"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.
He was loading his sacks onto Sully when a voice stopped him. "Mr. Reed, a moment of your time." Daniel turned. The man was tall and thin, dressed in the same black frock Daniel had seen on the dead man by the wagon, but this man was not dead. His eyes were a pale, cold blue, and his face was pinched with a righteousness that was more dangerous than any bandit.
"I am Reverend Pike," the man said, as if Daniel should know the name. "I am here on God's business and the territories. "I have no business with you," Daniel said, turning back to his horse. "You have my property, sir," Pike said, his voice sharp. Daniel froze.
He turned slowly. "What did you say?" The Apache girl. Tyen. She is a ward of the mission entrusted to my care by the United States government to be educated and saved.
You abducted her. She was chained to your wagon, half dead and beaten. The bandits left her. I saved her. Daniel snarled.
You stole her. You are harboring a fugitive. And Pike's thin lips curled. You are cohabitating with her in sin. I have papers.
He produced a sheath of documents from his coat. A legal wardship signed by the circuit judge. She is to be returned to my custody immediately. She is not property and she is not going anywhere with you. "Sheriff," Pike called out.
Sheriff Brody emerged from his office across the plaza. He was a weary man, his face lined from the sun in the stress of policing a territory that was mostly lawless. He walked toward them, his spurs jingling in the dust. "Daniel," he said, his voice tired. The reverend has been to see me.
He's got papers. They look legal. Legal? Daniel's voice was incredulous. He's a slaver.
He bought her. He claims he was transporting her from a difficult situation, Brody said clearly uncomfortable. Look, his papers say she's a ward of the church until she's 21. He's claiming you're holding her against her will. "That's a lie."
"Then let her come to town and say it," Pike challenged, his blue eyes gleaming. She's not setting foot in this town, Daniel said, his hand moving toward the pistol on his hip. "Daniel, don't," Brody said his hand on his own weapon. Don't be a fool right now. This is a civil matter.
You draw on him. It's murder. He comes near my land. It's self-defense. Daniel said.
Pike smiled. A cold, thin expression. "You will be served with a writ, Mr. Reed. You are defying the law. You are defying God."
The preacher turned and walked away. his black coat flapping. Brody let out a long breath. He stepped closer to Daniel, lowering his voice. "Listen to me, Reed." I don't give a damn what you do on that ridge.
But he's right. His papers look good. He's been talking to men. Hacket Smith. He's telling them you're a squaw man, a sinner, and that you stole a Christian convert.
What are you saying? I'm saying, Brody said, his eyes hard. That I've got two deputies. I can't police the whole county. If Pike comes back and he brings men with him.
If he brings a posse to reclaim his property, I can't stop them. The law will be on his side. You'll be on your own. Daniel did not buy the cloth. He left the salt and flour on the street.
He mounted Sully and rode out of town. His mind a black storm. He was not just a pariah. He was an outlaw. They would come.
They would come for her. And now they would be coming for his child. He burst into the cabin, his face wild. Tyen was sitting at the table, carefully shaping the letters of her name on a piece of slate. T A Y N.
She looked up, startled by his panic. He's here, Daniel said, his voice harsh. The preacher, the one who owned you. He's in town. He's got papers.