The Judge and the Gypsy

by Sandra Chastain

  “On your patio,” Jake repeated, shaking his head. “Rasch, you live in a fourth-floor condo.”

  “I know, believe me, I know. It gets better. The second time was at Underground Atlanta, that night I climbed the flagpole to scan the crowd. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes, the woman with the ribbons in her hair. So you found her. You don’t have to keep her a secret, Rasch. You know that I’ve thought for some time you’d have a better chance at the governorship if you were married.”

  “You don’t understand, Jake. The third time she appeared in the fog beside the road to Amicalola Falls. She was waiting for me.”

  “Waiting for you on the road? I don’t think I like this, old buddy. Why?”

  All pretense of eating was curtailed. The waiter took away the half-eaten plates of pasta and refilled their coffee cups before Jake motioned him away.

  “I’m still not sure. Nothing happened—at least nothing I might have expected.”

  “But something happened, didn’t it, old friend? She got to you somehow.”

  “I guess she did. Then I woke up one morning, and she was gone. I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there—in court, in my bed, in my arms. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  “Great, here we are ready to start campaigning, and your mind is on some Gypsy girl. This, my friend, is not good.”

  Rasch lifted anguished eyes without trying to conceal his feelings from Jake. He’d gone over every word that was said, every moment of their time together, and he hadn’t been able to come up with any answers. “I know.”

  “Okay, let’s start with what little information we have. Why’d you call her Gypsy?”

  “Because that’s what she is. She travels around where there are no hot showers.”

  “So do truck drivers and cowboys.” Jake shook his head. “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing, but thanks, Jake. I’ll have to figure this out myself.”

  But another week passed, and Rasch was no closer to solving his mystery than he was the first day. The only thing he could think of was to go back to where he’d first seen her. Maybe the truck had been disabled. Maybe he could find the garage that repaired it.

  He couldn’t. There was no report of a breakdown. Rasch drove along the highway, replaying the conversation they’d had. He’d refused to see it, but it had been obvious from the beginning that she was waiting for him. She’d even admitted that she’d been on his balcony.

  None of it made any sense.

  By the time he reached the rangers’ station at the falls, Rasch was beginning to see what he’d been too bemused to see before. And bemused was the right word. She’d appeared as a silver-haired spirit in the fog, wearing some kind of garment that made her look nude, knowing that he would be intrigued. Continuing to play on his fascination, she’d donned a red wig and shown herself in a smoky street, in a crowd where he couldn’t get to her. And always she left behind the elusive scent of the tea olive blossom.

  But why?

  The more he tried to find logic in the situation, the more illogical it became. The only thing he was sure of was that Savannah had planned her assault well. She knew him … knew that he was burned out and lonely. She seemed to know instinctively that he needed someone. Judge Horatio Webber had allowed himself to be caught up in an erotic fantasy that had invaded his soul and wouldn’t let go.

  No, the forest ranger said, he hadn’t seen Rasch’s companion again, and nobody had inquired about her.

  Rasch hastened to assure his friend Paul that he didn’t think anything had happened to Savannah. She’d apparently just decided to go on without him, join her friends perhaps. Rasch covered his questions by saying that he simply wanted to make sure that she’d found them.

  He realized that his explanation didn’t satisfy Paul when the ranger pulled out the registry and began to study it. “Maybe some of these names will help.” He ran his finger down the page. “Here you are, you and Ms. Ramey—”

  “Ms. Ramey?” Rasch jerked the registry from Paul’s hand and ran his fingers down the page. While Paul had been questioning Savannah about her plans, Rasch had signed in, giving his name, address, and destination. Beneath his name, in a bold flourish, was the signature of Savannah Ramey.

  Apparently Paul had frightened her by saying that she shouldn’t go alone. She hadn’t wanted to run the risk of failure. She’d simply made ditto marks beneath Rasch’s address and destination. But in the confusion she’d signed her name, Savannah Ramey.

  Ramey. He finally had a name, a name that Rasch recognized all too well, a name that had been spread across the front page of the newspapers. Tifton Ramey, the young DUI he’d sentenced to jail, the boy who’d been killed by another prisoner.

  All the way back to Atlanta, Rasch thought about Savannah and what had happened. Savannah and Tifton Ramey. The connection was established. He just needed the details. The next morning he fed the name into his computer, requesting a global search.

  Within seconds he had the record before him.

  Ramey, Tifton: twenty-one, charged with DUI, accident, and driving a stolen car. The jury found Tifton guilty, and Rasch had sentenced him to two years in jail.

  A check of the court records revealed that the address Tifton had given was phony. The police department was more helpful. It seemed that young Tifton Ramey had changed his mind about concealing his identity when he found out that the judge didn’t intend to let him go. He’d sent for his sister, Savannah—Savannah Ramey, of the Ramey Circus, whose permanent address was a farm just south of Atlanta.

  Callused hands and feet? Appearing and disappearing on balconies four floors in the air? Talking to animals? His Gypsy was a circus performer. And she’d stalked him. Why?

  Rasch canceled his schedule for the rest of the day and headed south. The circus grounds were only thirty miles away. Thirty miles—Savannah was that close. He opened his windows and let the fall air clear his head as he practiced what he would say.

  There was nothing he could do to bring her brother back. He didn’t know how he could explain or justify his actions, except to be honest. Tifton was dead, and he was responsible. He regretted that she’d been hurt, but he couldn’t change it. They just had to find a way to get through it and—

  What? Resume their affair?

  He was a superior court judge, and she was a Gypsy. What kind of relationship did he expect them to have? He thought about how they’d been together, how she’d felt beneath him, about the sound of her laughter and the smell of her perfume.

  He didn’t care. He’d find a way. Rasch glanced down at the speedometer and watched the needle climb. He just wanted to be with her—soon.

  Six

  Savannah stood outside her camper and stared at the sky. The North Star shone brightly, mocking her, reminding her that another Gypsy had once defied the man she loved and been punished for her actions.

  With a sigh, she tried to erase the memory of the judge from her mind. Though angry when he’d learned what she’d done, her father seemed satisfied that she’d avenged her brother’s death. Now he spent most of his time in his camper, letting Savannah and Niko look after the circus. Savannah didn’t want to see the truth, but her father was growing old. He’d lost his fire.

  Savannah seemed to have lost hers as well. Revenge wasn’t supposed to be this way. The judge was to be the one who suffered—not her. She hadn’t expected to miss him, or worry about what she’d done. But she did. She hadn’t thought it would be so hard. She hadn’t intended to care.

  “What do you see up there, little one?”

  Zeena stood beside her, and Savannah hadn’t heard her approach.

  “I wish I were little again. Life was so much simpler then, Zeena.”

  “Perhaps it still is.”

  “How can you say that, Zeena? Look around you. Our troupe grows smaller and smaller. Our animals are old, and our equipment is worn and needs replacing. And Father—all he doe
s now is look at his newspaper clippings.”

  “It’s very hard for your father. Everything he’s ever done since he was a boy was for the future, his family’s future. Now there is no longer a reason.”

  “What about me, Zeena? I’m a Ramey. This is my life and my heritage. How can he even think that there is no reason to go on?”

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to learn what you choose not to know.”

  “What do you mean, Zeena? Tell me what to do.”

  “I told you once—look beyond the anger and hurt and you will learn.”

  Savannah sighed. She was tired, so very tired. There was not enough money to carry them through the winter. The animal feed and veterinary bills were more than those to feed and care for the workers. Last week their animal handler announced that this would be his last year to work with the lions and tigers. They were already depending on newcomers for too much of the circus operation.

  Through his window, Savannah could see her father. He was sitting in his favorite chair, staring vacantly at the scrapbook he was holding in his lap. Savannah knew what he was looking at. From the time she was old enough to be aware, she’d watched him cut out the newspaper clippings of his family. Beginning with her mother and father on the wires, continuing with Savannah and Tifton. But the book ended abruptly with Tifton’s death.

  Perhaps, Savannah thought, she’d made a mistake. Maybe she should have let her father seek revenge. Maybe if he’d done it himself, he’d be able to let go. Savannah felt as if she’d lost something special, and her loss had been for nothing.

  “Crusader,” she whispered, then wished she could call back the words. She’d tried not to say that name. As long as she thought about him as “the judge,” it was easier not to want him. Now that she’d spoken his nickname, the memories were released, and they flowed over her like a blanket.

  She remembered the sound of his laughter. His gentleness, the way his hands felt touching her breasts, kneading the pads of her bottom as he plunged into her. Her stomach muscles tightened, settling off a ripple of unexpected desire. Just thinking about him made her feel all liquid and breathless. One moment of memory brought her to the brink of ecstasy.

  What was she to do? She couldn’t go on like this!

  Savannah took two steps toward her trailer, stopped, and turned away. Across the stubbled wheat field and into the trees she walked, listening to the sounds of the circus quiet down for the night. When she finally came to a stop, she was leaning against a low-growing branch of an oak tree, her head resting on folded arms.

  And then she heard it, the silence. Not an animal cried out. Not a leaf moved. The world was quiet. She sniffed and raised her head, glancing around.

  “Who’s there?”

  A moan caught in her throat, a moan and a whimper. “Please? I don’t like being teased.”

  “Neither do I, Gypsy.”

  The sound of his voice hit her like a whirlwind, beginning between her legs in a small vortex of heat that spiraled upward, compressing her chest and squeezing the breath from her lungs.

  “Crusader?” The endearment escaped her before she could call it back. “Is that really you?”

  “It’s me.” He could see her in the shadows as clearly as if the moon were shining on her. He’d watched her for hours, checking the camp, making her rounds, pacing back and forth inside her trailer, and finally seeking the freedom of the night.

  “How did you find me?”

  Rasch’s emotions were whipping wildly back and forth. From the moment he’d caught sight of her examining the paw of one of the big cats, he’d wanted to lift her in his arms and carry her away from this place. But he hadn’t been certain how she would react, so he’d waited until she’d left the confines of the camp and sought the privacy of the woods.

  “Through Tifton.”

  She gasped. “Through Tifton? Are you trying to punish me, Crusader? How can you do this?”

  He took a step closer. “I don’t understand, Gypsy. I’m not trying to punish you. Punishment was your plan, I think. Why did you run away?”

  “You think I could stay with you after what you did?”

  “I don’t know. At least we could have talked it out. After what we shared, you owed me that much.”

  Moonlight danced on Rasch’s face and shoulders, turning his light hair into silver and his grave expression into sadness. He was a Michelangelo painting on a night sky, death and life, joy and sorrow.

  Already the connection between them had begun, their auras touching in silent pleasure. The crisp air turned warm as the night came to life again. When Rasch reached out to take her hand, Savannah gave it. She could no more have stopped than she could have refused to breathe.

  “You’re right,” she whispered tightly, “I should have told you the truth. I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Gypsy. Sorry that I never contacted you or your father, sorry that an action taken in good faith had such hurtful consequences for you. What we had together was good, I won’t accept any suggestion that it wasn’t.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes from her. She’d taken a step forward, out of the deepest shadows, and he could see the expression in her eyes. Anguish, disappointment, and yes, tears, were revealed in the velvet darkness beneath her lashes, the tears spilling over and making diamond chains across her face.

  He thought back to the first times he’d seen her, on his balcony and in the street. She’d been sad then too. And that sadness had remained even after she disappeared. Every night when he closed his eyes, she’d be there staring at him censoriously. What did she think he’d done?

  “You and I? That can’t be, Crusader, not after what you did.”

  “I was never dishonest with you. I didn’t disappear, leaving you to wonder what you’d done wrong, leaving you to burn with wanting me, leaving you to die a little each day. Don’t pretend that there is no connection between us.”

  Unable to hold back any longer, Rasch reached out and drew her into his arms, claiming her lips with a rough urgency that surprised even him. He could feel her whimper of panic turn into an acknowledgment of mutual need.

  The kiss deepened. Crushing her lips, he felt her arch against him, taking his tongue inside her mouth as she pressed herself into his hardness. There was an oath, a moan, and their hands parted as his fingers slid shamelessly beneath her shirt, plying the soft flesh of her breasts, making the nipples grow taut and turgid with desire.

  Tearing each other’s clothes from their bodies, they fell to the pine straw, seeking fulfillment, solace for their pain. Rasch’s deft hands sought the threshold of her desire, stimulating, teasing, beguiling her until she was mewing with desire.

  “Say it, Gypsy, say you want me, that you want this as much as I do!”

  “No, no, we mustn’t.”

  Her words refused, but her body burned beneath his touch, and her lips tasted and bit at his mouth and chin as though she were lost and Rasch were her salvation.

  “Listen, Gypsy, as I say the words. I want you. I want this tonight, tomorrow, and forever. Now you say it, Gypsy. Say it.”

  “All right! All right. I want you, and this. But I won’t love you—I won’t. I can’t!”

  Savannah groaned. She was sick with the realization of the truth of her words. She did want him. She wanted the feel of him inside her and enveloping her. A sweet, terrible pain swept through her as she parted her legs and felt him move to claim her body, touching, teasing, building the frenzy of heat that churned the very ground beneath them.

  “Oh yes you will, my Gypsy, my wild and free Gypsy. I’ll make you burn with loving me.” He leaned back, then thrust into her with all the desperate longing he’d held back since she’d disappeared.

  He didn’t have to. She’d carried that same fire around inside ever since she’d left him. Now the fever inside them blazed into life, carrying them beyond reason, beyond caring, beyond restraint. And almost as quickly as they joined, they were
caught up by such a vortex of rapture that Rasch thought he’d joined the realm of the superheroes of old. Stars burst, suns whirled through the heavens, and the tide of desire reversed, growing greater with each thrust instead of lessening with release.

  When the final spasm of ecstasy sent vibrating fingers of fire through every cell, Rasch collapsed against Savannah, stunned and spent. For a long time he just lay across her, unsure whether this was real, or a dream. Then, drawing back, he looked into her eyes.

  She lay there, equally stunned and confused. The fire was gone, the aftermath of their fever leaving them weak and shaking, waiting for him to speak.

  “Are you satisfied, Crusader?”

  “No,” he answered, sliding from her body and rolling on his back. “I don’t know what I am. I never intended anything like that to happen, Savannah. Believe me.”

  Savannah began to laugh, a low, whimpering sound that grew into a wild cry of disbelief. She came to her feet and began to run.

  “What are you doing, Gypsy? Stop. What will your father say if you go back to the camp naked?”

  Savannah came to a stop. “Oh, God, you’ve made me crazy. You expect me to forget that you’re responsible for Tifton’s death. Then you overpower me and make love to me.”

  “Wait a minute. I don’t expect you to forget anything. I only want you to be fair.”

  Savannah turned and walked back to where Rasch was standing. She drew back her hand and would have slapped him with all the force she could manage if he hadn’t seen the blow coming and grasped her wrist in midair. “I can’t be—no matter what I want—I can’t be.”

  As he continued to imprison her wrist, the color drained from Rasch’s face, leaving him deadly white in the moonlight. His breathing stopped, and disbelief compressed his stomach muscles into a tight knot of pain.

  “You don’t know, do you, about your brother’s trail of arrests across the entire Southeast? Nothing serious, not yet, but he was on the way. Only his charm had kept him out of jail before.”

  “You’re lying, Crusader. My laughing, beautiful brother never hurt anybody in his life. He’s dead, and you’re responsible. Now my father is dying too.”