Grace and the Guiltless

by Erin Johnson

  The Milton homestead now lay empty, and no doubt prospectors would soon snap it up. All the time and effort and sweat Pa had invested. All gone. Grief rolled over Grace in waves. Pain. Anguish. The loss tore at her soul, and she felt as if she were drowning, being sucked under the waves like she had been once as a child when they’d lived back East. She had tumbled and tossed, not sure which way was up, while the waves had clawed at her chest, sucked her breath away. She felt like she was being pulled under by huge waves now. Only this time, Pa wasn’t there to rescue her.

  “Grace?” Joe’s tentative voice broke into her chaotic thoughts.

  She shook herself free. “You . . . you were saying about the silver.”

  “Are you all right? You look really pale.”

  “Compared to you maybe,” she retorted with what she could muster of a grin. Joe faked a frown, but his eyes smiled back.

  Grace suddenly noticed that he had stripped down to only his buckskin pants as the afternoon sun had grown stronger. Studying his brown, muscular shoulders gave Grace an odd, queasy feeling in her stomach. She glanced away and tried to compose herself. It was bad enough that she was light-headed — she didn’t need anything to add to it.

  She had to change the subject. Taking a deep breath, she tried to stand straighter. “I’m fine. If I did have more bullets, I’d show you.” She turned intending to stalk back to the hut, but she swayed again.

  Joe grabbed her elbow, but she shook him off.

  He shook his head at her stubbornness, but admiration gleamed in his eyes. “Well, if you’re still determined to prove yourself,” he said, “we could use other weapons . . .”

  She should turn him down. She should walk — or shuffle, more like it — back to the medicine lodge. But something inside Grace refused to give up and admit defeat. “Like what?”

  Joe studied her before he responded, as if gauging whether she was serious. “Arrows or tomahawks.”

  Grace scoffed. “You’d have an unfair advantage!”

  “So don’t compare yourself to me. A straight shot is a straight shot, no matter what the weapon.”

  A bow and arrow would be lighter than the pistol that was weighing her arms down with its heft. “Fine.”

  Joe pressed his lips together. “All right then. I’ll be right back.”

  Grace took a few grateful minutes to lean against a nearby tree and try to gather her strength, but soon Joe returned with a bow in one hand, a tomahawk in the other, and a quiver of arrows slung over his back. “You ever use a bow before?”

  She shook her head, then instantly regretted it as the pounding in her forehead intensified once more, and her vision blurred for a moment.

  “Here, I’ll show you,” Joe said, removing an arrow from the beaded deerskin quiver on his back. He placed the feathered end of the arrow against the bowstring, then lined up the target and drew the string back slowly.

  The arrow flew through the air and splintered the knothole he’d picked as Grace’s target. He glanced at her. “You want me to show you again?” He pointed out a dangling pinecone, released another arrow, and the pinecone dropped to the ground.

  That looked easy enough.

  Joe handed her the bow and her arms shook slightly as she took it from him. Grace assured herself that it was only from weakness. She tried to imitate the proper position he had shown her, but as she did so, Joe reached out and closed a hand over hers.

  “Move this one closer to the center.” He nudged her hand up, then glanced down at her. He was so close the sunlight seemed to turn his dark eyes to amber. “You’ll have to stay steadier than that if you want to hit a target.”

  Grace clenched her jaw and willed the shakiness to subside as Joe’s hand drew hers and the bowstring back.

  “Now aim,” Joe commanded. “Steady . . . fire!”

  He’d startled her so much that she let go of the bowstring too early and the bow tilted, sending the arrow shooting straight up to the air. It lodged in a tree branch overhead, where it hung, quivering. Grace sucked in a deep breath of irritation that started her coughing and sputtering.

  Joe patted her back. She waved a hand to move him away. How would she learn to shoot with his body pressed against hers?

  When he returned with the arrow, Grace practically snatched it from him.

  “I want to try it myself. I’ll never learn if someone else does it for me.”

  Joe held up his hands in surrender but gave her a few instructions as Grace reloaded the arrow. She adjusted her position until he was satisfied.

  “Now, just pull back the bowstring, aim at the target, and let it fly.”

  Grace’s weakened muscles could barely drag the bowstring back a few inches. The string twanged away from her, and the arrow nose-dived into the ground in front of her.

  She sighed, expecting Joe to make a quip, but he just rushed over and picked the arrow up. Grace smiled gratefully. She hadn’t been sure she could manage it on her shaky legs.

  “Sure you don’t want me to help you for a while?” Joe said quietly.

  “I can do it.” Her response sounded ungracious, so she added, “I appreciate your help, but . . .”

  Joe shrugged, and she loaded the arrow again. But after several mishaps — arrows embedded into the ground by her feet and two shots that went wide — Grace finally had to admit defeat. What made her heart sink to the floor was that Joe was right. She really wasn’t well enough or strong enough yet to track Hale’s gang. If she had taken off as she’d planned, she probably would have slipped off Bullet’s back and collapsed in a heap within an hour.

  Her mind went back to the wolves circling. The vultures overhead. She shivered.

  “Cold?” Joe asked.

  Grace jerked back to the present — she had been far away, collapsed by a stream as coyotes nosed her still body. Tiredness suddenly overwhelmed her. “I . . . I think I should lie down.”

  Joe reached out to steady her again. “Told you —” He broke off abruptly.

  Grace’s legs were quivering like a sapling buffeted by desert winds. As she took a step forward, she stumbled. But before she fell, Joe scooped her into his arms.

  His eyes softened as he looked down at her. “I was foolish to challenge you like this. Just me being stupid, trying to prove a point.” He shook his head. “Let’s get you back to the medicine lodge.”

  “Put me down,” Grace had intended to snap out the order, but instead it came out soft and hesitant. “Now,” she commanded, but Joe ignored her and strode on toward the village. “I can walk,” Grace protested weakly.

  Joe’s jaw tightened. “You’re shivering like a deer with an arrow in its side.”

  “I am not —”

  “If you get sicker, it’ll be all my fault. I should never have dared you that way.”

  “I wanted to do it . . .” Grace mumbled, struggling to form words with uncooperative lips.

  “Hush. Save your breath. You can argue with me when you’re well.”

  As they reached the medicine lodge and Joe laid her down on the mat, Cheveyo glared at him. “What have you done to her?”

  “She did it to herself with her foolish claims that she was ready to leave.” The soft, soothing voice he’d used as he carried her toward the lodge now held a note of defensiveness.

  “Ah.” Cheveyo’s one word carried both forgiveness and warning. “She is still much too weak to be up.”

  Joe hung his head. “I know. It is my fault for taunting her. Will she be all right?”

  “Many nights of healing can be undone by such foolishness.” Cheveyo sighed. “Though her mind is strong and determined as an oak, her body cannot yet support those thoughts. If only I could pull the poison of revenge from her mind, she would quiet and heal more quickly. But she is like an unbroken colt, pulling and chafing at the ropes that bind it.”

 
Cheveyo’s words floated around Grace as if they came from a great distance, muffled by the thick fog that engulfed her.

  And soon they swirled off into nothingness.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next day, after Cheveyo left, Joe ducked through the doorway.

  Grace looked up drowsily and saw that he stood head bowed, hands clasped in front of him.

  “I came to apologize.”

  “For what?” Grace’s words came out thickly past the lump in her throat. She couldn’t look at him, remembering yesterday. She had made a fool of herself.

  Joe shuffled his moccasins in the dirt. “I knew you weren’t well, but I goaded you into that competition. And now I’ve made you even sicker.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she mumbled. Now that she had recovered some of her strength, she couldn’t believe she’d let him carry her that way — she knew her ma would have told her that’s no way for a lady to behave. But he showed none of the awkwardness and embarrassment that she struggled with inside. The evenness of his voice, the clearness of his tone revealed that last night had been nothing more than a chore for him. He had taken care of her the same way he would take care of a little girl who had fallen and scraped her knee.

  “Well, I should have known better. And I’m very sorry.” He turned to leave.

  “Joe?”

  He turned, his face both expectant and wary.

  “I . . . never mind.” She infused flatness into the words. “It really wasn’t your fault. I wanted to prove myself.” Which she hadn’t done. So as much as she hated to admit it, she forced herself to add, “And you were right.”

  Joe gave a wry smile. “Yes? Well, I wish I wasn’t.” He ducked through the opening, leaving her alone.

  What did he mean by that? He wants me to go? Grace rolled her eyes at herself. She needed to focus on getting better so she could leave.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Joe popped back into the medicine lodge holding a pelt. “Oh. Where’s Cheveyo? He wanted this.”

  Grace wrinkled her nose. “What is that awful smell?”

  Joe’s cheeks turned pink. “I’ve just come from hunting.” He motioned to the grease slathered all over his chest, face, and hair. “We cover ourselves with animal fat to mask our human scent. That way the prey can’t smell us stalking them.”

  “Makes sense, I guess,” Grace said, holding her nose. “But I hope you plan to take a bath soon.”

  “Right after I take you to meet someone.” Joe left the pelt in a corner of the lodge and came over to help Grace to her feet.

  Cheveyo’s warning not to overdo things was running through her mind, but she stood up a bit steadier on her feet this time and accompanied Joe into the village.

  He led her over to one of the girls about her age. “This is Sequoyah. Her name means ‘Sparrow.’” He gestured toward Grace. “Sequoyah, this is our visitor, Grace.” He smiled at the girl, who ducked her head shyly.

  “I am . . . pleased to meet you,” Sequoyah said, then she looked to Joe as if for approval.

  He nodded. “You said it right.”

  A relieved smile crossed her face. “The English I am learning. Sometimes I do not say it the right way, but Joe, he helps me.”

  Grace couldn’t help smiling back at the girl’s infectious grin. “I’m pleased to meet you too.”

  “I hope you will help me with the English too.” She threw a teasing glance at Joe. “He often too busy to help.”

  “He is often too busy,” Joe corrected.

  “Is. I remember. It is hard. Much hard.”

  “Very hard.” Joe said.

  Sequoyah smiled ruefully. “I need much practice. English very hard.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “English is very hard. See, Joe, I do it right.”

  He grinned. “You’re doing a fine job.” Joe turned to Grace. “If you need anything, just ask. Sequoyah knows everything around here.”

  Sequoyah dipped her head and looked at the ground. “I not . . .” Her words stumbled to a halt, then she started again. “I do not know everything. Joe, he is making joke.”

  “You know a lot,” Joe said. “I know Grace will be in good hands.”

  Sequoyah looked up, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. She held out her palms. “She cannot fit in my hands.”

  Joe burst out laughing, and Grace hid a smile. “It’s just an English expression. It means you will take good care of Grace.”

  Sequoyah’s cheeks grew rosy. “Oh, I understand.” She turned to Grace. “That is expression Joe taught me. Now that you are here, I will have two people to help me. I will learn much better.”

  “I’d love to help you, but I won’t be here for too long.”

  “But Joe says . . .”

  Grace glared at Joe. He had no business telling people what her plans were when he didn’t even know himself. “I have business to attend to. I will be on my way soon.” As soon as she could put one wobbly foot in front of the other. As soon as she could stand without starting to feel dizzy. And as soon as she could shoot straight again. But soon.

  After Joe left for his bath in the stream, Sequoyah put a gentle hand on Grace’s arm. “Joe tells me about your family. I am very sorry. It is hard to lose the people you love.” Her faraway expression spoke of great sadness. “The soldiers killed my mother and my baby brothers. I was . . .”she trailed off. She held out a hand about three feet from the ground.

  “Small?” Grace asked.

  Sequoyah nodded. “Yes, I was much — very — small. Many of my people died that day.” Her voice wavered, but then she brightened a little. “Soon after that, Joe came. My father adopted Joe. Joe’s family dead too.”

  “I know. Joe told me.” Grace’s heart went out to Sequoyah. They had all lost those closest to them. And all because of some men who were allowed to murder and get away with it. The posse who’d slaughtered Joe’s family, then Sequoyah’s. Was it the same men? Grace had no idea, but she couldn’t stand all these evil men being allowed to kill and get away without punishment. She wouldn’t let that happen to her family’s killers.

  “That is why I cannot stay, Sequoyah,” Grace said. “I must find the men who murdered my family. Bring them to justice.”

  “But you are still ill. And . . . you are a girl.”

  “But there’s no one else to do it,” Grace said.

  “In our band, we might fight if attacked, but women do not go off on their own. Bad things happen. The people around here are cruel. Not just the soldiers, but the white men. And the Mexicans. They do things to our women . . .” She looked away, her jaw set. “I do not know the words for this. But it is bad. Very bad. They act like we are animals.”

  Grace knew the word Sequoyah was searching for, but it was not a word she wanted to teach her new friend.

  The ugliness of what Sequoyah described made Grace even more certain that those outlaws must be stopped. If no one else was brave enough to do it, it would have to be her.

  Sequoyah ran a hand along Grace’s tattered sleeve. The bear had shredded it, and Grace had torn most of her skirt into strips for bandages and the fishing net. Her father’s cut-down buckskin leggings were covered with stains that she hadn’t been able to scrub out at the bordello, and her bodice was stained with sweat from the fever. She had just told Joe he stunk, but she realized now that she probably smelled worse.

  “You need some clothes.” Sequoyah held out her arm to Grace. “Come. I’ll get you some.”

  She walked slowly to keep pace with Grace’s hesitant, careful steps and then ducked into a dome-shaped, brush-covered building similar to the medicine lodge, leading Grace inside with her.

  “My home, kuugh’a,” she said.

  Grace tried the word.

  Sequoyah giggled and repeated it a few times until Grace said it well. “Joe, he call our kuugh’a a wickiup. T
hat is funny word.”

  Grace glanced around at the strips of meat dangling from the rafters, the tan baskets with black diamond shapes woven into them, the pitch-covered vases, the fur and deerskins tossed on the matting beds.

  Sequoyah touched Grace’s arm, startling her from her inspection. “I will give you a skirt and . . .” She gestured toward her chest and arms.

  “Blouse?”

  “Yes.” She patted Grace’s arm and shoulder. “Your blouse is ripped. You need a new one.”

  “But I can’t take your clothes.”

  “These are old. I have new ones.” Sequoyah twirled so her three-tiered cotton skirt swirled out around her. “The men trade with the Mexicans for clothes. But I keep the others. Some things are easier to do in these.”

  She held out a poncho-like shirt of soft deerskin with beaded designs and a deer tail hanging in back. She showed Grace how to wrap the large piece of soft buckskin around her waist for a skirt.

  “But I’m too dirty to wear these.”

  “You need a wash.”

  Grace nodded.

  Sequoyah looked at her. “This mean yes?” She bobbed her head up and down. “And this mean no.” She moved her head from side to side in slow motion.

  “That’s right,” Grace said with a smile.

  She didn’t realize until then how hard it could be to communicate when two people spoke different languages. Even things as simple as gestures for yes or no were not the same. She wasn’t sure if Sequoyah understood enough to answer her questions, but she would ask Joe to teach her some of the Apache gestures. Ndeh, she corrected herself.

  “Come. I take you to the water.” She picked up a small clay jar. “Yucca. Good for —” Sequoyah rubbed her hands together and pantomimed scrubbing her hair and body.

  “Soap?” Grace asked.

  “Yes, yes. Soap.”

  When they reached the bank of the stream, Joe had just pulled on his buckskin leggings. His tanned, wet back glistened, and Grace couldn’t help staring. When he turned, she swallowed hard, embarrassed. Before coming here, she had never seen a man without a shirt on. But the warriors in the camp hadn’t made her stomach somersault. The warriors had no chest hair, but the damp whorls of hair on Joe’s chest fascinated her.