Prairie Moon

by Maggie Osborne

  “I figured that out,” she said, sitting beside the fire. “Even if there was something different you wanted to do, your fame would always get in the way. You’d still be James Cameron. And there would always be men like Harvey Morton and Joe Hasker and Luke Apple.”

  After they scrubbed their plates and utensils, Cameron sat on one side of the fire, cleaning his pistols, and Della sat on the other side, doing some light mending. Once, he looked across the flames and found her watching him. They held their gazes for a beat longer than was comfortable, then they looked away.

  Eventually he would tell her about Clarence, and she would hate him. Until then, he would enjoy her company and her friendship and not hope for anything more.

  It wouldn’t be easy to set his hope aside. Particularly now that he knew she had leanings in his direction. He didn’t think he was wrong about that. And particularly since the sight and scent of her made him want to hold her in his arms and kiss her until she was wild with desire. Being with her but not touching her made him feel crazy inside.

  Della mopped sweat from her throat and temples, her gaze on Cameron’s back. As usual, he rode tall and easy as if he was unaware of the sun beating down on them. Earlier he’d pointed north, drawing her attention to a small herd of deer on the rocky hillside. She wouldn’t have seen them, as they were almost the same color as the rocks and golden-leafed bushes.

  She’d lost track of the days, but she suspected they were into September now. Autumn would be upon them soon. As they gained altitude, the nights were getting chillier, but so far the mountain sun was hot during the day.

  What else could she think about that wasn’t Cameron? She had considered every nuance of the weather. Had noted the change of terrain as they climbed higher up the foothills. She had berated herself for her last letter to Clarence. Had wondered about Claire until her head ached. She had planned her journal entry but knew she wouldn’t write it. The journal wasn’t working out. That left Cameron.

  Squinting behind the blue lens of her glasses, she watched Cameron look over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t too far behind before he turned Bold and Rebecca into a narrow cut between two rock walls.

  She had come so close to disaster. If Harvey Morton had not burst into the dining room, she didn’t know how the evening at the Grande Hotel would have ended. However, she suspected that she might have awakened the next morning with much to regret.

  But Harvey Morton had burst into the dining room, and everything had changed between her and Cameron. She had seen with brutal clarity that he could be gazing into her eyes one minute, and could be dead two minutes later. It hadn’t happened that way, thank God, but it could have.

  And what if she’d been in a different mood? What if she’d said something angry or cold in the minute before Harvey Morton burst through the double doors?

  The horror of such a possibility made her shrink inside her jacket. If she and Cameron ever became more than friends, she would have to censure everything she said to him. She couldn’t behave normally, could never risk getting angry. Because anything she said might be her last words to him. Luke Apple and Harvey Morton had demonstrated how quickly Cameron could face mortal danger. There wasn’t time to say, “I didn’t mean what I just said.” Or, “Those words were spoken in anger, please forgive me.”

  She couldn’t live like that. Teasing herself with thoughts that she could accept his life was a frivolous pursuit. He was right—he couldn’t decide to stop being a legend.

  Della had known this from the beginning. But then, in the beginning she hadn’t known him. Hadn’t slept a few feet from a muscled body that she could visualize in her mind. Or watched him shave in the morning. Hadn’t felt a thrill of electricity when fingertips accidently brushed, or shoulders touched. Hadn’t stood in the rain and wished he’d come after her and felt her heart leap with confusion when he did. They hadn’t whistled together or shared a hundred meals.

  “Stop this,” she whispered, wiping the back of her glove across her forehead.

  Ahead of her, just out of sight, she thought she heard angry voices. Worried, she urged Bob into a trot, following a faint trail through a tight opening that widened into a shallow valley.

  There she found Cameron sitting patiently atop Bold, watching a dozen people engaged in a volatile argument beside four brightly painted enclosed wagons. Men, women, and children talked at once, waving arms and shouting. Dogs chased under and around the wagons and Della spotted a goat.

  “The Baldofinis,” Cameron said as she reined up beside him. “They claim to be Romanian gypsies.”

  The tall wagons had Baldofini painted on the side in fancy crimson letters. On one of the wagons, someone had lettered an advertisement for Countess Blatski’s miracle salve, guaranteed to cure scabies, rashes, female discomfort, insomnia, snoring, pox, and catarrh. On the second wagon was a sketch of a mysterious looking woman waving her fingers over a crystal ball. Beneath the drawing was a promise that one could learn the future for ten cents.

  The gypsies paused to glare at her and Cameron, then returned to the argument. “Baldofini,” Della said. “Is that a Romanian name?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never been able to work out the names or relationships. But it wouldn’t surprise me if someone just made up the name thinking it sounded Romanian. Who knows if it really does?”

  “You know them?”

  “We’ve had two or three encounters.”

  She knew he wouldn’t say more, and this wasn’t the moment to pry. “What are they arguing about?” Della asked after a minute. “And why are we sitting here watching them?”

  The gypsies were good-looking people. The dark-eyed men were smooth skinned, with chiseled profiles and slender hands. The women were beauties, even the old woman at the center of the group. They wore brilliantly colored skirts and scarves, gold earrings and tinkling bracelets.

  Cameron glanced at Della over the rim of his blue glasses. “The gypsy king, that would be Bernard Martinez, insists that you and I must pay a toll to pass the gypsy wagons. The king believes we expect to pay since gypsies are notorious for extracting money when opportunity arises. He assumes we accept this.”

  Della stiffened in disbelief. “They don’t own this trail. Let’s ride past them right now. There’s enough room.”

  “The king’s supporters will pull the last wagon across the trail and block our passage if we attempt to avoid the toll.”

  The valley beyond the tight, rocky entrance could not be reached without passing the gypsies. “Are some of them arguing against charging us a toll?”

  Cameron nodded. “Our supporters say if we’re allowed to pass without paying the toll, then I’ll owe them a favor. I won’t arrest them the next time they come into a town where I’m wearing a badge.”

  Della stared. “Have you arrested the Baldofinis before?”

  A thin smile touched his lips. “Once or twice.”

  A sultry black-eyed beauty stepped forward and placed her hands on her hips. “James Cameron. If you pass without a toll, you won’t arrest us when we meet again, eh?”

  “If you pilfer my town, I’ll arrest you.” He shrugged. “How much is the toll?”

  “Wait.” The beauty gave him a long, measuring stare before she tossed her long, black hair, then returned to the cluster of people beside the wagons. The argument resumed, but it was halfhearted now.

  “It appears we’ve lost our supporters,” Cameron said.

  “Do you know the gypsy’s spokeswoman?” Della tried to sound casual, but wasn’t sure she did.

  “That’s Sylvana.”

  She tried to hear an opinion in his tone, but couldn’t identify any nuance. Still, there was something provocative in the way the gypsy beauty had stood, and she’d given Cameron a look of challenge that had charged the air and had made Della shift in her saddle.

  This time a handsome silver-haired man came forward and squinted at Cameron, then leaned on a wooden cane. He flicked his eyes at Della t
hen back to Cameron.

  “May I present Mrs. Ward. Mrs. Ward, this is King Bernard.”

  Della gave Cameron a startled look. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said.

  “The pleasure is mine.” The king had a Mexican accent. “You will have to pay a toll. I expect this. You expect this.”

  “And the amount?”

  “There is disagreement as to whether you must pay twice, for two people, or three times because there are three animals.”

  Cameron rested his forearm on his saddle horn. “Has anyone mentioned that we don’t need to pass you as we’re all traveling in the same direction? We could avoid the toll by following you through the cut.”

  Della’s eyebrows rose. She couldn’t tell from Cameron’s voice or from his profile if he was taking the situation seriously or merely enjoying himself.

  “This observation was made and dismissed,” the king said.

  “I see. And what is the amount of the toll?”

  “You may pass us,” the old man said slyly. And thereby incur the toll. “And the amount will be decided later. Come to our fire tonight and you’ll be informed of your debt.”

  Cameron nodded. “What shall I bring?”

  “Coffee, whisky, sugar, and tobacco.”

  “We’ll bring coffee and tobacco.” He nodded to Della. “You go first.”

  That Cameron didn’t ask her to lead Rebecca told her better than anything else that he didn’t expect to need his pistols. Still, he’d moved his duster back, showing his holsters.

  She clicked her tongue and urged Bob forward, past the gypsies and the brightly painted wagons. The men smiled, flashing white, white teeth and three or four children grinned up at her. Sylvana leaned against a wagon wheel, her breasts thrust against a thin white blouse, the fingers of one hand toying with a gold hoop in her ear. Her gaze was fixed behind Della.

  “Mrs. Ward. Della Ward.”

  Reining, she looked around with a puzzled expression. The heavily pregnant woman who came to Bob’s side looked familiar, but Della couldn’t place her.

  “It’s Marie. Marie Santos from the Silver Garter. That was a long time ago, but—”

  “Marie! Of course.” They had both been younger then, tired and discouraged and dressed in embarrassingly low-cut, tight-fitting costumes. “You look wonderful. Is this your first?” She smiled at the rounded front of Marie’s skirt.

  “It’s our third,” Marie said with a laugh. “We’ll talk tonight.” She gave Della’s leg a pat, then stepped back.

  Della couldn’t have imagined in a hundred years that she would meet someone she knew out here. “What a strange world this is,” she said to Cameron as they finished setting up camp. They had ridden about a third of the way down the small valley before stopping for the evening. The gypsies had chosen a site on the same creek, but nearly a mile behind them. Della could see the wagons and hear the faint murmur of voices and laughter and argument.

  “Your friend is married to Eduardo,” Cameron said, feeding twigs into the fire. He told her that Eduardo played the violin, had a way with animals, and might be the nephew of King Bernard’s sister’s second daughter.

  “Marie and I weren’t true friends,” Della said, sitting on top of her bedroll. “At the end of the evening, we went our separate ways. None of us were proud of how we were making a living. We didn’t socialize.” She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees. “But I remember one night. It was cold and blowing rain, and there was only a handful of customers at the bar. We talked about what we would do if dreams came true.”

  “What was your dream?”

  “I wanted to bring my daughter home to live with me. Marie wanted to marry a rich rancher.”

  While she talked, Della unplaited her braid, brushed out her hair, and wound it into a knot on her neck. As he always did, Cameron found something to do and didn’t look at her while she did up her hair. His consideration made her feel more comfortable about performing an intimate part of her toilette in front of him. She tried to return the courtesy by not staring when he shaved in the mornings.

  Suddenly she realized Cameron hadn’t set out any cooking utensils. “Are we eating with the gypsies?”

  “We’re taking coffee and tobacco, so we won’t owe them anything for the meal.”

  “Thank you for this trip,” Della said quietly, speaking from the heart. “Already I’ve seen and done more than I have in the last ten years. I’ll never forget this.” She shook her head in wonder. “I never dreamed that I’d ever spend an evening with gypsies.” Or check into a hotel with a man not her husband. Or travel alone with him. Or any of a dozen other things. “What will the evening be like?”

  “You’ll enjoy yourself.”

  The gypsies had positioned their wagons in a U shape at the base of a rocky slope, enclosing a large bonfire. The days were shorter now—already, lanterns were lit and hanging from the wagons. The smell of incense and goulash permeated the camp, along with the odors of animals and woodsmoke.

  Marie appeared, smiling and pushing two little girls in front of her. “This is Roma, and this is Alise.” The girls dipped into a shy curtsy, then ran off giggling.

  “They’re beautiful. How old are they?” Younger than Claire. That made it easier to be genuinely happy for Marie.

  “Five and three.” Marie led her to one of the wagons and they sat on the steps leading up and inside. “Did you ever bring your daughter home?”

  Della gazed across the campsite and spotted Cameron drinking with the men near the horses. Drawing a breath, she explained that she was going to Atlanta to resolve the situation with her daughter. Marie lifted an eyebrow at the wording Della had chosen, but she didn’t press.

  “And you, are you happy with the gypsies?”

  Marie smiled and put a hand on her burgeoning stomach. “We’ll turn south soon. We’re going to Mexico. Eduardo’s parents are there and they want us to take over their ranch. I’ll miss the traveling, but it’s time to settle in one place. Yes, I’m happy.” She, too, looked toward the men. “Some here are wondering why you and James Cameron travel together . . .”

  “Mr. Cameron was a friend of my husband. He’s escorting me to Atlanta.” Damn. She felt a blush rise from her throat and realized Marie had seen it.

  Marie nodded slowly, then she stood and stretched out a hand. “Come. We’ll eat, then Madam Blatski will read your cards, and afterward there will be music and dancing.”

  “Marie, is anyone here named Baldofini?”

  Marie laughed. “I think King Bernard’s grandmother might have married a Baldofini, but I’m not certain. It doesn’t matter. Everyone who travels in the caravan considers themselves a Baldofini.”

  The gypsy women served the men, then ate with the children at separate tables across the camp. They absorbed Della as if visitors were not unusual, talking among themselves and shouting at the children. Occasionally they included Della in the jokes and conversation, but she was content just to listen and enjoy the food and the rhythm of their conversation.

  Eventually she became aware that Sylvana stared at her, noting every detail of Della’s hair and clothing with obvious disdain. “The gypsies know how to live free,” Sylvana said to an older woman seated to her right. “We wear our hair loose. We aren’t afraid of color.”

  The remarks were directed at her, Della suspected. Suddenly she was conscious of the bright scarves and skirts and glittering bangles and flowing black hair. And herself, pinned and corseted and colorless.

  “It is said that once a man has lain in a gypsy’s arms, no other woman will ever satisfy him.”

  “Really? Who says that?” The women at the table smiled at Tala, the woman who had challenged Sylvana.

  Sylvana’s black eyes glittered. “Are you sure of your man, Tala?”

  “You stay away from Stefan, or I’ll cut your heart out.”

  Marie placed a hand on Della’s shoulder. “Are you finished eating? Madam Blatski waits for you.” Once t
hey moved away from the women’s table, Marie said in a low voice, “Never mind Sylvana.”

  “Sylvana seems to have taken a dislike to me,” Della said, stating the obvious.

  “She’s angry that you travel with James Cameron. There aren’t many men who refuse Sylvana, but James Cameron is one of them. She would like to seduce him, then throw him aside to appease her pride and to make Raul jealous.”

  “Mr. Cameron and I are friends, nothing more. Sylvana is free to pursue him if she likes.” And if Cameron were foolish enough to let himself be used to make another man jealous, well it was none of her business. But surely he wasn’t that dumb.

  Marie led her into one of the wagons, where a white-haired woman waited at a table lit by a single candle. Inhaling the scent of spiced incense, Della glanced around her, gathering an impression of richly woven wall and ceiling hangings. She guessed living quarters existed beyond the velvet curtain behind the old woman.

  “You know, this really isn’t necessary,” she said uncomfortably. “I don’t believe in fortune-telling.”

  Marie paused at the door. “Perhaps you will.”

  “Sit.”

  The woman’s hair was white beneath a bright scarf she wore tied like a cap. But her face was unlined. She wasn’t as old as Della had first assumed. Like all the gypsy women, she wore gold earrings and bracelets, but her clothing wasn’t the rainbow of color preferred by the others. Her skirt, blouse, and shawl were unadorned white.

  “First, you shuffle these cards, then I look at your palm.”

  For the first time, Della heard an accent that might actually be Romanian. Certainly it wasn’t an accent she recognized. Accepting the well-worn cards, she sighed, then shuffled. After enjoying the gypsies’ hospitality at supper, she didn’t wish to insult the woman.

  “Now, your hand.”

  The woman’s fingers were surprisingly warm, almost hot. She tilted Della’s hand toward the candlelight and ran her thumb over Della’s palm.