Free Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) by Diane J. Reed

right, I nod to myself. He
is
.
    But when one of them pulls out a knife—or is that a machete?—with a shiny steel blade as long my forearm, I instinctively hold out my hand before Creek can intervene.
    And they all take a step back.
    I swear, I thought I saw the biggest guy among them tremble.
    What the fuck? I feel as if I could slice my arm in the air and they’d part like the Red Sea. Do they think I possess some kind of magical powers?
    Strangely enough, Creek remains motionless and silent at my side, flanking me as close as a shadow. Yet I can feel the tension rising in him as he scans the small group, his mind tallying precisely what it would require to kill each one of them if they get anywhere near me.
    So much for taking refuge among the gypsies.
    I draw in a deep breath, feeling lied to by a bunch of capricious ghosts. These people look like they want to kill me—not exactly like they’re ready to hide us or hand us a bowl of the stew they’re cooking over their campfire.
    “I’m looking for my mother,” I blurt out, troubled by their response and hoping to all hell they might understand a little English.
    And that’s when she approaches as softly as a night breeze. I feel her before I see her, this woman who slinks up like a cat from behind me in the fading daylight. She is all darkness—a tangle of sable hair that threads over ink eyes, wearing a ruffled maroon blouse and a dusky riding coat that cinches at her waist and fans out at her hips, extending all the way to her ankles with a slit up the back as if she were about to ride sidesaddle. If I didn’t know better, I’d peg her as Catherine, that wild and tempestuous creature from
Wuthering Heights
—the last novel I was forced to read before bolting from my old high school for good.
    Creek eyes the woman fiercely, as if she might have a dagger up her sleeve. And there’s no doubt in my mind he’s already planned how to break her neck.
    But she doesn’t look at him.
    She doesn’t even look at
me
.
    Though we stand shoulder to shoulder, her gaze is steady upon the flames of the campfire that make her dark eyes and caramel skin glow.
    “Your mother,” her voice sounds deep and lush, like the throbbing of an old song, “she’s already here,
shebari
.”
    At that moment, the fire crackles and snaps, flickering as red as the ruby in my pocket.
    And my heart leaps with the flames.
    Oh God, is she playing me? I wonder. I reach out to grab Creek’s hand for strength and he squeezes it, knowing full well how desperately I want to find my mother. But then his grip tightens and holds me firm, as if to say
Don’t believe everything you hear. After all, they’re gypsies
.
    “Come,” the woman says, waving us toward the campfire. “You need food and rest.” She points to a black pot—a cauldron, really—that’s boiling with a heavenly-scented stew.
    Though gentle, her words make the men fall away from us like attack dogs that’ve been warned to back down.
    Except for Creek.
    Like a wolf, his eyes track my every move, allowing me to follow her to the black pot before he steps into the tree shadows just beyond the fire’s range, glaring at each of the gypsies in spite of his hunger.
    But I can’t stop myself. When the woman dishes some stew into a wooden bowl, I yank it from her hands like a feral child and spoon it into my mouth in large gulps.
    It’s
crazy
good!
    Hunks of tender lamb and potatoes spiced with paprika and herbs that’s so over-the-top delicious I pray it doesn’t possess some magical spell. I feel selfish devouring it in front of Creek. Quickly, I spoon several more helpings from the pot back into the bowl and step beyond the fire ring to hand it to him.
    When I turn around, the gypsies are gone—
    All but the mysterious woman who served me stew.
    “No-no,” she waves her hand with a wry smile, as if reading my mind. “No
mulani
. There are no ghosts here.” In the campfire’s glow, two of her front teeth shine gold.