The Judge and the Gypsy (11 page)

Rasch moved his lips from her forehead to her cheeks. They were moist. She’d actually shed a tear for the beautiful Gypsy destined to be punished for her dishonor by remaining in one place forever.

“But look,” he said, “she’s the brightest star in the heavens, and she’s the one by which we all find our way. So her plight wasn’t all bad.”

“Yes, that’s true. Remember that, Crusader. Remember that about the fate of the Gypsy.”

“If you’re comparing yourself to her, don’t. There are no forbidden trees along the trail. All their yields have been harvested by the animals to feed themselves for the winter.”

Maybe
, Savannah thought as she felt his lips move lower.
And maybe I’ve already tasted the forbidden fruit
.

The next morning when Rasch woke, Savannah was not in his arms. He came lazily to his feet and looked around. She was probably taking another icy bath in the stream. He pulled on his clothes and collected more wood to coax the fire back to life. The sun was shining. The temperature was cool, but the day would likely warm up. Rasch began to hum. He couldn’t recall when he’d felt so happy.

Feeling his pulse quicken, he took the coffeepot he pushed through the undergrowth to the stream. Maybe an icy bath was a good way to start both their mornings.

But Savannah wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere around the campsite either. The bear! He tore through the brush, looking for signs of a struggle. There were none. Then, taking quiet stock of the situation, he realized that her backpack and camping gear were gone. There was nothing left in the camp to prove she’d ever been there.

Rasch sat down and tried to make sense of what had happened. She was gone. She’d left of her own accord. Quietly, stealthily, she’d slipped out of his arms, packed her supplies, and disappeared into the night. Only the lingering smell of tea olive blossoms kept him from believing that it had all been a dream.

His erotic fantasy was over.

His Gypsy was gone, and he didn’t even know her full name.

The week after the conference Rasch was going through the motions, but nobody knew better than he that his heart was not in his job. His eyes constantly searched the courtroom, hoping that he’d see a laughing dark-eyed nymph in a Gypsy skirt. But she wasn’t there. And there were no tingling nerve endings, no burning sensations on his neck that said he was being watched. At last he was forced to admit that she wasn’t coming back.

“What’s wrong, Rasch?” Jake asked, worry evident in his eyes. They were having dinner in a little restaurant on Peachtree. “You haven’t been the same
since I picked you up on the trail. What happened?”

“I met someone—a woman.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I—I don’t know where she is.”

Jake laid down his fork and widened his eyes. “What do you mean, you don’t know where she is. Did you lose her someplace?”

“You could say that. We were hiking together. For four days we were—together. Then she was gone—just disappeared without a trace. I don’t even know her name.”

“Whoa! You spent four days camping with a woman and you don’t know her name? What was she, a ghost?”

“Something like that.” Rasch hesitated, rolling a piece of bread between his fingers until he’d sprinkled his pasta with the crumbs. “I guess I’d better tell you all of it. The first time I saw Gypsy, she appeared on my patio in a fog, at midnight.”

“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.

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 does 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.”