Hearth Stone

by Lois Greiman

  Sighing, she heated up a can of soup. She would never quite understand how she managed to scald the bottom without warming up the entirety of it. Disgruntled and exhausted, she trudged up the stairs, stripped down to the silky long underwear she had been wise enough to bring on what she had once thought would be a vacation, and fell into bed.

  But at midnight she was still awake. She lay in the darkness, surrounded by a half-dozen tools Vura had left behind, and remembered things that should not be remembered. The giggle from the tack room. The heat that rushed to her cheeks. The tremor in her hands. The hard beat of her heart as she swung her leg over Eternal Flame’s bright-penny hindquarters. The roar of righteous anger as they soared. Then pain. Deep, throbbing pain almost unrealized as she watched the light die in the gelding’s trusting eyes.

  Sydney sat up abruptly, heart fisting in her chest. She’d been a fool, and in retrospect could barely remember why she had ever wanted David Albrook in her life. Was it to prove she was not unlovable or was it simply to stem the loneliness? Whatever the answer, she’d made a grave mistake; he hadn’t been worth the life of the brave, honest jumper that had died. That had been destroyed. Because of her.

  Her throat felt tight. She barely noticed the headlights that swept across the water-stained wall of her bedroom. Pain drummed softly in her thigh as she pushed to her feet and made her way to the window.

  Moonlight fought through the Gothic-purple clouds, illuminating the truck and trailer that eased to a halt in front of the barn.

  Curiosity was her first emotion. Panic was the second. It struck her like a blow.

  “No!” she rasped, and grabbing the nearest tool, raced down the stairs.

  The gravel was cold and sharp against her bare feet, but in a matter of seconds she was beside the pickup truck, heart pounding like hoofbeats.

  The driver’s door opened. A shadow stepped out.

  “Just stay where you are!” Her voice sounded guttural.

  Face hidden beneath the brim of a dark hat, the man stopped and raised his hands.

  “What’s going on?” Hunter’s voice was low and quiet as he exited the passenger side and rounded the front bumper, but it did nothing to dull the alarms that rang like sirens in Sydney’s brain.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she said, and tightening her grip, raised the metal rod to shoulder height.

  “And I could answer,” he said, “if you’d put down that crowbar.”

  “You’re not taking her!” She growled the words from between gritted teeth.

  There was a moment of silence, then, “Taking—”

  “It’s not her fault she got tangled up.” She loosened her fingers, tightened them again. “Not her fault she’s confined to that stall. Or that Lily wandered in. Just a bunch of bad luck. And she’s not going to take the blame for it.”

  “Sounds like an interesting story,” the driver said, hands still raised. “I think I might enjoy it if you weren’t threatening to crack me in the head with a demolition tool.”

  A sliver of reality slipped into Sydney’s overheated mind. She scowled. “Colt?”

  “Hey, Syd,” Colt Dickenson said. “How’s your mustang?”

  She wasn’t placated. “What are you doing here?”

  His shrug almost went unseen. “Redhawk here said he needed some help with a horse.”

  “Well, Redhawk was wrong.” For reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, her knees felt wobbly. “Courage is doing just fine.” Her throat felt tight, making the last word tremble slightly. “You’re not going to take her.”

  “Okay.”

  She shuffled her feet, found a more comfortable stance. “And we’re not putting her down.”

  “All right.”

  She blinked, wondering, guessing. The reason for this late-night visit seemed a little less obvious than it had a few minutes ago. “Or turning her loose?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Good to know.”

  It wasn’t until that second that something stirred inside the trailer. Sydney glanced hesitantly to the right, only to realize that two animals resided in the two-horse slant. Munching rhythmically, they gazed at her through the open slats. She stared at them for several seconds before shifting her attention back to Colt. “Who’s that?”

  “Guess the bay’s name is Fandango. The chestnut’s called Windwalker.”

  Sydney blinked, shifted. An icy pebble seemed to be determined to dig its way through the sole of her left foot. “Why are they in that trailer?”

  “Hunt seemed to think your mustang could use some company.”

  Seconds ticked silently past.

  “Oh,” she said finally and felt her muscles whine as she lowered the iron rod. “That’s fine then,” she added, and turning on her heel, tried not to limp as she marched toward the house.

  Behind her, Colt Dickenson exhaled carefully and lowered his hands. “She, ahhh … she do that often?”

  Hunter watched her go, body straight as an arrow, shoulders drawn back like a bowstring. She was as haughty as a duchess and as rigid as a two-by-four, but damn … He felt a sliver of pride slice through to his soul. If the chips were down, he’d want her in his corner.

  “Redhawk, you awake?”

  Hunter dragged himself back to the moment, forced a shrug. “Guess she’s attached to the horse.”

  “Attached?” Colt nodded. “All right. Anything else she’s attached to that I should know about?”

  Hunter narrowed his eyes and found Colt in the darkness. The man had been a flirt the day he’d popped out of his mama’s womb. After that he’d been a player. “I think you know all you need to about her,” he said and, opening the back of the trailer, he led the chestnut into the barn.

  Chapter 24

  Sydney had her back to Hunter when he entered the kitchen. It was still straight, still stiff, and she still smelled like peaches. What the devil was that about?

  She had pulled one of his freshly laundered flannel shirts over the silky long johns in which she had accosted Colt. The hem reached almost to her knees, and though she had folded back the cuffs, the sleeves nearly swallowed her narrow, smooth-skinned hands.

  He opened the fridge and glanced inside. Three cartons of Greek yogurt and a bag of romaine lettuce gave him the stink eye. Sighing, he poured himself a glass of water from the cider bottle that resided there and sat down at the table to enjoy it.

  “You bought horses?” she asked and turned from the window. Beneath her cool-water eyes, half-moons of lavender fatigue shadowed her face.

  “Borrowed,” he corrected.

  “You borrowed horses?”

  “Ai.”

  She clasped her hands loosely in front of her, a sign that her patience was already running short, and for some reason that always improved his mood.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He drank again, studied the glass, and fervently missed his drinking days. But he did not miss the headaches or the guilt that followed. “Why not?”

  She waited. He wondered if she was silently counting to ten. That had been his mother’s ploy. That and threatening him with additional visits from the porcine species.

  “Because they’re expensive and labor intensive,” she said.

  “I thought you might want to ride, get a better chance to see your property.”

  She stared at him. Her face looked exceedingly pale. And solemn. And beautiful in its tough fragility. “You ventured out in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm to find horses because you thought I might want to ride someday?” Her expression was haughty, but there was something in her eyes. Gratitude maybe. And more. Could it be fear? And if so, what made her so scared? She didn’t seem like a woman who should be frightened.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  “Do I what?”

  “Want to ride someday.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Horses are dangerous.”

  He laughed, watch
ed her for a moment, then sobered finally. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  He shook his head. “That pair I just brought in are like kittens compared to the beast you’ve been keeping in the barn.”

  “But they don’t …” She paused, shut up, shut down.

  “Don’t what?”

  She pursed her lips and inhaled through her nose. For a moment he was certain she would remain silent, but finally she spoke. “They don’t need me.”

  Their eyes met.

  “And you need to be needed?”

  “No. Of course not.” She pulled her gaze away. “I wish I had never found her,” she said and let one finger tap her flannel-clad thigh.

  “Why not turn her loose then? Let her take her chances?”

  She opened her mouth, then pursed her lips and watched him in silence for a moment. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You brought her companions.”

  He considered arguing, but he shrugged instead, sighed. “Lily was right.”

  “About?”

  “Horses aren’t meant to be alone.”

  She watched him, unblinking, straight and proud and hopelessly alluring with her brave stance and broken-doll eyes.

  “Neither are you,” he added.

  She raised her brows at him. “I’m happy alone.” She held his gaze. “Well …” She glanced away again. “Not … not ecstatic maybe, but Wellesleys are historically …” She huffed out a breath and pursed her wild-raspberry lips. “Why’d you bring the horses?”

  Those lips, so incongruous with the rest of her perfectly sophisticated face, called to him, stirring his interest, bumping up his heart rate. It was as surprising as hell. Tonk had once said that if Hunter were any calmer, he would have no pulse at all.

  “Why the horses?” she asked again.

  “You do not think Courage should have companionship?”

  “I don’t believe that’s why you did it. Or not the only reason, at least.”

  He stretched his legs out in front of him. He felt tired and old and sore. “I doubt I need to inform you that you are welcome to your opinions.”

  “You did it for Lily,” she said.

  He turned the glass in his hand and said nothing. Memories could be sadistic little bastards.

  “I wonder why.” Her voice had gone soft. He stifled his wince. He was a fool for softness.

  “I’m concerned about your liability coverage,” he said.

  She was quiet for a moment, as if trying to guess his meaning before giving up. “Has anyone ever told you that non sequiturs are the first sign of mental illness?”

  Laughter rumbled quietly in his gut, tempering the mood.

  Pulling out a chair, she eased into it. “I’d expound on the beauty of my liability, but I’m not entirely sure what that means … and I’m a little too tired to try to figure it out.”

  He watched her. She had loosed her hair from its habitual bondage. It lay in soft, dark waves against her shoulders and teased across her neat little breasts. “That may be my favorite thing about you,” he said.

  “That I’m tired?”

  “That you work to exhaustion. That you go after what you want.”

  She stared at him. In the entirety of her life, no one had accused her of such a thing. But perhaps she had never known what she wanted. And maybe she still didn’t. Except for Courage. She knew she wanted a safe place for Courage. And maybe, if she were honest, she wanted a refuge for other wild things, too. But Redhawk was still watching her, waiting for a response. “I don’t know if I should be proud or insulted,” she said.

  “Maybe it’s time to quit worrying about what you should be and just be it.”

  She drew her shoulder blades back a quarter of an inch. “Indian wisdom?” she asked.

  “It is powerful medicine.”

  She felt her lips twitch a little, felt the muscles in her stomach uncoil a notch. “How did you know Lily had Asperger’s?”

  “It is a well-known syndrome.”

  She held his gaze. “And you discovered a cure while meditating in the foothills of the Himalayas at age two and a half?”

  Humor shone in his eyes. They looked amber-bright tonight, flecked with dark umber and ancient wisdom. But she refused to be charmed. Instead, she raised one brow.

  “I worked as a para in Tallahassee for a few months.”

  “How old are you?”

  “ ‘Age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress.’ ”

  She paused a second, thinking. “How do you know Longfellow?”

  “You can read a lot of poetry in a hundred and fifty years.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. He chuckled in return. The soft noise made something bump a little in her chest. Looking down, she studied a chip in their old, newly purchased table and failed to stop the truth that formed on her lips. “I wonder sometimes if I’ve wasted my entire life.”

  The kitchen went silent.

  “Far better,” he said finally, “than wasting the lives of others.”

  She glanced up at him, but his face had gone stone cold. He was already rising to his feet.

  “Oh no you don’t,” she said and rising, too, grabbed his arm. Feelings flared between them. Her breath stopped in her throat, but she pulled her hand away. “You can’t just …” She glanced toward the window. Outside, the world lay in black-velvet silence. “You can’t just throw me a crumb, then march off to sleep.”

  “I doubt I will sleep.”

  “What?” She blinked at him. “You don’t sleep?”

  “I’ve been known to … at times.”

  She linked her fingers in front of her. “I’ve often wondered how people can spend so much time in bed.”

  “An eternity,” he admitted.

  Their eyes met. She refused to shift hers away, though his gaze burned on contact.

  “Would you have attacked me with the crowbar if I attempted to take Courage?” he asked.

  “In a heartbeat. Why does Lily make you cry?” It was more honest than she had intended to be, but she was tired and the words were out. For several long seconds she thought he wouldn’t respond. In fact, she could see the desire to turn away in the tension of his muscles, the striking planes of his face, but finally he spoke.

  “There is a saying: In every girl there is a goddess.”

  “I don’t believe my father heard that one.”

  His brows dipped as he searched for a question, but she spoke before he found it.

  “Do you have a daughter?”

  The pause was so long she was certain he hadn’t heard her, but finally he spoke again. “I did.”

  His sadness lay between them like an open wound. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well …” He straightened to his full intimidating height, but she placed a hand on his arm again.

  “How old was she?”

  He met her eyes. “Some say it is helpful to speak of hardships. I have not found that to be true.”

  “I didn’t even know you could speak.”

  He exhaled an almost laugh and she shook her head.

  “Don’t make me try to sleep again. Not yet.”

  He watched her for a long moment, then turned toward the cupboard and took out a bag. Setting the Doritos on the table, he sat again.

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I tasted those once.”

  “Once?” he asked and uncoiled the twist tie.

  “At Lindsay Haggle’s house.” She thought back. The memories felt ashy in her mouth. “Her father was an investment banker. Her mother was a psychologist. They were acceptable people … or so Grandmother thought. Until she learned that they served chips for luncheon.”

  “They should have been horsewhipped.”

  She let herself relax a little. “I never saw Lindsay and her improper nutritional habits again.” She stared at the bag.

  “Why not live dangerously?” he a
sked and turned the opening toward her.

  “Tell me about your daughter.”

  His eyes hardened, but she couldn’t face that ugly bedroom again. “Please,” she added.

  His exhalation was long and soft. “She was tall for her age,” he said finally. “Slender as a willow switch.” Another pause. His gaze looked far away, as if he were living in another reality. “Even when she was born, her hair was as black as a wild bay’s mane. And when she laughed …” His lips lifted a little at the memory. “She laughed like my mother. With her entire being. Like there was nothing but joy in all the world.”

  “That’s nice.”

  He shook his head. “It would have been easier if I could have doubted that she was mine.”

  She had no idea how to respond to that.

  “But I did not doubt, and still I failed her,” he said and left the room.

  Chapter 25

  Sydney exited the house at the rumble of an engine. It was 7:24 in the morning; Vura always arrived early.

  But it was not her oversized Chevy that pulled into the drive. The man who stepped out of the aging jeep looked unfamiliar. He was already gazing up at Sydney’s ancient barn when she approached him from behind.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. He didn’t turn toward her immediately.

  “What a beauty she is,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He twisted toward her. His eyes were as black as obsidian, his long hair just as dark. “I said …” He paused, raised his brows when his gaze fell on her face, and flashed a brilliant, crooked smile. “What a work of art she is.”

  “The …” She leaned back a little and brought her hand to her throat, though she didn’t know why. “The barn?”

  He chuckled. “That, too. You are Sydney.”

  “Yes, I—” she began, but he had already taken her palm between his own.