He will listen. What he decides after that, she shrugged. We will see. Ethan finished cleaning the rifle and set it aside. You never told me why you really came to me.
The real reason. Ayla was quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. I told you. My people are dying. There's more to it than that.
She sighed. You are right, there is. She looked up, meeting his eyes. When I was young, maybe 10 or 11, soldiers came to our camp. They said we had to leave, go to a reservation.
My father refused. So they burned our homes, killed our horses. My father fought back. They shot him in front of me. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly.
My mother took me and ran. We survived, but I watched her break piece by piece, year by year. She stopped singing, stopped smiling. She became a ghost. And when the fever came, she let it take her.
She did not fight. I'm sorry. I do not want your pity. I want you to understand. I will not become a ghost.
I will not let my people fade into nothing. I will fight. And I will survive, whatever it takes. Ethan saw it then. The fire in her.
The same fire that had driven him to build the ranch, to keep going even when every part of him wanted to quit. She wasn't broken, she was burning. You'll make it, he said. One way or another. We will make it, she corrected.
Together. The next morning, they found the first body. It was a militia scout, sprawled face down in a dry wash, an arrow through his back. The body was still warm. Ethan dismounted, crouching beside it.
The arrow was Apache made, the fletching unmistakable. Your people? He asked. Ayla studied the arrow, her face grim. Yes, they are close.