Healed by His Enemy’s Native Hands (Preview)

Chapter One

1874

The breeze caressed twenty-three-year-old Macha’s face as she stood at the edge of the river. The water lapped softly around her bare feet and ankles. She called out a whoop to hear it echo across the water, laughing when a loon whooped back at her.

She looked down at herself in the rushing water. It wasn’t quite still enough to see her reflection, making her look distorted. 

Her long, dark hair was swept aside in a thick braid, her dark eyes focused on the sky as she turned away from her reflection.

The sunset swept over the horizon and Macha peered across it, hearing hoofbeats in the distance. She knew that all the warriors were back at home after a hunt, and no one came to the river this late in the day.

After a few moments the hoofbeats halted, and she relaxed, her shoulders slumping. Reaching down, she pulled up the herbs that only grew by the river’s edge.

They were ground ivy… little flower buds that would make your sinuses open, useful for colds and flus and even plague, bright blue like the sky. Too much of them caused seizure and eventual death, but Macha knew the exact dose based on weight of the patient.

Macha knew from the distant hoofbeats that someone was coming toward the river, but she couldn’t be sure who. It could be Hotah, her cousin, coming to find her because she did dally a bit gathering herbs. It could be Kimimela, her close friend, rushing to tell her some gossip she’d managed to come across.   

The hoofbeats picked up again while Macha was bent over, fighting with her linen dress, one her mother had weaved for her from fabric she’d gotten from a trader. Macha’s grandmother didn’t much care for the garment, said it felt too thin between her fingers to be useful, which Macha found quite ironic. When her grandmother had said it, Macha had laughed and clapped her hand over her mouth as if to stop the giggles.

Chumani, her grandmother, looked at her with her glazed over, blind eyes. Macha knew she heard the giggle, and she waited for the sharp smack across her knuckles that she knew she deserved.

Chumani had just smiled and taken Macha’s hands in her own. Chumani’s hands were weathered from age and hard work, and Macha looked down at her grandmother’s burlap shift and felt a deep shame in her chest. In all her twenty-three years, she’d never disrespected her sweet and stoic grandmother.

Macha still felt bad about the interaction, and she worried that it was Hotah, maybe coming to tell her that her grandmother had fallen ill.  

The spirits will come, whether you do good or evil, Macha thought, her heart starting to race as the hoofbeats got closer – not just Hotah, but maybe three or four horses.

She narrowed her dark eyes, leaning up to look across the river and her heart fell into her stomach when she saw the telltale red armband on the men’s right arm  a sign of the enforcers.

Kellam Rods’ men had been a problem for Macha and her tribe for years, and she hated the sight of them, especially when they raised their booming guns and pointed them right at her.

Trembling, she stood her ground, the linen shift she wore billowing around her bare ankles. She would bet she looked a fright, her hair frazzled by the humidity, only wearing a shift, no shoes. But it didn’t matter. Kellam’s men would only think of her as savage, anyway.

And savage she wanted to be, but fear threatened to take over. No one knew she had slipped away to gather herbs. But her family would be worried if she didn’t make it home for dinner, especially since she was the one who usually picked out the fresh vegetables from her grandmother’s garden.

 “Savage!” the man called, as if hearing Macha’s thoughts. “You and your people are no longer welcome this side of the river.”

“The river belongs to us all,” she argued, her voice strong even though her heart was racing. “The treaty states it’s a shared boundary for settlers and savages alike.”

Macha learned English when she was a child, from a settler’s son who used to play at the river with Macha and Kimimela.

She used the term “savages” because it was what the pale-faces understood, but it felt like poison in her mouth.

The Lakota had strong warriors, but even they couldn’t compete with those blasting guns the settlers used. Macha had lost friends to those small cannons, and she felt paralyzed with terror as the man cocked the gun.

“Mayor’s orders,” he barked, and she opened her mouth to argue again but then he raised the gun and shot it into the air.

The loon whooped again, this time in fear, and Macha’s ears rang as she turned tail and ran, adrenaline taking over any need to rebel against the settlers. She didn’t even have a simple knife, and those guns would be the end of her if she continued to argue.

She raced over the grass and roots near the river, and when the second warning shot rang out, she gasped, tripping over a long and going down hard.

She braced herself on her palms, scraping them as her ankle rolled. She limped up into a standing position, bracing herself against a nearby oak tree. She waited, listening for the hoofbeats to trail away.

But they didn’t. In fact, they came toward her, and Macha groaned inwardly.

She scarcely waited to catch her breath before continuing through the forest, limping on her aching left ankle.

 Mato, her childhood friend and betrothed, met her at the edge of the tribal lands just as an eagle circled above, crying out, the sound muffled by Macha’s ringing ears. Mato scooped her up without a word, carrying her toward the fire pit where everyone had settled for supper.

“An omen,” her grandmother said, and her father nodded his head. They were each already sitting at the table.

Macha’s chest heaved with short breaths, and she feared she might pass out in Mato’s arms. Years ago, she wouldn’t have worried, but now, Mato was so much different than he’d been as a boy.

Once, they’d played together, laughing and splashing water near the river. Now, Mato would never dream of going to the river, especially if he’d caught wind of Kellam’s men.

“What are you doing?” he growled, his voice low and warning. “Wearing just a shift, limping out of the woods…”

Macha swallowed hard, anger whirling through her. “Am I not allowed to leave the tribal lands now? What am I to be, Mato? Your prisoner?”

He gritted his teeth. “No one has imprisoned you.”

Mato reached out to touch her and she wrenched away.

The rest of the tribe was setting up for dinner, Kimimela cutting vegetables but watching Mato and Macha with wide brown eyes.

Macha groaned inwardly. Kimimela would have plenty to say about this later. She was a bear for tribal gossip.

“I was down by the river, gathering herbs.”

Mato’s nearly black eyes narrowed. She’d once thought him so handsome and endearing, with his easy grin, even though he towered over Macha. But now, there was no trace of the sweet, fun boy who Macha had so adored.

He was hard, now, jaded by his leadership position, and if Macha thought about it too much, it drove her to tears. Now, the tears burning at the backs of her eyes were tears of anger, not sentimentality.

“I see no herbs.”

Mato spoke loudly, so that the rest of the tribe could hear and Macha gritted her teeth.

“I dropped them. Kellam’s men—”

“Kellam?” He cut her off and it just made Macha angrier. “What are you doing making trouble for the mayor?”

Macha took a deep breath, letting it out through her nostrils. “I didn’t make trouble. I was picking herbs by the river, and they told me I wasn’t allowed to be there. At the river we’ve lived near for generations. They raised their cannons at me, Mato!”

“The pale-faces don’t care that the river was once part of our lands, Macha. They’ll shoot you as soon as they’ll look at you. You must be careful.”

“I don’t understand why I have to be careful at the river I grew up playing in,” she said stubbornly, and Mato threw up his hands, clearly exasperated.

“The treaty is an attempt at peace, Macha. There’s no reason to make things worse.”

The angry tears in her dark eyes threatened to spill over as she looked up at him.

“What happened to you, Mato? When we were young, nothing could have stopped you from your own land. We’ve built a community around that river.”

“You can’t put yourself in danger like that. You’re our only healer since your grandmother retired.” He paused. “Not to mention you’re to be my mate when I take over for the chief.”

My mate. Macha’s blood ran cold. If she’d heard at fifteen that Mato would one day be her husband, she would have been thrilled. But things were strange now. Hard. The winters were colder and colder, and so was Mato.

He didn’t laugh anymore, not like he used to. She was lucky if she elicited a half-smile from the future leader. Being reminded that her duty was to Mato and the tribe didn’t sit well with her, but she supposed he was right.

It didn’t mean she’d agree with him, though.

“My role requires my freedom, Mato. I can’t get those herbs unless-”

She glared at Mato, but her father’s low voice drifted to her over the fire.

“Your mother didn’t listen, either,” he said quietly, the baritone of his voice making it hard to hear over the crackling fire and the hushed whispers of the tribe. “And that’s what sent her back to the spirit realm.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, through gritted teeth, even though she wasn’t. She’d never be sorry for being on her own land, no matter what treaties the settlers did or didn’t draft. She was sorry her mother had died, sorry that she wasn’t in her life anymore, but she was proud her mother had stood up against the settlers.

Her father just nodded, and Macha suddenly felt guilt hot at the back of her neck.

Everyone in the tribe was sitting for dinner, roasted boar and boiled vegetables, and Macha’s stomach growled audibly.

Mato sighed, putting a hand on Macha’s shoulder. She gritted her teeth harder, grinding them almost painfully, but didn’t pull away.

“Now, go and sit down. No one can eat until the healer does, and you know that. We’ve all been waiting for you.”

Guilt flooded through her even more as she stood there, scanning the long tables. She’d always thought the children should eat first, but it wasn’t their tribe’s way. Healer, chief, and then the rest of the tribe.

She hurried to the head of the table, sitting next to her grandmother, who had an honorable place at the front of the table given her past service to the tribe.

The fire burned hot behind the table, warming Macha’s sweat-stained skin. She sat and ate at Mato’s side, but she’d never felt further away from him.

As soon as she cleared her plate, she excused herself from the table, sneaking away to the edge of the forest to clear her head. She wouldn’t go inside of it, wouldn’t wander off again, but she’d toe the line.

Maybe it was petty of her, but she only felt free in the forest, or the river, somewhere away from the tribe. She loved being with her community, but she felt trapped like an animal in a snare. Her ankle still ached, and she lifted her leg and rubbed it.

“You’re not sneaking off again, are you? I thought Mato would have my head when he found out you were gone.”

Macha smiled softly, hearing her friend’s voice. She turned slightly to look at her friend. Her short, black hair barely touched the nape of her neck. It was unusual for a Lakota woman to have such short locks, but Kimimela hated the way it felt, especially during the summer. She never let it grow past her shoulders, to her father’s dismay.

Her sparkling brown eyes were more worried than mischievous when she saw Macha’s face. She placed a hand on Macha’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

Macha nodded her head before she even processed the question.

Kimimela bit her lip. “I know you’ve always been a free spirit, Macha. You take after your mother, and that’s why we’re friends, but…”

“But what?” Macha huffed out a breath. “But I should listen to Mato? Let him imprison me in my own homelands?”

Kimimela sighed. “That’s not what he’s doing. He’s just trying to keep you safe. Keep us all safe.”

“Easy for you to say,” Macha mumbles. “You’re not the one getting scolded in front of the whole tribe.”

Her best friend snorted. “You think he didn’t scold me first? He was convinced it was somehow my fault, even though you didn’t even tell me where you were going.”

Macha deflated. “I know I have responsibilities. I know that I’m important to the tribe, but sometimes, I wish I wasn’t. I wish I was like you: free.”

Kimimela opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to say. In the end, she just stood next to Macha, shoulder to shoulder, as the other started to cry.

The eagle from earlier circled overhead again, letting loose a cry that seemed to echo through the forest’s edge.

Chapter Two

“The equipment was stolen again? On your watch?”

Kellam Rods stood from his chair, looking up at the tall, lanky night guard. Kellam’s large teeth protruded as he yelled, his gums showing. He was heavier than the night guard by about seventy pounds, but shorter, too. Just looking at the two men, you wouldn’t know that the shorter, fatter one had infinitely more power.

The guard, a man named Keith Markson who they’d just hired two summers ago, trembled under Kellam’s harsh words.

“Please, sir. They had weapons. Guns and knives-”

“I don’t care if they had damned cannons set up, Markson. You protect the equipment or there’s no gold!” He was screeching, spittle forming at the corners of his wide mouth. He ran a hand through his graying hair. “You’re fired.”

Keith’s blue eyes widen as he looks down at the shorter man. “You can’t do that. I have five children, sir, they’ll go hungry.”

James Rods watched with disinterest and slight boredom as his uncle continues to yell at the bigger man. He glanced over at his twin brother, Elijah, who trembled and looked down at his shoes, clearly affected by Keith Markson’s plight.

James scoffed, looking toward the window to see that daylight was fading. They needed to get going, back to work, to not be stuck here watching their surrogate father dress down a disgraced employee.

Elijah looked identical to James, with the same striking green eyes and the same unruly black curls falling over his face, but their personalities couldn’t be more different. Elijah was weak, sentimental.

James knew what was important, and it wasn’t Keith Markson. Or his five children.

What was important was the gold, the power, everything that Kellam Rods stood for.

Elijah stood up, as if he was going to interject, but he didn’t speak.

Coward, James thought. He didn’t agree that Kellam was in the wrong, but he wished Elijah at least had the strength of mind to interject.

Keith dropped to his knees, and James rolled his eyes, moving toward the window as the other man pleaded with Kellam, all dignity lost.

“I haven’t even been paid for this week, sir, and food isn’t easy to come by. If you could give me one more chance-”

“Get out. Why should I pay you for this week when you’ve lost me hundreds already?” Kellam threw his hand out, dismissing the other man.

Keith just sat there, shoulders slumped, until Kellam grabbed his elbow, jerking him to his feet and pushing him out of the open door. He slammed it shut, turning back to James and Elijah.

“You two will find those thieves and the equipment. If you leave now, you can find them by sunset.”

“But that’s Sheriff Ed’s job,” Elijah protested.

James drew in a breath, too frustrated to let his brother’s words lie.

“It’s a family matter. We’ll take care of it ourselves,” he said, his voice booming in the small room.

Elijah’s eyes widened as he glanced over at James. His gaze returned to Kellam, though, as if he’d decided the elder was easier to convince than his brother. Kellam had taken them in when they were young, but truly, he was their uncle more than their father. Kellam had always been just Kellam to Elijah and James, and each of them had their opinions about him. James thought of him as a father, while Elijah… well, he didn’t think much of Kellam at all.

“We aren’t the law, Kellam. What are we supposed to do with the thieves?”

Kellam waves his hand dismissively, just as he’d done to Markson. “Whatever you have to. These are our lands and our equipment. A man who can’t take the law into his own hands is no man at all.”

Elijah clapped his mouth shut, making an audible click with his teeth. He knew better than to argue with Kellam, if he didn’t want the elder to box his ears.

Elijah took the brunt of Kellam’s wrath when they were kids, because James had always listened. James considered himself Kellam’s right hand, and it seemed the older man agreed, because he nodded toward James, completely ignoring Elijah.

“Go now, before it gets dark. The horses are more easily spooked at night.”

James knew it didn’t come from a place of love or care for them, but more worry that if they waited, the thieves would sell off the equipment and it would be gone forever. Kellam wasn’t prone to flights of fancy and sentimentality like Elijah was. James respected him even more for it.

Logic was more important than emotion, after all.

James nodded back and walked out of the room. Elijah followed, hurrying to keep up with James’s long strides. James was exactly one inch taller than Elijah, and Elijah had always hated it.

Elijah, normally gregarious, didn’t speak while they saddled their horses. James presumed he was angry with him, or at least annoyed, but he knew Elijah would do nothing of consequence about it.

They rode for an hour in complete silence, with Elijah bringing up the rear while James rode up ahead. The trails through the forest started to become hilly and overgrown, and Elijah’s horse whinnied behind James as he stopped her in her tracks.

James whirled around, annoyance probably evident on his face. “What are you doing? We’re on their trail. Markson said they were just past here less than two hours ago. They couldn’t have gotten very far.”

“We’re too far from town. If we go any further, we’ll be in Lakota territory.”

James groaned. It wasn’t like he wanted to travel into Lakota territory any more than his brother did, especially given what happened to their mother.

“And so what, Elijah? We don’t exactly have a choice here. If we don’t get that equipment back, Kellam won’t make his quota.”

“His quota for what?” Elijah shot back. “It’s his own greed that propels him, Jimmy, and you know that.”

James bristled at the childhood nickname. “Greed is a better motivation than many.”

Elijah didn’t answer, and James was again annoyed by his brother’s passive nature, gigging his horse forward toward the river. 

“Besides, I thought you liked the Lakota people.”

“I do. It doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. Just as settlers can be dangerous.”

“Are you saying Kellam is dangerous?”

Elijah again, didn’t respond. He’d spent time with the Lakota people, learning from their healers. James thought it was a waste of time.

James spotted it first – a sluice box that was half-hidden in the dirt. He held up his hand to signal for Elijah to stop, and the two dismounted.

Elijah pulled the sluice box out of the dirt, his brow furrowed.

“Something’s wrong here, James. They wouldn’t have abandoned this unless-”

He was cut off by a yell, a man bursting out of the bushes and attacking James, jumping on his back.

James reached around, pulling the man’s shoulder and throwing him to the ground.

“Thief,” James spat, putting his boot on the other man’s throat as Elijah rushed to his steed to get their guns.

The man choked and clawed at James’s foot, but James didn’t let up. Kellam had told him to do what he needed to do, and if they had to tie them up and take them back to Kellam, so be it.

Elijah fumbled with the guns and when shots rang out, James thought for a split second that his brother had finally grown a backbone.

But when he turned, he saw Elijah shooting his gun into the air instead. In the moment that he’d hesitated, looking toward his brother, the man managed to weasel out of his grasp, standing and running for the hills.

More men started to come out of the forest, as if they’d planned an ambush, and James gritted his teeth against the pain when one of them sliced his palm open with a pocketknife.

He tightened his fists, pummeling the would-be attacker, but hoofbeats sounded like heartbeats, too close.

Thieves didn’t generally have horses, unless they were stolen, and panic clawed up James’s throat even as he managed to knock out the other man.

“Elijah! Bring me the gun if you’re not going to use it,” he barked out, and his brother came toward him, swinging both rifles over his shoulder.

Before he could reach him, though, heat spread through his ribs, and when James looked down, he saw the butt of a knife sticking out from between his ribs. He had been stabbed by yet another man who seemed to come out of nowhere. 

There were five of them in all, circling the brothers, who automatically stood back-to-back, Elijah pointing the rifle at them as the other hung uselessly on his back. James cursed himself for not keeping his gun on his own horse, but he hated the way it jingled as they rode.

Stupid, he thought. You were stupid and now you may not live.

Horses came over the shallow river, causing waves to foam up near the water’s edge. James focused on a patch of bright blue flowers, trampled under the horse’s hooves. Elijah would know what they were, how they were used. To James, they were just flowers. Flowers that might be prophesying his doom, being crushed underfoot.

The Lakota warriors whooped as they rode them down, arrows piercing the thieves all around James and Elijah.

James hit his knees as blood trickled from his wound. He bled from his side now as well as his palm, and he didn’t know how deep the wound went. It could have nicked a lung. His breath grew short, but it could just be from the adrenaline and blood loss. He couldn’t be sure.

“Please!”

James heard his brother’s voice as if it was very far away. The screams of the thieves and the hoofbeats from the Lakota’s horses were,oddly soothing as he started to lose consciousness.

“Elijah,” he started, but then he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, falling forward on his face. The Lakota surrounded them, and James assumed this was the last scene he’d ever see, thinking of Kellam and how they’d failed before the darkness took him over.

Chapter Three

Macha laid awake, unable to sleep after her argument with Mato several days past. She thought of slipping from her tent and into his to apologize, to tell him that she would listen better in the future, but she maintained her pride.

He hadn’t gone with the others to patrol, announcing after dinner that he would stay and protect the tribe – giving Macha a glare that told her he was speaking about her and not the tribe at large.

She thought of snapping at him, telling him that she could go where she pleased, that they may be betrothed but they aren’t married yet, but her father’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“He’s only trying to protect you,” he said softly, right next to her ear, and Macha had kept her silence.

When the hoofbeats sounded in the distance, though, she slipped out of her tent, watching as Hotah and the other warriors returned. She frowned, looking up at the moon. She hadn’t realized it’d grown so late, and Hotah seemed to be breathing hard.

“Are you hurt?” she asked as she rushed to him.

He shook his head and spoke a single word in the Lakota language. “Wasi’chu.” It was the word for “pale-face.”

She froze as the other men came into the camp, three men walking with their hands tied, and two, also bound, over a horse, being led by one of the men.

“Who is injured?”

“Just the prisoners. One was stabbed.”

As the walking pale-faces got closer, she recognized one of them – Elijah Rods.

Kimimela gripped her hand, squeezing it.

“I know,” Macha whispers in English, knowing the others wouldn’t understand.

Mato came out of his tent and Macha felt a cold knot in her stomach. Mato didn’t pardon pale-faces generally, and trespassers met a dark end more often than not.

Kimimela squeezed her hand even tighter, to the point of pain, and Macha squeezed it back, stopping her from intervening as Elijah walked forward, his head lowered.

“Get my grandmother,” she whispered in English in Kimimela’s ear, and her best friend hurried to the elder’s tent.

“What’s all this?” Mato asked, and Hotah dismounted, walking toward Mato with his head held high.

“Trespassers. Pale-faces.”

“I can see that. Where did you find them?” Mato circled the prisoners, glaring at them.

“Please, allow me to explain,” Elijah said, but his English fell on deaf ears. Despite all the time Elijah had spent with Kimimela and Macha, he hadn’t learned a word of their language.

“Across the river. On our side.”

“Then they’ll suffer the same consequences as anyone else,” Mato decreed, and Macha’s throat felt tight as her grandmother limped toward the future chief.

“Wait,” Chumani called, struggling to get to the sound of the hushed whispers of the tribe. “Mato.”

Mato turned to see the blind woman and rushed to her, helping her by holding her hand and leading her to the prisoners.

Macha’s ice toward Mato melted slightly, seeing a glimpse of the boy she once cared for.

“What is it, Grandmother?”

Even though she wasn’t technically Mato’s blood, Chumani was the eldest in the tribe, so she was everyone’s grandmother.

“It’s not the way of our people to execute a sleeping man. We allow the injured to recover and plead their cases.”

“I fail to see what reason-” Hotah started, and Chumani shushed him with a swat across his knuckles, her preferred method of discipline. The way she hit on target even without her sight was almost amusing. Macha almost laughed, biting down on her tongue not to. She felt it would be hysterical rather than mirthful, anyway.

“Don’t talk back, Hotah.”

Hotah yelped and hung his head. “Sorry, Grandmother.”

She huffed in response. “As for you, Mato, you know better than to announce a verdict without consulting with the council.” She turned to Macha. “You, take the most injured into the tent. I’ll take care of the other.”

Macha nodded but before she moved, she looked to Mato. “I’ll need an assistant. Kimimela speaks their language. She will be most helpful.”

She kept hold of Kimimela’s hand, knowing her best friend’s soft spot for Elijah.

They hadn’t been lovers, of course, they’d been too young and too different for that, but the lingering glances they’d given each other, even as teenagers, told Macha that there was something there.

Mato stared at her, something unreadable in his dark brown eyes. “Very well,” he said finally. “But as soon as he has recovered, he will have to answer for his crimes, just like the rest.”

Macha only nodded, knowing better than to argue with Mato when important matters were afoot.

Hotah pushed Elijah forward, and the smaller man stumbled. “This pale-face is conscious; he can tell us what happened.”

Elijah looked at Macha helplessly. “Please, we didn’t mean to offend.”

“What happened?” Macha asked in English, and Elijah sighed shakily, his shoulders slumping in relief. Elijah gave her a grateful look, but Macha looked away. She couldn’t reveal that she and Elijah knew each other. Mato and Macha’s father had no idea that Elijah had helped the tribe, had befriended Macha and Kimimela. She knew that if they knew they’d befriended a pale-face, they’d both be in big trouble. And when they were young, the tension between the Lakota and the other side of the river was even more palpable.

   They would meet on the pale-face side of the river, in secret. None of the other tribe members would go there, afraid of the blasting guns.

Macha was torn out of her thoughts by Elijah’s voice.

“We were chasing thieves of our gold mining equipment. They laid in wait for us – an ambush. If the Lakota hadn’t shown up, we’d be done for. We’re grateful to you all, but my brother was stabbed. He needs help.”

His gaze slowly moves to Kimimela, and Macha could practically feel her best friend’s heart start to race.

Macha turned to Mato and Hotah and translated, hoping they would see reason.

But Mato only frowned. “What need is there to chase thieves when the law exists? Per the mayor’s treaty, the law can pass over Lakota lands if they’re after criminals.”

Elijah swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple bouncing, when Macha translated.

“We- we took matters into our own hands instead of involving the law. Maybe it was wrong, but surely, we don’t deserve to be executed for our folly.”

Mato merely stood there, staring at Elijah and the other men. “What you’re saying is that you and your brother are the only ones who aren’t thieves.”

Elijah looked down at the ground when Macha translated. “Yes,” he said, likely knowing that he was probably damning the other men to death.

Mato paused for a moment and then turned to Macha. “Can you heal him?”

“Yes,” she said, even though she had no idea if she could. She hadn’t seen the severity of the man’s wounds yet.

She was determined to do everything that she could to save Elijah’s brother, despite not knowing him at all. Elijah was a good man, had always treated them both so gently, and his interest in botany had impressed even Macha. Elijah had happened upon them at the river, noticed an herb that Macha was gathering, and started a conversation. After that, they’d all three been thick as thieves.

Most of her knowledge was inherited from her grandmother, but Elijah had brought books full of flowers and herbs, descriptions of what each was for and what dosages to use. It had been invaluable to the tribe, and Macha was grateful.

But then Elijah had all but disappeared. Kimimela was inconsolable for weeks. And now he was back, but at what cost?

“The council will decide what to do with the thieves tomorrow. We will wait for the injured man to heal before we pass judgment.

Kimimela wilted in relief, and Macha held her up as Mato and Hotah carried Elijah’s brother into the healer’s tent, which was unoccupied at the moment.

Elijah followed, but Hotah made sure he was secure, sitting him down and tying his feet together and keeping the rope around his wrists.

Elijah, who seemed barely a pale-face with his honeyed skin and dark hair, didn’t protest.

Since the other man was unconscious, Hotah let him be, with only his wrists tied, lying him down on the furs.

Macha gasped when she saw the man’s face – exactly like Eliah’s.   Twins. Uncommon even in the Lakota tribe. There was something different about the brother’s face, though, something… darker. Maybe it was the stubble on his strong jaw or the way his long eyelashes fanned across his cheekbones, but Macha felt a stirring within her.

She ignored it, focusing on taking the man’s shirt off and tending to his wounds. She tore the shirt eventually, frustrated with the buttons. Why must pale-faces wear so many buttons and zippers?

His chest was broad, his waist trim, and a faint muscle structure along his stomach. Macha thought suddenly about running her fingers along them and then shook her head to clear it.

She had to focus, get this man well so that she and Kimimela could figure out how to save them. The thieves were probably beyond saving, but they’d made their bed. They could lie in it.

It was strange how much he looked like Elijah. It was like she was healing her old friend instead of a stranger, but at the same time, he felt wholly different. He was a bit larger than Elijah, broader across the chest, maybe half an inch taller.

The wound was red and irritated by the trip, and Macha instantly packed it with her own mixture – yarrow and black sage both, for infection and pain.

The man stirred, shifting back and forth, and that was when Macha saw the wound on his palm – deep, probably needing stitches.

Elijah sat against the far wall, watching, unable to move or help. His face was paler even than usual as he kept an eye on Macha’s ministrations. She could tell he was worried about his brother, and honestly, he should be.

The wound on his side hadn’t seemed to affect his breathing, but it was still trickling blood, which worried Macha. It’d been a day’s ride to get home, and infection could set in fast.

She touched the man’s brow, noting how bold his eyebrows were. He was warm to the touch, but that didn’t tell her much. In the midst of summer, it was hard to tell a fever.

But the yarrow would help, the spirits willing.

“He was cut a couple of times,” Elijah mumbles, his voice quiet in the large tent. “James is tough, he’ll be all right.” He sounded uncertain despite his words.

Kimimela kneeled beside Elijah, touching his shoulder lightly. He leaned into her touch as Macha watched. 

“Are you hurt?” Kimimela asked, speaking Eliah’s tongue, and Elijah scoffed.

“Can’t be hurt if you’re a coward.”

Kimimela frowned but didn’t speak further, only sitting quietly with Elijah as if in support. Their shoulders touched, and neither moved away.

James, Macha thought. Such simple names the pale-faces had. Easy to remember, at least.

Macha turned James over as best she could, checking for more wounds, but she found none. She used her yarrow and black sage mixture on his palm as well, planning to wait until morning to see if stitches were necessary. She had fishing line and a needle, and she was adept, but she didn’t want to wake him unless absolutely needed.

Hours passed, and there was no conversation to be had. Except for Elijah and Kimimela, who spoke to each other in hushed whispers and heated glances. Elijah eventually fell asleep, aided by Macha’s calming tea.

Everyone’ was tense, waiting to see what condition James would be in when and if he woke. Macha had seen warriors with less intense wounds slip away in the night from infection.

She watched him with a hawk’s eye for as long as she could, until Kimimela leaned against Elijah’s shoulder, snoring softly, and even Elijah’s head bobbed with sleep.

 James murmured in his sleep. 

“Mama,” he mumbled, and Macha took a wet, cool cloth to put on his head. “Don’t. Don’t go.”

He stirred, and Macha placed a hand on his bare chest, watching it rise and fall, praying that it continued to do so. She could feel the heat rising from him, the fever worsening despite her efforts. If he were awake, she’d give him a concoction she’d made, an elderflower extract. As it was, all they could do was wait.

He stilled after her touch, and Macha slowly moved away, resting against the wall.   She closed her eyes only for what she thought was a moment, but it must have been much longer, because rays of sunshine were flowing into the tent.

A sound, subtle, almost imperceptible, made her hair rise at the back of her neck. Her eyes popped open and James was upon her, something sharp against her throat, making her heart jump in her chest.

His face was so close to hers she could see the amber flecks in his green irises, his eyes darting around wildly. He didn’t know where he was. She wasn’t even sure he knew who he was, but the knife pressed into her skin as his hand trembled. He’s used the hand that has the wound across the palm, and his grip slipped with the herbs and his blood.

Elijah must have woken, because his voice sounded in the tent, making Macha dart her eyes toward him. He worked at the ropes on his hands, struggling and waking Kimimela, who gasped when she saw the scene before her.

“James! James, stop it! She’s trying to help you! You’re safe!”  Elijah shouted.

James didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

He’d freed himself somehow, his wrists raw from the ropes and Macha met his eyes again, hoping that he would see something in hers that would stop this.

James searched her face, confusion and fear evident in his bright green eyes.

It was a stand-off, and Macha prayed to all the spirits that she’d survive – without alerting Mato. There was something about this man, something about these brothers, that was intwined with her fate.

A fate she might never get to.

Macha stared at James, calm, breathing as evenly as she could as her heart thudded against her breastplate.

Neither of them moved a muscle.