The next days’ afternoon sun was high, its heat pressing down like a heavy hand. The camp had grown still in the heat—only the low murmur of voices and the occasional snort of a horse broke the quiet.
Violet sat in the shade of the tepee, working her fingers over the smooth white beads in her bracelet. Grey Horse had left earlier with several other warriors, disappearing over the ridge in a low cloud of dust. She hadn’t asked where he was going and he hadn’t offered to tell her. In the last two days he had barely spoken to her at all. What puzzled her most was that he almost seemed afraid to talk to her, as if there was something about her that seriously troubled him.
A shadow fell across her.
She looked up to find two younger warriors standing just beyond the tepee’s entrance. They were broad-shouldered, their faces marked with bold strokes of paint, the fringe on their leggings swinging as they moved closer. One said something in Kiowa to the other, his eyes fixed on her wrist, and then he stepped forward, his hand outstretched toward the bracelet.
Violet instinctively pulled her arm back. “No,” she said firmly, though her voice shook.
They spoke again, sharper now, and the other one reached for her wrist. She twisted away, the pounding of her heart so loudshe could barely hear herself think. Her gaze darted toward the ridge, willing Grey Horse to appear.
The taller of the two caught her by the upper arm, not roughly, but with a firmness that told her he meant to take what he wanted. She tried to pull free, stumbling back against the tepee. “Let me go!” she cried, the words tumbling out before she could think.
A new voice cut through the air—low, commanding, and in English.
“Release her.”
The grip on her arm loosened instantly. Grey Horse strode into view, his long hair loose around his shoulders, his face shadowed but set like stone. The other warriors stepped back, muttering, their eyes flicking between him and the bracelet on her wrist.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. With a few clipped words in Kiowa, he dismissed them. They left quickly, their movements edged with the awkward stiffness of men who had overstepped.
When they were gone, Grey Horse turned to her. His eyes moved from her face to her wrist, then back again. “Safe,” he said quietly, as if reminding her.
She swallowed hard, her fingers curling protectively over the leather cord. “They tried…”
“They will not try again,” he interrupted, his tone final. “They will not dare to challenge me, Violet.” He had learned her name and knew the word’s meaning. He could picture the lovely but delicate purple flower by that same name, so like this woman herself.
There was nothing boastful in his words, only certainty. And it was then, more than in any quiet gesture or careful word, thatshe understood. This man was not simply respected here: He was feared.
?
Grey Horse had not meant to return so soon.
The ridge beyond the camp gave him a wide view of the plains, rolling grassland stretching to the horizon, the heat shimmering over it in restless waves. He had ridden there with three other warriors to scout a trail they believed a group of soldiers had taken two nights before. The prints were fresh enough to read, cutting a path toward the river.
The soldiers had not yet reached their destination but their course would bring them close to the Kiowa camp, too close, if they kept on. He’d warned the others that the soldiers could bring danger.
They had just turned to follow the trail when he saw the movement below—the two young men lingering near his tepee. Even at a distance, he knew them. Brave in battle, reckless at home. The kind who believed that what came back from a raid was for the taking.
His jaw had tightened. He’d seen them act without thought before, and the idea of their hands on Violet lit a hot spark low in his chest.
He left the others without a word, sliding into the slope at a hard pace, his pony taking the descent with sure hooves. Dust lifted in his path, and the wind brought him snatches of voices—hers among them.
By the time he’d reached the tepee, his anger had become a steady, cold flame. He saw the taller one’s hand on her arm, the way her shoulders stiffened. Over the last two days, she’d started to grow less frightened, but now her eyes … her eyes were wide with fresh terror.
“Release her!” he’d said, his voice flat but carrying the weight of command.
They’d obeyed. They always would. Not because they liked him—few did—but because they knew what he was capable of. He had led raids into settlements and returned with every brave he rode out with. He had stood in the path of charging horsemen and turned them aside. And when he gave his word, it was kept.
After he’d dealt with them and was back on the ridge again, the wind had shifted, carrying with it the faintest trace of wood smoke. But not from the camp—this was older, thinner, the ghost of a fire burned down to embers. Someone other than the soldiers was also moving on these plains.
He thought of Violet in the tepee, the bracelet on her wrist marking her under his protection. He had made that promise aloud. Now he would have to be ready to keep it.
Danger was moving closer. And when it came, he would be ready to ride.
Chapter Eleven: Shadows on the River
The evening air carried a chill that seemed out of place after the day’s punishing heat. Violet drew the deerskin tighter around her shoulders and leaned against the tepee’s wooden pole. The campfires were burning lower now, throwing soft halos of orange across the ground and leaving the edges of the village in shadow.
