Twenty

A clatter on the roof woke Night Sun. She slitted her eyes, preparing for an onslaught of light. Every time one of the slaves entered, the sudden brightness blinded her. She sat up—and stiffness shot pain through her muscles. The cold had eaten into the very marrow of her bones. As the pine-pole roof cover slid back, stars blazed. The ladder descended. It struck the ground with a dull thump.

“Night Sun?”

“Ironwood?” she blurted.

He climbed down, carrying a pack. “I mustn’t stay long. Too many people know I’m here.”

“I understand.” She swallowed to ease the ache in her throat. “How did you get past the guard?”

“I still have the loyalty of many of our warriors. In the case of Blue Corn, who’s guarding you tonight, I rescued him from a Fire Dog raiding party once.”

The gleam of starlight after pitch blackness made the room seem as bright as daylight. Ironwood had braided his hair and coiled it into a bun at the back of his head. The silver sheen highlighted the planes of his oval face, falling across his high cheekbones and flat nose, playing in his slanting brows. His bright red shirt, turquoise pendant, and blue leggings glowed dully in the starlight. She noticed grimly that he had a bow and quiver over his shoulder and that his war club hung at his waist.

“I brought you two blankets,” he said as he knelt beside her and opened the pack. “And food and water.”

“Snake Head let you?”

“No. He’s gone. I don’t know where.”

She grabbed for the first blanket and snugged it around her shoulders. “Oh, this feels good. Did you warm it before you brought it?”

“Yes, I knew you’d be cold,” he said as he draped the second blanket around her shoulders. “I hung them beside my fire while I spoke with Dune and Sternlight, then I folded them and came straight over.”

Night Sun clutched them closed at her throat and delighted in the prickly sensation of heat seeping into her body. “Dune is here? In Talon Town?”

“He came with me.” Ironwood sank to the floor beside her and sighed. He looked very tired. Deep lines grooved the skin around his eyes.

“I know you’re not all right,” he said, “but are you well enough to talk?”

Night Sun ran her slim fingers through her long hair. “Do you believe him, that the child is alive?”

Ironwood bowed his head. “I knew the child was alive, Night Sun.”

“You…?”

“Yes.”

A dull thudding began in her chest, followed by a hollow sickness in her gut. All these years, her child had been alive. “Sternlight … he helped you hide the child?”

He nodded. “He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. He knew how frightened you were, what Crow Beard would do to you if he found out. Sternlight made certain he was the only one present at the birth so that he could sneak the child away and see that no one—not even you—knew that it lived.”

She propped her elbows on her knees and gripped handfuls of her thick graying black hair. Thoughts tumbled over each other in her head.

“I have been paying for the child’s rearing,” Ironwood said softly. “The family has taken very good care of her.”

Night Sun stared dumbly at him. It took several moments for his meaning to dawn. “Her?” She scrambled to her knees facing him. “But Sternlight told me—”

“I know he did. But it was a girl.”

Hallowed Spirits, have I seen her? My eyes passing over her as if she were a stranger?

“Is she here, Ironwood? In the—”

“No. I sent her away. It was the best way to keep her safe.”

She fumbled for words as the horror became clear. “Then … oh, no. Blessed gods, no! Then an innocent boy is going to die! Is that what you’re telling me? Sternlight lied to protect our daughter, and condemned—”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” He met her probing gaze. “Give me a few moments to explain. You don’t understand, I—”

“I do understand! You and Sternlight—”

“No.” He held up his hand and slowly curled the fingers into a fist. “Please!” Anguish twisted his handsome face. “This is hard, Night Sun, after all these summers.”

“Yes, it is, Ironwood. For you … and me.” She sank back against the wall, lowered her head and tugged at her blankets.

Ironwood shifted to sit cross-legged before her, his knees less than a handsbreadth from her sandals. They had not been this close in many summers. “Night Sun, you were all I ever wanted—and were worth everything to me. But I knew you well, my friend. Long before you told me, I realized I had lost you. That little girl was the one thing I had left of ‘us.’ I couldn’t take the chance that Crow Beard might kill our daughter.”

He frowned at the moisture running down the wall to his left. His shoulder muscles contracted from the strain, swelling beneath the thin red fabric of his shirt.

Night Sun stared at him.

Their gazes held, his pleading, hers stunned.

Night Sun tried to swallow, and it hurt. “Ironwood, would you hand me the water jug?”

He drew it from his pack, removed the wooden stopper, and handed it to her. The black-and-white lightning spirals decorating the base blazed in the stargleam.

Night Sun took a long drink, and then another. The liquid tasted earthy and cold. She sank back against the wall and drank more. She’s alive. After all these summers of mourning.

“Does … does she know about me? I mean, that I’m her mother?”

“It was better that she knew nothing about either of us. As far as I know, she thinks the people she grew up with are her parents.”

“Will you…?” Night Sun set the water on the floor. “Ironwood, I have something I wish to ask of you.”

“What?”

“In my personal chamber there is a blue-and-white basket. It is filled with things that I cherish. Please, speak to Cloud Playing. Explain to her that I wish all of those things to be divided equally between her and…” She blinked. “What is our daughter’s name?”

“Cornsilk.”

“Cornsilk.” She tried it on her tongue. My daughter.… “Between her and Cornsilk. And of course the lands must be divided. I will leave the rest to Cloud Playing. She’s generous and kind. She will know what to do.”

Ironwood’s jaw hardened at her defeated tone. “Have you given up already? Without even a fight? I have a plan, Night Sun. We must think of how to—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. Reluctantly, he closed his mouth and sat back, listening. “You know as well as I that the child will be proof that I betrayed the Blessed Sun.”

“Yes, but—” Ironwood reached out to touch her shoulder.

“No, don’t touch me! Don’t make it harder for me than it already is! I—I don’t need … hope … from you. I need your promise!”

His hand hovered a moment, then drew back. “I will speak with Cloud Playing.”

Night Sun saw the hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ironwood. I’m frightened and confused. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I know.”

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with Cloud Playing. And now … you should go. You’ve been here far too long. Even your loyal Blue Corn may grow suspicious.”

Ironwood rose and looked down at her, arms hanging limply at his sides. Starlight flowed into the wrinkles of his face. “Before I leave, I have something to ask of you, Night Sun.”

She looked up. “What is it?”

His turquoise pendant flashed as he took a breath. “Promise me…” He paused as though uncertain how to say it. “Promise me that you won’t take her away from me. You have had so much, Night Sun, and I have had so little. I need my daughter.”

He stood poised between silver walls and shining stars, his graying hair glinting; it occurred to her how much he must have suffered for nearly sixteen summers, knowing he had a child, longing to hold her and never able to. That little girl must have grown up in his heart and imagination—while she’d been dead to Night Sun.

“I will do whatever you wish, Ironwood.”

“Thank you, Blessed Night Sun.”

Then he turned and climbed the ladder. When he replaced the roof cover, he left it slightly ajar. Night Sun stared at the starlight that arced across the far wall like a slash of blue-white paint.

He spoke quietly to Blue Corn, then his steps faded.

She leaned her head back against the wall and breathed.

*   *   *

Warm rain fell.

Ironwood pulled his red cotton cape closed and tipped his face to the drizzle. He crouched in his old familiar place outside the dead Chief’s chamber where, over the summers, he had worn a hollow in the sun-hardened clay plaster. His soul hurt from seeing Night Sun. He could not get her out of his thoughts. He had to do something, but had no idea of what. Though some warriors obeyed his commands, he had no real power here. Not anymore.

Misty silver veils wavered over Talon Town, shifting and twisting in the wind. His gaze fixed upon them. If it would only rain like this during the growing season, perhaps some of the tension would ease. The Straight Path people would begin planting corn, beans, and squash in a little over a moon, depending upon Sternlight’s solar observations. He prayed the thlatsinas would send the rains then.

Inside the chamber, Dune and Snake Head spoke in low, strained voices. All day they had been arguing over Crow Beard’s dead body, and Ironwood had grown tired of it. He was here because Dune had asked him to stand guard, and Snake Head had agreed—but only until Webworm returned.

Wind Baby gripped Ironwood’s cape and flapped it around his shoulders like red wings. He tugged it closed again. Long ago, Wind Baby had been his Spirit Helper, but many summers had passed since he’d heard whispers in the wind.

In a voice too low for those inside to hear, he said, “I need you, Spirit Helper. Come. Speak with me. Advise me. I beg you.”

In the stormy sky, Thunderbirds growled and soared, leaping from cloud to cloud. Lightning flashed and Ironwood saw a group of slaves huddled in the plaza five stories below. Ordinarily, at dusk, all slaves were confined in the circular windowless chambers on the edges of the plaza. For them to be caught outside at night, without the permission of a clan leader, or one of the First People, was a crime punishable by death. Snake Head must have assigned this group a special task. They sat in a small circle with blankets pulled over their heads. A tiny fire burned before them.

Ironwood wondered what they discussed. He knew so little about their lives. Slaves were taken by warriors during raids. As one of the spoils of victory, warriors could keep as many as they could guard, though most were given away to First People. In exchange, the warriors received the blessings of the gods, and curried the more secular favors of their rulers.

Slaves almost never spoke a civilized tongue, and they worshiped alien gods. Ironwood had owned as many as thirty slaves at a time, but he’d found that the expense of feeding, clothing, and guarding them required more than he gained in status. And, if the truth be known, as he grew older, slavery became more than his heart could bear. He often heard little children weeping in their chambers, and knew without needing words that they cried for home and their lost families. As a matter of honor, he still took slaves. But he sold them all to pay for Cornsilk’s protection.

He gazed down at the Cage, where Night Sun remained imprisoned. The slaves worshiped her. Once a sun cycle, generally during the holy days of summer, she freed her most loyal slave and sent her home with a pack of riches. Cloud Playing had always done the same. It made them heroes to the captives. It also made Snake Head indignant. Crow Beard had never seemed to care, but Snake Head stamped about every solstice celebration, grumbling and complaining about his share of the wealth they were throwing away! He’d been especially adamant when Night Sun had wanted to free Mourning Dove.

Ironwood remembered the day well. Snake Head had been a boy, eleven or twelve. He’d thrown a tantrum so violent he’d lost consciousness and collapsed in the plaza. The event had shaken Night Sun, and she’d given Mourning Dove to Snake Head as his own personal slave.

Ironwood had always wondered why Mourning Dove didn’t strangle Snake Head in his sleep.

Dune’s reedy old voice rose from within the torchlit chamber. “What was that, boy?”

Ironwood leaned into the room and saw Dune hobbling across the chamber swinging his walking stick. Snake Head backed before him, hands thrown out for protection. His long purple shirt glimmered in the orange gleam. On the floor, Crow Beard’s body lay under his blankets. His lips had drawn back into a strained grin that exposed the few stubby incisors left in his mouth.

“I meant only,” Snake Head defended, “that you are old! Age affects the memory!”

“Not mine it doesn’t.” Dune backed Snake Head against the wall and cracked the boy on the elbow with his walking stick. Snake Head yipped, and Dune said, “I remember very well what your father wished of me. And I plan on doing it, whether you like it or not!”

Snake Head’s large dark eyes and full lips pinched. He’d coiled his black hair into a bun. “If you smash my father in the face with your Bashing Rock, here, in this room, then his soul will fly free before it is ready! We must carry him to the sacred Humpback Butte and the ladder to the skyworlds! Surely my father would not have told you he wished to have his soul floating around Talon Town rather than climbing the ladder to become one of the thlatsinas!”

“Surely your father would have … and did.” Dune scowled menacingly.

It made a strange picture. The tall handsome Snake Head in his regal purple clothing, trapped by little white-haired Dune dressed in a threadbare brown shirt. Dune’s deep wrinkles looked cavernous in the pale torchlight.

“Dune,” Snake Head said, “I am the new Chief. As Blessed Sun, I order you to carry out my wishes, not my—”

“What have you got planned, boy? Hmm?”

Snake Head’s handsome face went rigid. “I wish my father’s body to travel unharmed to the Humpback Butte. Don’t you realize that there will be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who will wait alongside the road to see his body pass? Worshipers who will wish to look upon the glorious face of the Blessed Sun? But not if he doesn’t have a face, Dune!”

“You slug!” Dune jabbed his stick into Snake Head’s belly. “I didn’t come here to be ridiculed by a mere boy who has just discovered the hidden life of his private parts!”

Snake Head’s mouth gaped, and anger flashed in his eyes.

Ironwood rose and entered the room.

Snake Head glanced at him apprehensively. “I did not intend to anger you, holy Derelict. I only wished to show you the error—”

“Error!”

“That was—that was perhaps the wrong word.” Snake Head squirmed against the wall. The thlatsinas behind him seemed to be peering down with great curiosity. “Let me try putting it another way.”

Dune’s busy white brows lowered, and he raised his walking stick into striking position. “What way?”

“I was wondering if it would be possible for you to smash my father’s skull after we reach the sacred butte? That way anyone who wishes to see his face can do so.”

Dune cocked his head warily. “Why do you want your father’s soul in his body when we walk the road? Why is that so important to you?”

“Because,” Snake Head said through gritted teeth, “I—”

“You’re planning on hiring raiders to steal your father’s body, aren’t you?”

“What?” Snake Head blurted.

“It would make you a big man with Crow Beard’s enemies, wouldn’t it?” Dune glared up at Snake Head. “Who are you trying to establish an alliance with? Surely not the Tower Builders. They have nothing to offer but moldy pine cakes and ugly pottery. The Mogollon Fire Dogs? Now, there’s a traitorous possibility.”

“You’ve lost your wits, old man!” The veins stood out in Snake Head’s neck and his fingers worked as if he were on the verge of strangling the holy Derelict.

Ironwood’s blood went cold. Could it be true? The Mogollon despised the Straight Path nation, though they exchanged goods with them through neutral Traders. Why would Snake Head wish to forge a relationship with such insolent predators? They couldn’t be trusted. And they had enough cold-blooded warriors that when the alliance fell—and it would—they could use the event as a justification for full-scale war.

When Snake Head saw Ironwood’s livid face in the doorway, his hands dropped to his sides, and he said, “You don’t believe that, do you? It’s ridiculous! Those people are our enemies! I would never—”

“It would be extremely dangerous, Snake Head.” Ironwood threw his red cape over his shoulders and propped his hands on his hips. “We presently have an uneasy agreement with the Fire Dogs. We raid each other, take slaves, disrupt communication and trade, but none of us wishes outright war—and such an alliance would surely lead—”

“I don’t want war!”

Ironwood tilted his head apologetically. “I’m sure that’s true. Forgive me for interfering in your conversation.”

He bowed, and walked away, bracing his shoulder against the doorway to look out at the storm. The bellies of the clouds had turned silver. He studied them, and wondered. Dune never said anything by chance. What had his purpose been?

“Dune,” Snake Head began again, voice reasonable, “what may I give you to allow me to take my father’s body to the Humpback Butte in one piece?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“Not even a dozen beautiful slave women? Perhaps a hundred baskets of precious jewels, turquoise, jet, malachite, coral?”

“Especially not jewels.”

Snake Head spread his arms wide in a placating gesture. His hair shimmered blue-black in the light. “Tell me what you wish, and I will provide it. You have only to name your price!”

Dune’s eyes narrowed. “And where would you get the goods? Nothing belongs to you. Not yet. By imprisoning your mother, you’ve taken away her right to distribute Crow Beard’s meager possessions. That means the duty falls to Cloud Playing. Until she gives you something with which to bribe me, you’re hardly worth my time, Snake Head.”

“Dune, this is silly—”

“No. You’re silly. I’ll keep my promise to your father, boy.”

Snake Head dropped his arms. “My father is doomed, then.”

“Your father is saved.”

“His soul will be wandering—!”

“His soul will be free.”

“But, Dune, you—”

“Enough!”

“Dune, I’m the Blessed—”

“Do you truly wish to cross me, Snake Head?” Dune’s eyes had taken on a frightening gleam.

Snake Head glared for the briefest of moments, then he swallowed hard and turned away.

The fire went out of Dune’s faded eyes. His shoulders hunched forward. As if each step hurt, he slowly made his way back to Crow Beard’s side and slumped to the floor, staring at the dead Chief’s emaciated face.

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Snake Head promised as he stalked from the room, passing Ironwood without a glance. He ducked through the door, glared up at the rain, and climbed down the ladder to the fourth story.

Ironwood watched the rain fall.

It splatted the roofs and stippled the wet plaza where the slaves sat before their spluttering fire. A pleasant whisper of raindrops filled the night, and the fragrance of soaked cedar wafted on the wind.

Ironwood turned. “Did you mean what you said? About Snake Head and our enemies?”

“I mean everything I say.” Dune pulled Crow Beard’s blanket up and tucked the edges around his throat.

“Did you Dream it? How do you know that he—”

“I don’t have to have visions to know the boy is treacherous, Ironwood. All I have to do is draw up the worst possible thing I can imagine, and surely Snake Head has thought of it.”

Ironwood stared somberly at the dead Chief. “Is Crow Beard truly dead? Or on another Soul March to the afterworld?”

Dune braced a hand on the floor and met Ironwood’s eyes. White hair blazed orange around his head. His deep wrinkles rearranged themselves. “Dead as a soulless rock.”

Ironwood exhaled hard. “Do you really think you can free Crow Beard’s soul against his son’s wishes? Snake Head is, after all, the new Chief, and he has warriors to enforce his…”

Dune reached for his pack, pulled it close and rummaged around inside. He drew out a big chert cobble. With a grunt, he lifted it and slammed it into Crow Beard’s face.

The crunching of bone made Ironwood jump.

Dune hefted the rock again and brought it down hard a second time. Bone snapped and grated. He left the cobble in the pulped hollow where Crow Beard’s nose had been. “There,” Dune said as he wiped his hands off on the blanket. “That ought to do it.”

Ironwood studied the rock in the caved-in face. “Yes.” He nodded. “I wager it will. One way or the other.”

Dune rose on rickety knees and hobbled across the room; the holes in his brown robe revealed patches of wrinkled skin. “Tomorrow, I’ll need to send a messenger to Poor Singer. Since you never managed to tell me I’d be responsible for caring for Crow Beard, all of my burial herbs and tools are at my house. Someone will need to bring them to me.” He thumped his walking stick on the floor. “Can you arrange a runner for me?”

“At dawn, if you wish.”

“I do wish, Ironwood.”

“I’m sure Sternlight will allow us to use his slave Swallowtail. He’s a reliable boy.”

“Good.”

Dune placed an aged hand on Ironwood’s arm, squeezed weakly, and ducked outside into the misty shower.

Anxiety gnawed Ironwood’s nerves. Somewhere close by, Crow Beard’s ghost walked.

Ironwood exited the chamber and turned right, walking westward across the rooftop. Pools of water glistened in every irregularity in the plaster. The cliff rose like a black wall to his right, and above it, thunderheads billowed, blotting out most of the stars. Another dove-colored veil of rain swept down into the canyon. The little fire in the plaza wavered and hissed. The slaves huddled closer together, extending their blankets to protect the flames.

Ironwood climbed the ladder to the fifth-story roof and sat cross-legged in the rain, peering at the fires that flickered across the lowlands. Hundreds of them. Straight Path Canyon had neither the farmland nor the water to provide for the masses who had migrated here to be close to the sacred First People. Still, they came. He gazed down at the silver stream of water slithering through the wash. When the wind gusted just right, he heard flute music—faint, lilting. Perhaps it came from Kettle Town.

Ironwood held his cape closed around his throat and blinked against the raindrops. He longed to sit here until the cold lanced his bones. Maybe when his flesh felt as icy as his soul, he’d be able to think straight again. He’d been stumbling around like a fool, not knowing what to do or how. Feeling lost.

He inhaled deeply of the damp night, and his thoughts returned to Night Sun.

… Remembering the first time they’d had days alone together.

Before Crow Beard had left on his trading mission to the Hohokam, he’d given Ironwood specific instructions: “She is to go nowhere alone. Do you understand me, War Chief? Nowhere. Not on a walk to a nearby town, not to visit relatives, not even down to the wash to fill a jug of water. Do not let my wife out of your sight—ever!”

The words had been delivered with such utter gravity that Ironwood had vowed he would obey. He had escorted Night Sun everywhere—to her dismay.

Crow Beard had been gone for half a moon when Night Sun packed for one of her Healing trips to the neighboring villages.

The day before she planned to go, she and Ironwood had been standing in the middle of the plaza, surrounded by people weaving blankets, making pots, and knapping out stone tools, when he’d informed her that he would be accompanying her. Night Sun had grabbed three greenware pots from a potmaker and thrown them at Ironwood. He’d ducked the first one. The second had struck him in the shoulder. The last had missed—after which she’d called him unpleasant names.

She’d tried to sneak out of Talon Town in the middle of the night to avoid him.

Naturally, he’d anticipated her, and followed.

For three days, she’d refused to speak to him. Then, on the fourth day, they had been walking along the eastern end of the canyon, Night Sun in front, Ironwood guarding her back. He’d been studying the swirling patterns in the cliff. As though sanded by the hands of the gods, the designs felt as smooth as combed cotton. He ran his fingers over those he could reach, and marveled.

Night Sun strode along the trail, oblivious to the majesty, her tan-and-black dress dancing in the wind. She’d plaited her long hair into a single braid that hung to the middle of her back. Every so often, when she gazed into the distances, he caught sight of her triangular face with its pointed nose and large dark eyes. Her beauty stoked a hollow longing inside him.

As they rounded a bend in the trail, storm clouds rolled over the rim and engulfed the sky, rumbling and spitting rain. Thunderbirds roared. Ironwood jumped. Spring thunderstorms were common, but could be very dangerous.

“Blessed Night Sun?” he called. “We should find cover!”

Lightning slashed the heavens, so brilliant it blinded him, the roar almost deafening. Ironwood fell back against the cliff, his gaze glued to the sky. A searing web of light stitched the tortured heavens.

Night Sun also leaped back against the cliff, breathing hard, her eyes wide.

Ironwood started toward her, and a bolt of lightning lanced down, blasted a juniper tree less than two hundred hands from them, spraying wood and striking fire. Flames burst to life in the branches. Sparks blew, and grass and brush flared. Junipers torched as the wildfire rushed through the grass.

“Come on!” Ironwood yelled and ran for Night Sun. “We have to find cover! There’s a rock shelter up that talus slope!”

Grabbing her hand, he dragged her up the slope. Loose rocks and gravel made the climb difficult, but they reached the shelter, which sat about a hundred hands above the raging prairie fire. Smoke boiled into the air as the flames leapt and roared.

“We should be safe here,” he said as he sank to the floor of the shelter and leaned back against the cool sandstone.

The clouds opened and rain poured down in a shimmering opaque wall of water. The air smelled of burning cedar and rain. Blue smoke curled in the wind.

Night Sun sat down as far away from him as she could, which wasn’t far given the size of the rock shelter. The stone hollow stretched two body-lengths across and less than half a body-length deep—but if Wind Baby kept blowing from the north, it would keep them mostly dry.

Ironwood unslung his pack and pulled out his gut water bag. Tipping his head back, he took several swallows.

The rock shelter had a lovely view of the surrounding country. To the east, grassy flats stretched for half a day’s walk, punctuated by square buttes and weatherbeaten ridges. Far away, the Bearclaw Mountains etched a jagged blue line against the sky. Snow lay heavy on the peaks. Southward, and curving up toward the northwest, the cliffs of Straight Path Canyon gleamed wetly, as if washed with fresh blood.

Ironwood handed his water bag to Night Sun.

She looked at his extended hand, then into his eyes, and said, “I don’t like you.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to like me to drink my water.”

Ironwood leaned closer, the bag almost touching her arm.

Night Sun took it and drank, but she glared at him.

She looked beautiful, slender and willowy in her sand-matted dress. She drew up one knee, but the other leg, long and tanned, lay exposed to the gray stormlight. Windblown rain beaded her skin.

“Well, we might be here for a while,” he said. “Let’s make the best of it.”

He pulled a fabric pouch of venison jerky from his pack, unlaced it, and handed her a piece. As she reached for it, their fingers brushed, and a curious tingling sensation went through him. He drew his hand back. How strange that her touch would stir such sensations. Or perhaps not so strange. He hadn’t been alone with a woman since before the death of his precious wife, Lupine. His body remembered the texture of a woman’s flesh, despite his soul’s diligent attempts to forget.

He concentrated on his jerky. Smoky richness coated his tongue.

The Thunderbirds took the storm to the southeast and waving tendrils of rain blotted out the Bearclaw Mountains. Lightning continued to flash as the fire burned out beneath them. The downpour lessened to a steady patter. On the opposite rim of the canyon, a small herd of buffalo ran. From here they resembled black dots against a sage-sprinkled background.

“Buffalo,” he said reverently. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them so close to the canyon.”

Night Sun followed his gaze and frowned.

“When I was a boy,” Ironwood said, “my father used to take me out to watch the herds. We never hunted them, because there were so few left around our home; we just sat on the hilltops and watched. During mating season, they touch each other very tenderly—did you know that?” She didn’t respond, and he continued, “The bull nuzzles the cow with his head, and she rubs her shoulder along his side. And they play all the time, running and leaping and twisting in midair.” He laughed. “Even when they butt heads, it’s rarely combat, but more an enjoyable contest of wills.” He chewed another bite of jerky.

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you miss them?”

“Oh, yes, very much. I miss their loose-limbed walk and the way they toss their shaggy heads when they run.” Ironwood paused. “Most of all, I miss looking into their eyes.”

“Their eyes?” The anger had faded from her voice, but she still sounded hesitant.

Ironwood nodded and bowed his head. “It’s not easy to explain, but … the Creator lives in their eyes. I always saw Her looking out at me.”

Night Sun frowned down at the smoldering desert. Wisps of smoke struggled against the rain.

Ironwood took another drink of water, washing down the last of his jerky.

Night Sun sat silently, perhaps wondering at her War Chief’s sentimentality. Unease stiffened his spine. He barely knew her. Perhaps he should not have revealed such … softness.

When she folded her long legs under her and turned to face him, Ironwood immediately glanced up. Night Sun gave him an apologetic look.

“Forgive me,” she said. “After the past three days you must think me cruel, but I—”

“No, not at all. I think you’re angry with your husband for ordering me to spy on you.” He gestured awkwardly. “I would be, too, if I were you.”

She scooped a handful of sand from the floor, letting it trickle through her fingers. Wind gusted into the shelter, and a lock of black hair worked loose from her braid and fluttered over her large eyes.

Ironwood’s gaze traced the smooth line of her jaw before coming back to her eyes. He found Night Sun watching him—and something in her expression made his stomach muscles go tight. She looked … determined, as though she had decided something and was silently asking questions about it. Questions he did not understand.…

As though in a dream, she bent forward and pressed her lips to his. Confused, in shock, he just sat there. Thunder rumbled over the canyon and lightning glittered across the sky. Night Sun slid closer and slipped her arms around his waist.

“N-Night Sun, please don’t—”

She covered his mouth with hers, and her kisses grew insistent. A warm tide coursed through his veins. The sheer intensity of it frightened him. Ironwood lifted his arms and left them suspended uncertainly in midair. Blood pounded deafeningly in his ears. Night Sun’s embrace tightened, and her breasts against his chest left him shaking.

Leaning forward, she pushed him to the floor of the rock shelter, and he felt her tears running warmly down his cheeks as she stretched out on top of him. Her whole body shuddered from silent sobs.

He took her face firmly in his hands and forced her to look at him. “Why are you doing this? To hurt your husband?”

Night Sun sank against him, burying her face in his long hair. “More to hurt myself, I think.”

Her tears trickled down Ironwood’s neck. The answer went straight to his heart. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her back. A friendly gesture, nothing more. “Why would you wish to do that?”

“Because I can’t be what he wishes me to.”

Against her hair, he murmured, “People must be who they are. That is the way the Creator made us.”

“Not me.” She shook her head violently. “My duty is to—to be who people wish me to be. I’ve never been who I am, I—”

“Then perhaps it’s time to start.”

She pushed up and searched his face. “I’m afraid the First People will throw me out.”

“Well,” he said with a tilt of his head, “these are the chances we take.”

She arched one graceful brow. “You think that it’s worth it to give up all that I have to be all that I wish?”

“Of course.” Ironwood wiped the tears from her cheeks, letting himself drown, if only for a moment longer, in the softness of her skin. “I know I’m irresistible,” he said with a grin, “but I think we should stop this.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose we should. Forgive me.” Night Sun nuzzled her cheek against his palm before she sat up. It was such an intimate loverlike gesture that Ironwood’s grin evaporated.

He pulled his hand away and closed his numb fingers.

His expression must have startled her, because she went still and gazed at him nakedly, as though afraid of what he might say.

… The squawking of a turkey in the enclosed room below drew Ironwood’s attention back to the present, and Talon Town. He looked down at the rain-slick plaza. Another squawk erupted, then a flurry of wings.

Ironwood leaned his head back, staring up at the falling rain, as if it could wash the memory from his eyes.

Despite the long lonely summers—and a daughter born and taken away from him—Ironwood had never regretted loving Night Sun. If he died tomorrow because of those brief moons of joy, it would be a small price to pay.

Loving her was the only thing he’d ever done that meant anything.