Heartstrings

by Rebecca Paisley

  “Sure did.”

  She felt him give her hand a squeeze and went mushy inside. Roman was definitely the most handsome man at the fair. No woman there could take her eyes off him, and several had been dragged away by their jealous husbands or irate fathers. Theodosia, for the first time, understood the pride a lady felt when her escort was the cause of such female interest.

  She squeezed his hand back. “And how many turns did it take you before you got your apple?”

  Her question catapulted him into the past. He hadn’t had to take turns bobbing for apples because he always played the game alone. “I got my apple on the first try.”

  Before she could question him further, he led her toward a row of booths manned by the townswomen and urged her to examine the beautiful workmanship of the quilts, lacy tablecloths, and embroidered pillows and to sample the delicious preserves, jellies, and candies. He then escorted her to the livestock show, where she saw proud farmers exhibiting their pampered swine. She barely had time to get out of the way when one irritated hog escaped his pen, knocked over a dessert booth, and devoured two cakes before anyone could stop him.

  In addition to the locals, a small traveling carnival had joined the merrymaking. A professional juggler and magician astounded one and all, as did the group of dancing monkeys. Two more carnival men had set up games of chance, which were of great interest to the townspeople because of the dazzling array of prizes and cash sums to be won.

  “Well, Miss Worth?” Roman said, his fingers caressing hers as he held her hand. “What do you think about the fair?”

  Her concentration centered on one of the games a carnival man was running, she didn’t reply.

  “Miss Worth?”

  “Mr. Montana,” she said, pointing to the carnival game and the man who operated it, “that number game over there is—”

  “Yeah, we’ll play it after we get some dessert.”

  “But—”

  He laid a finger over her lips. “We’ll play the game in a minute. Now, relax and—”

  “How can you expect me to embrace ataraxia when that flagitious man is committing such a blatant act of fubbery by—”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Montana, I cannot be calm,” she translated, “because—”

  “You’re not having any fun, are you?” he asked, his voice tight with irritation. “And you want to know why you’re not having any? Because you’re too busy being a genius. Quit using those obnoxious words that only you and a dictionary have ever heard of.”

  “But if you would only listen—”

  “Think it’s warm out here?”

  “What? Yes, it is a sultry day, but I—”

  “Why’s it so warm?” His eyes bored into hers while he waited for her answer.

  She gave a delicate huff and glanced at the sky. “The sun is about ninety-three million miles away from earth, which is close enough to supply the earth with heat and light. The temperature of the sun’s surface is estimated at ten thousand eight hundred degrees, and—”

  “Wrong.”

  She blinked up at him. “Wrong, Mr. Montana?”

  “It’s warm outside because it’s sunny. Sunshine means warmth. Period.”

  “But that is what I said.”

  “No, that’s not what you said. You don’t know how to say anything normal. I bet if I got you a piece of blueberry pie for dessert, you’d say to me, ‘Oh, Mr. Montana, isn’t this pie of blueberracocknoid simply delicious?’ You wouldn’t know how to just sit there and enjoy the damned pie. You’d have to tell me why it’s blue. Why it stains. Then you’d launch into the history of pie. Starting from the day the Father of Pie was born, you’d work your way through his life and finally tell me how old he was when he first got the brilliant idea of filling dough with fruit. Then—”

  “What is blueberracocknoid?”

  “I made it up to show you just how ridiculous all those scientific names are that you tag on to everything you see. It means blueberry.”

  “A blueberry is of the genus Vaccinium and is a member of the heath family.”

  “Well, good for the blueberry!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I mean it, Miss Worth. None of the scientific garbage today. Use normal words, do normal things, and think normal thoughts. Agreed?”

  “Normal? But what—”

  “See? You don’t even know what normal is!” More determined than ever to show her the meaning of fun, he dragged her to a nearby table, upon which sat a basket of eggs. Behind the table stood a wooden rack of prizes that included costly rifles, pearl-handled knives, gold watches, bottles of French perfume, silver lockets, and porcelain dolls.

  “Name’s Jister,” the stout carnival man behind the table introduced himself. “Burris Jister.”

  Theodosia stared at the man’s odd hat. It appeared to have been fashioned from some sort of rodent skin. Staring at it, she finally noticed a rat’s head above the man’s right ear.

  A rat hat. She shuddered with distaste.

  His cheroot pinched tightly between his teeth, Mr. Jister squinted as smoke rose into his eyes. “Glad to see you folks. Care to guess which eggs is boiled and which is raw? A dime buys you ten guesses. Guess right ten times in a row, and y’win one o’ the big prizes. Nine to one right guesses gets you a lemon drop, and no right guesses gets you a pat on the back and an offer to try again.”

  A crowd gathering around him, Roman slapped a dime onto the table.

  “I lost thirty cents a few minutes ago,” one of the townsmen warned.

  “I lost fifty cents,” another added. “No matter what I did, I just couldn’t figure out which ones were raw and which ones were boiled.”

  “Mr. Montana,” Theodosia said, laying her hand on his shoulder, “I—”

  “Watch,” he instructed her. “Just watch how much fun it is to guess.”

  “But Mr. Mon—”

  “Miss Worth, would you just let me play the guessing game?”

  She stepped away from him and gave a stiff nod.

  “Very well, guess. But the odds of guessing correctly ten times in a row are—”

  “I’ll take ten guesses, Mr. Jister,” Roman said to the egg man, blatantly ignoring Theodosia’s scholarly warning. “And when I win, I want that Winchester.” He pointed to the fancily engraved rifle.

  Mr. Jister nodded and pushed the basket of eggs closer to the edge of the table. “Y’can do anything to the eggs ’cept break ’em. When you’ve picked ten, we’ll crack ’em and see how good y’guessed. First wrong guess we come to, we quit breakin’ ’em.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Roman rolled the eggs between his palms, smelled them, shook them, held them up to the sun, and even listened to them. Finally, he separated ten from the rest. “These are all boiled,” he announced.

  “Well, now, let’s just see about that.” Over a wooden bowl, Mr. Jister began to crack the eggs.

  Roman smiled when the first four proved to be boiled. The fifth was likewise boiled, and he tossed Theodosia a smug look.

  She returned it when the sixth egg sluiced from its shell in a thick and glistening stream.

  “Cain’t have the Winchester,” Mr. Jister said. “But here’s a lemon drop.”

  Roman handed the candy to Theodosia. “I want ten more chances,” he said, dropping another dime onto the table. Quickly, he picked ten more eggs, and this time he decided they were all raw.

  The first egg Mr. Jister cracked was boiled. “Y’want to try again?”

  Roman shook his head and took Theodosia’s arm. “I didn’t win, but it was fun to guess. Fun, Miss Worth. Got that? Now, let’s go get some dessert.”

  “Wait,” she said, noticing a young boy approach the table. “May I stay and watch this game for a while, Mr. Montana? I… It is truly diverting. I might even try my hand at it.” She smiled.

  He didn’t miss the excitement in her smile and eyes and believed she was finally understanding the meaning of fun. “All right. I’ll go buy dessert
and bring it back here. Good luck. And if you win, get me that Winchester.” Flashing her a crooked grin, he left to buy the food.

  Theodosia returned her attention to the little boy.

  He slid three dimes toward the game man. “This is all the money I got, and I want a bottle o’ that fancy parfume fer my mama. Today’s her birthday.”

  Mr. Jister pocketed the three dimes. “Y’gotta win the perfume, kid. Go on and start guessin’.”

  Sweat broke out on the boy’s freckled forehead as he began handling the eggs. His hands shaking, he finally chose thirty eggs and circled his thin arms around them to keep them from rolling off the table. “These is all raw.”

  One by one, Mr. Jister broke the eggs. The first six were raw, the seventh boiled. “Y’ain’t gettin’ no perfume, kid,” he said, and laughed. “What y’get is a lemon drop.”

  The boy’s eyes filled with tears. Head hung low, he trudged away from the table.

  Moved to pity, Theodosia neared the table.

  “Well now, little lady,” Mr. Jister drawled, his gaze roaming over her breasts. “Y’want to try? Lot’s o’ nice things to win.” He turned toward the enticing display of prizes, and as he gestured toward them, he saw the little boy standing by the rack. The child held a bottle of the perfume. “Hey, kid, put that back!”

  “But—but I saved fer weeks to get that thirty cents! Today’s my mama’s birth—”

  “Y’think I give a damn about when your mama was born?” Give me that bottle, or I’ll—”

  “I would like to play,” Theodosia blurted, loath to hear the man’s threat.

  He snatched the perfume from the boy, then shoved him away. After placing the bottle back on the rack, he returned to the table. “How many guesses do y’want, little darlin’?”

  Bristling over the endearment the game man had called her, Theodosia watched as tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks. “How many eggs do you have, Mr. Jister?”

  While his eyes widened, he licked his lips. “Two crates that’s got two hunnerd eggs apiece in ’em.”

  She opened her reticule and withdrew two gold coins. “I will guess at all four hundred eggs. Will this be enough?”

  One of the townsman stepped forward. “Ma’am,” he said gently, staring at the gleaming gold pieces, “it’s impossible to make four hundred right guesses. Are you sure you want to risk so much money?”

  “I am sure, sir, but thank you for your concern.” She held the coins toward Mr. Jister.

  He grabbed the gold, which was more than he usually made in a month of working his game, then hoisted the two egg-filled crates up to the table. “Be my guessin’ guest,” he invited, his gaze dipping to her breasts again.

  “If I succeed at separating each raw egg from the boiled, will I win every prize you have?”

  “Oh, sure, sure,” he said, grinning so broadly that the rat head above his ear moved. “Ever’ last one of ’em.”

  Calmly, Theodosia removed her gloves and laid them over her lower arm. “Very well. Please pile all your eggs onto the ground, but keep the two crates on the table.”

  Almost choking on pent-up laughter, he complied.

  Theodosia turned to the crowd of gaping people. “There are four hundred eggs to separate, and I would appreciate it very much if some of you would assist me.”

  “But we didn’t guess right when we played,” a woman cautioned.

  Theodosia gave the woman a gracious smile. “None of us will make a wrong guess because guessing will have no part whatsoever in the choices we make. You see, there is a secret to this game, and I am delighted to be able to share it with you.”

  Mr. Jister frowned. “Hold on a damned minute! You—”

  “The raw eggs will not spin,” Theodosia quickly explained to the people, “but the boiled eggs will.” Quickly, she chose three eggs from the ground and, setting them upright on the table, she tried to spin them. Two rolled to their sides, and one spun like a top. “The first two eggs are raw, and the last is boiled.”

  When she cracked them to prove her declaration, the crowd hummed with amazement.

  “We shall put all the eggs to the test,” she continued. “Those that spin we shall place in the crate on the left, and those that fail to spin but roll to their sides will go in the crate on the right. Now, let us begin.”

  “The game’s closed!” Wildly, Mr. Jister tried to put the eggs back into the crates.

  Several men in the gathering hindered his efforts while the rest of the people surged forward to test the eggs. Minutes later, the two crates were again full.

  Theodosia slipped her gloves back on. “Please break the eggs now, Mr. Jister, so we may see how well we guessed.”

  When the men who held him released him, he jabbed a finger toward her. “You ain’t gonna get away with this, lady.”

  “I already have, sir. You may break the eggs if you so desire, but I believe you and I both know they are separated correctly. And now you must keep your word and give me every prize on that rack.”

  “I cain’t run my game without no prizes!”

  “Then it appears as though I have brought you to ruin.”

  The fat beneath his chin shook as molten fury spewed through him. He lunged toward her, his arms stretched out before him, his hands ready to wrap around her throat.

  But he never even got near her.

  A solid mass of muscle appeared suddenly before him.

  Roman knocked the carnival man to the ground with one blow, then, his motions blurred, whipped out his Colt. “What the hell is going on here? Miss Worth?” He scanned the crowd until he spotted her heading around the table to stand in front of the rack of prizes.

  She handed a bottle of perfume to the young boy who had tried to win it. Upon further thought, she removed her bonnet, pulled a silken ribbon from it, and tied a bow around the neck of the scent flask. “There now, lad. You have a gift for your mother.”

  He smiled up at her when she curled her hand around his cheek, then hugged her legs before racing off to find his mother.

  As Roman watched the scene, a sense of wonder came over him. How was it possible for two strangers to demonstrate such affection? It was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Lady, you ain’t got no right to be givin’ that perfume to the snot-nosed brat!” Mr. Jister shouted. “That was genuine French perfume made all the way in New York!”

  “Miss Worth,” Roman said, “would you mind telling me why I just punched this man in the face?”

  “I suppose you did it because you are my hired bodyguard,” she replied as she came out from behind the table. “He was about to inflict bodily harm upon me. As for why you chose to strike his face, you—”

  “She tricked me!” Warily, Mr. Jister rose from the ground, his huge chest heaving.

  “Mr. Jister,” Theodosia began, placing her bonnet back on her head, “it was not my intention to reveal the secret of winning your egg game until you laughed over that little boy’s misfortune. That not being enough to feed your hunger for cruelty, you pushed him as well. I understand that your livelihood depends on your customers’ ignorance of the law of inertia. However, what I do not comprehend is the callous attitude you exhibit when people lose their money.” With a turn of her head, she dismissed him and peered up at Roman. “Shall we have our dessert now, Mr. Montana?”

  Roman glanced down at the boxes of food he’d dropped the moment he saw Mr. Jister attempt to attack Theodosia.

  “Oh, Mr. Montana,” she murmured, “when you struck Mr. Jister, you spilled our dessert.”

  “Well, what did you want me to do? Stuff a piece of strawberry cake up his nose? Look, I still don’t understand what the hell went on here while I was gone, but you—”

  “She ruined me, that’s what!” Mr. Jister blasted.

  Calmly, Theodosia walked among the assembly of townspeople. “In gratitude for your assistance, I would like for you to please take your pick of the prizes.”

  Squealing and holler
ing with delight, the people hurried toward the rack and promptly began stripping it of its treasures.

  In an effort to salvage at least one of the valuable prizes, Mr. Jister started toward the rack, but he stopped instantly when he felt a gun barrel sink into the fat at his waist.

  “Sometimes you win, Jister, and sometimes you lose,” Roman said, his revolver steady in his hand. “Today you lost.” With the glitter in his eyes, a stiff nod of his head, and a wave of his Colt, he ordered the game man to leave.

  Mr. Jister slunk away.

  “Let me congratulate you, Miss Worth,” Roman said, taking her arm and leading her toward the dessert stands. “You’re very talented.”

  “That is a very poor choice of words, Mr. Montana. Understanding the law of inertia is not a talent but an acquired skill that is the result of years of study. To explain: Centrifugal force is the pull exerted by a moving object along a circular path on the body constraining that object. The force acts outwardly away from the center of rotation. In a raw egg, the center is liquid and is therefore unevenly distributed within the confines of the shell. When spun, the raw contents slosh—”

  “A thousand thanks for making all that clear to me, Miss Fountain of Knowledge. But I wasn’t talking about your study habits of the past—I was talking about your amazing ability to find trouble! Didn’t it ever cross that brilliant mind of yours that winning all that egg man’s prizes might not sit too well with him?”

  She skirted to the side when a youngster’s ball came flying toward her. “No. My only concern was gaining retribution for that dear little boy who wanted the perfume for his mother.”

  Roman hadn’t the heart to continue scolding her over her lack of judgment. To her way of thinking, she’d performed a good deed, and she had. But even so, he vowed to keep a closer watch on her.

  “You aren’t angry with me, are you, Mr. Montana?” Taking his hand into both of hers, she raised it to her upper chest and rested her chin upon his knuckles.

  Her tender worry and gentle gesture affected him deeply. He felt vulnerable to her sweetness at that moment, as if he were standing unarmed before a benevolent, yet powerful force.

  “Mr. Montana?”