Chapter 15 - Sun Over the Santa Catalinas
October brought the first true frost to the high ridges.
The tamarack turned yellow as gold leaf, and the air smelled of woodsmoke that didn't come from war fires or burning churches.
Ethan had rebuilt the south corral with six-inch pine logs, double-notched at the corners so no steer could push them out of line. The herd had grown to thirty head; Jesse Cole, his shoulder mended by the mission sisters, had driven ten fine heifers up from the valley as his payment for the shot Ethan had put through Silas Kane’s forehead.
At noon, Nahimana came down from the cabin carrying a tin pot of coffee and two tin cups.
She wore a simple dress of blue trade wool, but she hadn't cut her hair, and around her neck hung the silver bead on its black horsehair cord. The scar on her shoulder was covered now, not by a veil or a blanket, but by the clean cloth of a woman who no longer needed to hide from the daylight.
Ethan drove the last iron staple into the fence post and wiped the sweat from his eyebrows with the sleeve of his shirt.
"The circuit judge sent the deed this morning," Ethan said, taking the tin cup from her hand. "The land is registered under two names. Miller and Chaska. They tried to tell me a woman couldn't hold title in the territory."
Nahimana sat on the top rail of the corral, her moccasins hooked over the lower log, looking out over the three thousand acres of wild, untouched grass that rolled toward the blue rim of the mountains.
"What did you tell them?" she asked, a faint, genuine smile touching the corner of her lips.
Ethan took a drink of the scalding, bitter coffee, then set the cup on the fence post beside his hammer. He reached out and laid his hand over hers—rough, calloused, and brown from the sun—his fingers lacing through hers without hesitation, without fear, and without looking back.
May you like
"I told them," Ethan said, looking up into her amber eyes, "that anyone who tries to touch this land will have to deal with the curse."
And for the first time since the wagons fell at Santa Rita, Nahimana laughed—a sound as clear, wild, and free as the wind blowing over the Santa Catalinas.
