In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “Liza, what's happening?” Paprika emerged from the blur of faces and bodies, her dark eyes wide with fear.

  “God's saints! I found you!” Liza had to shout above the cries of the crowd. “We must get away from this!”

  “I'll help push the cart. Putzi, give me your other hand and run as fast as you can.”

  Keeping their brother safe between them, Liza and Paprika dodged panicked townspeople and hastened down the length of the long train stationed beside the depot. Pausing in the shadows of the caboose, Liza glanced behind her. The Wild One kicked free from the men who hoped to restrain him, rode past the train and away from Niobrara City at a full gallop, his empty rifle held high in the air.

  Liza was certain he was possessed by the devil. She pressed a hand to her breast and sighed in great relief. He was gone. They were safe.

  But why had he threatened Reese Carrison? What was it about the Nebraska-Dakota Railroad that inspired his hate?

  With his departure, the chaos ended, and so did the Nebraska-Dakota Railroad's celebration. Joyous smiles were replaced by somber frowns, and Niobrara City's disconcerted citizens began to return to their homes. Buggies and horses filtered into the streets, and Liza hesitated about returning to their camp just yet.

  The other Gypsy women with their children had long since left. She glanced at the sky and tried to gauge the storm's arrival. If they hurried, they could find the store that sold the pretty kerchiefs.

  “We will take a shorter way.” Liza veered into a narrow street. Only a couple of blocks to the store, a few moments inside, and they would be on their way back to the kumpania . They did not have a minute to waste.

  “Basket! My basket!”

  She halted at the sound of the child's voice. Alone, Reese Carrison's daughter toddled toward them from the depot, her blond ringlets mussed from the wind. Her parents were nowhere to be found, nor was the man who smoked the pipe, and Liza clucked her tongue in concern.

  “Not her again,” Paprika groaned.

  “Maybe she is lost,” Liza reasoned. The child obviously had been separated from her family in the fray. Her mother would be frantic.

  “I want my basket back.” The child peered inside the cart, searching for the basket Liza had given her.

  “Where is your mama?” Liza asked for the second time that afternoon.

  The child's shoulders lilted carelessly. “I don't know. Do you have my basket?”

  Liza could not help remembering Mrs. Carrison's animosity toward Gypsies. What would she think if she found her daughter with three of them now? Given her dramatic, high-strung nature, Liza shuddered. She did not want to find out.

  She plucked the bark-and-yucca-leaf basket from the cart and gave it to the child. “Here it is.” Placing her hands on the little girl's shoulders, she turned her around in the direction of the depot and gave her a pat on her pink ruffled backside. “Now, go. Your mama is worried about you.”

  The child remained, entranced with the small basket.

  “Go,” Paprika urged more forcefully, flinging her arms outward. “Shoo, shoo.”

  Still she made no attempt to leave.

  “Stubborn little thing, isn't she?” Paprika muttered.

  Liza wallowed in indecision. She did not have time for a lost little girl. Her instincts told her to walk back to the depot, find the child's parents and return her safely, yet the impending storm forbade it. Already, the wind had grown stronger, colder. Besides, she had no desire to risk another confrontation with the child's mother or hear her stinging accusations.

  “Let's start walking. Maybe if we ignore her, she'll go away,” Paprika suggested.

  Liza nibbled on the inside of her lip. Perhaps that would be the best way. The child had no fear among strangers, showed no worry about the loss of her parents. Her independent nature would sustain her well. Most likely, Reese Carrison would turn the corner at any moment and find her safe and content.

  Feeling guilty with every step, Liza pivoted and pushed the cart along the wooden boardwalk, despite Putzi's protests to stay. The women's clothing store waited on the next block, but the Gajo child's footsteps sounded plainly behind them. Exasperated, Liza halted again.

  “Can you play?” the little girl asked Putzi, taking his hand as if they'd been friends for years.

  Putzi turned wide, hopeful eyes toward Liza. “Can I?”

  “No, you may not play,” she hissed.

  Paprika gasped. “Oh, Liza.” Horror sounded in her voice. “We have trouble. Look over there.”

  A horde of Gaje, with Mrs. Carrison in the center, her husband at her side, appeared in the street next to the depot.

  “There she is! They're trying to take her away! Stop them!” she cried. Contempt and suspicion was evident on the Gajes’ expressions as they increased their pace to a near run. “Oh, Margaret Michelle! Baby!”

  In an instant, Liza knew what Mrs. Carrison thought, what they all thought. Gypsies had long been accused of stealing children, and this time would be no different. Having the beautiful child in their midst through no fault of their own would look incriminating enough. The Gaje would ask few questions, show little mercy.

  Liza knew of the Gaje jails. More than once, Gypsies had camped out in front of a local police station or sheriff's office when one of their own had been arrested. Too often, she had heard of the treatment Gypsies received, the disdain, the swift convictions. Was it any wonder they had quickly learned to flee arrest?

  And Liza did not want to be arrested, did not want Paprika and Putzi to endure the fear of the Gaje jails.

  Taking their hands into each of hers, she abandoned the cart and broke into a run, darting between buildings, into an alley and sidestepping boxes of trash overturned in the wind. They found refuge behind an old, weather-beaten shed.

  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, he 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.