Heartstrings (27 page)

“How do you—”

“If you start feeling the least bit bad, you have to tell me, Theodosia. Promise me you will, or I won’t make the first move to find your bird.”

She knew he’d keep his vow. “I promise.”

Satisfied, Roman took hold of the mustang’s bridle and began to walk, his gaze never lifting from the ground.

“What is it you see?” Theodosia held the wagon’s sides while watching Roman in action.

“There was a heavy dew last night. When John the Baptist walked through this grass this morning, he had sand on his feet, and it came off on the wet grass. We’re lucky that the grass grows in patches surrounded by sand. Every time your parrot left grass, he got into more sand, and then into more wet grass. The dew is dried now, but sand is still stuck to the grass. We have a trail to follow.”

Though fear for her parrot and pain from her head wound continued to plague her, Roman’s explanation amazed her. While living in Boston, she’d spent thousands of hours in the company of brilliant people, but she’d never once come across anyone who possessed the marvelous skills Roman demonstrated now.

She knew then that if it was at-all possible for someone to find John the Baptist, that someone was Roman Montana.

An hour later, he proved her right. Theodosia spotted John the Baptist. Although he resembled little more than a gray blob in the far distance, she knew it was he. His red tail feathers acted like a beacon.

The bird sat perched on the horn of a steer skeleton, calmly preening his feathers. “Roman, there he is! Oh, please, let’s go collect him before he meanders away again!”

Roman didn’t move. Something wasn’t right. He saw nothing alarming, but his every instinct warned that danger lurked just ahead. Still as steel, he watched and waited for evidence of the peril.

It came in the form of a man. Hidden in an oak thicket and blending in with his rustic surroundings, a Comanche warrior pointed a lance straight at John the Baptist.

Chapter Eleven

R
oman reacted instantly and retrieved
his rifle from the sling on Secret’s saddle. In the next moment he fitted the weapon to his shoulder, narrowed his eyes, and sighted along the rifle barrel.

Theodosia watched him point the gun at John the Baptist. “Roman! Dear God, what are you doing?” Pulling herself to her knees, she tried to grab his shoulder.

She caught thin air and toppled out of the wagon.

Deaf to her horrified screams, Roman curled his finger around the trigger and fired just as the lance left the warrior’s hand.

Frightened into speechlessness by the sharp crack of gunfire, Theodosia raised her head from the ground and watched something long and slender fly out of the oak forest. She couldn’t determine what it was but knew only that it sped directly toward John the Baptist.

Before she could scream again, the sailing object came apart in the air, splintering into two pieces that fell harmlessly to the ground.

Roman lowered his rifle, and keeping his gaze directed straight at the warrior, he assisted Theodosia back into the wagon bed. “Why’d you throw yourself out of the buckboard?”

“I did not throw myself out, Roman. I fell out while trying to keep you from shooting John the Baptist. You—”

“I spent a whole damned hour following bits of sand to find him for you! Why would I have gone through all that and then killed him?” God, would he ever get used to her complete lack of common sense?

She nodded and swept her hair out of her eyes. “Yes. Yes, of course you’re right. You wouldn’t have shot John the Baptist, but I—I panicked, Roman. I wasn’t rationalizing. It all happened so quickly, and I couldn’t understand what you—” She looked into his eyes. “What
was
that thing you shot?”

Roman watched the Indian vanish into the woods, but the man’s disappearance in no way settled his apprehension. The warrior was without a mount, which was highly unusual for a Comanche brave. And from what Roman had been able to see, the warrior’s lance had been his sole weapon.

With no horse or arms, the warrior would surely attempt to get those necessities somehow.

Dammit! Roman raged. This morning he’d battled a pack of wolves, and he suspected that he would soon be forced to fight a Comanche warrior. “Roman?”

“I shot a Comanche lance. The warrior was going to kill John the Baptist, probably out of fear. I doubt seriously that he’d ever seen an African parrot before today, and Indians are—well, they’re suspicious of things they don’t recognize.”

“A Comanche warrior?” Theodosia scanned the entire area but saw no sign of the Indian. “How did you see him? Where—”

“Sunlight hit the metal tip of his lance. When I saw the flash, I saw the warrior.”

“You—Roman, you shot the lance,” she whispered as if in prayer.

“Would you rather I’d shot the warrior?”

“What? No. No, of course I wouldn’t have wanted you to shoot the warrior. But you—”

“I aimed for the lance because I knew the warrior was just about to throw it.”

She couldn’t fathom his blasé attitude. For goodness’ sake, he’d hit a flying lance from a distance of at least a hundred yards! Another man would have bragged about and celebrated such marksmanship.

But not Roman. He made use of his skills when he had to, and when he had no further need of them, he put them away, like a shirt he didn’t feel like wearing anymore.

Her profuse admiration for him moved her to embrace him.

Instantly, Roman thrust her away. “Theodosia, get down in the wagon.”

She started. His voice sounded like wheels churning through gravel, and she realized immediately that he would stand for no argument on her part. As she slipped into the pallet he’d made for her in the wagon bed, her heart skipped several beats when it dawned on her that Roman had spotted the Indian again.

“Stay there,” Roman instructed her. His fingers whitening around his rifle, he watched the Comanche warrior step out of the thicket and walk toward the wagon, a small bundle in his arms.

By heading straight toward a white man’s loaded rifle, the Indian showed incredible bravery, stupidity, or desperation, Roman thought. He tensed in preparation for whatever he would have to do to protect Theodosia.

Finally, the Comanche stopped near the wagon, knelt, and slowly placed the bundle on the ground. His black eyes never leaving the armed white man in front of him, he unwrapped the parcel and then stood.

Roman saw a Comanche infant lying amidst the cloth. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered when the baby began to wail.

Disturbed by the sound of the infant’s wailing and Roman’s curse, Theodosia sat up. One look at the warrior caused her to gasp with surprise. Wearing nothing but a buckskin breechcloth and the cloak of his thick black hair, he stared directly into her eyes. Taken aback by the intensity of his dark gaze, she looked away and glanced at the baby at his feet. The naked male child appeared to be about four months old, and as Theodosia listened to his cries, her heart went out to him.

“Roman,” she murmured, “the baby—”

“He’s probably the warrior’s son,” Roman replied. “The mother must have died somehow.”

Filled with pity, Theodosia held her aching head and began to climb out of the wagon. But she stilled instantly when the warrior spoke.

“Mamante,” he warrior said, laying his hand on his chest. “Mamante.”

“His name must be Mamante,” Theodosia said. She tapped her own chest. “I’m Theodosia. And this man, is Roman. Roman, tell him who we are.”

“You just did, Theodosia. Now get back down in the wagon.”

Mamante pointed to the mustang hitched to the wagon.

“He wants my horse,” Theodosia speculated. Mamante patted his belly, then crouched to rub the baby’s belly as well.

“He wants to eat my horse,” Theodosia added.

Roman resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “He doesn’t want to eat your horse. He wants to
ride
your horse and get food from us. Now, for the last time, get back down in the wagon.”

When Roman made no move to assist the Comanche, Theodosia struggled to her knees. “Aren’t you—Roman, aren’t you going to supply him with the things he needs?”

Roman heard the disbelief in her voice, but he concentrated on the warrior, noticing that dark bruises shadowed Mamante’s chest and abdomen.

Defeat shone from the brave’s somber eyes. His arms dangling at his sides, his shoulders slumped forward, he presented a vivid picture of a man bereft of all strength, stripped of all pride.

Roman handed his rifle to Theodosia, slipped his knife out of the sheath tied to his thigh, and assumed a fighting stance.

“Roman! You cannot mean to battle this unarmed man with a knife!”

“Stay out of this, Theodosia.”

She had no time to object further. Mamante moved away from the infant, Roman stalked him, and the fight began.

Roman swung the dagger in an arc, barely missing Mamante’s face. He then lunged forward, ramming his head into Mamante’s stomach and causing the warrior to double over. Before Mamante could catch his breath and straighten, Roman knocked him to the ground with a powerful side kick to the chest.

Flat on his back, Mamante clutched handfuls of dirt and closed his eyes. A long moment passed before he struggled to his feet. Heaving, he staggered as if intoxicated, swinging his fists through empty air.

Theodosia felt nauseated by Roman’s vicious treatment of the weakened Indian. “Roman, stop this madness! You’re going to
kill
him!”

In answer, Roman slammed his fist into Mamante’s jaw, causing the brave to spin in the dirt and fall once more. Again, Mamante rose from the ground. He stood motionless, his back bowed, his head hung low.

In an effort to force Mamante to summon the strength to fight back, Roman moved toward the squalling infant. When he reached the baby, he stood directly over him and gave Mamante a grim smile.

Fear for the child froze Mamante to the spot for one short moment. And then, fury radiating from each part of him, he released an ear-splitting war cry and sprang forward, knocking Roman well away from the child.

Still on his feet, Roman raised the dagger directly above Mamante’s head, anticipating the Indian’s response. Instantly, the warrior grabbed and squeezed Roman’s wrist.

Having received the exact reaction he wanted, Roman pretended to struggle for possession of the blade, then jammed his knee into Mamante’s belly. As Mamante slipped to the ground, Roman fell with him. Rolling in the dirt the two men continued the battle for the knife.

Finally, Roman slowly unfurled his fingers from around the hilt.

Screaming a second war cry, Mamante yanked the knife from Roman’s hand. Both men rose. Roman stood still, but Mamante leaped backward. His black eyes gleaming, he threw himself back to the ground and somersaulted toward his adversary.

As Mamante rolled past him, Roman tensed in preparation for the sharp pain to come. Though he knew it would happen, he made no move to prevent it, and in the next second he felt a sharp pain rip through his thigh. Clutching the knife wound, he turned in time to see Mamante charging toward him again, dagger in hand. Roman took one long step to the side, and just as Mamante raced by, he took hold of the warrior’s arm. Leaning backward, he shoved his foot into Mamante’s belly and allowed himself to fall on his back, thus tossing the brave over his head.

Dazed, Mamante stared at the sky for a moment before realizing he’d dropped the blade.

Get the knife, dammit!
Roman demanded silently.

Mamante lifted his body from the ground with his left arm and stretched his right arm out toward the weapon, but he fell back to the dirt when Roman kicked his supporting arm. Panting, Mamante curled into a ball and rolled directly onto the dagger. Clutching it with both hands, he bolted to his feet and slowly began to circle Roman.

Though he knew full well that the Comanche would fight to the death, Roman had no intention of allowing the battle to continue. Mamante’s exhaustion was obvious, and Roman would not force the courageous warrior to expend what little strength he had left.

It was time to be defeated.

He charged toward Mamante, who responded by leaping into the air and kicking both feet into Roman’s chest. When Roman fell, Mamante knelt by his head, grabbed his hair, and held the knife to his throat.

Roman lay still and silent, pretending a wild-eyed expression he hoped Mamante would interpret as fear.

“Roman,” Theodosia called, her voice almost a whisper. “Mamante.” Standing in the shade beneath a massive oak tree, she held the Indian baby close to her breast, and with a wealth of emotion in her eyes, she begged the men to cease fighting.

They looked at her and saw her tears, which trickled down her cheeks and fell upon the infant in her arms.

Silently, Roman congratulated her. He realized she had no idea how poignant her tears and helplessness appeared as she cuddled the baby while witnessing such violence, but he knew the Comanche warrior would be deeply moved by her concern for his son.