Fire Prayer by Deborah Turrell Atkinson Page B

heard you hold your own on a horse.”
    â€œThese days, I’m lucky to stay on,” Storm said.
    â€œNot the rumor going around. We should have a paniolo competition. A little round-up and barrel racing.”
    From the corner of her eye, Storm saw the skin tighten around Hamlin’s eyes. A round-up would be way out of his comfort zone.
    â€œMaybe just a picnic ride,” she said.
    Storm took Hamlin’s hand on the walk back to their room, but he took it loosely and walked faster. “I’ve got about five minutes to shower and get ready for dinner,” he said.
    â€œThey’ll only get a cocktail or two ahead of us.”
    â€œRight.” Hamlin opened the door to their room and immediately peeled off his dusty, straw-speckled jeans. He threw them onto a growing pile of dirty clothes on the closet floor and headed for the bathroom.
    â€œYou can use those to ride in tomorrow,” Storm told him.
    He turned on the shower and stepped in. “I’m from Detroit, remember? I play basketball and hockey. The horse stuff I’ll leave to you and your pals.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” Storm backed off the riding idea, and told him about her trip to the crack seed store while she washed up at the sink. She related what she’d found out about Hamlin’s case, which included Tanner’s friendship with Skelly Richards and Delia’s reaction to Brock Liu. She decided to save her description of Jenny Williams for later, when Hamlin seemed in a better mood.
    â€œDidn’t you tell me everyone knows everyone else on this island? Is this surprising?” He got out of the shower, wrapped in a towel.
    â€œHamlin, are you mad at me or something?”
    â€œA little. I mean, you’re the one who complains when I don’t stay by your side at business functions, and we’re both in the same profession. This is your element, not mine, and you ditched me this afternoon.” He jerked up the zipper on a pair of pressed chinos.
    â€œThose business functions are your clients’ cocktail parties, political rallies, stuff like that.” Storm heard the petulance in her voice. “I guess I thought you’d want to talk to Makani alone. Did you get the chance?”
    â€œAre you kidding? He was up to his shoulder in a horse’s ass. I thought he was going to crawl in.”
    â€œThe foal was breech?”
    â€œI didn’t ask. I was trying not to barf on his boot heels.”
    â€œWow. Wish I’d been there.”
    â€œHow’d I know you’d say that?” Hamlin turned toward the door. “Are you ready for dinner? I need a drink to get my appetite back.”
    Hamlin had a few more than usual, but Storm didn’t say anything. Instead, she enjoyed her wine and tried to converse with all their dinner companions. It was a fun group. When they got back to their room, Storm took a shower. By the time she crawled into bed, Hamlin was already asleep.
    Storm tossed and turned during the night and was relieved when she saw the silver halo of morning bleed around the closed drapes. For a split second, she contemplated the mournful bird cry she’d heard before she’d opened her eyes, but she didn’t think about it long. Over dinner the night before, she and Aunt Maile had decided if Storm woke up in time, she’d join Maile for some plant-gathering. Storm peeked at her watch. It was 6:30; she had fifteen minutes. Maile would forgive her if she didn’t show up, but Storm wanted the time with her aunt.
    Hamlin was still snoring with deep, rhythmic breaths. If she was lucky, he’d just be rolling out of bed about the time she got back. Storm propped a note in front of the bathroom mirror. “Meet me for breakfast at eight. Free coffee in the foyer, next to the concierge. Love, me.”
    That’s where she found both Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone, mugs in hand. “Are you coming with us?” she asked Uncle