Hell on the Heart (35 page)

Had her father’s arm not restrained her, she would have leaped to her feet. Instead, she beat her hands together, again and again. John looked over the crowd. His eyes didn’t meet hers, nor did they linger searching for her. Hadn’t he seen her?

Poppy raised his hand, calling for attention. “Agent Stillwater wishes to say a few words.” John’s team found seats in the crowd.

Cezi’s breath came harder. She clasped her hands together and squeezed, working to control her need to leap up and run to him. For the first time it occurred to her that this was good-bye. She’d refused to move to DC. Refused to be his mistress. Maybe when he’d gotten back home, he’d understood she wouldn’t fit in.

She bit her inner cheek in an effort to show no emotion.

John cleared his throat. His loose fitting black shirt didn’t hide his muscular chest.

“Czigany Romney,” his deep voice rose over the fire, the night sounds and the shifting of the crowd. Cezi sat up straighter as John looked directly at her. He had seen her. Her heart jumped.

Please. Don’t let this be the end. She tried to smile, but her face couldn’t form the expression. Don’t cry. If this was good-bye, she had other options. Remain stoic.

John circled the fire. As each footstep touched the ground, Cezi felt the tremor of the earth and echo in her heart. Finally he stood in front of her, separated only by several family members, now nameless shadows in the dark, seated on blankets in front of her.

His face was hardened, the mask of a warrior, his scars barely visible. What terrified her was his lack of smile, he wasn’t offering to soften the blow he delivered.

“My friends,” he gestured with a brief tilt of his head in their general direction, “told me to bring flowers and poetry. I researched a few poems, but how I feel about you couldn’t be summed up in a Hallmark moment. Our relationship is too complex.”

“I can’t offer fairness. You alone would be the one to give up your life… your friends… your family… your mauve couch….” He dropped to one knee in the dirt. “I am not gypsy. I will never be gypsy. But I love you.”

He loved her, but it would never work. She’d known all along. She rose to her feet and he did also.

“Dance with me,” he said.

What? He obviously understood what it meant. He wanted to marry her? She couldn’t look at her family, afraid to see the shock and disapproval on their faces.

He was
gajikané
, but she didn’t care. Her family might not approve, but John was her future, her rudder, her life.

Music she didn’t recognize played. He stretched out an arm, an open hand. Gypsies didn’t touch when they dance. Americans danced in each arms. She was an American.

He held her close. Not gypsy-like, at all. Slowly they moved, hardly inching from the space they began. It wasn’t the whirling showy gypsy dance she’d watched all her life. This was intimate. No one else mattered. She danced in the golden circle of his protection. Love radiated from his eyes.

No one spoke. Unable to stand it any longer she faced her family. Her father waited until she looked him in the eyes to rise off the log. Followed by Luca, Rolf, then his brothers, her aunts, and her cousins. They were going to walk out?

“Individually and collectively, her family approves this union,” Nicholae said. “Czigany, in the
gaje
tradition, the father gives the daughter away. Not so here. I am only offering to share you with John and hope that he learns to love you as much as we do. But no matter where you live, you will always reside in our hearts.”

Poppy moved his arm to John’s shoulder. “Who approves this union?” Every head focused their gaze on his team.

His chest muscles against her back tensed and his arm wrapped around her waist tightened. He didn’t expect to have to be approved? She tipped her head back but was unable to see his face.

Four men and one woman looked from one to another. Surprise reflected in their faces, followed by confusion then determination. Together they rose. “Individually and collectively we approve this union.” They spoke as one.

“And all we can say is halleluiah,” D’Sean said in a loud voice.

Laughter followed his comment.

Poppy raised his hands. Cezi knelt, bowed her head. John did the same. Poppy raised his hands over their heads and gave the traditional Romani blessing.

Then switching to English, added, “John Stillwater. This is a binding marriage to gypsies, but we recognize your traditions differ from ours and we chose to honor yours as well. By the power, vested in me, by the State of Texas. I now pronounce you husband and wife. Stand.”

Poppy had become licensed for this? Cezi raised her head. Why did it astonish her he’d known all along?

Both rose to a still quiet group. This was when the celebration should have begun, but one look at Poppy’s eyes and raised hands and she knew they weren’t done.

“You may kiss the bride.”

For the first time, John smiled - that wonderful curl of his lips and crinkle of his eyes that gave him a boyish air. The only time he looked carefree and young. He wrapped his arms around her. Just before his lips touched hers, he murmured, “My favorite part.”

Nancy Brophy lives in Portland, Oregon. She, her husband, her two dogs, PB and J, and forty chickens own a house that was destroyed by fire in 2010. Fourteen hair-pulling months later they’ve moved back into the house. One day she’ll be able to laugh about it. Then she’ll use it in a story.

Stories don’t get written by themselves.

The following people played a major role in bringing this story to life: Cassiel Knight, Darla Luke, Su Lute, Linda Mercury, Jessie Smith, and Linda Kearney.

Cowboys Ain’t Like Other Men

Excerpt

Prologue

The jubilant roar of the Monday night crowd reverberated in his ears. The frigid weather, archenemy of the California team, stiffened his fingers, but the cold didn’t penetrate his skin. Sweat dripped from his scalp and stung his eyes.

While his other teammates bitched about the blinding swirling snow and the ground so soaked each step was treacherous, Cole Roberts had seen worse. Montana winters on a cattle ranch had convinced him even as a young boy that the fight was always man against the elements.

The ball snapped. The crash of helmets and grunts of the players covered the frenzy of the eighty thousand fans screaming their team to victory. Four points. Four lousy points made this last play critical.

Cole thundered down the sidelines. His feet gripped the soggy soil each step, as he silently exhorted the skies for a miracle. Blood rushed in his ears, a defensive back breathed down his neck. Seconds ticked by on the scoreboard and the predominantly Buffalo Bills’ crowd picked up the beat.

Nine… Eight… Seven…

He cut left and turned his head to search the sky. The ball sailed toward him. His feet slid, but he propelled himself upward to escape his earthly bonds and snatched his prize from the air.

The impact came almost immediately. Two hundred and fifty pounds of opposition wrapped around his waist and forced him downward. Twisting in midair and stretching his arms in the direction he hoped was the goal line, he gripped the ball with all his strength.

The ground rose to meet him.

The choir of fans both cursed and exalted him. Muddy and aching he struggled to his feet to be hugged by some teammates and pounded on the back and helmet by others.

Touchdown. Oakland made the playoffs. Moments like this made the strenuous workouts, the pulled hamstrings, the broken bones and stiff joints all worthwhile.

Three weeks later even before his ecstasy had vanished, the career he loved lay in shambles at his feet. Licked, wounded and scared, he tucked his tail between his legs and headed home to Montana.

Montana seeped into the blood. The black soil caught under the fingernails and between the toes only appeared to have been scrubbed away. Even the crisp air was a memory in the lungs that lingered. Heather Lanier hadn’t been able to leave fast enough. High school graduation, the prom and a bus trip to Oregon happened within the same week. As the bus crossed the state line into northern Idaho, relief flowed through her.

Free at last. Free at last. Thank God, almighty, she was free at last.

Like Scarlett O’Hara standing on the crest, she didn’t waste a promise of never being poor, but she did vow never to return. Montana was behind her.

But freedom was a funny thing. Just singing the song and shaking a fist didn’t make it a fact.

Restless, lonely nights she’d drawn from dusk to dawn scene after scene from memory. She wasn’t a landscape artist, yet her home state was etched firmly in her mind and - surprisingly - her heart. In the light of day, she tucked the sketches away hidden behind the art that made her famous. But like the blood in her veins it pulsed in the darkened corners of her workspace and she couldn’t survive without it.

Broken Spoke, Montana wasn’t really a town at all. It wasn’t even a freeway stop. Two blocks and a railroad crossing off the two-lane state highway forced drivers to slow to fifty-five and still the café, grocery, post office and a few scattered homes were overlooked. This was ranching country.

At the crest of the hill overlooking the township, Heather pulled the rental car to the side of the road, then got out to stare at the wide expand of land that represented her hometown.

Whoever had coined the moniker ‘big sky country’ lived in central Montana. Nowhere else in the world could boast the abundance of cloudless, blue sky. Tidy fields dotted with large tubes of hay bales were interspersed with black Angus and white-face Herefords on the gently rising backdrop of bluffs. A driver passing ranches, even at eighty miles per hour could easily discern the economic disparity of the times. Some ranches teetered on the edge of bankruptcy while neighbors prospered.

“Ranching was a crap shoot.” How many times had her father or his boss, Bill Lychester said that? Judging by the heaps of dirty snow piled on the side of road, the weather hadn’t improved either. Welcome to Montana in May.

She shouldn’t have come, but her father was sick, probably dying. Somehow she couldn’t stay away. Without any real planning she found herself on the next plane to Great Falls. And now had driven the hour and half toward her parents’ home to stand in the blustery wind. She shivered. Her new boots pinched her toes, her jacket didn’t block the chill that leached warmth from her skin, but she stood rooted to the soil where she’d spent almost two-thirds of her life.

It’d been ten years since she’d stood in this very location. Seventy dog years, but in Lanier time, a lifetime and a half had passed. Her mother’s philosophy echoed in her mind. “Nothing good ever lasts.”