Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(52)



And his own.

Behind him, from the parlor’s radio, Kate Smith was belting out “God Bless America’, and all he could think was that right now, here at this saccharine celebration, was the last place he preferred to be. Although, after all those years spent in foreign ports, there was no way he was ever going to leave Texas soil again.

Bud removed his cap and closed his eyes. “I wish . . . I wish to play at Wimbledon, one day.”

“Oh, no,” Romy cried, “ye can never tell yuir wish aloud, or it won’t come true.”

As if anyone sane believed in wishes and fairy tales.

The kid looked lightning struck.

“Nay, but nary ye worry yuirself, Bud. We Gypsies can reverse that curse.” She snapped her fingers several times like castanets and said, “ádh mór!”

“What ees that?” Arturo asked. “That add more?”

“Gaelic, Arturo, for summoning Irish good luck. Now blow out yuir candles, Bud.”

As the candles poofed out with blown smoke, a burst of uncontainable energy sparked the air. The rest of Duke’s ranch hands applauded and stomped and whistled.

But Duke’s gut knotted. That cold, cynical part of him wanted to sneer. Yet somewhere, deep in that closed off part of him, a counterintuitive part had to acknowledge that most people, himself among them – and forget luck – would willingly settled for contentment.

Still, a few demented spirits went for the gusto – for a happiness that walked the edge of exhilaration and the depths of a despair, the edge that was living life to its fullest.

And this Gypsy spirit he was saddled with seemed to be one of those blessedly cursed.





§ CHAPTER THIRTEEN §



To Romy, the position of ranch cook seemed an easy enough gig to swing. She had cooked for Old Duke most of her life, since she was seven and could stand on a step stool and scorch the food for lack of concentration.

But young Duke was something else.

Not to mention, the kitchen vegetable garden the gig now included. She had not realized Texas’s NYA cook position would also require filling the roles of seamstress, washwoman, and gardener.

Well, she had bartered with Duke for the additional tasks, but those reading and writing lessons were getting fewer and further between. And she was reluctant to bring them up. It made sense – not to push the issue, or Duke might just well balk and ship her out. Johnson and men like him he did not fear.

But surely he feared something. After all he was mere mortal man.

That frosty February morning, dressed in a thick, faded green cable knit sweater some kind-hearted soul had donated, she harvested onions, radishes, potatoes and several carrots, most so severely stunted that only a farm animal would deign eat them. Which suited her fine. The stunted carrots were a welcome excuse to visit her horse friends.

Other friends – or one of the two a semi-friend, Sally – awaited her within the warm barn. Romy had the feeling that Sally resented her, living in such close quarters with Duke, as she did.

Arturo spotted Romy and called heartily, “Ven y mira! Cactus Jane, soon she ees ready to foal.” He was showing Sally the pregnant mare, whose belly and udder were quite broad.

“Duke is over at the south pasture,” Romy told the horseman.

“Oh, I was just checking on Cactus Jane,” Sally said, smiling, and returned her attention to the stall.

Romy stepped up to the its gate and, standing next to Sally, peered between the slats. “Cactus Jane’s been restless,” she said. “Lying down for longer periods, and her udder has begun to drip. T’will not be long now. A day or so, at the most.”

Sally looked askance at her. “You know horses?”

“Ye might say that,” she said, passing a runty carrot between the slats for Cactus Jane to nibble.”

Sally’s deeply etched lips pursed. Then she suggested, “I can offer Duke the services of my veterinarian.”

“Oh,” Romy ventured, “I think Cactus Jane will figure out on her own what she be needing to do.”

Sally nodded, feminine pique clearly warring with grudging respect. “I hear tell you will be performing at Dessau Hall.”

“Aye.” So, word was already out. Had Arturo – or Duke – told Sally?

Gideon’s call had come a couple of days before, at dinnertime; and, taking the call, Romy had turned her back on Duke and the ranch hands. But they had been watching and trying to listen in as Gideon launched into the details.

“The only drawback,” he had told her, “is that that the venue is this next Wednesday afternoon, when few people frequent the hall.”

“And payment?”

“Drinks on the house are served in lieu of payment. Now it is up to you to make sure McClellan gets you there – and on time.”

Sally swung from the stall gate to face Romy. “You realize you should appear for your performance garbed suitably.”

Romy envisioned the cardboard crate containing the meager – and much of it shoddy – donated clothing, and her consternation must have shown on her face, because Sally said indifferently, “Well, I just happen to have charro regalia leftover from my childhood rodeo days that may fit you.”

“Tis still not sure I am that I want to do this.” She felt as if she were jumping from the frying pan into the fire. She should refuse. But would alienating Johnson make matters worse? Besides, maybe getting out of the ranch house would open the pressure lid vent a wee bit for both her and Duke.

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