My Special Angel

“Marcia Evanick is in splendid form here, delighting readers with her marvelous blend of love and laughter.” --
Romantic Times

“Book after book, Evanick demonstrates why she is tops when it comes to affectionate and gentle romantic tales.” --
RT Book Reviews

“Ms. Evanick has a rare talent for touching our hearts with her engaging characters and special magic” --
Romantic Times

First published in paperback by Loveswept, 1994.
Electronic Edition Copyright 2012 Marcia L. Evanick
www.MarciaEvanick.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.

To Gail and Joan,
Thanks for never being more than a phone call away.

Owen J. Prescott felt the noose tighten around his neck and yelled, “Are you people out of your minds? Stop it!” The rough rope tying his hands together dug deeper into his wrists.

His feet slid on the hood of the dented station wagon, and he hurriedly regained his balance. He couldn’t believe it: His life at the grand old age of thirty-three was about to be ended by a group of ranting Gypsies waving their arms and shouting in some language he didn’t understand.

The burly man who had placed the noose over Owen’s head jumped from the car, leaving him standing alone. Owen wasn’t positive, but they seemed to be yelling at each other now and not at him. He hoped that was a good sign. He was extremely partial to his fifteen-and-a-half-inch neck.

Of all the ways to die, this was definitely not his first choice. He would prefer a scenario that included black satin sheets, lush, creamy thighs, long blond hair, and a Swedish accent. He wanted his smile to be so wide that old Harvey down at the local funeral parlor would have to work overtime to remove it.

Owen glanced around and noticed that the group of men seemed to have forgotten about him standing on the hood of the car with a noose around his neck. He wasn’t likely ever to forget; he was planning on telling the sheriff about it as soon as he could figure a way off the Kandratavich ranch. By nightfall either he would be swinging from the end of this rope or the entire Kandratavich family would be looking at the world from behind iron bars. Crows Head, North Carolina, was well known for its rolling foothills, spectacular beauty, and warm hospitality, but this was pushing it too far.

The shouting men were busily gesturing to an approaching group of women and children when the sound of flying horse’s hooves caught everyone’s attention. The women crossed themselves and hurried forward; the children ran to keep up with their mothers and buried themselves deeper in their colorful skirts. The men slapped their battered hats against their thighs and appeared to be cursing.

Thunder seemed to shake the ground as a huge black stallion quickly ate up the distance and was pulled to a death-defying stop mere inches away from the group and the car. Owen had an impression of smoke billowing from the beast’s nostrils as it tossed its mighty head and stomped the ground. He instinctively took a step backward and felt the rope dig deeper into his neck. His gaze slid from the animal to the woman riding him bareback, and his heart seemed to stop. She was breathtakingly beautiful and looked as wild as the mountain laurels that graced the Great Smoky Mountains. Her eyes were dark and just the right size to drown in. Her hair was a curtain of near-black silk, and her pouting mouth was ripe as wild strawberries. Her colorful skirt was yanked around the top of her thighs, giving him a mouth-watering view of small feet sporting blood-red toenail polish and legs that ended somewhere in heaven. Owen felt his heart resume its pounding, somewhere in the middle of his throat. To hell with the blond hair and Swedish accent—this deathbed angel could have him without a struggle.

Nadia Kandratavich pulled her horse to a halt and forced herself to smile pleasantly at her father and uncles. She had seen what was going on from the second story of her house and had set off before anyone could be hurt. Nadia’s smile faded when she noticed the discoloration and swelling under her father’s right eye. “What’s going on, Papa?”

Milosh scowled at the amount of bare leg she was showing in front of the stranger. She sighed and adjusted her skirt, much to the condemned man’s disappointment. Milosh nodded his head and started to speak.

“English, Papa, you are now in America,” Nadia said, interrupting him.

“This gadjo deserves to dance upon the wind.”

“What’s a gadjo?” demanded Owen. He had no idea what it was, but he’d deny he was one with his dying breath.

Nadia looked at the man standing on the hood of her uncle Zanko’s car for the first time. Despite the noose around his neck he looked confident, proud ... and gorgeous. His jaw was tilted at a defiant angle, and fire burned in the depths of his eyes. “It means a person who is not of Gypsy blood.”

Owen frowned but kept his defiant stance. He directed his gaze to the lovely woman sitting bareback on the monstrous black beast of a horse. This petite, dark-eyed beauty who seemed to vibrate with life and understanding was the only one who appeared to be listening to him. She also appeared to have some control over the situation. “They are going to hang me because I’m not a Gypsy?”

Nadia smiled. “They were not going to hang you.”

He was momentarily thrown off-balance by the brilliance of her smile. It held confidence, a touch of sadness, beauty, and hinted at secrets. He was grateful for the confidence, appreciative of the beauty, and intrigued by the sadness, but above all he yearned to discover her secrets. Returning her smile, he turned his body slightly so she could see that his hands were tied. He glanced up once, following the thick rope from his neck to a sturdy branch of the oak tree overhead. “If they aren’t going to hang me, why am I about to be treated like a pinata?”

“Pinata?” questioned Nadia.

“A papier-mache object that is hung from a tree or another high place.” He saw her frown and tried to describe it further. “When you break it open, candy comes pouring out.” He bit back a smile as four dark-eyed children peered out from behind their mother’s skirts. They had obviously understood the word candy. “If you can convince your father and his friends to untie me, I promise to send you the biggest pinata I can find.”

Nadia laughed at the look of delight spreading across the youngsters’ faces. She sadly shook her head at the handsome man standing on top of Uncle Zanko’s newly purchased automobile. “I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer.”

“Why not?” demanded Owen. He knew a pinata had been a lousy bribe, but he had been exploiting the group’s curiosity. What else would an uncivilized group of Gypsies want in exchange for canceling this one-man necktie party?

“Because it would be cheating.”

“Cheating who?”

“You.” Nadia glanced down at her father, three uncles, and two of her four brothers. “They weren’t going to hang you. For some reason they wanted to put a scare into you. When I rode up, they were arguing among themselves if you looked scared enough yet.” She smiled brilliantly. “You didn’t.”

Milosh, Nadia’s father, crossed his arms and glared at his daughter. “You know not what he did.”

“What did he do that was so offensive, Papa?”

“He called your aunt Celka and Sasha swindlers and cheats.” Milosh pushed out his chest as his brothers, Rupa, Zanko, and Yurik, joined him in his stubborn stance. “The Duke would have shot him, but since you won’t allow us any guns, we decided to string him up.”

“Ellington wouldn’t have shot a soul,” cried Owen.

Nadia chuckled softly. Someone was obviously a music buff, or he had absolutely no knowledge of cowboy movies. “My father was referring to John Wayne, not Duke Ellington, Mr ... ?”

“Prescott.” He politely nodded his head. “Owen J. Prescott.”

“Prescott?” Nadia worried her lower lip between her teeth. “As in Prescott Realty, Prescott Hardware, Prescott Construction, and Prescott Feed Mill?”

Owen clicked the heels of his shoes together and bowed as far as the rope would allow him. “At your service, ma’am.” He smiled rakishly. “And with whom do I have the privilege of conversing on this fine summer’s day?”

She paled to a deadly shade of white and whispered, “Nadia Kandratavich.” She turned to the group of men and, breaking her own rule, started to wave her arms and shout directions in a foreign language.

Within seconds Owen found himself breathing easier, as the noose was pulled back over his head and his hands were quickly untied. He refused the helping hand proffered by the same burly man who had set him on the car in the first place. With a smooth jump Owen landed on the ground and started to brush the dirt from his once immaculately pressed pants. “I know you and your family are all relatively new to Crow’s Head, but we have a tradition here.” He glanced up at Nadia and straightened the collar of his white short-sleeved shirt. “It’s called hospitality.”

She lost the remaining color in her cheeks. “Mr. Prescott...”

“Nadia.” He liked the sound of her name as it rolled over his tongue. It tasted foreign and exotic, just as she would. “My name is Owen.”

There was no way she was calling him by his first name. The town of Crow’s Head should have been named Prescott, Prescottville, or at least Prescott Junction. General Jeremiah Prescott, of the Confederate Army had his own bronze statue decorating the square in the middle of the town, complete with a fierce rearing horse and half an acre of blooming flowers surrounding him. Every other building in town boasted the name Prescott, including the name of the mortgage company that held the deed on this ranch. Owen J. Prescott could wipe her out with one stroke of his pen. “Mr. Prescott...”

“Owen.” He flashed her a brilliant smile.

Nadia swallowed hard and muttered, “Owen, then.” She glanced at her two aunts. “What did Celka and Sasha do?” She silently added, this time.

Owen looked at the group of Gypsies and tried to pick out Celka and Sasha by their guilt. He couldn’t. Of the four older women standing there, none looked guilty or ashamed. All their weather-beaten faces were tilted up at a proud and stubborn angle. “They sold my aunt Verna a case of bottled water and claimed it was from the Fountain of Youth.”

Nadia muttered an explicit curse in Russian and then quickly prayed to a saint for forgiveness. Her family was driving her crazy. Didn’t they realize how much she had sacrificed to get them all out of war-torn Europe and into the United States? All she had asked in return was for them to obey the laws, learn English, and stay out of trouble. Obviously even that was too much to ask. “Celka, Sasha, where is his aunt’s money?”

A woman who appeared to be in her early forties stepped forward. “Half is in our pockets, and the rest is in our bellies,” said Sasha.

“How much did you spend on food?”

“Fifty-eight American dollars,” answered Celka.

The horse shifted nervously as Nadia’s fingers tightened involuntarily on the reins. Her once-plump nest egg was already down to the size of a golf ball and growing smaller every day. She loosened her grip on the reins and gave her mount a gentle pat. “Easy, boy.” The horse calmed immediately. “Give Mr. Prescott what money you have left and an apology. I’ll repay the rest, and hopefully he won’t press charges against you two.” She glared at her remaining family. “I can’t say the same for the rest of you. What you did to Mr. Prescott was wrong. I know that you weren’t really going to hang him, but what if he had had a weak heart and had died from the fright?” She made eye contact with all the men standing there. “All of you would have been sent to prison for murder.” She was somewhat relieved to see their sorrowful expressions. “Before you do something so stupid again, think about spending the rest of your lives behind bars, never to dance under the skies, to sleep under the stars, or hold a loved one close.”