Guided Home by a Native’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

The morning sun gilded the mountains in the distance, a pale fire spilling across ridges still dusted with snow. Belle adjusted her reins and leaned forward in the saddle, watching the trail unravel before them in uneven curves. She gave her horse a gentle pat, before straightening and flicking her braid of chestnut hair over her shoulder.

Belle sat tall in the saddle, her skin tanned from years of riding under the Colorado sun. Though dust clung to the hem of her riding dress, the fabric still carried the clean lines of careful stitching by her own hand. Her blue eyes, sharp against the sunburned planes of her face, carried the restless mix of determination and unease that had driven her onto that road.

“’Nother day on the trail,” Bart drawled almost begrudgingly. Belle didn’t give him the benefit of a response.

Bart, steady as always, kept his frame upright in the saddle. His dirty-blond hair was tousled and stood up in places due to the wind and dust from the road. In the long shadows, fine lines from years in the sun seemed deeper than usual, making him look older than his years.

They rode forward, already sore and tired from many days in the saddle. The trail narrowed near a stand of cottonwoods. Belle slowed, then reached into her satchel, drawing out a folded piece of parchment so worn its edges curled. She unfolded it carefully, smoothing it across her thigh with her gloved hand. The ink had faded, but the lines were still clear; the jagged trace of the Blue River winding through mountains with carefully marked valleys and slopes her grandmother had drawn decades ago.

Belle swallowed hard. How many times had she ran her fingers over these lines? She would trace them late at night by lamplight, wondering if she had the courage to follow them. Now, under the wide Colorado sky, the map felt heavier than it ought to.

They had come west out of Denver by the Platte and into South Park, following the wagon road freighters had beaten flat. From there, they ascended into the Rocky Mountains, the miles stretching out as the road grew narrower.

She bent closer to read the map in her hand. The pendant she wore around her neck swung forward; the carved wood worn to a mirror polish over forty-some-odd years. She tucked the pendant back into her dress before her eyes returned to trail.

She could almost hear her grandmother’s cracked voice again, whispering of fire and smoke while Belle lay half-asleep on her lap. For years Belle had wondered if those stories were only lullabies. The map, the pendant, the fading ink—all proved her grandmother’s memories had been more than shadows.

“Still staring at that paper?” Bart’s voice broke through her thoughts. He leaned sideways in the saddle, trying to catch the faded lines as her mare stepped carefully along the trail. “You’ll wear the ink clean off if you keep studying it like scripture.”

Belle smoothed the parchment against her thigh, unwilling to fold it just yet.

“It is more than paper, Bart. My grandmother drew these lines with her own hand. Every mark tells me where she walked, what she meant me to find.”

He gave a low chuckle. “For God’s sake, Belle, they’re only old tales. If she meant you to find it, don’t you think she would have given you more information? Sometimes folks leave the past buried for good reason.”

“You know Pupu, she sure didn’t bury it,” Belle protested, using the name for her grandmother she had used growing up. “She carried her story in silence. She told me stories when I was small. A woman fleeing fire, a chief who died with honor, a village that vanished like smoke. Only when she was dying did I realize they were not tales at all.”

Bart’s teasing expression faded into a gentle smile.

“You’ve had that same determined look since we were kids,” he said. “Like when we would sneak out to ride our horses. My ma used to scold me for running off, but I always ended up next door anyhow. You were never alone long after your folks passed.”

Belle’s throat tightened at his words, though she tried to hide it by smoothing the parchment. After her parents died, Bart’s family had treated her as though she were their own. She and Bart had walked the same road to school, raced ponies through the summer fields, and when her grandmother’s breath failed at last, Bart had been the one waiting outside the door.

“You’re certain this river here is meant to be the Blue?” he asked, breaking Belle’s thoughts.

“Yes,” she said firmly, tapping the curve inked on the page. “Here is the turn, and here the valley, do you see? She wrote the name Blue River Camp just above it. That is where she lived, where my mother should have grown up. It is where I belong, even if it no longer stands.”

Bart blew out a breath, shifting in his saddle.

“Toward it, maybe. But you know as well as I do the Blue River isn’t safe country. Since spring there’s been nothing but trouble such as raids, soldiers marching, rumors in every saloon. The sheriff—”

“I don’t need Sheriff Warren’s warnings,” Belle cut in sharply, thinking of the dinners when Warren would sometimes sit at Bart’s father’s table after a long patrol. She had endured those evenings in silence, listening while Warren and Mr. Everett swapped stories of the war, their voices heavy with drink and smoke. Warren had known Bart since he was a boy, and by extension had always treated Belle like another ward to scold.

She folded the map with more force than necessary and tucked it into her satchel.

“The Blue River was theirs before white people showed up. My grandmother lived there long before Denver had streets or sheriffs. Her husband was chief of that village until the soldiers took his life.”

Bart’s jaw tightened. “What makes you think you can just walk into an Indian camp and find what you’re looking for? People are nervous, Belle. And if white soldiers come and you’re there, what makes you think you’d be safe from them?”

Belle straightened, her chin lifting. “I won’t be scared away, not from the only truth of who I am.”

They rode in silence for a while, as cottonwoods gave way to open meadow, and the Blue River shimmered faintly in the distance. Belle mulled over her own discomfort over Bart’s concern. His father had been a solider alongside Sheriff Warren with the Colorado Volunteers, and Bart had grown up with family stories of Indian raids, scalping, and massacres at the hands of the Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Sioux tribes.

A rider appeared along the ridge ahead, the silhouette tall in the saddle, his badge catching the sunlight in a sudden flash.

Belle squinted to make out the face as he rode closer, her pulse beating more quickly as he approached, until she recognized him as Sheriff Warren. She slid the map into her satchel and pressed the flap closed with trembling fingers, as though he might strip it from her on sight. The sheriff guided his bay gelding down the slope and into their path, reins drawn tight so the animal planted square across the trail.

“Morning,” he drawled, his gaze drifting over the pair too casually. “I’m riding a circuit to look into two missin’ freight wagons on the Breckenridge road. Odd direction for a pair out of Denver. Where y’all bound”

Bart touched the brim of his hat. “Just out riding, Sheriff. Stretching the horses, keeping an eye on things, same as you.”

“This road’s gone mean,” the sheriff warned, eyes narrowing. “There’s raiders shadowing the pass, teamsters not making their camp. Turn back before the shadows grow too long.”

“We’re well aware of the dangers,” Bart protested, even though Belle could hear a bit of frustration in his voice.

Warren shifted in his saddle, leaning forward so the badge on his vest glinted.

“Denver is uneasy enough without folk stirring tales of Indians at every bend,” he said, picking up on Bart’s hesitation. “Besides, ain’t no place for a lady.”

Belle’s cheeks flushed, but no words of protest seemed right, so she kept quiet. Words never seemed to change the mind of men, so she learned to keep them close instead of spilling them uselessly.

Bart cleared his throat, steady. “I’ll watch over her, Sheriff, you know that. There’s no cause for worry. We’ll ride cautious, and I’ll see her safe back.”

The sheriff looked at Bart carefully but returned his leering eyes back to Belle. His lips bent in the faintest of smiles, the kind that never reached his eyes.

“See that you do. There’s danger out here for anyone foolish enough to think themselves welcome where they’re not.”

Belle’s mare stamped the ground, restless, and Bart shifted uneasily in his saddle.

At last, the sheriff straightened, tipping his hat in mock courtesy. He spurred his horse forward, dust rising in his wake, leaving the air heavy with his warning.

“I can’t tolerate that man,” she muttered, exhaling with frustration. “He tries to scare everyone into believing shadows are enemies.”

“Maybe sometimes they are,” Bart replied grimly, his lips pressed together.

Belle let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“He talks to everyone like they’re children,” she muttered. “He’s scared the whole town into believing there is danger behind every tree.”

“He’s just doing his job.” Bart shrugged.

“Is it his job to make enemies of people who lived here long before he did?” Belle’s voice rose. “The Blue River is not his. Nor Denver’s. It belongs to the land, to whoever drinks from it.”

Bart slowed his horse to keep pace with her. “I know you don’t like him, Belle. But sometimes men like Warren keep worse things at bay.”

She shook her head, unwilling to be soothed.

By midday they reached the river’s edge. The Blue was no gentle stream but a living force, swollen with spring melt, surging white between jagged stones. Its voice filled the valley, a constant roar that swallowed softer sounds, until the crack of gunfire split the air.

Belle’s head snapped up. The sound was distant, but sharp enough to set her mare dancing sideways. Smoke hung faintly on the wind.

Bart was already unslinging his rifle. Gunfire cracked again, and Bart’s response was instant and fierce with his rifle up, eyes narrowed, jaw set as though he might take on the whole valley himself.

“Down! Stay low!” he barked.

They urged their mounts toward a cut in the bank where a narrow gully offered cover. Rocks jutted up like crooked teeth, forcing the horses to scramble. Pebbles scattered under hooves; leather creaked and snapped as Belle fought for balance. Her heart hammered in her chest.

Another shot rang out, closer this time. The mare reared, screaming, eyes rolling white. Belle clung to the saddle horn, but the beast lunged sideways, and her grip slipped.

The world tilted. For one suspended breath she hung in midair, then the ground rushed up. Pain jolted through her ribs as she struck the bank, rolling toward the river’s edge, then a second sharp pain seared through her leg as she crashed into the boulders under the water. Before she could right herself the current leaped up and seized her.

Ice water slammed into her chest, stealing breath, crushing thought. The river swallowed her whole, pulling her under, rolling her like a ragdoll. She flailed, lungs screaming, until instinct forced her upward. She broke the surface with a choking cry.

“Bart!”

He was on the bank, rifle cast aside, scrambling down the rocks. His face was pale with terror.

“Hold on, Belle! Hold on!”

The current tugged her relentlessly downstream. She clawed at the water, arms numb with cold, skirts heavy and dragging. She lunged for a branch hanging over the river. The jolt nearly wrenched her shoulder from its socket, but she held, gasping.

The river battered her, spraying her eyes and mouth with foam. She coughed, choking, clinging as the branch jerked and twisted in the torrent.

“Reach for me!” Bart was almost level with her now, sliding down the slope on hands and knees, gravel cutting his palms. He stretched one arm out, knuckles raw, straining to close the distance.

“Bart!” She stretched, but the current swung her just out of reach.

He inched lower, chest scraping against stone. “Just a little closer! Give me your hand!”

She tried, but the heaviness of her soaked skirts dragged her down, each movement like fighting chains. “I can’t—”

“You can!” His voice cracked, fierce. “Belle, look at me. Reach!”

She flung out her arm. Their fingers brushed, then the mare he had tethered above screamed, jerking at the reins. The horse’s hooves clattered against rock, stones tumbling. Bart’s grip faltered.

“Bart—no!”

The ledge crumbled. He pitched forward with a shout, crashing into the water beside her. The current seized him instantly, hurling him into the torrent.
Belle shrieked his name. She saw his head break the surface once, blood staining his temple where a rock had struck, before he spun away.

“No!” Her throat burned with river and tears alike. She clung tighter to the branch, but the bark was slick, her arms trembling with exhaustion.

The branch groaned, fibers splitting. A crack splintered the air as it snapped. She plunged under.

Darkness closed around her. The current dragged her deeper, rolling her against stone. Her pendant struck her collarbone with each violent turn, a cold reminder of her grandmother’s hand that once pressed it into hers.

Find Pagwanap. Walk where I walked.

Her chest convulsed. Water filled her mouth. She tried to scream but swallowed only river. She kicked blindly, lungs screaming, skirts binding her legs. The roar was endless, filling her skull. Her hand scraped against something solid. A jagged root jutted from the bank. Desperation lent her strength. She seized it, nails tearing, clinging as the current dragged her sideways.

Her head broke the surface. She coughed violently, chest heaving, sucking air and water all at once. For a moment she hung suspended between survival and surrender.

Downstream she glimpsed Bart, limp, carried farther and farther, his head lolling with the current.

“Bart!” she croaked, voice ragged. The river answered with its roar, carrying him away.

Her root shifted. Her arms shook violently. She tried to haul herself closer to shore, but the mud gave way.

The river pulled again, merciless. The root tore free. She was swept once more into the torrent; water closing above her head, dragging her down into blackness.

Chapter Two

The valley breathed quiet that morning, a stillness too complete to trust. The mountains caught the light in long streaks, pale fire sliding down their ridges. The river they had always known by their own older name, called the Blue River by outsiders, sang beneath with its endless voice.

From the saddle of his bay, Tava searched the slopes not only for deer but for men, for tracks cut where none should be. This was the work of younger men now, to ride the ridges, watch the passes, check the old salt lick and the willow flats, and bring word if danger walked.

Tava’s frame was broad-shouldered and lean, shaped by years of riding ridges and bearing the weight of vigilance. His skin carried the bronze of mountain sun and wind, and his shoulder-length black hair was bound back with a strip of buckskin. A shirt of soft deer hide, worn and darkened with use, hung to his waist, with leggings laced snug along his calves.

Tapuche rode beside him easily, humming under his breath as though to deny the weight. But Tava felt it in his chest, the sense that eyes unseen were already measuring their passage. Behind him Tapuche’s horse moved surefooted among stone. His friend’s gaze was keen though his posture was relaxed.

“The valley sleeps,” Tapuche said in their own tongue.

“It does not sleep,” Tava said. “The birds are gone. Even the wind holds its breath. Silence is not peace. It is the shadow before thunder.”

Tapuche smiled faintly. “You mistrust even the quiet.”

“The quiet hides something,” Tava said. Tapuche teased him for mistrusting even quiet, but Tava remembered long winters when silence had followed sickness into their lodge, when his parents’ breaths had gone still. Since then, silence meant loss, not peace. He was not yet thirty summers, but the weight of his grandfather Sapiah’s authority often made him feel far older.

“Grandfather carries enough worry.” Tava continued. “He leads them all, yet still he is only one man. We must bring him truth, not only silence.”

Far off, where the Breckenridge road crossed the crest, wagon dust sometimes hung like a thin cloud, too far to help, close enough to bring trouble. Hoofprints of elk crossed the dust, light as pressed leaves. Fresh droppings lay under a stand of aspen that had begun to show small coins of green. Tava slid from the saddle and studied the tracks with his palm pressed to the soil. The earth was cool. The herd had passed before dawn.

“Good sign,” Tapuche said. “Meat enough for three lodges.”

“We will not follow today,” Tava said. “We ride to see the passes. If Grandfather calls for meat, we will go again to the willow flats.”

“You think the miners will try the north trail again.”

“They tried it two nights ago,” Tava said. “I saw their lanterns. They turned back when they heard us, but men who come with shovels do not stop. They only choose another way.”

They mounted and climbed toward a narrow saddle where the trail looked down on the river bend. The air smelled of damp earth and pine. A hawk hung in the pale sky, wings steady as breath. Tava watched it a long moment, then returned to scanning the slope ahead, catching a flash of white in the distance. Dust rose in a thin line that reflected in the sun.

“Horses,” Tapuche said.

Tava lifted a hand. They drew into the firs and let the branches and shadow take them. The sound came first, a dull rolling of hoofs, then the flash of metal, then the men. Six riders, faces covered with bandanas, rifles across their saddles. White men by their clothing and their hats.

Tapuche narrowed his eyes. “Raiders.”

“Not soldiers,” Tava said. “Their horses are thin. Their coats are mismatched. Outlaws, perhaps.”

The two men crouched low in their saddles as the band thundered through the valley floor. Dust curled in the morning light, masking the riders like ghosts. Tava counted the sway of each rifle, the jolt of heavy sacks lashed behind the last horse.

“They have taken flour,” Tapuche said.

“Or tools,” Tava said. “Something stolen from miners.”

“We could follow them. Sapiah would praise the ones who caught such men,” Tapuche said, using the name the rest of the camp spoke with respect. Tava’s grandfather was not only kin but chief, and the burdens of the people pressed as heavily on his shoulders as years of snow.

“Praise,” Tava said. “And what would my sister have, if we did not return? Only widow’s tears?”

Tapuche frowned but did not argue. The dust was still rising where the riders had passed, turning the air hazy.

“Six men only,” Tapuche said at last. “You and I together could trail them unseen, learn where they go.”

“Six men with rifles, and two of us,” Tava answered. “It would take only one bullet to send our mothers’ sons back to camp with no tongues to speak what we had seen. Better the people know of danger than we chase glory.”

Tapuche let the thought go with a low grunt. Tava was right, yet Tapuche’s hands itched at the reins.

Tava’s lips pressed tight. “A wolf follows only long enough to know the herd, then it leaves its scent behind. We must be wolves, not dogs.”

The riders disappeared into the trees, the thud of hooves fading until only the river’s roar remained. Tapuche let out a breath. “They hunt someone.”

“Or they run from someone,” Tava said, then urged his horse forward. “We will bring word to Grandfather.”

They moved along the higher path to the bend where willow and alder leaned toward the Blue. Here the river ran in a deeper channel. The water was fast and clear, bright with snowmelt, carrying a voice that filled the valley.

“We fill the skins and go,” Tava said.

Tapuche slid down the bank first and knelt at the edge. He cupped his hands, drank, and then stilled, his body stiffening as a hunter’s does when the air changes.

“Tava,” he called, his voice sharp. “There.”

Tava came down the rocks in three long steps. At first, he thought driftwood had caught against a root wash, pale among the branches. Then it moved, rolling, and a face showed, turned by the current.

He did not hesitate. He threw himself into the river. The cold struck like stone, seizing his breath, but he pushed against it until the current took his legs. He caught the body by the shoulders, staggered against the pull, and heaved. His muscles burned with the strain as he hauled it back to the gravel bar.

It was a young woman. Her hair was dark and heavy with water. Her skin had that color that comes when the breath has gone too long.

“Is she gone?” Tapuche asked.

“She is not gone,” Tava said.

He pressed against her back until water spilled from her mouth. She coughed weakly, but relief loosened his chest. Then, his eyes fixed on her throat. There, against the wet cloth of her dress, hung a pendant.

Carved wood, smoothed dark with age. Its lines formed the rising sun, cut in the style of his people. It was strung on a thin thong of buckskin.
Tava reached out, fingers trembling. He knew the cut of the lines, the balance of the carving, the way the center hollow had been rubbed smooth by many years of touch.

“It is ours,” he whispered.

Tapuche crouched beside him, eyes wide. “It is ours. How does she carry it?”

“Given in blood,” Tava said. “Or in marriage.”

“Or taken in fire,” Tapuche said grimly.

Before Tava could answer, Tapuche’s gaze shot downstream. “Another!”

Tava looked up at once. Farther along the bank a second body lay tangled in reeds. Tapuche was already running, his moccasins splashing through shallows.
Tava looked once more at the woman. Her lashes fluttered, her chest lifting with fragile breath. He touched the pendant briefly, almost reverently, then gathered her in his arms.

He hesitated. To lift her was to claim her fate as his burden. He could almost hear his grandfather’s voice asking why he had brought strangers into the circle of the lodges. He could see the tight mouths of the women who had lost kin to soldiers, and the dark stares of the young men who wanted war. The pendant gleamed in the sunlight as if to answer him. Its carving was older than most of the camp’s children, a piece that had passed through hands long before his own.

Could he leave such a sign to be swallowed by the current? His breath caught in his throat. The woman stirred faintly, and in that weak movement he felt the river had already decided. He bent then and lifted her fully, her damp weight pressing against his chest, and he knew there would be no turning back.

She was lighter than she should have been, her body cold as river stone. He carried her up the bank and laid her where the sun could find her.

Tapuche’s voice carried from downstream. “Alive! He lives, though hurt.”

Tava hurried to him. The second body was a man, broad-shouldered, blood matting his temple. His chest rose shallowly, stubborn against the odds.

“He struck his head,” Tapuche said.

“He has a strong neck,” Tava answered. “The river wished him to live.”

They stood over the man in silence. The water hissed at their feet.

“What shall we do?” Tapuche asked at last. “They are white. To bring them to the lodges will stir anger. The elders will fear reprisal.”

Tava’s eyes returned to the woman. The pendant gleamed against her skin like a brand.

“This one carries what belongs to us,” he said. “I cannot leave her to die.”

Tapuche’s jaw worked. “Even so, others will see only strangers. They will say we invite soldiers to our doors.”

“We have left men before,” Tava said. “I carry their faces still. I will not add hers.”

“You will bring trouble.”

“Then let them speak,” Tava said, voice low. “I will answer.”

Tapuche shook his head. “You will answer with your blood, not only your words.”

“Perhaps,” Tava said. “But better to answer than to walk away while the river steals their breath.”

They stood a moment longer, caught between choice and consequence. Tapuche’s eyes searched the woman’s face.

“If we carry them, we may carry soldiers behind us as well. What if she speaks of our camp when she wakes? What if he is a man who came to hunt us, and we save his life only to sharpen his blade?”

“Then at least we choose honor,” Tava said, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “If they rise against us, the people will judge me. But if we leave them, the river will judge us both, and that judgment does not end when the breath stops. It follows into dreams. It follows into songs.”

Tapuche looked away toward the trees. His hands clenched and unclenched. “You always speak with the weight of the dead at your back.”

“They walk there,” Tava said. “I hear them when I sleep. I would rather add two living burdens to my horse than carry two more faces in my dreams.”

Silence pressed between them until at last, Tapuche gave a short, resigned nod. “Then we will bear them. Let the elders decide the rest.”

At last Tapuche bent and lifted the man’s shoulders. “Then we carry them, and we will see what the elders say.”

Tava nodded. He returned to the woman, securing her across his saddle with care. Tapuche did the same with the man. Both strangers hung limp, their breaths shallow, their fates uncertain.

The scouts mounted, turning their horses toward the valley where smoke from their lodges curled faintly above the trees.

The ride back was heavy. The sun climbed higher, spilling white fire across the peaks. The Blue River roared beside them, endless and cold.
Neither man spoke.