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Authors: Becky Lee Weyrich
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you for his wife.”
His words came like a physical blow. Charlotte could only stare at him in stunned silence.
Chapter 5
Staggered by Mateo’s pronouncement, Charlotte meekly allowed herself to be led toward the bright blue brides’ tent. She felt numb and strange, as if her spirit were disconnected from her body and she were viewing the whole scene from the top branches of one of the tall cottonwoods that grew along the stream near camp.
She was keenly aware of the sound of the breeze stirring the trees, of the aroma of wood smoke and rabbit stew cooking, of the feel of rough buffalo grass stabbing her bare feet. But Mateo, although his guiding hand rested on the small of her back, seemed only an indistinct shape, hazy and undefined in her mind’s eye. Her whole existence had taken on a dreamlike quality in the past hours—tipping back and forth from fantasy to nightmare at a moment’s notice.
What quirk of fate had put her on a collision course with these Gypsies? Had this queer turn in her life been written in the stars since the beginning of time? Or had the whole direction of her future detoured the instant she’d stepped down from the train in Leavenworth, Kansas? Just thinking of so many unanswerable questions made her head ache.
“Wait here, please,” Mateo said, snapping Charlotte out of her trancelike state.
She watched him walk ahead several paces. To her eyes, Mateo resembled some pagan woods god with his broad shoulders gleaming rich bronze in the early-morning light and his hair like a dark crown forged in Hades but brushed with the pure gold of Heaven. His buckskin britches fit like a second skin over narrow hips and well-developed thigh muscles before disappearing into soft leather boots.
The sheer animal power of his physique sent a tremor through Charlotte. She tried to look away, to deny her own thoughts and desires. But try as she might to put Phaedra’s words from her mind, the suggested vision of her own naked flesh, pale beneath the Gypsy-copper of Mateo’s strong, demanding body, persisted.
He turned suddenly, as if sensing the drift of her thoughts. In that instant, their gazes met and held. Although Mateo’s face was unlined, Charlotte could see the troubled frown deep in his black eyes, like storm clouds on the far horizon. Then the expression changed, growing softer, almost pleading with her to understand.
But how could she understand a man whose eyes held love while his lips refused to speak the words? What kind of man would turn the woman he desired over to await the coming of her marriage to another?
“Mateo,” Charlotte whispered. She moved toward him, one hand outstretched in supplication.
He looked away, breaking the fragile spell between them, and turned to the fancifully painted wooden door set into the side of the brides’ tent. Reaching for the string of small, hammered-silver bells that hung there, he gave them a vicious jerk. Even while the merry chimes echoed through the early-morning stillness, Tamara opened the door and motioned for Charlotte to enter.
A brief, uncertain moment passed as Charlotte reached the entrance and Mateo. His fingers brushed her hand with a feather-light touch as if his impulse were to grab hold and keep her with him. Surrounded by a misty haze of morning sunshine, they stood staring at each other with an intimate intensity that shut out the rest of the world.
Charlotte’s very soul ached when Mateo offered her a melancholy smile. Slowly he bent toward her, his lips parted, beckoning hers. She closed her eyes and her whole body tensed, awaiting the sweet pressure, longing for the taste and feel of him once more.
But only his breath teased her waiting lips as he said, “Good-bye, Charlotte. I must leave you now.”
Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes. She felt as if he were casting her into the yawning black depths of a whirlpool instead of showing her to a comfortable place to rest.
“You will be safe here, little one, until the
His words came like a physical blow. Charlotte could only stare at him in stunned silence.
Chapter 5
Staggered by Mateo’s pronouncement, Charlotte meekly allowed herself to be led toward the bright blue brides’ tent. She felt numb and strange, as if her spirit were disconnected from her body and she were viewing the whole scene from the top branches of one of the tall cottonwoods that grew along the stream near camp.
She was keenly aware of the sound of the breeze stirring the trees, of the aroma of wood smoke and rabbit stew cooking, of the feel of rough buffalo grass stabbing her bare feet. But Mateo, although his guiding hand rested on the small of her back, seemed only an indistinct shape, hazy and undefined in her mind’s eye. Her whole existence had taken on a dreamlike quality in the past hours—tipping back and forth from fantasy to nightmare at a moment’s notice.
What quirk of fate had put her on a collision course with these Gypsies? Had this queer turn in her life been written in the stars since the beginning of time? Or had the whole direction of her future detoured the instant she’d stepped down from the train in Leavenworth, Kansas? Just thinking of so many unanswerable questions made her head ache.
“Wait here, please,” Mateo said, snapping Charlotte out of her trancelike state.
She watched him walk ahead several paces. To her eyes, Mateo resembled some pagan woods god with his broad shoulders gleaming rich bronze in the early-morning light and his hair like a dark crown forged in Hades but brushed with the pure gold of Heaven. His buckskin britches fit like a second skin over narrow hips and well-developed thigh muscles before disappearing into soft leather boots.
The sheer animal power of his physique sent a tremor through Charlotte. She tried to look away, to deny her own thoughts and desires. But try as she might to put Phaedra’s words from her mind, the suggested vision of her own naked flesh, pale beneath the Gypsy-copper of Mateo’s strong, demanding body, persisted.
He turned suddenly, as if sensing the drift of her thoughts. In that instant, their gazes met and held. Although Mateo’s face was unlined, Charlotte could see the troubled frown deep in his black eyes, like storm clouds on the far horizon. Then the expression changed, growing softer, almost pleading with her to understand.
But how could she understand a man whose eyes held love while his lips refused to speak the words? What kind of man would turn the woman he desired over to await the coming of her marriage to another?
“Mateo,” Charlotte whispered. She moved toward him, one hand outstretched in supplication.
He looked away, breaking the fragile spell between them, and turned to the fancifully painted wooden door set into the side of the brides’ tent. Reaching for the string of small, hammered-silver bells that hung there, he gave them a vicious jerk. Even while the merry chimes echoed through the early-morning stillness, Tamara opened the door and motioned for Charlotte to enter.
A brief, uncertain moment passed as Charlotte reached the entrance and Mateo. His fingers brushed her hand with a feather-light touch as if his impulse were to grab hold and keep her with him. Surrounded by a misty haze of morning sunshine, they stood staring at each other with an intimate intensity that shut out the rest of the world.
Charlotte’s very soul ached when Mateo offered her a melancholy smile. Slowly he bent toward her, his lips parted, beckoning hers. She closed her eyes and her whole body tensed, awaiting the sweet pressure, longing for the taste and feel of him once more.
But only his breath teased her waiting lips as he said, “Good-bye, Charlotte. I must leave you now.”
Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes. She felt as if he were casting her into the yawning black depths of a whirlpool instead of showing her to a comfortable place to rest.
“You will be safe here, little one, until the
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