River to Cross, A by Yvonne Harris Page B

She raised an eyebrow at Jake who, after one tiny sip, carefully set his glass down.
    Elizabeth smiled at his expression. She leaned over and patted his hand. For a few hours at least, life had returned to normal.
    They took turns, passing the nine-month-old baby from lap to lap and feeding her with their fingers from their plates.
    Elizabeth looked over at Jake as he let the baby lick his fingers. His face was different, soft and half smiling, the cleft in his chin deepening. He leaned back in his chair and gave Elizabeth a long, bored look.
    Liar , she thought. Reaching out, she rested her hand on his forearm and felt the muscles tighten beneath his shirtsleeve. Despite that easy, casual attitude, he was as tense as she was. She wondered if she’d ever understand a man whose eyes told her one thing but whose lips said something quite different.
    He acted as if he were three different men rolled up into one.
    His public image was that of the dedicated Ranger—in control, determined, a man with all the charm of a wolf about to spring on its prey. That one strode into a roomful of men and held a gun on them, brazenly taking charge. That one raised the hair on the back of her neck.
    Then there was the serious man who smiled easily when around friends, as comfortable with judges and abbots as he was with cowboys. An officer who joined the Rangers and took up the cause for justice because nobody else would. If he stayed in the Army, he’d probably wind up running it.
    And finally—her throat tightened—there was the private Jake Nelson, the man she’d only caught glimpses of when he momentarily dropped the mask. The toughness disappeared then, replaced by a gentleness no one knew he possessed. That one had kissed her with such exquisite tenderness she’d nearly wept.
    Who was he now? she wondered.

     
    As soon as the meal was over, they all followed Nadia outside, dragging their chairs and cushions with them and arranging them in a semicircle around the front of the vardo.
    When Nadia went back inside for another pillow, Elizabeth said softly to Jake, “Do all Gypsies live like this?”
    He nodded. “Most of them. They’re treated like pariahs everywhere, here and in the U.S. No one trusts them; they can’t get jobs.”
    “Ever have any work for you?” she asked, watching the open door of the vardo for Nadia.
    “Not in the Rangers.”
    “Why not?”
    “Mainly because they can’t qualify. To join the Rangers, you must own a good horse, saddle, the best weapons. That all costs money, which most Gypsies don’t have. Also, they have a reputation as being the best thieves and pickpockets in the world. I don’t know as I believe it—I never wanted to take the chance. But now I think I would.”
    He returned a big wave to Laszlo, who was walking up and down the rows of vardos inviting everyone to come meet his new friends from Texas.
    To Elizabeth’s surprise, they came almost at once. The word was out. The Texas Rangers were among them. Still, they acted wary, for most of them had never seen, let alone talked to, a Texas Ranger.
    Handsome, sharp-eyed men led their wives and families over to see what kind of man he was.
    In Texas, they were The Law.
    At first, the questions came at Jake slowly, and then one after the other, questions about the government—Mexican as well as American. Jake answered them all. Questions about the Rangers, about how much money he made, about his family. When they asked about his father, he explained how they used to fight, all the drinking, and his leaving home when he was fifteen. “Not good,” he said.
    Gypsy faces softened. A few men nodded and moved closer, appreciating his honesty. They understood. Many of them had similar childhoods.
    Elizabeth was moved as well as she heard him speak of his background.
    Answering a question about defensive tactics, he drew diagrams with a stick in the dirt. When he finished, he drove the stick into the ground and pointed to them and then to