by Pam Crooks
The Gypsy scrambled to her feet and took a cautious step backward. She seemed poised for flight, ready to bolt should he take off after her. Reese groaned aloud and forced himself to sit up. He doubted he'd ever walk again.
She watched him warily. He struggled to get a hold on the pain, relaxing in slow degrees while the fire ebbed to a dull, persistent throb. He gripped his knee and felt the swelling that had already begun.
“Are--are you all right?”
Her uncertain question stirred his temper, and he fixed her with a menacing stare. She flinched from the intensity of it. “What the hell do you think?”
She looked like a half-drowned mutt with her hair smeared across her scalp and cheek. The striped kerchief, its colors once vibrant in the sunlight, laid over her shoulders like a limp rag. Rivulets of rain streamed across her face, dripping steadily from the edge of her chin onto her blouse.
A single drop caught his attention. It snaked a path down her neck, past her collarbone, and settled in the valley of her breasts. The drenched garment clung to the full mounds, highlighting her nipples as if she wore nothing at all.
Something stirred inside Reese, but his foul mood neglected to identify it, refused to let it take root. His gaze slammed back to hers. “This is all your fault.”
She gasped, the sound barely audible in the falling rain. “Mine?”
“Yes, yours.” In the back of his mind, Reese became aware that the storm had lessened its roar, that the wind had died to a crisp breeze. “Gypsies bring trouble wherever they go. You damn well brought your share of it.”
Her chin snapped up, her nostrils flared.
“If you hadn't tried to snatch Margaret-Michelle right out from under our noses--.”
“I never!”
“--then lead me on a wild-goose chase on my own horse in the middle of a damn storm--”
A strangled sound escaped from her throat.
“--then none of this would have happened.”
“You bastard.”
“Call me what you want, Lady Gypsy,” he snarled. “But this is all your fault.”
“Stupid Gajo!”
“You think I'd be sitting here in the mud, my knee wrenched all to hell if not for you?” Her ire failed to sway his own. His reckless accusations flew free. “Now we're soaking wet, miles from home, and my horse--”
A whimpering nicker stilled the words on his tongue. His glance swung toward the sorrel and found him calmed, his nose at the river's edge.
Reese automatically searched for the stallion at the base of the riverbank. The animal writhed in the mud and tried to get up on all fours. Reese's gut twisted.
“Saints in heaven!”
Her features horrified, the Gypsy woman lifted her voluminous skirts high about her ankles and hastened to the stallion's side. Reese bellowed a blue oath and tried to stand. His throbbing knee protested every movement and sent shards of pain clear to his hip. He gritted his teeth and managed to pull himself upright anyway, giving his uninjured leg all his weight. He hobbled to a cluster of low-lying branches drooping over the bank, gave one a savage yank and tested its sturdiness.
It proved to be a fine enough crutch. He limped over to the stallion and halted. The animal lay unmoving, as if his agony had become too much to bear. His eyes were glazed, wild, filled with panic. Despair washed over Reese.
“He's lame, isn't he?” Reese's voice rasped with the weight of the words, knowing they were true, but wanting her to tell him they weren't.
The Gypsy's hand stilled over the horse's hind leg. Her gaze lifted, meeting his, the dark orbs pools of sympathy. “Yes.”
“Damn.”
The stallion meant the world to him. A symbol of his success almost more than the N & D. Any man appreciated a good horse, and this one had been one of the best. Grief sagged inside him. He would miss the stallion sorely.
What else could go wrong? The day had been one disaster after another. He'd had a feeling, from the minute he'd first laid eyes on the Gypsy camp outside of Niobrara City. . ..
And this woman was a Gypsy. She was part of the trouble, the reason why they were out here in the middle of nowhere, his horse lame and useless.
The stallion nickered again, low and anguished with pain. Reese identified with that pain. Didn't he feel it as deeply in his own knee? Didn't he know what the stallion was going through?
A solemn resolve filled him, leaving him empty, dispassionate. He hobbled over to the sorrel, to the saddlebag where Bram always kept a pistol.
“What are you going to do?”
Reese ignored the woman's wary question and checked the chamber. All six bullets were intact.
She straightened, moved to his side, and tugged on his arm.
“I will not let you do this.” Her small hands gripped him with the same intensity as her words.
The rain had dwindled to a mere sprinkle. Droplets clung to her lashes, surprisingly long and thick. Reese pulled his glance away and shrugged free of her touch. His lip curled. “Think you're going to stop me?”
She flinched from the nasty drawl in his tone.
“Yes.” Her chin lifted. “I can help him.”
He snorted in derision. “You've been a big help already, sweetheart. Move.”
She remained where she was, steadfastly between him and the stallion. “No. You must trust me.”
Trust a Gypsy? He'd never known a more conniving, thieving, underhanded, elusive people in his life. Or one that brought more trouble. “Uh-uh. I don't think so.”
He put his hand out to thrust her away, but she swiveled out of reach. Grimly, he lifted the pistol and took aim. Right between the stallion's eyes. His thumb pulled back the hammer--
“No-o!” She came at him hard, knocking his arm aside, nearly making him lose his balance. “Foolish Gajo! Do you think you will be a hero, putting the horse out of his misery? Are you going to help him like that?”
“Yes, damn it! Look at him. He can't even stand up! It'll be hours before we can get him to a vet. I won't have him suffer in the meantime.”
“I can help him,” she said again, a thread of urgency in her voice. “Let me help. “
Reese wavered. He thought of the liniments in the tack room in his barn at home. The poultices and medications and bandages. They had nothing here to treat the stallion's injuries.
Nothing.
Slowly, he shook his head and raised the pistol again. “That horse means too much to me to put him through the pain. The only humane thing to do is to put him down. Now.”
She spun and planted her feet between him and the horse, splaying her arms wide in a protective gesture. “Shoot him, and you will have to shoot me first, Gajo.”
Reese cocked his jaw and squelched his frustration. His instincts told him to do what any man would do under these circumstances.
But another part of him wanted to believe in her, to trust that she somehow had the knowledge and skill to ease the horse's misery, to make him walk and run as strong and swift as before.
And, Lord, the woman was determined.
He narrowed an eye. He touched the nose of the pistol to the base of her throat, dragging it slowly upward along the curve of her neck. A slight flick of his wrist, and the pistol tilted her chin a fraction higher. She shivered.
He had her full attention. “I'm giving you five minutes to prove yourself. Convince me you know what you're doing, and my horse lives.”
She nodded, swallowed, and a flash of cautious relief flitted over her features. Satisfied she took his warning seriously, he lowered the pistol and stuffed it in his waistband.
The Gypsy stepped away, knelt beside the stallion, and set to work. Her graceful hands examined every inch of his hind legs, beginning with his hooves and working up to his hips, then repeated the procedure with the forelegs to the shoulder. The horse seemed lulled by the soft, crooning tone of her voice and remained passive beneath her gentle ministrations. An accomplishment in itself given the animal's high-strung natu
re, Reese thought with grudging admiration. The stallion had never been receptive to strangers.
Her slim fingers returned to the right hind leg and prodded carefully.
“Here,” she said. “A sprain in the hock.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Defiance shone in her dark eyes, as if she resented him questioning her diagnosis. “He flinches when I touch him there. And I can feel the heat.”
Heat. A danger signal. Even so, Reese wanted to feel for himself, to be convinced that she spoke the truth, that she didn't, for reasons of her own, try to con him with a lie.
His knee aching, he bent and ran his hand along the hind leg. The stallion nickered, seemingly impatient with all their poking, and tried to stand. The Gypsy reached out and took Reese's wrist, guiding him to the swollen sprain quickly.
“Do you feel it?”
Her fingers, cold and wet from the rain, looked small and almost delicate against his skin. He had a sudden urge to warm her, to take her body against his and chase away the chill, to keep her dry and safe.
The unexpected need rocked him, and he fought it, forced himself to keep his attention to the matter at hand.
“Yes,” he said, his reply curt.
“Help me get him up, then.” She released him, straightened and tugged on the bridle. Reese lent his assistance, and they worked the stallion into an upright position. He shied, favoring the injured leg, but allowed the Gypsy to lead him toward the river.
Reese glanced at the swirling current and frowned. “What are you going to do?”
“The cold water will ease the swelling. He must stand in the river for a little while.”
“That's not a good idea.”
She met his gaze squarely. “It's what he needs.”
“The river's running pretty strong. You could be swept away.”
She seemed amused by his argument. “Are you worried about me, a poor, simple Gypsy who brings you nothing but trouble? Save your breath, Gajo. I know what I am doing.”
Her taunt hit too close to the truth. Reese reached out and snared her chin in a firm grip. Scorn flared in her expression, and she jerked, breaking free of his hold.
The abrupt movement dropped a thick tendril of wet hair over one side of her face. More gently this time, Reese reached toward her again, and tucked the wayward strands behind her ear.
“What is your name?” he asked.
The question appeared to take her by surprise. She glanced toward the river, as if debating whether or not to answer. After a long moment, she turned back to him.
“Liza,” she said.
The name fit her. Exotic. Unusual.
And beautiful.
She seemed to dismiss him after imparting that bit of information, channeling her attention solely on the stallion. She stroked his velvety nose and spoke in soothing tones before leading him from the bank into the river. Like a calf to slaughter, Reese mused. Somehow, she had stolen the stallion's heart, winning his trust and confidence like few others.
He propped his foot on a rock and massaged his aching knee. He wondered at her power, her skill. Each came naturally to her, as if the trait had been inborn. Gypsies were well-known for their way with horses, their opinions highly sought after at horse fairs and the like. Yet he knew, too, that a Gypsy would lie and cheat his way through any deal, cunningly manipulating a trade to get the horse he wanted.
Would Liza be the same? Would she try to steal the stallion again?
He didn't doubt it for a minute.
And Margaret Michelle. Hadn't she tried to steal the child? He couldn't forget that, either.
Despite it all, she fascinated him. From the large hoops dangling from her ears, to the long strands of gold beads hanging jumbled and snarled around her neck, to the layers and layers of skirts she wore, she was different from any other woman he'd known. More important, her concern for his horse seemed genuine; her veterinary talents were authentic. For now, at least, he could trust her.
She stood in hip-deep water that must be as cold as ice, her feet braced against the strong current. Her hands were never still, always stroking the stallion's neck and nose, rubbing the mud off his belly and flanks. The stallion's ears were pricked to the sound of her voice, her words easily carrying over the water to Reese.
Because of the absolute quiet. He hadn't noticed it before, his thoughts only on Liza. But not a leaf moved on the trees. Not a bird chirped. Not a single fly hovered in the air. The rain had long since stopped falling. His glance darted to the sky. Blue-black clouds rolled and churned. He knew Nebraska weather well enough to recognize that this was the calm before the storm, that the gale had only been a prelude to what was to come.
He straightened from the rock. “Liza, get out of the water. It’s going to rain again.”
She peered at him over the saddle and shook her head. “Not yet. The horse needs more time.”
“Get out now.”
She ignored his sharp command, going about her ministrations as if he'd never spoken. His lips thinned in annoyance. A sudden breeze almost lifted the hat from his head, and he tugged it on tighter.
“Liza,” he said, his tone heavy with warning. He limped to Bram's sorrel, took the dragging reins and tied them to a stalwart branch hanging over the riverbank. His uneasy glance slid toward Liza again. She seemed oblivious to the impending storm.
“Woman, if I have to go in there after you . . ..” He let the threat dangle.
“A little longer,” she called back. The wind kicked up harder, making it more difficult to hear. Her gaze lilted to the sky. She frowned.
Reese's patience evaporated, and leaning heavily on the makeshift cane, he stepped into the water. The wetness seeped into his socks. He grimaced. Damn, but it was cold. How could she stand it? He tried not to think of the damage done to his leather boots, newly purchased for the N & D's dedication and one more casualty on the day's lengthy list of misfortunes.
The current had grown stronger with the wind. He had to walk carefully lest it sweep him sideways. The water reached his knees and rose higher with his every step.
She owed him for this. Owed him big time. He could hardly wait to throttle her for her stubbornness and exact punishment for all the troubles she'd caused him this whole day. Never mind that she just might save his horse from going lame or that--.
Her scream tore into his thoughts. His heart leaped to his throat. The current caught at her full skirts and pulled her down into the greenish-brown water. He hardly recognized the hoarse yell crying out her name as his own.
She went completely under. She seemed miles away, and Reese couldn't get to her soon enough. A raw fear clutched him, stopped the blood from flowing in his veins.
She came up again, choking and sputtering and grabbing wildly for the stallion. Reese reached her then, flung his arm around her waist and lifted her higher out of the water. With the other, he grasped the saddle horn and leaned against his horse.
“You okay?” he panted, out of breath from the scare she'd given him.
She nodded and coughed, clutching his neck in a death grip.
“We have to get back to the bank, Liza. We don't have much time. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” A shiver took her, and she swiped at the hair that had fallen over her face while still keeping a tight hold on his neck.
“I’m going to lower you into the water a little, but I'll keep my arm around you.” He had to shout above the roar of the wind. “We have to hurry. Come on.”
She responded to the urgency in his tone and released his neck. With his free hand, Reese grasped the stallion's bridle. After a grim glance at the sky, he tugged him forward.
None too soon they reached the bank. Liza trudged from the river and hastened to the stallion's other side, her intent to help Reese tether him next to the sorrel. But her fingers were blue from the cold, and Reese finished the job alone.
They'd run out of time. The wind was a fierce roar; the water lapped angrily at the
edge of the bank. They had nowhere to go in the seconds they had left before the storm unleashed its rage. Nowhere except to seek shelter against a massive outcropping of stone a short distance away.
Reese pushed Liza toward the largest rock, angled with another to form an open cocoon of sorts. He pressed her back against the rough surface. She gasped against the strength of the wind and shuddered violently.
She was afraid. She was cold. Her vulnerability touched Reese in a way he'd never known before. He dropped the branch he'd been using as a crutch and gripped her upper shoulders. Sweet mother. Her skin and wet clothes felt like ice.
He opened his suit coat.
“Put your arms around me,” he yelled into her ear. He expected her to refuse. On a half-sob, she hesitated, then slipped her arms inside his coat and wrapped them around his torso. She buried her face against his chest, and Reese folded her tightly against him.
He wasn't dry, but he wasn't as wet as she was, either. He could offer her little but the warmth from his body and protection from the storm. He hoped it was enough to get them through.
Her head lifted from his chest, and she glanced toward the sky. Her breath sucked inward.
“Reese. God's saints. Reese.”
He couldn't allow himself the pleasure that came with hearing her speak his name for the first time, the appealing way it rolled off her tongue and the ease with which she seemed to use it. He knew what she saw, what he'd expected to come, what the convulsing black clouds hurled down to earth in all their fury.
With her skirts whipping about his legs, he pushed her deeper into the shelter of the rocks and braced for the tornado headed their way.
Chapter 4
Liza clung to him. Who could have known she would depend on a Gajo for her life, that she would need his strength, his protection, his body over hers to shield her from nature's wrath?
She had never thought it possible. But tonight, she needed Reese Carrison. Without shame, she welcomed his weight against her and ignored the jutting hardness of the rocks at her back.
The tornado shrieked and howled over their heads; the awful wind sucked at their clothes. It seemed her ears would burst from the pressure, the noise, the powerful fear that held her captive in his arms.