He wondered what she would say if he told her she wasn’t well enough to go through with her plans yet. Maybe he could lie and say that head wounds got worse when the injured person tried to engage in anything sexual. He could say it caused rotting of the brain.
Rubbing his chin, he mulled over the idea, then rejected it when he remembered he’d already used it. For a solid week and a half after the encounter with the Comanche warrior, he’d successfully kept Theodosia out in the middle of nowhere, well away from any towns. It was true that he’d wanted her wound to heal before he allowed her to travel, but he admitted to himself that a full ten days was overdoing it a bit. After all, her head had a bump on it, not a bullet in it.
During the ten days, Theodosia had done nothing but sleep, eat, bathe, read, and share her intellect with him. And he’d done nothing but sleep, eat, bathe, hunt, and be aggravated by her intellect. Finally, after a week and a half of resting, she’d dressed, climbed into her wagon, and started driving, giving him no choice but to follow and then lead her to the next town.
Once in Red Wolf, her shoes had barely touched the street dust before she’d hurried off to the newspaper office to have her dumb fliers printed.
Roman had always liked Red Wolf, and he visited the town whenever he had the chance. He decided now, however, that he didn’t like the town anymore. God, he’d never realized how many womanizers lived here!
He kicked a potted plant that sat by the window and ignored the hotel manager’s loud throat-clearing. In deep contemplation, he ambled toward a large velvet chair, sank into it, and stretched out his long legs.
Why the hell did it bother him that Theodosia would soon give herself to some horny genius? It wasn’t as if he were being forced to share her. To share something, one had to own it.
And Theodosia did not belong to him.
“I don’t want her to belong to me anyway,” he muttered.
“Pardon me?” the hotel manager said, looking up from the registration desk. “My name’s Parks. Oliver Parks. Did you say something to me, Mr. Montana?”
Roman looked at Mr. Parks without even seeing him. “She’s not the woman for me. Hell, I don’tlikewomen! But even if I did, she wouldn’t be the one I’d pick. Well, what man do you know who would want a woman who doesn’t understand how to have fun? Oh, she said she had fun at the fair in Kidder Pass, but you want to know what kind of fun she had? Intelligent fun, that’s what. Yeah, the only reason why she had a good time was because she found ways to use her damned genius.”
“Of course, Mr. Montana,” Mr. Parks said, repositioning the inkwell that sat on the desk. “Yes, of course. Whatever you say. Oh, by the way, if you plan to ride out of town anytime soon, be careful. Word has it that the Blanco y Negro Gang is in the area. We just got the news this morning that they shot and killed three people over in Kane’s Crossing, and one of them was a fifteen-year-old girl.”
Mr. Parks shook his head. “You ever heard of any men more dangerous and arrogant than the five in that gang? I’ve never seen them, but I hear tell they wear black from head to toe and they all ride white horses. Sure hope to God they don’t come here to Red Wolf. Thirty bounty hunters have been chasing them since they broke out of jail, but not a one has gotten them. I guess it’ll take a wish granted from heaven to get rid of them. That, or the Devil himself.”
Roman nodded, but his thoughts remained on Theodosia. “How many men do you reckon live in Red Wolf, Mr. Parks?”
“What?” Mr. Parks scratched his whiskered cheek. “Oh, I don’t know. About a hundred and seventy-five or so. Maybe two hundred.”
Two hundred! The number spun through Roman’s mind like a tumbleweed caught in a dust devil.
He ran his thumb over the butt of his Colt, silently vowing that if a single one of the Red Wolf applicants met the requirements for Theodosia’s lover, that man would sorely wish he’d been born short, blond-haired, green-eyed, and extremely stupid.
When Theodosia heardthe dooropen, she spun away from the window and watched Roman walk into the room.
“Let’s go, Theodosia. I’m hungry.”
“Roman, did you see?” she asked, pointing to the street below. “A little boy is already passing out my circulars. Why, he has even posted them on the front of various buildings.”
Fondling his gun again, Roman slid his gaze down her body, savoring each beautiful part of her.
He’d never seen her wear her hair the way she wore it tonight. She’d arranged little braids on top of her head and stuck green-velvet flowers in it. A few shimmering curls lay upon her slender neck, touching the strand of pearls there. Pearls almost the same pale hue as her skin.
The color of her silky dress reminded him of dawn. Kind of pink, kind of orange, kind of yellow. And just the way those soft colors clung to the morning sky, the dress molded to Theodosia’s curves.
The gown dipped low in the front. Roman suspected that if she sneezed, coughed, or even laughed, she’d spill right out of it.
He wondered what amusing thing he could tell her that would make her laugh.
“What are you staring at, Roman?” Even as Theodosia asked the question, she stared back at him. He’d changed into a black suit and stark white shirt, which looked even whiter next to his dark skin. He wore a black string tie. Its ends fell over his broad chest, as did his thick charcoal hair.
But his dinner clothes did nothing to conceal the raw power that coiled through every part of his massive frame. Indeed, his formal attire emphasized it.
A sweet ache pulsed warmly within her.
“What are you thinking about, Theodosia?”
She noted his crooked yet knowing smile. “You are already aware of my thoughts. Therefore, I see no need to discuss them.” She smoothed her peach skirts. “Upton and Lillian bought this gown for me in Paris. Do you like it?”
