by Deborah Camp
“You can wait here. I’m going.” Lily began loosening the rigging. “At least help me with the team.”
“Honeypot, listen to old Orrie. You can’t go following after those men. This isn’t for young ladies. We’ll be in enough trouble when they return and find us here waiting for them. We shouldn’t flirt with more woes by venturing into those—”
“Stake them securely, Orrie,” Lily interrupted as the buggy’s tongue dropped and she freed the team. “We might not get back here until morning.”
“Morning!” Orrie’s dark eyes widened. “Girl, what must you be thinking?” She squinted at Lily. “You’re not thinking. That’s the problem. The sun’s too hot and it’s bled through your bonnet and scalded your brains. We’re not highwaymen. We’re not wilderness trackers.” Orrie threw back her shoulders and ran her hands down the front of her plain dress. “We’re city-bred ladies, who won’t last two minutes out there in that overgrown wilderness.”
“I’ll take one flask of water and this tin of biscuits, and I’ll leave the rest for you. Your bedroll is tucked beneath the seat.”
“Lily Jane Meeker!”
Lily looked up from the basket of food and other essentials they’d packed for the trip. “Yes, Orrie?”
Orrie stared at her for several tense seconds, her frown deepening. Finally, she released a long breath. “Better bring that buggy whip. No telling what kind of varmints we might have to fight off, and we sure as shootin’ can’t fight ’em with discouraging words.”
Lily allowed herself a secret smile of triumph, averting her face so Orrie couldn’t see, and grabbed the buggy whip. “Sound thinking. I’ll carry this, my bedroll, and the basket. Can you manage the other things?”
“I suppose.” Orrie scooped them into her arms and set her face in lines of discontent. “I’ll lead the way.”
“No.” Lily held Orrie back with one hand. “I will. And don’t fret so. This isn’t the jungle.”
“It’s not Main Street, either.”
Lily set off. The road, as she’d predicted, ended abruptly no more than fifty paces into the woods. She paused to get her bearings. They’d traveled deep into the Ozark Mountains, and the air was thin and cool. The ground under her feet angled up, which meant they were still climbing the mountain where it was said the Jefferses staked their claim. Lily yanked the hem of her split skirt from a barbed bush and wiggled her toes inside her stylish boots. At that moment, she would have gladly traded the high-arched footwear for a pair of sturdy cowboy boots. Why did women’s attire have to be so impractical?
“Changed your mind?” Orrie asked. “Ready to go back to the horses and sit pretty while we wait for the men?”
“No. I’m merely adjusting to the elements.” She pulled her hanky from her cuff and dabbed at her upper lip. “Come along, Orrie.”
“How far up ahead you think they are?”
“Oh, not too far. But be as quiet as possible. Sounds travel great distances in the woods. We don’t want to tip them off.” She whispered the last, taking her own advice.
“What if we’re going in the wrong direction? What if we get lost? Then what?” Orrie whispered.
“We won’t get lost. They’re up ahead, I tell you.”
“And how do you know that? I don’t see no signs of it. No tracks. Looks like nothing’s come this way.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Lily assured her. “Now hush. I must concentrate.”
“On what?”
“Hush!”
The woods closed around them, thick and green and full of noise. Crickets chirped, toads sprang and rustled leaves, birds cried in alarm and flapped noisily overhead. A low growl sounded to their left, and Orrie shrieked and grasped the back of Lily’s blouse.
“Orrie, you’re going to tear my clothes,” Lily scolded, shrugging off the frightened woman.
“What in merciful heaven was that?”
“Probably a dog.”
“A dog? I never heard any dog that sounded like that. It was a wildcat. He’s up some tree, getting ready to pounce and tear us limb from limb.”
“Spare me your scary tales,” Lily begged as a shiver teased the back of her neck. “Just keep close to me. You’ll be fine.”
“This is madness, us being out here. I never thought I’d meet my end being attacked by wild animals. There won’t be nothing left of us but bleached bones. Nobody will know what became of us. No Christian burial, no—”
“Orrie, please don’t go on. You’re trying my patience. Do you want Griffon to hear us?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I don’t. So button your lips, if you please.” Lily glanced around to issue a stern frown. It was imperative that they keep quiet. She had an inkling that Griffon and Balthazar were close by. Very close by.
Holding a branch, Lily let Orrie pass in front of her, then she released the limber obstruction and it whistled back like a whip. As Lily turned to continue her trek, she sensed Griffon’s presence a heartbeat before his hand tightened on her wrist and brought her up short. Her bonnet slipped to one side, blocking her vision for an instant. Shoving back the brim, she smothered a cry of alarm and found herself staring into stormy blue eyes. Orrie’s shriek was quickly followed by a prayer of thanks.
“Griffon!” Lily gasped. “You scared ten years off me.”
“Good. Just what the devil do you think you’re doing out here?”
“Following you, as you well know.” When he released her, Lily righted her bonnet and adjusted her short-waisted jacket. She glanced around at the shadow-dappled area. “Have you stopped for a respite?”
“No, we haven’t stopped for a respite,” he mocked her in a higher register, squinting his eyes and wagging his head in an exaggerated imitation. “We stopped to ambush you.” He shared a victorious smirk with Balthazar.
“You … you knew … how did you know we were behind you? Did you hear us? I told Orrie to be quiet. I suppose we made such a racket that we telegraphed our passage to you.”
“Sure, that’s how I knew you were right behind us,” he agreed, albeit too readily.
Lily dropped the bedroll and buggy whip to pass the back of her wrist across her perspiring brow. Assessing his smug expression, she knew she was being coddled. “You’ve known since early this morning … since the first mile out of Van Buren,” Lily accused, and Griffon’s slow grin affirmed her suspicion. “You’ve been letting us creep behind you, letting us think we were unnoticed, when all the while you knew … how?”
“Luck.”
She shook her head. “No. More than that.”
He narrowed one eye. “Are you admitting that I’m psychic, Miss Meeker? Is that what you’re admitting?”
Glancing around at the others, Lily saw expectancy everywhere. She knew when she was beaten. “Yes. But I think you were cruel to play this silly game. Why did you wait until now to … to ambush us?”
“If you were so keen on being sneaky, who was I to spoil your fun?” His brows lowered threateningly. “But the fun is over, Miss Meeker.”
“I wasn’t having any fun.”
“Me neither,” Orrie joined in, edging closer to Balthazar’s bulk. “I’m terrible glad to join up with y’all. I told Lily we shouldn’t be hiking in these woods on our lonesome.”
“What’s this?” Balthazar picked up the whip. “Your weapon?”
“Orrie thought it might come in handy,” Lily said, not missing the humorous glances between Balthazar and Griffon. She took the whip from Balthazar and retrieved her bedroll. “Shouldn’t we be on our way?”
“I was so afraid we’d get lost and never find you men. And my feet are killin’ me! Climbing these mountains is torture.” Orrie fanned her face and sent a smile of gratitude to Balthazar when he placed an arm about her shoulders.
Griffon ran a thumb along his jawline. “How did you track us?” he asked Lily.
“How does anyone track anyone?” Lily hedged.
“By following prints, broken twigs, dis
turbed brush.”
Lily shrugged. “We did the same.”
“Uh-uh.” Griffon shook his head slowly. “Not in these woods. We were careful not to leave prints or any other signs of our passage.” He curled a finger under Lily’s chin and forced her gaze to his. “You sensed me ahead of you as I sensed you behind me. I was fairly drenched with you. I could almost taste you on my tongue, smell you on my skin, see you with my mind’s eye. That’s how it was for you, too.” He nudged her chin with his knuckle. “Isn’t that right, Lily Meeker?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He dropped his gaze to her feet. “You wished for better boots.”
Lily gasped. How could he …? Recovering, she angled her chin from his touch. “While I will admit you have an uncanny sense of perception, I will not burden myself with such an absurdity.”
“You’re as stubborn as a mule.” He aimed a finger at her. “And that’s not a compliment.” Heaving a sigh, he snatched the whip and bedroll from her hands and tossed them under a tree.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re not going anywhere. Zar, you stay with these ladies. I’ll go on and—”
“No,” Lily protested. “I won’t stay behind and—” She released a garbled sound when Griffon seized her upper arm and brought her high and tight against his chest. She struggled briefly, and her bonnet slid off and dangled by its ties down her back. Staring into his eyes, she witnessed the flames of rage and bit back a whimper. “Y-you’re hurting me, Mr. Goforth.”
“And you’ve pushed me beyond endurance. Because of your blatant disobedience, I’m forced to leave Zar with you and visit the Jefferses by myself. That, Miss Meeker, makes me infinitely more vulnerable. Happy now?”
She chewed on her lower lip, fighting off a wave of guilt.
“Griffon, you shouldn’t face them alone,” Zar said, his brows forming wings above his troubled eyes. “The sheriff said they’re trigger-happy and completely uncivilized.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Why can’t we all go?” Lily asked. Griffon’s scowl intensified, and she edged her head back, cringing from his blast of anger.
“Because I’m the one hired to find Cecille. Not you. Not Orrie. Not Zar. Me. Now, kindly stay out of my way and allow me to do my job.” He shoved her aside, showing so little regard that she stumbled and nearly fell.
“You let me come to Van Buren because you think Cecille and I have some kind of mind connection,” Lily said. “Perhaps I do feel a strong bond, but distance won’t help it. If I come with you, I might sense if Cecille’s around.”
“We were warned to stay away, remember? The Jefferses won’t beg us to stay for dinner.” He spotted one of the water flasks. Uncapping it, he tilted it to his mouth and drank deeply. “Zar, you have my permission to bind and gag Miss Meeker if you must to keep her quiet and keep her here.” He pointed to the ground for emphasis, then handed the flask to his friend. “If I’m not back before sundown, take the ladies back to town and get the sheriff.”
Balthazar clamped a hand on Griffon’s shoulder. “Tread lightly, Borossan.”
Griffon nodded, smiling jauntily. “There should be a creek a few yards that way.” He pointed to their right. “You can fill the flasks there and refresh yourselves.”
“I’ll make camp here while you’re gone.” Zar directed a baleful glare at Lily. “And there won’t be any trouble, so don’t waste a worry on our account.”
“Don’t chance a campfire,” Griffon warned, and gave a quick salute. “I’m off then.”
Before any of them could offer further advice or instructions, Griffon ducked beneath overhanging foliage and vanished amid the green, gold, and brown of the woods.
“What did you call him?” Orrie asked Balthazar.
“When, dear woman?”
“Just now. You called Mr. Griffon some strange-sounding name.”
“Ah, that was the Gypsy language.” He laughed when Orrie breathed a sound of awe. “Borossan means ‘Gypsy king’.”
“Is he a king?” Orrie asked, clasping her hands under her chin in excitement.
“No, but he might have been. His grandfather was king of his Gypsy clan. The word is one of respect for men who are leaders, men who are brave and wise.” Balthazar dug into a canvas satchel and withdrew a length of rope. Lily stiffened when his eyes pinned her.
“That won’t be necessary,” Lily said, settling on the grass under a shade tree.
“Just in case.” Balthazar dropped the rope beside his bedroll, within easy reach. “Just in case.”
The sheriff’s directions proved accurate. Griffon smelled woodsmoke before the ramshackle log cabin came into view through the jumble of foliage. He had only a few seconds to survey the slanting roof, woodpile, and boiling pot set over a low fire when the first shots ripped past him in an explosion of leaves and shattered wood. Griffon ducked and felt a projectile part the air beside his ear. Too close, he thought, cowering behind an elm tree. Much too close.
“Hold your fire!” he called, putting steel in his voice. “I’m not armed and I mean you no harm.” That was only partly true, he thought, touching the hilt of the knife inside his right boot. Another hung from his belt. While his aim with a gun was little more than adequate, he’d been a lethal knife-thrower since he was barely out of short pants.
“Who goes thar?” a voice boomed, deep as a bear’s.
“Griffon Goforth. I’ve traveled from Fort Smith to speak with you.”
“This here’s Jeffers land,” someone else shouted off to his right. Griffon glanced around, wondering if he was surrounded. “You best haul ass, mister, ’fore it gets shot full o’ holes.”
“I want to talk to the head of the Jeffers family. It’s about Cecille Meeker.”
“Who?”
“Cecille Meeker. She’s a friend of Anson’s.”
“Anson ain’t cheer. You git!”
“That gal ain’t here.” The deep voice came again, straight ahead of Griffon and closer than it had been before. “I tole that detective feller. He said nobody else’d be out here asking a bunch of durn-fool questions. I don’t like strangers trespassin’ on my property, ya hear?”
“Mr. Jeffers?” Griffon called. “Mr. Butch Jeffers?”
“That’s right.”
Griffon jerked, realizing that the booming voice was now behind him. He whirled on his haunches to stare up at a barrel-chested man holding a hatchet. Gray, fuzzy hair covered the lower half of Butch Jeffers’s face. Above the full beard and unruly mustache poked a beaked nose, separating beady eyes. Slowly, Griffon stood to confront him.
“Anson is gone? Where to?”
“None of your blamed business.”
“Did he take Cecille Meeker with him?”
“He didn’t take nobody with him. Just took off.” He projected a stream of tobacco juice that splattered Griffon’s left boot.
“And he didn’t tell you where he was headed?”
“Why should he? He’s growed.”
Griffon focused his attention solely on the man, blocking out the danger of the others he knew watched him from cover. Deceit hung in the air, thick and cloying. Griffon sensed something else: a skittishness that quivered around Butch Jeffers. He’s hiding something … someone, Griffon thought. He concentrated, tried to delve into the big man’s thoughts, but came up empty.
“I don’t like the way yore lookin’ at me,” Butch said, showing gaping holes where teeth had been. He narrowed his eyes, looking Griffon over as if he were a bull at auction. “You a Gypsy feller, ain’tcha?”
Surprise socked Griffon, rocking his head back. How would this Arkansas woodsman know Gypsies by sight? He cleared his throat, hearing the rustle of leaves as the others tightened the circle around him.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll look around. I’m quite sure Cecille Meeker was here recently.”
“She ain’t been, and yore lookin’ is done over. Boys!”
Voices rose up
around Griffon. Four, five, maybe six. Outnumbered! Butch Jeffers hoisted the hatchet and grinned. Griffon tensed and his mind scrambled for a way out of a bad situation.
“This here feller needs y’all to help him skedaddle off our land.” Butch gave a nod. Rifles belched and bullets tore grass and dirt at Griffon’s feet.
Charging directly at Butch, Griffon knocked the man off balance and sent him sprawling. Scrambling to his feet, Griffon made a dive toward the thickest underbrush. Twigs and thorns tore at his clothing to find skin. A bullet burned past him, shaving off flesh and leaving him with fiery pain. Blood oozed and then ran freely down his cheek, splashing on his shoulder, staining his shirt. Forcing the agony from his mind, he dodged among trees and leaped over bushes. Thrashing and grunting, he swiped at low branches, clearing a path for himself.
Dazed, he ran headlong into a small clearing and collided with a chunky body. He struggled, trying to dislodge the hands that gripped his upper arms. A moon-shaped face with kind eyes floated before him.
“Looky, Maw-Maw. It’s the feller Jasper seen with the purty gal in town!” The boy/man laughed with delight and hugged Griffon to him. “Is that purty gal here widya? Didja brung her?” His dark eyes clouded and his upper lip quivered. “Uh-oh. Maw-Maw, him leaking blood. Him got hurt.”
Griffon looked at the woman. Her dark hair was gathered into twin braids that fell over her jutting breasts. Black eyes stared at him and then softened, smiled. She was a stranger, but familiar. Griffon sucked in a breath, stabbed by recognition.
“San tu Rom?” he asked, and she nodded, her black eyes beginning to sparkle.
“I’m Rom,” she said, moving closer to gently pry her boy’s hands from Griffon’s arms. “What clan are you from?”
“Goforth and Tshurara. In England. And you?”
“Davidovitch and Kalderasha. Russia, but some of my people came to this country. Up east. What are you doing here? Why have my men shot you?” She untied a scarf from her neck and held it to his wound.
“Is the purty gal widya?” Jasper asked again. “Maw-Maw, make him tell. Make him tell.”