Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(65)



Damn, she would miss seeing those low-slung Levi’s molding his fine arse.

Now she knew why people closed their eyes when they prayed or dreamed or danced or kissed – or cried. Helen Keller was right, life’s most impactful moments were not to be seen by the eyes but felt by the heart.

Well, her gypsy heart knew when to travel on.

§ § §

Duke paused at the kitchen doorway. The room was edging up in temperature, what with the Fourth of July’s morning heat and all the cooking. But the heat didn’t seem to bother the ranch hands none. They were fooling around and laughing like they were a part of one big happy family.

Even though they had the day off, Romy had commandeered them and put them – all but Arturo – to work around the long table. Dicing, chopping, slicing. Chili peppers, onions, garlic, and cilantro turned the warm air pungent.

Arturo, Duke suspected, was riding herd on Sally. Their attraction had been obvious to him, the way they had determinedly avoided looking at each other at Christmas, the way she joined in singing Christmas carols with Arturo. And since then, she had not come around as much – and Arturo was gone more often on his off time.

But it was not that couple that chapped Duke but Bud and Romy – the way the tenderfoot was joking with her. Bud was coming into his own heat, and her provocative presence most likely had the lusting kid’s imagination busy day and night – justifying Duke’s original concern about hiring someone as young and fetching as she. A mere six years separated Bud and Romy.

While a good nine years separated himself and her. She was a mere child, a reckless child, and yet his self-admonishment did not assuage his own lusting. Well, he had to let her go . . . and just maybe, if he was lucky, with her going would go his lusting.

She was brushing lumps of dough with sugar – scones or something Irish like that – for the Fourth of July lunch, an idea that she had drummed up the same day he had presented her with the Grand Ole Opry letter.

“The boys will enjoy the celebration,” she had said, and we’ll invite Gideon – and Miriam. He can help me with the Opry contract.”

He had shrugged. So, she was going. “A good way to kill two birds with – ”

“ – one scone,” she had chimed in with her irresistible elfish grin. “We’ll have Irish scones for your American Fourth. And we’ll invite Sally and her father. And Charlotte and Clara, too.”

Without a mother around in his preteen years, he had no idea what females wrangled with inside their heads. And his father had come up mighty short in the tender endearments and affections department toward the fairer sex.

Duke knew he could certain sure get along without Romy, but he would miss her antics, both the amusing ones and, damn-it-to-hell, the annoying ones, as well. What a corker she was. A rare breed.

And then there was the delectable shallows of her spine the tongue could lap. And her lovely white throat his fingers could stroke. And the lovely indentation between her . . . .

He shook his head, trying to free himself of breath-catching and heart-tripping memories. Yeah, it was better all-around that she snap up that contract with Grand Ole Opry. Better for her, better for his ranch hands, better for his piece of mind.

Peace of mind? Hell, what about the containment of his out-of-control feelings, both his raging testosterone and this terrifying yearning,

Besides, he needed to get on with his wife search. Somehow, Romy Sonnenschein had waylaid him. Her and her loony card reading.

“Bud,” he told the peach-fuzzed kid, “ride out and make sure that new front gate is open for the guests.” That should get the kid off her flagging tail for the time being, at least.

“And while you’re at it,” Jock catcalled, “bring us each back a bottle of Lone Star.”

The randy youth stopped just short of rolling his eyes. Grabbing his cap on the wall peg, he yanked it low on his head and stalked out the kitchen’s back door.

She turned amused eyes up at Duke.

“You should know,” he told her, ignoring her accusatory look, “that Johnson is in the area – Fourth of July stumping with his constituents. He plans to stop by with his staff sometime later this afternoon.”

He nodded at the large bowl of seasoned German potato salad that Micah was garnishing with a flourish of cilantro and bacon crumbles. Burnt bacon crumbles. “You might want to double up on your dishes,” he advised her.

She lowered her voice, obviously aware of the other men listening. As he was aware they had become her knight protectors. “Ye might have forewarned me, Duke.” She flicked perspiration-damp tendrils from her neck, and he was pleased that she no longer wore that constraining kerchief, as if she would bow to his desires . . . as if.

“I would have thought you would have already known,” he said, hammering out with difficulty a smile, “given that forewarnings are part and parcel of your wondrous fortune telling talents.”

What made him say something mean-spirited like that? And he knew. That was the way his old man would have handled disappointments. Disappointments? Hell, why not admit her leaving was a crushing blow?

Romy deserved a grand send off, even if she wasn’t skedaddling for another three weeks. Those twenty-one days would be easy enough, what with the backbreaking load of ranch duties that consumed his time. But the nights . . . God forbid he should be as callow and pining as Bud.

Parris Afton Bonds's Books