by Robyn Carr
“I’d say so, but if my grandfather was tough, my dad was usually tougher. And if you think the Tahoma men are a handful, you should meet the women. God,” he said, giving his head a shake and absently running a hand over his ear. “I think I’m growing a tumor from where my grandma grabbed my ear and twisted. Man.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Looks like you survived it pretty well.”
“No one’s more surprised than me!”
“So, are you glad to be here?”
“Time will tell,” he said. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I wasn’t real excited about the idea. I mean, it’s my senior year. I have friends at home.”
Home, she thought. “I was raised by my grandparents, too,” she told him. “My grandma passed when I was little and when I was thirteen my grandpa decided it was time to make a change, get us off the reservation, where he said my opportunities were too limited. I know what it’s like to make that change.”
“Well, there are positives. I like my aunt and uncle and my Grace Valley cousins. I’m going to play some dangerous, integrated football instead of on a reservation team. Dad says we’re going to hunt—I’m good with that. And…” He shrugged. “And my dad needs me.”
“Oh?”
“Well, he needs me around. He’s always talked about that, about the two of us finally living in the same county, at least. It’s real important to him. And he’s always done everything he could for—” He stopped abruptly and leaned one hand against the wall, peering out the rear stable doors. “Uh-oh,” he said. He shifted his gaze to Lilly. “It would probably be best not to laugh.”
Lilly stood from the bench and looked out the doors, across the corral and down the trail. Clay was leading Streak home. And he seemed to have a slight limp. “Uh-oh,” she said.
“Yeah, he’s going to be a little cranky….”
“Your dad or Streak?” she asked.
“Looks to me like Streak probably won. But if I know my dad, that’s his absolute last win.”
As Clay drew closer, it was obvious there was more than the limp at issue. He was covered with dirt and dust, for one thing. He had some road rash on his cheek, and the knuckles and back of his hand that held the horse’s lead were scraped and bleeding. And, once he got very close she could see a nice purple bruise was rising on the injured cheek.
He was wearing a very dark frown. He didn’t look angry so much as deeply contemplative. He stopped briefly when he saw Lilly was there; he gave her a short, curt nod then lowered his gaze and proceeded into the stable.
Lilly decided to see how Gabe handled it, both out of curiosity and because she wasn’t sure what to say.
Gabe put out a hand. “Want me to take care of him, Dad?”
“No,” Clay said. “He’s going to wait till I’m fucking ready.” His eyes darted briefly to Lilly. “Pardon,” he said for the profanity, leading the horse—still trapped in the despised saddle—to his stall.
Despite her best efforts, Lilly couldn’t remain quiet. “What did you hurt? Ankle, knee, hip, back?”
“All of the above,” he grumbled, moving the horse into his stall. “I might leave the saddle on all night, you ungrateful beast.”
The horse lifted his head and shook it. It almost appeared as if Streak smiled, and Lilly thought, My, my, doesn’t he have the biggest teeth? She covered her own smile with her hand.
“Excuse me,” Clay said. “I’ll be back.” And he walked out of the barn.
When he was gone Gabe said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find him some ice. He’s going to clean up, put ice on something for a little while, then take the saddle off Streak and make up. But Streak will have to show some remorse.”
“Remorse?”
“Uh-huh. Which he will do after about a half hour of itching because he’s cooled down with no brush. Leaving the saddle on will annoy him.”
“How will he show that remorse?” Lilly asked.
“With subtlety. But my dad can hear him think. And Streak can hear my dad think. And I can guarantee, Streak’s been hearing my dad think all the way from whatever place he dumped him. Just makes me glad every day of my life that I can only hear him when he talks. I’ll be—”
“I’ll get the ice for him,” she said, interrupting him. “Where will I find ice?”
“In Doc’s surgery, in the freezer. Um, you’d better holler in. Dad could be…you know…not dressed.”
“I’ll holler,” she said. Then she went quickly before Gabe could talk her out of it.
So—he hears the horses! She had thought so. Not because he’d wowed her with this ability, but because he’d questioned whether she had it, too. She didn’t hear them, but she did often get a sense of what was going on with them, in their minds or with their emotional instability. She thought she felt them sometimes. But she was never sure she was right.
She found the ice, went to Clay’s quarters and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She opened the door and, looking down and covering her eyes with her hand like a visor, she called, “Clay?” Again, no answer. “Coming in,” she announced to the sound of the shower. There was no response. She tapped on the door frame outside the bathroom. “Clay?”
“What?” he yelled unhappily.
“I have ice. Wrap a towel around yourself and I’ll keep my eyes closed until you find something to cover up with.”
“Leave the ice and go away!” he called out of the shower.
She laughed. A bounce off the back of a little boy stallion didn’t do much to ease his disposition. “I’m staying so try not to embarrass either of us. Just let me look at your hand and cheek. You must have been totally unprepared.” And she tried to keep another laugh under her hand.
“Go away!”
“Nah, I’m staying.”
The shower finally turned off. She trained her eyes on the floor. She heard the partially closed bathroom door squeak, then the sound of a drawer, followed by the words, “You can open your eyes.”
He hadn’t sounded real pleasant, so she lifted her eyes slowly, carefully. She connected with a safe place—his eyes. “So, Gabe told me—you talk to the horses. They talk to you.”
“Not always. ‘I’m going to buck you off’ would’ve been nice to hear,” he said.
She laughed. She let her eyes lower and almost breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his sweatpants. But the sigh caught in her throat when she realized he was still shirtless—and as amazing as a statue. Tall, buff, his shoulders wide and hard, tattoos on both biceps, his wet hair falling long and unbound, curling in tendrils to his waist. It was enough to make her wet her pants. Gabe was pretty, but Clay was a breathtaking mountain of a man. Like nothing she had ever seen in her life. She looked down again.
“What hurts?” she asked.
“Hip, knee, face, hand.”
“Back?”
“No more than usual.”
“I better get more ice.”
“Forget the ice,” he said irritably. “I’ll ice later. I have to take care of that blasted horse.”
“Why don’t Gabe and I take care of that while you…”
“It has to be me,” he said. “If it’s not me, the horse will think he’s in control and has gotten away with something. Why are you here?”
“Honestly? To see you. I wanted to learn more about your family. I wondered if you were married or something.”
“Didn’t we go over that?” he asked, his brows drawing together.
“Man, are you in a mood! We talked about it briefly, very briefly, before your seventeen-year-old son suddenly appeared. But never mind, he’s told me a lot about the whole…situation. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s not a secret, for God’s sake. And it’s more Gabe’s story to tell than mine.” He rubbed his hand down his face and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. The horse pissed me off. He was doing fine till he decided he wanted a little power struggle. The mangy beast.”
“Sure you
don’t want to rethink the ice? And maybe a bandage for your hand? You’re kind of scuffed up there.”
“What I want is to find a pair of dry boots, clean jeans, a shirt, and to go take care of that horse. I’m going to send Gabe home to my sister’s and when I have things under control here, I’ll go over there for their family meal.”
“Of course,” she said.
He looked at her for a long moment, at the ice in her hand, then tilted his head. “May I?”
“Oh! Of course!” She tossed the ice at him and turned to flee.
“Lilly,” he called. “Please don’t cozy up to that horse. Don’t tend him, pet him or feed him. Don’t talk to him. Leave him to me.”
“If that’s what you want,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her. Then she leaned against it and let out her breath in a long, slow whoosh. Here’s where she could really run into trouble, harboring a clear memory of that gorgeous naked chest. And she couldn’t help her ingrained admiration for the long, thick hair. A Native man’s hair was part heritage and a whole lot of personal pride.
All that was definitely going to cost her sleep.
When Lilly got back to the stable, Gabe was sweeping up. She glanced at her watch and saw it was getting late. Yaz was going to wonder what had happened to her. She sat heavily on the bench.
“Is Dad icing his aches and pains?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “He said he wants to deal with Streak first and ordered me not to get friendly with him, take care of him or feed him.”
Gabe just laughed. “I guess they’re pretty well matched as far as stubborn goes.”
Streak was in a stall with a half door—there were no other horses in the barn, so he was no threat. He hung his head out of the stall and looked at Lilly beseechingly. She shrugged at him. “So, Clay Tahoma is stubborn, is he?”
“Oh, boy,” Gabe answered. “He calls it steadfast. When you get to know him better, let me know what you call it.”
I don’t have to know him better, she thought. He was pretty transparent—he might indeed be steadfast, but he was also stubborn.
She heard the sound of his heels hitting the ground as he came back to the barn. It was a slightly uneven gait; the knee and hip of his left side were sore.
“You finishing up, Gabe?” he asked.
“Unless you thought of something else for me?” Gabe answered.
“You can go ahead home when you’re ready. I’m going to take care of this horse, then I’ll be along for dinner. Well done, thank you.”
“Sure,” he said, sweeping the last of the dirt and hay out of the stable’s double doors. “See you in a little while, then.” Gabe grabbed his hat off the hook by the door, put it on his head and touched the brim. “Nice seeing you, Miss Yazhi.”
“Please, call me Lilly. Good seeing you, too. Nice, um…nice talking to you.”
“Likewise. You take care now.”
And that fast, he was gone, followed by the sound of his little green truck.
Lilly pulled her feet up onto the bench and circled her knees with her arms, curiously and silently watching as Clay went about his business. He brought Streak out of the pen, secured him, removed the saddle and blanket and began to brush him without talking. It should be apparent to Streak that Clay was angry. It was certainly apparent to Lilly. She’d been around for the grooming of the horse before and Clay usually spoke in soft, reassuring tones, pausing now and then to give an affectionate stroke, rewarding the horse for bearing the brush. This was a very solemn procedure.
Lilly said nothing, nor did she ask any questions, though she wanted to. How did he know the horse was picking up on these subtle signals, for one thing? And how did he expect it to have a lasting effect? But she simply watched the routine that lasted more than a half hour. When Clay was done he looked into Streak’s big, beautiful brown eyes and said, “You ever do that to me again and you’ll be dog food.” Then he fed him. He stroked him sparingly.
He forgave him.
Then he turned and limped out of the stable.
Of course Lilly knew he’d be back; he had to remove Streak’s feed bucket, water him, turn him out for a while. It was only a moment before he came back with his ice pack. He found a spot directly opposite her and sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, the ice pack atop his left knee.
Only then did he look toward Lilly. As though nothing else had gone on today, he pleasantly asked, “So, you had a nice conversation with Gabe?”
She was almost startled. Hadn’t they already covered that? She released a huff of laughter. “You were a little scary there for a while. I’ll admit I was a little wary—do you often treat women that way?”
“Good God, no,” he said. “I’ve found the most effective way to deal with a woman is to listen to her carefully and follow her instructions very closely. This,” he said, jutting his chin toward Streak, “is one stubborn horse.”
“Says the pot of the kettle.”
“You had a nice talk with Gabe?” he asked again.
“I told you I did. He told me about how you rescued him from being adopted, how he was raised by his grandparents and other family.”
“Yes, I apologize. You did tell me.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t paying attention—I was furious and my leg hurt. Sometimes I can be a little too focused. Or is that unfocused? I won’t do it again.”
“Can I ask you something? You’re under no obligation to—”
“Ask,” he said.
“What was it like to find your girlfriend pregnant at seventeen?”
“Sixteen,” he said. “She’d broken things off with me, and since things had been so good between us, I didn’t understand. But a boy never does, I guess. Guys have so many confidence issues at that age. Months went by and I couldn’t get past it, couldn’t take the suspense any longer and I went to ask her, to demand she tell me what was wrong with me. I found her about six months pregnant. And she was not well. She looked thin and sick, not rosy cheeked and plump the way a pregnant woman should look. It was apparent the whole thing was harder on her than me. Of course I was terrified, but I tried to convince her I could take care of her. She rejected that idea at once. She wasn’t strong enough to go up against her family. And I knew my family wouldn’t just let one of our own go.”
“Were you punished?” she asked.
“With disapproval and shame, and they took their pound of flesh over time—no one got up in the middle of the night to tend to Gabe but me. We shared a bedroom and although I worked and went to school, his 2:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. feedings were all mine. When he was sick, throwing up and crying and shitting all over, I was on duty. And when he was teething…man, I own every tooth in his head, I swear to God. My mother wore a superior smile while I suffered lack of sleep and frustration. It was as if she was saying, Welcome to my world.” He chuckled. “It was very hard. But worth every minute. Look at him. He amazes me.”
She was quiet for a moment. “That’s very unusual,” she finally said. “For a young boy to take on a massive responsibility like that.”
“There were times I felt I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, alone, but let’s be honest—my mother was always right on the other side of the door. She trained me. I took care of the feedings and changings, but she was up for each one, watching, being sure Gabe always came first in our household. An infant is always first.”
“I asked him if it was hard on him, but he said he had it easy,” she told Clay.
He let a small, proud smile touch his lips. After a moment of silence he said, “He’s more than I ever deserved.”
“I don’t know about that. Sounds like you were completely devoted to him. That deserves gratitude, which he seems to have in abundance. I was an only child, as well.”
“No doubt you were an excellent one.”
“Also raised by my grandparents. Then my grandfather alone after my grandmother died—”
“And your parents?”
“Father unkno
wn and my mother’s been missing for a long time. She left me with my grandparents when I was a baby. She was an alcoholic and eventually just ran off.”
“Alcoholic,” he said solemnly. “Our people have an issue with that.”
A strange thing happened to Lilly in that moment. In all the years her grandfather had tried in vain to pull her closer to her roots, her foundation, she’d pulled away. She pushed herself more into the opposite world, trading Native studies for accounting, Native spiritualism for the eastern pursuit of yoga. And yet when Clay made that simple statement—Our people have an issue with that—she felt an instant bond.
“Does your family have an issue?” she asked.
“A cousin or two have tested the evils, to their peril.” He shook his head. “My family stripped the mystery from that a long time ago. Since I was a small child it was stressed that there’s no escape—you drink alcohol, you become a drunk and die young. We’re not like the French or English in that regard. Our bodies are simply more susceptible to alcohol’s damages.”
“Did you test it?” she wanted to know.
He shook his head. “Not a drop. I like being in control of my mind and body. I have a hard enough time with that sober. You?”
She shook her head. Then she laughed. “We have that in common—I struggle with control enough as it is.”
Their conversation moved on to the more upbeat aspects of their race, tribes, families. Lilly hadn’t lived on a ranch as Clay had, but she’d lived in a rural community where there was great freedom to run, play, ride. She just recently realized that sometimes she missed it desperately. And while Clay had been back to the Navajo Nation numerous times over the years, Lilly had never been back. And there was more—they had each attended college, though only Lilly had a degree. Clay had studied business because he wanted to learn how to turn his equine talents into a viable and successful business, which he had done.
“Are you well-known and rich then?” she asked.
“I’m known in the horse industry for various small things and I am rich in purpose and experience.”
She laughed at him. “That was a dodge!”
“Want to see my bankbook?” he asked with a snicker. “I plan to take care of my son and my parents. I’m not comfortable that I’m prepared for that yet.”
