Hearth Stone

by Lois Greiman

  So she remembered. He couldn’t help but be surprised that she was aware of anything that didn’t involve her own interests. Her shoe size and the color of her favorite nail polish, maybe. But come to that, she didn’t seem to have any color on her at all. What was that about? “And you thought that synonymous with magical?”

  She shrugged, the slightest lift of tight-bound shoulders. “The way you said it, I could only assume.”

  He snorted as he turned away. Chuckled a little as he closed the door behind him.

  Inside, Sydney paced back to the fire. She shouldn’t have agreed to let him stay. Grandmother habitually disapproved of women who put themselves in compromising situations. Foolish girls, after all, deserved what they got, and it wasn’t long before Redhawk reappeared. He was carrying a couple dozen branches the size of his arms. Which were, God help her, as big around as her neck. Squatting, he let them tumble to the floor in front of the fire, then straightened and disappeared. In a moment he was back, sleeping bag propped beneath one elbow.

  Sydney gave him a head tilt that had sent better men running for cover. “Surely you don’t believe we will be sleeping in the same room,” she said.

  He turned to give her a steady look. “If you want to haul that mattress back out of here, be my guest.”

  She forced a smile. “You will be spending the night elsewhere.”

  “Then I’m going to be building a fire elsewhere.”

  “There’s not another fireplace.”

  “I’m fully aware of that,” he said.

  She pursed her lips. “So you’re an arsonist, as well, Mr. Redhawk?”

  “As well as what?”

  “That remains to be seen, but I’m sure if I call the sheriff he will be happy to enlighten me,” she said and lifted the phone she had retrieved from her purse during his absence.

  He watched her, gaze level.

  “Last chance to choose another room,” she said.

  He didn’t reply.

  She dialed 911 … and shouldn’t have been surprised when there was no connection. Reception here was sketchy at best. “Perhaps we can come to an agreement,” she said and kept the phone to her ear as if it were ringing.

  He didn’t respond. Unless one counted the slight lift of his right eyebrow. But that might have been an involuntary reaction. Like a dog’s twitching hind leg.

  “You may sleep in this room if you swear on all that is holy that you will not touch me.”

  There was a long moment of silence, then a low, rumbled chuckle. “You got it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his emphatic tone. “And you will …” She glanced around, eager to make him pay for that tone. “… repair the furnace.”

  He continued to stare at her, then nodded finally. “If you’re sure you can trust me to resist your charms.” The corner of his lips turned up a quarter of an inch.

  She smiled grimly and ended her futile phone call. “Very well then.”

  “And pay me thirty dollars an hour.”

  “You jest,” she said.

  He shook his head and grinned.

  “Twenty-four hours of room and board in exchange for every eight hours of labor.”

  “That’s a lot of hours.”

  “How long do you usually work?”

  “I meant twenty-four hours is a long time to spend with …” He paused, held her gaze. “This house.”

  He was implying, of course, that it was too long to be with her. But she was unoffended. She had entertained dignitaries and royalty without complaint. But a tiny voice reminded her that none of those posh individuals were with her now. She was entirely alone. Except for her pride. Which apparently goeth before a fall. But she had already fallen, hadn’t she?

  “You’re welcome to leave any time,” she reminded him.

  “Or I can stay …” he said. “And enjoy the lovely ambiance … not to mention your fine cuisine …” His lips curved again. “In exchange for free physical labor.”

  She clamped her teeth together. He had forgotten to mention her sterling company. “Yes,” she said.

  “Well …” Spreading his sleeping bag on the floor, he gave his head a single shake. “I’d have to be a fool to pass that up.”

  “But?” she asked.

  He toed off his boots and slid into his bedroll. “But I’m staying anyway.”

  It was a long night. Sydney had never been a good sleeper. Countless nannies had complained to her father about her unwillingness to go to bed. But she had continued to resist, for once in bed, she was forbidden to rise until a prescribed hour. No water would be fetched. No lights turned on. Wellesleys did not believe in coddling.

  Sometime well past midnight, Redhawk added logs to the fire and pushed them in with a branch. From behind, Sydney watched the flames lick higher. Father didn’t approve of fires and had replaced Arbor House’s ancient wood-burner with an electric unit to improve the quality of their indoor air. He had insisted that the lounge at Steeple Veil have the same kind of system. It flickered in her mind.

  Down the carefully matted and meticulously groomed aisle, a horse nickered. Another answered. It was nearly time for their evening meal. Unlike your average backyard nag, Steeple Veil animals were fed three times daily to aid their digestion and pamper the relatively small size of the equine stomach.

  Javier was already mixing the supplements that would be added to the grain. He glanced up as Sydney approached.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Wellesley.” He was small and dark and stood as straight as a soldier. “How did Bennie Bean perform this day?” Javier always used the Bean’s full name and habitually employed formal, old-world English, as if every vowel must be correct, every syllable perfect. His American citizenship had been contested on more than one occasion. But he was David’s favorite groom and what David wanted David got.

  “Well enough,” she said. “Do you happen to know where I can find Mr. Albrook?”

  Javier nodded twice, as if once was too weak, thrice too dramatic. “He was in the tack room some minutes ago.”

  “Thank you,” she said and turned. Her stacked leather boot heels were muffled against the rubber matting. A half-dozen hopeful horses turned to watch her walk by, but she didn’t do the feeding and Steeple Veil mounts were not allowed treats. A door slid open down the way, emitting a groom and a big chestnut. Still saddled, Eternal Flame tossed his head. At four years of age, he was a potent mix of nerves, energy, and budding Olympic potential. Beside him, Emilio seemed scrawny and small. His mustache, the pride of his young life, looked sparse and desperate above his crooked grin. “Hey, Miss Wellesley.”

  She gave him a nod and continued on. It was best not to become too familiar with the help. She had learned that from Helena, the only nanny who had dared challenge the constraints of her bedtime ritual. Sydney had never heard from her again.

  The tack room door was closed. She put her hand on the knob. Inside a girl giggled. There was something about the sound that made Sydney pause. Stable romances sprang up like jimsonweed every day of the week and she had no desire to surprise someone. She turned to walk away, but the voice from inside stopped her.

  “I love the way you laugh.”

  Sydney froze. The voice almost sounded like David’s, but different somehow. Not bored, but engaged. Flirtatious.

  There was a pause as something rustled on the far side of the door.

  “What about your fiancée?” Missy Ulquist’s voice was breathy.

  “She doesn’t believe in laughing. It’s against her religion.”

  Sydney felt her cheeks heat, her breath hitch.

  “I knew I was right,” David said. “You do have an excellent seat.”

  “Better than hers?”

  She was unable to turn away, unable to go inside.

  David chuckled. “She’s my secret weapon for reducing inflammation.”

  Missy giggled again. “She’s not that cold.”

  “She replaced my ice maker. But you …” There was a b
reathy pause. “You’re all passion. Hot. Here … and here … and …”

  Sydney never opened the door. Never looked inside. Instead, she turned, face hot, hands unsteady.

  Her footsteps were almost silent as she strode away, but they echoed in her ears. She turned the corner. Emilio was just about to fasten Flame to the elastic cross ties that stretched from the walls beside them.

  “I’ll take him.” Her voice sounded oddly hollow to her own ears.

  “What?” The boy looked immediately stricken.

  “You’ve no need to untack him.” She straightened her back. Their heights were almost equal. “I’ll be riding him.”

  “But he is not full trained yet, miss.” Emilio glanced to the right as if searching for a savior. “And Teddy’s grooming the indoor ring. So you cannot ride there.”

  The gelding tossed his head when she took the reins. She crushed the braided leather between fingers gone numb and headed toward the door.

  “Miss Wellesley, the weather …” Emilio called after her, but she ignored him.

  Thunder rolled quietly in the distance, or maybe it was in her mind. The gelding danced as she mounted, but she welcomed his impatience, his speed, his power.

  It began to rain even before she reached the cross-country course. She pushed the chestnut into a canter, lifted her face to the sky, and eased up on the reins. Flame lengthened his stride. The turf flew away beneath them. Autumn was bursting in on them, but artificial daffodils still bloomed in half barrels beside the first jump, an easy vertical spread.

  Anger speared through her. But was she surprised? Was she really? Or had she always known that love wasn’t for families like hers? People like her? What would she do now? Bring her wayward fiancé to heel like a recalcitrant pup and forge on with the wedding plans?

  Beneath her, Flame charged uphill. The second jump was more difficult, but she had a good seat, too. Maybe not as broad as Missy Ulquist’s, but firm, well trained.

  She smiled grimly as they approached the jump. It had a five-foot spread. Reaching gamely beneath him, Flame launched, soared, and recovered.

  She would do the same. She would recover. In fact, she would thrive. She was a Wellesley, after all.

  Rage mixed with embarrassment, spewing up a chalky bitterness. She gritted her teeth against it. Ahead, a water hazard was draped in tattered fog.

  Flame raced toward it, ratcheting up resources lesser horses would never possess. Together, they soared over the heavy timbers toward the water below. And for a moment Sydney forgot her bitterness. Forgot the disappointment, the restraints, and the tedium. For a moment the old thrill pulsed through her veins.

  And then something shifted. One moment they were rising, flying, leaving earthly worries and cheating fiancés behind. The next they were falling, tumbling from the sky like felled sparrows.

  Shock splashed through her. Water boiled up. Beside her, the brave gelding thrashed violently.

  She awoke with a sobbing gasp.

  “Hey! You okay?” Someone touched her shoulder.

  She jerked back, jolting to full consciousness. “Yes.” She said the word before she had any idea if it was true. “Of course.” Her fingers trembled as she smoothed her hair behind an ear. No brave steed lay dying beside her. She closed her eyes to the burning memories. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Hunter Redhawk was crouching beside the awful mattress. “I’m not sure. Maybe because you had the mother of all nightmares?”

  For a moment she actually considered denying it, but the evidence seemed fairly obvious. Her forehead was damp, chilled with perspiration, and her breathing was still uneven. “I’m fine.”

  “All right.” He watched her from only inches away, dark brows lowered over skeptical eyes. “Could you be fine a little more quietly? I was just falling asleep.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three or so.”

  She tilted her chin in question.

  “Sleep’s overrated,” he said.

  She watched him. In the crackling firelight, his eyes looked deep-water dark and strangely haunted. “No,” she said. “It’s not.”

  He smiled and rose to his feet. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “Really?” Her voice sounded weirdly breathless even to herself. He looked at her as if granting a simple favor was as natural as breathing. “I mean …” She lowered her gaze, found her center, and tightened her fingers in the single quilt. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Probably true,” he said and turned toward the kitchen.

  She scooted back up against the wall behind her and rubbed her aching thigh while he was gone.

  In a minute he was handing her a chipped mug. “Want to tell me about it?”

  She took the water, managed a sip, and was grateful for the opportunity to lower her gaze, to break eye contact. “No,” she said.

  “All right.” He didn’t push, didn’t prod, simply returned to his sleeping bag.

  She finished the water, just because she could, then slipped back under the quilt. “Thank you.” Her voice sounded ridiculously small in the darkness.

  “No big deal,” he said.

  But she knew different.

  Chapter 9

  By morning Sydney felt drained and old and exhausted beyond repair. She sat up slowly on the bare mattress, mind churning sluggishly, like an engine too long in the cold. Tension strained across the back of her neck, stretching her shoulders tight.

  Something scraped behind her. She twisted around with a start.

  “Why not rent it out?”

  Framed by the doorway in which he stood, Hunter Redhawk looked like nothing so much as an ancient, unkempt Viking.

  “How long have you been there?” she asked and scraped her hair into a quick knot at the base of her skull.

  He shrugged. “It is impossible to wake one who pretends to sleep.”

  “What?”

  “Why destroy it?” he asked.

  She shifted her feet to the floor, movements slow and stiff. “This house?” she asked.

  “Ai, this house.” He glanced around it, assessing the deterioration. “Just because she is old does not mean she has no value.”

  “You’re right,” Sydney said and slipped her feet into the boots she’d left beside the mattress. “It’s the fact that it’s an architectural disaster that makes it worthless. Did you get the furnace repaired?”

  “Ai,” he said again. “I but used the hide of an antelope and the juice of a prickly pear.”

  She studied him in silence for a moment, trying to decipher whether he was serious. “You’re extremely amusing,” she said finally.

  “The Hunkpapa are revered for their sense of humor,” he said.

  “Which makes you what? Norwegian?” she asked.

  He snorted. “I’ll need some supplies from town.”

  “Supplies?” She wanted to sound authoritative, but worry had leaked into her tone.

  “I need a new transformer.”

  She watched him, eyes assessing, mind churning. It had been a god-awful night. “What would you do with this house?” she asked.

  “If I were lucky enough to own it?”

  Sometimes she had no idea whether he was being earnest or facetious. Generally, she didn’t care. “Yes.”

  He glanced around again. “I’d restore it.”

  “What would that cost?”

  “It depends.”

  “On … ?”

  “How much you want to preserve. How much you want to add. How long you want it to last.”

  She forced herself to breathe. “What if I … on a whim … decided to live here?”

  He raised his brows at her. “Indefinitely?”

  She would have liked to laugh, but acting had never been her forte. “For the foreseeable future. What would it cost to make it … livable?”

  He scowled, glanced around, and shrugged. “Ten, fifteen thousand?”

  She felt herself pale. A few weeks ago that woul
d have been nothing. Now she’d be lucky to scrape up enough change to buy lunch.

  “If I did the work myself,” he added.

  She felt her stomach drop. “That’s not including labor?”

  “A pox on Lincoln,” he said.

  She scowled.

  “Ruining a fine institution like slavery.”

  She didn’t bother to deepen her scowl, didn’t even consider glaring. Her mind was streaming. She had nowhere to go. No one waiting for her there. A dim memory of the proud doe settled into her mind. She tried to drive it away, but it remained, head high, eyes bright.

  “What if I gave you extended room and board?” she asked.

  She could feel his gaze on her. Hard as hammered steel.

  “As much as my people like to sleep by an open fire …” He let the words lie.

  She pursed her lips. “You could choose any room you like.” The doe stepped carefully forward, perfectly framed in the shattered window of her mind. “Except the bedroom on the right. And you could eat whatever you wished.” She refrained from clearing her throat again. She didn’t need him. Far from it. “As long as you cooked it.”

  “You’re offering me a job?”

  “I’m not altogether heartless,” she said and raised her chin without knowing she did so.

  “So you’ve come to save the poor Indian.”

  It was hard not to squirm under his gaze. “I suppose in a way, you’d be helping me, too.”

  His snort was almost inaudible.

  “I’m simply saying, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it would be wise to save this …” She willed herself not to wince as she thought of the catastrophe that surrounded her. “Structure. Live in it during construction and rent it out once my new house is finished.”

  “You said you were hiring a contractor.”

  She also had said she had a husband named Conan, but thought the reminder might not aid her cause. “Naturally.”

  “Then you can afford a crew for this house.”

  Tension knotted her stomach, but she eased out the coils and pasted on a smile. “The truth is, Mr. Redhawk, I’m in a bit of a financial bind momentarily. In fact, I will be stretching my budget to build my dream home even without needing funds to refurbish my …” She forced a laugh. “Nightmare home.”