Gypsy Gold (4 page)

Jen shot Sam a questioning look, but then Nicolas turned back.

“Were you planning to make the rest of your ride tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jen answered.

“No,” Sam said at the same time.

Nicolas chuckled.

“You're welcome to roll out your sleeping bags at my fireside,” he invited.

Sam scooted forward on the boulder and tilted her head to see Jen's face.

“Do you really want to keep going?” Sam asked.

“We've probably seen the last of the turkey vultures,” Jen pointed out.

“But Jen, the horses are tired and no one's expecting us until tomorrow.”

Jen shot Sam a glare.

Sam sighed. “Okay, I don't want to get in trouble again.”

Sam wished she hadn't said that, either. She sounded like a little kid. Still, it was the truth. She couldn't stand being grounded.

But why had Jen suddenly changed the plan?

Was it because their families thought they were
camping up the hill, instead of down in this grove with a stranger? But they'd just seen him ignore the crash of his prized violin to save an orphan foal from being burned. Didn't that mean he was a good guy?

Nicolas shifted his position across the fire. He'd been leaning back on two hands, staring into the flames as the girls talked.

Now he leaned forward. The angle of firelight changed, making a mask of shadows from his brows down to his cheekbones.

“Tell me honestly, Samantha and Jennifer,” he said. “Do you feel you must move on because I'm a gypsy?”

“Y
ou're a gypsy?” Both girls spoke at once.

Sam looked down. She picked at a thread fraying from the stitchings on her jeans. Why had her voice squeaked like she was thrilled? And Jen had sounded startled.

No wonder Nicolas looked confused.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Sam said, but why hadn't her brain picked up the clue from the song? The words had said horses were a gypsy's gold.

Still, she'd sung lots of songs that had nothing to do with her life. Take “Puff, the Magic Dragon,” for
instance. But Nicolas looked truly interested and a little concerned over why they hadn't known he was a gypsy.

“I probably would have guessed you were Italian,” Jen said. “Or Basque. There are lots of Basque families around here.”

Sam stared at Nicolas, but she didn't notice anything exotic. In fact, the only thing exceptional about him was that on his otherwise smooth face, there was a wrinkle above his left eyebrow, as if he constantly raised it. What did that mean? That he was skeptical like Jen?

“My ancestors were Greek,” Nicolas said, “and my family's been in England for generations. Even though we picked up a Bulgarian last name, we're still gypsies.”

“I've never met a gypsy,” Sam said, and when Nicolas spread his arms as if he were on display, she blurted, “But you're not from Egypt?”

“Sam!” Jen gave an appalled gasp.

“What?” Sam said, turning toward Jen. “I read somewhere that—well, it kind of makes sense, doesn't it? I mean the words are alike—Egypt and gypsy.” When Jen shook her head, Sam looked back at Nicolas. “That's not right?”

“No, and I'm afraid I can't read your palm, either,” Nicolas said, snapping his fingers in pretend disappointment. “And if you left any tea leaves in
your cup…? I can't tell your future.”

Sam's face went hot with embarrassment. Was he mad because she was ignorant?

“Maybe you heard gypsies were pickpockets and con men, too.”

Nicolas's grin reminded Sam of some of the cowboys' when she'd first moved back to River Bend Ranch. But she'd kind of understood those superior smiles. They'd known she'd lived in San Francisco, and they'd assumed the boss's citified daughter didn't know anything about ranch life and wouldn't want to learn.

Well, they'd been wrong, and whatever Nicolas was thinking was wrong, too.

“I don't even know what a con man is,” Sam said. Her face stung from the deepening blush, but she wasn't about to shut up. “I just thought it was kind of cool, because I've heard gypsies are wizards with horses. That's all.”

She couldn't go on with her voice shaking, so she stopped.

“Wizards?” Nicolas asked.

Embarrassment was a black hole. A bottomless black hole, and just when she thought she'd crashed into its floor, another level opened up and down she fell.

Sam looked away from Nicolas and stared into the fire. The leafy twig Jen had fed the flames had charred into a bare stem.

Sam turned toward the grove where the Phantom had stood just minutes ago.

She'd give anything to have galloped away on the stallion's silver back. He'd carry her to a haven where they'd be surrounded by black peaks and countless stars. But no. She was still here, facing a guy who smiled while he made fun of her.

“Look,” she said.

“Sam, don't bother. You made a little mistake. Big deal. He's the one who should apologize.” Jen flashed Nicolas a hostile look, and though Sam appreciated her friend standing up for her, Jen was making things worse.

For a moment there was silence broken only by the whuffling of horses' lips over the grass.

“You think I owe you an apology?” Nicolas asked.

“Yes!” Sam and Jen said together.

Nicolas shrugged. “I was only teasing.”

“You're not very good at it,” Jen said, and her sarcasm made all three of them laugh.

“I'm sorry,” Nicolas said, still chuckling. Before he went on, Lace plodded up and nosed his shoulder so hard, he nearly tipped over. “You could have given me that hint a bit earlier,” Nicolas told the horse. Then he looked from Jen to Sam. “If we can start over, I'll explain.”

“Why not,” Sam said.

“Sure.” Jen didn't sound convinced, but Nicolas went on.

“Mostly, I'm making this journey to discover what
it means to be a gypsy. I'm just a middle-class college kid from Seattle, but my grandparents, who are traditional, old-school gypsies, say that the open road will reveal my heritage to me.”

Nicolas said the last few words in a dramatic, almost mocking way.

But
, Sam thought,
here he is
.

“My grandparents also said that
ganjo
—non-gypsies, like you,” he said apologetically, “would blame me for stuff like stealing chickens or laundry off clotheslines—”

Jen gave a snort of disbelief, then said, “Sorry, but that's ridiculous.”

Nicolas shrugged.

“Some places, gypsies have bad reputations based on old folktales. Grandfather remembers traveling in a vardo as a little kid and hiding when people came out of their towns to throw rocks and set dogs on the caravan.

“Grandmother told me a man stole his neighbor's horse and sold it, then blamed the gypsies. Her brother spent a week in jail until they found a witness to what had really happened.

“They convinced me that some people have these stereotypes….” Nicolas's voice trailed off. “So, uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I guess I kind of misjudged you before you could do it to me. Sorry.”

Sam thought it was one of the best apologies she'd ever heard.

“We hang around with cowboys, so we can take a little joshing,” Sam said, even though that wasn't exactly what Nicolas had done.

“I'm glad,” he said. “I hardly knew I was a gypsy until my grandparents came to live with us a few years ago. I mean, my father runs a car-repair shop and my mom's the bookkeeper. Neither of them have accents, unless American TV English counts. And even though gypsies are known as Travelers some places, my parents only left England for the U.S. and since then, they've stayed put.

“About the only gypsy tradition they follow,” Nicolas added, “is when someone in the family gets sick, they descend on him.”

“Descend?” Jen asked.

“Oh, yeah. They crowd the hospital room with aunts, stepbrothers, second cousins…”

“That's interesting,” Jen said.

“It's weird,” Nicolas corrected her. “When one of my uncles was in a motorcycle accident, the doctor had to elbow her way through the crowd and shout to be heard. But my dad told me we were all there to make sure he got the best of care.”

A cricket chirred through the darkness. Otherwise, the clearing was still. It was getting late, but Sam had the feeling that she and Jen had both decided to camp out there.

Nicolas's kindness to the horses, his devotion to his quirky family, and his sincere apology to them had
gone a long way toward making Sam feel he was trustworthy.

“What do your parents think of you making this trip?” Jen asked.

“They hate it,” Nicolas said. “They say the reason gypsies traveled was because they didn't have a place of their own. They say it's not about a love of the open road; it's about prejudice.

“Even though they've told me stories about prejudice, about people siccing their dogs on them, just because they're gypsies and stuff like that, my grandparents gave me Lace for high school graduation and made me a deal.”

“What was the deal?” Sam asked.

“If I finished my first semester of college with a B average—” Nicolas broke off. As if he'd noticed a change in Jen's expression, he pointed at her. “Go ahead. Ask.”

Sam gave a surprised laugh, but Jen just nodded and asked, “Okay. How were your grades during your first semester of college?”

“I earned a B plus average,” Nicolas announced. “It would've been higher, but I thought it would be fun to take a drama class and it turned out everyone in there had been on stage in a zillion high school productions, except for me.”

“Okay,” Jen said, as if she'd allow such a miscalculation.

“So, they bought me a
vardo
—a caravan wagon,”
he explained, gesturing at the vehicle behind them, “and I spent all my free time from January until June planning my route, learning how to drive, and training Lace.”

Once more, he included the horse in the conversation. “But that was the easy part, wasn't it, girl?” Then he looked at Sam and Jen. “Traveling cross-country must be imprinted in their DNA.”

“What kind of horse is she?” Sam asked.

“A Gypsy Vanner,” Nicolas said proudly. “Officially it's a fairly new breed, but her ancestors have been pulling vardos for generations. First just walking at roadsides, tolerating other horses, riders, and carriages. Then, with the coming of trains, they learned to cross the tracks moments after those loud monsters went by, and finally, they accepted all the racket of cars and trucks.”

“She has draft blood, doesn't she?” Jen observed.

Nicolas nodded. “Gypsy Vanners are a combination of black Shire horses and white Dales ponies, according to my grandmother. My grandfather claims that they owe more to trotters with no names except ‘champion who wins every time I bet on him.'”

Sam smiled and looked at Ace.

“So they're a lot like mustangs,” she said. “A lot of great breeds came together to make one amazing horse.”

Nicolas turned toward Ace. “He was once wild?”

“Yep,” Sam said proudly.

“But not the palomino,” he added.

“No way,” Jen said.

Sam took offense, as she always did when Jen acted as if Quarter Horses were better than mustangs, but then Sam thought of the Phantom. He was a mustang more beautiful than any other horse in the world.

“I'm sorry we scared them away—the wild horses,” Sam said.

“Don't be,” he said. “I was surprised to have them visit again.”

Sam didn't tell Nicolas that the Phantom had probably been drawn by his music. Nicolas seemed like a good guy, but she refused to tell anyone anything that would make the stallion more vulnerable.

“I admit that's why I camped here a second night, to see if they'd come back,” he said. “Lace is the only horse I really know, and though she pretends to like my music, I'm always wondering if she's just being polite because I'm the keeper of the hay.”

So much for my secret,
Sam thought. Nicolas had guessed the horses were drawn to his music.

“You do play the violin well,” Jen admitted, “and I like the lyrics of your song.”

“I can't take credit for that. The tune's a lullaby my grandmother sings, and the saying is from my grandfather. I kind of put them together. I haven't written anything down, so it keeps changing.”

“But the horses like it,” Jen said.

“They came for the water,” Nicolas said, gesturing toward the stream, “and stayed for the entertainment—the best for miles around,” he joked.

Just then, all four horses threw their heads high. The colt hid behind Lace.

“Did you hear anything?” Sam asked the others.

“No, but it could be a smell.”

Even as Jen spoke, Sam saw Ace's nostrils flare wide and he took a noisy breath.

“It's the coyotes,” Nicolas said. “Last night I watched them dancing.”

“Dancing?” Jen repeated.

“Maybe I was in the mood to see magic after the wild horses came to my camp last night,” Nicolas conceded, “but I saw a female and her pup playing in the moonlight and it looked like they were dancing.”

Sam grinned. “Give him a break. He's from Seattle.”

“Yeah,” Nicolas echoed. “I can take you to where I watched from last night, if you want to take a chance on seeing them again.”

“I want to see!” Sam said.

“You can ride double on Lace,” Nicolas offered.

“If you're sure she's not too tired from pulling the wagon,” Sam said, trying to overcome her bounce of excitement.

“She's been lazing around camp all day. Besides, I've seen her work all day, and then, if she gets excited, jump right off the ground.”

“I'm sold,” Jen said, then pointed to Sam. “You can drive.”

While Sam and Jen tethered Ace and Silly, Nicolas slipped a worn leather bridle onto Lace.

Sam lifted the reins. The connection to the snaffle was instant, but she felt Lace's attention shift to Nicolas as soon as he began walking away from camp.

“She knows where you're going,” Sam said.

When Nicolas only nodded, Sam heard the echo of her voice and decided she'd better be quiet. Sneaking up on coyotes would definitely require silence.