Heartstrings

by Rebecca Paisley

  “You just did, Theodosia. Now get back down in the wagon.”

  Mamante pointed to the mustang hitched to the wagon.

  “He wants my horse,” Theodosia speculated. Mamante patted his belly, then crouched to rub the baby’s belly as well.

  “He wants to eat my horse,” Theodosia added.

  Roman resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “He doesn’t want to eat your horse. He wants to ride your horse and get food from us. Now, for the last time, get back down in the wagon.”

  When Roman made no move to assist the Comanche, Theodosia struggled to her knees. “Aren’t you—Roman, aren’t you going to supply him with the things he needs?”

  Roman heard the disbelief in her voice, but he concentrated on the warrior, noticing that dark bruises shadowed Mamante’s chest and abdomen.

  Defeat shone from the brave’s somber eyes. His arms dangling at his sides, his shoulders slumped forward, he presented a vivid picture of a man bereft of all strength, stripped of all pride.

  Roman handed his rifle to Theodosia, slipped his knife out of the sheath tied to his thigh, and assumed a fighting stance.

  “Roman! You cannot mean to battle this unarmed man with a knife!”

  “Stay out of this, Theodosia.”

  She had no time to object further. Mamante moved away from the infant, Roman stalked him, and the fight began.

  Roman swung the dagger in an arc, barely missing Mamante’s face. He then lunged forward, ramming his head into Mamante’s stomach and causing the warrior to double over. Before Mamante could catch his breath and straighten, Roman knocked him to the ground with a powerful side kick to the chest.

  Flat on his back, Mamante clutched handfuls of dirt and closed his eyes. A long moment passed before he struggled to his feet. Heaving, he staggered as if intoxicated, swinging his fists through empty air.

  Theodosia felt nauseated by Roman’s vicious treatment of the weakened Indian. “Roman, stop this madness! You’re going to kill him!”

  In answer, Roman slammed his fist into Mamante’s jaw, causing the brave to spin in the dirt and fall once more. Again, Mamante rose from the ground. He stood motionless, his back bowed, his head hung low.

  In an effort to force Mamante to summon the strength to fight back, Roman moved toward the squalling infant. When he reached the baby, he stood directly over him and gave Mamante a grim smile.

  Fear for the child froze Mamante to the spot for one short moment. And then, fury radiating from each part of him, he released an ear-splitting war cry and sprang forward, knocking Roman well away from the child.

  Still on his feet, Roman raised the dagger directly above Mamante’s head, anticipating the Indian’s response. Instantly, the warrior grabbed and squeezed Roman’s wrist.

  Having received the exact reaction he wanted, Roman pretended to struggle for possession of the blade, then jammed his knee into Mamante’s belly. As Mamante slipped to the ground, Roman fell with him. Rolling in the dirt the two men continued the battle for the knife.

  Finally, Roman slowly unfurled his fingers from around the hilt.

  Screaming a second war cry, Mamante yanked the knife from Roman’s hand. Both men rose. Roman stood still, but Mamante leaped backward. His black eyes gleaming, he threw himself back to the ground and somersaulted toward his adversary.

  As Mamante rolled past him, Roman tensed in preparation for the sharp pain to come. Though he knew it would happen, he made no move to prevent it, and in the next second he felt a sharp pain rip through his thigh. Clutching the knife wound, he turned in time to see Mamante charging toward him again, dagger in hand. Roman took one long step to the side, and just as Mamante raced by, he took hold of the warrior’s arm. Leaning backward, he shoved his foot into Mamante’s belly and allowed himself to fall on his back, thus tossing the brave over his head.

  Dazed, Mamante stared at the sky for a moment before realizing he’d dropped the blade.

  Get the knife, dammit! Roman demanded silently.

  Mamante lifted his body from the ground with his left arm and stretched his right arm out toward the weapon, but he fell back to the dirt when Roman kicked his supporting arm. Panting, Mamante curled into a ball and rolled directly onto the dagger. Clutching it with both hands, he bolted to his feet and slowly began to circle Roman.

  Though he knew full well that the Comanche would fight to the death, Roman had no intention of allowing the battle to continue. Mamante’s exhaustion was obvious, and Roman would not force the courageous warrior to expend what little strength he had left.

  It was time to be defeated.

  He charged toward Mamante, who responded by leaping into the air and kicking both feet into Roman’s chest. When Roman fell, Mamante knelt by his head, grabbed his hair, and held the knife to his throat.

  Roman lay still and silent, pretending a wild-eyed expression he hoped Mamante would interpret as fear.

  “Roman,” Theodosia called, her voice almost a whisper. “Mamante.” Standing in the shade beneath a massive oak tree, she held the Indian baby close to her breast, and with a wealth of emotion in her eyes, she begged the men to cease fighting.

  They looked at her and saw her tears, which trickled down her cheeks and fell upon the infant in her arms.

  Silently, Roman congratulated her. He realized she had no idea how poignant her tears and helplessness appeared as she cuddled the baby while witnessing such violence, but he knew the Comanche warrior would be deeply moved by her concern for his son.

  “Please stop,” Theodosia murmured. Pale with the horror of what she’d seen, she lifted the baby to her face and wept into his soft black hair.

  Swiftly, Mamante stood. Staring down at Roman, he flung down the knife.

  It impaled the ground beside Roman’s left ear. Roman didn’t flinch but only gazed up at the warrior. The renewed pride he saw flashing in Mamante’s eyes convinced him he’d done well by forcing the Comanche to fight him.

  Roman pulled the dagger out of the dirt and got to his feet. “Theodosia, put the baby down, and make a bag of food.”

  She walked slowly toward the Comanche warrior, laid the child in his arms, and adjusted the infant’s blanket before crossing to the wagon. There she filled a bag with bacon, dried beans, apples, cornmeal, several jars of preserved vegetables, a loaf of bread, and a generous quantity of sugar.

  While she finished preparing the sack of food, Roman fashioned a bridle with a length of rope he carried on his saddle. He then unhitched the mustang from the wagon and slipped the bridle over the horse’s head.

  His shoulders back, his chin lifted high, Mamante accepted his winnings and took the rope reins from Roman’s hand. While Theodosia held the baby, he swung himself onto his new mount, then slipped the food bag strings over his shoulder. Theodosia gave him the infant, but his face remained void of emotion until Roman held out his rifle and an ample supply of ammunition.

  The gleam of arrogance in his eyes mellowed into a soft shine of gratitude then. Smiling broadly, he took the rifle and ammunition and quickly sent the mustang cantering into the field.

  In moments, he disappeared.

  “Why, Roman?” Theodosia demanded. She took tight hold of his upper arm and tried to shake him. “Didn’t you see his bruises? Didn’t you notice he was weak with hunger and fatigue? Why did you have to fight him?”

  Roman turned to her and drew his fingers down the sticky trail her tears had left upon her cheeks. “No man, white or Indian, wants to beg, Theodosia. When Mamante—a Comanche warrior—didn’t try to steal the supplies he needed but came and begged for them instead, I knew he’d lost all self-respect, all strength of heart. Making him fight me for the things he needed was the only way I could think of to give him back his pride.”

  His explanation humbled her. For all her years of studying the workings of the human mind, she’d failed to understand that Mamante’s most serious affliction was not his hunger or bruises but his loss of self-esteem. Roman had not only sensed the Coman
che’s deepest misery but had effectively soothed it.

  “Roman?”

  Without answering, Roman walked swiftly into the distance and retrieved John the Baptist. When he returned to Theodosia, he handed the parrot to her.

  She caressed her pet with the back of her hand and caressed Roman with her eyes. “You let Mamante win the fight, didn’t you, Roman?” she asked softly.

  He didn’t answer, but she knew his silence meant yes. “I am impressed beyond measure by the extent of your abilities. Your physical skills, your understanding of the human spirit, your compassion…you are a remarkable man, Roman, and I am fortunate to know you.”

  He waited for the tenderness he knew her words would awaken. As soon as the gentle feelings began whispering through him, he thought about how accustomed he’d become to anticipating and experiencing them.

  He would miss the emotions when they came no more. After he and Theodosia parted for their separate ways, there would be no one in his life to make him feel the way he did now.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, pondering the fact that he’d always believed his ranch and horses would fulfill every longing he had.

  He wasn’t so sure anymore.

  Sitting on the soft bed Roman had made for her, Theodosia sorted through her belongings. She’d packed with such haste in Singing Creek that her gowns were quite wrinkled, her gloves were crushed, her underthings were wadded into tight balls, and her jewelry had spilled all through her various bags.

  She made a glittering pile of her jewelry, then looked up to watch Roman groom Secret. His guns gleamed faintly in the firelight, as did the metal buckle on his belt. Twigs, dead leaves, and brittle pecan shells crunched beneath his boot heels, and moonbeams glinted off his hair as he walked around his stallion.

  Memories of the afternoon came back to her. Closing her eyes, she relived the events in her mind and smiled faintly as she recalled the skills Roman had demonstrated while tracking John the Baptist, and the wisdom he’d shown in his dealings with the Comanche warrior.

  She felt a pull at her heart, a gentle tug that released a flood of affection into every part of her. Opening her eyes, she saw Roman watching her. His bold and steady stare made her blush. “Is your wound troubling you at all?”

  He patted the bandage beneath his breeches. “I imagine I’ll live. How about you?”

  She realized he thought the knife wound nothing but a scratch. His unconcerned attitude relieved her of all worry. Gingerly, she touched her temple. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Playing with your wealth?” Roman teased, noticing the mound of her shining jewelry.

  She picked up her ruby brooch. As she held the pin up for Roman to see, firelight twinkled through the bloodred stone and over the delicate gold chains that hung from the bottom. “Have you ever heard the term heartstrings, Roman?”

  “Have you ever heard the term heartstrings, Roman?” John the Baptist repeated, and splashed water out of his cage.

  Roman leaned against Secret’s barrel. “Heartstrings? Yeah, I’ve heard of heartstrings. Are they real?”

  “It is only an expression.” Theodosia shook the brooch, watching as the dangling gold chains swayed. “This pin belonged to my mother, and I have treasured it all these years. It’s a ruby heart, and attached to its bottom are tiny gold chains. They’re the heartstrings.”

  Roman looked at the gleaming heart-shaped pin.

  “Heartstrings is an interesting term,” Theodosia murmured, still watching firelight burn within the facets of the ruby brooch. “Back in the fifteenth century, the heartstring was believed to be a nerve that sustained the heart. Presently the expression is used to describe deep emotion and affection, and one is said to feel a tug at the heart when so touched. I am charmed by both the beauty of the word and the definition.”

  Roman ran his hand over the currycomb he held. Was it only the brooch that had prompted Theodosia to talk about heartstrings, or had she been thinking about her own feelings? Her own affection? If so, was her fondness for him?

  How did Theodosia feel about him? She spoke of her sexual attraction, her gratitude, and her admiration, but did she harbor any other emotions toward him?

  He longed to ask.

  But he didn’t. If he prompted her to discuss her feelings, she would prompt him to do the same.

  And he sure as hell didn’t want that to happen. Truth was, he didn’t know how he felt about her. She drove him insane most of the time, but other times…

  “I apologize for my irrational behavior in Singing Creek, Roman. I should not have left the town without you.”

  He turned back to Secret and ran the currycomb down the stallion’s sleek flank. “Everything I’ve ever seen you do was irrational, Theodosia,” he teased. “Why are you apologizing now?”

  Smiling, Theodosia stretched out on her bed. “How long have you had Secret?”

  “Eleven years. Now go to sleep. I told you this afternoon that we aren’t moving from here until I think you’re ready to travel. If you don’t start resting now, we’ll be here forever.” He began working on Secret’s tangled mane.

  “I’m not doing anything but lying here, Roman.” She watched him tend his horse for a while longer. “I believe I understand why you call your stallion Secret. He is an unusual horse, and you’ve no intention of revealing his bloodlines to anyone. But he is the breed you will raise on your ranch.”

  “Maybe.” Finished with untangling Secret’s mane, Roman moved to the stallion’s tail and wondered how it might feel to share his ideas with Theodosia. It had never been easy to keep such exciting plans to himself.

  “Will you tell me about him?” Theodosia asked. “I promise to keep your secrets as well as you have.”

  Roman didn’t answer but only continued to work at removing dried mud from Secret’s tail.

  “You are not the only one who knows about his bloodlines, Roman. Whoever you purchased him from knows as well.” Glad his back was to her, she smiled slyly.

  “I didn’t buy him, Theodosia.”

  “You bred him yourself.”

  “Exactly. Now go to sleep.”

  She sat straight up and glared at his back. “Roman, you are being extremely unfair. I have trusted you with my very life, and you do not trust me to keep a secret about your horse. I am well aware of the fact that you stand to become wealthy by breeding horses like Secret. Do you truly believe that I would reveal his bloodlines to anyone when I know that to do so would risk your chances of making the fortune you’ve worked so hard to attain?”

  He heard true hurt in her voice, and when he turned, he saw her wounded feelings mirrored in her eyes. Smoothing his hand over his stallion’s back, he tried to think of one valid reason why he shouldn’t trust her with his secrets.

  No reason came to him, and he knew in his heart he could trust her with the information he’d never revealed to another soul.

  He grinned. Trust a woman? Either he’d lost his mind, or something had happened to change his views concerning the female race.

  One member of the female race, anyway.

  Still smiling, he looked straight into Theodosia’s eyes. “Secret had a mustang dam and an English Thoroughbred sire. I bred the two horses in the dead of night out of sheer curiosity.”

  At his admission, her eyes widened with pleasure. It wasn’t so much what he’d told her, but the fact that he’d told her. “Why in the dead of night?”

  Remembering his youthful transgression, Roman bowed his head and chuckled. “The mustang mare belonged to me, but the English Thoroughbred did not. If I’d asked the Thoroughbred’s owner for permission to breed the horses, he would have either said no or charged me a stud fee. So I bred the horses in secret.”

  “That is stealing,” Theodosia said, but smiled back at him.

  “The owner couldn’t possibly have missed what I stole from him, and the stallion thoroughly enjoyed my stealing it.”

  Theodosia’s smile turned into soft laughter.


  “My horses are going to be every cattle rancher’s dream come true,” Roman explained, thrilled by the mere thought. “To rope a runaway steer, a man needs a horse that can reach a full gallop in only a few strides, Theodosia. The horse should be able to keep running at a tremendous speed for at least a quarter of a mile.”

  “And Secret is a horse capable of both things,” Theodosia realized aloud. “Oh, how exciting!”

  Her genuine enthusiasm warmed him all over. “It’s the combination of mustang stamina and Thoroughbred speed, nimbleness, and intelligence. But I won’t be stocking mustangs. I’m going to buy Spanish mares down in Mexico. Although mustangs are throwback cousins to the Spanish mares and are free for the taking to any man who wants to round them up, Spanish mares are bigger, healthier, and more reliable. So if a scraggly mustang can produce a horse like Secret, imagine how much better a Spanish mare can do. And as for the Thoroughbred stallions, I hear the best Thoroughbred farms are in Kentucky. I’ll—”

  “Oh, but you’re wrong, Roman.” Theodosia shook her head. “The best Thoroughbred farm in the country is in New York. My father—”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of some good farms in New England too. I’ll visit all of them until I find the horses I want. They won’t come cheap, though. The finest cost anywhere from six hundred to seven hundred dollars.”

  “That’s true, but if you knew the owner of the horse farm, you could negotiate the price—”

  “I don’t know a damned one of them.”

  “But Roman, I—”

  “Look, Theodosia, it doesn’t matter how many of them you know. By the time I’ve got the money to buy the stallions, you’ll be up to your neck in Brazilian beetle spit.”

  “Roman, if you would only allow me to explain about my father’s business—” She broke off suddenly when thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Aware of her fear of storms, Roman quickly crossed to her pallet and sat down beside her. “It’s not going to rain. Not here, anyway. You won’t be seeing any lightning. I promise.”