Hearth Stone

by Lois Greiman

  Sydney had followed him halfway into the room. He could feel her presence behind him, or maybe he had left the front door open again.

  “Where’s the woodpile?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Firewood,” he said and turned toward her. “Do you have any?”

  She cupped her hands loosely in front of her as if about to recite poetry. “Perhaps it seems as if this is my ancestral home, Mr. Redhawk, but in actuality this is all new to me.”

  He ignored her sarcasm, though it was, in fact, pretty impressive. “If we can get this thing working, it’ll feel like a sweat lodge in here before morning.”

  She watched him as if he were a foreign species. “Mr. Redhawk—”

  “My friends call me Hunt.”

  She tilted her head the slightest degree, like a monarch amid peasants, or maybe like a queen bee among cockroaches. “What do the rest of your acquaintances call you?”

  “Amazing.”

  She waited as if expecting another answer, but she could wait till hell froze over, which, judging from the plummeting temperatures and her frosty expression, might be any minute.

  “Very well … Hunt. Yes, I do have a fireplace, but to the best of my knowledge, I do not possess any firewood.”

  “Sure you do,” he said and paced toward the door. “Get some supper cooking, duchess. I’m going to be hungry.”

  “My name is not—” she began, but he had already stepped onto the porch.

  It was fully dark now. A sharp gust of wind slashed his face, but he closed the door and leaned into the oncoming storm.

  Sydney glared after him before turning restlessly toward the nearest window. What had she done? And what was she going to do next? A dozen harried ideas raced like frightened rabbits through her mind. Conventional wisdom insisted that she cry uncle. That she call her father and beg for a first-class ticket back to Virginia. To civilization. To home. But the thought made her stomach cramp. Pride, it seemed, was a difficult thing to surrender. Especially when it was all you had. On the other hand, she did have this house. She winced as she glanced around, started when the door opened.

  Hunter Redhawk stepped inside, arms filled with timber.

  She watched him move to the fireplace. “Where did you get those?” she asked.

  “There’s a lot of deadwood in the world,” he said and knelt to settle his burden on the god-awful carpet.

  She raised one brow and wondered if he was referring to more than the logs. She wasn’t deadwood, she told herself. She would have considered cooking supper, if she had had any ingredients… or the ability to cook. Neither of those things being true, she would have been thrilled to fix the furnace … except, for obvious reasons, she hadn’t done so. Neither had she brought in the logs. She pursed her lips and entwined her fingers in front of her.

  “Got any matches?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t aware we were planning a barbecue,” she said and remembered a boy mocking her years ago for her ineptitude with peanut butter and jelly. She had assured her teenaged detractor that she knew how to ring for the butler; Oxbury would be happy to bring her whatever she wished, including the town car to take him home.

  Redhawk snorted, rose to his feet, and returned to the out of doors.

  In a matter of minutes he was back inside. “How about kindling?” he asked and, kneeling again, began tilting the logs against one another, wide on the bottom and narrow on the top.

  “Kindling?”

  He shrugged. From the back, he looked as broad as a bull. His neck, if he had one, was swallowed by dark hair that whisked over his collar and frayed near the ends. His beard could be seen from behind. “Newspapers?”

  “I’m afraid I subscribe to the Times on my e-reader,” she said.

  “Yeah?” He didn’t glance up. “You think it’ll Kindle a fire?”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Got any tissues? Old books? Any kind of paper products.”

  Ineptitude gnawed at her self-worth, eroding her foundation, tilting her off balance; she hadn’t even thought to purchase toilet paper. But she tightened her fingers against one another and straightened her back a half an inch. “I believe our agreement was that you would repair the furnace in exchange for a meal and a jump as you so charmingly called it.”

  He turned to stare at her, dark eyes steady beneath disapproving brows. “Maybe you whipped up a chateaubriand?”

  She pursed her lips into a tight smile and wished she could threaten him with the butler, but Oxbury hadn’t deigned to leave Arbor House for a sojourn into the eighteenth century. “I’ll look for something to burn,” she said and turned away.

  By the time she returned, he had a pile of wood shavings started on the ugly-as-sin carpet.

  “Anything?” he asked and continued stripping bark from the nearest log.

  “I’ve got …” She managed not to wince as she stepped forward. “These.”

  He turned toward her. She hesitated a moment, then pushed a cardboard box into his hand and escaped as quickly as she could into the kitchen, but not before she heard his low chuckle.

  “Tampons?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she closed her eyes and wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere, really. Anywhere at all. But wasn’t that what had gotten her into this mess in the first place?

  “Hey.” He had to raise his voice a little to be heard. “You got any Vaseline?”

  Vaseline? She wanted nothing more than to ignore him, but it would be just as easy to discount a hungry grizzly. She returned to the doorway and knew she was blushing. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Petroleum jelly,” he said. “Do you have any?”

  “I didn’t plan on …” she began, but he stopped her with a look.

  “Chapstick maybe?” he asked.

  Scowling, she pivoted away to retrieve her handbag. “I have lip gloss,” she said, returning to the doorway.

  “Yeah?” He glanced up, bearded face unreadable. “Got any Passionate Pink? That’s my preference.”

  “I beg your—”

  “Never mind,” he said and reached out, but she hesitated.

  “It’s dull lips or hypothermia,” he said.

  She considered her options for a moment, then handed over the prize.

  He humphed quietly, took a tampon from the box, and smeared it with goo.

  In a matter of moments a fire was crackling in the hearth. It was small, but it was cheery. Funny how such a little blaze could lift her spirits. Still, it was sobering to learn that Resume Red looked better on a tampon than it did on her.

  Chapter 7

  “Perhaps we should eat by the fire,” Sydney said. Her fingers had long ago gone numb and the cold had set a dull, throbbing ache in her right thigh. One bare bulb illuminated the kitchen. The rest of the house was dark except for the light of the fire.

  “All right,” Hunter said and eyed their meal. It consisted of a box of fancy crackers and four cartons of yogurt. A single spoon lay beside the delicacies. It was plastic. But she’d found a lone metal fork in one of the kitchen drawers. Judging from its bent tines and scratched handle, it might have been hiding there since the Great Depression.

  “Please bring the flatware,” she said, and raising her chin, picked up the yogurt.

  He did as ordered and followed her into the parlor. The small room was warming up quickly. She handed him the yogurt and made a grand gesture toward the mattress. Pulling the foil off the first carton, he sat on the lumpy bed and scowled when he tasted the contents with the fork.

  “Probiotics,” she said and remained standing.

  He glanced up.

  “Yogurt,” she explained and dipped her spoon into her own tiny carton. “It has probiotics.”

  “Fantastic.” He was almost finished with his meal, but his tone wasn’t exactly ringing with sincerity.

  She peered into her yogurt. “And if consumed on a regular basis can help reduce gastric problems and abdominal fat.” She to
ok another spoonful and glanced at him. As far as she could tell, he didn’t carry an ounce of body fat on his massive frame. Ergo, it was possible he wasn’t concerned about the caloric content. Also, he might be considering eating her. Still, as sleet rattled the windows, she couldn’t help but feel the tiniest sliver of gratitude for his presence. Gratitude tended to make her irritable. As did guilt … and embarrassment. Come to think of it, irritable might be her default mood. But she accepted that little factoid with an invisible shrug and spoke. “Help yourself to another carton.”

  He stared at his meal as if considering the remainder of her lip gloss as a viable alternative, then sighed and ripped open the next container before skimming the room with his hunting-bear eyes. There were plenty of cobwebs on the overhead light fixture, but no bulbs. Firelight flickered and quaked in the broad stone cavern, casting shadows under his eyes, dark dells into his lean cheeks. He lifted his gaze. She pulled hers rapidly away.

  “She’s got good bones,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This house.” His eyes skimmed the room again. “They don’t build them like this anymore.”

  She raised one brow. “Decrepit and hideous?”

  “Solid,” he said. “Built to last.”

  “Might you be a drinking man, Mr. Redhawk?”

  He chuckled. “It’s a shame, losing these landmarks.”

  “It’s hardly the Sistine Chapel.”

  “Not intended to be. But look at that mason work,” he said and motioned toward the fireplace with one tine. The others pointed directly toward the window. “Native granite, every rock. And the floor …” He shook his head and nodded at the carpet. It was bunched at the corners, stained down the center.

  “You’ve a fondness for urine?”

  “There’s solid oak flooring under there.”

  “Psychic, too, Mr. Redhawk?”

  He stared at her, dark eyes unfathomable. “How did you know?” he asked, and honest to God, she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. So she put on a meaningful smile and hoped she looked all-knowing. Or at least as if she knew something.

  “I’ll make you a bet,” he said.

  “I’m not really the wagering sort.”

  He nodded slowly and caught her with his gaze. “How long have you been running scared?”

  She felt her back stiffen and her lungs seize up. “Do you think you frighten me, Mr. Redhawk?”

  “If I win, I spend the night,” he said.

  She made an indescribable noise, something like a mouse scrambling for its hole.

  “On the floor,” he added. “If you win I buy the necessary parts and fix that furnace.”

  “That’s what this is for,” she said and motioned regally toward their meal.

  He raised a brow at her. She cleared her throat, but refused to back down.

  “As I’ve told you, I have someone coming to remedy the situation.”

  “You also said your husband was in the barn.”

  Okay, so she had forgotten that little lie.

  “If he’s still out there, you may have to call the paramedics.”

  She tightened her grip on her yogurt, mind scrambling.

  “Frostbite can be a real bitch if left untreated.”

  “Very well …” So he’d called her bluff. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I happen to be here alone. But I had no reason to believe you hadn’t come to rape and pillage.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Rape and pillage?”

  She frowned. “You haven’t, have you?”

  “I’m a little tired right now,” he admitted, assessing the room in which he sat. “And there’s not much to pillage. Not until you tear this down and build your plastic mansion anyway.”

  She smiled at him. “I’m so sorry if good taste offends your sensibilities.”

  He rose to his feet, towering over her. “Snobs offend my sensibilities.”

  “Well …” She smoothed a pale hand over the coat she had not yet removed. “My apologies to rednecks everywhere.” She stood as straight as grandmothers and riding instructors demanded. “Good-bye, Mr. Redhawk.”

  “I’ll need your keys.”

  Fear raced down her spine at the thought of being stranded in that cold little corner of hell, but she raised a haughty brow.

  “To charge my battery,” he added.

  She gave him a smug smile, but didn’t move. “Of course you do.”

  He stared at her, dark brows lowered until her meaning dawned on him. At which time surprise, humor, and more than a little anger shone in his eyes. “You think I’m planning to steal your car?”

  “The idea did cross my mind.”

  He gritted his teeth and tightened a mallet-sized fist against his thigh. “Lady, I wouldn’t trade my truck for that foreign job you drive if it came with the factory it was built in.”

  “It’s a BMW.”

  He gritted a carnivorous smile.

  For a moment she considered calling him a liar, but he was as big as a Kodiak, and she liked to think she wasn’t entirely lacking in common sense.

  Turning, she retrieved her keys and dropped them into the palm of his outstretched paw.

  Chapter 8

  Hunter snorted and refrained from making a scathing rejoinder, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from slamming the door as he stepped into the bitter elements.

  Behind him, the kitchen light blinked, flickered, and fell into blackness.

  He grinned into the slashing precipitation. Not only was Miss Fancy Pants Wellesley going to be cold and hungry, she was going to be cold and hungry in the dark.

  Trotting happily down the teetering steps, he laughed as he popped the locks on the Bimmer. Tripping the tiny lever inside, he yanked up the hood, snagged the cables from beneath his truck’s passenger seat and attached the clamps to the appropriate terminals. In a matter of moments he was seated behind the BMW’s gleaming steering wheel. The engine purred to life. Stepping outside again, he hurried through the wind. The driver’s door groaned as he pulled it open. He settled onto the ratty bench seat, then glanced back toward the house. And there, perfectly framed in the parlor’s black window, was Sydney Wellesley. With the fire behind her, she was little more than a silhouette. Her features were lost in the darkness, and yet he could still see the fear, like a flame, banked but not doused.

  He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his key.

  Dammit, he hated damsels in distress. Especially rich ones with haughty attitudes and little lost-girl eyes.

  He leaned back against his tattered upholstery, trying to convince himself to leave, to forget about her, to move on down the road. He’d become a veritable expert at that in the past few years. But what had it gotten him? An extra hundred thousand miles on his truck and leg cramps.

  Exhaling heavily, he glanced out the window. The rain was mixed with sleet now and came at him at a sharp, driving angle.

  If he had a brain in his head he’d leave and never look back. But like his Sara Bear had once said, Sometimes really smart people are the stupidest of all.

  Lurching out of his truck, he yanked off the jumper cables and stashed them under his seat. Then, hunching his shoulders against the cold, he slammed the door and wished to hell he wasn’t so damned smart.

  He’d give her one more chance, he thought, as he stepped back into the house and watched her appear in the doorway of the foyer.

  “Won’t start,” he said and jerked his head toward his just-abandoned bucket of bolts. It was an ugly truck. Had been since his old man had brought it to the rez almost two decades before. “Don’t need pretty,” he’d said and snagged his wife up close to his side. “Caught me my limit on that near ten years ago.”

  His mother had hushed her husband and pushed away, but not before planting a noisy kiss on his cheek.

  Funny, Hunter thought, that he hadn’t realized how rare his parents were. Surrounded by the dark squalor of the Rosebud Reservation, they had shone like a sacred fire
. But somehow he had still lost his way.

  “What do you mean it won’t start?” Sydney Wellesley’s voice was prim, her expression angry, as if she disapproved of such things on principle.

  He studied her in the darkness. “There’s a mechanism under the hood. It’s called an engine. It makes the machine run. Mine doesn’t.”

  They stared at each other. If she was thinking she could give him a lift into town, she didn’t make mention. Which was just as well. The rain was freezing on contact. Snot with an attitude, Dad would have called it.

  “I only have the single mattress,” she said.

  For one crazy moment he considered asking if she wanted to share, but she didn’t seem like the kind of woman who could take a joke. Or recognize one.

  “I’ve got a sleeping bag in my truck,” he said.

  She was going to refuse. He could feel it, and half hoped she would. But thunder cracked, sharp and close. Lightning split the sky, like a melon dropped on concrete, and in that white-hot illumination, her eyes looked wild with terror.

  “I suppose you could sleep on the floor.” Her tone sounded stiff, but again, it was her hands that gave her away. She pried them apart and pressed them against her thighs.

  He turned and she jerked.

  “You okay?”

  She lifted her chin and let her index finger bump once against her thigh. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Impossible to say, he thought. But his money was on mental illness. All those snotty European families marrying their cousins was bound to cause problems. “I’ll get more wood,” he said and turned back toward the door, but she followed him, jerking in his direction like a marionette just cut loose.

  “Can you get the lights working?” she asked.

  “I’m not a magician.”

  “Hunkpapa, I believe you said.”