 
# Vestige Of Legacy

## Sara Blackard
Copyright © 2020 Sara Blackard

For more information on this book and the author visit: <https://www.sarablackard.com>

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Editor Raneé S. Clark with Sweetly Us Press.

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Author photo by Michele Flagen <https://micheleflagenphotography.pixieset.com>

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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As much as possible, I've used historic descriptions of Nathan Meeker, his wife and daughter, and Chief Johnson to create their interactions with Samara and Orlando, but this is fiction, and I, unfortunately, have not travelled back in time to meet them personally.

Want to know how it all began? Find out what propelled Hunter to the mountains and back through time by signing up for Sara Blackard's newsletter and receive **_Mission Out of Control_** , the _Vestige in Time_ prequel for FREE.
For my children who put up with my fractured thinking and lack of cooking.

I love you all more everyday!

# Chapter 1

_August 2nd, 2019_

Samara McKenna's arms, legs, and even eyelids weighed her down, pulling her deep, deep into blackness she couldn't escape. Her breath sat like a boulder in her chest. She couldn't remember anything beyond the heaviness. She focused on her breath, steady and slow, in and out. As she focused, the weight lightened and her surroundings became less muted. Samara brushed leaves with her fingers, and twigs poked under her body. A large, smooth rock rested beneath her hand. She recognized the earthy scent of forest and dirt, that comforting scent of summer. She detected the buzz of insects, the singing of a bird far away, and the rustling and muttering of something that wasn't of the woods. A maniacally gleeful snicker cut short and steps moved toward her. The heaviness fled in the frigid, cold wake of fear.

"Soon, soon." The terrible voice whispered as a cool shadow fell over her face. "She'll be coming around soon. Then the real fun can begin."

As the footsteps retreated, Samara chanced a peek through slitted eyelids. Harry Smith, a co-worker at the Colorado dude ranch where she was spending the summer, stomped away from her, his long muscled arms fidgeting at his sides. He'd always given her the heebie-jeebies, but in the awkward, harmless staring way, not the sociopath way. It was one of the reasons she left the ranch every day she had off, to get a break from the too-familiar touches Harry liked to give and the sense that she was being watched.

She remembered cleaning up the weekly barbecue the dude ranch put on for its guests. She had played the Appalachian dulcimer, the stringed instrument her mother had left her with, while the guests had danced around the fire, eating ribs and drinking sarsaparilla. The job was her latest adventure, singing and playing for people who wanted to pretend they were back in the Wild West while staying in the comforts of modernized, rustic cabins.

As far as her rotating temporary jobs went, this one hadn't been all bad, aside from her altitude sickness and Harry's creepy stares. She'd enjoyed the peace of the mountains that shot straight into the clear blue sky. The clean air and calm atmosphere had given her a desire she had pushed to the pit of her soul for so long she figured it had died— a desire to find a home, maybe even settle down and start a family. Just as fast as that yearning had surfaced, it looked like fate would tear it away. Again.

She took a quick glance at her body, her head spinning as she did. The prairie dress the ranch required her to wear for the Old West effect appeared covered in dirt, but other than that, everything was in order. What had Harry done to her? She remembered their boss telling her and Harry to stay behind and grab the last of the supplies. She had guzzled her sarsaparilla, relieving her dry throat as she packed the supplies in the old Toyota pick-up while the rest of the crew took the guests back to the resort in the wagons. She remembered just putting her dulcimer hardcase over her shoulder and throwing the last bag of trash into the truck when her head started to spin and everything turned black. He must've drugged her somehow and brought her out to the middle of the woods.

She had to get out of this. She had to focus, use that martial arts training she'd spent her hard-earned money on. Pull up the lessons she learned in foster care and on the streets of Philadelphia to get out of whatever horror show she now found herself in. Typical. If she still believed in God, she'd conclude He had it out for her. She wasn't giving up her dream, now that she'd found the courage to go for it.

"I see you've finally woken up." Harry smirked at her.

"Wha— what are you doing?" She hated the way her voice caught and shook.

"Why, having a little fun of course." He stalked closer, twirling a thin blade that looked like a filet knife. The blond hair he normally kept slicked back hung disheveled over his eyes, making his handsome face haggard and sinister in the shadows of the woods. "I like to have fun, and you seemed like someone who'd like to play."

Samara pushed back with her feet and elbows, trying to inch away from his advance. Pitiful, she knew, but it made her realize that he hadn't tied down her arms or legs. He either didn't think she'd fight or was looking forward to it. A sharp stab dug into her shoulder, revealing a rock that he'd laid her by. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing. She continued to scoot back so she could put her hand over the rock and work it out of the ground.

Harry bent down and, with excruciating slowness, slid the side of the knife along her bodice, skimming up over her belly and breast. As the blade reached the last few buttons, Harry cut the buttons off and dug the knife into the exposed skin of her chest and over her collarbone. A scream ripped from her throat as tears of pain and fear fell from her eyes. His look of glee had her taking a deep shuddering breath in and bracing herself. She couldn't let him win, no matter what.

He pulled a piece of her auburn hair up to his face and inhaled, drawing the scent into him. "I knew you'd smell like heaven." He smiled down at her as he cut the section of hair and placed it in his pocket. "I've always wanted a redhead, just never found one worthy yet. My women must be strong and independent like you've proved to be. There's no fun in conquering a weakling."

"You know, Harry." She surprised herself at how strong her voice sounded. "I always thought there was something different about you. Special."

His head tilted to the side, and his lips pursed. He shook his head. "How's that?"

"Well, you like to give pain. I like to receive pain." She attempted to sound sultry as she gripped the rock firmly in her hand. The look of rapture on his face almost made her vomit. "I wonder if you enjoy receiving pain as well."

As a groan of ecstasy escaped from Harry's mouth, Samara brought her arm up with all her strength, slamming the jagged rock into the side of his head. He fell over with a thud, and she scrambled to her feet. She didn't have any time to waste as she took off at a sprint through the woods. She grabbed her dulcimer case as she passed where it sat propped up against a tree and threw the strap across her chest so it rested against her back.

Samara bolted, not caring which direction she sprinted as long as it was away. A horrific yell echoed through the woods behind her, causing tears of fear to race down her face. She'd hoped she'd have a bigger lead. She had to find help, find someone or somewhere she could go. But she knew there was no one around since the dude ranch sat at the edge of the National Wilderness, and no one wandered in these parts.

Harry's crashing and shouting through the woods grew closer, diminishing the small distance she'd put between them. How he had guessed which way to go was a mystery, like the devil whispered directions to him. She pushed herself as hard as she'd ever run, ignoring the rocks and branches that tore at her hair and body. She chanced a glance back as she pushed through some thick brush and gasped as her foot caught on a root, tripping her forward into nothing but air. She almost screamed, but held it in as she gripped the brush to keep herself from tumbling down the steep hillside below. Recovering her footing, she fell to her knees, sucking air. Samara whipped her hair from her face, relief rushing through her body. Hidden behind the brush in the side of the hill was a cave.

Samara scrambled to the opening and crawled in, not caring if it was already occupied. There was barely enough room for her to curl up with her dulcimer wedged in next to her. She was grateful for years of yoga as she twisted and tucked her body tighter than it had ever been. With the brush before the cave and the top of the hill overhanging the entrance, she hoped Harry wouldn't catch on that she was there.

"Samara!" Harry's voice bellowed directly above her. Samara pushed her mouth into her knees to keep from whimpering. "I know you're here, girl. Why don't you stop playing and just come out?"

The brush moved in front of the entrance, and footsteps crunched closer. Samara slowed her breathing in an attempt to calm her erratic heart. She should've just kept running. With the way she was wedged in the stupid cave, she wasn't sure she could fight Harry off if need be. _Lord, help me._ Samara almost laughed at the prayer that popped into her head. She hadn't prayed for years and doubted God would listen to her anyway.

"Well, what do we have here?" The brush pushed further from the entrance, and Harry's red plaid sleeve came into view. Samara slammed her eyelids shut. "Are you pretending to be a ra—"

Samara flinched at the sudden silence that echoed in the cave. Her eyelids flew open. There was no movement of the brush, no red plaid. Nothing. Where had Harry gone? Was he playing a cruel game? Had he fallen down the hillside? Samara shook her head to her inner questions. She would've heard him falling.

She took a deep breath and uncurled her body while mentally preparing to attack if needed. As she reached the opening, she peered down the hillside. No Harry lay crumpled in a heap. Pity. She craned her neck to look up the hill. No Harry lurked, waiting for her to emerge. Nothing but the chirping of birds and the bickering of a couple of squirrels met her ears. With a shiver, Samara rubbed the goosebumps that erupted up her arms and skittered down her legs.

"No use sitting here waiting for him to return," Samara mumbled to herself to ease the tension the sudden lack of Harry's presence caused.

Samara scrambled to the top of the hill, her dulcimer case knocking into her head as she pulled on branches and roots. She crawled over the edge and crouched down, prepared to run or fight. As she surveyed the area for red fabric, she wondered why the ground looked different, as if the thick undergrowth that plagued the national wilderness area had been cleaned up. She shrugged off the thought. Pondering the health of the forest wasn't going to get her away from wherever Harry had disappeared to. Deciding the creek at the bottom of the hill might hide her steps better than the soft dirt, Samara adjusted the straps to her case and skidded her way down the steep slope, hoping she didn't slip and break her neck in the process.

_August 2nd, 1879_

Summer was Orlando Thomas's favorite part of the year. The mountains awakened with vibrant color, painting vivid images across his memory. Animals frolicked and raced to prepare for winter, creating a song that spoke life. The heat from the sun warmed his bones that winter had tried to freeze solid. Of course, he enjoyed winter when it came around just about as much as summer, though summer remained the friendlier season of the two.

He peered through the trees as he sat on his horse, Loco, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. All he found was his Great Pyrenees sheepdog, Zeus, digging frantically in a tree root up ahead. He whistled, and the dog lifted his head and trotted over, his tongue hanging from a mouth that Orlando swore was smiling. No one would think the fluffy snowball vicious, but if danger presented itself, the big lug would do anything to protect his charges. That was why the breed worked so well with shepherds. That and the fact they looked like sheep.

He smiled down at the massive dog. "Let's go see what we can find."

Orlando had headed out here looking for any sheep that had wandered away, which was doubtful, and any medicinal plants he could harvest for his supply, which was hopeful. More than anything, he'd woken up with a need to venture out this way. He couldn't explain it, almost like God wanted him here, in this area. When he'd had these feelings in the past, almost always he'd find someone or something in need of help. So Orlando left, following the call of God, like his father before him.

He dragged in the sweet smell of grass shooting its way from the dark dirt and the muskiness of last autumn's leaves working their way back to the soil. He surrendered to the peace that enveloped him and opened his senses to the world around him.

Zeus's ears perked up, and he shot off, dashing through the forest before Orlando could whistle a command. Orlando urged Loco into a gallop, attempting to keep up with Zeus as the dog plunged into a thick wall of brush ahead. A scream pierced the air, sending a shiver of dread up Orlando's spine.

He proceeded with speed yet care, knowing this part of the mountain grew thick with trees and brush that hid drop-offs that would take a man out in an instant. Orlando pushed the horse through the barrier and pulled up short. Behind the wall dropped a steep slope that ended in a thin pristine mountain stream. Zeus had made it to the bottom of the hillside and, with a wagging tail, approached a woman who was backing up with her hands held out. Orlando whistled for Zeus to sit, causing the woman's head to snap up. Orlando watched as the tension of her shoulders relaxed slightly in an exhale.

Orlando raised his hand in acknowledgement and scanned the hilltop, looking for a better path down to the lady. Not seeing one, he urged Loco down the steep terrain, knowing the mountain pony was game for the crazy ride, like many before that had earned him his name. As Loco picked his way down, Orlando surveyed the woman as she pushed the riot of dark coppery curls from her face. She wore a cotton dress that was grimy, and had some kind of case strapped to her back. Overall, she appeared unharmed except for a nasty gash that showed above her dress's collar. Her body tightened like a rabbit cornered by a badger the closer he got, so that when Loco reached the stream bank, Orlando worried she'd bolt. He smiled at her and tipped his hat, hoping to put her at ease.

"Oh man, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. I left my phone back at the ranch, not that it would do me any good out here." Her words stopped him short, his leg freezing halfway over Loco's rump.

Orlando shook the dread off that slinked down his back and continued to dismount. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the hard, black case she had strapped around her. Though dirt covered the object, he saw the gleam of metal and a material that slightly resembled leather but wasn't. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Lord, not again." His voice came out a harsh whisper of unease at seeing material not yet invented.

"You okay?" The lady's melodic voice sounded wary, and Orlando noticed she'd clenched her hands and taken a step back.

The lady's discomfort sent the nerves away and consolidated his focus and emotions on her. He couldn't afford to be distracted now. If his instinct proved right and this little lady had somehow come from the future, she'd need him fully present, not shaking with nerves in his boots.

# Chapter 2

The large man's mutterings sent Samara's heart to hammering. Without much thought, she curled her hands into fists, preparing to fight off the man before her. She heard a growl, and flinched at the massive dog who now approached with the hair on his scruff standing straight up. She took a step back, her focus on the beast's lips that twitched as he snarled.

"Zeus, no. Protect," the man's firm and calm voice stated.

Samara turned her attention back to the handsome, rugged man with blond hair that hung to his shoulders and blue eyes that matched the Colorado sky. He looked kind and concerned.

"Miss, I'm sorry we frightened you." The man held his hands up in surrender.

"Help me." Samara's voice cracked, to her horror.

"I'm going to help you, I promise. Nothing will hurt you now. I'm Orlando. Orlando Thomas." His deep voice was calm and sturdy.

"Harry. He's out here. He's psycho, wants to hurt me," she stammered, her fear increasing with each word, as if the stress of the entire situation had fizzed up and popped the top off her control.

"I know for a fact he's not going to be able to hurt you anymore," the man, Orlando, promised, which Samara found idiotic, since Harry could be lurking anywhere at the moment, just waiting to pounce.

A howl echoed in the distance. Orlando's head snapped in the direction of the call, and a deep growl issued from the dog next to him. Orlando peered with intense determination at her.

"Miss, I need to get you to safety. It appears your injury brought a pack of wolves running this direction."

"There are no wolves in Colorado. They were eradicated in the 40s." A howl ripped through the forest, proving her statement false.

He cringed. "Yes, well, there are wolves in the forest now, and they're coming this way."

Samara looked frantically around, almost jumping out of her boots when a squirrel darted across the ground in the distance. Orlando led his massive horse over to her, using smooth slow motions like she'd seen the wranglers at the ranch use on the feisty horses. Samara inwardly smirked at the realization she probably resembled those skittish animals perfectly.

"We'll have to ride double. Do you mind if I tie your case to the back?" Orlando's question pulled her attention to the horse that towered above her.

"Sure, no problem." Samara swallowed the lump of nerves stuck in her throat as she took her dulcimer off and handed it to him. She may have spent the summer working at a dude ranch, but she'd made extreme effort to not find herself on top of the terrifying beasts so many spent thousands on to ride. It might mark her as a coward, but she preferred her own legs, or better yet, her trusty Fiat for transportation.

"I'll boost you up, then mount up behind you." Orlando's deep voice rumbled through her as he stepped up beside her.

She knew she should've felt uncomfortable with his nearness. Either the fright of mounting a horse was throwing her off, or her normal hesitant nature around people had been fried. She was blaming it on the horse, she thought as she stepped up to it and grabbed the saddle.

Orlando lifted her into the saddle as if she didn't weigh a thing. Samara fumbled while finding her balance, almost falling off the other side. He mounted quickly behind her, leaning into her as he adjusted the reins.

Samara noticed he smelled amazing, like the pines and wild grass that grew in the area. Why would she be noticing something as ridiculous as the way he smelled, at a time like this? She strengthened her resolve to get with it and find that mantle of strength forced upon her at a young age.

She took a deep breath and turned to look the man in the eye. "I'm Samara McKenna. Thank you, Orlando, for finding me."

Then he ruined the moment. "I'm just grateful God sent me to you."

Samara tried not to roll her eyes, she really did. And she really couldn't help it if she might have muttered under her breath. But God had never done her any favors. If anything, He purposefully went out of His way to cause her grief. She didn't want Orlando to think her crazy and leave her stranded though, so she followed her eye roll with a beaming smile, hoping he wouldn't see her disbelief.

Samara proved unlike any damsel in distress Orlando had ever heard of. First, she'd curled her fists like she was fixing to throw him a punch. Then she rolled her eyes, with a muttered, "Whatever," when he thanked God. He didn't know what to make of her.

Orlando figured he was still a bit in shock that God had brought another person back in time. He had struggled to reconcile it when it first happened with his brother-in-law, Hunter. It had taken seeing Hunter's pack, clothes, and technology, which they'd buried by the cabin, to accept that Hunter had traveled through time. Orlando thanked God for it, because without Hunter, Orlando would've lost his sisters to that weasel Linc Sweeney.

Orlando couldn't fathom what God was doing this time though, sending a woman. Not just any woman either, but one who was so small she weighed about as much as a bag of flour and who had an obvious issue with God. Why send her back now when Viola and Hunter had traveled to Denver, and Beatrice was visiting the new neighbors that moved in on the other side of the mountain? Both were days away and had no plans of returning anytime soon. Both would've been obvious ones to help Samara adjust to this time.

God said one knew not His ways, and Orlando figured wondering about what God was thinking wouldn't get them anywhere. God had sent Samara here and arranged for Orlando to find her. Whatever else God had in store, He would reveal in His time.

Orlando pulled her close as he clicked Loco forward. He needed to get her safe before the pack howling away got close. Now wasn't the time for woolgathering.

A wolf howl sounded much closer than before. He pushed Loco into a fast walk as they maneuvered through the slick ground that lined the winding creek. He knew eventually they'd find a path to take out of the gully, but the hillside was too steep to climb. Another howl echoed even closer.

"Are they going to find us?" Samara whispered.

"I sure hope not." Orlando threw the loop off his holster.

"That's not very encouraging," Samara said. "A knight in shining armor is supposed to have courage and faith at all times."

Orlando laughed. "I'm no knight in shining armor, but I promise you, princess, I'll protect you. With everything I have, even to death, I'll protect you."

Samara leaned to the side and glanced up at him. Tears shimmered in her eyes and a look of question sat there. She nodded and settled closer into him.

"I believe you," she whispered, sending a spark of life so strong through his body, he swore he'd give everything to live up to his promise.

The frantic yipping of a pack on the hunt raised all the hair on Orlando's neck. The harrowing sound echoed through the little creek valley. Samara shivered in front of him. Orlando pushed Loco faster.

Up ahead, the hillside eased into a gentle slope past a group of rocks that jutted next to the creek like a canyon. If he could just get them to the top of the mountain, the brush would clear. They could then outrun the pack without a problem.

They entered the rock formation. Orlando's eyes scanned the slope ahead for the best route when a dark gray object sprang at them from the rocks. Zeus met the wolf midair in a snarling mass before Orlando had his gun out of the holster. Samara screamed. Orlando turned and shot another wolf as it sprang from the rocks on the other side. A third wolf jumped from the formation, meeting its death with a shot.

"See if you can grab my other revolver and have it ready for me," Orlando yelled at Samara as he tugged on Loco's reins to keep him from bolting and throwing both Orlando and Samara off.

Samara nodded and reached behind her, her hand patting up and down his leg. After she found the gun, she held it on his right leg where it would be easy for him to grab. The amazing woman then pulled the rifle out of its scabbard, laid it across her lap, and leaned over Loco's neck, clearing Orlando's field of vision.

A low snarl was the only warning he had from behind as he turned and fired. Another wolf landed dead in the creek. The rest of the pack showed themselves on the rocks ahead, growling and baring their hideous teeth. He aimed and shot with little thought, taking out the two closest in a flash. Samara whimpered where she hid her head in Loco's mane, her fingers white where they twisted into the hair.

The remaining wolves rushed them as one. Orlando tucked the spent gun in his holster and grabbed the one from Samara she still held on his leg. He shot as the wolves configured, both actions happening faster than he could process. When his second revolver clicked empty, a sharp force penetrated his arm. He shouted as the wolf attempted to pull him from the saddle. He reached his hand for his knife in its sheath, but before he could grab it, his rifle belched a bullet into the wolf's chest.

The two remaining wolves yipped away in fear as Orlando grabbed the gun from Samara's shaking hands. He placed it in the scabbard and holstered his second revolver. Samara turned around in the saddle and threw herself against him, almost knocking him backward off the horse.

She sobbed into his chest. "Is it over?"

"I suppose so."

He wrapped his arms around her, resting his head on the top of hers. His heart beat like a stampede of wild mustangs, and he breathed deeply to try to not faint. That wouldn't fit the knight status he'd just vanquished the enemy for. He should reload and be prepared in case the remaining wolves came back, but Samara's body, wrapped tightly around him, settled his nerves and yet set him on fire at the same time.

Samara pulled back much too soon to Orlando's way of thinking and looked at him with eyes as warm as butterscotch. He'd never seen eyes the reddish-brown color that matched her deep auburn hair. They reminded him of the red-stoned valley of the Yampah hot springs south of there. Earthy and intriguing. Begging for exploration.

"Oh my gosh, that was beyond nuts." Samara's unfamiliar words rushed him to the present, where women tumbled back in time and wolves prowled.

He ran his hand over her cheek, pushing her hair from her face. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I can't believe that happened." Samara nodded. "How in the world did you shoot those wolves so quickly? It was like a machine gun firing next to my ear."

"If you can't handle yourself out here, the wilderness will eat you whole. Thank you for taking care of that last one. With the way he had me, I was worried I'd get pulled off and leave you defenseless."

A whine from behind pulled his attention around. Zeus limped away from a wolf that lay dead behind him. His beautiful white fur was caked with blood.

"We need to get going and find a place I can treat him." Orlando dismounted while still holding her.

He set her feet on the ground, and when she swayed, he wrapped her hand onto the saddle. After making sure she wouldn't topple over, he marched to Zeus who had lain down next to the creek. He whined as Orlando approached and panted quicker than normal.

"Thank you, my friend." Orlando knelt next to Zeus.

He examined the many bites and scratches that riddled the dog's body. While none of them were deep and needed stitches, his leg would need to be wrapped. Orlando brushed his hand through Zeus's fur before picking up the heavy dog.

"Is he okay?" Samara asked, concern etched across her face.

"He'll be fine after some rest and relaxation," Orlando answered as he headed for Loco. "It'll be a tight ride, though, since his leg won't take any weight right now."

He adjusted the dog in his arms and looked at his horse. He knew it was too much to ask of Samara in her frightened state, but she was here now. Women of the wilderness had to be tough.

"I will need to hold Zeus in front of me. If I mount up, can you mount behind me and hold on? It won't be far. I remember a cave up ahead where we can rest and take care of his injuries," he asked, hating himself for it.

Samara looked so small and weak where she stood leaning against Loco's neck. She took a deep breath and ran her fingers through Zeus's blood-matted hair. She leaned forward and kissed the dog on the head.

"Thank you, sweet thing, for protecting us," she whispered into his neck, eliciting a happy whine and licking from Zeus, his tail thumping against Orlando's side. Samara stood straight and peered determinedly into Orlando's eyes. "I'll do whatever you need me to, Orlando. It's the least I can do."

Orlando nodded, reached for the saddle horn, and grunted with the effort of mounting while holding the hundred pound dog in his arms. After catching his breath and making sure Zeus wouldn't tumble off, he extended his hand down to help Samara up. She gasped, touching beside the gash where the wolf had clamped its jaws.

"You're hurt."

"It's nothing compared to Zeus. We can't make it all the way in tonight. We'll need to find a place to bunker down. Come on, I need to get camp set up and tend to Zeus before night falls." He pulled her slight weight behind him.

Samara wrapped her arms tightly around him, bunching the front of his shirt in her hands. She laid her cheek on his back and sighed. He urged Loco on with his knees, placing his left hand, which held the reins, on top of Zeus to steady him. He then wrapped his right arm behind and around Samara to hold her to him. While he still didn't understand God's crazy thoughts in sending someone so delicate back here, he rejoiced that God commissioned him to find her.

Orlando found the cave he searched for, and after setting Zeus against the entrance, he checked to make sure no animal resided in it. When he found it void of anything that might eat them, he brought Zeus in, Samara following close and sitting next to Zeus. The sunlight penetrated the darkness just enough for him to see their outlines. He watched as Samara threaded her fingers through Zeus's fur.

"I need to run and grab some wood and get a fire going. Then I'll get him cleaned up." Orlando kneeled down next to her.

"Okay. Are you sure nothing can get us here? No bears will slink out of the back of the cave while you're gone?"

"Bears don't slink. They lumber, but no, the cave is small with nothing in it but us," Orlando answered.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Keeping Zeus calm like you are is helping."

"And Harry won't find us?" Samara's voice wobbled.

"Harry won't find you ever again, that I'm sure of," Orlando said with confidence, especially with Harry being over a hundred years in the future, but no need to weigh her down with that news just yet. "I'll just be a minute."

"Then you'll take me to town?"

Orlando's heart clenched. He didn't think she was ready to hear the truth. Shoot, he wasn't ready to explain it all, not knowing exactly how to tell her. "We'll leave tomorrow. First light."

Orlando rushed from the cave before she could ask any more questions, but not before he saw her eyes narrow and her lips tighten. He wouldn't be able to put her off for long. He searched the area for fallen twigs and branches. After tying Loco to a tree just outside the entrance, he grabbed his canteen and saddlebags and hauled his bundle of twigs inside. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was surprised that she had moved herself and Zeus closer to the entrance and eyed him in suspicion. Maybe she felt more comfortable closer to the entrance. He would if he was in her situation. He scanned the rest of the cave while he built the fire. It was a small but clean space, with a high ceiling that contained a fissure of some kind since the smoke drew out of the cave from above. He praised the Lord in that provision since he wouldn't have to worry about the smoke.

Orlando studied Samara where she sat with Zeus's head in her lap, running her fingers through his fur and watching Orlando. She watched him with eagle eyes the entire time he worked. Like she didn't know if he meant to help her, or if she'd have to fight for her life again. He noticed, with the rhythmic way her fingers went through the fur, that it seemed to calm her more than the dog. Wariness like that didn't come from one experience, but from a lifetime of experiences, making Orlando wonder what had happened to her to cause such caution.

After putting water in the small pot he always carried and placing it on the fire to boil, he approached the two and knelt beside her. Her expression held a strength and suspicion that warred against each other. Or perhaps they'd existed so long together they'd become forged upon her face.

"I'd like to take care of your wound first, if that's okay with you."

Samara glanced at Zeus with concern.

He hurried on. "Don't worry, it won't take long, then I'll take care of this lug."

"Alright." At Samara's quick assent, relief rushed through Orlando's body.

Orlando inched closer and examined the wound that had stopped bleeding. Her dress clung to the cut where the blood had dried. He cringed, wondering if he could prevent her from experiencing the pain of peeling the cloth away. The wound, so similar to the ones he'd found on his father's body, brought back the agonizing pain Orlando had felt then. A pain he seemed unable to heal himself of, though in truth he figured it was his due. A lingering parasite from his ineptitude that would probably slowly destroy his body and soul. If only he'd searched for his father earlier.

That line of thought wouldn't help him now, and his focus needed to remain on the patient before him. She would survive, her only wound not life threatening. He didn't need to allow the past to push him off course. He had wounds to clean to prevent infection from setting in. Hers, at least, would need stitches, a painful but necessary procedure to keep the deeper, more insidious cut from festering. But first, he needed to get her clean and remove the fabric from the cut.

Orlando ripped a section of cloth he kept in his bags for bandages and dipped it into the warming water. He knelt next to her and began wiping the blood from the skin, his fingers trembling slightly. He knew he was putting off the inevitable, but he rationalized he could better distinguish the wound if he cleaned the rest of her exposed skin. She remained quiet, her eyes squeezed shut and her breathing quick. Her fingers continued to weave through Zeus's fur where he slept beside her.

"I'm really sorry, Samara. I know this makes you uncomfortable."

She opened her eyes, taking a deep breath and steeling her shoulders. "No, it's alright. I'm okay."

After re-wetting the rag, he looked into her eyes and warned her, "I need to clean your wound now. It will hurt because your dress's fabric has dried slightly into it. I have nothing for the pain but a small flask of whiskey and some willow bark tea. I want to save the tea for tonight to help you sleep. Would you like some whiskey?"

"What, no ibuprofen in your bag of tricks?" Samara joked, making Orlando wonder about what the medicine did as he shook his head in answer. "No whiskey for me. I had a foster dad who liked to pick on his wards when he got drunk, particularly the girls. Kind of put me off drinking."

The off-handed way she discussed her father's treatment made Orlando's muscles bunch. Had he beaten her? Or worse, had he violated her? He knew it happened, but never imagined how a father could ever hurt their child.

He started working on cleaning the wound. "So your father is a drunk?"

She scoffed in contempt. "No, my father got himself killed in the Philippines by some extremists when I was ten. I spent the rest of my childhood jumping from foster home to foster home, evading foster dads intent on taking advantage of poor, defenseless girls, until I ran away and lived on my own. But that's not something I want to talk about right now."

Orlando stared at her in shock. What had she gone through in her own time to make her so nonchalant about her suffering and hardships? He shook his head and focused on tending her wound. Maybe that's why God brought her here, to give her a chance for a life not filled with other people's animosity. Though the wilderness could tear a man apart, the people, aside from the few bad ones, treated each other with respect or indifference.

Of course, God could've just wanted her rescued from the madman who had attacked her. With that thought springing to his brain, Orlando found himself asking before he could stop, "Want to tell me who this Harry is, and why he did this to you?"

Orlando glanced up and watched as Samara's face turned red with anger. He remembered the fist she'd clenched when he first found her and wondered if he should prepare to duck. Life had definitely taken a turn toward the more exciting since he woke up that morning

# Chapter 3

Of course Orlando had to ask Samara the question that sent instant shudders of fear skittering up her spine, which made her madder than a nest of angry hornets. She'd fought her whole life to be strong, to survive and show others she wasn't one to mess with. When she'd lived in homes that shadowed the wards in constant fear, she'd pulled her invisible armor of contempt and trouble-making on. When that proved ineffective, she'd run away and struggle to make it on the streets of Philadelphia. A scrawny, redheaded punk girl made for an easy target. But she'd survived it.

Only all that Samara had survived hadn't kept her from Harry's hands. She supposed Orlando needed to know what he was up against, because, despite his assurance Harry would never hurt her again, she didn't think they'd traveled so far that he couldn't track them down. It wasn't like Harry would leave her alive, especially since she knew who he was.

Samara sighed. "I had just finished performing at the weekly barbecue our dude ranch puts on. We were loading all the guests up on horses or the wagon, and the next thing I knew, it's just me and Harry left to load up the last of the chairs and whatnot into the pick-up and head back to the ranch. I was so busy helping clean up, I didn't realize we were alone until everyone was already down the trail. Harry and I had everything loaded, and I had grabbed my case to get in the truck when everything started to get all wonky. He must've used ketamine or something to knock me out, because the next thing I knew I was waking up in a nightmare."

Samara shuddered at the heavy memory of waking in the forest, Harry's sinister whispers slinking in her ears and down her spine. She didn't know if the nausea that assaulted her stomach was from remembering the horrid event or the pain radiating from where Orlando touched. She didn't want to continue her tale but found the words tumbling out on their own as her fingers rhythmically rubbed Zeus's fur. She related waking up in the forest and then escaping from Harry, perhaps as a distraction from the burning and aching radiating from the cut Orlando was trying to treat.

Orlando's face had gotten darker and darker the more she retold the event. Samara guessed it wouldn't do anyone a bit of good to make him upset. Yet, no matter the anger that vibrated from his body, surprisingly, his touch never turned rough.

"I'm surprised you didn't hear him with all the hollering he was doing."

"I wish I had run across him so he'd get the justice he deserves. Women are precious, to be treated with respect and care. It's unscrupulous what that man did." Orlando's voice quivered with controlled rage, and though Samara had never heard anyone describe women the way he did, it ridiculously made her go all mushy inside. _Keep it together, Samara._

"We'll need to go to the authorities and tell them about Harry. I can draw a picture they can send out and put on the news and across Facebook and Twitter. This wasn't the first time he'd done this. I think the psycho is a serial killer. I might be the only one who's ever gotten away." Samara needed to make sure Harry didn't kill again.

Orlando's rage faded with a non-committal sound as he busied himself with her wound. It stung like crazy and brought tears to her eyes that she quickly blinked away. When all the exposed cuts were cleaned, he freshened the water and looked at her uncomfortably. He grabbed a rolled blanket from where his gear lay.

Orlando approached Samara and cleared his throat. "To get this cut stitched up, we'll need your dress off. You can place the blanket over you to keep you as covered as possible. I have an extra pair of clothes in my saddlebags. You can slip the pants on before you take your dress off. Once I'm done, you can wear the shirt, though it will be huge on you. I'm afraid your dress will be irreparable, but I'm sure my sister Beatrice has something she left behind you can wear when we get to the cabin."

"It's okay, Orlando. I don't even like this old-fashioned get-up they make me wear when I'm performing. Give me leggings and a sweatshirt any day," Samara answered.

Orlando approached her, shook out the blanket and rushed back to his saddlebags, bringing a stack of clothes and setting them next to her. "I'll just go gather some more firewood while you change."

Samara's hands shook as she attempted to unbutton her dress. The smooth, round disks slipped through her fingers. She huffed out a breath and tried again, hating how her body wouldn't calm down enough to do a simple task. She glanced at the cave entrance, wondering how much longer she had before he returned. Growling in frustration, she took the dress and ripped it open. They couldn't save the stupid thing anyway. She hurriedly put on the buckskin pants and wrapped herself in the blanket.

"Samara, are you ready for me to come in?" Orlando's voice called into the cave.

"Yeah." Samara cleared her throat when her voice cracked. "I'm good."

Orlando came in, quickly glanced at her, then tucked his head and piled the wood next to the fire. She inwardly chuckled when his neck and face beneath his beard started pinking in a blush. He cleared his throat and knelt before her. She lowered the blanket, revealing her cut and the top of her bra. Orlando stared in confusion at her bra, tentatively fingering the material of the strap. She chuckled.

"What? You've never seen a bra or something?" Samara joked.

"Nope," Orlando answered as he cleared his throat again.

"You're joking. Where've you been living, under a rock? They're everywhere, in magazines, on billboards, in the mall, and on TV multiple times a night. Shoot, I even get advertisements in my Facebook feed."

Orlando got that distracted look on his face and turned away from her. "Well, I haven't seen one."

He rushed to his saddlebag and started rummaging through it. His avoidance of the conversation sat wrong with Samara. She looked at his rough clothes, they appeared handmade, and began to wonder exactly who he was. What he was doing out here in the national wilderness where motorized equipment was forbidden and people rarely ventured? Exhaustion pulled at her, begging her to put down her guard and relax. Though it went against her very spirit, she figured she'd listen to the begging and let Orlando's dodging go until she felt more up to diving into the mystery.

The fire flickered and threw beautiful shadows that danced upon the cave walls. If she had her sketch pad, she'd try to capture the sense of safety and possibly even joy at watching them twirl. She'd have to remember to paint it when she got back to civilization, because her summer in the wilderness had officially ended, despite still having months of guests. There was no way she'd be able to stay here after the ordeal she'd been through. It was time to move on again, possibly change her name so the sociopath couldn't hunt her down.

Orlando had evaded her questions like a fish evading a hook. He'd have to tell her that she wasn't in her own time at some point, but with her being kidnapped and the wolf attack, he figured any more shocks might push her system over the edge. He couldn't save her from the truth for very long. Besides, it seemed like she spoke a different language with her bra, face book, and twitting. He wanted her to trust him, not be another person to let her down.

"Before I start working on that cut, I want you to drink the tea. It'll help ease the pain and might even put you to sleep. I think I'll need to stitch your cut up, which is going to hurt something fierce. If I leave it, you'll have a nasty scar, plus it increases the chance of infection setting in."

"Are you some kind of doctor or something?" Samara questioned.

"Something," Orlando answered, smiling up at her to ease her discomfort. It didn't help, by the look of doubt plastered on her face.

"Shouldn't we wait until you can get me to the clinic down in Meeker?"

Orlando smirked at the knowledge that the arrogant Nathan Meeker ended up with a town named after him. Orlando's forehead creased in concern with what that might mean for the Utes. They had let Orlando know of their anxiety concerning Meeker's governing last time Orlando had visited. It didn't sound promising if the man's name remained connected forever to the area. Orlando would have to make a point to visit again as soon as Samara got settled.

Before he could wonder too much on why his mind assumed his plans now depended on Samara, he answered her question about going to a doctor in a way he hoped didn't raise her suspicions. "By the time we get you into a facility, it'll be too late to stitch. I promise you, I've done this more times than I can even remember and have been told I stitch better than most people's grandmothers."

Samara gingerly touched the largest gash and faltered. "I guess that's okay."

Orlando checked if the tea had steeped enough. He knew she'd probably had nothing like the concoction before. He wondered how he would explain his lack of medicines that, in her time, she would have available at most shops.

"This tea is going to be nasty. I'm not gonna lie. It's a mixture of coffee, willow bark, chamomile, and sugar. I try and make it a little more palatable with the sugar, but I'm not sure it's successful." Orlando shrugged as he strode over to her and handed her the mug.

"Your very own designer coffee, huh? Are you into natural remedies, like a homeopathic or functional medicine doctor?" Samara sniffed the tea and took a tentative sip.

She shuddered, and Orlando chuckled. "I believe God has given us the things we need on the earth to heal us. The natives have proven that for years. I also know there's advances happening in medicine every day that will help people survive."

"I'm all for doing things naturally, but I'm not against a bottle of ibuprofen either." Samara downed the rest of the tea with another violent shudder. "I hate to tell you this, but your designer coffee probably won't be making the seasonal menu at Starbucks anytime soon. I've heard of people drinking willow bark tea in the past, but never with coffee."

Orlando grabbed the mug as she adjusted the blanket she'd wrapped around her shoulders. He placed the mug aside with a clunk, the weight of the pain he was about to cause Samara making the mug heavy as a boulder. He rolled the worry from his shoulders and threaded the needle, placing both needle and thread in a small tray of whiskey to clean it.

He grabbed the cloth and warm water and turned back to Samara. "It's definitely the worst coffee I've ever drunk, except maybe for Ed's at the post. Most folks avoid his coffee if possible. I found out, by accident actually, that the willow bark seems to work better when added to coffee. I'm not sure why, but it does."

"Might be the caffeine in the coffee works like the caffeine in migraine and PMS medicine." Samara shrugged, laying her head back against the cave wall and closing her eyes. "Yours is just a nastier tasting version."

Orlando adjusted so the fire shone onto her cut and began the arduous process of cleaning it thoroughly. She flinched and sucked in a breath. He wished there could be some way to make this less painful.

"So you're a performer? What do you do?" Orlando hoped to distract her.

"I'm a singer, and I play the mountain dulcimer. Well, I also play the violin, guitar, piano, and cello, but my favorite is the dulcimer. I get different gigs, usually long-term jobs at different resorts or camps for the tourist season," Samara answered.

"You play all those instruments? How'd you learn them all?" Orlando asked in amazement.

"I worked my butt off, that's how." Samara shrugged. "I've always had a musical bent. I was playing the dulcimer and piano by the time I was three. The others I picked up on the streets and after I attended the Curtis Institute of Music in Philly."

"That sounds prestigious."

"It's one of the top music academies in the world. I'm still surprised I got in, but tuition is free for those who are accepted, so I figured, why not try? I could've played with any orchestra I wanted after I graduated, but I was always drawn back to the dulcimer. It's not really an orchestra kind of instrument, so me and my stringed beauty took to the road, finding work where we can."

Orlando peered into her face, her eyes closed and mouth strained around the edge. Her nonchalant attitude toward something that must be a great success intrigued him. It also amused him that she talked of her instrument like a friend. He desired to hear her play.

"Well, do you think you'd want to play after I get you stitched up? It might take your mind off the pain."

Samara opened her eyes and stared into his face, her butterscotch eyes intense as they scrutinized him. He held her gaze, praying his desire to help and not hurt shone through. Her eyes widened and the tension softened a bit around her mouth.

"I can probably play while you're stitching. It'll help distract me from the pokes and pulls."

Orlando stood and rushed to her case. He brought it to her and laid the case across her cross-legged lap. He watched in awe as she opened it with a reverence that spoke to more than a simple instrument. It was beautiful, full of cut-outs flowers, vines, and even a bird carved into the surface. It was a bit shorter than a guitar and skinnier too, the body curving all the way up the fret.

"It's beautiful," Orlando stated.

"It was my mother's." Samara took it out of its case and cradled it in her arms.

Orlando moved the case out of the way and knelt beside her. He watched as Samara placed the instrument flat on her lap and played a few chords. She closed her eyes, her lips curving up slightly. With the way she held the instrument, he'd be able to stitch her up. It might be a bit awkward, but he'd twist himself into a knot if playing made the doctoring easier on her.

"I'm going to start stitching if you think you're ready," Orlando whispered as the music tinkled against the cave walls.

He bent over her and worked to the most ethereal music he'd ever heard. It surrounded him until he felt as if angels danced within the cave. He never imagined music could affect a person at their core, but it did. The expressive rising and falling of notes filled him with the aching truth of God's mercy and love, and he communed with the Holy Spirit who warmed his soul to the point that he teared up and had to sniff. He ducked his head and thanked God for the undeserved privilege of His presence and the woman whose playing ushered it in.

Samara awoke to warmth crackling on one side and warmth snoring on the other. She slid her fingers through butter soft fur. Zeus moaned low and long and started to thump his tail. She sighed in comfort despite the pain that pulled on her chest. She couldn't believe she'd slept so hard.

The bitter smell of coffee hit her nose, causing her stomach to rumble with hunger. She heard a chuckle from the other side of the cave. She rolled her head and looked into Orlando's eyes. The bright blue sparked with laughter and warmth. Samara noticed how rugged and handsome he was with his full blond beard and long hair tied behind him. She normally didn't go for the wannabe mountain man image that had become popular in the last few years, but he made her rethink that decision.

"It sounds like you're hungry." Orlando smirked.

"Starved, but you already heard that." Samara laughed.

"I have a stew simmering. Let me get you a cup of coffee while it cools." Orlando poured her a mug of coffee.

Samara started to scoot up and winced. Orlando hurried over, set the mug down, and put his arm around her. As he leaned over her, a woodsy scent enveloped her. She turned her nose into his neck and breathed deep. He leaned back and looked into her eyes, his face so close she smelled coffee on his breath. It tempted her to lean forward and take a taste.

"Ready?" His deep and rich voice melted over her.

_More than you know,_ Samara thought, shaking her head at her silly thought.

"No?" Confusion crossed Orlando's his handsome face.

"Ready." She cleared her throat, her face warming in a blush she hadn't felt since freshman year in high school.

As he helped her sit up, Samara attempted to keep her thoughts out of the gutter. She succeeded, mostly. He smiled, then handed her the mug.

Samara took a quick sniff. "No designer coffee this morning?"

Orlando moved back to the fire. "Not unless you want it. I can make you some plain willow bark tea without the chamomile if you think you need it."

"No, I'll be okay for now."

Samara watched as he pulled a small pot from the fire. When he stirred it, Samara noticed he had wrapped his arm. She looked down at Zeus still lying beside her. Orlando also had wrapped a bandage around the dog's torso and front leg.

"How bad did the wolves hurt you two?" she asked as she petted Zeus.

"Not too bad." Orlando shrugged. "Zeus had some pretty deep gashes, and his paw will keep him out of the field for a bit. I just had some bite marks that needed cleaned."

Samara nodded as she sipped the coffee, letting the warmth and taste dance around her tongue, then soothe into her belly. She found it ironic that with one hand curled around the mug, the other scratching Zeus's ear, and a cozy fire burning close, she felt more at ease than she had in years. She should be concerned about getting to a clinic, alerting the authorities, and heck, even worried about the man by the fire. She couldn't dredge up any of those feelings though, and that concerned her. She'd have to snap out of it and keep her wits about her. There was no way she would be caught unawares again.

Orlando scooped some soup into a mug and brought it to her. She inhaled the earthy, delicious smell, and she swore she became Pavlov's dog and drooled. Her stomach rumbled loudly as she stirred the stew that had meat, herbs, and vegetables. She stared at the mug in wonder.

"Where in the world did you get all this? Is there a Wal-Mart I'm not aware of close by? I'm pretty sure you didn't have all this stuffed in those bags of yours."

"It was just some stuff I scrounged up this morning while you slept. The hare was easy to shoot. I found a bunch of onions springing up near the cave. God blessed us with the cattail find, though. I was able to use the entire plant from the roots to the tops to give the stew some heartiness," Orlando explained as he grabbed her empty coffee mug and spooned himself some soup into it.

Samara's mouth hung open in an unattractive gape. She almost lost her spoon in the dirt when it started to slide out of her hand in shock. She looked at the stew again with new respect. She took a bite and moaned at the hearty flavor.

"You made this delicious meal from things you 'scrounged up?' This is amazing!" she gushed as she took another big bite, savoring the dimensions she tasted.

People would kill for food like this... or pay a killing. Samara contemplated that as she scarfed it down. If they opened a little cafe on the road to Steamboat or Trapper's Lake, where tourists travelled but there weren't a lot of facilities, they might make a decent living. Set it up with a super mountain-cozy vibe. Orlando could cook up uber-organic meals from things they cultivated, and she could play gigs different nights of the week or maybe organize a music festival that brought tourists in.

Samara's thoughts ground to a halt. The trip had scrambled her brains. As soon as she got back to civilization, she planned to blow this taco stand, not build one. No amount of gourmet food or ruggedly gorgeous men could prevent her from keeping herself safe and far away from that psycho Harry.

# Chapter 4

"When can we get going?" Samara asked.

Orlando peered at her. A moment before, excitement had lit her face. Then her expression shuttered closed, and with her emotionless mask firmly in place, she asked about moving on. He understood her desire to tell the marshals about the man who had attacked her. Shoot, he even understood if she desired to get off this mountain and hightail it for somewhere far away. That survival instinct ran deep in her. But he hungered to know what thoughts brought such enlivened expressions to her face mere moments before.

"I have everything packed up and Loco saddled, so we just need to finish eating, check your cut to make sure it isn't getting infected, and head out," Orlando answered.

His heart hammered and his stomach soured with the trepidation of telling her there were no authorities or even Harry to worry about anymore. He didn't know how she'd take the news, but he imagined it wasn't going to be good. He had prayed all night for wisdom and nothing had come besides the obvious of just tossing it out to the wind. The only plan he had was to have her on the horse, that way she could be a bit more contained and couldn't run away, but would also be out in the open instead of stuck inside a cave that might make her feel trapped.

Orlando spooned more stew in her mug, then turned and gave the rest of the small pot to Zeus. As the dog slopped up the remaining breakfast, Orlando checked her stitches. It looked like it would heal with a minimal scar. As he smoothed on a salve he made from plantain leaves, comfrey, calendula, and rosemary, she sucked in a breath.

Orlando glanced up at her, and she shrugged. "It stings. No big deal. The authorities will want a picture of it, I bet."

To keep from slipping and ruining his not so well laid out plans to tell her about her little trip through time, he rushed around, cleaning the pot out and packing the last of the things. He picked Zeus up and took him outside, placing him on the ground by the cave entrance. Samara followed him from the cave and sat beside the dog. Orlando chuckled as the dog sighed in contentment and laid his head upon her lap. _Lucky dog_. He hustled back into the cave and doused the fire.

As he emerged he laid out his plan. "Here's how we are going to do this. I've set up a bed of sorts for Zeus to ride on the back behind the saddle. He'll be able to balance better and won't have to hang over Loco's neck like a shot deer. You'll sit in front of me. It won't be the most comfortable, but it'll get us there."

"Okay, let's blast off then."

Orlando picked up Zeus and laid him on the makeshift platform. He whined a bit, but Orlando told him to stay and the dog settled. Orlando turned to Samara, who stood close behind him, and motioned her over. She stepped so near her heat radiated to him. She smelled amazing, like the salve he'd used and a fresh, citrusy scent that came from her hair.

He breathed deeply, his words finding air before he could think. "You smell like sunshine and oranges."

He startled when she leaned her face into his neck and breathed deeply. "You smell like the woods and leather."

She sighed, the breath against his neck sending shivers of desire up and down his body. He stuffed those thoughts down. He better keep sharp. With what he had to tell her, she might knock him off the saddle and take off with his horse. Her riding off into the sunset did not fit in with his plans to keep her safe.

Of course that resolution meant squat as he awkwardly swung up into the saddle after lifting her up and pulled her up to him. It didn't help that he'd spent most of the night memorizing her delicate features. Her long, deep auburn hair curling around her face and down her shoulders had begged him to twirl his fingers through it. The smattering of freckles and perfect nose kept him dreaming of placing kisses on every single one before capturing her soft pink lips. _Just perfect._ Now his thoughts had circled right back where he didn't want them, with the added agony of actually holding and smelling her rather than just wishing to from across the cave.

He cleared his throat as they entered a tidy little meadow filled with spring wildflowers dancing in their glory. If he didn't have this crazy conversation looming over him, he'd enjoy her gasps of surprise and drawing her attention to details she might miss. As it was, his stomach churned with dread like never before. He just needed to buck up and get it over with. This dillydallying around didn't suit him. Besides, he could take her to explore the flowered mountain meadows another day. She'd be staying for a bit, if Hunter's case proved the same with her, though she might just hate him for being the bearer of the news.

Samara leaned back into Orlando's chest a little farther. She knew she probably shouldn't. She should sit up and keep some distance. But since smelling his soothing scent and having a sense of security wrapped in his arms, Samara decided she'd relish his support for the short time she had it. She wondered what he was thinking when she felt his heartbeat quicken against her back.

Orlando cleared his throat a second time. "Samara, I have something to tell you. It's gonna sound crazy, and you'll probably be wanting to find the closest asylum to lock me in. However, what I'm about to tell you is the truth."

"Okay, you've got my attention, in a frightening, Kathy Bates in _Misery_ type of way."

Orlando took a deep breath and blew it out. "I think the best way to describe what's going on is to tell you about my brother-in-law. About a year and a half ago, my sisters found a man injured at the base of one of the mountains around here. He wore strange clothing and his gear was different than anything they'd ever seen. Once they got him back to the cabin and got to talking, they realized something extraordinary had happened. He'd somehow traveled back in time. God had brought him back. I didn't think it would happen again, but when I found you and saw your case, I knew in an instant that you weren't from now. That is, you weren't from 1879."

Samara barked a harsh laugh. "Funny, and I thought you were the serious type. Not a good time to be joking, mister mountain man. You may enjoy hanging out here, dressing up in costume, and living out your dreams of long ago on the weekends, but that doesn't mean it's a growing fad."

"I didn't believe my family at first either, thought my father's death had driven them insane. Then they showed me his pack, his j phone, his weapon, the money printed in 2017... I couldn't not believe them. It's true, Samara, you've gone back to 1879," Orlando replied, his voice insistent.

Samara felt the stew from breakfast start to rise in her throat. She swallowed it down and took three long, deep breaths. This guy was more off his rocker than she thought. But then she remembered his confused look when he saw her bra, his lack of a bottle of pain killers, and how he called the iPhone a jPhone. He had claimed Harry would never hurt her again, maybe because he lived more than a hundred years in the future? She shook her head and wondered if she was going to pass out. It just wasn't possible. She had never been a fan of _The_ _Twilight Zone_.

Samara swung her leg over Loco's head and turned so she sat sideways on the horse. Orlando's hands tightened on her waist like he thought she'd jump or something. As tempting as it was, she didn't want to spook the horse.

She looked into Orlando's face, searching for the lies. "Take me to this brother-in-law of yours. I want to talk to him."

Deep regret washed over Orlando's face as he rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. "I wish I could. Lord knows he'd make it much easier to explain all this and help you believe and adjust. Hunter and Viola left for the forts south of here to do some trading and stock up on supplies, plus Hunter was ready to do some exploring of what Colorado is like now. They might be stopping in Denver on the way back. We know they'll be back before the snow falls. Beatrice is visiting friends of ours over the mountain a bit. The wife had a baby, so Beatrice offered to help out. I'm thinking she might be by here in the next two weeks or so on her way back to the other cabin, but again, not quite sure when."

"Isn't that convenient?" Samara knew her tone was sarcastic. Her breathing quickened. "This is crazy. No, I'm sorry. You're delusional. Time travel isn't possible. The whole butterfly effect and all. It can't happen without drastic effects to the future."

"Butterfly effect?"

"It's a theory, a story really, written by Ray Bradbury about how time travel is impossible. In the story, time travel becomes a reality, but they realize any changes made in the past drastically alter the future. A man goes back in time to hunt dinosaurs, freaks out, and steps on a butterfly, killing it. When they get back to the future, it's a different political environment. Most scientists have agreed that would be true, and if you ever got off this stupid mountain and came into reality, you'd understand that." Samara barely stifled the desire to call him a freak-job at the end of that statement.

His head rocked back and a loud laugh she might find delicious at any other time burst out. "Honey, if God brought you here, then you're supposed to be here. No stepping on a butterfly or anything will mess up the future. He's got that under control."

Samara laughed bitterly. "One more thing He's cursed me with, then. There is no evidence that even your God can do time travel. It's impossible."

"There's a record in Acts about Philip being transported in an instant to a village a good distance away. One minute he was baptizing an Ethiopian he met on the road, the next he's in a village somewhere else. God stopped the sun from rising for Joshua and the Israelites. He's the creator of time and space, if He wants you here for some reason, which He obviously does, you being here isn't going to change the future in a drastic way. You were always meant to be here at this exact moment," Orlando said with a thorough patience that made sense and irked her at the same time.

God, if He even existed, seemed intent on making her life as miserable as possible. First her parents' deaths, then her crappy childhood, and now, possibly throwing her back in time to an era she never had any desire to visit. If He wanted to send her back, why couldn't He do her a solid and send her to medieval Scotland with a bare-chested, muscled-up highlander bent on protecting her with his claymore? Though, she supposed Orlando wasn't some puny weakling with his corded muscles holding her in place. And he'd protected her against a pack of hungry wolves well enough. However, every time she had her life on course, God ripped it out from her and sent her tumbling again. She wished the so-called loving and caring God would just leave her alone.

"So, what, I'm just supposed to take your word for it? Your supposed experts conveniently travelled away. All ways to verify what you're saying are gone. And I'm, what, gonna let you take me to your cabin and live life out in this wilderness? That might be nice and all, but I have other plans for life, plans that involve people. I want you to take me to Glenwood Springs or Meeker, now."

Orlando sighed and looked off into the distance. He shook his head and adjusted his shoulders. Zeus whined behind him, as if sensing his discomfort. Samara felt a little sorry for the man, though she still thought him off his knocker.

"Listen, I know this doesn't seem possible, but it's true. Hunter explained what convinced him was the lack of stripes in the air left by machines that fly there. I think he called them planes. Maybe if you take some time to observe what's around, look honestly, maybe God will make it clear to you as well."

Samara shook her head. "No, Orlando. Listen very closely to the words that are coming out of my mouth." When his eyes narrowed, she spoke slow and clear. "Take me to Glenwood Springs or Meeker... now."

Orlando looked thoughtful for a second, then nodded. "Alright, Samara, I'll take you. Hunter told me the Yampah springs becomes this Glenwood Springs. It's closer than where Meeker is. It's going to take most of the day for us to get there, and while we travel, I'd like you to think about what I just said. Look around and see if you find the same evidence that Hunter did."

Samara nodded in consent, not really wanting to talk anymore anyways. She looked at the trees that edged the meadow they trekked through. They appeared green and healthy, devoid of any sign of spruce beetle kill that plagued the forests of Colorado. She shivered at the thought and focused on the sky above them. She stared for a good half an hour or more, waiting for the telltale sign that people flew to the corners of the world up there. Nothing appeared. In fact, the sky appeared bluer and clearer then she'd ever seen it. With not one single cloud in the sky, it seemed that if a God did exist, He wanted her to know without a doubt that there were no jet streams.

"This brother-in-law of yours, what's his name?" Samara muttered into the silence that had stretched between them.

"Hunter Bennett."

Her vision tunneled. She leaned into Orlando's shoulder. He pulled the horse to a stop and put his hands on the sides of her face, pushing his fingers into her hair.

"Samara, what is it? You just went white as a ghost." Orlando's voice was filled with concern.

"Hunter Bennett disappeared a year ago while hiking over by Steamboat. They never found any evidence, past his rental car, that he'd even been there. No body, no blood. Nothing. His brother has been searching for him," Samara whispered as this horrible joke became reality.

Could this all be a trafficking ring or something? Maybe Hunter stumbled upon it, and they made him disappear? She peered into Orlando's face. His skin was pallid under his beard, his hands shaking where they softly held her face. She'd become a pretty good judge of character over the years. She'd had to in order to survive. None of her warning bells were going off with him. She'd stay on guard, but she also trusted her instincts that he was telling her the truth.

Yet, how in the world could this be true? How was she supposed to live life now? She could not picture herself as a music teacher or governess. Teaching in a one room classroom was out of the question. All those kids trapped in four walls gave her hives just thinking about it. She definitely wouldn't have to worry about Harry, since apparently she had been enrolled in the most extreme witness protection program possible.

# Chapter 5

"Hunter worried about that, about his brother and what he would do," Orlando whispered, silently praising God that Samara seemed to understand he wasn't crazy.

"No, this is crazy!" She sat up quickly. "You must've read an article and that's how you know Hunter's name. This is just a no-fly zone or something. This area must not be in a flying pattern."

Orlando sighed and urged Loco forward. There went his hope she was accepting the situation. Maybe if he took a more clinical approach, she might believe what she already knew was true.

"Okay, Samara, what do you see when you look around?"

She leaned slightly back into him while still holding herself up. The way she sat certainly wasn't the most conventional, with her legs off to one side and him having to hold her back with one arm to keep her from falling. He appreciated how he was able to watch her. He liked how her expressions marched their way across her face.

"All right. Well, there's the lack of jet streams you mentioned, not that I really pay attention to them. In fact, I probably wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't pointed it out. Normally the sky has at least one of them within the hour, often multiple."

"You mean there will be these machines in the sky at the same location?" Orlando interrupted, forgetting he wanted her to talk her theories through.

"Well, yeah, jet streams crisscross all the time," Samara answered.

"How do they not crash?"

"Well, it's pretty technical. The airplanes have computers that monitor what's around them and will tell them when another plane is heading their way or if there's a mountain in front of them. That way they can fly in any weather, within reason. But they also fly at different altitudes. One might be flying at thirty thousand feet and the other thirty-five thousand, and it'd look like they were going to crash from down here, but they just fly past each other."

Orlando gaped at her, the reins slipping through his fingers. She grabbed them and placed them back in his hands. He closed his mouth and blinked several times before the shock wore off.

"It can fly that high and stay there?" he asked when his brain started working again.

Samara giggled. "Yeah, they actually get that high within ten minutes or so and can go even higher, but they don't. I think the military flies higher, but commercial planes with hundreds of people on them stay lower for safety reasons. Of course, the smaller planes fly lower. Their engines aren't as big."

"Hundreds of people? They're big enough to hold hundreds of people and they stay floating in the air? How is this possible?" Orlando hoped at some point he'd stop sounding like an idiot.

"Well, domestic flights typically have about two hundred and fifty passengers, though the international flights that go to Europe and Asia hold three hundred and fifty or so. I honestly don't understand how it all works. The engineering and science is beyond me, but I'm glad they've figured it out. Getting from Philly to Cali in one day makes life much more enjoyable."

"I... I just can't fathom that," Orlando stuttered, not progressing very well in sounding intelligent.

"You really don't know anything about this do you? You are as white as toothpaste." Samara placed her hand on his cheek.

"Hunter and I mostly talked about other things like medical and weaponry advancements. Then when winter started drawing close and I knew Hunter could take care of my sisters without me, I moved to our cabin we use for trapping. The other cabin was just too small for all of us. It's a few days ride away, so I haven't been back much to see them." Orlando shook his head. "I knew people flew in contraptions, I guess I didn't realize the extent of it. It's baffling really."

Samara stared at him in thought. Her eyes held a sadness he wished he could erase. Then, as if she'd gathered her thoughts, her demeanor shifted to resolution.

"This is real. I've traveled back in time, haven't I?"

"I'm afraid so."

Samara sighed. "I'd still like to see Glenwood Springs if you don't mind. I need to see it for myself."

"I don't mind taking you there, Samara, if that's what you need to know that I'm not lying."

"Why? Why me?"

"I don't know, but I do know God must have a plan for you, something only you could do, otherwise you wouldn't be here. Maybe he wanted to save you, keep you from Harry. I also know that I'll help you in whatever way I can. I'm not going to make you go through this alone." Orlando solidified his declaration he'd already made in his heart.

"God's only plan for me is pain. He's never saved me from anything. I've had to do that myself." Samara's body stiffened, then drooped.

Orlando knew well enough to leave that comment alone for now. Samara's past seemed riddled with hurt and struggle. He wanted to know every detail so he could help heal those wounds that festered and kept her from God, who she knew but had rejected. He prayed God would give him wisdom in when to pick at and flush the wounds and when to let them be.

"I interrupted your earlier explanation of what convinced you it's the past. Would you mind continuing? I promise I won't, how do you put it, 'freak out' on you again." Orlando hoped to get her to continue talking

"Well, on top of the jet streams, the sky appears bluer, maybe from a lack of pollution. Then there's that pack of wolves. Wolves were killed off at the beginning of the 1900s. There hasn't been a pack of wolves since. It's kind of become an issue since some people want to reintroduce them into the environment. But the thing that clinched it for me is the trees. They're all green. There're no spruce beetle areas anywhere." Samara pointed to the trees.

"What's a spruce beetle?"

"It's this bug that infects the forest and kills the trees. There are entire sections of forest covering Colorado that are brown and dying. It's worse in wilderness sections because the government doesn't allow the forest cleaned of dead trees and brush, and with forest fires suppressed, there's no cleaning up being done naturally."

"Well, that's just stupid. Everyone knows as dangerous as fires are, they keep the forest healthy. You just have to stay out of the way until they're done. You might lose everything, but in the long run it's better for everyone," Orlando countered.

"Yeah, well, the powers that be decided a long time ago that suppressing fires as quickly as possible was safer than letting them burn and possibly killing people and destroying homes. I watched this fascinating documentary on PBS called _Fire Wars_ about the history of forest fire maintenance. In theory it's a good plan, but it's created forests so thick with overgrowth that fires now have so much fuel, they burn out of control. I don't know much about it all, but maybe if the forests had been able to take care of themselves, the spruce beetle wouldn't have taken over as much of the forest as it has. Of course, that's just a theory, but I'd take forests that look like this over the ones of my time any day."

"I guess I can understand wanting to protect people and their property. From what Hunter told us, the West fairly explodes with people, which seems crazy." Orlando shook his head again, noticing that Samara's shoulders had drooped farther and her eyelids appeared as heavy as a two-ton bear. "Why don't you lean back and try to sleep? You look about done in."

Samara hesitantly sat back against him, her breath skirting across his neck. "I believe I'm going to take a nap. I'm beat, and I think my mind needs a break."

He saw a definite benefit to riding double this way. The muscles in his arm would recover, and even if they didn't, she leaned on his left arm, so he could still shoot and write.

"Go ahead. I won't let you fall," Orlando replied.

"We'll see," she mumbled.

How could two little words challenge Orlando and invigorate him at the same time? It was baffling, but he knew he'd do anything to earn her trust. He pulled her close and enjoyed the scenery he appreciated more after talking to her while he took her the rest of the way home.

Samara inhaled, the mix of sweet meadow grass and musky leather revving up her system like she'd just stepped into a Krispy Kreme. Her body hummed in anticipation with the scents alone. Then her support moved and her body's humming ramped up to full blown sugar high, complete with an extra shot of caffeine.

Orlando cleared his throat and adjusted her again. She sat up from where she'd snuggled into his neck in her sleep and looked into his face. He gave her a small, lopsided smile, and she melted like a donut fresh off the conveyor belt, all sticky and sweet.

What in the world was wrong with her? She groaned at her ridiculousness and turned forward. She needed to remember that she wasn't a donut melting in an instant. She was a prickly pear cactus, sharp and spiky. The cactus had kept her alive when life had taken bite after bite out of her. Sure, it kept people away, but if life had taught her one thing, it was that people would leave her. Her parents had proved that. Jeremy, her ex-fiancé, had proved that.

Samara thought about the time she'd let the soft, juicy flesh within her sharp exterior surface. She remembered when she'd let herself relax, figuring she'd found her sanctuary in the Institute, a place full of sappy musicians, solid walls, and reliable meals. The cactus blossomed when Jeremy Steese had dripped sweet words and soft touches her way. Soon fragrant flowers overshadowed the spikes as their relationship had progressed, and he'd proposed. Of course it was later, after he'd sliced open her flesh and devoured anything soft left, that she realized he'd only been using her to progress his own career. She hadn't been enough to keep him there.

That's when Samara had comprehended the essence of herself, the intrinsic fact that she wasn't worth sticking around for. She should've realized it when her parents chose God over her as missionaries in the Philippines, when her foster parents chose their monthly payments over her, when her so-called friends on the streets chose ease over her. She figured she was dense, but she finally got it. She wasn't going to let some handsome mountain man's promises or the fact she appeared stuck in a Jeremiah Johnson nightmare let her forget again. The place and year didn't change the simple fact that she would always be a prickly pear, not a Krispy Kreme. She was still too much effort for an insufficient reward.

"We're almost there." Orlando's deep voice vibrated in her ear. "Just through these trees and you'll see the Grand River and Roaring Fork where they connect. The Yampah springs are at the base of the mountain, but I'd rather not go down there."

"Why?"

Orlando chuckled. "My family and the Utes have been friends for years, since my grandparents settled here. If we go down there, it might be days before I'm able to leave with all the visiting they'll want to do. While I don't mind coming over here so you can see, I really do need to get back to the homestead."

"Why?" Samara wanted to smack herself for sounding like a broken record.

"Well, my sheep will need tending, and the garden can't go too many days without watering, especially in this kind of heat."

Huh, he didn't strike her as the shepherd-type. That picture seemed too tame for him, too mild. Though she supposed David from the Bible did fight off lions. If her memory of those stories were correct, David wasn't a mild guy either.

Loco stepped out of the mesquite and sage to a cliff that overlooked a beautiful scene far below. Samara sucked in a sharp breath, her skin tingling uncomfortably. This was the valley she'd explored so often through the summer with the red cliffs and two rivers converging at the base of the mountains. The valley that stretched south was the same Roaring Fork valley she'd sketched over and over again in her pad that sat on the table next to her bed back in 2019.

Where the thriving city of Glenwood Springs should be sprawling in all directions, a group of teepees sat along the river below. No gondola carried people up and down the mountain to visit the fairy caverns. No interstate ran alongside the river with vehicles rushing by. The silence was so complete Samara could hear her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

"Are you alright?" Orlando's soft question eased the tension that threatened to squeeze her heart to a stop.

She nodded, sucking in a deep breath and forcing her heart to slow. She shouldn't have been surprised. Orlando had told her Glenwood Springs didn't exist anymore... or yet. But she guessed her heart hadn't truly accepted the fact that she had been transported back in time like some sci-fi movie.

"Huh, I wonder what's going on over there." Orlando drew her attention away from the absence of all she knew to where he pointed at thin threads of smoke curling towards the sky. "Let's go check it out."

Samara suddenly wasn't sure she wanted to check things out. Even though she had spent almost as much time exploring the local history museums as she did drawing the beautiful landscapes, she didn't want to truly understand the world she found herself in, at least not with a hands-on understanding. A world full of rugged miners and rogue Utes. A world where women spent their time baking, cleaning, and raising families. She didn't know any of that stuff, relying on take out and frozen dinners.

"O-okay." Samara's voice stuttered.

"It'll be alright. We'll just check it out, then head for the homestead." Orlando's pat on her shoulder pricked her pride.

As they rode toward the smoke, Samara's gaze kept veering over the edge of the cliff. The change in the valley kicked her brain into high gear. What would the rest of the world look like? Her wondering stopped short as they approached a rough looking log cabin sitting close to the cliff. Samara gaped at the small cabin barely taller than a man, the logs chopped unevenly and mud slapped haphazardly between the wood. A hand-painted sign tacked above the door read 'Fort Defiance.'

Orlando dismounted, then lifted Samara down from Loco's back, his eyes scanning the area. He petted Zeus's head and whispered something in the dog's ear. Orlando's rigid shoulders caused Samara's already tense nerves to go on high alert.

"Stay out here with Zeus." Orlando turned his attention to her, his stare intense. "I don't want him trying to jump down, and if you stay here with him, he won't get so anxious."

Samara thought the explanation was flimsy at best, but she wasn't going to argue with him. "Alright. Don't be long."

"I won't." Orlando motioned with his hand to Zeus and strolled into the cabin.

Samara rubbed Zeus's ear as she scrutinized the area. Maybe she should leave? She could follow the river and head north where the valley would eventually lead her to where the town of Meeker would be. She remembered there had been an Indian agency there. They'd probably be able to help her. She glanced at Loco. Would she be able to handle the big horse? Would Orlando press charges for horse stealing? Didn't they hang people for that?

"Well, look what we've got here, boys." The gritty voice and raucous laughter raced up her legs like she'd stepped in a spider's nest.

Zeus growled low, his hair rising on the back of his head. Samara turned around slowly to the group of men emerging from the mesquite. The four of them snickered and leered at her from beneath dirty hats smashed upon matted hair that hung ragged around their shoulders. This was not the welcoming party to the nineteenth century she wanted.

# Chapter 6

Orlando ducked his head into the small cabin through the open door, not really knowing what to expect. It took a lot of nerve to build atop the cliff on land owned by the Utes. The cabin was set up as a shop of sorts with some supplies on shelves. A man stood bent over the counter surveying a map. Orlando cleared his throat, and the man looked up.

A smile stretched across his face as he strode around the counter with his hand outstretched. "Welcome to Fort Defiance! John Landis, at your service."

"Orlando Thomas." Orlando met John's hand.

John's eyes sprang wide open and his hand stopped mid-shake. "The Orlando Thomas?"

"Yep." Orlando attempted to release John's hand.

"Well, land sakes, it's an honor to meet you." John pumped Orlando's hand up and down some more.

The low growl of Zeus reached Orlando's ear a second before rowdy laughter. Dread pooled into his gut. He shouldn't have left Samara outside alone. He pulled his hand from John's and raced out the door.

If the scene before him didn't burn him with anger, he'd chuckle at how adorable Samara looked. His clothes hanging from her tiny frame may have hidden her feminine body, but it did nothing to disguise her breathtaking looks or wild auburn curls. A rough-looking group of prospectors were closing in around her, backing her into Loco's side and blocking her escape. Her expression was a wall of strength, though her hands shook where they were clenched at her side. Orlando suppressed the urge to draw his revolvers and teach these men a lesson they wouldn't forget.

"Is there a problem here?" Orlando's voice came out hard and menacing.

"No problem, no problem at all." The biggest man, who seemed to be the leader, smiled stupidly. "We are just welcoming this little lady to Fort Defiance. Glad to finally have some decent entertainment, if you know what I mean."

The man winked at Orlando, causing Orlando's blood to boil. Samara wasn't some harlot in a brothel. Orlando's hands fisted.

"You boys better back up and head out." Orlando clenched his teeth.

"What's it to you? This your woman, mister?" A scrawny fellow that had more bones than muscle sneered.

"This here is Orlando Thomas, boys. If I were you, I'd do as he says," John said from behind Orlando.

The men had mixed expressions of fear and awe as they stumbled back from Samara, tripping over each other as they did. Samara's head snapped to Orlando, her auburn eyebrows winging up her forehead.

"Sor— sorry Mr. Thomas, sir. We didn't realize she was yours," the scrawny one stammered, his hands wringing together. Orlando's eyes narrowed.

Samara's shocked gasp drew Orlando's gaze. Her hands were on her hips and her mouth fell open. The men ignored her as they stared at Orlando with wide eyes.

The leader stepped forward, and to Orlando's horror, bowed slightly. "We're the Raffertys, sir, cousins from Ohio. It's an honor to meet you, sir."

"Is it true you scaled Pike's Highest Peak with nothing but your bare hands and a canteen?" The scrawny one's face morphed from concern to excitement.

"Or what about the time you were surrounded by Utes, and when your guns jammed, you fought your way out with your wits and bare hands?" another hollered.

"Oh— tell us about when the grizz attacked you and when the beast knocked your knife out of your hand, you wrestled it to the ground and choked it with your bare hands. That's my favorite." The man's voice sounded breathless with excitement.

Samara peered at Orlando, one eye cocking up in question. She smirked, glancing deliberately at his hands still clenched at his side and back up to his face. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

"Is this how you normally treat women?" Orlando's question muted the men's expressions of excitement to confusion.

They looked among each other, shaking their heads until the scrawny one elbowed the leader who stepped forward. "We were just having some fun, Mr. Thomas. We meant no disrespect. It's been a mighty long time since we've had sight of someone so purty."

Orlando took a menacing step forward, his eyes narrowing on the lot of them. "If I ever hear of you boys accosting another woman in these mountains, I will personally hunt you down and teach you a lesson."

"Sir, we hadn't spent any money on her yet." The scrawny one scratched his head, a look of strained thinking on his face.

"He means bothering, you dolt." The leader smacked his cousin on the head and knocked his hat off. The leader turned to Orlando. "You have our word, Mr. Thomas, sir. We won't be costing any women no more."

Orlando gave one more threatening look, then approached Samara. "Can we head home now?"

Samara nodded, giving him a speculative perusal. There were times he hated the legend his life had built living in the shadow of his father. People complained women liked to do nothing but talk, but he'd have to say the men of the mountains proved that they were just as apt to jaw, spinning tales around campfires late into the night. He wasn't even sure how some of the stories connected to him were birthed, but they were, leaving a trail of awestruck men in its path. He shrugged off his upset, missing his secluded cabin where he was just Orlando, not some blown-up fictional tall tale.

"Do you think he'll tell us about the time the mountain lion tried to chew his head off and he pried the animal's jaw from his head with his bare hands?" Orlando heard whispered from the crowd of men as he lifted Samara onto the saddle.

Orlando shook his head in disgust as he mounted up behind Samara. With a quick nod to John, Orlando turned Loco toward home. Hopefully that little trip convinced Samara she was in the past. At the same time, he prayed it hadn't planted far-fetched notions of him in her head.

Samara hated the fact that it took her a long time to calm her shaking body, even after being pulled tight to Orlando. While she appreciated that Orlando didn't say a word about her obvious fright, it irritated her that she hadn't confronted the men, or at least run for the cabin. She hadn't even been able to call for help. Maybe leaving Orlando wouldn't be the smartest move yet.

"Stupid, weak—" she muttered under her breath.

"Sorry, what did you say?" Orlando leaned his head closer.

Great, now the man had caught her talking to herself. "I was... I was just wondering if what those guys said was true. Did you really escape a band of angry Utes and strangle a bear... with your bare hands?"

Samara couldn't hear what he mumbled before he huffed in her ear. "No, those are just tall tales. Most of the stories are actually of my Pa. For some reason my name gets tossed into the stories. While I did have a tussle with a bear once, I did not kill him with my bare hands."

Samara turned her head to glance back at him, cocking her eyebrow in question. He rubbed the back of his neck and peered into the trees along the trail. Pink tinged his neck in a blush, and Samara smiled wide.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well what?"

"How'd you kill the bear?" Samara wondered if she really wanted to know.

"Let's just say my knife wasn't knocked from my hand." Orlando adjusted in the saddle and surveyed the other side of the trail, cutting off her view of his face.

"What about climbing Pike's Peak and the mountain lion chomping on your head?"

"I have no idea where that cougar story comes from. I swear some yarns spin themselves." Orlando laughed, a look of chagrin on his face. "As far as Pike's Peak goes, that tale is mostly true. I also had my haversack with medical supplies and some jerky along with my canteen."

"Hmm." Samara's forehead crinkled in question at such a seemingly foolish venture. Everything Orlando had done so far exuded intelligence, so why would he do something so contrary to that?

"What?"

"Well, why did you go up there with so little?" Samara searched his face for lies or embellishments to his story.

"I was down by Pike's Peak getting supplies when word got out that a group of miners had gotten stuck up on the peak. They had been foolish, really, getting well off the trail in an area much too treacherous to journey through. No one was willing to go save them." Orlando shrugged as he looked into her eyes. "I couldn't leave them up there to die. So I left my wagon with some acquaintances who mine near there and headed out to see if I could help."

"Did you find them?"

Orlando nodded, his voice trailing off as he gazed blankly into the woods. "Not before two of them perished, though."

"Oh." Samara turned around, sorry she'd pushed him to answer.

Orlando wasn't like any man she'd ever met. What kind of man risked his own life to save someone from their own foolish mistakes, and then felt such deep emotion later? She knew what kind of man risked that, a man just like her father. A man who would end up killed in his naive attempt to help others. Samara's breath hitched at the thought, determined to steel herself to his kindness and move on as soon as she figured out how to.

A soft bleating interrupted her inner distress, causing her to sit up a little straighter. They rounded a curve in the skinny game trail they were following through the woods and emerged into a beautiful mountain meadow that stretched out toward the mountains in the distance. She gasped in delight at a herd of sheep that dotted the meadow like large cotton balls. A laugh escaped as she watched lambs frolic and tumble among the columbine and Indian paintbrush. With the mountains continuing their trek into the sky in the distance, the aspen and pine marching along the edge, and a meandering stream lazily winding its way through the tall grass and wildflowers, she thought this was the most beautiful place she had ever seen.

"Welcome to my home." Orlando's deep voice rumbled through her.

She then noticed the little cabin tucked into the corner of the meadow with a larger log barn hiding behind the cabin, inconspicuous in their attempt to blend into the surroundings. A corral held a couple of horses that called out to their approaching friend, Loco, who answered in turn. The creek winding past the cabin had a section fenced in where it bubbled along the edge of a garden that was shooting its green plants towards the sky. The fence looked odd with its log pieces woven together and stretching precariously over the creek, winding down its edge and crossing back, almost as if unsure of its job in this expansive wilderness meadow. It seemed a rather large garden for a single man who appeared to not need anything cultivated, just the woods— a few minutes and a meal would be had.

"It's breathtaking," she whispered, leaning back into him with a sigh of contentment.

"I never thought much about leaving where I grew up. It just always seemed home, you know. But when Hunter married my sister Viola, the cabin got mighty small. I figured this would be a good spot since we already had the cabin and barn built. I never imagined I would love it here as much as I do, but it's become a place that's mine. I still carry the memories of building the cabin and barn with Pa and the times we shared here while trapping. But with the garden, the flock, and settling in, it's become a part of me that brings me a peace I hope might pass to you while you are here." Orlando surveyed the area with pride.

Peace. She'd felt the wrap of its comforting arms around her the instant they turned the curve. It'd been so long since she'd been in its presence, she didn't recognize the calm. She realized she used to bask in peace before her world had fallen apart. In a moment of fright, she wanted to push the feeling away, keep it at arm's length, to remain on guard. Ready for when serenity left in a blink, leaving her exposed and vulnerable again. But exhaustion pulled at her shoulders. Exhaustion, not just from the last twenty-four hours, but from the last twelve years. She decided she'd let the tranquility remain, allow it to curl around her a little bit longer. Then when she had her feet back under her, she'd build her walls against it again.

Orlando loved his home in the mountain meadow. The presence of God saturated him with peace whenever he was here. Though he always knew God was with him, this place he'd claimed as his seemed steeped in the Spirit.

As Samara glanced around the area, small gasps of joy escaping from her, he prayed that God would wrap His Spirit around her, give her some space to breathe without the intensity that radiated from her. He'd seen others who acted like her before, run up against the walls they built up to protect themselves, but they had been mostly warriors, men who spent their time on the attack or in defense from others. Was that what had caused her to be the same?

He sighed as she leaned back into him. Her shoulders relaxed and the tension left her. Maybe this meadow of his could heal her soul, like it had healed his.

"Why sheep? I'm sorry, but it doesn't seem like something a mighty mountain man would raise," Samara asked.

Orlando laughed out loud at the absurd description of himself, ruing running into those men and their stories. Now, his father fit that description. Orlando strived to live like his father, a man known throughout the Rockies as a man of respect, infused with the power of the mountains he'd been raised in. Though Orlando tried to encompass his father's legacy, he often wondered if it was a fleeting wish, one he could never live up to. Lately he wondered if he even deserved to attempt, what with how catastrophically he'd failed his father.

He shook off those thoughts, not wanting Samara to sense his struggle. "They are actually an experiment I've been working on since last year. I want to find more sustainable means of livelihood to carve out of these mountains than mining. So many come out here, betting on striking it rich, only to end up struggling to feed themselves. With sheep, someone could sell both the wool and the meat. They could also eat them if times got lean and game were scarce. The ewes can be milked for a family. Overall, I thought it might just help out some folks willing to do the work. I have a friend I recently made who is taking some of the sheep down south a bit to see if we can replicate what I've done here. I guess we'll find out in the next year or so."

"Isn't that a little controversial? I mean, aren't the cattlemen not too fond of sheep? I mean, they don't call them the Sheep Wars for nothing," Samara asked.

"Sheep Wars? I know some of the cattle ranchers aren't happy with sheep out on the plains, but there aren't any ranchers up here running cattle. It's too harsh for cattle."

"You'll be surprised. Maybe it hasn't exploded yet, but it gets pretty nasty," Samara said.

A thin thread of apprehension wove through him, but he shook it off. "I can't help how others will react. There will always be those that come against me, and if there isn't, the mountains will give a go at it. I believe this is a viable income for those willing, and I'm up for helping those who are."

Orlando couldn't become concerned about everything Samara knew would happen. If he did, he'd lock himself in his cabin and never actually live. He'd just put his trust in God like he always had and pray for protection and wisdom along the way.

# Chapter 7

Samara shook her head at Orlando's selflessness. She'd never met someone willing to experiment with a livelihood, one that invited attack, to help others survive. No one did that, especially not someone struggling to carve a life out of the mountains themselves. She couldn't remember the last time she'd helped someone else. Pushing aside the prick of unease her thoughts created in her conscience, she refocused on the tidy little homestead drawing closer.

"Why do you have the fence around the creek and garden like that?" She hoped to distract herself.

"The little fluff balls kept getting in my garden and eating my medicinal herbs. Since I planted the garden next to the creek for ease of watering, I decided just to fence the creek in along with the garden to make it easier on myself."

Samara chuckled in surprise and the bleating got louder and more enthused. The sheep had caught sight of them and were frolicking toward them. The first to arrive caused such a racket, she put her hands over her ears and turned to Orlando with a smile. He rolled his eyes and muttered something to her.

She took her hands off her ears. "What?"

He smiled and pulled her close, speaking into her ear and sending lambs tiptoeing in her belly. "I'm gonna have to get down and greet them, otherwise they'll never leave us alone."

She nodded as his hand slid down her arm to grasp the saddle. He leaned forward, invading her senses with his leather-forest smell before he swung his leg awkwardly behind him and over Zeus. If someone figured out that tempting scent, they'd make a killing in cologne sales. Heck, she'd buy a bottle just so she could keep that intoxicating aroma close, maybe spray her pillow so she'd dream of rugged mountain men who helped others and greeted sheep.

Samara giggled as she watched him meander through the flock. He was a dichotomy she didn't understand. His clothing, while coarse, molded to his impressive body as if they were one, loose where needed for ease of movement and close to the muscles for stealth. His pants and jacket appeared handmade out of leather with fringe hanging, some missing from where it looked cut. His shirt that peeked out from beneath, while clean, appeared to be made from plain cotton dyed a faded red and was well worn. His dark gray felt hat had a large, flat brim and low crown misshapen and abused by much use. It covered his golden blond hair that hung to his shoulders. The gold in his beard was tinged with red. In her time, people would assume he rode the Thor bandwagon, but his version appeared genuine, determined, and much more heart-stoppingly gorgeous. His feet finished the picture, wrapped in moccasins stained dark with use.

What stilled the breath within her throat wasn't his manly physique and good looks, but rather the way he moved with ease and care through the flock. He softly crooned to the sheep, touching each one gently on the face and the back. When one determined to be needy, he didn't push it away. He stopped and lifted its face and rubbed beneath its chin, talking lowly to it. It had been the same way he'd treated her and Zeus, tenderly with patience. Even when the wolves had attacked, he'd remained calm, infusing her with his strength, never jerking or violent, just smooth, efficient movements. She hadn't encountered this gentle ruggedness before and didn't know how to prepare herself against it.

When all the sheep had said hello and wandered back out into the field and the three massive sheepdogs that looked to be Zeus's relatives received their greeting, Orlando turned to her and approached with a shrug. He came beside Loco and reached up to pet Zeus, who whined behind her. He leaned in and whispered something in Zeus's ear causing the dog's tail to thump against the horse's rump.

Orlando's eyes twinkled with joy as he shrugged. "They're a hassle, that's for sure, but they should be content now. Let's get you two into the cabin. I need to check both your's and Zeus's wounds, make sure they're not getting infected."

Samara nodded and swallowed. She needed some time to think, to decompress, and figure out a way to get back to her time. A way to get far from this man that caused her brain to skid to a halt.

Samara tripped over her feet at the threshold of the cabin. Her mouth decided to take up the torch of embarrassment by hanging open in a gawk so big a horsefly could've flown in and set up camp. The interior of the cabin, painted white, felt bright and fresh, not how she imagined a rustic cabin would be. Drying herbs hung from ladders attached to the ceiling. Shelves lined one wall and contained not only big tomes but what looked like journals and rows of carefully labeled jars and bottles.

A bed pushed up against one corner had a colorful quilt upon it and a trunk against the end. A door led to a room beyond which she assumed was a bedroom, though why he would have two beds confused her. A stone fireplace sat in the middle of the wall dividing the cabin, which was ingenious since the stone wall would heat the bedroom from the backside. Hooks hung on swivels that moved into the fireplace. Since no other stove was present, the cooking must've been done in the fireplace. She shook her head in amazement. The only other furniture in the room was a large kitchen table that only had two chairs and a rocking chair set next to a crude end table.

Though the cabin held more charm than she expected, the immaculate state of the room surprised her most. Between the crisp walls, split-log floor scrubbed spotless, and the shelves without a speck of dust, one would think they'd walked into a house in the middle of the city in her time, not a cabin in the middle of the wilderness in 1879. Even the herbs hanging from the ceiling were cobweb free and tidy.

"I'm going to set Zeus on the bed out here for now. You'll have the bedroom through the door. I'll just grab my stuff from there after I bring in the saddlebags." Orlando crossed the room and set the fluffy dog on the bed.

He crossed back to where Samara stood at the door and squeezed past her to go outside, but not before she saw the blush that had risen upon his cheeks beneath his beard. She smiled at his awkwardness, glad she wasn't the only one troubled by this arrangement.

Zeus whined from the bed as Orlando disappeared. Samara crossed the room and sat beside the dog, rubbing him behind the ears. This entire situation was beyond awkward. Downright crazy was what it was.

"It's going to be okay, big boy. Everything's going to be okay." Samara wasn't sure if she was trying to convince herself or the dog. She slid her fingers through Zeus's beautiful white fur, scratching beneath his shoulder blade. Zeus's paw started twitching, its wrapped length moving faster the more she scratched.

Orlando groaned as he came back in the cabin. "He's never going to want to come to the field and do his job now. You'll surely ruin him."

Samara looked at Orlando in concern and wariness. Was this what would push him over? His smile and the humor in his eyes told her no. She inwardly sighed in relief.

"I'm sure Zeus will be more than happy to go back to work when he's healed," Samara crooned to the big dog like a baby. "But in the meantime, I plan on spoiling my hero."

Orlando set his saddlebags on the table, then brought her dulcimer case to her. He placed it on the bed and roughly petted Zeus's head. He moved to the fireplace and quickly had a fire going before she would've even had the kindling stacked. Just like the cabin, he exuded efficient exactness. She wondered what it would take to get him rattled.

Orlando was a mess. He didn't know how to proceed in this situation. When she'd watched him greet the silly sheep, her face a mixture of confusion and appreciation, his tongue had grown thick. As she'd inventoried his house, looking at all the corners and crevices, his hands had started sweating, wondering what she thought. Now as she sat on the spare bed, running her fingers through the dog's fur, watching Orlando build up the fire, his stomach filled with grasshoppers all jumping in a chaotic dance. He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass and worried about what she saw. Would she continue to examine him in interest or squish him in disgust?

Orlando attempted as best he could to act like he always did, trying to pretend this situation didn't have him rattled like a lost lamb bleating for its mama. She was likely going a bit crazy in her head and he wanted to provide a safe place for her to be. He wanted to save her any discomfort in this strange situation, and the only way he knew how to do that was to operate as normally as he could, even though his nerves had him fried like burnt bacon.

A soft melody drifted from the corner, beautiful and peaceful. He pivoted on his toes where he crouched before the fire and saw her with her instrument laid across her lap, strumming the strings in a light rhythm, her eyes closed and face lifted. An Irish fairy had landed in his cabin with her delicate features, and her auburn hair tumbling over one shoulder glittered like copper in the firelight. She was magical. Her small stature and graceful fingers concealed the strength that lay within.

Not wanting to interrupt the song, Orlando filled the pot with water, placed it on the hook attached to the fireplace, and moved it into the fire to boil. He needed to sterilize his tools and wanted to let Samara wash up. He grabbed a few herbs from the shelf, placed them on the table, and then moved a chair beside the bed.

"That's beautiful. What's the song called?" Orlando whispered, not wanting her to stop playing, but needing to check her and Zeus's wounds before he did the chores that had been neglected in his absence.

Samara looked at him, her face calm with a hint of puzzlement. "It doesn't have a title. I just made it up. This is odd to say, but music has always flowed through me. Most times the music expresses how I'm feeling much better than even I know."

"That's how you're feeling right now?" Orlando tried to keep his astonishment and joy from his voice.

Samara's face scrunched in confusion, complete opposition to her song that continued to float on peaceful waves through the cabin. He could tell she warred with the dichotomy. Her mind probably struggled with her spirit. Orlando's heart clenched at the realization that she didn't even trust herself. Her inner battles must be constant and draining.

"I guess so, though I'm having a hard time reconciling that. Since we turned that bend in the trail and came into your meadow, I've felt at peace. Between your adorable sheep, this beautiful home, and the gorgeous scenery, it seems like a haven I've never experienced before. I'm not sure how to handle it, quite frankly." Samara's fingers stumbled and lay quiet on the strings.

Orlando touched her with a gentle caress. "Trust your music, Samara. Your spirit won't lie."

Samara grasped his hand as he pulled away. She trembled slightly. He stared into her amber eyes that shone with unshed tears. She made one quick nod and squeezed his fingers before letting go. She went back to strumming her song, the peaceful melody floating more confidently through the space. He stood and strode back to the table.

"Orlando?"

"Yes?" He turned back to her.

"Thank you," she said with a weight that overwhelmed the two small words.

Orlando cleared his throat, thick with emotion. "You're welcome."

He prayed that he could keep the peace playing through Samara. He allowed the tone to calm his anxiety as he mixed some herbs to make an ointment for Samara's cut. The music washed over his tight shoulders, loosening the aching.

# Chapter 8

Samara played as Orlando tinkered around the cabin. She played as he smoothed salve on her cut. She continued to play into the silence when he left to take care of the chores outside.

Samara didn't understand this peace that flowed through her into her song. She couldn't remember ever before having this sense of serenity that filled and surrounded her entire being. She knew she should freak out at this whole time-travel thing and her being stuck in the middle of a mountain with a man she knew nothing about with no apparent escape to civilization forthcoming. Though she guessed civilization wouldn't be that civilized, if she remembered her history right.

Instead of letting the details of the situation overwhelm her, Samara did as Orlando suggested. She allowed the peace that danced through her music to fill her until she believed she could handle what she'd been thrown into. Zeus sighed in contentment beside her, and she giggled.

"You sure are happy," Samara said to the dog.

"And you, fair lady, are surely a fairy queen, sparkling with beauty and charming the wild beasts with your song." Orlando pushed open the door with a basket of leaves in one hand and a bucket of water in the other.

Samara laughed as she placed her dulcimer in its case. "Fairy queen, indeed. That's a good one."

She pushed to the edge of the bed to help Orlando. "What can I do to help?"

"Samara, you probably need to relax today. Just take the day to heal, pet the dog, and order me about. Tomorrow is soon enough for you to get busy helping. Besides, it's not much. Just some chores."

"I'm going to go batty. I don't have my phone. I can't check my social media accounts. Forget about catching up on my television series. If what you say is right, I won't watch another television show my entire life. My mind is going to explode from boredom." Samara knew she whined like a spoiled brat but didn't really care.

Orlando, ever steady, shrugged. "You'll figure it out. I have lots of books. I can teach you how to make clothing and sew leather. You'll be too busy to be bored."

Samara was being ridiculous. It wasn't like anyone would even really notice she disappeared from cyberspace. Her accounts stayed open simply for her to network and land gigs. She closed her eyes and remembered the song that had woven through her. She didn't want the stress and anxiety she'd tangled herself in. She wanted to linger in that peace, even if it only lasted for the day. As she felt the strands stretch and wrap around her core and spread through her, she sighed, inwardly chuckling at how she sounded just like Zeus. She'd have to make sure her tongue didn't hang out with drool.

Samara opened her eyes, her heart full of apology. "Sorry I had a meltdown there. Temperamental queen moment averted."

Orlando laughed. "I have a spirited younger sister. I'm well acquainted with emotional outbursts. Though hers usually culminate with a weapon of some sort flying toward my head. I mostly deserve it. She's fun to goad. She's just restless. She needs to explore beyond what these mountains offer, at least in our time."

Orlando moved to the sink and turned the valve to wash his hands. She gasped in surprise, causing Orlando to spin toward the door with his hand going to his holster, water flying in a wild arc. Zeus picked up his head and looked toward the door in interest.

Samara stifled a giggle. "Stand down, Orlando. The running water surprised me is all."

Orlando shot her a chagrined smile. "I guess the incident with those men still has me on edge."

"How'd you get water plumbed in here? I didn't think that was common now."

Orlando turned off the water and moved to the table. He took the leaves from the basket and started chopping them. His hands moved in a rhythm that mesmerized Samara.

"My grandfather owned several interests in steel back in Pittsburgh, along with railroads and other industries. When he came out to visit, he always brought something with him. Several times he brought pipe. I think he secretly abhorred the fact that my mother and his grandkids had to go to the creek to fetch water. So, we figured out how to pipe water from the creek using the valves and fittings he brought with him. It's a blessing for sure, one I tend to forget about." Orlando threw the leaves into a pot and started dicing a root from the basket.

"Please tell me that door also holds a bathroom with a toilet and shower." Samara pushed her hands together to beg and nodded her head in hopeful affirmation.

Orlando laughed, shaking his head. "Sorry. No bathroom yet. Hunter is trying to figure out how to make that work, but we haven't found a book that helps us. He was able to set up a shower of sorts, but they have a stove, not a fireplace."

"How am I going to get clean?" Samara moaned in sorrow.

"Well, I've heated water. As soon as I get supper cooking, I'll set everything up in the bedroom so you can wash up. You probably shouldn't take a bath until your cut heals more. When you are done, I can help you wash your hair if you need."

"No long soak, huh?"

"Not until your stitches are out, sorry. But Hunter told me how in the military they warm water with the sun and can shower with it. I have the materials to set that up outside, and I can get it built by the time you are healed enough to use it." Orlando threw what looked like jerky into the pot, filled it with water, and hooked it onto an empty hook over the fire.

"I've used those systems camping before. It'll do." Samara remembered the shower she'd stolen from some campers that had naively left it hanging from their camper. She still felt a twinge of guilt over the items she'd pilfered to survive, but the ability to shower had been a welcomed convenience she hadn't had at the time.

She watched as Orlando grabbed a bar of soap on the shelf. He strode to the chest at the end of the bed and shuffled through it, pulling out what looked like a nightgown and some fabric. She wondered if the nightgown belonged to a sister or someone else. She realized she didn't know if he had a wife. She assumed not, but his wife could've gone visiting with his sister.

"Is that your wife's?" Samara didn't have the energy to beat around the bush.

Orlando stared at her in confusion until he looked at the clothing in his hands. "I'm not married. This is Beatrice's. She leaves it and a change of clothes here for when she comes."

"Why don't you have a wife? I thought you all married young in this time?"

Orlando burst out laughing. "That might be the case back east, but where am I going to find a wife out here? None of the Ute women have caught my attention, and I rarely travel to Denver or other towns. Besides, I want to marry someone I know, not someone I meet one day and marry the next. It may have worked out for my parents, but I think it would be difficult. I'll just put this in the bedroom, then I'll let you get washed up."

Samara scooted to the edge of the bed, careful not to jar Zeus, who had fallen asleep. She wondered at the relationship Orlando's parents had, whether one could have a happy marriage with someone you didn't love, because love at first sight did not exist. Love took time to cultivate and grow, or at least she assumed it did.

She remembered her parents telling stories of how they'd met at some Bible conference, fallen madly in love, gotten married a week later, and began working toward their missionary plans. She stopped and scrunched her forehead. She hadn't thought much of her parents in the fourteen years since they had died. She supposed the truth was more that when she did think of them, she pushed the thought quickly away. She figured they hadn't loved her enough to stick around, why should she waste time lamenting over their leaving. However, she remembered the love they shared being obvious.

Orlando came back into the room, saving her from ruminating more on her parents. He bowed deeply and pulled her up from the bed.

Orlando was too close, his scent too inviting, so Samara asked the first thing that popped into her head. "One day, huh? That's a story I'd like to hear."

Orlando smiled as he stepped back and motioned for her to move into the bedroom. She smiled at the simple room filled almost completely with a large bed. The only other furniture in the room was a ladder back chair, a chest, and a small bedside table. A tiny window let light in from outside, which Samara was thankful for.

"Well, technically two, but it's a tale worth spinning." Excitement shone in his eyes.

"I can't wait to hear."

"Later. Right now I need to get you some water so you can get cleaned up."

Orlando left, leaving her in his room, which suddenly seemed too intimate. She didn't know how she would survive this new challenge, but she determined to do it with her head firmly attached. When he returned with a basin of steaming water, she thanked him, then shooed him off. She realized she'd have to work harder at constructing her prickles, or she might just forget how.

Orlando thought he had done a decent job acting normal throughout the rest of the evening, and with how exhausting the day had been, he should be fast asleep, sawing logs. Yet he lay in bed late into the night thinking about the mystery of Samara. One minute she laughed and talked openly, then gradually spikes formed like a porcupine preparing to protect. He didn't understand it and spent a chunk of the night recalling everything he'd done to see where he might have pushed her away.

The other part of the night, and the majority of it, he confessed, he'd spent remembering how he'd washed her hair. He'd been a little surprised when she'd come out of his room asking him if he could wash her hair. She had claimed the stitches pulled awkwardly when she'd tried to get her hair wet in the basin. He had agreed, not thinking much of it since he'd watched his father wash their mother's hair hundreds of times. He had even asked his mother once why Pa washed her hair. His mother had just laughed and said she didn't know how to wash her hair when they first got married, then had continued, with a sparkle in her eye, saying that Pa refused to give up the chore when she finally learned how. Orlando hadn't thought much about it at the time, but when he'd plunged his fingers into Samara's hair, rubbing circles along her scalp, and she'd moaned that it felt good, he'd nearly lost all his senses and leaned down to kiss her. Thankfully, he'd showed some restraint, remembering at the last minute that kissing her would have her constructing so many walls that he'd never gain her trust back.

As he pulled the copper stands through his fingers, watching them shine and change in the sunshine streaming through the window, he thought that he wanted the opportunity to wash her hair hundreds of times like his father had. He snorted in derision at his thoughts. Wasn't that just peachy? Not half a day earlier he'd spouted declarations about wanting to marry someone he knew well, and here he lay, determined to figure out a way to marry Samara. He couldn't think such intimate thoughts without marrying her. He smiled at the notion that he might just be more like his father than he'd realized.

A distressed moan sounded from his bedroom. Orlando sat up and focused. Another moan whimpered, turning his stomach in agitation. He realized it wasn't one of pain, but one of dreams. He wondered if he should go in there, wake her up, and save her from her nightmares.

"Mama! No, Mama," Samara cried from behind the wall, her voice sounding small and childish.

Orlando pushed off the covers, and then rolled out of bed and onto his knees. With all he'd learned of Samara this day, him running in to rescue her would most likely root the spikes she protected herself with more firmly in place. He placed his head on the floor and prayed.

"God, I don't understand Your reasoning or plans, but bringing Samara back here when she was in dire trouble tells of Your mercy and love. I'm not sure all that she struggles with, but You do. Surround her with the peace I know she felt earlier. Help her to find her way back to You."

Orlando stayed there, praying, his mind wandering. What would his father have done in the circumstance? The whole situation had Orlando in knots. He tried to respond like his father would, calm and knowing, but he feared he was more disoriented and apprehensive. Orlando's pa was such a man of wisdom and faith, always reading a situation and acting with purpose. Never frazzled. Never frightened. Orlando was floundering, and not just with Samara, but with life. Pa never would've let those wolves get a jump on him. Orlando had put Samara in even more danger and injured Zeus, all because he'd lost focus. He felt as if there was no way to live up to his father, that he always fell short. Would he ever be able to become a man in his own right, to step out from behind the shadow of expectation his pa left over him? Or would Orlando's measurement always be up against his pa's, forever falling short?

Orlando groaned, sitting back onto his knees and pushing the heel of his palms hard into eyes that stung with emotion. He sounded like a whining, selfish child. He loved his Pa who'd been his best friend. His murder had crushed Orlando, made worse by finding him a bloody mess, tortured to death. If Orlando had gone out to search for his pa sooner, he'd still be alive. It'd taken Orlando weeks of wandering and praying to come to terms with his grief, which had left his sisters exposed to the torment of their father's murderer. He should've waited to go to Denver until he'd known they were safe. Through the haze of his selfishness, he'd abandoned them under the guise of handling business that very well could've waited. The terror of what they had gone through still gripped his heart and sent him to his knees, thanking God for protecting them when he hadn't and begging for the strength to do better.

After Orlando had helped Hunter rescue Viola, he'd sworn he would put his selfishness aside and become a man his father would be proud of. Samara's arrival didn't change that decision. If anything, Orlando would have to work even harder at putting his own desires away to help her adjust to this time she'd been thrown in. With a new direction of prayer, Orlando placed his head on the bed and prayed into the night that he would help Samara in a way that honored her and God.

How had Samara turned into such a wreck? She sat in the rocking chair, attempting to read a novel by some guy named Ballantyne and failing. She felt lonely, which smacked her as ridiculous since Lonely was her middle name. But when Orlando had left that morning, saying he needed to spend time with those stupid sheep, she'd almost begged him to forget the fluffy leeches and stay with her. Or begged him to let her come with him, which would've been just as pathetic.

Samara whacked herself on the forehead with the book, causing Zeus to look up at her. His eyebrow tweaked as if questioning her sanity. She wondered about that herself.

"I know it's absurd. I've been on my own since I was ten, but I wanted him to stay. Don't tell me you didn't want that as well, or I'll call you out." She rubbed behind Zeus's ears.

She threw the book on the side table with a thud and stood. She glanced around the spotless cabin, realizing there wasn't even something she could clean, and sat back with a huff. She looked at the book with longing, wishing she could give herself another good whack.

Zeus's ears pricked up, and he looked toward the door. Samara sat up in joy, glad Orlando had decided to come back, which added another layer of pitiful to her already mile-high pile. A low growl issued from Zeus's throat, sending a thrill of dread straight up her spine. That wasn't Orlando coming home.

Hide. She had to hide. She glanced around the room. Realizing her options for hiding were non-existent, she rushed to the bedroom. Zeus whined behind her as she stumbled through the doorway, throwing herself haphazardly onto the floor. She crawled to the bed and squeezed herself under it, pushing until she curled into a tight ball with the corner protecting her back.

A horse neighed, and footsteps sounded through the log wall. The animal walked slowly beside the cabin. The creak of leather as someone dismounted had Samara burrowing deeper into herself where she cowered among the dust bunnies. She willed her breathing to slow so she wouldn't be heard.

_"Hurry child. Hide. They must not find you." Tita Fhil had whispered, harsh and low, which had seemed strange to Samara since she and Tita were the only ones in the house._

_Yet Samara had obeyed, crawling under the bed, dirtying her favorite canary-yellow dress with the roses lining the bodice that she'd gotten for her tenth birthday. She had jumped as angry voices flew through the open window, accusing her parents of going against the code of the neighborhood, the code of the gang._

_Her mother's sweet voice had floated in and around the harsh words. It was Samara's favorite lyrics in "Before the Throne of God Above" in her mother's beautiful soprano, so contrary to the violent words that had increased in volume. Her dad's solid voice was layered on top, like a strange and frightening symphony. His deep bass praying for the men surrounding them and praying the canary would fly to safety. That Samara would fly to safety._

She flinched when three, sharp raps pulled her back to the present, just like she had flinched when three, sharp shots had shattered her past.

# Chapter 9

Orlando stood and turned from where he knelt next to an injured sheep as he heard hoofbeats approaching. He relaxed, bending down to rub the sheep's head as he pushed it off toward the others. He marched to where Otto Lee dismounted next to his horse.

Orlando had met Otto last fall when Otto had moved to the area. Orlando felt God urging him to extend a hand of friendship, to help the man settle, gain some footing past the rugged existence he'd had as a downtrodden miner. Orlando continued to thank God for that push as Otto had grown into a true friend.

When Orlando met up with Otto that spring to discuss a possible partnership, Orlando almost didn't recognize the man. He no longer looked ragged, as if the mountain had chewed him up for lunch. He'd cleaned up, gotten new clothes, and bulked up. The change that amazed Orlando the most was the peace and joy that had shone out of Otto's face. He would gladly call him a friend and hoped this venture proved profitable for Otto.

Peace and joy did not radiate from his face at this moment, however. Concern and worry marred his face, crinkling his forehead with sharp lines. Orlando picked up his pace.

Otto shook his head, his words faltering as he ran his hand over his neck. "Orlando... I'm not sure what just happened, but I think I scared your sister."

Orlando's heart stuttered, not knowing what to expect from Beatrice when it came to new people. "What did Beatrice do this time?"

"Well, I stopped by your cabin, knocked, and heard some shuffling and what sounded like a crash. I pushed open the door and called. Nothing seemed out of place until I heard a whimper from the back room. I tried to get back there to help, but Zeus wouldn't let me pass. He just laid by the door and growled. I'm real sorry, Orlan—"

Before he could even finish, Orlando rushed to Loco and mounted, kicking the horse into a gallop. He glanced back as he raced toward the homestead to see Otto following, a look of remorse upon his face. When he reached the cabin, he tossed Loco's reins over the hitching post and ran inside.

"Samara!" he hollered, only to hear a stuttered whimper in answer.

He rushed into the bedroom where Zeus greeted him with a snarl. Orlando gave him a harsh hand signal to back down and scanned the room. He couldn't see Samara anywhere. Zeus crawled to the bed and whined, sticking his head beneath the large bed Orlando had made from pine and pushed into the corner opposite the door in order to have space to walk. He loved that he could stretch out and not have his feet hang over the edge. Now he cursed his ridiculousness in building such a monster that seemed to have swallowed Samara beneath.

Orlando bent to his knees and tried to keep his voice to a whisper. "Samara?"

His heart broke into a million pieces as he peered at Samara huddled tight against the corner, tears streaming down her face as her eyes clinched tight. Blood was smeared along the floor. Her stitches must've busted loose when she'd pushed herself deep into the dark. He didn't even know how she'd managed to squeeze beneath the bed, the space hardly big enough for his head.

"Oh honey." Orlando choked on the emotion overwhelming him. "It's okay. You can come out. Otto's a friend. He won't harm you."

"They... left... me." Her words came out between sobs, her voice small and childlike. "Why... why did they leave me?"

"Samara, crawl out of there, darling, and we can talk about it," Orlando coaxed only to see her push further back and shake her head.

He looked at her under the bed and glanced around the small room. Otto stood in the doorway, his hands hanging at his sides in helplessness as questions raced across his face. Orlando would have to explain, but his first concern lay huddled beneath the bed.

"I'll go take care of the horses. Just holler when you're ready to talk." Otto backed toward the door.

Orlando nodded in reply as he leaned his head on the floor. "Samara? Otto's outside now. I'm just going to sit here and wait. When you are ready to talk, I'm right here."

Samara uncurled her body one vertebra at a time until she stared into his eyes. He held her gaze with what he hoped passed for peace and patience, praying that God would make those traits true in him. She shuddered a sigh so deep her entire body shook with it, then started inching her way out, her eyes never leaving Orlando's. Orlando cringed every time she pulled her cut and winced with pain. When she made it to the edge of the bed, Orlando scooted back to give her space. She crawled out and sat, her body hunched over her knees as she pulled them to her chest.

"Samara?" He ran his fingers through her hair, hoping to comfort her.

She lifted her head as if it weighed a hundred pounds and her haunted eyes peered into his. She seemed so small and lost, opposite of her normal strength and confidence. He lifted his hand from her shoulder and gently rubbed a tear as it made a slow, agonized trek down her cheek.

"They left me."

"I'm so sorry, Samara." His apology was more sorrowed breath than solid words.

She launched herself into his arms and sobbed into his neck. He lifted her from the awkward position on the floor and sat on the bed with her upon his lap. Her tears, harsh with grief, ripped through his soul, and he curled his body around hers in protection. He'd heal this wound that festered, infecting her heart and spirit, if it took his life to do it.

Four small words shouldn't create a reaction in her, but when Orlando had uttered them, his face and voice holding such grief and agony, something in Samara snapped. Floodgates opened, and she found herself wrapped within Orlando's body. He held her tightly as she wept with a force she couldn't stop no matter how many times she demanded it. Four small words she'd heard before shouldn't hold such power as this.

"Please, Samara, tell me what's wrong," he whispered next to her ear, soft and so full of concern she found her story ripped from her before she consciously decided to share it.

"My parents, they left me. They could've escaped with me, but they didn't." She sobbed into his chest.

"I don't understand." Orlando held her tight and stroked her hair.

"My parents wanted to be missionaries, 'deliverers of the Good News to those who do not know,'" she said with derision. "So we moved to the Philippines, and they worked with a missionary group called the Navigators there. I was only six when we moved, but I remember the directors strongly suggesting that we live on campus. My parents refused. Said they wanted to live among the people God sent them to minister to. So, we moved into an area of the city, and my parents went to work.

"One morning, after we'd lived there for about four years, my mom suddenly grabbed her dulcimer case and practically pushed me out the door. She told me to go to Tita Fhil's house and play for her until she or dad came for me. When Tita Fhil opened the door, she just yanked me into the house. I looked back before she closed the door, and... and men were coming down the road, hanging out of the beds of the trucks, their heads and faces covered with black hats and scarves."

Samara's body jerked in a sudden shiver and her breath shuddered out. The fear of seeing those trucks still managed to shake her. Orlando murmured indecipherable comforts into her ear.

"Tita dragged me into her bedroom and pushed me under the bed, telling me to stay quiet and not come out for anyone but her." Samara remembered the protest that had risen up within her as the dust underneath the bed streaked her favorite, canary-yellow dress. It had died on her lips when she heard the angry, hateful voices calling for her parents.

"Tita didn't realize the window was open, but I heard everything the men yelled at my parents."

"Oh, Samara." Orlando tucked the hair that had tumbled from her braid behind her ear.

"They accused my parents of crimes they didn't commit, of inciting trouble and chaos in the community." Their words had been so harsh, so filled with evil that the memory still seeped ice into Samara's bones. "Then I heard my mom's beautiful voice lilting over the discord, singing our favorite song, the song we sang every night before bed. My father's voice lifted in prayer, asking God to forgive those hateful men and asking that I fly free. Then I heard three quick shots of a gun and silence fell so thick it almost smothered me. It still smothers me." She finished in a whisper so soft she doubted Orlando heard.

"I'm so sorry."

Samara pushed away just enough to allow herself to look up. Orlando's eyes, bright with unshed tears, held such sorrow that she couldn't wrap her head around it. He lifted his hand and wiped the stream of tears that ran down her face, as one of his own escaped down his cheek. Why did she feel as if her pain was his own, as if he willingly shared with her every jab and slice the story had rendered?

"What happened after that?" Orlando pulled her back up against him.

"It wasn't long, maybe thirty minutes before another member of our church came carrying extra clothes and leading his daughter, who was my size. They dressed me and covered my hair. I left the house with nothing but my mom's dulcimer. I forgot to grab my dress. He took me to the embassy. They jetted me back to the States, and when no one came forward to raise me, they shoved me into foster care and forgot about me."

"You didn't have any other family?"

"No. My parents were only children, and my grandparents had all died. No one we knew wanted to raise me. Either they didn't realize I had nowhere to go, or no one wanted to mess with a screwed up kid, so off to the system I went."

"It seems like your parents saved you, Samara, not left you." Orlando hesitated. "I would have done the same."

She pushed to sitting, the hurt and anger resurfacing. "But why didn't they come hide with me? Why'd they stay and face those men? They could've hidden in any of the neighbors' houses. They were good friends, family really, with them all. They chose to leave me."

"Could they have worried the men would search the houses and hurt your neighbors as well?" Orlando's voice spoke softly, and his hand ran up and down her arm in comfort.

"They didn't know that." Samara knew the truth in her heart, the truth that she hadn't been worth the risk.

"What sent you under the bed today?"

Samara shook her head and blushed. "I don't know. I dreamed about my parents last night, about hiding under that bed. I think my mind must've triggered back to it. I just went back there, to that day, and the next thing I knew, I was under the bed, sobbing like a fool and frozen in fear."

Orlando took both of his hands and cradled Samara's face. He forced her to look at him, capturing the tears that refused to dry. "It's not surprising, with everything you've been through the last two days. I should've realized it. I should've stayed close, then you wouldn't have had to sit here with just your thoughts and the dog to keep you company. Thoughts often turn insidious in their nature, if they're anything like mine. I'm sorry, Samara. I didn't think."

She wanted to be strong against the yearnings that pulled her to this man, knowing that eventually he'd realize the truth about her like everyone else had. Yet her strength waned with every gesture of kindness and look of understanding. If she continued in this foolishness, she'd have nothing left of herself, no cactus spikes or juicy flesh. She'd be cut off at the root and devoured, and she just couldn't fathom coming back from that.

"Orlando, you have nothing to be sorry for. My silly overreacting caused this whole embarrassment, and now I'm bleeding and have caused a scene in front of your visitor," Samara answered, scooting off his lap onto the bed.

"Don't worry about Otto. He's seen his share of trauma. I'll bring in more of Beatrice's clothes for you to change into, and then we'll get you patched up."

He stood and walked out the door. Samara sighed in resignation. She couldn't afford to lose her wits over him, but she couldn't seem to convince her heart of that. Frankly, she didn't know if she wanted to.

Orlando's mind seemed bent on wandering back to the revelation in the bedroom, back to Samara, no matter how hard he wrestled it to the current conversation he was having with Otto. Orlando had cleaned her up after she'd changed into the blouse and pants he'd found. He'd decided the stitch that pulled didn't need replaced. After she insisted, he'd invited Otto in, though she still hadn't come out from the room even with the bedroom door open.

Now Orlando sat at the table, discussing business with Otto, but his mind kept veering toward what she had revealed. Her inner wounds were much more extensive than he'd thought. He sensed in her story a belief that her parents chose death over being with her, where he saw them sacrificing for her life, protecting and saving her. He chastised himself that he couldn't do anything about that now and forced his focus onto the matter at hand.

"No, Orlando, it's too generous." Otto shook his head in disbelief.

"We don't even know if it will work. It's an experiment and a risky one at that. I'm not even sure these sheep will make it through a winter. There's always been danger associated with sheep ranching. It's not too generous, Otto, considering it might just get you killed." Orlando prayed he wasn't spreading it on too thick. He heard movement from the other room and almost lost his train of thought.

"You seem to be spinning a good tale. Have you been visiting with Trapper Dan lately?" Otto asked, sending a crisp nod across the table.

Orlando watched as Otto ran his hand through his hair, causing it to stick straight up. He then huffed and pulled on his beard. Finally, he placed his hands on either side of the contract Orlando had written up, the thumb of one hand beating a rhythm onto the tabletop. Otto looked up, and the harried expression on his face caused Orlando to brace himself.

"How can you possibly give all this to me? We met less than a year ago, and I've told you my history. No one's ever trusted me with much, and this is a lot more than much."

"What's so bad about your history?" Samara's guarded tone from where she appeared in the doorway caused Orlando to inwardly cringe. She made her way to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup, lifting the pot to both men in a silent question. Both shook their heads.

"I've never been good at anything, always messing things up. My pa and I were mining south near Leadville. I talked up our gold find like an idiot one night in the saloon. Next thing I knew, I was waking up in a refuse pile in an alley, a knot the size of a goose egg on my head." Otto took a deep breath, and Orlando's chest constricted in sympathy. "When I got back to our camp, my father had been murdered. Instead of standing my ground and calling out the claim jumpers, I ran like a coward. That's when Orlando met me."

"Everyone has a past, Otto. It's what we do with it that makes a difference. You're a different man than the one I found scraping a cabin together and hiding out. God's done some miraculous things this last year." Orlando tried to ignore the weight of his past that tried to drag him down as he focused on Otto.

Otto stared at him from across the table, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He sniffed and blinked rapidly as he nodded his head in recognition. He sat up straight, looked down, and reread the contract before him. As he read, Orlando glanced at Samara. Confusion covered her face as if he had turned into some specimen she'd never seen before. He met her critical gaze with conviction. Otto cleared his throat, pulling Orlando's attention back to the table.

"I'm not okay with a return to you of ten percent. I'm more comfortable with fifty," Otto said.

"I'm not taking fifty. That's crazy. This is to see if it's a viable option for cutting a place in these mountains. You'll need all the funds you can get to make an honest go of this and survive better than before. As you know, I don't have to worry about money. Heck, I'd rather you just take the sheep and see how it works, but I know that you don't want charity," Orlando argued.

"What exactly do you call this? Ten percent is nothing."

"Otto, listen, think of this as a loan. Instead of me loaning you money, the currency is sheep. The ten percent is just until the loan is paid off, then they are yours, free and clear. It's a simple business arrangement. Plus, I'm getting much more than that out of this. You're helping me examine if this could be something other settlers could make a living at. More and more people seem bent on moving to these rugged mountains, most of them without a lick of sense. If we can make this work, we'll be giving people one more way to survive, one more way to keep the mountain from taking everything from them." Orlando knew his deep-rooted need to help others showed in his words.

"You know, Orlando, most men just focus on themselves surviving. You fight for all to survive. I admire that in you and am hoping you rub off on me," Otto replied.

"I guess it's the healer in me." Orlando shrugged. "Do we have a deal?"

"All right, you badger, we have a deal." Otto stretched out his hand across the table.

Orlando caught Samara's look of thoughtfulness out of the corner of his eye as he clasped Otto's hand. She shook her head and turned her gaze out the window. Her walls seemed firmly in place once again, and Orlando sighed in discouragement.

Samara sat on the blanket in the edge of the meadow under the aspen trees, Zeus's head lying in its favorite place upon her lap. Though shaded, the sun warmed her head and back, relaxing the muscles that were tight with tension. Thankfully the spare hat Orlando had given her shaded her face and neck. Without the benefit of the SPF 1000 sunscreen she normally bathed in, she'd be a lobster within minutes. She pulled on her braid in concern, wondering how the only things she longed for from her time seemed to be sunscreen and her venti caramel latte. Maybe a desire to return would surface once she stayed longer, especially if not returning proved true. Yet she figured with no real friends and a nonexistent family, she didn't have anything important to return to, which made her even more pathetic than she thought.

A bird trilled a joyful sound in the aspen tree above her. The song settled deep into her heart and calmed her. She closed her eyes and relished the warmth of the sun and the weight of Zeus's soft head upon her lap. She inhaled the bittersweet smell of the grass, the leaves, and dirt that had always given her comfort. The loud bleating of sheep opened her eyes, and she peered at Orlando where he sat upon his horse and moved among the sheep.

Each day, Orlando became more of an enigma to her. She had been surprised when the conversation had turned to a man named Robert, who had been a part of Orlando's father's murder and the kidnapping of his sister. Otto had been amazed that Orlando had forgiven the man, and Samara couldn't agree more. Granted, this Robert didn't kill Orlando's father, but it seemed like without his involvement, the murder wouldn't have happened. Samara couldn't do it, even after fourteen years she still couldn't comprehend forgiving the men who killed her parents.

After Otto had told his story, Samara tried throughout the night to hate Otto. Men like him, who were drunkards and careless, caused her to travel the path she had so far. Men who acted without regard to others. But try as she might, she liked him.

Otto's quiet demeanor pulled her in. He talked of his struggle to move past the guilt that chased him through the day and haunted him at night. His soft spoken words of hope for his future and peace clenched her heart. Is that what she wanted deep down, hope and peace? Through the course of the evening, she realized she and Otto shared the same hesitant survivor's spirit, desiring a life beyond their grasp. She hoped he proved more successful than she had.

The men turned and began approaching her, pulling her from her thoughts. Orlando had dismounted, and the two smiled as they talked. They both broke into loud laughter. The sound zinged through her, and she found a smile spreading wide across her face.

"Well, he's all set." Orlando stopped at the edge of the blanket.

"Miss Samara, I'm glad to have met you and will pray for a quick recovery for you." Otto pulled his hat off his head.

"You're leaving? I thought you said last night you'd be sticking around?"

"I guess that's a relative term," Orlando answered, scratching his cheek through his beard.

When she looked between them with a raised eyebrow, Otto cleared his throat. "I need to take my sheep and dogs a bit away to make sure they don't wander back. It'll be a slow journey toward my place, so we'll be sticking close, in a manner of thinking."

"Oh, well, in that case, it was nice to meet you too. Come hang out next time you're around," Samara replied, too late realizing she implied she'd still be here with Orlando.

Otto threw a confused glance at Orlando, who shrugged in answer. Otto shuffled on his feet and cleared his throat again, his ears turning red. His discomfort around women endeared him to her. This large, handsome man, who had to be at least six-foot-four with enough muscles to stretch his shirt, fumbled around her like a gangly teen. She stifled a chuckle at his awkwardness and hoped he found a woman who saw past his shyness and cherished him for it.

"I'll stop by for a visit if I make it up this way," Otto finally replied, tipping his head to her before shoving his hat on his head.

Orlando stretched out his hand. "You are welcome anytime, my friend."

Otto took the hand without hesitation and shook it. He cleared his throat again, though, from experience, she knew it thickened with a different emotion than a moment before. Orlando plopped down on the blanket after his friend moved away, a space which moments before had seemed quite large. He stretched out his legs and leaned back on his elbows with a contented sigh. His gaze roamed over the field and into all the nooks and crannies in the surrounding trees. His relaxed manner almost caused her to miss the direct intent behind his search.

"Are you expecting trouble?" The tension built up her spine.

"Nah," he replied. "It's just good practice to always be alert."

Which she translated as, yes, he expected trouble, and she was an idiot to ask. She mentally berated herself. Wasn't that her exact motto in life? "Be alert to trouble" was practically tattooed onto her forearm. The only time she'd become lax ended with her cursing her recently ex-fiancée and driving her beat-up sedan as fast as she could away from his duplicity. She'd headed to the first perpetual-next gig, her heart dragging behind in shreds. She'd do well to remember that.

She turned her focus to the meadow where Otto rode his horse and crooned to the sheep. Dogs, some large and white like Zeus and others small and energetic like the Australian Shepherds she'd seen around Meeker, rushed around to get the sheep moving. The scene of a man forging his way through life seemed lonely to her, but then again she'd almost always surrounded herself with others and yet imagined herself the loneliest person she knew.

"Why do you use two kinds of dogs?" Samara asked to distract herself from her self-afflicting thoughts.

"Well, the large dogs like Zeus are great guard dogs. They'll protect the sheep and shepherd from wolves and other predators. They aren't the best at herding, though, and with just one shepherd, maybe two, I figure you need the little dogs that can corral and run flock better than if you had multiple shepherds," Orlando answered, laughing as a small brown and white dog raced around the perimeter of the flock, causing the lambs to leap in fright.

"That makes sense."

Samara heard a series of whistles and gasped in amazement as the little dog tore off toward Otto. She watched him give a hand signal, and the dog settled into a walk beside him. She couldn't believe the intelligence of the dog.

"They're incredibly smart dogs." Orlando echoed her thought. "I gave Otto his dogs last fall. It's amazing the way he's trained them. He has a gift for it."

"Aren't you worried your sheep will follow?"

"I have mine penned in the sheepfold. I'll have to stick extra close to them tomorrow when I let them out, but other than that, they should stick around. I'm more worried about Otto's sheep high-tailing it back here."

"Why don't you just give them all to Otto? I'm assuming from his comments yesterday that you don't need to raise them yourself," Samara questioned.

"I want to know firsthand how this all works out. I need the knowledge necessary to give resources and suggestions to those I recommend this venture to. I know it'll be beneficial to the settlers coming in, but I also think it might be a good fit for the Utes as the government pushes them more and more into abandoning their ways for white ways. Maybe the life of a shepherd out among the wilderness, roaming the mountains as the sheep graze, will be more suited to them than tilling the land like a farmer," Orlando said with conviction.

Samara looked at Orlando in wonder. His serious face and determined set of his jaw told her he would raise sheep with no apparent benefit or need for himself, but simply to test the validity for others. There in the Coloradan sun. No man could be that selfless. She'd have to keep vigilant— stay alert— otherwise there'd be nothing left of her heart to drag behind this time.

# Chapter 10

Orlando watched Samara as she washed the breakfast dishes. He couldn't believe a week had passed since she'd arrived. She'd only asked once about going back to her time. He told her how Hunter had tried to recreate how he travelled back, and it hadn't worked. They all assumed going back wasn't going to happen. She'd gone quiet and contemplative but hadn't asked again.

Orlando didn't know what to make of that. If it had been him, he would've tried everything he could to get back to his time. But he loved his life, his mountains. Even after he'd failed his father, he still couldn't imagine leaving for somewhere else. His determination to live up to his father's legacy just became more of a drive.

Samara, on the other hand, didn't seem to miss anything from her time. Her story of not having any family, and bits and pieces of information he had been able to gather in their conversations, showed that she lived the life of a gypsy with no roots, no friends. It sounded like a life full of loneliness, which struck Orlando as ironic. Here he lived by himself in the middle of the Rockies, yet, despite the communication inventions and millions of people of her time, she was the one who appeared lonely.

Orlando also figured she didn't have a relationship with God. He continued his nightly readings of the Bible. She didn't object when he read out loud, but she also didn't engage. She either sat lightly strumming her dulcimer or attempting to sew a garment, hearing but not listening. Orlando prayed the words of God would penetrate the wall she'd built, that He'd heal the darkness Orlando saw lurking within her soul, attempting to devour her. Considering how much peace he obtained from the Holy Spirit, it didn't surprise him she experienced such loneliness in her time.

Samara wiped her hands and turned around, looking hopefully around the cabin. Orlando closed the book he had attempted to read when he'd gotten distracted by watching her. A common occurrence. He'd checked her wound that morning and declared it completely healed. Her smile at the declaration quickened his heart and sprouted hummingbird wings within his stomach. He lamented the loss of opportunity to touch her, even in his brief examinations of her healing wound. He wondered if he could watch for chances that didn't revolve around checking for infection and pus.

"I have a project I'd like to pass on to you, if you're not opposed." Orlando stood and pushed his chair in.

"I can almost guarantee I won't be opposed. I'm going bananas with nothing to do," Samara replied.

Orlando smiled, loving her unique phrases. "Grab your hat, and meet me outside."

Orlando walked to the door, opened it, and paused. Samara bumped into the back of him, her small hands spreading upon his back for balance. The touch scorched his skin through his shirt. He turned, shocked that she followed so closely.

"Well, get a move on. I don't have all day here." One corner of her lips turned up into a mischievous smile.

Orlando employed every ounce of self-restraint he could muster to not turn around completely, lean down, and kiss her in that moment. He took a determined step outside, then two, forcing his feet and his mind to move away from her. By the time he'd moved to the garden beside the cabin, he mostly had his thoughts back in line.

He glanced at her where she stood beside him. Her hair was pulled back in a tie low on her neck, the deep copper curls twirling in the breeze. The old hat he'd given her shaded her cheeks that the sun had turned pink the days before. New freckles kissed her nose and cheeks with each new day she ventured outside. She was exquisite, more beautiful than anyone he'd ever seen. He huffed, having to rein his thoughts in once again.

"So, whatcha got cookin'?" Samara glanced around the garden.

Orlando shook his head and chuckled. "The garden needs tending. I hoped you wouldn't mind taking that on."

"I'm not sure you want me doing that. I don't know a weed from a carrot." Samara's cute, freckled nose wrinkled in concern.

"It's not too hard. I'll show you what I planted and which are weeds. Besides, I need to move the sheep in a week or so, and not having to deal with this will help me get prepared." Orlando knew he stretched the truth a little since having her help here wouldn't really make a difference with the sheep, but he figured she needed something to do that she considered helpful.

"If you think so." Hesitation hung thick in Samara's voice.

"The half closest to us is the vegetable garden. I've planted potatoes, carrots, beets, turnips, spinach, collards, onions, broccoli, green beans, and peas." Orlando watched her eyes grow larger with each item.

"Is that all?" Samara asked sarcastically.

Orlando nodded, answering with a straight face. "I couldn't fit any more."

He looked at her. When she turned her head to him, he winked. He swore he saw a slight blush rise up her cheeks, though it could've been the sun.

"The back half is the herb garden. That's where I grow the herbs I'll need for healing."

"No, I can't take care of that." She shook her head with such force he thought her hat would fly off. "What if I pull the wrong plant and you're left short when someone needs it? It's too important. Seriously, all they look like is a bunch of pretty flowers."

"Samara, I trust it to you," Orlando said with assurance, while she looked at him with eyes full of doubt. "Wait here a moment."

Orlando jogged to the cabin. He moved to the bookshelf and scanned the many journals and books he had there. Finally finding the one he looked for, he pulled it out, only to have a smaller journal fall out onto the floor. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, flipping through the pages.

His father's handwriting leaped from the page, stalling his heart. How Orlando could've forgotten his father's journal baffled Orlando. He'd found it in Pa's haversack after burying him. He guessed he had been thick in grief and unable to handle reading the words without emotion overwhelming him. It must've gotten shoved among his other books when he'd packed to move here. He walked to the bed he'd slept on since Samara arrived and placed it there. Enough time had passed he figured he could handle reading it now. He crossed back over to the bookshelf, grabbed the journal he'd come in for, and rushed back to Samara.

When he leaned on the fence again, he handed her the journal. She opened it and gasped, flipping through the pages. Excitement danced across her face as she stopped to touch the page. She turned her eyes to him in question.

"This is a journal I've compiled of all the medicinal herbs I can grow here and their uses."

"You drew these pictures?" Samara asked in pleased shock.

Orlando rubbed the back of his neck with his hand as it heated in embarrassment. "Yeah. I needed a way to catalogue it all."

"These are amazing! The detail of the plant through the stages of growth blows my mind. You've even drawn the roots. And the information you have written down, how to grow and the best ways to preserve and prepare, would help anyone reading this. You've been so specific in everything, including what to use it for and all the different ways it can be used. You should publish this," Samara practically gushed, causing his face to heat even more.

"Well, I'm hoping it'll help you if you wonder about any of the plants," Orlando replied gruffly. "Come on, let's get to work."

Orlando pulled his hat off his head as he led her to the garden gate. He rubbed his hand on his heated neck and thwacked his hat a couple times on his legs before shoving it back on his head. He didn't like accolades thrown his way, didn't feel he deserved them, but Samara's good regard had his hands tingling and his chest swelling. If he wasn't careful, his hat wouldn't fit from his head swelling as well.

Samara's back hurt. Her rear end hurt. Her thighs burned. In fact, there wasn't a part of her that didn't scream at her in protest.

As she pushed on the stirrups to stand and stretch, Samara wondered at her insistence that she join Orlando on this sheep drive. Move. Shepherding journey. Ugh, even her brain hurt. She should've just stayed home, tended the garden, and called it good.

Samara's mind screeched to a halt so fast the mental motion almost caused her to fall off the horse. When had she started thinking of the cabin as home? Was she daft or what? She mentally punched herself in the eye. This place fried her brains or something.

Samara stopped her horse, a large black mare she'd come to love called Midnight, under the shade of a large pine. Huffing, she pushed off her hat so it hung on her back. The sheep flocked past, bleating and plodding along. She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. The clean scent of the pine mixed with the pungent smell of the sheep in a way that should have repulsed her. Oddly, it calmed her, relaxed the muscles that had tightened with tension at her mental slip.

Samara opened her eyes and took in the scene before her. The sheep roamed through the mountain meadow that was painted bright with a variety of wildflowers. Jagged mountains standing as sentinels in the background created a nostalgic scene she never thought she'd see, let alone participate in. Her shoulders relaxed more as she realized she enjoyed being here, playing cowgirl or shepherdess or whatever it was that she was doing.

Her gaze turned unconsciously to Orlando where he moved at the far end of the field. Her thoughts stalled to a halt. She couldn't allow herself to get comfortable. They hadn't talked about her future, just kind of skirted the issue. She knew in her mind that she couldn't stay here, no matter if it felt like home for the first time since her parents' deaths.

Strapping Orlando with her simply because she'd fallen in his backyard went against everything she'd worked hard for her whole life. She refused to be the damsel-in-distress type. She'd survived crappy foster homes and living on the streets. She could survive this without forcing Orlando into being her savior.

Samara realized that if anyone found out they'd lived together on this mountain, even though nothing had happened, she'd be toast. They took that whole morals thing seriously in this time. So, she'd have to come up with a plan where she could get to a city without anyone knowing she'd spent weeks in the mountains alone with a gorgeous, kindhearted man. From there, she could find an opera house or symphony or something and audition. It would work, and she'd be back on her feet. _Then why does my heart feel like it's shattering?_

She shook the thought away in disgust. She could do it, come up with a plan and take action. Just because she'd travelled back in time didn't mean she had to succumb to the submissive woman role expected. She was her own woman. Always had been, always would be. No damsel in distress for her. No need of a knight riding in on his steed to vanquish her foes. Samara kicked Midnight with an enthusiastic thump. The horse sprang into action, causing Samara to tumble over the back of the rump with a shriek.

Orlando turned as a high-pitched scream ripped through the air. His stomach flew into his throat as Samara tumbled off the back of Midnight. He kicked Loco into a gallop and took off across the field, cursing himself that he'd gotten so far from her.

He pulled his revolver out of the holster, scanning the area to find what had spooked the normally docile mare. He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. He watched in horror as Samara attempted to push to her knees, only to fall back down. Her shoulders heaved in sobs.

Orlando pushed Loco faster, knowing Samara must be really injured for her to be crying so hard. As he got closer his forehead crinkled in confusion. Why did her sobs sound so odd?

After what seemed an eternity, Orlando reached her, jumping off Loco before he skidded to a halt. He holstered his revolver and fell to his knees next to her as she pushed up. Relief so swift and intense rushed his body, causing him to feel lightheaded.

"Where are you hurt?" Orlando winced at the panic in his voice and attempted to calm down.

Samara sat up, wiping her sleeve across her eyes, her mouth stretched into a smile. "Nowhere." She burst out laughing.

Orland sat back. "This isn't funny. Why are you laughing?"

Samara shook her head, leaves and twigs falling from her disordered hair. Her face, drenched with tears, hadn't looked more beautiful to him. He pushed her wild curls of fire out of her face and leaned into her, turning her head this way and that, peering into her eyes for signs of injury.

"I thought you'd broken your neck or some such thing." Orlando pulled in the scent of her skin sweetened by the honey in the balm he'd made her. His heartbeat slowly returned to normal with each sweet-scented breath she took.

Samara pulled away from him and started straightening her hair and clothes. "I'm fine, Orlando. I just got a bit too excited in my attempt to be a cowgirl is all."

She stood and turned a circle as Zeus arrived, pushing his head beneath her hand and whining. She slowly inhaled a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Orlando never realized you could watch someone construct walls within themselves, but there he stood watching as her walls grew higher and higher, blocking him out. Guarding her heart.

She turned to him, a resigned smile on her face as she spoke, ambivalence thick in her voice. "Thank you for rushing over to see if I was okay."

Orlando nodded in response. He didn't know why she pushed him away, but he figured if she needed space, he'd give it to her. He just wouldn't give too much. He couldn't help her heal if he stayed away, and if he had to, he'd scale that wall she forced around herself and vanquish the darkness closed within.

# Chapter 11

Orlando finished tying the last herb bundle to the rafter of the barn and climbed down from the ladder. Samara smiled at him, a smile filled with satisfaction and pride. They had spent the morning and early afternoon harvesting herbs from the medicinal garden and bundling them for drying. After they'd filled the cabin's rafters with hanging bundles, they'd worked together to hang the rest on the high beam of the barn.

Orlando struggled to understand Samara and her opposing emotions. She seemed to love the life here, relishing the work and finding a pace that brought a peace to her. She played songs on her dulcimer filled with joy and tranquility, causing hope to float up within his soul. Then he'd turn around and a different Samara would stand before him, one full of doubt and fear.

He realized that she built her wall out of fear. He also recognized the fear that drove her, that formed her into a person pricklier than a porcupine, directed its focus not on elements that could attack on the outside, but rather inner attacks. Fear held her hostage, a slave bound to it.

Orlando didn't think she realized how fear had wrapped its insidious ties around her. She commented a few times in their discussions about needing to be strong to survive. Orlando would never argue that she wasn't strong. He found her the strongest, bravest person he'd ever met aside from his pa. Yet there was a distinction between the two, the motivation behind their similar qualities.

Pa's strength and bravery had always come from his hope in the Lord leaving him with a life filled with the kind of peace Orlando strived for. Samara's strength grew from a foreboding that shadowed her life in darkness and anxiety. He'd found the root of the infection, and now he just needed to flush it out, cut away the disease until only healthy life remained. Of course, he didn't have a clue how to accomplish that without pushing her away forever. So he prayed for wisdom and bided his time, moving through the days as if his life hadn't changed irrevocably the day he discovered her.

She clapped her hands together, dusting the herb residue off. "Well, that's done."

"Thank you for all your help, Samara. I've never been able to harvest this much so early. Your care for the plants has them flourishing much more than I ever did." He led her out of the barn and to the house.

"How many more harvests will we get?"

Orlando liked the expectation of future that had slipped into her question.

"It really depends on the species. For some, we may only get one or two more, but others we can harvest a few more months if we aren't pulled away from here."

"Why would we be pulled away?"

"Mostly, I'm not, but a time or two has occurred when an outbreak of some sickness happens and I go to help. In the past, my sisters would tend the garden, but now that I live here instead of with them, it would go to seed until the next year." He shrugged, knowing God would provide what he needed.

"I could tend it." Samara's soft voice stilled him as he stopped in the doorway and turned to her.

Her look of longing as she gazed at the garden had him murmuring words he knew would probably shutter her open expression. "Yes, yes you could. Or you could also come with me."

Her gaze turned to him, pulled him to her like a shepherd's hook dragging him in. She'd stopped not a foot away. The fragrant herbs they'd hung and the sweet smell of honey from the beeswax in her skin balm clung to her. The sunlight glittered through the copper curls of her hair she let hang down her shoulders. Her amber eyes held questions, an underlying hope buried deep within. He reached out and took her hand in his, so small it almost vanished within his. She flinched and turned her head toward hoofbeats approaching fast.

Orlando hated the intrusion but knew deep down any progress he'd made with Samara would've been destroyed if he'd pushed. He had to remain patient, keep steady if the walls were ever to be destroyed. He turned to the approaching rider and pulled Samara so she stood behind him.

When the rider drew close he waved. Orlando let Samara go as he lifted his hand to Onootee, a Ute from Chief Johnson's tribe. Orlando smiled at Samara in encouragement as the young Ute, dressed in buckskin breeches and his chest bare in the heat, rode up. Orlando cherished the friendship he'd gained in Onootee and couldn't wait for Samara to meet the charismatic man.

Onootee leaped from his horse and wrapped Orlando in a hug, thumping him hard on the back. "My brother, how are you?"

"Couldn't be better, and how are you?" Orlando answered returning Onootee's thumps with his own.

"Not as good as you." He eyed Samara and wagged his eyebrows up and down.

Orlando shot him a cautioning glare. "Onootee, I'd like you to meet Samara McKenna. Samara, this is Onootee. Samara got lost up here and was injured. She's been healing."

A look of concern crinkled Onootee's face. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you are doing well."

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, and I am doing better," Samara answered.

"So what brings you up the mountain? Do you have time to share lunch with us?" Orlando asked.

"Yes, I can stay for lunch, though I need to leave after. Chief Johnson wishes to have your answer as soon as I can get back." Onootee led his horse to the creek.

"I'll go get the table set." Samara went into the cabin.

Once she was in the cabin and the door closed, Onootee turned to Orlando and raised his eyebrows in question.

"What?" Orlando ignored Onotee's expression, not wanting to discuss Samara's presence.

"Nothing, my friend. I just hadn't heard you'd taken a wife is all," Onootee replied as he smiled with mock innocence.

"I haven't. She just healed and has been too injured to travel."

"You've been here all alone?"

Orlando nodded his head. "Nothing has happened."

"Others of your kind might not feel that way."

Orlando exhaled loudly, shaking his head and shrugging in resignation.

"I don't understand why you hesitate. She is a beautiful woman, no?" Onootee's voice was laced with confusion.

"Of course she's beautiful," Orlando practically shouted before lowering his voice. "I don't want to force her to marry me just because I'm the one who found her."

Onootee nodded in understanding as they both stared at the cabin. Orlando wasn't sure if voicing his hesitance to marry her would prove wise or not. With women being scarce around here, most men had no qualms about claiming a woman as their own, whether she agreed or not.

"I will keep your secret, but you may not have a choice. Let's go talk. I have much to tell." Onootee moved toward the cabin, a sense of dread following in his wake.

Orlando stepped into the cabin and paused to allow his eyes to adjust. Samara hustled from the cabinet where she grabbed a hand towel over to the fire to pull the large pot of stew from the heat.

Orlando hurried to her side to help. "Let me get that, Samara."

She looked up at him and smiled her thanks. Her smile then turned bland, and she shrugged in indifference. He sighed and wondered if it got tiring for Samara to constantly battle with herself.

"I see you have harvested many medicines so far." Onootee motioned to the herbs Orlando and Samara had hung that morning.

The herbs' fragrant aroma filled the cabin with a pleasant yet powerful smell as if it pushed all other air from the space. Orlando loved the scent, yet wondered if the headiness of it combined with the rich stew smell proved overwhelming for others.

"Don't you just love how it makes it smell in here? It's so fresh and vibrant, like we gathered the entire mountain up and shoved it in here with us. I'm just glad my allergies aren't going haywire." Samara glanced up into the rafters at their handiwork.

Onootee looked at Orlando in confusion. Orlando hitched one shoulder up. "She's from back east. Pennsylvania, actually. You know those Easterners have some strange sayings."

Onootee laughed. "Yes, some of the men at the White River Agency say the most loco things."

Samara's eyes had briefly widened in shock. "Sorry, what I meant was sometimes my nose gets sneezy and my eyes get all red and watery around plants, so I'm glad that's not the case here."

Onootee chuckled as he dug into the bowl of stew Samara had placed before him. Orlando winked at Samara when she placed his bowl in front of him. She mouthed 'sorry' in response.

He kicked Onootee under the table. "Hey, we haven't said grace yet."

Onootee placed his spoon down and held his hands up in surrender. "Sorry. I'm wolfish."

Samara shuddered before Orlando bowed his head and prayed. "Father God, thank you for the bountiful harvest of herbs you've given us so far this year. Thank you for our friend Onootee's visit. Please bless this food to keep us strong and healthy. Let our conversation be pleasing to You and give us wisdom. In Jesus name, amen."

Onootee attacked his stew like he _had_ turned wolf. Orlando looked at Samara and grinned. She ducked her head, smirking as she began to eat. Onootee had always made Orlando laugh, but Onootee had a strength of character that Orlando admired.

"How did you fare this winter?" Orlando asked between bites.

"Tense." Onootee sighed as he took another bite. "Meeker is loco, adding demands and pushing us into farming. Chief Johnson seems to not mind, planting a garden and living in a house the agency built him. But the others are hesitant. Do you remember Jane, Pauvitz's wife?"

Orlando nodded in affirmation.

"She worked for Meeker, cleaning house for his wife. Meeker and Jane had an argument. During the argument, Meeker told her the Utes didn't own the land we've lived on for generations. That we could only stay as long as we did what he demanded. He wrote about the argument in an article for the Colorado Sun and stated, 'The Utes Must Go!' Now my people no longer put trust in him."

"That fool. What was he thinking?" Orlando ran his hand down his face.

Samara opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it with a quick shake of her head. Orlando would have to ask her later, after Onootee had left, what she had been going to say. Then he wondered if he wanted to know. Could she be right about them affecting the future negatively with information she had? No. God brought her here. If she wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to interact with the people, He wouldn't have brought her here in the first place. Orlando wouldn't worry about silly theories of stepping on butterflies. He would trust in the Creator of butterflies instead.

Onootee pushed his empty bowl away. "Meeker was quite distressed when Captain Jack and Chief Douglas left with their men to go hunting. He tried to force them to stay. Now Chief Johnson and others worry Meeker will send for the troops and force us to Indian country, leaving the land sacred to us like so many other tribes."

Orlando exhaled and ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing his scalp in thought. How could men think so stupidly as to believe that they could force others to bend to their will? He conceded that it had been happening since Genesis, but he loathed the practice. The Utes had been friends with his family since his grandfather moved west. Orlando had celebrated, mourned, and hunted with them. He'd spent countless hours learning from their healers and tending their sick when his knowledge surpassed what they could heal. Yes, their customs and beliefs were different from his, but that didn't make them inferior. His experience had taught him that his views were contrary to the majority, yet it still got his hackles up when he heard of threats to the Utes. Especially since he knew little could be done by him to change the situation.

"Meeker is a fool," Orlando said with a snap, pushing his bowl away.

"Chief Johnson sent me to see if you would come. His child is sick again and wishes you to heal him. He also hopes you can help with the rising tensions with the agency." Onootee leaned forward slightly.

Orlando peeked at Samara, who stared at him. Her amber eyes showed hesitance. She nodded and turned her eyes to her stew as she finished eating. He glanced at Onootee, who watched the exchange with a teasing look upon his face.

"Tell Chief Johnson I'll come." Orlando leaned back in his chair. "I'll leave tomorrow morning."

"Brother, I thank you." Onootee stood up. He gave a quick nod to Samara and headed out the door.

Orlando stood and followed him. "Onootee, what do you think about you and your brother coming up to work the sheep? You would get to spend your days out in the wilderness instead of tilling land. I want to see if it's something the Utes might enjoy more than farming; show Meeker that there are other options."

Onootee whistled for his horse, which trotted up. He mounted and turned to Orlando. "I would not be opposed to coming up, and I'm sure that quiet brother of mine would rather be here with the sheep than in the crowded village. Get Meeker's approval, and we'll be here. I'll see you in a few days." Onootee waved.

Orlando returned the wave with a nod and smile. He leaned on the doorframe as he watched Onootee gallop away. He prayed he could reason with Meeker and help him understand the Ute people so they could find a balance. He didn't hold out much hope though, since Meeker seemed to be an arrogant man whose way was gospel when Orlando had met him last fall.

"Orlando?" Samara's soft voice turned his head to where she stood behind him.

He moved fully outside and leaned on the cabin so she could join him. She leaned against the opposite side of the doorjamb and looked past him to where Onootee's form disappeared into the forest. Her gaze turned to him.

"I'd like to go with you, if you think that would be okay," Samara said.

"If that's what you want, you can come with me. I'll enjoy the company," Orlando answered with a small smile before continuing. "But I have to warn you, I'm worried this meeting will prove tense and could escalate. Also, the white women living at the agency might not approve of us being alone for so long."

"I could care less what some stuffy old biddy thinks of me." Samara crossed her arms over her chest with a huff.

"That may be, but if Meeker's wife is anything like Meeker, she won't be pleasant for you to be around."

Samara looked at him with strength and resignation. "I can handle myself just fine."

"I know," Orlando murmured.

Samara nodded and turned into the cabin. He remained where he stood and surveyed his meadow. He scanned the purple mountains in the distance and the aspen trees fully clothed in their summer garments, searching for the peace that usually resided deep within him. As the sound of Samara stacking bowls and dropping them in the sink clanked in the cabin, discord clanked within his soul. He feared this trip would change much and prepared himself to remain extra alert.

Samara breathed in the crisp, early morning air from where she rode Midnight. Samara would be lying if she believed she wasn't anxious about the trip, but she pushed that aside and determined to enjoy the ride. Even though the forest remained dark with dawn, Samara enjoyed the scenery. They'd packed their saddlebags the night before and left early, before the sun had even crested the ridge. Orlando had explained that they would arrive at the White River Agency sometime tomorrow morning if they made good time today.

So the easy pace Orlando set surprised Samara, though she didn't complain. She took in the forest that closed her in tightly like a mother swaddling a baby. She supposed some might find the weight of the trees constricting, but to her, the forest tight around her gave her comfort, and always had, now that she thought about it.

Samara remembered flourishing in the wilderness. When her family lived in the Philippines, she'd hated living in Manila, but when they travelled to villages to work with churches, the jungles had called to her. The years she spent on the streets of Philadelphia had been the hardest, with no way to leave the city. Yet, she had found every park she could and would lay beneath the trees and pretend she lay deep within a forest somewhere. Once she'd scraped up enough money playing music on the streets to purchase her beater car, she spent every weekend she could driving into the Poconos and camping under the trees in the tent and sleeping bag she'd purchased at the Goodwill for twenty bucks. She'd been free in those moments, free from the pain and stress of always staying on guard. The trees had swaddled her, given her rest so she could survive the next stretch of time she'd be away.

Samara wondered at that, the possibility that if God was how she had arrived here, it may have been for more reasons than just to escape Harry. He could've just as easily dropped her back at the ranch or at the police station in Meeker. Shoot, He could've answered all her dreams and beamed her onto the lap of some Scottish highlander living in a castle beside a loch. She wouldn't have minded the haggis and brogue since it'd come with all those muscles wrapped in a kilt.

Yet God had placed her here, where she'd live within the wilderness that had always brought her such serenity. Where the mountains reached high into the sky as if they held it up along their jagged backs and the wind played a sweet symphony as it blew gently through the meadow and trees. Where the sky painted a glorious picture each evening as the sun finished its trek across the expanse only to slowly reveal the sparkling marvel that graced the dark sky with such opulence. Where the press of people that caused her heart rate to soar and her nerves to fry disappeared to a dog, some sheep, and a man unlike any man she'd ever known. Maybe God really did care and wanted her happy.

There she went again, thinking this arrangement would last, that this existence of peace could become her new norm. _She was an idiot_. She huffed and adjusted the dulcimer case hanging on her back. Why did her heart seem bent on entrenching her deep within this place? The constant inner argument wore on her and worried her that one day her heart would win over reason.

Midnight jerked her head and snorted, and Samara leaned over with a chuckle as she patted her neck. "I know, girl, I'm pathetic."

A slight rustle above her was the only warning before a weight slammed into her back, pushing her flat against Midnight's neck. The shriek of the horse almost drowned out the sound of something sharp attempting to rip into her dulcimer case. Samara changed her mind. This forest would be the death of her.

# Chapter 12

Orlando's hand palmed his gun before he realized the horrifying scream came from the horse behind him. He spun in the saddle and choked at the sight of a mountain lion pinning Samara to the horse. This woman was going to be the death of him.

Orlando aimed and shot the lion. The bullet slammed into the animal's side, causing it to fall off the horse. Unfortunately, it took Samara with it. She screamed, and Orlando prayed the horse didn't trample her in its attempt to escape. Orlando jumped from his horse and raced over to Midnight, grabbing the horse's reins and pulling the mare away from crushing Samara with her hooves.

Orlando then rushed to Samara where she'd rolled off the lion, crawled some distance away, and had curled on her side sobbing. He leaned over, threading his fingers through her hair. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled, calming his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest.

"Shh, its okay. You're okay," Orlando whispered into her ear.

"Is it dead?" She shuddered.

"It's dead. You're safe." He cupped her body and pulled her up to him.

She kneeled beside him, her face buried in his neck as she took deep breaths, slowing the sobs that ripped from her. Orlando felt her hands shake where they clutched his shirt. When her sobs had mostly stopped, she pushed back and pointed those beautiful amber eyes at him, still glistening with tears.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

She shook her head and whispered. "I don't think so."

Orlando pulled away from her and brushed the hair from her face. He couldn't believe he'd missed that lion perched in the tree. If he'd focused his mind on the surroundings rather than the woman behind him, he probably would've seen the cat where it crouched.

A hard lump formed in his throat, causing his voice to come out garbled and rough. "I'm so sorry, Samara. I should've seen it."

"It's all right, Orlando," she replied, placing a shaky hand upon his cheek. "You can't see everything. I didn't even know it was there until it landed on me."

He leaned his cheek into her hand, asking in a whisper. "How are you not hurt?"

She laughed and shrugged until her case came loose. "The mountain lion landed on the case. I could hear it gnawing away as Midnight and I screamed."

Orlando grabbed the case and ran his hand over the thick gouges that now covered it. Teeth marks marred the wide end of the case she had sitting by her head. If she hadn't been stubborn and demanded she wear the thing, he probably would've lost her.

Orlando cleared his throat of the emotion that threatened to close it. "Thank you, Lord, for this case that protected Samara's life."

"Shouldn't you be thanking me for insisting that I carry the thing instead of strapping it down like you suggested? God had nothing to do with that." Samara crossed her arms over her chest.

"Thank You Lord for making Samara such a strong-willed, hardheaded woman and for bringing her to me," Orlando prayed, smiling big and pulling her to him before landing a kiss on her cheek. "Life's much more exciting with her around."

Samara gasped in shock and smacked him on the shoulder. The mountain lion twitched, causing Samara to shriek and grab onto Orlando's arm. He laughed as he rubbed her hand that threatened to leave marks where it clung to him.

"Don't worry. It's just the muscles twitching."

Samara sighed and released her death grip. She scooted a little closer to the animal and looked at it. The lion had a bullet wound right through the heart. Orlando had never been so thankful to be a great shot as he was since Samara had shown up.

"Why'd it attack? I didn't think they'd attack something as large as us," Samara asked.

Orlando looked at the lion and then glanced at the sky where the last traces of night burned off with the colorful sunrise. "It's a little late for hunting, but not completely out of character. This lion looks young, though, maybe only a year. It just didn't know any better."

"Aw, poor baby," Samara crooned, scooting over to the carcass and petting its side.

Orlando rolled his eyes and groaned. "For goodness sake, Samara. It's still old enough to tear you to pieces."

Samara turned and glared at him before sticking out her tongue. He stood and moved to Loco, who'd remained ground hitched where Orlando had left him. He patted the pony on the side in affection and grabbed the meat bags he kept in his pack.

"We need to take care of this carcass and get down the trail before any other predator decides to come take a bite out of you." Orlando tossed the game bags next to Samara.

Samara's eyes opened wide and her mouth hung in an adorable O. Orlando watched as her shock turned to indignation, and she squinted her eyes at him, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. He knelt down beside her and turned to her.

"Ready for your first lesson in butchering?" Humor laced Orlando's words.

Samara shook her head at the same time she said, "Yes."

Orlando laughed at her timidity as he got started on the animal. The strong-willed woman had disappeared, but he knew the timid one wouldn't stay for long.

Samara sat by the crystal clear lake they'd stopped at. Never had she seen a view more beautiful than the one that lay out before her. The lake wasn't all that large, but lazily circled through the forest. Several mountain peaks lined the sky on the opposite side of the lake and reflected perfectly within the flat water. The blue sky, slowly turning shades of apricot, rose, and lavender, filled the space around and above her with a surreal glow. The air smelled of crisp water and campfire. The only sounds meeting her ears were the playful tone of the creek as it left the lake behind, the trilling song of some birds floating down from the trees, and the fire crackling merrily behind her.

Samara almost hesitated adding her own strand to the symphony playing around her, but she found her fingers strumming and moving in response. A squirrel chattered in protest at her interruption, causing her to consider stopping. However, her fingers continued the song of her heart that played out across the strings.

Samara thought back to Orlando's prayer earlier today, him thanking God for bringing her to him. Her lips tweaked up at the memory of the quick kiss Orlando had placed upon her cheek. Nothing Earth-shattering or toe-curling, but the quick touch tickled with his whiskers and had sent warmth racing to her gut. She thought of the weight of the lion pressing into her back, the funky musk that had filled her nose, and the crunch of teeth on her case sent chills skating up and down her spine. The memory proved as frightening as the encounter.

Yet, Samara's mind kept going back to that prayer. _Life's much more exciting with her around._ How could Orlando think that? He'd obviously been teasing, because she'd brought nothing but danger and painful memories with her.

She thought about Orlando's penchant for prayer. How quick he praised and thanked God for things God could've stopped to begin with. If God truly found her worthy of His thoughts and time, of His protection and provision, then why had He allowed such horrible things to happen to her? How was she to trust a God who could hurt her so completely? It all circled back to the fact that she wasn't worth it. Her parents realized it. Her friends on the street and ex-fiancé realized it. Even God realized it. Eventually, Orlando would realize it too.

"My name is graven on His hands. My name is written on His heart," Orlando's deep voice sang low as he sat down beside her.

Samara jerked to a stop and looked at him. "What did you just say?"

"I was just singing the hymn you were playing, 'Before the Throne of God Above.' It's one of my favorites, though it's newer," Orlando answered, looking at her in confusion. "You didn't know what you were playing?"

Samara looked down at her fingers where they laid across the instrument. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Why would that song have to find its way to her fingers? Could God not let her be?

Orlando watched as Samara looked pained by his question. He'd heard her playing while he finished taking care of the lion pelt. The song had drifted in and out of the air around them, floating playfully down the creek and trilling with the warblers in the trees. He stood transfixed as it became part of nature, not overpowering or taking away from it, but melding as if it had always been.

When the music had morphed into the hymn he'd heard in church on his trip to Denver last summer, he'd been drawn to join her. The hymn had left such a mark upon him when he'd first heard it, forcing him to look at his grief and selfishness. He'd left for home the next day, but not before he'd tracked down a copy of the author's hymnal so he could remember it. He often sang it within the wilderness, lifting his voice in worship. But he never thought he'd hear it emerging from Samara's heart.

"That song means something to you, doesn't it?" Orlando studied her face for signs of her thoughts.

Samara's shoulders lifted high in a heavy sigh. "It was a favorite of my mother's, of mine too, I guess. We used to sing it every night before I went to bed. She sang it before the men killed her."

A breath shuddered from Samara's mouth as Orlando's mind galloped away. "I've been wondering about something, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Ask away."

"I've been thinking about your parents' deaths and wondering why there were three shots and not just two?" Orlando asked with hesitation, not wanting to cause her more pain but needing to understand.

Samara laughed without humor. "Yes, God's miraculous third shot."

Samara rubbed her fingers through her hair, scrubbing the heels of her hands into her eyes. Orlando could tell she didn't want to share the story with him and almost told her she didn't need to. But he wondered if telling him would flush out some of the hurt that infected her. That possibly God might use the telling to expose her darkness to the light of God's love for Samara.

She placed her fingers upon the strings and softly plucked at them. "I never thought much about that shot, never thought about the entire incident except when I woke screaming from the nightmares. One fall while I was in the Curtis Institute of Music, the symphony travelled to Manila to play in a charity series to help the impoverished of the city. I wanted to prove that I could go there. That I could face my ghosts and come away intact.

"So I traveled all the way back to the Philippines, played pretty music for the wretched masses living there. I contacted the Navigators, the missionary group my parents were a part of, and talked them into taking me back to my old house. My fiancé and I loaded into the car, made the trip across town with the director of Navigators, and pulled up to my old house."

Orlando's heart stopped at the word fiancé. Why hadn't she said anything about someone waiting for her back in her time? He almost interrupted her but held his tongue. She seemed to get pulled into the story, her fingers plucking nonsense and her look far away as it stared across the lake. So he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his questions in and let her story continue.

"The neighborhood looked exactly the same, like it had frozen in time, though I'm not sure why I expected it to be different. When I got out of the car, I noticed a lady across the street tending her flowers. I called out without thinking, 'Tita Fhil?' She turned, a look of surprise crossing her face, and I took off across the street in a run and almost tackled the poor lady. She embraced me. Kept repeating my name as she patted my head. After we calmed ourselves, she invited the three of us in for coffee and cookies.

"Tita Fhil and the director told a pretty fantastic story about how three shots had been fired, two that killed my parents and one shot into the ground beside my mother. The men responsible claimed to have killed the American family, while the people of the neighborhood knew I'd survived. They called it a miracle. That God had somehow made them believe I was there beside my parents. I remember laughing in contempt, saying the terrorists just must've misfired, but they insisted. Claimed the miracle bolstered the faith of the believers there and now the church grows stronger and larger despite constant threat. So there's the story of the three shots. The last one bolstered a community. The first two shattered my life."

Samara began playing a sorrowful melody, closing her eyes as the song lifted into the air that had quieted as she told her story. Orlando watched, her face muted in the dark pink and purple light of the sunset. A single tear escaped from her closed eyes. He slid his hand along the back of her neck and gently wiped the tear with his thumb.

"God saved you that day. He keeps saving you," Orlando whispered, as he let his hand drop to his side.

"If God saved me that day, then He abandoned me the next. Thought better of it and left me on my own," Samara scoffed. "Seems to be a pattern. First my parents, then God. Even my fiancé left after taking everything he could get from me."

While Orlando rejoiced no one could lay claim on her, he knew that skunk had layered more hurt upon her soul. Orlando looked at her profile as she stared across the lake painted deep purple, maroon, and orange. Her features, hard to distinguish in the fading light, held sorrow and resolve. He wanted to see her face transformed to joy and hope. Prayed God would help him accomplish that.

"I don't think God abandoned you. I think He's been walking right beside You, giving you strength to overcome the attacks upon you. Shoot, Samara, He even sent you back in time. That doesn't seem to me like someone who has abandoned you, but rather someone who desperately loves you. Maybe you should consider that."

Samara looked at him, her face contorted in confusion. He'd pushed enough, needed to let that bit of medicine soak in. He grabbed her dulcimer and stood, reaching his other hand down to help her up.

"Come on, fairy queen, your feast and bed await." He offered her a small smile.

She pushed her hair behind her shoulder and lifted her chin saucily as she placed her hand in his. "I expect a four-course meal and silk sheets, servant."

"How about mountain lion and wool blankets?"

Samara shivered in what he hoped was _mock_ disgust. He chuckled and threaded his fingers through hers.

"Thank you for sharing your story with me." He squeezed her hand.

Samara stared into his eyes as if searching the depths of him for something. He held her stare with all his feelings open to her appraisal. He wasn't sure if she found them, but she nodded and turned toward the fire. He held her hand as he led her to the fire, though the path was clear of anything she could trip on.

# Chapter 13

Samara sat on the fallen tree Orlando had pulled over to the campfire for a seat and stared into the flames. He moved about the fire finishing dinner. She probably should offer to help, but the telling of the story had drained her. Her entire life seemed to drain her.

What she hadn't told Orlando, what she couldn't expose for all to hear, was the emptiness she'd felt while in Manila, in her old neighborhood. Tita Fhil had called the neighbors, and they'd all come over to visit her, hugging and exclaiming their joy in seeing her all grown up. They told stories of her parents, stories of the miracles since their deaths. They'd praised her parents' sacrifice and the fact she'd grown into such an accomplished young woman.

Everywhere she had looked her parents lingered, their shadows a legacy she couldn't live up to. A legacy that left her weighted and heavy with her lacking. Their love had prompted a community to grow and thrive, passing that devotion to others. What was so wrong with her that the inheritance of their love had passed completely over her?

Orlando ambled over to the log, handing Samara a tin plate full of food. She was thankful he pulled her from her depressing thoughts. He sat next to her, leaning against the log instead of sitting on it, and his long, strong legs stretched toward the fire. Samara slid to sit on the ground next to him and poked at the meat on her plate.

"I promise it's not that bad." Orlando chuckled as he stuffed a large bite into his mouth.

Samara looked at the plate before her. The meat sat innocuously next to the dandelion greens they'd gathered for a salad. Orlando had even cut some green cattail tops and roasted them. They lay like roasted corn-on-the-cob beside the menacing meat. Samara swallowed and stabbed the greens.

"Chicken," Orlando teased, holding his knife out in challenge.

She chewed her bite of dandelions and grabbed the knife with a glare. "Challenge accepted."

Samara cut a piece of meat and popped it into her mouth. At first, she chewed quickly, wanting to get the deed done, but she stopped and really tasted the meat. The flavor was like pork with a hint of a muskiness. She slowed down to savor it. Orlando reached over to get his knife.

"Nope." She held the knife away from him. "I'm still eating."

Orlando threw his head back and laughed. When his mirth finished, he looked at her and smiled. "Good, isn't it?"

"Amazing!" she answered, taking a bite of the corn-like cattail. "This entire meal is incredible. I can't believe we had none of this food packed when we left this morning. It blows my mind that you can survive out here, eating like this."

"Well, you might not always be blessed with such abundance, but I'll teach you." Orlando took a bite out of his meat like a caveman and smiled at her.

"Why?" Samara's heart suddenly pounded in anticipation.

Orlando looked at her and answered with complete confidence. "You're not going to scrape to survive anymore, Samara. I plan on making sure you flourish, like how you've made our garden explode with bounty."

"The Lord will guide you always, he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail," Samara whispered.

"Isaiah 58:11, though a bit different from the one I know," Orlando answered, looking at her in question.

"My parents made me memorize it. It just popped into my head before I even realized I was talking." Samara slowly chewed her bite as she stared into the fire.

"I think the Lord agrees with me," Orlando declared.

Samara thought while they sat in comfortable silence as they finished the meal. Her thoughts circled around their conversation by the lake and the verse that sprang from her mouth. Her parents had forced her to memorize hundreds of verses, so why did that one stick to her like the stubborn burrs she pulled from Zeus's coat? God hadn't guided her. He had abandoned her. Hadn't He?

What if He actually had proved true to His word and guided her always? What would that mean about her? Could she be worthy of His love? Of Orlando's love? Could she embrace being here and plant herself along this creek of life she'd fallen in to? She didn't think she agreed with the direction of her thoughts, but she couldn't seem to stop them.

Samara watched as Orlando took the dishes down to the lake and cleaned them. He hadn't specifically said he wanted her to stay with him, marry him, because in this time there'd be no co-habitation. Yet she saw his intent in the way he looked at her, the soft touches he gave and his off-hand comments that penetrated her soul. His distress when she was attacked could not come from someone who didn't care. Had anyone ever agonized over her like that before? A memory of her mother's frantic face as she hurried her out the door rushed into Samara's memory.

She pushed away the thought and watched as Orlando set up the bedrolls across from each other. She plodded to one and lay down, peering over the flickering fire. Orlando checked the horses one last time and settled down on his back. She inhaled, long and deep, like her yoga teacher had taught her, trying to relax her mind and body enough to fall asleep. Leaves rustled in the shadows and a squirrel chattered angrily, causing Samara to jump at the noise. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, wishing they could've brought Zeus along instead of leaving him with the flock.

An animal screamed in the forest. Samara's heart rate picked up. Memories of the wolves attacking, snapping at her, of their putrid scent, filled her brain. The sound the mountain lion's claws and teeth had made on her case filled her head and skittered down her spine. She hadn't encountered a bear yet, but she supposed one might go ahead and choose tonight to lumber into camp, maybe gnaw on her head a bit. A screech echoed through the woods and the weight of fear lay heavy as the mountain lion.

"Orlando?" Samara whispered, her voice barely squeezing from her throat.

He looked at her. "Yeah?"

Samara peered at him, knowing her expression broadcasted the fear strangling her. "I know it's not proper, but can I sleep over there next to you? I'm thinking with my luck, some bear will decide I look like a tasty burrito and take a bite."

Orlando scooted away from the fire and patted the space he left behind. Though she knew she should at least save face and move slowly, she dragged up her bed and rushed to his side. After helping her lay out her bedroll, Orlando lay on his back and closed his eyes, one arm pillowing his head. She rolled onto her side facing the fire so her back was to him and sighed. She felt safe, and her body relaxed in the peace of that safety.

Samara followed behind Orlando as they rode to the agency on a thick trail that wandered through the forest. He'd promised that it wouldn't be but an hour or so more before they'd see it in the valley. The day had stretched long before them since they'd taken their time and stopped early yesterday for Orlando to flesh out the mountain lion hide. The long day in the saddle had unfortunately given her more hours and minutes and seconds than she cared to think about remembering the feel of Orlando's arms around her that morning as they woke. The coals burning low behind her and the cords of strength holding her had encased her in a cocoon of comfort she never wanted to leave.

Samara remembered how Orlando had whispered her name, his voice sounding thick and husky. His fingers threading through her hair as he'd cleared his throat and told her they needed to get up and moving. Reality had crashed on her then, and she'd sat up fast, her crazy bedhead curls flying into her face. Orlando had sat up and brushed her hair behind her shoulder, his hand sliding a slow trail of heat over her shoulder and down her arm. His eyes had held a promise she wasn't sure she wanted to accept as he smiled to her and helped her up.

Samara rolled her eyes at once again finding herself deep in the memory. Hadn't she already lingered over it a million times through the hours they'd ridden in almost total silence? Hadn't she picked apart every detail, every nuance, a bloom of hope growing alongside a weed of doubt? She figured time would prove which survived, though she balked at thinking her life might end filled with more flowers than weeds. For the moment, she'd stay strong, figure out how to prune her thoughts to reality and survive however long she had to stay with Orlando with her heart intact.

The smell of smoke in the air tore her thoughts from useless wonderings. "Is the smoke from the agency?"

"No, it's likely a forest fire. They often start around this time of year. Mostly from lightning, but sometimes the Indians or settlers will start them for one reason or another," Orlando answered.

"Should we be worried?"

"No, it's not that close. Fires burn out eventually. The forest is healthy in the area, so if there's a fire, it won't burn so out of control you couldn't escape it. Not like how you described with so much dead trees and overgrowth. The forest takes care of itself," Orlando replied with a shrug.

Samara watched him scan the trees. He'd done that so many times today she wondered if his neck would have a kink tonight. She hated admitting how his obvious protection and care made her feel like a gushy teen. She stared so long at the line of muscles that stretched his shirt across his back she could probably draw him with her eyes closed while riding the teacups at Disneyland. His body swayed with the movement of the horse like instruments of a symphony melded in one masterpiece. Ugh, she stuck her tongue out in disgust, halfway wishing a bear or mountain lion or rabid pack of porcupines would attack just to stop the ninny thoughts from running through her thick head.

"Come on up here," Orlando called from where he'd turned in the saddle, an odd expression on his face.

Samara realized that while she had been foolishly ogling the man, the trail had opened up to overlook the valley below. She came up beside Orlando where he'd stopped. His look had turned to one of concern.

"Are you okay? You looked, I don't know, like you were about to get sick," Orlando's voice was thick with worry.

That's what silly daydreams led to, handsome heroes layering on more appeal with solicitude. "I'm fine. Just had a bug fly in my mouth."

Samara mentally slapped herself in the forehead. This place had melted her brains. She needed to figure out a way to get herself to a city where she could blend into anonymity. Only then could she keep herself safe among the crowded streets and away from steamy men with their piercing eyes. Maybe her brain cells would grow back. She remembered reading somewhere that it was possible to repair the brain after damage had occurred. She hoped that was true and hers hadn't been broken beyond help.

Samara focused on the landscape before her. The valley opened up below the mountains much the same as during her time. The White River weaved against the base of the hillside of the opposite mountain lined with large cottonwoods and willows. While the entire valley didn't burst with the green irrigation fields she'd drawn a hundred times like they would in the future, Samara understood why the vast area would someday prosper with ranching. The flat terrain was perfect for cultivation.

A set of buildings were built among the trees that lined the river. Over a hundred tepees circled out beyond the buildings and thousands of horses grazed in the field. Samara noticed that some fields had been tilled up and planted with crops. She wondered if Meeker had plowed up the fateful Ute racetrack that would ignite the simmering coals of tension into flames. The museum she'd visited and the book she'd bought about the upcoming attack had said the racetrack was the final straw for the Utes.

"Samara, I'm wondering if you'd do something for me." Orlando peered down at the settlement.

She glanced at him, noticing the flex of his cheek where he clenched his jaw. "Sure."

Orlando turned to her. Something fierce and cautionary shined from his eyes. "I'd like you to tie up your hair and stuff it under your hat. Your hair is uncommon, and I'm worried it might cause some excitement."

"You think someone would hurt me because of my hair?" Samara asked, skepticism thick in her voice.

Orlando took off his hat and hit it on his leg. He then blew out a breath as he pushed his fingers through his thick, blond hair. The motion distracted her, made her wonder what it would feel like to run her fingers through it. She seriously needed her head examined.

"No. Well, I don't think so. It's more... it's just..." Orlando exhaled sharply. "It's just that your beauty is exotic, Samara, especially with your hair flowing behind you like it is. Most white women wear their hair pulled in a bun and tucked away under their bonnets, not flying wild behind them. I guess I'd just like to hide you as much as possible until I see what the situation is down there."

Samara smiled at his off-handed compliment, especially with how crazy her hair had been since getting here and her lack of foundation to cover the myriad of freckles splattered across her face. Her heart soared and her smile must border on goofy. He wasn't making it very easy on her to get her mind under control.

"All right, though for the record, I'm not scared of them. I should probably warn you. My hair is unruly and has a mind of its own. If I try and tame it, it's liable to bust free." Samara took off her hat and worked on twisting her hair into submission.

She attempted to ignore Orlando as he watched her wrap her hair in a leather strip. She took the square of fabric she'd put around her neck like a kerchief and wrapped it around her head. She pushed her hat upon her head, wiggling it down low over her ears.

She looked at Orlando and smiled. "Better?"

"No. You're still adorable." Orlando grumbled. "Listen, I know you can take care of yourself, that you have for most of your life. But as much as I call the Ute people of this band my friends and have for years, with tensions high, I'm not sure how everyone will act. Plus, I have no clue how Meeker and his family will react to us being here. Please, just be careful."

Samara reached over and clasped the hand he had squeezed into a fist on his leg. He looked down at the hands, then up to her face. She smiled, hoping to encourage him past his worry.

"I promise, I'll be extra vigilant and keep all my martial arts skills on high alert."

"I don't know what painting has to do with you staying safe," Orlando replied, his forehead scrunching in confusion.

Samara laughed, the tension and confusing thoughts of the day melting away. "Martial arts is a type of self-defense, a way to protect yourself with the movement of your body. I took lessons, scraping enough cash together from playing music on the corner to pay for it. It came in handy when I lived on the street and people thought the skinny girl would be an easy target."

Samara kept beside Orlando as he urged Loco into a walk. "So this martial arts is a type of fighting? And it's used by law enforcement, by the marshals? They still have the marshals in your time?"

Samara tipped her head back and laughed. It felt good, like a faucet that had been dripping life-giving water one measly drop at a time had been turned on full blast. Had busted off the spout and gushed sustenance in abundance. She didn't even know what was so funny.

Orlando chuckled next to her. She looked over at him, and he stared at her, a radiant smile on his face. The untroubled look made her realize how much weight he set upon his shoulders. How much concern and worry for others pulled his countenance into a somber pose. She wanted to cause the buoyant joy to appear on his face and in his soul, just as much as she wanted to have it for herself. But that wouldn't line up with her plan, her need for self-preservation. Could she abandon her method of survival for a notion of hope? A chance to live within her parents' legacy of love?

Samara smiled at Orlando as peace filled her. "They still have the US marshals, but it's not that type of marshal. Though I guess if Chuck Norris used it, then there might be some who do. Anyway, it's martial as in military, more specifically Asian military. It's fighting techniques traditionally used by different Asian cultures. It's used for close, hand-to-hand combat. Though I'm hoping I won't need it as much now."

Something in her tone must've sounded different, because Orlando looked at her with an intensity she couldn't describe. "Why wouldn't you need it?"

Samara shrugged and looked at the settlement they drew close to. She required more time to contemplate her thoughts, to decide if the risk of staying with Orlando would be worth it. She cut a quick look at Orlando. She didn't doubt it would be worth it, at least temporarily, but happiness lasting was the question she couldn't answer.

Samara shook her head at herself. She needed to remain focused and on alert. They were traveling into a situation that she knew was much tenser than anyone understood. She realized she couldn't say anything specific to Orlando but wondered how she might help diffuse the situation.

Samara moved her horse closer as they started to arrive at the outskirts of the lodges. "Orlando, we need to try and talk both parties out of doing anything drastic. If they don't learn to cooperate, maybe both adjusting some of their views, this situation is going to turn deadly."

Orlando peered at her, determination in his gaze. "I'll do what I can, but both sides can be stubborn. Anything we say may backfire on us."

Samara nodded in understanding. She couldn't come right out and say what would happen in the future. She still wasn't sure what she said and did wouldn't have drastic effects on the future. Though if she thought about it, when Hunter had transported back here last year, nothing changed in the future. Or would she even know if things changed? She shook her head in confusion. She couldn't worry about that nonsense now. She was here, apparently for good. She wasn't about to become a recluse in a cave somewhere, so she supposed interacting with the locals couldn't hurt. If it did, she'd never know, butterfly effect or not, until the future unfolded as she lived out her life.

Samara focused her attention on the village as they ventured toward the center. Smoke thick with the scent of cooking meat filled the air. Children ran up to their horses, talking rapidly at Orlando in Ute with such joy at his arrival that Samara watched in awe. Orlando dismounted Loco and bent to be at their level to talk to them. He smiled at the children, asking each of them questions and ruffling hair and giving hugs to those that were brave enough to come close.

One young boy came barreling at Orlando so fast Orlando almost ended on his backside. Samara laughed, drawing the attention of both the man and the children that surrounded him. Some stood behind Orlando to hide. Some stared openly at her in question.

Orlando came up to her and helped her down, turning to face the crowd surrounding them. "Children, this is my friend, Samara. I'm wondering if you'll show her around while I go tell Chief Johnson we have arrived?"

Samara's eyes widened as enthusiastic yes's rang around her. "They speak English?"

Orlando shrugged. "Not all of them, but my family has been teaching them for years. The ones who don't are just excited to follow the crowd."

Several children grabbed for her hand to pull her away. She'd never felt so wanted in her life, like a celebrity arriving on the red carpet. A young woman smiled at Samara, her round, inviting face beaming with beauty. Samara envied her long, dark hair and the way the deep, chestnut locks shone in the sun. The woman's friendly eyes smiled at Samara before she turned to Orlando.

"I'll stay with her and the children," the woman offered.

"Thank you, Sparrow," Orlando replied. "Samara, this is Sparrow, Chief Johnson's niece. Sparrow, this is my friend Samara."

"It's nice to meet you." Samara smiled.

"It is very nice to meet you, Samara," Sparrow replied. "That is a beautiful name. What does it mean?"

"It's Hebrew and means guardian or protected by God," Samara answered, not wanting to dwell too much on it.

"What a strong name you have been given." Sparrow laughed. "I, on the other hand, was named for a tiny bird, common in every way."

"Perhaps, yet the sparrow always emerges after the storms, singing beautifully for all to hear. They are survivors known all over the world. I happen to like sparrows quite a lot," Samara answered with a smile.

Sparrow's smile stretched wide across her face with astonishment. Why would such a beautiful woman discount herself so easily? Was Samara guilty of the same? She pushed the thought away as she allowed the children to drag her away from Orlando.

# Chapter 14

Orlando forced his thoughts away from the image of Samara being led through the village by tiny hands eager to be her guide. He couldn't believe her explanation of her name, protected by God. Guardian. God surely had proved true to her name, protecting her through unimaginable pain and trials. He prayed she'd realize the love God had for her, the protection He sheltered her in.

Chief Johnson welcomed Orlando enthusiastically into his home, an actual house built by the agency that had shocked Orlando almost to the point of stumbling to a stop. Chief Johnson seemed to be embracing the expectations and lifestyle of the white man much better than Orlando had anticipated. In honesty, he didn't understand why the chief had sent for him.

"Thank you for inviting me into your home, Chief Johnson," Orlando said.

"Have you eaten?" Chief Johnson motioned Orlando to take a seat at the table.

"Yes, thank you." Orlando looked around the house and suddenly missed the old tepee. He supposed the chief's old tepee was the lodge set up next to the house, but he wondered how often Chief Johnson used it.

Knowing the chief would consider it rude to weigh Orlando down with the settlement's troubles without first chatting for a bit, Orlando started right in. "Onootee tells me you are worried about the agency and Meeker."

Chief Johnson nodded his head sagely. "It would be just like you to make beaver. You're just like your father, ready to get to the bottom of a problem and figure it out. Never hesitating in times of trouble, always willing to lend a hand to friends. You have the hair of the bear, and I know your father was very proud of you."

The chief's words lodged within Orlando's chest. That this man, the brother of the great Chief Ouray, the man trying to make the best of the situation forced upon him, would give Orlando the greatest honor among mountain men humbled him. The chief's words about his father filled a bit of the emptiness left gaping since his death.

Muttering into the space between them, Orlando stared into Chief Johnson's eyes. "I've always aimed to live up to the legacy, the legend, left behind by Pa. Always strived to leave the world a little bit better than how I found it."

Chief Johnson shook his head and stared at Orlando in seriousness. "You, Orlando, have not met your father's legacy... you have surpassed it."

Orlando bowed his head to compose himself, his throat so thick he questioned if he could talk. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. How could this great man think Orlando had surpassed his father? His pa had been bigger than the mountains themselves.

Orlando looked up and smiled at the older man. "Thank you. Tell me, why are you worried about Meeker? What has he done?"

Chief Johnson sighed so deeply it seemed to come all the way from his toes. "I've tried to do things the white man way. I plant my crops. I live in their house. And what does Nathan Meeker do? Spit in my face, that's what."

Chief Johnson spit off to the side, a look of disgust on his face. He had said the name with such contempt, Orlando worried things were too far gone for him to help. He took a deep breath, praying to God for wisdom.

"What did he do?" Orlando braced for the answer.

"He is determined to plow up our race track. He even warned he would get rid of all our horses, and that he could because he is the boss. Now he's threatened to bring in the troops. They would send us into Indian country for sure," Chief Johnson replied.

Orlando blew out the breath he'd been holding. Things had proved worse than he thought. Was this why Samara had sounded so anxious? The Utes had obtained horses hundreds of years before from the Spanish. It was what had given them the advantage over the other tribes. To take away their horses and plow up their racetrack would be akin to killing their very spirit.

"Do you think you can talk sense into him? I do not think I can keep Jack and Chief Douglas calm much longer. I don't know if I can take these injustices much longer." Chief Johnson's voice ended on a whisper.

"I don't know. I can tr—" Commotion from outside interrupted Orlando, causing him to bolt for the door.

Fury, hot and volatile, burned straight to his core as he saw Running Elk pulling Samara through the village with intent. He held her hat in one hand and her elbow so tightly in the other Orlando knew the grip would leave a bruise. Sparrow yelled at Running Elk, pulling at his arm to get him to let go. Running Elk pushed Sparrow to the ground, yelling in Ute that he was taking the white woman with the hair of fire as his bride.

The anger that had settled to molten lead within his stomach momentarily turned to surprise as he watched his tiny fairy queen break the strong hold upon her arm, punch Running Elk hard in the throat, toss him over her body, and slam her knee into his gut where he'd landed on the ground. Silence thick as smoke hovered over the village.

"Don't you hurt my friend." Samara's voice seethed with anger as she swiped her hat up from where it fell on the ground. "And don't you dare lay a finger on me again."

Orlando reached her side just as Running Elk got to his knees. Orlando touched her on the elbow, running his hand down her arm to lace his fingers in hers. He pulled her to his side and turned to Running Elk.

"You dare touch my fiancée?" Orlando questioned Running Elk in Ute, the only phrase he knew could stop this situation from spiraling out of control.

If Running Elk determined Samara to be his, not much would stop him. But if Orlando already held that claim, he prayed Chief Johnson would honor their friendship by forcing Running Elk to relent. If not, Orlando would dig up the tomahawk to win her.

"You have a claim on her?" Running Elk said, his voice raspy and forced, dripping with doubt.

"I do. She has been at my place for the past month. We are to have someone marry us while we are here," Orlando answered, still speaking in Ute and praying Samara would understand when he explained. "You dishonor me by treating her with such disrespect."

Chief Johnson came beside Orlando. "Running Elk, you dishonor our guest and you dishonor me. Leave and don't return until Orlando and his wife are gone."

Running Elk glared at Orlando, hate burning deep in his eyes. Running Elk stomped past Orlando close to Samara. Orlando tensed as Running Elk stepped up to Samara and whispered something in her ear.

Before Orlando could react, Samara rammed the heel of her hand into Running Elk's nose. A sickening crunch filled the air a split second before a howl of agony. Blood gushed from Running Elk's nose. He moved to grab Samara, and Orlando pulled his revolver from its holster, cocking and pointing it at Running Elk's head.

"Running Elk, go," Chief Johnson said, his tone reminding them of the fierce warrior he was.

Running Elk turned and left. His feet stomped in his retreat, kicking chickens and dogs that dared stray within his path. Samara had severely wounded the cocky warrior's pride today, multiple times. Orlando would have to be extra vigilant while they remained.

"Is that the marshal arts you were talking about?" Orlando asked in amazement.

Samara lifted her shoulder in a half shrug, her lips tweaking in the corners. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss where her lips lifted, follow his earlier claim with action. He rubbed her fingers with his thumb where they were still entwined with his.

"Are you okay?" Orlando's heart still thundered from anger and fear.

"Yeah. I've been up against worse." Samara shrugged with nonchalance. "Told you I can take care of myself."

Chief Johnson came up to Orlando and clapped him on the shoulder. "So, today we have a wedding, yes?"

"Wedding?" Samara looked at him in confusion.

"Did I hear someone say something about a wedding?" A loud, boisterous voice boomed into the clearing.

Orlando turned to see his father's best friend and Orlando's adopted uncle, Trapper Dan, striding into the crowd. Dan's red beard and hair hung long around his face. His jovial expression beamed at Orlando. Orlando embraced the good friend and thumped him on the back.

"Wedding?" Orlando heard Samara ask again behind him.

"Oh good, you are here, Trapper Dan. You can perform the ceremony to marry Orlando with his bride," Chief Johnson announced.

"Wedding?" Samara repeated, her tone no longer laced with confusion but crisp and sharp as a tomahawk.

"Can I speak with you?" Orlando pulled Samara away from the excited crowd.

Samara followed but sent him a glare so intense he was surprised he still had hair. He pulled her to the river and traipsed along it until he found a place among the shade of the trees, the water bubbling happily behind them. He prayed the romantic spot would inspire a change of her mood as he tried to persuade her to marry him.

Samara had relished the moment of smug pride as she'd looked upon Running Elk where he had lain, grasping his throat in agony. A gleeful joy she probably should be ashamed of had rushed through her when she'd broken her attacker's nose with one jab of her hand. But the moment of glory was cut short by one dangerous word. One dangerous and tempting word. Wedding.

One minute she stood watching Orlando argue ferociously with the man she effectively crumpled to the ground, defending her honor as no one had done before. The next, the warrior was stomping off and that treacherous, enticing word flew through the air.

Samara figured she should be embarrassed by the way she'd stood there repeating that surprising expression like a record stuck skipping. She should be furious her fumbling speech overrode her victorious defeat of that overgrown bully. Yet, she still grappled with why those beguiling little seven letters twisted her heart with hope and dread in one.

She followed as Orlando led her out of the village and toward the river. She allowed him to hold tight to her hand and drag her along the bank, well away from any ears or eyes that wished to pry. He pulled her under a weeping willow that stretched its body high into the sky before draping its leaves down to brush the ground. Samara wondered what secret meeting this tree had been a sanctuary for, how many stolen kisses it'd witnessed. Realizing the dangerous direction of her thoughts, she crossed her arms with a huff and tapped her foot in impatience. Orlando dropped her hand and paced the small distance under the protection of the summer leaves.

"Well?" Samara asked sharply, after she counted ten lengths of pacing.

Orlando gave her a look of caution. "Samara."

He stepped closer. She backed up only to run into the trunk of the willow. Her breathing hitched with the intensity burning the caution out from Orlando's eyes. She pressed her hands into the tree for support.

"Samara, you are the most amazing woman I've ever met." Orlando stopped a foot away.

"You haven't met many." Samara wasn't sure where the comment came from.

Orlando looked at her, his eyebrow lifting in censure as he stepped closer. "Enough to know you are unique among all others. Your strength and courage put me to shame. Your ability to handle anything that's sent your way astounds me. You're..."

Orlando moved in closer, bringing his hand up to trail through her hair that had fallen around her face. He didn't speak of what others expected like she thought he would. Didn't speak of the fact that simply them being together for so long by themselves would force a marriage or leave both their reputations in tatters. Instead, he talked of a vision of her she never glimpsed when she looked in the mirror. A vision she desperately wanted to cling to. Her chest constricted, air stopped flowing. The sounds of the river, Orlando's breathing, her heart beating wildly in her ears magnified until she thought she'd go deaf from it.

"I'm what?" she asked, hoping he saw more to her than barbs and prickles but dreading he'd realize the taint of her.

Orlando leaned closer, lifting her hair to his nose and inhaling. "You're breathtaking. When I'm with you, I feel as if my world is finally right. As if I can finally shed this shadow that weighs down upon my shoulders. With you I can truly become the man I pretend to be, that I can step into the legacy left to me with confidence."

Samara closed the distance between them, capturing his lips with hers. His hands threaded into her hair, rough and hard and full of desperation. She spread her hands onto his chest, tightening her fingers around his shirt and pulling him to her. The bark of the tree pushing through her clothes and the roughness of Orlando's beard against her face intensified on her skin like lightning zapping her nerves. He slowed their kiss, trailing tender caresses along her cheek and down her neck before returning to her mouth to softly claim it. A sense of something more, something bigger than she'd experienced in a long time, filled her.

_Home_. The word rushed into her being so complete and so full she would have buckled if Orlando didn't have her pressed tight to the tree. She closed her eyes and relished the feeling lost to her for so long.

Orlando's thumb brushed across her cheek, a look of concern upon his face. When the tears had begun to flow, she didn't know, but she smiled at Orlando to show her tears weren't of sadness. He kissed her softly on the cheek, catching the tear upon his lips.

"Samara, God knew I needed you when He sent you to me. I think He knew you needed me too," Orlando whispered, placing his forehead upon hers. "I love you, Samara. Please, stay with me. Be my wife and come home."

Joy burst from her heart and radiated through her. Yet as much as joy wanted to fill her life, doubt's hold proved strong as its black fingers threaded into her veins and clenched her heart. Could she hope for better than she'd had? Would God truly allow her to flourish, to grow old among the majestic mountains and the love that flowed from the man before her like the creek that ran along the cabin? Or would God rip this life from her as well, like a weed deserving only of the compost pile?

Orlando's heart beat harder than a bear knocking up rocks for ground squirrels. The air within his lungs became thin. He wanted to suck in hard, relieve his chest of the pain, but worry and doubt kept his lungs constricted. Wouldn't that prove fateful if he fainted like some greenie their first year in the Colorado mountains?

He forced himself to breathe slow and even. Forced himself to wait patiently for her answer, even though fear she'd refuse rose thick in his throat. He remembered her kiss, the passion and rightness of it. How it'd sent lightning through him at the same time it cooled his gut of the churning that lingered from seeing her with Running Elk.

Orlando kissed another tear away as it traced down her cheek, capturing the salty drop upon his lips. He felt her body tremor like a leaf waiting for the wind to rip it away. He wanted to soothe her doubts and fears, even as his own rushed to his brain. What would he do if she refused? How could he help her see that she belonged with him, woven deep into the fabric of his soul while God knit him in the womb?

"Please." The plea ripped low and harsh from his throat, his desperation hanging in the air.

She raised her amber eyes to meet his. They appeared heavy with uncertainty. Yet joy could be seen, shining faintly through like a candle whose wick had been cut too short and struggled to burn strong. He promised God if she agreed to marry him, he'd help cut away the insecurity that was bound to her like wax so the light of God could burn freely through her.

"All right," Samara answered, her voice soft and thready. "I'll marry you."

Orlando crashed his lips to hers, no longer wanting to be gentle but needing to show her the urgent necessity for her that had rooted deeper into him with each passing day. He had to get them back, get Trapper Dan to marry them as soon as possible. He pulled away slightly, and she laughed as her lips brushed his. He captured the bubbling happiness with his mouth, kissing more deeply than before.

A soft clearing of a throat pulled Orlando from the small world of Samara he'd been engulfed in. Sparrow's voice floated through the curtain of leaves. "Chief Johnson and Trapper Dan sent me to get Samara to prepare for the ceremony. They also wish to talk with you, Orlando."

Orlando, his forehead pressed into Samara's, reached up and loosened Samara's fingers where they pushed through his hair, throwing the tie that held the tresses back to who knows where. He threaded his fingers through hers, bringing their joined hands up and kissing her knuckles. A smile trembled on her lips.

"Let's go get married." Orlando pulled her from the sanctuary of the willow where Sparrow waited with a knowing smile.

# Chapter 15

Orlando had led Samara through the village, his head held high and proud while her cheeks burned red with blush. She resented her body's ridiculous need to prove she'd just been kissed so thoroughly the bottoms of her moccasins shouldn't still be attached. She'd heard of toe curling, but she'd never imagined whole feet could curl.

The chaste kiss he'd placed upon her cheek before she followed Sparrow into the tent proved a tease of the passion that lingered in Orlando's eyes. Her ears had turned hot, and he'd chuckled at her before turning away, sauntering toward the burly man talking jovially with the chief. She muttered to herself at the memory, swearing she'd overcome her body's reaction and refuse to blush the next time he looked at her.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Sparrow questioned from behind where she yanked and pulled Samara's tangled hair.

"No, no, just muttering to myself." Samara tucked her head, embarrassed she'd been caught talking to herself.

"You will be such a beautiful bride," Sparrow replied, a smile in her voice.

Samara looked down at the gorgeous, pale tan, leather dress Sparrow insisted she wear. Beads, bright and delicate, danced across the neckline and twirled down the sleeves. Samara had never seen anything more breathtaking.

"Only because you've been so generous and kind, letting me borrow this dress and taming my hair. If not for you, I'd look like I did earlier, like I'd just traversed the entire mountain, dirty and tired."

"Nonsense, I'm simply showing you my love for you, my friend. The dress is yours to keep, my gift to you. You are already beautiful, shown by the fight before. I'm just merely getting the tangles out of your hair."

Samara shivered at the memory of Running Elk whispering to her that he wasn't done with her. "What was his problem, anyway?"

"Running Elk's?" Sparrow asked. Samara nodded in answer. "He is used to getting what he wants. He is a strong warrior, but he is also very cruel. Your actions have wounded his pride, and I fear he will not let that go. You would do well not to forget him and keep on guard. I'll be praying for you. He will not underestimate you again and will not be as easy to defeat next time."

Samara wanted to forget, to believe that her marriage to Orlando would be the end of Running Elk's attention. She also knew how bullies worked, had seen retaliation played out on the streets more than she cared to remember. She rubbed her sweaty hands down the dress and remembered what else Sparrow had said, more than happy to change the subject.

"I can't possibly keep this dress. It must've taken you hours to create. You need to keep it for your own wedding." Samara turned to look at Sparrow.

Sparrow shook her head, smiling. "I didn't make the dress for me. I didn't know who I made the dress for until I saw you riding in with Orlando. My Heavenly Father guided me in making the dress, because He knew you'd need it. 'Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights—'"

"'Who does not change like shifting shadows,'" Samara interrupted and finished the verse.

"Hmmm, like shifting shadows," Sparrow repeated slowly, a look of speculation on her face. "Yes, I believe that's much easier to understand. There are no variables to God. He does not shift like the shadows throughout the day."

Samara turned away from Sparrow, not knowing what to think about Sparrow's revelation. Had God truly had this dress made for her? Had he really protected her throughout the darkness of her life? If so, why did He wait fourteen years to show Himself? Samara remembered her dad telling her that God would pursue people to the ends of the world and, it seemed, through time. Yet, she couldn't trust that pursuit. Couldn't trust that the darkness of the last fourteen years wouldn't return, that He wouldn't forget her again.

"There. I think you are ready to be married," Sparrow declared, pulling Samara's hair behind her shoulders and smoothing it down her back.

A moan sounded from a pile of blankets and furs placed along the edge of the tepee. Samara startled, not realizing someone slept there. Sparrow ran to the pottery pitcher and poured water into a cup. She then rushed to the pile that had begun to move. A young woman with similar beautiful features to Sparrow emerged from the pile, her hair ratted upon her head and her eyes puffy. Her face held a sadness Samara felt akin to. The blankets fell further, revealing a large pregnant belly stretching the deerskin dress tight around her body.

Sparrow murmured something in Ute to the woman, handing her the mug. The woman's reply was harsh and biting. Sparrow spoke something else, her tone coaxing and kind. The woman glared at Sparrow and lifted her hand. Thinking the woman would strike Sparrow, Samara moved forward, causing the woman's gaze to land on her. The young mother's face turned pale as a sun-bleached cloth as she stared at Samara's hair.

"Pike way!" The woman yelled, throwing the mug at Samara. "Pike way! Get out you red-haired devil!"

Samara dodged the mug easily and backed toward the door as Sparrow rushed to her side. Sparrow grabbed her arm and dragged her from the tepee. Once outside, Sparrow's shoulders slumped with her heavy sigh.

Sparrow gazed at Samara, deep sorrow in her eyes. "I'm sorry for my cousin's outburst. Since her pregnancy became noticeable, she's been inconsolable, always lying beneath the furs or staring into the flames of the fire. I force her to go outside, and she'll just sit along the riverbank watching as the water rushes by. This is not her, she is usually so full of joy, flirting with all the young men. I've never seen her lash out like she just did with you. I'm sorry, Samara."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Samara assured Sparrow before asking. "What about the baby's father?"

"She won't tell us who it is. She says he has broken her heart by rejecting her, but protects him by not telling. I don't understand her." Sparrow sighed.

"People in love often do odd things." Samara shook her head. "So what now?"

"Now, we get you married." Sparrow smiled, her sorrowful face turning to joy.

Samara allowed Sparrow to link arms and drag her toward the log building at the end of the village. Nerves tickled her throat so violently she worried she'd toss her cookies all over her gorgeous dress. She hadn't been this nervous for any performance, including her audition for the Curtis Institute. What made her even more anxious was that she didn't know where the jitters were coming from. Were they rooted in joy or fear? Was the gorge that pushed up from her stomach and into her throat from panic or anticipation? She swallowed hard, desperately wishing she could play her dulcimer and sooth her soul.

Orlando fidgeted, his hand tapping upon his leg in a frantic beat as Chief Johnson and Trapper Dan discussed the troubles brewing at the agency. He'd taken some time to splash the trail dust off and had changed into the clean buckskin pants and cotton shirt Chief Johnson's wife had pushed on him. His nerves frayed like a rope gnawed clean through. What if Samara changed her mind? What if she didn't want to marry him? The memory of their kisses beneath the willow squelched that thought with her passion equal to his.

Orlando's cocky smile turned to a frown, a wrinkle of concern deep between his eyes. What if she never turned back to the Lord? Could Orlando push her further from God by rushing to have her marry him? Orlando closed his eyes and silently prayed for God's wisdom. The presence of God he knew so well settled over him, calming his frayed soul.

"If Meeker insists on plowing up the racetrack, he'll take away our history, our heritage. Will he take our horses next? I have accepted our fate of needing to live a life more like the white man. I've let them build me a house. I've planted their crops, but I refuse to leave my heritage behind. I won't allow my people to lose themselves," Chief Johnson said, passion and determination rich upon his voice.

A shiver of dread traced down Orlando's spine like a slow-melting piece of ice. "My friend, I want to caution you against anything drastic. Maybe there's a way to talk to him, make him see the importance of the fields to your people. There are plenty of open areas around that can be tilled for farming. Maybe if you mention that, show him you want to learn to farm, just not in that racing area, he might see reason."

Chief Johnson shook his head. His shoulders shrugged as he answered. "I can try again. Maybe what you suggest would ease the tension. But Captain Jack and Chief Douglas have already stopped working on agency projects. They heard that Governor Pitkin has asked the Indian Bureau to send soldiers to move us to Indian Territory, so they've been having meetings in their lodges, stirring up anger for the agency. Meeker himself just came back from a trip to Denver. He was injured on his way back, so he hasn't talked much to us. He won't discuss with me what came of his time away. He has moved himself from friend to enemy."

Orlando's heart raced at the implications. The situation proved much worse than he thought. If Chief Johnson, the one who tried hard to accept the force of the white man, went against Meeker and the agency, the soldiers would be sent in for sure. Women and children could die, and his friends would be sent to live on the inhospitable land the government compelled them to.

"I will talk to Meeker before Samara and I leave. Can you try to calm Captain Jack and Chief Douglas? Help them to see if they push too far, you'll be removed to the Indian Territory and your horses will be taken away or killed? Even Jack and Douglas must know that living here as farmers would be much more desirable than living in such desolate country." Orlando prayed Chief Johnson would see the wisdom in compromising.

"I will talk to Meeker as well," Trapper Dan promised. "Maybe talking to someone who has lived beside you for years will help him see the need of compromise. But first, I believe we have a wedding to perform."

Trapper Dan pointed behind Orlando, causing Orlando to turn. The speed of Orlando's heart increased from a racing horse to those cheetahs he'd read about in Africa. The joyful screams and laughter of the children muted and the chatter of the women as they weaved baskets disappeared. All sound blended until it became an indistinguishable song that played harmony to his heart beating loudly within his ears.

Samara strolled through the village, the children racing and dancing around her, playing drums. Her hair shone like copper waves where it flowed over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a buckskin dress, tanned so light it looked almost white, with a pattern of beads that swirled and curled like her beautiful hair. The smile stretched across her face was one of pure joy he'd never seen before, one he hoped to see often throughout the days and years to come. Her amber eyes sparkled when her gaze finally met his, their expression open, sharing her happiness with him.

Before Orlando realized his feet were moving, he closed the distance between them. They stopped inches from each other, and though the melodious chaos continued around them, the world stilled as he reached for her hand and twined his fingers with hers.

"You're beautiful," Orlando whispered, leaning closer so she could hear.

"You cleaned up nicely yourself," Samara replied, a cheeky smile on her face.

"I'm slovenly compared to you. You're the sunsets that stretch across our valley, shifting as each descent of the sun expresses new depth of beauty and hope." Orlando brought her fingers to his mouth and placed a kiss.

"You're sure full of pretty words today." Samara lowered her gaze to her toes, her voice raspy with emotion.

Orlando leaned close, breathing in the sweet scent of her garden that clung to her and whispered in her ear. "I plan to fill your days with not only beautiful words, but the love, joy, and peace that come from knowing that you belong to me, and I belong to you."

Samara sucked in a breath and drew back, looking deep into Orlando's eyes. He hoped those windows into his soul reflected the love he had for her brightly so she would have no confusion. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and slowly trekked down her cheek. He nodded and smiled a small smile of encouragement to her as he gently wiped the tear away.

"What is the meaning of this?" A voice boomed into the chaos. Orlando turned to see Nathan Meeker with his arm cradled in a sling and a scowl on his face.

"We're having a wedding, Mr. Meeker, and everyone is invited. Go grab your family and workers, and let's celebrate God bringing these two together!" Trapper Dan shouted into the fray, inciting another round of drum banging and wild cheering.

Meeker huffed and motioned for one of the workers to gather the others. Orlando wasn't going to worry about Meeker's apparent disapproval, not when everything he desired was right before him.

Orlando threaded Samara's arm tightly through his and led her to an open area along the riverside where he'd told Trapper Dan he'd wanted the ceremony performed. He prayed the rushing river would symbolize the Living Water that would flow abundantly through their marriage.

Orlando squeezed Samara's hand as it shook slightly during the ceremony. Before he could contemplate her nerves too much, he and Samara had said "I do," and Trapper Dan had pronounced them man and wife.

"'Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.' You may kiss the bride!" Trapper Dan proclaimed with equal parts caution and joy.

Orlando turned Samara toward him, slid his arms around her back, pulled her to him, and kissed her. Cheers shouted out and drums beat wildly as he deepened the kiss. Her hands gripped into his shirt and held him close. Orlando's heart raced as frantically as the drums as he leaned his forehead on hers, inhaling the joy radiating from her. Right then and there he knew he'd do everything within his power to show Samara the love and acceptance she'd lacked for so long.

Samara held tightly to Orlando's hand as he led them through the crowd of well-wishers. Tables had been set up from somewhere and women bustled about piling food upon the tabletops. A fiddler and harmonica player from the agency played alongside a couple of Ute drummers. The joyful music sang within her like no other had. Could she make Meeker see the harmony the whites and Utes could have if they would only work together? She hoped she could. She almost prayed she could but stopped herself.

Mr. Meeker, with his salt and pepper hair impeccably combed, approached with an older white woman dressed in a somber dress with her hair slicked back so tight in a bun Samara doubted even the wind dared to ruffle it. A young woman walked with them, her shoulder-length hair blowing in the breeze and dancing beneath her broad-brimmed hat. The young woman surveyed the festivities with joy radiating from her face. Samara wondered at the stark difference between the three's expressions.

"Well, this is unexpected and unconventional." A note of disapproval threaded through the man's voice.

"Mr. Meeker, Mrs. Meeker, Miss Josephine, I'd like to introduce my wife, Samara Thomas," Orlando stated. The shock of hearing her new last name sent a jolt through Samara.

She pushed the feeling aside and focused on the Meeker family, hoping to pave a smooth path toward a meeting she hoped happened before they left. "What a pleasure to meet you all. Thank you for joining us in this joyful celebration."

Josephine smiled broadly and shook her hand. "How romantic this day has been. Congratulations on your marriage. I pray it's one full of joy and strength."

Samara smiled and nodded at Josephine in return as Mrs. Meeker spoke. "Well, I never. How did you two even meet, and how long have you been living on the mountain in sin?"

Josephine gasped. "Mother!"

Orlando squeezed Samara's hand tight, as if he feared Samara would judo chop the woman or something. He knew her well. She was certainly tempted. "God dropped her in my path, I suppose you'd say. I found Samara injured not long ago, and after she became well again, we headed down here."

Samara sent Orlando a glare at his quirk about God dropping her, which he returned with a wink. She inwardly huffed out her frustration at the snotty woman's attitude. It wouldn't do her any good if she let herself get riled and ruin any chance she might have to talk some sense into Mr. Meeker. She turned from his wife and smiled at the man in charge, the man who held all of the village's fate in his hands.

Samara gestured toward his arm in the sling. "It appears you've been injured. My Orlando is the best doctor I've ever seen, be it back east or across this great nation. He could take a look at your arm tomorrow before we leave if you'd like." Samara hoped a private meeting might come from the examination.

"I'd appreciate that, Mr. Thomas. Many people from here all the way up to Rawlins say that you're a man wise about the ways out here and blessed with a healing hand. Why stories of you are told with such reverence I half expect people to bow down as you walk by. If I would've known last time we met, I would've tried to convince you to stay on our expedition here," Mr. Meeker expounded, his tone serious as he gushed.

Samara looked at Orlando, a new understanding of who her husband was expanding in her mind. He was what legends were made of, bigger than life, told across space and time. How could she ever be enough for him? His neck turned pink beneath his beard as he shook his head.

"I'm not anyone but a man trying to live the best he can. I mean no offense, but I wouldn't have accepted. I like my life among the mountains." Orlando pulled her to his side.

"I figured as much," Mr. Meeker said. "Please stop by before you leave."

As Mr. Meeker pulled his family away, Orlando turned Samara to him. "That was mighty nice words you spoke back there, wife."

Samara shrugged nonchalantly. "They were true. You are the best doctor I've ever been to. He doesn't need to know you're just about the only doctor I've ever been to, though."

Samara chuckled as Orlando's blond eyebrows winged up his forehead, and his eyes widened in shock. Then he burst into such lighthearted laughter, she giggled with him. He descended upon her so fast, her laughter caught within his as he kissed her deeply, yet quickly.

"I had to see if that laughter tasted as wonderful as it sounded," Orlando whispered in her ear, causing her knees to threaten to buckle beneath her.

He smiled down at her before pulling her close and marching toward the musicians. Her heart swelled with a happiness she couldn't ever remember experiencing, buoying her so high she feared the inevitable drop would instantly kill her. She supposed that would be preferable to a long drawn out death. She shook off her melancholy and forced herself to just enjoy the moment, not worry about the tomorrows.

The musicians played with such jovial enthusiasm, she found herself wishing she could join them. She looked up at Orlando, preparing to ask if he cared if she did. He captured her lips in a kiss and then pointed to where her case sat propped close to the make-shift stage. She smiled at his anticipating her desire to play, bounced up on her toes to kiss his cheek, and rushed to play the exultant music dancing within her heart.

# Chapter 16

Orlando watched with joy as Samara rushed to her case and pulled her dulcimer out with a look of reverence. She was an angel, floating in her deerskin dress as she glided over to the men playing and asked to join them. The men stumbled over their feet, trying to make room. Another worker rushed up with a chair for her to sit in. When Samara smiled at the man in thanks, he stood there holding the chair, staring at her smile. Orlando chuckled. She laughed, pointed to where he could place the chair, and then rewarded the man with a pat on the shoulder. The man's ears turned a stunning shade of red as he backed away, tripping in the process.

Samara joined in with the musicians playing _Turkey in the Straw_ , her fingers flying over the fret as they played faster and faster. The crowd danced along, spinning partners until the music flowed too fast to follow. When the musicians finished with a flourish, the crowd cheered wildly.

Samara held up her hand, quieting the crowd. "I'd like to thank you all for celebrating my wedding with me. This next song is by a family from where I come from called the Petersens. It used to be one I played often, but after today, I guess it's not so true. It's called _The Ring Song_."

Orlando listened as she started playing a quaint melody. When her mouth opened to sing, he swore he heard a collective gasp at her beautiful voice. She drew the crowd in with her song about a ring around the moon, but no ring around her finger. The crowd laughed out loud, some holding their sides when she sang about punching Johnny in the throat as she winked dramatically. She sang on about not finding love, singing some things that he knew were from her time, but the crowd didn't seem to look confused. When she finished, the crowd cheered wildly, completely captivated by her.

Samara completely captivated Orlando as well, pulling him in so his only focus was on her. Her entire body communicated her love of performing, playing through song after song the crowd knew with flair and delight. Her face held dramatic expressions, and the intimate way she interacted with the crowd had everyone listening intently. His mind wondered if it was wrong for him to take her to the wilderness, where her only audience would be her husband, a flock of sheep, and a few dogs, at least until children came.

The thought of children had Orlando's knees going weak, making him glad he leaned against a large, solid oak. Over the last few weeks, he'd tried to keep thoughts of children with Samara at bay, since that usually led to thoughts appropriate for married couples. However, now the image of a little girl with auburn curls like her mother sprang to his mind. Of little boys with blond hair and amber eyes playing in the creek. They could make a large crowd for her to play for at home.

Orlando stood propped against the tree as Samara played song after song. She included the other players in her joy, handing off solos as much as she did her own. If one didn't know any better, one would think the musicians performed together often. She sang lively songs that had people dancing in the packed dirt. She played songs of lands remembered. Her version of Shenandoah had men from the agency wiping their eyes and sniffing. Orlando contented himself with watching his lovely bride woo the crowd and his friends.

"You've got yourself a fine woman, Orlando," Trapper Dan proclaimed as he slapped Orlando hard on the back. "How did you find her again?"

"The Lord led me to her, Dan. I woke up needing to go scout an area I hadn't been in ages, the need so strong I couldn't not go. So I saddled Loco up and headed off. I found her in the bottom of a ravine. She'd been attacked, and I couldn't leave her," Orlando answered ending on a whisper, his eyes glued to her.

Trapper Dan sucked in a breath, his voice harsh and raspy. "Did you find the varmint who hurt her?"

"No, he's long gone. I almost had her to safety when the wolves attacked. Almost wouldn't have made it through the ordeal if she wouldn't have shot a wolf right off my arm, injured like she was."

Trapper Dan whistled. "That's one fine woman and a story for the campfire. Your legend increases without you even trying, son. Your pa was so proud, just like I am. I can't wait to watch your family grow, to be a great uncle to them." Trapper Dan pulled Orlando in for a hug. Orlando took Trapper Dan's shoulders and tugged him close so only he could hear Orlando speak. "I need you to be praying, Dan. She knows the Lord in her heart. Her parents were missionaries. Yet, she's pushed Him away, says God abandoned her. I think she's afraid to let Him in. Pray for her heart to be softened and for me to be patient. I don't want to push her so fast she runs forever."

Trapper Dan looked Orlando in the eyes. "Son, I'll be knocking so earnestly on God's door He'll get tired of hearing from me."

Samara started picking a slow, difficult song. The other players stopped as they had occasionally to listen to her play. Her head lifted from where it had bowed over her instrument, her face raised to the sun and her eyes closed as her hauntingly beautiful voice rose above the notes.

_I give thee all— I can no more_

_Though poor the off'ring be;_

_My heart and lute are all the store_

_That I can bring to thee._

_A lute whose gentle song reveals_

_the soul of love full well;_

_And, better far, a heart that feels_

_Much more than lute could tell._

Orlando's heart slowed to a crawl as Samara turned her face to him, her eyes shining the love she sang of. He started moving to her, barely cognizant of Trapper Dan's joyful laughter that preceded Dan slapping Orlando on the shoulder. Amber eyes pulled him through the crowd as she continued to sing, her words only for him.

_Though love and song may fail, alas!_

_To keep life's clouds away,_

_At least 'twill make them lighter pass_

_Or gild them if they stay._

_And ev'n if care, at moments, flings_

_A discord o'er life's happy strain,_

_Let love but gently touch the strings,_

_'Twill all be sweet again!_

Samara's song ended on a whisper as Orlando stepped up to her. He lifted the dulcimer from her lap and tucked it under his arm. He then grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. He claimed her lips with his as cheers erupted around them.

Orlando adjusted his grip on Samara's hand and led her to Chief Johnson's lodge he'd offered for them to use for the night. His Ute friends sang and banged their drums as they followed them to the tepee. He opened the flap and followed her in, the din of the crowd fading as they turned back to the remaining performers.

Samara walked into the tepee and turned, her hands wringing before her. Orlando placed the dulcimer next to the door and ambled to her, his eyes holding hers for ransom. He grabbed her hands in his and brought them to his lips, kissing each one once. He then slid his hands up her arms, across her shoulders, and anchored them at the back of her head, deep within the silky red curls.

He pulled her close, leaning his forehead to hers, and whispered, his voice husky and deep, "I accept your offer and give you all of me in return, lock, stock, and barrel."

Samara let out a cry of joy that Orlando captured in his mouth. He kissed her, desperate to show her all his passion, all the love he'd held deep within, not wanting to scare her away. She clung to him with equal desperation, following his deep kisses with her own, dragging him close to her. He lifted her into his arms, not breaking the kiss, and stumbled to the pallet of furs and blankets against the tepee wall. He whispered her name as he laid her down, claiming her as his own forever.

Samara woke to the sounds of a village waking up. Her husband's heart beat solidly beneath her ear as she lay upon him, anchored to his side by his arm. Men coughed as tent flaps slapped against tepee sides. Women built fires into crackling flames, calling softly to one another. A rooster crowed. A baby cried. Sounds of a village content in life, working and surviving together. A village that would soon be forced on a journey of mourning to a land not their own if Samara couldn't convince Mr. Meeker to compromise.

Though she loathed moving from the cocoon wrapped around her, the love they'd expressed hanging thick in the air, she knew they needed to meet with Mr. Meeker before they headed home. She opened her eyes and looked at Orlando. His face seemed peaceful, more than just relaxed in sleep. It appeared less weighted somehow. She'd never realized how much tension he held in his features, how much worry creased his forehead. Had the worry and strain been for her, or did he always wrestle with the pressure she couldn't find evidence of while he slept?

Samara wondered what her parents would've thought of him. She knew right away they'd love him with how he always looked for ways to help others, even though miles separated them. He had a missionary spirit, a spirit that loved and helped others as Christ would. A spirit that found ways to aid others in bettering their life without simply giving it to them. The type of person that would see to others' safety and comfort at the cost of his own, even unto death.

Samara's mind balked at that thought. How could she have let herself get pulled in? What was she going to do now that love for this man bloomed in her heart? How was she to protect herself when her soul drank in the love he poured out to her like the parched desert after a drought and exploded into life as abundant and beautiful as the stark landscape after rain? She hadn't realized how arid she was, how scorched to the very marrow she'd become. She didn't know how to protect herself from this. Her spikes hadn't just been sheared but plucked out, biting into the flesh, ripping them from the root. Could she even get the protection they provided back? Did she want to?

"What has such a troubled look upon my beautiful bride's face?" Orlando drew Samara's thoughts away from introspection.

He peered at her from hooded eyes, his thumb running over her cheek as his fingers delved into her hair, kneading her head in a massage. The subtle lines of worry had returned to his face, and she realized she'd chased away his peace. Would she chase away more than that in time? Like her parents and God, would she chase him away as well?

"I was just thinking about our meeting with the Meekers, wondering if we can convince Mr. Meeker to see reason and compromise." Samara shrugged, not willing to expose all her thoughts.

Orlando examined her, scrutinizing her face as his lips pressed into a fine line. "Arvilla Meeker invited us over for breakfast, so I promise we'll talk with them."

"I feel like if there is a purpose to me being here, if God really brought me back for a reason, this has to be it, to save so many from pain and hurt." Samara heard the desperation in her voice.

Orlando moved up onto his elbow, pushing her softly to her back. He brushed his fingers through her hair, trailing and twirling them through the curly mass. She noticed last night he liked his hands embedded deep within her hair. He leaned down and kissed her neck beneath her ear, tightening her insides like the strings of her dulcimer. He trailed slow kisses along her jawbone, coiling her body so tight she knew she'd snap like strings tuned too taut.

"What if God brought you here for just one person?" Orlando whispered, pulling his face away enough for her to see his eyes. "What if you've come to pull me out of the shadows of grief and doubt that I've been stumbling in, your very presence lighting my life with joy again? Would that be enough of a reason?"

Samara nodded her answer, her throat too thick to talk. His lips trembled as he kissed her, a desperation she hadn't felt the night before thick upon them. Yes, he'd be more than enough, but the question remained, would she?

# Chapter 17

Samara ventured through the village an hour later with the reins to Midnight in one hand and Orlando's fingers intertwined in the other. She shouldn't get accustomed to the bliss that coursed through her. Didn't the Good Book talk about life withering away? She knew this would shrivel just like everything in her life did, but she figured she might as well breathe deeply and enjoy it for a moment before she pulled up the arduous shield she carried.

Josephine Meeker stood outside the Meeker cabin sweeping their porch. She waved when she saw them approaching and turned to yell into the house. A moment later Mr. Meeker and his wife stepped out onto the porch. He waved his good arm to them before his attention focused on the Utes roaming about the area. His face hardened in a look of scorn, and Samara's heart twisted. Were they too late? Was Meeker's heart already turned? Orlando squeezed her fingers, drawing her attention to his thumb circling comfort on the back of her hand.

"We'll do our best and pray God softens his heart to truth. Meeker will do what he will do. People seem to be good at that, at blazing their own path without thought of the One who laid it." Orlando glanced down at her.

Orlando's words scorched her, making her flinch. She knew he talked about Meeker, but the accusation hit her square in the chest. Yet, if she didn't blaze her own way, she'd perish, trampled by those stronger than she.

Samara lifted her chin in defiance. "Yeah, well, we'll just have to make sure he veers onto the right path."

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas," Josephine said as they approached the house and tied their horses to the hitching post.

Josephine in life did not appear how Samara had pictured her. When Samara had read the story of Josephine and the other women being kidnapped after Nathan Meeker and the rest of the men at the agency had been murdered, Samara had marveled at Josephine's bravery. Josephine stood her ground against a Ute warrior who held a gun to her face and mocked her. Samara had cheered at finding a woman of strength she could relate to. But this Josephine was not standoffish or guarded like Samara was. Josephine Meeker had a vibrancy that drew people. Samara had watched Josephine dance and laugh with the others, Ute and white, with abandon the night before. Josephine had a childlike enthusiasm for the people and activities around her that Samara couldn't reconcile with the warrior that lived buried beneath.

Could one be both joyful through life and aggressive through trial? Could the warrior be put aside, only to be brought out when needed? What would it be like if she didn't have to always carry the shield weighing her down, keeping others away?

"I'm so glad you agreed to join us for breakfast before you head out." Josephine grabbed Samara's hand and pulled her through the door. "Come have a cup of coffee while Mother and I finish fixing things."

"If we have a few minutes, why don't I take a look at your arm?" Orlando motioned to Mr. Meeker, who nodded and turned to a room at the back of the cabin.

Samara glanced around the little cabin as Josephine poured her a cup of coffee. It was a tidy cabin with a front room that held the living, dining room, and kitchen in one. There were two doors off the back wall that Samara assumed led to bedrooms. Everything was in order, just like Mrs. Meeker's tightly-wound hair.

Samara took the cup Josephine offered and sipped the strong coffee. It definitely wasn't a venti caramel latte. Its strong, bitter taste made Samara wonder if she ever truly liked coffee or if she liked coffee-flavored sugar and cream. She added two spoons of sugar and a liberal amount of cream to the coffee before she drank any more.

"Will you be leaving right away?" Josephine flipped the bacon.

"Yes. A couple of Orlando's friends are coming with us to work our flock. We left the flock with only the dogs for protection, so we need to get back," Samara answered.

"Utes are leaving with you?" Mrs. Meeker asked sharply.

Mrs. Meeker proved the exact opposite of her daughter. Where a jovial spirit encased Josephine, a bitter shell seemed to have hardened Mrs. Meeker. She had a strength about her appearance with her piercing eyes and her hair pulled back so tightly Samara was surprised the lady's eyebrows weren't perpetually up in shock. The two ladies made Samara think about herself. She wanted to have the everyday joy of Josephine with the strength there when needed, but she feared she had become more like Mrs. Meeker, pulled tight and unmoving.

Footsteps drew Samara out of her musing as Orlando preceded Mr. Meeker out of the bedroom. "If you use the arnica and calendula salve, the bruising and swelling should go down. It'll take a while to heal with the muscle damaged the way it is, but I don't think there will be any lasting damage."

"Thank you, Mr. Thomas. I appreciate you being here and looking at it," Mr. Meeker answered.

"Breakfast is ready." Josephine put a platter of bacon on the table.

Orlando came and took the seat next to Samara, quickly squeezing her hand that sat tapping on the table. She stopped the nervous motion and smiled at him before returning her attention to the groaning table. One would think they were serving an army with the amount of food laid before them. The Meeker ladies had prepared a heaping platter of scrambled eggs, a whole slab of bacon, mile-high stacks of pancakes, fried potatoes, and a coffee cake. The tantalizing smells caused Samara's salivary glands to leak and her stomach to rumble loudly.

Josephine chuckled. "Father, I think you should pray. Mrs. Thomas is wasting away over here."

"Thank you, Heavenly Father, for this bountiful breakfast. Let it nourish our bodies so we can do the hard work needed for the day. Amen." Mr. Meeker's short prayer cut through the air, his words tinged with bitterness.

Hands passed platters around the table, and soon Samara's plate sat gorged before her with more food than she thought she could possibly eat in a day. She wondered how many calories horseback riding burned, figuring the contracting stomach and leg muscles had to count for something. She took a bite of the fluffy eggs and almost moaned in delight. She'd forgotten how much she missed eggs.

Orlando's soft chuckle brought her eyes to him. "Looks like I need to scrounge up some chickens before we head home."

Samara's heart filled at how he noticed every little detail about her. She smiled at him. "That would be a great wedding present, Husband."

Mrs. Meeker smiled tightly. "That it would. We'll get some crated up for you. Our present to you. Josephine, go peek your head out and tell one of the men to gather up some chickens." She turned to her husband. "Mrs. Thomas was just informing us that some of the men were leaving with them."

Mr. Meeker placed his fork down with a thunk, searing Orlando with a glare. "What is the meaning of this?"

Orlando placed his own fork down softly, his voice strong and confident. "I'm conducting an experiment of sorts to see if sheep ranching is a viable commodity for settlers and Indians."

"Those filthy animals?" Meeker said with disdain as Josephine came back to the table and sat down.

"Those filthy animals have wool that can be sold. The animals can be sold for their meat. People can milk them, if one was inclined to. They take two shepherds to watch over them, when cattle take many cowboys. It's a livestock that has variable applications and will prove to be valuable," Orlando answered with authority.

"So you're expecting the Utes to be your shepherds?"

"I'm not expecting them to do anything. I asked if they would like to see if it suits them," Orlando said. Samara marveled at how Orlando remained calm, while she got more riled with every word Mr. Meeker spoke.

"You can't trust them. They are dishonest and cowardly. They will either steal your sheep from underneath you or run off at the first sign of trouble." Meeker stabbed a bite of food and shoved it into his mouth.

"I've lived beside them my entire life and have never found them either of those things. I not only trust Onootee and his brother with my sheep, but I'd trust them with my life," Orlando answered.

"I haven't given permission for them to leave." Meeker reminded Samara of just how different things were when an entire group of people couldn't roam freely in their land.

Orlando's eyebrow raised in question and a look of contempt flitted quick across his face. "Do I have your permission to take Onootee and his brother with me? I will send reports when I can about their adaptation to shepherding."

Mr. Meeker looked at Orlando, the lines around his mouth forming into a deep frown. "I suppose, but you'll need to be firm with them. You can't let them get away with anything or they'll keep pushing."

"They aren't children," Samara blurted, causing everyone to look at her. "They are intelligent people capable of anything you or I can do."

Meeker snorted in derision. "And yet they've existed, traipsing here and there, racing their silly ponies. They have nothing to show for their life of toil." His tone held superiority, as if answering her was beneath him.

Samara twisted the napkin in her hands to keep from slapping Mr. Meeker, which became a serious possibility the longer he spoke. Still, a passionate reply escaped anyway. "You wish them to live as farmers, dependent on the flippancy of nature where one bad year of drought or floods could leave them to starve through the winter. The life you wish to push them in is just as toilsome as how they've lived for thousands of years. The only difference is they love the life they know, where the life of a farmer is a heavy weight upon their shoulders."

Mr. Meeker's face pinked with anger. "The Utes' wandering days are over. They cannot be allowed to roam outside of their allotted area, especially as more settlers come in to claim the open land in Colorado. The US government has graciously given this land to the Utes. It is prime land that can be used to benefit the tribe much if they would just yield. Yet they continue to go off on hunting parties. They continue to keep thousands of ponies and race them to and fro across land perfect for crops. They will yield to my authority or they will be sent to the Indian territory. I've already talked to the governor, and he is in agreement with me."

"Those ponies are their heritage. They were the first Indians to ever get horses, giving them an advantage over the other tribes. It's a matter of honor having them," Orlando's calm voice began to grate on Samara's nerves.

"Those ponies will be sold or destroyed by the end of the year. Shadrach Price will begin tilling that so-called racetrack later this week." So much hate laced Mr. Meeker's voice, Samara was surprised he didn't choke on it.

"You do that and you're asking for trouble." Orlando spoke low.

"As long as those ponies are here, the Utes won't ever yield," Mr. Meeker replied.

"Tensions are already high," Orlando countered. "If you dig up that field and get rid of their horses, you'll be throwing a match on a barrel of gun powder. There are plenty of other areas you could till for fields. If you show your willingness to compromise in this, the Utes will be more likely to follow your lead and relations can be mended."

"There will be no compromising. If I give one inch, they will never relinquish," Mr. Meeker replied.

"Please, please think about what you're saying," Samara begged. "This whole area is teeming with soil rich for farming. Please choose a different field. Any area would be better than the racetrack."

Samara glanced around the table. Josephine's head bowed where she picked at her eggs. Mrs. Meeker glared at Samara over the pancakes. Mr. Meeker's face was such a brilliant shade of red Samara thought for sure he'd collapse from a heart attack or something. Samara inwardly pulled back and shielded herself from the rage and hate that shifted across Mr. Meeker's face.

"Why are you so insistent? What have they told you?" Mr. Meeker's tone was cold and guarded.

"Nathan, they've told me nothing you don't already know." Orlando held Meeker's gaze firmly. "Your trip to Denver, the governor requesting the Indian Bureau to move the people to Indian Territory, your article in the Denver Tribune—"

"I didn't write that article for the Denver Tribune," Mr. Meeker insisted.

"Whether you wrote it or not isn't the issue. Your name's connected to it, and all that has happened this summer has created mistrust among the Utes." Orlando's steady voice calmed Samara, and she hoped it was calming Mr. Meeker as well. "The Utes trusted you once, Nathan. Remind them of the man who fulfilled the government's promises and gave them hope. I don't think it's too late to bury the hatchet."

"I'll fulfill the governments promises alright, the promises to cart them off if they don't do as I say," Mr. Meeker replied stubbornly.

"Then I guess our time here is through." Orlando stood. "Thank you, Mrs. Meeker, Miss Josephine, for a delicious breakfast. Mr. Meeker, send someone for me if your arm gets worse. I'll be sure to send reports about the success of sheep ranching for your consideration."

Orlando helped Samara up. She knew her face was frozen in shock, but she couldn't seem to force her eyebrows to lower. She gave a tight smile to the Meekers and allowed Orlando to lead her out. Her shock quickly turned to frustration at the man beside her.

When they'd stepped onto the porch and Orlando pulled the door closed, Samara ripped her arm out of his grasp. "What are you doing? He hasn't changed his mind yet."

Orlando peered at her, sadness etched upon his face. "Samara, he's not going to change his mind, and anything more we say will only make the matter worse."

"You can't know that. We have to try harder."

"It's too late, Samara. He's already hardened his heart toward the Utes." Orlando gazed across the village, his face shadowed with grief.

"Lots of men are going to die, Orlando. These people, your friends, are going to be forced onto the reservation. How can you not try harder to save them? How can you just give up on them like that?" Samara's voice cracked.

"Did you not see his face, Samara? Did you not hear his words? If I continued to push, he would take action immediately. Any hope would be gone. I need to talk to Chief Johnson before we go, then we need to leave before Meeker changes his mind to allow Onootee and his brother to leave."

Samara's heart shattered at his words. Was he really willing to abandon these people, turn away from them when they needed a champion? Samara peered around at the children that darted between the tepees, at the old women sitting before fires laughing, and the men that worked in the fields the agency had planted. All these people's lives would be irrevocably changed by the end of the month if she didn't do something.

As she surveyed the people with a heavy heart, a handsome young, white man with hair the same deep red as hers approached carrying a wooden cage filled with chickens. She was barely aware of the door to the Meeker's cabin opening behind her as rage filled her fast and hot.

The man wore a big smile. "I was told to bring you chick—"

"You." Samara pointed her finger at him and descended the two porch stairs in a rush. The man's smile faded a bit. "You are the one who got that poor native girl pregnant, then tossed her aside like used refuse."

All color drained from the man's face as a gasp sounded from the porch.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about, lady," the man replied, defiance overriding the guilt that resided on his face.

"You're lying, unless there's another man around with hair the color of mine. That young woman practically attacked me when she looked at my hair." Samara noticed that a crowd had formed and were murmuring. Sparrow stood at the edge of the crowd, her face wide in shock.

"Billy, is this true?" Josephine asked from the porch.

"No. I don't know what this crazy woman is saying." Billy set the cage down, crossed his arms, and glared at Samara.

Orlando grabbed her elbow and gently pulled. She ripped her arm from his grasp and sent him a scorching look. If he didn't want to protect these people, then she was going to do everything she could to. Samara took a step forward and closed the space between her and Billy to a couple steps.

"How many other native women have you seduced only to leave them when you got bored?" Samara's voice came out hard and menacing.

The murmuring increased like a beehive being poked. Billy glanced around and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Sweat dripped from his forehead and trailed down his cheek.

"Billy, come on in. I need to talk with you." Mr. Meeker called to Billy from the doorway of his cabin, his face stern and dark as he glared at Samara.

Billy pushed past Samara, knocking into her harder than necessary as he rushed to the cabin. Samara turned to follow, but Orlando grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"I think you've caused enough of a problem already." Orlando's voice was full of regret as he nodded his head to the angry crowd. He leaned closer and whispered. "What were you thinking? We came to calm the situation."

"That man needs to be held accountable for his actions toward Sparrow's cousin." The strength of her voice wavered as she peered at the people milling and throwing angry looks at the Meeker's cabin.

"Yes, you're right, he should be held responsible." Orlando leaned closer and lowered his voice so only she could hear. "But you forget, you're not in your time. Unless Meeker can get that kid out of here and I can talk the crowd down, you just sealed that boy's fate of being scalped."

With that Orlando turned and stomped toward the crowd to talk with the men gathered there. Sparrow stood staring at Samara, sorrow weighing her delicate and normally joyful countenance down. Sparrow's shoulders sagged as she turned and trudged away. What had Samara just done? Where her parents' legacy had built a community up in love, hers looked to destroy as her own rage and hurt spewed onto the world.

# Chapter 18

Orlando sighed at the sight of his cabin. His soul dragged from the weariness that clung to him since the morning before. Not only had he let Samara down by not being able to convince Meeker to change his mind, but he'd rushed around trying to appease the elders and convince them not to kill that stupid young man.

Orlando kicked himself the entire two-day trip home for riling at Samara like he had. She hadn't deserved it, and he now saw the weight of his words hanging from Samara's shoulders where they slumped. She hadn't known calling Billy out for his indiscretions would add more fuel to the inferno. She'd simply wanted to right a terrible wrong that caused a young woman to fall into such deep despair.

When he'd calmed the situation as much as he could, he'd found Samara begging Sparrow to forgive her. Sparrow, of course, had extended forgiveness immediately, embracing his wife with a hug that overflowed with sisterly love. He had made Sparrow promise to send for him if there were any problems with the pregnancy. Though they'd left with the note of forgiveness ringing in the air, Samara had yet to come out from beneath the cloak of despair he'd carelessly flung on her.

A figure came from the cabin and waved. Orlando turned to Samara, the fatigue lifting. "Beatrice is here."

Samara's mouth lifted slightly but didn't reach her eyes. He turned his attention back to his sister, vowing he'd do whatever it took to bring Samara's smile back to her eyes. As they rode into the yard, Orlando watched confusion and intrigue play upon his sister's face. She surveyed Samara from head to toe, then peered at Orlando, her eyebrow raising in question and a playful smile emerging upon her lips. Orlando threw his reins at her, dismounted, and moved to Samara. He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off, pulling her close to him as he did.

"Beatrice, I'd like you to meet my talented, caring, and beautiful wife, Samara." Orlando stared into Samara's eyes as he talked, watching the shock upon Samara's face as her eyes widened. "Samara, that's my cranky baby sister, Beatrice."

A shocked gasp followed by a sharp whip of reins upon his back preceded the shove Beatrice gave him, knocking him away from Samara. "I'll have you know, I'm in no way cranky, Orlando Charles Thomas. I'm perfectly pleasant. If I'm ill-tempered, it's because of you, dear brother." Beatrice turned to Samara, an instant smile plastered upon her face. "Welcome to the family, Samara. How did you end up hitched to this lug?"

Samara's eyes twinkled in amusement at the exchange, but at the question of their marriage, a shadow crossed her face. Did she already regret marrying him? Had he already lost her?

Orlando put an arm around Samara's shoulders and felt her body tense. He kissed her on the head before turning to Beatrice. "We have a great yarn to spin if you'll help with the horses, Bea. Did you happen to make yourself useful and make supper?"

Beatrice glared at Orlando. A sharp elbow rammed into his gut, rushing the air out of his lungs with a whoosh. Orlando laughed at the looks of outrage upon the women's faces.

"I'm teasing." Orlando rubbed his gut. "Little Bit always makes herself useful, just not normally in the kitchen."

Orlando dodged Beatrice's slap, grabbing her arm and pulling her in for a hug. He tweaked her nose and pulled her braid like he knew she hated. She laughed and hugged him back.

"You're ornery as a bear with no teeth, brother. I'll have you know, Onootee stopped by late yesterday evening and let me know you'd be coming. I have a stew bubbling and biscuits baked." Beatrice pushed him playfully and turned to Samara. "Come on, Samara. Since all Orlando wants to do is play around, we'll have to take care of the horses before the stew scorches."

Orlando jogged to catch up to them and took the reins from Samara's hand, threading his fingers in replacement. She glanced up at him, a question he didn't understand written upon her face. He squeezed her hand and smiled down at her and winked.

"So, where are you from, Samara?" Beatrice tied Orlando's horse up to the corral fence and uncinched the saddle.

"Philadelphia," Samara answered as she took the reins back and tied Midnight to the fence.

"2019," Orlando added smugly.

Beatrice's gasp preceded a light squeak as the saddle she was lifting off the horse fell on her. Orlando rushed to her side, stifling his laughter as Beatrice struggled to push the saddle off her.

"You okay, Little Bit?" Orlando sniggered.

Beatrice glared at him, then turned to Samara in amazement. "You're from the future, too?"

At Samara's nod, Beatrice whooped. Grabbing onto the saddle Orlando was lifting, Beatrice pulled herself up, shoved Orlando a bit, unbalancing him even more, and rushed to Samara's side. Orlando caught the twinkle in Samara's eyes as he barely avoided landing on his backside. Maybe this is what Samara needed to find a sense of home. He prayed Beatrice's visit would lift Samara's spirit and prove to her that she belonged. That she was family. His family. The rightness of that thought settled on him, and he returned her smile with a grin.

"Orlando, take care of the horses and hurry up with it. Samara and I are going to go get the table set. I want to hear this story, and I'm not waiting on you as you stand there staring at your wife." Beatrice looped her arm through Samara's and dragged her to the cabin.

Orlando heard Beatrice peppering Samara with questions of eye phones and photos. He sighed contently as Samara's airy laugh floated across the yard and landed on his ears. Rushing through the work, yet making sure the horses were well cared for, Orlando walked into the cabin to find Samara telling the end of that horrifying moment when he'd found her, and then almost lost her to the pack of wolves.

"They just kept coming, yet Orlando never flinched, never hesitated. There I sat cowering in front of him, clinging to Loco's mane for dear life while Orlando shot so fast the blasts sounded like the finale of a fireworks show. I've never witnessed anything like it before, and I hope I never do again." A shudder visibly raced up her body. "But your brother was amazing."

Samara's awe embarrassed Orlando as he strode into the cabin and both women looked at him in respect. Why was it that he secretly prayed to be more than a vestige of his father's legacy, to step fully into the footsteps left behind? Yet when faced with stories a legend like that entailed, he shied away from the accolades, wishing more to remain in the shadows of ambiguity. Maybe Orlando's identity didn't lie in living up to the image of his father but more in the legacy Orlando would leave behind, a heritage built on the love his parents had for each other and the people their lives touched. Orlando's mind stuttered at that thought, his gaze glued to Samara. That would be his goal. Not to follow in the stories that filled the mountains and circled the campfires like his father's escapades did, but for the generations to come to experience and embrace the legacy of love he determined to build with the beautiful woman God tossed back through time for him.

The following morning, Samara meandered down the rows of vegetables that had grown in the four days that she and Orlando had been gone to the agency. Though the sun had worked its way up and was well into morning, the heat of summer hadn't landed on the day yet. The bees buzzed and danced among the medicinal flowers and herbs, and Samara wondered if there was honey hiding somewhere in the woods. A slight breeze swirled the smell of thriving life around her. Samara breathed it in deeply, wishing her life could flourish like the garden planted by Orlando did. A horse whinnied from the barn causing Samara's shoulders to sag.

Beatrice talked with Orlando as he readied to leave to check the flock and make sure Onootee and his brother were settling in. Samara should go see him off, but her contradicting emotions tore at her. She needed to keep distance between them. Needed the space her defenses required to remain intact around Orlando. Yet her heart screamed to lean in to his embrace, to turn in the arms that pulled her back close at night, and accept the love he whispered into her hair. That love couldn't be trusted though. He'd realize she wasn't worth the trouble, probably already did with her colossal screw-up the other day at the agency. Hadn't he already proven that he'd desert those he called his friends without much of a fight?

Samara trailed her fingers along the pea trellis, the soft leaves tickling her skin, and glanced toward the barn as the door opened and Orlando emerged. Though the space between them was great, Samara saw Orlando's disappointment in the drop of his shoulders and the dip of his head. His shoulders lifted as he sighed deeply before his stare returned to hers, his gaze so intense she thought it might burn her alive where she stood. She wondered what he would do. Would he cross the distance between them and drink her in with a kiss as desperate as the one they'd shared under the willow? She hoped so. _God, what's wrong with me?_ The question she meant as a joke came out as a prayer, and she left it hanging there, wondering if God would answer. Knowing that He wouldn't. Just like Orlando wouldn't seal her with a farewell kiss, but rather mount his horse and ride off with a nod of goodbye tilted her way. Pieces of her dried heart crumbled within her.

As she continued to work her way to the medicinal section of the garden, Samara chided herself for expecting anything different. She stopped short at the sight of a small bouquet of Indian paintbrush laying in the path. Its stems were tied together with grass. Samara bent down to pick it up. As she stood with the flowers cradled softly in her hands, she sought out Orlando's retreating form. He stopped and turned. They stared at each other across the distance, breath halting within her as time froze. Orlando raised his hand. Samara returned the gesture, wishing she could reverse time to a minute ago and kiss him properly before he left. He turned toward the forest, but stopped mid-turn.

Samara's heart began to beat wildly in her chest as Orlando's shoulders heaved and his head bowed. "Please, please come back," she whispered to his back.

He whipped Loco around and thundered across the meadow. The pounding hooves and determined look on Orlando's face had Samara's belly performing somersaults. He stopped Loco in a skid on the outside of the fence and leaped off the horse over the simple border. He stalked right up to her and pulled her close, kissing her thoroughly. He'd come back. Samara choked on a sob as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Much too soon, Orlando pulled away and sighed. "I'm sorry, Samara. I had no right to put that guilt on you at the agency like I did. I've felt horrible."

"No, you were right. I should've been watching my words more closely. I keep forgetting where I am."

"Samara, you were just looking out for that poor girl. I admire your desire to help others." Orlando kissed her again before pulling away. "I don't want to, but I need to go."

"I know." Samara trailed her hands down his arms and clasped his hands.

"Are we fine?" Orlando squeezed her hands.

Samara nodded and took a step back. She tucked her hands under her arms to keep them warm in the chill the absence of his touch created. She swallowed the hope and joy that clogged her throat. "I'll see you soon."

Orlando traced her face with his eyes before turning and rushing to the horse placidly grazing on the opposite side of the fence. He mounted, waved one last time, and raced off into the forest.

"You've done an amazing job with this garden," Beatrice said as she approached.

Samara turned to Beatrice with a shrug. "Orlando's the one who planted it. I've just been caring for it, trying not to rip out something that's not a weed."

"That's not what Orlando told me." Beatrice plucked an herbal flower and lifted it to her nose. "According to him, the garden was nothing but a shriveled, slowly dying mess until you turned up. That 'under your loving care, the garden blossomed to life.' His words, not mine."

Samara smiled sweetly. How could she ever think that he'd leave her like all the others? She couldn't wait for him to get back home to show him just how much she loved him.

Orlando berated himself the entire ride. Maybe he should've stayed behind and waited one more day to visit the flock. He was glad he'd given in to his desire, crossed the distance separating him and Samara, and kissed her with everything he was worth. He finally felt like he had busted through the barrier she'd been slowly building back up since the fateful day he'd let her down only to leave again. _What were you thinking?_

The ride to where the sheep were located had been a torturous one. Try as he might, he couldn't stop replaying his goodbye in his head. He thought of the memories of their wedding night that had burned with passion only to be replaced by the chill of the last few nights when he'd pulled her close and held her tight. That she never turned into him and returned the kisses he delicately placed upon her hair and neck carved a hole within his heart. That she didn't pull away filled the hole with hope. And now with that good-bye, hope soared. Yet how was he to woo his wife with him off wrestling stinky sheep? Orlando determined he'd only be gone for one night. He'd make sure Onootee and his brother were good, the sheep were frolicking happily, and then race home to Samara.

He rode into the meadow to the sounds of bleating ewes and laughed at the now mostly grown lambs that still danced and kicked around like babies. Onootee waved and approached, a grave look upon his face.

"We have problems, brother." Onootee's greeting dropped Orlando's heart into his stomach. "The dogs are not taking our directions, and we have found some sheep dead, with no apparent cause for death."

"Alright. Let's see what we can do. I need to get back to the cabin soon though, so Beatrice can head over to the other homestead." Orlando tried not to let his frustration show in his voice.

Onootee nodded and motioned for Orlando to follow him. Orlando took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd deal with the problems as quickly as he could. Understanding these issues would be the turning point of whether this experiment succeeded or failed, whether he could help the Utes and other settlers flocking in. He needed to push his impatience to the side and focus. Samara wasn't going anywhere. He had a lifetime to prove his love and devotion to her, while the window of triumph for this venture was limited to one, maybe two summers. He couldn't afford to not solve these problems when it could mean survival or failure to someone in the future. So with great effort, he pushed his desire to rush home aside and focused on the problem at hand.

# Chapter 19

Samara fought the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes as Beatrice packed her gear to leave. It had been a week since Orlando and Samara returned from their trip to the agency. An amazing week filled with laughter and a sense of sisterhood she'd never imagined possible. Now Beatrice would go back to the cabin she lived in with Hunter and Viola, and Samara might not see her new, charismatic friend until spring. Samara turned from the table and crossed to the bed Beatrice had slept on to grab the last of the items laying there.

Samara had told Beatrice stories of living on the streets, the crazy things she'd seen and done to survive. They'd cried when she'd described the horror of moving from foster home to foster home, only to be almost assaulted by the person who was supposed to protect her. They'd laughed so hard they'd lost their breath when Samara told Beatrice about stealing a hotdog from a vendor only to somehow unlock the wheels and have the entire wiener cart chase her down the street. When Samara had told Beatrice about her latest job playing music for wannabe pioneers, Beatrice couldn't fathom people paying thousands of dollars for such a foolish thing. Samara smiled, remembering how Beatrice had exclaimed if she lived during that time, she'd let those people determined to spend their money pay her thousands of dollars and give them a real Wild West experience they'd never forget.

But the moments that solidified in Samara's heart and bonded her to this fiery young woman were the times they revealed their hopes. Beatrice's longing for something more in life, a life outside of the solitude of the mountains tugged at Samara's intense desire she'd buried deep inside, the desire for a family so she wouldn't be so alone. Samara could tell Beatrice fiercely loved her siblings and loved the freedom she had living in the wilderness of Colorado, by the stories she told and the smile she constantly had when talking about her family. Yet Samara also heard in the whispers of the what-ifs: Beatrice's desire of belonging, which blew Samara's mind since Beatrice was firmly encased within a loving and devoted family.

How could this vibrant and strong woman, who never knew the hurt of abandonment, have the same doubts? How could Beatrice also worry she'd never find a love that filled the hollow spots within, pushing out the loneliness and despair that settled there just like Samara had? She was glad Beatrice wasn't as jaded as Samara and still had a hope lighting her eyes as she talked about somehow traveling the world.

Samara sighed as Beatrice rolled another garment and shoved it into her pack. The kitchen table was filled with Beatrice's things as she packed to head to her home. Samara wondered if Beatrice leaving would make things strained again with Samara and Orlando. It had been amazing since he got home three days before, greeting her as enthusiastically as his farewell. Her doubts had been chased away as he had pulled her close and whispered how much he'd missed her. The sense of family had continued as Orlando and Beatrice had joked about how ridiculous their sister, Viola, and her husband, Hunter, were and the antics of their nephew, who seemed too young for antics. They discussed the new family Beatrice had helped and the problems boiling with the Utes. Samara worried that when Beatrice left, conversation between Samara and Orlando would become strained like a dulcimer string tightened so tight that one wrong strum would snap it. Would conversation that used to flow like legato, smooth and continuous, blending from one conversation to another, become staccato, stilted and choppy?

Samara peeked at Orlando, who bundled herbs for Beatrice to take home. As much as Samara loved hearing stories of family and having a house full of laughter, she yearned for the nights Orlando would pull her close and show just how much he loved her. But this happiness couldn't last. History had repeatedly proved that in her life. Samara kept anticipating when this too would be ripped away. She shook her head at herself. She needed to stop obsessing, but worry burned in her gut. If history would eventually repeat itself, and she'd be left with her heart ripped from her chest, why dare to love?

Samara grabbed the rest of Beatrice's items and brought them to her. "I'm going to head outside and check on the chickens." She knew it was a flimsy excuse, but she couldn't stay in the cabin any longer where her worries settled heavy on her shoulders, closing the walls around her.

"I'm almost done here." Beatrice shoved the last of her items into her pack.

Samara took a deep breath as she plodded outside. The clean mountain air helped her mind to focus, to clear. She knew she couldn't live with this weight of fretfulness she had piled on her. Knew she couldn't keep waiting for the rug to be pulled from under her. She took another deep breath and blew it out with a huff. She wasn't going to allow the what-ifs to ruin the now anymore. If she could determine to survive the streets of Philly, she could determine to not let worry paralyze her.

Samara turned toward the cabin as Beatrice approached and laced her arm through Samara's. Beatrice dragged Samara to where Beatrice's horse, Firestorm, stood waiting.

"I'm so glad God brought you here to Orlando." Beatrice squeezed Samara's arm. "I see purpose in him where a floundering had been."

"I doubt Orlando has ever floundered in his life." The thought of Orlando struggling at anything was ridiculous.

Beatrice pulled Samara to a stop next to Firestorm. "I'm serious, Samara. It's in the way he questions what you'd think about things, even silly things like whether he should adjust the oat bin so it's easier for you to access. He never worried about me accessing the oats, the big oaf. Every conversation I had with him circled back to you. Every. Single. One."

Samara smiled a goofy smile, cherishing the information Beatrice gave her. Beatrice rolled her eyes and placed her pack on the back of the saddle. Samara pretended to be checking Firestorm's halter, though she knew zilch about halters or horses or anything relevant to surviving this time and place. She didn't know who was a bigger idiot, her for believing for half a minute she might thrive here or God for his horrible choice of locales.

Beatrice finished tying her pack to Firestorm and moved to Samara, putting both of her hands upon Samara's shoulders and forcing her to face Beatrice. "You are an amazing woman, Samara Thomas, full of caring, strength, and intelligence. Orlando never would've found someone who matched him so perfectly if God hadn't intervened. Orlando is loco over you, so lost in love it's pathetic—"

"That's ridiculous—"

"No, Samara, it's not. You are infused within him, like those ointments he makes. Separating you from him would not only be impossible, but would destroy him in the process."

Samara shook her head, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. "I know... Bea, that's what worries me. I'm so scared this is going to be ripped from me, just like everything else good in my life. What if I'm not worthy of having this love?"

Beatrice looked at Samara with sadness. "Oh Samara, you—"

"Okay, Beatrice. I've got you and the family enough medicine to last the winter." Orlando came out of the house as he adjusted the items in the sack he carried and tied it closed.

Beatrice pulled Samara into a hug and whispered in her ear. "Trust in Orlando's love for you, Samara. It's not false. But more importantly, trust in God's love for you. He's never left you, Samara. He's always been right there, carrying you, waiting desperately for you to turn back to the safety and peace that can only come from Him. I'm going to be praying for you, dear sister."

Tears spilled from Samara's eyes and her throat closed too tight for words to escape. She wished with everything in her that she could embrace that trust and run fully into the love she longed for, the love Orlando whispered in the night, but a lifetime of hurt couldn't be erased so easily. Beatrice turned to Orlando, an expression of concern on his handsome face as he watched the exchange.

"Take care, big brother." Beatrice launched herself into his arms, then playfully punched him on the bicep. "Don't forget to jump in the creek after you wrestle with those sheep of yours. You don't want to smell so bad you run off your new bride. I'd be mighty upset at you."

"Duly noted, Little Bit." Orlando peered in Samara's eyes from over Beatrice's head. "I don't want to risk running her off at all."

With one more pointed look at Samara, Beatrice mounted up and headed out with a wave. Samara wished Beatrice wouldn't go, that she'd stay and live with them instead of heading back to the other homestead. Samara angrily swiped at the ridiculous tears that rolled down her cheek as her husband draped his solid arm across her shoulders in comfort. She leaned into him, deciding to try to lean into that trust Beatrice had encouraged her to have, despite the niggling doubt that persisted in the back of her head.

Orlando sat on Loco at the edge of the forest that overlooked his home. The air was cool and the aspen leaves were just showing signs of slipping to their golden splendor. Winter would be upon them soon. Maybe the cocoon the cold would soon wrap around him and Samara could continue to solidify his marriage from muted to beautiful, having them emerge in spring transformed. He marveled at the change in Samara since Beatrice had left. She seemed to finally trust in his love for her, but there still was a hesitance with her, like she kept searching for the next threat.

He breathed out deeply, the breath seeming to come all the way from his toes. That didn't surprise him too much with the way Samara had been since she arrived in his life. The weight of unease that sat upon his shoulders and pressed his lungs so tight he could hardly breathe hadn't lifted with the intimacy they seemed to find within each other. If anything it had gotten heavier, pressed tighter so he could barely move. Was he simply taking on Samara's anxiousness she tried to hide, or was the Lord trying to warn him?

Orlando sighed again and pulled out his father's journal he'd carried with him since that morning it tumbled off the shelf. He hadn't had much opportunity to read it since finding it, but he'd taken time, little by little like he had this morning, bringing a new insight to his father's depth, a piece of his father that made the legend more real, less legendary. He opened it and reread:

_Today I'm missing my Victoria more than most. Though it's been six years since she's passed and the ache of her being gone never leaves, some days the pain and loneliness of losing her is so thick I wonder if I'll ever climb out of it. I think of her and want to lie next to her grave and never get up. I have to remember that though I've lost her here, all hope is not gone. I will see her again when I walk through the pearly gates of heaven._

_It's days like today that I lean evermore on God. That I push the grief behind, forgetting the pain of loss and instead remembering the joy of life. The joy of our love, the legacy we have passed to our children. Until the day the Lord takes me to be with Him, I'm here for Orlando, Viola, and Beatrice. They are my everything, the reason I still continue to breathe. Though they are all grown adults and more amazing than I ever could imagine, I will continue to show them the love of God and the path to take in everything I do._

_Father God, please help me reach forth unto those things which are before, and press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. Amen._

Orlando bowed his head and sniffed away the emotion thick within his throat. His father had done just that, breathed life and love into him and his sisters, encouraging them to embrace the person God called them to be. Orlando realized that was why he strived so hard to live up to his father's image, not only to make his father proud, but because his father was a person worth emulating. Orlando thanked God for the steady, unwavering love of a father who pushed his own pain aside to pour hope and comfort into his children.

Orlando looked up as the squawk of chickens lifted across the meadow. Samara emerged from the cabin and moved toward the chickens, leaning down to pet the silly creatures. The sight of her gripped his heart with determination. He motioned Loco home with his knees, choosing to take the approach slow so he could linger on observing Samara. He would take a cue from his father's journal, from the word of his Heavenly Father, and forget the things of the past and push toward the mark, reach for the prize. Orlando was called to be Samara's husband as surely as he was woven within his mother's womb. He resolved to be the best husband he could, supporting and loving Samara to the fullest and leading her back to God.

He watched as Samara strode for the garden, her glorious red tresses flowing behind her like swirling fingers of fire. How he loved to pull those silky threads through his fingers, to feel them tickle his cheek and his chest as he pulled her close to him each night.

Samara trekked through the garden, bending to check plants as she went, pulling a pea pod off the trellis and popping the peas in her mouth. He lost sight of her as she moved behind the corn, waiting with bated breath for her to emerge on the other side as she made her way to the medicinal garden. He noticed she spent a lot of time there and silently hoped it was her connection to him that drew her frequently to that section. He decided he'd build her a bench to sit among the flowers and herbs, maybe place it along the creek.

He glimpsed her auburn hair as she passed the corn and refocused his attention on her, watching the slender curves as she moved and her delicate hands as they reached to touch the flowers. His gaze narrowed as she stopped short. She quickly snapped her gaze to the field and forest opposite Orlando. Her unease was evident in how tense her body had become and caused Orlando to go on the alert. He scanned the area that surrounded the cabin like she did, turning his attention to the depth of shadows and play of light. He caught a movement under the trees across from the creek from the corner of his eye and turned to survey it. Nothing moved. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but Orlando's spirit churned in unease.

Samara moved, turning a slow circle as she surveyed the land. Orlando pulled his focus away from the forest as she noticed him riding up. She jumped at the sight of him, then her shoulders slumped.

He pushed doubt aside as he dismounted and tied Loco to the garden fence rail. He made his way to Samara's side, striding quickly through the garden. She broke eye contact with him and bent to pull a weed from within the comfrey. She took it to one of the many boxes she'd built from scrap wood to collect weeds to be tossed into the compost pile. He smiled at the memory of her claiming she could then use his abundant muscles to carry the boxes instead of taxing hers with numerous trips with the small basket she'd been using.

Orlando stopped next to her. As she peered up into his eyes, he saw a hint of distress in the way her eyes were wide like a frightened filly.

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "What's wrong Samara? You look like you're about to bolt."

"It's nothing really, just thought someone was watching me. Kind of freaked me out for a bit, but then I saw you and realized someone _was_ watching me. You." Samara shrugged and smiled.

Orlando stepped closer and took her hand, rubbing a circle with his thumb along the back of her hand. "I'm sorry I startled you."

"It's not you," Samara said breathlessly. "It's just my years of living on edge, always waiting for the next attack."

"I'll do everything I can to keep you safe, Samara, I promise you that," Orlando whispered, his voice deep and husky.

"I know." Samara gazed into his eyes, desire shining strong.

Her quiet declaration lit a flame within Orlando as he closed the distance between them and gently kissed her. She ran her free hand up his chest, clenching his shirt with her delicate fingers. She moaned and leaned into him, the flame igniting into an inferno. He deepened the kiss, stumbling toward the cabin without breaking contact. A sound came from her that reflected so perfectly the longing deep within him that he wondered if he was the one who actually groaned. She pulled her hand from his and wrapped her arms around him, digging her fingers deep into his hair. Orlando lifted her and carried her to the cabin, praying he showed her how deep his love for her was, embedded in his very being, merged to his very soul.

# Chapter 20

Orlando stood at the worktable, processing the herbs he and Samara had dried earlier in the summer. She smiled at him from across the table, not pausing in the song she sang. He loved how their home was almost always filled with music, whether Samara strummed on her dulcimer, hummed while she washed dishes, or sang out of the blue. Her delight was present in each note and sound that came from her. Orlando had always thought her beautiful, but since Beatrice had left, Samara had transformed into radiant.

Orlando felt the transformation in himself as well. A heavy burden that he'd carried lifted in the abundant love that filled the cabin to the rafters and spilled into the yard outside. He stared across the table. As she ground the comfrey into smaller pieces to store, her smile flared to life the flame of desire that rarely got banked. Herbs forgotten, Orlando strode around the table and captured her song in his mouth. He smiled as she quickly responded to his kiss, dropping her tools on the table and matching his passion.

A knock at the door caused Orlando to groan. Samara chuckled at him as she stepped back. He grinned and winked at her when he noticed her leaning on the table for support.

"Go answer the door, you rogue." Samara laughed.

Orlando marched to the door, hoping it would be a quick visit, or maybe someone who'd just momentarily lost their way. He knew that being miles from nowhere probably didn't bode well for his hopes. As he opened the door, his hand on his revolver, his eyes widened in shock.

"Sparrow!" Samara yelled, rushing to the door and pulling the frazzled woman into the cabin.

Orlando peered outside, and when he saw no one was with her, closed the door. Sparrow looked done in. Her face was drawn in exhaustion, and as she sat at the chair Samara had pulled out, she slumped into it. Sparrow looked first to Samara and then to Orlando and broke into tears. Orlando's heart dropped into his stomach as he glanced at Samara. Something horrible must've happened for Sparrow to be here, just like Samara had foretold back at the agency. Orlando strode to the table and pulled a chair out to sit.

"It was horrible." Sparrow spoke brokenly through sobs. "Soldiers had been sent and... and our warriors retaliated. The warriors killed all the men, torturing Mr. Meeker, and kidnapped the women and children."

A small cry sounded over Sparrow's sobs, pulling all three adults' attention to the bundle Sparrow clutched. She slowly unwrapped it, making a shushing noise as she attempted to control her sobs. Her fingers shook violently, and Orlando feared she would drop it.

"Here," Samara softly said. "Let me help you."

Sparrow nodded and handed the bundle to Samara. Samara gently unwrapped it and gasped in delight as she exposed a beautiful baby with bright red hair and skin lighter than most Ute babies.

"My cousin had just had him when the fighting broke out." Sparrow looked at the baby with a sorrowed smile and breathed deeply, her crying slowly replaced with purpose. "In delirium, my cousin raced out of the tent, looking for Billy, saying she must save him. She was shot in the confusion."

"Oh, Sparrow, I'm so sorry," Samara whispered sadly.

"I feared what would happen to this beautiful boy. The government will come and take us to the reservation now. That is not a life I wish for him. If he grows up there, he will always be different, with his bright red hair and fair skin. While I know my people will love him, I don't want him to feel pulled, to wonder where he belongs. I'm also not sure if the soldiers won't think we've stolen him and take him away from his true family." Sparrow paused and glanced between the two of them. "So I've brought him to you. With you, he'll grow up with a mother of fiery red hair and a father who loves and respects all people, a true and honored friend of the Ute."

"Sparrow, I... I don't know how to take care of a baby. I've never been around kids. What if I'm a horrible mother?" Samara gaped at the baby with a look of fear and worry.

"You are going to be a wonderful mother, Samara." Orlando stood and moved next to her. He knelt beside her and ran his finger down the baby's downy cheek. The boy moved his mouth toward his finger as if to suckle. "We don't have any milk to feed him. I may be able to find a ewe or two that are still nursing, but I'm not sure how much milk they'll produce."

"Do not worry. Chief Johnson's wife sent me with their dairy cow. She says since the soldiers will take everything of worth we have, she wants you to have the cow as thanks for your friendship to us and for trying to help. I have some milk in my pack for the little one to drink now."

Orlando hung his head, leaning his forehead on Samara's leg. "I wish I would've tried harder." Samara's hand threading through his hair soothed him, and he peered up at her.

"No, Orlando. You did all you could. Meeker was determined, and my people were not willing to bend to the injustice of it. Now, all will pay," Sparrow replied.

"What will you do now, Sparrow?" Samara asked as Sparrow dug through her pack.

"Tonight, I will rest in my friends' house, listening to sweet songs and snuggling with a precious baby." Sparrow's smile was melancholy. "Tomorrow, I will make my way to the Yampah springs and hope that the Ute people are still there."

Orlando took the bladder full of milk from Sparrow and walked to the cabinet. He listened as Sparrow and Samara gushed over the baby boy that was suddenly his son. He glanced over his shoulder as he reached for the cup. Samara's eyes connected with his, and though he hadn't expected to be a father so soon, he determined his new son would grow up knowing the same love Orlando had as a child. With Samara, they'd grow a home full of warmth and devotion to pass on as a legacy for generations to come.

Samara sat with Orlando and their baby on a blanket spread next to the creek in the meadow. The mountains soared as sentries in the distance, a new layer of snow on the peaks. Orlando had promised winter was at least a month away when she had worried about Sparrow, who had left the morning before to find her people in the Roaring Fork valley. The baby breathed deeply in her arms, fast asleep with milk dribbling from his wide-open mouth.

Orlando chuckled as he wiped the milk from the boy's chin. "Have you decided on a name yet?"

Samara peeked up at Orlando, a hesitant smile on her lips. "I was thinking Zachariah Joseph, after both our fathers."

Orlando leaned close, his lips brushing hers as he spoke in a whisper. "I think it's perfect."

Samara closed the distance between them, relishing the feel of Orlando as he pulled her closer, careful of the baby in her arms, but not allowing the baby to mellow her husband's expression of passion. She sighed, wondering if Zach would sleep long enough for her and Orlando to fall into each other there among the last of the wildflowers and grass. Samara captured Orlando's lips against hers again, smiling at his love pouring freely to her.

An ear-piercing cry interrupted the moment. Samara lifted Zach up to her shoulder and patted his back. The little guy cried even harder, his scream of pain in her ear making her wonder if she'd be able to hear when he was done crying. She stood and bounced him, patting him on the back. He screamed even louder, his face turning bright red in anger. What was she doing wrong? Why wouldn't he calm down?

"Here, let me try." Orlando stood and gently took Zach from her. Orlando pushed Zach's legs up under his little body and patted him on the back. When that didn't calm the baby down, Orlando turned the baby over so his stomach lay across Orlando's arm. As Orlando gently rubbed Zach's back, the baby calmed and fell into a fitful sleep.

"How is it you can get him to calm down every single time when he just screams louder with me?" Samara gathered up the blanket, unease threatening the joy she'd found with Orlando.

"I'm not sure." Orlando shrugged as he stroked Zach's red curls that clung to his head in sweaty waves. "It's not you, Samara. Maybe I get him in the right position."

Samara supposed that made sense. Orlando's hands and arms were bigger than hers. Maybe they were more comfortable. Samara smiled hesitantly at Orlando.

"I guess we better head back. He's going to want a bottle soon." Samara worried about the next feeding. So far she hadn't been very successful at getting him to eat.

Orlando strode back to the cabin. She wadded the blanket within her arms and followed slowly. No matter what Orlando said, Samara knew the truth. She wasn't good at this mothering business. How could she be? Her own mother had been killed much too early to pass any true knowledge on to her. Samara bowed her head in defeat as she trudged along. It would just be a matter of time before Orlando realized it as well.

Heart-wrenching crying came from the front room where Zach was supposed to be sleeping, ripping Orlando out of his dream and pushing him to a sitting position. He reached across the bed, only to find it empty. Then the desperate words whispered in the front room reached his ears.

"Shh, shh. Please, Zach, shh." The strain Samara felt was evident in how her shushing quivered.

Orlando groaned and rolled out of bed. He paused in the doorway, relishing the view of Samara in her nightgown. The low flames from the fire silhouetted her body through the thin cotton. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back. If it wasn't for the harrowed expression on her face, Orlando could stand there all night and watch her. Or pull her into the bedroom so he could bury his hands into her hair and tell her how beautiful she was. Another scream punctuated the air and pulled Orlando out of his daydream. Orlando stepped into the room, startling Samara.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I can't get him to calm down." Samara's voice was tight, and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

Orlando stepped up to her, dug his hand into her hair, and kissed her on the neck. "You're beautiful."

She huffed and leaned into him. "Not likely." Her voice wavered. "I just don't know what I'm doing wrong. Why does he hate me?"

"He doesn't hate you, Samara. I think he's in pain. Here, let me have a turn with him." Orlando kissed her again on the cheek and took Zach from her arms. The baby pulled his legs up as he wailed. Orlando massaged Zach's belly, putting pressure as he rubbed. Zach started calming down. "See how he's pulling his legs up?" Samara nodded, her arms crossed protectively in front of her chest. "I think the cow's milk is upsetting his stomach."

Samara reached a shaky hand out and pushed Zach's red hair off of his forehead. "But look at him. You've had him for like two minutes, and he's already calmed. I've been out here for two hours, and he's screamed the entire time."

"I don't know. Maybe I just hold him the right way." Orlando shrugged.

Samara cringed. "I just... I... I can't do this, Orlando. I'm not mom material. I can't... I don't even know what to do." A tear escaped from the corner of her eye as she jerked her hand away from Zach.

"I don't know what to do either, Samara, but I promise you, we can figure this out together."

She shook her head, the red curls bouncing around her shoulders. She squeezed her eyes shut and scrubbed her hands over her face. Orlando's heart rate increased with her panicked movements. He placed his hand on the side of her face, rubbing the tear off her cheek. "Listen, you're exhausted. Why don't you go in to bed, and I'll take care of him for a bit. Maybe after some sleep, you'll feel better."

Her shoulders slumped as she nodded her head. Orlando pulled her close and kissed her softly. Her lips trembled as she kissed him back.

"I love you, Samara, and I know you're going to be a great mother. We just have to get through this rough patch," Orlando whispered.

She peered into his eyes, the dark circles beneath hers making her red-rimmed lids appear more weary. The look she gave him was so similar to the guarded expressions he'd worked hard to erase that worry threaded through his heart. She nodded and turned away, her feet dragging as she made her way to the bedroom. Orlando sighed as he looked at the baby sleeping contently in his arms. He'd help Samara see she was a good mother. He just had to figure out how to fix Zach's tummy, then taking care of him wouldn't be so taxing. Orlando sat in the rocker and gently pushed it into motion. He glanced at the stuffed bookshelves along the wall. He'd scour every medical book he had if it meant he could alleviate Zach's discomfort and bolster Samara's confidence as a mother. He'd do anything to heal his little family.

Samara speared the clean diaper onto the clothesline, her arms weighing a ton in her exhaustion. Zach wailed in the basket she had set up with blankets so she could get the clothes washed and hung while Orlando left to hunt. She never imagined the non-stop crying of an infant could cause such mental instability. If the military knew the effectiveness of this particular torture method, they could break prisoners into exposing secrets within hours. She lifted her leaden arms and hung another diaper, her eyelids drooping.

_I need coffee_. There was no way she could function without some caffeine. She stirred the next load of clothes simmering in the wash pot and headed for the cabin with a sigh, wishing she could've brought back a washing machine with her. She filled the coffeepot full of water, ground the coffee beans, threw them in the bottom of the pot, and set it in the coals that still burned hot from the morning's fire. She sagged into a chair at the table and supported her head on her hand, staring blankly into the fireplace.

Samara jolted awake as the drone of Zach's crying transformed into a new shriek. She pushed from the chair and stumbled out the door. To her horror, a chicken sat on Zach's chest, pecking at the baby. Samara screamed and waved her hands as she rushed to the basket. She scooped Zach up, frantically pulling his blankets and gown aside. A sob wrenched from her throat at the sight of an angry red welt on his cheek and chest.

"Oh, baby," Samara sobbed as she pulled him to her. "I'm so sorry."

_What have I done?_ Samara whirled around as the beat of horse's feet approached fast. She wasn't cut out for this. She couldn't be a mother. She'd fallen asleep and left her baby outside for goodness sake! Relief and dread battled within her as Orlando raced into the yard, jumping from his horse. Orlando could take care of Zach just fine without her. She should leave before she hurt him worse. She looked down at the beautiful baby boy in her arms, her heart shattering into a million pieces. She knew something would happen to rip this happiness away. She didn't deserve this baby, this family. For their sake, she had to leave before she did any more damage.

A terrified scream ripped through the air and Orlando kicked Loco into a gallop. He had hesitated leaving to hunt that morning, not wanting to saddle Samara with Zach, who had renewed his crying upon waking. However, the dwindling stock of meat had pushed him out the door alone, knowing a screaming baby would keep all game away and make hunting impossible. He'd hurried, choosing to get a few rabbits instead of a bigger animal. Now he wondered if he should've left at all.

He careened into the yard, dismounting before Loco had come to a stop. Samara turned to him, a look of horror etched upon her tearstained face. She clutched Zach to her as she quickly closed the distance between them.

She thrust the baby to him. "You have to help him. The chicken... the chicken got him."

Orlando examined the small scratch on the baby's face. "It doesn't look too bad."

Samara paced in front of him, pulling her hair at her temples. "It's all my fault. I left him. How could I do that, just leave him outside like that?"

"You probably didn't mean to." Orlando could tell she was coming unhinged. How was he going to fix this while encouraging her?

"I... he... I..." Samara's hand shakily rubbed her collar. "What kind of mom forgets her baby outside and falls asleep inside?"

"An exhausted one." Orlando draped his arm across Samara's shoulder, bouncing the baby with the other arm. "You've gotten hardly any sleep these last few nights. It's no wonder you fell asleep."

Samara shook her head hard and moved away from Orlando. She pinned her arms to her stomach, her chin trembling. "I can't do this, Orlando. Obviously I'm not meant to be a mother. What if the chicken had pecked his eye out? Or a coyote could have come and eaten him?"

"Samara, you can't let one mistake determine that you aren't meant to be a mother." Orlando prayed he'd say the right thing. "I see a woman who hasn't gotten any sleep the last few nights, working hard to keep up on the chores while taking care of a baby who can't stop crying. You have to give yourself some leeway here."

Samara's head shook frantically. "He could be blind because of me."

"But he's not. He just has a little scratch that we'll put some balm on. God protected him, Samara. He's going to be fine." Samara backed up a step and stared at her garden, avoiding eye contact. Orlando's mouth went dry, and his heartbeat picked up. "I think if we get a couple of sheep over here and switch his milk to sheep's milk, it might help with his upset tummy. I was planning on riding over to where the sheep are and bringing a few back. Why don't you two come with me? Maybe the motion of the horse will calm him."

Samara's eyes sharpened as she looked at him, her mind whirling behind her tired expression. "I don't think I could stay awake on a horse."

"We'll ride double then." Orlando liked the idea of holding his family close as they rode through the forest.

"What if..." Samara looked away and pulled rhythmically on a piece of her hair. She took a shaky breath and continued, "What if I stayed here? I could finish the laundry real fast and then sleep. Zach does better with you anyway."

Orlando stared at her, trying to figure out what she was thinking. He guessed that traipsing through the forest wouldn't help her exhaustion. Maybe having some space from the baby would help her clear her mind of doubt. But what if something happened and he wasn't here to help her?

"I don't like leaving you alone for that long." Orlando knew the words were ridiculous the instant they sprang from his mouth, but he couldn't stop them from flowing forth.

"Don't be silly. I'll be perfectly fine here." Samara smiled at him, though the gesture didn't reach her eyes. "I survived on the streets of Philly, Orlando, beat the snot out of that pompous Elk jerk. I think I can handle a day on my own. Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Indecision warred within him. He knew it would be impossible for her to be with him all the time. She'd have to be comfortable staying home without him; it came with living in the Rocky Mountain wilderness. That didn't mean he had to like it. He noticed the droop in her shoulders and the dark bruises fatigue had left under her eyes. He couldn't be selfish. She needed sleep if she was ever going to feel like she could succeed at being a mother.

"Alright." Orlando rolled the unease off his shoulders. "Help me get a pack loaded for Zach. Then me and him will head out, and you can sleep."

Samara's sigh of relief as she headed into the cabin was so big Orlando wondered how her body didn't collapse under her. Though doubt still churned in his belly, he knew she needed some space from the crying. Needed some uninterrupted sleep so she wouldn't be teetering on the edge of losing control. He could give her this, but it didn't mean he wouldn't hustle as all get out to round up a couple of ewes and get back. He marched over to where they'd stacked the clean diapers and started gathering a supply to put in his pack. It also didn't mean he wouldn't be banging on God's gate for Samara the entire time he was gone as well. She needed more than just a peaceful afternoon so she could sleep. She needed the peace that surpasses every circumstance, the peace that can only come from God. Orlando wasn't going to stop praying until she found it.

# Chapter 21

Apprehension sat heavy in Orlando's gut, sinking deep into the marrow of his bones. He shouldn't have left Samara alone. His soul fairly screamed in agony as he'd mounted up and rode away. How was he to show her his trust if he didn't... well, trust? So he'd left, praying the Lord would watch over her, hoping his worry was for nothing.

Yet, the instant he'd gotten to the flock and Onootee, faster than he'd ever travelled that narrow winding trail, he'd made sure all was fine, picked out some ewes with udders still heavy with milk, whistled for Zeus, and took off for home. He knew the flock would be fine with the other dog and the two shepherds to keep watch. If Samara wanted to insist on staying home, Zeus would stay with her, whether she liked it or not. He also planned to spend a fair amount of time convincing her that sticking together, no matter how capable she was, would be the best for everyone, but mostly for his own sanity.

Orlando rode into the homestead, anxious to see Samara. When her deep auburn hair didn't appear among the stalks of corn or between the clothes hanging on the line, Orlando rode up to the cabin. Though the chickens clucked and the birds sang, an eerie quiet hung over the area as he dismounted, as if all life had been sucked from the spot.

"Samara?" Orlando called, marching to the door and pushing it open.

Silence rushed out to him, smothering him. Even the baby remained quiet where he was strapped to Orlando's chest. Orlando raced across the vacant front room to look in their bedroom. Emptiness welcomed him, embracing him in its frigid arms. As Orlando turned to check the barn, a sheet of paper lying on the bed caught his attention. The two steps it took to reach the bed felt like he'd traversed a canyon. His heart raced and hands shook as he lifted it and read:

_Orlando,_

_I know this may be the coward's way out, but I couldn't leave with you here._

All air whooshed from Orlando's lungs, and suddenly his head began to spin. She'd left him. The realization knocked the strength from his knees, and he sat with a thud onto the bed. _Why?_ screamed through his head as he brought his hand to his eyes, squeezing them tight to keep the burn of tears from escaping. He breathed deeply and continued reading.

_I can't stay knowing that whatever it is inside me that keeps me from happiness, that keeps haunting me, will eventually destroy us all as well. Look what happened to poor Zach. It's only a matter of time before I do something worse. You are a good man and don't deserve to be tainted by me. Thank you for rescuing me, for being a calm peace in the midst of my storm._

_Love, Samara._

That was it? Orlando stood and stomped into the front room. She thought of him as a calm peace? He continued outside and rushed to the barn. Orlando threw open the barn door. He'd show her a calm peace.

Midnight was gone. Good. He turned back to the doorway, cutting for sign and easily finding the horse's tracks with the distinct circled shoe he'd fashioned to help the horse after her hoof had been injured.

Orlando marched to Loco, a new determination burning in his soul. He would sacrifice anything to keep her with him. Could that be the problem? Was she not happy here in the isolated wilderness?

"Zeus, where's Samara? Find Samara." Orlando's voice was low and steady, hiding the emotions that raged within.

Could he leave the only home he'd ever known to keep her happy? Orlando thought about the filth and noise of Denver, a city still in its infancy, and shuddered. It didn't matter how much the press of people made his skin crawl and the stench of the hordes curdled in his nose. If Samara needed crowds and bustle and her ridiculous fancy coffee to be happy, he'd make a new life for them in the thick of it and rejoice.

Samara honestly thought he'd eventually not want her, that she would do something to turn him away? Orlando laughed a rueful sound. The day he didn't want Samara was the day music died. And since the Good Book claimed even the rocks sang out to God, Orlando figured that day would never come. No, Samara was stuck with him, and as soon as he tracked her contrary hide down, he fixed on making sure she had a firm understanding of that.

Zeus put his nose to the ground and circled a spot in the trail. Orlando dismounted, petting Zeus on the side when he whined. Orlando examined the tracks, his blood running cold. Moccasin-tracks distorted the hoof prints, scuffing the dirt in a struggle. Someone had intercepted Orlando's wife. At the sight of blood pooled on the side of the trail next to her dulcimer case, a depression in dirt where a small body had landed, Orlando's wrath burned hot. Someone had dug up the hatchet of peace Orlando strived to live by when they chose to take his wife. Orlando narrowed his eyes, prepared to accept the declaration of war.

Samara's first thought as she awoke was that somehow in her trek through the Colorado wilderness, she'd found a jackhammer that insisted on banging on her head. Had she fallen off Midnight in her idiotic attempt to escape quickly? When she couldn't get the saddle on, she decided in her brilliant thought process that bareback would work just as well, if not better, than messing with the saddle. Fifteen minutes from home, she'd realized the folly of her thoughts as her thighs burned so hot with pain she wondered if she'd walk again, and her inability to balance well without the stirrups was laughable. It was inevitable that she'd fall off. She just hoped Midnight had stuck around.

She groaned and tried to roll over, only to pull on ropes tying her down. She attempted to open her eyes, slamming them closed when sunlight beamed sharply into her brain, making the jackhammer kick into overdrive. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her racing heart.

"So, the little warrior wakes. The gods blessed me today when I crossed your path." The hard voice of Running Elk filled the air with menace. Any calm she'd gathered left swiftly on the breeze, her heart ratcheting to such an intense speed, she thought it would explode. "And just to make sure you don't play any more of your games, I've bound you, like a woman should be."

Samara laughed scornfully, cracking her eyelids and allowing the light to pierce in. "You mean, you tied me down so I wouldn't beat you to a pulp and break your nose again."

A growl and a sharp kick to the side whooshed all the air from her lungs in agonizing pain. "Stupid woman! You brought dishonor on me, made me look a fool to my people. You will pay dearly for your lack of respect, begging me for mercy when I'm done with you. Praying your weak white God takes you quickly."

Running Elk spat and turned in anger, stomping to the campfire burning in the clearing. Samara swallowed the whimper that pushed up her throat. That was the crux of her problem wasn't it, not honoring and respecting God like her parents had taught her. Turning from the loving peace only He could offer. She'd felt it the instant she'd told Orlando she'd stay behind, the minute she let her pride and fear override the love of both God and Orlando she felt taking root deep in her soul.

No, that wasn't right, Samara realized. God's love had always been rooted there, wrapped tightly around her heart, but she had chosen to turn from it. Force it into dormancy, chill it until the only thing that could survive were sharp thorns of despair and fright. But God had never abandoned her. Instead He'd protected her, kept her safe from the worse atrocities brought against her, made her strong enough to survive the evils of this life. Hadn't He given her the dreams of music when a breeze had blown the newspaper into her face? Without that, she never would've known about the Curtis Institute of Music, might not have even gotten off the streets. Through every blessing He'd given, even the incredible miracle of being here, escaping Harry, she'd done nothing but dishonor God in her rejection of Him.

Samara knew she didn't deserve God's love, but she had it anyway. Just like she'd done everything she could to push Orlando away, but he had continued to pull her close, to whisper words of love to her heart. Words that echoed the love of God singing on the breeze, babbling along the brook, and lifting from the strings of her dulcimer. Music that soothed and comforted even when she rejected the Musician.

_Remember, Samara, in Hebrew your name means "protected by God."_ Samara's mother's voice spoke clear into her head, the words she often whispered at night when Samara had nightmares as a child. _Though enemies may come against you, though swords or guns may be brandished before you, our God is always with you, protecting you until we can join Him forever in heaven._

A sob wrenched from her chest. "Lord, I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me." A blast of joy filled her, heating her heart and radiating through her body. Love and peace so complete penetrated her with such intensity she sobbed with overwhelming relief.

"Your pitiful weeping won't change my plans." Running Elk pulled a large knife from the coals of the fire. "I will never forgive you. I can never return to my tribe, so you will never return to yours."

As Running Elk approached with the knife glowing red with heat, the song Samara had heard sung by her mother through the window while hidden beneath the bed rose from her mouth.

"Before the throne of God above

I have a strong and perfect plea

A great High Priest whose name is love

Who ever lives and pleads for me."

Running Elk sneered and moved closer, seeming to enjoy the terror his approach would induce. With every step he took, Samara's voice grew stronger, louder, as she bathed in the peace of God that enveloped her.

"My name is graven on His hands

My name is written on His heart

I know that while in heav'n He stands

No tongue can bid me thence depart."

Running Elk bent one knee upon her chest, pressing her further into the rocks and dirt and trailed the burning knife up her body, not cutting her, but teasing her with the heat that radiated from it. She forced the song from a chest deplete of air.

"One with Himself, I cannot die

My soul is purchased by His blood

My life is hid with Christ on high

With Christ my Savior and my God."

Running Elk smiled wickedly. "We'll see about that."

As he lifted the knife to Samara's face, the metal radiating like the fury of its holder, she closed her eyes and prayed that God would comfort Orlando. That he wouldn't suffer guilt from her foolishness. She pulled on the ropes one last time. Her eyes flew open as power coursed through her, causing the ropes to shift as she pulled.

"Good, you struggle. I prefer that over meekness," Running Elk sneered.

Samara pulled, turning her head and watching in awe as the rope frayed and split with a strength she could only attribute to the Lord. The rope snapped loose. Samara's arm swung up with the sudden release, knocking Running Elk off of her. Samara's eyes were wide with shock as Running Elk's hand swung wildly in his off-balance, the knife slicing into his neck before he landed on the ground. Samara turned her head away, her gaze landing on the thick, sturdy rope that hung frayed from her wrist. Samara exhaled in relief and thanksgiving.

Orlando spotted the thin curl of smoke rising through the trees up ahead. He dismounted, tied Loco to a branch, and motioned for Zeus to approach. His heart pumped so wildly in his chest he feared the noise of it would hide the sounds of his prey. He took a deep breath in and silently prayed. _Lord, please. I can't lose her. I can't fail again._ A peace washed over him, bathing him in a calm that settled his heart and focused his mind. A breeze picked up, scattering the leaves along the ground around him. As it rushed past him, he heard a soft whisper. _You are not a failure, my child, but a light of love in the darkness._

The words made Orlando stumble. He stopped, bowed his head, and thanked God for the acceptance Orlando never knew he lacked. Zeus turned to him and cocked his head in question. In the stillness, Orlando heard the sweetest voice riding on the breeze. Her song of salvation pierced his heart and rushed to his feet, his pa's voice telling him to move.

Orlando took off in a noiseless run, signaling Zeus to go. Zeus sprinted through the trees, outpacing Orlando so quickly it was as though angels carried him. Zeus's growl ahead of him warned Orlando that they'd found the kidnapper. With a bark, Zeus's large, white body leaped into the clearing. Orlando arrived a second later, horrified to find Samara tied spread-eagle on the ground to stakes, one arm held out in front of her, the rope frayed. A gargled moan turned his attention to her attacker. Zeus stood next him growling low.

Orlando slid up next to Samara's side, hollering a command at Zeus as he did. "Zeus, hold."

Orlando's gaze drank Samara in, her eyes wide with relief. Her hair was dark on one side of her head where blood had dried and caked the beautiful strands to her scalp. Blood and dirt smeared her face and neck. He sliced through the rope holding her right arm and moved to cut the next.

"No, Orlando. Go help Running Elk." Samara grabbed the knife from his scabbard and moved to cut herself free.

Orlando hesitated only a second, wanting to pull her into his arms. Yet the garbled noises coming from the man who meant to kill his wife indicated that Running Elk's life balanced precariously on the edge of death. Orlando moved quickly to where Running Elk lay guarded by a growling Zeus. Running Elk's hands fumbled along the ground as if searching for something.

Orlando yanked his handkerchief from his neck and put pressure on the gaping wound at Running Elk's throat that pumped the life from him. Samara crawled up to him, her sorrowed gasp filling the air. She glanced into Orlando's eyes, the question of Running Elk's fate clearly written upon her expression. Orlando shook his head and adjusted the handkerchief that was now saturated, knowing the only aid it gave was to protect Samara from seeing the gruesome wound.

"Running Elk, please, you need to call on God, ask Him for forgiveness," Samara pleaded as she touched his shoulder.

"Why... would you... care?" Running Elk's voice was thready.

"Because I don't want you to suffer for all eternity, away from the presence of God. He loves you and wants you with Him when you pass." Samara's declaration humbled Orlando and buoyed his heart that she had finally turned back to God.

His wife had been through too much heartache for one lifetime. Yet, after finding God again, she sat here begging her tormentor to turn to God, extending a forgiveness Orlando struggled to give. He bowed his head and silently prayed for the yielding of his own heart and for the salvation of Running Elk's.

Running Elk's hand pushed weakly at Samara, his face distorted in anger and pain. Samara grabbed his hand, pulling it up to her chest in a hug as she leaned over him.

"Please, Running Elk, please. Accept God's love before it's too late." Tears tracked down Samara's cheeks through the grime.

Running Elk's eyes steeled, hatred rooting there. "Never." His voice croaked as he breathed his last breath.

Samara's shoulders slumped as she placed Running Elk's hand upon his still chest. She peered up at Orlando and launched herself at him. He caught her and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest. She clung to him, burying her face into his neck and fisting her hands into his shirt. Tears coursed down Orlando's cheeks, but he didn't wipe them away. She was safe. He didn't care if he blubbered like a baby. His worry, fear, and relief leaked out of him, dripping into Samara's hair as he tucked his face into her neck.

Samara pulled back just enough to peer into Orlando's face. She placed both hands on his handsome face and wiped the tears that soaked his beard. He was wrung out, completely vulnerable, and utterly gorgeous. How could she deserve such feelings as what flowed from him to her? She leaned in and kissed him, salt from his tears tasting bittersweet on her lips.

"You came for me," she whispered softly against his mouth.

Orlando pulled back and dug his hands into her hair, gripping her tightly as if to make her listen. He stared into her eyes, and with a voice so strong and determined, it rooted deep within her soul. "I would track to the ends of the earth and back to get to you, Samara. You are my heart, and without you I don't exist."

Joy burst through her as he kissed her with such passion her very cells were claimed by him. Here home resided. Love burned strong and hot and blasted any lingering thorns of doubt and spikes of fear to smithereens.

Samara pulled back from Orlando. "I'm so sorry—"

"No, I'm sorry, Samara. I knew you were unhappy. I should've talked to you about it. I—"

Samara placed her hand on his mouth to silence him. "You did. Every night when you pulled me in tight and whispered into my hair, you showed me. Every time you looked at me with such passion and desire I swore my insides would melt, you showed me. The minute I left, I knew I shouldn't, but I'm a bit thickheaded. Your quiet love led me back to God, so don't apologize."

"We can move, go wherever you want. I know you love to perform—"

"I think I'd like to just perform for small intimate groups of two." She smiled at him. A smile he returned with another searing kiss. "Though I wouldn't be opposed to traveling now and then. I'd love to see the United States as it grows into the country I know in the future."

"I think that can be arran—"

Samara gasped. "Where's Zach?"

Orlando slid the straps off his shoulders and handed it to her. She chuckled at Zach who stared at her, contently swaddled in the cradleboard.

"Well, look at you, little man." Samara crooned, gently rubbing his cheek where the chicken had gotten him.

"He's happy in there. Maybe it's how tightly he's wrapped, but he's been sleeping the day away." Orlando adjusted the cradleboard so it was propped on a log.

Orlando came back to Samara and probed the side of her head, pushing on the tender spot and making her wince. She closed her eyes and breathed through the inspection, knowing he was and always would be as gentle as he could.

"It's a pretty good-sized gash, and you have a bump the size of a buffalo, but the bone doesn't seem to be moving." Orlando turned her face back to him.

Samara smiled at the concern etched into his face. "So I'll live?"

"You'll live, praise God, though you'll have a heck of a headache for the next couple of days."

"Will you make me some designer coffee to help?" Samara giggled, then thought better of it as she gingerly placed her hand on her head. Now that the adrenaline had stopped flowing, the jackhammer had returned.

"I'll make you anything you want." Orlando stood and picked her up to carry her to the fire. He sat her on a blanket spread there and gently pushed the hair from her face. "Did he hurt you anywhere else?"

"No, you and Zeus arrived before he could." Zeus sat beside her and placed his head on her lap. She ran her finger through his soft fur, scratching him behind the ears.

Orlando nodded, his jaw tightening in anger as he looked at Running Elk's body. He looked back to Samara, relief and regret in his eyes. "I'll be right back. I need to bring Loco over here. I'm going to get some tea brewing for you, and bury Running Elk. Then we'll go home."

The simple word home sounded so foreign yet right to her ears.

Orlando left and returned shortly, leading Loco into the clearing. As he tied him up next to Midnight and Running Elk's horse, Samara thanked God for His mercy. Orlando deftly moved about the camp taking care of everything, often peering at Samara with intense love written across his face. Samara realized the shadows of her past had vanished in the light of love. She closed her eyes with a sigh of thankfulness.

# Epilogue

Samara hummed a hymn she'd found in the hymnal Orlando had given her. She smiled at the memory of him explaining that the hymnal had been his mother's. How he'd held it reverently, like the treasure it was. She cherished reading through it.

She looked up from the vegetables she was chopping for dinner to the man who sat rocking in the chair. He fed Zach, strapped into the cradleboard, and talked softly to the baby, who stared up at his father. Samara still marveled at how the sheep's milk had changed the baby, settling easier in his belly so he no longer cried constantly from pain.

She thanked God that in the calm that had come with the simple switch in milk, her confidence as a mother had increased. She prayed every day that He would reveal to her how to be a good mom. Each day He provided, showering such grace on her that she often found songs she hadn't sung since childhood emerging from her lips in joy.

Orlando glanced up at her, catching her staring at him. He winked, a smile tipping one side of his mouth in a cocky grin. Her face heated in remembrance of the love they shared. Orlando propped the baby against the wall. A dribble of milk hanging from Zach's lip made Samara chuckle.

Orlando sauntered around the table, stepping up behind her, and wrapping his arms around her waist. "I love that you fill this house with music." He pushed her hair to the side and kissed her neck.

Samara sighed in the contentment Orlando's love brought her. Her parents' legacy of love hadn't been passed over her, but had been poured on top of her, sinking into every pore until she became saturated in it. She closed her eyes and lifted her voice in praise to the God who had orchestrated it all, as Orlando took the knife from her hand and led her to the bedroom.

* * *

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# Also by Sara Blackard

Vestige in Time Series

Vestige of Power

Vestige of Hope

Vestige of Legacy

Vestige of Courage

* * *

Stryker Security Force Series

Mission Out of Control

Falling For Zeke

Capturing Sosimo

Crashing Into Jake

# Author's Note

I grew up in a small town a little less than an hour south of the town of Meeker, Colorado. In school, we learned about local history, including the history of the Utes that once called the area home. I didn't remember much of what I learned way back in elementary school, but when the story of the Thomas family started filling my head, I knew I wanted to include the Meeker area. With me spending a summer in the area working at a dude ranch for people wanting to experience the scenic west, Meeker became firmly entrenched in Samara and Orlando's story.

One summer I took my kids down to Colorado to visit grandparents that still live in Rifle. I determined to spend some time researching Meeker a bit more in-depth, so we packed a picnic lunch and drove to check out the White River Museum. The museum charmed me with its rooms of everyday history and a bit of the exotic, like a two-headed calf. But the part of the museum that caught my attention was the descriptions and history of the Meeker Massacre. I knew I wanted to include this tragic event in one of the books, so I bought all the research they had on it and dived in.

This event transformed the lifestyle of the Utes forever, and the more I researched and read, the more my heart broke at the two sides that refused to compromise. I also realized just how hard it would be to appropriately and honestly portray the historical figures that were involved in the escalation of events that led to men murdered and women and children captured. It is much easier creating wholly within the fiction realm.

I often think about what would have happened if events had unfolded differently. Could someone have talked to Nathan Meeker and convinced him to compromise in his treatment of lands so important to the White River Utes? Maybe if Nathan Meeker had decided to allow the Utes to keep their racetrack and horses, plowing different areas just as fertile, the community would have thrived under a government rule not so unyielding. Though, with Governor Pitkin winning on the campaign slogan "The Utes Must Go!" the Utes' fate probably wouldn't have been much different.

As much as I would like to go back and change history, at this point in time, that's not an option, unless through divine intervention. What I can do, however, is learn from the history of our nation, look at the reactions and treatment of others, and choose a better way. I pray that I'll not be so unyielding in my goals that I become insensitive to those around me. I also pray that I will react to injustices in a way that is honoring to God.

If you are ever traveling through Colorado, Meeker is a wonderful little town full of history and amazing views. Stop in at the White River Museum, learn more about the Meeker Massacre, and see the two-headed calf. I promise, you won't be disappointed.

# About the Author

Sara Blackard has been a writer since she was able to hold a pencil. When she's not crafting wild adventures and sweet romances, she's homeschooling her five children, keeping their off-grid house running, or enjoying the Alaskan lifestyle she and her husband love.

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# Contents

FREE Vestige in Time prequel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Also by Sara Blackard

Author's Note

About the Author
