Heartstrings (6 page)

They’d vanished.

And every instinct Roman possessed told him they’d left to follow the scent of gold.

H
e found her buckboard fifteen
minutes out of town, stopped beside a persimmon thicket. Her trunk of gold was still in it.

But Theodosia wasn’t.

“Here I am again, Secret,” he muttered to his stallion. “Right back where I started, taking care of women. Which means I’m as stupid now as I was then. Damn that asinine Worth woman to hell and back!”

But even as he spat the curse, his apprehension rose.

He dismounted swiftly and secured Secret to the back of the wagon. Both Colts drawn, he followed the trail of footprints that led into the grove of trees and soon came upon a scrap of lace-edged white silk on the ground. Crumpled beside a rotting log, it was spotted with what could only be blood.

He stuffed it into the waistband of his breeches and proceeded deeper into the woods. The sun-dappled persimmons gave way to dense patches of willow and cottonwood, which grew near slushy areas of stagnant water. The musty smell of plant rot filled his nostrils, somehow intensifying his anxiety. He quickened his pace, soon exiting the thicket and coming to a leaf-strewn slope.

At the bottom lay Theodosia, face down.

In his haste to get to her, he slipped in the thick layers of leaves and made the downward trip on his belly. When he finally stopped, he found himself nose to nose with a wide-eyed Theodosia.

She’d taken off her bonnet. Her golden hair poured over her shoulders like streams of melted butter and looked just as soft. He almost reached up to touch it, but the impulse passed when he remembered why he’d come after her. She was supposed to be hurt or dead, but the confounded woman didn’t have a scratch on her. On the contrary, she was looking at him with bright, curious eyes that held not a tinge of discomfort.

“What the hell,” he rasped, as if he had gravel in his throat, “are you doing?”

With the exception of Upton, she’d never been so physically close to any man. Roman’s thick black hair pooled over her hands, causing tingles to glide up her arms. His breath whispered across her cheeks, and the heat of his body filtered toward her, warming her as surely as the sunshine pouring down from the endless Texas sky.

“Miss Worth,” Roman ground out.

“Yes?” Blinking, she touched her fingers to her forehead and tried to remember what he’d asked her. “I—my goodness, my mind has gone blank. Such a thing has never happened to me before.” She sat up and saw she held a fistful of bright red phlox. “Oh, yes. I was gathering these—”

“I thought you were dead!” Roman knifed to his feet and stuffed his Colts back into his belt.

His shouting served to bring back her presence of mind. “Dead, Mr. Montana? But what might have killed me?”

He noticed her velvet bag hanging from the crook of her elbow. It was safe, her trunk was safe, she was safe. He decided not to tell her about the three men. If he did, she’d probably cry with fear, and he’d dealt with enough female tears to last him several lifetimes.

He yanked out the blood-splattered scrap of silk. “What else was I supposed to think when I found this? Then I find you sprawled facedown at the bottom of this—”

“That is a piece of my petticoat. I cut my wrist on a nail that protrudes from the seat of the wagon, and I stemmed the bleeding by using a bit of my petticoat to apply pressure to the wound. I’m sure the lesion will heal quite nicely, and—”

“I don’t give a damn about some stupid scratch on your wrist! What the hell are you doing out here?”

She picked a few more phlox and smiled. “I was and still am collecting these fine samples of
Phlox drummondii.
It is cultivated in Boston gardens, but I have never had the opportunity to see it growing wild. Lying on the ground better enabled me to examine it. It is not only the visible elements of plants that interest me but the root system as well. Would you care to hear an amusing story about the Polemoniaceae family, Mr. Montana?”

“Why would I want to hear a story about a family I don’t even know, Miss Worth? And what the hell does that have to do with those flowers?”

She smiled gently and raised her crimson blossoms. “Phlox belong to the Polemoniaceae family. It is not a human family but a plant family.”

“A plant family?” He looked at her flowers, then touched three of them. “Don’t tell me. This is Papa Flower, this is Mama Flower, and this is Baby—”

“Excuse me if I interrupt your witty flow. You see, Mr. Montana, plants and animals are classified—”

“Never mind all that scientific hogwash! Now get back to the wag—”

“But I was going to relate the amusing story. In 1833, a Scot by the name of Thomas Drummond visited this area to collect a wide variety of specimens. He harvested more than seven hundred species of flora. These,” she said, holding up her flowers, “he liked especially. So he sent seeds to Edinburgh. From Edinburgh, the plants were marketed all over Europe. Finally, they reached Boston and New York, where they became highly prized. The New Englanders, you see, were under the misconception that this plant was a rare and fine European import. Several years passed before they came to realize that it was actually a lowly native of the Republic of Texas. Now, isn’t that one of the most amusing anecdotes you have ever heard?”

“Hilarious. Now, get back to the wag—”

“Thomas Drummond died of cholera.”

“Sad. Now, get back to the wag—”

“I was under the impression that you were not going to accompany me on my journey, Mr. Montana.” She rose from the ground, careful not to crush her phlox. “I haven’t had the slightest difficulty with my travels as of yet.”

“No? I thought you wanted to get to Templeton.”

“That is precisely where I am—”

“Templeton’s near the coast.” He retrieved his hat from the blanket of phlox and slid it on his head. “Keep traveling north, and in about nine or ten days, you’ll cross into the Oklahoma Territory.” He waited for her reaction to his revelation. Surely someone as smart as she was would be embarrassed by having made such a dumb mistake.

“How do you know I’m traveling north? Are you carrying a compass?”

“No, I just know.”

“But how—”

“For God’s sake, I’ve lived in Texas all my life! I know what it looks like, smells like, sounds like, and feels like. Hell, I can even
taste
it! I know what is where, and where is what. Rivers, animals, rocks—everything has a way of telling me where I am. Now, get back to the wag—”

“But what if you were lost outside of Texas? How would you—”

“I’d study the trees and wind!” Totally irritated, he started toward the embankment.

“The trees and wind, Mr. Montana?” She hurried to join him, her insatiable curiosity not to be denied. “But what would it be about the trees and wind that would aid you?”

He spun to face her, instinct telling him that she, wasn’t going to give up until he answered her question. “The tops of tall trees lean toward the strongest sunlight, which comes from the east. Trees felled by strong winds—and not by rot, lightning, or human hands—fall toward the south because it’s usually a norther that’s felled them. And last, the direction of wind doesn’t normally change during the day. If a southern wind is at my back in the morning, it’s probably a southern wind at my back in the afternoon. All right? Satisfied?”

She deliberated upon his explanation, finding it quite sound. “How interesting. And what—”

“Can we start for Templeton now. Miss Worth?” Roman demanded. “Or would you rather keep beheading this flower family and then continue on toward the Oklahoma Territory?”

Lifting her skirts, she started up the hill. “I assure you, Mr. Montana, that by nightfall I would have realized my error in direction. I would have understood immediately that I was following the North Star, which, of course, would have alerted me to the fact that I was traveling north. To find the North Star, I would simply have had to locate the constellation Ursa Major. Across from said constellation is another, Cassiopeia. Cassiopeia is composed of five stars. The North Star is located between the middle star of Cassiopeia and the star at the end of Ursa Major’s bowl. So you see? I would not have even come close to the Oklahoma Territory.” She reached the top of the slope and continued into the dim thicket.

Following her, Roman decided that the three would-be gold thieves presented no danger to her. She was perfectly equipped to defend herself by attacking them with her intellect.

They’d die of sheer boredom.

And he had no doubt that he would meet the same fate before reaching Templeton.

Chapter Three

T
ugging at the neckline of
her thick flannel nightgown, Theodosia emerged from the private spot she’d found in the woods.

Roman decided her nightwear was about as sexy as a burlap sack. Irritating though she was, she did have a few nice curves he’d hoped to get a peek at.

“I’ve never bathed in a moonlit stream before, Mr. Montana. Nor have I ever eaten rabbit cooked over an open fire.”

How like a woman, he thought. No matter what a man did, they were never satisfied. “The nearest hot-water-filled tubs and restaurants are in Wild Winds, a town about five miles northwest of Templeton. A cool stream and charred rabbit are the best I can provide. If you don’t like it—”

“My goodness, Mr. Montana, I voiced no complaint. What reason do you have to become so defensive?”

Reason? he repeated silently. He had thirteen years worth of reasons, and every time he thought of them he cursed himself for a fool.

Never—not for as long as he lived—would he be stupid enough to bow to a woman’s bidding again.

“Mr. Montana?”

“What?”

Theodosia shrank back. He’d growled the word. Indeed, if he had had fangs, she felt sure he would have bitten her. He was quite the most fascinating study of hostility she had ever encountered.

“Are you going to stand there staring at me all night, Miss Worth?”

She sat upon her sleeping pallet, hugged her bent knees to her chest, and watched the dying flames of the campfire. Overhead, branches of post oak and blackjack rustled in harmony with the warm and gentle night breeze. She was going to enjoy her first night under the stars. It would prepare her for the nights in Brazil, where she would most likely sleep in the jungle. “What was it that changed your decision not to accompany me to Templeton, Mr. Montana?”

“The money,” Roman lied from his spot on the other side of the fire. He tossed his empty plate aside. Taking a long swallow of water from his canteen, he appeared relaxed.

But every fiber in his body tensed with readiness. No sound escaped his attention. He’d checked the campsite thoroughly and had discovered no sign of the outlaws. It occurred to him that he might have been wrong in thinking they were after Theodosia’s gold. Maybe they’d given up the hunt.

Ha! The sooner he got Theodosia to Templeton, the safer she and her dizzying amount of gold would be. “We’ll be traveling hard tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

John the Baptist spoke before Theodosia could.
“Przjez caly dzien wczoraj wozil buraki z pola.”

Theodosia laughed.

Roman had the distinct impression that woman and bird were making fun of him. “What are the two of you talking about?”

“
Przez caly dzien wczoraj wozil buraki z pola
is Polish and means, ‘All day yesterday he was carting beetroot from the field.’”

“Beetroot? Why the hell is he talking about beetroot?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying, Mr. Montana. He’s merely repeating what he has heard. Several months ago, Upton entertained a Polish doctor, and the beetroot statement was one the man told us we could practice in order to get a better feel for the language. John the Baptist remembered it.”

“John the Baptist,” Roman mused aloud, shaking his head. “Why’d you name him that?”

The parrot stretched out his neck. “Any simpleton could figure that out!”

Theodosia smiled. “For as long as I’ve had him, he’s had the terribly rude habit of throwing water at people. After the first few times I saw him do it, I decided to name him John the Baptist. He’s an extraordinary pet. He can mimic not only human speech, but animal sounds and other common noises, such as the rattle of carriage wheels upon streets. It doesn’t matter what sort of sound he hears, he can imitate it. But he often speaks when he should not, and he possesses the annoying aptitude for saying things at the most inappropriate times.”

John the Baptist nibbled at a piece of the apple Theodosia had given him, then spread his wings and opened his beak.

The sound of gunfire rent the air.

Both pistols drawn, Roman bolted to his feet, ready to shoot at the first thing that moved.

Theodosia smiled inwardly. “Mr. Montana?”

“Quiet,” he whispered, staring into the dark shadows of the woods.