When she says give me a few minutes, Rodeo feels his heart soar. It shouldn't be possible for him to feel anything like relief or hope or gladness right now, when seven people are dead and his family has been maimed, burned, bled by the wicked cats, but he feels it nonetheless. It doesn't surprise him too much because it's Lita, and everything about her and the way he feels for her seems to defy his own reasoning.
He's still riding high on that relief when Lita takes a hike for the exit and tells him he can't use the pet name. It's nearly enough to make him falter in his step, which is already compromised by the wicked pain radiating from his leg. It's a slap that he deserves, whether she means it as one or not. He knows he has no right to call her by a sweet name as if she's still his sweetheart when she ain't, but how can he hide how he still feels in his heart? Calling her Lita seems so empty now, even worse Dr. Singh. It don't matter if she isn't his, she's still maharani to him.
"I got a name for everybody in this place," Rodeo says, and his voice comes out a little tighter than he means for it to. Lita's walking fast, and his long strides are impeded by the pain of his injury. She's several steps ahead of him, and he grits his teeth and tries his best to keep up. "So whatever I call you, it ain't gonna make nobody think anything." That much is true-- he doubts there are many in this camp who would know what a maharani even is, let alone jump to the conclusion that Rodeo having a special name to call Lita by meant anything at all. Around here, he's the king of pet names. "Besides, I ain't even half stupid enough to think things are the same." But how he feels? That hasn't changed.
He's real wrapped up with feeling sore over her telling him he can't when she turns back to look at him. He's still struggling to match her pace, but suddenly she stops, and Rodeo sees those sharp dark eyes as they flash down to his left leg and then back up to his face. He's caught. He knows he is. Her hand to his chest stops him, but he wants to turn around and walk away as fast as his bum leg will carry him. He doesn't want to do this. Her concern is so instant, so quick that it's nearly enough to convince him she cares. But how could she? If she's worried, it's just because she sees in him another patient. Another task to complete before she can rest. He can't be that to her. He bites down, jaw flexing and nose flaring visibly as he lifts his chin, defiant and defensive just as fast as she is demanding to know why he didn't tell her about the injury.
"It ain't from today," he says stiffly. "And I didn't tell you 'cause it ain't your business." His tone is curt and not very kind. He wants to shut this down fast. The look in his eyes is the same as when she tried worrying over the scrapes he received rolling across the ground with her away from the gas cloud all those months ago-- cagey, impatient, wary. He's clearly not used to being called out over his injuries, or accepting help with them.