Chapter Seven Ambushed on the Plains #2
The sun pressed down from above, the heat rising in waves from the ground. Grasshoppers sprang from the ponies’ path in snapping arches. Somewhere far off, a hawk circled against the perfect blue sky.
Her mind churned with images she couldn’t banish: the driver slumping forward with a cry, the thud of a body hitting the dirt, the terrified faces of the passengers. She tried not to think about whether any still lived. Tried not to imagine her own fate.
An hour bled into another, and then another.
The land began to change—rolling rises giving way to flatter stretches where the grass grew tall and supple, rippling like water under the breeze.
At last, far ahead, faint shapes broke the horizon: riders and ponies moving against the light, and beyond them a ring of triangular, hide-covered tepees, their pale sides catching the sun.
Her captor slowed the pony to a trot, then to a walk, as they neared the encampment.
The tepees stood in a wide circle, smoke curling thinly from their tops.
Children darted out to meet the riders, their shrill laughter mixing with the sharp yelps of half-wild dogs.
From the tepee openings, women stepped forward, some shading their eyes against the glare, their gazes fixed on the mounted men and on Violet—some faces breaking into smiles, others remaining watchful and still.
To Violet, the scene was at once bewildering and terrifying.
The high-pitched laughter of the children rang strange in her ears, too bright against the pounding of her own heart.
The dogs’ yelps only heightened her unease, snapping and circling beneath the ponies’ hooves.
The smell of smoke and tanned hides clung to the air, foreign and heavy.
Grey Horse swung down from the pony with fluid ease, then reached for her.
She thought to resist, but her legs were stiff and unsteady, and before she could gather herself he had lifted her to the ground.
His hand lingered at her elbow for a moment—steadying, not restraining—before he guided her toward the shadowed interior of one of the tepees.
Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the mingled scents of smoke, hide, and damp earth.
Shadows shifted across the poles overhead, where a narrow vent released the thin plume from the fire pit in the center.
The ground beneath her feet was softened with thick buffalo robes, their dark, musky scent rising as she stepped.
Along the slanted walls hung small pouches of hide, a bow with its quiver of arrows, and a painted shield whose design she could not decipher.
Voices drifted from outside—quick, low, indistinct.
Grey Horse ducked into the tepee after her, his presence seeming to fill the small space. He crouched by the fire pit, drawing something from a pouch at his belt. A small leather bag of water. Without a word, he held it out to her.
Violet’s heart still hammered as she stared at him, her hands trembling.
She didn’t take it at once. His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable, until finally she reached out and drank.
The water was warm, carrying the taste of hide and smoke, yet it steadied her enough to keep her breathing.
Whatever else this man was, she realized with a strange, sinking certainty—her fate was now in his hands.
?
Twilight bled across the plains, the vast sky deepening from gold to indigo, streaked with the last light of day. The Kiowa camp glowed in pockets of firelight, the smoke rising in pale ribbons before dissolving into the warm summer night.
Violet sat near the entrance of the tepee, her knees drawn to her chest, and the hide walls behind her.
Outside, the village hummed with life—men calling to one another in low, clipped tones and the laughter of children weaving between the steady thud of horses walking to and fro.
Somewhere, a drum began, its slow heartbeat pulsing into the dark.
Grey Horse had left her for much of the evening, speaking with other warriors.
She had seen him through the tepee’s opening now and then, his tall frame unmistakable among the rest. He moved with the ease of someone who belonged entirely to this place, his long, dark hair loose about his shoulders, catching glints of firelight.
His face was stern, rarely softening, and the others treated him with a respect that went beyond rank.
More than once, she caught snippets of glances in her direction and subtle nods toward Grey Horse. She didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear—this man had claimed her, and that meant something here.
When he returned, the air seemed to shift. He ducked into the tipi, his height forcing him to stoop, and set down a small rawhide bowl of roasted corn and strips of meat beside her. He didn’t speak, only gestured for her to eat, his dark eyes steady.
She studied him in the flicker of firelight.
Beneath the stern planes of his face, there was a shadow—something quieter, older than his years.
It lingered in the moments when his gaze drifted, when his jaw tightened without reason.
She didn’t yet know the cause, but she recognized it as the kind of grief that buries itself deep.
She moved deeper inside the tepee now where the air was still, broken only by the soft crackle of the small fire. Outside, the camp’s rhythm continued. The drumbeat quickened, shouts and laughter rising in time with it. Then Grey Horse approached her with a bundle of furs.
Violet’s mind still churned with the day’s horrors, but exhaustion pulled at her like a tide. She lay down on the bedding of furs he’d provided her, turning toward the tepee’s wall so he couldn’t see the tears she could no longer hold back.
Grey Horse sat across from her, cross-legged by the fire. She felt his eyes on her for a long time. Then the light shifted and she turned around to see him lie down as well, his silhouette stretched out on the other side of the fire pit.
The drumbeats faded into the night, replaced by the low murmur of the wind over the grass. Somewhere beyond the village, a coyote called.
Violet closed her eyes, not knowing if she would ever see Boston or anyone from her old life again.