3

When Shannon awoke before dawn, the storm had spent itself. Night was slowly draining from the sky, leaving it a transparent silver that reminded her all too much of Whip’s hungry eyes.

Prettyface made a low sound in his throat and nudged Shannon’s cheek again.

«Brrrrrr,» she muttered. «Your nose is as cold as the floor will be.»

But Shannon ruffled Prettyface’s fur anyway. He was the only living thing that had ever returned her love. If it hadn’t been for Prettyface, she didn’t know what she would have done when Silent John disappeared in the winter of ’65.

Not that her great-uncle had ever been much company. He had fully earned the nickname «Silent John.» But Shannon was grateful to him just the same. No matter how remote, no matter how lonely, no matter how hard life was in Echo Basin, she much preferred it to the life she had left behind in Virginia.

In the Colorado Territory, Shannon was free.

In Virginia, she had been little more than a slave.

«Good morning, my beautiful monster,» Shannon said to the dog, stretching. «Do you think summer will ever truly come? Sometimes I feel so cold even the hot spring can’t warm me.»

At the words «hot spring,» Prettyface’s ears came up. He cocked his head, whined, and looked toward the back of the cabin, where a cupboard door opened onto a narrow tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a cave with a hot spring that was sweet rather than sulfurous.

Silent John had used the healing waters when his arthritis bothered him too much. Shannon simply liked the steamy warmth of the hidden cave. It saved having to chop wood to heat water in order to wash clothes — and herself. The hot spring meant that the secondhand clothes she wore were clean, as was the skin beneath them. In such a remote place, where the soft comforts of civilization were almost entirely lacking, the hot spring was a delicious luxury.

And during Shannon’s first winters alone, when she had neither the strength nor the skill to bring down trees big enough to heat the cabin, the hot spring had saved her life. She was better with ax and maul and saw, now, yet far from good. There was barely a few days’ worth of stove wood stacked outside the cabin right now.

Thank the Lord for the hot spring. Otherwise I might get as dirty as Murphy or those Culpeppers.

Seeing the direction of his mistress’s glance, Prettyface whined hopefully. For all his rough appearance, the dog enjoyed chasing shadows in the warm creek that flowed out from the hot spring’s pool before disappearing into a crack in the bedrock.

«Not this morning,» Shannon said to Prettyface. «We have to return the salt we borrowed from Cherokee. She — blast it, he — will need it.»

Shannon frowned at Prettyface, who waved his tail gently.

«It’s a good thing no one else is ever around,» Shannon said unhappily. «I got used to being called Silent John’s wife, but I have an awful time speaking of Cherokee as a he when I know full well now that she isn’t.»

Memories of the Culpeppers’ coarse comments tightened Shannon’s mouth for a moment.

«Not that I blame Cherokee for the charade. The longer Silent John is gone, the more I know why she decided to dress like a man, let herself be called a shaman, and live way up on the north fork of Avalanche Creek.»

With a determined sweep of her arm, Shannon pushed off the bearskin cover that kept the worst of the chill at bay during the night. There was no dressing to do, for she had quickly learned the habit of bathing before bed and sleeping in clean clothes for their warmth.

There weren’t many chores to do around the cabin in the morning. Since Shannon wasn’t going to stay inside, there was no point in building a fire. Just as there was no point in lighting a lantern and wasting precious oil when the sun would be up pretty soon.

Shannon poured a cup of water from the small silver pitcher that had been her mother’s. The water was so cold it made her teeth ache, but even so, the water made scraps of venison jerky easier to chew.

She was still chewing when she pulled on Silent John’s second-best jacket and went to the front door. As she walked, she stuffed a few more strips of dried venison into her pocket.

That’s the last of the jerky, she thought unhappily. Thank God the deer are coming back to the high country.

Before Shannon unbarred the cabin door, she lifted the shotgun from its pegs over the doorway. As she had done the previous night, she broke open the weapon, pulled out the two precious shells, picked up a soft buckskin cloth, and went to work on the gun.

Even when Shannon had been barely fifteen, Silent John had been merciless in his demands that Shannon learn to use and care for his weapons. She had never been much good with the heavy. 50-caliber buffalo gun that he preferred, but she could shoot the lighter guns well enough to defend herself.

Putting food on the table was another matter entirely. There was no money to spare on extra ammunition to hone her shooting skills, so she had to get very close to the quarry before she could risk a shot. As a result, she nearly always gave away her presence before she felt confident enough to shoot.

«But I’m getting better,» Shannon assured herself. «By this winter, Cherokee won’t have to hunt for two.»

With quick, efficient motions Shannon wiped down the shotgun, making certain that no moisture had condensed overnight inside the firing chambers. When she was satisfied that everything was clean and dry, she put a shell in each chamber and closed the gun firmly. She put four more shells in her pocket, leaving only three shells in the box.

Like the venison jerky, Shannon’s supply of ammunition was nearly gone.

«When I go into Holler Creek again, I’ll have to buy ammunition. And next time I go, you’re coming with me, Prettyface. I know you don’t like settlements and strangers, but that’s too bad. I need you to guard my back.»

Prettyface stood with barely restrained eagerness, watching the door and his mistress by turns.

«But before I can buy anything in Holler Creek, I’ll have to wring a bit of gold from one of Silent John’s claims,» Shannon continued, thinking aloud as had become her habit. «Mother’s wedding band was the last thing of any value I owned, except the small poke of gold I’m saving for winter supplies in case the hunting is real bad.»

Silently Shannon hoped that she wouldn’t have to use that tiny anthill of Silent John’s gold. It was all that stood between her and the kind of destitution that forced women to sell their bodies to strangers.

«If only you could teach me how to track and stalk better,» Shannon said to Prettyface. «Then I could get close enough to the blasted deer to turn them into venison.»

Prettyface watched Shannon with dark, adoring eyes, but was of no other help. When he hunted with his mistress, the dog chased whatever he scented at a pace that left Shannon far behind. Sometimes Prettyface ran a deer down and shared with his mistress. Often he settled for less tasty game.

Silent John had taught Shannon the basics of shooting and dressing out the kill, but there never had been enough time for her to learn the kind of skill that would allow her to stockpile game for winter. When the hunting had been good, Silent John hunted, and he hunted alone.

The rest of the time he grubbed gold from the hard rock of the mountains. That, too, was a survival skill he hadn’t taught the young grandniece he had brought back from Virginia to live in his home.

«But I’m learning,» Shannon said firmly. «I brought down one deer and some foolish grouse last fall. If the weather holds now, I’ll hunt some more, until I have enough food to go up the east fork of Avalanche Creek and dig for gold, and then I’ll hunt for more food and jerk the meat and take the gold and buy supplies for winter and…»

Shannon’s voice died. Summer wasn’t very long for all that had to be done. At nearly eight thousand feet, summer came and went as quick as a mayfly.

«The wood!» Shannon said, remembering. «Oh, lord. How could I forget sawing and chopping and splitting and stacking and curing the wood? I’ll need a lot of fuel, even with the hot spring for washing clothes and such, and I’ll need to get it all before the first heavy snows close the passes and cover the downed trees and send the game to lower elevations.»

Shannon drew in a deep breath, trying to calm the fear that sometimes took her unawares since Silent John had ridden away from the cabin and never come back.

I’m scared, Prettyface. I’m really scared.

But those were words Shannon would never speak aloud. She had learned when she was thirteen that giving way to fear only made things worse. It told people you were ripe for the taking.

«Sufficient unto the day are the troubles thereof,» Shannon said grimly. «I’ll have plenty of time to do everything if I stop standing around wringing my hands!»

With quick, light steps, Shannon went to the leather-hinged box that held dry goods. Except for the salt and flour she had bought yesterday, the cupboard was empty. Last night she had divided the salt into two portions. The smaller one was hers. The larger one was destined to repay Cherokee for her loan at Christmas.

«I should have told Whip to leave the supplies that I paid for,» Shannon muttered.

The memory of the Culpeppers made Shannon’s mouth tighten in fear and distaste.

But the memory of a big man riding toward her out of the storm made her breath unravel with an excitement she had never known.

«Come on, Prettyface. It’s time to see Cherokee. She’ll talk some sense into me.»

Prettyface bounded out the door ahead of Shannon. She watched him carefully, knowing that the dog’s senses were much more acute than hers. If anyone was prowling around, Prettyface would discover the intruder long before she did.

The dog lifted his muzzle into the cold, clear wind and sampled the air with all of his senses. Then he bounded forward, telling Shannon that there was no danger on the wind.

Even so, Shannon was cautious. She stepped outside and looked around carefully. There were no tracks in the frost-stiffened grass around the cabin. She sighed with relief even as she took another look just to be certain.

The shotgun was in the crook of her arm and her hand was never far from the trigger. The wind tugged at her hat, but she had tied it on securely with a faded silk scarf, one of the few luxuries that had survived from her Virginia childhood.

Pulling the door shut firmly behind her, Shannon set out toward Cherokee’s cabin. She could have ridden Razorback, but he was still tired from the trip into Holler Creek. She left the old mule on a picket rope, cropping tender young grass.

It was less than two miles to Cherokee’s cabin. As Shannon set out, dawn was coming up all around in glorious shades of rose and gold and deepest pink. The beauty of the day lifted her spirits. Humming very softly under her breath, she pulled the colors of dawn around her like a glorious cloak and hurried along the trail.

When Shannon reached the cleared area around Cherokee’s cabin, she stood at the edge and called out. Since the Culpeppers’ arrival at Echo Basin, folks had been less welcoming to visitors. People who walked up on someone unannounced stood a good chance of getting shot. Even Cherokee’s reputation as a shaman wouldn’t keep the likes of the Culpeppers at bay.

Shannon didn’t step forward until a friendly invitation came from the cabin.

«Come on in, gal,» Cherokee yelled. «Too durn cold out there for standing around.»

«Okay, Prettyface,» Shannon said.

The dog bounded forward. Just as he reached the cabin, the door opened completely. A tall, lean figure stood in the doorway.

A single glance at the way Cherokee was standing told Shannon that something was wrong with the old woman’s right foot.

«Howdy, gal,» Cherokee said. «Fine day, ain’t it?»

«Indeed it is,» Shannon said. «Prettyface, get out of the way. If you’re hungry, go rustle your own breakfast.»

The cabin door closed, leaving Prettyface on the outside. In truth, there was barely room for two people in Cherokee’s tiny cabin, much less two people and a big dog.

«Hear you went into Holler Creek for supplies,» Cherokee said.

«How did you hear that?»

«Injuns, how else? Wounded Bear’s nephew was trading gold for whiskey in Holler Creek. He heard tell how them Culpeppers finally got their come-uppance.»

«Did they?»

«Bet your sweet smile they did. Where was you when the dust settled? They was fighting over you, after all.»

«When that bullwhip cracked, I grabbed the flour and the salt and took out of there like my heels were on fire,» Shannon said dryly.

Cherokee’s husky, chuckling laughter filled the tiny cabin. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair in two thick braids, Indian style. Her seamed, dark face, combined with shapeless trousers, wool shirt, and worn moccasins, created the appearance of an old half-breed who had chosen to live alone rather than endure the insults of being not white and not Indian. Only the amulet bag hanging around her neck hinted at the wisdom lying behind her calm, dark eyes.

If anyone other than Shannon knew that Cherokee was an old woman rather than an old man, no one had spoken publicly about it. Her gifts with herbs and healing had earned her the title of shaman among Indians and whites alike.

«Light and set,» Cherokee invited.

Shannon settled onto the stool that was pulled close to the ancient wood stove. Cherokee limped slowly over to sit on her bunk. The cabin was so small that their knees nearly knocked together as they sat.

«What did you do to your foot?» Shannon asked.

Cherokee turned and began stuffing something noxious into a stone pipe. She struck a match and puffed the mixture of tobacco and herbs into life.

«It was a hard winter,» Cherokee said, «but Wounded Bear’s band only lost one old squaw and a stillborn baby. The rest of them are as frisky as your durn dog.»

Shannon wanted to pursue the subject of the other woman’s injury, but didn’t. Cherokee talked about what interested her and ignored the rest.

«If they weren’t frisky, one of your spring tonics would put them right,» Shannon said, grimacing.

Cherokee’s tonics tasted awful, though she swore that was part of their virtue.

«That’s the God’s truth,» Cherokee said.

Discreetly Shannon looked around the cabin. Normally there was a full bucket of water beside the stove, wood stacked nearby, and something edible simmering. Sometimes there were even fresh biscuits.

But today there was only a nearly empty bucket, the scraped remains of stew in the bottom of a pot, and nothing edible in sight. Nor was there any wood bigger than kindling.

«Walking here made me thirsty,» Shannon said, reaching for the empty bucket. «Mind if I fetch some water?»

Cherokee hesitated, then shrugged.

«The creek is cold enough to freeze hell itself,» the old woman muttered. «Makes my teeth ache all the way to my elbows to drink the durned water.»

«Then I’ll just fetch some wood and warm the water a bit.»

Again Cherokee hesitated. Then she sighed.

«I thank you kindly, Shannon. I’m feeling a mite puny today.»

Quickly Shannon performed the necessary chores of drawing water and bringing wood in from the woodpile. When she was finished stacking the wood between the bunk and the stove, Shannon stole a sideways look at the other woman. Cherokee looked pale and worn.

«While I’m at it,» Shannon said cheerfully, «I’ll just scrub out this old pot and make a little soup. There’s nothing like soup to take the gloom out of a day.»

This time Cherokee didn’t even hesitate. She simply lay back on her bunk with a muffled curse.

«I slipped whilst I was bringing in water about six days ago,» Cherokee said. «Bunged up my ankle. The poultice helped, but the durned thing still bothers me.»

«Then stay off it,» Shannon said, scrubbing the pot. «Give it time to heal.»

Cherokee smiled slightly. «That’s the same advice I gave to Silent John when old Razorback stepped on his foot.»

«I hope you take it better than he did.»

«Still no sign of him.»

It wasn’t a question. Cherokee sounded quite certain. But Shannon acted as though it was a question.

«No,» she said. «Not a trace.»

«You got to face it, gal. You’re a widow.»

Shannon said nothing.

«Even those no-account Culpeppers have figured it out,» Cherokee said, «and nobody would accuse them of being overly bright.»

«Then I’ll just have to put on Silent John’s riding coat and take Razorback over the pass again.»

Cherokee grunted. «Don’t think that will fool them again.»

Shannon shrugged. «No help for it.»

«What about that man called Whip?» Cherokee asked. «Small Bear said he followed your tracks out of Holler Creek.»

«Small Bear is as big a gossip as his uncle Wounded Bear.»

Cherokee waited for Shannon to tell her about Whip.

Instead, Shannon made soup as though her life depended on it.

«Well?» prodded Cherokee finally.

«Well, what?»

«Whip, that’s what. Did he find you?»

«Yes.»

«Blast it, gal. You done hung around Silent John too long! What happened ’tween you and Whip?»

«I sent him packing.»

«How?»

«Prettyface and a loaded shotgun.»

«Huh,» Cherokee grunted, unimpressed. «If that Whip fellow left, it’s because decided to, not because you had him buffaloed. What did he want?»

«Same thing the Culpeppers wanted,» Shannon retorted.

«Doubt it. He don’t have no reputation for beating gals bloody to get his satisfaction.»

Shannon looked up from her work, surprised that Cherokee had a good word to say about any male of the species.

«Do you know Whip?» Shannon asked.

«Not directly, but Wounded Bear and Wolfe Lonetree are thick, and Lonetree is real thick with Reno and Reno is Whip’s brother.»

«Reno? The gunfighter?» Shannon asked, for she hadn’t wanted to ask Whip.

«Yep, but only when he’s pushed to it. What Reno is really good at is hunting gold. Durn near makes you believe in spirits talking to men when you watch Reno and his wife Eve quarter the land for gold. Leastwise, that’s what Lonetree told Wounded Bear, and Wounded Bear told Small Bear, and —»

«— Small Bear told you,» Shannon finished. «I swear, you beat that fancy Denver telegraph when it comes to passing on news.»

Cherokee chuckled.

«Not much else to do but talk, when you get to my age,» Cherokee said. «Besides, men is the worst gossips there is, and that’s God’s own truth. Except for Silent John, of course. Talking to him was like talking to a tombstone. Don’t know how you ever stood it. The man durn near drove me to drink.»

«I didn’t know you ever were around Silent John long enough to be bothered.»

Cherokee bent down and fussed over her ankle before she spoke again.

«Don’t take long for that kind of silence to wear on me,» she muttered.

«I don’t mind silence. John loved to read, and he taught me to love it, too. Though I admit I prefer poetry to Plato.»

Cherokee snorted. «I seen that trunk o’ yours stuffed with books. Waste of time, all of them, ’less they talk about herbs and such.»

«In winter there’s lots of time to spare.»

«It ain’t natural not to talk to folks.»

«Oh, I talk all the time to myself and Prettyface,» Shannon said.

«Sensible. Leastwise you get a smart answer from one of you. Ain’t saying which one, though.»

Smiling, Shannon checked the water she had put on the stove. It was heating nicely.

«How about some willow-bark tea?» Shannon asked.

Cherokee grimaced. «Blasted stuff. Tastes like the bottom of hell’s own slops bucket.»

«It would make your ankle feel better.»

«Slops.»

Ignoring Cherokee’s muttering, Shannon went to a battered wooden chest and lifted the lid. A complex, herbal aroma drifted up to her nose. The willow bark was easy to identify and not hard to administer. Other herbs were more chancy to use.

A few were frankly deadly. Shannon knew which they were. She avoided even touching them.

While Shannon made the tea, Cherokee reached under the bed and dragged out a battered canvas bag. She reached inside and pulled out a small, tissue-wrapped parcel. Saying nothing, she sat back on the bed. Her gnarled, scarred hand rested lightly on the parcel, as though it was a beloved pet.

When Shannon brought the medicinal tea to Cherokee, the old woman ignored the battered metal mug and looked Shannon straight in the eye.

«We got to talk,» Cherokee said bluntly. «No two ways about it. You’re a widow.»

«You can’t be certain of that.»

«The hell I can’t. I prayed over his grave.»

Shannon’s eyes widened. «What?»

«Autumn, it were. Night sky like God watching me, and that poor old mule all bloodied and worn from running down the creek.»

Shannon’s breath froze in her lungs. Cherokee had never talked about how she found Razorback. She had just brought the mule to Silent John’s cabin, told Shannon that like as not Silent John would be late coming off his claims that year, and she better start rustling grub for herself.

Then Cherokee had said that her true name was Teresa, so Shannon didn’t need to fear asking her for help if she needed it.

«You never told me,» Shannon whispered.

Cherokee didn’t even pause. «I patched up the mule and set out at dawn to backtrack. Trail ended in hell’s own landslide. I assumed it was Silent John’s grave.»

«Why didn’t you tell me?»

«No point,» she said tersely. «If I’m wrong, Silent John turns up in the fall. If I’m right, and word gets out, every man in Echo Basin goes to howling around your cabin. No good to come of that. A man with a stiff pecker ain’t no more trustworthy than a rabid skunk.»

Shannon tried to speak. No words came.

«An’ what good would telling you do?» Cherokee asked. «The passes was already closed, so you couldn’t leave nohow. Your cupboards was full. You was safer up here than anywheres, long as no one knew Silent John was dead. So I just shut my mouth and kept it shut.»

When Shannon tried to speak, only an odd sound came out.

Red appeared on Cherokee’s weathered cheek-bones.

«I shoulda told you ’fore now,» the old woman muttered, «but I get…lonesome. It ain’t like you had a family all pining and sighing for your company. Towns and such just ride roughshod over pretty young things like you. You was better off here, but if you knew Silent John was dead, I feared you’d up and leave.»

«This is my home. I won’t leave it.»

«But I was wrong to keep you here,» Cherokee said, ignoring Shannon’s words. «Purely selfish. My conscience stings me real good when I thing on it. I was going to tell you real soon and give you money to —»

«No,» Shannon cut in.

Cherokee muttered under her breath. Then she straightened her shoulders.

«Things is changed, now,» the old woman said flatly. «You got to leave.»

«Why? Just because I know what I’ve suspected for the last two years, that Silent John is dead?»

«You got to git out of Echo Basin, and Whip is —»

«Why should I leave the basin?» Shannon interrupted. «It’s the only home I have.»

«You can’t survive alone in that cabin, that’s why.»

«I’ve done it so far.»

Cherokee grunted. «Silent John had enough food to feet three with some left over. You ate the leftovers the second winter and bought more. But not enough more. Look at you. Skin and bones and hair, that’s all.»

«I’m winter lean. I’ll fatten come summer, just like all the other creatures.»

«And if you don’t?»

«I will.»

«Blast it, gal. You’re too bullheaded by half.»

«That’s why I’ll survive,» Shannon said. «Sheer stubbornness. Here. Drink your tea.»

Cherokee waved off the cup. «I helped you the last two winters, but —»

«I know,» Shannon interrupted. «I’m grateful. I brought your salt and as soon as the deer come back, I’ll repay the —»

«Damnation, that ain’t what I meant!» Cherokee blazed. «Now you listen to me, gal!»

Cherokee’s anger was unexpected. Shannon closed her mouth and listened.

«Some men is better than others,» Cherokee conceded reluctantly. «Lots better. Leastwise, that’s what Betsy and Clementine say when they come to get their childbane potion from me.»

Shannon closed her eyes. She knew the prostitutes sometimes came to «the half-breed shaman» for medicines; Shannon just hadn’t known what kind of medicines, until now.

«I see,» Shannon said weakly.

«Doubt it,» Cherokee retorted, «but we’re sneaking right up on it. Now, what we got to do is find you a man what wouldn’t shame a rabid skunk. This here Whip feller fills the bill.»

Shannon started to object.

«Shut your mouth, gal,» Cherokee interrupted, holding out the parcel. «This here piece of frippery was given to my mother by some fool man. She gave it to me. I’m giving it to you.»

Before Shannon could say anything, Cherokee was unwrapping the tissue with reverent hands. The paper was worn nearly to transparency with age and gentle handling.

But even the tissue wasn’t as delicate as the creamy silk and lace inside. Shannon’s breath came in with a rushing sound of surprise and pleasure as she saw the subtle sheen of satin.

Cherokee smiled gently.

«Pretty, ain’t it?» Cherokee said. «First time I saw you, I thought of this here chemise.»

«I can’t take it.»

«You ain’t taking it. I’m giving it to you.»

«But —»

«Hell, it don’t fit me,» Cherokee interrupted impatiently. «Never has. I’m too big. Never fit Ma, neither. Never been worn by no one.»

Hesitantly Shannon touched the chemise. The cloth was as soft as a cloud. Even the deep lace that edged the garment was silky and supple.

«Go on, take it,» Cherokee said.

«I can’t.»

«Sure you can.»

Cherokee wrapped the chemise once more and held it out to Shannon.

«You just put it in that deep front pocket of Silent John’s old jacket,» Cherokee said. «It will ride safe till you get home.»

«But —»

«Gal, I ain’t drinking so much as a drop of that there tea unless you take this.»

Slowly Shannon took the package in her free hand.

«Go on, now,» Cherokee said, taking the cup of medicinal tea. «Put it away.»

Not until Shannon had eased the package into the pocket of her jacket did Cherokee drink the tea.

«I don’t know how to thank you,» Shannon said hesitantly.

«No need. I’ll feel better knowing you have it. High time it was put to its real use.»

Shannon flushed.

«No, not as a whore’s decoration,» Cherokee said, laughing. «As a satin snare for a man. Whip, for instance. There’s a man worth —»

«No.»

«Yes,» Cherokee retorted. «He gets one look at you in that little bit of satin and lace and he’ll forget all about hitting the trail alone. You’ll be married before you can say aye, yes, or maybe —»

«No,» Shannon interrupted.

Cherokee sighed. «Gal, you don’t —»

«No,» Shannon said again, cutting across the old woman’s words. «It’s your turn to listen. My mother and I lived on the kindness of my uncle until I was thirteen and Mama died of lung fever. My uncle died shortly after. Then his wife worked me like a slave.»

Cherokee nodded without surprise.

«I was indentured to a tailor,» Shannon said. «I couldn’t leave the shop, ever. I worked there, ate there, and slept there. When the tailor got drunk, which was about twice a month, I fought him off with the shears I kept beneath my pillow.»

Again Cherokee nodded, unsurprised.

«One day my mother’s uncle came to town,» Shannon continued in a flat voice. «A letter I wrote to him when Mama was dying had finally reached him and he came to fetch me. He got Mama’s silk scarf and gold wedding ring back from my aunt. He put the ring on my finger. After that, I was Mrs. Smith.»

«That’s about how I had it figured,» Cherokee said matter-of-factly. «No gal like you takes up with a man like Silent John unless she’s desperate.»

Shannon’s smile was bittersweet. «Compared to what I came from, Silent John and Echo Basin looked like paradise.»

«I always felt that way, myself. Except I come here older than you, and alone, and I come as a man. My pa was a Mexican and my ma was a rawboned Tennessee whore, strong as a mule and durn near as stupid. I been hired out to do men’s work since I was ten, been paid like a gal, and treated like trash. After Ma died, I just took out and never looked back.»

«Nor did you look for a man to marry,» Shannon pointed out.

Cherokee shrugged. «Like I said, I was full tired of being some man’s slave.»

«Yet you wantmeto go looking for a man.»

«That’s different.»

«Yes,» Shannon said dryly. «It’s my slavery, not yours.»

Cherokee swore and smiled at the same time. «You’re always too quick for me. But then, anybody is, these days. I’m getting old. This blasted ankle ain’t healing worth a handful of spit. I’ll be lucky to hunt for myself this summer, much less for you.»

«Then I’ll hunt for both of us.»

«Gal, you’ve got sand enough for three men, but you’re mighty thin beer when it comes to hunting.»

«I’ll get a lot better before the end of summer.»

For a long moment Cherokee’s dark eyes searched Shannon’s face. Then Cherokee sighed and said no more on the subject of men and marriage and survival. She simply shook her head. There wasn’t enough time between now and winter’s famine for Shannon to learn how to hunt well enough to feed two people.

But Shannon would have to discover that for herself, because she wasn’t listening to the older woman’s advice.

Cherokee could only pray that Shannon wouldn’t learn too late, after the high pass over Whiskey Creek was closed by snow. Then every living thing left in Echo Basin would be locked in until the pass opened, or they died of starvation.

Whichever came first.