Ghost Dance

Chapter One - Ghost Dance

DIMA

"The lake would freeze solid in the winter. Lake Baikal," I said to Harper, gently rocking her in the chair next to her crib.

In between her whimpers, she made a soft cooing sound, as if to let me know that she'd understood. Not possible, of course, but the thought comforted me.

I always told the baby my stories in Russian, because there was no reason to bore Hunter or Tallie—her parents—with tales of growing up in Siberia. Besides, Harper couldn't understand anything anyone said, whether they spoke in Russian, English, or Swahili.

I'd quickly learned it didn't matter what I said. It only mattered that I spoke.

She had colic, and for some reason, tugging out the hairs of my beard and hearing the sound of my voice were the only things that soothed her these days. Tallie swore the deep rumble of my speaking voice did the trick. The vibrations or something. It could be. I didn't know one way or another, but it meant I got lots of late-night calls from Hunter, begging me to come and rock the baby so everyone could get some sleep.

I didn't mind it. Usually, I either lay awake in my own bed, like I had been tonight, or else I was looking for an excuse to leave the bed of whichever woman I'd gone home with that night. Rocking Harper was much better than either of those activities.

I couldn't explain it, but holding her and talking to her soothed me, too. Not that Hunter or any of our other teammates needed to know. They'd only give me shit. But here, with this little girl, I could tell her everything and not worry what she might think.

"Once the temperatures dropped, the lake became a perfect sheet of ice, crystal clear. I could see all the way to the center of the Earth when I looked down through that ice, and that was where my father taught me to skate. He bundled me up in as many coats as he could fit one over another. He made me wear eight pairs of socks. Not just because of the cold but also because my skates were so big my feet swam in them. Then we would go to the lake. He made me skate the distance of two hockey rinks, back and forth, back and forth, until I thought my feet would fall off and I couldn't feel my nose any longer. It was very cold there, in Siberia. Much colder than it ever gets here, kukolka. Colder than you'll ever experience, most likely."

We were in Tulsa, Oklahoma—about as far away from Siberia as we could get. I played hockey for the Tulsa Thunderbirds, the newest team in the National Hockey League, thanks to a recent expansion draft. Hockey didn't help me forget, though. It only brought the memories back, as vivid and painful as ever. With Harper, I could forget. Or I could unburden myself. Or I could talk until I was blue in the face, even though it didn't ease the pain.

When I'd first arrived and started talking tonight, she'd been screaming her head off, with enormous tears drenching her chubby red cheeks. Now her cries were down to nothing more than a whimper here and there. She tightened her fist in my facial hair and tried to pull herself up higher in my arms. I helped her along, both to save myself some pain and to give her what she wanted. I always gave her what she wanted. Not even four months old yet, and she already had me wrapped around her tiny finger. I supposed it was safe to let the baby get so close, not that I had any intention of letting anyone else. Not ever.

She settled again once I'd shifted her position, relaxing her grip but not releasing the hairs.

"You just like to hold on to my beard, don't you?" I said softly. "We should tell your papa to grow a beard for you. Teach him to speak Russian. After that, maybe I can sleep in my own house every night." Not that it would help me sleep.

"What is it you say to her?" Hunter asked quietly from the hallway beside Harper's nursery.

I hadn't heard him come up. I must have been too busy focusing on his little girl. I glanced over to see him leaning against the doorframe and watching us—me in the rocker, Harper with her grip on me, even with her head sagging into my chest.