Quinn looked at her in surprise, clearly not expecting her to speak English. "Restrictions on where Indians can live, who they can marry, what rights they have as citizens. It's all being debated now."
"So I would not be allowed to stay here," she said flatly.
"Maybe. Maybe not. The law's not clear yet, but if Captain Hollis decides to make an issue of it, he could cause problems long before any law passes."
I set my cup down harder than I intended. "Let him try."
Quinn leaned forward. "Silas, I owe you. You know I do. But I have a family now."
"A wife. Two daughters. I can't lose my position. If Hollis orders me to bring her in, or bring you in, I'll have to do it."
"I'm giving you warning now as a friend, but if it comes to orders, I'll follow them. Do you understand?"
The betrayal sat between us like a living thing. Not unexpected, but painful nonetheless. I'd saved this man's career, and when I needed him, he was telling me he'd choose his safety over mine. But I couldn't entirely blame him.
I'd made the same choice once, putting my survival above others. That's how I'd ended up shooting Matto in the first place. "I understand," I said quietly. He stood up, relief evident on his face.
"I'll give you as much time as I can. But Hollis is already asking questions. If I were you, I'd think about what you're willing to lose for this."
After he left, Takala and I sat in silence. The bread dough had risen in its bowl, ready for the oven. Outside, the snow had stopped, leaving everything white and pristine and deceptively peaceful. "He will come back," Takala said.
"The marshal. When the captain orders him. And he will take me."
"Not if I have anything to say about it."
She looked at me with something like pity. "You cannot fight the entire army, Silas. You could not even fight your own conscience."
"My conscience is what got me into this."
"And it will get you killed if you are not careful."
She was right, and I knew it. But knowing something and accepting it are different things entirely. The days after Quinn's visit took on a different quality. Before, we'd been two people sharing space, keeping our careful distances.
Now we were two people aware that our time might be limited, that forces beyond our control were moving toward us like a slow avalanche. Takala began to talk more. Not about Matto. Not yet.
But about smaller things. She told me about growing up in her tribe, about learning to track deer with her father, about the songs her mother taught her. I told her about Emily. About how we'd met at a church social in St. Louis before the war.
About Daniel's obsession with collecting interesting rocks and Ruth's habit of naming every animal on the ranch. We were not friends. We were not anything that had a name. But we were people sharing the same storm shelter, and that created its own kind of bond.
On the 14th night, Chaska returned. He came alone this time, riding in just after sunset. When I opened the door, I saw immediately that something was wrong. His face was tight with worry.