by Pam Crooks
“When?”
“Soon.” His low chuckle tumbled between them. “A man needs a little time when a woman wears him out like you did me. To catch his breath, so to speak.”
“Oh.” She frowned.
“You're insatiable, y'know that?”
“I do not know what ‘insatiable’ means,” she said and snuggled closer, laying her head on his shoulder.
Reese grunted, settling her against him. “Every husband should be so lucky.”
“Then it does not matter if I understand the meaning or not.” She sighed contentedly and drew her open palm against his lean, flat belly. She could not touch him enough.
Not in her lifetime.
Against her will, traces of her past melded with the present, and her mouth pursed. As her husband, she wanted Reese to know of her people, their ways and customs, always so different from his.
“It is very important to the Gypsy to have a virgin for his bride,” she mused. “Is it so with the Gaje?”
“A man takes a lot of pride in knowing he's the first to bed his wife, that she's saved herself for him.” His arm tightened about her. “But I guess in a few cases a man has to take what he can get. In some parts of the country, women are mighty scarce.”
“Oh.” Her lashes lowered; a light blush touched her cheeks. “A Gypsy bride must display proof to the entire kumpania that she was pure for her husband on their wedding night. A blood-stained sheet perhaps. Or else she brings much shame to him and his family.” She hesitated. “Will you expect that of me as well, to show your people I was pure for you?”
“Hell, no.” Though he voiced no criticism of the practice, it was not difficult to see he thought little of it. “That's a private matter between you and me. No one else.”
“Thank the saints.” Liza had always been embarrassed with the custom. She could not visualize such a thing with Maudeen or Mayor Al Dunning or Hank in attendance. Her cheeks blazed anew just thinking of it.
Reese shifted, and he lifted her chin with a crooked finger. His tiger-like eyes darkened with concern. “If your people place this much importance on a virgin among their own, what will they do when they learn a Gypsy virgin has wed a Gajo?”
Her blood faltered in her veins. She could not bear to tell him. She pushed at him, wanting to leave the bed, to avoid answering, but he held her fast.
“Liza, I need to know. For your sake.”
She swallowed; still, she hesitated.
With a sweep of his mighty arm, he lifted her atop him, their bodies oblivious to the other's nakedness. His hands gripped her waist.
“I’m not kin to secrets between us,” he said, a hint of warning in his tone. “I'll not ask overmuch of you as my wife except honesty and truth. Always. I'll give the same to you.”
He was her husband. Strong and powerful and shrewd, and how she loved him. If she could not share with him all that was in her heart, especially her worst worries, what kind of wife would she be?
Even so, she could hardly say the words aloud. With a worried sigh, she lowered her head and nestled beneath his chin, her hair splayed outward in a silken mass over his shoulder. She took comfort from the steady beat of his heart and slid her arms around him, holding him close.
“I did a very serious thing in marrying you,” she said finally. “It will be a matter for the kris to decide.”
Under the sheets, his hands stroked her spine, slow and soothing. “Why would they deny you the man you choose to marry?”
“You are Gajo. No other reason.”
“And these are the same men who ordered your mother's head shaved?”
“Yes. They are very respected and wise. Their word is to be honored and obeyed.”
He fell silent, his hands continuing their stroking magic.
“I understand the power they wield,” he said. “Similar to judges and juries. But our marriage is legal and binding, Liza. The kris is forced by the law of this land to recognize it. What's the worst they could do to you?”
She shuddered in revulsion. She found her courage and faced the truth. “I could be banished from the kumpania . An outcast. I would never be able to see my family again.”
His arms flexed, pulling her up to look at him. He appeared stunned. “You're serious?”
“I could never jest about something so terrible.”
“No wonder you had second thoughts afterward,” he muttered.
She nodded soberly. “The shame to my family will be very great. I fear I will pay dearly for my decision. For a Gypsy, there is no greater punishment than to be declared marhime.”
“Oh, Liza.” Cupping the back of her head, he brought her back down against him, wrapping his strong arms around her. For long minutes, he said nothing, and she imagined his logical mind working, sifting through all she had told him.
As she lay on him, her cheek pressed to his warm skin, a strange relief veiled a portion of her worries. She did not feel so alone now, nor so fearful and apprehensive.
She had opened her heart and emptied it into his own, giving him everything of her world, holding nothing back. Perhaps some of the mystery would be eliminated, making reality less daunting and more easily confronted.
“Listen to me.” Reese pulled her up again. He tucked her hair behind her ears, the movement tender and pensive. “You read my palm once. Remember?”
“I will never forget.”
“You told me I'd have a great love someday, that the woman I married would make me happy, and our love would last forever.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“We both assumed you spoke of Rebecca Ann. We were both wrong.” He took her hand, twining their fingers, and dropped a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. “You were speaking of yourself. I know that now because I love you so much it scares me.”
Emotion welled inside her. Her head dipped, her mouth hovering over his. “I love you, too, Reese. More than anything. Anything.”
“We'll get through this.” His fingers speared into her hair. His breath melded with hers. “I don't know how, but we will. Together.”
“My wonderful, precious husband.”
She kissed him long and slow, a drugging kiss that told him again of her love for him, of her gratitude and belief in everything he told her.
A slow fire built within her, flame by flame. She strained toward him. She wanted more, demanded it. The sheets slid downward, bunching at her hips, but she did not bother with modesty. Why should she, when he now knew her body as well as herself?
Against the softness of her abdomen, his burgeoning manhood throbbed in response, fanning the fire inside her. She knew the pleasures that lay ahead, and suddenly impatient, her blood raced hot.
“Love me again, Reese,” she breathed. “Love me now.”
She rose up over him, her hair a red-gold curtain around them. Her knees parted. straddling his hips, and she took control, giving where once she took, bringing him home and discovering a new kind of ecstasy.
His breathing grew ragged. Gasp for gasp, the bed rocking with their rhythmic thrusts, they rode together into the sky and touched the stars until they shattered into a thousand pieces and came drifting down, glorious and glittering and delightfully sated.
A persistent dinging pulled Liza from the blissful depths of slumber. She frowned, resisting the sound, and snuggled closer against the solid warmth of Reese's body.
An annoyance, those Gaje alarm clocks.
She did not want to get up. She wanted to stay tangled in her husband's arms and legs forever, never leaving their wonderful big bed. But already the sun's brilliant rays beamed into the room, hinting of a dawn long since past.
A heavy groan rumbled from Reese, and he rolled to his side of the mattress, reaching over to stop the ringing. His arms came back around her.
“I have to go into town,” he mumbled against her hair.
“Stay with me another day.” Though she had not yet opened her eyes, her lips found his chest easily in a brief, pleading
kiss.
“I have to meet with the cartel.”
“Stay with me.” Her tongue swirled lazy circles around his nipple.
“I have to work for a living.” Amusement laced his tone. He nuzzled her cheek with his whiskery jaw until, fully awake, she giggled and pushed him away. “We've hardly left this bed for three days, my lusty wife, except to eat and bathe and see to the chores. And you want another?”
“I do. I am insatiable.” Having deciphered the true meaning of the word at some point throughout their loving, she lifted her bare shoulder in an uncaring shrug. “You said so yourself.”
“That I did. And it's my great fortune you are.” He planted a loud kiss on her mouth. “However, I have to get up.”
He tossed the covers aside and heaved himself out of bed, but Liza delayed, her mouth pursed in a pout.
She had been shameless with him these past days. The hour had not mattered. Early or late, she wanted him. It seemed so long ago she despaired of being desired as a wife, as a woman, yet Reese proved her wrong. Every touch, every spoken word, every fervent kiss affirmed he treasured her as his.
Her gaze riveted to his lean, naked body as he moved about the room washing and shaving and choosing his clothes. Little muscles rolled in his taut buttocks, bigger ones in his thighs. She relived the feel of his flat belly beneath her palms, the hard flex of his biceps. God's saints, even the dark thatch in his armpits excited her.
A liquid heat pooled between her legs, and she squirmed, resisting the need to pull him back into bed for another around of coupling, knowing this time he must refuse and understanding why. She reluctantly slipped from beneath the sheets and doused her longings by making quick work of her own washing and dressing, then departing for the kitchen.
By the time she fried eggs with ham and potatoes, he joined her, dressed in the same crisp black suit he had married her in, and ready for his important meeting with railroad investors. Losing Bram Kaldwell's backing had been a great worry for him, she knew, to say nothing of the blow to their friendship, and she prayed silently that all would go well so that he would not forfeit both Bram and the N & D.
All too soon, he was ready to leave, and at his urging, she walked with him to the corral. While he saddled the stallion, her spirits plummeted, for the day stretched out before her, unusually long and lonely.
She clasped her hands behind her back and twirled the toe of her shoe in the soft dirt.
“I will miss you today,” she murmured.
He glanced up from the clinch. ''I’ll miss you, too.”
Though she knew he spoke the truth, most likely he would be very busy with his men and his railroad and would not miss her as much as he thought he would.
She, on the other hand, had no one to talk to or be with. Even Hank would not come to call, now that she was married.
“Maybe I will go to Maudeen's for a visit,” she mused.
“Good idea. She loves having you.”
“Or maybe I will pick gooseberries for a pie.”
“That's good, too.”
With her kumpania , she was never lonely with so much family around. Even little Tekla and Putzi provided company, along with all the other Gypsy children. Oh, to have a child of her own . . ..
On impulse, she flung her arms wide and spun about, flaring her bright red skirts and jangling her bead necklaces.
“I wish I had a dozen babies to take care of when you are at work. Babies in the house, in the yard, in my arms. Babies everywhere!”
“Ah, Mrs. Carrison.” Reese stepped behind her, his hands winding around to splay across her abdomen. “Nothing would please me more than to fill your belly with my seed and watch it grow round with our child.”
She leaned into him, covering his hands with hers. “And we will have beautiful children, will we not? Children with dark hair and golden-brown eyes--”
“--and burnished copper hair and black eyes, and the girls will wear earrings and bracelets--”
“--and they’ll all love trains and horses and--”
He twirled her around to face him, his hard kiss smothering the words, igniting a not-long-banked passion in them both. Through her skirts, his swollen maleness cried out his want, a want Liza ached to fill.
He dragged his mouth from hers. His breathing jagged, he tilted his head back and squinted into the sun, as if gauging its position in the sky. He grunted his decision.
“Ten minutes, wife,” he said. “That's all I'll give you.”
And he scooped her into his arms and carried her back into the house.
Chapter 16
Reese strode across the depot and burst into his office. The door swung shut with an inadvertent slam, the glass panes, emblazoned with the words Nebraska-Dakota Railroad, rattling with his arrival.
Harriet Browning jumped, nearly toppling her inkwell onto the ledger pages spread out before her. The gray-haired grandmother of ten came in a few mornings a week to assist in the mountain of paperwork required to run a railroad, but rarely arrived before Reese.
“I'm late,” he said needlessly, plucking his hat from his head and tossing it on the coatrack near her desk.
“So I see.”
“Are they here yet?” He indicated the closed door leading to the tiny workplace he called his.
“Yes, sir. Have been for a while now.”
He brushed the dust from his cuffs, tugged his sleeves lower about his wrists, and checked his tie to make sure it hung straight. After raking a hand through his hair, he drew in a deep breath and grasped the knob.
Harriet's pen hovered once more over the inkwell. Her lips twitched. “Setting the alarm clock one half hour earlier allows plenty of time for marital companionship. Leastways it did for Arthur and me.”
Reese's mouth quirked wryly. “Thanks, Harriet. I'll remember that.”
Then he opened the door and faced the quartet of pinstripe-suited, cigar-smoking men who waited for him.
For two hours, he plied the benefits of the Nebraska-Dakota Railroad to the northern part of the state and Niobrara City itself; provided figures of costs and income from shipping crops and livestock to Omaha and points east; stressed the profits made, small but steady and with a potential to grow higher over time. In a quiet voice, he told the cartel all these things while his heartbeat tight with fear in his chest that they would not see them as significant, that they would deny him the precious financial backing he needed to keep his train running on its track.
Afterward, he dined with them at the Grand River Hotel, sparing no expense and wishing Bram was with him. Far more experienced at wooing and wheedling, Bram had a natural ability to charm and sway in both business and social circles, while Reese relied on gut instinct to find his way. But then, he reminded himself grimly, had Bram been here, the cartel would not.
As they lingered over after-dinner brandies and leisurely smokes, he invited the men on a horseback-guided tour of the railroad, its track and stations, and of course, the trestle bridge. To his great relief, they accepted, and everyone saddled up.
The weather worked to his advantage. It was a clear day, with the sun high enough in the sky to warm their backs without drawing a sweat, the air crisp and clean in their lungs. They conversed constantly, questions and answers flying forth between them with ease.
They paused at the ridge overlooking Skull Canyon. Below, the bridge towered over a narrow stream glistening on the canyon floor. Reese spoke of the bridge with pride, pointing out the hundreds of wooden planks that crisscrossed across the massive opening, shoring up the rails that would guide the train from one side to the other.
The cartel was duly impressed.
“A fine piece of workmanship, Reese.”
“Stupendous!”
“But what of Silas McCrae?” Jim Worthington, his portly belly straining his vest buttons, pointed to the heavy timbers. “He burned out a quarter mile of track, didn't he? There's a hell of a lot of lumber in that bridge, Reese. What will keep McCrae from destroying
it as well?”
Up to now, the day's discussions and tour had worked in Reese's favor. Obviously, the cartel's concern over Silas McCrae would not.
“We'll post a guard if we have to.” Reese pointed toward a stretch of sparse woodlands nearby. “I've thought of clearing this area of land and building a post---.” He halted, his attention caught by a snippet of blue fabric waving from a cottonwood branch high over their heads. He frowned but continued. “If we ride over here”--he urged the stallion forward twenty yards, and the men followed--” you can see that a man can easily watch--.”
He halted again, another piece of the fabric catching his eye. His concentration faltered, and he shot a glance to the ground.
Deep grooves in the soft dirt wove the entire length of the ridge, the tracks pummeled by countless well-shod hooves.
“A guard post, you say?” Worthington prompted.
A strange arrangement of stones with a single stick pointing forward to the north, a symbol Reese had never seen before but one he recognized.
The men of the cartel faded out of his awareness, their questions dying to a buzz in his head. Filled with a slow, heavy dread, Reese mouthed a fervent curse.
Liza hummed an old Gypsy tune while she picked gooseberries, choosing only the ripest and best of the fruit, and filling the tin bucket to near overflowing. The shrubs lined a trickling stream located a pleasant walk from Reese's house, and they grew wild for the taking. She had grown partial to Gaje pastry and could already taste a flaky pie on her tongue, juicy and sweet and baked to perfection.
With a tinkle of her bracelet, she dropped the last berry on the pile and straightened, easing the ache from the small of her back. Her mind busy with thoughts of washing and stemming the fruit for the next step in preparing the pie, she hardly noticed the shadow rising over her.
It loomed larger. The grass behind her rustled, prickling the fine hairs on the back of her neck. A horse blew softly nearby, and an instant image of Silas McCrae flashed in her mind. She whirled.
“Hanzi!”
The sight of him jolted her when she had fully expected to see the raging fur trapper in his buffalo hides and dirty beard. A cry of joy bubbled in her throat.