Heartstrings

by Rebecca Paisley

  He spread his kisses to her cheek and eyelids. “You believe everything you read. You should read to wonder. To wonder whether what you’re reading is true or not.” He tucked her more closely into the warm shelter of his body, then drew a blanket over her so the evening breeze would not chill her damp skin.

  Read to wonder. Theodosia found the advice both wise and beautiful.

  She lost herself in his deep blue eyes again and allowed her thoughts to take her where they would.

  They kept her with Roman.

  He was not only her friend, she mused, and not only her lover.

  He’d become something more.

  She glided her fingers into the silk black of his hair, dwelling upon the fact that she’d never doubted Brazil and her research would satisfy every yearning she’d ever had.

  She was no longer so certain.

  At dawn the sound of crunching leaves broke through Roman’s dream. He had his Colt in hand even before he opened his eyes. “Quiet,” he ordered when Theodosia began to stir beside him.

  “Don’t shoot,” a man’s voice called out from the thicket. “I ain’t here to do nary a bit o’ harm. Jest wanted a jag o’ breakfast if you’ve got any to share.”

  Holding his revolver steady, Roman watched a man with a shock of white hair trudge out of the woods. The man led a swaybacked mule, upon whose back were piled burlap sacks and a small gray-faced dog.

  “How do,” he man greeted, stopping beside the remains of the campfire. “I’m Oble Smott. I seed your wagon through the woods.”

  Theodosia sat up in alarm, clutching the blankets to her breasts.

  “Oh, pardon me, ma’am,” Oble said, tipping his hat. “I seed your wagon through the woods, but I shore didn’t see that y’all was nekkid. I’ll turn my back fer a spell whilst y’all git your clothes on.” Sensing that Oble Smott was but a harmless wanderer, Roman handed Theodosia her flannel nightgown, then rose and donned his breeches.

  “This here’s Stub,” Oble said, scratching his mule’s long ears. “Stub fer stubborn. And my dog’s Chaparito. That’s Mexican fer Little Feller. I got ole Chaparito when I was down in Mexico some ten years ago. I ain’t never been back since on account o’ I couldn’t get me no food a’tall that weren’t swimmin’ in them chili gravies. Lord o’ mercy, them chili gravies give me some kind o’ powerful wind. I near ’bout blowed mysef right off the saddle whilst tryin’ to ride out o’ Mexico. Y’all dressed yit?”

  Roman glanced at Theodosia and saw her tying the last ribbon on her nightgown. “We’re dressed.”

  Oble turned back around and commenced to restart the fire. “Y’all look to be a right happy couple. Who are you?”

  So as not to embarrass Theodosia, Roman said, “Mr. and Mrs. Montana. I’m Roman, and my wife is Theodosia.”

  “I knowed a Theodosia once,” Oble said. “She had the biggest, purtiest brown eyes y’ever seed in your whole life. And when she blinked them long lashes at me, I’d fall plumb to pieces. Someone stole her, though. Pro’bly et her. I always knowed she’d make fer some good eatin’, but I couldn’t never bring mysef to eat her. Best cow that ever lived, ole Theodosia.”

  Theodosia smiled, then burst into loud laughter.

  The happy sound of her laughter had Roman chuckling too. Smiling, he set about fetching the food for breakfast. With Theodosia’s help, he soon had a batch of small meat pies frying over the fire.

  “Much obliged,” Oble said after he and Chaparito had consumed most of the pies themselves. Patting his tight belly, he leaned back against Stub’s legs, then yelped in surprise when cold water splashed his face.

  John the Baptist tossed a second beakful out of his cage. “Much obliged,” he said. “His middle name was Egbert, and they called him Eggy for short. I shore didn’t see that y’all was nekkid.”

  Oble howled with laughter. “Lord, that’s one o’ them talkin’ birds! I ain’t never seed one, but I’ve heared of ’em. How y’gittin’ along, bird?”

  The parrot cracked a sunflower seed. “If you want a worm, Theodosia, you have to find one yourself. Pull your nightgown up to your waist.”

  Quickly, Roman reached for the cage.

  “I’m going to spill my seed inside you,” John the Baptist called merrily.

  Seeing the flustered expressions on Roman and Theodosia’s faces, Oble laughed again. “Ain’t no need to git all red-faced with me, y’all. If it weren’t fer nightgowns gittin’ pulled up and seed gittin’ spilt, there wouldn’t be no people in the world. Set your minds at ease and tell me where you’re headed.”

  Roman set John the Baptist’s cage behind Theodosia and gave the parrot a glare. “Nowhere,” he answered.

  “That’s the best place to go,” Oble stated. “Been there mysef many a time. Most folks I meet up with is always hurryin’ around to git to where they’re goin’. They got things to do, places to see, and they cain’t stand wastin’ nary a second gittin’ there to do whatever it is they think cain’t wait to git done or seed. Folks orter slow down some and quit frettin’ over tomorrow when somethin’s starin’ ’em right in the face today.”

  He pulled a burr off Chaparito’s stubby tail. “Me? Well, I ain’t done nothin’ earth-shatterin’ important in my life, but I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve enjoyed ever’ minute o’ ever’ one o’ my simple days. ’Specially my days with my beloved Jeweleen. She was my wife fer twenty-two years. We never did git us no young’uns, but we was shore happy. I still miss her, and times come when I wake up in the middle o’ the night and still reach fer her. ‘Course, she ain’t never there, and that’s a real deep-down-sad feelin’. Ole Jeweleen, she used to wear flowers in her hair. I’ll always remember her with flowers in her hair. She growed them flowers hersef, and one time she won a prize at a church festival fer growin’ the purple-est posy.”

  He paused, recalling the day at the festival. “I started out havin’ a good time at that church festival, but I got bit by a squirrel right after Jeweleen won her posy prize. That critter sank them teeth o’ his straight through my thumbnail, and it ain’t growed right since. I weren’t tryin’ to do nothin’ to the dang thing but feed him a peanut. Y’know, y’don’t never think about how useful thumbnails is till somethin’ goes wrong with the one y’use the most. I used to use this here bent thumbnail fer cleanin’ out my ears. Cain’t use it fer that no more, and sometimes I wonder if the reason why I cain’t hear like I used to is on account o’ my ears is s’dirty.”

  He stood, brushed off his pants, and lifted Chaparito upon Stub’s back. “Well, I’d best be goin’ now. Hold on tight to each other, hear? Love good, laugh a lot, and y’all’ll have a real fine life together.”

  When Oble disappeared into the woods, Theodosia stared after him. “He still reaches for his wife at night,” she whispered.

  She wondered if she would reach for Roman while sleeping in the jungles of Brazil. And while asleep in the master bedroom of his ranch house, would Roman reach for her?

  A painful emptiness tore through her breast, causing her to lay her hand on her chest in an effort to soothe the hurt.

  “Theodosia? Are you all right?” Roman asked, noting the look of deep despair etching her fine features.

  “What? Yes. Yes, of course I’m all right, Roman. I was only thinking about Mr. Smott.” Quickly, she thought of something completely unrelated to her true thoughts. “He possesses a penchant for rambling speech. Why do people converse in such a manner here in Texas?”

  Roman cleaned out the frying pan. “Rambling speech?”

  She couldn’t believe he didn’t know what she was talking about. “At one point, Mr. Smott began by telling us that he had done nothing important in his life, and he ended by wondering if his bent thumbnail was the cause of his dirty ears. I do not comprehend the reasons behind such oral meandering.”

  Roman smiled. So that’s what oral meandering was. “You’re from a city. All you have to do to see people is step out your front door. But out here people usually live
far apart. They don’t see each other often, so when they get together, they have so much to say that one subject just naturally leads into another and another. They talk about anything and everything, and when the socializing’s over they go home and start saving up more stuff to talk about when they’re all together again. After a while, that kind of talking becomes a habit, so if country folk ever move to a town they still talk about anything and everything. And it’s not called oral meandering, Theodosia. It’s called chatting.”

  “Chatting,” she murmured. “But how does one begin country chatting?”

  “By saying anything in the world and then waiting to see what your mind thinks of next. But you’re from the North. You probably can’t do it,” he challenged.

  She concentrated on the first statement she would make. “Oble Smott had white hair.”

  Roman anticipated her next sentence, but she said nothing. “And?”

  She simply could not think of anything else to say.

  “Did his white hair remind you of anything?” Roman offered.

  She closed her eyes and saw something white flash through her mind. “His hair was as white as the bedspread I used to have on my bed when I was a little girl.”

  “Good, good. Now, what does the bedspread make you think about?”

  “I spilled tea on that bedspread and tried to hide it with a quilt, but Mrs. Singleton found the stain. Mrs. Singleton was my governess, and she always smelled of peppermint because her pockets were full of the candies. Once she and I went on an outing to the park, and we fell asleep on the bench. I woke up first and tickled Mrs. Singleton awake by brushing a dandelion under her nose. She sneezed so hard that her spectacles flew off and landed in the grass. A man stepped on and broke them, so I had to lead poor Mrs. Singleton home.”

  When she opened her eyes she saw Roman smiling at her.

  “Tell me what Mrs. Singleton’s spectacles have to do with Oble Smott’s white hair, Theodosia.”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s country chatting.”

  She realized there was nothing to analyze about the oral meandering after all. Such manner of talk was a simple matter of putting memories into a string of oddly connected, but friendly chatter. And strange though the chatter seemed to her intellectual ears, she’d somehow become accustomed to it and found it rather soothing.

  She thought about all the things Oble Smott had chatted about: his mule, dog, and problems with the food in Mexico. He disagreed with hurrying. He’d not done anything of vital importance in his life, but he’d lived his simple days happily.

  Hold on tight to each other, hear? he’d advised. Love good, laugh a lot, and y’all’ll have a real fine life together.

  Fine lives, she thought. Separate lives—Roman’s in Texas, hers in Brazil.

  There wouldn’t be anyone in Brazil with whom she could practice country chatting. Dr. Wallaby wouldn’t understand it and wouldn’t have time to learn it. If not for Roman, she wouldn’t have understood or taken the time to learn it, either.

  She wondered how many, many other things he could teach her that she would never have the opportunity to learn, and the painful emptiness filled her once more.

  “Theodosia, did you hear what I said?”

  “What? No. No, I’m sorry, Roman, I did not.”

  “I asked if you’d forgotten about last night. Judging by that blank look on your face, you have. I swore I’d remind you in the morning, and I always keep my promises.”

  She crossed her hands over her breasts. “Roman, Oble Smott will see—”

  “He’s long gone,” Roman said, pulling at the ribbons on the front of her gown. “Besides, I’m sure he suspected we were going to indulge in a little nightgown-pulling-upping and seed-spilling as soon as he left. He won’t come back.”

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her back to their sleeping pallet. There he laid her down and stretched out beside her. “He’s right, you know. Oble Smott is. People do hurry too much, Theodosia. I’m going to take his advice and make slow, slow love to you.”

  She turned into his arms, deciding that she, too, would heed Oble’s sage advice. Dismissing thoughts of tomorrow, she concentrated on what was before her very eyes.

  And oh, what a sexy sight it was. Roman’s gaze flickered with blue fire, and his desire became her own.

  She didn’t remember him taking her nightrail off, nor could she recall him shrugging out of his breeches. Her recollections started when his lips met the soft sensitive flesh at the hollow of her throat and he began to kiss her body.

  And while he so thoroughly caressed her with his mouth, his heavy male hardness slid upon her as well. His lips…his hands…the cascade of his long raven hair…his hot arousal…

  Every part of him touched every part of her. She bucked beneath his skillful stroking, her body trembling for the feel of hard male flesh inside her.

  Sensitive to her need though he was, Roman wanted her hotter. He lifted her to her knees, then lay down with his head propped up on the mound of thick pillows. With his hands, he showed her what he wanted her to do.

  When she realized her dark and compelling lover’s intentions, Theodosia gasped with surprise but, with the most profound anticipation lending strength to her quivering muscles, she submitted to the urgings of his hands and moved to kneel over his face.

  One hand kneading her breast and the other fondling her bottom, Roman nuzzled with his lips the soft pale hair between her thighs, then began to tease her wet female flesh with the tip of his tongue. He knew where to touch her, knew precisely how to set her ablaze with deeper need.

  His sensual caresses spread fire through Theodosia’s every nerve. She arched her back; her head fell over her shoulders, and her flaxen hair pooled on Roman’s smooth brown chest. Circling her hips over his warm mouth, she abandoned herself to the glorious pleasure.

  Vitally aware of each small tremor of rising bliss he brought to her, Roman continued pleasuring her until he knew she’d almost reached the pinnacle of ecstasy. And then, with one strong, fluid motion, he took hold of her hips and pushed her downward.

  Before Theodosia had time to realize what he was doing, she felt him thrust into her, his thick masculinity impaling her fully. So smooth were his actions that her climax never faltered, but rose to such an incredible height that when the final burst of rapture shot through her, she screamed Roman’s name with all the fervent passion his magic had drawn forth from her.

  “Again,” Roman whispered hotly into her ear. “Again.”

  She barely heard him, barely understood him until he began pumping wildly. The thick hair between his hips brushed against her slick femininity as he ground into her. Immediately, she felt herself spiraling into a second encounter with sweet all-consuming bliss.

  Her climax gripped him tightly, luring and beckoning him toward his own fiery release. Hot spasms exploded through his body, rippling through his muscled frame like thunderbolts through the sky.

  Exhausted but fully sated, Theodosia stilled upon his chest, her cheek pressed against his moist shoulder. She could not move, didn’t want to.

  And neither did Roman.

  Morning sunshine drifting over them, they lay quietly, their bodies still joined in sensual union, the beats of their hearts meshed as one.

  As the days wandered into weeks, Theodosia discovered she could no longer recall what date of the month it was. She tried to keep count, but time eluded her and soon ceased to hold any meaning for her at all.

  Only Roman mattered. In the wonderful world he’d introduced to her, she played with him. Beneath trees and open skies. She danced with him, and he swirled her across ballrooms of forest floors and flower-strewn meadows. She sang with him, nature’s music the hauntingly beautiful symphony that accompanied them.

  She loved with him. Sheltered within tall emerald grass, upon soft beds of leaves, or in sparkling streams, she surrendered to him at dawn, in the sultry heat of noon, and lying under the twinkling stars of
cool nights.

  She was never without him. By day he was at her side, by night he filled her every dream.

  And her happiness knew no bounds.

  “I’m sorry you’re in such a bad mood, Theodosia,” Roman teased one evening. Standing with his back against a tree, he cleaned his knife with a soft rag and listened to Theodosia’s bright laughter fill the air as she played with the baby possum he’d managed to catch for her. She laughed all the time now, he mused. Any silly little thing set her off.

  Sitting beside the fire upon a stack of folded blankets, Theodosia laughed harder when the tiny animal wrapped its long tail around her bare back and began pulling her hair with its small grappling paws. “I cannot believe there was a time in my life when I refused to sleep without a nightgown on,” she said, stroking the possum’s back and smiling when it hissed with pleasure. “Now I walk through woods and fields as naked as—”

  “As naked as I like you to be,” Roman finished for her. His body was as bare as hers, as they hadn’t bothered to dress after their bath in the nearby pond. “You have to admit, though, it feels good not having to wear clothes all the time.”

  She touched the possum’s pink nose. “It does,” she agreed with a smile. “Indeed, I think perhaps that I will find my garments exceedingly uncomfortable the next time I am forced to wear them for any length of time.”

  Roman finished with his knife and returned it to its leather sheath. “Then don’t wear them for any length of time. Now there’s an idea. How about if we stay here for a while and live naked?”

  “We’ll be Adam and Eve, and this will be our Eden.”

  “Want to read for a while, Eve?” Grinning the crooked smile she so loved to see, he retrieved two books from one of her bags in the bed of the buckboard. “Spleens or sex-treats?” he asked, holding up the two volumes.

  “Spleens, please.”

  He studied the covers of the books. “I’m not in the mood for spleens tonight.”