In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  But there was no elation, no answering smile, on her brother's young features. Stone-faced, he stared back at her.

  “What is this thing you have done, Liza?”

  His chilling demand sent cold reality whirling through her brain.

  The time had come.

  The sound of jangling harnesses seeped through her dread. One by one, high-wheeled wagons, too many to count, certainly more than the entire Lowara tribe, rumbled to a stop. The horizon was filled with them, her people, all of whom had finally come back for her.

  Nanosh leaped from the last rig. A door creaked open, and Mama stepped out. Behind her emerged Paprika with Tekla in her arms, and Putzi, his little legs scampering to keep up.

  Like an angry boar, Nanosh stormed toward her. Before Liza could greet him, he drew close. His beefy hand came up, striking her across the cheek with a force that sent her sprawling into the weeds.

  She cried out in surprise and pain. Her hair, held back only by the tortoiseshell combs Reese preferred, flung over her eyes and face, and she clawed at the strands, lest he hit her again.

  “She-dog! For nineteen winters, I raised you as mine, and you repay me only with dishonor!” he said in a snarl.

  “No!” she gasped, pressing her palm to her fiery cheek. Her mind reeled from the blow, from his accusations.

  Mama rushed forward. “I prayed to the great spirits it was not true, that my daughter would not be so stupid. In God's love, Liza, tell me you did not do this!”

  “She wears his ring,” Hanzi said dully.

  “Yes.” Nanosh's features darkened with contempt. “The Gajo speaks the truth, then.”

  He lunged for her, as if to land another punishing slap. Liza scrambled to her feet and through sheer agility managed to dodge him. Bosom heaving, she watched him with a wary eye, watched all of them as they centered her with their dark, accusing gazes.

  “For many days and many nights we searched to find you,” Mama said, her weathered face full of anguish. “We leave behind the vurma, but you do not find it. We leave messages among our people, but no one has seen you. You disappear--poof!--into thin air. Even Hanzi cannot find you when he goes back to the Gaje town where we saw you last.”

  “And then we hear of the big wedding.” Hanzi's lip curled. “A Gypsy and a Gajo. Everyone talks. The Rom are amazed. They cannot imagine anything more shameful.”

  “All the tribes mock us.” Tears streamed down Mama's cheeks. “Have I not taught you well, daughter? Have I shamed you so much that you must shame me back?”

  “No, Mama!” Liza said hoarsely. She never dreamed a pain as terrible as that which speared her now, a pain as deep and burning as any sharp-bladed knife might wield.

  “We travel along the railroad tracks to find our way quickly back to Niobrara City,” Nanosh sneered. “A Gajo who works with the big train tells us how to find Reese Carrison. He says you will be with him.” He pursed his lips and hurled a stream of spittle at her skirt hems. “Why do we come back? Why? You do not deserve to be Gypsy!”

  Liza sucked a breath inward. There was no worse curse than that.

  “Look at you, Liza!” Mama sobbed. Her features twisted with torment, she sank to her knees and spread her hands wide. “Your hair--no braid, no kerchief. Nothing! Free to the wind for all to see--have you no honor?”

  “Mama, please!”

  Liza had never seen her so distraught. A high-pitched wail filled the air, dredged from the deepest bowels of her mother's soul. Her faded kerchief clinging to her hairless scalp, she curled into a tight ball of hysteria, her brown fists pounding the weeds and grass.

  “Oh, Mama. Do not do this! I cannot bear it!” Arms outstretched, Liza bent toward her, needing to comfort her for the pain she had wrought and hold her grief-wracked body against her own.

  “Do not touch her!” Nanosh's bark stopped her cold.

  “She is my mother!” Liza cried.

  “She gave you life, but you do not deserve to be called ‘daughter’,” he spat.

  Liza jerked back as if he had struck her again. Her chin trembled. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “I say it because it is the truth.”

  “Enough, Nanosh!” Another man's authoritative bark halted Nanosh's fury. “You do not give her a chance to defend herself.”

  Liza's gaze darted toward a short, slightly-built man, a man whom she had not seen in many years, but one she recognized with much dread.

  Uncle Pepe. Mama's brother. Leader of the ominous kris. Her knees wobbled beneath her. His presence explained the extra wagons, the many Gypsies staring through windows and doors. In that instant, she realized the kumpania s had banded together to find her and that justice would be served.

  Her stomach heaved with horror.

  “Calm yourself, Pesha,” Uncle Pepe commanded.

  Immediately, Mama's wails ended, softening to little hiccups. Her body unfurled to lay limp and prone in the weeds, as if she did not have the strength to rise.

  Uncle Pepe's black-eyed glance fastened on Liza.

  “We are in the Gaje world now.” His slender arm swept before him, indicating the cultivated fields of corn and wheat adjoining Reese's land, the ribbon of road leading into Niobrara City, the tiny shapes of barns and houses in the distance.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “This is not the place for us to settle the grave matter of your marriage,” he said. His glittering perusal held her captive with the immensity of his power among her people. A pencil-thin mustache lined his upper lip. His gold tooth shined in the sun. “Come with us, and we will find another.”

  He turned, obviously expecting her to follow. Hanzi went to Mama's side and curled his arm about her shoulder, urging her back to their wagon in a quiet voice. Nanosh joined him, and they lifted her, sniffling and exhausted, to her feet. Not giving Liza a backward glance, they made their way back to the kumpania .

  Only her siblings remained, silent and haunted by all they had seen. Even little Tekla, perched on Paprika's hip, did not squirm or howl with her usual two-year-old enthusiasm.

  “What will you do?” Paprika asked softly, her eyes wide and sorrowful.

  Liza could not speak past the huge lump in her throat. Tears threatened, and she angled her face from the children, that they would not see her torment, the agony that threatened to tear her apart.

  She blinked furiously and focused a longing gaze on Reese's house--her house. Gay-colored asters and brilliant clematis waved cheerfully in the breeze. The well-trimmed lawn, the white clapboard siding, the spacious porch lining the entire front of the structure. Her garden, with its well-tended rows and thriving vegetables. In a flash, she relived all the memories sheltered within the walls of her new home.

  Her home.

  She envisioned the kitchen and the cast-iron stove where she had learned to cook Reese's meals. She thought of his magnificent bed, of the pie she intended to bake for him that afternoon.

  Putzi tugged on her skirts, his angelic face in need of a washing, his tousled locks begging for a comb.

  “Are you coming, Liza? Are you?” he demanded. His pudgy fist grasped the red fabric in a tight grip, as if he refused to take no for an answer, as if this time, he would not leave her behind.

  In the weeks she had been away, his front teeth had grown back in, and he lost the endearing lisp. He seemed taller, more grown-up. A little man. Her heart ached with love.

  She drew in a long breath and wavered beneath the awful weight sagging on her shoulders.

  She had a price to pay. She owed Mama for the hurt. She must account for the decision she made at the cost of Reese's love and the happiness he had given her. Her people expected little else. It was the Gypsy way.

  A part of her died accepting it.

  She smoothed Putzi's hair and reached for Tekla, settling her on her own hip, relieving Paprika of the responsibility. With all the strength she possessed, every ounce and shred, she turned toward the endless line of wagons and the ster
n, disapproving faces staring back at her.

  Putzi's hand slipped inside hers. He peered up at her hopefully, the unanswered question shining in his eyes.

  For his sake, Liza managed a tiny smile. “Yes, little one. I am coming.”

  Several fires blazed in the camp and sent hazy tendrils of smoke twisting into the black night. Listless and uneasy, wild-haired mongrel dogs roamed and paced, low growls in their throats. Barefoot children hovered close to their mothers. Subdued voices rose and fell, gripped by the somber mood of the kumpania s.

  Eighteen battered wagons curved around the encampment in a protective half-circle, shielding the Gypsies from inquisitive Gaje and opening onto the banks of the Niobrara River. Tethered by long ropes, a large herd of horses grazed at the edge of camp. Somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted in song.

  A tautness hung in the air. Nerves stretched tight from the waiting . . ..

  Liza huddled on a fallen log and wrapped her arms about her knees. She endured the wait with thoughts of Reese, filling her head with memories of him. Did he work late, not yet knowing she rejoined her people? Or did he search frantically, tortured with worry and guilt, any place she might be? The kitchen, the barn, Maudeen's? Had he found the pail of gooseberries she left behind?

  Would he understand?

  He would not tolerate her decision. That Liza knew with grave certainty. She knew, too, he would come in search of her, and he would find her. More than once, he had vowed it.

  But would it be too late?

  Near her, sprawled on the ground, Hanzi tossed chunks of red meat to Rollo, chained to the back of Nanosh's wagon. The tame brown bear gobbled every morsel and sniffed out more.

  Hanzi's gaze lifted, meeting Liza's. Compassion flickered in the dark depths, and she sensed his longing to spare her the kris. It seemed his disapproval had filtered into grim acceptance of what she had done, and she derived great comfort that he still loved her, despite her dishonor.

  Mama's hurt would not go away so easily. Surrounded by several other women, she squatted in a small clearing by their wagon and wept softly. Liza knew she must grieve in front of the entire kumpania to show them she did not approve of what Liza had done, yet the display stung deeply. Did Mama not know Liza never meant to cause her such pain? Surely, she did. But her hate for the Gaje would close her eyes to reason.

  Paprika tiptoed out from inside Nanosh's wagon, pausing on the wide board that sewed as a porch, closing the door with a gentle click. The task had fallen to her to see that Tekla and Putzi slept peacefully beneath their eiderdowns, and Liza was glad they would be spared the grim proceedings ahead. She could only imagine the terrible punishment the kris would hand down to her.

  Paprika skittered down the wagon step and sat next to her on the old log.

  “Is it true you married the handsome Gajo? The one we saw at the train depot?” she demanded without fanfare. Keeping her voice low, she wiggled close, for this had been the first opportunity they had to speak alone.

  “Yes, Paprika. I have married him.”

  Her dark brows furrowed. “But he already had a wife. And a daughter, too.”

  Liza blinked. Then, she remembered Margaret Michelle on that fateful afternoon, her infatuation with the small yucca basket, and Rebecca Ann who had said all the hurtful things about her people.

  How long ago it seemed! A lifetime. And yet only a short while.

  “No, Paprika. We were both mistaken that day.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Reese has never been married. I am the only wife he has ever had.”

  Paprika pressed a hand to her small bosom and heaved a solemn sigh of relief. “I did not think it would be proper to have more than one wife, even for the Gaje, but I did not know for sure.”

  “The Gaje are not as terrible as the Gypsies think,” Liza said quietly. “I have learned this for myself.”

  “Perhaps not.” Paprika regarded her seriously. “Do you love him?”

  Emotion clogged Liza's throat.

  “Very much,” she whispered.

  “Then you are very lucky.”

  Dear Paprika. So adult-like. How could she know the terrible price that must be paid for the decision to wed Reese? Did she not understand the awful shame and disgrace that had been heaped upon Mama and Nanosh?

  “I do not feel so lucky,” Liza murmured and swept a nervous glance toward the men stirring across the flickering campfire.

  “You are.” Paprika hooked her arm through Liza's and whispered confidentially. “Mama tells me Spiro has offered to marry me. I cannot think of a worse husband. He smells.”

  “Spiro comes from a respectable family.” Liza tried to be tactful.

  “So? I do not love him. I want to choose my own husband. Like you.”

  “It is not easy, Paprika. But you are only twelve. You have several years to get to know him.”

  Her glance strayed again to the members of the kris, smoking quietly and sharing bottles of whiskey. A few rose from the ground and found makeshift seats from whatever oddities they could find on hand--an overturned pot, a tree stump, an unwieldy bale of hay. Finally, Uncle Pepe himself rose and produced an abandoned chair, one leg shorter than the other three. Nanosh hurried forward with a chunk of wood to bolster the troublesome lean, and after a brief testing, Uncle Pepe nodded his approval.

  Liza's stomach flip-flopped. “Saints in heaven, Paprika. It is time.”

  “Yes. Have trust, Liza.” Her black eyes pools of sympathy, Paprika's arms tightened around her in a quick hug before she scurried away to join Mama and the other Gypsy women.

  Liza stood, her legs far less steady than Uncle Pepe's rickety chair. Behind her, Mama rasped her name and hurried forward with a jangle of necklaces and bracelets. Her brown cheeks were stained with tears. An amulet hung from her neck, smelling of red and black pepper, salt and vinegar spices, and she clasped Liza tightly with her strong arms.

  “God give you luck, my child,” she whispered. She removed the amulet and draped it over Liza's head; the little drawstring bag dangled between her breasts. “I would lay down my life to keep you from this,” she said, her voice quavery. “I was not much younger than you when I had to stand before the kris. They have great power. They hold your honor in their hands.”

  “I am not afraid,” Liza said, as much for Mama's sake as her own.

  “I am afraid for you.” As if she realized they tarried too long at the expense of the court's patience, she kissed each of Liza's cheeks. Choking back a sob, she ran back to the women and squatted, hiding her face in her palms.

  “Liza. Daughter of Pesha, my sister. Come forward,” Uncle Pepe commanded.

  She drew a breath; her heart pounded and raced. But she obeyed, standing before them, a semicircle of men who earned their place on the kris with their wisdom and experience over the years. She knew them all: Yojo, a master metalsmith; Stevan, a musician; Dominic, a skilled horseman, Tinya, an artisan; and of course, Uncle Pepe.

  Ordinary men with extraordinary power. They dressed no differently than the rest of the Rom, wore no jewelry or special robes. They acted without arrogance. But they carried a dignity about them that held them apart, a solemnity that inspired respect and total allegiance.

  Uncle Pepe leaned forward and fastened a stern gaze on her.

  “Do you promise to answer the questions we put before you with truth, Liza?” he demanded.

  She bowed her head. “May my mother die a horrible death if I mock you with lies.”

  He nodded. “Bater. May it be so.”

  Likewise, the court responded with rumbles of agreement. It seemed forever before Uncle Pepe spoke again, so long that Liza clasped her hands tightly before her, keeping her head lowered. Starkly alone, she stood, living the nightmare, the reality of the kris, with scores of black-eyed gazes centered on her, none of whom would trade places with her for all the gold in the world.

  Nausea rolled in her belly. That she could prevent this from happening . . ..

  “You have sh
amed the Gypsies by marrying a Gajo,” Uncle Pepe said finally, startling Liza with the sound of his voice. “You have brought great disgrace to your family. There are few worse things you could have done.”

  Her chin lifted. She swallowed hard.

  “What do you have to say to this?” he asked gravely. She garnered her courage and willed herself not to shake like a leaf in the wind.

  “There is a saying among us,” she began. “’Which is greater, the oak or the dandelion’?”

  “Yes,” he murmured and stroked a fingertip along his thin mustache.

  “The answer is ponderous and wise. Whichever one achieves fulfillment.” She drew a breath. “By the accident of my birth, I have been a dandelion among my people. A weed to be stepped on or cast aside. Because the blood of my natural father flows in my veins, I am not a true Gypsy. I do not belong among the sturdy oaks--the Rom.”

  The entire camp was silent; even the children listened.

  “When I married Reese Carrison, I knew the cost. I knew the shame,” she said. “But I married him, anyway.”

  “Why?” Yojo asked.

  “Because I had fallen in love with him. Even now, as I stand before you with great respect, the sight of him never leaves my eyes. The smell, the taste of him never leaves my senses. The strength of our love never leaves my heart.”

  In the golden glow of the firelight, members of the kris stared, their expressions thoughtful.

  “I am nothing but a dandelion, Uncle Pepe, but I have achieved fulfillment with my husband. I have learned his ways. His people accept me. I have more honor with the Gaje than I do the Gypsy.”

  “You feel this to be true, with your soul and your mind?” he said, frowning.

  “I do.”

  “Have you had such a terrible life with our people? Have we not fed you and protected you? Have you not been included in the celebrations and happiness shared by the kumpania s?”

  “Yes, all those things.” She drew courage from the keen interest shown by the entire court. “I do not seek pity for myself, but in truth, consider my mother, my brothers and sisters.” Her mouth pursed. She chose her words with care. “Twenty winters ago, Mama made a mistake. Adultery, as you know. But she was very young, and since then, Nanosh, her husband, has forgiven her.”