by Crooks, Pam
“The sorrel, then.”
Rain streamed down his temple and followed the strong line of his jaw before dripping off his chin. Liza knew he was still angry with her, that he blamed her for the predicament they were in.
“All right.” The agreement was clipped and tight. “Can you lead him without getting us into more trouble?”
The barb hit its mark, and she stiffened, yet she knew she had best not test his temper further with a stinging retort of her own. She clasped the sorrel's chin strap and stubbornly held her tongue.
His broad back made a fair beacon in the bleak night. She kept her gaze on him often, more to see that he or his horse did not stumble than to find her way. The terrain gradually leveled out, and the Niobrara River rushed and rippled its course farther and farther behind them.
Dead birds, sticks and debris from the tornado littered the ground. Pockets of water sucked at their feet with an annoying squishing sound, chilling Liza's toes until she lost all feeling in them. She could hardly remember what it was like to have the sun shining on her face or feel the heat from a glowing campfire. It seemed she had been drenched in the torrential rain forever.
The Gajo stopped and waited while she drew closer.
“We can ride from here,” he said.
We?
Liza's ears hummed from the tiny word. Riding the stallion was out of the question. Did he intend to share the sorrel's back with her? She almost laughed aloud. What would her people think?
She shook her head. Trickles of water slid down the back of her neck, and she pulled the oilskin's collar more snugly to her. “I will walk. You can ride.”
“You'll ride with me.”
His tone brooked no argument, and she glared at him. He considered her a moment, sighed heavily, and rested an elbow on the stallion's saddle. “What's the problem here, Liza? Anyone with a lick of sense would prefer to ride a horse than trudge their way through the mud on foot. Anyone but you. Why is that?”
His condescending attitude worked on her nerves, yet she took care not to raise his hackles further. “We--Gypsy women--are accustomed to walking while our men ride in the wagons. We think nothing of it.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes,” she defended. “And given your injured knee, I think it is wisest that you ride. I am quite able to walk.”
He straightened. “Any man with a sense of decency would never allow a woman to walk when she could share his horse--or his wagon--just as easily.” His slur against the Gypsies did not escape her. He gave her no chance to retaliate. “The sorrel's strong enough to carry both of us. Now climb up in the saddle, or by God, I'll throw you into it.”
Liza fixed him with her most withering stare, the same one that had always succeeded in keeping leery Gaje at a distance, but it did not seem to faze him. He seemed as immovable as ever.
With a snort of disgust, she gave in. She would ride the Gajo's horse to still his irritable tongue. After all, who would see her? She would tell no one she had given in to him.
Her foot jabbed the stirrup, and she swung onto the sorrel in a huff, settling into the saddle with a piqued flounce and a jerk on the oilskin. He mounted up after her, easing his length behind the cantle.
She heard his breath catch and knew the climb had hurt. In spite of herself, compassion stirred, and she leaned forward to give him as much room as possible. His arms came around her, taking the reins from her unresisting fingers. He bent toward the stallion, took those reins, too, and urged both horses forward.
He surrounded her. Liza could not think of what to do with her hands or feet, for he had taken over the stirrups as well. She could do naught but relax her legs against his, and even through her skirts, she could tell his thighs were hard with muscle.
He held the sorrel's reins loosely in one hand, the same hand that rested casually in her lap. She frowned at his boldness. And though the sorrel plodded at a slow pace, her back brushed his chest with every step. Even her head seemed to get in the way of his jaw. Much too often, her temple bumped his chin.
“I have friends who live on the next spread. We'll stay at their place.” He spoke somewhere above her ear, his voice muted over the steady rain.
Before she could reply, a low curse fell from the Gajo's lips. The sorrel halted.
Liza peered into the darkness. Planks of wood, sections of pipe, and loose paper were scattered all over the field. The mess seemed to worsen the closer they rode toward the homestead.
Among the rubble, a lone dinner plate rested in the grass. The china seemed to be in perfect condition, without a single chip or crack, as if someone had carefully set it there in preparation for a meal.
The twister's peculiar vengeance both awed and frightened Liza. Mama always said storms were unleashed by angry spirits. What had anyone done to provoke such destruction?
Ahead, a cabin was in near-shambles, its roof half-blown off, the front door gone, every window shattered. Broken pieces of furniture were everywhere.
“Oh, my saints.” Liza stared in horror.
A child's shoe hung from a lone fencepost. Nearby was a baby's blanket, the soft flannel soiled from mud. Next to that, pillows, towels, toys, a can of beans. The list went on and on.
A family's home. Destroyed.
And what of them?
Liza turned her head. She could easily touch the Gajo's cheek with the tip of her nose. She appealed to him, her heart filled with dread. “Are--Is this your friend's home?”
“Yes.” He peered down at her, his breath warm over her forehead. “But they're not here. Went to Omaha to visit relatives.”
“Thank God.”
“Yes, thank God. But look what they'll come back to.” He dismounted awkwardly and grimaced. “Stay here. I'm going to check the place out.”
Liza shivered, whether from the cold rain or the depressing sight before her, she could not be sure. The farm had lost its outbuildings, and the barn had suffered enough damage that Liza would not dare step inside. Whatever livestock Reese Carrison's friend might have owned had long since run off. Except for the rain, the land had an eerie silence.
The Gajo returned, his dark suit making him difficult to see from afar. “There's a lean-to out back. The horses can bed down there for the night.”
She nodded and moved to get down.
He took hold of the chin straps. “Relax. Enjoy the ride,” he said dryly and began guiding both horses through the debris. “Unless Gypsy women have an aversion to riding while a man walks?”
“Not any man,” Liza retorted loftily. “Just one who is not Gypsy.”
To her utter surprise, he chuckled, a low, warm sound that curled around her body like an eiderdown on a frosty night.
They took great care to make the stallion comfortable. The Gajo found a lantern. Aided by its meager, golden light, he hauled off the saddles and set them aside to dry. Fearing a case of mud fever from the dampness, Liza thoroughly wiped down the animals' backs and legs with their saddle blankets. The lean-to offered enough room for both horses to lie down; its roof promised respite from the wind and rain. Fresh hay and a bucket of oats further ensured their comfort.
The Gajo rubbed the stallion's nose. “Have a good night, fella. I'll check on you first thing in the morning.”
His glance strayed yet again to the swollen hind leg; his voice betrayed his concern. Liza knew the walk from the river had not helped the sprain. The horse nickered softly, as if to reassure him, and slowly, the Gajo stood.
His attention wandered to the damaged cabin. “I'll see what kind of shape the house is in.”
Giving her only a brief glance, he hobbled out from under the lean-to, taking the lantern and saddlebags with him, obviously expecting her to follow.
Yet Liza held back. Her pulse hammered from trepidation. Without the stallion to fill her thoughts, a new worry took over.
She would be spending the night with Reese Carrison.
Alone.
Just the two of them.
&n
bsp; Her belly did a nervous flip-flop. She yearned for the security of the kumpania , her family and friends, cousins, aunts and uncles. It was all she had ever known--her kumpania . Her people. Her life.
How would she endure the hours until dawn without them? And with a Gajo, no less?
God's saints, she must.
She would survive the humiliation of it. The dismay and fears. She had no other choice.
She bravely swept aside her apprehensions, pulled the oilskin tighter, and stepped into the rain. Treading gingerly around the debris strewn over the yard, she made her way to the front of the cabin.
The Gajo stood inside what had been the main room and held the lantern high, his head tilted to the ceiling, as if to judge the soundness of the rafters. Shingles ripped from the roof revealed snippets of the black sky and allowed the rain to drip inward at a steady pace. Strips of tar paper fluttered in the breeze; the wooden floor was soaked.
Only the back third of the house had been spared. Save for a scattering of glass and splintered wood, the area seemed intact and reasonably dry.
“It’s not the Grand River Hotel,” he muttered. “But it'll do.”
He paused, as if expecting her to complain. She ran a miserable glance over the ruins and thought of the cozy wagon her family would be staying in tonight, how warm they would be, and together. A wave of homesickness washed over her, and she fought a rise of tears.
“Can you cook?” he asked.
Blinking rapidly before she looked at him, she nodded in jerky motions. “Yes.”
“Fix us something to eat, then. I'll start a fire in the stove and try to clear the worst of the mess. We need some room to move around.”
She grasped at his request. It would keep her mind off her unhappiness and stave off the hunger she had not quenched since midday.
With the lantern in hand, she ventured to the sideboard and eyed the numerous drawers and doors. A shelf was filled with fruit preserves and home-canned goods miraculously untouched by the storm. She hesitated.
She was violating another woman's domain. To help themselves to the food lovingly put up by a Gaje wife who was not there to see them made her uncomfortable.
“Go on, Liza.” Reese Carrison's voice reached to her from across the cabin.
Her gaze flew to him. She had not known he watched her nor could she identify the smoky huskiness in his tone. Did he sense the reason for her unease?
“I’ll pay them well for what we use,” he said.
Her lashes lowered. She turned away with a nod, reassured by his promise. Hardly aware of the trust she had put in his words, she set the lantern aside and went to work discovering the secrets held within the sideboard.
After lighting the stove, the Gajo hurled split logs and boards toward the damaged side of the cabin and swept broken glass, bits of mortar and dust into the growing pile of debris. Locating a length of rope, he strung it along the gaping side of the cabin.
Liza slid chopped tomatoes into a hot skillet and stirred them in with chunks of potatoes, onions, and canned beef, then seasoned it all liberally from the array of spice tins on the stove. The coffee perked and would be ready shortly.
All too soon, she had nothing else to do.
“Help me hang these, will you?” The Gajo pulled a pile of quilts from a wooden chest nearly buried under a collapsed wall. “There are only three, but we'll use two of them to help shut out the cold and rain.”
The idea was a clever one. After the quilts were hung, Liza was amazed at the difference they made in keeping the stove's warmth closer about them.
And yet it had its disadvantages, too. The quilts made their quarters seem even smaller. Intimate.
Definitely more intimate.
She swallowed.
The Gajo hobbled toward the fireplace. Using some broken boards for kindling, he stoked a healthy fire. Its heat would supplement the warmth shed from the stove; its light added to the lantern's.
He turned toward her, one side of his mouth lilted in a wry smirk. He made a grand, sweeping gesture with his long arm. “This is as good as it gets, Lady Gypsy.”
“Yes,” she murmured and told herself their conditions could be worse.
He peeled his suitcoat from his shoulders and laid it over a mangled table, then yanked off the narrow black tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You'd best get out of your wet clothes, too. You'll catch your death.”
She sucked in a breath. Take off her clothes?
He caught her reaction and stilled; his eyes narrowed.
“You needn't worry about your virtue with me, sweetheart. I'm not in the mood.”
She wavered at his dubious reassurance. He was married, was he not? Would that be reason enough to be safe with him?
No, her stubborn mind argued. Her own father had ignored Mama's marriage vows when he bedded her nineteen years ago. The Gaje could not be trusted, married or not.
Troubled, she returned to the stove and stirred the food in the skillet. Water had dripped from the hems of her skirts and puddled on the floor. Her toes were still numb from the soaking her thin leather shoes had received. Soggy tendrils of hair stuck to her scalp, the rain-heavy ends dripping onto the stovetop.
Deep down, she knew he was right. She could not stay in her sopping-wet clothes.
You needn't worry about your virtue with me, sweetheart.
She pivoted. “Do you give me your word?”
His brow quirked. “That I won't touch you?”
“Yes.”
He scowled darkly. “I’m not a man who speaks lightly, Liza, nor am I in the habit of deflowering innocent virgins. I won't attack you.” He gave her a wicked leer. “That is, unless you want me to.”
The bastard. She pitied his wife.
“Very well, then.” She turned from him again, giving him her back. Her eyes closed; she willed herself the strength to do such a thing. Then, resolutely, she opened the oilskin a little wider, unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Two more underskirts followed, leaving only her skimpy cotton chemise.
It took a little more doing to wriggle out of her blouse, but she managed, removing the strands of gold beads first. Keeping the oilskin draped over her shoulders, she squirmed out of the blouse, one sleeve at a time. The chemise was no easier, for the damp, oft-worn fabric clung to her skin, but she pulled it off by way of her head and laid it on the heap.
Her nipples puckered from her nakedness, and she shivered.
For not the first time, she was grateful for Reese Carrison's generosity in lending her his coat. She hastily shrugged back into the long sleeves and buttoned the oilskin closed from top to bottom, acutely aware of the strange feeling of wearing it with nothing on beneath. Lastly, by balancing on one foot, then the other, she removed her shoes.
Her toes curled into the wooden floor. She refused to turn around, to see if the Gajo had watched her undress. Mama would be mortified. Liza endured a pang of shame, but she could think of no other way to dry her clothes. Surely taking them off would be faster, like the Gajo said.
Their meal was nearly ready. She hung the blouse and skirts over the quilts, keeping only her chemise from view. She discreetly laid the undergarment on the sideboard close to the stove and hoped it would dry soon. With nimble fingers, she wrapped the gold-and-crimson kerchief properly about her head and knotted it at her nape. At least she could keep her hair covered and maintain a shred of decency.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face Reese Carrison again.
He sat on the freshly swept floor, his hair combed, his shirt off and tossed to the side. He pulled one boot off, turned it upside down and grimly watched the rainwater trickle out.
His face bore such a pained expression that Liza, in spite of herself, nearly laughed aloud. Only the barest of twitches in the comer of her mouth revealed her amusement, and it was then that Reese Carrison happened to look her way.
“Think this is funny, do you?” he growled, and though his words seemed to bear a touc
h of temper, his tone did not. He wrung out both socks; the puddle of rainwater grew even larger.
“A little, maybe,” she said.
“If it never rains again, I'll be happy.”
“A drought grows more appealing by the minute,” she concurred.
Across the tiny room, their eyes met again. And held.
Liza realized he had been as uncomfortable as she, more so because of his wrenched knee, and she, at least, had had the protection from his oilskin coat.
In that moment, she shared with him--Reese Carrison, a man not of her world--a peculiar, inexplicable bonding that evolved from less-than-perfect circumstances. They were in this together, had survived, and it would get better. Did they not have a snug roof of sorts over their heads? Did they not have a strong fire and plenty of food? Had not Reese Carrison provided her with all that?
Yes. He had. And even Mama could not deny she could show him a bit of courtesy by filling his belly with the hot meal she had prepared.
Liza's lashes lowered, breaking the pull of his gaze, and she hastened back to the sideboard, retrieving a large white tablecloth from one of its drawers.
She spread it on the floor next to him, then returned with a bowl filled with the steaming meat and vegetables.
“I could not find any plates,” she said softly, walking behind him, then reaching around his broad back and setting the food in front of him. “I imagine the tornado took them. We will have to eat right out of the bowl.” She left him, found two forks, and walked behind him again to give him those in the same manner. “Would you like a cup--”
When she would have stood to bring him coffee, his hand snaked out and grasped her wrist over the long oilskin sleeves, keeping her bent half-behind him.
“What are you doing, Liza?” His low voice sounded suspicious; his tiger-like eyes bore into her.
Her own widened. Had she displeased him in some way? “I am serving you, of course.”
“Like this? From behind me?”
“Yes.” Puzzled, she stared at him.
“Why?”
She shrugged. “It is the Gypsy way.”
“This is how the women serve the men? From behind?”
“Yes.”
