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Chapter Two

"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night.

It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."

Crowfoot, Blackfoot Warrior

When Anya approached, Cheena snorted and pawed at the ground. Before she checked the tack and gear, she took a moment to admire the chestnut mare with her shiny black mane and tail. She knew instinctively Cobb hadn't overlooked anything, but she'd learned long ago to rely on herself when it came to her horse and weapons.

She mounted, ran her hand over the walnut stock of the Winchester and set out. At the end of the long drive, she looked over her shoulder and spied Cobb standing on the front porch, waving. She raised her right hand and nudged Cheena into a canter. She had already decided to alternate between a walk and a canter throughout the twenty-mile trip, saving not only the mare's energy but her backside.

Overhead, the sky flared vivid blue and boasted clusters of pink-veined clouds. Anya couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day. This is no pleasure ride, stupid girl, get that straight.

Miles later, meadowlarks whistled and warbled their familiar notes, and to her left, a flock of pine siskin descended on a field of wild sunflowers for their noon meal.

Pulling on the reins, she brought Cheena to a slow walk, drew a deep breath and took in the vast prairie of wildflowers surrounding her—yellow yarrow, blue asters, bright pink spiny phlox.

The Pioneer Mountains served as the perfect backdrop for her excursion, but the isolated valley coming into view, flush with giant red cedars, ponderosa pine and groves of quaking aspen left her breathless. Years had passed since she had appreciated such wondrous sights, and she couldn't take the time to appreciate them now, not with her son so ill.

When a lone sagebrush tumbled by Cheena's muzzle, she thought about the last ten years of her life. In many ways, she was like that uprooted, pale-grey shrub, never grounded, always searching… for something elusive. What? A little bit of happiness? A missing piece of herself, like a severed limb? She shouldn't have married Lewis. She had known it from the start, but at seventeen, she didn't have the courage to stand up to her parents. Hell's fire, she'd made such a mess of things.

Except for Willie-boy. She'd fallen in love with that pink, squirming babe the moment her mother placed him on her belly. She'd forfeit her life for her son, and when Lewis had embarked on one of his binges, she wondered if then would be that day. The moment Lewis looked upon the boy he knew the child didn't belong to him. She saw it in his eyes. But the gift from God was worth the name-calling, the scorn and hate Lewis heaped upon her.

Yes, at times, she had tumbled like the sagebrush, plummeted to dark depths, but for Willie-boy's sake she had forged on, had never succumbed to Lewis' cruelty.

By mid-afternoon she came upon a narrow trail, no doubt carved out by Natives years ago. Beauty abounded here too—massive trees and thick, dense undergrowth of yew, skunk brush and common lilac. In the distance, she spied an elusive wolverine, a black bear climbing the rim rock, and once she thought she saw a bobcat hiding in the thick foliage of a sloping hill.

When the trail ended, she came to a wide open plain. Sensing freedom, Cheena jigged and pranced beneath her, begging to have her head. Anya clutched the pommel, loosened the reins and set the mare free. They soared over the plains and raced by gleaming rivers and streams. She put her face to the sky and reveled in the wind blowing through her hair.

At the end of their long run, Wise River loomed before them. Anya's heart thudded in her chest. Close to her destination, she took a moment to remind herself she was no longer that frightened seventeen-year-old. At twenty-seven, she was a full-grown woman, no… a strong, courageous woman who'd do anything to save her son.

She brought Cheena to a slow walk and looked at the map Cobb had stuffed into her riding glove. And then she looked at the dwelling.

A crude cabin built with an ax and auger, absent nails or pegs, rose up from the ground. The thatched roof was made of water reeds, straw and fronds. The river ran behind the abode, but hilly ranges ripe with stands of hardwoods and groves of pines surrounded the cabin on both sides. To the left stood a small corral enclosing a beautiful black stallion and two sprightly Appaloosa mares. To her right, an outhouse, a lean-to and a shed-type structure completed the small settlement. Unless one crossed the river, the only way to enter the property was the route she took.

She stopped the mare between two posts near the crude front porch, slid a leg over the back of the saddle and dismounted.

Brace for battle, Anya.

She heard footsteps on the squeaky porch the moment the thought flitted through her mind.

* * *

Sutter stood before her; a rifle cradled in his arms. He had the look of a heathen—long, midnight hair that hugged the collar of his white shirt, olive skin and eyes the color of grey smoke. Tall and well-muscled, he looked a little older, but remained as magnificent as ever—as she remembered, as she had dreamed so many nights. He'd always smelled like a wild northern wind. If she closed her eyes right now, she could call forth that luscious memory, or beg the light breeze to bring it to her.

His rich, low voice broke into her daydreams. "You're not welcome here, Anya. . . or should I say Mrs. Fleming?"

Long seconds passed before she recovered her senses. "Do you think I'd be here, Sutter, if I weren't desperate?"

He didn't correct the use of his white name. "You have a husband; go to him if you're desperate."

"Lewis is dead."

If she had meant to shock him, she had failed. The muscles of his face remained immobile, and his eyes normally expressive eyes betrayed nothing.

"He hung himself in the barn several months back."

"Is this where I'm supposed to tell you how sorry I am?"

"Guess not." Shoulders squared, her chin came out. "That might be asking too much of your cold, black heart."

"What do you want, Anya?" With a toss of his head, he indicated his growing impatience. "Why are you here?"

Under her breath, she added, "And I'm certain I'll find Lewis crawling back into his grave one morning."

"You're rambling, Anya. I don't know what about and I don't care. Let me ask again: What do you want?"

Pretense at this point was pointless. "My son is gravely ill."

"Humph. If my son were sick, I'd have ridden towards Butte for the nearest doctor."

"Doctor Metz is a drunkard and I could ride here faster."

"Pity, that," he said with a roll of those smoky eyes.

"You could help him, Sutter. If I ever meant anything to you—"

"Don't go there." He put a hand in the air. "That's a long time ago, a time I don't like to revisit."

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and for the first time since she'd ridden in, she saw a spark of something in his eyes.

"What's wrong with the boy?"

She shrugged. "I don't… don't know. Willie-boy hasn't spoken a word since he found his father hanging in the barn."

His eyebrows came up. "Willie-boy?"

"William, but I've always called him Willie-boy. I suppose it's silly…." Her voice trailed off as she held his eyes.

"Go away, Anya." He shuffled back into the cabin, his moccasins missing the creaky plank that had warned her of his presence. He called out over his shoulder, "I don't help white-eyes."

The toe of her boot stumbled in the dirt as she rushed forward, but she regained her footing and followed him through the door. The inside was clean but held only the barest of necessities, a small kitchen table, two chairs, a cot in the corner and a homemade bureau with two drawers. Chickens ran about willy-nilly, a stark contrast to a bound volume of literature resting on the kitchen table. She'd never read The Night-Side of Nature by Catherine Crow but heard the book had raised public awareness of ghosts when published in 1847.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him looking at her. Should she tell him about the ghost or would that harm her cause further? He might think she'd made that part up to entice him to come home with her. In the end, she decided to withhold the gruesome details of Lewis' spirit haunting them.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his features stern. "I don't recall inviting you in."

Her hopes sank. She had made a mistake coming here. Sutter didn't owe her anything, not after she'd married Lewis without even giving him an explanation… not after the US Army massacred most of his tribe. Bitterness resided in the depths of his eyes, possibly even hatred, for the white-eye.

And she was a white-eye.

"I see now I was wrong. I shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have expected you to help a ten-year old dying boy, especially not when he's a white boy." She paused for a brief moment and shook her head. "Stupid me. Because we were once childhood friends, I thought…I thought… Never mind what I thought." She turned on her heels and willed the tears away. "Sorry to bother you, Yellow Smoke."

By the time she reached Cheena, tears ran in streams down her cheek. She mounted in a rush, nudged the mare into a gallop and fled from Sutter's cabin.

She had failed. Failed Sutter ten years ago, failed her parents (God rest their souls), failed herself and now she had failed Willie-boy. The thought of losing him was too much to bear. Blindly, she rode on into the late afternoon, not realizing how hard she had pushed Cheena until the horse slowed to a walk and began to limp.

She stroked the mare's neck. "I'm sorry, girl, so sorry."

In the next instant, Cheena shook her massive head, reared back and raised her front legs high in the air. The unexpected act tossed Anya from the saddle and into the hard-packed earth. Stunned and disoriented, long moments passed before she was able to roll from her side to a sitting position. White-hot pain shot though her right shoulder, and when she tried to move, the white-hot morphed into blinding red.

Cheena still stood beside her, although her wild eyes and trembling flesh smacked of danger. She had to locate the peril and then figure out how a lame horse and wounded woman could get away from it. Clutching her shoulder, she stretched her neck right to left and then emitted a gasp. With the loose-limbed agility of a primitive, wild animal, the creature slow-walked down the incline of a canyon toward them. Two short tufts of black hair on his ears and two yellow eyes that appeared as twin moons, confirmed the predator was a bobcat—the largest she'd ever seen.

Hell's fire, how long had the beast been stalking them?

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