Chapter Twenty-Three The Clash
A cry tore through the air like a wounded thing, faint but sharp enough to stop Grey Horse cold. His head lifted, every sense on guard. A woman’s voice: Violet’s.
He had heard many cries in his life—of fear, of rage, of birth, of mourning—and this one carried the weight of all of them.
Grey Horse wheeled his pony without a word. Ezra looked at him sharply. “That her?”
Grey Horse’s eyes burned. “Yes.”
Ezra kicked his horse into a lope. “Then we’ve no more time.”
They found her trail within minutes. Small prints pressed deep into the dust, scraps of skirt fabric torn and hung on briars, smears of blood from a wound she must have suffered.
Grey Horse dismounted and crouched, his fingers brushing the damp earth, his nostrils flaring as though scent itself could guide him.
“She runs hard,” he murmured. “Fear at her back.”
Ezra squatted beside him, scanning the brush. “And Thomas behind, I’ll wager. He won’t let her go easy.”
Grey Horse’s jaw set. “He will let go.”
They rose and pressed on, Grey Horse in the lead, Ezra keeping pace. The wilderness folded around them, their silence a pact.
Each sign drew them deeper: reeds broken by hurried passage, water stirred where she had waded, mud marked with her palm where she had steadied herself.
Grey Horse’s chest ached with every clue, imagining her suffering, stumbling, terrified. But each mark was also proof she lived, she fought, she fled.
He would reach her.
?
Toward noon they paused at a fallen tree. Grey Horse read the signs, the crushed leaves, the faint impression of a form curled small. His hand hovered above it, his throat tight. He could almost feel the warmth she had left behind.
“She rested here,” he said softly.
Ezra nodded. “Smart girl. She knows how to use cover.”
Grey Horse’s eyes narrowed. “She has learned. She listens to the land.”
They pressed on, following the faint thread of her passage until the sun spilled gold across the horizon.
Ezra’s voice was low. “If she’s running blind, he’ll close the distance. A bigger man, longer stride. We’ve got to be quicker.”
Grey Horse’s eyes flared. “We will be.”
They broke into a trot, urgency mounting with every step.
?
The sun climbed, harsh and merciless. Violet’s feet were torn, her skirt ragged, her throat raw. She moved by will alone, each step a prayer. The carved bird warmed her palm, its small shape the only steady thing in a world spinning with fear.
She thought of Grey Horse, his hands in her hair, his eyes on hers, and she held that image like a talisman. If he was near, if he had heard her, then perhaps hope was not a fool’s dream.
But when a voice came behind her, harsh and heavy, her heart fell like a stone.
“Violet!”
Thomas.
She stumbled, turning, and there he was, red-faced, sweating, lantern long since discarded, his eyes wild. He lunged, his hand clamping her arm like an iron shackle.
“You think you can run from me?” he spat. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
She fought, twisting, kicking, her nails raking his skin. “No! Let me go!”
His slap rang out, staggering her, and his other arm locked around her waist. “You’ll pay for this, you ungrateful—”
?
Thomas’s shout snapped through the air, followed by a cry Grey Horse recognized. Springing from his pony, he broke into a run, Ezra at his side. They crashed through brush, bursting into the clearing. And there he was.
Thomas. Clutching Violet with his hand raised to strike again.
Rage surged like fire in Grey Horse’s veins.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t waste breath. He moved.
Thomas barely had time to turn before Grey Horse struck him. The force knocked Violet free. She tumbled to the ground, scrambling as far away from Thomas as she could.
The two men collided.
Thomas roared, swinging wild, his fist glancing Grey Horse’s jaw. Grey Horse staggered, then answered with a blow of his own, driving his knuckles into Thomas’s gut. The man wheezed, doubling, but came up snarling.
They grappled, fists and elbows, feet scraping dirt. Thomas was thick, heavy, fueled by rage. Grey Horse was faster, honed by years of battle. They crashed to the ground, rolled, came up again.
Ezra stood ready, pistol drawn but lowered, his eyes sharp. “End it, Grey Horse,” he muttered.
Thomas lunged, trying to lock his arms around Grey Horse’s neck. Grey Horse twisted free, drove his knee into Thomas’s belly, then his fist across the man’s temple. The crack was sharp.
Thomas staggered, eyes rolling, and collapsed into the dust.
?
Violet stared, trembling, her hands pressed to her mouth. Grey Horse stood over Thomas, chest heaving, his hair wild, his eyes burning.
Then he turned to Violet, and the fire in his gaze softened into something fierce but tender.
“You are safe,” he said, voice low, steady.
Her heart broke and healed all at once. She crawled toward him, then rose to her feet, swaying. His hands came to her shoulders, grounding her, steadying her as if the earth itself had caught her fall.
Behind them, Thomas lay sprawled, unconscious, dust rising in faint clouds with each ragged breath he still drew.
Ezra stepped forward, his voice even. “Best we move fast. He’ll wake, and he’ll come after us.”
“He won’t get far without a horse … and with no gun,” Grey Horse said as the picked up the rifle Thomas had leant against a tree while he was tracking Violet.
Grey Horse’s hand tightened gently on Violet’s arm. “He will not touch you again.”
And in that moment, Violet believed it.