In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “You needn't worry about your virtue with me, sweetheart. I'm not in the mood.”

  She wavered at his dubious reassurance. He was married, was he not? Would that be reason enough to be safe with him?

  No, her stubborn mind argued. Her own father had ignored Mama's marriage vows when he bedded her nineteen years ago. The Gaje could not be trusted, married or not.

  Troubled, she returned to the stove and stirred the food in the skillet. Water had dripped from the hems of her skirts and puddled on the floor. Her toes were still numb from the soaking her thin leather shoes had received. Soggy tendrils of hair stuck to her scalp, the rain-heavy ends dripping onto the stovetop.

  Deep down, she knew he was right. She could not stay in her sopping-wet clothes.

  You needn't worry about your virtue with me, sweetheart.

  She pivoted. “Do you give me your word?”

  His brow quirked. “That I won't touch you?”

  “Yes.”

  He scowled darkly. “I’m not a man who speaks lightly, Liza, nor am I in the habit of deflowering innocent virgins. I won't attack you.” He gave her a wicked leer. “That is, unless you want me to.”

  The bastard. She pitied his wife.

  “Very well, then.” She turned from him again, giving him her back. Her eyes closed; she willed herself the strength to do such a thing. Then, resolutely, she opened the oilskin a little wider, unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Two more underskirts followed, leaving only her skimpy cotton chemise.

  It took a little more doing to wriggle out of her blouse, but she managed, removing the strands of gold beads first. Keeping the oilskin draped over her shoulders, she squirmed out of the blouse, one sleeve at a time. The chemise was no easier, for the damp, oft-worn fabric clung to her skin, but she pulled it off by way of her head and laid it on the heap.

  Her nipples puckered from her nakedness, and she shivered.

  For not the first time, she was grateful for Reese Carrison's generosity in lending her his coat. She hastily shrugged back into the long sleeves and buttoned the oilskin closed from top to bottom, acutely aware of the strange feeling of wearing it with nothing on beneath. Lastly, by balancing on one foot, then the other, she removed her shoes.

  Her toes curled into the wooden floor. She refused to turn around, to see if the Gajo had watched her undress. Mama would be mortified. Liza endured a pang of shame, but she could think of no other way to dry her clothes. Surely taking them off would be faster, like the Gajo said.

  Their meal was nearly ready. She hung the blouse and skirts over the quilts, keeping only her chemise from view. She discreetly laid the undergarment on the sideboard close to the stove and hoped it would dry soon. With nimble fingers, she wrapped the gold-and-crimson kerchief properly about her head and knotted it at her nape. At least she could keep her hair covered and maintain a shred of decency.

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face Reese Carrison again.

  He sat on the freshly swept floor, his hair combed, his shirt off and tossed to the side. He pulled one boot off, turned it upside down and grimly watched the rainwater trickle out.

  His face bore such a pained expression that Liza, in spite of herself, nearly laughed aloud. Only the barest of twitches in the comer of her mouth revealed her amusement, and it was then that Reese Carrison happened to look her way.

  “Think this is funny, do you?” he growled, and though his words seemed to bear a touch of temper, his tone did not. He wrung out both socks; the puddle of rainwater grew even larger.

  “A little, maybe,” she said.

  “If it never rains again, I'll be happy.”

  “A drought grows more appealing by the minute,” she concurred.

  Across the tiny room, their eyes met again. And held.

  Liza realized he had been as uncomfortable as she, more so because of his wrenched knee, and she, at least, had had the protection from his oilskin coat.

  In that moment, she shared with him--Reese Carrison, a man not of her world--a peculiar, inexplicable bonding that evolved from less-than-perfect circumstances. They were in this together, had survived, and it would get better. Did they not have a snug roof of sorts over their heads? Did they not have a strong fire and plenty of food? Had not Reese Carrison provided her with all that?

  Yes. He had. And even Mama could not deny she could show him a bit of courtesy by filling his belly with the hot meal she had prepared.

  Liza's lashes lowered, breaking the pull of his gaze, and she hastened back to the sideboard, retrieving a large white tablecloth from one of its drawers.

  She spread it on the floor next to him, then returned with a bowl filled with the steaming meat and vegetables.

  “I could not find any plates,” she said softly, walking behind him, then reaching around his broad back and setting the food in front of him. “I imagine the tornado took them. We will have to eat right out of the bowl.” She left him, found two forks, and walked behind him again to give him those in the same manner. “Would you like a cup--”

  When she would have stood to bring him coffee, his hand snaked out and grasped her wrist over the long oilskin sleeves, keeping her bent half-behind him.

  “What are you doing, Liza?” His low voice sounded suspicious; his tiger-like eyes bore into her.

  Her own widened. Had she displeased him in some way? “I am serving you, of course.”

  “Like this? From behind me?”

  “Yes.” Puzzled, she stared at him.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “It is the Gypsy way.”

  “This is how the women serve the men? From behind?”

  “Yes.”

  The suspicion laded from his expression. “And they never serve from the front?”

  “No.” She shook her head. A tardy raindrop fell from a lock of her hair and landed between them. “Except their husbands. And always in private.”

  “I see.” He released her. “Well, serve me from the front, okay?”

  She blinked at him, unable to believe he would ask such a thing from her. “But why?”

  “Because I prefer it.”

  “But--”

  “We're not in public, are we?”

  “You are not my husband!” What would Mama think? And Paprika and all the other women of her kumpania ?

  “It’s just you and me, Liza. Who will know?”

  She bit back further argument and helplessly surrendered to his logic, knowing this would be yet another secret she would be forced to keep from her people. She rose and poured two cups of coffee. Almost without thinking, she stepped toward his back, corrected herself, and squatted on her heels before him.

  She set the coffee down and clasped her hands around her knees. He nodded his thanks, took a bite of the vegetables and chewed. Again, his gaze rested on her, and she glanced away, uncomfortable from the intensity of it. He took a second bite, swallowed, and set his fork down onto the tablecloth.

  “And do the women not eat until after the men have had their fill?” he asked quietly.

  “No.”

  His jaw cocked. She sensed he did not approve of the Gypsy custom. “I’m not kin to eating while a woman who is as hungry as me does without.” He leaned slightly toward her. “Eat with me, Liza.”

  “But I cannot!”

  “Because I'm not your husband?”

  She pressed her lips together. He had already guessed the answer to his question.

  He sighed and crossed his sinewy arms over his bare chest. “I won't have another bite until you do.”

  She clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. The man was stubborn as a mule.

  “The food will go to waste,” he said, goading her.

  Stubborn as an entire herd of mules.

  God forgive her.

  She picked up a fork. Slowly, guiltily, she dipped into the bowl and snared a piece of beef, bringing it into her mouth. His tiger-gold eyes never left her, and she realized the privilege he gave her
, the privilege she did not deserve. Wisps of steam curled from the pair of cups between them. Behind her, the fire in the grate warmed her back, crackling and spitting an ageless song, the only sound in the tiny room to compete with the rumbling thunder outside.

  She took a second bite, and apparently satisfied, his strong mouth bearing the remnants of a smile, Reese Carrison lilted his fork and did the same.

  The lantern on the sideboard flickered and flared, then unexpectedly went out. A shadowy dimness filled their quarters, touched only by the fire in the hearth.

  “Out of fuel,” he grunted. “Damn.”

  But he did not seem sorry. Or worried. He shifted his long body to lay on his side and propped himself up on an elbow. His new position brought him closer to the bowl of food, to the fire.

  And to her.

  The soft glow of light danced off the dark hairs on his chest, accented the ridges of muscles padding his shoulder and arms, highlighted the one masculine nipple she could. The seasoned beef grew tasteless against her tongue.

  Saints in heaven. How would she get through the night?

  Chapter 5

  She was naked beneath the oilskin.

  Reese tried not to dwell on it, but even though she kept her calves and ankles covered, all he had to do was see her clothes hanging over the quilts to know she wore nothing but his coat.

  Losing the lantern’s light didn't help. It only increased the intimacy in the cabin, made him more aware of her and her more aware of him.

  Was that why she was as skittish as a wild rabbit? Because he made her nervous? Was she afraid of him? The thought filled him with reluctant regret.

  He should resent her for all she'd put him through. After leading him on a chase that took him damn near into Dakota Territory, he'd almost lost his horse. His knee hurt so bad he walked like a cripple. He'd gotten soaked to the skin, and he was miles away from the comforts of his own home--that is, if he had a home left after the tornado.

  Hell. He had every reason to resent her. But what was the use? Their situation hadn't been entirely her fault. Who could've known a deadly storm would dip from the sky and wreak havoc on the land? Just his luck he happened to pick today to dedicate his railroad.

  He sighed inwardly. He'd pricked her with his sharp temper more than once, unleashing his frustration on her when his control had been stretched to the limits. Why did she bring out the worst in him?

  Feeling a need to make amends, he tried to put her at ease.

  “Grub's good,” he said and meant it.

  She hesitated. “Grub?”

  “Yes.” He spoke around a mouthful of potato and gestured toward the near-empty bowl. “You know, food.”

  “Oh.” The compliment seemed to fluster her. Her thick lashes, dusted with a coppery-red glint, floated downward. “Thank you.”

  He wondered at their color, finding it unusual they weren't the jet-black hues he associated with Gypsies. “Get tired of my own cooking sometimes. I don't bother with it much.” Her lashes flew up again; she frowned. “I'd just as soon grab a bite in town than cook at home.”

  He reached for the steaming coffee. Was he rambling? Is that why she had that all-too-familiar look of contempt on her face?

  He took a sip. The brew was strong, very strong. And sweet. He managed not to grimace and set the cup down again.

  “You do not like the coffee,” she murmured and drank from her own.

  Her astuteness surprised him.

  “It’s not what I'm used to,” he said carefully, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

  “The Gaje prefer their coffee weak. Like their women.”

  She delivered the slur smoothly, drinking her coffee as if they spoke casually of the weather.

  He regarded her. “What does that mean- -Gaje?”

  She met his gaze. “Those who are not Gypsy.”

  “And because we, the Gaje, like coffee different than this”--he nodded toward his cup--”we are weak?”

  She shrugged.

  Her logic amused him. “If that were true, what does it have to do with our women?”

  Her chin lifted. “A woman who refuses to cook for her husband is weak and selfish. Or, perhaps”--she looked directly at him--”her husband is.”

  Reese fell silent. He understood now the reason for her disdain.

  “Rebecca Ann is not my wife,” he said finally.

  “No?” Her eyes, black as crow's wings, widened in surprise. “But she was with you at the train.”

  “She came in from St. Louis for the N & D's dedication. Her father is an old friend.”

  “And the child?”

  “Not mine, either.”

  “But you want them to be.”

  Again, her perception struck him. He swirled the coffee in his cup and watched tiny bubbles form on the edges. “Yes. I intended to ask Rebecca Ann to marry me today.”

  That seemed so long ago. Had it been only this afternoon that he'd waited for her in the lobby of the Grand River Hotel, had chased after Margaret Michelle, held her squirming, three-year-old body in his arms?

  His mood grew pensive.

  Rebecca Ann. He hadn't thought of her before now, hadn't worried for her safety during the tornado. How had she slipped from his mind so easily?

  His conscience gave him no answers. Grimly, he lifted the cup and sipped. This time, the hot brew slid down his throat a little easier.

  “I am sorry, then,” Liza said softly, her glance fixed on her cup. “I judged you--and her--wrong.”

  “Forget it.” Reese reached for his saddlebags, flipped one open, and withdrew his tobacco and papers. He rolled a cigarette, lit it, and eased from his side onto his back, using the leather bags for a pillow. He inhaled deeply and crossed his ankles.

  His position afforded him a more direct view of her. He exhaled, and through the hazy blue curls of smoke, he contemplated the picture she made.

  A picture of contrasts. The striped kerchief kept her wet hair close about her head, outlining its shape and her high, genteel forehead. In the fire's glow, her exotic features were accented, every curve and hollow shaded in shadows. But his oilskin dwarfed her, hiding her arms and legs from view, making her seem somehow vulnerable.

  And alone.

  In need of protection.

  He resisted the feeling, knowing this wasn't the first time she stirred it in him, and knowing, too, she had more strengths than he had yet to realize.

  “Do you miss your family?” he asked.

  The dark eyes welled with sudden tears; she blinked them away. “Yes.”

  Her reply was hardly more than a whisper but enough to tug at Reese's heart.

  “I have never been away from them before,” she admitted.

  “Never?”

  She shook her head, the gold hoops in her ears swaying with the movement.

  “Your husband must be frantic.” Reese's jaw tautened. If she were his, he'd have an entire posse out looking for her, tornado be damned.

  “Husband! Pah!”

  She spoke so vehemently, he stared, amazed at the implication of her words.

  “I can't believe you're not married,” he said. “You're of age, a great cook, beautiful--”

  “The right age? Cook? Beautiful? It does not matter, Gajo. Not to my people.”

  “Why not?”

  She fell silent, her gaze straying to the fire. Reese held his breath, transfixed by this woman before him and all he knew--and didn't know--about her.

  “We are very different, you and I. Our worlds are opposite,” she said.

  “Yes,” he murmured and waited.

  She bit her lip. Then, her spine stiffened, her chin lifted. She seemed fused with a new strength, a raw pride, that allowed her to go on. “And at the same time, I belong to no world of my own.”

  “You speak in riddles, woman,” he said softly.

  Her eyes drifted over him, as if needing his trust to go on. She drew a breath, and Reese knew whatever she was about to say cost her dearly.<
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  “I bring shame to my people because my mother is Gypsy, but my father was a Gajo. I do not know him, but his blood flows through my veins forever.” Once more, her gaze returned to the fire. “His lust made me different. No Gypsy man wants me for his wife. I would only bring more shame to his family and to our children.” She turned toward him. “Do you understand?”

  He didn't understand at all. The cigarette, virtually untouched, had burned down to a stub. She took it from him and threw it into the flames.

  “You really despise us, don't you?” he asked. “The Gaje, I mean.”

  “Do you not despise the Gypsy as much?”

  He sat up, rested an elbow over his drawn-up knee and tried to explain. “There's been trouble with Gypsies in the past.”

  “And trouble with the Gaje for us as well.”

  “We're not as awful as you think, Liza.”

  “Nor are we.”

  He remembered his experiences over the years with Gypsies, the thievery, the drunkenness and lies. His contempt for them had been no less than anyone else's. Had they all been too harsh? Had they been carried away by the aura, the legend, surrounding Gypsies?

  “Tell me the truth.” Dead serious, he appealed to her.

  She met him with a level glance.

  “Did you try to kidnap Margaret Michelle?”

  She snorted loudly. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Why would a Gypsy want to steal a Gaje child when we have so many of our own? Especially that one?” She sniffed haughtily. “She is a handful.”

  A slow grin spread across Reese's mouth. “That she is.”

  It was as if a mountain had been moved between them, clearing the path for what could be, perhaps, a budding friendship. Reese reached out and fingered a soggy curl beneath the kerchief.

  “Your hair is still wet, Liza. Take off the kerchief and let the fire's heat dry it.”

  “Oh, but I cannot! It is not decent.”

  “Is it decent that you wear no clothes beneath my coat?” Even in the shadows, he could see the blush that sprang to her cheeks. “We've been through one hell of a storm. You'll get a chill if you don't dry your hair.”

  She made a sound in her throat, as if she warred with his practicality. Reese guessed wearing kerchiefs was another of the Gypsy's stringent customs. In this case, he could see no wisdom in it.