Hearth Stone

by Lois Greiman

  He shrugged, took the last bite of his meal, and settled the pan on the counter beside him.

  “My people have a saying also,” she admitted. “It’s ‘Why are you standing in the rain, you moron?’ ”

  The laughter seemed to be startled from him, prompting her own unwilling grin. She set her fork carefully on the edge of her regrettably empty plate and let his rumble of humor stir up an odd wash of contentment.

  “The duchess made a joke,” he said.

  She returned his shrug, casual and slow.

  “Clearly indicating she needs more sleep.”

  “Is that the Hessian speaking?” she asked.

  He raised a brow.

  “Trying to welsh on our bargain?”

  “My injury will heal of its own accord.”

  She shook her head and forced herself to stand. “Take off your shirt.”

  He scowled at her. If he was trying to be intimidating, he was devastatingly good at it.

  “I thought your people honored their bargains.”

  “Some were known to rape and pillage.”

  “Which side?”

  “Both.”

  “Take it off,” she ordered.

  His glare deepened, but finally he reached down, grasped the hems of his shirts, and dragged them over his head.

  Sydney drew breath slowly through her nose and didn’t even consider passing out … until she saw his chest.

  Chapter 17

  He was built like the hero of the torrid romance novel he had purchased for her. Justin Stearns. Not that Sydney had any interest in the book, but it would have been rude not to read the back … and the first few chapters. Justin was what less sophisticated women might have called a hunk, but so far the writing was not atrocious and the terms thrusting and heaving were kept to a minimum.

  As for Hunter Redhawk … Sydney felt her breath lock up tight in her throat. His arms were wide, corded with strength, and dark in color while his chest … Good gracious, it was packed with enough muscle to shift a freight train. A tattoo of a teddy bear was inked directly over his heart. Sydney pulled her gaze from the sight with an effort. She felt a little light-headed, but was certain it had nothing whatsoever to do with his pectorals.

  “Winnie the Pooh?” she asked and tried to sound cosmopolitan, or at least lucid.

  His eyes were as steady as stone. “Eeyore was too depressing.”

  She nodded as if his answer made a world of sense and dragged her gaze lower, but those regions were no less disturbing. Iron-tight abs bunched like rolling hills above the belt of his buff denim jeans.

  She cleared her throat, steeled herself, and punched her gaze toward the wound. The laceration was two inches long, crescent shaped, and ugly. It wept blood and serum and looked like nothing so much as a gory, winking eye. “Your mother’s influence again?” she asked, and ripping a dish towel down the middle, doused half with hot water from the kitchen tap.

  He raised a brow.

  “All the muscle,” she explained and dabbed carefully at the wound.

  “Some called my father ‘Fescue.’ ”

  She dabbed some more and thought about the word. “Tall plant? Not much … bulk?”

  “Ai.”

  She smiled a little, imagining his parents. “Am I hurting you?”

  He glanced down at her from his towering height. “By your tickling ministrations or the suggestion that I am as delicate as a rose petal?”

  “I don’t want to get your trousers wet.”

  “Is that a duchess’s way of saying you wish for me to take off my pants?”

  “No! No,” she said, then calmed her voice and smoothed her expression. She sounded like a prepubescent virgin. She wasn’t a virgin. Hardly that. She’d had sex … several times. Though none of them came to mind at the moment. Not while in the presence of this rough-hewn warrior god. “I just meant …” She refused to glance up, though he might be taunting her again. And honest to God, if he was, he should be horsewhipped, as Megan O’Rourke, fiery temptress extraordinaire, had threatened to do to Justin on page 128. “Here.” She shoved the second half of the towel into his hand. “Just … hold this over your …” She waved vaguely toward his lower half and wondered as neutrally as possible if it was as large as his upper. But she slammed the door on that line of thinking and dabbed more forcefully at the wound. “How did this happen?”

  “A nail.”

  “A … what? There’s a protruding nail in Courage’s stall?”

  He caught her eye, raised his brows. “In the aisle. I must have been in a hurry when I exited.”

  “Oh.” She forced herself to relax. The mare’s immediate environment was critical, but the remainder of the barn could wait.

  “What of your mother?” he asked.

  She scowled as she squatted before him again. The idea did not escape her that their positions might be misconstrued as sexual. “This should be stitched.”

  “Did she teach you to sew?”

  She almost laughed at the idea. Tales of her mother, while sparse, were always peppered with the message that she was the epitome of well-bred womanhood. A lady of wealth and quality to the very core of her being. “She died. Almost twenty years ago now, but I doubt she was the kind to mend breeches and darn socks.”

  “Or to cook.”

  Sydney wasn’t sure what his tone implied. “She was a dancer. Prima ballerina for the American Ballet Theatre.”

  “A difficult act to follow.”

  “I had no reason to try.”

  He tilted his head in question, but she ignored his obvious misgivings.

  “I never even mastered the waltz.”

  “So you did not feel you were living in her shadow?”

  She pursed her lips, ignored the implications. “This is going to take a long time to heal if left untreated.”

  “Sometimes it helps to discuss it.”

  She glanced up, realized his meaning, and huffed a laugh. “I’m not talking about myself.”

  He managed to look mildly surprised. “Who then?”

  “You! Your injury. I don’t even have any ointment.”

  “I keep some in my truck.”

  She rose to her feet, thigh twinging aggressively. “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

  “You did not ask.”

  “Well …” She flapped a jittery hand at him. “Go get it.”

  “Perhaps you, too, have some Hessian blood,” he said and left the room.

  Sydney rinsed the rag and fumed silently until he returned a minute later.

  “I’m not—” she began, but somehow lost her breath. It wasn’t that he was breathtaking … exactly. It was just that he was so … large and hard and …

  Hunter raised his brows and glanced down, but his fly wasn’t open and she’d already seen his wound. So … her gaze seemed to be fixed on his chest. Hmmmf, he thought, and set the jar of ointment on the counter.

  The snick of noise seemed to wrench her from her trance.

  “—Bossy,” she said, completing the sentence she’d begun long seconds before. “I’m not bossy.”

  He narrowed his eyes, held his smile in reserve, and nodded. “Okay.”

  “I’m just …” She looked flustered and pink-cheeked. The effect made her seem softer, sweeter, and … God help him … as young as a spring lamb. “What’s that?” she asked and motioned toward the jar that had once held spare buttons. Before that it had contained his mother’s homemade applesauce. Mavis Lindeman Redhawk knew how to pinch a penny. But with five hungry men in the house, she had also learned to break up fights and patch scrapes while simultaneously issuing threats and encouragement.

  “Anti-inflammatory ointment?” Even to his own ears, his words sounded more like a question than a statement.

  Her brows drew together like a swallow’s dark wings. “In an unmarked glass jar?”

  “Some of the ingredients are not currently approved by the FDA.” It was a conundrum that still vexed him. But he ha
d worked through this kind of problem before. Doing manual labor for minimum wage was all well and good, but he had discovered his entrepreneurial side some years ago.

  She picked up the jar. “Is it …” She paused, as if searching for a PC term that eluded her.

  “An old Indian remedy,” he said.

  Her frown was dark. “Are you lying to me?”

  “The Hunkpapa does not fabricate the truth.”

  “How about that German guy?”

  “He lies like a cream-fed cat.”

  She pursed her lips at him before turning her disapproval on the jar. “What’s in it?”

  “Purple coneflower, cohosh.” He shrugged, skipping most of the components. “Juniper extract.”

  He could tell by her expression that she wasn’t prepared to believe him, but that was just as well.

  “Does it work?” she asked.

  He tilted his head as if uncertain, but the latest experiments had been encouraging. Despite a dozen problems with the concoction in the past, recent recipes had considerably shortened healing time. “I’ll let you know in a few days.”

  “You actually want me to apply it to your wound.”

  “I believe it was your idea to treat it in the first place.” He raised his brows. “Or were you just hoping for that lap dance after all?”

  That blush again, as bright as poppy petals.

  “How much do I use?”

  For a moment he was a little too intrigued with that blush to answer, but he let her slip the hook once again. “We’ll begin sparingly, then wrap it.”

  “What?” She was now scowling and blushing. He had no idea why that would make him want to kiss her. She wasn’t the kissable sort. She was more the sort one would fan with a palm leaf. Or kiss, then fan with a palm leaf. He handed her a rolled-up cotton bandage.

  “I don’t have the adhesive type.” It was a falsehood. Despite the relatively limited space in his truck, he kept a fairly comprehensive first aid kit, but adhesive bandages took almost no time to apply.

  “You had a track bandage in your vehicle?”

  He raised a brow at her.

  She lifted the white wrap. “They’re used on horses, aren’t they?”

  “So you are an equestrienne.”

  Her gaze met his, then skidded away. “Father owned a racehorse for a time. Bandages like these were used to prevent injuries.”

  He watched her, but she didn’t look up again. Her mink-dark hair had long ago escaped its habitual bun. Some would call it messy. Other deluded individuals might refer to it as sexy as hell.

  “So your interest in horses was through the track?”

  She pulled apart the bandage’s Velcro. “He also owned several polo ponies.”

  Perhaps she wasn’t lying exactly, he thought. But she certainly wasn’t telling the truth. He could see it in the tight set of her lips, the downward shift of her eyes. It was dangerously intriguing.

  “So you learned to ride while swinging a mallet and counting chukkers?” he asked.

  She glanced up, expression strangely peeved. “Is there a subject about which you are unfamiliar?”

  Why would he find her irritation endearing? Was there something inherently wrong with him or something innately fascinating about her? “My knowledge of Sydney Wellesley is limited.”

  She shrugged, unscrewed the jar of ointment, and dipped her fingers inside. They were slim and tapered, and when she reached out to graze his skin, he exhaled carefully, keeping himself steady. It wasn’t as if he’d never been touched by a beautiful woman. So perhaps it was the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time that made the situation intoxicating.

  “I’ve never played polo,” she admitted.

  He lifted his gaze from her fingers to her face. Best not to dwell on the capabilities of those delicate digits. “Well, then, consider me fully informed.”

  She smiled, and for reasons he dared not consider, he felt his heart jolt as if touched by an electric shock.

  Their gazes met. The jolt sizzled.

  She shifted her attention back to the bandage. “Father didn’t think I was …”

  He watched her, waiting. The silence marched away, but he was comfortable with the quiet. She, however, didn’t seem entirely comfortable with anything.

  “He didn’t think it was something that would interest me,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t that have been your decision?”

  She shrugged. The movement looked stiff. “He’s my father, and therefore deserving of my respect.”

  She said the words by rote, as if she had heard them a thousand times. Had memorized them like classic poetry.

  “We respected our parents,” he said gently. “Didn’t mean we wouldn’t question their every decision.” He grinned at the wash of soft memories. “Or put spiders in the sugar jar. Dad was fond of sugar. But not so crazy about daddy longlegs.” He chuckled and realized she was watching him as if he had lost his mind. “Come on. Tell the truth. You must have played a couple practical jokes on your old man.”

  She shook her head.

  “Not even one?”

  She pursed her wild-cherry lips. Sometimes, he realized, there was more to be learned from a glance or a gesture than from a thousand words. And her body spoke of a disappointment so long accepted, she was no longer aware of its existence.

  “What of you, Hunter Redhawk? You learned to ride while still in diapers, I suppose.” She was intentionally evading the subject, but he let her do so without complaint.

  “Hollywood wisdom again?” he asked.

  She sent him a slanted glance. “You mentioned something regarding a race.”

  He liked to hear her talk. Liked the neat cadence of her words, as if each one was a pearl carefully cultured.

  The silence was lengthening. He glanced down, realized she was watching him. “Indian relay,” he said. “Also known as suicide by horse.”

  “Are you planning to explain that or will you continue to play the stoic warrior?”

  Sassy. Sometimes the sass just slipped through the chinks in her polished façade like water through a dam.

  “It is a relay race,” he said. “Involving four men and three horses.”

  “Some might call that sexist.”

  He watched her in silence.

  “Women aren’t allowed?”

  “It is ridden without a saddle.”

  “A feat that surely no woman could master.” Annoyance was sharp in her tone. Or maybe it was pride.

  Interesting, he thought, and managed not to laugh. “I imagined you with a top hat and flat saddle rather than bareback.”

  “Strange, bareback is exactly how I imagine …” She stopped herself, looking appalled.

  “You imagine me?” All humor had escaped from his tone. His voice was no more than a low rumble.

  But she ignored the question. Fastening the bandage with the Velcro, she bumbled to her feet. “Done,” she said, and turning with more speed than grace, fled back to the barn.

  Chapter 18

  It was a long night. And cold.

  Sydney stood in the barn’s dimly lit aisle. Up above, in the tilting loft covered with moldy hay, a paunchy marmalade cat watched her with unblinking eyes.

  Sydney pulled her gaze from it and peered into the stall. Inside, Courage stood absolutely still, head drooping, thick forelock scattered over eyes drugged to dullness. Or maybe it was the pain that caused her lifeless demeanor. Then again, perhaps it was the fact that she was starving.

  Every wisp of hay they had piled near the front of the stall remained. As did the water.

  Doc Miller had assured them the long-lasting antibiotics should fight the infection, but what of dehydration? Of course, they had administered large doses of fluids, but perhaps the mare’s kidneys were already shutting down. And what if, despite the less-than-sterile conditions, they were not able to fight off septicity? Were they condemning the mare to starvation? And if she did finally begin to eat, would she walk again o
r had her tendons been too badly damaged to allow her anything but the most limited mobility?

  Sydney’s thigh throbbed as she pressed closer to the stall and curled her fingers around the chill metal bars that made up the top half of the door. The mare shifted her weight and turned her head. Their gazes met and held. The wide brown eyes blinked, filled with wisdom and pain and a thousand worries.

  “Don’t give up,” Sydney whispered. “Don’t you dare give up.” But Courage turned away, letting her muzzle drop back toward the floor.

  Four hours later, Sydney inched her legs over the edge of the ugly mattress. Outside, the sun had risen in a cotton candy sky. The earthy scent of coffee was already seeping into her bedroom. Pinning back her hair, she noticed the garments folded and left near her door: much-abused blue jeans and a kelly-green sweatshirt. The words University of North Dakota Fighting Sioux were emblazoned above and below a Native American’s dramatic profile. There were distinct similarities between the portrait and the man who had left the garments in her bedroom. Scowling, Sydney stripped off the clothes she’d worn to bed and pulled on the jeans. They were baggy at best. But the sweatshirt was kitten soft and comfortably roomy. She tugged the sleeves halfway up her forearms and headed downstairs.

  Once again Redhawk stood in front of the stove. He turned toward her and froze, spatula lifted nearly to his chest.

  “What?” Sydney asked and raised a hand defensively to her throat.

  He shook his head and managed a shrug. “You look good.”

  She laughed. “You need to get out more.”

  He turned back toward the stove with a snort. “Want some coffee?”

  “As soon as I get back in.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes suddenly solemn in his chiseled warrior face. “There is no need to rush out.”

  “What?” The single word rasped like sandpaper against her throat. “Why? What happened?”

  “I just returned from the barn.”

  “And?” She took a staggering step toward him and refrained from shaking him until the words fell out.

  “She still lives. If what she does is living.”

  Sydney drew a careful breath and let her shoulders drop a quarter of an inch. “You disapprove of my bringing her here.”