“Sunlight hit the metal tip of his lance. When I saw the flash, I saw the warrior.”
“You—Roman, you shot the lance,” she whispered as if in prayer.
“Would you rather I’d shot the warrior?”
“What? No. No, of course I wouldn’t have wanted you to shoot the warrior. But you—”
“I aimed for the lance because I knew the warrior was just about to throw it.”
She couldn’t fathom his blasé attitude. For goodness’ sake, he’d hit a flying lance from a distance of at least a hundred yards! Another man would have bragged about and celebrated such marksmanship.
But not Roman. He made use of his skills when he had to, and when he had no further need of them, he put them away, like a shirt he didn’t feel like wearing anymore.
Her profuse admiration for him moved her to embrace him.
Instantly, Roman thrust her away. “Theodosia, get down in the wagon.”
She started. His voice sounded like wheels churning through gravel, and she realized immediately that he would stand for no argument on her part. As she slipped into the pallet he’d made for her in the wagon bed, her heart skipped several beats when it dawned on her that Roman had spotted the Indian again.
“Stay there,” Roman instructed her. His fingers whitening around his rifle, he watched the Comanche warrior step out of the thicket and walk toward the wagon, a small bundle in his arms.
By heading straight toward a white man’s loaded rifle, the Indian showed incredible bravery, stupidity, or desperation, Roman thought. He tensed in preparation for whatever he would have to do to protect Theodosia.
Finally, the Comanche stopped near the wagon, knelt, and slowly placed the bundle on the ground. His black eyes never leaving the armed white man in front of him, he unwrapped the parcel and then stood.
Roman saw a Comanche infant lying amidst the cloth. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered when the baby began to wail.
Disturbed by the sound of the infant’s wailing and Roman’s curse, Theodosia sat up. One look at the warrior caused her to gasp with surprise. Wearing nothing but a buckskin breechcloth and the cloak of his thick black hair, he stared directly into her eyes. Taken aback by the intensity of his dark gaze, she looked away and glanced at the baby at his feet. The naked male child appeared to be about four months old, and as Theodosia listened to his cries, her heart went out to him.
“Roman,” she murmured, “the baby—”
“He’s probably the warrior’s son,” Roman replied. “The mother must have died somehow.”
Filled with pity, Theodosia held her aching head and began to climb out of the wagon. But she stilled instantly when the warrior spoke.
“Mamante,” he warrior said, laying his hand on his chest. “Mamante.”
“His name must be Mamante,” Theodosia said. She tapped her own chest. “I’m Theodosia. And this man, is Roman. Roman, tell him who we are.”
“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 torideyour 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!”
