“There’s no crime here, Miss Abernathy. There’s no law against a man asking a woman to marry him, no matter who he is. And there’s sure as hell no law that says I have to ride out into the draons and pick a fight with seven Apache because you don’t like them camping.”
“So, you’re not going to do anything?” Kora asked, her last sliver of hope crumbling.
“There’s nothing to be done,” the sheriff said, picking up his shotgun again, his tone dismissive. “My advice to you is to either sell your land to Mr. Croft and move somewhere safer, or learn to get along with your new neighbors. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Cora stood frozen for a moment, the injustice of it burning in her chest. She had come to civilization for help and had found only ridicule and bureaucracy. The law was a shield for men like Croft, not for women like her.
Without another word, she turned and stroed out of the office, her back ramrod straight. As she mounted Jezebel, she saw Sterling Croft watching her from the porch of the saloon, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. He had been in the sheriff’s office before her. She realized he had poisoned the well, painting her as a liar and a troublemaker.
In that moment, Kora understood. She was truly completely alone.
The threat was not just the seven silent warriors on her land, but the smiling, civilized man who wanted what she had, and a system of law that would do nothing to protect her. The ride back to her valley was filled with a cold, hard resolve. If she was going to survive this, she would have to do it herself.
The return to her homestead was somber. The sight of the Apache camp, a thin plume of smoke rising in the late afternoon air, no longer sparked immediate fear, but a weary resignation. They were a part of her landscape now, as fixed and immovable as the mountains behind them.
Sheriff Cain’s dismissal had extinguished her last hope of outside intervention. This was her battle fought on her terms.
The next few days fell into a strange tense rhythm. Kora went about her chores with a deliberate almost defiant normaly. She tended her garden, mended a fence on the far side of the pasture, and spent hours cleaning her rifle, making a quiet show of her preparedness.
She was acutely aware of being watched. The Apache warriors were silent observers of her life. They saw the strength in her arms as she hoisted buckets of water from the spring. The skill in her hands as she patched a worn leather strap. The solitude that clung to her like a shroud.
She in turn began to watch them not as a monolithic threat but as individuals. She saw that one of the younger ones was a gifted archer practicing for hours with a short powerful bow. Another was older with streaks of gray in his hair and he spent much of his time carving intricate figures into pieces of wood.
She saw them laugh quietly amongst themselves, a sound so unexpected it startled her. She saw their reverence for their horses, grooming them with meticulous care.
Gotchimin seemed to understand that his words had failed, that his proposal was too alien for her to comprehend. So he began to speak in a different language, the language of the land, the one she understood best.
One morning she awoke to find a freshly killed rabbit lying on the flat stone that served as her doorstep. It was cleaned and dressed ready for the pan. Her first instinct was suspicion. Was it poisoned? A trick? But she examined it carefully. It was a fine, healthy animal. It was a gift, a peace offering.
