In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  Bram tensed and hissed a harsh curse, his resentment for Liza a tangible thing, so tangible that even Maudeen didn’t confuse his reaction. Her sympathetic glance darted to Reese.

  The laughter froze in Liza's throat. She appealed to him with her expression a mixture of pained dismay and helplessness.

  He understood her regret for being part of a friendship going sour, a yearslong relationship showing signs of impending death. He felt it as deep in his own gut.

  “Bram, we have to talk,” he growled.

  “Talk? Hell.” Bram's lip curled. “She's got your brain so befuddled you've lost all reason.” He stepped out into the street, but jerked back, glaring at him, uncaring that Liza heard his every word. “She'll be the ruin of you, Reese. One day, you'll see that.”

  The razor-edged avowal drew blood. Stunned, Reese watched him go, words of denial flat on his tongue. One by one, his hopes and dreams, his carefully laid plans for the N & D, for Niobrara City, for taking the perfect wife, rolled forth in his mind, reminding him of all he'd worked for, all he'd ever wanted.

  Held captive by the ugliness of Bram's prediction, Reese stood riveted and wondered if it could be true.

  Great damage had been done.

  They ate lunch on the well-tended lawn of St. John's Church when neither of them had an appetite. Conversation failed, yet there were words that had to be spoken. A chasm existed where once there'd been a closeness, a raw awareness of the other, a hungering need that cried out to be filled.

  Bram changed all that. He'd hauled to the surface all the hate and misunderstandings Liza had only begun to conquer. He reopened each wound. Every bit of healing Maudeen and George Steenson had tendered with their kindness and acceptance of her, a Gypsy in their midst, had been destroyed.

  No wonder she despised the Gaje.

  Reese sprawled on his back beneath the shade of a towering maple. He stared through the leafage, oblivious to the cheerful song of unseen birds. Beside him, Liza sat silent, hunkered on the grass, her arms wrapped tightly about her knees.

  He put off going to the N & D's office. Bram would be there, still angry and resentful. Another argument would serve no purpose, and Reese wasn't yet ready to make amends.

  Bram wanted a husband for Rebecca Ann. Therein laid the trouble. She was widowed and mother to a child needing a firm hand, and he saw Reese, a trusted business partner and longtime friend, as the ideal solution. Rebecca Ann, petite and beautiful, but fragile and alone in St. Louis, needed a man to care for her.

  Reese had been only too willing. Ready for a wife, he was sure Rebecca Ann would fit his needs and wants to perfection. In that, he and Bram had been in complete agreement. And up to now, she’d been perfectly suited for him.

  Or so he thought.

  Liza threw his reasoning into a tailspin. Plopping into his world through no choice of her own, she'd been hurt by Bram's frustration and Reese's own selfishness.

  His head turned. Her profile carved in the afternoon light, he studied the gentle curve of her chin, the high cheekbones, the proud tilt of her nose. With skin that welcomed the sun with no fear of freckling, hair eager for the wind, and an untamed spirit that flew free from convention, she was like no other woman he'd ever known.

  No other.

  His intense scrutiny detected the faintest quiver in her lower lip. She may as well have sobbed aloud for the pain it caused him.

  He reached for her, his fingers finding her wrist.

  “Liza,” he said huskily.

  She trembled and pulled away from his touch. “I must go.”

  Tossing the remains of their lunch into the tin pail without her usual neatness, she rose abruptly. Little bells of alarm went off in his head.

  He pushed to a sitting position. She sprinted away from him toward the end of the church yard, hems of bright magenta billowing about her ankles, her thick braid swaying across her back. He breathed an oath and rolled to his feet, lamenting her speed and a bum knee yet weak and healing.

  He broke into a light jog. She dashed a glance over her shoulder and increased her stride to a near run, changing direction and circling toward the church rectory.

  He veered to the right. He caught up with her and snatched both of her arms in a firm grip. The pail fell from her hand. She yanked and jerked.

  “Damn it, Liza. Hold still!”

  She choked on a sob. Behind them, children played on a school playground. A horse and buggy rolled past. Lest they make a public display of themselves, Reese hauled her against the rectory, taking shelter in the shadows offered by a cluster of lilac bushes.

  “I cannot stay,” she rasped. “Why can you not see that? I have embarrassed you. I have shamed you!”

  “Like hell you have.”

  She squirmed like a trout out of water and pushed against his chest with a strength he hadn't thought possible. “I will find my family without you. I do not need your fancy telegraph machine. I will find them and be away from your world forever. I vow it!”

  His blood ran cold. Desperation seized him. He pressed her deeper into the shadows, using the weight of his body to hold her.

  “I won't let you leave,” he said in a snarl, fingers gripping her flesh.

  “You cannot stop me!”

  “I'll go after you.” The pledge tumbled from his mouth without a conscious plan, instinct and a simmering fear taking over where logic ceased. “Not all of my people are like Bram. He's only one man, Liza. One! There are many others who will learn to know you as I have, who will welcome you and accept you. Think of George Steenson and Maudeen!”

  She held herself taut in his arms and sniffled, her gaze no higher than his chin. “He wants you as a husband for his daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “I am only a Gypsy, a vagrant, not worthy of his--”

  “You're a beautiful woman.”

  “I do not belong with you here in your town. Why can you not understand that? Bram is right. He--”

  “Forget Bram!” He hurled the command through his teeth with a vehemence that compelled her to flinch. “What of me, Liza? Doesn't it matter what I want, what I think? I’ve treasured my time with you. I'll hate like hell to lose you when your family finally returns. You've filled a place in my life that needed filling in a way no other woman has done before.” Chest heaving, he groped for a way to convince her, to say all the right things, to assuage the pain and anguish tormenting her. “Rebecca Ann pales next to you. You know that? She pales.”

  Liza grew very still, absorbing his declaration. Her fingers clutched at his shirtfront. She refused to look at him.

  “I have shamed you,” she insisted, her voice softer, less wounded. “I never meant--I never wanted--”

  “Oh, Liza.” Frustrated with her stubbornness, he eased his hold on her, bringing one arm around her shoulders and bracing the other on the rough wall of the rectory, his fist clenched above her head. He sighed heavily. “Liza, Liza, Liza.”

  Droplets of tears clung to her eyelashes, thickening their length, making them shine like polished onyx. He wondered if the hurt would ever go away, if the differences between their worlds would melt and disappear, allowing each other's people to live in harmony.

  It seemed an impossible task. He had not the time to ponder the immensity of it; he concerned himself only with her, with himself, and the minutes ticking steadily away.

  “I have to go to work, okay?” His head lowered; his cheek pressed into her hair. He breathed in the clean scent of her, wholesome and pure, and damned Silas McCrae for his trouble.

  She softened against him. Her hand trailed down his chest; she hooked a finger into one of his belt loops, a tiny gesture that hinted at her vulnerability, an unwillingness to see him go.

  Pride kept her from the admission, yet he knew it. The knowledge surged strong within him, and his manhood swelled with a fierce need to prove to her where his words had failed, to take her body to his and drive into her the conviction of truth.

  He lingered ag
ainst the rectory wall, behind the bushes, his blood coursing hot with every breath, every thought. To forget Rebecca Ann and Bram and McCrae, to forget all of Niobrara City and take her now, hard and deep . . ..

  What he would give.

  But he denied himself the want. He denied himself the smallest of kisses, the gentlest of touches. He denied himself her when he wanted nothing more than to have her.

  “I'll take you home,” he whispered against her temple.

  “There is no need.” Her voice was muffled against his shirt. “I can find my way.”

  “I'll not hear of it.” He drew away from her. “It'll be late when I return. Will you be all right while I'm gone?”

  She gave no answer but released his belt loop.

  Her silence troubled him. Filled with foreboding, his heart began a slow, pounding thud.

  “Promise me you won't leave,” he said, the air between them rumbling with his demand.

  She had yet to look him full in the face. He gripped her and tilted her head back.

  “Promise me, Liza.”

  Her lashes fluttered, a subtle revelation of the workings in her mind. He cursed and pushed her farther against the rectory, her back at the wall, and wedged his knee between hers.

  “Swear to me on a Gypsy bible or whatever your people hold in reverence that you'll be waiting for me when I come back,” he said in a hiss. “Swear it!”

  She twisted her chin from his grip, full Gypsy pride glaring back at him. “What right do you have to demand this of me?”

  “None,” he said harshly. “But I demand it anyway.”

  “Arrogant Gajo!” She turned away from him, yet her tone lacked the haughty sting he expected.

  “I've come after you before, remember?” he taunted in her ear. “Once, twice, three times. I'll do it again. You know that, don't you?”

  Her head swiveled toward him.

  “Yes.” Her eyes blazed with a glittering light he scrambled to identify, a brilliance that had nothing to do with the clashing of their wills or the tears she had shed.

  “I will be there,” she said finally. “Waiting for you to return.”

  And then he knew the light, its meaning. Its source.

  Triumph.

  Chapter 13

  If nothing else, the incident in the church yard cleared the air between them. Liza took a great deal of comfort in Reese's possessiveness. Saints in heaven, she had not expected the strength of it. Perhaps it was not a bad thing to see him get, well, a little crazy over her?

  Her decision to flee had been an impulsive one, a tactic used by the Gypsies many times to evade an unpleasant situation. Nanosh was a master at fleeing, yet Liza could not deny it was more a matter of cowardice than shrewd judgment, and in her case, definitely that. She hoped never to see Bram Kaldwell again, not when he despised her so.

  Their walk from the church back to the buggy was bereft of conversation. They had no need of it. While Liza did not truly expect to see Bram again, she thought Reese walked a little closer beside her, his clasp on her elbow a little tighter. But she could not be sure.

  They neared the Niobrara City Livery on the way toward Main Street, and Liza's gaze drifted toward the corral, as it always did when horses were gathered. The pole fences held a half-dozen assorted breeds, and without conscious thought, her eye skimmed over each one.

  The animals were nervous and uneasy. They snorted and pawed the ground, swinging their heads and rolling their big, brown eyes as if grumbling about an unwanted intrusion.

  Puzzled, Liza slowed her step and peered closer between the rails. A tiny form in white moved among the horses, and alarm flared within her. It took but a moment to recognize the child's tousled blond ringlets.

  “Margaret Michelle!” she gasped.

  Reese's glance sharpened in the direction she pointed, then swung toward the Grand River Hotel, a short jaunt from the livery.

  “She must've gotten out of her room when no one was looking.” He shook his head in exasperation. “The little hellion. Where's Rebecca Ann?”

  “Git away from there, young lady!” An important-looking Gajo in a dark-gray suit and black derby hastened toward the corral. Several men followed him, concern carved in their expressions.

  “Come on, honey,” he said, his tone coaxing but firm. “We got a sick horse in there, and it ain't no place for you to be. You could get hurt.”

  The urgency in his voice drew Liza and Reese to the fence, their buggy on Main Street forgotten in light of Margaret Michelle's dangerous predicament. She shook her blond head with a pout and stood unmoving in the dirt, her bare feet sullied from mud and manure, her crisp, ruffled nightgown smudged and bearing a tear on the sleeve.

  It appeared she had left her sickbed for an adventure at the livery, escaping her mother's watchful eye yet again. In her willful innocence, she seemed curious of the palomino writhing on his side near her, his body twisting and jerking in contorting, spasmodic movements. Low, anguished nickers fell from his throat, and Liza's alarm grew tenfold.

  “We'd best get her out of there quick as we can, Mayor,” one of the men said. “She could get kicked and never know what hit her.”

  The man's worry mirrored Liza's. The mayor headed for the corral gate, but Liza took a swifter route by climbing right between the rails. Reese followed close behind.

  “Come, little one,” she said in a soft voice, extending a beckoning arm toward Margaret Michelle. “You must not get so close to the horse. Shall we find your mama? She is looking for you, I am sure.”

  The child turned toward Liza. From forehead to chin and down her neck, her porcelain skin was marred from countless spots, evidence of the measles plaguing her. Recognition flared within the heavy-lashed eyes, and she smiled broadly, but made no move to obey.

  “Horsey sick. Like me,” she said.

  “Yes, very sick.” Liza kept talking and ventured another step, careful, so very careful not to spook the little girl into toddling closer to the palomino.

  An impish expression replaced Margaret Michelle's smile, as if she knew exactly what Liza and the others were trying to do. With her usual contrariness, she scampered closer to the skittish mass of horseflesh.

  “Sweetling, come.” Liza struggled to keep her voice even when every part of her wanted to scream in fear. “Stay away from the sick horse. You musn't--”

  “Horsey sick,” she said again and reached a hand toward the palomino, wanting to pet him, her sympathy endearing if not for the danger it presented.

  “Please, little one.” Only a few more feet, and Liza would reach her in time to pull her to safety. But the flailing hooves showed no mercy. A glancing blow struck the little girl from the side and sent her sprawling into the dirt. She lay in a crumpled, motionless heap, and Liza cried out in anguish.

  Heedless of her disease and the risks it bore, Reese reached Margaret Michelle first and scooped her into his arms. He snapped orders to several of the men to empty the corral of the rest of the horses. As they hustled to obey, he carried her limp form to safety outside the corral's fence. He set her down gently, and Liza fell to her knees beside them. Frantic, she checked bones and pulse and for signs of blood.

  “Anything broken?” the mayor asked, horrified.

  “I do not think so,” she said, and brushed the tangled ringlets from Margaret Michelle's cheek.

  “Looks like she just got knocked out cold.” Reese's grim glance met the mayor's. “But send for the doctor anyway.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vaguely aware of the growing crowd, Liza's thoughts centered only on the child. She paid little mind to the repulsive Gaje disease covering her from head to toe and rooted, instead, in the depths of her skirt pocket, retrieving her bujo, her medicine bag.

  “What's she doin'?” someone asked.

  “We can't let a Gypsy doctor the young’un. What would her mother think?” another demanded.

  Liza ignored them and sprinkled a few grains of black pepper into Margaret Mich
elle's nostrils.

  “Looks like Gypsy hocus-pocus to me,” a voice declared. “Oughtn't we stop her?”

  Liza flashed the ignorant Gajo a contemptuous glare. “I am only helping the child wake up. Do you think I will harm her with all of you here to watch?”

  “Leave her be.” A murderous expression shadowed Reese's features. He rose to his full height and faced them squarely. “If any of you has objections to this woman tending the girl, take them up with me.” His tone thundered with the fury he strove to contain. “While most of you have had few dealings with Gypsies in your lives, I'd warrant this one has a gentler, more caring hand than any of us. We'd all do well to trust her.”

  His scathing glance cut over the crowd. No one spoke.

  A hysterical shriek blasted the tense silence, and Liza held her breath, knowing that Rebecca Ann had at last discovered Margaret Michelle’s absence. In typical fashion, she came tearing toward them, distraught and frenzied and panicked for her daughter.

  Quickly, Liza bent over the little girl and slipped a small piece of johai inside the collar of the white nightgown. The Gaje would not appreciate this valuable and powerful Gypsy medicine Liza believed to be ghost vomit, streaked with Gaje blood and scooped from the earth to protect her people from disease. She gladly shared the revered piece with Margaret Michelle. Soon, the child would be well again.

  The crowd parted, and Rebecca Ann stumbled through. At the sight of her daughter lying prone on the ground, her face drained of color. Tears sprang to her eyes. Liza feared she would faint.

  “Is--is she dead?” she whispered.

  Margaret Michelle stirred, and her measle-pocked face twisted. She sneezed once, twice. The thick lashes lifted, and her blue eyes widened in confusion. The crowd murmured in relief and amazement

  “Oh, my baby!” Rebecca Ann sank to her knees. “My baby, my baby! What happened to you?”