Page 3 of Heart of the Storm (Hearts Over Wyoming #1)

Three

Baa’koa winced at the sound of his old name coming from Nahko’tah’s lips – Adrian Storm . That name belonged to a stranger. A name from another lifetime ago. His jaw muscles tightened as he turned to glare at his brother.

“I was a boy of twelve years when I last owned that name,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am no longer that boy, nor do I live that life.” His old name had died all those years ago, along with his white father and white mother. Long gone was that scared boy who’d come to the wilderness because of circumstances beyond his control.

“My name is Baa k’iia’ko’o o’on, given to me by our father, the great chief of the A’aninin, Matso’onah , ” he said firmly, the words heavy with the weight of years spent with the tribe that had adopted him. There was no need to remind Nahko’tah, but the words stirred something deep within him. The ghosts of his past were always lurking just below the surface, no matter how hard he fought them off. “. . . Not Adrian Storm. That name belongs to someone that no longer exists.”

Nahko’tah shrugged as if unfazed. “ Baa k’iia’ko’o o’on, ” he said with exaggerated solemnity. “But when you go off into the forest alone, you still think about your former life and what it would be like to be living as a white man, don’t you?” His words were meant to be lighthearted. There was a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

Nahko’tah knew him better than anyone. Over the years, they’d formed a bond so strong they could sometimes read each other’s thoughts before the other was aware of them. It would seem Nahko’tah was doing that now.

“I remember when our father gave you your name, to honor your new life with us as well as to remember your former life.” Nah’kotah laughed. “And I remember how you insisted we call you Baa’koa instead.”

Baa’koa smiled. Pleasant memories overshadowed the dark thoughts that had come to him moments ago when Tahca spoke of the white trappers.

“I stood in front of the fire with the elders watching,” he said while looking off into the distance, remembering. “The meaning of the name escaped me then, and I couldn’t pronounce the words.”

Nahko’tah’s smile grew. “You said it sounded like the name of someone who belonged in a legend, not in the woods with us.”

Baa'koa’s chest tightened at the memory. It had been a moment full of acceptance of his new life. The summer after he’d been brought to live with the A’aninin. His adoptive father seemed to have great visions for him, but the first time he’d heard the name Baa k’iia’ko’o o’on, his tongue had refused to work.

Storm on the Horizon .

Such a name had felt too big for him then – too grand for a boy who was still haunted by the memories of his father’s death and the wild, unrelenting land that had nearly swallowed him whole. Even now, he was too insignificant for such a name. Yet, the voice of Matso’onah echoed in his mind. His father by choice, not by blood, urged him to speak the name with respect.

"This name will carry you forward as well as make you remember your past," the chief had said, his voice warm with wisdom. "It is yours now. It ties you to us, and to the land upon which you walk, but it will always remind you of the path that brought you here."

In that moment, all he’d wanted was something simple, something he could cling to without feeling like he was losing himself. The name Baa'koa had been his answer. The shortened version of the name his father had given him was nonsensical and held no meaning, but it felt more manageable, more like him.

Nahko’tah’s voice broke through his thoughts, his tone serious. “To this day you still insist on using a child’s version of your name, as if you can’t fully accept who you are. Every now and then, when you’re lost in thought or troubled by something, I can see the boy in your eyes. The boy who used to be Adrian Storm. Sometimes, I can see the turmoil brewing inside of you…like now. Talk of white men coming to our lands has you troubled.”

Baa’koa clenched his jaw and looked away, his focus drifting to the camp ahead. His chest heaved as he drew in a long, deep breath.

“You may be right, brother,” he admitted quietly. The words seemed to catch in his throat. Nahko’tah spoke the truth. One of the reasons he so often sought solitude in the forest was to reflect on who he was and who he might have been if his real father were still alive. He placed a hand on Nahko’tah’s shoulder. “Have no fear. I left the life of a white man behind long ago. Just as I left Adrian Storm behind.”

Nahko’tah nodded. “No one can fault you for thinking of your life before you came to us. I know in your heart you are A’aninin.” He looked up with a piercing stare. “The coming of white men to our lands won’t change that.”

Baa’koa returned the stare. Every muscle in his body tensed. “No, it won’t.”

With a final nod of his head, he turned away from his brother and stared off into the distant mountains. The snow-capped Teewinots stood in silence, watching over the valley where the A’anninin made their summer camp.

Behind him, the village now bustled with activity again. While the messenger from the Agaideka clan had been sharing his news of the white trappers, all had been silent. A single cloud, not puffy white but tinged with a shade of gray, slowly moved and covered the sun. The brightness of the morning dimmed, as if the news of the pale-faced men was already casting a shadow over the camp.

Baa’koa shook his head. He was reading too much into it. Tahca hadn’t brought a message of danger. He’s simply alerted the neighboring tribe of these new people who had arrived. He’d even said they were friendly and willing to trade. Why, then, was there such a sense of foreboding in his heart?

His thoughts turned inward as memories from his past crept into his mind. Fuzzy images emerged of his father working in the field of their small farm. The laughter of his white mother echoed in the distance. She’d always had a smile and kind word for him.

Baa’koa’s hand wrapped around the hilt of a small knife in a leather sheath he wore tied around his neck. It was too small to be of much use for anything, but it was something he never removed. A scene from his past played out in his mind as he gripped the small knife tighter.

He sat on the porch of their small farmhouse, leaning his back against a rough-hewn wooden post as the sun started to sink low on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the field. His father was still out there, walking behind the plow pulled by their old mule.

“Your father should be finishing up soon, then we can celebrate your birthday.”

Adrian Storm lifted his head to see his mother smiling down at him. She stood in the open door to the cabin, holding something wrapped in cloth in her hand. The mouth-watering smell of sugar drifted through the door. Sweets were a rare treat reserved for special occasions.

“You didn’t have to bake a cake for me, Mama,” he said. “I know how precious sugar is.”

She sat beside him and patted him on the knee. “It’s your birthday. Of course I had to bake you a cake.”

The evening summer breeze made tendrils of her straw-colored hair flutter around her face. Even in the golden hour of early evening, her skin looked pale, and the shine in her eyes seemed strained.

“I have something for you,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should wait until after your father comes in to give it to you, but I’ve been keeping it a secret for so long, I can’t wait any longer to give it to you.”

She placed the cloth bundle on his lap. Adrian simply stared at it.

“What is it?” he asked, looking up at his mother. A lump formed in his throat. Mama had been unwell for months, ever since she’d lost her unborn baby. She’d been overtaken with grief, her body had become weaker, and her appearance was frailer. Yet, she’d never failed to smile whenever he was nearby, nor neglected to tell him how much she loved him.

“Go on. Open it,” she coaxed.

Slowly, Adrian unfolded the piece of cloth to reveal a small knife. The slightly-curved blade was just long enough for whittling pieces of wood or carving simple shapes. The handle was made from wood. It wasn’t fancy, but when Adrian picked it up, it fit perfectly in his hand.

A tear rolled down Mama’s face when he looked up at her. He reached over with his arm and embraced her, noting how thin her body had become.

“Thank you, Mama,” he whispered. “I will treasure it always.”

She pulled out of his embrace and sniffled. She wiped a hasty hand under her eyes and nose and smiled. “It’s nothing fancy. I asked Horace at the blacksmith’s in Riverbend to forge it for me and add the piece of hickory for the handle. I figured you were old enough for a knife of your own. Your father has something for you, too, that goes with the knife.”

The gray cloud in the sky shifted, once again revealing the sun and brightening the valley. Baa’koa released his grip on the knife’s handle, worn smooth over the years. His hand balled into a fist as his memory lingered. His father had given him a leather sheath he’d made for the knife. It, too, was now weathered with age.

A few weeks after that day, his mother had died from her illness. Less than a year later, his father had announced they were leaving the farm and setting off on a journey into the wilderness to make their fortune in the fur trade. His father had put all his trust in one man who’d filled his head with promises of untold riches.

Baa’koa’s fists clenched tighter at his sides, and the muscles in his jaw hurt with tension at the memories of leaving everything familiar behind. Those first weeks of traveling into unknown wilderness filled his mind, vivid and unrelenting.

Images formed of the one man who filled his heart with hatred stronger than any emotion he’d ever felt. Every detail about the man burned in his mind like fresh wounds, and the pain of it all twisted deep inside him. Even after all these years, he could never fully escape the fury raging inside him, even though thoughts about the man had become fewer over the years.

Yet, here he was, unable to shake the memories of the past that filled his mind. He was back in that moment, twelve years old, running for his life through unknown woods while his father’s body was left behind in the dirt, a casualty of greed and betrayal.

A hand on his arm brought him back to the present. Baa’koa turned to look at Nahko’tah, who studied him with his keen eyes.

“You are thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Nahko’tah’s question wasn’t one of accusation but simple understanding. “The man who killed your white father.”

Baa’koa nodded, looking at the distant mountains. “I wonder if he’s still alive. I wonder if he’s come this far.”

“Because of the message the Agaideka brought? You think the murderer is one of the white trappers?”

Baa’koa stared at his brother. “They are like the very same men I once knew. The same kind of men who tore my life apart, who made me run into the wilderness when I was only a boy.” A cold feeling crept up his spine. “My father’s life was taken by a man he never should have trusted,” he continued, his voice as cold as a winter wind. “I swore I would never forget him, and while the years have made me think less and less of him, I can’t shake the hatred in my heart.”

“And now his memory burns strong again,” Nahko’tah guessed. His eyes blazed with conviction as he squeezed Baa’koa’s arm with a firm grip. “If this man is still alive, and if he has come into our lands, you have been given a chance to avenge your father’s death.”

Just then, Baa’koa glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps. Matso’onah – chief of the A’aninin, and the man who’d taken him in as his own son – walked confidently toward them. Tall and regal as always, the chief looked from one son to the other. His eyes finally rested on Baa’koa as he came to stand before them.

“Come and walk with me, Baa k’iia’ko’o o’on,” he said, then nodded to Nahko’tah in a silent gesture that he wanted to speak to Baa’koa alone. Matso’onah was the only one in the village who refused to call Baa’koa by his shortened name.

He motioned toward the creek that flowed through the valley and held out his hand with a sweeping motion of his arm. “We need to talk.”

Baa’koa nodded, then cast a quick look at his brother before matching strides with the chief. Matso’onah remained silent until they’d walked along the creekbank for some time. The sounds of children laughing and playing and the steady hum of life in camp faded behind them when he finally stopped and faced Baa’koa. Only the gentle gurgling of the water was a steady and present sound.

“You heard the news Tahca of the Agaideka brought?”

Baa’koa nodded. “I heard.” He looked into the chief’s eyes but couldn’t read what was on his mind.

Matso’onah’s chest rose and fell in a sigh. “I always knew that this day would come,” he said quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself.

Baa’koa frowned. “What day?”

The chief replied with a soft smile at first before answering. “The coming of the white trappers.” He looked away, staring off toward the mighty Teewinots rising in the distance. “Twelve summers ago, when I and some of our warriors traveled east to trade with the Sahnish – the Arikara – we saw some of the white men from a distance. The Sahnish warned us to stay far away from those men, so we never approached or traded with them. The Sahnish were always leery of these new men coming into their lands. They spoke of fighting breaking out between them.”

“Twelve summers ago, you took a frightened young boy away from the Sahnish,” Baa’koa said. “You saved my life. Being white, as their captive, I know they would have killed me eventually.”

“You speak the truth, my son. That is why I bartered for you. The Sahnish can be as cruel as the Blackfoot.”

“And I will always be grateful to you for giving me a new life here, with the A’aninin. You have taught me everything I know.”

Matso’onah nodded and resumed walking. His hands were clasped behind his back as he continued to follow the course of the creek through the tall grasses. Baa’koa once again fell in step beside him. When he finally spoke again, his words sounded measured.

“I have never asked this question. What do you remember about your former life?”

Baa’koa’s chest tightened. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully before speaking.

“I remember my father and my mother. We worked the land, growing food and animals to sustain us. We didn’t move with the herds of game but remained in one place. It is the way of life for the white man in the east.”

“What about the men with the iron traps who come to trade and seek furs?” Matso’onah stopped walking again. “What do you know of them?”

Baa’koa’s muscles tensed again. His experience with the trappers he’d met brought mixed feelings to mind. “My white father, Jacob Storm, decided to join the trappers after the death of my mother. I don’t think my father ever recovered from losing her. His spirit was changed, so he decided to take me into the wilderness to make a new life with the trappers.”

“Why do they seek furs in such great numbers?” Matso’onah didn’t hide the confusion in his eyes.

“Beaver pelts are highly prized by men in the east and across a great body of water in another land. Trapping beaver makes some men very wealthy.” Baa’koa struggled with his explanation. “It can make them betray their friends, too.” He didn’t disguise the bitterness in his voice.

Matso’onah nodded in understanding. “Your white father was killed by a man he considered his friend.”

A new wave of anger made Baa’koa’s body tense. “My father listened to a man he thought was his friend. A man who convinced him to leave our life behind and travel into the wilderness to trap beaver. And I…I had no choice but to follow.” Baa’koa clenched his fists. “ Even as a boy, I knew something wasn’t right about that man. He never cared about anyone but himself.”

Baa’koa’s eyes hardened. He’d never spoken like this to his adopted father. He’d told him about Jacob Storm’s murder and how he’d ended up as a prisoner of the Sahnish, but Matso’onah hadn’t mentioned it again. He looked up into the chief’s eyes. “I fear more men like him will come west.”

Matso’onah’s gaze stared at Baa’koa. A sense of understanding filled the steady gaze in his eyes. “I see your anger and your uncertainty, my son. It comes from wounds that are deep and won’t heal easily. The death of your white father weighs heavily on you still. But the boy, Adrian Storm, has grown into a proud warrior of the A’aninin.”

“I know,” Baa’koa said, his voice quieter now, the anger cooling slightly. “But it doesn’t change the fact that the man who killed Jacob Storm might still be out there. Maybe he has even come to our lands.” He clenched his jaw while forcing his breath to remain even.

Matso’onah placed a hand on Baa’koa’s shoulder, his firm grip grounding him.

“I chose well when I gave you a warrior’s name, Baa k’iia’ko’o o’on.” He smiled. “The storm you carry inside is always on the horizon. It is a part of you, both your past and your future, but don’t let your past define you.”

Baa’koa let out a slow breath to ease the tension in his chest. “I thought I let go of the past, but with news of white men coming, it seems to have found me again. What am I supposed to do? Now I am unsure if I can ever fully let go. I can’t forgive the man who killed my white father.”

Matso’onah’s silence let him know that he understood the struggle. His voice was soft when he said, “We will wait for these white trappers to come to us. They will not know that you live among us unless you want to reveal yourself to them.”

Baa’koa stared at his father. “I don’t want any part of them,” he said firmly. “But I will watch closely and listen to what they say. I still remember the language of my youth.”

Matso’onah nodded. “That will be to our advantage.” He even laughed. “I remember when you were a boy and taught your words to Nahko’tah and some of the other children in the village. When the white trappers come, we will be ready.”