The man’s elbow jabbed backward, catching Sakote in the stomach. He doubled over, and the man’s boot stomped hard on the arch of his foot.
The pain scattered stars across Sakote’s eyes, but he shook them free like a wolf shaking off water. The man’s fist barreled toward his face, but Sakote caught it, twisting the monster’s arm savagely behind his back till it cracked.
And still the man fought. Spittle flew from his mouth. He cursed and wheeled on Sakote, one arm hanging useless at his side, the other swinging wildly. Then he swept his stiff boot beneath Sakote’s foot, knocking him backward onto the earth with a thud.
The man would have stepped on Sakote then, broken his ribs and squashed him like a beetle. But Sakote seized his raised foot and wrenched it sideways, throwing the man over.
And then the spirit of the vengeful grizzly came upon him. Relentlessly, he punched the brute, caving the man’s abdomen, crunching the bones of his nose and jaw. Sakote loosed his wrath like a bee-crazed bear until sweat dripped from his forehead and blood slicked his fists.
Only when the blinding red haze gradually dissolved did Sakote come back to himself. He looked down at his victim. Had that bloody mess been a man? Had he wrought such damage? He looked at his culpable hands, swollen and dripping with the man’s lifeblood. He hadn’t known he was capable of such violence.
And yet he would do it again.
The man had hurt Mati.
Mati! He staggered forward. She lay so quiet, so still.
"Mati." Her name rasped against his throat like frozen wind. He hunkered down beside her, cradling her limp head against his arm. "Oh Mati, don’t go from me." His chest tightened with pain. He brushed the hair back from her forehead and pressed his bloody fingers to her temple, feeling for a pulse. Thank Wonomi, her heart was still beating. But she didn’t waken.
He began to pray aloud, closing his eyes, lifting his head to the sky, rocking back and forth with the rhythm of his words. He placed his palms upon her, summoning The Great Spirit’s restorative power, even though it was his mother who was the healer of the tribe. He asked forgiveness for the man he’d killed and promised that he would take care of the white eagle.
Mati coughed then, and tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. She licked her swollen lips to speak.
"Sakote.” She tried to smile at him, but it seemed too painful. Then her gaze drifted over to the burning cabin. “My...my sketches," she murmured forlornly, pulling some tattered piece of paper from her pocket. "He burned them—all my beautiful sketches."
The page was wrinkled, but he recognized the man in the picture. It was him. She’d saved it from the fire. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and tucked the paper back into her pocket.
Sakote didn’t know why, but more than her injuries, her despair wounded his heart. Partly because he felt to blame. If only he’d stayed with her, watched over her...
He cast a quick glance toward the miner’s village, and anger flared in him like the first spark of fire. The miners—why hadn’t they protected Mati from this hudesi? Where was the big man with the yellow hair?
Before caution could stop him, he gathered Mati tenderly in his arms, wincing as she moaned in pain. Carrying her, he made his way brazenly to the settlement of the gold camp, determined to confront the willa with what they’d done to Mati.
What he found stole the breath from him in a loud hiss. The camp looked like the grisly aftermath of a Yana battle, a bloody massacre. Before him, the bodies of the miners—the man with the round hat, the young boy from Mati’s porch, the yellow-haired giant—lay bleeding and broken, scattered like dead leaves. The stranger that had hurt Mati must have slaughtered them before continuing on to her cabin. Sakote tried to turn away from the ghastly sight so Mati wouldn’t see, but she clutched at his arm, peering over his shoulder.
Her heartsick sob caught at his heart, and suddenly he wasn’t sorry at all that he’d killed the hudesi.
His voice sounded like empty wind against the terrible silence of death. "There’s a healer in my village. I’ll take you there."
But Mati had already drifted off.
Mattie had no idea where she was or how long she’d been asleep. It would help if she could open her eyes, but right now it was too much of an effort. Nothing seemed familiar. The textures, the smells, the sounds, even the sensations within her own body were foreign, strange, almost as if she’d been born into another being, into another life.
Perhaps she had.
The last things she recalled were the stench of smoke, the agony of watching her sketches burn, and that horrible man driving his fist toward her face.
No, that wasn’t all. She recollected snatches of other things, too—the miners lying dead in Paradise Bar, patches of moonlight as she was carried through the woods, murmurs in another language, strange pungent aromas, and Sakote...
Sakote. He had come for her. She remembered that much.
But where was he now?
Only one eye would open properly. The other seemed to be pasted shut. She peered about her as best she could.
She lay in a dwelling of some sort, like a cave or the inside of a tree. Sunlight sneaked in through gaps of limbs here and there and poured like a stream through the one low opening at her feet. But it hurt to look at the bright beam, so she turned her head aside.
Sakote must have brought her here. It smelled like him. Crisp cedar and sweet reeds, wood smoke and tanned leather scented the air, along with several odors she didn’t recognize—oily, herbal, bitter substances.
Her tongue ventured as slowly as a snail from its shell to wet her swollen, cracked lips, and she squinted toward the perimeter of the hut in search of something, anything, to drink.
Mounds of pine needles covered the floor, and a collection of baskets woven with angular designs squatted in the corner. Assorted animal skins and red-feathered bands, strings of white beads and strips of leather hung from branches along one side of the curved wall, and crouching at the foot of the wall was what appeared to be a giant stone mortar and pestle.
But it was what lay propped against the mortar that made her heart race and brought mist to her eyes. It was her drawing of Sakote, wrinkled and soot-stained, but intact.
Wincing as she craned her stiff neck upwards, she strained to see farther and almost choked on surprise. Sitting cross-legged, as quiet as death, was Hintsuli, staring back at her with doleful black eyes.
She gasped.
The boy’s brows knitted suddenly in worry, and he murmured something in his own tongue.
"You frightened me," she tried to explain, though she was certain her voice—as rough as a rasp filing glass—offered little comfort.
Now that she was wholly awake, Mattie felt the full impact of what she’d endured. Her jaw ached, and, peeping through the tiniest slit of her right eyelid, she could tell her cheek was puffed up like bread dough. Her head throbbed, and her hands stung from the burns that had left red welts in her already injured palms. She shifted on her makeshift bed, grimacing as her bruised ribs protested.
"Where am I?" she asked vaguely, knowing Hintsuli couldn’t understand her.
But though he didn’t say a word, his expression was perfectly eloquent. Pity. He felt sorry for her. Heavens, she must look a sight then. Her hair was probably matted, and her dress...
Good heavens!
With a squeak, she burrowed deeper into the nest of furs. Where was her dress? She took a quick peek beneath the covers, mortified to discover that not only her dress, but every stitch of her clothing, was missing.
"Hintsuli!" Sakote’s voice, an angry hiss, came from the low doorway at the foot of the hut.
Hintsuli didn’t answer. His eyes widened, but he set his lips in a stubborn pout.
“Hintsuli!" This time the whisper was more irate.
When the boy didn’t respond, Sakote’s large shape darkened the entrance, and Mattie tugged the furs up protectively over her head.
Through the blankets,
Mattie heard Sakote growl something, and the boy chattered back. Then there was a long silence.
Slowly, steadily, the furs were pulled from her grip until her face lay exposed.
"You’re awake."
She wasn’t sure if Sakote was rejoicing in the fact or accusing her, but she didn’t care. It relieved her to see him again.
He frowned. "Did my brother wake you?"
"No," she croaked.
He glared dubiously at Hintsuli, and the boy crossed his arms in smug defiance.
"Where am I?" she asked.
"You need to drink," he observed. Then he barked some command to Hintsuli, who scrambled outside to obey.
"Where is the pain?" he asked, kneeling beside her with such tender concern that it made her eyes tear.
She considered his question for a minute, and then brought one arm from beneath the covers, holding up her little finger. "This," she told him. "This is the only part that doesn’t hurt."
To her amazement, his scowl slowly melted into a sympathetic grin. And if it hadn’t hurt so much, she would have mirrored that precious smile.
"My brother is bringing willow bark tea to take away the pain," he promised.
She nodded. "Thank you."
She stared at him for far too long, she knew, but she’d forgotten how pleasant he was to look upon. His bruises had healed, and his hair, pulled back now from his face, revealed his strong jaw and prominent cheekbones. His mouth, grim at first, curved into an easy smile, softening the lustrous black of his eyes.
And he didn’t look away.
"I thought you’d left me," he murmured.
His words made her heart flutter.
"I thought I had, too," she whispered.
Her gaze settled on his parted mouth. How inviting it was. In the filtered light, the tips of his teeth shone against his swarthy skin. If only her lips weren’t so bruised...
He seemed to read her thoughts. He glanced once at her mouth, then, with a crooked smile, lifted her hand carefully to his lips. Very tenderly, he placed a single kiss on her little finger. His touch was intimate, more intimate by far than the kisses to the hand she’d endured from the simpering suitors at Uncle Ambrose’s parties.
She blushed, or at least she supposed she did. It may not have been discernible beneath the swollen mass of blue bruises on her face.
"I must look like a monster," she said, lowering her gaze.
"No," he told her, lifting her chin with the tip of his finger. "You are beautiful always. Your spirit is beautiful."
His words, so simple, so heartfelt, melted her bones. For a long while, she couldn’t speak.
"You," she said finally, her voice cracking, "you undressed me?"
He gave her a sly grin. "No."
"No?" She blinked. "Then who..?"
"My mother. She’s been caring for you."
"Your mother?" Mattie tried to sit up, but it hurt too much. "Your mother is here? Are we in your village?"
"Yes."
All at once, she felt panic. "I can’t stay here. I don’t belong here. I have to go back to my..."
What? Her cabin? It had burned to the ground. Along with all her possessions. She had no food. She had no clothing. No tools, no dishes, no candles, no pencils, no paper... And her friends? They were dead. Frenchy and Dash, Zeke and Swede, poor Swede...
She couldn’t bear to think of it, but Sakote didn’t give her time to wallow in misery.
"My mother is a good healer," he said, carefully brushing a lock of hair from her brow. "She’ll make you well. Then you can worry about going back."
"But how long will that take?" she asked anxiously. "And where will I live in the meantime? I have no money. How will I eat? What will I wear?"
He pressed two fingers against her lips to silence her. "You’re full of questions. I’ll grow old answering them."
His touch soothed her fears. In fact, a moment more, and she might have slipped her tongue out to sample his warm fingertips as they brushed her open mouth. But someone was coming through the passageway.
Sakote’s mother. It had to be. The woman possessed the same golden skin, strong cheekbones, and dark eyes wrinkled at the corners by crow’s feet of happiness. She wasn’t happy now, however. Lugging a clay cup and a basket of twigs and leaves, she made her way past Sakote, muttering all the while.
Sakote made a brief response, to which the woman answered with a shooing motion of her hand.
"No!" Mattie begged him. "Don’t go, please."
Sakote crossed his arms in a perfect imitation of his little brother and made some rebellious comment to his mother.
The woman grumbled under her breath, but let him stay, pointing to the farthest corner of the hut, where she insisted he remain. Then she offered Mattie the cup.
The cool drink had a slightly bitter flavor, but she didn’t care. She supposed this was the willow bark tea. The moisture soothed her parched throat. She finished it before the woman could even set down her basket and kneel beside her.
Once she was settled, the woman began to examine Mattie so thoroughly that Mattie wondered if she should have asked Sakote to leave after all. She was gentle, but her fingers poked and prodded at every inch of her patient till Mattie was sure she was as red as an apple from head to toe. Apparently, nothing was broken, despite the dull ache of her ribs.
When the woman was satisfied, she plucked a small black oak gall from the satchel at her waist and ground it to a fine powder in her stone mortar. Then she drew a bunch of freshly cut, dripping milkweed stems from her basket and proceeded to squeeze the sticky white juice over the powder, mixing it to a thin paste. This she painted with her fingertips over Mattie’s scrapes, murmuring soft syllables that sounded almost like a song.
Mattie hoped the woman knew what she was doing. Her concoction was disturbingly reminiscent of a witch’s potion. But a quick glance at Sakote was all the reassurance she needed. After all, if he could dwell in the wilderness, hunting and climbing and doing all the dangerous things growing boys dared, and survive under the doctoring of his mother, she supposed it was good enough care for her.
Mattie sucked a quick breath between her teeth. The sap stung where her skin was broken. Sakote’s mother blew gently on those places as she smeared them with the juice.
The woman’s ministrations recalled a bittersweet time when Mattie was a little girl, when her own mother sat her upon her lap and cooed to her over a scraped knee. This woman, of course, looked nothing like her mother. Her complexion was as dark as the polished floors of Hardwicke House. Fine wrinkles crisscrossed her weathered face. Her hair, long and loose about her shoulders, hung like gray-streaked curtains, and her eyes were as black as a raven’s. Most peculiar were the three black stripes painted from her bottom lip to her chin and two more extending from the corners of her mouth across her cheeks.
Mattie suddenly wished she could sketch the woman. She would draw her kneeling as she was now, surrounded by those intricately patterned baskets filled with bouquets of herbs and ferns and wildflowers. Perhaps she would even draw Hintsuli at her side, his arms wrapped fondly about her neck. If only...
If only she had her sketchbook.
All at once, she keenly felt their loss. When she got back on her feet, she would work hard to replace all she’d lost. But food would come first, and shelter, and clothing. A luxury like pencils and paper...
A tear squeezed from her swollen eye. She knew it was selfish of her. After all, she was lucky to be alive. Still, she’d lost so much—her parents, her home, her friends, all her worldly possessions. She couldn’t bear to add to that list her dreams.
The woman’s finely arched brows came together in a frown, and she said something to Sakote. He nodded and came near.
"My mother says she can heal your body, but not your spirit. She says you’ve wandered from your path, but you’ll find it again."
Mattie swallowed hard and tried to smile. "Tell your mother I’m grateful for her help."
Sakote relayed the message, and the woman’s eyes creased at the corners as she answered.
Sakote chuckled. "She says you may not be so grateful when you are well enough to grind acorns and tan deerhide and gather grasshoppers."
Mattie had no idea what that meant, but the warm humor in the woman’s face melted the last of her anxiety. She snuggled against the fur blanket, whose twisted strips of rabbit skin made it miraculously soft on both sides, and watched in silence as the healer finished her work. By the time the woman gathered her tools in her basket and ducked back out of the hut, Mattie had drifted off to sleep again.
Sakote grunted when his mother told him to let the girl rest. He didn’t intend to disturb Mati, but he wasn’t yet ready to leave. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to watch the rabbit fur blanket rise and fall with her breath, to see the flare of her nostrils and the flutter of her eyes as she walked in the world of dreams. But mostly he wanted to look at the future, a thing that was hidden to him.
His mind traveled there of its own will, seeing visions it shouldn’t, planning destiny as if a man were free to carve out his own path along Wonomi’s earth.
He saw Mati dressed in white deerskin, her hair loose over her shoulder, kneeling at the grinding rock beside his mother, laughing, her belly big with child. He saw her bouncing their handsome son on her crossed knees as she sang a Konkow cradle song to send him to sleep. He saw her running across the meadow with their beautiful daughter, her basket full of acorns, her face flushed with joy, lupine blossoms tucked behind her ear. He saw her sitting across the fire, surrounded by grandchildren, her hair streaked with gray, her face crinkled from years of happiness, her eyes still shining bright with love.
Then he frowned. It was useless, this dreaming. She was here now, yes, and it felt right for her to be here. But Mati couldn’t live forever with the Konkows. The miners from Paradise Bar had reminded him that a white woman in the company of an Indian was assumed to be stolen.
She wouldn’t want to live here anyway. Why should she? Her world was so much more...civilized. She was accustomed to houses with wooden floors, dresses made of cloth, food that came in tins. When she was healed, she’d go back to her world, and there was nothing he could do to change that.
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