Maka feels the absence of her beloved cowboy clothes the minute the dressmaker strips her bare before the Thompson sisters, God, and the stuffed head of an unidentifiable animal hanging from the wall.
She doesn't have long to mourn her clothes though, as the dressmaker, a slender woman with black hair and a deep French accent, manhandles her into one dress after another.
"No that's all wrong, the color doesn't suit her at all!" Liz declares, waving her hand in disgust.
"Maybe something in blue?" Patty chimes in, "Oh, or green, to match her pretty eyes?"
The dressmaker curses under her breath in her native tongue, and Maka can't help but share the woman's sentiment. She appreciates the Thompson sisters for accompanying her, but it's like a whirlwind has hit the dress shop full force. They are pulling bolts of cloth from the shelves, in every color and material imaginable. Kid-skin boots, wool-lined gloves, whale-boned corsets, and cotton petticoats litter the small room.
"Maybe you would like to look at these sample pamphlets as well madame?" The shopkeeper suggests, handing her a stack of booklets. Maka flips through the first page and nearly drops them.
"Bloody hell, these are lady's undergarments, or what's left of them," Maka exclaims half embarrassed, half intrigued.
"Oui, lingerie is all the rage in France. All women need a little something to feel beautiful in the boudoir, wouldn't you agree?"
"Plain cotton undergarments will suffice." Maka nearly chokes.
"Are you sure, you would look stunning in lace, and I'm sure your lover would surely thank me," The dressmaker teases.
"I, I have no lov-...man, I have no man in my life." Maka squeaks, nearly dying of disgrace.
The Thompson sisters giggle at her blush as they continue to trash the dress shop. There are a handful of ready-made dresses on the racks as well and both sisters are throwing garments at her to try on like she is their living breathing doll. Both girls look like they are enjoying themselves immensely at her expense.
"Please excuse my friends, they are very excited for me," Maka whispers to the dressmaker in French. The woman looks up in surprise, hearing her native language spoken. Her frown fades almost instantly and she smiles as she pins a piece of fabric around Maka's waist.
"Oui madame, do not fret, their excitement is catching, no? It's not often we get to see a true Cinderella, from smelly rags to silk and lace." She says, her nose wrinkling at the despicable heap in the corner that is her old clothes.
Maka can't help but sigh, she is trying to be patient, but she is ready to be done. How often had she wished to wear a dress again at the first of her journey, only to despise them now? She feels weird wearing skirts again. She feels vulnerable.
The creature on the wall stares at her, its gaze empty and mocking.
"Pray, what sort of creature is that?" Maka asks, her curiosity getting the best of her. The animal was like that of a dragon, with leathery scales, beady yellow eyes, and a terrible toothy grin.
"That is an alligator. A beautiful creature no?"
"I don't think I'd like to run into one still alive," Maka says, not thinking it beautiful in the slightest.
"They are very common where I am from. They are used for food, medicine, and good luck."
"I have never seen anything like that in France," Maka replies, her eyes never leaving the creature's gaze.
The dressmaker laughs, her voice tinkling in the tiny shop. "I am French, but I do not come from France. I am east of your Texas, where there are bayous full of gators and trees that hang low with Spanish moss. A place called Lafayette.
"It sounds like a whole new world." Maka breathes in awe.
"Very different than here." The dressmaker mumbles, her mouth full of pins as she works.
"I think I'd like to see it someday."
There was a whole world out there, a world that Maka knew nothing about. It both terrified and elated her. It also made her realize how sheltered she has been her whole life. Even coming to Texas had been a complete culture shock.
Though grumpy, dense, and utterly infuriating, Soul had helped her find her place here. And now he was trying to take that sense of belonging away. When he had threatened her, saying she could easily go back to London, it had broken her heart, it felt far worse than any physical wound ever could.
She might have dug her heels in, kicked up a fuss, and acted very unladylike, but the sad truth was, she would eventually have to comply. Giving in to the dresses, the household chores, and whatever other nonsense he thought was proper for a young lady.
"Maka? What's the matter?" Liz asks delicately, bringing Maka from her disheartened thoughts. Maka brings her hands to her cheek, feeling the damp streak of tears.
"Oh, bloody hell. I'm sorry. I just, I..."
Liz takes one of her hands and Patty the other. The usually rambunctious duo, wait quietly as she tries to gain her composure. She feels ridiculous, standing in the middle of a dress shop, clothed in a half-made gingham dress, crying her eyes out. But she can't help the tears or the words that eventually tumble from her mouth.
"I feel so trapped." She admits, her voice thick with the strain of her fear.
The sisters nod, waiting for her to continue.
"I feel like I have to give in to others' wishes and expectations or lose my place here. But I don't want to lose who I am, who I've become."
Patty pulls out her handkerchief and hands it to Maka, who gives her a watery smile.
"The thing about other people's expectations is they don't amount to a hill of beans," Liz says firmly, gripping Maka's hand tighter.
"They can try to dress you differently and try to tell you how to act, where to go, what to do, but they can never change who you are. They can not take your spirit." Liz declares hotly.
"That's right," Patty chimes in, "You are worried about losing your place, about losing your voice, right? Well, pardon my language, but that's bullshit."
Maka almost laughs at the younger girl's vulgar mouth, but instead more tears fall.
"You let your voice be heard loud and clear. You're going to show these men you are a strong woman, and you can work just as hard, and look great doing it at the same time. You look stunning in a dress too!" Liz exclaims.
Maka can't help but smile, at these rambunctious yet wise women. She feels so lucky to be able to call them friends.
Suddenly, the weight of her skirts doesn't feel so heavy, nor does the thought of being treated as a woman again.
It's surprising how comfortable she feels here now, in this little dress shop, surrounded by amazing and supportive women.
There are so many places she wants to see, so many places yet traveled, but one thing was for sure, Texas and its rough but beautiful people, would always hold her heart.
"Thank you, friends." Maka whispers, her heart in her throat. Both girls throw their arms around her, wrapping her in a cocoon of blue gingham and warm companionship.
"Now let's take a look at you." Liz laughs as she pulls away. "Give us a spin."
Maka blushes, but obliges, twirling like a flower cause in the Texas breeze. Both girls clap their hands in excitement. Even the dressmaker looks pleased with the results.
"You're right pretty all fancified. You must be a sight for sore eyes in a fancy ball gown." Patty says, bobbing her head in approval.
It feels like a lifetime ago that she last wore a dress. Maka peers at her reflection in the mirror and is struck speechless. The dress is well made and a beautiful color of blue. Her breath hitches in her chest, the color reminding her of the bluebonnets and the memories that follow.
What truly takes her by surprise though is the unfamiliar reflection staring back.
The girl who had once been weak, pale, and thin as a rail, no longer exists. A grown woman stares back, her body now curvy and lightly muscled from hard labor, her skin kissed by the sun, her eyes bright and knowing.
With her hair down and the blue dress hugging her waist, she almost doesn't recognize herself. She tentatively runs her hand down the skirt, as if to convince herself it is real. It feels her with a sense of wonder and pride.
So what if she has to wear dresses from now on?
She is a woman grown, with her own skills and accomplishments. She is no longer a scared slip of a girl, running away from home. She is Maka Albarn, a cowhand, a Texan, and a woman brave and very capable of deciding her own destiny.
The shop door swings open violently on its hinges making all the women jump. Every head turns to see a crimson-eyed cowboy standing half in the doorway like he hasn't made up his mind on coming completely in yet. Everyone stares, but he doesn't seem to notice, his eyes instinctively finding hers.
He removes his black stetson and dips his head.
"Ladies," He greets softly, his eyes never leaving her.
"Soul, could you not wait to see our Maka in a dress?" Liz mocks, pinning the prickly cowboy with a knowing look.
"I have no opinions on dresses or women's things miss Thompson." He states dryly.
Maka swings her head hard around to stare back at him. His words might have been empty, but his gaze was focused on her with that darkly intense expression she had learned to love. And fear.
"Oh I can see we're not needed here anymore, let's go finish our shopping elsewhere." Liz hedges, grabbing her sister by the arm.
"Oh, please don't go!" Maka squeaks, finally breaking her trance.
"We'll come to see you soon!" Patty promises as both girls dash out the door past Soul's solid form.
Silence descends upon the shop, settling like the dust motes floating in the afternoon sun.
She stands perfectly still in the middle of the room, clad in her new attire, waiting for his gruff voice to bark out an order, or for him to mock her dress in some form. But he doesn't utter a word. He stuffs his hands helplessly in his pockets, all the lines of his long form rigid. His body screams predator, looking for a fight, but his eyes tell a different story. Maka sees how unsure he is, nervous almost.
A low and pleasant hum warms her blood. She's still a little hurt, by his earlier actions, but she's still glad to see him.
A strange energy crackles between them, she can almost taste it on her tongue.
She wonders if they had met properly, her as a woman, would there still be all this turmoil and tension between them?
All this heady and frightening ecstasy?
Or would they have never been friends? Would they never have come to know each other as they do now, so intimate and completely?
For though he tried so hard to hide himself away, she knew him, the true him. And God, what a fool she was, even now, both out of sorts with each other, neither speaking, there wasn't a doubt in her mind that she cared deeply for him, and him for her. At least she thought he did, in his own guarded way.
She'd fallen in love with him, of this, she has no doubt. Her realization of this had been like discovering she was soaking wet even as she'd willingly waded into a stream. She'd wanted to sample the coolness and current and now she was being swept away.
He regards her now, calculating, like he's going over what to say in his head, then changes his mind last minute, before giving in and uttering something so softly she misses it.
"What?" She questions.
"I said, you look, uh, different. But in a good way." He mumbles into his hand.
"Good Lord, Evans. Is that the best you've got? I look different? The whole reason I'm wearing this frilly frock is that you bloody demand decency from me." She says whirl in place to emphasize the clothing.
He has the decency to look a little ashamed, but it's quickly replaced by a scowl.
Maka is saved from another barbed comment by the dressmaker busting back into the room.
"Oh Monsieur cowboy, what a delight. Have you come to see our fair demoiselle?"
"No, I'm just here to pay." He says stiffly, as he lays a stack of coins on the counter.
He looks so out of place, among the lace trimmings and lady's things.
"Would you care to help with picking her garments? I'm sure there is a color you'd favor?"
"No, I have no knowledge of dress design. I'll stick with what I know."
"Which is cows and crassness," Maka mumbles under her breath.
She is fairly certain he hears her though, judging by the deepening grooves around his mouth.
"It was a joy having such a lovely mademoiselle grace my shop. Her slender figure looks good in almost anything! Do you not think our lady beautiful, no?" The dressmaker hedges, completely oblivious to the situation.
Soul swallows hard, nodding his head. His eyes find hers and before she knows it, he's in front of her, so swift and graceful for such a large man.
He reaches out, running his knuckles across the high lace collar of her dress, his rough hands snagging at the delicate fabric.
He rubs his fingers over it, gently, as if he were blind and needed touch to see. He watches her face, from beneath the concealing brim of his hat.
When he speaks, his voice is thick and liquid, and it sends a shock of heat down her spine.
"Lovely, as a Bluebonnet." He murmurs.
She draws up a shallow breath, the memories of their bluebonnet field in the dead of night, on breathy sighs and stary whispers. It stirs something sweet in her chest.
The sound of a train whistle in the distance shatters the memory.
He drops his hand to his side in a jerky motion, breaking the contact. He closes his scarlet orbs and summons a deep breath, holding it in, then looks blindly skyward.
When he looks back at her his gaze is turbulent and she so desperately wishes she can read his thoughts.
He steps back slowly and tips his hat goodbye to her and the shopkeeper.
"Meet me by the mercantile when you're ready and we'll go home." He says, his voice low. Then he is gone out the door, just as swiftly as he had arrived.
Maka watches him go, her hand drifting to her throat where his hand had lingered only moments ago.
"Oh my." The dressmaker says with a breathy sigh.
"Are you sure you don't want to look at those lingerie pamphlets? I feel you may be needing them after all."
Soul leans against the hitching post and lights a cigarette. He's smoking a lot more these days it seems. He makes a mental note not to roll anymore after this one, he really should quit the bad habit. He inhales a sharp breath then slowly lets it out, watching the smoke drift up to the clear blue sky.
The sky reminds him of that pretty blue dress only a few doors down. He resists the urge to look down the way. She'd be along when she was good and ready, so why was he so antsy?
He wipes his palms on his canvas pants for the tenth time and exhales slowly. He rubs his eyes with his fingertips, but all he can envision behind his closed lids is her standing in the middle of that sunlit room. Her dress gracing the floor with a pale blue splash, like fallen sky.
She studied him as she had before, out in the meadow, with those still, deep eyes that seemed to stir a part of him he didn't know he had.
He thought that having her back in the proper clothes would make him feel better. But it didn't, not even a little. If anything he felt more on edge.
The bell above the shop door jingles out across the main street announcing the very object of his discomfort. She sweeps out in a different dress than before, a cream-colored cotton, looking fresh as a daisy, her head held high, her frame graceful as she walks. She looks so out of place among the rickety cupboard buildings and the worn and dusty street, that it's almost laughable. He couldn't laugh though, even if he wanted to, his throat feels all dried up.
He's about to push off the post to meet her when a sorry-lookin' cowpuncher swoops down upon her.
"Howdy ma'am, can't say I've ever seen you 'round these parts." He says tipping his dusty hat at her.
"I'm somewhat new here." She says pleasantly, smiling up at the stranger.
"Yeah, I reckoned so. What's a pretty piece of lace like you doing in this drifter town anyhow?" He asks, grinning like a cat with cream.
Their town has always been a sleepy place, and though no one here had anything to do with him, there weren't many faces Soul didn't recognize. This no-name cowpuncher wasn't from here though. The way he was looking at her was enough to make his blood boil.
"How about I buy you a drink sunshine?" The man offers.
"I'm sorry, my friend is waiting for me, maybe some other time," She says politely, trying to sidestep the man.
He moves, expertly blocking her, like she's some runaway calf avoiding the branding iron.
"Come on just for a minute." He says, placing his hand on her forearm.
"Please remove your hand, you're soiling my new dress." She says with a pointed sniff.
"Think you're too good for me eh? Is that it?" The man barks, his hand tightening painfully on her arm.
"The lady said no." Soul growls, his hand audibly crushing the man's wrist. The man winces and lets her go.
"No need for violence there partner, I was just playin'." He snivels as he takes several steps back.
"Well she wants no part of your games, so hit the trail. Now." Soul replies, his hostility barely contained. The man turns tail and flees off the boardwalk into the nearest saloon.
"Thank you." She says, watching the saloon doors swing shut.
"You need to be more careful. You can't just talk to strangers." Soul grunts, trying to keep his tone neutral.
She looks up at him then, her eyes crashing into his. She straightens her dress with long, nervous strokes. There's something on her mind, but she doesn't want to spill the beans. He can tell by the way she's fidgeting.
Maybe his tone hadn't been as neutral as he thought. He rakes his fingers through his hair, feeling frustrated with himself once again.
"Look, I'm not mad. Be a little more aware of your surroundings is all that I ask." He says with a sigh. "I can't always be around you to help keep you safe."
"I'm not afraid." She says stubbornly, her eyes flashing emerald fire.
"Oh? And what would you have done, if I wasn't here?" He questions.
She hikes her dress up in response, flashing a wicked-looking knife sheathed to her boot. It's the same knife he'd given her on the round-up.
"Good lord woman, don't be lifting your dress like that!" He whisper-shouts, grabbing her skirt and tugging it back down. He doesn't know if he's more upset by her flashing her milky white calf in the middle of Main Street or the thought of her stabbing someone with that knife.
"Why are you so indecent?" He moans looking wildly around, making sure no one was watching.
"I learned all my indecent behaviors from you." She says, a slow smirk playing across her lips.
"I am nothing but decent!" He argues, appalled at her brazen implication.
She leans forward, dangerously close, and whispers in his ear, her breath ghosting across his skin.
"Are you sure? A decent man wouldn't have his hands in my dress as you do."
Soul looks down in horror, realizing he still has a hold of her dress. He's gripping the delicate fabric like a lifeline, his hands nearly interwoven. He yanks his hands free, the fabric making a soft rustling sound as it falls. He groans in dismay, his face burning hot as she begins to snicker then slowly starts laughing full out. It's a deep belly sound, loud and unladylike. The few people on the street stop to stare, which only heightens his embarrassment.
"Knock it off, Kid, it's not funny." He hisses under his breath, mortified. She stops laughing, her eyes going wide with surprise.
"You called me Kid again." She says, an earth-shattering smile breaking across her face. It winds him, hitting him right in the chest with the force of a tornado. He feels a scathing retort on the tip of his tongue, but it sticks there, useless in the wake of that damn smile she's giving him. The kind of smile he didn't think she'd ever give him again.
Though his ears are burning and his cheeks are undoubtedly tinged pink, he can't help but feel a little better. The tightness in his chest has eased considerably, and it seems she's no longer sideways with him. At least she wasn't blatantly ignoring him anymore.
A few steps forward.
"Shall we head home, Evans?" She asks, gazing up at him like they're the dearest of friends again. And all he can do is nod in reply, struck dumb and mute.
Whether as a punishment or an olive branch she places her hand in the crook of his arm as they walked back to the horses.
"I'm going to find Justin real quick, will you be fine here by yourself for a quick minute." Soul questions, looking around the nearly deserted street.
"Go on, I'm perfectly fine, I've got that knife, remember?" She responds, waggling her eyebrows at him in a suggestive manner.
Soul mock groans, then he laughs out loud, and to his delighted surprise, she joins him. He likes her laugh; it sounds nice and it goes well with her mouth.
That familiar scarlet heat spreads across his neck and ears. He pivots, heading towards the saloon Justin frequents like his life depends on it.
Her lovely laughter chasing him the whole way.
He splays his fingers against his leg as he walks away, the feel of her dress still lingering on his palms. The ebb and pull of lightning still burning under the surface of his skin.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Maka scratched Kippy behind the ear as he dozed in the sunshine. It was turning into another hot day, but Maka didn't mind, she enjoyed watching the clouds go by on a lazy summer's day.
Two doors down a loud banging of a door startle both Maka and Kippy out of their lazy daze. Something is flung out into the street from the general store, and to Maka's great horror, it's a person. It's a young Indian woman, no more than a girl. She sits up stiffly from being flung so violently.
A man in a pin-striped apron lumbers out the door, a mean snarl on his face. "Go on, I told you to get!"
"Please, I have two babies, they're hungry," The young woman implores, her English surprisingly fluid.
"I told you not to beg here anymore! Come back when you have money." The shopkeeper yells, then turns his back on her.
The girl stands on shaky legs, covered in the dust of the streets, but holds her head proudly. She turns and flees down the street, ducking off the road and into a small stand of trees.
Without thinking Maka walks towards the store, her initial shock dwindling very rapidly into anger. How could someone be so cruel to another human being? Maka slams the door open, making a few people lounging inside jump. She marches up to the counter and rings the little bell there, the shopkeeper in the striped apron appears from the back; all smiles and genteel manners, a completely different person than the one she'd witnessed earlier. But Maka knew better, she'd seen how roughly he'd treated that poor girl.
She'd witnessed the prejudices of his heart.
"I need five pounds of flour, one of brown sugar, a side of ham, and all the milk tins you've got." She orders coldly.
The shopkeep looks surprised but doesn't argue. He leaves and then comes up to her, carrying an empty candle box, his face creased in worry.
"You aren't planning on taking this to the Indians are you?"
"I believe it's my own business what I do with my purchase." Maka sniffs, looking down the dainty length of her sunburned nose.
The man lookes a little remorseful, but not enough to stop the next words from tumbling out of his mouth.
"Those Indians are bad news. All she does is beg here in town, and her man Proud Bear, he steals beef from the surrounding ranchers. They don't deserve your charity miss. They're half breeds too, not even their own people want them."
She spears him with a furious look and slaps a silver coin on the counter. It was the leftover from her dress money, but she didn't care, food was more important than dresses.
"Just get me my damn box." She hisses.
The shopkeep looks shocked, maybe from her language or the fact that women weren't supposed to be so forthwith, but regardless he gathers her things and clunks the box down on the counter. She thought maybe he would help her carry it out, but he scoops the silver off the counter and disappeared in the back. Maka squares her shoulders and hefts her box, marching out the door with her head held high.
It didn't take her long to figure out where the Indians resided. On the outskirts of town sitting on a little rise that overlooks the town sat a single tipi.
The day had grown warmer rather quickly and Maka pauses to rest, setting the candle box among the thick, gnarly roots of a box elder tree. Her arms ache. Sweat runs down between her breasts to pool around the bones in her corset. Her cotton shimmy clings wetly to her legs, making them itch.
Her gaze shifts to the tipi that shines rusty white in the early summer sun. The river flows between her and it, rushing fast and loud. A rickety bridge, made of stones and old timbers, spans the water where it elbows around a stand of quaking aspens. She would have to cross the bridge and approach the tipi in full view of everyone down below in town.
Her back prickls, and she twists her head, peering over her shoulder. The dusty streets down below seemed to be deserted. She didn't know what was worse, people watching her, or being completely alone among the Indians. The memory of the young girl being flung into the street was enough to bolster her courage.
She wipes the sweat off her face with Justin's handkerchief she still holds onto. She takes a deep breath, picks up the heavy box, and starts walking again. She leaves the road, taking a narrow path that leads through the town's small cemetery. The crude wooden crosses are all leaning and weathered, except one. A pair of man-sized boots hang over the freshly hewn marker. She doesn't slow down to read the name burned into the wood.
She approaches the bridge, her skin crawling now as if the leaves of the aspens were a thousand winking eyes, watching her. She approaches the Indian camp slowly.
The wind has died. Pale smoke from a campfire spirals into the sky. The aspens shiver like silver raindrops in the sun, casting a dappled shade onto an old buffalo robe that covers the ground in front of the tipi, and onto a small child sitting upon it.
Maka stops at the edge of the robe and tries to peer through the slit in the cone-shaped tent. Strange effigies are painted on the sun-bleached hide.
"Hello?" she calls out. No one answers. The child crams four fingers into its mouth and looks up at her with wide dark eyes.
Maka sets the box of food on the ground and kneels beside the child. The buffalo robe smells rankly of woodsmoke and stale grease. A kettle hangs bubbling over the fire from a trammel supported by stakes driven in the ground.
"Howdy, sweetheart," she says softly.
It's difficult to tell, but she thinks the child is a girl. The little girl's cheeks are fat, but her body is sadly thin. She wears buckskin leggings and a blue calico smock that has been lovingly decorated with beads and dyed porcupine quills.
"Where is your mama?"
The child stares back at her, unblinking, even though a fly crawls in the corner of her eye. Maka shoos it away.
"Mama," she asks again.
The little girl takes her fingers out of her mouth and looks toward the river. Maka gets awkwardly to her feet, fighting with her skirts.
The child's mother walks toward them with long, free strides. She wears a loose scarlet blanket coat that hangs to her knees, and her legs are covered by tall fringed moccasins. Each was decorated differently, with beads and quills, elks' teeth, and bits of scarlet cloth. They were beautiful, more colorful than the rug in her father's study back home.
She carries a small shovel with her, her hands are dirty, and there are streaks of dirt smudged across her cheeks.
She sees Maka, and her steps falter. She looks quickly around. Her long straight hair whipped back and forth, slapping her face. It glistens blue-black in the sun.
"What do you want?" she cries out.
"I've brought some canned milk for your babies. I saw you in town." Maka calls, trying to give the girl her friendliest smile.
The girl looks confused, she stays as silent as the aspens.
"Your baby is cute, where is your other child?" Maka asks timidly, trying to make conversation.
The girl seems to snap out of her daze and walks past her and sets the shovel by the fire. Her face is expressionless.
"My other little one died. I found her when I came back from town."
"Oh . . . I'm so sorry." The words sounded so shallow, so pointless. But she didn't know what else to say. The girl lifted her thin shoulders in a shrug, but Maka caught the flash of pain in her eyes.
"Thank you for the food, my daughter who is left will grow stronger because of it."
Maka smiles, trying hard not to let the emotion leak from her eyes.
"My man would not want you here though, you should leave. Now," she says in a terrible whisper.
Maka nods, her mouth suddenly dry with fear again. She takes a step sideways and knocks into one of the trammel stakes. The kettle rocks, slurping gravy into the fire. A good thick stew was cooking in that kettle, filled with lots of meat. She hopes for this family's sake that it was deer meat. She looks up and meets the girl's wary eyes.
"Warn your man, he should be careful. People around here don't take kindly to missing cattle."
The girl's dark eyes widened.
"Don't worry, I won't say anything," Maka assures her.
A scream pierces the air. An Indian on a piebald pony comes thundering down the road from the direction of the river, throwing up red divots of mud. He was dressed in checkered California pants and a faded blue shirt and would have looked like a cowboy if it hadn't been for the thick copper bracelets around his bare upper arms and the tufts of owl feathers and bits of fur laced into his braids. He was young, hardly older than Maka herself. But he looked to her like a savage on the warpath, and she went rigid with fear.
The Indian girl's head swings around at the sound of galloping hooves. Her eyes going wild at the sight of the piebald pony bursting out of the copse of aspens, cutting straight across the bow in the river, splashing glittering drops into the air.
She seizes Maka's arm and thrusts her toward the bridge.
"Go!"
Maka barely makes it to the river when the Brave is upon her. He reins the piebald to a sudden stop, splattering mud over her skirts. He throws himself out of the saddle, blocking her path scross the bridge.
His wife cries out to him, and he shouts something back at her in his harsh guttural tongue, freezing her in place.
He looks wild in bone armor that covers his chest and with slashes of vermilion and ocher greasepaint on his forehead and hollow cheeks. The copper bands around his arms blaze like fire in the sun. His face is of a warrior, full of rage and hate. He glares at Maka with fierce dark eyes that are incongruously framed with lashes as long and thick as a girl's.
Her stomach knots and there is a strange coppery taste in her mouth. She is just about to run the other way when his words stop her.
"Paying a social call, white woman?" he sneers, his English excellent.
His wife holds out her hand to him, as if beseeching him to understand or forgive her. "Proud Bear, don't . . . She brought milk for the baby."
He barks a harsh, bitter laugh. His eyes narrow on Maka. He purses his lips so hard that the sprout of feathers on his head quivers. He leans into her and shoots a thick globule of spit onto her bodice. "That is what I think of your charity."
Maka can do nothing but stand there and shudder. The place where he's spat on her burns as if he'd branded her through all the layers of her clothes to her skin.
His mouth curls into a mean smile. He leans into her again, so close she could smell him—woodsmoke and grease, like the buffalo robe. He lifts his hand, and her whole body stiffens up, rigid as a tent pole. He pulls loose a lock of her hair that had started to slip from beneath the brim of her hat. She flinches as he rubs it between his fingers, making little smacking sounds with his lips.
"You have pretty hair, white woman. Like sun-ripened grass. It would look good decorating a war club."
Maka's fight or flight response finally kicks in. She jerks back with such violence she nearly falls, and he laughs. Drawing on a childhood of strict training, she lifts her chin in the air and turns her back on him. She tries to walk away with some manner of dignity. But deep inside, all she wants to do was run.
"I'm not done with you, white woman." The brute barks spinning her back around to face him.
"No, don't!" The Indian girl cries. She grabs onto her husband's arm with all her might, but the man is like an oak tree. He turns his furious gaze to her and brings the back of his hand down hard across the girl's face. She staggers backward then falls to her knees, her lip split open wide, weeping droplets of red down her chin. Her eyes look glazed, like he's knocked all the fight from her.
"Leave her alone, you animal!" Maka howls, lunging at the man. All she sees is red as her fist connects with his face.
There's a sickening crunch, but it doesn't faze the warrior as he shoves her to the ground. Her head hits the ground with a solid thunk, and for a moment she is dazed.
He rears back, his clenched fist rushing towards her face. Maka shuts her eyes, accepting the blow, now realizing her mistake a little too late.
Only it doesn't come.
Still confused she opens her eyes, and beholds a flash of alabaster hair, her hazy mind finally registering the situation.
Soul.
His hand is wrapped around the other man's arm in a vice-like grip. Proud bear growls and wrenches his arm free, but Soul deftly steps in his way, putting himself between the livid Indian and her.
Cold hard steel flashes as Soul brings a blade to the man's jugular. Soul's face is murderous and he bares his teeth at the man in a twisted smile.
"Don't. Fucking. Touch. Her." He grates, a guttural snarl leaving his throat.
Maka shivers at the sight before her.
"Your white woman, she attacked me first!" Proud Bear yells, spittle flying from his mouth, but he doesn't move closer, not with the tip of Soul's steel steadily pressed against his throat.
"Is this true?" Soul grunts, flashing his crimson gaze at her.
"Ye-... yes, but, but, he struck that poor girl," Maka say brokenly, her voice shaking.
Soul looks over at the bleeding girl on the ground for the first time, and understanding ignites in his finery eyes.
Soul slowly removes the knife from the man's neck, a small trickle of blood seeping from a swallow nick. Proud Bear doesn't even flinch.
"Blood for blood, Two Feet." He, demands, gnashing his teeth together.
Maka doesn't understand, as she watches Soul take a step back and turn his head to the side.
Proud bear's fist crashes into the side of Soul's face. Maka screams as blood sprays down the front of his shirt and onto the ground. Soul sways on his feet, but raises his hand to her, telling her to be still. He looks Proud Bear dead in the eyes and spits a gob of blood onto the dampened earth.
"Blood for blood." He grins, his teeth stained red, his eyes burning wild.
Proud Bear grunts in approval and points a calloused finger at Maka on the ground. "Your squaw is disobedient but brave."
"You have no idea." Soul half laughs then chokes as he spits out another mouthful of blood.
The Indian girl, finally coming to, opens her eyes, stumbles to her feet, then races out of sight into the nearest tree thicket. Proud bear howls something unintelligible at the fleeing girl.
"Leave her alone, you brute!" Maka croaks trying to sit up but falls backward. She is deathly dizzy, from the bump on her head or maybe from the sight of Soul bleeding so much, she isn't sure.
Proud Bear snarls at her, looking half ready to strangle her where she lays.
Soul, his face thunderous and sticky with crimson, growls back just as savagely. It makes the fierce warrior hesitate.
"You handle your squaw and I'll handle mine." Soul rumbles.
Proud bear flashes his teeth but doesn't push the matter. He turns, ready to chase after his fleeing wife, but stops for a moment, to look Soul in the eye.
"Leave here, Two Feet, and don't come back."
Soul nods in understanding.
He scoops Maka up, carrying her like a small child, and trots towards the bridge, away from the bloody scene.
"We have to help her," Maka whimpers into his neck.
"Hush now darlin'," Soul whispers softly, pulling her closer to his chest. Next to his pounding heart.
"There's nothing we can do for her."
Maka buries her head into his chest and weeps. The smell of blood and salt stinging her nose.
Soul's strong arms wrap tighter around her as somewhere in the distance the desperate wail of the Indian woman reaches their ears.
Blood for blood.