The Judge and the Gypsy

by Sandra Chastain

  Rasch looked at the spot she’d described. He couldn’t see anything except brush and trash. “Where?”

  “Be very still, and he’ll come,” she said, reaching across the table, laying her hand across his. At her touch came the same jolt of awareness that he’d felt in the street. It danced across them like an arc from an electrical connection. She looked startled for a moment, then slid her hand away, but in the void left behind there was a shivery feeling almost as concrete as the sound of the bells.

  “Look now,” she whispered, touching him again. Her palm felt rough, as if she’d been cutting wood or using a hammer.

  At that moment the little brown animal scurried out, stopped, and looked up at the window as if he’d been called. After a long, still moment, he turned and darted away.

  Savannah turned her gaze to Rasch. She didn’t speak, but somehow he knew that just as she’d communicated with the chipmunk, she was communicating with something inside him. Yet even as he felt a response well up inside him, Rasch suddenly rebelled. He didn’t like the idea that this woman was trying to control him, even in this small way. With a growl he jerked his hand away and broke the visual contact between them.

  “Where’s the coffee? I’m hungry!”

  Without turning her head, she answered, “It’s coming.”

  It was. The waitress appeared from behind a swinging door, bearing two thick mugs, and filled them with steaming strong coffee. She laid out napkins, butter, jelly, and a pitcher of cream.

  “Your food will be here terectly,” she said in the curious mountain dialect. She studied Rasch and Savannah for a moment before she turned away. “You know you’re supposed to be wearing shoes in here, lady.”

  Savannah looked startled. “No, I didn’t know, I’m sorry. I have boots in the car. Shall I get them?”

  “No,” the woman said, “just keep your feet under the table so nobody will know. You don’t look like hunters.”

  “We’re camping,” Rasch explained, then wondered why he did. Campers didn’t wear Gypsy skirts and ankle bracelets with bells over bare feet.

  “Well, take it easy. If you ain’t used to wearing shoes, them boots are gonna do a job on your feet.”

  Rasch had already considered that possibility and determined that after he got some answers to his questions, he’d persuade Savannah to turn back. It wasn’t that she didn’t belong in the mountains; everything about her said that she did. But his plan to be alone and do some serious thinking would be compromised by her presence.

  Savannah didn’t comment. She wasn’t worried. Years of circus performing had callused her hands and her feet to the point that she doubted anything would hurt them.

  The morning sunlight had burned off all the night mists, and the day was gloriously golden. The trees were speckled with orange and yellow and red patches where the leaves were taking on their fall colors. Fall was late this year, but now winter would come swiftly to the mountains.

  Rasch hoped that the sleeping bag his companion claimed to have brought would keep her warm. Mountain air was deceptive, especially in late October. The weather report said that conditions for the next two days would be bright and clear. After that the picture became hazier. The possibility of a cold front moving in always brought the chance of unexpected rain and sometimes snow.

  The waitress was back. She laid out thick white plates piled with scrambled eggs and crisp bacon.

  Rasch picked up his fork and speared a section of bacon. “All this cholesterol isn’t good for the body,” he said. “I usually have bran flakes and juice.”

  “That’s sensible, but the body sometimes has needs that aren’t sensible, don’t you think?”

  There it was again, that burning sensation. Except this time it concentrated itself in a spot just below his left ear. The current seemed to dart down the nerve endings to his fingertips, and he could hardly grip the fork.

  “Who are you?” he whispered huskily.

  She dropped her voice and answered, “I am called Savannah.”

  Not that her name was Savannah, but that she was called Savannah. “Why?”

  “Because that is the city where I was born, in a special place in a glen of sweet grass and gentle night creatures. And you are called Horatio, which means keeper of the hours, strong, steady. Is that what your mother intended for her son, why she called you Horatio?”

  “I doubt that time had anything to do with it. My mother thought that Horatio was an important-sounding name.”

  “Your mother wanted fame for you?”

  “I don’t know. She just liked the sound, I think.”

  Savannah raised her coffee cup and took a sip. “I like sounds. I like to hear, and touch. People don’t listen anymore. And when they do, they don’t hear.”

  “Do you always speak in riddles?”

  “No. Do you always ask questions?”

  “Yes, I think I do. I think that it’s important for a person to ask, and know, don’t you? How else do you find the truth?”

  “Ah, but what is truth? One person’s truth is another’s fantasy. I prefer answers from the heart, not the head.”

  “As a child you must have driven your father crazy. He probably never knew when you were telling the truth or when you were pretending.”

  “When I was a little girl, my father was a man of imagination, too, but even then there were times when he told me to be patient. That much I did learn. All things come to the one who waits.”

  Rasch smiled. He was finding it difficult to picture this beautiful, baffling woman as a child, and he knew that she’d been no more patient in childhood than she was now. If she wanted something, she’d get it. He was having a hard time deciding what she wanted from him. Maybe he ought to put pretense aside and simply ask.

  He did. “I know that you’re the woman from my balcony, the woman from the street, and I suspect that you planned this meeting as well. Didn’t you?”

  His gaze was direct, penetrating: It made her heart beat faster. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “What do you really want from me, Savannah, whose flashing black eyes telegraph such mysterious messages?”

  “I want to know you, that’s all.” She really wasn’t a woman of mystery, but she intended to make the judge believe in the fantasy.

  “Know me? I can’t think that you came to me on my balcony and again at a party because you wanted to get to know me. Why didn’t you just ring my doorbell?”

  “Would you have let me in?”

  Yes, he could have said, because I wanted, no, needed, to know that you were real—not some imagined spirit that I’d conjured up.

  What he said was “I suppose not.”

  “You’re being very honest, Crusader, and you deserve the truth from me. What do I want from you? Are you sure you want to know?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then the truth, Crusader”—she tilted her head and gave him a burning gaze—“comes with a price.”

  “And the price?”

  “That you take me with you.”

  “Take you with me?” He couldn’t conceal the shock in his voice. He couldn’t conceal the curious little quiver in his gut either. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because I’m here. Because I wish you to. Because you and I are … connected.”

  “What are you, some kind of witch?” Rasch drew back, a frown of disbelief on his face. “I warn you, Savannah, whoever you are, I don’t believe in superstition.”

  “Don’t worry, Judge Webber,” she said quietly. “I’m not a witch. You’re not a man who believes in spirits. You’re a man who believes in facts and reality. Well, I’m real. And that’s what makes you uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I think it does. I don’t like what I can’t explain. And for the moment I can’t explain you.”

  “That’s all right. I understand, truly I do. And I’ll try not to sound mysterious, or make you uneasy. I’ll admit that I seem to have some kind of telepathi
c connection with animals. They don’t talk to me. But we, I don’t know how to explain it, except to say we connect, just as you and I do.”

  “I can believe that.” Rasch drained the last of his coffee and forced himself to think of ordinary things as he swallowed the last bit of eggs. Savannah was right. Bacon and eggs were a luxury that he ought to indulge in more often. He’d forgotten how satisfying a real old-fashioned breakfast could be. He’d forgotten how nice it was to share breakfast with a woman. He knew that he was not only considering her request, but accepting it.

  He wasn’t quite sure how or why he was sitting there, calmly having breakfast with a woman who communicated with animals. In some secret part of his mind he’d known all along that this was no chance meeting, that she had some well-thought-out plan by which she arranged to meet him, and she’d captured his interest in a way he could neither justify nor explain.

  And that intrigued him. For now, so long as he understood that this obsession was mutual, he was willing to play along until he could learn the truth. She obviously had a plan, and he wanted to know what it was.

  After all, he reasoned, she was only a woman, though she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He was mature in mind and body, and he could handle whatever she was planning. More rationalization, an inner voice chided him.

  “I understand that there are certain people who have the rare ability to communicate with animals,” he admitted, “and sometimes telepathically with people too.”

  “Yes. But I don’t—” Her voice faltered, and she lowered her eyes. She was giving away too much, too much that even she didn’t understand. For a moment she let her mask fall, compelled to be truthful with him. “I don’t normally connect with strangers. I don’t know how to explain this … bonding with you, and that bothers me too.”

  He took her hand. She was surprised at his gesture. For a moment she felt a shiver race through her, as if by his voluntarily touching her, he’d given his approval to their connection. For a moment she allowed herself to simply look at him, be with him, to acknowledge the confusion she felt, to register the promise of desire between them. No man’s presence had ever unsettled her before as this one’s did.

  He blinked and gave a slight shake of his head as if he, too, was caught up in the moment. Good. She was glad to know that he was as bothered as she. At least part of her plan was working.

  Rasch turned her small hand over in his large one and examined it. His fingers encountered the well-callused palm, and he pursed his lips. “Ah, Lady, you are a mystery that I shall have to solve. You bring out something primitive in me, something I’m not quite certain I understand. Are you truly all-seeing?”

  No, she wanted to say, but the disturbing current of desire was there, ever present between them. Her pulse sang, and her skin heated beneath his touch. Something was happening between them, something she hadn’t intended and couldn’t control. She pulled her hand away, no longer trusting herself in such proximity to him.

  Maybe this was not a good idea. Maybe she should have heeded Niko’s warning not to do this. But she had to be the one to punish the judge; otherwise her father would do it himself. He was too old, and the risks too great.

  The plan had seemed so easy. She didn’t have to do anything except make the judge fall in love with her. And without knowing it, he was already halfway there, she felt sure. But she’d never considered that her own heart might be in danger, or that the bewitched could be so bewitching.

  She knew now that he’d take her along on his journey. She let out a measured sigh. She would have ten days to fulfill her vow. Ten days to destroy Judge Horatio Webber, the man who’d killed her brother.

  The bells around Savannah’s ankle jingled merrily as they left the café. Climbing into the compact truck, she gave Rasch a conspiratorial smile, tossed her head, and sent her rich black hair flying in the crisp mountain air.

  “Thank you for the food, Crusader. Perhaps sometime I’ll cook for you in return.”

  “I think you ought to know that I don’t like mushrooms, and poisoned apples are out of vogue. Besides, what about the friend you said you’re meeting?”

  “One never knows about friends. That’s why I filled my pockets with junk food and bread crumbs,” she quipped. “If I’m abandoned, I have food. If I get lost, I’ll follow my trail of bread crumbs through the woods.”

  “A regular Girl Scout,” Rasch responded with an answering laugh. “Be prepared.”

  Suddenly the day seemed a lot brighter. The drive was quiet and private. The small truck hugged the side of the mountain as they wound their way up it. Only occasionally did they pass another automobile or camper. They continued to climb, looping back and forth like a ribbon across the side of the forest as they rose. With every mile Rasch seemed more relaxed, and there was a feeling of silent camaraderie building between them. She’d wanted to capture his interest and make him accept her, but it had been accomplished too easily. It didn’t make sense. Instead of feeling pleased, Savannah found herself becoming increasingly uneasy.

  “Where will you camp?” she finally asked.

  “I haven’t decided yet. There are shelters along the trail, but there are usually several people bedding down in each lean-to. I like my privacy, so I usually find a spot in the woods and sleep under the stars. What about you?”

  “I don’t know. But under the stars sounds good to me. Tell me about the trail.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to know, and it pleases me to hear your voice. I told you that I like sounds. Sounds help me know where I am.”

  “Like a physical roadmap?”

  “Physical, yes. And emotional, too, I think. Why, is that a problem for you? Had you rather I not speak?”

  “No,” he admitted, “I think I rather like your voice. I’m not accustomed to having someone around. Usually I come up here alone.”

  “And I’m a distraction that you’d rather not deal with?”

  “Not at all. I’d rather deal with you, but you seem to come close for a second, then just when I’m about to get some kind of fix on you, you move away in some new direction.”

  “I do?” She leaned forward, her bells jingling as she moved.

  “Well, maybe you don’t move, exactly, it’s more that you disintegrate and reassemble in some new place. You’re like a novel of suspense. What seems to be real is in fact not real at all.”

  “A novel of suspense? You mean a horror novel?” She pretended to be seriously put out. “If you must fictionalize me, couldn’t I be a novel of fantasy?”

  “Why?”

  “In fantasy what is real continues to be reed until you believe that it isn’t.”

  “And are you real?” he asked, his deep voice seductive.

  She looked out the window for a moment, catching sight of a hawk curling across the valley below. “I’m real, Crusader. I’m very real.”

  Abruptly Rasch switched on the radio, twisting the dial back and forth as the sound of static chattered in the silence. Sighing resignedly, he gave up and turned it off.

  “I think that you might enjoy camping out on Nightshadow Ridge,” he remarked, trying to keep the conversation light.

  She twisted around in her seat, planting her back against the door so that she could study him. She needed to look at him, to ground herself in his reality in order to carry out her own plans. Their conversation was too comfortable, she reflected, too pleasant. Her plan to intrigue and ensnare him appeared to be working, but there was danger in letting herself enjoy his company too much.

  She let her eyes explore the man beside her. Not only was he ruggedly handsome and sensual, beneath the surface there was some inner force that intimidated and confused her.

  Savannah tucked her foot beneath her, watching as Rasch absently rubbed the spot beneath his right ear. His lips narrowed into a frown. She was tempted to reach out and reassure him, but checked herself. She didn’t understand the attraction she felt for the man she’d swor
n to punish.

  “Are there ghosts?” she asked, trying to shake off the feeling.

  “On Nightshadow Ridge? Possibly. But they’ve never shown themselves to me. With you along, the forest ranger will probably have to send out a call for ghostbusters if the other campers are going to get any sleep. I have the feeling you attract spirits.”

  Savannah didn’t think the presence of ghosts would keep her awake nearly as much as the presence of the man beside her. By now, any ordinary man would either have bombarded her with questions or opened the truck door and asked her to leave. Horatio Webber seemed to understand, as much as she, that they were engaged in some kind of predestined spiritual joining and had better let it play itself out.

  She’d set out to plant the suggestion of herself in his mind. The only special power she had was her imagination. She’d tempt him, mystify him, tantalize him both physically and mentally, so that by the time they met, he’d be intrigued. She thought he was. But so was she!

  Perhaps this growing mutual awareness that wasn’t part of her plan had its advantages though. Physical attraction wouldn’t be enough. She would have to attract this man on all levels. Savannah was beginning to realize that he never did anything halfway. If her plan was to work, she would have to captivate him body, mind, and soul.

  Suddenly Savannah remembered Zeena’s admonishment that she was opening a Pandora’s box and that nobody could predict what would happen when she did. Zeena never told the future of those who lived in the circus. She refused to look. Still, sometimes an expression crossed Zeena’s face that said she knew more than she told. And Savannah knew that Zeena hadn’t wanted her to leave the troupe’s permanent quarters. She had disregarded Zeena’s warning to let it be.

  If the judge had refused her request for a ride, she’d have pretended to be helpless, desperate, flirtatious even. What she hadn’t expected was that he’d be so agreeable. Nor had she anticipated his response to her on an intellectual level, or her own awareness of him. His mind reached out to her, and she felt herself falling into an easy intimacy that surprised her.

  Savannah hadn’t told her father where she was going. Alfred Ramey was accustomed to his children going off on their own, and he never insisted on knowing their plans. That was why it had been so easy for Tifton to conceal his arrest and jail sentence, why it was too late by the time Savannah had received his call for help. Tifton was already dead, killed by a cellmate, in a jail where he’d been sent by Judge Horatio Webber.