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Unable to sleep, Vangie rose and swiftly donned her Romani garments. She wanted no part of the English today, not even in her dress. Her shawl lay neatly folded on a shelf above Puri Daj’s bed. As she grasped it, her gaze fell on her grandmother. She slept on, bundled securely in her narrow bunk. Poor Puri Daj. Even in sleep, lines of worry creased her face.

Stealthily, holding her boots, Vangie crept from the wagon. Physically, she felt no different than she had upon wakening yesterday morning. Emotionally, however, she was forever altered. Scarred.

The brisk early morning air sent stiff gooseflesh chasing the length of her arms. Shivering, she perched atop the narrow steps and tugged on her boots. Except for the birds and a sleepy dog that raised his head when she’d stepped from the vardo, no one was about yet. Wrapping the embroidered woolen shawl tighter across her shoulders, she set off at a brisk pace for the river.

It wasn’t right. She’d experienced more discomfort and bleeding the morning after losing her maidenhead than she did after losing her child. No, it wasn’t right. There was nothing the least bit right about any of it. Nothing will ever be right again.

At the river’s edge, a bevy of jays, magpies, and other hungry birds scolded her for interrupting their breakfasts. She took in the glorious sunrise as her riotous thoughts churned.

What am I to do now?

Ian used me. He cares nothing for me.

How could I not have known I was with child?

The dowager is despicable. So is Ian.

I didn’t want to love him.

My poor, sweet, sweet baby.

Desperate to stop the chattering in her mind, she let her eyelids drift shut. On and on prattled the inner voices, until she wanted to cover her ears against the silent onslaught and shriek at them to stop tormenting her.

Her eyes flew open at a particularly loud squawk from a raven overhead. She frowned at the grand display on the horizon. How could God allow the splendid pink, lavender, and coral streaks to splay across dawn’s newborn sky? The day should be dark and grim with gloomy shadows and dismal gray clouds to reflect her crushed spirit. Not this jubilant, hopeful new morn.

The joy of her love for Ian had vanished, and Vangie was certain she’d carry her sorrow for the rest of her life. The remnants of her shattered heart she’d bury under the guise of self-preservation. She’d sent him away last night, and despite his unconscionable betrayal, her soul ached at his going. God help her, she loved the knave even now.

Vangie place a hand on her flat stomach. The loss of the babe only magnified Ian’s treachery. She hadn’t known she cradled a child in her womb. But oh, how she’d wanted it.

Had it been a boy or a girl?

Stop it!

Such thoughts served no purpose.

Vangie didn’t have any aspirations about acquiring a title or wealth, or advocating for a cause—other than her Roma kin. Her heart’s desire, for as long as she could remember, was to have a child. She needed someone to love unconditionally and who would love her in return.

She wandered to a log, her boots crunching on the riverbank gravel. Sitting, she gazed at the river. A trout jumped, snatching a hovering insect.

What would it have been like to hold her baby? Her heart was full of love, waiting to be poured out on another. Except for the infrequent visits with Uncle Gideon and Puri Daj, her life had been void of love and compassion since she was six. She hadn’t felt sorry for herself. There’d always been the hope she’d have a child to love. Until now.

She’d even convinced herself Ian felt something for her. He’d been so tender—

Vangie kicked a rock. Fool. Ninny. Goosecap. Exhaling slowly, she spoke aloud. It had always helped her sort her thoughts. “Without Ian’s love, could I have been content?” She toed another round rock. “Especially surrounded by our children?” Bending over, she selected a smooth, flat greenish stone. “I would’ve loved him and always hoped he might come to love me.”

She sent the stone skimming across the burbling water. Sighing, she stood and stretched. Would that have been enough? Perhaps not for some women, but for her? Yes, it might have been. She turned her lips up. She blamed her Romani blood. Her people were perpetually optimistic.

But now? Things were different now.

Ian had intentionally sought to cause her misery. Why? Trudging through the trees on the way back to the encampment, she pressed her lips together. The unanswered question taunted her, and she shook her head in disgust. She was naive, the intricacies of love far beyond her understanding. It was one thing to harbor hopeful, adolescent fantasies about unrequited love. It was another entirely to have the object of her affection black-heartedly contrive her disgrace.

Soft nickering drew her attention. Sweeping a glance at the horses, she was caught off-guard. Ian, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, stood inside the makeshift corral speaking with Tobar. Their backs were to her, their attention riveted on a magnificent honey-colored mare prancing at the end of a lead rope.

Ian must have sensed her presence. He swiveled, his haunted eyes roaming over her. His hungry gaze lingered on her face, and she felt his visual caress across the distance.

No. She wouldn’t think of him like that anymore.

Chin tucked to her chest, she continued on her way. The ruffles of her layered skirts swished through the green blades. She lifted the fabric and carefully picked her way up the slippery slope, casting sideways peeks at the corral the entire time. She couldn’t face him. Not yet. She must to make her way to the vardo.