The Judge and the Gypsy (3 page)

“I probably should have taken you back to town. But it’s time I learn why you’re haunting me.”

“Haunting you?” She hadn’t expected the direct approach. She laughed uneasily, her confidence wavering. “Am I?”

The sound of her laughter seemed to ripple across the silence. “Yes, dammit. Since I first saw you on the patio, you’ve been driving me crazy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She forced her gaze away from his strong face to his hands, which gripped the steering wheel with an unsettling intensity, and wondered for a fleeting second what they would feel like caressing her flesh. What was happening to her? She couldn’t back down now. She’d learned enough about the judge to know that he couldn’t accept not knowing. That would be the key to her reaching him. “Until now,” she said as evenly as she could, “we’ve never met.”

He didn’t believe that for a minute. But he could see that direct confrontation wasn’t going to work. “Technically you’re correct.”

He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We have never met. I’ll accept that, for now. Let me ask you another question—where did you come from?”

She knew that his gaze saw through her, probed her inner recesses and aroused unwonted and disconcerting feelings within her, and she protected herself by looking away. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It only matters where we go from here, doesn’t it?”

She’d been prepared for disbelief, questions, accusations. But the curious, calm acceptance by the man beside her was unexpected, and therefore intriguing. Who was becoming bemused?

Judge Webber wasn’t especially tall, but he gave the illusion of height and strength. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and there was a shadow of stubble across his chin that enhanced his virility. His dark blond hair was neatly cut, but his tendency to run his fingers through it kept it permanently tousled.
His masculinity filled the cab and threatened to engulf Savannah.

In his courtroom, where she’d disguised herself so that she could watch from a back seat, his piercing gray eyes were often hidden behind thin black-rimmed glasses. Today they were unveiled, and she could feel the brunt of their disturbing penetration.

There were other differences today as well. From a distance she hadn’t noticed the strong beat of his pulse, exposed by the open button on his shirt, the way an unruly lock of hair fell across his cheek, the tightening of the muscles in his upper arms when he turned the wheel. From a distance she hadn’t noticed his disquieting maleness. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as easy as she’d thought.

From the first she’d liked his voice. There was a resonance there, a boldness that said he was willing to enter a debate and give it his best shot. But he didn’t rattle easily, and he wasn’t going to make it simple for her to defeat his innate logic. She’d forced him to take her along, and he’d agreed. Now it would be a cat-and-mouse game until one of them became the victor. Fine, she’d accept the challenge. She would win.

“Perhaps you’re right, mystery lady. Perhaps it isn’t the destination but the journey that’s important.”

Everything about this woman challenged him. She was a puzzle to be solved, and he was more than game. For the first time in months he felt fully alive, body, mind, and soul. “Do you consider yourself a philosopher?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t think so. Though I believe that we each have a function in life. I suppose you could call me a voyager.”

“A voyager? A traveler, an adventurer—in search of?”

“Knowledge, I suppose. Truth. And what are you?”

“
Knowledge? Truth?
Rasch felt a tingle of unease. She’d given back the answer he might have spoken. “If I had to put a name on my life’s mission, I’d have to say that I’m a crusader.”

She turned her dark eyes on him, fusing her gaze with his to the point that he lifted his foot from the gas for fear of running off the road. “So we both travel the same path.”

“Perhaps. A crusader and a voyager, each with a quest.”

“Ah, then you are searching too.” Her voice was almost a whisper, though it was clear and passionate. “What are you seeking?”

“What all crusaders seek, I suppose—wisdom, justice. I try to make things better, to right certain wrongs.”

“And are you always right, Judge Webber?”

“How do you know my name?”

She broke the connection by raising her gaze to the sheaf of papers stuck behind the visor.

He followed her movement and read the name on the envelope that threatened to slide from its niche.
The Honorable Horatio Webber
, superior court judge, it said, and gave his office address.

So she wasn’t psychic and she wasn’t a mind reader. Her powers were strong, the vibration of his nerve endings attested to that, but she relied on normal answers just as any other mortal would.

Mortal? Why had he even thought that? He was getting squirrely. What he needed was coffee and food. Surely this creature of his imagination ate
human food. He was going to have a hard time finding pomegranates and figs in the mountains of north Georgia.

“Shall we have breakfast together? There’s a little place up the road where fishermen and hunters stop for a good meal. Nothing fancy, but it’s filling.”

“Fine,” she said, and rewarded Rasch with a smile so warm that it brushed away the last of the gray fog in his mind. She was a woman, and he was a man. Perhaps that was enough.

So maybe there were no figs and pomegranates in the North Georgia Mountains. Maybe she’d settle for coffee and doughnuts. Not food for the gods, but they were hot and sweet, and hot and sweet seemed just about right.

The Gold Rush Grocery and Café was tucked into a hollowed-out place in the side of the mountain. There were three parking spaces and room for one camper. This morning most of the regulars had already come and gone, so Rasch had no trouble stopping in front.

He climbed out and started around the jeep to open the door for his hitchhiker. He took her pack and threw it into the back, then stopped. She knew who he was, but he still didn’t have a name to call her. The passenger door opened wider, and a bare foot extended itself and slipped to the ground with a tinkling sound. He’d heard that sound before. Then he saw it, an ankle bracelet with little silver bells. She’d been so still in the jeep that the bells hadn’t made a sound.

“Is something wrong?”

Her voice sounded like the bells, which sounded like her laughter. Every movement, every sound, was
a kind of music, and he smiled again without being aware that he was doing so.

“Your feet,” he said. “You aren’t wearing shoes.”

“No.”

She closed the door and came to stand beside him. “Is that important?”

“No, I mean yes. You can’t hike a mountain trail without proper boots. You do have boots in your backpack?”

Now it was her turn to smile. “No.”

He shook his head disapprovingly. “Some preparations you’ve made! No matter—they carry hiking and camping supplies inside. You’d better buy a pair of boots.”

“All right, and tell me what else I’ll need,” she said. “The only thing in my pack is my sleeping bag and some food.”

“Don’t you know that it can get cool on the trail at night? The weather forecast is fair for the next couple of days, but in this area that can change within hours.”

“Oh, dear. I guess I ought to confess that I’ve never camped out before.”
On a trail
, she ought to have added. Circus performers spent a lifetime camping out. But she had her own van, with her own bed and supplies. This was different. “Please help me, Crusader.”

“I suppose I’d better, or I’ll end up rescuing you again.” He laughed, and Savannah found his warm laughter surprisingly sexy. She’d heard of bedroom eyes, but never of bedroom laughter. Yet suddenly she had an all-too-delicious sensation of sharing a cozy bedcover with Judge Horatio Webber. “I’ll make
you a deal,” he went on. “My help in exchange for some revelations of the truth about you. Agreed?”

“Revelations about me? All right. There are many truths, Horatio Webber. I’ll reveal mine, but only when the time is right.”

Savannah followed him inside. He didn’t know it yet, but the die was cast. She would share his journey in exchange for the truth—only she knew that there were no friends to meet her, and that the quest she was embarking on was to claim his soul.

Rasch felt a tinge of excitement. She’d agreed to tell him what he wanted to know. He wished he felt more confident about the wording of her promise.

Inside the little store, Rasch picked up white cotton socks, and brown wool ones, then helped Savannah select a pair of boots that felt to her as if she had lead weights on her feet.

Savannah exchanged the brown socks for red.

Rasch selected a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a heavy flannel shirt to go along with the boots. He gathered up packets of food and canned goods and added them to their cache. As the grocer rang up the goods, Rasch shook his head. The truth had already cost him $98.00, even before breakfast, and he had yet to hear a word of it. But to find this woman he would have paid a lot more.

Savannah wandered into the restaurant side of the building while he paid their bill and carried their purchases to the truck. He found his sultry traveling companion at a corner table between two windows. She didn’t acknowledge his presence; instead, she stared intently out of the window.

“What are you looking at?” Rasch asked, sliding into a chair across the table from her.

“There’s a chipmunk out there, beneath that rotten limb by the fence.”

Rasch looked at the spot she’d described. He couldn’t see anything except brush and trash. “Where?”

“Be very still, and he’ll come,” she said, reaching across the table, laying her hand across his. At her touch came the same jolt of awareness that he’d felt in the street. It danced across them like an arc from an electrical connection. She looked startled for a moment, then slid her hand away, but in the void left behind there was a shivery feeling almost as concrete as the sound of the bells.

“Look now,” she whispered, touching him again. Her palm felt rough, as if she’d been cutting wood or using a hammer.

At that moment the little brown animal scurried out, stopped, and looked up at the window as if he’d been called. After a long, still moment, he turned and darted away.

Savannah turned her gaze to Rasch. She didn’t speak, but somehow he knew that just as she’d communicated with the chipmunk, she was communicating with something inside him. Yet even as he felt a response well up inside him, Rasch suddenly rebelled. He didn’t like the idea that this woman was trying to control him, even in this small way. With a growl he jerked his hand away and broke the visual contact between them.

“Where’s the coffee? I’m hungry!”

Without turning her head, she answered, “It’s coming.”

It was. The waitress appeared from behind a swinging door, bearing two thick mugs, and filled
them with steaming strong coffee. She laid out napkins, butter, jelly, and a pitcher of cream.

“Your food will be here terectly,” she said in the curious mountain dialect. She studied Rasch and Savannah for a moment before she turned away. “You know you’re supposed to be wearing shoes in here, lady.”

Savannah looked startled. “No, I didn’t know, I’m sorry. I have boots in the car. Shall I get them?”

“No,” the woman said, “just keep your feet under the table so nobody will know. You don’t look like hunters.”

“We’re camping,” Rasch explained, then wondered why he did. Campers didn’t wear Gypsy skirts and ankle bracelets with bells over bare feet.

“Well, take it easy. If you ain’t used to wearing shoes, them boots are gonna do a job on your feet.”

Rasch had already considered that possibility and determined that after he got some answers to his questions, he’d persuade Savannah to turn back. It wasn’t that she didn’t belong in the mountains; everything about her said that she did. But his plan to be alone and do some serious thinking would be compromised by her presence.

Savannah didn’t comment. She wasn’t worried. Years of circus performing had callused her hands and her feet to the point that she doubted anything would hurt them.

The morning sunlight had burned off all the night mists, and the day was gloriously golden. The trees were speckled with orange and yellow and red patches where the leaves were taking on their fall colors. Fall was late this year, but now winter would come swiftly to the mountains.

Rasch hoped that the sleeping bag his companion claimed to have brought would keep her warm. Mountain air was deceptive, especially in late October. The weather report said that conditions for the next two days would be bright and clear. After that the picture became hazier. The possibility of a cold front moving in always brought the chance of unexpected rain and sometimes snow.

The waitress was back. She laid out thick white plates piled with scrambled eggs and crisp bacon.

Rasch picked up his fork and speared a section of bacon. “All this cholesterol isn’t good for the body,” he said. “I usually have bran flakes and juice.”

“That’s sensible, but the body sometimes has needs that aren’t sensible, don’t you think?”

There it was again, that burning sensation. Except this time it concentrated itself in a spot just below his left ear. The current seemed to dart down the nerve endings to his fingertips, and he could hardly grip the fork.

“Who
are
you?” he whispered huskily.

She dropped her voice and answered, “I am called Savannah.”

Not that her name was Savannah, but that she was
called
Savannah. “Why?”

“Because that is the city where I was born, in a special place in a glen of sweet grass and gentle night creatures. And you are called Horatio, which means keeper of the hours, strong, steady. Is that what your mother intended for her son, why she called you Horatio?”

“I doubt that time had anything to do with it. My mother thought that Horatio was an important-sounding name.”

“Your mother wanted fame for you?”

“I don’t know. She just liked the sound, I think.”

Savannah raised her coffee cup and took a sip. “I like sounds. I like to hear, and touch. People don’t listen anymore. And when they do, they don’t hear.”