The Snow Gypsy(76)

“I’m sorry,” Rose murmured, stroking the mule’s neck as it labored back up the village streets, its panniers bursting with her possessions. “And sorry to you, too,” she said to Zoltan. “Looks like you’re stuck with us until I can find somewhere else to stay.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he replied. “I like having you and Nieve in the cottage. It gets lonely up there sometimes.”

“But we’ve taken your bed!”

He shrugged. “I’m quite comfortable on the rug. Believe me, it’s luxury compared to what I had to sleep on in Mauthausen. I spent two years on a filthy straw mattress crawling with lice.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m sorry for reminding you of that. But thank you—you’ve already done so much for us.”

“We’d better speed up a bit if we’re going to get that costume to Nieve in time for the performance.” Zoltan smiled. “Do you mind if I carry you the rest of the way? It’ll make it easier for the mule.”

He lifted her from the saddle. Somehow, he managed to hold her with one arm while leading the mule with the other. Her head was over his right shoulder. She could smell the earthy warmth of his skin through his shirt. When they reached the village square, he set her gently down on one of the wooden benches that had been set out in front of the church for the dance performance. Then he tied the mule to a ring in the church wall and set off on foot to deliver Nieve’s costume to the school.

As she watched Zoltan go, Rose couldn’t help drawing a comparison between him and Cristóbal. Physically, they were very different. Zoltan was much taller and fairer complexioned. Cristóbal had the kind of face that turned heads, while Zoltan’s attractiveness came from somewhere deeper. His kindness, consideration, and respect for her put Cristóbal’s behavior to shame. She closed her eyes, shutting out images of Cristóbal and summoning the memory of nestling against Zoltan’s shoulder. He had made her feel . . . what? Protected. Safe. Not things she’d ever thought she needed from a man—and yet . . .

Instinctively she reached under the bench, feeling for Gunesh. He gave her a reassuring lick as her hand found his head. She let out a long breath. It was impossible to deny the gentle, seductive charm Zoltan exuded. And she was about to move into his home. She was going to have to be very, very careful. Her heart was too fragile, too scarred, to be exposed again.



By the time Zoltan returned, the square was crowded with people. Everyone was in their best clothes, the women in bright frilled dresses and the men with colorful shirts and jaunty hats. Rose wished she’d had time to retrieve something more attractive to wear when they’d stuffed all her belongings into the panniers. She felt very dowdy in her dusty workaday skirt and blouse.

“Did you manage to find Nieve?” Rose shifted her bag to make a space on the bench for Zoltan.

He nodded. “And I brought you something.” In his hand he had a rose. It was dark red—so dark that the center was almost black. “They call it terciopelo—the Spanish word for velvet. It has a wonderful scent. There’s a bush of them growing behind the school.”

She took it from him and held it to her nose. The fragrance was heavenly, subtly sweet with a hint of something musky and exotic.

“I thought you could wear it in your hair—for the fiesta.”

“Thank you.” She smiled as she tucked the stem behind her ear. He seemed to have a knack for sensing how she was feeling. With the simple gift of a flower, he had instantly lifted her spirits.

Zoltan cocked his head toward the fountain, where Se?ora Carmona was standing, as black and brittle as charcoal, talking to her daughter. “I see the dragon has arrived.”

“I suppose she was bound to come,” Rose replied. “I’ve been pretending to read so as not to catch her eye.” Rose showed him the piece of paper in her hand. It was a receipt for the bus ticket from Granada to órgiva. “It was the only thing I could find.”

“Well, she’d better not give us any more grief—I might not be able to keep my mouth shut next time.”

A hush fell over the square as the children began to troop onto the makeshift stage erected against the wall of the church. Rose had a strange sense of déjà vu as Nieve stood in line with the other little girls and lifted her hands above her head. She looked like a miniature version of Lola. The way she held herself, the curve of her hands and arms, and the proud, defiant angle of her head were just the same. When she began to dance, it was hard to believe that—unlike her classmates—she had been rehearsing for only a matter of days.

“She’s very good, isn’t she?” Zoltan murmured. “A natural.”

“Lola’s a professional dancer,” Rose whispered back. “It’s strange—they’re not related, but Nieve seems to have inherited her talent.”

As she watched the child switch effortlessly from a graceful letra to a fast foot-stamping sequence, she glowed inside with pride. When the audience erupted in applause, Rose felt as if her heart would burst.

After the performance ended, Nieve came hurtling through the throng of people in the square to where Rose was sitting. She leapt onto Rose’s lap and wrapped her arms around her neck. Gunesh immediately leapt up, too, licking Nieve’s face as his tail wagged back and forth.