"Frankly, I think the Indian way is better and healthier." Her gaze became unfocused as she tried to define concepts that did not fit easily into English. "My mother had the ability to experience nature's oneness merely by looking at a flower or a cloud. To see her in that state was to understand joy."
"Was she practicing a kind of meditation?"
Maxie shrugged. "That's probably the best English word, though it hasn't quite the right nuances. I would say that she would become part of nature's flow, like a raindrop in a river."
"Can you do the same?"
"I could to some extent when I was a small child. I think most children can—that's what much of Wordsworth's poetry is about." She paused to search for words again. "Even now, sometimes when I am contemplating the natural world I feel as if ... as if the energy of the earth is about to rise in me. If it did, I would become part of nature's flow."
She sighed. "It never quite happens, though. I suppose I've read too many books and spent too much time in the white man's culture to be fully harmonious with the earth. It's frustrating to have wholeness almost within my grasp, yet not quite achieve it. Perhaps someday."
"Wholeness—it's an appealing concept." He made a face. "Probably because I am naturally fragmented."
"Not really—you just think that because you live so much in your head. Watch this, and try to imagine what it is like to be this seed. Use your spirit, not your mind."
She almost took his hand, but refrained when she remembered what had happened before. Instead she picked up the fallen maple flier, then tossed it into the air. It caught the breeze and glided away, glowing like a butterfly.
Her spirit went with it, reveling in the freedom of being skyborn, the joy of sliding down a sunbeam. Beneath the bright energy was a yearning for a fertile spot where it would be possible to send roots deep into the earth, sprout branches toward the sky, grow into a mighty tree, give birth to new life.
After the flier drifted to earth again, she became objective enough to wonder if the desire for home and roots belonged to the maple seed or to her. Both, probably, or the spirit of the seed would not have resonated so deeply within her.
She was pulled from her reverie when Robin murmured, "I think I understand a little, Kanawiosta. Trying to be one with nature is not a religious act, but a manner of being."
"There's hope for you yet, Lord Robert." Though glad he understood, she did not want to say more about something so essentially private. She gestured toward a mysterious operation taking place a hundred yards away. "What is Dafydd Jones doing?"
Robin glanced toward the broad, ruddy-faced drover. "He's setting up a portable forge. You may not have noticed, but the cattle are shod so they won't go lame on the journey. Bringing a forge saves having to find a local blacksmith."
"How does one shoe a beast with cloven hooves?"
"Two separate pieces are used for each hoof. They're called cues, I believe," he explained. "Most likely the smith has brought along preformed cues and will use them rather than forging new ones. Very little hot iron work is needed that way."
Intrigued, she rose to her feet. "I think I'll go watch."
Dafydd Jones was one of the few drovers fluent in English, so she had talked with him occasionally as they followed the herd. His Welsh accent was so strong that she could not always understand what he said, but she loved listening to his mellifluous baritone.
As she approached, he said, "Care to help me, lad?"
She looked doubtfully at the dozen bullocks grazing placidly nearby. "I don't know if I'd be much use, sir. I've never worked a forge, nor cued an ox, and surely you would be needing someone larger than me."
"All ye need do is hand me the cues and the tools as I ask for them." Mr. Jones indicated the supplies, then lifted a coil of rope and tossed it over a beast that had been separated out by one of the short-legged herd dogs. When the loop had settled nearly to the ground, the Welshman pulled it tight around the bullock's legs and jerked. The heavy animal fell to the ground with a bellow, more surprised than angry.
Maxie handed a preformed metal piece to the drover. He swiftly hammered the cue in place, bending the ends of the nails over and pounding them into the edge of the hoof, all the while controlling the thrashing bullock. Only one cue needed replacement on this particular beast, so it was released to scramble up and make its way to quieter pasture, its tasseled black tail twitching indignantly.
The rest of the waiting cattle were shoed with equal ease. Behind them in the inn, male voices raised in Welsh song, a musical accompaniment to the setting sun. Maxie continued to pass cues and nails and hammer as needed, thinking how long the daylight lasted here. Strange to think how much farther north she was than in her native land, even though the English winters were so much milder.
His supper finished, Robin ambled over to watch. Even though he was behind her, she had a prickly awareness of his presence. She would miss him when they parted, she surely would.
The thirteenth and last animal proved as unlucky as its number. It was a nervous beast, with white rims showing around the dark eyes. Only the nipping teeth of the dogs kept it from bolting. Mr. Jones tossed the rope. After the bullock fell with an angry bellow, the drover moved in to begin the shoeing.
Suddenly, too swiftly for the eye to follow, the bullock broke free of its bonds and exploded to its feet, swinging its massive head and bellowing furiously. A sharp horn gored the Welshman in the ribs, ripping through his smock and knocking him to the ground beneath the raging iron-clad hooves.
Maxie froze, horrified and unsure what to do. The other drovers were in the inn and a scream would never be heard over their ale-fueled singing. If she tried to drag Mr. Jones away, the bullock would smash her to the ground like so much ragweed.
She had forgotten Robin. While she was still gaping, he bolted past her and grabbed the beast's horns from behind its head. Using all his wiry strength, he began twisting the bullock's head sideways, trying to wrestle it to the ground.
As the strain on its neck forced the animal off balance, he snapped, "Maxie, get Jones out of the way!"
A flailing hoof knocked her hat off and grazed her shoulder as she stooped to grab the Welshman under his shoulders. She was only half his size, but fear lent power as she dragged him across the rough ground. She didn't stop until the forge was between them and the thrashing bullock.
She looked up to see a perilous tableau. Robin's hands were locked around the bullock's straight horns and his arms were rigid with effort as he kept the furious beast pinned to the ground. It bellowed continuously and heaved against the human, but was unable to use its brute strength effectively.
She was awed by the sheer power and mastery visible in Robin's straining body. Yet though he was temporarily in control, it was like having a tiger by the tail. God only knew how he would be able to escape without injury.
She was about to run to the inn for help when Robin found enough breath to give a series of piercing whistles. Several of the herd dogs raced over. Robin waited until the dogs were close, then released the bullock.
Both man and beast scrambled to their feet, the enraged bullock trying furiously to impale the puny human who had caused such distress. Robin dodged away barely in time, a horn missing his chest by inches.
Before the beast could try again, the short dogs closed in, so low to the ground that they skimmed below the bullock's kicks. Harrying the animal's fetlocks, they drove it back to the main herd. With startling abruptness, it forgot its rage and began grazing again.
Panting and disheveled, Robin crossed to where Maxie knelt by the fallen drover. "How is Mr. Jones?"
Before she could answer, the Welshman pushed himself to a sitting position, muttering what sounded like Welsh oaths. Muddy hoofprints showed on his trousers where the bullock had trampled him. Switching to English, he said acerbically, "I'll not be sorry to see that beast turned into roast beef. Mayhap in the future I'll only shoe geese."
With Robin and Maxie's help,
he managed to get to his feet. He winced, but after a gingerly exploration of his ribs, he said, "There's naught broken, thanks to you two."
Robin retrieved the rope that the drover had been using. After studying it, he held up a ragged end. "The rope was frayed and it broke when the bullock began kicking."
Mr. Jones examined the rope. "Aye. Easy to be careless, but one such mistake can kill a man. I owe you two a draft of ale and then some." His gaze fell on Maxie and his eyes widened. After a moment, he said with a smile, "You'd best put your hat back on, lass."
Maxie flushed, suddenly remembering, and recovered her hat. Her hand was trembling with the aftereffects of danger as she pulled the brim down. "It seemed safer to travel as a boy."
"I'll not tell your secret," the drover assured her. "May I buy you some ale now?"
"Perhaps for Robin." She brushed grass from her knees. "I wouldn't mind a cup of tea."
"A pint would be pleasant," Robin said, "but I think both of us would prefer that no one else learn of this. It was a minor accident, after all."
"I wouldn't have thought it minor if the beast had killed me," Mr. Jones said dryly. "Nor would my wife and children. But if you don't wish to draw attention, I'll not mention it to the others." He dug into a pocket and handed two coins to Maxie.
When she tried to give the money back, the Welshman laughed. "That's not for saving me—such things can't be paid for, and if they could, I'd put a higher value on my life than two shillings. This is what I was going to give you for helping me with the cuing."
"Then thank you. It was... educational."
As Robin and Maxie made their way to the private spot by a hedgerow where they had spread their blankets, the drover disappeared into the noisy inn. A few minutes later a barmaid emerged with a tankard of ale and a steaming mug of tea. After delivering the drinks, she bid them a pleasant night and left.
Maxie settled on her blanket and sampled her tea. It had been liberally laced with milk and sugar. "Have you wrestled bullocks often?"
"No, but I've seen others do it," Robin replied. "I also learned at a tender age that I would never be large enough to overpower others by sheer size, so I would have to learn how to fight intelligently. The trick is not to let your opponent use his strength against you. Keep him off balance. If possible, turn his own strength against him."
"In other words, you used the same principles with the bullock that you did with Simmons."
"There was more than a passing resemblance between them."
Remembering Simmons's massive neck and shoulders, Maxie had to agree. Absently she rubbed at the bruise the bullock's hoof had left on her shoulder. "When Mr. Jones mentioned shoeing geese, did he mean that literally or metaphorically?"
Robin smiled. Though it was almost full dark, there was enough moonlight to see the pale shine of his hair. "That was literal. When geese are going to be herded long distances, they're driven through tar, then through a material like sawdust or crushed oyster shells. Pads form so that their webbed feet won't wear out before reaching their destination."
"It sounds safer than shoeing oxen." She took a swallow of tea. "Robin, you are an absolute gold mine of useless information. How do you keep it all straight?"
"But it's not useless," he protested. "One can never tell when one will need to shoe a goose."
"Or summon a herd dog." She set the mug on her knee, keeping her hand around it for balance. If Robin was engaged in a criminal life, constant observation must be what had kept him alive and free. "I gather that you learned the signals on the off chance you might need them someday."
"'Someday' came rather quickly in this case." He sipped at his ale. "Do you ever drink anything with alcohol in it?"
"Never." That sounded too terse, so she added, "I decided when I was twelve that drinking was a habit I was better off without. My mother's people often have terrible trouble with alcohol. In fact, drunkenness helped inspire a new religious movement among the Iroquois."
"How did that come to pass?"
"Ganeodiyo of the Seneca—'Handsome Lake' to the English—was an old man, dying of drink, when he had a vision. In it, he was told that firewater was for the white man and that the Great Spirit forbade his people to drink it. Ganeodiyo foreswore alcohol and within a day he was healed of his illness. He began preaching his revelations—about faithfulness in marriage, love among families, children's obedience to their elders. There are Christian elements, but the essence is Indian."
She paused, hearing the remembered voices of her mother and her mother's kin. "Ganeodiyo said, 'Life is uncertain, therefore, while we live, let us love one another. Let us sympathize always with the suffering and the needy. Let us always rejoice with those who are glad.' He died only last year, at a great age."
Her throat tightened and she stopped. She had never spoken of such things to a white man, had never dreamed that she would. But then, she had never imagined a man like Robin.
Robin said quietly, "Clearly Ganeodiyo walked the same path as the world's other great spiritual teachers."
He pronounced the Seneca name exactly as she had. A faint question in his voice, he continued, "You said your cross came from your mother."
"She was a Christian, but she did not believe that invalidated the beliefs of her own people." Maxie touched the cross beneath her worn shirt. "She used to say that survival lay in blending the best of her own people's wisdom with the best of the white man's. She called it following the middle way."
"She must have been a remarkable woman."
"She was." Maxie's tone lightened. "Papa always said that he couldn't remarry because he would never find another woman who was such a good listener. He generally said that when I was winning a debate."
"At least he talked with you," Robin said dryly. "My father restricted himself to issuing edicts."
"All of which you disobeyed."
"I'm afraid so." He gave an elaborate sigh. "I have a constitutional inability to take orders."
Such rebelliousness might not have served Robin well in life, but it had certainly made him interesting. With a smile, she set down her empty mug and rolled up in her blanket. "A pity that you never met my father. You're the only man I've ever known who could have matched Max's magpie mind."
"Magpie?" Robin also lay down and wrapped himself in his blanket. "How insulting. I'll have to throw away the glittering stones I was collecting to give you."
She chuckled as she shaped her knapsack into a comfortable pillow. With other people scattered throughout the area, she and Robin had to keep a discreet distance between them. Yet she missed the comfort of sleeping in his arms.
As it was, he was both too near for safety and too far for comfort. Half asleep, she laid a tentative hand on the grass between them. She had no sense whatsoever where he was concerned.
To her great pleasure, he reached out to cover her hand with his, his warm fingers interlacing with hers. She relaxed, knowing she would sleep better because they were touching.
* * *
Robin awoke to a cool, misty dawn. He was amused and not surprised to find that he and Maxie had gravitated together during the night. She was now snuggled against him, her exotically lovely face half hidden in his shirt. He loved her dark skin, which had a sensual warmth that made most other women look pallid and only half alive.
Her trousered knee was tucked between his thighs, and his hand was resting on the ripe curve of her bottom. Even though layers of clothing separated them, he felt the unmistakable stirrings of desire.
But she aroused more than simple desire. She had a special kind of innocent sensuality, a quality of being totally comfortable with her body, that he had never seen in a European woman. She also had intelligence, humor and courage.
What she did not have was any obvious interest in acquiring a mate. Her initial distrust of him had turned to liking, even occasional approval, but he suspected that after she had investigated her father's death, she would walk away like a cat, without looking back.
>
His arm tightened around her as he realized how reluctant he would be to see her go. Maxie had revitalized him; he felt as if he had shed several decades of weariness since they had met.
For the first time, he asked himself squarely what he wanted of her. He was not interested in a flirtation, and a platonic friendship was too limiting. And, though he was entranced by her perfect little body, a casual affair would not be enough. No, what he wanted was a companion with whom he could laugh and play and make love. He had enjoyed that kind of relationship with Maggie, until, because of some fatal lack in him, she had retreated from intimacy.
It was more than unfair to compare Maggie and the young woman in his arms; it was impossible. Yet both had generous and valiant spirits, and perhaps in time he might find the sort of closeness with Maxie that he had known with Maggie. It would take time for trust and openness to grow, for he and Maxie both concealed themselves behind practiced defenses.
But day by day, each was revealing more to the other. It was promising that Maxie had spoken of matters sacred to her mother's people. As for himself, more than once he had found himself saying things he had not meant to say, things that made him vulnerable in uncomfortable ways.
He smiled ruefully. He was willing to endure the discomfort in the hope that something lasting would come of it, but he feared that she had no interest in such an outcome. She wanted a real home and a man she could respect. Robin could provide the home, but he had done damn-all that was worthy of respect.
Nonetheless, he succumbed to temptation and lightly kissed her on the end of her elegant little nose.
Her long black lashes swept up and she regarded him with an unblinking brown gaze. "Which of us moved during the night?"
"We both did, I think."
She considered that thoughtfully. "People will be waking soon. We should get up, or at least retreat a few feet."
"Quite right." Yet he didn't release her, and she made no attempt to move away. Instead, her hand slid between his arm and his rib cage, drawing them even closer together. A good thing they were both clothed, or he would be forgetting how public this location was.
Angel Rogue: Book 4 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 15