In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  Best of all, he had called her a lady.

  She basked in the memory. It had long been a secret dream of hers. To be liked and admired and respected. To shed the scorn the Gaje showed whenever they looked at Gypsies. To be above their contempt.

  A lady.

  If only it were true. She could enter any room, walk down any street, mingle with the Gaje and be above their ridicule.

  Would it ever be possible?

  Liza closed her eyes and let the dream take flight. She would wear dresses that cost more Gaje dollars than she had ever seen in her lifetime. She would smell of the finest perfume, one that came in a tiny crystal bottle from a faraway place called France. Fine jewels would grace her ears and fingers and neck, jewels that glittered and shined, nothing like the cheap tin--.

  Shame burned her cheeks. What was she thinking? Where was her pride? How could she let herself be so weak, pretending to be one of them?

  There was great honor in being Gypsy. She must never forget that. Honor in being free, of needing nothing more than what nature offered. She had gifts, strengths, that went far beyond other Gaje women.

  Had Reese not told her so?

  She stared into the brilliant orange and yellow flames. What did it matter that her clothes were mismatched and often torn? Or that she wore necklaces made of old coins and worthless beads? Or that her hair glinted with shots of copper and gold instead of the blue-black hues of her people?

  She was Gypsy. Why was that not enough?

  A wave of despair crashed through her, for she knew the truth. She would never be the lady in her dreams. She would never be like the perfect Rebecca Ann, all soft and fragile and beautiful. She would never have the respect she longed for, not from her own kind and certainly not from the Gaje.

  Because of Mama's sin.

  Her lip curled. She cursed her Gajo father and his lust. She cursed the Gajo blood swimming in her veins.

  And she cursed Reese Carrison for making her want to be part of his world.

  Chapter 7

  Liza hardly noticed when he returned. Her troubled thoughts held her in their grip; she struggled with their power to draw her back into the dream she had long harbored even as a child. The allure of what could never be was far more difficult to shed than she ever imagined, and for that she blamed him, the Gajo with whom she shared this storm-ravaged cabin, the man who ignited forbidden feelings within her like a match to dry tinder.

  She thought of Mama instead. Her scorn and mistrust were easy to recall. In her mind, Liza heard the stories her mother often told with bitter relish. Liza nurtured the familiar hate, clung to the loathing, relived the disgust every Gypsy felt for the dishonorable Gaje.

  And soon, like unwanted dirt under a rug, she was able to thrust aside the dream, a dream that was silly and foolish and totally impossible to achieve. She allowed the old cloak of revulsion to wrap around her, and she held herself tight within its folds.

  “That's a mighty fierce some frown you're wearing,” Reese said, his low voice vaguely bemused.

  Liza finally turned from the fire. He was sprawled behind her, his hurting leg stretched out before him, his good knee raised in a casual masculine stance.

  Her heart tripped an odd beat. It seemed he cared little for wearing a shirt, even in the cabin's chill, and the firelight's play on his taut-muscled chest threatened to melt her resolve.

  “What do you care of my frown?” she demanded, shifting from her haunches to face him.

  His brow arched at her shrewish tone. “I prefer a smile. It becomes you,”

  She had not expected the compliment and steeled herself against its impact. “I have little to smile about.”

  The flames sizzled in the block, the crackling sounds muted against the pelting raindrops outside. He regarded her intently. “Missing your family again?”

  “Again?” Haughtiness veiled the query. “I have not stopped missing them.”

  “Of course not.” His piercing gaze remained steady. “I'm sorry they're not here with us, Liza. If I could bring them back to you, I would.”

  Liza fought the sudden sting of tears. His kindness would be her undoing.

  “It does not matter,” she said and glanced away.

  “Like hell it doesn't.”

  She bit her lip. She could not tell him of Mama's hate, or of her dream and the sheer futility of it, or how out of place she felt in his world. He was only a Gajo. How could he possibly understand?

  “I had a schoolmarm once who always wore a frown. We called her Pickle Puss because her face was all pinched and wrinkled like a pickle.”

  Liza's eyes widened. “I do not look like a pickle!”

  The comers of his mouth crinkled. “If you keep frowning, that's exactly what you'll look like.”

  Of its own accord, her mind conjured the image of a green-faced, sour-looking Gajo woman. Liza dipped her head. She did not want to smile.

  “So tell me about Gypsies.” Reese settled more comfortably on the floor, rolling to his side and propping his head up with one hand. He waited expectantly.

  She peered at him from beneath her lashes. “What do you want to know? You have already asked many questions today.”

  He grinned and charmed her fickle heart. “Can they really tell fortunes?”

  “What do you think?” she hedged.

  “I think it's all trickery.”

  She shrugged. “Telling fortunes takes great skill. Gypsy women practice many years to learn how. It is a very honorable thing to make money telling fortunes to the Gaje.”

  “And my people actually believe that stuff?”

  “Of course. Those who are unhappy need a good dukkerer to give them hope.”

  “So you tell them what they want to hear.”

  “And what is wrong with that?” she challenged, her pride stung.

  “If someone is fool enough to believe Gypsies can look into the future and are willing to pay good money to hear about it, then I reckon nothing.”

  “You are a cynical man, Reese Carrison,” she said, sniffing.

  “Not cynical, sweetheart. Just practical.”

  And shrewd, she thought. Very shrewd.

  “Can you do it?” he asked, his tone curious. “Tell fortunes, I mean.”

  She sat a little straighter. “Some say I am very good.”

  If he disapproved, he kept it to himself. “What else can you do?”

  “I can cook and weave baskets and sew whenever I find a piece of cloth--”

  “No, no.” He waved aside her deliberate evasion. “What other Gypsy things can you do?”

  “You will only mock me if I tell you.”

  “I won't. Promise.” He flashed her a disarming smile. Liza weakened and knew she would tell him anything he wanted to know. He had that effect on her.

  She sighed and tossed her long braid over her shoulder. “I can interpret moles and divine with sticks and stones. I can read tea leaves, a fire's flames, and a Gajo's hand. I can--”

  “You're a palmist, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Read mine.” He thrust his hand, palm up, toward her.

  She eyed him warily. “Why? I do not think you will believe a word I tell you.”

  “I'll try anything once.” His tiger-gold eyes rested on her. “Besides,” he said softly, “I want to know just how good at this you really are.”

  Perhaps he sought only to salve her testy mood, or perhaps he really wanted his palm read. Either way, she could think of no logical reason to refuse him. Yet she hesitated. To touch him so freely . . ..

  God's saints. What was the matter with her? He was only a Gajo, and she had read many Gajo palms before now. His would be no different.

  She knelt in front of him and took his hand, turning the palm downward. Tiny obsidian hairs dusted his skin, deeply bronzed from hours in the sun and roughened from physical labor. His nails were well-trimmed and clean, but it was his warmth she noticed first. How could he feel so warm when it was such a cold n
ight, and he did not even wear a shirt?

  She swallowed and forced herself to concentrate.

  “The outline of your hand is square, your fingers are supple and long,” she murmured. “It shows you have energy to work hard, to persevere.”

  “One wouldn't build a railroad if he didn't have energy to work, would he?” he commented. “That's easy enough to figure out.”

  Her chin lifted; she released his hand and moved away. “I told you you would mock me.”

  He grasped her forearm in a firm grip, pulling her back toward him. “Don't stop, Liza. I won't say another word.”

  He had the look of the devil about him, teasing and mischievous and more than a little skeptical.

  “You will listen, then?” she demanded, exasperated.

  “I will.”

  She clucked her tongue in annoyance. This whole thing was silly and pointless.

  But she turned his hand over and studied his palm anyway.

  “See this line?” she asked, tracing the groove near the center and extending around the base of his thumb. “The Line of Life. It is narrow and deep and circles the Mount of Venus.” She tapped his thumb knuckle. “That is favorable. You will have health and a good life. It shows character.”

  He nodded politely and appeared to hold back a smile.

  She ignored him. “And this one. The Line of Head. It is not connected to the Line of Life so you have much confidence in yourself and a clear mind' You are very determined and show good judgment.”

  Pausing, she glanced at him. His brow was slightly furrowed. He listened intently.

  “Go on,” he urged. “What's next?”

  “The Line of Heart.” Her fingertip trailed along the groove extending from his first and fourth fingers. “It runs from the Mount of Jupiter to the Mount of Mercury. That means you have a big heart, full of affection and love.”

  She halted, silently studying the Heart Line closer. It was unusually long, longer than she could ever recall seeing in another Gajo. The woman who held Reese's heart would possess a powerfully noble love, one few men were capable of giving.

  Thoughtful, she bypassed the lesser lines and examined the horizontal indentations at the base of his littlest finger. Again, a single line was predominant, nearly joining with the Heart Line.

  “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. Neither spoke of the delicate, milky-skinned beauty whose image was conjured by Liza's words, and yet her name hung between them as if she had said it aloud.

  “Liza.”

  She pulled herself from her reverie and blinked up at him. The flames' glow cast his features into sharply shaded planes and shadowed his unshaven cheeks. Dark and windblown, his hair was carelessly swept back past his temples. Liza had the unnatural urge to smooth every strand.

  She must not. She tensed and drew back, yet his hand upon hers tightened. Somehow, their fingers became entwined, each coiling around the others, their grip soon clinging and intimate.

  But again, she tried to pull away. He refused.

  “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. She gasped with surprise. He towered over her, and with his free hand, began unbraiding her hair.

  “What of you, Liza? What fortune can you predict for yourself?”

  Like hazy blue smoke, his voice curled around her and held her motionless. She uttered no protest that he took liberties with her hair for he held her under his spell as if he had uttered the most powerful of chants.

  “I have no fortune to tell, Reese,” she whispered and grew dismayed that she had used his name twice with such familiarity.

  “None? No great loves in your future?”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. He seemed absorbed with spreading the coppery-red tresses in a thick halo before him, stroking their length as if they were spun gold. He touched them with reverence, and in all her days on earth, she could not remember anyone treating her hair like he did, without a hint of shame.

  “Ah, but you're wrong this time, my sweet.” 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. It’ll happen. I swear it.”

  Her eyes pooled with tears. “It is what I want more than anything, but it can never be.”

  “Trust me. It will. And he'll be a man to be envied.”

  She stared up into his handsome face and longed to believe all he said. It would be easy to trust him, to let herself be swept away by all he promised and allow herself to hope, for it seemed, with this man, anything was possible.

  He lifted a hank of her hair and held the strands up to the firelight. He appeared enraptured with the sheen bouncing off the flames' glow, and with an unhurried twist of his wrist, let the strands drift through his fingers.

  “Keep your hair loose,” he murmured. “Don't hide it away in that godforsaken braid you insist on wearing.”

  He was far too bold in his bidding. A woman allowed only her husband to touch her hair so freely, to see it unbound, but what would he know of the old Gypsy custom?

  And she would not tell him. In the short time they had left, she could not deny him what he wanted.

  Slowly, she nodded. “I will do as you say.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. He seemed satisfied she had given him no argument.

  “You're a hell of a fortune-teller, y'know that?”

  She gave him a tentative smile, keenly aware he still held her hand and showed no inclination to let go.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.” His thumb moved over her pulse in lazy little strokes that sent her heart into an uneven rhythm. “But there's one thing you didn't tell me.”

  Her brows quirked in silent question.

  “There's a kiss in our future,” he said. “Between you and me. Sometime, before we part ways, we're going to bring our worlds together in a kiss neither of us will forget.”

  Her breath left her, stealing her will to reply. Anticipation gripped her, a deep wanting of this remembrance he spoke of, a tender keepsake she could store in her heart forever.

  But it seemed he spoke only of a casual kiss between strangers. His hand slid from hers, and he eased away.

  “It's late,” he said. “We'd best turn in for the night.”

  She tried not to show her disappointment, the vast emptiness she suddenly felt at being denied the pleasure of his kiss, the gift of his passion,

  He took the quilt and spread it over them both. He reached for her, then, slipping his arm about her and bringing her close to his side. As if it were her right, Liza went willingly, without reservation. Resting her head upon his broad shoulder, her hair spilling over his arm in rare freedom and, with no further words between them, she closed her eyes to sleep.

  Beneath her hand, his heart beat steady and sure, as strong and solid as the man himself. She thought of Rebecca Ann and knew, in time, he would be hers alone. He would touch Rebecca Ann in all the places a wife would want to be touched; his kisses would be hers to take at will, their lives and bodies would be as one.

  Part of Liza's soul knew the truth of the reality, the other
clung to the elusive dream, and no matter what the future held, she would cherish this moment.

  For now, Reese Carrison was hers.

  He awoke to sunlight peeping through cracks in the cabin's walls. Outside, birds chirped noisily, their cheerful songs slipping in with the sunlight to announce the dawning of a new day.

  The rain had finally stopped. It seemed strange not to hear the steady pelting on the roof, but Reese had no regrets. He'd had his fill of the storm, and he had a mountain of work to do back in Niobrara City.

  He awakened fully and eased the kinks in his muscles from sleeping on the floor. Pain shot through his knee, and he grimaced, deciding he'd need another of Liza's heat treatments to loosen the joint before he left.

  Liza.

  He glanced down to find her nestled against him, one leg thrown over his thigh. She slept deeply, her breathing sending little tufts of air skipping across his chest.

  A piece of him warmed and melted. He'd gotten used to being with her. He knew her honor and smile and the captivating way she tilted her chin every time he tweaked her pride. She'd been fascinating company, and there wouldn't be another woman like her in his life.

  Even so, he'd do well to forget her after today. He was anchored in Niobrara City and the N & D; she was destined to roam the land with her people. Neither had room for the other in their lives.

  But where his logical mind made the decision, his heart rejected it. Knowing a sudden need to observe her more fully, to press the vision of her into his memory, he raised up on an elbow and studied her.

  She made a pleasing sight. Long, dark lashes rested on her cheekbones, daintily tinted with pink and carved in delicate curves. The gold hoop earrings glinted in the sunlight and lay against her smooth neck.

  He reached out and brushed a finger against her bottom lip. He found it soft and warm, and his manhood stirred to life.

  Her mouth puckered from his touch. Her eyes opened slowly.

  “Mornin',” he said, his voice low, gentle.

  “Good morning.” She blinked away the last of her slumber and dragged her leg off his. “Why are you looking at me like that?”