He finally settled in beside her, an arm’s length away, butnear enough it could be said they sat in companionable silence.
He stared upward, and she lifted her gaze to the sky too. A few dim stars twinkled above. The first of many more that would come on this cloudless night. The sky in this land was so vast, it filled with stars on summer nights.
Grant lifted his hand to point. “There’s Vega. The buzzard star.”
She looked upward, taking in the murky darkness, the few sparkles lighting the black canvas. He was pointing toward the center, where one star stood by itself.
“The buzzard star? Why do you call it that?”
He shrugged. “It’s what the Greeks called it, back when they named the stars. Vega marks the beak of a buzzard carrying a harp in its mouth.”
She couldn’t help turning to stare at Grant. “A harp?” Who was this man who’d materialized beside her? Grant Allen did not speak of stars and Greek astronomists and harps. He rarely spoke at all.
His mouth curved as though he could read her thoughts, but his gaze stayed lifted to the sky. “The harp belongs to the god Orpheus. I think the Greeks called it a lyre. Orpheus could play such a pretty tune, it charmed the rocks and trees.” A bit of humor slipped into his voice. “Unfortunately, he made a bunch of women angry, and they chased him, shooting arrows. In the ruckus, he dropped his harp. A buzzard swooped in, scooped it up in its beak, and flew into the sky with it.”
He pointed to the star again. “And that’s where they stand still today. The buzzard carrying the harp, suspended in the sky.”
Silence settled again, but she couldn’t help smiling at the tale. “That’s quite a story. Do you know the secrets behind the other stars?” She pointed to another star closer to the eastern horizon. “Like that one.”
“That’s actually the planet Jupiter.”
She raised her brows. “Oh.” Then she slid a glance at him. “Does that mean you don’t know its story?”
He chuckled. “I do. But it’s a long one.”
This side of Grant, the quiet knowledge, felt almost whimsical. And definitely intimate. It made her want more. To know the stories of his past, what made him take such an interest in the stars and Greek mythology that he’d learned them both so well.
She studied him. He felt her scrutiny, she had no doubt. But she wanted him to. Clearly, she had to be direct with this man to get answers. Besides, it felt good to finally show her interest. Just like when she’d been able to stop pretending to be a man around him.
He turned and met her gaze, his expression becoming a little sheepish. “My father used to read Greek mythology to us at bedtime.”
“Us?” This was the first time he’d ever spoken of family. Or any of his life before the day she met him.
Sadness crept into the slant of his eyes, and he shifted back toward the heavens. “My brother and me. Will was probably too young to remember.”
Was. Had their father died when they were boys? She kept her voice gentle. “You’re the big brother, then.”
He cut a sideways look at her. “And you’re the baby of the family.” He said it with just enough teasing to know he’d not meant it as a jab.
So she shrugged and infused a smile into her tone. “I guess that’s why you’re grumpy and I’m a ray of sunshine.”
The comment earned a smile from him, and he refocused on the stars. Or maybe on his memories, for when he spoke again, his tone held nostalgia. “Will and I would catch fireflies in the evening, then lay out and look at the stars. I’d retell the stories our father read that included origins of the stars. For some reason, those fascinated me more than the rest.” He turned a self-deprecating smile her way. “Or maybe those were the easiest to remember because the stars helped guide the retelling. A story for each star.”
A pang pricked her chest. “I like that. It reminds me of the time my favorite horse died.”
He sent her a frown. “That pleasant, huh?”
She chuckled. “The part I’m thinking of was nice. I suppose it didn’t start out that way. I was out riding with my father at the far edge of our ranch, and Frances stepped in a gopher hole and broke her leg. Papa said there was nothing we could do for her. That the only kind act was to stop her suffering.”
She pinched her mouth and did her best to pretend pain didn’t still rise from the memory. “I couldn’t watch, so I hid behind a big rock while he ... took care of her. I wanted to bury her, but he said there was no way the two of us could do that. It was getting late, so we had to start for home or we’d be out after dark. On the ride back, I happened to ask what would happen to Frances whenshewas out after dark. Papa tended to state things bluntly, and he said wolves would probably come. I don’t think he realized what my seven-year-old mind would do with that idea.” She forced a smile, though his own expression turned sober as he listened, watching her.
She looked toward the sky again so she didn’t have to face his gaze. “My nightmares woke Mama that night, and as soon as daylight came, she took me back to where Frances lay. Thankfully, the wolves hadn’t found her. We carried rocks from a streambed that must have been a quarter mile away. Enough to cover sweet Frances. Mama and I told a memory for every rock we carried.”
She glanced his way. “That’s what made me think of it from your stars. A story for every rock.”
He nodded, and the shadow at his throat bobbed. He was still looking at her, but his eyes were hard to read in the darkness. At last he said, “It’s funny how the good memories get all tied up with the hard ones.”
Her throat burned, and she nodded. “Yeah.” The word scratched as it left her throat. That perfectly summed up that morning with Mama. “I brought back two extra stones that day, as keepsakes. One to remember Frances by. And one to remember how wonderful Mama was that day. She was always good, but what she did that day meant...” Her voice caught, interrupting the sentence. She swallowed to gather herself. “Anyway. Somehow the rocks got lost when Papa sold the farm and moved us to Richmond.”
