He did what he had to do. His vision blurred. He cleaned the baby. His rough hands clumsy, his heart exploding. A girl, a small, perfect, healthy girl.
She had a full head of dark, dark hair, matted and wet. He wrapped her in the new flannel and laid her on Tyen's chest. Tyen was exhausted, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, but she smiled. She touched the baby's face. Daniel sank to the floor, his back against the wall, and he wept.
He cried for, for the child he had lost. He cried for the men he had killed. and he cried for the impossible, perfect joy of the small, wailing life that had just entered his home. They named her as the storm passed in the first true light of morning, clean and cold, filled the new room. The baby opened her eyes. They were not dark like her mother's.
They were a pale, clear gray, like the sky after a storm, like his. "Nantani," Tyen whispered her voice rough. She looked at Daniel. "It is from my people. It means she brings light."
"Nantani Reed," Daniel said, tasting the name. She brings light. Yes. The fall was gentle that year, as if the land itself wanted to give them peace. The winter was mild.
Nantani grew. The cabin was filled with new sounds. Not just the crackle of fire and the whisper of wind, but the gurgle of a baby and the low soft rumble of Daniel's voice singing Apache lullabybis. One afternoon in the following spring, they sat beneath the great cottonwood tree by the creek. The air was warm, and the leaves were that new, bright green.
Daniel was leaning against the trunk, and Tyen was resting between his knees, her back against his chest. Nantani was asleep in her mother's arms, her small face peaceful. It was a moment of complete unblemished peace. They sat in silence for a long time, just listening to the creek and the wind. Tyen looked down at the sleeping child.
She studied the impossible fusion of their two worlds, the dark, fine hair of her own people, the pale, clear eyes of his. She touched the baby's soft cheek. She tilted her head back to look up at Daniel, a small curious smile playing on her lips. "So," she whispered, her mind reaching back, back to a girl who had known nothing of tenderness.
"This is how white people make children," she paused, her gaze thoughtful. "I think—I think I understand now." Daniel smiled. The scars on his face, the lines of grief and violence softened.
He leaned down, his beard brushing her hair, and kissed the top of her head. He looked from his wife to his child. "No," he replied, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "We made her together."