Hearth Song

by Lois Greiman

  “Does she dream of them?” he asked.

  “Of who?”

  “Does she imagine being at the head of the herd, racing with the mustangs?”

  “No, she …” Vura began, but how many times had Lily awakened with some wild horse tale as fresh as morning on her mind? “Not always.”

  The glimmer of his smile was all-knowing. “She deserves to have more time with the horse.”

  Anger bloomed again. “Maybe this is a surprise to you, Tonka Truck, but sometimes women have to work. Sometimes women are good for more than”—she waved wildly toward the oval track where he had lain unconscious just minutes before—“than kissing some idiot man back to life.”

  The silence following her outburst seemed rife with tension, surprise, and more than a little bit of amusement.

  His grin cranked up another half an inch. “I am not in love with her, Bravura Lambert.”

  She remained in stunned silence for a good six seconds before cackling at the sky. The sound echoed off the nearby trailers like lightning on rim rock. “In love with her! In love with her? Why would I care if … I’m not …” She huffed something between a laugh and a growl. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “That is something else about which I wished to speak to you.”

  She raised a brow at him. “Still need a definition of the word?”

  “Just because I am not miserable does not mean I do not work.”

  She huffed a laugh, hoping she sounded dismissive. He crafted pottery, did some painting, dabbled with beadwork. Pretty pieces, sure, but not essential … not like building homes or constructing businesses.

  On the other hand, he had shaped the horsehair vase that graced the entrance of Sydney’s sanctuary. It was neither overlarge nor particularly ornate, but there was something about its earthy beauty that stirred a yearning near her heart. The fact that his beaded jewelry seemed to adorn every overfed bosom between the mountains and the Mississippi elicited other emotions entirely.

  “Listen …” She gritted her teeth and set those emotions coolly aside. “You’re an artist … kind of … I get that. I just—”

  “Kind of?”

  The growl in his voice made her heart smile a little. But she simply lifted a disregarding shoulder and continued as if his irritation wasn’t the most satisfying thing she had experienced all day.

  “It’s just that some of us need real jobs.”

  “Real—” He stopped himself, grinding his teeth to do so before drawing a breath that made his chest expand and his nostrils flare. In a moment he seemed to be back in control, although he did clench his fists once before exhaling slowly and softening his voice. “I cannot pay more than seven hundred a month.”

  She stared at him, allowing ample time for explanations. He said nothing. Clearly he had lost his mind along with his train of thought. “What?”

  “Very well …” He nodded stiffly. “Eight hundred.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Fine then,” he snapped. “A thousand. But my horses can use your barn as well as the pastures.”

  “You want to”—she shook her head, breathed a laugh, and ventured a guess—“you want to keep your horses on my property?”

  “A Native child such as the wild Lily, should not be bereft of sunlight on a horse’s mane in the small hours of the day.”

  She stared at him in silence for a second, then, “I actually think you might be crazy.”

  “Is it madness to believe that the hills should be grazed as the Great Spirit intended? Or that the young should feel the beauty of them in their souls?”

  She wanted quite desperately to argue, but where to begin? She settled for practicality. “My place barely has a single acre fenced.”

  “Very well,” he said, and shook his head as if loath to do so. “I will construct the fences myself if you insist.”

  She stared at him. He returned her gaze, hard and sharp and cocky as a strutting rooster. Her mind spun. A thousand dollars a month would buy a lot of … well … a lot of everything. In fact, with that kind of money she could maybe afford a specialist for Lily. On the other hand, Tonkiaishawien Redhawk was as irritating as a toothache. Then again …

  She clenched her jaw and interlaced her fingers. “Fifteen hundred,” she said.

  “Fifteen hundred dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “For twenty acres of leafy spurge and bull thistle?”

  She canted her head in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture. “I believe there’s a fair amount of cockleburs too.”

  He filled his nostrils. “Twelve.”

  She smiled. “Thirteen.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Twelve fifty.”

  “Throw in a horsehair vase and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  He raised a brow at her.

  “Lily likes them,” she said.

  He watched her in silence for a breathless lifetime, and then he reached out his hand. His back was war-lance straight. And his hair, black as a crow’s wing, blew softly in the wind, but it was his eyes that transfixed her. They gleamed with something. It looked like it might have been a challenge.

  She slipped her palm against his earthy-artist fingers.

  Electricity tickled through her, starting at her fingertips, sizzling up her arm, as warm as the sunrise, more intimate than a kiss. She caught her breath, knowing she should pull back, but his quiet-river eyes held her, somber, earnest, pulling her in, drawing her under.

  “Vey?” The voice seemed to come from some distant source, some other world. “Vey! What’s going on?”

  Vura jerked her gaze up at the sound of her nickname. And there, not eight feet away, stood her husband.

  Chapter 3

  “Dane!”

  Tonk watched Bravura’s face pale, watched her eyes widen, and felt the tension ripen to the tips of her fingers.

  “What …” She breathed heavily. “What are you doing here?”

  The man she was addressing was bright-eyed and baby-faced. His fair hair, highlighted with streaks of honey and ash, could only be called “cute.” Some might think him handsome, if they found Gerber faces appealing on grown-ass men. “I came to surprise you.” He raised his brows a little, glanced at Tonk. “And I guess it’s a good thing I did.”

  Tonkiaishawien took immediate offense at the implication … as if he was making time with Bravura. Tonkiaishawien Redhawk did not become involved with other men’s wives … anymore.

  Bravura snapped her hand from Tonk’s embrace, pressed it against her thigh as if it had been burned.

  “You didn’t say you were coming home.”

  “That why you’re here?” Dane asked. “To get a little play time in while I’m gone?”

  Bravura’s jaw dropped as did Tonk’s brows.

  “I believe you got the wrong idea, brother,” he said.

  Vura’s husband took a stiff step toward Tonk. Their gazes clashed, blue on brown, and then Dane smiled. “I’m just yanking your chain,” he said, and stretched his arm out to shake hands. “I’m Dane Lambert, Vey’s old man. Looks like I put my money on the wrong team.”

  Tonk tilted his head, met his palm.

  “I consider myself a pretty good judge of racehorses. But I guess I forgot to take the size of the jockey’s balls into the equation. That was quite a ride.”

  Tonk merely stared. Mixed messages were darting at him like barn swallows.

  “You must be Hunter Redhawk,” Lambert continued and tightened his grip a little. His nails were clean, his palm as smooth as his pabulum complexion.

  “No, honey …” Vura began, voice strained. “This is Tonk. You saw a picture of Hunter. Remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” He tilted his golden-boy head so that their gazes struck dead-on. “Hunt’s a big guy, isn’t he?”

  Tonk ignored the dull jibe. He’d grown up with three brothers, all of whom could sharpen a better barb in his sleep; if he hadn’t learned to deflect more deadly insults than that he would have died befo
re puberty. Still, it gave him a little punch of pleasure to imagine jabbing a left-handed uppercut into the other guy’s baby-soft jaw. What kind of man would leave his wife and daughter alone for months on end? Not that Bravura Lambert was helpless. Hardly that. She could knock a man flat with little more than a glance from her living-water eyes. And it wasn’t as if she was irresistible to the male population. She was too tough, too sturdy to personify the ideal female form, at least by current society’s questionable standards. And she had freckles. Scattered across her slightly tilted nose like confetti. What kind of grown woman had freckles? Then there was her hair, that wild mane of a thousand glistening hues that no artist would capture even if he could feel the burnished color of each living strand in his sleep. That hair that was rarely tamed by so much as a band of rubber. But when she laughed …

  “I just …” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Dane relinquished Tonk’s hand and swung his arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Can’t a man miss his honey anymore?”

  “Of course, but I just …” She shook her head. “How did you even know where to find me?”

  He winked at Tonk and kissed her cheek. “Didn’t realize I was keeping such close tabs, did you?” he asked, and let his attention flicker, just for a second, past his wife’s left shoulder. In the distance, a big-haired blonde disappeared into the crowd. It almost looked like Sherri.

  “Well …” Lambert turned. A dollop of smug pride shone in his powder-blue eyes. “It was good to meet you, chief.” He turned away, taking Vura with him before twisting back to grin over his left shoulder. “Hey, you should drop by for dinner sometime. Vey makes a mean can of soup.”

  Tonk watched them leave.

  “Was that Dane?”

  He tightened his jaw but didn’t glance over as Sydney Wellesley stepped up beside him. “Ai.”

  “I can’t believe you got to meet him before I did.”

  “Quite an honor,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Good race, ai?” he asked, tone carefully dry.

  She scowled at the retreating couple before shifting her attention back to him. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad?” He raised one brow and glowered as Hunter laughed, approaching from behind with Lily perched on one ridiculously brawny arm.

  “Be grateful, little brother,” he rumbled. “This is high praise coming from the duchess.”

  Tonk snorted in response, though from the start Sydney Wellesley had looked like nothing so much as visiting royalty. “I think I would rather be insulted.”

  Sydney laughed. “The last thing you need, Tonkiaishawien, is to have your ego stroked.”

  Remnants of the just-past conversation washed through him. “There you are wrong,” he said, and didn’t glance after the woman who could tatter his self-esteem without breaking a sweat. “That is just what I need.”

  Sydney tilted her head at him, assessing. “Very well,” she said, and narrowed her eyes as if in deep thought. Then, clasping her hands together, she tugged them to her chest and rounded her shoulders in euphoric glee. “Oh my gosh!” She squealed and hopped in place like a palsied bunny. “It’s the Redhawk Warriors! Bambi. Roxy!” She glanced frantically from side to side as if flanked by her two best empty-headed buddies. “It’s the Redhawk Warriors! Aren’t they the dreamiest? Aren’t they the hunkiest? I knew they’d win. I just knew it,” she blathered and followed her performance with a chest-heaving sigh.

  The men stared in immobilized silence. Even Lily, perched on Hunter’s arm like a nesting songbird, was absolutely quiet.

  “That was …” Tonk began and shook his head, trying to dislodge the scene from his memory. “Deeply disturbing.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” Sydney asked. Her tone was high-desert dry, her left brow elevated a scant fraction of an inch above the right. “Shall I try it again?”

  “Absolutely not,” Tonk said.

  “You’re scaring Lily,” Hunt added, setting the child carefully on the ground beside him. “And me.”

  “How about this then?” Sydney asked and, walking up to Tonk, kissed him lightly on the cheek. “That was amazing, Tonkiaishawien. Brilliant, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  The following silence challenged the first one.

  “It was my idea,” Hunter rumbled.

  “And you”—Sydney turned to him with the light of adoration in her eyes before leaning in to caress his face—“own my heart.”

  “He got a kiss,” Hunter said.

  Her smile was knowing and sassy and a little vindictive when she moved in. Their lips met, locked, tasted, savored.

  “Better?” she asked finally.

  “Yeah,” Hunter said, but his tone was a little scratchy.

  If Tonk’s emotions weren’t still being stretched out of place like warm taffy, he would have laughed out loud at his big brother’s obvious discomfort.

  “I have but one question,” he said instead. Sydney turned toward him, brows raised again. “What happened to the woman who could freeze a man’s heart dead in his chest with one glance?”

  She gave him a slanted grin. “She just watched the dreamy Redhawk Warriors win four thousand dollars for her rescued mustangs.”

  “If it just takes a little cash to generate that kind of affection, I’d be willing to write a check,” Tonk said.

  Hunter growled and Sydney laughed before glancing at Lily. “Come on, honey, let’s get some cotton candy.”

  They left hand in hand, arms swinging between them.

  “Don’t be feeding my ponies that sugary crap,” Tonk warned, but Sydney only laughed.

  Funny, Tonk thought, watching them walk away. He’d be willing to bet that Sydney Wellesley had put in more hours of physical labor in the last twelve months than she had in the entirety of her life before that point. Yet when she had arrived, flush with her daddy’s money, she’d been broken and bruised, as shattered as an antique doll. Sadness had enveloped her like a cloud. But in the months since her arrival, everything had changed. Now she was whole. Now she was happy. It didn’t take a mystic to see that.

  But perhaps it wasn’t just that she had found purpose. Perhaps even her beloved mustangs weren’t the entire reason for her newfound satisfaction. Which meant … He shook his head and finally acknowledged his brother’s quizzical glance.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would actually think you had done something right by that woman.”

  “Miracles do happen,” Hunter admitted and Tonk snorted as he returned, ruminating, to his trailer.

  Hunt was the reason for Sydney’s contentment, he thought as he ran a dandy brush down his painted gelding’s well-defined haunches. Hunt, the least charismatic man on the planet. He shook his head once in wordless wonder and reminded himself that he would not resent his brother’s happiness. That would be childish and base, and while he often enjoyed being childish … and base, he didn’t care to be in this situation.

  Instead, he would be content with his art and his horses. Arrow sighed as Tonk stroked his neck with the brush’s stiff bristles. It was enough to be able to watch beauty emerge like a fragile blossom in his hands. To pay homage to the Native way of life by caring for his animals and those in need. Of course, that was exactly what he had been trying to do when the baby-faced Lambert had come toddling along. He’d been trying to find a home for his horses when this all began. It was no good keeping them separated, stabling them at different locations. Best to have them all together so they could bond. The adrenaline rush of racing was terrifying enough when the horses were comfortable in each other’s company. Keeping them scattered hither and yon helped nothing. Not his exercise program, not his time management, not his horses’ emotional health. And if renting a pasture gave him some small time with little Lily, so much the better.

  Satisfied with Arrow’s well-being, he moved on to the bay and realized he’d be the first to admit he had no idea why Lily Lambert tugged at his soul. It
wasn’t as if he saw himself in her wild-urchin face. So her dad was absent for long periods of time. Tonk had considered himself lucky when his own father had been absent for even a short while. And Lily had Bravura. Her fierce loyalty, her obvious adoration, her foolish optimism. But sometimes, when he looked into the mother’s eyes, he would swear he caught the shadow of encroaching panic behind the staunch, I-can-do-it-all attitude.

  “Cousin …”

  Tonk stilled his hand over the bay’s lumbar vertebrae. There was a touch of soreness there. He would have to be mindful, he thought, and glanced up.

  Riley Old Horn, Indian dark and cowboy lean, was eating M&M’s while riding bareback on a dancing Sky Bird. Raising a blossoming teenager alone had given him the ability to multitask and troubleshoot all at once. Or so it seemed.

  “Ry,” Tonk said. They shared a smile. They’d shared much more since their earliest memories: purloined whiskey, secrets, and the driving need to ride anything on four legs.

  “Keep this up and the championship is ours.”

  “Let us not count our chickens before they are hatched,” Tonk advised.

  Riley grinned. “Speaking of poultry … the boys are going to go cruisin’ for chicks at the Branding Iron.”

  Tonk raised his brows in surprise. “You cruising, too?”

  “’Fraid my ship has sailed,” he said. “But Moll’s staying with Abby. So I’ll sit for a while. Maybe have a few drinks.”

  Desire burned like an open flame through Tonk, but the fulfillment of that desire had rarely brought contentment. And wasn’t that what Bill W. and the Native way both espoused? “I believe I will stay with the horses.”

  “The horses are sick of the sight of you.”

  Tonk laughed. “But I am not sick of them. Go,” he added. “Perhaps I will stop by after I get them settled for the night.”

  “You sure?”

  “Enjoy the poultry.”

  Riley shook his head, slipped from Sky Bird’s back, and handed over the reins. “Red meat only for me. See you later, cousin.”