Chapter Fifteen Shadows of Pale Moon
The days after the battle unfolded in quiet rhythm, though the silence that hung over the camp was heavy with loss.
Smoke drifted from small fires, and women moved steadily about their work.
They sang low songs for the dead, their voices weaving with the river’s hush.
Children were hushed, too, their games quiet, their laughter dampened.
Violet kept to her tasks: carrying water from the river, helping bind wounds, gathering wood.
Every step was new, yet it all felt familiar—almost like something she had already walked through in another life.
At night, when she closed her eyes, she dreamed again of camps like this, of firelight spilling over hides, of faces she could not name.
And every morning she woke to find those same shapes and sounds around her.
Once, long ago in Boston, she would have called it coincidence. Now she was not sure. Now she wondered if her spirit had indeed walked ahead of her, as Grey Horse had said.
?
Grey Horse walked beside her often, not speaking more than needed.
Yet his presence steadied her. His shoulder was healing, and each evening she unwound the bandage, cleaned the wound, and bound it again with strips she tore from her garments.
He endured the touch with calm, though his eyes on hers sometimes left her breathless.
One evening, after she finished tending him, he surprised her by drawing something from his pouch—a small carved piece of bone shaped like a bird. He set it in her palm.
“My father made this,” he said. “I carried it when I was a boy.”
She looked at him, startled. “You’re giving it to me?”
“You keep it now.” His voice was simple, firm.
The bird was smooth under her thumb, worn by years of handling. She closed her fingers over it, moved beyond words.
Every night, Grey Horse quietly wove her hair with his steady hands, carefully forming a braid.
Always, Violet stilled under his touch, her breath catching in her throat.
When he was finished, he turned her to him and she whispered her thanks.
Briefly, although it felt to Violet endlessly, his dark eyes held hers, unreadable, before he turned back to the river.
?
But not everyone looked kindly on her place beside him.
Pale Moon had been watching.
She was young, younger than Violet herself, with eyes like polished stones and hair that gleamed blue in the sun.
She moved through the camp with the assurance of one who belonged to it completely.
The women whispered that her family had long promised her to Grey Horse, that she would one day be his wife.
And Violet saw the way Pale Moon’s gaze lingered whenever Violet and Grey Horse sat together. There was no mistaking the storm that gathered in those eyes.
?
It was late afternoon when Pale Moon cornered her. The sun slanted low, lighting the tall grass at the camp’s edge. Violet had gone to fetch water, and when she turned, Pale Moon stood waiting, her shadow stretched long.
“You are bold,” Pale Moon said in English laced with Kiowa rhythm. Her voice was low, smooth, but sharp as flint. “Too bold.”
Violet’s heart thudded. “I only help,” she said quietly.
“You take what is not yours,” Pale Moon snapped. “Grey Horse’s heart belongs to the past. His wife was pale, like you. She died when soldiers brought death to our people. His heart is buried with her.”
Violet’s throat tightened.
“And if—” Pale Moon’s eyes flashed, “if by some miracle his heart is freed, it is mine. Promised since we were children. You are nothing here but a shadow passing through.”
The words struck hard, sharper than any wound Violet had dressed. She gripped the water jug against her chest, her breath quick.
“I don’t want to take anything—” she began, but Pale Moon cut her off.
“You already take. His gaze. His time. His silence.” Her lip curled faintly. “But you will not have his future. That is mine.”
She turned and walked away, her braid swinging like a whip.
Violet stood trembling, her pulse rushing in her ears. She wanted to deny it, to insist this woman had no claim. When she closed her eyes, she felt the touch of Grey Horse’s hand in her hair, the warmth of his gift in her palm.
But she couldn’t keep from wondering in her deepest heart: Was Pale Moon right?
?
That night, Violet lay awake, listening to the low murmur of the camp, the cries of night birds along the river. The braid still hung heavy down her back, a reminder of his touch. Pale Moon’s words pressed into her like thorns.
His heart belongs to the past. If freed, it will be mine.
She turned the carved bird in her hand, feeling the smooth bone against her skin. Grey Horse had given it freely. He had braided her hair to bind her to him.
Yet doubt gnawed at her. Was she only walking in another woman’s shadow? Was she a ghost haunting his grief, or was she something new, something real?
Her dreams came again that night. She saw the camp as it was, firelight glowing, women moving, children sleeping. And in the dream, Pale Moon’s eyes blazed like embers, and Grey Horse stood between them, silent, torn.
She woke with the dawn pale on the river and knew that nothing between them would ever be simple.
?
The days stretched on. She continued to walk with Grey Horse, to tend his shoulder wound, to learn his ways. But Pale Moon’s presence was always near. A shadow at the edge of the firelight, a whisper behind the women’s laughter, a gaze that burned like the sun.
And Violet carried both truths within her: the warmth of Grey Horse’s hand and the sting of Pale Moon’s warning.
Past, present, future—all braided together. But whose braid would Grey Horse choose to tie?
As she sat by the fire that night, the warmth of Grey Horse’s presence warming her more than the flame, a name rose unbidden to her mind: Thomas.
The word struck her like a stone in still water, sending out ripples of dread.
How could she have forgotten about him all this time? Had it been deliberate?
Back in Boston, she had promised him. She had written her intent in ink, steady and clear: I will come. Do not doubt it.
The memory of that letter burned in her now, the neat strokes of her own hand shackling her more tightly than any rope. She had boarded the stage coach with that promise guiding her, believing she was stepping into the life she had agreed to. The promise was hers, and, now, she had broken it.
A shiver coursed through her. She was safe here, her heart sheltered with Grey Horse, yet the thought of Thomas waiting and perhaps even grieving her loss filled her with the cold weight of guilt.
Her stomach tightened. Could promises be undone?
Could a heart change its course without destroying itself?
She feared the answer, feared the choice that might one day stand before her.
On the one hand Grey Horse’s steady protection and warm heart, and on the other, Thomas’s claim to her.
One was her desire, the other her obligation.
Her fingers strayed to the braid that lay against her shoulder, its weight reminding her of one path, while the memory of her written words pulled her toward the other.
And she, caught between, felt the river of her life racing faster than she could swim.