Arizona Territory, 1868. Flames danced across the night sky, turning darkness into a hellish day. The screams of women and children pierced the air as gunfire cracked like thunder. A tall, broad-shouldered white man, his face hidden in shadow, stood motionless at the edge of the Apache village. His hand trembled on the grip of his holstered pistol.
His breath was short and terrified. This was not what he had been promised. Captain Blackwood had sworn they had come to negotiate peace, but there was no negotiation, only massacre. Soliva, don’t just stand there. A soldier ran past him, rifle raised.
Through the dust, a young Apache girl emerged from a burning wikiup, dragging a younger girl behind her. Their faces were smeared with soot, their eyes wide with terror and disbelief. For an instant, the man’s gaze met the older girl’s. Something passed between them. A recognition of shared humanity amidst inhumanity.
The woman pulled her sister into the darkness beyond the town. A soldier raised his rifle toward them. No. The white man lunged forward, deflecting the soldier’s shot skyward. The shot disappeared harmlessly into the night. “What Solivan?” the soldier snarled, but Sullivan was already moving, frantically signaling for the women to run. The older sister hesitated, confusion mingling with fear in her eyes. Then she understood.
This white man was trying to help. He nodded once, pulled his sister close, and disappeared into the darkness. Ethan stood amid the chaos, the weight of betrayal crushing his chest. He had brought those men there, trusted his commanding officer, and now, innocent blood, soaked the floor because of them. Okay. Cottonwood, Arizona, 1880.
Ethan Sullivan bolted upright in his bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for sleep again. It had been 12 years, but the nightmares were still as vivid as that night. He swung his legs out of the narrow bed, pressing his palms against his eyes, as if he could push the images away.
His cabin was silent save for the soft creaking of the wooden walls, contracting in the predawn chill. Outside, a coyote howled alone across the valley, its cry fading into the darkness. Seven years he had been on this remote ranch. Seven years since the fever took Hann and his son. Seven years of solitude broken only by necessary and infrequent trips to the town of Silver Creek for supplies.
Ethan reached for a piece of cloth on his nightstand and carefully wrapped it around his right wrist, covering the small, X-shaped scar, a reminder of a blood oath with an Apache friend long before the night of the betrayal.

The friend who taught him the language showed him the secret paths through the mountains, confided his friendship in him. The friend whose village had unwittingly led soldiers to destroy the eastern sky was just beginning to lighten when Itan stepped onto his porch, a canister of coffee in hand. The first golden rays touched the distant mesas, painting them amber and pink.
His small herd of cattle grazed peacefully in the valley below, dark patches against the pale grass. The cornfield needed tending. The north fence required repair. There was water to be carried and firewood to be split. Work was good. Work kept the memories at bay, at least during the daylight hours. But today there would be no escape from work.
His supplies were depleted. Flour was down to the last cup, coffee nearly gone, no salt to preserve his meat, no rosewood for his lantern. A trip to Silver Creek could no longer be postponed. Ethan sighed, the weight of anticipated human contact already weighing heavily on his shoulders. He preferred the company of his cattle, the conversation of the wind among the cottonwoods, the judgment of the sky and the mountains alone.
People asked questions. People looked at the shadows in his eyes. People expected things he no longer knew how to give. By midmorning, he had loaded his wagon with goods to trade: carefully tanned hides, some dried meat from the last hunt, and two hand-carved rocking chairs that had occupied his afternoons during the winter.
The mare snorted impatiently as he secured the last bundle. “Lo Sebel,” he murmured, stroking her neck. “I don’t want to go either.” The trail to Silver Creek wound between red rock canyons and sparse juniper forests. Two hours of solitude.
Before the inevitable discomfort of civilization, Itan settled into the carriage seat, his broad-brimmed hat pulled low, and let Bell set a leisurely pace as the trail descended into the valley below Silver Creek. Ethan reviewed his plan: trade goods at Whitaker’s store, buy supplies, avoid the saloon, speak only when necessary, return home before sunset.
Simple, efficient, minimal human interaction. Silver Creek appeared in the distance, a cluster of weathered buildings clinging to the edge of a seasonal creek, now dry from the summer heat. A saloon, the store, a small church, the sheriff’s office and jail combined into one stone building, and a few scattered cottages and outbuildings. Nothing had changed since his last visit three months ago. Nothing much changed in Silver Creek.
Except today something was different. As he approached the town’s only dusty street, Ethan noticed a crowd gathered in front of the jail. Men in worn work clothes formed a loose semicircle. Women lingered at the edges, some carrying children on their hips, others shielding their eyes from the scorching midday sun.
There was a tension in their postures and an anticipation that made Izan instinctively tighten the reins. He steered Bell toward Whitaker’s tent, determined to mind his own business. The spectacle unfolding at the jail was none of his business. He would load up his supplies and leave before meddling in town business.

But as they passed the edge of the crowd, Sheriff Wallas’s voice boomed. “Who’ll give me 5 years?” Itan’s gaze shifted reluctantly toward the commotion. Sheriff Wallas stood on the jail porch, a half-empty whiskey flask dangling from his fingers. The long scar across his left cheek, earned in a raid years before, was visible.
The man listening was red from the alcohol and the heat. He was gesturing broadly at something behind him. “Come on, people. She’s tough for work. That’s a cheap price to pay for a tribal prisoner.” The crowd parted slightly, and he saw her. An Apache woman was tied to a hitching post. She wasn’t young, about 30, with a face weathered by sun and hardship. Her black hair fell in tangled strands over her shoulders.
Her deerskin dress was torn and dirty, leaving much of her shoulders and chest exposed. Her bare feet were covered in dust and dried blood, her ankle visibly swollen. But it was her eyes that caught and held Ethan’s gaze. Dark, fixed eyes staring through the crowd as if they weren’t there.
There was no pleading in them, no fear, only a fierce dignity that refused to be diminished by her circumstances. “She doesn’t speak English, she doesn’t work, she doesn’t kneel,” a man near Itan murmured, “A brave little fool.” Itan’s horse whinnied softly, but he barely heard it. Something in the woman’s eyes had stirred a memory, a sense of recognition.
They were like the eyes in his recurring nightmare, the young woman fleeing the burning village. It couldn’t be the same person, could it? That was 12 years ago, hundreds of miles from here. “She’s the last of that group they captured near Fort Deffiance,” another man said. “The others were sold weeks ago. This one’s too proud for her own good. Wallas says he’ll kill her by sundown if no one takes her.”
Ethan’s hand moved to his wrist, tracing the outline of the scar beneath the cloth covering it. The woman’s gaze suddenly shifted as if to her attention. And for a brief moment, their eyes met across the dusty street. A shock of recognition coursed through him. There was something eerily familiar about that gaze,
a ghost from his past, a fragment of his nightmares made flesh. She didn’t seem to recognize him, but her steady, unwavering stare awakened something long dormant in his chest. Before he could question that impulse, Itan found himself dismounting. His boots hit the packed earth with a soft thud. The crowd parted as he approached. Conversations died away in a curious silence.
Sheriff Wallace’s eyebrows rose as Itan stepped onto the porch. “Soliva didn’t expect to see you in town so soon.” Ihan wasted no time with words, reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out some silver, and placing it in the sheriff’s palm. Wallace looked at the money then at Itan, surprise etched on his scarred face. “
Are you serious, Sullivan? She’s more trouble than she’s worth. She won’t say a word, won’t obey orders. She’s a person, not a dog,” Itan said quietly, his voice raspy from disuse. The sheriff’s mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. “Do what you want. Your money, your trouble now.” He threw a coiled rope over the porch boards.

“You might need this.” Ethan left the rope where it fell and approached the woman, stopping a respectful distance away. Up close, he could see the exhaustion on her face as her chest rose and fell too quickly from the heat and dehydration. He guessed she had been tied there for days. He slowly knelt and drew his knife to cut her bonds.
She flinched slightly at the blade, but didn’t move away. Her eyes followed his movements with tired attention. When the rope fell away, red, swollen marks remained on her wrists. Slowly, she brought her hands forward, rubbing the broken skin. Still, she didn’t speak. Itan stood, pointing to his wagon. “
Come on,” he said, not expecting her to understand the words, but hoping his tone wasn’t threatening. To his surprise, she followed his steps, unsteady but determined. Her dignity remained intact despite her condition. She climbed onto the wagon seat without assistance, her back straight, despite the pain she must be feeling.
The crowd watched silently as Sitan guided the wagon back through the village. He felt their gaze on his back and heard the murmurs begin as the distance grew. Solivan became a lover; it was always strange living alone up there. That savage will slit his throat in his sleep. He ignored everyone, concentrating on the road ahead and the silent woman at his side.
She stood perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the horizon, giving no sign of whether she understood the hostile comments or not. They had traveled almost a mile before Itan realized his crucial mistake. In his haste to get the woman out of this humiliation, he had forgotten his original purpose. The supplies he desperately needed were still on Whitaker’s shelves.
He sighed, calculating how long his remaining provisions would last. If they stretched to feed two for a week, maybe less. He would have to return to the village sooner than he expected. “I’m Itan,” he said after another mile of silence, touching his chest. He didn’t expect a reply and received none. The woman continued to stare straight ahead, her profile defined against the afternoon sky.
The trail began to wind its way up through brush-covered hills toward her remote Cottonwood Valley Ranch. A green band came into view in the dun landscape, where a small stream fed her modest fields. Her cabin perched on a gentle slope. Smoke from the morning fire still rose from the stone chimney.
The woman’s posture changed subtly as the valley opened up before them. Her shoulders tensed, her gaze more alert. As she assessed the terrain, Ethan realized she was looking for landmarks, escape routes, and water sources. He’d seen that calculating look before in the eyes of Apache scouts during his days in the army.
“She’s safe here.” He said, knowing the words meant nothing to her, but he needed to say them. “No one will hurt you.” The wagon creaked as it crossed the wooden bridge he had built over the stream. B’s pace quickened, sensing home and the water ahead.

The woman’s hands tightened their grip on the edge of the seat as she approached the hut. Ihan stopped the cart in the courtyard and secured the reins. He got out. Then he turned to offer help. But the woman was already descending on her own, her movements stiff but determined. Her bare feet touched the earth, and for a moment she closed her eyes as if drawing strength from the ground beneath her.
The door of the hut was open to let in the breeze. Inside, it was cool and gloomy after the strong sun. A single room with a stone fireplace, a rough table with two chairs, a narrow cot in the corner, shelves lined with the few necessities of her solitary life, no photograph, no mementos, nothing to suggest a past beyond these walls. Itan pointed
to the washbasin near the fireplace. “Agu,” he said, making gestures of washing his face and hands. The woman watched him silently. Then he cautiously approached the washbasin. He dipped his hands in the water and brought them to his chapped lips. She drank deeply, then splashed water on her face and neck, washing away layers of dust and grime as she refreshed herself.
Itan rummaged in a trunk, pulling out a clean shirt and a pair of soft, worn pants that had outgrown her. He laid them on the table and then pointed to the curtain in the corner that offered some privacy for changing. “I’ll be outside,” he said, gesturing toward the door. Comida soon stepped out onto the porch, giving him space and time.
The western sky was beginning its slow transformation from blue to gold, the first sign of dusk. Itan settled back in his porch chair, trying to understand his impulsive action. Why had he brought her here? Guilt over ancient sins? Simple human decency, or something more complex—a recognition, a connection that even he couldn’t explain.
The sound of the cabin door opening interrupted his thoughts. The woman stood on the threshold, transformed by the clean water and fresh clothes. Her shirt hung loose on her smaller frame, the sleeves rolled up, revealing her slender wrists. Her pants were cinched with a length of string.
She had braided her long hair over one shoulder. Even in her oversized clothes, with her feet still bare and her face marked by abuse, she moved with innate dignity. She took a step onto the porch, keeping a careful distance between them. Itan gestured to the second chair.

Después de una breve vacilación, ella se sentó con la postura alerta lista para moverse si era necesario. Se sentaron en silencio mientras el sol se hundía más pintando el valle con dorados intensos. Prepararé la comida, dijo finalmente Itan, levantándose lentamente para no asustarla. En la cabaña avivó el fuego y puso una olla de frijoles a calentar, añadiendo el último trozo de cerdo salado para dar sabor.
Cortó pan de maíz que quedaba del día anterior, lo acomodó en un plato de ojalata y llevó la sencilla comida afuera. La mujer no se había movido de su silla. Sus ojos lo siguieron mientras él ponía la comida en la pequeña mesa entre ellos. Ella comió primero luego él y comenzó a comer sin ceremonia. Después de observarlo con cautela varios momentos, ella alcanzó el plato.
Su primer bocado fue dudoso, pero el hambre pronto venció la cautela. Comía con propósito cada movimiento eficiente, nada desperdiciado. La noche cayó por completo mientras terminaban la comida. Surgieron estrellas en un cielo sin luces de pueblo, un río plateado de estrellas de horizonte a horizonte.
Los grillos comenzaron su coro nocturno desde el hecho del arroyo abajo. Ethan encendió la linterna colgada del viga del porche, su brillo dorado creando una pequeña isla de luz en la oscuridad creciente. En esta luz más suave pudo ver el agotamiento en el rostro de la mujer, como sus hombros empezaban a caer a pesar de sus esfuerzos por mantenerse alerta.
“¿Puedes dormir adentro?”, dijo señalando la cabaña. Yo me quedaré aquí afuera esta noche. Sacó un rollo de cama del interior y lo mostró colocándolo en el suelo del porche. Luego señaló la cabaña y el catre dentro. Los ojos de la mujer se entrecerraron un poco la sospecha. Luchaba con el cansancio desesperado.
Finalmente, la necesidad ganó. Se levantó sin mostrar reconocimiento ni gratitud y desapareció dentro de la cabaña. La puerta se cerró firmemente tras ella. Ithan se acomodó sobre su rollo de cama pistola al alcance, aunque dudaba que la necesitara. Algo le decía que la mujer estaba demasiado agotada para intentar escapar esa noche.
Mañana podría ser diferente. Sobre él, las estrellas giraban en sus antiguos patrones. En algún lugar, un búo llamó suavemente. Los sonidos nocturnos familiares de su valle deberían haberlo arrullado para dormir. Pero su mente permanecía obstinadamente alerta llena de preguntas sin respuestas. ¿Quién era ella? ¿De dónde había venido? ¿Realmente? ¿Era ella de la aldea de sus pesadillas? ¿O era su mente culpable creando conexiones que no existían? ¿Y qué haría con ella ahora? No tenía ilusiones sobre salvarla. Ella no era un perro callejero
para adoptar, ni una cosa rota para arreglar. Era un ser humano arrancado de su gente, su cultura, su libertad. ¿Qué podría ofrecer para enmendar eso? El sueño finalmente lo venció en las primeras horas de la mañana. Sus sueños, por una vez no estuvieron llenos de llamas y gritos, sino de ojos oscuros e implacables que parecían ver directamente a su alma.
La luz del amanecer filtraba por la única ventana de la cabaña pintando cuadrados dorados en el piso de tablas. Ethan despertó al instante un hábito formado durante años de soledad y antes de eso de guerra. Por un momento desconcertante, no pudo recordar por qué estaba en el porche en lugar de en su cama. Luego volvió la memoria a la mujer que había motivado su compra impulsiva de otro ser humano.
Se levantó en silencio, estirando los músculos rígidos por el duro piso del porche. La puerta de la cabaña permanecía cerrada. Seguía ella adentro. Habría huido durante la noche. No la culparía si lo hubiera hecho. Ethan se acercó silenciosamente a la puerta y escuchó. No salió ningún sonido del interior. Tocó suavemente y luego, al no recibir respuesta, empujó la puerta lo justo para asomarse.
Ella estaba allí acurrucada en su catre con la delgada manta apretada alrededor de los hombros. Una mano agarraba el borde de la manta, la otra descansaba cerca de su rostro con el dedo ligeramente encorvado. Los primeros rayos de sol tocaron su cabello sacando reflejos caoba profundos en los mechones negros. Ithan se retiró cerrando la puerta en silencio.
Déjala dormir. Dios sabía que lo necesitaba. Realizó su rutina matutina con eficiente práctica, avivando el fuego del fogón, preparando café, alimentando a las gallinas que picoteaban en el patio. Los rituales familiares ayudaban a calmar sus pensamientos, aunque las preguntas aún rondaban como pájaros inquietos.

He checked Bell’s hooves. When he perceived more than heard a presence behind him, he turned slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. The woman was standing at the edge of the barn’s shadow, watching him. She had rolled up her shirtsleeves, revealing lean, muscular forearms.
Her feet were still bare, but she had already washed off the dust and blood. Her hair was neatly braided, falling over one shoulder. The weariness remained in her posture, but the deep fatigue of the previous day had lessened. “Good morning,” Ihan said, touching the brim of his hat.
She didn’t respond verbally, but her eyes followed his movements as she finished with Bell and stood up. “Are you hungry?” he asked, patting his stomach and making an eating gesture with his hand. A flash of perhaps amusement crossed her face at his pantomime, but she remained silent.
Nevertheless, she followed him back to the cabin, keeping a careful distance. Breakfast was simple, the last of his cornmeal porridge sweetened with a treasured spoonful of honey from his two hives. She ate first again, then he. And they ate in the same watchful silence as the night before. After they finished, Itan gestured around the cabin and then at himself. “
I have work to do,” he said, miming chopping firewood and arranging it nearby. “You may rest.” He gestured to the cot, then the porch chair, trying to communicate that she was free to choose her activities. He half expected her to be gone by the time he returned from her chores. Instead, upon returning at noon, he found her sitting cross-legged in the shade of the porch, using a sharp stone to methodically repair the torn seams of her deerskin dress. She looked up as he approached, but continued working with nimble fingers, despite the
lingering ache her braided wrists must have felt. The day was hot, sweat dripping from her temples and collarbones, but she showed no discomfort. Ethan nodded, acknowledging her presence, and continued toward the well, drawing fresh water for them both. He filled two tin cups and offered her one, careful not to invade her space. She accepted with a small nod and drank deeply.
A drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a glistening path down her throat before disappearing into the collar of his borrowed shirt. Ethan looked away, aware of the impropriety of the situation. A single man and a single woman living under the same roof, even under these unusual circumstances, would shock the good people of Silver Creek if they knew about it. Not that he cared much for their opinions.
The afternoon passed at the pace of work. Ethan split firewood, repaired a broken chicken coop, and tended the small vegetable garden near the creek. Every now and then, he glanced toward the cabin, always finding the woman standing exactly where he had left her patiently working on her dress.
As night approached, clouds gathered on the western horizon, promising a rare summer storm. The air grew heavy with impending rain, the smell of dust and sage intensifying as the wind increased. Ethan secured the livestock and gathered extra firewood, aware that the woman was watching his preparations from the porch.
As the first heavy drops began to fall, he beckoned her inside. The cabin felt smaller with two people. The silence was more noticeable. Ethan busied himself preparing a stew with dried meat and the vegetables he had harvested that afternoon.
The woman sat near the window, her patched dress folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the approaching storm. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated his profile in stark contrast. Thunder followed seconds later, a deep rumble shaking the rafters of the cabin.

Ian noticed her slight start at the sound of his fingers tightening the cloth in her lap. Only Thunder said softly, “The storm will pass in the morning.” She showed no sign of understanding, but her shoulders remained tense as another roll of thunder rumbled in the valley below. The rain intensified, pounding the cabin roof like countless small hooves. Itan ladled the stew into wooden bowls along with the last bit of cornbread.
They ate by lantern light as the storm raged outside, occasionally finding its way through the roof in a steady trickle near the door. After they finished eating, Ian gathered the bowls and went to wash them in the sink. As they passed the window, a bright flash of lightning struck nearby, followed immediately by a crash of thunder.
The woman’s reaction was instantaneous and unexpected. She crouched down, covering her head with her arms. A small sound escaped her throat. The first vocalization he’d heard from her, Ethan, froze, recognizing the posture of someone who’d experienced bombardment, who associated thunder not with nature but with man-made destruction.
The same reaction he’d seen in soldiers after battle, the same instinct he sometimes fought during storms. “All right,” he said softly, setting the bowls aside and crouching down to her level, careful to maintain his distance. Just thunder, no guns, no cannons.
She stared at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise. It took Aan a moment to realize his mistake. He’d said, “Amas and cannons in Apache, not English.” The words came out automatically in response to her distress, their eyes fixed in mutual shock, their lips parted, their breathing quick and shallow.
“You speak my language,” she said in Apache, her voice hoarse from disuse, but clear. Ithan could have lied, could have pretended not to understand. Instead, he nodded slowly. “A little,” he replied in the same language with his rough but recognizable accent. “I learned it long ago.” She straightened from her defensive stance, tiredness replacing the fear in her expression.
“How? Who taught you?” Ihan hesitated, unwilling to reveal too much of his past, finally saying, “A friend before the wars.” Another flash of lightning illuminated the cabin, followed by thunder, but this time she didn’t flinch. Her attention had focused completely on him, reevaluating everything she thought she knew about this strange white man who had bought her freedom.
“What is your name?” he asked, taking advantage of the broken silence. She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing the risk of this small truth. “Nia,” she said finally. “Nian,” he repeated the name, feeling it fit on his tongue. “I am Itan.” She nodded once, acknowledging the warmthless introduction. “Why did you buy me, Itan?” The directness of the question took him by surprise.
He leaned back, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, giving her as much space as the highest position on the chair, a deliberate rebalancing of power. “You needed help,” he said simply. Nia’s expression hardened. “So many need help. You only helped me.” Why? Idan looked down at his hands, the cloth-wrapped doll.
How could he explain what he himself didn’t fully understand—the connection he had felt? The recognition that perhaps existed only in his imagination. “Your eyes,” he said finally. “When I saw how you remained unbroken, they reminded me of someone.” The question was sharp, searching. Someone she failed to help a long time ago. Adenía’s gaze didn’t waver.
Then I am your atonement, your good deed. No, Ihan said firmly. You are your own person. You owe me nothing. When you are strong enough, you can leave if you wish. This seemed to surprise her. She leaned forward a little, studying his face for deceit. Going where my people are scattered or dead. Soldiers control the reserves. A single woman.
She left the sentence hanging in the air, the implications clear. You could stay, he offered, not as property, but as a guest until you decide what you want. The offer remained between them, sincere, but complicated by unspoken histories and cultural divides too great to bridge in a single conversation.
Nia neither accepted nor rejected, simply nodding once, acknowledging the option without committing herself. Her gaze fell on the doll he unconsciously held. “You bear the mark of a warrior.” Itan looked down at his cloth-wrapped doll, realizing he’d been rubbing it throughout the conversation. “Yes,” he admitted. “Show me,” she commanded in a tone that brooked no denial.

Slowly, Itan unrolled the cloth, revealing the small, X-shaped scar, now healed but still visible against his tanned skin. Zenia’s sharp intake of breath told him she recognized its significance, a mark of blood brotherhood rarely given to those outside the tribe. “Who gave it to you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “A man named Kitian saved my life when I was out exploring earlier.”
Ethan paused, reluctant to speak of the betrayal, the village burning, his role in all of it. Nia’s expression changed, something like recognition flashing in her eyes. “Kitian of the Nighhawk gang.” Ithan nodded in surprise. “You knew him. Everyone knew Kitian. He was a great warrior.” His voice softened, tinged with respect. “He died when the bluecoats attacked our village 12 summers ago.”
The confirmation hit Itan like a physical blow. This was no coincidence, no figment of his guilty imagination. Nor was he from the same village where he had unwittingly led soldiers to destroy the very people Kitian had entrusted him to protect.
“I’m sorry,” he said, words entirely insufficient for the enormity of what had happened and his role in it. Nia seemed not to hear his apology, lost in her own memories. “The soldiers came at night. Someone led them to us. A white man who knew our ways, who had gained our trust.
” Her eyes hardened, focusing on him with new intensity, a traitor with a mark like yours. Itan felt the blood drain from her face. She didn’t yet know he was that traitor, but suspicion had ignited. And he had no idea how to respond without revealing everything or outright lying. Before he could formulate a response, another bolt of lightning struck nearby. The thunder was immediate and deafening.
The lantern flickered, nearly going out before steadying again. The tense moment was broken when they both instinctively looked toward the window where the rain was now beating horizontally against the glass. “The storm is getting worse,” Itan said, grateful for the distraction. “We should sleep. Tomorrow we’ll have to clean up after this.
” Nia didn’t press the issue of his scar or the traitor, though the questions lingered in her eyes. She nodded, rising from her chair. “I’ll take the floor,” she said, pointing to the bare skin near the hearth. “No,” she insisted. “The bed is yours. I’ll sleep here.” He indicated the chair he’d been sitting in before the storm began.
She frowned. “You’re too big for that chair. You won’t rest well. I’ve slept in worse places.” A flash of something, perhaps the ghost of amusement, crossed his face. So did I. In the end, they reached a compromise.
Nia took the stretcher while Idan arranged his sleeping bag on the floor near the door, far enough away for decorum, but close enough to watch the entrance in case any threat arose during the night. The storm continued its assault on the cabin, the wind howling through cracks in the walls, the rain finding new paths through the aging roof.
Despite the noise and his agitated thoughts, tiredness soon dragged Itan toward sleep. Just before he lost consciousness, he heard a soft sound rise above the storm. Nia’s voice, low and melodic, singing what sounded like a prayer or perhaps a lullaby in her native tongue. The words were too low to distinguish, but the sound itself was comforting,
a human connection amidst nature’s fury. Itan closed his eyes, letting the gentle cadence envelop him. Tomorrow would bring difficult questions, possible revelations. But for tonight there was only the storm, the shelter of the cabin, and the unexpected peace of not being alone. Ihan woke quietly.
The storm had passed overnight, leaving a washed, clean world. Pale morning light, soft patterns on the cabin floor. He got up quietly, careful not to disturb Nia, who was still asleep on the cot, one arm under her head, breathing deeply and evenly.

In the dream, the weariness drained from her features, revealing the woman she might have been in a kinder life. Outside, the valley glistened with rainwater, each leaf and blade of grass festooned with droplets catching the early sunlight. The air smelled of wet earth and sage, clean and new. A few roof tiles were scattered in the yard, torn off by the wind, but otherwise the damage seemed minimal.
Ethan checked the livestock first, finding them unharmed, if somewhat wet and disgruntled. The chickens pecked hopefully at worms, freshly exposed in the muddy yard. V made a soft, welcoming sound as he entered the barn.
He was splitting wood for the morning fire when he sensed Nia’s presence. He turned to find her standing in the cabin doorway, watching him with those appraising eyes. She had changed back into her deerskin dress, the rips now neatly mended. A rope served as a belt around her waist.
Her hair was braided down her back, her feet still bare despite the muddy ground. “Good morning,” Itan said in Apache, setting his axe aside. “Good morning,” she answered his voice, still slightly sleepy. This simple exchange, their first normal conversation, felt like a tentative bridge across the chasm between their different worlds.
Itan gestured toward the stream where mist rose in ghostly filaments from the water’s surface. The storm brought fresh water. “Do you want to wash?” Nia looked toward the stream. Then she looked back at him, a question in her eyes. “Will I stay here?” he assured her. “You’ll have privacy.”
She nodded once, then moved with fluid grace toward the water. Ihan deliberately returned his attention to the firewood, giving it the space and dignity it deserved. By the time she returned, her skin glistening with moisture and her steps lighter, Itan had already prepared breakfast: the last of his coffee and wild-fence-flavored corn porridge he had collected the week before.
They ate in companionable silence on the porch, watching the valley come alive with morning activity. Birds glided through the trees. Servants grazed cautiously at the edge of the woods, and a family of rabbits emerged from their burrow to explore the rain-softened earth.
“Your land is good,” Nia finally said, setting her empty plate aside. “The water runs clean. The soil grows strong plants. It provides what I need.” Ihan agreed. “He lives alone, no wife, no children.” The direct question took him by surprise, but he answered honestly. “I had a wife, Hann, and a son, William. A fever took them seven years ago.”
Nia’s expression softened slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry for yours,” Itan replied, the weight of unspoken guilt weighing on his chest. She studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes inscrutable. “You’re not like other white men I’ve met.” Itan wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an accusation.
“How is that? You speak to me as a person, not a thing. You give food first to me, then to yourself. You sleep by the gate, protective not possessive.” She tilted her head slightly. “Yet you hide things. I see shadows in your eyes.” Ethan looked away, unable to meet her penetrating gaze. Everyone has shadows. Yes,
she agreed, but some shadows are deeper than others. Before he could respond, a sound caught his attention, the distant rhythm of hooves approaching along the path. Ethan was instantly alert, his hand going to the pistol at his hip. “Stay here,” Ania told him, moving into the courtyard to get a better view of the approaching rider.
A lone rider appeared on the ridge, silhouetted against the morning sky. Even from a distance, something about the figure stirred an uneasy feeling in Itan’s stomach. The rider approached slowly, deliberately, a man in no hurry, but with a clear purpose. As he drew closer, details became clear. visible.
A boy, not a man, perhaps 16 or 17, with a shock of black hair under a wide-brimmed hat too large for his body. He rode a bay mare with white tights, his seat in the awkward saddle as if he hadn’t been riding long. He relaxed a little at the sight of a young man instead of a town patrol, but remained cautious.
The boy halted his horse at the edge of the yard, raising a hand in greeting. “Good morning, sir,” he called, his voice cracking slightly on the words. “You, Mr. Sullivan, are you,” Ethan confirmed, keeping his tone neutral. “What brings you here, son?” The boy’s gaze flashed past Itan to the porch of the cabin where Nia stood, watching in a tense, weary posture.
Something like recognition crossed the boy’s face. “Is that her?” he asked eagerly. “The Apache woman from the village.” Ia shifted sideways, partially blocking Nia’s view for the boy. “What are you doing here?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended. The boy’s expression, uncertainty replacing the excitement.

I just wanted to see if it was true what they said in town, that you bought her because she wouldn’t kneel. I thought that was brave of you two. Ethan studied the boy more closely. Now that he was closer, Itan could see the mixture in his features: the high cheekbones and dark complexion suggested Native blood, the green eyes and straight nose pointed to European ancestry.
“What is your name, son?” Itan asked, softening his tone a little. “Thomas, Mr. Thomas Red Horse.” The boy sat up straight in his chair as if the name itself gave him courage. “My father was a soldier, my mother was Apache, they’re gone now.” This explanation for his appearance, offered unprompted, suggested that Thomas had already faced questions about his heritage—pretty much cruel ones, given the tension between settlers and Native Americans in the territory. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ihan said sincerely.
“And I’ve been trying to learn about my mother’s people,” he said, “but not many are willing to talk to a mestizo.” The word carried the weight of past insults. When I heard about it, I thought maybe he stopped suddenly, looking very young and insecure. It was a stupid idea. I’ll go. Turning his horse, Itan made a quick decision.
Wait, Thomas, he paused, a flicker of hope on his face. Come get us some coffee, Itan offered. Long way back to the village. The boy’s face lit up with a smile that transformed his solemn features. Yes, sir. Thank you. Sir slid off his horse with the clumsy enthusiasm of youth, almost tripping over his own feet.
Ethan led the way back to the cabin, well aware of the potential complication he was introducing. Would Nia welcome this intrusion—this mixed-race boy seeking connection with a heritage that had been brutally taken from her—or would she see it as another threat, another reminder of the violence that scattered her people.
As they approached the porch, Nia’s expression remained carefully neutral, but her eyes followed Thomas with intense attention, taking in every detail of “Her appearance. Nia,” Ithan said in Apache. “This is Redhorse. Her mother was Apache, and she wants to learn about her people.
” Thomas seemed surprised by Ithan’s use of the Native language, and even more so when Nia answered clearly in English, “Despite not using it often.” “What was your mother’s name? What was her name?” Thomas blinked rapidly, clearly not expecting to be spoken to directly. “Sara, ma’am, but Dad said she had another name before, an Apache name, but he never wanted to tell me what it was. Why not? Nia asked with keen curiosity.
Thomas shrugged, discomfort evident in his posture. She said they were bad memories for her. She said she wanted to forget. Nia’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. Where was she from? What gang? I don’t know, ma’am. That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. Thomas reached inside his shirt and pulled out a small leather pouch. All I have is this.
It was hers. With trembling fingers, he untied the pouch and carefully removed a square of suede about 4 inches on a side, embroidered with colorful porcupine quills in an intricate pattern. Nia’s sharp intake of breath rang in the early morning stillness. She stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the embroidered square.
“May I?” she asked, her hands outstretched. Thomas nodded, placing the valuable object in her palms. Nia examined the embroidery with intense concentration, her fingers tracing the pattern of interlocking spirals and geometric shapes.
Her expression changed through a range of emotions: recognition, disbelief, and finally a complex mix of joy and sadness. “This pattern,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “belongs to the Nighthawk band, my people.” She looked at Thomas, seeing it again. “This is part of a wedding blanket, a gift for a bride.” Thomas’s eyes widened. “Do you know what it is? Perhaps you knew my mother’s people.”
Nia’s gaze returned to the embroidery on her finger, still tracing the pattern as if reading a familiar text. “Many women were taken during the attacks, some young, unmarried women. The soldiers.” She paused, looking at Ethan. Then she looked back at Thomas. “Some soldiers took wives from Patches. P said he married her.”

“Really,” Thomas said defensively. “He said he loved her.” Ni nodded, neither confirming nor denying her statement. “This work,” he continued, “the embroidery is very fine. Only certain families knew these patterns.” His voice took on a distant tone. “My sister Kiona was learning this pattern.”
Before, he abruptly stopped, his expression closing like a slamming door. He handed the embroidery back to Thomas with careful respect. “Your mother was skilled with her hands. This is good work.” Thomas reverently held the Gamusa square. “Do you think you could teach me about the Nighawk gang? About my mother’s people.”
The naked hope in the young man’s voice hung in the air between them. Ithan held his breath, not wanting to influence Nia’s decision in any way. After what seemed like an eternity, Nia inclined her head in a small nod. “I will tell you what I can,” she agreed, “but first we should eat. You have ridden hard.”
Thomas’s face transformed into one of relief and joy. “Thank you, ma’am.” That is, he fumbled for the right Apache word. Nia, she said. You can call me Ni. The three of them settled on the porch. Ethan provided coffee for himself and Thomas water for Nia, as the morning sun rose, bathing the valley in golden light. Ni began to talk about the Nighawk Band, their traditions, their beliefs, their way of life before the soldiers arrived.
Thomas listened with rapt attention, occasionally asking questions, but mostly absorbing her words like a man dying of thirst finally offered water. Ihan remained silent, witnessing this unexpected connection, this tentative bridge between past and future.
As Nia spoke of seasonal migrations, household practices, and creation stories, Itan observed a gradual transformation in her demeanor. The rigid weariness that had characterized her since their meeting began to soften. Talking about her people seemed to restore something vital to her: pride, identity, purpose. Eventually, the conversation turned to a more recent, painful history.
“What happened to the Nighthawk band?” Thomas asked, his voice low, anticipating a difficult answer. Nia’s expression darkened. “Destroyed 12 summers ago. The ones in blue came at night, led by a white scout who knew our trails, who had won our trust.” Her gaze shifted briefly to Itan, then away. “
Many died, others were captured. We were trained on different reservations. Some women were taken by soldiers. The children were sent to mission schools.” “And your sister?” Thomas asked. “Jona, what happened to her?” Pain appeared on Nia’s face. “We were separated in the chaos. I searched for her for many years. Two months ago, I heard rumors that she might be alive near Ford Defiance.”
was traveling there when she made a vague gesture indicating her recent captivity. Thomas leaned forward excitedly. Fort Deffians, it’s not that far. Perhaps we could. It’s not that simple, Nia interrupted gently. I’m considered an enemy by the army. I can’t travel freely, but Mr. Sullivan might be able to help, and I could come too. Thomas turned his hopeful gaze on Itan.
We couldn’t, sir. We couldn’t help Nia find her sister. Ethan found himself caught in an impossible position. How could he explain his reluctance without revealing his connection to the same attack that destroyed Nia’s village? How could he face Fort Deffians? Where might he be recognized by former comrades who knew of his role that night? Yet looking at Thomas’s enthusiastic face and Nia’s carefully controlled expression, he couldn’t refuse outright. It’s complicated, son. He held back. Ford
Defiance is army territory. They don’t like civilians asking questions about native prisoners. But you were a soldier once, weren’t you? Thomas persisted. I heard the townspeople say you fought in the wars. They listened. Ihan winced inwardly at the irony. If he had been a soldier, the very one who had betrayed Nia’s people, however unintentionally, the last person who should attempt such a mission. Before he could formulate a response, the sound of approaching horsemen broke

Once again, the morning stillness. Several horses were moving at a canter this time instead of Thomas’s cautious walk. Ihan stood up quickly, his hand going to his pistol. “Thomas, take Nia inside,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.
The boy hesitated only a moment before nodding, leading Nia toward the cabin door. She went reluctantly, her posture once again alert and cautious. Ihan positioned himself in the courtyard, placing himself between the approaching riders and the cabin. Three riders appeared on the ridge against the late-morning sky.
They approached with confident purpose, spread out in a formation Ihan recognized from his military days—a tactical approach, not a social visit. As they approached, Itan’s stomach tightened with recognition. The lead rider, a broad-shouldered man with iron-gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard, was none other than Captain James Blackwood, his former commanding officer, the man who ordered the attack on Nia’s village, the man who lied to Ethan about a peaceful negotiation.
Blackwood reined in his horse at the edge of the courtyard. The two men with him—hard-faced strangers with the unmistakable appearance of hired guns—flanked him at a respectful distance. “Sullivan!” Blackwood called in the same commanding voice Itan remembered from years past.
“Long time no see, soldier.” “I am no longer your soldier, Blackwood,” Itan replied coldly. “What brings you to my property?” Blackwood smiled, though the expression never reached his pale blue eyes. “That’s how you greet a former commanding officer.” After all we’ve been through together, he looked around the estate with exaggerated interest. “Nice little place you have here, secluded, quiet.”
His gaze returned to Itan, suddenly sharp. Perfect for hiding things that don’t belong to you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, keeping between Blackwood and the cabin. “Oh, I think so.” Blackwood’s smile disappeared. “Rumors travel, Sullivan, even out here in the middle of nowhere. I heard you bought something interesting in Silver Creek yesterday. Tribal property.
Government property, to be precise. She’s already a person, not property.” “Age,” Itan said, anger looming in his voice despite his effort to remain calm. “Ah, so you admit you have her.” Blackwood nodded to his companions. “The Apache woman belongs to the U.S. government; Sullivan is a prisoner of war captured during a legitimate military operation. I’m here to get her back.”
“Under what authority,” Itan challenged. “You’re not in uniform, Captain. Last I heard, you left the army under questionable circumstances.” A flash of anger crossed Blackwood’s face before it overpowered her. “Now I work as a contractor, capturing escaped prisoners and maintaining order on the border. It pays better than the army.
” He straightened in the saddle. “Now be reasonable, Sullivan. Hand over the woman to us, and we’ll leave nice and smooth, no fuss.” And if I refuse, Blackwood’s smile turned cold and calculating. “Then things will get nasty for you and her.” He gestured to his companions, who moved subtly, hands moving closer to their holstered weapons. “Three against one, Salivan.
And I remember you were never a good shot.” ​​Tension sparked in the air between them. The moment hung by a thread. Itan’s mind raced between options, none of them good. He was outnumbered and outgunned, but the idea of ​​handing Nia over to this man, the architect of his people’s destruction, was unthinkable.
The cabin door creaked open behind him. Itan’s heart sank when Ni stepped onto the porch with Thomas anxiously at her heels. “It’s fine, Ethan,” his voice clear across the yard said in English. “I’ll go,” Itan protested, turning partially toward her while keeping Blackwood in his peripheral vision. “
You don’t understand who this man is. What has he done? I understand more than you know,” Ni replied to her stare fixed on Blackwood with undisguised hatred. “I know exactly who he is.” Blackwood’s expression changed from surprise quickly covered by calculation as he studied Nia more closely. “Why, not just any Indian, but one with spirit and memory, it seems.”
He laughed, a humorless sound. “You should have accepted my offer of peaceful surrender all those years ago. That woman would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.” Nia’s face remained impassive, but her eyes burned with cold fury. There was nothing peaceful about your offer, Blue Coat. You wanted our land. You took it in blood. The spoils of war. Blackwood shrugged.
Your people chose to fight. Mine chose to win. He gestured impatiently. Enough talk. Come here, woman. Now. Itan stood more firmly in front of Nia. She’s not going anywhere with you, Blackwood. The captain’s expression hardened. Don’t be a fool, Sullivan. Do you know what happened to the last man who stood between me and what I wanted? His gaze shifted meaningfully to Ihan’s cloth-wrapped wrist.
Your Apache. The brother learned that lesson the hard way, the reference to Jitian, Itan’s friend. The man who trusted him and died in the attack ordered by Blackwood ignited something primal inside him. His hand moved to his pistol, unholstering it in a fluid motion, the fruit of years of practice and desperation. “Leave,” he said, his voice deadly calm. “Leave now while you still can.
” Blackwood’s eyes widened in almost genuine surprise at Ethan’s defiance. Then his expression turned to cold fury. “You’re making a grave mistake, Sullivan. It wouldn’t be the first,” Itan replied, his pistol firmly in his hand. “But letting you take it would be worse.”

Por un momento tenso, pareció que Blackwood ordenaría atacar sin importar las consecuencias, pero de repente se rió un corto y agudo estallido de genuina diversión. Vaya, vaya. Después de todos estos años, el explorador encontró valor. Negó con la cabeza a un sonriendo. Entonces será el guardián por ahora. La sonrisa desapareció reemplazada por acero. Pero esto no ha terminado. Sullivan, ni cerca de eso.
Giró su caballo con precisión militar, haciendo un gesto a sus compañeros para que lo siguieran. Mientras se alejaban, Blackwood gritó por encima del hombro. Ella te contará lo que realmente pasó esa noche. Pregúntale por los guerreros escondidos en las cuevas esperando atacar nuestra patrulla. Pregúntale por las armas que estaban acumulando.
Luego se fueron cascos de caballo alejándose en la distancia, dejando solo polvo y tensión tras ellos. Itan quedó paralizado, las pistolas aún apretadas en su mano, las últimas palabras de Blackwood resonando en su mente. Era posible que hubiera habido más en el ataque de lo que él sabía.
Había sido la amistad de Ktian un engaño, una forma de obtener información para una emboscada planeada. No, no podía creer eso. No lo creería. Blackwood lo estaba manipulando como lo hizo hace 12 años. Ethan se volvió lentamente para mirar a Ni guardando su pistola con los dedos que ya comenzaban a temblar por la adrenalina.
Su expresión era inescrutable, sus ojos fijos en su muñeca envuelta en tela, donde la manga se había corrido durante el enfrentamiento revelando parcialmente la cicatriz en forma de X. “Tú”, dijo suavemente la única palabra cargada con el peso de una montaña. “Fuiste tú.” Detrás de ella, Thomas lucía confundido, mirando entre ellos con creciente preocupación.
“Señor Sullivan, ¿qué está pasando? ¿Quién era ese hombre?” Pero Ia no pudo concentrarse en las preguntas del niño. Había llegado el momento que temía desde que trajo a Nia a su casa. La verdad estaba desnuda entre ellos. Imposible de negar más. Nia, comenzó su nombre como ceniza en su boca. ¿Puedo explicar? Explicar. Su voz permaneció baja, pero con un filo que cortaba como un cuchillo.
Explica cómo llevaste soldados a mi aldea, cómo traicionaste la confianza de Cachan, cómo causaste la muerte de mi familia, de mi gente. Thomas jadeó comprendiendo con un brillo de entendimiento en su joven rostro. Señor Sullivan, ¿es eso cierto? Itan se sintió acorralado, expuesto. Los muros cuidadosamente construidos de su existencia solitaria se desmoronaban a su alrededor. Sin embargo, les debía a ambos la verdad.
La había debido desde el principio. Sí, admitió la palabra apenas audible. Y no, no lo sabía. Blackwood me mintió. Dijo que íbamos a negociar la paz para evitar derramamiento de sangre. El viejo dolor y la culpa resurgieron de nuevo. Le creí. Los llevé a tu aldea pensando que ayudaba a ambos bandos a evitar la guerra.

And when you saw them attack instead? Nia’s question was razor-sharp. I tried to stop it. I tried to warn people. Idan’s voice cracked with memory. I helped some escape, a woman and a girl, sisters. He looked directly at Nia. It was you and Kiona. Something flickered in Nia’s eyes, recognition perhaps, or the first seed of doubt in her certainty of his guilt. A soldier pulled his rifle away from his comrade. He said slowly.
He signaled us to run. Yes, Itan breathed. That was my… For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the distant call of a hawk circling above the valley. The three of them were frozen in a scene of revelation. Ihan, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the confession. Nia, rigid with the conflict between hatred and uncertainty.
Thomas, his eyes wide with the sudden complexity of a situation he had innocently stumbled into. “I should kill you,” Nia finally said, her voice eerily calm. “By the laws of my people, I have that right.” Ethan nodded, accepting that truth.
“Do you have it? Mr. Sullivan saved your life,” Thomas protested, taking a step forward yesterday in the village and just a moment ago against those men. “Perhaps to assuage his guilt,” Nia replied without taking her gaze from Ethan. “Perhaps to buy his forgiveness.” “No,” Ethan said firmly. “I didn’t know who you were when I saw you in the village. I only knew you needed help and that I could give it to you.” He took a deep breath. “
As for forgiveness, I don’t expect it, I don’t deserve it. Some things cannot be forgiven. So why did Nia demand it? Why help me? Why fight Blackwood for me? Because it was the right thing to do,” Itan said simply. “Because Blackwood has destroyed enough lives.” He
hesitated, searching for words to explain something he himself didn’t fully understand. Because maybe saving one life doesn’t erase the lives of others that have been taken, but it’s still worth doing. The simple honesty of that statement seemed to reach Nia in a way that arguments or justifications couldn’t. Her posture softened almost imperceptibly, though her expression remained defensive.
“I need to think,” she finally said alone. Without waiting for answers, she turned and walked away from the cabin toward the stream that marked the edge of Ethan’s property. Her straight back and measured strides spoke of dignity maintained despite the internal storm. Thomas watched her go.
Then he turned to Itan, confusion and disappointment clashing on his young face. “It’s true, you really did help by attacking a Pache village.” Itan held the boy’s gaze firmly, owing him the same honesty he had given Niia. “I led soldiers there. I may not have known their true intentions, but that doesn’t erase my responsibility.” Thomas seemed to struggle with this.
His brow furrowed in concentration, but you tried to help when you realized what was happening. You helped Nia and her sister escape. “I tried,” Itan acknowledged, nodding slowly, processing this information with a maturity beyond his years. “My daddy was a soldier too,” he said finally.
“Mom never talked much about how they met. I always thought it was romantic, but he stayed quiet, a new understanding shining in his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t that simple. Few things are, son,” Ihan said gently, especially here on the border. Thomas glanced in the direction Nia had gone. “She’ll be okay. We should go after her. She needs space,” Itan replied.
“And we should respect that.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You should probably head back to town, Thomas.” This situation has become complicated, and it may not be safe to associate you with us because of that Blackwood man. Thomas squared his shoulders. I’m not afraid of him. You should be, Ihan said seriously.
He’s dangerous, and he holds grudges. He won’t let this go easily. Then you need help, Thomas insisted. You can’t face him alone. Ethan was surprised by the boy’s courage and loyalty offered so freely despite what he had just learned about Ethan’s past. I appreciate it, Thomas, but this isn’t your fight.
It involves my mother’s people, Thomas retorted. And Nia might be my only chance to learn about them. His expression turned pleading. Please, Mr. Sullivan, let me stay, at least until they return. Ihan hesitated, weighing the risks against the boy’s obvious need, then finally nodded.

It’s okay for now, but if things get worse, I’m sending you home. Relief washed over Thomas’s face. Thank you, Lord. I won’t get in the way. I promise. He glanced toward the horses. I can help with the chores while we wait. My daddy taught me something about horses. That will be welcome,
Itan agreed, grateful for the distraction from practical chores. As they headed toward the barn, Itan took one last look toward where Nia had gone. The creek bank was empty. Her figure now lost among the cottonwoods beyond. She had every reason to keep walking, to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man who had played a role in the destruction of her people, but something told her she wouldn’t. Not yet.
There were too many unanswered questions, too many tangled threads between them, and somewhere out there was her sister, the final piece of a puzzle that had brought them all together in this remote valley. For better or worse, their stories had become intertwined. What did that mean? For either of them, remained to be seen. The afternoon sun hung low over Cottonwood Valley, painting the landscape in rich amber hues.
Ethan and Thomas worked in companionable silence, repairing fence posts damaged by the previous night’s storm. The physical labor provided a welcome distraction from the morning’s confrontation. Though Itan found his gaze repeatedly drawn toward the Cottonwood Woods, where Nia had disappeared hours before. “
Do you think she’s coming back?” Thomas finally asked, voicing the question that had been hovering between them. Ithan pounded a nail into the weathered wood with perhaps more force than necessary. “I don’t know,” she admitted. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. Thomas wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a smear of dirt on his forehead.
“She needs you to find her sister,” he said with the simple certainty of youth. “And you need her forgiveness.” Itan regarded the boy intensely. Despite his clumsy manner and anxious enthusiasm, Thomas possessed an uncanny perception. “Forgiveness isn’t something you can earn like a salary, son,” Ethan said. Some things go beyond that.
My mom used to say, forgiveness isn’t about deserving it, Thomas replied, his gaze distant in memory. It’s about choosing to move forward instead of staying chained, isn’t it? To the past. Ethan considered this, wondering what personal wounds Sarah Red Horse had healed when she shared that wisdom with her son. Your mother sounds like a wise woman. She was. Thomas’s voice held both pride and sadness.
Papa never got over losing her. That’s why he didn’t speak of his Apache name or his people. He said it hurt too much. They fell silent again, each lost in his own thoughts as they continued their work. The sun was going down, lengthening the shadows across the valley.
Ithan had just decided they should return to the cabin when Thomas suddenly straightened, pointing toward the creek. “Look, she’s coming back.” Etan turned to see Nia emerging from the cottonwoods, walking with purposeful strides toward the cabin. Her expression was unreadable at this distance, but the deliberate nature of her return suggested she’d made some decision. “Go on ahead,” Itan told Thomas. “Make some coffee for us.
” The boy nodded, and understanding Ethan’s unspoken desire for a moment alone with Nia, he gathered his tools and headed toward the cabin, casting curious glances over his shoulder as he left. Itan waited, watching as Nia approached. She had washed in the stream.
Droplets of water still glistened on her hair, and the hem of her dress was damp. Her face was serene, revealing nothing of her inner thoughts. When she reached him, she paused, keeping a careful distance between them. For a long moment, neither spoke, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air like storm clouds. Finally, Nia broke the silence.
“I won’t kill you,” she said, her voice firm. Itan felt a flash of dry humor at her candor. “I appreciate it. Not for your sake,” he continued, “but for mine. I’ve seen enough death.” He studied her face with piercing intensity and said, “Now I remember the soldier who helped us escape. His eyes were just like yours, filled with horror at what was happening.” Ethan’s throat tightened with emotion. “
I never meant for any of this to happen, but it doesn’t change my part in it. No, it doesn’t,” she said. Her voice held no forgiveness, but perhaps a bit of understanding. “What will change is what you do now. What do you mean, Blackwood?” He spoke the name like a curse. He’ll be back, and he knows something about my sister. His eyes hardened with determination.
You owe me, Ethan Sullivan. Help me find Kiona. And perhaps we can talk about balance. Not forgiveness, Itan noted, but balance. It was more than he had a right to expect. I’ll help you, he promised. But Blackwood was right about one thing. It won’t be easy. Ford Fiance is Army territory.

You won’t get questions about Apache prisoners, so we won’t ask questions. Nia’s expression showed the first hint of something that in another context might have been a smile. We’ll demand answers. Doubts. The cabin seemed smaller with three people inside. After a simple supper of beans and the last of Itan’s cornbread, they gathered around the table to discuss plans.
A single lamp cast warm golden light over their faces, casting long shadows against the log walls. “Fiance’s Ford is a two-day ride from here,” Ethan explained, tracing the route on a rudimentary map he’d drawn in the dust on the table. “We’ll need supplies. I’m almost out of everything. Can we go to Silver Creek?” Thomas asked. “
Do we get what we need there?” Ida shook her head, very perilously. Blackwood will wait for that. There’s a trading post at Sidar Springs, about noon to the east—smaller, less likely to get into trouble. And Jo and Joh—Nia pointed to their distinctive Apache dress. I can’t walk freely among the white settlements. Itan considered the problem. I have some of Hann’s old clothes stored away. They could keep you, Mother.
The idea of ​​Nia wearing his late wife’s clothes stirred complex emotions, but practicality demanded it. With a shawl and sombrero, you could pass for Mexican. Maybe people see what they expect to see. Nia nodded, accepting the necessity without comment. When we leave at dawn, Ethan decided. The sooner we move, the less time Blackwood will have to set up checkpoints.
Thomas leaned forward eagerly. And I’m going too. Of course. Dan and Nia exchanged a glance. The boy’s enthusiasm was touching, but bringing him would significantly increase the danger. Thomas began Idan gently. This could turn dangerous. Blackwood is not someone to be crossed lightly. “I can take care of myself,” the boy insisted. “P taught me to shoot, and I ride better than I did yesterday.”
At least he looked between them, determination hardening his young features. “Please, this might be my only chance to learn about my mother’s people.” “It’s not an adventure, Bing,” Nia said, her voice firm, but not cruel. “It’s a dangerous journey that could end badly.” “I know,” Thomas replied with unexpected solemnity.
“But staying behind would be worse, not knowing, always wondering.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I’ve been wondering all my life.” Something in the boy’s quiet desperation touched both adults. Ethan recognized the need to understand one’s origins in order to connect with a heritage that had been denied him. And Nia perhaps saw in Thomas a living bridge between two worlds, proof that understanding between their peoples was possible.
“The Bade,” Nia decided in a tone that brooked no argument. “But you will obey without question when there is danger,” she added, fixing Thomas with an intense gaze. “Do you understand?” Thomas nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am, I promise.” With that settled, they set about the practical preparations.

Ethan took inventory of weapons and ammunition, while Nia repaired a second pair of moccasins for the trip. Thomas was sent to check on the horses and make sure they were ready for an early departure. Later, as Thomas slept peacefully in a sleeping bag near the hearth, Itan and Inia sat on the porch in the cool night air against their skin.
The stars glittered brightly in the clear desert sky. Countless diamonds were scattered over her black hair. “He reminds me of my brother,” Nia said unexpectedly, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains. Always anxious, always questioning. He died in the first wave of the attack. Ethan grimaced at the casual mention of a tragedy he himself had helped bring about.
“Sorry, sorry. It doesn’t bring back the dead,” Nia replied without anger. “But perhaps I can help the living move on.” She turned to face him directly. “Tell me honestly, Ethan Sullivan, why did you become a scout for the Bluecoats? Why did you bring them to our lands?” It was a fair question, one Han had asked himself countless times over the years. He owed her the honest answer.
He was a young idealist, believe it or not. He gave a short, humorless laugh. He thought if he could help the soldiers understand Apache ways, he would prevent violence, not cause it. He believed Blackwood when he said he wanted peaceful solutions. Old bitterness rose in her throat. “I was a fool.”
Yes, Nia agreed bluntly, but perhaps not a villain. She studied his profile in the moonlight. Kitian was no fool. He saw something in you worth trusting. He was wrong. Perhaps, perhaps not. Nia’s voice took on a thoughtful note. “My people believe a man’s spirit shows itself in his eyes.”
Kitian I wouldn’t have marked you as a brother if I’d seen darkness there. Ithan absentmindedly touched his cloth-wrapped wrist. I’ve borne this mark as both honor and shame, a reminder of a betrayed friendship or a promise yet to be kept. Nia suggested that blood ties run deeper than death. Ethan Sullivan.
Perhaps Kitian’s spirit guided you to me. Perhaps he still seeks balance through your actions. The thought was both unsettling and strangely comforting. Ethan had never been a spiritual man, but he couldn’t deny the unlikely chain of events that had brought him and N together after 12 years. “Tomorrow we begin the journey,” Nia said, rising from her chair. “We must rest while we can.
” Ithan nodded, watching her disappear into the cabin. He lingered on the porch for a while longer, contemplating the stars and the unpredictable paths that had led them to this moment. Dawn came clear, the eastern sky painted in cool shades of pink and gold.
By the time the sun cleared the horizon, they were already an hour into their journey, the cabin shrinking behind them. As they followed the winding trail east, Itan led the way on Bell, his sturdy mare. Nia rode the more docile of her two packhorses, a dangling named Buck. Thomas brought up the rear on his own horse, a bay mare he had proudly introduced as Penny.
Nia wore Hana’s old riding skirt and blouse, the fabric faded but wearable. A wide-brimmed hat and wool shawl completed the disguise, shadowing her face and obscuring her distinctive features. In that attire, she could pass for a Mexican woman or perhaps the wife of a settler of mixed ancestry—common enough to avoid immediate suspicion.

They traveled in silence for the most part, each lost in private thoughts, while the landscape gradually changed around them. The leafy valley gave way to rockier terrain with juniper and pinyon pines replacing the cottonwoods that lined Ethan’s Creek. By midmorning, they had covered considerable ground, following animal trails and old roads Itan remembered from his scouting days.
These routes, less traveled than the main roads, offered both safety from chance encounters and painful reminders of Ethan’s troubled past. “How far is it to Sidar Springs?” Thomas asked during a brief break to water the horses. “We’ll be there by midafternoon,” Itan replied, scanning the horizon with his usual tiredness. “We’ll get supplies.
Maybe hear some news about army movements, and then we’ll continue east until sunset. We’ll sleep under the stars.” Thomas’s enthusiasm for the journey remained undiminished despite the hours in the saddle. “If we find a safe place,” Ethan confirmed. “I know a dead-end canyon about two hours past Idar Springs. Good water, defensible position.
” Nia, who had been silently observing their surroundings, suddenly tensed. “Riders,” she said softly, pointing to a distant ridge. “Three, maybe four.” Itan followed her gaze, squinting against the sunlight.
Small clouds of dust marked the movement of horses along the ridge, too far away to identify the riders, but definitely moving in their general direction. “Could be anyone,” Thomas said hopefully. “Settlers, maybe,” Itan agreed, though his instincts told him otherwise. “But we’re not taking any chances. There’s a dry creek about half a mile ahead. We can follow it and stay out of sight.”
They rode quickly and continued at a faster pace. Ihan led them toward the dry stream that cut across the landscape like a scar. Once within its protective banks, they would be hidden from distant observers. The stream offered good cover with steep banks rising 3 m on either side.
The sandy bottom allowed for quiet passage, though the horses had to carefully navigate the scattered rocks and occasional patches of tough vegetation. They had traveled perhaps a mile in this concealed manner when Ihan raised his hand signaling a halt. Ahead, the stream narrowed considerably, barely wide enough for a single horse to pass.
Beyond the narrow section, it opened up again, but the constriction created a natural choke point perfect for an ambush. “Wait here,” Itan whispered, dismounting and handing Bell’s reins to Thomas. “I’ll go reconnoiter.” Drawing his pistol, Itan advanced on foot, keeping close to the eastern wall of the creek where the shadows offered greater concealment.
As he approached the narrow pass, he slowed his pace, his senses alert for any sign of danger. The only sound was the soft whisper of wind on stone and the occasional call of a desert bird. Ethan reached the narrowest point and stopped, listening intently. Nothing seemed out of place.
Yet the tingling sensation on the back of his neck, a scout’s intuition developed over years of surviving on the frontier, refused to go away. He was about to turn back when a small movement caught his attention: a cascade of pebbles from the creek’s edge, displaced by something or someone above.
Ihan pressed himself against the wall, gun raised, eyes scanning the rim above him. A shadow fell across the sand, and Itan looked up to find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle. Behind it, a hard-faced man in dusty cowboy clothes was smiling at him sarcastically. “Good morning, Sulivan,” the man drawled. “It’s nice to see you here.”
Before Itan could reply, more figures appeared along both sides of the creek. Four men in all, all armed, all with the unmistakable look of hired guns. He recognized two from Blackwood’s group the day before. “The captain sends his regards,” the first man continued, rifle steady. “He said you might be taking this route.
Said you’d be taking a woman and maybe a mixed-race child with you.” Ihan’s mind raced, calculating distances and angles; the chances of survival if he fired first—the odds were poor. Even if he managed to wound one or two, the others would cut him down before he could reach cover. “They’re not with me,” he lied calmly. “I’m alone.” The man’s smile widened. “Look, I don’t believe this.
The captain was very specific about you having company.” He gestured with his rifle. “Why don’t you call them up here? It would save us the trouble of going to find them.” “Go to the,” Itan replied quietly. The man’s expression hardened. “As you wish.” He nodded to one of his companions. “Garret Jackson, go find the others.”
Peters is watching our friend here. Two men disappeared from view, presumably heading back up the creek toward where Nia and Thomas were waiting. Ethan silently hoped they’d heard the exchange and had the sense to flee. “You working for Blackwood Dixon now?” Itan asked, recognizing the leader as a former cavalry sergeant who had served under Blackwood years before.
“I didn’t see you as a hired gun.” Dixon shrugged. “Times change. Army pay isn’t what it used to be. The captain offers good pay for simple jobs.” His eyes narrowed as if referring to capturing an escaped Apache and a traitor. That’s what I am now. A traitor.

Palabras del capitán No mías. Dice que traicionaste tu juramento cuando interferiste con propiedad del gobierno. Dixon escupió en la arena. Nunca entendí a ustedes, los exploradores demasiado amigos de los salvajes. El dedo de Ethan picaba en el gatillo de su pistola. Solo tendría un disparo antes de que Dixon o el tal Peters lo abatieran.
Pero si Nia y Thomas habían escuchado la conversación, quizás su sacrificio les daría tiempo para escapar. Se tensaba para hacer su movimiento cuando un crujido seco resonó por el cauce. Un disparo de rifle, pero no desde arriba. Dixon se echó hacia atrás agarrándose el hombro mientras la sangre se escapaba entre sus dedos.
Peter giró su rifle hacia el sonido, pero un segundo disparo le arrebató el arma de las manos. Suelta el arma, señor Sullivan. La voz de Thomas sonó desde algún lugar corriente abajo. Agáchate. Ihan no dudó. Se tiró al suelo mientras más disparos resonaban rebotando en las piedras y haciendo que Peter buscara cobertura.
Un ulular de guerra agudo resonó por el cauce. La voz de Niaz un grito de batalla Pache, que había infundido miedo en colonos y soldados por generaciones. Aprovechando la confusión, Itan rodó detrás de una roca apuntando con su pistola a Dixon, que luchaba por apuntar con el rifle con una mano. Un disparo rápido le arrebató el arma y Dixon maldijo sujetándose el hombro sangrante.
El intercambio de disparos continuó varios momentos caóticos. Luego, tan de repente como cayó el silencio. Ethan llamó Thomas con cautela. ¿Estás bien? Aquí estoy. Confirmó Itan manteniendo la pistola apuntando a Dixon. Y tú y Nia. Estamos bien. La voz del chico estaba tensa pero firme. Dos hombres vinieron por nosotros. Nia se encargó de ellos. Itan miró hacia la entrada del cauce justo a tiempo para ver a Nia salir de las sombras con tomas muy cerca.
El chico llevaba un rifle que claramente había visto mejores días, pero funcionaba. Nia se movía con la gracia fluida de un depredador, un cuchillo ensangrentado sostenido con naturalidad en una mano. “No están muertos”, dijo interpretando correctamente la expresión preocupada de Ethan. Solo desanimados para seguir.
Dixon miraba con furia y dolor a las figuras que se acercaban pálido. “¿Vas a colgar por esto, Sullivan? Atacar a hombres blancos para proteger a Paches es delito de orca en este territorio. La legítima defensa no es delito, respondió Itan con calma, y tampoco proteger a inocentes de secuestradores. Hizo un gesto con la pistola.
Párense despacio. Con Peter, cubriendo su retirada, desarmaron a Dixon y vendó su hombro herido con una tira de tela arrancada de su propia camisa. La herida dolía, pero no era mortal un disparo limpio a través del músculo que evitó huesos y vasos principales. ¿Qué hacemos con ellos?, preguntó Thomas su joven rostro preocupado por la violencia, pero decidido. Itan consideró sus opciones.
Matar a los hombres a sangre fría era impensable. Llevarlos como prisioneros ralentizaría considerablemente su viaje. Dejarlos ir significaba que informarían a Blackwood de inmediato. “Los dejamos”, decidió finalmente, pero no en condiciones de seguirnos rápido. Se volvió hacia Dixon.
¿Dónde están sus caballos? El pistolero contratado fulminó con la mirada, pero finalmente movió la cabeza hacia el borde del cauce. Arriba a media milla al este. Itan asintió a Thomas. Ve a buscarlos, tráelos aquí. Mientras Thomas trepaba por la orilla del cauce, Itan vigilaba a sus cautivos. Nia limpiaba su cuchillo metódicamente. Su expresión no revelaba nada de sus pensamientos.
“El apache debería habernos matado cuando tuvo la oportunidad”, murmuró Dixon mirando con furia a Nia. “La próxima vez no tendrá la oportunidad.” “No habrá próxima vez si eres listo,”, respondió Ethan. ¿Qué mensaje para Blackwood de mi parte? Dile que sé lo que realmente ocurrió en el pueblo Nighwk. Dile que recuerdo sus órdenes, sus promesas de paz, las charlas, sus mentiras.
Dile que si vuelve a venir tras nosotros, me aseguraré de que todos los periódicos desde aquí hasta Washington conozcan la verdad. Los ojos de Dixon se entrecerraron. El capitán no tiene miedo de viejas historias, Sullivan. Quizá no, pero sus nuevos empleadores podrían interesarse en cómo manejó esa misión de paz.

Too many civilian casualties for a negotiation. Ihan leaned closer. The army might overlook such things, but contractors need clean reputations. Hard to get hired if they think you massacred women and children. A flash of uncertainty crossed Dixon’s face, suggesting the threat carried weight.
Before he could respond, Thomas returned, leading four horses toward the riverbed. “Found them, Mr. Sullivan,” the proud boy reported. “They’re good animals. A shame to leave them with those men. We won’t leave them all,” Ihan decided. “We’ll take two as reserve mounts. The other two will take these men back to where they came from.” He turned to Dixon. “That’s generous,
under the circumstances.” They tied the gunmen securely but not cruelly, leaving them water and enough mobility so they could eventually free themselves. Their weapons were unloaded and stored in one of the captured saddlebags, to be disposed of later far from where the men could retrieve them.
“This isn’t over, Sullivan,” Dixon shouted as they prepared to leave. “Captain Blackwood doesn’t forget, and he doesn’t forgive.” “Me neither,” Ethan replied quietly, meeting the man’s gaze with firm resolve. That is the message I want you to deliver. They abandoned the creek route as quickly as possible, traversing cross-country over rough terrain that would make tracking difficult.
Ihan led the way along a winding path, occasionally returning to check on them and deliberately crossing rocky ground where hoof prints wouldn’t be left. By nightfall, they had traveled a considerable distance. Though not necessarily the most direct route to Sidar Springs.
The encounter with Blackwood’s men had forced a change of plans. “We can’t risk the trading post now,” Ethan explained as they paused to rest their horses in the shadow of a towering sandstone formation. “Word travels fast. Blackwood will have men watching all the settlements, but we need supplies,” Thomas pointed out. “
We barely have enough food for tonight. I know people,” Nia said unexpectedly. “Not all the Apache are on reservations. Some still live free in the mountains. They will help us.” Ihan raised an eyebrow. Surprised.
Are you sure free bands are wary of strangers? Especially white men. They’ll help me, Nia clarified. You and the boy may need to wait at a distance. Their decision made, they changed course for the distant Blue Mountain Range, where free Apache bands were rumored to maintain their traditional way of life hidden in remote canyons and mesas far from army patrols.
As they rode, Thomas moved his horse alongside Nia’s, curiosity showing in his expression. How will you find those people? The mountains are vast. There are signs, Nia explained. Markings on the trees, patterns on stones, messages for those who know how to read them. She studied the boy thoughtfully. Your mother didn’t strain these things. Thomas shook his head, the regret evident on his young face. She didn’t say much about the customs to Pache. She
said it made her too sad. He hesitated. Then he added hopefully, “Perhaps you could teach me.” A gentle change appeared on Nia’s face. Not quite a smile, but a lessening of the watchful tiredness she usually displayed. “Perhaps if we survive this journey,” they rode in silence for a while.

The only sounds were the steady beat of hooves and the occasional cry of a hunting falcon circling overhead. The landscape became more dramatic as they approached the mountains. The flat desert gave way to jagged formations of red stone and amber, sculpted by wind and water into fantastic shapes. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across their path when Nia suddenly raised her hands, signaling them to stop. “
There,” she said, pointing to what looked like a common juniper growing from a crack in a sandstone wall. Itan followed her gesture but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What am I looking for?” “The branches,” Nia explained. “Look how three are broken in the same direction and the stones underneath are arranged in a pattern like a lizard’s tail.” She dismounted, approaching the tree with reverent care. “This is a message. There are people nearby.”
She studied the signs more thoroughly, then returned to her horse. We followed the broken branches. Over there, he pointed toward a narrow canyon that cut between two towering mesas. “You and the boy must stay here. I’ll go alone first.” Ethan shook his head. “Very dangerous. Blackwood’s men could still be following us. My people will not welcome armed white men approaching their camp.”
Nia replied firmly. “This is how it should be done.” After a brief but intense negotiation, they reached a compromise. Nia would go ahead alone, but Ethan and Thomas would follow at a discreet distance, close enough to assist, if necessary, but far enough away so as not to cause alarm. As the sun sank toward the western horizon, casting the canyon in deep shadow, Nia didn’t disappear around a bend in the narrow passage.
Ethan and Thomas waited 15 tense minutes, then cautiously pressed their horses forward over the rocky terrain. The canyon twisted and turned. Its walls rose higher and higher until only a narrow band of sky was visible above. The air grew cooler in the permanent shade, carrying the scent of pinyon pine and sage.
Water had once flowed here, carving the pass for countless centuries, though now the canyon floor remained dry except during rare desert rains. They’d gone perhaps half a mile when Iza noticed a subtle change in the atmosphere. A sense of being watched that prickled the hair on the back of her neck.
She signaled Thomas to stop, instinctively moving her hand to her holstered pistol. “I wouldn’t do that,” a calm voice warned in accented English. Three Apache warriors seemed to materialize from the very stone of the canyon walls. Their clothing and paint made them nearly invisible until they moved. Each carried a rifle trained steadily on Itan and Thomas.
“We come in peace,” Ethan said in Apache, slowly raising his hands to show they held no weapons. We followed Nia of the Nighawk band. The warriors’ expressions remained impassive, but a flash of surprise crossed one man’s eyes at Ethan’s use of his language.
“The woman spoke of you,” the lead warrior replied in English. “She said you were a white man who speaks the Apache tongue. She said you once bore the mark of Cachan.” Ethan nodded carefully, showing the X-shaped scar on his sleeve. “I was her blood brother before the attack on her village.” The warriors exchanged glances, communicating silently.
Finally, the leader gestured with his rifle. “You may pass, but your weapons remain with your horses.” Without much choice, Ethan and Thomas surrendered their weapons, securing them to the saddles before following the warriors deeper into the canyon.
Thomas walked close to Itan, his youthful bravado momentarily replaced by wide-eyed apprehension. “It’s okay,” Itan murmured reassuringly. “If they wanted to hurt us, we’d be dead by now.” This observation, though untrue, comforted the boy. The canyon eventually opened into a small green valley hidden from aerial observation by the surrounding cliffs and accessible only through the narrow pass they had just traversed.
A stream burbled along one rim, feeding a series of small garden plots where corn, beans, and squash grew in neat rows. Several wubs—traditional Apache dwellings made of brush and hides—were clustered near the water source, with a larger structure serving as a community meeting place.
The women paused in their work to watch the strangers pass by as children peered curiously from behind their mothers’ skirts. Elderly men sat in the shade. Their weathered faces betrayed nothing of their thoughts as they watched the white man and the mixed-race boy enter their sanctuary.
Nia waited in the center of the camp, deep in conversation with an elderly woman, whose posture and traditional style remained proud. Despite their years, they turned when Ethan and Thomas approached, the sharp gaze of the older woman appraising them with penetrating intensity. “This is Nasha, Elder of the Mountain Shadow Band,” Nia introduced herself in Apache. “She has agreed to help us.” Itan bowed his head respectfully. “We are grateful for your hospitality.”

“Nasha studied him for a long moment. Her dark eyes seemed to look through him more than see him. “You carry many burdens, white man,” she finally said, her voice strong despite her age. Some earned, some not. Some seen, some hidden. Her gaze shifted to his bandaged wrist. “Remove having my nephew. He saw something in you worth marking. I will honor his judgment for now.
” The conditional nature of the acceptance was clear, but she valued the honesty. Thank you. Nasha turned her attention to Thomas, who was standing uncomfortably next to Itan, clearly unsure of proper protocol. “And you, boy, you have Apache blood, but you know nothing of Apache ways.” It was an observation, not a criticism, but Thomas blushed anyway.
“My mother died when I was young,” he explained. “There was no one to teach me.” A flicker of sympathy crossed the old woman’s weathered features. “Then it is good that you came. The past cannot be recovered, but knowledge can still be gained.” She gestured toward the communal structure. “Come, we will talk over food.”
As the sun fully set, painting the cliff walls in deep shades of purple and gold, they gathered around a small fire inside the shelter. The meal was simple but nourishing: a stew of rabbit and wild greens with cakes made from mesquite bean flour. Other members of the small band joined them. Their initial distrust gradually gave way to cautious acceptance as Nia explained the purpose of their trip. “
For defiance,” Nasha repeated, her expression grave. “A dangerous place for any Apache to approach. Many who enter never come out.” “My sister may be there,” Nia said. “I must find her.” “And you think these white men will help you?” an older warrior asked skeptically.
Why would they risk themselves for an Apache woman? Before Nia could answer, Thomas spoke with unexpected conviction. Because it’s the right thing to do, and because Mr. Sullivan has a debt to pay. The simplicity and truth of the statement hung in the air, met with approving nods from several of the Apache elders. They understood the concept of debt and balance in a way that transcended cultural differences.
The boy speaks the truth, Nasha acknowledged, “but the truth alone won’t get you past the army rifles.” She turned to Ethan. “What’s your plan, white man?” Ethan explained his intention to openly approach Fort Deffiens, using his former military status to gain access and information. I served there briefly. Some officers may remember me.
And if they recall that you helped Apches escape during Nighawk’s attack, Nasha challenged. They’ll receive you then. That part of my story is well known, Ethan replied. Blackwood had reasons to keep it secret. Nasha considered. Then she nodded slowly. Perhaps, but you’ll need more than your past service to safely enter Fort Deffiens.
She pointed to one of the young men who disappeared briefly before returning with a package wrapped in tanned deerskin. “Take this,” she said when the package was unwrapped to reveal army papers and an officer’s badge from a private in blue who’d have no more need for them.

Con estos puedes convertirte en un mensajero que trae noticias importantes desde el fuerte Winding, Ethan aceptó los documentos con una mezcla de gratitud y preocupación. Usarlos falsamente podría significar prisión o algo peor. Y no usar nada podría significar la muerte para todos ustedes, replicó Nasha con pragmatismo. A veces la supervivencia requiere engaño.
A medida que la noche avanzaba, discutieron los detalles de su acercamiento al fuerte de Fians, basándose en el conocimiento combinado de la experiencia militar de Ethan y la red de inteligencia de la banda Apache. Dibujaron mapas en la Tierra, discutieron horarios y planearon contingencias. La mujer que se cree es Kiona trabaja como traductora entre el ejército y los prisioneros apaches Nasha explicó.
Ella vive en una casita cerca de la muralla este separada de los otros apaches. Los soldados valoran sus habilidades y le permiten ciertos privilegios. Esa parece mi hermana, dijo Nia con la esperanza despertándose en su voz. Siempre aprendió los idiomas rápido. Si es ella, debes estar preparada para cambios, advirtió Nasha con suavidad.
12 veranos traen muchos cambios, especialmente para quienes viven entre enemigos. La planificación continuó hasta entrada la noche. Finalmente, la mayoría de la banda se retiró a sus wiki, dejando a Itan Nia y Thomas con Nasha y dos guerreros mayores. Descansen ahora, aconsejó Nasha.
Mañana continuarán su viaje con provisiones frescas y caballos más fuertes. Esta noche están seguros. Mientras Sitan se acomodaba sobre un costal proporcionado por sus anfitriones, el agotamiento por los eventos del día lo invadió, pero el sueño se resistía. Su mente giraba con planes riesgos y el peso de la tarea por delante. Cerca Thomas no tenía tales problemas.
El chico dormía profundamente un brazo lanzado sobre su rostro. Su respiración profunda y uniforme. La juventud tenía sus ventajas. Ethan estaba a punto de cerrar los ojos cuando sintió movimiento a su lado. Nia estaba sentada con las piernas cruzadas a su lado, su perfil delineado contra las brasas moribundas del fuego. “Deberías descansar”, susurró él.
Pronto ella respondió con voz igualmente suave. “He estado pensando en Kiona, en lo que dijo Nasha, que puede que haya cambiado.” Nia asintió. 12 veranos es mucho tiempo. Éramos niñas cuando nos separaron. Ahora somos mujeres. Se volvió para mirarlo directamente. Y si ella no quiere irse, ¿y si encontró un lugar entre los soldados de azul? La pregunta quedó suspendida entre ellos.
Reveló una vulnerabilidad que Nia rara vez mostraba. No era miedo al peligro físico, sino al rechazo emocional. Ithan consideró su respuesta con cuidado. Entonces esa será su decisión, dijo finalmente, “y la respetarás porque la amas. Y si Blackwood nos encuentra en el fuerte de fiance, si todo esto es una trampa, entonces lo enfrentaremos juntos.” Ethan sostuvo su mirada con firmeza.
No huiré esta vez, Nia, pase lo que pase. Algo cambió en su expresión. No era del todo confianza, pero quizás el comienzo de ella. asintió una vez aceptando su promesa. Luego volvió a su propio costal. Ethan la vio alejarse consciente de cuánto había cambiado entre ellos.
En el breve tiempo desde que había comprado su libertad en Silver Creek. De cautivos y rescatadores a aliados reacios habían comenzado a forjar una conexión que ninguno había anticipado. Si sería lo suficientemente fuerte para soportar los desafíos venideros, eso estaba por verse. Con esa incertidumbre pesando en su mente, Itan finalmente se rindió al cansancio cayendo en un sueño sin sueños bajo el vasto cielo del desierto.
El amanecer llegó temprano al valle escondido pintando las caras este de los acantilados con luz dorada. Mientras el fondo del cañón permanecía en fresca sombra, Itan despertó con los sonidos del campamento que cobraba vida, mujeres atendiendo los fuegos matutinos, niños charlando mientras llevaban agua del arroyo, hombres preparándose para la cacería o el reconocimiento del día.
Thomas ya estaba despierto ayudando con entusiasmo a dos niños apache con las tareas matutinas. La barrera del idioma no parecía obstáculo para la comunicación universal de la juventud. Y Ethan observó con aprobación lo rápido que el chico había sido aceptado por la comunidad.
Nia salió de uno de los wikia donde había pasado la noche con las mujeres de la banda. Se había cambiado de nuevo a su vestido tradicional de piel de ciervo, recién lavado y reparado. Su cabello estaba trenzado al estilo apche, decorado con cuentas que atrapaban la luz de la mañana. La transformación fue sorprendente, como si capas de precaución y compromiso se hubieran lavado revelando su verdadero yo.
Ella encontró la mirada de Itan a través del campamento, asintiendo en señal de reconocimiento, pero sin acercarse. En cambio, se unió a un grupo de mujeres que preparaban la comida matutina. Sus movimientos eran fáciles y naturales entre su gente. Nasha apareció al lado de Itan su acercamiento tan silencioso que no lo había escuchado llegar. Ella recuerda quién es. observó la anciana siguiendo su mirada.
Esto es bueno. Una persona debe conocer sus raíces para mantenerse firme frente a vientos extraños. ¿Querrá irse?, preguntó Itan, expresando la pregunta que lo había preocupado durante la noche. Ahora que ha encontrado a su gente de nuevo. El rostro ajado de Nasha se curvó en una sonrisa. Esta es su gente, sí, pero no su hermana.
estudió a Itan con esos ojos penetrantes y quizás tenga razones para continuar el viaje más allá de encontrar a Kiona. Antes de que Itan pudiera preguntar qué qué quería decir Nasha, se alejó dando instrucciones a varios miembros de la banda mientras se preparaban para las actividades del día. El desayuno era un asunto comunitario.

The entire band would gather to share a meal of canola (toasted cornmeal) mixed with water and wild honey, and dried meat. Thomas sat among the children, absorbing Apache words and phrases with the remarkable adaptability of youth. Nia conversed with the women, occasionally translating interesting points for Thomas’s benefit. Ethan found himself well received by the older men, who seemed to have accepted Nasha’s judgment of his trustworthiness. They discussed homesteads, weather patterns, and the movements of
army patrols. Practical information was freely shared with someone no longer considered an outsider. After the meal, preparations for departure began in earnest. The band provided them with fresh supplies: dried meat, cornmeal, beans, and medicinal herbs, carefully wrapped in soft deerskin bundles.
Their horses were re-erected by a skilled Apache blacksmith, using tools salvaged from abandoned army camps. Their weapons were cleaned, checked, and returned without comment. Most valuable of all was the information. Detailed descriptions of the approach to Fort Deffiens, locations of army patrols, and places to hide along the way. One of the warriors.
A man named Turk, who occasionally approached the fort to observe the army’s movements, drew precise lines in the ground that Itan memorized. “Yes, they split up,” Nasha told them as they prepared to leave. “Come back here, follow the markings we’ve shown you. There will always be someone watching the canyon entrance.” “Thank you,” Itan said sincerely. “
We will not forget your kindness.” “It is not kindness,” the old woman replied. “It is alliance against common enemies.” Her gaze shifted to include Nia and Thomas, and perhaps in some small way, the beginnings of understanding between our peoples. Thomas, who had been given a proper Apache knife in a small medicine bag by the band, impulsively stepped forward. “I’ll come back,” he promised, “to learn more if it’s all right.”
Nasha’s stern features softened as she looked at the boy. “You have a place here, child of two worlds. When this journey is over, come back if you wish.” The farewell was brief but meaningful. The band gathered to see them off. Nia hugged several women, saying soft words in Apache that Ia couldn’t quite grasp.
As they mounted their horses and prepared to leave, Nasha approached Itan one last time. “Kichi, he saw something in you worth marking,” she said, lightly touching his cloth-wrapped wrist. “I’m beginning to see it too. Take good care of them, white man. They are more valuable than can be known.” With those cryptic words, she withdrew, raising her hand in farewell as they rode toward the canyon that would lead them back to the outside world. The journey toward Fort Defiance took them over increasingly rugged terrain.
They followed narrow home trails that wound through pine forests and high mesas, avoiding the main roads where Blackwood’s men might be keeping watch. The horses provided by the Mountain Shadow band proved their worth, navigating difficult passes with assured confidence.
Two days of hard riding brought them within sight of their destination. From their vantage point on a wooded ridge, they could see Fort Deffiens in the valley below, a plaza of adobe and wood structures surrounded by a high wall, the American flag flapping in the breeze above the main gate, larger than I expected,” Thomas commented as they watched the fort through Ihan’s spyglass. “
It’s grown since I was last here,” Ihan agreed. More buildings, stronger fortifications. The Apache wars have made them cautious. Nia’s expression was inscrutable as she studied the place that might house her sister. “Many soldiers,” she watched. “How will we get in?” Ihan lowered his spyglass, considering his options.
The dispatch papers from the forge might allow him past the gate, but bringing Nia and Thomas would raise suspicion. Trying to sneak in with all three would be nearly impossible, given how the fort’s defenses have improved. “I’ll go in alone,” he decided, using the dispatch papers. “I’ll locate Cayona first. I’ll make contact. I’ll explain the situation. Then I’ll come back for you.”
No, Nia said firmly. I didn’t come all the way here to wait outside while you search for my sister. It’s too dangerous for you to openly approach the fort, Ihan argued. She’s still considered a hostile Apache. They’d arrest you on sight. Then they won’t see me. Ni’s tone left no room for argument. I know ways to move unseen, even among soldiers.
Thomas, who had overheard their exchange with growing concern, offered a compromise. And if I go with Mr. Sullivan, I could pass for a mixed-race boy, perhaps a guide or servant. No one would look at me twice. Ihan considered the suggestion. The boy’s mixed-race heritage might be an advantage in this situation. He seemed young and harmless, unlikely to arouse suspicion.
And having a second pair of eyes inside the fort could be useful. It could work, she acknowledged. But Nia would still have to wait here, wouldn’t she? Here, she countered, pointing to a rock formation half a mile from the fort’s eastern wall, close enough to see, but hidden, and near where Nasha said Cayona lives.

After more discussion, they agreed on a plan. Ethan and Thomas would enter the fort openly using the dispatch papers and a story about bringing urgent messages from Fort Windgate. Once inside, they would locate Cayona’s room and establish contact. If possible, they would lure her outside the walls to meet with Nia.
If not, they would at least confirm her identity and status and then develop a new plan. As dusk approached, they made final preparations. Itan donned the officer’s badge Nasha provided him, pinning it to his cleanest shirt.
Thomas washed the road dust from his face and hands, adopting the demeanor of a respectful servant boy. Nia changed from her traditional dress into Hann’s clothing, the necessary disguise for their approach to the rock formation. “Be careful,” Ethan told her as they prepared to part ways. “Blackwood may have men guarding the fort.” “I’m always careful,” she replied. Then, unexpectedly, she reached out and grasped his arm just above the cloth-wrapped scar.
You too, Itan Sullivan, returned safely. The brief but deliberate touch carried meaning beyond words. Ethan nodded, understanding the unspoken message. They had grown from reluctant allies to something more complex, partners bound by a shared purpose and growing trust.
As the shadows lengthened in the valley below, they parted. Itan took a circuitous route toward the eastern rock formation, leading the packhorses and moving with the natural stealth of one bred to hunt and evade in the wilderness.
Itan and Thomas followed the main road to the fort entrance, their approach open and unhurried, as befitted official messengers. The fort’s massive gates loomed before them, with guards posted on either side and atop the walls. Ithan straightened in the saddle, assuming the confident stance of a man on official business. “Halt!” one of the guards called as he approached.
“State your business.” Ethan held up the dispatch papers with casual practice. “Courier from Fort Windgate. Dispatches for Colonel Harrington.” The guard examined the papers, then Ethan’s face, clearly comparing the description with the man in front of him. “You’re not regular army,” observed the scout, “Itan replied briefly, hired for courier service.
The lad is my guide,” he indicated impatiently. “The colonel will want this immediately.” The combination of official papers, authoritative bearing, and apparent impatience produced the desired effect. The guard nodded to his companion, who gave the signal to open the gates.
“First you will report to the adjutant’s office,” the guard instructed, handing back the papers. “Straight ahead, second building on the right.” Ithan nodded politely, touching the brim of his hat in acknowledgment before leading Bell through the doors with Thomas following close behind on his bay mare. The lad’s wide-eyed expression was perfect for his role, suitably impressed by the military surroundings but trying to remain professionally detached. Inside, the fort bustled with evening activity. Soldiers
practiced in the central courtyard. Cooks prepared dinner in outdoor kitchens, and civilian workers moved purposefully between buildings. No one paid special attention to a messenger and his young guide—just two more visitors on official business.
The adjutant’s office was easily located, a well-kept adobe structure with the regimental flag prominently displayed by the door. Ithan dismounted, signaling for Thomas to wait with the horses. “Keep an eye out,” he murmured. “Find a small cottage near the east wall for a mixed-race interpreter.” Thomas nodded almost imperceptibly, already scanning the surroundings with casual interest that masked his true purpose.
Inside the aide’s office, Ethan was greeted by a harried lieutenant, whose desk was overflowing with papers. The young officer barely glanced at the papers before signaling Ethan to wait while he informed the colonel of his arrival. Left alone briefly, Izhan took the opportunity to study a map of the fort hanging on a wall.
He quickly located the eastern section, noting with interest a small cluster of buildings slightly separated from the main quarters, likely living quarters for civilian employees and interpreters. “The lieutenant will return without delay. Colonel Harrington will see you now,” he announced, pointing to an interior door.
“You’d better be quick. You have an appointment at the officers’ mess in 20 minutes.” Colonel James Harrington turned out to be a burly man with a red face and the perpetually impatient expression of someone with too many responsibilities. And very soon, he accepted the dispatch papers without ceremony, breaking the seal and scanning the contents with customary efficiency.
Fort Wingate reports increased Apache activity near the Suni border. He summarized more to himself than requesting additional patrols. He looked up sharply. You came directly from Wingate. Yes, sir, Ethan confirmed. Two days of hard travel. You saw something unusual on the trail. Apache signs, renegade activity.
Nothing significant, sir. A few groups from home, but they kept their distance. The colonel grunted, returning his attention to his papers. Very well. You’ll have to wait for the dispatches back. They should be ready by morning. He wrote a note on a separate sheet of paper. Give it to the quartermaster. He’ll arrange lodging and meals for you and your boy.
Thank you, sir, Itan replied, accepting the note. If I may ask. I hear there’s an Apache interpreter at Fort Fians, a woman named Kiona. Harrington looked up, a glimmer of suspicion in his eyes. Why do you ask? Ethan maintained a casual demeanor despite his racing heart. They say she’s the best interpreter between here and Santa Fe.
I thought you might be able to help me with some translations I’m working on into Apache dialects for the Army Language Office. The explanation seemed to satisfy the colonel. Yes, we have such a person. Her name is Kiona Wilson now. She married one of our sergeants before he was killed at Civic Creek. He looked impatiently at his pocket watch.
She lives in the east civilian quarter, a small adobe house with a red door. But I’d wait until morning to bother her if I were you. She keeps to herself at night. Of course, sir. Thank you. Itan nodded firmly, relieved to have confirmed Kiona’s presence and known her approximate location without raising unnecessary suspicion.
Outside, he found Thomas exactly where he’d left him, though the lad had used the waiting time productively. He stood by the horses, apparently adjusting a girth, while chatting amicably with a young soldier who seemed equally bored with his watch. “All ready?” Thomas asked when Ethan approached casually, ending their conversation with a friendly nod to the soldier. “For now,” Itan replied. “
First we stable the horses, then we look for something to eat.” As they guided their mounts toward the Fort Thomas stables, he came close enough to talk without being overheard. “I found your house.” I think, a small adobe with a red door near the east wall. There’s a vegetable garden behind it and a path that leads to a small door in the wall.
Ethan nodded, impressed by the boy’s observational skills. That matches what the colonel told me. Her name is now Kiona Wilson. She married a sergeant who died in battle. Thomas’s eyes widened. Married to a white man, their headquarters, Itan replied, though he understood the boy’s surprise. Such marriages, while not unheard of, were uncommon and often frowned upon by both communities. The colonel said she keeps to herself at night. We’ll approach after dark.
The quartermaster gave us food vouchers for the soldiers’ mess and assigned us bunks in a visitors’ quarters, a spartan but functional room normally used for messengers and personnel on temporary assignment. The layout was perfect for our purposes, providing a legitimate reason for being within the fort walls.
They ate quickly in the noisy mess hall, drawing little attention among the dozens of soldiers enjoying their dinner. Afterward, they pretended to return to their assigned quarters, planning to slip away once darkness was complete, while they waited for the night to deepen. Thomas sat cross-legged on his narrow bunk, turning his new patch knife between his hands. “Do you think she’ll want to leave?” he asked suddenly. “Kiona—I mean, she has a life here, a home.”
The question mirrored Ethan’s own uncertainties. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but she deserves the chance to decide that freely. To know that her sister is involved in searching for her.” Thomas nodded thoughtfully. “My dad always said my mom missed her people, even though she never said so.
He said there was sometimes sadness in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. And that simple observation carried a profound weight, reminding Ihan of the invisible ties that bind people to their heritage, their family, their past. Ties that can be stretched but never truly broken.
When the fort’s evening clarion call sounded, signaling the end of the day’s activities, they waited another hour for most of the soldiers to settle into barracks or their nightly duties, then moved with deliberate casualness. They left their quarters and walked toward the eastern section of the fort. The night was clear and crisp, with stars shining brightly in the desert sky.
Most of the buildings were dark or dimly lit, though lanterns still burned in officers’ quarters and guard posts along the walls, few people were moving at that hour, making it easy to approach the civilian zone without attracting attention. Kiona’s house was exactly as described, a small adobe structure with a distinctive red door, set back somewhat from the neighboring buildings.
A lantern shone behind drawn curtains, suggesting the occupant was still awake. Ithan paused in the shadows, considering how to approach. A direct hit might scare her or prompt distress calls, but staying suspiciously close to her house might attract the attention of patrolling guards. “What’s the plan?” Thomas whispered, crouching beside him.
Before Itan could respond, the red door opened, spilling golden lamplight onto the packed earth outside. A woman emerged carrying a small bucket, likely used to draw water from the nearby well. Even in the dim light, the resemblance to Nia was unmistakable. Kiona was perhaps a little shorter than her sister, her movements more measured, but she carried herself with the same inherent dignity.
Her hair was styled in a more European style, and she wore a simple cotton dress rather than traditional Apache clothing, but her heritage was evident in her features and bearing. “That’s her,” Itan exhaled. “It has to be her.” They watched as Kiona walked toward the well. She filled her bucket and began to walk back toward her home.

Ethan stepped partially out of the shadows, positioning himself to intercept their path without seeming threatening. Kiona called softly, using her Apache name, rather than her married name. She froze the water sloshing in her bucket as she tensed. Her free hand moved quickly to her waistband, where Itan suspected she was carrying a concealed weapon.
“Who’s asking?” She answered in English, her voice firm despite her obvious surprise. “My name is Ethan Sullivan,” he said, remaining where he was with his hands visible to show he meant no harm. “Sister Nia.” The bucket suddenly fell from his limp fingers, the water spilling onto the dusty ground.
“Nia!” Kion’s voice cracked as he spoke the name. “My sister is dead. She died in the raid on our village.” “No,” Itan answered gently. “She survived. She’s been searching for you for years.” Kiona’s expression changed from shock to distrust.
“Why should I believe you? Who are you to know about my sister?” “I was there,” Itan admitted. “The night of the raid, I helped two sisters escape from the soldiers.” He reached out, parting the cloth to reveal the X-shaped scar. In the moonlight. “I bear Kiona’s mark. Your sister recognized it.” Kiona stared at the scar. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. “Where is she?” she demanded. “
If what you say is true, where is my sister now? Close.” Thomas stepped forward to stand at Ihan’s side. “Outside the fort, waiting to see you.” Kiona’s gaze flicked to the boy, truly noticing him for the first time. “And who are you, boy? Thomas Redhorse. Ma’am, my mother was Apache like yourself.” She drew herself up proudly. “I’ve been helping Mr. Sullivan and Nia find you.”
A complex array of emotions crossed Kiona’s face, hope battling disbelief with joy and caution. “This could be a trap,” she said, though her tone suggested she desperately wanted to believe. “How do I know you’re speaking the truth?” Ihan slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object he hadn’t even given her before they parted. A carved wooden turtle charm, worn and smooth from years of use.
“Niaa said this belonged to your grandmother,” he explained as he held it up. “She said you two made matching charms when you were children. Yours was a bird, a niad falcon.” Kiona’s hand flew to her throat, where a leather cord disappeared beneath the collar of her dress.
With trembling fingers, she pulled it out, revealing a carved wooden pendant in the shape of a night falcon that perfectly matched the turtle in style and craftsmanship. She whispered the Apache word for sister, unintentionally escaping. “She really does live, yes,” Ihan confirmed. “And she hopes to see you tonight, if possible.”
Kiona remained motionless for a long moment, clearly struggling with the overwhelming emotion and practical dangers of the situation. Finally, her decision crystallized in her expression. “Wait here,” she ordered. “I must get something inside. Then you will take me to her.
” She disappeared into her home, returning moments later with a dark shawl and a small leather bag. The bucket remained forgotten where it had fallen. “There’s a door,” she said, her voice low and urgent, “Used by the larches and water bearers. The guard knows me and won’t question my stepping out for a short while.” She led them down a narrow path that skirted the back of the civilian quarters to a small door in the eastern wall.
As expected, the guard simply nodded to Kiona, accepting without question her explanation about gathering specific herbs found only at night. Once outside the fort walls, Kiona’s demeanor changed subtly. Her steps became lighter, her movements more fluid, as if the proximity to the open field had awakened something long suppressed.
She followed Ethan’s lead toward the rocky outcrop where Nia waited, her anticipation palpable in the quickening of her stride. They had traveled perhaps half the distance when a shadow detached itself from the darkness ahead, moving quickly toward them. Nia had been watching, not wanting to wait at the agreed-upon spot.
Once she saw them leave the fort, the sisters simultaneously found themselves staying. Frozen for an instant of recognition. Then, with a cry that transcended language, they flung themselves together, colliding in an embrace so strong it seemed they would never part. Ethan and Thomas stayed back, giving the women privacy for their reunion. Even from a distance, the intensity of the moment was overwhelming.
12 years of separation, uncertainty, and loss compressed into a single healing convergence. The sisters spoke rapidly in Apache voices, choked with emotion, touching faces and arms, as if to confirm the reality of each other’s presence.
They laughed and cried simultaneously with their foreheads pressed together in moments of overwhelming feeling, then broke away and looked at each other again in wonder. “They found each other,” Thomas whispered, his young voice thick with emotion. After all this time, it seemed Itan was overcome by a complex mix of joy and melancholy. His role in this journey was coming to an end.
Once Kion and Nia were reunited, their debt, if not fully repaid, would at least be acknowledged. They would have no more need for him. The thought caused an unexpected pang, which he pushed away as the sisters finally turned toward them, arms still entwined, as if afraid of losing touch.
“My sister has told me so much in these few minutes,” Kiona said in English with a thicker accent than Nia’s, “about your journey to the past.” Her gaze locked with Ethan’s. “About your role in the destruction of our village.” Ethan held her gaze firmly, prepared for judgment. “Yes.
” “And about how you helped us escape that night?” she continued, two frightened girls fleeing death. “I tried,” Itan said simply. Too late for many. Kiona studied him closely, seeming to see beyond his features to something deeper. “I remember your eyes,” she said finally. “In the chaos of the empire, I saw your eyes—white man’s eyes filled with unequal pain.
” He nodded slowly. “Now I understand why the spirits brought you back into our lives.” Before Itan could respond, a sound reached them. Horses approaching from the direction of the fort. Several riders moving quickly toward them. Someone followed us. Thomas hissed, ducking instinctively.
“Back to the rocks,” Itan ordered, drawing his pistol. Now the four of them moved quickly toward the outcrop, seeking the cover of the rocks and the scattered pinyon pines. They had almost reached relative safety. As the riders crested a small rise, the moonlight revealing their identities with absolute clarity, at their head rode Captain James Blackwood, his pale eyes gleaming with triumph in the silver moonlight.
Behind her came five armed men—not soldiers in uniform, but the same kind of hired guns they had encountered at the creek. Sullivan called Blackwood, his voice ringing clearly in the air. Nocturnal. Did you really think I wouldn’t be watching Fort Defiens, waiting for you? “Will you show your cards?” Ethan pushed the others behind a large rock, positioning himself on its edge with a clear line of fire.
“Go to the horses,” he instructed in a harsh whisper. “They’re hidden in the air, beyond the rocks. Ride fast to the east. We won’t let you,” Nia insisted, drawing her knife. “This isn’t an argument,” Ihan replied grimly. “I’ll hold them here. Buy them time to move away.” A noble gesture.
Sullivan called out to Blackwood, having spotted their position despite the darkness. But ultimately futile. I have men positioned to cut off their escape routes. No one will get out of here tonight. The casual confidence in Blackwood’s voice suggested he wasn’t bluffing. Ethan quickly assessed his options. None good.
Fighting from their current position offered some cover advantage, but they were outnumbered and outgunned. Trying to reach the horses might mean leaving themselves exposed. Surrendering was unthinkable given Blackwood’s obvious desire for revenge. “What do you want, Blackwood?” Ihan called, stalling for time while he formulated a plan. “I want what’s rightfully mine.” Blackwood’s voice carried an obsessive tone. “
The Apache woman you stole at Silver Creek, the translator who knows too much about army operations. And you, Sullivan, the traitor who has evaded justice for 12 years.” “There was no justice in what happened at Nighawk Village,” Ethan countered. “Only a massacre disguised as military action. History is written by the victors,” Blackwood sneered. “And I intend to be the victor tonight.”
As the captain spoke, Ihan noticed subtle movement in his peripheral vision. Thomas had escaped his position by crawling toward a group of rocks to his right. The boy met Itan’s gaze briefly, pointing toward a narrow cleft that might offer a path to the Aoyo, where their horses waited.
Izhan nodded almost imperceptibly, then raised his voice again to cover the sound of Thomas’s movement. “You’re outside the army’s jurisdiction,” Blackwood said. “There’s no official sanction for what you’re doing here. I’m retrieving dangerous fugitives,” Blackwood replied easily.
“The army will thank me once it’s done. Enough talk. Surrender now, or we start shooting.” Kiona, who had been whispering urgently to Nia, suddenly spoke up. “Captain Blackwood, I’ll head out. Let the others go, and I’ll return to the fort voluntarily.” Kiona, no. She was clutching her sister’s arm. “Trust me,” Kiona whispered. “I know these men.
I know how to handle them.” Before anyone could stop her, Kiona stood and stepped out from behind the rock, her hands raised to show she was unarmed. “Captain, I’m coming out. Don’t fire.” Blackwood signaled his men to lower their weapons, though they remained alert and ready. “Mrs. Wilson,” he called, his tone shifting to false cordiality.
“Wise decision, your cooperation will be noted.” Kiona walked slowly toward the mounted men, her posture dignified despite her vulnerable position. “There is no need for violence,” she said in a firm, reasonable voice. “I will return to the fort. The others will leave peacefully. No one is to know of this incident.” Blackwood’s laugh was humorless. A tempting offer, but one I’m afraid I must decline.
You see, I can’t have Sullivan running around telling stories about what really happened at Nighak Village. Bad for business, you understand? As he spoke, Thomas had successfully reached the cleft and was frantically signaling for Nia to follow. Ethan maintained his gun position, trained on Blackwood, ready to provide covering fire if necessary.
“What happened at Nighawk is already known,” Kiona replied calmly. “I’ve written everything down, every detail. The papers are hidden with instructions to send them to newspapers in Santa Fe and Denver if anything happens to me.” This was clearly a bluff, but Blackwood’s momentary hesitation suggested he’d hit the nail on the head.
While army officers might gloss over atrocities against Apaches, newspapers were another matter entirely. Public opinion was turning against brutal Indian policies, and a well-documented massacre could damage not only Blackwood’s reputation but his future job opportunities. “Are you lying?” he said, though uncertainty had entered his voice. “I am.”
” Kiona held his gaze steadily. I’ve worked as a translator and scribe. I have access to official paper and forms. I know that editors sympathetic to the Apache cause would risk their careers on the possibility that I’m bluffing. The standoff stretched into tense silence. In the moonlight, Ethan could see Blackwood’s jaw move as he calculated his options.
Meanwhile, Nia had joined Thomas in the cleft, both waiting for an opportunity to get to the horses. “A cunning attempt,” Blackwood finally said, “but ultimately irrelevant. Dead Apache women tell no tales, and lost papers are never found.” He raised his hand, signaling his men to ready their weapons. “Kill them all, no survivors.”
What happened next unfolded with dreamlike slowness in Ethan’s perception. He saw Blackwood’s arm begin to lower the signal to fire. He saw Kion’s expression change from confident negotiation to grim acceptance.
He raised his own weapon, knowing that perhaps he could take down one or two before the others got the better of him. Then, from the darkness beyond the standoff, came an unexpected sound, the high-pitched, howling war cry of the Apache warriors, echoing simultaneously from multiple directions.
Arrows whistled through the night air, striking the ground around Blackwood’s men with an accuracy that demonstrated deliberate warning rather than poor aim. Confusion erupted among the hired gunmen. Horses reared and swerved nervously as their riders struggled to control them, trying to identify the new threat. Blackwood shouted contradictory orders.
Their carefully planned ambush dissolved into chaos. From the shadows emerged a band of shadows led by the young man named Tarak. They had followed Ethan’s group at a discreet distance, watching without revealing their presence. Until this crucial moment, Kiona took advantage of the distraction to dart behind a nearby rock.
Ethan provided covering fire, forcing Blackwood’s men to take cover. Instead of pursuing Nia and Thomas, they took advantage of the confusion to head for the other side, where the horses were waiting. “Solivan!” Blackwood shouted into the commotion, firing blindly toward Ethan’s position. This isn’t over. I’ll marry you to the ends of the earth. Ihan uian wasted no time responding.
Instead, he focused on catching up with Kiona, who had been edging back toward their position, using the scattered rocks as cover. “Your sister and Thomas are getting the horses,” he told her as she crouched down beside him. “We have to get to the Oyo.” Kiona nodded, her expression calm despite the danger. “The Apache warriors are the mountain shadow band.” “Yes, friends.
“Itan poked his head around the edge of the rock, assessing the situation. Blackwood’s men had regrouped slightly, taking up defensive positions while continuing to be harassed by well-placed arrows. Now’s our chance. Stay low and move quickly.” Together, they dashed from cover to cover, heading toward the aollo,
while the Tracks warriors continued their strategic diversion. Twice they had to stop as bullets whistled overhead, but the darkness and confusion worked to their advantage. They found Nia and Thomas waiting with horses already mounted and ready to go. Nearby, two mountain shadow warriors held additional mounts for Itan and Kiona.
“Quickly,” Tac urged as they climbed onto their mounts. “They will cover your escape, but you must ride hard and far tonight.” “Thank you,” Ihan said with sincere gratitude. “We owe you our lives.” Taka nodded, accepting the acknowledgment. “Nasha foresaw danger. She sent us to watch for you.” He pointed toward the east. Go now. Follow the crescent moon.
We’ll make sure Blackwood doesn’t follow him right away. As they prepared to leave, Nia reached out to grasp Tarak’s arm in the traditional Apache gesture of respect. “Tell Nasha we’ll remember the kindness of the mountain shadow band.” “It’s not kindness,” Tarak replied, repeating Nasha’s previous words. “It’s an alliance against common enemies.”
His gaze shifted to Ihan as well, and perhaps something more. With those cryptic words hanging in the air, they spurred their horses east, leaving the sounds of conflict behind. The moon lit their path across the desert landscape. Four riders united by circumstance, choice, and the beginnings of understanding.
Behind them, the lights of Ford Deffiens grew smaller and dimmer until they disappeared completely into the vastness of the Arizona night. They rode all night following ancient trails known only to the Apache. Moonlight silvered the desert landscape, transforming familiar features into strange, otherworldly formations. No one spoke.
All energy was focused on getting away from Blackwood’s men. Kona led the way. Her years at Fort Deffiance hadn’t diminished her knowledge of the Earth. She guided them through narrow canyons and dry streambeds, choosing paths difficult to track, even in daylight.
Nia rode close behind her sister, unwilling to leave even a horse’s length behind them. After so many years apart, Ethan brought up the rear, frequently glancing back to make sure he wasn’t being followed. While Thomas struggled to keep pace, his youth and determination made up for his limited riding experience.
Dawn found them in a sheltered basin surrounded by towering red rock formations. A small spring bubbled from the base of the eastern bluff, feeding a modest pond lined with cottonwoods and willows. The horses sweated from the hard night’s ride and drank gratefully. as their riders dismounted, their legs stiff from hours in the saddle.
“We should be safe here for a few hours,” Kiona said, surveying their surroundings with a practiced eye. “This place is known only to the people. The army has never found it.” Ethan nodded, too exhausted to speak. He unslung Abel by rubbing her with handfuls of grass while she refreshed herself from the long journey.
Thomas had already collapsed under a cottonwood tree, his young face slack with exhaustion. Despite the dangers they had faced, sleep overcame him almost instantly. The sisters stood a few paces away, speaking softly in Apache as they tended to their horses. Their voices rose and fell to the rhythm of shared memories.
and urgent questions. 12 years of separation compressed into a whispered conversation. Occasionally one touched the other’s arm or face, as if still unable to believe their reunion was real. Ethan gave them privacy, concentrating on setting up a small camp.
He cleared a space for a fire, though he wouldn’t risk lighting it until dark. He laid out their meager supplies, taking inventory of what remained after their hasty departure. The Mountain Shadow Band had given them dried meat, pinole, and waterskins, but the provisions wouldn’t last more than a day or two.
Soon they would need to hunt or find another source of provisions. As Ethan’s mind worked, he returned to the confrontation with Blackwood. The captain’s obsession went beyond professional duty or even a personal grudge. There was something else driving him, something that made Itan and the sisters a threat that must be eliminated, not just captured.
“He fears exposure,” Kiona said, as if reading his thoughts. Ethan looked at her and found her standing there, her expression thoughtful. Nia had fallen asleep next to Thomas. The attention of the past few days was finally reaching her. Blackwood fears what I know about the Nighawk massacre, what I might tell the right people.
“Was your bluff about the papers true?” Itan asked. “Have you written everything down?” A faint smile appeared on Kiona’s lips. Not exactly as I said, but I’ve been gathering testimonies from other survivors, building a record of what Blackwood didn’t act alone. He had authorization from an unofficial, but real, higher command. They wanted Nighawk lands for their water and mineral rights.
The peace negotiations were never genuine. The confirmation of what Ethan had long suspected hit him like a physical blow. “I was a fool,” he said quietly, used as a tool to gain access to people who trusted me. “Yes,” Kiona agreed with the directness she remembered from her sisters. “But you weren’t evil, just deluded. And when you saw the truth, you tried to help.”
She studied him with a penetrating gaze. “My sister has told me of your journey together, of your guilt and your attempts to make amends.” Ihan looked at her, finding neither accusation nor absolution, only a clear assessment. “There are debts that cannot be repaid,” he said. “Perhaps,” Kiona acknowledged, “but one can still seek balance.”
She gestured to the sleeping figures. From Nia and Thomas. You’ve already started that job. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in private thoughts, as the morning sun rose, warming the cool desert air. The horses nodded under the cottonwoods, their heads drooping in well-earned rest.
“What will you do now?” Itan finally asked. “You left everything behind at the fort.” Kiona’s hand went to her throat. Her fingers found the carved Nighthawk pendant. “I left nothing of value,” she replied enigmatically. “My husband died two years ago. I stayed because I had nowhere else to go, no family to return to.”
A smile softened her features as her gaze fell on her sleeping sister. “Now I’ve found what I thought was lost forever.” And what will she choose? “We’ve talked this over,” Kiona replied. “She wishes to return to the free bands to live as people have always lived. I will go with her.” She gave Ethan a sidelong glance. “
And you, Itan Sullivan, what will you choose when this journey is over?” The question caught him off guard. For so long, his life had been defined by loneliness and routine at his isolated ranch, a self-imposed penance for past sins. The thought of returning to that existence after everything he’d been through seemed suddenly hollow and incomplete.
Before he could formulate a reply, Thomas stirred, sitting up with the disoriented expression of someone waking up in an unfamiliar place. The boy rubbed his eyes, then looked around with growing alertness. “How long did I sleep?” he asked, his voice still heavy with sleep. “A few hours,” Itan replied. “You needed it.
” Thomas hurriedly rose, a flush of embarrassment coloring his features. He should have helped set up camp. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan. You have nothing to apologize for. You earned your rest.” The boy’s presence redirected the conversation, leaving Kiona’s question unanswered.
Perhaps it was for the best, Ian thought. He had no clear answer to give, only a growing sense that the road ahead was no longer as simple as it had once seemed. They remained in the hidden basin throughout the day, resting and planning their next move. The enforced inactivity irritated Itan, who would have preferred to get further away from potential pursuers.
But the horses needed time to recover. Pushing them any further without proper rest would leave them vulnerable if Blackwood managed to track them down. As the day wore on, Nia and Kiona continued their quiet conversations, occasionally including Thomas, who absorbed their words with obvious fascination. The boy had appointed himself guardian of their small camp, regularly scanning the surrounding cliffs for any sign of danger. His sincere vigilance brought a rare smile to Ihan’s face, though he
She made sure Thomas didn’t see her. The boy’s pride was a fragile thing. His determination to be treated like an adult was touching in its intensity. By late afternoon, they had established a tentative plan. They would travel north and east into the territories where the Mountain Shadow Band and other Free Apache groups maintained their hidden settlements.
There they would be among allies protected by both geography and tribal networks, which had successfully evaded the army’s control for generations. And what about Blackwood? Thomas asked as they discussed the route over a small meal of beef jerky and pinole. He won’t continue to marry us. Probably, Itan conceded, but his resources are limited.
He’s acting without official authorization now, which means he can’t call for help from army patrols or supplies. “But he has men,” Thomas insisted. “Those mercenaries, and he seems very determined. The boy speaks the truth,” Nia said, her expression grave. “Blackwood’s hatred runs deep. He won’t give up his hunt easily.” Kiona nodded in agreement. “He’s staked a lot on finding us.
His pride, if nothing else, will drive him to continue.” Ihan couldn’t contradict her assessment. Blackwood’s obsession had been evident in every word, every action, since their confrontation at the ranch. The captain would undoubtedly continue the pursuit no matter the cost or difficulty. “So, we have to end this,” Itan said, a decision crystallizing in his mind. “
Not just run and hide, but end it once and for all.” “How?” Thomas asked, leaning forward eagerly. “Lay a trap.” Ihan turned to Kiona. “You mentioned gathering testimony from other survivors. Evidence of what really happened in the Nighawk village. Is it something tangible? Something that can be used against Blackwood?” Kona considered the question carefully. “
I have written accounts from five survivors, all describing the same events. The false promise of peace negotiations, the night attack, the slaughter of women and children. I also have the names of three officers who objected to the mission, but were ignored.
He paused, his expression concerned, but such evidence holds little value in this territory. The army protects its own, and Apache testimony carries little weight with white authorities. But newspaper editors might think differently, he suggested. Especially in the eastern states where anti-Indian war sentiment is growing.
Would you expose Blackwood publicly? Nia asked, studying Itan with renewed interest. And myself, Itan confirmed gravely, for my role in bringing soldiers to your village. I’ll have to accept the consequences. A heavy silence fell over their small circle as the implications of his suggestion sank in.
Exposing Blackwood might end the immediate danger, but at a significant personal cost to Ihan. Military charges, civilian prosecution, even vigilante justice from those
who would see him as a traitor to his race. All were possible outcomes. “There is another way,” Kiona said finally, “one that doesn’t require you to sacrifice yourself.” She turned to her sister, speaking rapidly in Apache. Nia listened intently, occasionally nodding or asking questions, her expression shifting from skepticism to thoughtful consideration. Thomas looked at Ethan, confusion evident on his young face. “What are they saying?” “I’m not sure,” Itan answered honestly. His understanding of the Patch was limited to basic conversation.
The sisters spoke very quickly and used terms he didn’t recognize. After several minutes of intense discussion, the women seemed to reach an agreement. Kiona looked back at Ethan, her mind made up. “There’s a man,” began a former army officer named Major Edward Hollister.
He was present during the planning of the Nighthawk attack, but opposed it on moral grounds. He left the army soon after, unwilling to participate in what he called dishonorable actions against peaceful tribes. He now works as commissioner of Indian affairs, traveling between agencies and reservations to document conditions and mediate disputes. “I’ve heard of him,” Itan said, his memory awakening. Blackwood despised him, called him an Indian lover.
And worse, because Major Hollister knew the truth and wasn’t afraid to speak it. Kiona confirmed, he’s been gathering evidence of misconduct against Native peoples for years, building cases against officers like Blackwood. My Written testimonies were intended for him, though I hadn’t yet found a secure way to deliver them.
“Where is he now?” Tomas asked, following the conversation with focused attention. “According to what I heard at Fort de Fans, he’s currently at the San Carlos agency. Perhaps a three-day ride from here.” Kiona’s expression brightened as she grew enthusiastic about her plan. “
If we could reach him with my evidence and your firsthand account of Blackwood’s deception, it might be enough to launch an official investigation. And Blackwood would be too busy defending himself for us to continue marrying,” Ihan concluded, seeing the elegance of the solution.
Military justice can be slow and often compromised, but merely by launching an investigation, Blackwood would be under scrutiny, limiting his ability to pursue personal vendettas. “Exactly,” Kiona said. “And Major Hollister has the authority and connections to ensure that the investigation is taken seriously, not easily dismissed.”
They discussed the details late into the night, weighing risks against potential rewards. The journey to San Carlos would take them through exposed territory, far from the relative safety of Apache lands. Blackwood could anticipate such a move and position his men accordingly, but the alternative to continuing to flee with no resolution in sight seemed increasingly less viable.
As night fell and the first stars appeared in the sky, they reached a consensus. They would rest until midnight. Then they would ride north toward San Carlos, using the darkness as cover for the most dangerous stretches of the journey. If all went well, they could reach the agency in potentially three days, ending the threat of Blackwood for good.
Ethan took the first watch, settling atop a rock that offered a clear view of the approaches to his hidden basin. The night was quiet, the desert alive with the soft sounds of nocturnal creatures at their work. Above him, the stars twinkled in familiar patterns, the same stars that had guided generations of travelers through these ancient lands.
His thoughts returned to Kiona’s unanswered question. What would he choose when this journey was over? For so long, his isolated ranch had been both home and prison—a place to hide from the world and his own guilt. Now, having reconnected with people, having begun the work of atonement not in solitude, but in action—he could simply return to that solitary existence. The sound of soft footsteps interrupted his reverie.
Nia approached, moving with the natural stealth of one bred to hunt and evade in wild territory. She settled beside him on the rock, her presence neither intrusive nor uncomfortable. “You should rest,” Ihan said. Long journey ahead. “I’ve rested enough,” she replied. My mind is too full for sleep.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the moon rise over the eastern cliffs, bathing the landscape in silvery light. When Nia finally spoke, her voice was thoughtful, stripped of the defensiveness that had characterized their first encounters. “My sister thinks you’re a good man who made a terrible mistake,” she said.
“He says your eyes show the truth of your heart.” It didn’t respond immediately, weighing his words carefully. “And what do you think, Nia?” He turned to study her profile in the moonlight. “I think you’re a man trying to find balance in an unbalanced world like all of us.”
She gestured toward the sleeping figures of Kiona and Thomas. This journey has changed us all. The boy is becoming a man, learning the ways of his mother’s people. My sister has found her voice after years of cautious silence, and I—she paused, searching for the right words—have learned that hatred is a heavy burden to carry through the years. The simple truth of her statement resonated deeply.
Ethan had carried his own burden of guilt and self-reproach for 12 years, allowing it to define and limit his life. Perhaps it was time to lay that burden down, not forgetting, but moving forward with purpose. When this is over, he said slowly, “What will you and Kiona do? Will we go to the free bands?” Nia answered without hesitation. “Live as people were meant to live, perhaps join the mountain shadow band if Nasha will have us.
” She looked at him, her expression softening slightly. “And will you, Itan Sullivan, return to your lonely ranch?” It was the same question Kiona had asked before, but coming from Nia, it carried a different weight. Their journey together had forged a connection neither had anticipated. A bond built on shared danger and growing trust. “
I don’t know,” he admitted. “For so long, being alone seemed the right thing to do—a just punishment for what happened to your people.” But now Tao fell silent, unsure of how to express the changes he felt inside. “
You understand now that healing comes not from isolation, but from connection,” Nia concluded for him, from finding one’s place in the circle of life. Once again, her words perfectly captured what he’d been struggling to express. Itan nodded, feeling a weight lift from his chest as that truth settled within him. “The mountain’s shadow band might welcome a skilled hunter who speaks both languages,” Nia said casually, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon.
Someone who could help them navigate the changing world while preserving the old ways. The suggestion hung in the air between them, not an invitation or a promise, but a possibility. A half-open door awaiting their decision to enter or pass by. Before Itan could respond, the sound caught his attention, the distant but unmistakable rhythm of hooves approaching from the west. Nia heard it too. Her body tensed beside him.
“Wake the others,” Itan said quietly, reaching for his rifle as Nia moved away to wake Kiona. And Thomas Itan moved to a better perch to see through the darkness. The hooves grew louder, accompanied now by the clinking of harness and the occasional voice, several riders moving forward with purpose rather than fear. caution.
Blackwood had found their trail faster than expected. The realization sent a chill through him. Perhaps they had only minutes before they discovered the basin. Nia returned with Kiona and Thomas, the three of them moving in urgent silence. How much she whispered, I can’t say yet—at least four, maybe more.
Itan gestured toward the horses. “Get them ready. We have to move now.” While the others hurriedly prepared to leave, Itan kept watch. The approaching riders had slowed, suggesting they were tracking rather than merely patrolling. Their voices carried intermittently on the night air, men arguing about direction, over signs they’d found or missed. “They’re on our trail,” he reported when Nia joined him.
“They’re following us by moonlight. Blackwood must have Apache trackers with him,” he said gravely. “No white man could follow our path so quickly, especially at night.” The idea that Blackwood employed Apache scouts against them added a new layer of complexity to their situation.
Such men, often forced to serve by threats to their families or promises of better treatment, would know every hiding place, every secret trail. We have to split up, Ihan decided. Create confusion, create multiple trails for them to follow. Nia shook her head. “We don’t stay together. Separation makes us vulnerable.
Listen,” Itan insisted, grabbing her arm urgently. “They’re expecting four riders traveling together. If we create diverging trails, they’ll have to split their forces to follow, reducing their numerical advantage.” Kiona joined them, leading two saddled horses. “You’re right,” she said, having overheard the conversation. “Tactically, it’s accurate.
We can agree to rendezvous farther north.” Nia’s expression reflected Her internal struggle with strategic logic, clashing with her reluctance to part so soon after finding her sister. Ultimately, practicality won out. Very well, it was given. But who goes with whom? You and Kiona take the eastern trail? Ethan instructed. Head toward Black Mesa.
There’s a closed canyon on the north face where you can safely shelter. Thomas and I will create a false trail to the west. Then we’ll circle back north to meet you in two days. I should come with you, Argumentania. I’m a better tracker, and Thomas is still learning to ride properly.
That’s why he needs me to go with him, Ethan countered. Kiona knows the way to Black Mesa. You two will move faster together, and you’ll both talk if you find friendly bands. He met Nia’s worried gaze directly. Trust me, this is the best way. After a moment of hesitation, she nodded. Two days on Black Mesa.
If they’re not there by sunset on the second day, we’ll be there, Ethan promised. The urgency of their situation didn’t allow for long goodbyes. Within minutes, the four were mounted and ready to go. The approaching riders were now close enough for Itan to distinguish individual voices, including Blackwood’s distinctive bark issuing orders. “Go now,” he urged the sisters.
“We’ll wait five minutes, then ride west, making enough noise to attract their attention.” Kiona reached out to briefly take Thomas’s hand. “Good riding, young man. The spirits of your ancestors watch over you.”
The boy straightened in the saddle, pride evident in his posture, despite the fear he couldn’t quite hide. “See you at Black Mesa, ma’am.” With a final nod, Aita turned his horse east, following Kiona into the darkness. They moved with practiced stealth as they left, barely disturbing the night sounds of the desert.
Ethan and Thomas waited tensely, silently listening as the pursuers drew ever closer. When he judged the moment was right, Itan led them from the basin through its western exit, deliberately letting their horses make more noise than necessary, dislodging stones and snapping twigs under their hooves. The reaction was immediate.
Voices rose with excitement, and the pace of the chase changed as Blackwood’s men spotted their prey. Itan quickened his pace—not to the point of recklessness, but enough to maintain the lead, ensuring their trail remained obvious. “They’re following us,” Thomas confirmed, glancing back nervously.
“I think everyone’s fine,” Itan replied grimly. “That’s what we want.” They rode hard for nearly an hour, following a winding road. The pursuers kept pace, neither gaining nor losing significant ground. Itan had no intention of being caught, but he didn’t want to lose them completely, either. Not yet.
The plan depended on drawing Blackwood’s men far enough away from the sister’s trail to ensure their safe escape. When they reached a shallow stream descending from the northern highlands, Ethan finally allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction.
This was where they would implement the second phase of their strategy. “Enter the water,” he instructed Thomas. “We’ll follow the stream upstream for a while. Then we’ll turn east toward Black Mesa.” The boy obeyed without question, guiding his horse through the ankle-deep current. The water would obscure their tracks, making it difficult for even expert trackers to determine where they exited the stream.
They sloshed north for almost a mile before Itan signaled a halt. The sounds of pursuit had faded, suggesting Blackwood’s men had lost the trail at the creek crossing. Now came the riskiest part of the plan. “We need to turn back,” Itan explained quietly. “
Create a false trail to the west, then make our real escape route to the east, while they follow the trap.” Thomas’s eyes widened in understanding like a fox retracing its spoor to confuse bullies. “Exactly.” Itan smiled briefly at the apt comparison. “Are you learning, son?” They worked methodically, climbing out of the creek and deliberately creating clear tracks westward for several hundred yards.
Then they carefully retraced their steps, placing each hoof exactly in the existing tracks until they reached the creek again. This time they traveled downstream, away from their previous exit point before finally turning eastward toward the distant silhouette of Black Mesa. The maneuver cost them valuable time, but Itan felt it was justified.
When Blackwood’s trackers finally found the trail west, they would follow it, unaware that it led far from their true destination. By the time they discovered the trap, Ethan and Thomas should already be well on their way to the rendezvous point. Dawn found them in rolling grassland, more exposed terrain than Ithan would have preferred, but one that allowed for faster travel.
They continued through the morning, stopping only briefly to rest the horses and share a meager meal of dried meat and water. Thomas, despite his youth and unlimited experience, showed remarkable stamina, never complaining, though fatigue took its toll. her young face. “You’re holding up well,” Itan observed during one of their brief breaks. Thomas straightened with obvious pride, braving the exhaustion.
Papa always said that complaining doesn’t shorten the journey. “Wise man, your father.” He was, Thomas agreed, a shadow of sadness crossing his features. I wish I could have seen all this. Meeting Nia and Cona, learning about the Mountain Shadow Band. He looked at Itan directly. “Do you think my man knew them, Nighawk’s people?” “It’s possible,” Itan answered cautiously.
The band sometimes gathered for ceremonies or trades. They could have met. The boy nodded, satisfied with the answer. “I like to think she’d be proud of him learning about her people.” “I mean, I’m sure you would,” Itan said sincerely. Thomas had shown courage and adaptability far beyond his years throughout the journey.
Any father would be proud of such a son. They continued east through the day, keeping a steady pace and vigilant for any sign of pursuit. By late afternoon, the distinctive shape of Black Mesa dominated the horizon, its flat top and sheer cliffs a landmark visible for many miles.
“How far is it?” Thomas asked, fatigue evident in his voice, despite his efforts to hide it. “We’ll reach the base by nightfall,” Ethan assured him. “The canyon Kiona mentioned is on the north face. We should arrive well before rendezvous time.” The boy nodded visibly, gathering his remaining strength.
“Do you think you made it, Nia and Cayona?” “Yes,” Itan said with more confidence than he felt. Both are skilled at wilderness travel and had a good head start. As the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, a movement caught Itan’s attention. A distant dust cloud was approaching rapidly from the south.
He slammed on the brakes, studying the disturbance with growing concern. “Riders,” he confirmed grimly. “At least six moving fast.” Blackwood Thomas asked, fear creeping into his voice. “Probably.” Ethan quickly assessed his options. They were still several miles from Black Mesa in relatively open terrain with little cover.
A run might be possible, but their horses were already tired from the long journey. They must have discovered our false trail faster than he expected. What a shame. Idan made a snap decision. “You continue toward Black Mesa. I’ll create a diversion. I’ll draw off the pursuers.” “No,” Thomas protested. “We stay together.” “Remember that?” Nia said. “This is different,” Ihan insisted. “
You can reach the canyon before nightfall if you gallop hard, I’ll lead them in hot pursuit, and then lose them in the badlands south of here.” The boy’s expression hardened with a determination beyond his years. “I won’t leave you, Mr. Sullivan. Dad taught me better than that.” Itan recognized the stubborn set in Thomas’s jaw, so similar to his own when faced with a principled decision. Arguing would waste precious time they didn’t have. Fine, it was given. So we headed for
that promontory. He pointed to a pile of rocks about half a mile ahead. One of the few defensive positions available in the open landscape. If we arrive before them, we’ll have cover to fight. They urged their tired horses toward the rock formation, forcing them to gallop despite the risk of stumbling on the uneven ground.
Behind them, the cloud of dust grew, the pursued riders now clearly visible against the reddish sky. “They’re gaining ground,” Thomas called, looking over his shoulder. “Almost there,” Itan encouraged. A little further on, they reached the promontory with barely minutes to spare. Itan helped Thomas dismount. Then he guided both horses behind the largest rock, securing them where they would be protected from fire.
“Stay low, Ga,” he instructed, positioning Thomas in a natural depression between two enormous stones. “Use your rifle only if absolutely necessary. Let me handle this if possible.” The boy nodded, gripping his weapon with determination, his knuckles white. Ethan gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Then he moved to a position where he could observe the riders without exposing himself too much. Blackwood led the group, his pale face distorted by the familiar obsession Itan had learned to recognize. Behind him rode five men, not the same gunmen from previous encounters, but fresh faces with the same hard, mercenary stare.
They approached cautiously, having detected their prey’s defensive position. About 100 yards away, Blackwood raised his hand, halting his men. Sullivan called, his voice clear in the still evening air. “I know you’re there, you and the half-breed.” He remained silent, assessing distances and angles, calculating his odds against six armed men.
They weren’t good, but the rocks provided considerable cover. If he could hold out until dark, he could escape. “Come out now, and I promise the boy will come to no harm,” Blackwood continued when he got no response. “This is between you and me, Sullivan. It has been from the beginning. Then send your men away,” Itan finally replied. “
Face me alone if you’re so eager to settle the score.” Blackwood’s laugh was humorless. Always the honorable fool. You never understood how the world really works. He signaled to his men, who began to spread out to surround the promontory. Last chance, Sullivan. Surrender now, or we start firing, and my first bullet will pass through the boy’s head.
You’ll have to find him first, Itan replied, his voice deliberately calm despite the fear coursing through him—not fear for himself, but for Thomas, brave young Thomas, who deserved a future beyond this bloody confrontation. Blackwood gave the signal, and his men opened fire. Bullets whizzed against the stones, sending splinters flying as Ihan ducked deeper behind his cover.
returned fire selectively, conserving ammunition while holding off the attackers. Beside him, Thomas held admirably, following instructions to stay low and hidden. The exchange continued as the lowering sun lengthened the shadows across the landscape.
He managed to wound one of Blackwood’s men, forcing him back to a less advantageous position, but the others maintained covering fire, preventing any possibility of escape. As the dust thickened in the twilight, Ihan’s concern grew. They had limited ammunition, no water beyond what remained in their canteens, and no realistic hope of help.
Blackwood, meanwhile, seemed content to wait for them to surrender, holding the siege until exhaustion or despair caused a mistake. “Mr. Sullivan,” Thomas whispered during a lull in the firing. “Look over there,” he pointed toward the northern horizon, where the distinctive silhouette of Black Mesa stood out in the gathering darkness. At first, Ian saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, movement caught his attention: riders approaching from the direction of the mesa, moving quickly but silently across the open terrain. As they drew closer, his heart leaped with recognition and hope. Nia and Kiona led the group, accompanied by at least a dozen warriors from the Mountain Shadow Band.
They approached behind Blackwood’s position, using the distraction of the ongoing siege to close the distance undetected. “Hold on, Thomas!” Ihan murmured. “Help is coming. The attack, when it came, was swift and devastating. The Apache warriors descended upon Blackwood’s men with silent efficiency, disarming them and subduing them before they could mount an effective defense.
Only Blackwood managed to fire a shot, wounding a warrior, before being overcome by superior numbers. Within minutes, the engagement was over. Blackwood and his remaining men were on their knees, unarmed and bound, surrounded by stony-faced Apache warriors whose drawn bows discouraged any thought of resistance. Nia appeared at the edge of the promontory with an expression a mixture of relief and residual anger. “
You’re unharmed,” she called. “We’re fine,” Itan confirmed, helping Thomas to his feet. “How did they find us? We arrived early at Black Mesa and saw the dust from the pursuit,” he explained as they left their shelter. Tarak and his warriors were already there, waiting to escort us safely to the mountain’s shadow camp.
When we explained the situation, they insisted on coming to help. Kiona came forward, briefly hugged Thomas before turning to Ethan. “You kept your promise,” she said simply. “The boy is barely safe,” Ithan acknowledged, shifting his gaze to Blackwood, who was on his knees in furious silence, blood from a scalp wound running down his face.
“What now?” Tarak stepped forward, his expression inscrutable in the deepening twilight. “The captain and his men are our prisoners,” he declared. They trespassed on Zappache land, hunting our allies. By our law, their lives are forfeit. Blackwood’s head snapped up, fear finally breaking through his mask of defiance.
“You cannot do this,” he protested. “I am an officer in the United States Army.” “There will be consequences, ex-officer,” he amended coldly, acting without authorization. “Who will miss a man like that?” The implication hung in the air, heavy with the weight of historical injustice. How many Apaches had disappeared without investigation or consequence, how many lives had been deemed expendable in the relentless march of conquest—Ethan found himself at a crossroads. Part of him, the part still smarting from the guilt of his unwitting role, felt at the Nighthawk Massacre that Blackwood deserved whatever fate
the Apache warriors decided, but another part, the same one that drove him to save Nia from public humiliation at Silver Creek, rebelled at the idea of ​​a cold-blooded execution regardless of the victim. “Wait,” he said, stepping forward.
“Is there another way?” All eyes turned toward him: Apache warriors, the Thomas sisters, and Blackwood himself, whose expression fluctuated between desperate hope and continued defiance. “Major Hollister in San Carlos,” Idan continued, addressing Tara directly. “Is Major Hollister gathering evidence against officers who have committed crimes against the Apaches. With the testimony of Kiona and Blackwood as a prisoner, he could put together a case that exposes not just one man, but the entire system that allowed the Nighawk massacre to happen?” Tara considered this. Her gaze
shifted to Kiona for confirmation. She nodded slowly. It is true, Major Hollister has the authority and connections to guarantee justice under white man’s law if provided with enough evidence. “And you think this white man’s justice will prevail?” Trisk asked skeptically. “When has it ever served the people?” “Rarely,” Itan admitted.
But this could be different. Public sentiment is changing. Eastern newspapers regularly criticize government policies toward the Indians. If the full story of the Nighawk village were to become widely known with official documentation and multiple witnesses, but left the implication hanging in the air. Nia, who had been listening attentively, stepped forward. I believe Itan speaks the truth.
Her words carried particular weight given their history. Killing these men would bring momentary satisfaction, but it would change nothing. Using them to expose larger corruption might help protect other bands from similar fates. A murmur ran through the gathered warriors as they considered this prospect. Tara conferred briefly with several older men,
their conversation too rapid and low for Itan to follow. Finally, she turned to address them all. We will take the white captain to this Major Hollister, she decided. If he fails to deliver justice, we will retrieve our prisoner and carry out our own sentence. Her gaze fixed on Blackwood with a chilling intensity. Remember this blue uniform mercy.
It is more than you showed our people. Blackwood said nothing to his previous arrogance, replaced by the grim realization of how completely reversed his situation was. From hunter to married man, to authority figure to prisoner, the transformation was as swift as it was complete.
As the Apache warriors secured their prisoners for transport, Itan found himself standing slightly apart, watching as this unlikely alliance prepared for the journey to San Carlos. Thomas had joined Kiona, listening intently as she explained something about the stars now appearing in the sky.
Nia directed the warriors in gathering the captured weapons and supplies, her natural authority evident in every gesture. “You have done well, Itan Sullivan,” said a voice at his side. Ethan turned to find Nasha there, her presence so unexpected that he momentarily doubted his senses. The old woman smiled at his confusion.
“Did you think I’d stay behind while my people faced danger?” asked amusement, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “I may be old, but I’m still a daughter of the Mountain Shadow Band. I’m glad you’re here,” Itan said sincerely, though surprised that she’d made the journey.
“Some journeys cannot be avoided,” Nasha replied to his gaze traveling meaningfully between Itan and Nia, “just as some paths are destined to cross no matter how different their beginnings.” Before Itan could respond to this cryptic remark, Nia approached, her expression softening at the sight of them together. “Everything is prepared,” she reported. “We will camp here tonight and begin the journey to San Carlos at dawn.
” Nasha nodded in approval, then excused herself to speak with the other elders accompanying the war party, leaving Itan and Nia alone in the approaching darkness. “You did not save,” Itan said simply. “Again we saved each other,” Nia corrected, “as it should be between allies.
” Ela paused, studying his face in the faint starlight. “You could have killed Blackwood. Many would say he deserved death for his crimes.” “Perhaps he does,” Ethan acknowledged. “But more lives have been lost by that kind of justice than saved by it. There had to be another way.” Nia nodded slowly as if her answer confirmed something she already suspected. “
When I knew you, I saw only a white man who had purchased an Apache woman, another enemy to endure until I could escape. Now I see more clearly. What do you see?” Itan asked, something in his tone making her heart race. “A man seeking balance.” He answered by repeating her words from their conversation by the basin. A man who understands that healing comes not from isolation, but from connection.
His hand rose to touch the cloth covering his scarred wrist. A man worthy of Kitian’s mark. The simple acknowledgment from someone who had every reason to hate him affected Idan more deeply than any formal absolution. He covered her hand with his own, a gesture of gratitude beyond words. Around them, the camp settled into nightly routines.
Warriors established a perimeter. Prisoners were secured. They lit cooking fires. Thomas’s laughter echoed as one of the young Apache demonstrated a set of strings, the boy’s natural curiosity transcending language barriers.
Kiona moved among the elders, sharing information about Fort Deffians and what she had learned during her years there. The scene was one of unlikely harmony. Different peoples united by a common purpose, rather than divided by past grudges. “Will you come with us?” Nia asked. Her question an echo of the possibility she had raised the night before in the mountain shadowlands after San Carlos.
Ethan looked at the gathered group, seeing not strangers or enemies, but a community—something he had denied himself for too many years. Thomas had found acceptance there, his mixed heritage seen as strength, not shame. The sisters had reconnected not only with each other, but with their cultural roots.
Even Nasha, initially wary of his intentions, had come to see value in his presence. Yes, he said, the decision feeling right in a way few things had since the night Nigaw Village burned. “Yes, I’m welcome.” “You are,” Nia confirmed, her hand still resting beneath his—not as a visitor or guest, but as someone who belongs.
A faint smile touched her lips. Nasha said, “The spirits had a purpose in preserving your life all these years. Who are we to argue with spirits?” As they stood together under the vast desert sky, Itan felt the burden he had carried for 12 years begin to lighten, not from forgetting that the past would always be a part of him, but from the promise of a future built on understanding, rather than division, on connection, rather than isolation. Tomorrow would bring new
challenges. The journey to San Carlos, the confrontation with the military authorities, the uncertain outcome of his charges against Blackwood. Beyond that was the adjustment to life among the mountain Shadow B, the learning of new ways and responsibilities, the slow process of building trust with those who had every reason to be cautious.
Yet for the first time in longer than Ethan Sullivan could remember, he looked toward the future with something approaching hope. The road would not be easy, but it would be traveled in companionship, not solitude. And in that simple truth lay the possibility of healing. Not just for him, but for all those whose lives had been shattered by the winds of history, as if reading their thoughts.
Nia gently squeezed his hand before letting go. Come, she said, they’re waiting for us by the fire. Together they walked toward the circle of light and warmth where Thomas had reserved places for them at the meeting. Behind them, the stars wove ancient patterns across the desert sky, silent witnesses to endings and beginnings, debts paid and the restored balance of forgiveness carried on the wind. No.