Page 11 of Shoshone Sun (Native Sun #3)

- Paul Jacobs Homestead, 1866

Eighty miles west of Fort Laramie –

Paul’s homestead was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace and the occasional shift of the wounded man on the makeshift bed. Jane sat by his side, her hands busy with the task of tending to his injuries, her mind adrift in a haze of conflicting thoughts. The man had survived the night—barely—but it was still unclear whether he would make it through the next day. She watched him now, his breathing shallow, his skin pale, his body wrapped in layers of blankets to stave off the cold.

The stillness of the cabin was interrupted only by the distant howls of wolves, an eerie reminder of the untamed world beyond the walls. Despite the warmth of the fire and the comfort of being indoors, a sense of unease lingered in the air, heavier now than before.

Jane’s thoughts drifted to her sister, Susan. She remembered seeing her as they left Peter’s cabin, standing near the far corner of the main room, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on the fire. She had not spoken a word of farewell nor had she bidden Jane good luck. Her face had been drawn, pale, her lips set in a tight line. The anger she felt for Jane had been palpable—thick and suffocating—like a dark cloud that neither of them seemed able to dismiss.

Jane tried to listen as Peter spoke to his uncle, his voice so low that she couldn’t make out his words. Jane didn’t envy her brother-in-law’s position. He had chosen to help the injured brave over Susan’s demands that the man be turned out into the cold, by agreeing to bring him to Paul’s homestead. But at what cost? Would Susan be satisfied with the arrangements? Or would she be gone when Peter arrived back home? Jane could feel the struggle within Peter, sense his uncertainty growing with every passing hour.

Jane got to her feet and walked to Peter, facing him. “You’ve done what you could. He would be dead if it weren’t for you. Now that everything has calmed down here, I think you should go home to your wife and son.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said.

“She is,” said Paul. “You’ve done all you could. It’s up to God now whether this man recovers.”

Jane watched her brother-in-law’s shoulders heave in a sigh. She took another step toward him, drawing him into an embrace. “I’m sorry this happened. I didn’t mean to make Susan so angry. But I just couldn’t agree with her decision to send this poor man to what would probably be his death.”

Peter returned her hug. “Nor could I. You’ve nothing to feel bad about.”

“I just don’t understand how my own sister could be so cruel!” Jane blurted as she pulled out of his arms and wiped a tear from her cheek.

Peter dropped his eyes, staring at the floor in front of him. He scuffed one booted toe. “I don’t believe it’s cruelty as much as fear. Terror actually. Primarily, terror for Petey. She couldn’t bear the thought of the Blackfoot coming to our farm and slaughtering her son because we were harboring their enemy.”

“Yes, I suppose I can understand that,” Jane murmured. She realized that was truly how her sister felt—terrified for her son. Jane knew she should try harder to empathize, to put herself in Susan’s shoes.

After saying goodbye to her brother-in-law as he left the cabin, Jane returned to tend to the injured man. She knew she should force herself to understand her sister’s fear and forgive her for wanting to send the man to a near certain death, but she also knew that would be hard.

For now, her focus had to be on the wounded man. She could not afford to dwell on her sister’s bitterness or the pain in her own heart. The man needed her, and that was the only truth she could cling to.

With steady hands, Jane checked the bandages around his wound. The bleeding had stopped, but infection was still a risk. She applied more of the salve Mary had made from herbs she’d gathered in the woods—an ointment made from yarrow and sage, known for its healing properties. She worked quietly, carefully, her fingers moving with the practiced precision of someone who had been taught how to tend wounds by her mother.

The man shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as he let out a low groan. Jane looked down at him, her heart tightening. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved as if he were speaking. She couldn’t understand the words, but she felt the weight of the emotion in them, the desperation in his tone.

“You’re safe now,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if he could hear her.

There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time more clearly. Jane’s heart skipped a beat. She had not expected him to speak English, but there it was—his voice, hoarse yet deliberate.

“Thank you ... for ... helping me.” His voice was soft, thick with pain.

Jane blinked in surprise. His words, though simple, struck a chord deep within her. She hadn’t expected him to be conscious enough to thank her, much less to speak at all. It was a small thing, a simple acknowledgment, but it made the hard work of the past few hours feel worthwhile.

“You’re welcome,” she said softly. “But you need to rest now. You’ve been through so much.”

The Indian brave’s gaze fluttered open, though it was unfocused. He seemed to be looking through her, as though trying to make sense of where he was. Then the confusion in his eyes gave way to something else, something deeper—a flicker of connection, perhaps.

“I ... I will ... rest,” he murmured, closing his eyes again.

Jane studied him for a moment. She had no way of knowing what he was feeling, what he was thinking. For all she knew, he might be in too much pain to feel any emotion. Yet, she could not shake the sense that something had passed between them, a connection she could not explain.

As she sat there, keeping vigil, the moments stretched into hours. The sun outside had climbed higher in the sky, and the world beyond the cabin sparkled in a blanket of white.

After the long silence during which she’d watched the injured man sleep, Jane stood up and stretched, her muscles stiff from sitting so long. She needed a moment away from the intensity of the cabin, away from the conflict in her heart. “I’m going outside for a minute,” she said quietly to Mary, who nodded, looking up from the work she was doing in the kitchen.

“How is he now?” Mary asked.

“Resting peacefully for the time being.” She took a step toward Mary, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I apologize for bringing this man here. I just couldn’t bear the idea of strapping him to his horse and putting him out in the storm to freeze to death!”

“It’s all right, dear. Don’t fret. I’d have done the same, luv. He isn’t doing any harm here.”

Jane sobbed. “Susan was so angry….”

“Hush hush, now. It’s the lioness in her, protecting her cub. That’s all. You’ll know how that feels when you’ve had your own baby.”

Jane’s heart clenched at the reminder of her broken engagement and ruined plans to start a family with her fiancé. “I pray Susan won’t hate me forever,” Jane sputtered, the tears now flowing freely.

“I’m sure she’ll calm down once she feels safe again. And she’ll understand how neither you nor Peter could let the man die.”

Jane sniffed, wiped away her tears, and heaved a sigh. “I hope so.”

“You just wait and you’ll see.”

Jane didn’t want to say it, admit that it was even the remotest of possibilities: “But what if she’s not there when Peter gets back home? What if she left the cabin with Petey, heading back to Fort Laramie?”

Mary shook her head. “That won’t happen. Even if she got such a crazy idea in her mind, she couldn’t have done it. The horses and wagon were gone, on their way here. She’d never risk her son’s life by trying to walk to Fort Laramie through the freezing cold and snow!”

Jane realized that was true. Her sister was not irrational enough to attempt that. Her sister and nephew were likely snug and safe in the cabin, waiting for Peter’s return. She took a deep, steadying breath. “You’re right again of course. I just need some time outside to clear my head.”

Jane stepped outside, shutting the cabin door behind her. The cold air bit at her cheeks as she inhaled deeply, crisp snow crunching beneath her boots. She walked across the yard, her breath misting in the air, her mind a swirl of thoughts. Although she had hoped to clear her head of any doubt or worry, all she could think about was the decision she had made—the choice to help the Shoshone man over her own sister’s wishes.

She gazed across the vast land before her and at the mountains in the distance. As the cold wind stung her face, she realized that this was her new reality, her new life—a life where she’d have to make her own decisions and stand by them, as hard as that might be. Finally, she understood that she couldn’t regret the decision she’d made to help the Shoshone brave. Despite the arguments and the fear that surrounded the path she’d taken, she felt more certain of her actions than ever before. She had done the right thing, and that was enough.

When she returned to the cabin and approached him, she found the man awake, his eyes now clearer, his gaze more focused. He was propped up slightly on the blankets, his head turned toward the fire.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, moving to his side.

He looked at her, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Better,” he rasped, though his voice was still weak. “I am better.”

Jane smiled in return. “I’m glad,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if she truly believed he felt as well as he claimed.

The silence hung between them for a moment, and then the man spoke again, his voice softer now.

“Your name ... is Jane?” he asked, as though testing the sound of her name on his lips.

She nodded. “Yes, I’m Jane. And you?”

The man’s eyes were set on hers, his voice betrayed the effort it cost him to speak. “I am called Flying Arrow.”

Jane repeated the name in her mind, feeling its weight as it settled into her consciousness. Flying Arrow. A name full of strength, of resilience.

“It’s a good name,” she said quietly.

Flying Arrow gave her a weak nod and his lips curled up slightly at the corners. There was a warmth in his eyes now, a softness that had not been there before. He seemed to be considering something, as though trying to decide whether or not to speak. Finally, he did.

“Thank you ... for helping me,” he repeated, his voice filled with sincerity.

Jane nodded. “You’re very welcome. I’m very glad that you are recovering from your terrible wound.”

There was a long pause, and then, unexpectedly, Flying Arrow spoke in his native tongue—words flowing from his lips in a language that Jane did not understand. His voice was low and pleasant-sounding, and though she couldn’t grasp the meaning, the emotion in his words was clear. He was speaking from the heart, and Jane felt that, even without knowing the words, she understood.

“Please,” he said, switching back to English, “teach me more speaking English. I want to understand all, not just small part.”

Jane blinked, surprised by the request. “You want to learn more English?”

Flying Arrow nodded. “Yes. Now I only know small English. I want to understand all ... and ... I want to talk all to you.”

A strange feeling bloomed in Jane’s chest. There was something about his request—something more than just the desire to communicate. It was as though, in that moment, Flying Arrow was reaching out to her, trying to bridge the gap between them. It was a vulnerable thing to ask, to open oneself up to another person in such a way.

“I can teach you,” she said softly, her voice gentle. “But ... it will take time. And patience.”

“I have … time and … and … patience,” he replied, struggling over the pronunciation of the last word.

For a moment, Jane simply stared at him, feeling an odd sense of peace settle over her. She didn’t know what this connection meant—didn’t know where it would lead. But in that moment, she knew that something important had begun between them. Something that had nothing to do with fear or prejudice, but with understanding.