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

eat! Work!”
    We laugh at each other a little, then sigh and follow after her toward the fireplace between the wagons, which holds the black pot with steam rising. A row of children are huddled around it, munching on what appear to be hot cakes. They smell divine. I’m so hungry now that’s all my mind can focus on, and the red-haired woman drops her broom and fishes out a couple of cakes with a stick from the black pot for Creek and I. Wolfing down the first bite, it nearly scalds my tongue—but the taste is out of this world. Within a few more bites, my mouth is an explosion of almond and vanilla, and the light sweetness goes to my head.
    I reach in my hand for another, tossing the cake between my palms as it cools. I hear laughter as I greedily stuff it into my mouth.
    “Good, ya?” says a blonde, portly woman across the fire. She has bright cheeks and braids over her head and looks Swedish or German—and that’s when I truly notice some of the other gypsies. Since we arrived at nightfall yesterday, I assumed everyone was dark haired and tan. But now, in broad daylight, I realize this isn’t a traditional gypsy band at all. A few men and woman look Romanian or Hungarian, like you’d expect, but the rest are blonde, red-haired, fair or freckled—as though they’ve come together from all over Europe. The one thing they have in common are their creative clothes. There’s lots of ribbon and embroidery and crazy-quilt-style patches, as if bright colors are highly valued. And though they sometimes seem to be muttering in different languages, a welcoming smile is universal.
    Creek nudges next to me, chomping on another hot cake. “You remember the trailer park at Turtle Shores, right? How the misfits all banded together to make a family.” He nods his head at a man walking by with an awkward limp. “Here, they’ve found their family, too.”
    “So I’m the heir apparent to the . . . misfits?” I smirk, remembering all the charming crazies at Turtle Shores—the only people I’ve ever known in my life who made me feel like I belonged.
    Creek slings his arm around me. “Not much has changed, sweetheart,” he laughs. But his eyes soften at the sight of a few old men seated beside a wagon who softly stroke their violins with bows, filling the air with a profound beauty. Some of them don’t have teeth or hair, and one has a patch over his eye. But together, they make the morning sound exquisite.
    “
Poshrats
,” I hear a soft, familiar voice say. Turning around, I see Zuhna again. She’s holding a leather apron in one hand, and her empty suede pouch in the other, with a smile curling over gold teeth. The sight of it makes me blush, and I hope we didn’t offend her. “We are the wanderers,” she says. “Some are
zingari
—gypsy. Others only part, or not at all. But we all travel. And work.”
    She turns and points to a silver Airstream trailer beneath a tree, surprisingly modern in this setting. But next to it is a burly man with an anvil on a tree stump, pounding out horseshoes.
    “You—time to get busy,” she nods at Creek, handing him the leather apron. “Your woman comes with me.”
    My eyes grow wide, wondering what she has in mind. I watch Creek walk off to the blacksmith, tying the apron around his neck and back before he sneaks a look over his shoulder to check if I’m all right. With a deep breath, I give him a nod and follow after Zuhna to an old-fashioned wagon, painted red on top with lovely scroll designs on the sides beside its door. All around us are other traveling people on chairs and tree stumps, stitching blankets, stringing beads for jewelry, sharpening knives, or tooling leather. These are the wares they’ll eventually sell at markets, I assume. When we reach the wooden steps of the wagon, Zuhna pats her hand to feel for the wrought-iron handle and opens the door wide.
    “Come, it’s time for you to stop looking like an American,” she says gravely, inviting me inside.