Stone Dreaming Woman (7 page)

A lot of girls have affected you that way, and you know what came of all of it,
he told himself.
The moment they find out you’re a half-breed, you are instantly lower than the dirt beneath their feet.
Then, as they tended to do in moments like this, his thoughts went back to his university days, the six torturous years he spent in Ottawa. He had gone to college not knowing what to expect, but talent and intelligence could take him only so far. His popularity with his professors did not extend to popularity with his peers. Even though he had tried to keep his background a secret, his Irish name, his backwoods manners and provincial French, and his Indian-black hair eventually gave him away. After that he heard it all: Métis, dirty Indian, half-breed, Mick, filthy shanty bastard…and the list went on. All that kept him at Royal Dominion had been his promise to Angus MacBride to complete the education Angus financed. That is, until he discovered hockey. His athletic skill was his ticket into acceptable society and a fraternity, and after that life at Royal Dominion at least became marginally bearable.

Then there was Claudine. Beautiful Claudine, dark and mysterious. At the time they met, his naiveté kept him from realizing her real nature. By the time he had figured out that he gave up almost ten years to her while she lived the life of a
demi-mondaine
and a kept woman for every one of those years, he had been so in love—or so in rut, he corrected himself—that he could barely see straight. She had originally contracted with him to paint her portrait. At first she had desired a simple study, sitting, clothed in sumptuous forest green velvet, but gradually she changed her mind until the portrait became a study of her posed as an odalisque, reclining nude on a pillowed chaise longue. From there to her bed turned out to be a very short distance. When she found his style of lovemaking, a product of his Iroquois upbringing, to be superb, unique, and fulfilling even to one of her jaded tastes, she took it upon herself to make a gentleman of her little diamond in the rough.

Their affair dragged on for a full three years. Pleased with one portrait after another, she kept him well. He had money and clothes, and under her tutelage he acquired a polish of sophisticated manners. Then, abruptly, she told him it was over, for she had found a lover who wanted to marry her and keep her in the style to which she had aspired all her life. When he protested and declared his undying love, she laughed at his youth, mocked his poverty, and sent him away, bruised, heart-sore, and very much the wiser for the experience.

I wasn’t even good enough to be dirt under the feet of an old whore,
he said to himself.
What on God’s green earth am I doing raising my eyes to a genuine lady like Jenny Weston? I do know what I’m doing. I’m riding for another fall, only the latest of many. And Claudine, wherever you are, I know you’re laughing at me. Still.

So why do you keep trying to deny what you are, Shane Patrick Adair? Own up to the fact that your grandfather was an ignorant squaw-man, your father was an illiterate, impoverished shanty Irish immigrant who followed the railroad, and you’re related to half of North Village in one way or another and probably a bastard to boot. Not only are you not good enough for a real lady like Jenny, you could also damage her reputation past mending. Everything about her says stay away, keep your distance. Get a horse for her because Richard asked you to, bring it to him at the ranch, and then get the hell away from Jenny Weston and stay there.

His mental soliloquy proved oddly cathartic and left him with at least some sort of peace, as though he had faced the worst in himself and managed to live through it. He let the soothing rhythm of Midnight’s powerful gait lull him, and by the time he could see the clearing around North Village, he was in harmony with himself again.

To his relief, everything was quiet in the settlement. When he had satisfied himself that all was well, he mounted, drew up the right rein, and touched his heel against the gelding’s flank.

“All right, big man. At least that’s what I heard her call you. We have an important errand,” he said aloud. Midnight twitched a polite ear backward and stepped out.

Thomas Wise Hand’s horse ranch lay somewhat east of North Village, down a well-defined trail that Shane had traveled often. He always stopped there when he rode territorial rounds.
Thomas is a genius where horses are concerned, as though he can read their minds,
Shane thought.

He emerged from the woods and skirted the mossy split rail fence that bounded Thomas’s snow-pocked pastureland. He turned down a lane toward the rude log house where Thomas, his wife, and their two youngest children lived. His thirteen-year-old daughter, Esther, poked her head shyly out the door, giving Shane a tentative smile.

“I would speak with my uncle,” he said. She gestured to the rough barn as she came to open the gate for him. He guided Midnight through, then glanced up and saw Thomas on a big red gelding, flying around the edge of the pasture fence. He bolted up to Shane and brought the gelding to a plowing stop despite the fact he was riding bareback.

“Ho, Grey Eyes,” he said by way of greeting.

“Uncle,” Shane replied respectfully.

“I would ride against you, but this one is no match.” Tactfully he gestured to his gelding. Shane knew Thomas was letting him off because of his shoulder.

“You told me Midnight was fast, when you chose him for me.” The older man grinned at the oblique compliment, his eyes almost disappearing in the weathered folds of his skin.

“He is the issue of the Grandfather of Horses, after all. He has carried you well. But what happened?” He gestured to the marks on Midnight’s forelegs.

“He was frightened by a bear and stepped into barbed wire. It’s not bad.”

“No. He is a brave horse. A horse for a warrior, Grey Eyes.” Obliquely he referred to the fact that Shane had not yet requested induction into the Warrior Society even though he was eligible.

“You chose well. And one I know needs a horse. Would you choose again?” He’d waited until there was a polite way to work his business into the conversation. It was the Iroquois way. Coming directly to the point would have been rude.

“Maybe I will choose. If I have the right horse.”

“A woman. A woman very wise and very skilled with horses.”

“A Stone Dreamer,” Thomas said. “A healing shaman.” It was on the tip of Shane’s tongue to tell Thomas he was wrong, but he had known the old man all his life. Thomas lived half in and half out of the spirit world, and there were times when he simply knew things that were beyond everyone else’s ken. Yet again, Shane himself had observed an air of self-assurance and competence about Jenny that clashed with her society background. He remembered her cleaning Midnight’s cuts and entertained the possibility his great-uncle might be right.

“A Stone Dreamer,” he agreed. Thomas nodded. The men rode slowly in silence for some time.

“Did she help you?”

“She helped Midnight.”

“Mmmm.” Thomas touched his chin thoughtfully. “She will need a horse of power, a horse as wise as she is. One that will take her anywhere, in winter as well as in summer.”

“Yes.”

“You wait here,” he commanded. Shane halted Midnight. The gelding dipped his head and rubbed his nose on his knee, shook his head until his bridle rattled, then sighed, rested a hind hoof, and stood patiently, eyes half closed. Thomas disappeared over the crest of a rolling hill while Shane looked around, taking in the beauty of the wild back country. This was his world. He loved the area, the secretive woods and the clear river he followed on his rounds. The smooth, orderly wheeling of the sky and the turning of the seasons resonated peace inside his soul. He was just considering all the Elk Gap area meant to him when Thomas came back over the hill. He still rode the red gelding, but this time he led a gold mare by a rope war bridle. She was almost as tall as Midnight, but she had a very Arab look about her. Shane had heard some people refer to these Arab-looking mustangs as Mountain Lilies. Her color was deep burnished gold, her face marked by a straight blaze, and she had a delicately tapered muzzle. A generous blanket of white spots covering her rump trailed over her hips to drip down her hocks, and she had four white socks. Her short mane and tail made streaks of white cloud against the gold of her coat. She had the classic Appaloosa striped hooves and white sclerae that gave her eyes a bright alertness.

“Your Medicine Horse!” Shane exclaimed aloud as Thomas pulled both animals to a stop.

“You know this one. She is very wise, very fearless. In the old days she would have been a warrior’s first mount.”

“Has she a name?”

“New life, new name. Let the Stone Dreamer call her as she will. She will learn. Would you ride her?”

“Of course I trust you, Uncle, but yes. I will ride her.” Shane dismounted and took a bridle from his saddlebags. He had taken it from Richard’s barn. It matched the light saddle the former owner of the ranch had left there. He wanted to make sure Thomas had trained the mare to rein; when he acquired Midnight, he had been trained only to the war bridle. Thomas took Midnight’s reins while Shane dropped the loop off the mare’s muzzle. He warmed the light snaffle bit in his palms for a moment, then pressed it gently against her lips. She took it politely, licking at it and settling it behind her front teeth. It took a bit of adjustment before he could drop the headstall over her ears and buckle the throatlatch. The last animal the bridle had been fitted to had evidently been smaller. He swung up, waited for a moment to ascertain that she would stand to be mounted, and touched her flanks. The mare moved out with liquid smoothness. He ran her through all her gaits, making her change leads at the canter, turning her repeatedly, and pulling her up short. She performed flawlessly, and to his surprise, she was even newly shod. He returned to Thomas.

“You have done well with this one. How much?” Up to this point, their conversation had been in Iroquois.

“Ten dollars,” he replied in English. Shane was stunned. That was fully twice as much as he ever demanded for a horse.

“Done. I will bring it to you. I normally don’t carry that much cash.”

“You will return, Walker Between Water and Sky. You are a man of honor.” He dropped back into Iroquois. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Uncle.” It did not get past Shane that Thomas had addressed him by his ceremonial name, rather than his childhood name, Grey Eyes. He gave Thomas back his rope, took the mare’s bridle, mounted Midnight, and started back down the trail toward North Village.

Chapter Five

The clicking of Mavis’s Singer Sphinx filled the farmhouse. It had taken only an hour to rough out the riding skirt, although Mavis had yet to decide what to do with her striped broadcloth. She considered a skirt and a shirtwaist but had changed her mind five or six times.

“Jenny, would you mind stirring the chicken?” she asked, looking up from the sewing machine. “It should be almost ready to bone by now.”

“If it is, I’m sure I can handle it. How difficult can it be, after all?”
And even if I can’t cook I know bones,
she added to herself. She went into the kitchen, tied a flour sack towel around herself by way of an apron, and picked up the big slotted spoon Mavis had left on the far edge of the stove. She fished up a drumstick and the meat fell off in two pieces. It took a little delicate fiddling to lift out the splinter bone. Jenny wondered if veterinarians called it a fibula or if it was something else. Humming, she took out a bowl and started dipping the chicken out and picking off the meat with a fork. It was hot; she had to go very carefully.

“How’s the chicken coming?” Mavis called from her bedroom behind the living room.

“It’s done, but it’s so hot yet that boning is slow work.”

“I’ll help you.” The sewing machine stopped, and Mavis came into the assembly room. “Well, well, I think you’re about to have a visitor.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Come to the window and look.” Jenny came to stand next to Mavis, stretched up and peered out the window above the sink, to see Shane riding down the lane, posting to an easy trot. He led a golden vision of a mare that moved with such ethereal grace her hooves scarcely seemed to touched the ground.

“What on earth…”

“Wash up. I’ll take over the chicken. I know Shane isn’t coming to see me.” Jenny did as she was told and was drying her hands on her towel apron as he tethered both horses to the rail and stepped up onto the porch. He started to knock, but she beat him to it and opened the door.

“Come in, Sergeant.”

“Miss Weston,” he acknowledged, politely removing his hat. “Yesterday Richard asked me to go to our local horse breaker, Thomas Wise Hand, and get a saddle horse for you. There’s one outside for your approval, if you’d like to try her.” Instead of going all the way up to her room for a wrap, she took Richard’s black-and-red chopper jacket from its peg and thrust her arms into the sleeves. Shane opened the door for her, but she had eyes only for the palomino Appaloosa mare tethered next to Midnight. She walked around the horse, talking to her and touching her shoulder. The animal turned her head and regarded Jenny, blinking thoughtfully.

“Oh, she’s beautiful! She… Look at that Arab head, and that round rump and deep chest. She’d have stamina to keep going all day. She’s…she’s incredible. I haven’t words! What’s her name?”

“Thomas wouldn’t tell me. He said ‘new life, new name.’ You have to name her. I’ve heard these Arab-looking mustangs referred to as Mountain Lilies, but she’s technically only part mustang. She and Midnight both have the same sire—a Kentucky thoroughbred.” Jenny was overwhelmed and, for the moment, speechless.

“I could call her
Ma Petite Fleur de Lis
des Montaignes
. My Little Mountain Lily. Do you know your name?” At the sound of the words, the mare looked around and her fathomless gaze met Jenny’s.