

  “Liza, wait.”

  She turned and found her mother stepping from their wagon, a silk kerchief of vibrant gold-and-crimson stripes in her hand.

  “You must not forget this,” Mama said and draped the kerchief over Liza's head.

  “I do not want to wear--”

  “Liza!”

  The sharpness in her mother's voice stilled the protest on Liza's tongue. A hint of sadness crept over Mama's features. Her work-roughened hand cupped Liza's cheek, and her tone softened. “You have suffered from my shame, too, my daughter. Wear it so that the Gaje men will not look at you as . . . they did me.”

  Liza's mouth curved downward in a pout. She could not yet wear a kerchief tied with the special knot of the Gypsies. Only the married women were allowed that privilege, never appearing in public without their head covered. The unmarried braided their hair, the thick plaits hanging down to their waists, free to the day and the night.

  But with the Gaje, Liza could not be so free. The kerchief would hide her hair from their curious, mocking stares, hair that glinted coppery-red in the sunlight, hair that made her different.

  It was the one thing she inherited from her natural father. As a child, she hated it, wanting the deep, blue-black color of her sisters and cousins and friends, but eventually, she grew to accept the imperfection while among her own people.