Samara’s back hurt. Her rear end hurt. Her thighs burned. In fact, there wasn’t a part of her that didn’t scream at her in protest.
As she pushed on the stirrups to stand and stretch, Samara wondered at her insistence that she join Orlando on this sheep drive. Move. Shepherding journey. Ugh, even her brain hurt. She should’ve just stayed home, tended the garden, and called it good.
Samara’s mind screeched to a halt so fast the mental motion almost caused her to fall off the horse. When had she started thinking of the cabin as home? Was she daft or what? She mentally punched herself in the eye. This place fried her brains or something.
Samara stopped her horse, a large black mare she’d come to love called Midnight, under the shade of a large pine. Huffing, she pushed off her hat so it hung on her back. The sheep flocked past, bleating and plodding along. She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. The clean scent of the pine mixed with the pungent smell of the sheep in a way that should have repulsed her. Oddly, it calmed her, relaxed the muscles that had tightened with tension at her mental slip.
Samara opened her eyes and took in the scene before her. The sheep roamed through the mountain meadow that was painted bright with a variety of wildflowers. Jagged mountains standing as sentinels in the background created a nostalgic scene she never thought she’d see, let alone participate in. Her shoulders relaxed more as she realized she enjoyed being here, playing cowgirl or shepherdess or whatever it was that she was doing.
Her gaze turned unconsciously to Orlando where he moved at the far end of the field. Her thoughts stalled to a halt. She couldn’t allow herself to get comfortable. They hadn’t talked about her future, just kind of skirted the issue. She knew in her mind that she couldn’t stay here, no matter if it felt like home for the first time since her parents’ deaths.
Strapping Orlando with her simply because she’d fallen in his backyard went against everything she’d worked hard for her whole life. She refused to be the damsel-in-distress type. She’d survived crappy foster homes and living on the streets. She could survive this without forcing Orlando into being her savior.
Samara realized that if anyone found out they’d lived together on this mountain, even though nothing had happened, she’d be toast. They took that whole morals thing seriously in this time. So, she’d have to come up with a plan where she could get to a city without anyone knowing she’d spent weeks in the mountains alone with a gorgeous, kindhearted man. From there, she could find an opera house or symphony or something and audition. It would work, and she’d be back on her feet. Then why does my heart feel like it’s shattering?
She shook the thought away in disgust. She could do it, come up with a plan and take action. Just because she’d travelled back in time didn’t mean she had to succumb to the submissive woman role expected. She was her own woman. Always had been, always would be. No damsel in distress for her. No need of a knight riding in on his steed to vanquish her foes. Samara kicked Midnight with an enthusiastic thump. The horse sprang into action, causing Samara to tumble over the back of the rump with a shriek.
Orlando turned as a high-pitched scream ripped through the air. His stomach flew into his throat as Samara tumbled off the back of Midnight. He kicked Loco into a gallop and took off across the field, cursing himself that he’d gotten so far from her.
He pulled his revolver out of the holster, scanning the area to find what had spooked the normally docile mare. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He watched in horror as Samara attempted to push to her knees, only to fall back down. Her shoulders heaved in sobs.
Orlando pushed Loco faster, knowing Samara must be really injured for her to be crying so hard. As he got closer his forehead crinkled in confusion. Why did her sobs sound so odd?
After what seemed an eternity, Orlando reached her, jumping off Loco before he skidded to a halt. He holstered his revolver and fell to his knees next to her as she pushed up. Relief so swift and intense rushed his body, causing him to feel lightheaded.
“Where are you hurt?” Orlando winced at the panic in his voice and attempted to calm down.
Samara sat up, wiping her sleeve across her eyes, her mouth stretched into a smile. “Nowhere.” She burst out laughing.
Orland sat back. “This isn’t funny. Why are you laughing?”
Samara shook her head, leaves and twigs falling from her disordered hair. Her face, drenched with tears, hadn’t looked more beautiful to him. He pushed her wild curls of fire out of her face and leaned into her, turning her head this way and that, peering into her eyes for signs of injury.
“I thought you’d broken your neck or some such thing.” Orlando pulled in the scent of her skin sweetened by the honey in the balm he’d made her. His heartbeat slowly returned to normal with each sweet-scented breath she took.
Samara pulled away from him and started straightening her hair and clothes. “I’m fine, Orlando. I just got a bit too excited in my attempt to be a cowgirl is all.”
She stood and turned a circle as Zeus arrived, pushing his head beneath her hand and whining. She slowly inhaled a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Orlando never realized you could watch someone construct walls within themselves, but there he stood watching as her walls grew higher and higher, blocking him out. Guarding her heart.
She turned to him, a resigned smile on her face as she spoke, ambivalence thick in her voice. “Thank you for rushing over to see if I was okay.”
Orlando nodded in response. He didn’t know why she pushed him away, but he figured if she needed space, he’d give it to her. He just wouldn’t give too much. He couldn’t help her heal if he stayed away, and if he had to, he’d scale that wall she forced around herself and vanquish the darkness closed within.
Chapter 11
Orlando finished tying the last herb bundle to the rafter of the barn and climbed down from the ladder. Samara smiled at him, a smile filled with satisfaction and pride. They had spent the morning and early afternoon harvesting herbs from the medicinal garden and bundling them for drying. After they’d filled the cabin’s rafters with hanging bundles, they’d worked together to hang the rest on the high beam of the barn.
Orlando struggled to understand Samara and her opposing emotions. She seemed to love the life here, relishing the work and finding a pace that brought a peace to her. She played songs on her dulcimer filled with joy and tranquility, causing hope to float up within his soul. Then he’d turn around and a different Samara would stand before him, one full of doubt and fear.
He realized that she built her wall out of fear. He also recognized the fear that drove her, that formed her into a person pricklier than a porcupine, directed its focus not on elements that could attack on the outside, but rather inner attacks. Fear held her hostage, a slave bound to it.
Orlando didn’t think she realized how fear had wrapped its insidious ties around her. She commented a few times in their discussions about needing to be strong to survive. Orlando would never argue that she wasn’t strong. He found her the strongest, bravest person he’d ever met aside from his pa. Yet there was a distinction between the two, the motivation behind their similar qualities.
Pa’s strength and bravery had always come from his hope in the Lord leaving him with a life filled with the kind of peace Orlando strived for. Samara’s strength grew from a foreboding that shadowed her life in darkness and anxiety. He’d found the root of the infection, and now he just needed to flush it out, cut away the disease until only healthy life remained. Of course, he didn’t have a clue how to accomplish that without pushing her away forever. So he prayed for wisdom and bided his time, moving through the days as if his life hadn’t changed irrevocably the day he discovered her.
She clapped her hands together, dusting the herb residue off. “Well, that’s done.”
“Thank you for all your help, Samara. I’ve never been able to harvest this much so early. Your care for the plants has them flourishing much more than I ever did.”
He led her out of the barn and to the house.
“How many more harvests will we get?”
Orlando liked the expectation of future that had slipped into her question.
“It really depends on the species. For some, we may only get one or two more, but others we can harvest a few more months if we aren’t pulled away from here.”
“Why would we be pulled away?”
“Mostly, I’m not, but a time or two has occurred when an outbreak of some sickness happens and I go to help. In the past, my sisters would tend the garden, but now that I live here instead of with them, it would go to seed until the next year.” He shrugged, knowing God would provide what he needed.
“I could tend it.” Samara’s soft voice stilled him as he stopped in the doorway and turned to her.
Her look of longing as she gazed at the garden had him murmuring words he knew would probably shutter her open expression. “Yes, yes you could. Or you could also come with me.”
Her gaze turned to him, pulled him to her like a shepherd’s hook dragging him in. She’d stopped not a foot away. The fragrant herbs they’d hung and the sweet smell of honey from the beeswax in her skin balm clung to her. The sunlight glittered through the copper curls of her hair she let hang down her shoulders. Her amber eyes held questions, an underlying hope buried deep within. He reached out and took her hand in his, so small it almost vanished within his. She flinched and turned her head toward hoofbeats approaching fast.
Orlando hated the intrusion but knew deep down any progress he’d made with Samara would’ve been destroyed if he’d pushed. He had to remain patient, keep steady if the walls were ever to be destroyed. He turned to the approaching rider and pulled Samara so she stood behind him.
When the rider drew close he waved. Orlando let Samara go as he lifted his hand to Onootee, a Ute from Chief Johnson’s tribe. Orlando smiled at Samara in encouragement as the young Ute, dressed in buckskin breeches and his chest bare in the heat, rode up. Orlando cherished the friendship he’d gained in Onootee and couldn’t wait for Samara to meet the charismatic man.
Onootee leaped from his horse and wrapped Orlando in a hug, thumping him hard on the back. “My brother, how are you?”
“Couldn’t be better, and how are you?” Orlando answered returning Onootee’s thumps with his own.
“Not as good as you.” He eyed Samara and wagged his eyebrows up and down.
Orlando shot him a cautioning glare. “Onootee, I’d like you to meet Samara McKenna. Samara, this is Onootee. Samara got lost up here and was injured. She’s been healing.”
A look of concern crinkled Onootee’s face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you are doing well.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, and I am doing better,” Samara answered.
“So what brings you up the mountain? Do you have time to share lunch with us?” Orlando asked.
“Yes, I can stay for lunch, though I need to leave after. Chief Johnson wishes to have your answer as soon as I can get back.” Onootee led his horse to the creek.
“I’ll go get the table set.” Samara went into the cabin.
Once she was in the cabin and the door closed, Onootee turned to Orlando and raised his eyebrows in question.
“What?” Orlando ignored Onotee’s expression, not wanting to discuss Samara’s presence.
“Nothing, my friend. I just hadn’t heard you’d taken a wife is all,” Onootee replied as he smiled with mock innocence.
“I haven’t. She just healed and has been too injured to travel.”
“You’ve been here all alone?”
Orlando nodded his head. “Nothing has happened.”
“Others of your kind might not feel that way.”
Orlando exhaled loudly, shaking his head and shrugging in resignation.
“I don’t understand why you hesitate. She is a beautiful woman, no?” Onootee’s voice was laced with confusion.
“Of course she’s beautiful,” Orlando practically shouted before lowering his voice. “I don’t want to force her to marry me just because I’m the one who found her.”
Onootee nodded in understanding as they both stared at the cabin. Orlando wasn’t sure if voicing his hesitance to marry her would prove wise or not. With women being scarce around here, most men had no qualms about claiming a woman as their own, whether she agreed or not.
“I will keep your secret, but you may not have a choice. Let’s go talk. I have much to tell.” Onootee moved toward the cabin, a sense of dread following in his wake.
Orlando stepped into the cabin and paused to allow his eyes to adjust. Samara hustled from the cabinet where she grabbed a hand towel over to the fire to pull the large pot of stew from the heat.
Orlando hurried to her side to help. “Let me get that, Samara.”
She looked up at him and smiled her thanks. Her smile then turned bland, and she shrugged in indifference. He sighed and wondered if it got tiring for Samara to constantly battle with herself.
“I see you have harvested many medicines so far.” Onootee motioned to the herbs Orlando and Samara had hung that morning.
The herbs’ fragrant aroma filled the cabin with a pleasant yet powerful smell as if it pushed all other air from the space. Orlando loved the scent, yet wondered if the headiness of it combined with the rich stew smell proved overwhelming for others.
“Don’t you just love how it makes it smell in here? It’s so fresh and vibrant, like we gathered the entire mountain up and shoved it in here with us. I’m just glad my allergies aren’t going haywire.” Samara glanced up into the rafters at their handiwork.
Onootee looked at Orlando in confusion. Orlando hitched one shoulder up. “She’s from back east. Pennsylvania, actually. You know those Easterners have some strange sayings.”
Onootee laughed. “Yes, some of the men at the White River Agency say the most loco things.”
Samara’s eyes had briefly widened in shock. “Sorry, what I meant was sometimes my nose gets sneezy and my eyes get all red and watery around plants, so I’m glad that’s not the case here.”
Onootee chuckled as he dug into the bowl of stew Samara had placed before him. Orlando winked at Samara when she placed his bowl in front of him. She mouthed ‘sorry’ in response.
He kicked Onootee under the table. “Hey, we haven’t said grace yet.”
Onootee placed his spoon down and held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. I’m wolfish.”
Samara shuddered before Orlando bowed his head and prayed. “Father God, thank you for the bountiful harvest of herbs you’ve given us so far this year. Thank you for our friend Onootee’s visit. Please bless this food to keep us strong and healthy. Let our conversation be pleasing to You and give us wisdom. In Jesus name, amen.”
Onootee attacked his stew like he had turned wolf. Orlando looked at Samara and grinned. She ducked her head, smirking as she began to eat. Onootee had always made Orlando laugh, but Onootee had a strength of character that Orlando admired.
“How did you fare this winter?” Orlando asked between bites.
“Tense.” Onootee sighed as he took another bite. “Meeker is loco, adding demands and pushing us into farming. Chief Johnson seems to not mind, planting a garden and living in a house the agency built him. But the others are hesitant. Do you remember Jane, Pauvitz’s wife?”
Orlando nodded in affirmation.
“She worked for Meeker, cleaning house for his wife. Meeker and Jane had an argument. During the argument, Meeker told her the Utes didn’t own the land we’ve lived on for generations. That we could only stay as long as we did what he demanded. He wrote about the argument in an article for the Colorado Sun and stated, ‘The Utes Must Go!’ Now my people no longer put trust in him.”
“That fool. What was he thinking?” Orlando ran his hand down his face.
Samara opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it with a quick shake of her head. Orlando would have to ask her later, after Onootee had left, what she ha
d been going to say. Then he wondered if he wanted to know. Could she be right about them affecting the future negatively with information she had? No. God brought her here. If she wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t supposed to interact with the people, He wouldn’t have brought her here in the first place. Orlando wouldn’t worry about silly theories of stepping on butterflies. He would trust in the Creator of butterflies instead.
Onootee pushed his empty bowl away. “Meeker was quite distressed when Captain Jack and Chief Douglas left with their men to go hunting. He tried to force them to stay. Now Chief Johnson and others worry Meeker will send for the troops and force us to Indian country, leaving the land sacred to us like so many other tribes.”
Orlando exhaled and ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing his scalp in thought. How could men think so stupidly as to believe that they could force others to bend to their will? He conceded that it had been happening since Genesis, but he loathed the practice. The Utes had been friends with his family since his grandfather moved west. Orlando had celebrated, mourned, and hunted with them. He’d spent countless hours learning from their healers and tending their sick when his knowledge surpassed what they could heal. Yes, their customs and beliefs were different from his, but that didn’t make them inferior. His experience had taught him that his views were contrary to the majority, yet it still got his hackles up when he heard of threats to the Utes. Especially since he knew little could be done by him to change the situation.
“Meeker is a fool,” Orlando said with a snap, pushing his bowl away.
“Chief Johnson sent me to see if you would come. His child is sick again and wishes you to heal him. He also hopes you can help with the rising tensions with the agency.” Onootee leaned forward slightly.
Orlando peeked at Samara, who stared at him. Her amber eyes showed hesitance. She nodded and turned her eyes to her stew as she finished eating. He glanced at Onootee, who watched the exchange with a teasing look upon his face.
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