Prairie Moon

by Maggie Osborne

  “You go alone,” the woman said finally. “Everyone close to you is gone. There is no family, no husband.”

  Della’s mouth dried. How much of her background did Marie know, and how much had Marie told Madam Blatski? She resisted an urge to jerk her hand out of the gypsy woman’s grasp.

  “You are healthy and strong. No illness. Once you were compliant, now you are headstrong.” The woman smiled. “There is much change from here to here. Now you are sensible, practical, no? You are a different woman, I think.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Money. Not to worry. You will be comfortable in your lifetime.” The woman shrugged. “Children. Three, two of them spaced close together.”

  That was false, and Della smiled thinly as the gypsy woman laid out the cards that Della had shuffled.

  She cleared her throat when a silence became uncomfortable.

  “Very interesting. The past is everywhere in these cards.” The gypsy woman waved a hand over the pattern she had laid out. “The past. It’s all the past. The past wraps you like a cocoon. I’ve not seen this before. Even your future is your past.”

  Della peered down at the cards as if she could see what the gypsy saw. “That doesn’t make sense,” she said, frowning.

  “There is anger and blame here.” The woman tapped a card and frowned. “But misplaced. Blame long ago and blame very soon, all misplaced.”

  “The blame is not misplaced,” Della stated firmly, thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Ward stealing Claire.

  “Look.” The woman tapped her fingernail on top of a card. “Secrets surround you.” She studied Della curiously. “Powerful secrets, do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “But you sense things. Secrets that can destroy. You don’t want to know.”

  Annoyed, Della told herself to get up and leave. But she couldn’t resist hearing the rest. “Leave that, and go on.”

  The gypsy woman leaned over the cards. “The future circles to the past. Always the past. There is a death, but not a death. Another secret going into the future, but shared.” She shook her head.

  “Well, thank you for your time.”

  “Let me see your palm again.” The gypsy woman jabbed Della’s open hand. “Here, do you see it? A fork on the line. You can go this way or that.” Frowning, she went back to the cards. “So much blame. Where there is blame, forgiveness must follow. To forgive or not will decide your direction.”

  Della stood abruptly, anger flooding her chest. “Some things can never be forgiven.” She would never forgive the Wards. Never. And she couldn’t forgive herself for letting them keep Claire.

  “This is not for me to say. You will decide,” the gypsy woman said, speaking softly.

  Some of what the gypsy woman said seemed true. Della had become headstrong and practical. Some of the predictions were nonsense, like the number of children. And most were too vague to interpret. But the words about blame and forgiveness had given her a headache. She didn’t need or want a stranger’s advice when it came to her daughter and the Wards.

  “Was it a good fortune?” Marie inquired when Della emerged from the wagon.

  “I suppose,” Della said. She didn’t want to disappoint Marie. “According to Madam Blatski, I’ll have more children, and I won’t have to worry about money.”

  “Ah, that is a good fortune.”

  The tables had been pushed back and chairs set out. Two men stood to one side of the bonfire, playing a lively tune on violins. The children danced and frolicked to the music. Della found Roma and Alise in the group, and decided that Eduardo must be one of the handsome men playing the violins.

  “I’m glad for you,” she said to Marie, pressing her hand. What different paths their lives had taken. She’d wasted ten years alone on a dilapidated farm while Marie had spent the same years traveling with the gypsies, marrying her Eduardo and having babies. “I think I envy you.”

  “It’s been good. I love being a Baldofini.” Marie’s eyes sparkled. “Of course, it’s not so pleasant when someone like Sheriff Cameron arrests one of us.”

  “Have you—”

  “No, but Eduardo . . . well, we’ve paid a few fines. At least Sheriff Cameron always treats us fairly. Some arrest us simply because we’re gypsies.”

  Della looked at the men, talking and laughing. Apparently the gypsies didn’t carry any grudges, they all seemed relaxed and at ease. Men operated by a code she didn’t understand, she decided, remembering Luke Apple.

  But Cameron had been correct. Della was thoroughly enjoying herself. After the children had been tucked into bed, she and Marie sat with the women and nibbled sugary pastries and sipped ruby-colored wine and clapped and cheered as various couples danced in front of the bonfire.

  Violins and guitars played sad, sweet melodies that broke one’s heart, then built to crescendos of wild whirling that matched the beat of one’s pulse and coaxed it ever higher.

  Sylvana spoke to the perspiring musicians, then moved before the bonfire, facing Cameron. The music began slowly, and she swayed to the sweet seduction of the violins, her eyes closed, her lips parted. Slowly, slowly, she untied the scarf on her head and drew it across her lips like a veil, opening her black eyes to smolder and flash at Cameron. Smiling, she signaled the musicians with a tambourine, and the music became wilder, the tempo faster.

  She tossed her hair back and raised her arms above her head, shaking the tambourine in one hand, clicking castanets in the other, catching a heartbeat, then whirling past, waiting, spinning forward. Her skirts billowed, flashing a glimpse of strong brown legs, the glitter of gold around slim ankles.

  Della’s breath caught in her throat. Never in her life had she heard music like this, music that reached inside and heated the blood. Nor had she imagined anything as beautifully erotic as Sylvana with her throat arched, her black hair flying, the castanets coaxing, teasing, pulling heartbeats toward frenzy. The wildness of the music, coupled with Sylvana’s sensuous body and provocative movements, were blatantly sexual, a public seduction performed for one man.

  When Della looked at Cameron, her heart sank. He watched Sylvana with narrowed eyes, his mouth tight and his face expressionless. To Della’s eye, Cameron was male to Sylvana’s female. Both were lost in the wild seduction of the music.

  When the music ended, the silence seemed shocking. Sylvana whirled to a stop, her skirts wrapping around her legs. Her lips parted, her black eyes blazed. A trickle of perspiration ran from her throat to the panting slope of her breast. She stared at Cameron and arched an eyebrow. No invitation had ever been plainer.

  Della waited in a torment of jealousy. She fully expected Cameron to rise and silently drag Sylvana into the darkness behind the wagons, and she couldn’t bear it.

  Instead, heaven help her, Cameron yawned. Then he turned toward Della, jerked his head slightly in the direction of their camp and mouthed the word “soon?”

  “Now,” she answered, stunned that he could appear so indifferent to Sylvana’s wild, seductive performance. But her jealous heart leapt.

  They both stood. While Cameron said good night and paid their respects, and the toll, to King Bernard, Della thanked the women for their hospitality. She felt Sylvana’s fury like a tangible force.

  Lifting her head, she walked to the bonfire and met Sylvana’s black gaze. “It was a lovely dance.” She made herself smile. “Quite entertaining.”

  “You won’t keep a man like that,” Sylvana snarled. Spinning away, she stormed toward one of the wagons.

  “I think it’s good that we’re parting company,” Marie said, moving up beside Della.

  “It was wonderful to see you again. I wish you all good fortune on the ranch in Mexico.”

  “And I wish you what I think you already have,” Marie said, her gaze sparkling on Cameron.

  With the gypsy music still heating her blood, and feeling triumphant that Cameron left with her and not Sylvana, Della hardly noticed the walk back to their camp.

  �
��The fire is almost out,” Cameron remarked, standing over the embers. “Shall I build it up, or are you ready to turn in?”

  “I think I’ll turn in.” She drew a breath, telling herself not to say more. “If you want to return to the gypsy camp, I’m sure I’ll be safe here by myself.”

  Genuine puzzlement made him frown. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day and it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.” He flexed his shoulders and rubbed his neck. “I’m ready to turn in, too.”

  “Sylvana was dancing for you,” Della said softly. She had to know what he was thinking. “Aren’t you tempted even a little bit?”

  “Hell, no. Sylvana can pick your pocket so skillfully you won’t even know it. And you wouldn’t believe how many valuables she can hide in the folds of her skirt. She wouldn’t be a good choice for a lawman, now would she?” He smiled. “And you’re wrong about who she danced for. Any man fool enough to go off with Sylvana is likely to get Raul’s knife in his back. That’s what the dance was about. Making Raul jealous.”

  And me, Della thought, startled by the strong possessiveness she felt for him. She hadn’t realized it.

  They had moved close to see each other in the dim glow of the fire’s embers, close enough that Della smelled the soap he favored, and woodsmoke and the scent of gypsy wine. She swayed lightly on her feet. “I still hear the music.” Wild and sweet and seductive. “It curls through the blood . . .”

  He ran his fingertips down her cheek and a shudder of pleasure raced through her body. She could have stepped away—she should have. But she gazed up at him, and her breath quickened.

  Cameron’s eyes held hers, then his arms went around her, pulling her into his body. It wasn’t too late to step away, to pretend there had been a misunderstanding, no harm done. But the blood tingled in Della’s veins and she pressed against him, feeling his arousal, hearing her reaction in a soft gasp that lifted her breasts.

  Pressing her hands flat against his vest, she ran her palms up his chest and around his neck. His hair was thick and soft. She felt his wine-scented breath on her cheek, heard the low sound he made deep in his throat.

  When his lips covered hers, another electric shudder sapped the strength from her knees. Finally, finally. It seemed as if she had waited for this kiss all of her life. In her fantasies, a kiss could ignite the mind and body, but it had never actually happened until now. Her hips had never moved on their own because a man kissed her and explored her mouth. Her mind had never felt adrift in tides of sensation when a man’s tongue touched hers, and his large hands moved on her waist.

  When Cameron pulled back to speak, his voice was hoarse. “Della—”

  She placed a finger across his lips and gave her head a shake, hoping to clear the confusion. “Good night,” she whispered. If she didn’t step away right now, the wildness inside her would erupt in frantic urgent kisses and then surrender. She knew this as surely as she knew they had crossed a line that they both had been trying to avoid. She needed to think about what that meant.

  Stumbling in the darkness, she found her bedroll and sank to the ground. She touched her fingertips to trembling lips. She’d learned one thing. Men didn’t kiss alike. Kisses could be as different as a breeze and a tornado.

  That night she dreamed of the hearse, and awoke with wet cheeks and shaking.

  Chapter 13

  The Texas–New Mexico trail joined the Pecos River northwest of Fort Sumner, and followed the river valley into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  “Staying by the river makes an easier ride than I expected,” Della observed. “I feared we’d be riding up and down mountains.” Pushing back the brim of her hat, she gazed up at the peaks rising beyond the valley walls then let her glance slide back to the river. “There’s plenty of water and grass.”

  And stage posts and small adobe forts, all of which Cameron had avoided. None were fit places for a lady. “I figure another week and we’ll be in Santa Fe.”

  “When we started, you predicted three weeks.” She settled back in her saddle. “We’ve already been out here— what?—seven or eight weeks? Longer?”

  “Would you have agreed to come if you’d known you’d be on a horse for two months or more?”

  She considered. “Maybe not. It would have sounded too daunting.”

  Cameron had shaded the truth, but he hadn’t lied. Men had made the trip in three weeks of hard riding. He’d done it once himself.

  “On the other hand, this is the only chance I’ll ever have to see my daughter.” She turned her face toward the river. “My pumpkins will be ready to harvest soon. Assuming Mr. Hays watered them. He probably didn’t. No reason to.”

  “Are you homesick?”

  “Lord, no.” Her braid swung when she turned back to him. “When I think about everyone I’ve met, and everything I’ve learned, I don’t want this trip to end.” Cameron watched her mouth curve into a smile. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  It made him uncomfortable when she started with the thank yous. Nothing he said had convinced her that she’d covered the subject weeks ago. Touching his boot heels to Bold’s flanks, he rode ahead, looking for a spot to camp. With the days short now, they stopped earlier. Some of the lost time could be made up by eating the midday meal in the saddle, but it was also true that he was in no hurry to reach Santa Fe and end his time alone with Della Ward.

  There was always the possibility that she might permit him to kiss her again. As days turned into weeks, the possibility had dimmed. Nevertheless, he’d spent hours remembering that night and battling his desire and his feelings for her.

  He’d expected Della to mention what had happened between them, but she didn’t. Eventually he understood that she never would.

  Instead of feeling relieved that he wouldn’t have to discuss an awkward subject, it irritated him that she could just pretend that nothing had changed. That kiss hovered in the air between them no matter what they talked about or what they were doing. He looked at her, saw her mouth, and thought about kissing her. She spoke and he remembered her throaty voice when she’d said good night. She walked about the campsite and he could almost feel her hips fitting into his. And trying to sleep a few feet from her bedroll had become torture.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” he said after they’d eaten supper and washed the plates in the river. That was another thing. Since the night of the kiss, the tension between them was as thick as a wall. They didn’t talk as easily.

  “There’s something I’ve been thinking about since the night at the gypsy camp,” she said. “I’d appreciate hearing your opinion.”

  Finally. It was time they cleared the air. When she started fiddling with the braid laying over her shoulder, he knew she was disturbed. Well, he was, too. He put down the bridle he’d been repairing. A man couldn’t work and talk about kissing at the same time.

  “I told you the nonsense Madam Blatski predicted. You know, about money and more children.” Frowning, she met his gaze across the flames. “Since then, I’ve realized that I don’t think about Clarence as often as I used to.”

  This was an odd approach to the matter at hand, but sometimes she came at things from a different direction than he would have guessed. “Go on,” he said cautiously.

  She twisted her hands together and worried her bottom lip. “Before you rode up my driveway, there wasn’t a single day that I didn’t think about Clarence and Claire. It was like picking at a scab, keeping the pain alive. And that’s what I wanted, what I deserved.”

  Maybe this conversation wasn’t going to end talking about the kiss.

  “What the gypsy woman said about more children, well, that implies another husband.” Her hands came up and she rubbed her cheeks. “And that thought made me realize that, now, several days can go by when I don’t think about the husband I had.” Guilt pinched her features and she frowned toward the river. “I don’t think about writing ‘I hate you’ or about how Clarence died. That’s never happened before and it feels wrong.” />
  She wasn’t going to confront the kiss. They would go on keeping a distance, avoiding eye contact, trying like hell to elude an accidental touch.

  “I don’t believe in fortune-telling. But suppose I did marry again. Someday, way in the future. It wouldn’t be right to marry someone if I was thinking about Clarence every day, would it? So, is not thinking about him a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Is this what you want my opinion about?” She nodded earnestly. Damn it. “I thought you said you never intended to remarry.”

  “I did say that, and it’s true. I’m not a good wife. But just for a minute, pretend the gypsy woman is right and someone wants to marry me, and maybe I’m considering it. You were Clarence’s friend. What do you think Clarence would want me to do?”

  Whenever she made a reference to Cameron and Clarence being friends, his chest tightened and he felt cold inside. “I don’t know what Clarence would think. But it seems to me that ten years of grieving is enough.”

  “That’s another thing I don’t feel good about.” After a minute she drew a breath and continued. “To be honest, I think the grieving ended long ago. I don’t think about Clarence because I’m still grieving. I don’t know why I’ve kept him in the front of my mind. Regret, maybe. Remorse.”

  Cameron knew. “Ten years of punishment is also enough.” A few months ago he would have laughed himself weak if someone had told him that he’d rather talk about a kiss than talk about Clarence Ward. “You can’t change what you wrote in a letter long ago. It’s time to stop blaming yourself and move on.”

  “How odd.” She stared at him. “The gypsy said something about blame and forgiveness. But she meant Clarence’s parents.”

  “Are you sure?” He picked up the bridle and turned it in his hands.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?” His gaze held hers across the campfire. The flames were too bright to tell if a rush of color spread up her cheeks, but he had the impression that she definitely understood his reference.