In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  She combed and braided her hair, splashed her face with cold water, and, with coarse grains of cooking salt, rubbed her teeth clean. The routine complete, she hummed an old Gypsy tune and set about preparing a simple breakfast of biscuits and coffee.

  “Are you always so damned cheerful in the mornings?”

  Liza stopped stirring the dough and glanced over her shoulder. Reese scowled and flung aside the quilt and oilskin. He sat up slowly.

  “Usually.” She smiled at his frown. “Are you always so grouchy?”

  “Only when I sleep on a floor that's hard as rock.” He worked the muscles in his back and arms with a grimace.

  “You are used to your own bed with its fluffy mattress and pillow.”

  “l am.” He finger-combed his hair and regarded her. “Aren't you?”

  She shrugged and resumed stirring. “Sometimes I use a cot. Sometimes I do not. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether I choose to sleep inside our wagon or outside under the stars. The floor is no different than sleeping on the ground. I did not find it uncomfortable.”

  He grunted. “You bested me on that count, then.”

  “The Gaje lead pampered lives.” She dropped spoonfuls of dough onto a pan and slid it into the hot oven. “The Gypsy does not need fancy things like a big house or a soft bed to be happy.”

  “I've spent my share of nights in a bedroll next to a campfire. It's just been a while, that's all.”

  He looked so defensive Liza almost regretted pointing out their differences. The comers of her mouth twitched. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Perhaps it will take away your stiffness.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  He made no attempt to get up. She handed him a cup of the black brew, and, for the first time, noticed his fingers massaging his knee, swollen double its normal size.

  Compassion stirred within her, and she clucked her tongue in sympathy. No wonder he looked as cross as an old rooster.

  “Why did you not tell me you were in pain?” she scolded, gently prodding the swelling with her fingertips.

  “What? And have you tell me that Gypsies never complain? Or get hurt? Or--”

  “Oh, hush!” Exasperation threaded the words, though his taunt bore the truth. “I do not wish to listen to your whining. Sit still while I see what I can do for you.”

  Memories of her flight from Niobrara City and the ensuing scuffle at the riverbank when he tried to pull her from his horse reminded her she had been the cause of his wrenched knee. Guilt hurried her movements, and she dipped a length of toweling into a cast-iron pot boiling with rainwater. Thank goodness she had prepared the water for washing their dishes. The heat would be good medicine.

  Using a wooden spoon, she carried the dripping towel from the pot over to him. Without fanfare, she dropped it on his knee.

  He yelped and nearly spilled the coffee. “Good God, woman! You'll scald me to death!”

  “I will not. It is what you need. The towel will cool soon enough, and we will see what a difference I have made.” She swathed his knee with the steaming fabric and, nodding in satisfaction, sat back on her heels. “There. Is that better?”

  “How do I know? The knee is damn near numb by now.” His features pulled into a masculine pout. “I'll probably never walk again.”

  “Oh, Gajo.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You are such a baby. You will walk again, I promise.”

  “Go ahead,” he growled. “Laugh all you want, but I'd warrant you'd sing a different tune if you were in my place.”

  “I doubt it. Men can be weaklings at times. In many ways, we women are by far the stronger sex.”

  “Think so?”

  She thought she detected a rare twinkle in his eyes. “I know so. Try birthing a baby sometime. Then you will agree with me.”

  He chuckled outright, all signs of his frown gone, and Liza relished the sound. His amusement spoke of an ease between them, one she never thought she would share with a Gajo, and one that stirred within her an unexpected pleasure.

  “Guess I'll never get the chance,” he said finally. “I'll leave birthing to you women.”

  “It is best that you did, Gajo. We are far better at it,” she said pertly.

  A grin lingered on his lips, but he made no further reply. His tiger-gold eyes drifted over her with an intensity that seemed to bore right through her, leaving her feeling naked beneath his perusal.

  She fidgeted and groped for something to say, something to do. She spied his tobacco and papers near the hearth, out of his reach.

  “The biscuits are nearly done. By the time you finish a smoke, they should be ready to eat,” she said. Without a second's thought, she snatched the tobacco and papers up, expertly rolled a cigarette and tucked it between her lips. Reaching for his metal matchbox, she withdrew a wooden match, struck a flame, and lit the tobacco.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, one brow raised.

  She exhaled and handed him the cigarette, the unlit end first. “I do not remember. It was a very long time ago.”

  “You've been smoking since then?”

  She shook her head and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I have never learned a taste for the tobacco, though many women enjoy it. The Gypsy often starts smoking at a very young age. As children.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “You do not approve?”

  “Can't say as I do.”

  “Another difference between us, Gajo.”

  A long moment passed between them. He nodded pensively. “Yes. Another difference.”

  She wondered what he was thinking, of whom he was thinking. Suddenly restless, Liza rose and stepped to the stove. Using a wadded rag, she pulled the hot pan from the oven and set it on top of the stove to cool. She stared at the golden biscuits without really seeing them.

  “l suppose your Rebecca Ann does not smoke,” she said, her back unusually straight.

  He snorted with amused disdain. “God forbid. She would die first.”

  “I see.”

  “Ladies don't smoke or swear or drink in my society. It's not proper.”

  “I see,” she said again. She bit the inside of her lip and hated the twinge of hurt his words gave her. How shamed he must feel to be here with her, a Gypsy woman who condoned all the things the women in his world did not.

  Women like his betrothed, Rebecca Ann.

  “Liza, look at me.”

  “I cannot. I am busy.” She briskly plucked the hot biscuits from the pan into a bowl.

  His heavy sigh sounded behind her. “I don't think any less of you or your people for the things you do, smoking or otherwise. You have your customs. We have ours. Okay?”

  She lifted her chin and turned, the bowl in her hand. “Of course.”

  His eyes, sharp and piercing, never left her face. Liza's lids lowered. She could not meet his gaze, could not let him see how torn she felt, straddling her world and his.

  She set the biscuits before him, opened a jar of peach preserves, refilled his coffee cup, then hers. He made no move to eat. She busied herself dividing the bread between them.

  “Liza.”

  She ignored him and gathered her share into her skirt, vowing to sit closer to the fire, away from him and his shrewd, penetrating gaze. But his long arm reached out and grasped the gold beads around her neck. He gently tugged, bringing her closer, persistently closer. Fearful the strands would break, Liza did not resist and eyed him warily.

  “I'm starting to like all this, you know.”

  His change of topic flustered her. His voice, sultry, seductive, hardly more than a whisper, wrapped around her like the finest goose down. Her heart pattered a little faster within her breast.

  “Like what?”

  “This. Being taken care of by a woman. By you.”

  Her pulse hammered a steady beat; she was certain he could hear the blood pounding through her veins.

  “It is best that you do not, Reese Carrison,�
�� she said, her tone quavery. “I will not be with you much longer.”

  Something flickered over his features, something she could not define. His nearness disconcerted her and left her feeling out of sorts. Did all Gajo men have that power?

  “You're different from other women I've known,” he murmured. “Stronger. You roll with the punches and come out standing on both feet.”

  The scent of him, dusted with tobacco, surrounded her. Morning stubble darkened his cheeks, giving him a primitive air, a wildness that incited shards of awareness within her. His chest, bare to the waist, rippled and bulged with muscle, and invited her palms to explore the manly contours.

  “Roll with the punches?” She could hardly think straight. Her fingers tightened into a fist. She must not touch him, must not give in to the weakness that these strange longings brewed deep inside her belly. She eased away, but he only tightened his grip on the beads.

  The firm line of his lower lip softened. “Let's just say Rebecca Ann would never have lasted through what we went through. Not the way you did.” His voice deepened and stroked her with its smoky timber. “You're quite a woman, Lady Gypsy. Y’know that?”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. A man's mouth. Meant to pleasure a woman. Liza held her breath, knowing that if he wanted, he could easily, so very easily, rest that mouth against hers, and she would let him.

  Slowly, he loosened his grasp on the gold beads. Her lashes lowered, hiding the yearnings that surely showed in her eyes. She would not think of the feel of his arms around her, of the strength he possessed, or his warmth and tenderness. She would not think of lying beside him, of feeling the weight of his body against hers. She would not think of Reese Carrison in that way.

  He was a Gajo.

  And he belonged to another.

  The stallion nuzzled Liza, his black nose poking her braid beneath the striped kerchief. She laughed, crooning in some Gypsy lingo Reese didn't understand, and lifted her arms to circle the horse's sleek neck.

  Reese marveled at the sight. She'd bewitched the animal. She'd bewitched him. All with a few soft words and gentle touches and a wealth of loving care.

  He could hardly tear his gaze from her. Her vitality shone amid the gray clouds and puddles of mud; her spirit, unfettered from convention, flew free. She had a quiet, unassuming allure that touched him in places he'd never been touched before.

  Deep inside. In his heart. In his soul. She forced him to realize, for not the first time, she was like no other woman he'd ever met, a difference that went far beyond gold hoop earrings, ebony eyes, and hair like gleaming copper.

  And she wielded that same power over his horse. Normally high-strung and skittish, the stallion allowed few near him, but like an eager puppy, he'd scampered to his feet to greet her this morning and had endured her inspection of his lame leg with amazing patience. She'd rewarded him with a treat of succulent corn husks, and Reese knew his prized mount had been lost to him for good.

  Behind the cabin, the lean-to protected them from the heavy mist coating the dreary day. Bullfrogs croaked in the distance, their calls blending with the caw-caw cries of crows flying overhead. Reese tossed Bram's sorrel the last of the oats in his bucket, and leaning heavily on his crutch, limped over and patted the stallion's neck.

  “His leg is better today,” Liza said and pulled the last husk from the oilskin's deep pockets.

  Reese's glance fell to the right hock. The swelling had gone down; the sprain was healing. Obviously, last night's dip in the cold Niobrara had paid off. He nodded his approval. “You're as good as any vet. Maybe better.”

  Her kerchief-clad head cocked to one side. “Vet? I do not know that word.”

  “Veterinarian.” He gestured vaguely and tried to think of a way to make her understand. “Animal doctor.”

  A tentative smile scooted across her lips. “Ah. That pleases me, then. The Gaje put great trust in their doctors.”

  “We do.” The stallion gobbled the husk and rooted against her pocket for another. “How do you know so much about horses?”

  “From Nanosh. Since I have been old enough to ride, he has taught me their ways. Gypsies are not so different from the horse, you know. Like the wild mustangs, we love the freedom of roaming the land, feeling the sun against our backs, the wind in our faces.”

  “Who is Nanosh?” Her past intrigued him. Reese wanted to know everything about her, her family, friends, the life she led in that elusive world so opposite from his.

  “My mother's husband.” A veil of sadness drifted over her features and pulled at Reese's heart. “He has given me little since I have been born, but at least he has shared with me his gift with horses.”

  “He's taught you well,” Reese said softly, knowing instinctively that this man whose love Liza craved had been the one to hurt her the most. Not wanting to see her pain, he steered his questions onto a different course. “Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

  Her expression softened. “Two of each. Paprika and Putzi, who were with me at the train depot, and Tekla and Hanzi.”

  He tested the strange names on his tongue. “What are their ages? Are you the oldest?”

  She laughed and reached toward him, touching her fingers to his lips to silence his curiosity. “So many questions, Gajo. There is time for answers later, but now, I must see to your horse.”

  The movement was a simple one, that of laying her fingers against his mouth, yet it urged within Reese a need for more. Much more. Without thinking, he curled his hand around her wrist, keeping her near. Her words from earlier that morning--that she'd be leaving soon--returned to haunt him.

  “Will there be a 'later,' Liza?” he murmured.

  Her gaze wavered against his. She pulled from his grasp and ran a troubled eye over the rainy horizon. “I cannot leave yet. Not in this weather.” Her chin lifted; she faced him again, her stance defiant. “But soon I will.”

  In spite of the stubbornness in her tone, he realized the words bought him more time with her. And he relished the thought.

  As if jealous for attention, the stallion nudged her. She crooned softly and rubbed his velvety nose.

  “Do you have a name for him?” she asked.

  Reese shook his head. “Most days, ‘fella’ works just fine.”

  “I shall call him Zor, then.”

  “Zor?”

  “It means 'strength.”' She smiled. “Because he will be strong again very soon.” Her admiring glance drifted over the black, gleaming flanks. “He is such a fine horse. Nanosh would pay you well for him.”

  Reese grunted. “He's not for sale.”

  She smiled. “I thought not.”

  He remembered his attempt to spare the horse pain and misery, and Liza throwing herself between them. She'd saved the stallion's life, and for that Reese owed her.

  Now, he longed to get the horse back into prime condition, to see him as swift-footed and graceful as before. Reese could hardly wait to mount him, ride him hard and fast, feel the power in the muscular limbs. Under Liza's care, it wouldn't be long.

  He stepped closer to examine the sprain and gauge the heat that concerned her so. The horse snorted and shied.

  “Whoa, boy,” Reese murmured and stroked the broad back. He bent, running a hand along the hock. The stallion twisted toward him, his lips parted and giant teeth bared.

  Reese narrowly missed the bite and swore. Liza gasped and tugged at the bridle.

  “Did he hurt you?” she asked, dark eyes wide with concern.

  Reese straightened and glared at the horse. “I'm fine. But he nearly took a piece of my hide.” He tossed her a petulant glance. “Something he's never tried with you, I'd warrant.”

  “He is te'sorthene, my friend, bonded by heart and spirit.” An impish light danced across her face. “Besides, he knows you tried to shoot him last night. No wonder he wants to bite you today.”

  “Well, hell,” Reese said, defensive and frowning.

  “Watch your language, Gajo,” she said, not
looking the least bit offended. “Is it not improper in your world to swear in front of a lady?”

  “It is.” He inclined his head. His defenses fell away, and he hid his smile. “I apologize, Miss Liza, for you are, in fact, a true lady.”

  His off-hand compliment seemed to fluster her. A faint blush crept across her cheeks; her lashes lowered, and he knew his words pleased her.

  With a swift flare of skirt hems, she pivoted. One hand on the stallion's bridle, she stepped out from under the lean-to into the misty rain.

  “What're you doing, Liza?” Reese hobbled after her, stopping just beneath the end of the slanted roof. He had no desire to get a good soaking all over again or to dodge the muddy puddles and storm-tossed debris scattered everywhere.

  “Zor must have more cold water for his leg,” she called back.

  The soggy ground failed to deter her. Barefoot, she picked her way toward an overflowing horse trough. Reese leaned against the structure's edge, hitched his shirt collar closer to ward off the damp chill, and watched her.

  She was amazing. How she managed to coax the strong-willed horse to stand placidly while his hind leg soaked in the trough, he'd never know.

  Unbidden, thoughts of Rebecca Ann seeped into his mind, distracting him from the sight before him. Though he tried, he failed to form a vivid image of her, as if they'd been a lifetime apart, as if he'd almost forgotten her.

  Maybe he had, a little. Too soon, he'd return to Niobrara City and ask for her hand in marriage. Too soon, Liza would return to her people, and he'd never see her again. Their lives would go on as planned.

  He squinted an eye toward the sky and found no break in the clouds. Until the sun broke through, Liza would stay. As long as it rained, he would, too.

  He found himself wishing it would rain a very long time.

  Darkness had long since fallen. Pensive, Liza squatted on her heels near the fire and listened to the steady rain outside. Reese had allowed her a few moments of privacy, then had stepped outside for some time of his own. Though she had been bitterly disappointed at being forced to spend the day away from her family, the hours with him had not been unpleasant.