“The man’s name sounds a mite familiar,” the clerk informed her, swiping at smother fly. “He’s pro’bly done some work ’round here, or somethin’. Nobody’s asked about ya, though. Is Roman Montana a drinkin’ man, ma’am?”
“A drinking man?” She gave him a thoughtful look. “What do his drinking habits have to do with my searching for him?”
Her question gave him pause. “Well, ma’am, if he likes his whiskey, y’might find him over at the saloon, don’tcha think? Head on out that side door over yonder and stay stuck to the windin’ path. You’ll pass a horse paddock, a mound o’ salt licks, and then a purty little patch o’ bluebonnets. After y’pass the purty little patch o’ bluebonnets, the main street’ll be dead ahead o’ you.”
He pushed his spectacles back up again. “The main street’s lined with buildin’s. Saloon’s the third one on the left. But if ya don’t find your Roman Montana there, don’t go to frettin’, hear? He’ll be along sooner or later.”
Theodosia hoped it would be sooner. But hoping was like wishing, and wishing was a useless pastime. “And may I leave my baggage here, sir?”
“Oh, shore, shore. Bags don’t git stole from here but about once a month, and one was jest stole yesterday, so I reckon another month’ll pass afore one gits stole again.”
Trying to take comfort in his disturbing reassurance, Theodosia exited the station. Once outside, she removed John the Baptist from his cage and slipped a glittering collar around his neck.
Leashed, the bird waddled alongside his mistress as she proceeded into town.
Within moments, Theodosia stood in front of a building with a sign that saidShit’s Saloon.She realized someone had tampered with one of the sign’s letters and that the name of the saloon wasSmit’s Saloon.Patting the side of her bonnet, she approached the swinging doors.
A round of gunfire exploded from within the establishment, and two brawny men came flying out. They slammed onto the boardwalk, then rolled into the dirt street, where they continued the brawl they’d begun inside the saloon.
Frightened by the loud ruckus, John the Baptist let out a high-pitched, long-winded squawk. Before Theodosia could reach for him, he had pulled his head out of the collar and scrambled down the boardwalk, his escape accelerated by his intermittent bouts of flying.
Frantic, Theodosia chased him, but the bird took a zigzag course that included dodging beneath low-lying fence posts and shrubbery. In no time, John the Baptist had scooted out of town, leaving a puff of dust in his wake.
Still giving chase, Theodosia saw her parrot head straight for a horse and rider who were just arriving in town. “Stop!” she screamed at the man on the silver steed. “Stop immediately! You’re going to injure my parrot! Please—”
Her shout died away when John the Baptist left the ground and flew directly into the huge gray horse’s chest. The skittish stallion reared suddenly, pitching his rider into an enormous pile of discarded stable flooring that lay on the side of the road.
Knowing the man’s landing into the soft odorous heap couldn’t have hurt him, Theodosia raced past him, still intent on catching John the Baptist.
The fallen rider started to rise, but fell back again when a flurry of blue skirts swiped him full across his face. Disbelieving, he watched the young woman weave along the dusty road in an effort to overtake the hysterical bird.
Anger curled through him, as well as a hint of embarrassment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been flung off a horse, and he’d certainly never been thrown into a smelly mountain of horse manure.
He rose to his feet. While he brushed off his clothes, the squawking bird scurried toward him.
Theodosia gasped in astonishment as the man scooped up her parrot with one smooth motion. “Oh, thank you!” she gushed, holding up her arms to receive her bird.
The man did not relinquish the parrot. Lifting it higher, he stared up at it.
John the Baptist stared back. “Would you be willing to impregnate me?”
The man’s forehead furrowed into a deep scowl. “What the hell—”
“Sir, please relinquish my bird to me,” Theodosia asked. “He’s unaccustomed to strenuous movement in such sultry heat.”
He decided she was from one of those northeastern cities, where people dressed real fancy just to sit on little satin sofas and drink hot tea. People from there talked as she did, with a clipped accent sharp enough to slice leather if put to the test.
“Sir,” Theodosia continued, “I must take prompt measures to provide my parrot with a cool place in which to reconcile himself to this change of environment.”
He frowned in bewilderment. “What?”
“He must rest.”
“Lady, I’ve got a good mind to put this damned bird to rest for all of eternity!”
Theodosia peered up into eyes so blue, they defied description. One moment they appeared turquoise; in the next they rivaled the clear true blue of cornflowers.
The intensity of his gaze caused a fluttering sensation inside her. It warmed her, tickled a bit, and quickened her breath and heartbeat. Disturbed by the unfamiliar feelings, she bowed her head for a moment to seek composure and found herself staring at the lower part of his anatomy.
