by Lois Greiman
“De yani ju dat’sayah, Min’/dtoh ci we dom tawe’.” His words, though incomprehensible, were a low, sensual chant.
Sydney stared at him. She knew she should tug her hand away, but for the life of her, she couldn’t quite seem to manage it.
“Tell me,” he said, gliding closer, “what brings a princess such as yourself into this harsh land?”
“I—” she began again, but a low voice interrupted the words she had yet to formulate in her mind.
“What the devil are you doing?”
She jerked at the sound of Hunter’s voice, but her visitor didn’t seem the least surprised. Instead, he tightened his grip on her fingers almost imperceptibly and raised his midnight eyes with slow mischief. “You did not say she held magic in her hand, Hunter Ray.”
“Give the hand back,” Hunter demanded.
The younger man laughed, kissed her knuckles with fervent warmth, and winked. “As you wish, brother.”
“Brother?” The word came out as little more than a peep of sound. Sydney snapped her gaze from one man to the other, but their similarities did not reach past their Native American features.
The smile again, crooked with charm. He nodded once and stroked her hand before releasing it with a shallow bow. “Tonkiaishawien Kientuankeah Redhawk, at your humble service.”
“What are you doing here, Tonk?” If Hunter was happy to see his kinsman, he was an excellent actor.
“I have taken time away from my muse to help you with—”
It was then that Vura pulled up beside Tonk’s decrepit jeep. Stepping out, she loosed a lilac-clad Lily from her car seat, and settled the child onto one curvy hip before approaching them. Her signature strides were long and sure. Her ponytail bounced with every step, sassy as a teenager.
Tonk raised dark brows in undisguised interest. “A princess and an angel.” The trio watched in silence for a moment as she approached. “There is much you haven’t told me, brother.” Turning, Tonk reached for Vura’s free hand and kissed her knuckles. “I am Tonkiaishawien Kientuankeah Redhawk.”
She scowled at him. “Hunt’s brother?”
“Ai.”
“Hff,” she said and pulled her hand unceremoniously from his grasp before turning toward her employer. “When did you say those shingles will arrive?”
Sydney tried to shake herself back to reality. “Ahh, today, I think.”
“Good. I should be ready for them this afternoon,” she said, and taking Lily with her, turned to gather the tools she had left in the house.
Silence followed in her wake. Humor gleamed in Hunter’s eyes. “Strike one.” His words were barely audible.
“There are other players in the game,” Tonk said and returned his gaze to Sydney. But she took a quick, involuntary step to the rear.
“Looks like you’re mistaken,” Hunter said, and taking his brother by the arm, steered him toward the barn. In a matter of minutes, they were examining its ancient roof.
Sydney shook her head, then wandered inside to feed the horses. Fandango whinnied. Windwalker pawed. Courage remained silent, but sidled a scant few inches closer to her door.
Hope bloomed softly in Sydney’s soul.
“She has begun to eat.”
She jumped at the sound of Hunter’s voice, blinked back any unacceptable emotion, and glanced behind him. The doorway was empty. Turning toward their modest cache of hay, she gathered up two flakes and moved toward Fandango’s stall. “You didn’t tell me your brother was coming.”
“I was uncertain of his plans.” His expression was unreadable.
“You should take a day off. Spend some time together.”
“He is busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Removing shingles.”
She stopped. Alfalfa stems poked at her wrists and belly. “You have him working?”
“He said he came to help.”
“Well …” She waited as he stepped forward to open the stall door. She dropped the hay inside. “You could have at least offered him a cup of coffee first.”
“He has drunk enough.”
“What does that mean?”
Hunter scowled. “He is not as charming as you think.”
“I didn’t say he was charming.”
He studied her in silence. Her cheeks felt warm, but the sun had finally shown its face. She was unaccustomed to the heat. Unacceptably flustered, she stroked a hand down the bay gelding’s swayed back.
“How old is he?”
“Tonk?”
Irritation edged her jitters. “Fandango.”
Hunter shrugged and moved in a little closer. “I wanted a sensible mount.”
“Sensible?” She shook her head as the bay heaved a sigh and cocked an arthritic hip. “I’m not even sure he’s conscious.”
“Tell me, Sydney Wellesley, when did you become an expert on horses?”
Age five, she thought, but didn’t voice the words.
Outside the barn, a door slammed. The noise was followed by the patter of lightning-quick feet, announcing Lily’s exit from the house.
“I hope you don’t plan to ride the wind on him,” Sydney said, nodding toward the other horse.
“Sometimes the wind blows faster than others,” Hunt replied and turned as the little dynamo burst into the barn.
“Is she healed yet?” Lily asked, eyes wide, legs slowing.
Inside the enclosed stall, Courage snorted a warning.
“Not yet, little Lilac,” Hunter said. “But other horses have arrived.”
“More horses?” Lily asked and held up her arms to him.
He lifted her against his chest with reverent slowness. His eyelids dropped a little, dipping heavy lashes toward high-boned cheeks, as if the weight of her against his heart was almost too much to bear.
“Are they sick, too?”
“They are not,” Hunter said and nodded toward the bay as Vura drew near. “Is she allowed?”
“Like I could stop her,” she said and laughed as her daughter clasped excited hands in front of her mouth. In a moment the pair was inside the stall. Vura turned toward Sydney. “Did you know about Hunt’s brother?”
“What?” Gathering more hay, Sydney moved toward Windwalker’s stall. There was something about feeding time that helped her relax, that filled an unknown emptiness inside her.
“Tonkewheezie … or whatever his name is … what’s he doing here?”
Sydney glanced over, baffled by the other woman’s tone. Vura seemed the type who liked … and was liked … by everyone. “I guess he came to help out.”
“With what?”
Sydney shrugged. “The barn roof?”
“Do you really think we need—”
“Mama!” Lily shot out of the stall like a missile. “Hunk says I can ride him.”
“Hunt,” Vura corrected.
“Can I?”
“If Hunter says it’s okay.”
He appeared behind her and nodded. “Come then, coneflower,” he said, and slipping a halter behind the gelding’s long ears, led him out of the stall. In a moment Lily was clinging to his mane, wide-eyed and speechless.
The women watched them make a slow passage down the driveway. “I’ve never seen her quiet this long,” Sydney said.
Vura laughed. “I was the same way when I was little. Dumbstruck when there was a horse in the vicinity.”
“You ride?”
“Sure. Well …” Her eyes were bright with unconcealed adoration as she watched her tiny daughter’s progress. “Obviously, not like you, but—” She stopped abruptly.
“What?” Sydney asked and yanked her attention away from the trio on the driveway.
Vura laughed, shrugged. “You just look like you belong on a horse. Well … I’d better get to work. My boss is a slave driver,” she said, and leaving her daughter in Redhawk’s care, hurried off toward her truck.
The days that followed were filled with sawdust and hope and backbreaking labor. The fences went up
. The kitchen counter came down. Hunter, Sydney thought, worked his brother like a slave, but Tonk didn’t complain. No wages had been discussed, but he didn’t seem to mind that, either. He spent endless hours on the barn roof before heading into town each evening. Sydney’s suggestion that he save money by staying at Gray Horse Hill was met with a flat refusal. Tonkiaishawien, Hunter said, was not the kind of man who paid for hotel rooms.
She didn’t know what that meant, and maybe she was too content to ask. Things were going well. Courage was growing stronger. She was putting on a little weight, and her eyes looked bright as baubles behind her tousled forelock. It was becoming nearly impossible to change her bandages without risking life and limb. Someday she would be free again, Sydney told herself, and imagined the mare galloping, unfettered and joyous, across the open plains, dark tail streaming behind her like a triumphant banner.
But in her mind’s eye the mare was never alone. Hunter was right, Sydney thought, stomach twisting a little; few creatures were meant for solitude.
Spring headed toward summer. The Canadian geese returned in trails so long it seemed as if they had been hatched by the horizon. The temperature had tapped into the sixties and stayed there even into the evening hours.
Sydney and Vura were sweating in tandem as they strained to hold up the swinging end of the gate they were attempting to hang near the barn. Above them on the frightfully steep roof, Tonk was carefully replacing the barn’s original shingles and adding new cedar as needed. He and Vura had fought like badgers over whether they should use the eighteen-or twenty-four-inch lengths.
“A little higher,” Hunter said and fiddled with the hinges.
They lifted.
“Too high.”
They adjusted.
“More to the left. Not that far.”
“Holy—” Vura panted, but Hunter interrupted.
“Right there!” he ordered and finally the heavy tubing settled onto the hinges. They loosed their hold, letting it swing free.
“I was just about to come over and slap you upside the head,” Vura said, and pulling off her gloves, flexed sore fingers. “But … Hey!” She paused, shaded her eyes against the setting sun, and watched as a white Silverado pulled into the drive. “Oh!” she breathed, and dropping her gloves, sprinted across the yard.
In a matter of seconds, a man was wrapping her in his arms. There was something about the sight of him swinging her in a circle that made Sydney’s throat close up. Something about the sound of their laughter that made it impossible to look away.
“Who’s that?” Tonk had appeared beside them near the gate. He could, it seemed, move just as silently as his brother. Maybe history insisted that they retain their stealth.
“It must be Dane, her husband,” Sydney said. Since Vura’s first-day explanation, she had barely mentioned the man. But apparently, their relationship was intact. Sydney managed to pull her gaze away. “Well, it’s my night to cook. If you’re partial to poor food, badly prepared and hideously served, you’re welcome to join us,” she said, but Tonk didn’t seem to hear her.
“Looks kind of long in the tooth, doesn’t he?” he said.
“None of your business,” Hunter growled.
Tonk grinned and turned toward Sydney with a conspiratorial wink that lit his eyes and carved a dimple into his left cheek. “Guess those old codgers have to stick together.”
“I’ve been wondering …” she said. “Just how old is—”
“Sydney. Hunt …” Vura and her visitor were already striding toward them. They had linked arms, and though the man’s eyes were shadowed by a weathered baseball cap, his smile matched hers. His adoration was all but tangible. Sydney felt her stomach cramp and wondered what kind of person would feel uncomfortable at the sight of such happiness. She glanced toward the house, but she’d missed her opportunity to escape.
“I’d like you to meet my dad, Quinton Murrell,” Vura said.
Surprise touched Sydney, but honestly, she wasn’t sure if the truth magnified or diminished her jealousy. She hadn’t heard from Leonard Wellesley in weeks.
“Dad, this is Hunter Redhawk.” They shook hands.
“And his brother …” She gave her head a sassy tilt. “Tonkashaweenie.”
Tonk’s dark brows lowered. “Tonkiaishawien.”
“Right,” Vura said, tone crisp before she exhaled softly. “And this is Sydney Wellesley.”
Quinton Murrell removed his cap. His salt-and-pepper hair was short and thick.
“Sydney.” He said her name softly. His voice was deep and melodious, but it was his eyes that struck her, intense and solemn and kind. His handshake was firm but gentle.
“Hi,” she said and felt strangely unnerved. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Murrell.”
“You look like your mother.”
She tugged her hand from his. “I beg your pardon?”
His expressive eyes cleared. He smiled. “I knew your parents,” he explained.
Sydney blinked at him.
Vura laughed. “Dad knows everyone.”
“You knew my mother?” Sydney asked.
“We met. Briefly,” he added.
Overhead, a pair of swans trumpeted as they stretched their endless necks toward the north. The sound of their wings brushed the stillness.
“When I heard your name …” He examined her face as if searching for clues. But in a moment he shrugged and stepped back. “Wellesley. It rang a bell. Turns out I did some construction work for your father back in the nineties.”
“Dad’s the best master carpenter this side of the Mississippi,” Vura said.
“But it’s not,” Sydney said.
“What?” Vura had paled a little.
“Virginia. It isn’t on this side of the Mississippi,” Sydney said.
Murrell smiled, but there was something in his eyes. A wistfulness maybe. “I spent a few years out east.”
“Working for my father?”
“He wanted a studio built. It was a big project.”
“Mother’s dance studio.” Sydney felt herself relax a little. What was she thinking? That the paparazzi had found her? That the press cared about a broken equestrienne with shattered Olympic dreams? Isolation was making her delusional.
“Can you join us for dinner?”
Hunter’s question surprised her, then made her feel silly. There had been a time when she was a decent hostess.
“Yes, please,” she said. “I confess to being the world’s worst cook, but we would very much like to have you stay.”
“That’s kind of you,” he said, “but I just wanted to drop in, see how my little girl was doing …” He watched Sydney for another long second, then pulled his gaze away. “And kiss my granddaughter. Where is she?” he asked and glanced around.
Vura rolled her eyes. “She’s in the barn. She’s always in the barn.”
“Just like her mother was,” Murrell said.
Vura laughed. “She sits by the stalls and reads to the horses. I’ll get her.”
“No, don’t. I’d like to see her there,” he said. They turned as a unit and entered the barn together, but the aisle was empty.
“Lily?” The panic came immediately to Vura’s voice, but Hunter silenced her.
Premonition soured his gut. Stepping softly, he padded toward the mustang’s stall and peered between the planks.
Courage tossed her head and backed into the corner. It wasn’t until that moment that he caught a splash of purple, a tangle of tousled hair, just beside the door.
Breath held, he eased up the latch and stepped inside. The tiny, brightly dressed form was slumped against the boards, body bowed, hair flopped over her face, and for a second his heart stopped dead in his chest, but when he touched her, her eyes opened sleepily.
“Hunk,” she lisped. Against the far wall, the mare huffed nervously.
“Hush now,” he said and lifted the child into his arms. His heart hammered like a gong against her tidy framework of ribs. B
acking out of the stall, he turned woodenly and handed her off to her mother. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t feel the trembling in his arms, see the terror in his eyes.
“Lily!” Vura squeezed her tiny daughter to her chest. “What were you thinking? I told you never to go in there.”
“She’s lonely.” Her voice was little more than a sigh as she rested her head against her mother’s shoulder.
“She’s not,” Vura said. “She has the geldings now. You can visit either of them. But not Courage. You know that.”
“The geldings have each other,” she said, and lifting her head, saw their visitor for the first time. “Poppy!”
“Hello, little Lil,” he said, and taking her in his arms, gratefully kissed her silky head.
It was the second familial meeting Sydney had to witness that day. She hoped it would be the last.
Chapter 26
“Add it slowly,” Hunter said.
Sydney stared at the fresh cream. It was as thick as pease pudding. Emily had delivered it from the Lazy Windmill just that morning … which had been more than twelve hours ago. But they’d nearly completed one paddock. Vura had insisted on staying even later than usual to put in one more post. Tonk was leveling the sand hauled in for the dressage ring. Their inexplicable rivalry seemed to be increasing their productivity if not Sydney’s calm. “I’m not really supposed to use all of this, am I?”
“Ai,” Hunter said, hand never slowing as he chopped carrots on a scarred wooden board. “And keep stirring.”
She shook her head, but did as ordered, maybe because her knowledge of cooking didn’t extend beyond scalded soup or maybe because the broth was beginning to smell a little like a culinary fantasy.
“Is the wild rice ready?” he asked.
She lifted the cover from a battered pan, glanced at the unappetizing mush inside, and scowled. “Is it supposed to look like scrambled frog eyes?”
He shook his head and moved in beside her. Their elbows brushed. Lightning tingled discreetly up her arm, just a tiny piece of everyday magic. “May my Ojibwe brothers forgive your lack of understanding.”
Just outside the window, a truck door slammed. Sydney glanced through the kitchen window. Lily had just scrambled into the backseat of her mother’s Chevy. Vura was poised on the far side of her truck when Tonk reached her.
