Heartstrings (19 page)

Slowly, he raised his arm and looked at his sleeve. At the sight of the delicate stitches that closed the tear, he forgot his empty stomach.

Her caring gesture fed another sort of hunger. Indeed, he felt as if some deep void inside him had begun to fill.

“My sewing doesn’t meet with your approval?” Theodosia asked after a long moment of watching him stare at his sleeve.

He lifted his gaze and met hers. “It’s fine,” he said softly. His brows rose in surprise when he heard the thick emotion in his own voice and realized Theodosia had heard it, too. Ah, hell, he thought. If he didn’t do something fast, she’d start that psychological probing of hers, forcing him to talk about things he wanted left buried.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he cleared his throat and gave her a good glare. “We’re wasting time standing here talking about a stupid tear in my sleeve and the unmatched sewing skills that fixed it! Now, for God’s sake, let’s go!”

She studied him carefully. “What, may I ask, brought about your tonitruous mood, Mr. Montana?”

“Of course you
may
ask, Miss Worth. The problem, though, is that I don’t know what the hell tittirons means, so I can’t tell you what—”

“
Tonitruous.”

“You say it your way, and I’ll say it mine!”

“
Tonitruous
means ‘explosive.’ ‘Thundering.’”

He saw an “I-dare-you-to-argue” expression in her eyes and quieted immediately.

Theodosia walked to the bureau, and battling the temptation to smile at Roman’s agitation—which she knew was somehow related to his mended shirt-sleeve—she pinned her ruby brooch to the collar of her gown and slipped her ruffled sunbonnet over her head. “Suppose you tell me what people do at fairs. Besides eat food prepared by the best cooks in the world, that is.”

He gaped at her. “You’ve never been to a fair?”

“No.”

“They don’t have fairs in Boston?”

She slid her hands into her gloves. “I’m certain they do, but I—”

“You were always too busy studying something to go.” Reminded anew of the many things she’d missed out on, Roman took her hand and led her into the corridor. “You have fun at a fair, Miss Worth.”

“But what form of fun, Mr. Montana?”

He smiled when he thought about what her idea of fun was. A freshly dug plant root sent the woman into rapture.

But he was going to change all that. Today he would begin to show her a world she’d never known. A world where rain had a taste and stars were made for wishing.

It was the very least he could do for the only woman on earth who had ever taken the time to mend his clothes.

A
fter they enjoyed a dinner
of flaky meat pastries, fresh crisp salad, and cold lemonade, Roman led Theodosia through the crowd of people gathered in the meadow. “There now, look at that,” he said, pointing to a group of children who were dancing around a large tub filled with water and apples. “That’s what you call fun.”

The music of fiddles, guitars, songs, and laughter floating all around her, she watched the children take turns bobbing for the apples and clapped when one little girl succeeded in sinking her teeth into one of the floating fruits. “You did that as a child, Mr. Montana?”

“Sure did.”

She felt him give her hand a squeeze and went mushy inside. Roman was definitely the most handsome man at the fair. No woman there could take her eyes off him, and several had been dragged away by their jealous husbands or irate fathers. Theodosia, for the first time, understood the pride a lady felt when her escort was the cause of such female interest.

She squeezed his hand back. “And how many turns did it take you before you got your apple?”

Her question catapulted him into the past. He hadn’t had to take turns bobbing for apples because he always played the game alone. “I got my apple on the first try.”

Before she could question him further, he led her toward a row of booths manned by the townswomen and urged her to examine the beautiful workmanship of the quilts, lacy tablecloths, and embroidered pillows and to sample the delicious preserves, jellies, and candies. He then escorted her to the livestock show, where she saw proud farmers exhibiting their pampered swine. She barely had time to get out of the way when one irritated hog escaped his pen, knocked over a dessert booth, and devoured two cakes before anyone could stop him.

In addition to the locals, a small traveling carnival had joined the merrymaking. A professional juggler and magician astounded one and all, as did the group of dancing monkeys. Two more carnival men had set up games of chance, which were of great interest to the townspeople because of the dazzling array of prizes and cash sums to be won.

“Well, Miss Worth?” Roman said, his fingers caressing hers as he held her hand. “What do you think about the fair?”

Her concentration centered on one of the games a carnival man was running, she didn’t reply.

“Miss Worth?”

“Mr. Montana,” she said, pointing to the carnival game and the man who operated it, “that number game over there is—”

“Yeah, we’ll play it after we get some dessert.”

“But—”

He laid a finger over her lips. “We’ll play the game in a minute. Now, relax and—”

“How can you expect me to embrace ataraxia when that flagitious man is committing such a blatant act of fubbery by—”

“What?”

“Mr. Montana, I cannot be calm,” she translated, “because—”

“You’re not having any fun, are you?” he asked, his voice tight with irritation. “And you want to know why you’re not having any? Because you’re too busy being a genius. Quit using those obnoxious words that only you and a dictionary have ever heard of.”

“But if you would only listen—”

“Think it’s warm out here?”

“What? Yes, it is a sultry day, but I—”

“Why’s it so warm?” His eyes bored into hers while he waited for her answer.

She gave a delicate huff and glanced at the sky. “The sun is about ninety-three million miles away from earth, which is close enough to supply the earth with heat and light. The temperature of the sun’s surface is estimated at ten thousand eight hundred degrees, and—”

“Wrong.”

She blinked up at him. “Wrong, Mr. Montana?”

“It’s warm outside because it’s sunny. Sunshine means warmth. Period.”

“But that is what I said.”

“No, that’s not what you said. You don’t know how to say anything normal. I bet if I got you a piece of blueberry pie for dessert, you’d say to me, ‘Oh, Mr. Montana, isn’t this pie of blueberracocknoid simply delicious?’ You wouldn’t know how to just sit there and enjoy the damned pie. You’d have to tell me why it’s blue. Why it stains. Then you’d launch into the history of pie. Starting from the day the Father of Pie was born, you’d work your way through his life and finally tell me how old he was when he first got the brilliant idea of filling dough with fruit. Then—”

“What is blueberracocknoid?”

“I made it up to show you just how ridiculous all those scientific names are that you tag on to everything you see. It means blueberry.”

“A blueberry is of the genus
Vaccinium
and is a member of the heath family.”

“Well, good for the blueberry!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I mean it, Miss Worth. None of the scientific garbage today. Use normal words, do normal things, and think normal thoughts. Agreed?”

“Normal? But what—”

“See? You don’t even know what normal is!” More determined than ever to show her the meaning of fun, he dragged her to a nearby table, upon which sat a basket of eggs. Behind the table stood a wooden rack of prizes that included costly rifles, pearl-handled knives, gold watches, bottles of French perfume, silver lockets, and porcelain dolls.

“Name’s Jister,” the stout carnival man behind the table introduced himself. “Burris Jister.”

Theodosia stared at the man’s odd hat. It appeared to have been fashioned from some sort of rodent skin. Staring at it, she finally noticed a rat’s head above the man’s right ear.

A rat hat. She shuddered with distaste.

His cheroot pinched tightly between his teeth, Mr. Jister squinted as smoke rose into his eyes. “Glad to see you folks. Care to guess which eggs is boiled and which is raw? A dime buys you ten guesses. Guess right ten times in a row, and y’win one o’ the big prizes. Nine to one right guesses gets you a lemon drop, and no right guesses gets you a pat on the back and an offer to try again.”

A crowd gathering around him, Roman slapped a dime onto the table.

“I lost thirty cents a few minutes ago,” one of the townsmen warned.

“I lost fifty cents,” another added. “No matter what I did, I just couldn’t figure out which ones were raw and which ones were boiled.”

“Mr. Montana,” Theodosia said, laying her hand on his shoulder, “I—”

“Watch,” he instructed her. “Just watch how much fun it is to guess.”

“But Mr. Mon—”

“Miss Worth, would you just let me play the guessing game?”

She stepped away from him and gave a stiff nod.

“Very well, guess. But the odds of guessing correctly ten times in a row are—”

“I’ll take ten guesses, Mr. Jister,” Roman said to the egg man, blatantly ignoring Theodosia’s scholarly warning. “And when I win, I want that Winchester.” He pointed to the fancily engraved rifle.

Mr. Jister nodded and pushed the basket of eggs closer to the edge of the table. “Y’can do anything to the eggs ’cept break ’em. When you’ve picked ten, we’ll crack ’em and see how good y’guessed. First wrong guess we come to, we quit breakin’ ’em.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Roman rolled the eggs between his palms, smelled them, shook them, held them up to the sun, and even listened to them. Finally, he separated ten from the rest. “These are all boiled,” he announced.

“Well, now, let’s just see about that.” Over a wooden bowl, Mr. Jister began to crack the eggs.

Roman smiled when the first four proved to be boiled. The fifth was likewise boiled, and he tossed Theodosia a smug look.

She returned it when the sixth egg sluiced from its shell in a thick and glistening stream.

“Cain’t have the Winchester,” Mr. Jister said. “But here’s a lemon drop.”

Roman handed the candy to Theodosia. “I want ten more chances,” he said, dropping another dime onto the table. Quickly, he picked ten more eggs, and this time he decided they were all raw.

The first egg Mr. Jister cracked was boiled. “Y’want to try again?”

Roman shook his head and took Theodosia’s arm. “I didn’t win, but it was fun to guess.
Fun,
Miss Worth. Got that? Now, let’s go get some dessert.”

“Wait,” she said, noticing a young boy approach the table. “May I stay and watch this game for a while, Mr. Montana? I… It is truly diverting. I might even try my hand at it.” She smiled.

He didn’t miss the excitement in her smile and eyes and believed she was finally understanding the meaning of fun. “All right. I’ll go buy dessert and bring it back here. Good luck. And if you win, get me that Winchester.” Flashing her a crooked grin, he left to buy the food.

Theodosia returned her attention to the little boy.

He slid three dimes toward the game man. “This is all the money I got, and I want a bottle o’ that fancy parfume fer my mama. Today’s her birthday.”

Mr. Jister pocketed the three dimes. “Y’gotta win the perfume, kid. Go on and start guessin’.”

Sweat broke out on the boy’s freckled forehead as he began handling the eggs. His hands shaking, he finally chose thirty eggs and circled his thin arms around them to keep them from rolling off the table. “These is all raw.”

One by one, Mr. Jister broke the eggs. The first six were raw, the seventh boiled. “Y’ain’t gettin’ no perfume, kid,” he said, and laughed. “What y’get is a lemon drop.”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. Head hung low, he trudged away from the table.

Moved to pity, Theodosia neared the table.

“Well now, little lady,” Mr. Jister drawled, his gaze roaming over her breasts. “Y’want to try? Lot’s o’ nice things to win.” He turned toward the enticing display of prizes, and as he gestured toward them, he saw the little boy standing by the rack. The child held a bottle of the perfume. “Hey, kid, put that back!”

“But—but I saved fer weeks to get that thirty cents! Today’s my mama’s birth—”

“Y’think I give a damn about when your mama was born?” Give me that bottle, or I’ll—”

“I would like to play,” Theodosia blurted, loath to hear the man’s threat.

He snatched the perfume from the boy, then shoved him away. After placing the bottle back on the rack, he returned to the table. “How many guesses do y’want, little darlin’?”

Bristling over the endearment the game man had called her, Theodosia watched as tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks. “How many eggs do you have, Mr. Jister?”