Heartstrings (11 page)

For a moment, he watched two sparrows. They flew low, skimming very close to the ground. He listened. The noises he heard were louder than usual and sounded closer than they actually were. And he could smell the river and the cedar thicket as if he were standing near them.

He mounted, keeping tight hold of the reins of the third horse. “I don’t deal with tears well, Miss Worth.”

“But why would I have wept? I wouldn’t have been afraid.”

He smirked. “No? Well, let me tell you something. You might know a dozen foreign languages. You might know all that psychology stuff. You might be a walking dictionary of big words, and you might know the name of every blasted star in the damned sky. But you don’t have the
ordinary
sense to be afraid of three armed outlaws following you.”

His retort hurt. “I wouldn’t have been afraid, Mr. Montana,” she said softly, “because you are with me. If you believe I have failed to pay heed to your skills, then you are mistaken. My regard for you is very real, and I speak the truth when I say I feel safe with you.”

He searched her face intently, finding her faith in him echoed in the depths of her whiskey eyes. She barely knew him, but she trusted him.

She was the first woman who ever had. Something tender tried to come to him, but then a sudden thought erased it. “Well, if you’ve got so much confidence in me, why’d you think you had to come help me with the thieves? Didn’t you think I could handle them by myself?”

“I did see them race into the field, but I thought little of it. As you told me to do, I continued to wait in the woods. After a while, I became quite tense, and I mounted your stallion. It was my intention to walk him through the forest, but in a matter of seconds he sprang into a full gallop and ran into the meadow. I am an accomplished horsewoman, but I have never ridden a steed like yours. He is as rugged as the mustang you had me purchase in Oates’ Junction, but he possesses all the speed and grace of a Thoroughbred. What can you tell me about his bloodlines?”

“Nothing,” he replied, not about to reveal the precious secret. And damn her for coming so close to guessing at it! “Let’s go. We can cover at least five or six more miles before the rain starts.”

“Rain?” Theodosia peered at the sky. “It is not going to rain. Those are cirrostratus clouds and indicate fair weather.”

He urged Secret and the third horse up the slope. She certainly had lost her faith in him quickly, he mused. “It doesn’t make any difference what kind of clouds you see, Miss Worth. It’s going to rain.”

She smiled indulgently. It was not going to rain, but further arguing over the matter was futile.

The stubborn man would just have to realize his error himself.

T
heodosia stood beside the wagon,
the rim of her bonnet drooping over her forehead, her hair plastered to the sides of her face, neck, and shoulders. Cold, pelting rain drenched her clothes, seeped into her shoes, and sent shivers coursing through her. Flashes of distant lightning forced her to close her eyes.

Lightning.
For years she had tried to rid herself of her fear of it. She could not. The mere mention of it brought back the day she’d seen it kill her parents. “Miss Worth?” Though dusk had settled over the windswept land, there remained sufficient light for Roman to see the expression on her face. It went beyond apprehension.

Terror gripped her.

He didn’t like seeing her afraid, and the fact that he didn’t confused him. Why should he care if she was scared?

He didn’t. It was just that—well, she might start crying, he convinced himself.

He secured the horses to the branches of a bluewood tree that had fallen into the rocky ravine, and ambled toward her, noticing she’d tossed several burlap sacks over her parrot’s cage. Calmly, he placed the cage on the ground beneath the wagon bed.

The bird taken care of, he tried to decide what he was supposed to do with Theodosia. The only fears he’d ever soothed before had belonged to horses.

Wondering if a calm attitude would be contagious, he leaned against the wagon, folded his arms across his chest, and caught raindrops on his tongue. “Have you ever done this, Miss Worth?”

She watched rain splash onto his outstretched tongue, and shook her head.

He could hardly believe there was really a person in the world who had never caught raindrops on her tongue. “Try it,” he said, grinning.

His lopsided smile failed to charm her out of her fear. “I’m afraid.”

“Of rain?” He saw that her eyes were wet. With raindrops or with tears, he didn’t know. An uneasy feeling came over him. “Look, don’t cry. You said you felt safe with me. You said—”

“I am not crying, I am not afraid of rain, and your guns cannot protect me from what I fear.”

“But what—”

“Why did you have us travel so slowly when the rain started?” she demanded. “Why couldn’t we have hurried to find shelter?”

Because he knew profound fear was behind her anger, he did not react to it. “Hurrying would have overheated the horses. Then we would have stopped, they’d have stood in the cold rain, and they’d have gotten a sudden chill that might have killed them. Miss Worth, what is it that you’re afraid of? What—”

Before he could question her further, another crooked finger of lightning severed the dark shadows in the sky. In the next instant he nearly lost his footing as Theodosia threw herself at him.

He enfolded her in his arms and understood then that it was lightning that frightened her. She was right; his guns couldn’t hold lightning at bay.

Keeping her next to him, he retrieved a thick blanket from the sack of supplies in the back of the buckboard, then forced her to the ground and beneath the shelter of the wagon.

They lay side by side. Her shudder shaking his arms, he covered her with the blanket and gathered her close.

“Hold me,” she whispered.

“I am.” He frowned when she began to squirm. It was almost as if she were trying to crawl inside him. He draped his left leg over her hip.

The heavy weight of his leg somehow comforted her. She buried her face in the warm, moist crook of his shoulder and caught the fragrance of sunshine clinging to his skin. The scent not only reassured her that the storm would end, it also aroused her senses. “I’ve—I’ve never been in a man’s arms before.”

“Yeah? And what scientific thing are you thinking about being in mine?”

His gentle teasing deepened the feeling of security that continued to steal over her. “I’m pondering your impressive pectoralis major, deltoideus, and biceps brachii.”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You like my arm muscles.”

“And chest muscles,” she added with a smile. “Mr. Montana? About the rain—how did you know?”

He slipped his fingers beneath the wet strands of hair that were stuck to her face and slid them away. “The birds were flying close to the ground, Miss Worth. The sounds were sharper, and everything smelled stronger than usual. Three sure signs of rain.”

His explanation busied her mind and freed it from all lingering thoughts of the storm. “Sluggish air. Heavy air. Yes, yes. That would cause the birds to fly low, just as it would intensify odors and noises. I’ve never considered that possibility but have only utilized the cloud formations to forecast the weather.”

In that moment she felt deeper respect for him blossom inside her. She lifted her face to him and smiled. “You have taught me something I did not know, Mr. Montana. Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me.”

He’d never considered reading rain signs to be wisdom. The knowledge hadn’t come from a schoolbook; he’d just sort of picked it up somehow and had always thought of it as normal sense.

She had called it wisdom. And she’d expressed gratitude for having learned it from him.

Her appreciation tugged at the same odd yet tender emotions he’d felt earlier in the afternoon. They seemed to radiate from his chest, spreading slowly and warmly through him.

Like the effects of whiskey.

He stiffened. A man lost all sense, all control, when he had too much to drink, and that was exactly how he felt now. Like a man made senseless, not by liquor, but by a
woman.

A beautiful whiskey-eyed woman who fully planned to get herself pregnant, give the baby away, and then sail off to Brazil to discover the miracle cure for baldness within the moist and mysterious depths of beetle mouths.

And he thought he felt something for a woman like that?

He smiled at his own foolishness. It was a damned good thing he’d be rid of Theodosia by tomorrow.

Her lunacy was obviously rubbing off on him.

Chapter Five

S
eated upon a small stool
in the front room of Dr. Wallaby’s house, Theodosia looked at the long wooden table cluttered with glass slides, scraps of paper scribbled with notes, and big clear jars that housed live specimens of various insects. No less than six microscopes were scattered throughout the tiny room, and the tall bookcases that lined the walls were filled with leather-bound volumes. On one of the two whitewashed windowsills sat bundles of dried bluebonnets, a magnifying glass, a piece of petrified wood, and a small brown package with Roman’s name on it.

Dr. Wallaby was out. Wondering where he was and when he would return, she glanced at the front door.

But it was Roman who walked through it, her big blue trunk balanced on his broad shoulder. As he had in Oates’ Junction, he handled the chest seemingly without effort. Only the bulge of his muscles betrayed the fact that it was exceedingly heavy.

Memories of the night filtered through her mind. She and Roman had remained beneath the wagon, and she’d slept in his arms, warm and safe in spite of the storm. Upon awakening, her first sight had been of his piercing blue eyes. She’d wondered if he’d watched her all through the night. The possibility, for some reason, had given her a thrill she’d never before experienced.

“That’s the last of it,” Roman said after setting the trunk down in a corner with the rest of her belongings.

His deep rich voice set her every nerve to tingling. “There’s a packet on the windowsill for you, Mr. Montana.”

He retrieved and opened it. Quickly, he counted the money it contained, then stuffed it into his pocket and glanced at Theodosia.

Sunshine streamed in from the window behind her, painting her hair, cheeks, and the heart-shaped ruby brooch at her throat with soft, pretty light. Her small white hands were folded in her lap, and delicate white lace encircled her wrists. She wore pink, the same color as the little flowers that grew near fence posts. He noticed those flowers sometimes. He didn’t know what they were called, but he knew Theodosia would.

The pink made her look very young, and very innocent. Well, hell, he thought, she
was
very young and innocent. Her genius didn’t hide that.

He shifted uneasily. Her vulnerability, like some sort of halo, glowed all around her, and he wondered if she would be all right. She knew a lot of things, but she wasn’t much good at taking care of herself. She’d probably be eaten by a crocodile the second she set foot in Brazil.

He thrust his fingers through his hair. Dammit, his time was his own now! The days, weeks, months, and years of taking care of women were over. And that was what Theodosia was too. Just some daft woman he’d happened to meet and would now leave.

There was no way in hell he’d play the fool again. He threw back his shoulders. “I’ll be going now, Miss Worth. Watch out for crocodiles in Brazil.” He spun toward the door.

“Would you wait with me, Mr. Montana?” Her own question startled her, as did the odd emptiness she felt inside. Had it really been only three days ago that she’d looked forward to parting company from this stubborn and arrogant man? “Dr. Wallaby isn’t here, and I—”

“He’s probably out looking for bugs. The man spends so much time with the damned things that he’ll probably turn into one before long. And we arrived way ahead of schedule. He wasn’t expecting us until tonight.”

“Still, I would appreciate it if you would wait with me. We could talk for a while. You pushed the horses so hard today that we had little opportunity to converse.”

“I thought you were in a hurry to get here.”

“I was, but I—”

“Well, here you are, and just as soon as the King of Beetle Spit gets back, the two of you can get to work on all the things you’ve been planning to do. While you’re waiting, why don’t you memorize your sex-treat book?
One
of you should be a master at the art of lovemaking, and I can promise you now that it won’t be your human fossil of a lover.” He started for the door again, but stopped once more when she called to him.

“Good-bye then, Mr. Montana. And thank you ever so much for all you have done for me.” She smiled.

Her gracious smile looked like honey to Roman, glistening, slow-spreading, and every bit as sweet. It drew him toward her.

Dr. Wallaby would be the first man to make love to her.