Gypsy Moon (8 page)

“You need a partner to work in the ring with you, Mateo?”

“Not just any partner—
you
!”

Her whole body was shaking uncontrollably. She had run the gamut of emotions since arriving in this place. And tonight had left her exhausted. She took a long time answering, thinking her situation through, coolly, logically. If she left the Gypsy camp, where would she go? Certainly not back to the Planters Hotel. She had no money, no friends or family. She was totally alone and destitute.

“Well,
sunaki ball
I would want to begin rehearsing tomorrow.”

“Why not?” she replied, throwing up her hands in resignation.

Mateo caught her in his arms again and hugged her. “Then we are a team!”

Charlotte shook her head, thinking to herself, We certainly are!

But the very thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. Never before had she loved a man. And tonight she might willingly have given her all to Mateo. Yet what good did it do for him to say he loved her if he still considered her the property of another?

Yes, she loved Mateo. Yes, she wanted Mateo. And because of that love she had almost made a terrible mistake just now. She had led with her heart instead of using her head. But as Mateo had said, it would never happen again. Charlotte Buckland would make sure of that!

“What time and where tomorrow, Mateo?” she asked with cool reserve.

“At first light. Tamara will show you the place.” He was staring at her with an odd expression on his face. “Is something wrong, my
sunaki ball”

She winced; although she loved to hear him call her by the pet name he favored, right now it hurt terribly.

“Please don’t call me that anymore, Mateo. My name is Charlotte.”

“As you wish, Charlotte.” He reached for her hand to lead her back through the woods, but she drew away.

“No.” Only a slight tremor in her voice betrayed her. He couldn’t see the tears in her eyes through the darkness. “I know the way back, Mateo.”

For a long time, he stood like a statue before her. She couldn’t see his face and had no idea what he meant to do. When he spoke at last, his voice sounded strangely sad.

“Does anyone know the way back from where you and I have been tonight, Charlotte? I doubt it!”

She doubted it, too.

Leavenworth was sleeping by the time Mateo spurred his horse into town later that night. The plank sidewalks, which usually resounded with many hurried, tramping feet, were silent, empty. The shops looked like staring ghost houses, their windows, blank and silvery black, reflecting only a muted image of horse and rider passing in the night.

He tugged the reins gently to the right, turning his horse into Shawnee Street. The wide, dusty thoroughfare, which bustled in daylight hours with ox and wagon trains headed farther west, lay broad and still. Only the jail, the two hotels, and the Star of the West saloon offered light and life at this hour. As if the horse could sense his rider’s needs, the great black stallion headed straight for the saloon.

Seldom, if ever, did Mateo frequent
gajo
watering holes alone. He preferred the company of his fellow
Rom
, be it in an English pub, in a cow town pleasure palace, or beside a roaring campfire. But tonight he felt the need of solitude and a drink—stronger stuff than the brown beer or wine he drank with his friends. It would take the sting of the white man’s whiskey to quench the fire in his gut and the pain in his heart put there by Charlotte Buckland.

He wanted her, by Develesa,
how he wanted her!
Never had any other woman cast such a spell over him. But so many things stood between them. He had obligations to so many—his mother, Phaedra, even to Petronovich. Queen Zolande would have the final say in whom he married, and the bride of the future king must be of Gypsy blood, with the same fires that drove him burning brightly in her soul.

As for Phaedra, their birth contract could be broken at his discretion. They were not right for each other; Mateo knew that. But still, she had waited a long time for him. She might not love him, but she coveted the title and the power his wife would possess.

Then there was Petronovich. In spite of the evil manner in which he had abducted Charlotte Buckland, the very act gave him priority when it came to who would have her. If indeed she was carrying his child, there would be no question as to her fate. She would be required to wed Petronovich on a properly moonlit night before the assembled
familia.

And if that happens, he thought, I will lose my place among my people. Mateo knew he would have to leave. He could never bear the pain of seeing her night and day as another man’s wife.

But even if all other obstacles could be overcome, there was still his recurring madness. How could he subject the woman he loved to those ugly nights when the full moon cast its spell?

Yes indeed! He needed a drink!

He dismounted slowly and tied his horse to the hitching rail in front of the Star of the West. Instinctively, he glanced up the street and down, ever wary of being out of his element in the
gajo
world. Here, he was not the great Romany prince, but a foreigner, most often the object of scorn and ridicule. He never looked for trouble, but he never ran away from it, either. Still, it was the middle ground he trod most often, avoiding unpleasant confrontations whenever he could.

He’d been in the West long enough to recognize the signs to look and listen for. He would turn back toward camp at the sounds of angry voices or gunshots coming from the saloon. He knew to stay away when he saw many hard-ridden horses outside, a sure indication that trail hands would be two deep at the bar with money in their pockets and an itch that could only be scratched by liquor, women, and a good dirty fight.

But the saloon seemed quiet tonight. Only faint laughter and the tinny notes of a nickelodeon drifted out the open door to mar the silence of Shawnee Street. By the bright gaslights inside, he could see several of the barroom girls in their colorful dresses and the blue uniforms of a number of cavalrymen from Fort Leavenworth. Most of them, he knew, would be officers, men with no interest in brawling. He would have his drink, he decided.

Everyone looked, but no one spoke when he entered. The men immediately went back to their drinks and their poker games. The girls offered him shy, flirtatious smiles but drew away to let him pass. They knew who he was. And although they might like to get better acquainted with just another handsome drifter, most
gajo
women looked on Gypsies with the same fear and doubt they harbored toward Indians.

Mateo took a seat at the very end of the bar. The saloon keeper, Solange, approached him. She was a dusky beauty who, rumor had it, had once been a slave on a cane plantation in Louisiana until her master had taken her from the fields to warm his bed.

“Your pleasure,
monsieur?”

Her soft, Creole-accented French reminded Mateo of long-ago days when he was innocent of the pain women could cause and much happier for it.

“Whiskey,
s’il vous plait.
Mademoiselle Solange.”

“Ah, you speak French,
mon ami
!” she said, placing a brown bottle and a heavy shot glass on the counter.

Mateo poured a shot and tossed it off before he answered. “I speak the language of the person I wish to hear me. French, Spanish, Russian, Italian.” He paused and downed another drink, sighed as it seared his throat, and raised his empty glass to her. “Too bad, eh, that I’ve never mastered the language of love?”

Her smile was enchanting—full, bright red lips that puckered, trembled slightly, then stretched to frame perfect white teeth. “But Prince Mateo, I have always heard that yours
is
the language of love!”

He gave an approving, hearty laugh and flashed a sardonic smile at Solange. “If only that were true! We have a saying in
Romani: ‘Si khohaimo may patshivalo sar o tshatshimo.’
It translates loosely to ‘There are lies more believable than the truth.’”

“Meaning you believed your own myth and it has let you down?”

“Exactement, mademoiselle
! The lady, I am quite sure, will never look on me with love in her eyes again. And why should she? I acted the fool with her!”

“And so now you have come to Solange to confess all and drown your sorrows.” She clucked her tongue disapprovingly and threw up her hands in an impatient gesture. “You men! You are all alike! Here you sit, pouring out your heart to me, when you should be pleading with the lady in question for her forgiveness.”

He stared hard at Solange. She was very beautiful, with skin even more dark and coppery than a Gypsy’s, flashing brown eyes, and a magnificent figure. For a moment he let his gaze caress the mounds of velvety flesh straining to be free of the ruby satin of her low-cut bodice. He was reminded for an agonizing instant that Charlotte’s breasts felt more like cool silk than velvet to his touch, and that they tasted of honey and warm clover.

He was still mulling over Solange’s words and thinking of Charlotte Buckland when a heavyset soldier took the seat next to his and demanded, “What does a thirsty man have to do to get a drink in this place?”

“Forgive me, Major,” Solange said in a subservient tone, which Mateo realized was heavily laced with sarcasm. “You will want whiskey, of course. The cavalry drinks nothing else.”

“Your best Kentucky bourbon, madam!” he bellowed. “I am—as you people so quaintly put it out here in the West—saddle-sore, dog-tired, and bone-dry. I just rode into Leavenworth, and I can tell you, I’ve had one helluva trip! Plain whiskey won’t do it for me—not in the shape I’m in.”

Mateo gave the officer a sidelong glance. He was a burly man, bulging at the seams of his dust-caked blue uniform. His hair, rusty blond in color, was thinning on top and cropped short and stiff at the sides, reminding Mateo of the unkempt coats of the mongrel dogs in camp. The soldier’s fair complexion, companion to his fiery hair, was sunburned to a raw, painful pink, and his nose was peeling like old plaster. The man smelled of horseflesh and long days on the trail without a bath. Still, he didn’t appear to be a troublesome sort. Mateo kept his seat and his own counsel.

After some searching beneath the counter, Solange produced a bottle, the label proudly proclaiming it “Kentucky’s Finest.”

“Will this do, Major?”

He whisked the bottle from her, unstoppered it, and drank, not waiting for a glass. Solange and Mateo exchanged bemused smiles.

“Ahh!” sighed the major. “That’s good stuff! Smooth as a baby’s bottom! Just like back in Kentucky.”

“You are from Kentucky, then, Major?”

The officer grinned, looking almost boyish for all his thirty-or-more years. “Boston, actually, but I’m an adopted son of the Bluegrass State and proud of it, ma’am!”

His face disappeared behind the upturned bottle once more. Solange and Mateo glanced at each other. He knew what she was thinking. If the major kept drinking at this rate—probably with little more than a bit of beef jerky in his stomach—she might have a mean drunk to deal with in short order. Or, if he passed out, she would have a nonpaying customer in one of the bedrooms upstairs for the night. Mateo nodded slightly, agreeing to help Solange.

“Welcome to Leavenworth, Major,” Mateo said in a big, friendly voice he reserved for unsuspecting
gajos.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Mateo Porado, at your service.”

Even while the major shook Mateo’s offered hand, Solange found herself fighting to stifle a laugh. She had no idea what the Gypsy prince’s surname really was, but she’d learned enough
Romani
from her golden-earringed customers to know that “Porado” was not a name at all. This was a ribald joke the
Rom
often played on naive strangers. Porado was one of the Gypsies’ words for “erection.”

“Glad to meet you, Senor Porado. You’re Mexican, eh? Indian scout out at the post?”

Mateo’s quick anger showed only in his dark eyes and completely escaped the major’s notice.

The officer continued jovially, “Winston Krantz here; major, United States Army, about to report for duty with George Armstrong Custer’s Seventh Cavalry—the finest damn troop in the service. I expect you and I’ll be putting in some time together, tracking down those filthy, murdering redskins.”

Mateo let Major Krantz think what he would. Instead of correcting the man’s mistaken impression, he said, “Will you be riding out to Fort Leavenworth tonight, Major, or staying in town?”

“Damned if I’d thought about it one way or the other. My mind’s been focused on finding a bottle for the past ten hours. How far is it out to the post?”

“About three miles,” Mateo answered.

Major Krantz took another long pull on the bottle of bourbon while he considered. At last he groaned, then said, “Hell, I don’t think I could sit that horse for another yard, much less three miles. Is there a hotel in this burg?”

“The Planters Hotel is not far and is very comfortable, Major,” Solange offered.

The liquor was already making his pale blue eyes watery. His speech was beginning to slur. And the major was obviously a man who turned amorous from spirits. He reached across the bar and caught Solange’s hand in his, squeezing it with drunken affection. “You can call me Winnie, little lady. All my friends do.”

Neither Solange nor Mateo missed the fact that he had not accorded the same privilege to the “Mexican Indian scout.” It made little difference to Mateo. Under no circumstances could he imagine himself becoming friendly with this
gajo
officer or any other who was out to “track down those filthy, murdering redskins,” as the major had so bluntly put it.

Mateo knew little of the cause of difficulties between the U.S. Army and the Indians. It was none of his business, after all, and Gypsies never meddled in the affairs of others. But it seemed to him that this was a one-sided fight. What he had gleaned of the ugly situation came from talk at the forts, where he went to sell horses to the cavalry. Most of the officers he had come in contact with were much like Major Krantz—cocky, pompous, and out for Indian blood. On the other hand, the Indians he had met were noble men—a proud, ancient people, not unlike the Gypsies.

Lately, he had heard disturbing talk at the post about this Lieutenant Colonel Custer. It was rumored that the yellow-haired officer soon planned to break the treaty signed with the Sioux in 1867, in order to seize sacred burial grounds in the Black Hills and mine the area for gold. And this Major Krantz would be helping to decimate the Indians in order to desecrate their land.

“I suppose the Planters Hotel will be adequate for one night,” said Winston Krantz. “How do I find it?”

“I’ll take you,” Mateo answered. “I was going there anyway tonight on some business.”

Major Krantz had finished almost the entire bottle of “Kentucky’s Finest.” When he stepped down from the bar, his knees buckled. Mateo caught him before he fell.

Krantz bellowed a drunken laugh. “Riding that blasted horse has got me bow-legged.”

“Don’t worry, Major. The hotel is not far. We’ll walk.”

Throwing his arm about Mateo’s broad shoulders for support, Krantz yelled, “Charge!” The other officers in the room looked up but only laughed at their besotted comrade.

Outside the bar, the night air had turned cool with a hint of autumn in its bite. But instead of having a sobering effect on the major, it seemed to intensify his intoxication. He was silent for a time, then Mateo heard him sniff loudly, as if the man were fighting back tears. The idea made Mateo uncomfortable. The
Rom
only wept on special occasions—funerals, weddings, the birth of a first son.

“We are almost there,” he said, trying to head off the major’s emotional outburst.

“Did I ever tell you I was supposed to be married?” Major Krantz managed to say.

“You have told me nothing. It is a man’s right to keep his privacy with strangers.” Mateo did not want to hear the major’s sad tales. He had problems enough of his own.

“She was so beautiful—long yellow hair and warm brown eyes. And her skin was clear and pale.”

Mateo’s mind reverted to Charlotte Buckland. The major could have been describing her. But no! Yellow was no fit description of her hair. It was golden—like a field of ripe wheat in the sun. And
brown eyes
? No! She might think her eyes were simply brown, but to him they reflected nature’s perfect spectrum—the green of new leaves, the gold of the sun, the blue of the skies.