“Miss Worth,” Roman ground out.
“Yes?” Blinking, she touched her fingers to her forehead and tried to remember what he’d asked her. “I—my goodness, my mind has gone blank. Such a thing has never happened to me before.” She sat up and saw she held a fistful of bright red phlox. “Oh, yes. I was gathering these—”
“I thought you were dead!” Roman knifed to his feet and stuffed his Colts back into his belt.
His shouting served to bring back her presence of mind. “Dead, Mr. Montana? But what might have killed me?”
He noticed her velvet bag hanging from the crook of her elbow. It was safe, her trunk was safe, she was safe. He decided not to tell her about the three men. If he did, she’d probably cry with fear, and he’d dealt with enough female tears to last him several lifetimes.
He yanked out the blood-splattered scrap of silk. “What else was I supposed to think when I found this? Then I find you sprawled facedown at the bottom of this—”
“That is a piece of my petticoat. I cut my wrist on a nail that protrudes from the seat of the wagon, and I stemmed the bleeding by using a bit of my petticoat to apply pressure to the wound. I’m sure the lesion will heal quite nicely, and—”
“I don’t give a damn about some stupid scratch on your wrist! What the hell are you doing out here?”
She picked a few more phlox and smiled. “I was and still am collecting these fine samples ofPhlox drummondii.It is cultivated in Boston gardens, but I have never had the opportunity to see it growing wild. Lying on the ground better enabled me to examine it. It is not only the visible elements of plants that interest me but the root system as well. Would you care to hear an amusing story about the Polemoniaceaefamily, Mr. Montana?”
“Why would I want to hear a story about a family I don’t even know, Miss Worth? And what the hell does that have to do with those flowers?”
She smiled gently and raised her crimson blossoms. “Phlox belong to the Polemoniaceae family. It is not a human family but a plant family.”
“A plant family?” He looked at her flowers, then touched three of them. “Don’t tell me. This is Papa Flower, this is Mama Flower, and this is Baby—”
“Excuse me if I interrupt your witty flow. You see, Mr. Montana, plants and animals are classified—”
“Never mind all that scientific hogwash! Now get back to the wag—”
“But I was going to relate the amusing story. In 1833, a Scot by the name of Thomas Drummond visited this area to collect a wide variety of specimens. He harvested more than seven hundred species of flora. These,” she said, holding up her flowers, “he liked especially. So he sent seeds to Edinburgh. From Edinburgh, the plants were marketed all over Europe. Finally, they reached Boston and New York, where they became highly prized. The New Englanders, you see, were under the misconception that this plant was a rare and fine European import. Several years passed before they came to realize that it was actually a lowly native of the Republic of Texas. Now, isn’t that one of the most amusing anecdotes you have ever heard?”
“Hilarious. Now, get back to the wag—”
“Thomas Drummond died of cholera.”
“Sad. Now, get back to the wag—”
“I was under the impression that you were not going to accompany me on my journey, Mr. Montana.” She rose from the ground, careful not to crush her phlox. “I haven’t had the slightest difficulty with my travels as of yet.”
“No? I thought you wanted to get to Templeton.”
“That is precisely where I am—”
“Templeton’s near the coast.” He retrieved his hat from the blanket of phlox and slid it on his head. “Keep traveling north, and in about nine or ten days, you’ll cross into the Oklahoma Territory.” He waited for her reaction to his revelation. Surely someone as smart as she was would be embarrassed by having made such a dumb mistake.
“How do you know I’m traveling north? Are you carrying a compass?”
“No, I just know.”
“But how—”
“For God’s sake, I’ve lived in Texas all my life! I know what it looks like, smells like, sounds like, and feels like. Hell, I can eventasteit! I know what is where, and where is what. Rivers, animals, rocks—everything has a way of telling me where I am. Now, get back to the wag—”
“But what if you were lost outside of Texas? How would you—”
“I’d study the trees and wind!” Totally irritated, he started toward the embankment.
“The trees and wind, Mr. Montana?” She hurried to join him, her insatiable curiosity not to be denied. “But what would it be about the trees and wind that would aid you?”
He spun to face her, instinct telling him that she, wasn’t going to give up until he answered her question. “The tops of tall trees lean toward the strongest sunlight, which comes from the east. Trees felled by strong winds—and not by rot, lightning, or human hands—fall toward the south because it’s usually a norther that’s felled them. And last, the direction of wind doesn’t normally change during the day. If a southern wind is at my back in the morning, it’s probably a southern wind at my back in the afternoon. All right? Satisfied?”
