Grey Horse had not returned since riding out again. The memory of his sudden appearance earlier—his voice cutting through her fear, his presence like a steel shield between her and the young warriors—still lingered. She found herself clutching the bracelet, rubbing the smooth beads as though they were talismans.
The women of the camp moved with a quiet rhythm around her. Some stirred pots of thin or thick broth, others soothed restless children, their voices lilting in gentle Kiowa tones that Violet could not fully understand but felt in her bones. Life here carried on the same, whether joy or danger pressed near.
And yet she could not relax. The soldiers that Grey Horse was riding guard against echoed in her imagination. She pictured militias moving in formation, rifles at their shoulders, eyes searching the plains. Would they arrive to “rescue” her? Shethought of the two younger warriors too, how swiftly their demeanor had changed at Grey Horse’s word. Respect. Fear. Whatever power he held among them, it was a dangerous kind, fragile as glass.
A woman approached her, small, with deep lines carved into her face, her hair streaked white and bound tightly back. She held out a wooden bowl of broth, nodding toward Violet’s lap.
Violet accepted it with both hands. “Thank you,” she whispered, though she knew the woman did not understand her words.
The elder’s eyes softened. She reached down, briefly brushing Violet’s arm where the faint marks of the warrior’s grip still showed, then gave a sharp nod, as though to say,you are not alone here.
Violet felt a measure of peace.
?
The trail was growing colder, but not cold enough.
Grey Horse crouched low over the foot prints, his hand brushing the edge of one. The soil was cracked and dry, but here the weight of a boot heel had pressed deep enough to hold its shape. And not a scout alone. A column. A dozen men or more, pushing hard.
He raised his eyes to the horizon. The land flattened here, endless in its sameness—grass bending with the wind, the stars beginning to pulse into the darkening sky. But in the far distance, faint as a scar, a line of smoke trailed upward.
The soldiers.
Beside him, his friend, Black Wolf, shifted, his hand tightening on his spear. “Close,” he murmured in Kiowa. “Too close.”
Grey Horse said nothing. His gaze tracked the path, calculating. The soldiers’ line of travel would carry them parallel to theriver, skirting the edge of the Kiowa hunting grounds. If they continued, they would find the camp—or at the very least, pass near enough to see the horses, the women, the children. And then nothing would remain untouched.
He knew that to soldiers sweeping the territory, a white woman inside a Kiowa camp would look like a traitor, a white who had “gone native.” If they even noticed that she was white in the chaos of battle. He knew the soldiers shot blindly into camps, burned tepees, and killed every living person they could, man, woman, and child alike.
That was exactly how Eliza had perished.
And that attack had been the reason the band, what was left of them, had moved southeast a hundred miles into new territory. And now the soldiers would come after the Kiowa here. Grey Horse’s heart fell with the knowledge that a repeat of the horror was close.
He thought of Violet. He was certain that she was aware that being caught in the middle of such violence could mean death. He had placed his mark on her in front of the others—claimed her safety as his responsibility. If soldiers came and she was taken, it would not only be his failure as a warrior. It would be his shame as a man.
He rose to his feet. “We ride back,” he said. “The others must prepare.”
?
The night deepened. Sleep would not come for Violet.
Every sound outside the tepee made her start—the whicker of horses, the thud of hooves, the low laughter of men. She curled up on the furs, the deerskin pulled tight, listening for Grey Horse’s return.
When at last she heard hoof beats pounding into camp, her heart leapt. Voices rose in swift Kiowa words, urgent, clipped. She scrambled upright and peered through the tepee flap.
Grey Horse was there, sliding off his pony in one smooth motion. The other warriors gathered around him instantly, forming a circle. Firelight flickered over their painted faces, over the gleam of lances and rifles. She could not understand the words, but the tone needed no translation. Danger had drawn near.
Her throat tightened. Soldiers. It had to be.
Grey Horse’s eyes found hers across the fire. For a long breath he held her gaze, his face unreadable, then he turned back to the men, issuing orders like stones dropping into water. The circle broke apart. Warriors moved swiftly, gathering weapons, checking horses.
The camp was alive now, the stillness shattered.
?
The soldiers were no more than a day’s ride. Perhaps less if they pressed hard.
Grey Horse knew they would.
