Grey Horse closed his eyes, but sleep still did not come. He would ride again soon. There was always another raid. Always another battle waiting on the far edge of the plains.
And now, there was also her.
Chapter Nine: Words Unspoken
Morning came without warning—no rooster, no city bells—just the pale wash of sunlight seeping through the seams of the tepee and the muted stir of voices outside. Violet sat up slowly, the furs falling away, her muscles stiff from a night of uneasy rest. The air already held the weight of summer heat, and the smell of smoke from the cook fires drifted in on the breeze.
Grey Horse was gone. In his place, near the tepee’s entrance, lay a folded strip of hide with food inside—flat bread, dried meat, a small handful of berries. She hesitated, then ate in slow, measured bites.
?
When he returned, the light had risen higher, laying sharp lines across his features. He carried a bucket of water, which he set down without ceremony. Then he knelt beside the small fire and began coaxing the embers to life with practiced movements.
“Thank you,” she said softly, almost on instinct.
He glanced up, meeting her eyes for the briefest moment before looking back to his work. But there was something in that glance—too quick, too deliberate—that made her pause. It wasn’t the vacant, blank look she expected from someone who couldn’t understand her.
A thought took root:He heard me. He understood.
Outside, the camp moved with quiet purpose. Warriors returned from their posts, women carried water and stirred pots, children darted between the tepees. Yet even in the press of activity, she noticed the space around her. No one came close unless Grey Horse was present. Once, when two young men slowed as if to study her, Grey Horse appeared at her side, speaking to them in a low, clipped tone. They moved on without a word to her.
It happened again later, when a group gathered near the tepee to inspect a new horse brought in by a trader. She stepped toward them out of curiosity, but before she could get far, Grey Horse’s shadow fell over her. He didn’t touch her, only stood between her and the crowd until they drifted apart.
She wasn’t sure whether to feel safer or more trapped.
The heat grew oppressive by midday, the air still and heavy. Grey Horse led her to the shade of a cottonwood at the edge of the camp. From here, she could see far across the plains: rolling grass dotted with distant riders, the shimmer of heat over the earth.
He sat a few feet away, working on a long strip of leather, his hands steady and sure. She watched him for a while, noting the way the sunlight caught in his hair, how his frame was tall and lean yet carried an ease of strength she had not seen in many men. His face gave little away—stern, almost forbidding—but now and then, when the wind shifted and he glanced toward the horizon, there was a stillness there that softened him.
Violet thought of the raid, the moment he had lifted her from the chaos, and how not once since had he raised his voice or hand against her. Yet she could not forget the stories she had heard, the warnings whispered in Boston about men like him.
Still, when she caught him looking at her, she wondered which she ought to believe—those stories, or what she was beginning to see for herself.
The air that evening was soft and warm, a rare reprieve from the day’s oppressive heat. A pink-orange glow stretched across the horizon, casting the camp in a light that made even the worn hides of the tepees seem touched by gold.
Violet sat near the fire outside the tepee, her hands wrapped around a small cup of polished buffalo horn, cool water sloshing inside. Across the camp, Grey Horse was speaking with an older woman mending a deerskin, her hands quick with the bone needle and sinew thread. Their conversation was brief, a few quiet words, and a nod. Then he turned and walked toward Violet.
In his hands, he carried something unexpected: a simple braid of leather cord, threaded through with small white beads that caught the firelight like pale drops of moon.
He stopped before her, his tall frame casting a shadow over her lap. For a moment, he only looked at her, the fire’s glow in his eyes. Then, without a word, he crouched down, holding the braid in his palm.
Violet’s breath caught.
She hesitated, glancing from the braid to his face. “For me?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer in words. Instead, he reached for her wrist—slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wished. When she didn’t, he looped the cord around her wrist twice and tied it with a sure, deft knot. His fingers were warm against her skin, his touch careful.
When it was done, he sat back on his heels and looked at the bracelet as if to be certain it would hold. Only then did he meet her gaze.
“It means … safe,” he said, his voice low but clear, the English precise.
The single word struck through her like a bell. She had suspected as much, but hearing him speak confirmed it—he understood more than she’d dared to guess.
Her throat felt tight. “Why?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He glanced toward the camp, the firelight flickering across the planes of his face. “Because I said so,” he replied simply, then rose to his full height and walked away, leaving her staring after him, the weight of the leather cord warm against her skin.
Chapter Ten: The Promise Kept
