Page 12 of Shoshone Sun (Native Sun #3)

- Paul Jacobs Homestead, Winter 1866/67

Eighty miles west of Fort Laramie –

The wind howled outside the cabin, but inside, the warmth of the fireplace and the steady presence of family created a sense of calm. The snow, relentless once again, continued to blanket the land in its white covering, but the cabin was a sanctuary from the world beyond. The world where fear and uncertainty loomed just beyond the door. Inside, life seemed to carry on, despite everything that had happened.

Flying Arrow was healing. His body was no longer as frail; it no longer trembled with weakness. His wound, though still a source of pain, had begun to mend. Jane could see the subtle changes in him as the days passed. The first time she had seen him conscious, his eyes had been clouded with pain and confusion. But now, he regularly looked at her with something different in his gaze—something clearer. He was regaining his strength, and with it, a new awareness of his situation and his surroundings.

Jane had taken on the task of nursing him back to health as if it were her duty, her calling, and though part of her wished it were simply an obligation she could carry out without question, another part of her was beginning to realize how deeply involved she was becoming in the process. She cared for him—truly cared for him—and this feeling was new, unexpected. She was careful not to dwell on it, but every time their eyes met, the connection between them seemed to deepen.

On Christmas day, the wind outside carried with it the bitter cold of winter, snow blanketing the world in a thick layer of white, the landscape stretching endlessly in every direction. Inside, the warmth of the fireplace crackled and danced, its flickering flames casting a soft glow over the room. The smell of pine mingled with the scent of roasting venison, and the cheerful hum of Paul’s fiddle filled the air.

Mary moved quietly around the room, the hem of her simple calico dress brushing the floor as she set the table. A small, freshly cut pine tree stood in the corner, its sparse branches adorned with simple ornaments—handmade paper garlands, a few shiny beads, and a couple of red ribbons that Mary had fashioned from scraps of fabric. There were no elaborate decorations, but the modest tree felt like a treasure.

Paul now stood by the fire, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he stoked the flames, sending a burst of warmth through the cabin. He smiled to himself, watching his wife’s graceful movements, and then glanced over at Flying Arrow lying on a blanket by the fireplace. The wound in his side had been serious, but with Jane’s careful nursing, Flying Arrow was finally on the mend.

Jane sat beside him, her eyes fixed on the flames. The settlers’ celebrations were far from the Christmas dinners and presents she’d grown used to in England, but they were enough. More than enough, in their own quiet way.

“Everything’s ready, Paul,” Mary said softly, looking up from the table where she had set out bowls of boiled potatoes, a hunk of venison, and fresh biscuits.

Paul grinned, his rugged face softened by the warmth of the fire. “It’s wonderful, Mary. I don’t think we could ask for anything more.” His gaze moved to Flying Arrow, whose dark eyes glinted with curiosity. Paul and Mary had taken Flying Arrow in without hesitation. It wasn’t the first time they'd offered their shelter to someone in need, but this was different—Flying Arrow wasn’t just any man. He was a living reminder of the fragile and sometimes violent relationship between settlers and the Indian tribes in the region.

“Tonight,” Paul continued, his voice more serious now, “we’ll all sit together. It’s a time for peace, for hope. I think that’s something we could all use.”

Mary nodded, her expression thoughtful. She turned to Jane. “Why don’t you help me serve the food, sweetheart?”

Jane rose to her feet “Of course.”

Paul helped Flying Arrow to his feet and supported him during the short walk to the kitchen table. As they all sat down together—Paul and Mary on one side, Jane and Flying Arrow on the other—there was an unspoken understanding that this Christmas would be remembered, not for its presents or decorations, but for the simple gift of shared humanity.

The meal was humble. There was no turkey or goose, no lavish spread of Christmas puddings and cakes, but the venison tasted rich, and the warmth of the food filled them in a way they hadn’t expected. They spoke of simple things—how the weather had been brutal this year, how the farm had been doing, and whether the next spring would bring better fortunes.

After the meal, Paul took a deep breath. “I’ve got something for you all,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“First you, Mary.” From his pocket, Paul pulled out a black velvet box.

With trembling fingers, Mary took it from his hand. “You shouldn’t have, Paul!” she cautioned as she opened it to reveal a ruby-red ring set in delicate silver. She gasped and fell into his arms in tears. “It’s gorgeous!”

After hugging his wife, Paul pulled out a small bundle wrapped in burlap from beneath the table. He handed it to Jane, who gasped in delight. Inside were two hand-carved wooden hearts, one of dark wood, the other of light.

“They’re beautiful! Thank you!” Jane whispered, clutching them to her chest.

Paul smiled broadly and turned to Flying Arrow. “And for you,” he said, pulling a pair of fur-lined moccasins from behind his back. “For when you’re strong enough to travel again. We may not have much to offer, but we’ll share what we can.”

Flying Arrow looked at the moccasins, then up at Paul, his dark eyes full of emotion. “Thank you,” he said, a tear in his eye acknowledgment of his gratitude for the kindness shown to him, one stranger among many in the harshness of the wilderness.

The evening passed gently, each of them wrapped in the warmth of the fire and the quiet companionship. Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, it was as though time itself had softened, allowing them all a brief respite from the struggles that lay beyond the cabin walls.

As the night grew late, Mary leaned back in her chair, her face well-lit by the firelight. “I’m very glad we’re all together,” she said softly, her voice full of quiet contentment.

“I am too,” Paul agreed, putting his arm around her shoulders. “In a world like this, it’s all we can ask for.”

Flying Arrow, now lying back on his blanket by the fireplace, spoke. “Thank you for letting me into your home, Paul and Mary.” Then he turned to Jane seated on her stool beside him and smiled, “And thank you, Jane, for so good taking care of me.”

Jane smiled, and gently corrected him “… for taking care of me so well, is how you should say it. And you are very welcome!”

And as the fire crackled and the night deepened, they sat in silent companionship, each heart warmed not just by the fire, but by the simple joy of being together.

Days turned to weeks, and with the passing of each day, Flying Arrow grew stronger. The blankets that had once cocooned him against the cold were now less necessary, and his movements were no longer slow and tentative. He had begun to sit up for longer periods, his strength returning in small increments. The firelight that danced across his features now revealed a strength that matched his name—Flying Arrow.

Jane noticed the change in him most clearly when he’d recovered enough to sit outside on the cabin’s small porch during the late January afternoons. His face, still paler than normal from his ordeal, was soft in the fading sunlight, his dark eyes absorbing everything around him. He’d look out over the winter landscape, as if contemplating the world with a quiet wisdom.

One afternoon, Jane brought him a bowl of broth out onto the porch. Flying Arrow smiled at her as she approached with the steaming dish in her hands. He had learned much more English by now, and though his knowledge of the language was not yet perfect, it was good enough to bridge the narrowing distance between them.

“Thank you,” he said as he took the hot bowl from her hands. “I feel stronger now. Not so weak.”

Jane smiled softly, taking a seat beside him on the porch bench. “I’m glad to hear that. You’ve been through so much. It’s amazing how quickly you’ve recovered.”

Flying Arrow looked at her, his gaze steady. “You helped me. You gave me more than care. You gave me ... hope.”

Jane’s heart stilled at his words, the weight of them sinking deep into her chest. She could feel the truth in his voice, the vulnerability there. It was something she hadn’t expected to hear. His gratitude was more than just an acknowledgment of her role in saving his life. It was something deeper, something real.

“I did what anyone would have done,” Jane said, her voice faltering slightly. “You were in pain.”

Flying Arrow nodded, his expression serious. “Still ... not everyone would do as you did. You gave me something more than a chance to live. You gave me a reason to keep living.”

She turned her face away, her breath catching in her throat. Her emotions, long held at bay, were beginning to break free, and trickled out like water from a dam. She couldn’t stop herself from feeling the weight of his words. She couldn’t stop the way her chest tightened when he looked at her like that.

As time passed and a quiet Christmas came and went, Jane found herself spending more and more time with Flying Arrow. He was beginning to understand the difficulties of the English language, and he practiced it with her daily. He was patient, learning to pronounce words, repeating them until they felt more natural to his tongue. She helped him with his speech, guiding him through the unfamiliar sounds of her language. In exchange, he shared pieces of his own world with her, telling her stories of his people, of his family, and of the land that had shaped him.

Every night, after the fire had burned low, Jane would sit by the fireplace with Flying Arrow, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the glow of the flames flickering in the distance. Their conversations grew deeper, and their connection became more undeniable. Jane realized that she was no longer simply caring for him. She was drawn to him—truly drawn to him in a way she hadn’t expected.

One evening, as the two of them sat near the fire, their legs touching, the warmth of the fireplace mingling with the warmth of their shared silence, Flying Arrow spoke quietly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts.

“Jane,” he began, his voice almost a whisper, “I have been thinking...”

Jane glanced at him, her heart fluttering nervously. “What about?”

“I ... I do not want to be a burden. You have given so much to me already. I ... I want to repay you, somehow.”

Jane’s heart ached as she looked at him. He was still recovering, still weak in many ways, but his pride—the pride of a warrior, of a man who had lived through hardship—was evident in his words. She reached out, gently touching his arm, offering him what comfort she could.

“You’ve already repaid me, Flying Arrow,” she said softly. “You’ve made it through. That’s all I could have asked for. You don’t need to do anything else.”

But Flying Arrow shook his head, his brow furrowing. “It is not enough. You gave me my life back. You gave me even more than that ... more … more than I can understand. But I want to give something to you. A gift.”

Jane smiled faintly, her breath catching in her throat. She knew what he was offering must be something deeper than just a gift of material value.

“What gift would you give me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Flying Arrow hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. Finally, he looked at her, his gaze intense, almost searching.

“I will teach you my language,” he said softly. “So you can understand me fully. So you can hear my words, my stories, in the way they are meant to be heard.”

Jane’s heart skipped a beat. His offer was simple, yet profound. He wanted to share something deeply personal with her. He wanted her to understand not just his words, but his world.

“I would like that very much,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity. “I would love to learn.”

In that moment, Jane realized that Flying Arrow was not just a man she had helped, not just a patient she had nursed back to health. He was someone she was coming to care for, someone she was beginning to understand in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

Over the next weeks, Flying Arrow began to teach her his language in earnest. They spent hours each day practicing together, his voice soft and patient as he guided her through the words and sounds of his native tongue. Jane, for her part, tried her best to keep up, laughing at her own mistakes and rejoicing in her progress. It became a shared bond between them, a way for them to connect that went beyond the limitations of language itself.

Their lessons became a ritual of sorts, an unspoken promise between them. As winter deepened, so did their relationship. What had begun as simple care and compassion had turned into something more. Something warmer. Something that neither of them could ignore.

It wasn’t long before they were spending even more time together, talking and laughing, sharing stories in both English and Shoshone. Flying Arrow would speak his language, and Jane would repeat the words back, struggling with the unfamiliar sounds. But with each passing day, she found herself growing more confident in his language—and in their bond.

And then, one evening, as the fire crackled between them, something shifted. Flying Arrow looked at her with a deep intensity, his dark eyes holding hers with a quiet certainty.

“Jane,” he whispered, his voice low and soft, “there is more I wish to say ... but my words are not enough.”

Jane’s heart beat faster. She could feel the weight of the moment, the change in the air between them. She knew what he was saying, even without words. She felt it in the way he looked at her, in the way he leaned just a little closer.

She reached out, her fingers brushing his. The touch was soft but electric, a spark passing between them. For the first time, they allowed themselves to lean in, the space between them closing with an almost unbearable tenderness.

And then, softly, almost hesitantly, he pressed his forehead against hers, his hands gently caressing the back of her neck, holding her to him. The moment was tender, filled with the promise of something new, something raw, something real.

As he pulled away, Flying Arrow’s eyes met hers once again. “I care for you, Jane. In a way I never experienced before.”

Jane’s heart swelled with the words. She could hardly believe it herself, but she knew in that moment that she cared for him the same way. It wasn’t just kindness she felt for him. It was something deeper—a connection forged in the fire of their struggles, in the silence of the winter nights, in the tenderness of their shared moments.

“I care for you, too,” she whispered.

And in the quiet of the cabin, amidst the howling wind and the snow outside, they found something more than survival. They found each other.