Children splashed at the edges. Women filled skins. The warriors stood watch at the tree line, their silhouettes sharp against the light.
Grey Horse dismounted, helping Violet down with a gentleness that contrasted the hard set of his jaw. “Rest,” he said, nodding to a patch of grass near the river’s bend.
She sank onto it, her limbs trembling with exhaustion. The sound of the river soothed her, but beneath it she felt the undercurrent of fear, the knowledge that the soldiers were still moving. Still closing.
She looked up at Grey Horse. His eyes scanned the horizon, every line of his body rigid. He seemed carved from stone, yet beneath the hardness she glimpsed something else—something she could not name, but which drew her to him as surely as the river drew all waters to its flow.
?
Grey Horse realized that by dawn, it would be known: Either the soldiers would pass them by, or they would come.
He stood at the edge of the river, the wind in his hair, his hand on the hilt of his knife. Around him the camp settled into uneasy rest, the fires burning low.
Behind him, Violet’s voice carried softly as she spoke to one of the older women, her words broken but her intent clear. She was trying to bridge the gap of tongue and heart.
He turned, watching her. She lifted her face toward him, her eyes catching the faint firelight.
In that moment, he felt the weight of all he had promised her—safety, protection, truth. And he knew the time was near when words would no longer be enough.
The shadow of war pressed close.
And when it fell, only action would keep her alive.
Chapter Twelve: The Battle by the River
The dawn broke gray, the sky thick with clouds that smothered the sun. The air felt heavier than it had the day before, charged, as though the world itself knew what was coming.
Violet sat near the riverbank, her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the slow curl of mist rise off the water. All through the night she had heard the muffled sounds of warriors moving through the camp—checking weapons, inspecting their ponies, murmuring in low voices that carried like wind across the grass. Sleep had come in fragments, chased away by the echo of Grey Horse’s warning:They come.
Now, in the gray morning, that warning felt like a weight on her chest. She wanted to ask … how many … how close? But each time she looked at Grey Horse, his face offered no answers. Only a hard, fixed determination.
The camp was stirring again. Women loaded the last of the poles and hides onto ponies, their movements swift and precise, every gesture carved from long habit. Children were hushed, pulled close, soothed with whispered Kiowa words. Even the dogs seemed subdued, their whining low, restless.
Grey Horse appeared suddenly, striding toward her from the tree line. His hair was unbound, whipping in the wind, his rifleslung across his back, a lance in his hand. He stopped in front of her, his gaze searching her face.
“You stay with the women,” he said, his voice sharp. “Go across the river. Keep moving.”
Her throat tightened. “And you?”
“I fight.” His tone left no room for question.
“Grey Horse—”
He shook his head once, cutting her words short. “Promise is promise. You safe.”
Safe.She curled her fingers around the beads of the bracelet, but the word felt hollow in her mouth. No one could be truly safe when soldiers came.
?
By midmorning, the land trembled with sound.
Grey Horse crouched on the ridge above the valley, his eyes narrowed to slits. Below, across the plain, the soldiers came into view—blue coats in a ragged line, rifles polished, horses pulling a small wagon with a mounted gun. There were more than he had hoped. Twenty, perhaps thirty. Enough to crush the band if they were caught unprepared.
He let his gaze sweep over them, reading their pace, their formation. They were tired. Dust clung to their uniforms, sweat marked their collars. Yet still they moved like a machine, relentless.
Beside him, Black Wolf grunted. “Too many soldiers. Too many guns,” he muttered in Kiowa.
“Not too many,” Grey Horse said evenly. His hand tightened on his lance. “They bleed like any men.”
