Memories. There had been a lot of talk about them tonight. Buck tries not to dwell on his too much. His childhood with the Kiowa was turbulent. Everyone knew the reality of his conception. The men treated him with open hostility or mistrust. The women averted their gazes or walked away when he drew near them. He was constantly teased and bullied by the other Kiowa children.
His own mother treated him with indifference. She was never cruel or unkind to him exactly, but she wasn't really affectionate either. Not like the other mothers were with their children. She never smiled or sang to him. When she looked at him there was such sorrow in her beautiful doe eyes that made his heart ache.
He had tried so hard to chase that hurtful look from her eyes. He brought her flowers and colorful pebbles from the creek. He made sure her cooking fire always had plenty of wood, carried her water for her, and kept his pallet of furs neat and tidy.
There finally came a day when he realized that nothing he ever did would be enough. He would never be able to right the wrong that was done to her. And that knowledge was something he lived with every day.
Buck rolled over onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling of the bunkhouse. Tears slipped out of the corners of his eyes and moistened the fabric of his pillowcase. The occasional sniffle and catch of breath in the dark room around him, told Buck that he wasn't the only reliving painful memories.
Knowing he wasn't alone was oddly comforting to him. Here, with these people, he had finally found the real family he craved. They accepted him, and for once, being himself was enough.
