"A baby," he said, his hand moving, hovering over her stomach. You You are carrying our child. Her eyes widened. Her own hand came up to cover his. She looked down at her belly, still flat beneath a thin night shirt.
A child. Her child. The idea was so foreign, so impossible. She had asked, "Can I try too?" as a child might ask to try a new food. She had not truly understood the consequence.
"A baby," she whispered, testing the word. A small, slow smile, the one he had seen when she was grinding corn, spread across her face. "Our baby." Daniel felt two things at once. The first was a surge of pure unadulterated joy so fierce it was like a blow to the chest.
A child, a son, a daughter, a second chance, a family. He wanted to laugh, to shout, to swing her around. But the joy was immediately choked by a cold, sharp terror. He thought of Clay Hackett's face, twisted with hate, half-breed. He stood abruptly and began to pace the small cabin, his bare feet stirring the dust.
A child, a child born of a white man and an Apache woman in New Mexico territory in 1878. What world was he bringing this baby into? A world that would hate it. A world that would see it as a sin, a bastard, a thing to be despised. "Daniel," Tyen asked, her voice small, her smile fading.
He ran his hands through his hair, his heart hammering with a new protective fury. "We We have to be careful," he muttered. "No one can know. Not yet." He was terrified.
He was thrilled. He was a father. He needed supplies. He had put it off. But the child changed everything.
She would need things. He did not know what. Softer cloth, milk, if he could find a cow to buy. He had to go to town. He left her with a heavy heart.
He gave her the rifle and made her promise to keep it loaded, to hide if she saw anyone. She was not to make a fire, not to be seen. She promised, her hand resting on her stomach, a gesture that was already becoming natural. He rode into Santa Fe, his eyes scanning every alley, every roof. The town felt hostile.
The air, which had been lazy and warm, now felt charged. He went to the general store, his list in his hand. Silas Cooper served him, his face a sour mask. He would not meet Daniel's eyes. The store was empty, and the silence was heavy.