Hearth Stone

by Lois Greiman

  “That would be good,” she said and wondered vaguely whether she was the falcon or the hare.

  “When do you project to be ready for clients?”

  “The end of September.”

  “That’s awfully late in the year,” he said.

  “But just six weeks from now, and it will still give us time to prepare for the Rolex.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Very well. I’ll speak to the appropriate persons.” He exhaled noisily. “We’ll set a date for …” She could hear him tapping buttons, checking his online schedule. “The first Saturday in October. I will try to come prior to that to make certain you’re on track, but you know what my calendar is like.”

  “Yes.” He’d been in Zurich when she’d contracted the mumps, Shanghai when she’d ridden in her first competition.

  “Very well then. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Oh, and Sydney …” He paused as if uncertain where to go from there.

  She held her breath, hoping. “Yes?”

  “Don’t disappoint me this time.”

  He hung up, but she remained as she was, phone to her ear, knees weak, pulse pounding solidly in her temples.

  “Flapjacks or eggs and bacon?” Hunter’s voice sounded from the hallway, an earthy counterpoint to the dove’s morning coo.

  Sydney glanced toward her unfinished door.

  “Syd?” He rapped twice on the hardwood. “Are you up?”

  She tried to articulate a response, but her mind was spinning.

  “Sydney?” He opened her door. Their gazes met. “What’s wrong?” He stepped inside, filling the room. But his nearness only made her weaker.

  “Nothing,” she said and backed away, out of reach. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Silence filled the space between them. His eyes were as solemn as stone.

  “Let us eat then,” he said finally. “You can tell me of this nothing.”

  “No.” She cleared her throat and lowered her phone. “Thanks. I’m going to get to work,” she said and escaped from his kindness.

  The days sped by. The house was almost livable now. Well … livable, Sydney discovered, was a relative term. She had realized early on that there was no way her finances were going to stretch to refurbish the entire house. And she dared not allow Hunter to pay more. Her mind shied away from the thought of his generosity, his allure. They had barely touched since the kiss. Just the accidental brush of fingers, the unconscious clash of their gazes, was enough to stop the breath in her throat. But she had no time for that. The conversation with her father had set her course in stone. And that course was well on track. Gray Horse Hill was nearly ready to host its first students. To show the world what she could do if she set her mind to it.

  True, the upper floor of the house was mostly untouched. In fact, the majority of the lower level remained equally dismal.

  The old parlor where the students would converge, however, was almost complete. The rough fieldstone fireplace had been restored to its original rustic glory. The exterior walls had been re-daubed and the new windows were wide, granting a view of curling river and sweeping hills. Beyond the gravel road that wound like an amber ribbon toward the west, Fandango and Windwalker grazed on endless pasture. They only came up to the barn to be groomed and ridden. But those times had been precious, for with each careful ride, Sydney had found it possible to do a little more … to pick up a trot, to try a cautious canter, until her heart all but sang with hope.

  Courage, however, remained inside. Sydney sighed as she peered through the iron bars of the mare’s stall. The animal longed to be free. That much was made clear by the distant look in her farseeing eyes, the restless toss of her dreadlocked mane. But she wasn’t ready … or maybe it was Sydney who was unprepared for the change. There was no telling what would happen when she was turned loose. No guessing whether she would gallop or stumble and fall. Though they had bandaged and medicated and sutured and prayed, it still seemed they should have done more. Should do more. But was it fair to continue to keep the mare confined? She had not left the barn since they’d brought her there months before. Courage circled her stall now. They had moved her into one of the new enclosures just days before, allowing them to tear down the original and replace it with something befitting an Olympian. She stood now, head raised, tangled forelock all but obscuring her limpid eyes.

  “She’s something to see,” Vura said, work boots ringing in the aisle.

  Sydney didn’t turn at the sound of the woman’s voice. Strange how love for this feral animal swelled like a hot wave through her. Strange when she had never felt the same for any of the royally bred mounts she had ridden in competition. Not that it mattered. Her course was set, she reminded herself. “She is.”

  “It’ll be interesting seeing her with the Olympic horses they bring in for training.”

  Sydney tightened her hands around the mustang’s bars and felt a fresh squeeze of terror slide through her. She had sent out the invitations, made all the appropriate contacts, offered a free month of riding at “America’s newest elite equine facility.” But the responses had been slow in arriving. “You think they’ll come?”

  “They’re not idiots, are they?”

  Sydney turned toward her, entirely unsure how to answer that.

  “I mean, they’d have to be, right? to turn down the chance to work with the great Sydney Wellesley.”

  They stared at each other. Vura grinned. “We were bound to check into your past eventually.”

  Sydney blinked.

  Vura laughed. “Dressage rider extraordinaire. Took second at the World Cup. I saw a video on YouTube.” She shook her head, expression sobering. “You were riding a black horse.”

  “River Magic.” He had a beautiful passage and performed lovely tempi changes, the skipping lead transfers so difficult to execute, but he had sustained a fracture to his left front cannon and the Olympic machine could not wait for him to recover. Sydney had moved on to a handsome sorrel with better bone.

  “Für Elise was playing in the background.” Vura swallowed, eyes bright as diamonds. “It was like a dance. Like a Viennese waltz. The most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life.”

  And yet they had discarded Magic for another, only to find that the sorrel didn’t possess the temperament of a winner. Or maybe it was his rider who had been lacking. Insecurity swamped her. And where did that come from? Sydney Wellesley didn’t doubt herself. Or did she do just that every day of her life? Did she doubt and cover it up with an aloof demeanor and chilly distances?

  “Who wouldn’t want to work with you?” Vura asked.

  Sydney’s mind churned, dredging up a dozen cool comebacks. But they would not be delivered. “Those who have met me?” she asked instead, but Vura shook her head.

  “Then they’re fools,” she said. “And you don’t need them. Anyone who has seen your talent and your heart and your kindness…” She nodded. “They’ll come.”

  Sydney searched for her old self, that crisp, polished woman who showed no doubts, no weaknesses to the world. But she seemed to have gone missing. “I believe you might actually be thinking of someone else,” she said, and Vura laughed.

  “Was your mother like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Never satisfied with perfection?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged, vaguely wondering how the conversation had turned in this unlikely direction.

  “I read a review once that said she was her own worst critic.”

  “Sydney,” Tonk said and stepped into the barn. “I am going to retire for the night. Unless you have objections.”

  “No. Of course not,” she said. “Have a good evening.”

  “There is a spirited little redhead in Custer who will help me do just that,” he said and grinned at her before turning toward Vura. “Or is there something else that should occupy my time?”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” she said and scowled.


  He shrugged. “I thought, perhaps, you would like some assistance around the house since your beloved has been gone for so long a time.”

  “Well, you thought wrong.” Her voice was cool.

  He nodded. Irritation snapped in his eyes. “It must be difficult for him to stay away from his blushing bride.”

  Perhaps Vura caught his sarcasm; her tone chilled to glacial. “It is.”

  “Where did you say he was again?”

  A muscle ticked in her dimpled cheek. “Williston.”

  “That’s right, he is employed by one of those fracking companies that steals the earth’s soul.”

  She opened her mouth as if to blast him, but Sydney interrupted. “You read Mother’s reviews?”

  Vura jerked her attention back to her employer. “Yes. Well … just one.”

  “Why?”

  Vura’s right knee jittered.

  “Dad loved her … cabriole. Is that what it’s called?”

  Sydney scowled. “Your father saw her dance?”

  “I guess so,” she said and lifted her jacket from a pile of lumber near the door.

  “When?” Sydney asked, but Vura was already backing away.

  “You wouldn’t think Dad would be into ballet, would you?” She shrugged, grinned. “But … people will surprise you. Well … I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “When did he see her?” Sydney asked, following her out. “She’d quit dancing professionally by the time they built her studio.”

  “Listen … I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to get going. Lily has an appointment with a specialist in Hot Springs,” Vura said, and seeing her daughter playing in a pile of dirt near the silo, hustled her toward their truck. Once inside, she closed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Lily asked.

  “Nothing.” Vura glanced into the rearview mirror and fixed on a smile. “Nothing’s wrong, baby. Are you ready to go?” she asked, and cranking the engine, drove out of the yard.

  “They’re not staying for supper?” Hunter asked from behind.

  Sydney watched the truck turn onto the gravel road. “Tonk, do you know what a cabriole is?”

  Tonkiaishawien frowned after the speeding truck. “My hands were gifted with the ability to craft beauty. And though my brother, poor unfortunate, did not receive that talent, he did inherit the poor substitute of intelligence.”

  Sydney turned her gaze on Hunter. “Do you know?”

  “I test better on a full stomach.”

  “I mean it,” she said and kept her attention steady on his face.

  “It’s a piece of furniture,” Hunter said. “Or a dance movement.”

  She scowled. “Would the average person know that?” she asked.

  “I am the average person.”

  “No, you’re not,” she argued.

  “I am about to depart,” Tonk interrupted.

  Her eyes were steady on Hunt’s. She couldn’t seem to pull them away.

  “Try not to miss me over much,” Tonk added.

  How had Hunt’s lips gotten so close?

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Tonk said, and losing his carefully maintained verbal cadence, stomped toward his jeep.

  Sydney pulled herself from Hunter’s gaze and turned in a daze. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “So many things,” Hunter said and exhaled, breaking the spell. “Come and eat.”

  She shook her head. “I want to see that combination jump you’re working on.”

  “You don’t trust me to get it right?”

  She looked into his honest features and felt the truth strike her softly. “As it turns out …” She paused, surprised at the aching truth of it. “I do.”

  She shrugged, sending him a playful grin. “But I still want to see it.”

  “I’ll saddle the horses.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can drive some of it. Walk the rest.”

  “It should be ridden,” he said and turned away. “You’re better on a horse. More grounded, more centered, whether you know it or not.”

  “Well, then …” She hurried after him, boots rapping quietly. “I’ll tack up my own mount.”

  “I can manage two,” he said.

  But it didn’t seem right, she thought, and wondered when that had happened. Someone else had saddled her horse since she’d stepped into her first stable. Saddled him up, cooled him off, and cleaned up afterward. But things had changed.

  They were silent as they walked to the pasture. But it felt right, easy, quiet. Still, Vura’s words nibbled at Sydney’s peace of mind even as the horses trotted to the fence to greet them. Grain, they knew, waited in their stalls. Taking a halter from the fence where it hung, Sydney slipped it over Windwalker’s ears, snapped it at the throatlatch.

  “Does it seem strange to you that Vura’s father knew my parents?” she asked.

  Hunter turned away, strides long and smooth. He looked so right, perfectly in his element beside the bay. “I suppose it is good business for a carpenter to know many people.”

  “So you think it’s just a coincidence?”

  “What else would it be?”

  She shrugged. “You don’t think …” Her mind spun out of control. She reeled it back in. “It’s just something Vura said. Several things, actually.”

  He waited in silence. Patience was his virtue. Perhaps that was why Lily adored him. But maybe it was because of a thousand other reasons.

  They secured their horses in the cross ties that spanned the native stone flooring. Hunter retrieved two dandy brushes from a room earmarked for tack. She stroked the long bristles down the chestnut’s arched neck.

  “She said her dad mentioned Mother’s cabriole.”

  He shrugged. “Then either he admired her taste in furniture or saw her dance.”

  She gave him a smirk. “Do you think …” She paused, trying to clear her head. “Do you think he had a crush on her?”

  Silence stretched comfortably between them. “Your mother …” he said finally. “Do you resemble her?”

  She turned toward him, but he remained as he was, stroking the brush down the length of Fandango’s cocked hip.

  “I’m told I inherited her physical features.”

  He caught her with his gaze, real and powerful and warm. “Then my guess is yes, he was drawn to her.” His matter-of-fact tone only made the compliment more meaningful.

  “I didn’t …” She cleared her throat and found she wasn’t sure where to look. “Thank you. I wasn’t fishing … I hope.”

  “Do you know how?”

  “What?”

  “There are trout in the river. Rainbow and cutthroat. We could make some poles.”

  “Interesting segue,” she said, “but to answer your question, no.” She set her brush aside. “Wellesleys don’t fish.”

  “Too wild a pastime?” he asked and watched as she meticulously picked a knot from the gelding’s tail.

  She laughed at herself. “Maybe you were right.”

  He turned his attention from her. “Blue moons are known to occur.”

  “Maybe I have been trying to live up to Mother’s reputation.” She sighed. “But she was so perfect. Absolutely above reproach. Or …” She scowled. “That’s how it always seemed. I used to assume that her death had blurred Father’s memory somewhat. Even Winona Begay Wellesley couldn’t be the epitome of womanhood that he painted her to be. But I think …” She exhaled softly. “Maybe I tried to match her perfection anyway.” She paused in her grooming. “He said I was just like her.”

  His eyes met hers. “It is time that he realized your value.”

  She felt flushed by the compliment, embarrassed by the truth. After endless debate, she was certain Leonard Wellesley had not said those words as praise. Instead, he had used them as if they were a weapon, a barbed taunt that drew blood.

  “Yes, it’s …” She paused. “Father can be rather distant at times
.”

  “Distant?”

  “Some might call him cold.” She glanced away, unable to hold his eyes. “Like me.”

  “You think you are cold?”

  “You don’t?” She snapped her gaze back to him, stunned by the surprise in his tone, embarrassed by the hope in hers.

  Their eyes met. “I am no expert on the matter,” he said. “But I think my wounds suggest otherwise.”

  “Wounds?”

  “There are still furrows down my back,” he said.

  “Oh! I—” Memories of that singular kiss rushed over her, washing a tidal wave of heat into her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, and swinging onto Windwalker’s back, cantered out of the barn.

  “I am not,” Hunter said and grinned as he followed her.

  Chapter 28

  “That’s it,” Vura said and straightened to her full five-foot-three stature. “The one we’ve been looking for.”

  Hunter slid the final stall door closed and nodded. Outside, Sydney was fencing. Say what you would about royalty … some duchesses knew how to plant posts. “Just the latches left.”

  “And the grain bin and the wash stall and the flooring,” Vura said and laughed. Lily’s back was curved against the wall. They had found her in with Courage on a total of five occasions. Hunter had finally been forced to fit the stall with a combination lock.

  “You did a good job on the windows in the loft,” he said. The added light made the barn seem roomy and welcoming.

  “Dad was a big help.”

  He nodded his agreement. Quinton Murrell did exceptional work. “So he knew Sydney’s parents?”

  “What?” She froze, right hand clamped hard around the bubble level she had lifted to check their work.

  Hunter watched her nervous reactions. Vura was always energetic. But nervous? No. “He built her dance studio?”

  “Yeah. I guess. It wasn’t like I was there.”

  “So you never discussed it? Didn’t talk about her?”

  “Her?”

  “Sydney’s mother.”

  “Why would we?” she asked and turned toward her daughter. “Let’s get going, Lil.”

  The girl lifted her gamine face. Dirt was smudged across her nose. Only one pigtail had survived the day. “But I has to be here when Hunk turns Courage out.”