Heartstrings Read Free Page B

wing. “I’m smarter’n most folks figger. Say good-bye, John the Baptist.”
    Theodosia left the astonished barkeep and crossed to the ticket window, determined to begin an intense search for Roman Montana. “Sir,” she said to the ticket clerk, “I am to meet a man by the name of Roman Montana. He’s tall and has long black hair and blue eyes. Have you seen anyone fitting that description? Perhaps he has inquired about my whereabouts? My name is Theodosia Worth.”
    The clerk pushed his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “Welcome to Oates’ Junction, Miz Worth. Name’s Tark. You from England?”
    “Boston. Mr. Tark—”
    “I thought England. Y’talk kind o’ funny, like them London furriners. It’s fancy talk, though. Meant that as a compliment. Tark’s my first name, Miz Worth. Damn flies.” He reached for a stack of papers, rolled them into a tube, and began swatting flies. Only after he’d killed about a dozen did he speak again.
    “Last name’s Krat. Tark, ya see, is Krat spelled back’ards. Mama figgered that out when I was two days old and thought it was right cute. Ain’t that funny? So y’say you’re lookin’ fer Roman Montana, huh?”
    Theodosia felt more eager than ever to discover the reasons behind this circumlocutory conversation.
    “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 said Shit’s Saloon. She realized someone had tampered with one of the sign’s letters and that the name of the saloon was Smit’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