In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  Understanding, he nodded.

  She walked toward him. Without speaking, she clasped his outstretched hand and swung up into the saddle. Her arms slipped around him.

  With a gentle slap of the reins, Reese turned the horse and headed for home.

  Chapter 9

  To Liza, his house was magnificent. Far more magnificent than she could have imagined. A house perfect for Reese Carrison.

  She stared in awe. The structure towered over them and touched the sky. Painted a sparkling white and trimmed in deep green along the roof and around each window, his home stood proudly over his land, a symbol of his wealth and success.

  Saints in heaven. She had seen few finer than this.

  But, then, she reminded herself as he dismounted and looped the reins at a hitching post, her experience with Gaje houses was limited. She had never even been inside one before. Who was she to know?

  “What're you looking at so hard?” His features bemused, Reese peered up at her, both hands on his lean hips.

  “Your home. It is so big.” She could not understand why one man needed this much room when her own family, seven of them, lived comfortably enough in their old wagon.

  “Big?” His brow raised. “Compared to what you're used to, maybe. But you should see Bram's. Makes mine look like a cracker box.”

  Liza frowned. “You should not be ashamed just because your friend has something a little fancier.”

  “I'm not. Far from it.” He ran his gaze over the house and the barn situated nearby. A faraway look crept into his tawny eyes. “I've lived in some real dives in my day. Whatever I could find to get out of the cold. Haven't had a true home since I was a kid.” He turned back to her. “Hell, no. I'm not ashamed. I've got plans for this place. I'll raise a family here. Die here. I'm going to see my railroad thrive right along with Niobrara City. Fifty years from now, I'll be right on that porch, gray-haired and senile, watching the world go by.”

  His declaration riveted her. Fifty years? How strange he would know his life fifty years from now when she and her people hardly knew theirs from one day to the next.

  He was far different from the Gypsy, a man with roots who worked hard for what he wanted and hung on tight to all that was his. A grudging admiration flowered inside her.

  “Are you going to sit there all day?” His tone half-teasing, he reached toward her, offering assistance to dismount.

  Liza hesitated, her foot already in the stirrup. She could not recall the last time anyone helped her down from a horse. Not her uncles or cousins, nor Hanzi, the older of her brothers. And certainly not Nanosh, who had plopped her on top of a horse at the age of two and sent her trotting off by herself.

  She gave in to the luxury. Reese clasped her waist and pulled her from the sorrel, easing her to the ground in front of him. Her hands found his shoulders for support and discovered the hard, sinewy muscles hidden beneath his suit jacket.

  Her gaze lifted and met his. The sun shaded the chiseled planes of his face and bounced off his unshaven jaw. Her pulse quickened. He was like a wild animal, this Gajo. Primitive and rugged. With the power to hold her captive with nothing more than the touch of his skin against hers.

  Her mind reeled back to the memory of his devastating kiss. He had wanted her with the fierceness of a man who needed a woman. She had been weak in his arms, for his kiss had made her want him just as much.

  The tawny depths darkened. Like hot whiskey, they drizzled her with a captivating heat. His gaze shifted and drifted downward, settling upon her mouth, and she knew, then, that he remembered, too. The kiss between them, no matter how right or wrong, or how opposite their worlds, would not be forgotten.

  Liza's lashes fluttered; she glanced away. She did not know how much longer she could resist him when he looked at her like this. His fingers tightened about her waist, as if he was not yet ready to let her go, but she resolutely stepped back, and he released her.

  “Let's go inside.” His voice carried a rough, unsteady edge. “I'll show you around.”

  He limped up the stairs to the porch and opened the door, but Liza followed at a slower pace. She needed a few moments to shake aside the effect he had on her and adjust to the realization that she had agreed to stay with him in his house.

  A worried part of her insisted she made a mistake.

  A Gypsy staying in a Gajo's home. Mama would be aghast and would cross herself in prayer to God, asking forgiveness for Liza's stupidity.

  But Liza climbed one step, then another. The wooden planks were thick and strong and did not creak like the one outside her family's wagon. The porch floor shone with fresh paint, and she surmised he had not lived here very long, that he'd only recently built his house.

  Sunlight bounced off a green-trimmed window. Unable to help herself, she gently rapped her fingers on the pane. Real glass. She hastily snatched her hand back lest the fragile thing would somehow break. She caught Reese watching her.

  He seemed amused. “Coming?”

  She swallowed down her trepidations. She would be safe with him. She had nowhere else to go, and she reassured herself it would not be too terrible to stay with him in his house.

  He held the door open. Mustering her courage, she swept past him and went inside. The latch clicked shut behind them.

  A few feet into the main room, she halted. Her curious gaze left nothing untouched as she stared at all that belonged to him. A huge stone fireplace occupied one wall, its mantel laced with a model train stretching from end to end. A couch and pair of chairs, covered in a tapestry of blues and golds, sat positioned so their occupants might enjoy the warmth of the fire. Leather-bound books lined rows of shelves on an adjoining wall. Small tables holding fringe-shaded lamps, miniature replicas of steam engines, and one very neglected fern lay scattered throughout.

  The hominess of the room called out to her and offered a glimpse into his life and loves. Even the furniture, as strong and solid as the man himself, reflected a stability so much a part of him.

  “What do you think?” he asked, plucking a shirt from the back of the sofa and tossing it into a woven basket overflowing with laundry near the door.

  “It is beautiful,” she breathed.

  He grinned, his pleasure obvious. “I built this myself, when I could spare the time away from the N & D. Took me forever.” His glance blanketed the room. “But it's mine,” he said softly. “Every sliver and nail.”

  “You should be very proud to own such a fine home.”

  “I am.” He grimaced and scooped up a stack of newspapers from the floor. “I'm not much of a housekeeper, though. Don't have the time for it.” He dropped the papers next to the laundry basket, then seemed to forget them. “Are you hungry? I'll find us something to eat. The kitchen is back here.”

  On his way, he peeled his suit jacket off and flung it over the back of the sofa, on the same spot where he'd retrieved the shirt in his attempt to tidy up for her. Liza doubted he even noticed, and a small smile found her lips.

  He disappeared into the kitchen. Careful not to touch anything, Liza trailed after him and paused in the archway dividing the two rooms.

  A sigh of delight escaped her. What a pleasure this kitchen must be to work in, she thought longingly, charmed with the yellow checkered curtains and whitewashed walls. She eyed the big cast-iron stove with reverence. A far cry from cooking over an open fire. And while Gypsy women had prepared meals that way for generations, Liza knew the stove would make the chore much easier.

  Reese pulled out a pitcher of lemonade from the icebox. She stared in wonder. An icebox. She had seen them in the Gaje stores before when the kumpania had ventured into the big cities, and this one was as nice as any of them with its polished hardwood door, carved panels, and shiny brass hinges. She could not imagine owning such a luxury.

  “Ham sandwiches okay?” Reese asked, pulling a plate of the smoked meat from the icebox's compact shelf. “It's nearly lunchtime.”

  Liza's stomach gurgled, reminding h
er they had had no breakfast. “Yes. A sandwich will be delicious.”

  He set a bowl of fruit on the wooden table with one hand and balanced a cutting board and loaf of wrapped bread in the other. Opening a drawer, he retrieved a knife and pushed the drawer shut with his hip.

  “Grab some glasses from that cupboard over there, will you?”

  She did as he requested, picking two that looked as if they had never been used before, and set them on the table next to the pitcher. He began slicing the bread, wielding the knife in sure, even strokes.

  Not knowing what else to do, Liza stood to one side, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. It did not feel right, a Gajo preparing her meal, even one as simple as a ham sandwich. And it did not feel proper to accept his hospitality so quickly. She reached over and covered his hand with hers. The slicing motions stopped.

  “I will pay you for the food I eat,” she said firmly.

  He set the knife down and regarded her. “I don't want your money, Liza.”

  “I cannot take advantage of your generosity. You wait on me as if I were a helpless child.”

  “Helpless? Hell.” His piercing gaze seemed to bore through to her soul. “Has a man never showed you kindness before?”

  Reluctant to admit the truth, even to herself, she sniffed with disdain. “That is none of your concern.”

  A tiny muscle moved in his jaw. “Maybe it isn't. Sorry.” But his features showed no remorse. “Let's get one thing straight right now. We have a business arrangement here. You take care of my horse and make him well again. In the meantime, I give you a place to stay and food to fill your belly until I can find your family. Got it?”

  She wavered. His horse was strong. His leg would heal soon enough with only a little skill on her part. Reese's end of the bargain required far more effort. Finding her family would not be easy.

  “I will cook for you, then.” She pushed his tall frame aside and picked up the knife. “It is the least I can do. And maybe wash the laundry, too. I do not mind.”

  “I have a laundress in town, Liza. I don't expect you to clean my clothes.”

  “Hush. I will not take no for an answer this time.” She heaped portions of ham on the bread with an efficiency borne of many years at Mama's side at mealtime. “Do you want one sandwich or two?”

  “Make it three. I'm starved. You're a stubborn lady, y'know that?”

  A pleasant sensation wrapped around her. She would never tire of him calling her a lady, even if she were a stubborn one.

  They ate in a companionable silence. Afterward, Reese departed to return to the Hadleys' and bring the stallion back. Before he left, he surprised her by dragging a copper-lined tub into the kitchen so she might bathe.

  She warmed at his thoughtfulness. A bath. In a real tub. What a treat that would be, and she hastened to heat plenty of water. With the table cleared of their lunch and the dishes cleaned, Liza shed her clothes and kerchief, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

  She tested the water with her big toe before gingerly slipping into the lusciously hot depths. Water lapped about her and cocooned her in luxury. She sank deeper, bringing her knees up at one end and resting her head on the back of the other.

  Saints in heaven. A bath in the middle of the day. How lucky she was. And how wickedly lazy.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. If only Mama and Paprika were here. They would enjoy it just as much, taking turns washing and splashing in the splendid tub and feeling rich and spoiled.

  Liza basked in the quiet and privacy, a rare thing when traveling with the kumpania . Of their own volition, her thoughts turned to Reese and the bargain they had made.

  If anyone could find her family, he could. She trusted him in that. She had learned many things about him in the time they had spent together. His honor bound him to see the promise through. He would use every means within his power to ensure that soon, very soon, she would be reunited with the kumpania .

  Ah, a fine man, Reese Carrison. Smart and generous and thoughtful. Even Mama would have to agree.

  Liza did not feel so lonely now, in his house, in his tub. He wanted her to stay here with him. He would not mock her or show contempt, not like his hateful friend, Jack Hadley.

  The water lapping about her shoulders and neck eventually cooled, taunting her skin with a chill. Abruptly, she sat up and soaped a thick washcloth. She had been lazy long enough. There was work to be done. She had a promise of her own to keep.

  And Reese would be home soon.

  George Steenson dried the last of the whiskey glasses and set it on the shelf beneath the mahogany bar. Out of habit, he swiped his towel across the glistening top, then folded the damp fabric into a neat rectangle and draped it over a brass knob. He sighed heavily.

  At a far table, several cowboys, the only patrons in the saloon, gambled their wages on a quiet game of poker. George had little inclination to join them, as was his custom when business was slow at the Empty Saddle. He just wasn't in the mood for it.

  He'd had no word on the whereabouts of Mr. Carrison. No one had. If he'd been found, or even that dadblamed Gypsy girl he went chasing after a couple of days back, George would've heard by now.

  He expected the worst. Reckon everyone did.

  And a damned shame it was, too. Mr. Carrison and his railroad were the best thing that had happened to Niobrara City. He'd taken the little town under his wing and made it grow. He gave Niobrara City respect, a sense of purpose, a place of prominence on the Nebraska prairie. Just wouldn't be the same without him.

  Splaying his arms wide, George gripped the edge of the bar with both hands and gazed unseeing out a saloon window. He shook his head grimly.

  Bram Kaldwell sure was taking it hard. Yesterday, after spending long hours in the rain with other concerned citizens looking for Mr. Carrison, he'd come back, defeated and worried. Didn't seem fair to lose a good friend like that, George mused. Not with Bram hoping to marry his widowed daughter off to him and all.

  Shrugging aside his troubled thoughts, George turned and made a half-hearted attempt to take inventory of his liquor supply. If he intended to get an order sent to Omaha, he'd best quit feeling so danged morose and get back to work. He had a saloon to run.

  Dutifully, his pencil scratched across a sheet of paper. Though intent on his task, his practiced ear detected the soft scrape of a boot sole on the wooden floor behind him. George lifted his head and glanced into the large mirror hanging behind the bar.

  A Gypsy stared back. Stiffening, George set the pencil down and faced him.

  “What'll it be, son?”

  He asked the same question of every customer who patronized the Empty Saddle, but his gaze darted suspiciously about the room. He half-expected to see a whole group of the dark-skinned people, none of whom could seem to go anywhere without their father, brother, uncle, or cousins tagging along.

  Yet the young man was alone. George relaxed. One Gypsy wouldn't be too much trouble.

  “A beer.” Brown fingers slid a gold coin across the bar.

  “Comin' right up.” He tilted a glass beneath the barrel shaped keg's tap and covertly watched the Gypsy in the mirror.

  George guessed him to be about seventeen. A dusty wool cap covered most of his shaggy, jet-black hair. Several days' growth of youthful stubble shadowed his chin and upper lip, and a weariness dulled the piercing, black eyes. The kid looked like he could use a good night's rest.

  “What brings you to these parts?” George asked, setting the glass in front of him. Beer sloshed over the edge and slithered down the side; he dropped the coin into the till.

  “I am looking for someone.” The Gypsy lifted the glass and gulped heartily, his throat bobbing with every long swallow.

  “Reckon I know most everybody around here. This someone got a name?”

  He eyed George with obvious distrust. “You would not know her.”

  “I might.”

  Contempt flashed across his features. He dragged his threadbare shirtsl
eeve across his mouth. “She would not come in here. How would you know her?”

  George fingered his graying, handlebar mustache thoughtfully. “Not much happens in a town this size that everyone doesn't hear about sooner or later. Maybe I can help you, son. You lookin' for kin?”

  The fight seemed to go out of him. He nodded. “My sister.”

  George had heard enough about Gypsies to know they would never voluntarily leave their womenfolk behind. Especially one alone. Sympathy welled inside his chest.

  “The only Gypsy I know about got in a bit of trouble here a couple of days back. Something about trying to steal a little girl. Might she be the one?”

  Outrage sparked from the ebony eyes. “She would never steal a Gajo's child! Only the Gaje would accuse her of something so foolish!”

  George held up a hand. “Simmer down now, son. That's not the point, is it? Point is, might she be the one?”

  Pride stiffened the young man's spine. “Your people are too quick to blame the Gypsy. Yes, she is the one.”

  “I see.”

  George wrestled with the notion of telling him Bram and the others had found no sign of her and Mr. Carrison, that the Niobrara had been a raging monster, and the storm had been heartless, that they all feared the worst.

  Furrowed lines at the ends of the young Gypsy's mouth and between his dark brows revealed the responsibility he carried on his shoulders. The desperation to find her. The panic and fear that he would fail.

  George decided he had a right to know.

  “There was a chase,” he began quietly. “Mr. Carrison, a respected townsman here in Niobrara City, took after her. Seems she stole his horse. Naturally, he wanted him back.”

  “Liza was riding a horse?”

  He nodded. “A fine horse. Mighty fine. Mr. Carrison had a hell of a run on his hands. That horse can't be beat.”

  The Gypsy appeared to take hope from the news. “Do you know where she--they--went?”

  “That there's the problem, son.” George grimaced. “They haven't been found yet. Far as I know, nobody's seen hide nor tail of 'em in all this time.”