Violet looked at him then. She saw the set of his jaw, the patience in his stride, and felt something deep within her release.
?
They stopped at the riverbank by midday, the sun was high and harsh, its heat pressing down like a hand. Grey Horse knelt, cupped water in his hands, and drank deeply. Violet slid from the pony with his help and sank to her knees at the edge, scooping the cold water to her lips. It tasted of stone and life, sharp enough to clear the dust from her throat.
Grey Horse crouched beside her. “Sit,” he said softly. When she complied, he lifted her wounded foot into his hand. She stiffened but did not pull away. His fingers traced the basic bandage she had made, now soaked and grimy. Carefully he unwrapped the wound, rinsed it in the river, and re-bound it with a strip of cloth torn from his own sash. His touch was steady, tender in its strength.
“You will not break,” he said.
Tears pricked her eyes. “I almost did,” she whispered. “But I won’t go back to him. Not ever.”
For the first time since the fight, Grey Horse’s mouth softened into the faintest ghost of a smile.
Ezra, crouched nearby cleaning his rifle, spoke without looking up. “We keep moving. He’s stubborn enough to chase until his horse’s legs give out.”
Grey Horse helped Violet rise. “We will not let him catch us.”
?
They followed the deer paths, the river their constant companion. The land rolled gently, grass spread by oak and hackberries, the sky a wide, unbroken blue. Hawks circled above, their shadows sliding across the ground in silence.
Violet rode in front of Grey Horse on his pony, leaning against his chest behind her, trusting his steadying hand. Each step of the pony jolted the pain in her feet, but she bore it silently. Pain was easier than the memory of Thomas’s disgusting closeness, his rough hands grabbing her, his sour breath in her face. Pain was proof she had left him behind.
Her thoughts tangled, then loosened, then tangled again. She remembered Boston: the letters, her careful script in candlelight, the steady words of promise she had believed bound her life.I will come. Do not doubt it.She had thought herself stepping into a safe, worthy life.
But Thomas had lied. Lied about the ranch, lied about himself, lied about everything. He had never wanted a wife. Only a possession to abuse at his whim.
The guilt that had haunted her fell from her like an old garment she no longer had use for. She owed Thomas nothing.
When they stopped briefly to rest the horses, Violet glanced sideways at Grey Horse, saw the line of his shoulders, the quiet watchfulness in his eyes. He had fought for her, bled for her, stood between her and ruin. Could she still deny what her heart already knew?
But then Pale Moon’s face rose before her, proud and certain.His heart belongs to the past. If freed, it will be mine.The words clung like burrs, making her stumble inside. What lay ahead for her and Grey Horse?
?
Late in the day they found a rise overlooking the river’s curve. They made a small camp, hidden among trees whose roots tangled like knotted hands. Ezra built a modest fire, while Grey Horse returned from the brush with two rabbits for their meal. Soon the smell of roasting meat drifted on the air, filling Violet’s empty belly with a sharp, aching need.
They ate without talk, silence wrapping around them like a cloak. When she had eaten her fill, Violet sat apart, her gaze drawn to the water, where the last of the light turned its surface to shifting bronze.
She thought of her long-ago dreams of an Indian camp, of firelight dancing on hides, of a painted brave’s face seen in flickering glow. She had thought them only fancies of sleep. But now she knew better. They were not dreams but something deeper: the shape of her life that had been waiting for her, long before she could see it.
Grey Horse came to her side and sat without a word. After a moment, he reached for her hair, his hands smoothing the tangled strands. Then he began to braid, each movement deliberate and careful.
Violet closed her eyes. His hands moved slowly, patiently, weaving not only her hair but the frayed threads of her heart. Past, present, future. Could such a thing belong to her, too?
When he finished, he tied the braid with a blade of grass and let his hand rest lightly at the nape of her neck. She leanedinto his touch, a shiver running through her, not of fear but of recognition.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Grey Horse did not answer, but his eyes held hers with quiet intensity.
Ezra looked away, his face turned toward the river as though the current demanded his full attention.
?
Night gathered, the fire burning low. Ezra took the first watch, rifle across his knees, while Grey Horse spread a blanket for himself and Violet. She hesitated, then lay down next to him, exhaustion claiming her bones. She felt the warmth of him close by, his presence a wall against the dark.
Sleep came unevenly, filled with dreams of Thomas’s shouting, Pale Moon’s warning, and Grey Horse’s hands in her hair. She woke more than once to the sound of owls calling in the trees and foxes rustling in the bush, initially alarmed, but then finding peace in the steady breath of Grey Horse beside her. Each time, she let herself believe a little more fully that she was safe.
