FaF-Chapter 1

The wolf and his human companion were very much in tune with each other, so when the stranger came riding slowly down the street on a sleek black horse, they reacted in tandem: the wolf growled and flattened his ears, and the man furrowed his brow in an obvious expression of mistrust. The pair watched intently as the stranger, dressed in fashionable but travel-worn clothes, rode up to the saloon, tethered his horse to the hitching post, and went inside. For reasons neither could express, both man and beast had a bad feeling about him.

After a time, the man rose from his crouch in a fluid motion, wiping his hands on the knees of his buckskin pants. His Indian beads and medicine pouch swayed gently against his chest as he walked up the street, past the saloon, and over the bridge to the small graveyard beside the church. It was Sunday, and he had a promise to keep. The wolf, accustomed to the man's routine, lay down and waited patiently at the gate as he entered and approached a pair of graves, those of a woman and child. Reverently he knelt before their crosses and bowed his head in silent prayer. I miss ya, Abby...Hanna, my lil girl, I wanted ta be yer pa more'n anythin... He'd long ago stopped crying for them, having made peace with their deaths; there was only a dull ache inside, an empty silent space in his chest where something seemed to be missing. Most days the pain was next to nothing, but on Sundays it was especially rough.

The man was startled from his sad reverie by the pealing of the church bell and the chatter of townsfolk; services had ended and people were gathering in the meadow for their customary picnics afterward. Not being a very social person, it didn't really matter to him. He would join in if invited, to be polite, but that had only been happening recently with Dr Mike and the kids...

Before he realized it he was on his feet, running a hand through his mop of sun-bleached brown hair and scanning the crowd. Even from this distance his keen blue eyes could clearly make out faces; he could sometimes even read lips and follow conversations, a useful skill that he tried not to employ too often. He couldn't always help himself though, especially around certain people. People he found himself caring for a lot more than he was willing to admit, especially to his own self.

A glint of copper caught his eye and a small sigh escaped his lips. He'd recognize that hair anywhere, especially as it was now, falling down her back in loose waves. It was one of the first things he'd noticed about her, drawn him to her. Abagail's hair had been pretty, black and shiny like wet ink, but he'd never seen a lady's hair quite the color of Dr Mike's. Not for the first time, he wondered if those long reddish brown tresses would feel as soft as they looked, sliding through his fingers...

The sharp pang of guilt brought him back to his senses. He felt a cold wetness in his palm and looked down to see his wolf nosing his hand; he realized with some alarm that he was walking out of the graveyard and making a beeline for the subject of his daydream. He forced himself to stop moving but his eyes still sought her face, and it pained him that she looked troubled. She was speaking with another townswoman, Emily he thought her name was, and he was able to catch just a few words: "quilting circle," "find time," "vaccinations." Then Emily walked away and Dr Mike remained standing on the bridge, her delicate brow furrowed in frustration; he could almost see that incredible mind of hers hard at work. Probably too hard, he chuckled to himself. She was always thinking about something, a patient or an article she'd read in her medical journal, the discussion at the last town meeting or the kids...idly he wondered if she ever thought about him at all, as someone other than her landlord, anyway...Suddenly she smiled, and it was like a sunbeam on her face. He followed her gaze to where the children were playing with their friends, and he couldn't help but smile as well. Of course she's watchin em, she's such a good ma to em. Couldn't love em more if she'd given birth to em herself.

A sudden white-hot anger possessed him, burning through every fiber of his being, and a strange voice inside his head began to rage at him. And what about Abagail? it roared, making him clutch the sides of his head in pain. Wouldn't she have been a good ma to your child? Only she never got the chance. No, she and your daughter are lying cold in the ground just steps away while you stand here thinking about another woman, another family! What is wrong with you!?

And then his pain disappeared as another voice spoke, small but strong and clear as a bell, as full of hope and promise as the other was of ire and fury. It said simply, Nothing...

He reeled as vivid images swam before his eyes, a torrent of memories all focused on one person. The first time he saw her, half covered in mud, looking like a bedraggled butterfly; seeing her face to face at last in the mercantile, looking into the most unusual eyes he'd ever seen—one was the rich brown of freshly turned earth, the other a soft green that made him think of sunlight on oak leaves—and finding not a trace of fear despite his well-aimed tomahawk landing just inches from her beautiful face; offering her his homestead and then beating a hasty retreat once she'd accepted, hoping she wouldn't pick up on his nervousness tinged with excitement at the idea of her living in his house; the night he brought Chief Black Kettle to her and she saved his life, and then afterward they sat close together at the table and spoke in near whispers, and he fidgeted with his tomahawk to keep himself from touching her hand; feeling strangely proud when Black Kettle named her "Medicine Woman"; Christmas Eve dinner with her and the children, she was simply radiant, how she smiled when he gave her the new shingle he'd made, and then taking his place beside her at the table, with the family, how right it felt; caring for her when she fell dangerously ill with the grippe, cradling her fevered body in Cloud Dancing's medicine wheel and stroking her face and praying to the spirits to let her live, she's gotta live, nothin else matters if she don't live...

And then her fever broke, and her eyes fluttered open...

And she whispered his name...

"Sully..."

And he heard his heartsong for the first time...

His eyes shot open. He was standing just outside the graveyard, gripping the rickety white fence so hard his knuckles blanched. The wolf at his side whined, sensing something was off.

Sully drew a few ragged breaths, waiting for his heartbeat to slow to its normal rhythm. He looked down at his canine companion and managed a shaky grin. "Wolf, boy," he said, giving him a scritch behind the ears, "I'm thinkin we better go see Cloud Dancin. Spirits got a lot to say today." And maybe I oughta listen to em...

As the pair loped off into the woods, the wolf was comforted but the human was still rattled. Sully had received visions from the spirits before, in dreams or when he prayed for them, but they had never actually spoken to him. And the visions had never been so strong, so real. Shivering a little, he wondered just what kind of message the spirits were sending him.