Chapter 2 - One Night Before Sunrise
Aayoka did not speak Elias Ward's name after he left.
Not at the saloon.
Not when she crossed the creek and saw hoofprints disappearing toward North Ridge.
Not even when she found one gray horsehair caught against the rough fence outside her cabin.
She simply continued living.
At least, she tried.
For the first two weeks, nothing changed.
Then one morning, the smell of coffee from the saloon kitchen made her sick.
She barely reached the back door before vomiting.
The cook laughed.
“Bad whiskey?”
“I don't drink whiskey.”
“Then bad luck.”
Aayoka wiped her mouth.
She already suspected the truth.
Three mornings later, she knew.
That evening, she sat alone beside the fire with both hands resting over her abdomen.
A child.
Elias's child.
Fear came first.
Silver Creek was not gentle with women who violated its expectations.
It was even less gentle with Aayoka.
People tolerated her because she worked, paid what she owed, and rarely demanded anything.
Pregnancy would change that.
An unmarried Apache woman carrying a white cowboy's child would become entertainment.
Then came another emotion.
One that surprised her.
Joy.
Small.
Fragile.
But undeniable.
She lowered her head.
“Hello,” she whispered.
The room remained silent.
Aayoka smiled through tears.
“You are very small now.”
Her palm rested over the life she could not yet feel.
“But you are here.”
She considered riding to North Ridge.
The thought lasted less than a minute.
Elias knew where she lived.
He had chosen to leave.
If he wanted to return, he could.
Aayoka would not drag him back.
So the weeks passed.
Her body changed slowly.
She learned to hide the early signs beneath loose clothing.
But Silver Creek watched everyone.
By the fourth month, whispers followed her through the general store.
By the fifth, men at the saloon had begun making guesses.
“Who's the father?”
Aayoka ignored them.
“Come on. We know it ain't one of us.”
More laughter.
She continued carrying glasses.
One evening, the saloon owner, Walter Pike, called her into the storeroom.
He would not meet her eyes.
“You can't keep working.”
“I can carry trays.”
“That isn't the problem.”
“What is?”
Walter rubbed his neck.
“Customers complain.”
“About my work?”
“No.”
“Then about what?”
He finally looked at her belly.
Aayoka understood.
“You're firing me because I'm pregnant.”
“I'm saying maybe you should stay home.”
“I need money.”
“I know.”
“Then let me work.”
Walter lowered his voice.
“Some men are asking questions. I don't need trouble.”
Aayoka stared at him.
“Trouble for whom?”
Walter had no answer.
She removed her apron, folded it carefully, and placed it on a crate.
Then she walked out.
That night, she counted her money.
Not enough.
Winter was coming.
She began sewing beadwork and repairing clothes for several women who were willing to pay her without asking questions.
Ruth Teague, the town midwife, occasionally stopped by.
Ruth was a widow in her late fifties with iron-gray hair and the impatient manner of someone who had delivered enough babies to consider panic a waste of energy.
“You're too thin,” Ruth announced one afternoon.
“I eat.”
“Not enough.”
Ruth placed a sack of beans on the table.
“I can't pay.”
“Didn't ask.”
Aayoka eyed her.
“Why are you helping me?”
Ruth shrugged.
“Baby didn't insult anybody.”
Despite herself, Aayoka smiled.
Ruth sat.
“Father know?”
Aayoka's expression changed.
“Yes.”
It was not precisely a lie.
Elias knew what adults sometimes created together.
He simply did not know that they had.
Ruth understood the answer differently.
“He coming back?”
“I don't know.”
“Want him to?”
Aayoka looked toward North Ridge through the window.
Some nights, she imagined hearing Bramble outside.
She hated herself for it.
“I want him to choose,” she said.
Ruth nodded.
“That sounds expensive.”
“What?”
“Pride.”
“It is not pride.”
“What is it?”
“Dignity.”
Ruth considered that.
“Fair enough.”
Twenty miles away, Elias Ward was discovering that loneliness no longer behaved the way it once had.
Before Silver Creek, his cabin had been refuge.
After Aayoka, it felt empty.
He heard her voice while making coffee.
He remembered the pressure of her fingers against his hand.
He remembered waking beside her and experiencing one terrible, beautiful thought:
I could stay.
That thought had sent him running.
By November, Elias had invented a dozen reasons not to return.
She probably regretted it.
She was better without him.
One night meant nothing.
Silver Creek was trouble.
North Ridge needed him.
Each excuse lasted until he remembered her waking alone.
Then shame returned.
One afternoon, Elias saddled Bramble.
He rode six miles toward town.
Then stopped.
“What am I doing?” he muttered.
Bramble flicked an ear.
Elias turned around.
The horse resisted.
“Don't start.”
Bramble looked toward Silver Creek.
“You're a horse.”
The gelding remained still.
“Fine.”
Elias dismounted, led him several steps north, then climbed back into the saddle.
“You don't get opinions.”
Bramble snorted.
Elias rode home.
Winter deepened.
Aayoka's belly grew.
She began speaking to the baby every evening.
Sometimes in English.
Sometimes in Apache.
She told the child about rivers, stars, horses, and the red mountains.
She did not speak badly of Elias.
That surprised Ruth.
“You could curse him a little,” the midwife suggested once.
“What would that change?”
“Make you feel better.”
“No.”
“You're strange.”
“So people tell me.”
By late December, Aayoka could no longer comfortably bend to collect firewood.
Ruth helped when she could.
A few other women quietly left food outside.
But Silver Creek's whispers became crueler.
Some claimed the father was a passing soldier.
Others invented uglier stories.
Aayoka ignored them.
Then, one afternoon, she heard two men talking outside the general store.
“Ward hasn't been down in months.”
“Which Ward?”
“Elias.”
Aayoka stopped.
“He always disappears in winter.”
“Old Ben saw his gray horse near town last month.”
Aayoka's heart tightened.
Elias had come close.
And turned back.
That hurt more than if he had never tried.
She returned home without buying flour.
That night, she sat beside the fire.
“You deserve someone who stays,” she whispered to the baby.
The child kicked.
Aayoka gasped.
Then laughed.
“There you are.”
Another kick.
Strong.
Very strong.
She placed both hands over her belly.
Ruth had already commented on the baby's unusual size.
“Could just be a big child,” she had said.
“Is that dangerous?”
“Not necessarily.”
But Ruth had looked concerned.
January arrived with freezing winds.
Aayoka prepared for birth.
She washed cloth.
Stored water.
Stacked firewood.
Ruth insisted she send someone immediately when labor began.
But Aayoka had spent years surviving alone.
She believed she could survive this too.
Then, shortly after midnight on the coldest night of the month, pain tore through her abdomen.
Aayoka gripped the table.
She waited.
The pain disappeared.
Then returned.
Harder.
She inhaled slowly.
“No,” she whispered.
Not yet.
Another contraction bent her forward.
Aayoka looked toward the door.
Ruth lived almost half a mile away.
Wind screamed against the cabin.
She wrapped herself in a shawl and stepped outside.
The journey felt endless.
Twice she stopped against fences.
By the time Ruth opened her door, Aayoka could barely speak.
Ruth's eyes widened.
“Oh, Lord.”
“Please.”
Ruth grabbed her bag.
They returned through the darkness.
Labor lasted hour after hour.
Aayoka's strength began failing near dawn.
Ruth became increasingly worried.
“Stay with me.”
“I am.”
“No, you're drifting. Look at me.”
Aayoka opened her eyes.
“Something wrong?”
“Baby's large.”
“How large?”
“Large enough that I need you listening.”
Another contraction came.
Aayoka screamed.
Then Ruth saw the baby's head.
“Again!”
Aayoka pushed.
The cry that filled the cabin moments later was so loud that Ruth nearly laughed from relief.
“There!”
Aayoka collapsed backward.
“My baby?”
“Here.”
Ruth lifted the newborn.
Then stopped.
Her smile vanished.
The infant was extraordinarily large.
Broad shoulders.
Thick arms.
A full shock of dark hair.
But that alone was not what unsettled her.
The newborn opened his eyes.
Immediately.
Calmly.
And stared toward the fire.
Aayoka saw Ruth's expression.
“What?”
No answer.
“Ruth.”
The baby moved.
His tiny hand wrapped around Ruth's index finger.
Ruth inhaled sharply.
The grip was startlingly strong.
“Ruth!”
The midwife looked at Aayoka.
Then she looked at the child's face again.
At the brow.
The eyes.
The distinctive small notch beneath his left ear.
Ruth had seen that mark before.
Years ago.
On another newborn.
Samuel Ward.
Elias's younger brother.
Ruth had delivered him.
Her hands began trembling.
The cloth she had been holding slipped to the floor.
Aayoka's voice became frightened.
“What is wrong with my son?”
Ruth slowly turned toward her.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you looking at him like that?”
Ruth swallowed.
“Because I know this face.”
Outside, dawn began touching the Arizona cliffs.
May you like
And twenty miles away on North Ridge, Elias Ward woke suddenly from a dream about his dead brother, with no idea that a child had just entered the world carrying the unmistakable features of the family he believed he had lost forever.
---
