Free Gypsy Moon by Becky Lee Weyrich Page A

letting the gajos know the full truth on any subject.”
    Charlotte eyed the other woman speculatively. If this was so, how much of Tamara’s story could she believe? And how could she live in an atmosphere of falsehood and fairy tales?
    Once again, Tamara seemed to be reading Charlotte’s thoughts. Quietly she said, “One thing I will tell you about Mateo which you can believe, totally. Always his people will come first—before personal desires, ambitions… even before love.”
    Charlotte felt a blush stain her cheeks. Was this a warning from the perceptive Gypsy fortune-teller?
    “How can love even be considered in a family that still arranges marriages?” Charlotte answered, an edge of bitterness in her voice.
    Tamara patted her hand in understanding. “Our ways are our own. The very fact that you question them shows that you could never give your heart to Mateo without reservations, Charlotte. Besides, he is different from the others—” Tamara quickly cut off her words as if she’d said more than she should have to an outsider.
    “Different? How? I don’t understand, Tamara.”
    “I’m sorry, my friend. It is for Mateo himself to explain, if he should choose to. Now I’ll go for our food.”
    Left alone, Charlotte had time to examine her surroundings while she mulled over Tamara’s words. The tent was partitioned by colorful curtains into several small rooms. The earthen floor was hard-packed and covered by lush Brussels carpets. The table and four chairs were beautifully carved, with touches of gilt on the trim. An oil lamp with rose-tinted glass and heavy, leaded-crystal prisms hung from the ridgepole. A glassed-in china cupboard held the dishes, and two other chests, painted blue, completed the furnishings in the main room.
    Charlotte pulled aside the deep-amethyst-colored curtain. There on the floor, like a cozy nest, lay a pallet of soft rabbit skins. A heavy robe of black fur served as blanket and counterpane. Charlotte couldn’t resist the urge to lie down for just a moment. In spite of her gnawing hunger pangs, weariness took priority. Within seconds after she’d settled herself in the warm, caressing pelts, she was asleep.
    Charlotte awoke disoriented. The room was dark and close with the dry heat of autumn. Music drifted to her from somewhere beyond the walls. She listened, trying to place the unfamiliar sounds. She could make out the sad sighs of a violin, accompanied by the low throb of a drum and the trills of a flute. From time to time, she heard wild yelps interspersed through the song.
    Indians! she thought, clutching the pelts beneath her. But the feel of the fur in her fingers soon brought her back to reality. Not Indians, but Gypsies ! Could one be less of a threat to her than the other? A kind of hopelessness settled over her, but she forced herself to shake it off. There must be a way out of this. She would bide her time and pick the moment for her escape.
    “Oh, you have awakened at last,” Tamara said, peering in around the edge of the curtain.
    “At last? How long have I slept?”
    “Through a day, a night, and a second day. I was worried, but Mateo said I should leave you to your rest. He said your journey was long and your strength dissipated by the manner in which you came to us.”
    Charlotte laughed out loud at the delicate phrasing Tamara used to refer to her kidnapping by Petronovich. The girl misunderstood her reaction.
    “Ah, good! You’re feeling better. Mateo will be so pleased.”
    Charlotte walked into the lighted room, taking stock of her ruined nightgown and wondering what she would do for clothes, since everything she owned was still at the Planters Hotel in Leavenworth.
    “Why should Mateo care? He’s washed his hands of me.”
    Tamara frowned at her guest. “I do not understand about this washing of Mateo’s hands you speak of.”
    “It’s an American saying. What I mean is that I didn’t think Mateo cared in the least about what happened to me from