returned them to their roughcut shelves. After wiping down the splintery table and countertop as well as she could, she went out to see where Fenn had gone—and spied him leading the horse to the barn. “That’s a pretty horse,” she said, hurrying to catch up. “What’s his name?”
“Trapper.”
She stood in the doorway while Fenn put oats in the feedbox and pitched fresh hay into the stall. When he picked up the water pail and headed for the spring, she tagged along. “Would you care if I rode him sometimes?” she asked hopefully.
“You know how to ride?” he countered.
“I took riding for one of my afternoon recreation classes. I like to ride.”
“He’s not a pony in a park,” was the only answer he’d give her. He filled the bucket under the pipe and lugged it back to the watering trough, the sinews in his arm flexing strong.
Back in the house Sevana stood hesitantly in the kitchen, unsure what was called for next. But Fenn showed no similar indecision as he poured the leftover rinse water into a hand basin, and bent over it to wash his face. Drying in the dishtowel, he emerged with a countenance several shades fairer. “I’m going to bed,” he announced, crossing to lock the front door. “I have to get up at the crack of dawn. Don’t know what you’re going to do around here all summer,” he added, on his way to the stairs.
“I brought my paints.” But she, too, wondered if even with painting, she could fill up so many empty hours on that remote homestead by herself.
One foot on the bottom step, Fenn paused. “I’m not going to entertain you, you know,” he said, meeting her eyes levelly. “Bryce may have intended for me to keep an eye on you, but I don’t plan to do any such thing. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on your own.”
She carefully brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean ,” he said, with sarcastic emphasis, “I’m not going to treat you as if you were a child. You’re only one year younger than I was when I came out here. I expect you to do as you please, and I will do the same.” He mounted the stairs, his heavy lug soles thudding against each wooden step loudly in the silence.
Sevana looked after him with a feeling of increasing confusion. She found it hard to admit that her own brother cared nothing for her—maybe even resented her; but he hadn’t yet given her any reason to believe otherwise. Then her eyes narrowed as she stood staring up the empty stairway. If she did nothing else that summer, she promised herself, she was going to find a way past those hard eyes to his heart.
With that thought to bolster her, she turned to the matter of washing up—intending to imitate everything Fenn had done, since that way of life was so new to her. But she didn’t want to use the washwater he’d left on the counter. She could find another pan and start over with her own. Maybe, though, it would be easier just to wash up at the spring. It was still light outside, the sun tarrying on the higher ridgetops, even though in the house it was already almost as dark as night.
She was on her way uphill when the bathhouse reminded her of its presence. For the first time since her arrival, she brightened. Perhaps she could take a real bath before bed.
Leaving the cedar-bark door open for light, she went in to investigate the minuscule building—finding on its stone floor a squat woodstove, several metal pails, and even a rock pit for a sauna, but nothing to serve as a bathtub. There was, however, a black rubber hose strung up the wall; and when she turned the nozzle tentatively, it produced a convincing spray of warm water. There was even a large towel hung there, and a bar of soap in a saucer.
Eager to be rid of the dust of the journey and wanting to hurry before she lost any more necessary light, she quickly disrobed on the cobblestones and stepped under the makeshift shower. It was cool on her skin but not unbearable. But just