CHAPTER ONE #2
"How do you know which plants work for which conditions?" Kari asked, genuinely curious, where once she might have been skeptical. "Is it properties in the plants themselves, or something more... spiritual?"
Ruth considered the question with unexpected seriousness.
"Both. The old ones watched what animals ate when they were sick.
They observed which plants survived when others died.
They tested and remembered and passed down what they learned.
" She knelt beside a particularly robust sage plant.
"But they also listened to what the plants themselves had to teach.
That part," she added with a sideways glance at Kari, "requires quieting the doubting mind. "
"Like meditation?" Kari suggested, kneeling beside her grandmother.
"If that word helps you understand, use it," Ruth replied. "Though I would say it's more like remembering how to hear what we've forgotten we know."
They worked methodically, Ruth demonstrating the proper way to harvest—taking only what was needed, leaving enough for the plant to thrive, offering a small prayer of thanks with each cutting. Kari followed her example, finding unexpected peace in the rhythmic process.
As midday approached, they moved to a different location for juniper and cedar, then to a small hidden canyon where specific flowers grew in the shade of an ancient cottonwood.
"Your mother was good at this," Ruth said unexpectedly as they sat in the shadow of the cottonwood, taking a brief rest. "She had the hands that plants responded to. Like you."
The comparison startled Kari. "Mom worked with these plants?"
"Before she chose the university path, yes." Ruth took a drink from her water bottle. "She helped me with gatherings until she was seventeen. Then she decided books held more important knowledge."
There was no judgment in Ruth's voice, just a stating of facts, but Kari sensed an old pain beneath the words—a divergence in paths that had never fully reconciled.
"Did she ever come back to it? The traditional practices?" Kari asked, realizing how little she knew about this aspect of her mother's life.
Ruth was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on distant horizons. "Near the end," she said finally. "She returned to some of the old ways. Started asking questions she hadn't asked since she was a girl."
"What kind of questions?"
Ruth's expression closed like a door being shut. "We should finish before the heat becomes too much," she said, rising with surprising agility for her age. "The cedar ahead requires careful handling."
Kari recognized the deflection but didn't press further.
Ruth had always maintained certain boundaries around what she would discuss—particularly regarding Anna's final months before her death.
Whatever had transpired between mother and grandmother during that period remained guarded behind Ruth's silence.
Once they had gathered everything needed for the next day's ceremony, they returned to Kari's Jeep.
They filled the cargo area with carefully packaged plants, each wrapped according to Ruth's specific instructions to preserve their properties.
As they drove back toward Ruth's home, Kari found herself appreciating the morning in ways she couldn't have imagined six months ago.
"Thank you for showing me all this," she said as they unloaded the harvested plants onto Ruth's porch. "I know I wasn't always receptive to learning these traditions when I was younger."
Ruth arranged the bundles in a specific order that clearly held significance beyond Kari's understanding. "You weren't ready then," she said matter-of-factly. "The knowledge waits for the right time. It doesn't force itself on unwilling minds."
"And now is the right time?" Kari asked.
Ruth paused in her sorting to study Kari with those penetrating eyes that seemed to see beyond surface appearances.
"You've walked to the edge of things most people never see," she said.
"You've felt the boundaries that separate worlds.
That creates openings for understanding what was closed before. "
The reference to boundaries brought unwelcome memories of the mine—the ceremonial arrangements, the petroglyphs that "weren't made by human hands," the earthquake that might not have been an earthquake at all.
Kari pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the immediate task of helping Ruth prepare for tomorrow's healing.
Inside Ruth's small house, they processed the harvested plants—hanging some to dry, grounding others immediately in a stone mortar, wrapping others in cloth bundles for specific uses during the ceremony. Ruth worked with the efficiency of someone who had performed these actions thousands of times.
"These will be burned first," she explained, indicating small bundles of sage and juniper. "The smoke creates protection around the space—a boundary. Then, cedar to invite helpful spirits. The other medicines come later."
"Boundary," Kari murmured, the phrase echoing Ruth's warnings during the skinwalker case and the uranium mine investigation. "You talk about those a lot."
Ruth continued her work, not looking up. "Because they matter. Especially now."
"Why, especially now?"
Ruth's hands stilled momentarily. "Things change. Cycles turn. Boundaries that held for generations grow weaker." She resumed her methodical preparation. "Your mother understood this, near the end."
Again, that reference to Anna's final months offered like bait that would be withdrawn if Kari reached for it too directly. She tried a different approach.
"Did Mom ever participate in healing ceremonies like the one tomorrow?"
"Once," Ruth said. "For a neighbor, when the cancer returned. Anna helped me prepare, just as you're doing now." A ghost of a smile touched Ruth's lips. "She asked many questions. Always questions with Anna."
"Like mother, like daughter," Kari said.
"Yes," Ruth agreed, her tone softening. "Like mother, like daughter."
They continued working in companionable silence, the familiar scents of sage, cedar, and juniper filling the small house.
Kari found herself wishing they could remain in this moment—this simple, peaceful communion of shared purpose—rather than returning to the complications that awaited in the wider world.
As if summoned by that thought, her phone vibrated in her pocket. Kari checked the screen, expecting another message from her father. Instead, Ben Tsosie's name appeared.
"My partner," she explained to Ruth, stepping outside to take the call. "Detective Blackhorse," she answered.
Ben's voice came through with the terse efficiency that signaled a serious situation. "I've been trying to get a hold of you. Where are you?"
"With my grandmother. Sorry, my phone was on silent mode—I didn't feel it vibrating. What's up?"
"We've got a body at Cold Water Canyon. Male, mid-fifties. Arranged with ceremonial elements."
The peaceful feeling Kari had cultivated throughout the morning evaporated instantly. "Ceremonial how?"
"Herbs. Tell you more when you arrive. Captain wants you here ASAP."
Kari felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. "Text me the exact coordinates. I'll be there in thirty minutes."
When she ended the call and turned back toward the house, Ruth stood in the doorway, her expression revealing she had already intuited the nature of the conversation.
"You need to go," Ruth said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes. There's been a murder." Kari hesitated. "With ceremonial elements, apparently."
Ruth's face remained impassive, but something flickered in her eyes—concern, perhaps, or resignation. "Be careful what you touch," she said. "Not all ceremonies are for healing."
"Will you be alright finishing the preparations alone?" Kari asked, already reaching for her keys.
"I prepared medicines before you were born," Ruth reminded her. "I can finish without you."
As Kari climbed into her Jeep, Ruth's warning followed her. Whatever awaited Kari at Cold Water Canyon, the old woman had sensed its significance without hearing the details.
As she drove away from Ruth's home, Kari glanced in the rearview mirror. Her grandmother stood motionless on the porch, watching her departure with an expression that suggested she was seeing something beyond Kari's understanding.
Something that had been set in motion long before this day and would continue long after