Chapter 2

Over the next month, Emma changed before my eyes. She picked up English words with startling speed—water, food, horse, house, yes, no. She became familiar with every corner of the ranch, sneaking into the barn to pet Copper when she thought I wasn’t watching, or playing in the creek behind the house, her laughter carrying on the wind.

She was healing. Learning to be a child again.

One morning, about six weeks after I found her, Emma was sitting on a blanket on the porch, watching me fix a hinge on a fence gate, when she suddenly shouted, “Papa!”

I turned to look. She was pointing east, her whole body rigid with tension.

It was a person. Thin, stumbling. As the figure got closer, I could see it was a girl. Blackfeet, like Emma. Young—no more than seven, maybe eight.

And then Emma shrieked—a sound of pure recognition and joy—and took off running into the pasture.

“Emma!” I dropped the tools and sprinted after her.

By the time I reached them, Emma had thrown herself at the girl, wrapping her in a fierce embrace, sobbing and speaking rapid Blackfeet. The older girl swayed, barely able to stand, but her arms came up weakly to hold Emma.

I could see the wound immediately. She had been shot. Fresh blood stained the front of her ragged buckskin dress, high on the left side of her chest, just under the collarbone. Her face was gaunt, lips cracked and bleeding, eyes glassy with fever.

She looked at me—just a brief, unfocused glance—and then her legs gave out.

I caught her before she hit the ground, Emma still clinging to her, wailing in Blackfeet.

“I’ve got her,” I said, carefully prying Emma’s arms loose. “Let go, Emma. I need to get her inside.”

I lifted the girl—she weighed almost nothing—and carried her toward the house. Emma ran alongside, her small hands clutching at my sleeve, her voice a frantic stream of words I couldn’t follow.

I laid the girl on the table and immediately reached for water. Her lips were so dry they’d cracked and bled. I tilted her head gently and pressed the cup to her mouth, letting a few drops pass her lips.

“Slow,” I murmured. “Slow now.”

She swallowed reflexively. I gave her more, a sip at a time, until she’d managed nearly a full cup.

Emma was speaking frantically beside me, her words tumbling over each other. I caught fragments—my limited Blackfeet was mostly trading vocabulary, but I’d picked up some basics over the years near Fort Benton.

“Emma,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Slow down. Is this your sister? Your ... nitána?” Sister.

Emma nodded frantically. “Nitána! Nitána!” Then she launched into more rapid speech, pointing at the girl, at herself, at me, at the wound.

I caught enough words to piece it together. Sister. Men. Guns. Running. Hiding. Following. Long time. Papa.

This girl—Emma’s sister—had been shot. Had survived. Had tracked us here, somehow, across God knew how many miles.

“How long?” I asked Emma, holding up fingers. “How many days?”

Emma looked confused, so I tried in Blackfeet. “Kiksik?” How many?

She held up both hands, fingers spread, then closed them and opened them again. More than she could count.

Weeks, probably. Emma had been with me for six weeks now. This girl had been wounded and traveling for weeks—since both girls ran into the brush that fateful day and got separated.

How in hell was she even alive?

I turned my attention back to the girl. The wound needed immediate attention. I could see the blood-soaked buckskin, the angry red flesh around the entry point.

“Emma,” I said gently. “I need to remove her dress. To see the wound. Do you understand?”

Emma’s eyes were huge, but she nodded.

I worked carefully, peeling the blood-stiffened buckskin away from the girl’s skin. The fabric had dried to the wound in places, and I had to pour water over it to loosen it without tearing flesh. She moaned weakly, her eyes fluttering but not opening.

When I finally got the dress pulled down to her waist, I could see the full extent of the damage.

The bullet had gone clean through—entry wound just below the left collarbone, exit wound slightly lower on her back. That was good, in one sense. No lead left inside to fester. But the wounds themselves were angry and inflamed. Infection had set in, probably days ago.

The flesh around both holes was swollen, hot to the touch, weeping yellowish fluid. Red streaks radiated outward from the entry wound—blood poisoning, starting to spread.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Emma made a small, choked sound beside me.

I grabbed my medical supplies—such as they were. Whiskey, willow bark I’d stripped and dried last summer, a jar of honey Martha had made years ago, dried yarrow I kept for horse wounds, clean rags.