A Basket of Wishes

by Rebecca Paisley

  “You said—”

  “Cicuration. To cicurate is to calm. To tame. Your ferocity made me wonder if I would have to somehow coax you out of your frenzied state.”

  He frowned, no more able to comprehend what she had said than he could understand why he was still here listening to her. “Lady, I get the feeling you must be some sort of genius, but I’ll be damned if you aren’t a lunatic, too.”

  He stalked over to his horse.

  “My brother-in-law, Upton, and I studied the emotion of anger at great length a few years ago,” Theodosia elaborated, watching him mount and settle his large frame into the saddle. “We became interested in psychology, and it was most fascinating. Our research taught us that many people who possess quick tempers underwent various and extended forms of strain and or grief during their childhoods. But of course, there are also people who possess violent characters because they were extremely spoiled as children. Which is it in your case, sir?”

  Surprise, like an unseen fist, hit him hard.

  Strain and grief.

  How had this woman guessed?

  He slid his hat on. Without another word to her, he urged his stallion into an easy canter toward town.

  Once he arrived at the train station, Roman Montana dismounted, tied his horse to a post, and dug into his saddlebag for the sign he was to use to find the woman Dr. Wallaby had sent him to meet. Upon withdrawing the sign, he looked at the name on it.

  Theodosia Worth.

  “Theodosia,” he muttered. Peculiar name. He wondered if she was as odd as her name. Maybe.

  But no one could be as strange as the woman he’d just left outside town.

  Thank God for that.

  “Nice horse,” a deep voice said from behind him. “Nimble, yet rugged. Unusual combination. Is he fast?”

  Accustomed to such curiosity, Roman turned and waited for the man’s next words. He knew full well what they would be. Almost every man who saw his stallion, Secret, wanted to buy him.

  The man examined the stallion again. “I’ve got a ranch about seventy-five miles west of here. Wouldn’t be willing to sell him, would you? I’d pay good money for him.”

  Roman smiled. The man was mistaken if he thought to use Secret as a stud horse, for the stallion was but the result of some unusual and mischievous crossbreeding that Roman had indulged in ten years ago. He’d never told a soul about his youthful transgression or the particulars of its unexpected yet extraordinary outcome, nor would he. His future depended on his keeping the secret.

  “Sorry,” he said. “He’s not for sale.”

  “Damned shame. Well, good luck to you.”

  “Thanks.” Roman swiped at his soiled clothing again and entered the station. Holding the sign above his head, he walked through the milling crowd. Many people hastened to step out of his way. He understood why they gave him a wide berth. He certainly didn’t smell of sandalwood soap or rosewater. He smelled of…

  What had that demented woman called it? Reeking fertilizer. Shaking his head, he made another journey around the stuffy room. By the time he’d completed his third trip, he saw her.

  That crazy genius. She stood by the side door of the station; her feathered maniac sat perched on her shoulder, pecking at a bit of ribbon on her bonnet.

  He started to turn away from her, but before he could give her his back, he saw her move toward him.

  In only a moment he found himself staring into the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Almost perfect circles, they were the color of fine whiskey and every bit as intoxicating.

  He lowered his gaze and saw that one long lock of her bright gold hair lay over her breasts, which were, indeed, the big and full kind.

  Not that he gave a solitary damn.

  He spun on his heel and strode away from her.

  “Roman Montana?”

  At the sound of his name, Roman stopped in his tracks. Oh, God. She knew who he was.

  That could only mean one thing. Dread coiling through him, he felt as though he’d swallowed a poisonous snake.

  “Roman Montana?” Theodosia said to the back of his head. “I didn’t recognize you while we conversed outside of town.” She tapped him on the upper back; the tips of her fingers touched his long hair.

  She drew her hand away immediately, unnerved by the strange emotion that the feel of his hair evoked.

  It was sun-warmed. The same color as the two shiny black guns he wore at his hips, it spilled over his broad shoulders and down his back in thick waves.

  She’d never seen such hair on a man and knew an almost uncontrollable urge to touch it again.

  Baffled by her odd reaction to it, she took a step away and forced herself to concentrate on the situation at hand. “I am Theodosia Worth, the woman you are to escort to Templeton,” she said, still speaking to his back. “You have a sign with my name on it, and you are exactly one hour, twenty-two minutes, and forty-nine seconds late.”

  He clenched his fists around the sign. The woman actually counted seconds!

  When he still didn’t answer her or turn around to face her, Theodosia contemplated the remote possibility that she’d made a mistake. “My goodness, sir, you are Roman Montana, are you not?”

  John the Baptist squawked shrilly. “It is imperative that I conceive a child,” he called out. “My goodness, sir, you are Roman Montana, are you not?”

  His dread deepening, Roman wished to God his name were anything but Roman Montana.

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