Tangled Paths of Fate (Preview)

Chapter One

Pine Ridge, Colorado, 1845 

It was a sweltering day in town. Jack walked quickly, keeping his head angled so that the brim of his hat shielded his eyes from the unseasonably bright sun. It was very early spring, that time of year when the days couldn’t decide whether they would be bitter cold or too hot to handle. 

Generally speaking, the days were roasting hot, with heat hazes shimmering in the distance, and the forests became a sort of sweltering jungle. When the sun began to dip, however, it leeched away all of the heat from the land. It wasn’t unusual to find frosts scattering the fields in the early mornings, or even to wake to a light covering of dew. Between the heat of the days and the icy cold of the nights, the inhabitants of Pine Ridge alternatively roasted and froze. 

Jack preferred cooler weather, which was a pity, as sweat was currently trickling down his back under his shirt, pooling around his collar and beading on his temples. 

Dust swirled around his grubby boots, rising from the hard-packed earth. Two boardwalks ran parallel on either side of the road, with shops huddled together under the shade. This was Pine Ridge’s main street, and it was a sorry sight indeed.

The sheriff’s office squatted at the edge of the boardwalk, ironically not too far from the town saloon. It was an ugly, lopsided building made out of wood and with a roasting-hot jail tacked onto the back. Jack ducked his tall frame through the too-small doorway and stepped inside. It was cooler inside the office, but only marginally. In any case, he could now take off his hat and let the cool air get to his head. 

“I’m here to report a crime,” he announced. 

It was a statement that should provoke suitable drama, and perhaps even a flurry of action. Jack had secretly hoped to create something of a stir, but, of course, he should have known better. 

He was out of luck. Deputy Bill Johnson was the one sitting behind the desk. The sheriff, Tom Stevens, was nowhere to be seen. That was fairly usual. 

Bill sighed pointedly, setting down a mug of cold coffee that he’d gotten from somewhere, and pushing aside a sheaf of papers. Jack noticed a half-circle of something brownish on one of the papers. Given the evidence, it was most likely coffee, a stain from where a cup had been set on the paper. 

“Is it a real crime, Jack, or are you just whining about your neighbors again? I ain’t got time for whining. Tom’s always darting off around town, and that leaves me to handle the paperwork.” 

Jack pressed his lips together. He’d thought long and hard about how he would present this crime. After all, there was only Sheriff Stevens and his friend Bill likely to be here, so he had a fifty-fifty chance of needing to convince somebody that a ‘real crime’ had taken place. 

“Well, somebody’s broke up the fence around one of my paddocks. You can come and look, if you like. Took me hours to get the animals back together. I’m lucky not to have lost any. I patched it up as best I could, but the damage is still there. I could have lost a whole herd, Bill. A whole herd. Nobody around here can risk that.”

Bill sighed again, taking out a piece of paper. Jack knew that the mention of losing cattle in a ranching town like Pine Ridge would get a reaction, albeit a reluctant one. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll write it down. Sit down, Jack. I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.” 

Jack was glad to oblige, pulling out the only other chair in the office. This chair was too small for him, like everything else in there. The sheriff’s office had been designed with the averagely-sized Tom Stevens in mind, and Bill—short, squat, and cheerful—fitted in nicely. 

Jack, on the other hand, was somewhere around six foot five, and his head brushed the ceiling in just about every house but his own. He was tired and aching from the long, aggravating task of rounding up his wayward cattle, and it was good to take a load off his feet. He sat down in a rickety chair opposite Bill, and stretched out long, muscular limbs. The world was not designed for tall people. He’d worn trousers that showed his ankles ever since he was fourteen and hit his first growth spurt.

“Okay, let’s hear what happened,” Bill said brusquely, scribbling something at the top of the paper. “And I want the truth, Jack. None of your guesses and maybes. I know you, remember.”

That was true. Bill and Jack were both twenty-five years old, and they’d grown up together. Physically, they looked like opposites. Bill was short, fair-haired, and cheerful, with a perpetual smile and an endless supply of enthusiasm. Jack, on the other hand, considered himself to be more of a realist. Pessimist was probably a better word. 

To a disinterested observer, Jack was better looking than Bill. He was tall, of course, with thick, dark-brown hair that he kept well-groomed and clean, a square, handsome face, and long-lashed eyes that looked green in some light and blue in others. 

Unfortunately, he also had a sour temper and a perpetually grim expression, so most ladies in the town—not that there were many, of course—much preferred Bill. 

That was fine. Jack didn’t want to marry, and heaven knows he had few enough friends in town.

“I think it was Indians,” Jack said before Bill could ask his first question. 

Bill groaned. “Oh, come on, Jack. Not this again.”

“I do!” Jack persisted. “My land borders the forest, and you know they’re not far up the river now. Mayor Wilkins said that there’s been incidents….”

“Well, I haven’t heard of any incidents,” Bill cut him off sharply. “Mayor Wilkins has more to worry about than petty vandalism, if you ask me.”

“It wouldn’t be petty if I’d lost my cattle. You know I can’t afford to lose many, Bill.” 

The deputy shook his head, writing down a few lines on the paper. 

“Well, I put it down, if that makes you feel better. But it ain’t Indians. I’d bet my paycheck on it. I know it ain’t Indians.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Oh, you know that, do you?”

“Yes, I do know that. Let me hit you with this scenario. A couple of Indians come creeping through the forest. There are some closer ranches, but they pick yours. They break up one of the fences, letting all the animals out, but they don’t steal any. Then they slip on back into the forest without taking a thing. Does that make sense to you? Can you think of why Indians would do that?”

Jack couldn’t, if he was honest with himself, but he wasn’t about to give up. Hadn’t his old pa drummed it into him for decades that Indians couldn’t be trusted? There had to be something in it. 

If someone had come along and forced him off his land, he’d sure be hopping mad. What was it they used to say? Manifest destiny. A pretty thin excuse, and it wouldn’t sit well with Jack if somebody used it to lever him out of his home.

“Maybe they just wanted to cause trouble,” Jack suggested. “Break some things, let off steam, you know.”

He’d lost Bill’s attention. The deputy was now doodling a lopsided flower on the corner of the page. 

“Indians don’t vandalize things,” Bill said firmly. “They take animals if they’re hungry and see nothing wrong with it, but they don’t kill and break things for no good reason. You know who does like to vandalize things for no good reason? Bored little white boys. They don’t have school right now, so they’re kicking their heels all day. You mark my words, it was kids from this very town that broke up your fence.”

Jack pressed his lips together, sliding further down in his seat. Bill made a good point, but the fear still rankled deep inside Jack. He could hear his pa’s voice ringing in his ears, telling those horrifying stories about shadow-eyed Indians creeping into town in the dead of night, and creeping out again with dozens of dripping scalps tied to their belts. 

He shivered. No, Indians were a real threat, and Bill couldn’t convince him otherwise. After all, the settlers had driven them out of the land they’d occupied for generations. Even Jack couldn’t convince himself that that was fair. They would want revenge, and he’d need to be ready to defend himself. 

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.” 

Bill rolled his eyes. “Look, I wrote it all down, Jack. I’ll come up and help you fix up your fences after work, if you like.”

“They’re already fixed. You don’t think I’d go skipping into town with a broke-up paddock, do you?” 

“Well, there you go. No harm done.” 

No harm done. The blisters on Jack’s palms and the splinters in his fingers would say otherwise. He’d hastily cobbled together some repairs for the fence, enough to keep the animals in. For now. The forest still faced his ranch, dark and foreboding. 

“If my pa was alive, he’d make you listen,” Jack muttered. “Sheriff Stevens, too. And Pa wasn’t afraid to go over his head to the mayor.” 

Bill pursed his lips. “You and I ain’t going to agree on the subject of Mr. Ethan Clintwood. I know he was your daddy, and I know you loved him, but that man was hard as nails and as soft as granite. He didn’t have any friends in town, and for good reason.”

Jack wanted to argue, but of course, there was no argument to be made. Old Mr. Clintwood had certainly been a hard man, but wasn’t that a good thing? Getting beat with the strap of a belt—or the buckle sometimes, if his pa had been on the drink—was never fun, but it taught Jack respect. What other way could a father teach his son to be a man? 

He shifted in his seat. “Let’s not talk about Pa.”

“Agreed,” Bill muttered, carefully filing away the piece of paper in a rusted set of lockers at the other side of the room. “How’s Miss Jayne?” 

Jack winced. “Ma ain’t good. She’s getting worse every day, and snappy with it, too. You know Ma was never grouchy. That fancy draught I get from Doctor Miller costs a fortune, but she’s in too much pain without it.”

Bill nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Jack. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” 

Jack shrugged. “Not much anyone can do. She thinks I’m dumb for blaming the vandalism on the Indians, too.”

“I didn’t say you were dumb, Jack. I just meant that you were looking in the wrong direction. You’re staring off into the forest when the danger’s coming from behind, from the town.” 

“Danger? What danger?”

Bill shook his head, turning away. He had the strange, somber look on his face that he got sometimes, before his natural cheerfulness came rushing back in. 

“Nothing, nothing. Don’t mind me. Hey, you found anyone to work as a housekeeper yet?”

Jack groaned. “Don’t remind me about that. Nobody in town can do it, and that means I’ve got to advertise in other towns. That’s expensive, and it takes too long. In the meantime, I’m just doing all the cooking, cleaning, and laundry myself, so I ain’t getting any time to sleep or rest. What’s worse, sometimes Ma will try and do some chores while I’m out. I’ve told her not to, but she doesn’t take well to sitting still. The other day, she tripped in the yard and lay there for an hour until I found her.”

“That ain’t good, Jack. You want to find someone quick. Someone nice.”

“I hope so.”

Jack was on the brink of getting up when the door opened. Sheriff Tom Stevens stepped inside, his gaze running over Bill and Jack with his habitual languid, impassive expression. 

He was well into his forties, but strong and fit for his age. He was shorter than Jack—but then, wasn’t everyone—and built on square, straight lines. His once-black hair was fading to a distinguished salt-and-pepper color, with a beard to match. 

“What brings you in here, Jack?” Tom asked, voice low and throaty. 

“Vandalism,” Jack responded brusquely. “A paddock fence was broken down, and all the animals got out.”

“Huh. That’s the third incident this week. I think we’ve got ourselves a problem on our hands. Bill, you wrote it down, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Bill piped up eagerly. “But Jack thinks it’s Indians.” 

“It is Indians!” Jack snapped. “If not, who could it be, then? Huh, Bill?”

Tom was the one who answered. 

“Could be anyone,” he said, voice slow and almost bored. “Even in small towns like this, we don’t really know each other. Besides, Jack, what do you even know about Indians? All you know is what your Pa told you, and we all know he ain’t to be trusted.”

That was a strangely chilling thing to hear, and Jack suppressed a shiver despite the heat of the room. 

“So…so you think it ain’t Indians, then?” he ventured. 

Tom shrugged. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. It’s our job to find out. If that’s all, Jack, you can go. Bill and I have work to do.”

At that not-so-subtle dismissal, Jack shoved his hat back on his head and ducked back outside. He stood in the sun for a minute or two, hands on his hips, breathing in the warm air. Sweat broke out between his skin and the band of his hat. 

He should go home and check on his mother. He’d already been gone too long, and Jayne Clintwood tended to worry. 

***

“Jack? Is that you?” Jayne perked up at the sound of the door closing. 

Jayne was a tiny, bird-like woman, with whitish-blonde hair and the same blue-green eyes she’d bequeathed to her son. She’d never been strong, but now she was positively frail, despite not even being fifty yet. Doctor Miller said that it was a kind of wasting illness, but not something likely to swallow her whole. Not right away, of course. 

Her appetite was barely nonexistent; she got out of breath climbing the stairs and barely had the energy to stand for two minutes together at a time. It didn’t stop her habitual restlessness, though. She often overestimated her own energy and tried to push her body beyond the limits of what it could do. She had accident after accident while doing chores, until Jack finally forbade her to cook or clean, and decided to hire a housekeeper. 

Easier said than done, of course. 

“It’s me, Ma,” Jack said, toeing off his boots at the door and clumping through into the parlor. There was work yet to be done, but the ranch hands could handle it. Jack was exhausted. 

“Where did you go?” Jayne asked. She was trying to knit, and her thin wrists were shaking with the effort. 

“Down to the sheriff’s office to report what happened to the fence. Bill doesn’t think it’s Indians.”

“Well, it’s probably not.” 

Jack pressed his lips together. “Pa would have thought that it was.”

A cloud crossed Jayne’s face. 

“You worship that man entirely too much, Jack. Your father loved us, in his way, but he was a hard man with strong opinions. Sometimes I think it would have been better if he’d let me raise you, instead of him dragging you all over the ranch.”

Jack couldn’t help but feel piqued. Some of his best memories were of himself on the ranch with his Pa, bouncing along on the back of a huge horse, eager to find out what would happen next. 

A hard man? Sure, old Mr. Clintwood had been hard, but he was fair, too, wasn’t he? There had to be a balance. 

Jack didn’t bother to point this out. He studiously avoided arguments with Jayne, as they tended to exhaust her and leave her breathless. He picked at a loose thread on the arm of his chair instead. 

“I wish we didn’t live so close to the woods,” he stated. 

“Why not? Oh, not Indians again. I tell you what, Jack, we’re more likely to get murdered by our own neighbors or some bandits than we are by Indians. They leave us alone.”

“You don’t think they want revenge? You don’t think we ought to be prepared? Pa always said that we could never let our guard down.” 

Jayne finally gave up on the knitting, lowering the knotted mess of wool down onto her lap with a sigh. 

“If you ask me, we ought to be thinking of how we can make amends with the Natives and figure out how we can all live comfortably together. This is a big enough land, with plenty of space for everyone. I don’t see why people can’t just get along. If the Natives are willing to make amends, we ought to snap up their goodwill before it runs out. Or else there’ll be more bloodshed, I tell you what. Innocent blood, no less.” 

Jack shook his head. “That’s not what Pa said.” 

Jayne sighed heavily again. She looked drained all of a sudden—more drained than usual, at least—and Jack began to worry. Perhaps he shouldn’t have dragged out the subject like this. He shouldn’t be so selfish, not when it was hurting his mother. Hadn’t Pa always said that he was selfish? 

“I can’t argue with your Pa anymore,” Jayne said listlessly. “He’s gone ahead and died, so he wins just about every argument we have. I want us to have a peaceful life, Jack.”

“And we will, Ma, we will,” Jack said eagerly, leaning forward to take her tiny, papery hand in his. “Everything will be alright, I promise.” 

“You say that, but that pile of dishes in the kitchen is getting bigger every day. I was going to do them this morning, but…”

“No, Ma. No dishes. We agreed. I’ll do them right now, then I’ll get started on supper.”

Jayne smiled weakly at him, reaching up to pat his cheek. 

“You’re a good boy, Jack. Despite it all, you’re a good boy.”

Jack wasn’t sure whether to be pleased by the praise or annoyed at the ‘despite it all’ part. He settled for a smile and a quick kiss on his mother’s cheek, then retreated to the kitchen. 

He began to wash dishes mechanically, his mind ticking over what needed to be done. The ranch hands would get the heavy work done, but there were still a hundred and one things only the ranch owner could do. Animals needed to be checked and cared for, and the paddock fences checked and double-checked. He’d have to push Bill to figure out who damaged his fences, or else that little bit of paper would molder away in the filing cabinet. Bill was a good lawman, if a trifle lazy at times. 

And, of course, there was the never-ending cycle of meals to be cooked, floors to be cleaned, laundry to be done, and so on and so on. Jack’s muscles were already aching. He wouldn’t finish until close to midnight tonight, thanks to all the time wasted in fixing up the paddock.

He needed to hire a housekeeper, and quickly. 

 

Chapter Two 

Somewhere Upriver

The low shape of a canoe slipped gently along the river, guided by the current. Its lithe shape allowed it to move easily between the overgrown banks and between boulders jutting out of the water. 

Two figures crouched in the canoe, peering into the water. A young man and woman, just on the cusp of adulthood. A light mist rose from the river, making the canoe and its inhabitants look vague and blurry. Otherworldly, perhaps. From a distance, it was almost impossible to distinguish the two silhouettes, both leaning over the side and inspecting the water with quick, practiced movements. The canoe made no sound at all as it slid through the water. 

“It is no use, Aiyana,” the man grumbled, speaking quickly and smoothly in his own tongue. “We’re too late in the season for any decent fish. It’s getting too cold.” 

The woman—little more than a girl, really—sat back with a sigh. 

“You are right. Should we go home?”

He shrugged. “We cannot go back without something. I will try and get a few rabbits.” 

Aiyana pursed her lips. A brace of rabbits—supposing they even could catch that many—wasn’t much consolation for what should have been a great haul of fish. 

“Very well, we can try,” she said, not bothering to voice her concerns. There was no use in pointing out that there were usually fish at this time of the year, but the white settlers that just kept coming and coming had driven the Kiowa tribe further into the plains and upriver. There was talk from the settlers of sending the Kiowa somewhere else altogether, but nobody could fathom living anywhere but here. Besides, what would happen to those who didn’t want to go?

Everyone knew it, so there was no point talking about it. Most of them were getting tired of the constant fighting. Everything was a struggle. Every year there was more land they could not occupy, and less fish, game, and meat for them to take. 

Running Deer gave a short nod, suddenly decided, and began to maneuver the canoe toward the bank. 

The two could have been brother and sister. They had the same large brown eyes and the same long, sleek black hair, with Aiyana’s hair wound into a waist-length braid and Running Deer’s hair curled up into an untidy knot at the base of his neck. Their clothes were shabby, the leather worn and thin in places, but there hadn’t been enough supplies to go around this year. The older ones needed new moccasins and coats for the cold weather, whereas the younger ones could do without. 

Running Deer pulled the canoe up onto the bank and offered her a hand to climb out. 

“We are not going to talk about it, then?” he asked brusquely. 

In the light, there were more differences between the two. Running Deer was a tall, muscular young man of about twenty-one, and Aiyana, a year younger, built along slimmer lines. She’d never be as fast as him or as strong. That didn’t matter, though. Running Deer would always wait for her to catch up with him. He’d done so since they were five and six years old, respectively. 

She didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. 

“There is not much need to talk about it, is there? Father thinks that it is a good idea.”

He rolled his eyes. “Father is tired of fighting with you over it. What on earth do you think you will learn in that stupid white village that you can’t learn here? Do you think it will be better?”

“That is not fair.”

“If you think this is unfair, wait till you meet your people!” Running Deer snapped, lip curling at the last word. “Haven’t you been listening to any of the stories? They are liars. They are murderers. They are cruel. They might decide that you are one of us and kill you just for fun.” 

Aiyana kept her eyes on the rutted, uneven ground beneath her feet. She could feel the earth through her worn moccasins, sharp branches, and rocks poking through the paper-thin soles. 

“I thought I was one of you.” 

There was a little silence. 

“That is not what I meant,” he said, voice quiet.

She bit her lip, turning away. “I know, I know. I just…”

“Please, Aiyana, don’t be angry. I did not mean that.”

She laid an absent hand on her brother’s arm, his skin warm and soft to the touch. It occurred to her that once she reached the settlers’ villages, it would be forbidden for her to touch a man like this, no matter how harmless the gesture. She wouldn’t even be allowed to be alone with a man. 

Father had warned her about the rules and made it clear that the settlers were unforgiving when it came to their ways of doing things. 

There were twice as many rules for women as there were for men. Endless, endless stupid little rules, controlling everything you said and everything you did. 

She bit her lip, shaking her head. “I am not angry. I truly am not. I am just nervous, I suppose.”

They trudged on in silence for a few moments. The forest was thick and tangled here, but the pair moved through the undergrowth with ease. Aiyana had to smile, remembering how she’d gone tumbling through the undergrowth after Father and Running Deer as a child. 

Running Deer had laughed at her and said that she was so loud all the animals would hear her coming a mile away. 

Father was much more helpful. He’d told her that she was working against the forest, not with it, trying to force herself through the foliage instead of letting it make space for her. 

She hadn’t understood, not at first. It had taken time to learn how to move, how to slip unseen and unheard across the earth. Fishing, hunting, and foraging had taken a long time to learn, too, although now they felt like second nature. 

Would she be able to do those things in Pine Ridge? Even the name sounded clunky and unfamiliar on her tongue. It wasn’t right. 

Aiyana put those thoughts away. She’d made up her mind, and there was no point worrying about it now. Everyone in the camp knew that she was going. 

She glanced up at Running Deer’s back, leading the way in front of her. His shoulders were tight, back hunched over. He didn’t look back at her. 

“Are you angry that I am going?” she said softly. 

For a moment, she thought that her brother hadn’t heard her. Then he sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound that shouldn’t have come from a man so young. 

“I am not angry. I am afraid, Aiyana. I am afraid for you.” 

That silenced her, at least for the time being. 

***

In the end, Aiyana and Running Deer only managed to catch half a dozen rabbits. Enough to pad out a stew to feed everybody, at least. People glanced up and greeted them as they passed by, their gazes lingering on Aiyana. 

When she was younger, she hadn’t understood why her skin was lighter than her brother’s. Before her skin began to tan almost as deeply as Running Deer’s, she couldn’t understand why she burned so painfully in the summer sun. She hadn’t understood the sidelong glances she would receive whenever stories were told about the white settlers and their violence. Nobody said anything to her, of course. She wasn’t blamed, but weren’t the settlers supposed to be her people? 

There was no accusation in their stares now. Only pity. They’d all tried to warn her against leaving. 

An older woman with iron-gray hair and a heavy cloak thrown around her shoulders, known simply as River, was preparing food in the middle of camp. She glanced briefly up at them, eyeing the brace of rabbits. 

“He wants to see you,” she said bluntly, nodding at Aiyana. “Leave the rabbits.” 

River said nothing about Running Deer, but he followed her along toward their teepee anyway. 

The air was warm and heavy inside the tent, and the two figures inside sat still, resting. 

Aiyana had always simply called them Father and Mother. That was what they were to her, after all. One of her earliest memories was of Father’s face, creased with worry and shock, crouching down to peer underneath the wreck of a smoldering wagon and finding a five-year-old girl huddling there, mute with fear. 

He was much older now, his face lined and weathered from age and the elements. Mother sat beside him. Her hair was pure white now, and she was silent as always. 

She hadn’t always been silent. Mother had taught Aiyana their language when she was small, visibly thrilled as Aiyana’s vocabulary expanded. Then, when Aiyana was fourteen, Mother fell from a horse and struck her head hard. The healers had done what they could, but she hadn’t spoken or tried to communicate from that day forward. 

She ate, drank, and moved around as usual, and seemed to hear what people said to her, but the Mother they’d all known was gone. She smiled softly at Aiyana now, and Aiyana tried not to feel a stab of misery at the thought of leaving her. She and Running Deer were all that Mother and Father had. 

“You are leaving at dawn,” Father said. Not a question. A statement. 

Aiyana made herself comfortable, leaning back until the soft sides of the teepee brushed against the back of her head. Running Deer settled himself beside her.

“Do you think I am foolish?” she asked. 

Father took a while to answer. 

“I do not believe anyone is foolish for seeking out their roots,” he answered at last. “It is natural that you want to find out who you are. Your memories of your parents will plague you until you discover the truth.” 

Aiyana glanced down at her lap, twisting her hands together. 

“What if…what if I do not like what I find?” 

Father eyed her through dimming eyes. His sight had started to go about two years ago and had degenerated quickly from there. Still, he never seemed to miss a detail of anything. 

“Then you can return home,” Father said firmly. “We are your family. We are your tribe. We will be here for you. But Aiyana, beware. The white man is a vicious specimen. They hate anyone different from them, and particularly hate intruders. From their point of view, we are the intruders.”

Indignation flared. 

“We were here first!” Aiyana exclaimed. 

Father shrugged. “Perhaps so, but if these settlers were reasonable, our tribe would not be forced further up the river every year. You must be careful, Aiyana. Do not let them believe that you are different. Do not take any chances. They are not like us.” 

She swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes, Father.”

He smiled, reaching forward to cup her cheek in his palm. 

“That is my clever girl. I know you will be wise and quick without Mother or me there to guide you. I hope you find the answers you seek.” 

She nodded again, and this time a lump formed in her throat. Tears pricked at her eyes, and Aiyana wanted nothing more than to fling her arms around Father and crawl onto his lap, like she had when she was a child, and stay here forever. 

Instead, she got to her feet, stumbling out of the teepee. Outside, the cooler air stung her reddened cheeks, drying up her tears. 

She heard the tent flap swish back into place behind her, and Running Deer crawled out. 

“I am coming with you.” 

“You are not,” Aiyana answered at once. “I might be able to convince them that I am a white woman, but you will have no chance.”

“I could manage to fit in.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You want to cut your hair and force yourself into one of those awful suits they wear? I don’t think Father would let you, anyway.”

He snorted. “Point taken. I wish you would not go alone, though. Cannot we just go into the town with you for a day or two? You can ask a few questions, find out what happened to your parents, and then we can go home.” 

She bit her lip, shaking her head. “I want to see if I belong there.”

“You will not.” 

Aiyana flinched at that. “Thanks.” 

“Do not take it personally. I just mean…well, I cannot see you fitting into one of those places. White men are…”

“Dangerous. Yes, I know.”

Running Deer folded his arms, narrowing his eyes at her. “Do you think Father and the other elders say that just for the fun of it? They say it because it is true.”

“Everything is dangerous. We could fall into the river and drown, or run into a wolf or a mountain lion.” 

Running Deer rolled his eyes. 

“Father said that this is part of your journey, and I should not try and stop you.”

“Father is very wise. Maybe you should listen to him a bit more.”

“I am not going to let you go charging into danger just because Father and Mother like a quiet life. You are one of us, Aiyana!” 

“I am not, though, am I?” she murmured, not meeting his eye. “It is okay for you. This really is your home. You belong. But I will never be anything beyond the strange little white girl that Father and Mother adopted out of pity.” 

He pressed his lips together tightly. “That is not fair.” 

“No, but it is true. I just…I just want to see what Pine Ridge is like.” 

“You will not like it,” Running Deer insisted flatly. “It will be like all the other villages. Full of nosy, haughty white folk who think they are better than everyone and who will look down at you as some sort of ignorant native. Do you want to be like them?”

“If it is that bad, I’ll come home. I will!” Aiyana insisted. 

Running Deer opened his mouth to argue but then shut it again, shaking his head. 

“At least let me help you pack. You will need supplies, as well as weapons. Nothing obvious, but I will not let you go out unprotected. You have got money, have you not?” 

Aiyana nodded. There had been some belongings retrieved from the wreckage of her parents’ wagon, including a modest money purse, some clothes, jewelry, and other knick-knacks. Father and Mother had kept them in a little box for Aiyana to have when she was old enough. One of the dresses fit, although it was threadbare and musty. It would do, for now. 

She took a step closer to her brother, pulling him in for a long hug. 

“I will miss you so much,” she whispered, feeling the lump harden in her throat again. 

“Me too. You, I mean,” Running Deer replied, his voice sounding thick, as if he were holding back emotion. 

They pulled apart, and his eyes were as red and watery as hers. 

“What should I call you now, then? Now that you are a real little white girl.” He smiled weakly to show that he was joking. 

It didn’t feel like a joke. 

Aiyana knew what her birth name was. She’d tried it out before when she was alone, but it still didn’t sit right in her mouth. 

“Emily,” she said aloud. “Emily Gray. That is the name I was given when I was born.” 

Running Deer pulled a face. 

“Aiyana is better,” he announced. 

She bit her lip. It was hard to argue with that. 

---

“Tangled Paths of Fate” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

In the depths of her soul-searching quest, Emily, known as Aiyana to her adoptive family in a Native American tribe, is driven to uncover the truth shrouding the mysterious demise of her settler parents. Leaving behind the sanctuary of her newfound home, she sets off on a poignant journey back to her birthplace. Little does she know that her path will intertwine with that of Jack, a rugged rancher who makes Emily’s heart flutter with an unfamiliar emotion…

Can Emily reconcile her two worlds together, unraveling the secrets of her past while navigating the uncertain future that awaits her?

Jack Clintwood leads a solitary existence, molded by his austere father’s teachings to harbor deep mistrust and animosity towards everyone. When Emily arrives in Pine Ridge, she appears to be the perfect candidate to assist Jack in managing his household and caring for his ailing mother. Yet, as his town faces a growing darkness, doubts gnaw at Jack’s conscience, testing his capacity to believe in Emily’s past and her intentions.

Will Jack be able to break free from the chains of his upbringing and open his heart to love, or will the prejudices of his past destroy any chance of happiness?

Together, Emily and Jack embark on a tumultuous journey of passion, trust, and sacrifice. Amidst the chaos, their love becomes a beacon of hope, defying the odds stacked against them. But as the darkness looms ever closer, threatening to engulf everything they hold dear, they must confront their deepest fears and make a choice. Will they succumb to the forces that seek to tear them apart, or will they stand united, determined to prove that love can conquer all obstacles?

“Tangled Paths of Fate” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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