Chapter 31
Colorado, 1867
The last gasps of autumn faded into a hazy world blanketed in white. The brilliant red and yellow leaves that had set the landscape ablaze just weeks ago now disappeared, smothered beneath the season's first heavy frosts. Buck ducked through the lodge's narrow entrance, excitement buzzing beneath his usually stoic exterior.
"Red Bear and the warriors are headin' out for what'll probably be the last big hunt," he announced, gaze roving over the cozy interior. His eyes finally landed on Róisín huddled close to Sweetgrass Woman beside the crackling fire pit, her back ramrod straight, features drawn into an unreadable mask.
The weight of their conversation earlier that week - so fraught with unspoken words and half-buried fears - still hung thick in the air between them.
"I'll be back before you know it," Buck said gruffly as he approached, his voice unconsciously softening. The air seemed to crackle with a tension that went beyond their recent disagreement, raising the fine hairs along the back of his neck.
Róisín remained silent, her piercing stare fixed unseeingly on the dancing flames.
With a quiet grunt, Buck folded his powerful frame down before her on one knee, rough fingers tentatively reaching out to tuck an errant strand of wavy hair behind her ear. His touch lingered perhaps a moment too long, the pad of his thumb trailing along her jaw.
"I know you're still upset, over the other night," he murmured.
Róisín finally turned to face him fully, green eyes shining with a sheen of unshed tears. Buck cradled her face in his palms.
"With half the tribe already moved ahead to the winter camp, this hunt'll be no easy ride," he continued, voice low and solemn. "We need enough meat to get us through to spring thaw."
"Be safe," she managed in a hushed tone, reaching up to fuss with the fur lining of his thick buckskin coat. Her fingers brushed the hollow of his throat, and she felt the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat stutter momentarily beneath her tentative touch.
Unable to resist, Róisín craned up on her tiptoes and pressed her dry lips to the sandpapery stubble along Buck's jaw in a feather-light caress. "I love you," she breathed against his flushed skin, the words crystallizing in a frosty puff between them.
Buck wound a powerful arm around her waist and crushed her body flush against his solid frame. His kiss was searing yet achingly tender. A sharp shrill cry pierced the crisp air as Red Bear mounted his magnificent stallion, signaling the warriors to begin their solemn procession from the village. Róisín emerged from the stifling confines of the lodge, shielding her eyes against the blinding white glare. She came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sweetgrass Woman, eyes trailing the braves as they began to disappear beyond the frozen rise.
Unbidden, Róisín's hand reached out, questing for the reassuring anchor of her dearest friend's work-roughened palm. "P'ee," she whispered, the single Kiowa word a silent plea for comfort, for connection in the face of the unknown to come. Sweetgrass Woman squeezed her hand firmly in return, the simple gesture conveying the unspoken understanding between their two kindred spirits.