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

“I’m sure they’re already trying to find you.”
    A chill works its way down my spine.
    “They?” I reply to test her.
    “Alessia’s family,” she says impatiently, walking up the steps. “They always try to destroy the Gypsy Queen.”
    “What did they do with her?” I scamper into the wagon filled with an old stove and quilts and pillows, a lot like Granny Tinker’s. “Did they dump her in an institution in the mountains? Where is it—”
    Zuhna merely pats the stone at my breast. I flush with embarrassment, realizing she knows it’s still there.
    “You will see after tonight. And then you will go find her.”
    “How?” I ask breathlessly, but she places her finger gently on my lips.
    “In time. You must get ready now.”
    For the love of God, sometimes I want to slap her. But she’s blind, and I can’t exactly draw a map to Alessia’s whereabouts myself. I have to wait and trust her instincts. I can hear the ringing of Creek’s hammer against the anvil outside, and I still wish he was with me as a buffer against Zuhna’s spookiness. Just as I’m about to open my mouth and suggest I go out there to help him, Zuhna cuts me off.
    “Strip,” she says. “Your clothes. Now.”
    She heads to the wagon door and shuts it.
    Before I can utter a word, she’s turns and lifts my t-shirt over my head.
    “W-What—why?” I stutter, shocked by her boldness. Her fingers are working nimbly at my jeans button, in spite of my efforts to push away her hands.
    “You hush, and behave your-self,” she orders, tossing aside my sneakers. She feels her way to a bench cabinet and opens it up, pulling out a skirt and pretty cotton blouse with bell sleeves.
    It’s a lovely peasant blouse, embroidered with intricate chains of flowers and leaves over the yoke. I notice that Zuhna’s face softens, becoming more tender than I’ve ever seen before, and it just about breaks my heart.
    Was this hers as a younger woman, or maybe her daughter’s once? Something about its soft and pristine cotton seems like an heirloom.
    Whatever the case, I can tell Zuhna’s attached to it, and it’s no small gesture that she’s giving it to me. For a traveling woman of few possessions, this blouse might very well be one of the most treasured things she owns.
    She cradles the fabric in her arms and holds it out to me like an offering.
    “Here, this was mine once. On my wedding day.”
    I pause, my mouth falling slack, hesitant to accept it.
    “Zuhna,” I protest, “I can’t take something so valuable from you. Don’t you have another gypsy-style blouse or anything?”
    “Do you love him?”
    The blush that travels from my cheeks to the rest of my body with lightning speed surprises me in its prickling heat.
    I remain quiet for a moment.
    “Of course I do,” I reply breathlessly, as if it’s something I’m ready to fight for. “With everything I’ve got—”
    “Good,” she nods. “Then you wear this tonight.”
    There’s no arguing with Zuhna. With her shoulders held back and her mouth in a straight line, she hands the blouse to me whether I like it or not. I smile a little, running my fingers over the intricate embroidery that feels like silk.
    “Thank you,” I whisper, still not quite comprehending her generosity. Out of respect for her, I climb out of my jeans and into the skirt she’s pulled out, then look around. There’s a pair of leather boots on the floor—with rounded toes and a buckle on the side like motorcyclists wear. They’ll have to do.
    “Do I look gypsy enough yet?” I ask her, suddenly realizing my mistake. My cheeks burn hot.
    Zuhna just laughs—a long, deep cackle, filling the wagon.
    “Ya,” she nods. She smoothes my skirt down over my hips and pats down the puffiness of my sleeves. Then she sets her hands on my shoulders. “But you need one more thing.”
    As she unbuttons her riding coat, I get a better look at her clothes, too. Her blouse is maroon with ruffles beneath a black vest