A Cry in the Wilderness
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 16
Póéso tossed and turned for several hours. The house was dark, quiet ... asleep.
She suddenly felt her chest tighten and she silently started to weep. Every fiber of my being is crying out to profess my love. The one thing I desire the most terrifies me to the bone.
The clean linen and soft mattress were a constant, aching reminder of her failure. Póéso did not accept kindness from the enemy; she met them with a drawn blade. Yet here she was, her arm aching more from healing than the initial break, the air in his home thick with a foreign, dangerous warmth.
He had done more than save her life; he had shattered the iron code that kept her upright. His hands, which held the power of the white world—land, money, control—had chosen to use that power to heal her, not to hold her captive. This man was a paradox wrapped in the scent of leather and earth, his tenderness a far greater threat to her soul than any slaver’s whip.
To love him is to admit the code was broken, that the war I pledged my life to might be futile. The little girl who longs to be held, kissed and cherished is reaching out within me!
The ghosts that haunted her were not old; they were fresh. The memory of the last raid, the grim faces of her warrior brothers, the sight of settlers’ wagons carving scars into the buffalo grounds—that was her truth. Her heart, which now beat a treacherous rhythm for him, belonged to the warrior’s sash she could no longer wear.
If she let him into that sacred space, she would not just be a woman—she would be his woman, bound to the very world that was swallowing her people whole. It was more than a confession of love; it was a vow of allegiance to everything she’d been taught to destroy.
The struggle was a battle she couldn’t win by fighting. She could flee, retreat into cold silence, die with her hatred intact—but then she would truly be lost, alone in a world where every sunrise reminded her of what she’d chosen to sacrifice. She watched him move with that quiet, easy confidence that belonged to men who did not live in fear. His life was order; hers was chaos.
No. She was a Dog Soldier. Her people were defined by their fierce loyalty and their ability to face an overwhelming force with courage. This was the most terrifying fight of her life. To take this leap, to shed the armor of her hate and trust a white man with her bare heart, was an act of courage greater than any charge across the plains.
She would not lose him to the ghosts of her war. The Dog Soldier’s code had required her to die for her people. This new, terrifying path required her to live—to risk total loss for the only true kindness she had ever known.
Get up! Go now, or you never will...
The Confession in the Quiet Dark
The floorboards barely groaned beneath the tips of her crutches as she maneuvered through the hallway in the dead of night. She moved through the white man’s house not as a guest, but as a wounded predator seeking vulnerable ground, yet intending no harm.
She paused at his doorway. Moonlight, thin and cold, spilled from the window, tracing the powerful, still shape of him in the bed.
She did not call his name. She reached out and touched his shoulder, the contact feather-light, barely disturbing the blanket. As his eyes opened, reflecting the pale light, she slid the crutches away and stood, favoring her injured side but standing on her own.
She did not speak. Instead, she lifted her hand, and in her palm rested his hunting knife—the knife she had threatened him with, the knife he had given her, the last vestige of her warrior’s promise. It was the only tangible thing separating them. She pressed the hilt into his hand, closing his fingers around the familiar bone and steel.
Will knew immediately that she had opened the door wide. Her gesture revealed her making herself totally vulnerable to him.
Her breath came in shallow, ragged pulls, not from the effort of the walk, but from the raw terror that had seized her. Her body began to tremble, a deep, uncontrollable shaking that began in her core. The Dog Soldier was gone; only a scared, fragile, vulnerable girl remained. She knew the language of battle, of courage, of enduring pain, but this new language—this risk—left her mute.
Finally, the words tore from her, a desperate, stripped-bare plea:
“Will you hold me?”
She didn’t wait for his answer. She maneuvered to the side of the bed, the mattress shifting under her weight. She pulled the blankets over her, turning her back to him, and pressed her thin, shaking body against his long, warm length. It was a complete, physical act of surrender—not offering words, but her exposed back, the most vulnerable position a warrior could take.
For a moment, he was still, the heavy weight of the knife in his hand. Then she felt the metal hilt clatter softly onto the bedside table. His arms, strong and gentle, came around her. One hand settled over her still-tender ribs, the other cupped her shoulder, pulling her close against his chest. He didn’t ask why or demand confession. He simply held her, his warmth a solid, inescapable reality that finally stilled the terrible shaking.
Safe, surrounded, and completely disarmed, the warrior finally allowed herself to rest.
The Whisper of Truth
As she lay curled against his warmth, his arms a gentle, secure shelter around her, the steady rhythm of his heart became a comfort she had never known. The trembling had subsided, leaving her exhausted and completely bare. It was the deepest peace she had found since childhood, and the depth of that feeling terrified her more than any battle.
She pressed her face into his bare chest, her voice muffled and rough, barely a breath against his skin.
“I love you,” she whispered. The three words were a physical ache, a tearing of the last thread of her resistance.
He shifted just slightly, enough to rest his chin lightly on the top of her head. He didn’t speak the words back immediately; instead, he held her tighter, his response an action rather than words.
She couldn’t stop there. The confession had to be followed by the declaration of her deepest fear.
“Please,” she breathed, the word breaking. “Please don’t hurt me. Others ... they hurt me to save their own kind. But if you hurt me, I don’t know how to fight back.”
She turned her head just enough to speak clearly into the dark, the words carrying the full weight of her past trauma and her present gamble. “It would destroy me if you ever hurt me. I got nothin’ left to go back to.”
His grip on her tightened briefly, conveying emotion he couldn’t yet voice. She felt him inhale, taking in her scent, her fear, her confession.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low and solemn against the quiet. “Ma arms will always be yur shelter, Darlin’. I swear it on ma life.”
Dawn’s Shared Truth
Hours later, as the first pale light touched the windows, Póéso found herself needing to speak what was in her heart. The profound shift in her world demanded acknowledgment, and there was only one person who would truly understand.
She made her way quietly to Ma’hoena’s bedside, where her sister lay in the soft morning light. The conversation that followed was necessary—not born of rivalry, but of the practical wisdom their shared heritage had taught them. The knowledge of cultural, sororal polygyny was a quiet truth of their Cheyenne heritage, a way to strengthen their position in an uncertain world.
“I gave him the knife,” Póéso began, her voice low and steady, carrying all the weight of her decision. “My hatred is gone. The vows of the Dog Soldiers no longer bind me to the cold.”
Ma’hoena watched her, expression solemn, acknowledging the staggering cost of that surrender. “And what did he give you in return for your knife?”
“He gave me safety. Last night, I went to him. I told him I love him and that I cannot bear to be hurt again. He swore to keep me safe. He simply held me.” She paused, profound peace and terror mingling on her face. “I have chosen. I will stay. I will not choose the ghosts over his hands.”
Póéso reached out and gently took her sister’s hand. “And now, we speak of the path ahead.”