Finding the Baby
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 4
Two weeks passed on the prairie.
Moira moved by sheer will, crutches biting into dry earth, leather holster keeping her useless foot off the ground. Her arms ached constantly. Her thighs burned. The sun and wind scoured her skin raw. Nights were colder than death, and she slept with one eye open, wrapped in a blanket beside the small fire she could build.
Every mile, she repeated the name of her child. Every step, she imagined the little one’s cry, a sound she could not ignore.
Finally, on the seventeenth morning, she saw smoke curling against the horizon. A grove of trees with small fires clustered beneath them—signs of a camp. She forced herself forward, squinting through sweat and tears, crutches stabbing the dirt with each determined step.
The tribe’s camp appeared larger than she expected. Tents and lodges, painted poles, children playing with sticks and bark. Adults paused when she appeared—hands froze mid-motion, eyes widening in shock.
Her paralyzed foot hung rigid in the leather holster; her crutches carried her forward, one painful step at a time. Dust from her passage swirled in the morning wind.
At the center of the camp, a tall man with bold black and red stripes across his face stepped forward. The chief. His eyes studied her closely—the crutches, the suspended foot, the bloodied skirts, the fierce determination in her gaze.
“You have walked far,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “Why do you come alone?”
“I have come for my child,” Moira said, voice raw. “I will not leave without her.”
The chief considered her silently, measuring the fire in her eyes, the strength in her hands, the will that carried her through two weeks of agony. “You are brave,” he said finally. “You have suffered greatly. Your courage has carried you far. Tell me ... what has happened to your leg? What trials have you endured?”