Hearth Song

by Lois Greiman

  “And his going-to-church shirts … they’re white.”

  Vura glanced out the open door and into the hall. Where the devil was Dane? Had she been so deeply asleep she hadn’t even heard him come to bed? But if he had joined her, why was he already up? Dane Lambert was not known to be an early riser. Then again, he had been gone a long time. And people could change. Maybe he was already out looking for a job. She shifted her gaze to the window. The sun had barely made an appearance, but construction work often began at dawn.

  “And Yogi … he’s practically white,” Lily said, referring to her grandfather’s dog. As close as they could guess, Yogi was a cross between a golden retriever and a Newfoundland. Or maybe a bear. Luckily, he favored the temperament of the retriever more than the grizzly. “His snowmobile’s white.”

  “You’re right, honey,” Vura said, and realized, not to her surprise, that the potentially endless list of all things white was making her eye twitch.

  “ ’Course it’s got blue stripes, but it’s mostly white. And you know what? His hair’s kinda—”

  “Hey, Lily Belle …” Vura interrupted gently, but her daughter ignored her with the smooth disregard of all self-respecting five-year-olds.

  She screwed up her tiny face. “What do you call a white that’s not real white?”

  “I’m not sure, but I bet the chickens would like to get out of their coop. Your—”

  “Pops’s chickens!” she exclaimed and stopped bouncing as if just discovering the answer to the world’s most fascinating mysteries. “They’re all white.”

  Vura refrained from hiding under the covers. “That’s true. But … wait!” She cocked her head as if hearing some unknown noise from the driveway. “What’s that sound?”

  “I didn’t hear nothing.” Lily dropped distractedly to her knees. “Your bedsheets are white,” she said, and tugged at them. Vura tugged back.

  “Maybe it’s your grandfather,” she suggested.

  Lily paused for a second, then widened her eyes. “Hey … Pops’s eggs,” she said, and began bouncing on her knees, almost ripping the blankets from Vura’s white-knuckled grip. “How come his eggs are white and ours aren’t?”

  The flannel shirt Vura had worn on the previous day was lying over the arm of the nearby rocking chair. She could almost reach it from the bed.

  “Is it cuz his chickens are white?” Lily asked and, abandoning the blankets, bounced in a circle.

  “Maybe.”

  “I like the white eggs. But I like ours better. And the speckled ones …” She hopped closer. “They’re my favorites. Did you know that horses aren’t born white? Hardly never. That’s what Tonka says. They’re dark when they’re little. Even the Lipizzaner. Their hair is white, but their skin is dark so they’re called gray.” She paused for a second. “Do you think we could get purple eggs if we had purple chickens?”

  “I don’t know,” Vura said, and grasped hopelessly at a much-used straw. “Maybe you could look that up in your book.”

  “What book?”

  “Any one that’s downstairs.”

  Lily considered that a second, then shook her head and bounced again. “Naw. I’d rather talk to you about white stuff.”

  God help her. “I’d like to talk to you, too, Lily Belle, but I promised your Pops that I’d—”

  “What was that?” The girl froze, eyes wide. And now the faint squeak of a metal door eased into the room.

  “I told you I thought someone was here,” Vura said, though that wasn’t quite true. But Lily was already scrambling off the bed, rushing toward the window.

  Her gasp was something between a squeal and a hiss. “He’s here,” she rasped, and then she was gone, sprinting out the door and pattering down the uneven steps.

  Vura huffed a relieved sigh. It was tempting to lie in bed a little longer, to be lazy just this once. But Lily was not the kind of child who would ever foster sloth. She had inherited her energy from Quinton Murrell. Which made Vura wonder what her father was doing here at this time in the morning. And where was Dane? Had she already turned him away with her god-awful snoring?

  Unsettled now, she shoved the blankets back and swung her bare feet to the floor. But the nasty thoughts remained with her. Maybe it wasn’t her snoring he had found revolting. Maybe it was the five pounds she had gained since Lily’s conception. Rising, she turned to gaze at herself in the mirror above the old-fashioned dresser that had come with the house. Her hair was a mess, scrambled like dark cotton candy around her face, and her legs were never going to be mistaken for a supermodel’s, but …

  Something snagged her attention. She turned toward the window just in time to see Lily’s bare feet fly through the air.

  She froze, gaze riveted on the scene below. The scene in which Tonkiaishawien Redhawk was swinging her tiny, recently injured daughter onto a sixteen-hand horse.

  “Do not forget to sit upright,” Tonk said, and nodded as the tiny girl straightened like a soldier on Arrow’s solid back.

  “Are you really going to keep them with us?” Lily’s tone was awed, her eyes round with new-morning wonder as she wrapped a restless hand in the gelding’s parti-colored mane. If the kid was any cuter, it would defy every single law of nature.

  “Is that acceptable to you, Chitto Sihu?” he asked.

  She nodded emphatically.

  “Then they shall remain here,” he said. “If you will help me keep them safe.”

  “Me?” The single word was breathy with excitement.

  “Ai,” he said, “but you will have to learn to ride like a warrior.”

  “Okay,” she said, and pulled her fingers carefully from the pinto’s mane.

  It was not a simple task to keep from smiling, but he had no wish to insult her solemn reverence. Even in the dawn’s cautious light, he could see the purple sutures that marched like soldiers, battered but valiant, across her torn ear. “Do not be ashamed to hold on if you have a need,” he said. “But remaining aboard requires more balance than strength.”

  “Balance?” Her feet were bare, her toes cute as kittens. She’d shoved a stuffed animal securely under one arm. It might have been a rat.

  He nodded. “It is said that long ago the Great Spirit split us down the middle so we could be as one with the horse, but no one is strong enough to hold himself astride by strength alone.”

  She made a face, thinking it through. “Even Hunk?”

  Holy crimony, she called his brother Hunk? No wonder the great hulking bear nearly burst into tears every time the kid’s name was mentioned. Or … Tonk watched her wide eyes, her attentive expression. Maybe it was because she was the embodiment of all things Native, intelligence, curiosity, spirit.

  “Even Hunk,” he agreed and refrained, with some difficulty, from denigrating the brother he had always so shamelessly admired. “But if you learn to be one with the horse, you will have no need to use your hands,” he added and lifted his free arm level with his shoulder.

  She blinked at him, held her breath for five heartbeats, then tentatively raised both her arms in tacit concert.

  He gave her an affirming nod. “Very good, small flower.”

  She grinned, gap-toothed and charming. “Am I ones with the horse yet?”

  “You are well on your way, but you may have to learn a bit more still,” he said, grateful that the gelding felt no need to do more than graze as the tiny figure sat still as a stone atop him.

  “More?”

  “A bit.”

  “Like galloping?” she asked.

  He did grin now, loving her daring. “Perhaps your mother would be happier if you walked first.”

  She nodded, seeming to see the sense in that. “Can we walk now?”

  It was a beautiful morning. Not a whisper of a breeze disturbed the stillness. The infant sun was warm on his back, and the scent of spring grasses tickled his nostrils with hope. Lavender clouds bubbled up over the long sweep of western hills, suggesting an afternoon of rain, but for now ther
e was no better time to commune with the horse.

  Nodding solemnly, he drew Arrow’s muzzle from his impromptu breakfast. “If you are sure your mother won’t mind.”

  “Mama likes horses.”

  “Does she?” He could imagine Bravura Lambert astride and unfettered on one of his steeds, but he pushed the thought aside. “Very well then,” he said and, grasping the end of the cotton lead in his left hand, shooed the pinto to the end of the line.

  Arrow ambled off, then circled lazily.

  Lily’s arms dipped at the movement, but in a second she had raised them to shoulder height again.

  Tonk nodded his approval. “Lean forward just a bit.”

  “Over the withers?”

  He raised his brows, impressed by her vocabulary. “If you lean back too far over his loins, you will topple off his hindquarters if he moves unexpectedly.”

  “I don’t want to do that,” she said, face solemn.

  “No,” he agreed, “you do not.”

  “I already got my ear bit.”

  “Mothers can be aggressive if they believe their young are threatened.”

  “Lily!” Vura gasped and sprang like a tiger from the house behind them.

  Chapter 17

  It seemed to Tonk that a dozen things happened at once. Bravura Lambert shot like a missile onto her porch, Lily gasped, and Arrow, trusty steed that he was, skittered just a little to the right.

  And suddenly the child was falling, slipping from his horse’s back like a hapless Humpty Dumpty.

  Terror ripped through him. He was leaping forward before the reality of the situation ever really touched his consciousness. Leaping forward, lifting his arms, and capturing the child against his chest like a carelessly lobbed football.

  It wasn’t a pretty catch. She was folded against him like an ungainly accordion, arms and legs scrambled, eyes wide with fear, but she never touched the ground, never broke so much as a fingernail.

  Still, Tonk felt a little shaky.

  “Are you all right?” His tone sounded breathy to his own ears.

  She blinked into his face, amber hair a veil over her wild pixie face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry,” he breathed and felt his overtaxed heart bump back to life.

  “I musta been leaning too far back,” she said. “You said not to, and then when Arrow shied …”

  “Lily!” Bravura rasped and snatching her daughter from Tonk’s arms, crushed her against her chest.

  The motion tugged her plaid work shirt nearly off her left shoulder, exposing a swath of ivory lace over creamy mocha skin. The image was strangely erotic, disturbingly disorienting. But her snarled question yanked Tonk’s attention back to her face.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He tried to think of an appropriate response. Generally he had a half a dozen smart-aleck answers ready to spout at a moment’s notice, but there was something about that faded flannel shirt juxtaposed against her Indian summer skin that brought all his ready remarks to a screeching halt.

  “I … I …”

  “She could have been …” Bravura stopped, smoothed a hand down her daughter’s tangled hair, and hugged the child more tightly to her half-exposed chest. “She could have been killed.”

  “I was just—”

  “Just what?” She snarled the word.

  His foolishly suicidal gaze tried to slip back to her chest, but he kept it resolutely on her face. “Sorry,” he said.

  “You were just sorry?”

  “Not just sorry,” he said, and felt the pressure of keeping his eyes front and center begin to take a toll on his psyche. Self-control had never been his strong suit. Holy crap, hadn’t he proven that a thousand half-remembered times? “Extremely sorry.”

  “You bet your sorry ass, you’re sorry,” she growled. “You’re the sorriest—”

  “Am I gonna have to tell Pops?” Lily asked.

  The adults snapped their attention to the child, who scowled meaningfully at her mother.

  “You know how he feels about filthy mouths,” she added.

  “Oh!” Vura’s eyes went wide, as if she had entirely forgotten her daughter’s presence. “I’m sorry, honey. I was just so … I was just so worried that I—”

  “It’s okay, Mama. I’m not hurt,” Lily said, and wriggled a little. The movement displaced her mother’s shirt a bit more.

  Tonk felt sweat break out on his hairline. “I should have …” he began but Lily squirmed again, and suddenly he had no idea what he should have done or shouldn’t have done or honestly what he was even talking about. He tightened his jaw.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Bravura demanded.

  “Are you okay, Tonka?” Lily asked.

  “Ai,” he managed, though he feared he was being overly optimistic. “I am well.”

  Her mother scowled. “Listen, Lily, why don’t you go let the chickens out and gather the eggs.”

  “Come with me.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute, honey. I just want to speak to Tonk for a second.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s grown-up talk.”

  Lily scowled. “I don’t want you scolding him.”

  Her mother’s brows rose.

  Lily skipped her gaze to Tonk’s. “He’s probably feeling bad already cuz I fell off. But it wasn’t his fault. He said I should be sure to sit in the middle.”

  “Did he?”

  Tonk would never understand how the woman could enunciate so clearly through gritted teeth, but Lily seemed neither impressed nor aware. Instead, she continued glibly on.

  “Uh-huh. Straight as a warrior, he said. But I musta leaned too far cuz I’m just a young warrior.”

  “That must be it. Now trot on over to the chickens, honey. They’ll want their breakfast.”

  Lily opened her mouth as if to argue, but Bravura raised a brow and the girl, being no fool, scooted off.

  Tonk watched her go. “She is a fine—”

  “What were you thinking?” she snarled, effectively drawing Tonk’s attention back to her.

  Dammit, the shirt was still askance, still showing an abundance of all-too-touchable skin.

  He exhaled, trying to find his equilibrium, his glib tongue, or at least his sanity. “The child wished to learn to ride.”

  “Well, that child happens to be my daughter. My daughter. Do you understand what that means? That means you have no right to throw her up on any old animal that crosses her path,” she said, and tossed a denigrating hand toward Arrow, who snorted derisively, then continued to graze.

  Tonk narrowed his eyes, temper brewing slowly. “Do you want her to fear?”

  “What?”

  “She is brave and free and wise beyond her years. But if you gasp every time she skins a knee or bobbles off balance, you will weaken her spirit.”

  “So now you’re going to tell me how to raise my daughter?”

  He gritted his teeth. “If you need help, I will try to do so.”

  “Well, I don’t need help.” She growled the words.

  He narrowed his eyes. “It must be a wonderful thing to be able to raise the child with no help whatsoever.”

  “I’ve got help. She was with others. Look how that turned out.” Her chest heaved with anger. His temper simmered in response, but he took a careful breath and held it in check.

  “That is why she must touch the horse today. So that she does not fear them.”

  “I would rather she was terrified every day of her life than to be injured again.”

  He straightened his back, appalled. “Do not say such a thing.”

  She huffed, but he continued.

  “It is your job to keep her from fear, to make her strong.”

  “Listen, buddy, I think I know what my job is, and it has nothing to do with letting her tumble off a horse like fallen—”

  “You are wrong,” he said, and found he could do nothing but hold her gaze now. “The mustang is her power animal.
”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Her spirit is connected to things of the wild. The wind, the coyote, but, I believe, it is entwined most strongly with the horse.”

  She exhaled a laugh. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He shook his head. “She is not afraid, but you can change that if you so desire.”

  She narrowed her eyes and clenched her fists. It occurred to him that a wiser man might back away. He was not a wiser man.

  “You think I want her to be afraid?” she demanded.

  “I think she has the courage of our ancestors, but fear is infectious.”

  “I’d have to be an idiot not to be afraid when I see my daughter fall.”

  “We all fear something,” he admitted. “But we must not be afraid to live.”

  Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think I’m afraid of life.”

  He exhaled, forced his hands into the back pockets of his jeans for safekeeping, and carefully shifted his attention toward the overgrown pastures. “Perhaps I should get started repairing—”

  “You think I’m afraid of life?” Her voice had risen slightly.

  He almost closed his eyes, almost shook his head in silent self-disgust. What the hell was he doing here with this woman who hated him? There were women who didn’t detest him. Maybe a few who actually found him appealing, who didn’t stew and sputter every time he came within spitting distance.

  “I’m raising a daughter on my own,” she growled, chest heaving. “Starting a business. Buying a farm …” She swept her hand sideways. The motion encompassed the house, the barn, the tilting chicken coop, but it was impossible to notice any of those. Two breasts would trump a hundred dilapidated buildings. But he focused hard on a concave roof and tried to remember how to formulate words. Articulate words if he was lucky.

  “I know a guy in Hot Springs who specializes in restoring old—”

  “And you think I’m afraid of life?” she snarled.

  There was no way out. He was just too damned good at digging holes. He resisted sighing. Resisted wincing. “Sometimes we live fast so we do not have to take time to think. I have done that, Bravura. Do not make the same mistake,” he advised and turned away.