Hearth Song

by Lois Greiman

  She raised a surprised brow.

  She would be even more surprised if he kissed her. If he backed her against the wall and … seriously, what was wrong with him? He didn’t even like her. “Ai, we are in agreement,” he repeated, as much to himself as to her. “Better to shun temptation than to battle it,” he said and, leaving her with that shining wisdom, turned away.

  “What!”

  He kept walking.

  But she wasn’t finished. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He halted and turned to face her. Great Spirit, she looked like a high-bred filly ready to riot. “I did not intend to imply that you could not resist me.”

  She huffed a laugh and took a step toward him. “You …” She glanced back at the house and lowered her voice. “You think I find you tempting?”

  She had no power over him. He had been restored to sanity as suggested by step two of Bill W’s famous twelve-step program. Or he would be, once he came fully to his senses and excised her from his life. “I did not say as much.”

  “But that’s what you meant.”

  He tilted his head the slightest degree. A wisp of wind caught the ends of his hair, brushing it against the beadwork of his jacket. He would be a liar if he said he did not enjoy the drama. “When you touched me yesterday, I assumed—”

  She laughed out loud. “I didn’t touch you.”

  He raised his brows.

  “I mean … We shook hands. But it didn’t … I didn’t …” Huffing to a halt, she wiped her palm on her truly ugly shorts.

  He watched her in silence for a second, letting the tension grow. “I did not find your touch offensive. That is not what I wish to imply, but you are a married woman, Bravura.”

  She stepped up close. Temper flared like a wildfire in her eyes. “You didn’t find it offensive?” The words were growled.

  Something in his gut coiled up tight. Long ago Hunter had accused Tonk of loving to get people riled up. Which must explain this current conversation. It certainly wasn’t her nearness that affected him. “But I do not think we should risk close proximity when—”

  The door opened.

  “Tonka!”

  Tonk shifted his gaze sideways to find Lily perched in a man’s powerful arms. It took him a moment to recognize Vura’s father, longer still to realize there was only one unknown vehicle in the yard. His mind churned; that vehicle, he deduced, must belong to Quinton Murrell. Which meant her husband was gone at this small hour of the morning. He kept himself from scowling but couldn’t curtail the thoughts: What kind of man would return to his wife after months of absence, then disappear while the shadows were yet long? Curiouser and curiouser, he thought, and realized Murrell was watching him with a curiosity of his own.

  Tonk refrained from shuffling his feet like a recalcitrant tike and nodded reverently to the child. “Chitto Sihu.”

  Her grandfather narrowed his silver-blue eyes a little as if deep in thought. Then, “Brave Flower?”

  Tonk glanced at him, more than a little surprised. “I did not realize you spoke the old tongues, sir.”

  Murrell shifted, settling a bright-eyed Lily a little higher against his ribs. Her legs, clad in purple tights bright enough to make you squint, clung like cockleburs. “I have a little Native blood, but it wasn’t until I met Winona, Vura’s mother, that I tried to learn something of the culture,” he said, and shifted his gaze to his granddaughter. Devotion shone like an eternal flame in his eyes. The spark of respect that had been ignited at their first meeting bloomed a little brighter in Tonk’s soul. Children were to be revered. It was the Native way. The fact that individuals failed did not mean that the culture as a whole did the same. Almost too late, he had learned that.

  “I take it you heard about Lily’s accident,” Murrell deduced.

  Tonk nodded before shifting his attention to the child again. “Barbary regrets her actions and hopes you will forgive her impetuous ways, Chitto Sihu.”

  Lily’s fingers tangled in her wild hair, then stilled momentarily. “You talked to the mama horse?”

  “She spoke to me.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “That in the future you should be more cautious when young ones are involved.”

  He wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw Bravura roll her eyes in his periphery vision. Lily, however, didn’t so much as blink.

  “She bit my ear.” There was only a hint of accusation in her tone. Children, he thought … miraculous.

  He nodded solemnly. “My brother said you were as brave as a chieftain.”

  “I was.”

  He couldn’t quite stop his smile, though it rather ruined the stoic Indian act he had been experimenting with for the past twenty-five years. “Already last night, the geese had heard of your injury and sent their condolences.”

  “You speak poultry?” Bravura asked. If she was trying to hide her cynicism, she sucked at it.

  Tonk shifted his gaze to hers. “It is not speech so much as an exchange of thoughts.”

  “You exchange thoughts with poultry?”

  He raised one brow, wondering if he looked regal or ridiculous. “The Great Spirit blesses us all with thought, the humble and the haughty,” he said, tacitly asking which of those she might be.

  She gritted her teeth at him.

  It wasn’t until that moment that Tonk realized Quinton was watching them like another might follow a tennis match, brows raised, attention snapping from one opponent to the next.

  “So you were here last night?” Murrell asked.

  “He just came by to lock up the birds.”

  Tonk glanced at her. Did her explanation seem a bit hasty?

  “That was nice of you,” Murrell said.

  Tonk shook his head and returned his gaze to the older man. “The coyote must eat, too. But he does not need to dine on the Lily’s companions.”

  “Well …” Bravura’s tone had gone strangely breezy. “It sure was great of you to stop by, Tonk, but don’t let us keep you any—”

  “I didn’t mean to barge in,” Murrell said. “Lily and I are going to take off.”

  “What?” Did her tone suggest panic? Full-on, all-out terror? “Already?”

  Judging by her father’s expression, he, too, was surprised by her horrified tone. “I want to get to the hospital early, then check on my crew.”

  “The hospital?” Tonk asked.

  “Dad’s ill,” Murrell said. And there was pain there. Honest worry.

  It would have been nice, comforting even, if Tonk could believe he would have felt the same sorrow if his own father was sick, but he was not so deluded.

  “Cancer.” Murrell cleared his throat. “It’s in his lungs,” he said, and tightened his arm around his granddaughter a little, as if drawing comfort from the firefly brightness of her. “Don’t ever smoke, Lily Belle.”

  “Okay,” she agreed and absently circled her fingers in her hair again.

  “Where is he convalescing?” Tonk asked.

  “Rapid City Regional. It’s a drive, but the local institutions …” He shrugged.

  Tonk nodded, understanding. “Would you be offended if I stopped by to see him?”

  He could feel Murrell’s instant surprise almost as clearly as Bravura’s disapproval, but he couldn’t afford to let that sway him. Amends came in a variety of ways. There again the twelve steps and the Native way aligned.

  Murrell spoke first. “Offended … no,” he said, though his expression was quizzical. “Of course not.” There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. “Are you a mystic, Tonk?”

  Tonkiaishawien shifted his gaze momentarily to Vura. Her expression was a muddled mix of disapproval, panic, and confusion.

  Their gazes held for a moment before Murrell spoke again. “Well … we’ll leave you two alone,” he said, and hurried down the rickety stairs.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Bravura said, and scurried after them. “Tonk was just leaving.”

 
Murrell only waved. But she continued toward his big Silverado.

  “Dad … listen …” But he was already settling Lily into her car seat. “I wanted to talk to you about …” She froze for a second as if searching wildly for a topic that might delay him. “Mrs. Washburn’s kitchen.”

  “Some other time.” Slipping behind his steering wheel, he smiled with cherubic innocence and closed the door in her face.

  They watched him leave the yard, tires practically squealing on the sparsely graveled drive.

  It took several long seconds before Bravura turned back toward Tonk. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, her color high. She cleared her throat. “He probably was in a hurry to visit Gamps.”

  He watched her, the stoic Indian wondering what the devil was going on.

  “Or Dane!” she said suddenly. “He probably wanted to talk to …” She cleared her throat. “He and my husband are great friends.”

  Well, crap on a cracker, Tonk thought, and almost reeled as an idea streamed into his brain. Could it be possible that Dane Lambert was such a twit, such an unmitigated disappointment, that even his father-in-law was happy to leave Bravura with another man?

  Chapter 12

  The silence stretched into eternity.

  “So Mr. Lambert and Mr. Murrell are friends?” Tonk asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded erratically and turned back toward him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re practically …” She bounced one knee. “Well … you probably want to get going.”

  He watched her in silence. She glanced toward the road again, following the path of her father’s escape like a lovelorn basset hound.

  Close up, he could see that her eyes were not absolutely blue. Instead, they bore flecks of gold, chips of green, shadows of unlikely amber. How had he missed the amber? he wondered, but she waved a wild hand, ripping him back to the present.

  “Thank you for … coming by. Lily will be disappointed that you won’t be bringing your horses, but I’ll explain.”

  “How?”

  Irritation jumped in her jaw. “I’ll say you got a better offer.”

  “I did not think you the sort to lie to your small daughter.”

  She narrowed her eyes, emitted a sound that strongly resembled a growl. “I have never …” She paused. “I try very hard never to lie to Lily.”

  “Then why would you do so now?”

  A hundred feral emotions were flaring in her wild-river eyes. “Tell me the truth, Tonkiaishawien. Why did you change your mind if not because you got an offer from a big-ches—”

  She stopped herself. He raised his brows, breathless.

  “Why did you change your mind?” she asked.

  Was she jealous? Was that it? But no, that was crazy. She hated him. And that was fine. Better than fine. Best. Still …

  “Well?” she asked.

  Strange, he thought, how he wished now, almost desperately to lie himself, but lies, while simple and so very seductive, rarely improved one’s circumstances in the long run. “I do not think a woman like you would understand the truth, Bravura.”

  “A woman like me!” She took one abbreviated step to the rear, rocking back on her heels as if struck. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He straightened, braced for the truth. “You do not need to make amends.”

  “What?” A little of the anger had seeped out of her tone. He almost missed it. Perhaps, if he were to be honest, she felt more accessible when she was mad. Not quite so very far above him.

  “Only those with regrets must make amends,” he said, and opened the door of his Jeep. Mutt pushed himself to a sitting position on the passenger seat, tattered ears pricked, right eye perpetually winking.

  Vura tugged her fascinated gaze from the ugly animal with no small effort. “You think I don’t have regrets?”

  He watched her over the rusted edge of his door. “What I meant to say was you should not have regrets.”

  She blinked, then let her brows dip into a scowl. A wild-haired pixie with a grudge. “Are you serious?”

  He scowled a little. Was there sorrow in her eyes? Pain? He wanted, quite suddenly, to reach out, to touch her skin, ease that pain. But he was nobody’s fool. Sometimes. “Ai,” he said instead and twisted to drop into his car.

  “I let Lily’s ear get ripped halfway off her head!” she snapped.

  He paused, almost in his seat.

  “I bought this place!” she continued and waved behind her at the pretty rolling property as if the sky was about to clatter down around her ears. “Which I can’t afford. Can’t fix up. Can’t …” She huffed a laugh, sounding breathless. “I married a man who …” She stopped herself short, eyes widening as if appalled by her own thoughts, and changed track with the speed of a dashing thoroughbred. “I lied to Dad!” There was a finality to the words, as if she had come to the worst of her sins. He would have laughed out loud if she hadn’t looked so devastated, so absolutely forlorn.

  “Told him …” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, like a pugilist ready to take her best shot. “I told him I was staying overnight with Jamie Patterson.”

  He shook his head, befuddled.

  “When I went to meet Dane,” she said, and glanced toward the empty pastures. “He trusted me and I lied. Shamed him.”

  “Ah.” He forced himself to keep a straight face, though the admission seemed almost sweet in its forlorn innocence. “And thus the guilt.”

  “Yeah.” She blew out a breath and swept her gaze past the ancient stand of cottonwoods, over the bold red rock. Honest regret shone in her eyes. What kind of woman would mourn such a small sin for years on end? Pity stroked though him, brushed by admiration, shadowed by respect.

  “But if you had not done so, there might be no Lily,” he said.

  “I know.” Her voice was soft, distant, echoing thoughts she had probably considered a thousand times. “I know. And she’s … she’s everything. All things good. A miracle, really.”

  He nodded, listening, hearing the passion in her voice, seeing the truth in her eyes. What would it be like to own that kind of adoration, to feel that sort of allegiance? But he was being ridiculous. He had experienced that comfort once … if not from his birth parents, from those who came after. He was one of the lucky few.

  “But sometimes I wonder—” She stopped herself. The abrupt halt brought his attention fully back to her guileless eyes.

  “What is it you wonder?” he asked. The Jeep’s door stood as a kindly buffer between them, offering her space for absolution.

  “She’s autistic. High-functioning,” she hurried to add. “Asperger’s. Did you know that?”

  He nodded. “My brother speaks of her often.”

  “Yeah, Hunt’s …” Her shoulders slumped a little, as if she had somehow failed her child by admitting the truth. “Hunt’s great with her.”

  He didn’t bother to argue. His brother was accomplished at many things, but if the truth be told, Tonk didn’t much relish hearing words of praise for another from this woman’s wild strawberry lips.

  She shifted her gaze away again. High above, a hawk circled, copper tail-feathers spread wide.

  “Tell me …” he began, making her turn her attention back to him. He felt her gaze land on him gently. “Do you think the Asperger’s is a product of your deception?”

  She grinned a little. “It sounds even dumber when you say it out loud.”

  He chuckled, then exhaled quietly and sobered. The hawk circled closer. Bravery came in a thousand guises, but perhaps honesty was the most terrifying.

  Silence pulsed between them like the beat of distant drums.

  “My cousin was raped,” he said finally. Releasing the words caused a physical ache in the center of his chest.

  “What?”

  He watched the far-seeing hills. “Jacquie Delorme.” Pain echoed through him, gnawing like a cancer. “She liked to party. Not so much as me.” He smiled. The expression hurt his face. “But she coul
d hold her own.” He tightened his fist and reminded himself to breathe. “Perhaps that’s what I told myself. Perhaps that is why I left her alone in a place where she should not have been.” He shrugged, spearing her with his eyes again, taking the blame, forcing the honesty. “Or perhaps I was too drunk to care.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words were soft, almost inaudible in their earnestness, offering absolution he would not accept.

  “Her daughter …” He gritted his teeth. “Ruby Ann. She was born with fetal alcohol syndrome.”

  Sorrow shone in her eyes. “Was she … Ruby … was she a result of the … of the rape?”

  “Who is to say?” He tried to keep his tone light, but there was little hope of achieving such a feat. The thought of the child’s lost-baby eyes would haunt him every day of his life, and it was no less than he deserved. But he brought himself back to the present, to the burning, aching truth. “I did not mean to imply that there were other men during that time,” he said. “She was only …” He cleared his throat. Off to the west, clouds were rolling in, scalloped edges brushed pink. “She was only sixteen when Ruby was born.” He paused, telling himself to cease, demanding that he stop this horrid tale. There was no reason to revisit it. But he had never been good at taking orders. “Twenty-nine when she died.”

  Sadness burned in Bravura’s eyes. “Jacquie or—”

  “Ruby,” he said, though he was certain there were days when his cousin wished it was she who had been taken. “Jacquie …” He shook his head, remembered. “She was beauty itself, and the boys …” He clenched his fists, fumbled on. “There were many of them. Some good. Some bad. Some jealous …”

  She waited. He searched for strength, though honestly, he did not know why he would share such a tale with this woman.

  “Joe Seagull … we called him Bird. He was an okay guy really. Just couldn’t … couldn’t get over the fact that my cousin had moved on. Thought maybe …” He pushed out a breath. “I do not know what he thought. Perhaps he simply wanted to spend some time with Ruby. Maybe he had become attached to her during his time with Jacquie. Maybe… .” Dammit, he should have kept his mouth shut.