Heartstrings

by Rebecca Paisley

  He heard her breath quicken, and he moved in for the kill. Slowly, he drew his finger past her cheek. Over her lips. Down her throat, and finally into the valley of her breasts. She’d unfastened just enough buttons to make the task easy.

  His thumb folded against his palm, he slid four fingers beneath the low-cut edge of her lacy chemise, allowing only their tips to touch the puckered velvet of her nipple. “This,” he whispered, “is one way to touch a woman.”

  Theodosia swayed and would have fallen if Roman had not quickly captured her waist. She tried stepping away from him, but she discovered that it was not his arm that kept her to him, but her own reluctance to be parted from him. “What possesses you to think you may caress me in such a way, Mr. Montana?”

  He kept his fingers exactly where they were. “What possesses you not to stop me?” He flashed her a lopsided grin and finally withdrew his hand. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover if we’re going to make Templeton by tomorrow. As much as I like touching you and as much as you like me touching you, we’ve run out of time. I guess you’ll have to learn about the—uh…the sweet art of passion on your own.”

  For the next three hours, while she was driving the wagon, Theodosia tried to concentrate on the songs of the meadowlarks that frolicked in the branches of the oak and buckthorn trees. But the songbirds’ music could not hold her attention the way Roman did.

  He liked touching her. He’d said so himself. She couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to touch him in a similar fashion.

  She stared at Roman’s back. His massive shoulders. His long black hair and thick muscular legs. He sat tall and straight in the saddle. His hips moved. Forward. Backward. To the rhythm of his horse’s gait.

  Hips may move in a circular or back and forth motion.

  The words she’d read in the sexual treatise came back to her. Still watching the easy sway of Roman’s hips, she wondered if his movements were also those a man employed when engaging in sexual relations. Was that how Dr. Wallaby would move?

  Somehow she didn’t think so.

  Standing between his stallion and Theodosia’s horse and holding the steeds’ bridles, Roman watched the choppy Colorado River slosh over the sides of the ferry. He realized the current flowed more swiftly now than it had when he’d crossed the river on his way to Oates’ Junction.

  “This ride is precarious at best,” Theodosia stated, peering over the wooden side slats of the ferry.

  When Roman turned to look at her, he noticed her face was as colorless as the brisk wind that sailed through her hair. Clutching the side of the buckboard with her right hand and holding her parrot’s cage in her left, she acted as though she were heading for a raging waterfall aboard nothing but a slim hope for survival.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to be skeered of, ma’am,” one of the ferrymen told her. He slackened his grip on the rope pulley and smiled at her.

  Theodosia saw he had no teeth. When he opened his mouth, it looked as if someone had painted a black hole on his face.

  “Nothin’ a’tall to fear,” the other agreed. “My brother and me’ve been workin’ this here ferry fer many a year, and we’ve only lost three passengers and a mule. The men was fightin’, ya see, and fighted theirsefs right into the river. The mule, well, he staggered off on account o’ he was drunk as all git out.”

  Roman noted the alarm in Theodosia’s eyes. “You aren’t fighting, Miss Worth, and you aren’t drunk, so stop being afraid.”

  His command angered her, but his deep, rich voice aroused within her an emotion that had nothing to do with ire. “Fear stems from the feeling of having no control over a specific threat,” she responded, her irritation rising as she felt her cheeks warm and color with what she knew now to be desire. “Most fears are acquired. Indeed, it is my understanding that infants are born with only two fears, that of loud noises and loss of physical support. As they grow older, they are conditioned to feel other fears, such as fear of the dark. I have not acquired a fear of water because I learned to swim at a very early age. Therefore I do not fear water.”

  Roman saw the ferrymen frown in confusion. “She’s from Boston,” he said, as if his statement explained everything.

  “Oh,” they said in unison, as if his statement explained everything.

  “Admit it, Miss Worth,” Roman said. “You’re scared as hell.”

  “I am simply anxious,” she clarified, tightening her hold on the wagon.

  “If you can swim, then you don’t have any reason to be anxious, either,” Roman fenced stubbornly. “The worst that can happen to you right now is falling in and getting wet. Then you can swim to shore while we watch.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the ferry dipped sharply.

  And the next thing he saw was a shiny brass birdcage flying through the misty air.

  “Well, I reckon we can add a bird to the list o’ passengers we’ve lost,” the toothless ferryman said. “What kind o’ bird was that, ma’am?”

  Theodosia didn’t utter a sound, but one glimpse of her face told Roman that her so-called anxiety had become true gut-wrenching terror. Sighing with profound aggravation, he tossed his hat to one of the ferrymen and kicked off his boots. His gunbelt hit the deck with a loud thud, right before he dove over the side of the ferry.

  The cold water sucked him under. When he broke through the surface, the cage bobbed right before his face.

  Crazed with fear, John the Baptist stuck his beak between the bars and bit his rescuer’s nose.

  “Dammit!” Anger increasing his strength, Roman twisted toward shore, and holding the cage high and using his free arm to propel himself through the rushing water, he arrived at the bank only a few minutes after the ferry.

  Theodosia met him as he staggered out of the river. Quickly, she retrieved the cage and held it level with her eyes. “John the Baptist,” she whispered. “John—”

  “That bastard of a bird is fine!” With the back of his hand, Roman swiped dripping water off his forehead. “He bit me!”

  “Bit you?”

  “Two bits,” the toothless ferryman announced as he sauntered toward his passengers.

  Theodosia frowned at him. “Two bits, sir? Surely you mean two bites.”

  “The bird bit my nose!” Roman blasted.

  “Twice?” Theodosia asked.

  “Once!”

  She looked at the ferryman. “You said two bites, sir, but Mr. Montana has only been bitten once.”

  “Bits!” Roman yelled. “Two bits! For God’s sake, woman, he wants twenty-five cents, which has nothing to do with the fact that your pain-in-the-ass parrot bit my—”

  “Weren’t my aim to git y’all s’riled,” the ferryman interrupted. “Mighty sorry if that’s what I done. All’s I want is two bits, and I’ll be on my way. Got more passengers waitin’ on the other side, ya see. Jest rode up.”

  Roman cast a glance at the opposite side of the river and saw three mounted men. They might as well have introduced themselves, for he knew exactly who they were.

  His actions blurred, he grabbed Theodosia’s bag, pulled it open, and snatched out a solid gold coin. “This is a damned sight more than two bits,” he told the ferryman. “Your ferry is about to become disabled, understand? It’s sprung a leak. The pulley’s weak. I don’t care what the hell kind of problem you decide to give it, but it won’t make it across the river.”

  The man glanced at the three riders on the opposite shore and gave a slow nod of comprehension. “It’ll probably take me and my brother nigh on a whole hour to fix the ole girl. ’Course, fer another gold piece she could stay broke fer near ’bout all day.”

  “Give him another gold piece, Mr. Montana,” Theodosia said. “If his ferry is incapacitated, then he must have sufficient funds with which to—”

  “For another gold piece, he could buy ten new ones! And his ferry’s not—God, never mind!” Roman grabbed Theodosia’s arm and began to lead her toward the wagon, but he stopped suddenly wh
en he saw the three men urging their mounts into the water on the other side of the river.

  Dammit, they weren’t going to wait for the ferry! He swung Theodosia into his arms, carried her and her parrot to her buckboard, and tossed her into the seat.

  She hit it with such force that a dull pain streamed up her spine. “Mr. Montana! What—”

  “Drive up the embankment, then turn left. The road will curve around a bunch of cedars, then continue on behind them. When you can’t see the river because of the trees, get out of the wagon, go into the woods, and wait for me.”

  “What? But—”

  He reached out and clapped his hand over her mouth. “For God’s sake, listen! I want you to hit me, got that? As soon as you do, I’ll act like I’m going to hit you back. When you see me make a fist, pick up the reins and go where I told you to.”

  “Hit you?” she asked, her voice muffled behind his hand. “But why?”

  “Dammit, do as I say!”

  The sinister glitter in his eyes blazed out at her like fire looking for something to burn. This was not the sarcastic rogue with the endearing lopsided grin, she realized.

  This was the Roman Montana who wore danger the way other men wore clothes.

  She understood then that something was terribly wrong.

  Without the slightest inkling as to why, she slapped him full across the face.

  Roman drew back his fist, relieved when Theodosia immediately urged her horse up the embankment and turned her wagon to the left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the three men had stopped their horses in shallow water and were watching intently.

  Once back into his boots, gunbelt, and hat, he mounted, reached the top of the embankment, and directed his stallion to the right. The instant the road curled around the thicket of cedar and he knew the three men could no longer see him, he sent Secret into a wild gallop behind the trees and soon spotted Theodosia’s buckboard on the road ahead.

  Quickly, he dismounted, led his horse into the cedar thicket, and found Theodosia standing in the cool shadows.

  “Mr. Montana, please tell me what—”

  “Stay here.” He pressed Secret’s reins into her hand. “I’ll be back to get you as soon as—as soon as I can.”

  “But, Mr. Mon—”

  He didn’t stay to hear her protest, but raced out of the woods and into her wagon. Slapping the reins over the horse’s back, he coaxed the steed into an open field, knowing the buckboard would leave a wide and unmistakable trail through the long, fresh grass and scrub brush.

  The surefooted mustang galloped through the meadow, slowing only when Roman sent him head-on toward a dip in the terrain. “Easy, boy,” Roman murmured, guiding the horse down the slope.

  “Easy, boy,” John the Baptist echoed. “Passion is said to be an art. Some men master it, and others do not.”

  The parrot’s voice startled Roman. He glared at the bird. “One more word out of you, and I’ll shoot your blasted head off.”

  Once at the bottom of the dip in the ground he checked his Colts and sprang out of the wagon. Careful to leave an obvious path of footsteps behind him, he made his way toward a tall tangle of scrub brush and hid behind it.

  His wait ended a quarter of an hour later, when he heard the distant rumble of running horses. In only moments more, the three men eased their mounts down the slope.

  Roman watched the outlaws dismount. One wore a black bandana around his neck, one wore a red one, and the third wore a brown one. They all wore a veritable arsenal of weapons.

  “Here’s her wagon,” Brown Bandana said, his pistol drawn. “But where the hell’s the girl?”

  “Maybe she went to meet back up with the longhaired feller,” Red Bandana ventured.

  Black Bandana shook his head. “She slapped him near about all the way to the moon. Then she left him. The gold’s as good as ours, as soon as we find her. And if my eyes ain’t foolin’ me, there’s her trail right there.” He pointed to the path of crushed grass that led to a patch of tall scrub brush, and laughed. “May as well come on out, little lady, and bring yer gold with ya!”

  Roman’s fingers tightened around the triggers of his guns while he watched them walk toward him. He didn’t plan on killing them if he didn’t have to, but he’d for damned sure see to it that they were slowed down for a while. Come on, he invited silently. Closer. Just a little closer.

  “Mr. Montana!”

  Roman stiffened. He couldn’t see Theodosia, but her shout sliced into his ears like the stab of a sword. Dammit, what the hell was she doing?

  “Mr. Montana!” Theodosia screamed again, battling to keep her seat on the runaway stallion as he galloped toward the shallow valley ahead. “I cannot stop!”

  She closed her eyes and prepared herself for a terrible fall that never came. Directly at the edge of the slope, the stallion slowed from a full gallop to a standstill. Jolted but unharmed, Theodosia opened her eyes and saw her driverless wagon. Beside it stood three armed men staring up at her. She’d seen the men earlier, once at the river and again when they’d raced their mounts across the meadow.

  But where on earth was Roman? “I don’t suppose the three of you invidious beings know where my escort is, do you?” She slid off the stallion and placed her hands on her hips.

  Red Bandana frowned. “What’d she call us?”

  “Never mind,” Brown Bandana replied. “She’s ridin’ that long-haired feller’s horse.”

  “They must o’ traded off,” Black Bandana added. “That means…”

  Realizing the woman’s male companion had tricked them, all three men spun around at once.

  They met the blaze of blue eyes and the gleam of black Colts.

  Roman pulled both triggers.

  He hit one man in the shoulder and another in the leg, the impact of the bullets knocking them off their feet. His next bullet slammed into the third outlaw’s upper arm, but the man still managed to quickly climb the embankment toward Theodosia.

  Theodosia was already on her way down the slope.

  The outlaw grabbed her, and pressing his gun to her temple, he dragged her down the slope. He grinned when his two cohorts retrieved their own weapons and staggered to their feet. “Ya didn’t really think ya could outshoot us, did ya, Longhair?”

  Roman gave a slow, easy smile, but inwardly he cursed Theodosia with every profanity he knew. “You don’t really think I’m going to let you hurt the girl, do you, Red Bandana?” he countered.

  “Hurt me?” Theodosia asked, still locked within the confines of her captor’s beefy arms. “Mr. Montana, allow me to render intelligible this situation. I have never seen these men before today. They cannot possibly bear any sort of hostility toward me and therefore mustn’t possess any desire to cause me physical harm. It occurs to me now that these men were following you, so you are the one who—”

  “But—but we thought we was follerin’ you,” Black Bandana said, frowning. “It’s what Longhair wanted us to think. He—lady, he was tryin’ to keep ya safe by leadin’ us away from ya. Don’t take no genius to figger that out. You must be a mite slow-minded. Don’t make no never mind, though. We ain’t after yer smarts. We want yer gold. Oh, and we’ll be takin’ Longhair’s horse too. A horse who can run like that’s gotta be worth some money.”

  Theodosia lifted one tawny eyebrow. “Indeed. Well, you may not have my gold, nor may you have Mr. Montana’s stallion. Mr. Montana, do something.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Montana,” Brown Bandana said, and laughed. “Do somethin’.”

  What the hell was he supposed to do? Roman fumed. One move on his part might very well end Theodosia’s life, and his own as well.

  Possible solutions flashed through his mind, but a sudden movement in the wagon interrupted his concentration.

  John the Baptist stuck his head between the bars of his cage, craning his neck to see what was happening.

  Roman dismissed the bird and pondered the situation again. For lack of a better idea, he final
ly decided to resort to one of the oldest tricks known to man. “You might as well give up your guns,” he suggested. “My partner is right behind you and won’t think twice about shooting you in the backs.”

  The Bandana Brothers laughed. “Ya think we’re stupid, Montana?” Red Bandana asked. “Ya ain’t got no partner.”

  John the Baptist, still craning his neck out of the cage, squawked shrilly. “One more word out of you, and I’ll shoot your blasted head off!” he shouted.

  The outlaws went rigid, then dropped their revolvers and lifted their hands high above their heads.

  Theodosia brushed off her skirts and turned to glare at her parrot. “John the Baptist, where on earth did you hear such a crude expression? You—”

  “For God’s sake, get in the wagon, Miss Worth!” Before she could announce that his so-called partner was a parrot, Roman raced out from behind the scrub brush and kicked the thieves’ guns well away. He then stripped them of their other weapons. “Get going!”

  Theodosia looked up at him. “Mr. Montana, these men should be taken into custody and given a fair trial. We must take them to Templeton.”

  “Yeah, Montana,” Black Bandana agreed. “We got a right to a fair trial. ’Sides that, we’re wounded!”

  Roman smiled a smile that hardened his eyes. Slowly, he pulled back the hammers of his Colts. “None of your injuries are serious, and you damned well know it. And as for a fair trial…all right. If you get across the field and back around the cedar thicket in less than five minutes, you’re innocent and I’ll let you go. Take longer than that, you’re guilty, and you die.”

  John the Baptist cracked a sunflower seed. “For God’s sake, listen! Dammit, do as I say!” Calmly, he ate the seed. “Mr. Montana, do somethin’.”

  Hands still raised high, the outlaws started for their horses.

  “You walk,” Roman declared. “Better yet, run.”

  Anger scoring their faces, they began to ascend the slope, Roman right behind them. Only when they’d reached the far side of the field and disappeared behind the woods that surrounded the river did he take Secret’s reins and return to Theodosia. “You aren’t hurt or anything, are you?”