The horses slowed to a walk. I studied my new companion’s gelding—a slender cart horse with a thick white mane and tail, bushy brown forelock, and blue eyes.
“What is your horse’s name?” I asked.
“Elm,” Timere answered. “And Grouch is the mule. I’m going to sell him soon. I’m running low on food.”
“Me too.”
We rode in silence for a while at a trot again. I wondered if I could really trust Timere. I realized I had no choice but to. There were robbers that would take more than my leftover change. I needed extra protection in case I weren’t able to reach my pistol or escape in time. I heeled Bonny into a soothing canter, and Timere allowed Elm to follow. When I felt the urge to sing to my mare, I reminded myself I wasn’t alone.
A red-tailed hawk screeched and circled overhead. Sagebrush swayed in the breeze. A gopher ducked into its hole. The world was alive and at peace despite the brutal summer heat. I steadied Bonny to an easy jog.
“What if you sold Grouch to a rancher…or a miner in Calico?” I suggested to Timere.
He pulled up Elm. “I’m not sure.”
“You could trade him for a dog.”
“I don’t need another mouth to feed.”
I frowned at his hard-set jaw. “What’s the matter?”
“They wouldn’t trade or buy from an ‘injun’,” Timere said bitterly.
I stared blankly at him. “Lots of people buy and trade Native American goods.”
He halted Elm sharply. “Do I look like an Indian to you? Be honest.”
I studied him carefully. He did look very much Native American, with his high-set cheekbones and broad shoulders, but his shoulder-length hair was slightly wavy. “Mostly.”
“I’m only half,” Timere informed me. “I got all the looks of my father. If only my skin weren’t so bronze I might be able to pass for a white man.”
“It’s not something to be ashamed of,” I assured him. “It’s not better to be ‘white’ or worse to be ‘bronze’. God makes us the way He wants us.”
Timere looked angry. He nudged Elm into a trot. The gelding surprised me with his gentle patience—especially when Grouch, supposedly true to his name, flapped his big ears and nipped at the gelding’s hindquarter.
Bonny tried to gallop twice, begging for her head. She arched her neck and brought her nose to her chest, somewhere between a trot and a canter. Her mane cascaded from one side of her crest to the other.
Timere and Elm flew past us with Grouch at their heels. I noticed that the mule was no longer connected to the gelding, yet he still followed faithfully.
“Give her her head,” Timere called. “I’ll race you to those bushes!” He pointed to a clump of sagebrush.
I laughed and loosened the reins. Bonny surged forth with speed that defied her powerful bulk. With determined strides she evaded Elm. The gelding champed his teeth and soon matched paces with her. For a few strides their heads bobbed in time, then Bonny galloped ahead as if winged and flew past the sagebrush.
I rubbed her neck, warm with sweat. “Good girl! You know you’re the fastest.”
She galloped a second longer before settling into a jog. Elm mimicked her gait once he caught up. I beamed proudly at Timere.
He laughed. “Alright—you won!”
“Bonny won,” I corrected. “But Elm is pretty fast, as well.” I reached out to scratch the gelding’s mismatched forelock.
“He is,” Timere agreed, knotting Grouch’s lead-rope to Elm’s saddle horn again. “So, where did you get ‘Bonny’ from?”
“I can’t tell.”
“I thought we agreed to trust each other.”
“That doesn’t mean we trust each other completely.”
“I guess that will come with time?”
“Perhaps.”
The horses walked leisurely now, nipping at one another’s inside shoulders. I toyed with Bonny’s mane, refusing to look Timere in the eye.
He didn’t become angry, instead asking, “Shall we settle here for the night?”
I surveyed the wide, empty desert. “Yes. The sun will set—so it’ll get cooler, and we can tie the horses to stakes.”
We laid out our bedrolls and hitched the horses and mule to stakes in the ground. I untacked and rubbed Bonny down and let her roll. Then I checked her hooves and put her saddle on again. I noticed that Timere left Elm’s saddle and bridle off.
“I’ll put them on again in a little while,” he explained. “Elm deserves a rest.”
I smashed down the guilt that entered my chest. Usually, I would leave Bonny’s tack off, too—but I just couldn’t risk it if Timere proved to be an enemy. He lit a campfire and offered me some bread, which I declined, wishing to finish off my own food first. When night fell, I lay awake.
What if Timere had wrong intentions for joining me on the way to Calico? What if he made a wrong move on me in the midst of the night? I shuddered and went to check on Bonny. She touched my cheek with her velvety muzzle. I buried my face in her mane. We were searching for a home—a place to stay and thrive in. What did Calico have to offer?
Taking a risk, I dragged my bedroll beneath Bonny so that her belly was over where my own stomach would be. She twisted her neck around to gaze inquisitively at this new setup, but stood square. I crawled into my bedroll, and she returned to swishing her tail at the summer gnats. Relieved, I drifted off to sleep.
Morning’s light woke me at dawn. Timere had hunted quail for breakfast, and busied himself roasting them on a spit over the fire.
“Bonny stood still for you all night.”
I grinned sheepishly and fastened my bedroll to the back of my saddle. “She’s a good girl.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you, you know,” Timere commented, his gaze intense.
How was it that he’d only known me for less than a day, and he could already read me so well? I drew up Bonny’s cinch and fed her a handful of grain. She stamped her hoof impatiently and nose-knocked me. Timere offered me some quail, which I accepted gratefully.
When he continued to give me the cold shoulder, I apologized, “I’m sorry I’m so wary of you, Timere. I don’t know whom to trust, and I hardly know you.”
“It’s alright,” he dismissed me. “So, where did you come up with a name like ‘Elizabeth Badger’, anyway? Would you like me to keep using it when we’re in public?”
“Please do,” I grinned. “A relative of mine has the last name Badger. And Elizabeth is a common name in this day and age. I supposed no one would suspect it. Is ‘Timere Westcott’ your real name?”
Timere grinned in return. “Yes. My mother named me ‘Timere.’ ‘Timere’ means ‘fearless’ in the Latin language. My mother loved to read, and found my name in a book that she owned. The children at school used to call me ‘Tim’s Ear’ because they thought my name extraordinary.”
“It is extraordinary,” I mused. “But in a good way.”
He smiled and rose to feed Elm. I combed Bonny’s mane with my fingers before swinging into the saddle.
“Can we go far today?” I hoped. “We’re so close to Calico…”
“Why do you want to go there?” Timere wondered.
“I want a place to call home.”