Cherished Memories

by RiderComin

Before Buck's commitment to Little Bird, his heart belonged to another.

Cherished Memories

By: H Forbes

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Closed Door Romance
There is a heavy romance theme, and kissing, but anything past that is completely fade to black. Intimacy is behind closed doors.

Themes & Tropes
First Kiss, Native American Culture/Lore, Marriage before Intimacy, 2nd Chance, Soul Sisters, Friends to Lovers

Content Warnings
Miscarriage/Loss of a Child

10/2024 - Edited for typos, New formatting

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Part One – Kisses & Starlight

Chapter 1

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1852

Siobhan's breath fogged up the window as she stared out at the Nebraska frontier. The dirt trail in front of her seemed to go on forever, like a thin lifeline connecting their lonely homestead to the rest of the world. At seven, she felt stuck between being a kid and growing up, kind of like how this land was caught between being wild and settled.

Six months ago, Atticus Kelly had packed up their family and moved them from the neat streets of Philadelphia to this wide-open place. At forty-five, he cut an imposing figure - not just in stature, but in the weight of purpose that seemed to emanate from him. His new role as Indian agent filled him with a sense of destiny, a belief that he could bridge the chasm between two worlds.

Eadaoine Kelly, once the belle of Philadelphia society, now found herself adrift in a sea of grass and sky. At forty-two, her beauty remained undimmed, but bitterness had begun to etch lines around her mouth. The stark beauty of the plains was lost on her; she saw only desolation where Atticus envisioned possibility.

A tiny dot showed up on the horizon, getting bigger by the second. Siobhan's heart did a little jump. "Papa!" She yelled, racing for the door so fast her feet barely touched the floor.

The air got thick with tension as Eadaoine came out onto the porch. When she spoke, her voice was sharp and cold. "Atticus. Where've you been?"

Atticus got down from his horse, moving slow and careful. The smile he gave them was complicated in a way Siobhan couldn't quite figure out. "Had some trouble at the fort," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"Trouble?" Eadaoine's laugh held no mirth. "Why can't the army simply eradicate those savages and be done with it?"

"They're not savages, Eadaoine," Atticus countered, steel underlying his gentle tone. "They're people, fighting for survival in a world that's changing faster than they can adapt."

Siobhan watched her parents, feeling like the family she knew was falling apart right in front of her. That night, lying in bed, she tried to hear what her parents were saying through the thin walls.

"I can't keep doing this, Atticus," Eadaoine's voice shook. "This isn't what we planned."

"Just give it some time," Atticus begged. "There's so much we could do here."

"Like what? More fighting? More being stuck out here alone?"

Siobhan couldn't sleep, left thinking about how her parents seemed to be drifting further and further apart.

Dawn broke, painting the prairie in hues of amber and rose. Siobhan found her father on the porch, pipe smoke wreathing his head like a crown of mist.

"Papa," she ventured, settling beside him. "Tell me about your trip."

As Atticus spoke of vast prairies and towering mountains, Siobhan's imagination soared. But when she asked about the Indians, his expression grew somber.

"They're facing hard times, Siobhan. The government's pushing them onto smaller and smaller parcels of land. It's not right."

"But why? Isn't there enough land for everyone?"

Atticus sighed, the weight of the world seeming to settle on his shoulders. "It's complicated, love. Fear and misunderstanding breed hatred. Some folks see the Indians as less than human because they don't understand their ways."

They had to stop talking when Eadaoine called out sharply from inside. In the kitchen, you could feel the tension, like the air before a storm. Eadaoine moved around jerkily, not saying a word.

"Mama," Siobhan tried. "Are you mad at Papa?"

Eadaoine's hands stopped moving on the dough she was kneading. For just a second, Siobhan saw how hurt she was before her face went blank again. "It's not that easy, Siobhan."

"Why don't you like it here? It's so... big and open."

Eadaoine laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Open? Is that what you call being stuck out here? Always worrying?"

As the day unfolded, Siobhan found herself caught between two worlds - her father's realm of adventure and possibility, and her mother's longing for refinement and safety. The vast openness of the prairie that filled her with wonder was the very thing that filled Eadaoine with dread.

Evening brought a commotion outside their cabin. Atticus moved to investigate, despite Eadaoine's protests. As he stepped into the gathering darkness, Eadaoine's composure crumbled. She sank into a chair, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

When Atticus returned, his face was grave. "There's been an incident at the reservation. I have to go."

"Now? In the middle of the night?" Eadaoine's voice rose with each word.

"I don't have a choice," Atticus replied, already gathering his things. "Lives could be at stake."

"And what about our lives?" Eadaoine cried. "What about your family?"

As Atticus prepared to leave, he knelt before Siobhan, his weathered hands framing her face. "Be brave, little one," he murmured. "Take care of your mother. I'll be back as soon as I can."

In the silence that followed his departure, Siobhan wrapped her arms around her mother's shoulders. "He'll come back," she whispered, as much to reassure herself as her mother. "He always does."

That night, as Siobhan lay awake listening to the wind's mournful howl, she found herself torn between the two halves of her world. She loved both her parents fiercely, even as their conflicting visions threatened to tear their family apart.

As sleep finally claimed her, Siobhan's last conscious thought was a silent wish - for understanding, for compromise, for a way to bridge the chasm that seemed to widen with each passing day. In her dreams, she saw a future where the untamed beauty of the frontier and the refinement of city life could coexist, where her family could find harmony in this new land they now called home.

But that future, she knew deep down, was far from certain. The challenges that lay ahead were as vast and unpredictable as the prairie itself. And in the days to come, Siobhan would find herself tested in ways she never imagined, forced to navigate the treacherous waters of a family divided and a land in turmoil.

---

Chapter 2

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1852

The rhythmic creaking of wagon wheels had lulled Siobhan into a fitful slumber, her dreams filled with images of the Indians she'd glimpsed at Fort Laramie months ago. When her father's voice pierced through her unconsciousness, she blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the play of sunlight through the canvas tarp.

"Siobhan!" Atticus's face appeared above her, a mixture of surprise and concern etched across his features. "What in heaven's name are you doing in there?"

As he lifted her from the wagon, setting her down on sun-warmed grass, Siobhan's eyes widened at the sight before her. A sprawling camp stretched out, dotted with conical teepees and alive with activity. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with unfamiliar aromas, creating an intoxicating scent that made her head spin.

"I wanted to see the Indians," she admitted, her voice small but determined. "Mama always says no, but I just had to come."

Atticus's brow furrowed, his expression caught between admiration for her spirit and worry over the consequences. "Your mother is going to be beside herself with worry," he warned, his tone grave.

"Your daughter has a curious heart."

The deep, resonant voice drew Siobhan's attention. She looked up, craning her neck to meet the gaze of a man who towered over even her father. His leather shirt, adorned with intricate beadwork that caught the sunlight, spoke of craftsmanship beyond anything she'd seen in Philadelphia. Three eagle feathers adorned his long, dark hair, swaying gently in the breeze.

"Charging Horse, this is my daughter, Siobhan," Atticus introduced, a note of pride creeping into his voice despite the circumstances.

Siobhan stepped forward, her heart hammering against her ribs. She dipped into a small curtsy, just as her etiquette lessons had taught her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Charging Horse's face creased into a warm smile, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement. He spoke a few words in Kiowa, then gestured towards a group of children playing nearby. Their laughter carried on the wind, a song of childhood joy.

Atticus chuckled softly. "He's inviting you to join them," he translated. "Go on, they want to include you."

Hesitation warred with curiosity in Siobhan's chest. She glanced back at her father, seeking reassurance. At his encouraging nod, she took a tentative step towards the children. An older girl with long braids noticed her approach and extended a hand in welcome. Despite the language barrier, the gesture was universal. Siobhan reached out, her pale freckled hand enveloped by the girl's sun-bronzed fingers.

The girl spoke rapidly in Kiowa, her words incomprehensible to Siobhan but her tone was warm and inviting. Together, they wove through the maze of teepees towards an open meadow where other children were engrossed in a lively game.

Two boys took turns throwing long sticks at a series of netted hoops propped upright in the grass. Their movements were fluid, practiced, accompanied by shouts of encouragement and good-natured ribbing. When one boy finally landed his stick through the center of a hoop, a chorus of cheers erupted.

The older girl squeezed Siobhan's hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Come play," she said, her English accented but clear.

Siobhan's face lit up with a grin. "How do you play?" she asked, scooping up a discarded stick from the ground.

Through a combination of gestures, broken English, and Kiowa words, the girl explained the basics of the game. Siobhan listened intently, her brow furrowed in concentration. Taking a deep breath, she launched her stick through the air. It sailed past the hoops, but the near miss elicited gasps and encouraging shouts from the other children.

As the afternoon wore on, Siobhan found herself drawn into other activities. She sat with a group of girls, their fingers deftly weaving intricate patterns with colorful beads. The older girl who had first welcomed her introduced herself as "Sweetgrass Woman" in English, then gestured to another girl. "This is A:cáui Dáu:gya," she said. "We call her Song Bird."

Siobhan's eyes widened in fascination. "Your names are beautiful," she breathed. "My name is Siobhan."

Song Bird tilted her head, her dark eyes curious. "Sha-von?" she repeated, carefully mimicking the sound.

As they worked, Sweetgrass Woman motioned to another girl to join them. "A:cáui Syânde," she called. The girl, who seemed close to Siobhan's age, crept closer shyly and settled beside them. Her jet-black braids were adorned with fewer beads than the others, and her clothes seemed worn, but her eyes shone with a quiet curiosity.

"You live here?" Siobhan asked, surprised to see another white girl among the Kiowa children.

The girl nodded shyly. "My parents died," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What was your name before?" Siobhan inquired gently.

"Camille," the girl whispered, reaching out to touch Siobhan's bright red hair with wonder.

Sweetgrass Woman's voice took on a fierce, protective tone. "She is my sister now," she declared. "We found her lost and alone on the plains a few moons ago. Now, she is A:cáui Syânde, Little Bird, one of us."

The peaceful atmosphere was interrupted by the approach of two young men, their voices deep and their conversation punctuated by animated gestures. Sweetgrass Woman engaged them, her expression growing serious. The taller of the two men fixed Siobhan with a piercing gaze, then spoke to Sweetgrass Woman, pointing in her direction.

Siobhan felt a knot of unease form in her stomach as she suddenly became the center of attention. "What is he saying?" she whispered, her eyes darting between the young men and Sweetgrass Woman.

The shorter of the two men, noticing her discomfort, offered a reassuring smile. "He asks who you are," he explained in accented English. "Don't worry, he just wants to know why you're here with us."

Siobhan released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Oh," she murmured, relieved.

"I am called Sáé Gúldáu," the tall man introduced himself, then gestured to his companion. "T'àu éy T'ái."

As Sweetgrass Woman left with the taller man, Siobhan turned her attention to the remaining boy. "What's your name again?" she asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables.

"T'àu éy T'ái," he repeated patiently.

"Tow hay tie?" Siobhan attempted, her tongue struggling with the foreign sounds.

"It means Running Buck," he explained, settling himself in the grass beside Siobhan and Little Bird.

As the afternoon light began to soften, Siobhan found herself at the center of a circle of curious children. They marveled at her red hair, a shade unlike anything they'd seen before. Little Bird, emboldened by the experience of being different, began to translate, bridging the gap between Siobhan and the others.

Running Buck, his initial wariness melting away, began to teach Siobhan words in Kiowa. She repeated them carefully, her pronunciation eliciting giggles from the younger children and encouraging nods from the older ones. In return, she taught them simple English phrases, delighting in their attempts to wrap their tongues around the unfamiliar sounds.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink, Siobhan heard her father's voice calling her name. A pang of regret shot through her heart as she realized her adventure was coming to an end.

Running Buck noticed her expression and offered a small smile. "You will come again?" he asked, hope evident in his voice.

Siobhan nodded enthusiastically. "I'll will try," she promised, her mind already working on ways to convince her mother.

As she walked back towards her father, flanked by her new friends, Siobhan felt a profound sense of change settling over her. The world had suddenly become larger, more complex, and infinitely more fascinating than she had ever imagined. She knew, with the certainty that only a child can possess, that this day would mark a turning point in her life.

Atticus watched his daughter approach, noting the way she moved with newfound confidence among the Kiowa children. Pride swelled in his chest, tinged with a hint of worry. He knew the path ahead would not be easy, but seeing Siobhan's radiant smile, he couldn't help but feel hope for the future.

As they prepared to leave, Siobhan turned back for one last look at the camp. Little Bird caught her eye and raised a hand in farewell. In that moment, a silent promise passed between them – a bridge formed between two worlds.

The wagon creaked as Atticus helped Siobhan climb aboard. As they set off towards home, the first stars began to twinkle in the deepening twilight. Siobhan leaned against her father, her mind whirling with new experiences and the weight of unspoken questions.

"Papa," she began hesitantly, "do you think... do you think Mama will very upset?"

Atticus sighed, wrapping an arm around his daughter's shoulders. "It won't be easy, little one," he admitted. "But we'll face it together. Sometimes, understanding takes time and patience."

Siobhan nodded, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the last light of day was fading. She knew the conversation that awaited her at home would be difficult, but the memories of the day gave her courage.

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Chapter 3

Butte Meadows, Nebraska – 1852

Siobhan huddled in the far corner of her small bedroom, her knees drawn up to her chest. The fading light of day cast shadows across the rough wooden floorboards, mirroring the dark thoughts that tumbled through her mind. Her stomach growled, a reminder of the dinner she was missing, but the hunger paled in comparison to the ache in her heart.

The muffled sounds of her parents' argument drifted up from below, each raised voice sending a shiver down her spine. Siobhan pressed her hands against her ears, trying to block out the words, but they seemed to seep through her fingers like wisps of smoke.

"If you would only come with me, Eadaoine, you might understand," her father's voice, usually so steady and reassuring, now carried a note of desperation that made Siobhan's chest tighten.

"I understand plenty from those wretched newspapers!" Her mother's sharp retort cut through the air like a knife. The clatter of dishes disrupted her words, each bang making Siobhan flinch. "I certainly don't need any firsthand experience, thank you very much! And I absolutely will not have my daughter—"

"She's nearly eight, Eadaoine. You underestimate her. Siobhan is capable of forming her own opinions."

Siobhan's heart swelled at her father's words. He believed in her, saw her as more than just a child. But the warmth of that thought was quickly chilled by her mother's response.

"She is a child!" Eadaoine's voice rose, a tremor of fear underlying the anger. "She should be adorned in lace and taffeta, playing with dolls like other girls her age, not… not cavorting with savages in the dirt!"

Unable to contain herself any longer, Siobhan pushed open her bedroom door. Her legs trembled as she made her way down the narrow staircase.

"Mama," she stammered, her voice small but determined as she entered the kitchen. "There are girls like me there."

Eadaoine turned, her face a mask of disapproval that made Siobhan want to shrink back into the shadows. "No, Siobhan," she said, her voice clipped and cold. "They are not like us."

Siobhan felt a flicker of defiance ignite in her chest. "There's a white girl named Camille," she persisted, her hand reaching out hesitantly towards her mother, longing for understanding.

"See, Atticus? You expose her to these barbarians who probably stole that poor child and subjected her to who knows what horrors!" Eadaoine's voice laced with a mixture of fear and outrage that made Siobhan's stomach churn.

"Her parents died, Mama," Siobhan explained softly, her heart swelling with empathy for Camille. The memory of the girl's quiet strength in the face of such loss filled Siobhan with a fierce protectiveness. "They took her in."

"Dead or alive, that child is better off away from them!" Eadaoine countered, her voice sharp enough to cut.

Siobhan opened her mouth to interject, to defend her new friends, but before a single word could escape her lips, her mother's hand clamped onto her arm with surprising force.

"No, I will not hear another word of it!" Eadaoine exclaimed, her voice shaking. Her grip tightened, fear morphing into anger that radiated through her touch. "You are forbidden from having any contact with those Godless heathens, Siobhan. Do you understand me?"

The injustice welled up inside Siobhan. "But that's not fair!" she cried out, tears spilling down her cheeks. A spark of defiance flickered in her gaze.

Atticus, his face etched with lines of worry, stepped forward and gently pried Eadaoine's hand from their daughter's arm. "That's enough, Eadaoine," he said firmly, his voice laced with a quiet authority that seemed to still the very air around them.

Siobhan looked up at her father, her green eyes pleading for understanding, for support. But the weariness in his gaze told her that this battle was far from over.

"Go back to your room, Siobhan," Atticus said softly, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder.

The touch, meant to be comforting, felt like a dismissal. Siobhan's shoulders slumped as she turned and trudged back up the stairs, each step heavy with disappointment and confusion.

Back in her room, Siobhan curled up on her bed, burying her face in her pillow to muffle her sobs. The joy and wonder of her day with the Kiowa children now felt tainted, overshadowed by her mother's fear and anger.

As the last light of day faded, giving way to the deep blue of twilight, Siobhan's tears gradually subsided. In their place, a determination began to take root. She thought of Camille, of Sweetgrass Woman, of Running Buck. Their faces floated in her mind, reminding her of the connection she'd felt.

Rolling onto her back, Siobhan stared up at the rough-hewn beams of her ceiling. As sleep finally began to claim her, Siobhan's last thoughts were of the vast prairie, of laughter shared across language barriers, and of the hope that tomorrow might bring understanding. In her dreams, she ran free under an endless sky, the wind in her hair carrying whispers of a future where fear gave way to friendship, and where the worlds of her mother and father could finally meet in harmony.

---

Chapter 4

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1853

The harsh Nebraska winter had come and gone, leaving behind a world reborn. Tender green shoots pushed through the thawing earth, a tentative promise of warmth to come. Siobhan's heart raced with anticipation, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. After months of waiting, of being the model of daughterly obedience, the day had finally arrived - her first sanctioned visit to the Kiowa village.

The compromise struck between her parents still felt like a fragile thing, as delicate as the first spring blossoms. Once a month, her father had argued. Once a month, under his watchful eye.

As the collection of teepees came into view, nestled amongst the rolling plains like a flock of great birds at rest, Siobhan's breath caught in her throat. There, at the outskirts of the village, a familiar figure waved enthusiastically. Little Bird.

The wagon had barely lurched to a halt before Siobhan leaped from the bench, her feet hitting the ground running. The tall grass whipped against her legs as she raced towards her friend, all thoughts of ladylike decorum forgotten in the rush of joy.

"Why didn't you come with your father sooner?" Little Bird greeted her, gap-toothed smile as warm as Siobhan remembered.

The question sent a pang through Siobhan's chest. "My mother wouldn't let me," she confessed in a hushed voice, glancing back at her father who was busy tethering the horses.

Little Bird's brow furrowed in confusion, but only for a moment. "Now we will be friends again," she declared with the unshakeable certainty of youth, grasping Siobhan's hand and tugging her towards the village.

As they walked, Siobhan's curiosity bubbled over. "How old are you?" she asked, drinking in the sights and sounds of the camp.

"Nine years," Little Bird replied proudly.

"I'm almost eight," Siobhan offered in return, a hint of awe in her voice at her friend's seniority.

Little Bird giggled, the sound as light and carefree as wind chimes. "You are already taller than me!" She reached into a small pouch at her waist, pulling out a piece of dried apple. "Here, you want?"

Siobhan accepted the offering gratefully, the tart sweetness exploding on her tongue. As she savored the treat, Little Bird's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Come with me!" she urged, once again leading Siobhan by the hand.

They raced through fields of golden grass, laughter trailing behind them. The sun beat down, fierce and unrelenting, and Siobhan could feel sweat beginning to bead on her brow. Just as she was about to suggest a rest, the land dipped, revealing a cool, inviting creek.

Little Bird wasted no time, shedding her buckskin dress and splashing into the shallow water with the other children. "Come on in!" she called back, beckoning Siobhan closer.

Siobhan approached the water's edge cautiously, the coolness reaching out to her from the bank. She dipped her toes in, gasping at the shock of cold. "It's freezing!" she exclaimed with a laugh, pulling back her foot.

"Bay soy aum!" Little Bird teased, splashing water in Siobhan's direction. "Hurry up!"

A sharp voice cut through the air, making both girls turn. Sweetgrass Woman stood a few paces away, her expression stern. "A:cáui Syânde!" she called out in Kiowa, disapproval evident in her tone.

Little Bird scowled back defiantly but said nothing. Instead, she paddled swiftly across the dammed section of the creek to the larger pool beyond, clambering onto a large rock with practiced agility.

Siobhan felt torn. She longed to join her friend, but the water's depth caused her distress. Carefully, she unbuttoned her worn calico dress, folding it neatly and placing it on a sun-warmed rock near the bank.

"You can't swim?" A familiar voice startled her from her thoughts. Siobhan turned to see Running Buck, the lanky boy she'd met on her last visit, wading into the water with ease.

Siobhan shook her head nervously, the creek suddenly seeming much deeper than before.

"Like this," Running Buck demonstrated, moving his arms slowly through the water. Hesitantly, Siobhan mimicked his movements, feeling the cool water lap against her arms.

"Good!" Running Buck exclaimed, his smile widening. Sensing her lingering apprehension, he extended his arms towards her. "I will help you."

Siobhan stared at him for a moment, her fear battling with the desire to join Little Bird. Slowly, she reached out and grasped his wrists, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool water. As they began to walk deeper, the water swirling around her chest, panic rose in Siobhan's throat.

"No, I can't!" she blurted out. "I don't want to go all the way across!"

"It is... thaw gyah." Running Buck soothed, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right English words. "Kick."

Siobhan squeezed her eyes shut and followed his instructions. As she kicked, a strange sensation filled her. For a moment, it felt like she was suspended, weightless, cradled by the cool embrace of the water. A giggle escaped her lips as she peeked open one eye.

"Hàu!" Running Buck encouraged her, his smile beaming.

When her feet finally touched the bottom on the other side, a wave of relief washed over Siobhan. "Thank you," she said breathlessly, her fear replaced by a newfound sense of accomplishment.

Running Buck shrugged, his smile sheepish. "Sorry you were afraid," he mumbled. "The English is not good like Áuso̱dau Má."

As Siobhan caught her breath, she noticed a group of older boys splashing and yelling near the other bank. Their laughter seemed strained, and they kept throwing hostile glances in Running Buck's direction.

Curiosity piqued, she turned back to Running Buck. "Why did they do that?" she whispered, noticing the way his jaw clenched with frustration.

Running Buck hesitated, then shrugged. "We are not friends," he said simply.

"Why not?" Siobhan pressed, unable to imagine anyone not wanting to be friends with the kind boy who had just helped her across the creek.

Running Buck looked away, a shadow crossing his features. "It is this way," he muttered dismissively.

Siobhan felt a pang in her chest, recognizing the pain of exclusion in Running Buck's eyes. "We are friends, right?" she asked softly, moving into shallower water.

"Hàu," he nodded, a small smile returning to his face. "We are friends."

As the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, Siobhan reluctantly made her way back to where her father waited. Her dress clung to her damp skin, and her hair was a tangled mess, but her eyes shone with a light that hadn't been there before.

Atticus took in her appearance with a raised eyebrow, but there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "Did you have a good time, little one?" he asked softly.

Siobhan nodded, unable to find words big enough to contain the experiences of the day. As they climbed back into the wagon for the journey home, she cast one last look at the Kiowa camp. Little Bird and Running Buck stood at the edge of the creek, waving goodbye. Siobhan waved back, already counting the days until her next visit.

---

Chapter 5

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1857

Five summers had stretched across the prairie, each day bleeding into the next with monotonous regularity. Siobhan, now thirteen, felt the weight of those years in every creak of the farmhouse's weathered boards, in every furrow that deepened on her father's brow, in every sigh that escaped her mother's lips.

The morning unfolded like countless others before it. Siobhan's hands moved through familiar motions – scattering feed for the chickens, fingers probing beneath warm feathers for eggs, arms aching as she churned butter.

Just as resignation began to settle over her, a shout pierced the air, shattering the silence. Siobhan's head snapped up, ears straining. A familiar figure crested the rise in the distance, a flash of color against the muted tones of the landscape. Little Bird, her dark braid swinging wildly, sprinted towards the house, a wide grin wide on her face.

Excitement surged through Siobhan, tempered by a flicker of concern. Her gaze shifted to the figure trailing behind Little Bird. Running Buck moved with measured steps, his usual stoic demeanor in place. Yet, as their eyes met briefly across the distance, Siobhan caught a glimmer of something unreadable in his dark gaze.

Scrambling to her feet, Siobhan hastily brushed clinging dirt from her faded dress. "Little Bird! Running Buck!" she called out, curiosity and surprise coloring her voice. "What brings you all the way out here?"

Little Bird enveloped Siobhan in a fierce hug, her breath coming in excited gasps. "You didn't join your father last time," she explained, pulling back to search Siobhan's face.

"I was ill," Siobhan admitted, a pang of regret flashing through her.

Running Buck's voice, deeper now than she remembered, carried a note of concern. "You are better now?"

Siobhan nodded, a smile pulling at her lips. "Yes, I'm glad to see you both."

Little Bird's arm linked with hers, a familiar gesture that brought a rush of warmth. "We've missed you too!"

Caution tempered Siobhan's joy. Her mother's moods were unpredictable. "Come with me," she whispered, taking Little Bird's hand. With a shared look of understanding, she led them deeper into the trees, following a barely-there trail that snaked between towering red rock formations.

The air grew cooler as they ventured further, sunlight filtering through a canopy of ancient oak leaves. Running Buck reached a low-hanging branch and hoisted himself up with fluid grace. He turned back, extending a hand to help Siobhan and Little Bird join him.

Settled on the sturdy oak limb, Siobhan let her legs swing freely. The breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of sage and distant rain. "This is my haven," she confided, her voice hushed. "A place to escape... especially when my parents quarrel."

Running Buck's brow furrowed, the unfamiliar word catching in his throat. "Kwaw-ruhl?"

A rueful chuckle escaped Siobhan. "It means 'argue'," she explained, her shoulders sagging slightly. "Seems like that's all Papa and Ma ever do anymore."

Her gaze drifted towards the vast expanse of the canyon, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. "They just want different things, you see. Papa loves the open plains, the freedom it represents. Ma, well, she dreams of returning to Philadelphia."

Little Bird, perched beside her, tilted her head in curiosity. "Where's Philadelphia?" Her eyes widened with wonder.

Siobhan smiled, distant memories of cobblestone streets and towering buildings flickering through her mind. "It's a place with a lot of people, and a lot of noise. I barely remember it anymore."

"My brother visited Fort Laramie," Running Buck offered, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "He said there were many people there."

Suddenly, Little Bird bounced on the branch, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Running Buck is going on his vision quest this week!" she announced, pride evident in her voice.

Siobhan turned to Running Buck, curiosity piqued. "What is that?"

Running Buck's posture straightened, a mix of anticipation and nervousness flitting across his features. "I will go far away, four days," he explained, gesturing towards a distant ridgeline. "No food and water, seeking guidance from Da'-kiH." He glanced at Little Bird for help with the translation.

"The Great Spirit," Little Bird supplied, happy to bridge the language gap.

"I will have a vision," Running Buck continued, a note of pride creeping into his voice. "When I return, I return as a man."

Siobhan couldn't help but chuckle, the idea of someone barely older than herself being considered a man striking her as absurd. "You're barely older than I am," she pointed out.

A deep crimson flush crept up Running Buck's neck, spreading across his cheeks. The amusement in Siobhan's voice stung. Fifteen winters might seem young to her, but in his tribe, it marked a pivotal transition.

"It is our way," he said quietly, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. "The vision quest shows us our path, our purpose."

Siobhan's smile faded, sensing she had inadvertently caused offense. "I'm sorry," she offered, reaching out to touch Running Buck's arm. "I didn't mean to make light of it. It sounds... important."

Little Bird sensed the shift in mood. "Tell us more about Philadelphia," she urged, eager to steer the conversation to safer ground. "What do you miss most?"

Siobhan leaned back against the trunk of the oak, her eyes growing distant. "The sounds, I think," she mused. "The clatter of horse hooves on cobblestones, the calls of street vendors, the hum of so many people all around." A wistful smile played at her lips. "And the library – rows upon rows of books, more than you could read in a lifetime."

Running Buck's interest was piqued despite his lingering embarrassment. "You have many stories there?"

Siobhan nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, stories from all over the world. Tales of great adventures, of faraway lands, of people so different from us yet so alike in the things that matter."

As she spoke, Siobhan felt a familiar ache in her chest – not quite homesickness for a place she barely remembered, but a longing for the possibilities those books had represented. Here on the prairie, her world sometimes felt small, constrained by the tensions that simmered between her parents and the vast, empty spaces that stretched in every direction.

Little Bird's voice broke through her reverie. "Will you go back there someday?"

Siobhan's gaze drifted towards the distant horizon, where the pale blue sky met the rolling plains. "I don't know," she admitted softly. "Sometimes I think Ma would pack us up and leave tomorrow if she could. But Papa... this is his dream. And I..." She trailed off, uncertain how to articulate the conflicting emotions that warred within her.

Running Buck's hand found hers, a gentle pressure that conveyed understanding without words. "You belong to both worlds," he said, his voice low and thoughtful.

Siobhan's eyes met his, surprise and gratitude mingling in her gaze. Then, a question formed in her mind. "But couldn't you belong to both worlds too, T'àu éy T'ái?" she asked, her voice gentle but probing.

Little Bird translated Siobhan's words into Kiowa, her brow furrowing slightly as she grasped the weight of the question.

Running Buck's jaw tightened, a flicker of something - pain? defensiveness? - passing through his eyes. "No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "I am Kiowa."

But even as the words left his lips, a seed of doubt took root in Running Buck's heart. He thought of the sideways glances from some of the older tribe members, the whispered comments about the father he'd never known. He didn't truly belong with his brother's people either, treated with a mixture of pity and suspicion that set him apart no matter how hard he tried to prove himself.

Siobhan sensed the sadness behind Running Buck's stoic facade. She opened her mouth to press further, but Little Bird caught her eye, giving a slight shake of her head.

As the afternoon light began to soften, painting the canyon walls in rich hues of gold and crimson, the three friends sat in companionable silence. The weight of their unspoken thoughts seemed to settle around them like a heavy blanket - Running Buck's impending vision quest, the uncertain future that stretched before them all.

Siobhan knew that soon, she would have to return to the farmhouse, to the stifling atmosphere. But for now, perched high in the branches of the old oak, she allowed herself to simply be. To savor the presence of friends who understood her in ways her own family sometimes couldn't.

As the first stars began to twinkle in the deepening twilight, Siobhan made a silent vow. Whatever path lay ahead – whether it led back to the crowded streets of Philadelphia or deeper into the heart of this untamed land – she would carry this moment with her. The laughter of friends, the whisper of wind through the leaves, the sense of belonging to something larger than herself.

---

Chapter 6

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1857

Siobhan barely waited for her father to bring the wagon to a halt before she leaped from the bench. Her anticipation turned to concern when she didn't spot Little Bird, but her spirits lifted when she saw Running Buck strolling towards her, a smile lighting up his face.

"Where is Little Bird?" Siobhan inquired eagerly.

"She's being punished," Running Buck chuckled softly. "Come, follow me."

"What did she do?" Siobhan hurried to catch up with Running Buck as they made their way towards the familiar clearing by the creek.

"I'm not sure." He replied, unlacing his leggings and slipping off his moccasins. "I overheard Áuso̱dau Má and my brother's loud voices last night. She has to scrape hides until they are smooth, she will be busy until nightfall."

Their conversation flowed easily as they reached the water's edge. Running Buck found his gaze lingering on Siobhan, noticing the subtle changes that five years had wrought. The roundness of childhood had given way to the first hints of womanly curves, her face losing its baby softness to reveal high cheekbones and a delicate jaw. Her hair, once a wild tangle of fiery curls, now fell in smoother waves past her shoulders, darkening to a rich auburn.

"It's still strange that your brother and Áuso̱dau Má are married," Siobhan remarked, a mischievous note in her voice.

Running Buck chuckled. "What do you mean by strange?"

"Unusual, I guess." She clarified, stepping out of her dress and placing it on a nearby rock with a pile of discarded clothes. A touch of self-consciousness crept into her movements, aware of Running Buck's gaze.

"Why unusual?" He prodded further, his voice softer than usual.

Siobhan shrugged. "Because I used to play with her, and I've never had a playmate marry before."

"She is sixteen," Running Buck explained. "My brother waited three years to take her as his wife."

A teasing smile returned to Siobhan's face. "I suppose now that you've had your vision and become a man, you'll be getting married soon too."

"Siobhan—" Buck raised an eyebrow, a playful glint mirroring her own.

"There's that girl who always wears a green belt." Siobhan giggled as Running Buck began to chase her. "I think she likes you! Or maybe her friend, she's cute too!"

"You'd better run fast!" Running Buck called out, chasing after her with mock ferocity.

"You'll never catch me, T'àu éy T'ái!" Her laughter echoed through the clearing.

Emboldened by his teasing pursuit, Siobhan reached the rocky outcrop overlooking the deep creek. Memories of others leaping from the ledge danced in her head, a thrill coursing through her. Today felt different. Today, she wouldn't be a scared spectator.

Taking a deep breath, Siobhan stood at the edge of the rock, the wind whipping her hair. Below, the water churned, a mesmerizing swirl of blue and green. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, but a newfound determination pushed it aside. She glanced back at Running Buck, a silent challenge in her gaze.

With a shout, Siobhan launched herself into the air. The wind rushed past her ears as she plummeted towards the water, a mixture of fear and exhilaration coursing through her veins. But then, the water rushed up to meet her, a cold shock that knocked the breath from her lungs.

Panic seized her as she struggled to stay afloat, the playful teasing forgotten. Through the blurry water, she saw Running Buck dive in without hesitation, his powerful strokes propelling him towards her. Relief washed over her as he pulled her close, his strong arms a lifeline in the churning water.

"Siobhan!" He sputtered, his voice laced with worry. "I didn't see you come up. I thought..."

They clung to each other for a moment, the adrenaline slowly receding. A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of the gurgling water and their breaths.

"I just wanted to prove I could do it," Siobhan mumbled, her bravado momentarily deflated.

Running Buck pulled back slightly, his gaze searching hers. Over the past year, he'd noticed a shift in their relationship. The playful camaraderie they once shared had been tinged with something more, a flutter in his chest whenever their eyes met, a longing he couldn't quite explain. He'd dismissed it as a natural part of growing up, of witnessing the bonds between men and women in his tribe. But seeing her fear, seeing her vulnerability, a new feeling bloomed in his heart, a protective urge that intertwined with the growing affection.

"And I'm not marrying the girl with the green belt," Running Buck chuckled as he playfully pushed her head under the water.

Disoriented, she sputtered and surfaced, hair plastered to her face, a mixture of annoyance and amusement sparkling in her eyes. Siobhan coughed and swam towards the edge of the water.

Running Buck's grin faltered for a moment, a warmth spreading from his core to his fingertips. As he reached out to help her from the creek, their hands met, and a jolt of electricity shot through him, sending a shiver down his spine. It was a feeling unlike anything he'd ever known, a confusing tangle of protectiveness, a yearning to be closer, and a sweetness that left him breathless.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice softer than intended.

Siobhan met his gaze, a question lingering in her own depths. "I'm fine," she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice pulling at his heartstrings. But the sudden intensity of his emotions left him flustered. He retreated a step, the playful banter dissolving into a tense silence.

"I wouldn't hurt you, Siobhan," he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them.

Suddenly, compelled by an inexplicable urge, Running Buck leaned forward. The space between them closed in a blink, his breath warm against her lips. Before Siobhan could even register what was happening, his lips met hers in a clumsy, fumbling kiss. It was a fleeting touch, innocent and tender, yet it sent a spark shooting through her.

The kiss ended quick, leaving them both flushed and speechless. Running Buck stared at Siobhan, his dark eyes big with surprise, matching the questions in hers. The creek babbled softly nearby, filling the silence as they caught their breath. That short, clumsy kiss had changed things between them.

Running Buck looked at Siobhan's face, noticing things he'd never really seen before. He got lost in her eyes, green with bits of gold and amber, like the prairie grass around them in the sun.

His hand lifted, shaking a little, almost touching her cheek. "I... I shouldn't have done that," he said, his voice rough.

Siobhan's lips curved into a small smile, her cheeks getting pink. "It's okay," she whispered, her hand moving up to meet his.

As the afternoon light began to soften, painting the creek in hues of gold and amber, Siobhan and Running Buck sat side by side on the rocky bank. Their hands remained intertwined, a physical connection that mirrored the emotional bond deepening between them. They spoke in hushed tones, sharing hopes and fears that had long gone unvoiced, discovering new facets of each other with every word.

The future stretched before them, as vast and unpredictable as the land itself. There would be challenges ahead – but in that moment, with the creek's gentle song and the warmth of each other's presence, any concerns felt distant.

For now, they were content to exist in this space between childhood and adulthood, between two cultures, between friendship and something more. It was a precious, fleeting moment – one they would carry with them long into their lives.

---

Chapter 7

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1857

The muffled sounds of her parents' argument seeped through the pillow, a stark contrast to the joy Siobhan had hoped for on her birthday. Frustration and disappointment settled heavily in her chest. With her father's departure and the slamming of the door behind him, she knew she couldn't bear another moment indoors. It was her thirteenth birthday, a special day that should be filled with laughter and light, not the suffocating weight of her parents' arguing. Determined to find solace in the beauty that always soothed her, Siobhan threw on her coat and snuck out the back door.

Her favorite spot, a narrow plateau with sweeping views of the canyon, called to her with the allure of a stunning sunset and the promise of stars twinkling against the sound of crickets. As she raced across the meadow, her breath heavy from the effort, she spotted a familiar figure standing at the edge of the cliff.

"T'àu éy T'ái?" She called out.

He turned, a warm smile spreading across his face as he rose to meet her. "I hoped you would come," he greeted, his voice carrying across the distance. "It is your name day."

Siobhan's smile widened. "You remembered."

"Of course." He replied, extending a small, intricately woven bag towards her.

"What's this?" she inquired, her curiosity piqued.

"A gift for you," he answered simply.

She eagerly unraveled the bag's contents, her fingers tracing the intricate pattern of a circular beaded rosette. The colors – vibrant reds, oranges, and blues - mirrored the hues of the setting sun perfectly.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, an awed smile gracing her lips as she lifted the rosette to admire it. "I can't wait to wear it."

He gestured towards her neck. "Let me."

Siobhan nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly as she held still. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed against her skin as he carefully fastened the rosette around her neck. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, a new and unfamiliar sensation.

"I love it," she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur. "Thank you. I'll cherish it always."

"You're welcome," he replied softly.

They lay down in the grass on their backs, side by side in comfortable silence, the only sounds the gentle rustling of the wind through the tall grass and the distant chirping of crickets. The sky above them transformed into a breathtaking canvas of stars, each twinkle a tiny spark against the inky black sky.

Running Buck reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. His touch felt warm and reassuring. He turned his head to look at her, his eyes searching her face with a newfound intensity.

"Siobhan," he began, his voice low and thoughtful. "Do you remember when I went on my vision quest?"

She nodded, squeezing his hand gently in encouragement.

"There's something I want to tell you about it," he continued, his gaze drifting back to the star-studded sky. "Something that happened on my way home."

Siobhan turned on her side to face him, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. "What was it?"

Running Buck's lips curved into a soft smile. "As I was descending from the cliffs, I saw something I'd never seen before. There, growing from a crack in the rocky ground, was a single red flower."

His free hand reached out, gently touching a lock of Siobhan's hair that had fallen across her cheek. "It was the exact color of your hair, vibrant and alive against the harsh landscape. In that moment, all I could think of was you."

Siobhan's breath caught in her throat, her heart fluttering at the tenderness in his touch and words. "Really?" she whispered.

Running Buck nodded, his fingers now gently combing through her long red tresses. "It made me realize something, Siobhan. Something I think I've known for a long time but couldn't put into words."

"What?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Siobhan—" He began, his voice low and serious, a stark contrast to his usual playful demeanor. His gaze held a depth she hadn't noticed before, a mixture of nervousness and hope that sent a flutter to her stomach. "Will you be my wife?"

Siobhan couldn't help but burst into laughter at the unexpected proposition, though her heart raced at the sincerity in his eyes. "T'àu éy T'ái, I am only thirteen," she said, her voice gentle. "My parents won't let me marry for quite a while."

"I'll wait," he replied, rolling onto his side and touching her cheek softly. " Khote t'day aim doe."

"What does that mean?"

He touched his chest then touched hers.

"Me too," she smiled, understanding the sentiment even if she didn't know the words.

"Then you'll be my wife." Running Buck's declaration wasn't a question.

Siobhan rested her head in the crook of his arm and looked up at him. Her parents would never allow such a union. Yet, a truth bloomed in her heart, as undeniable as the constellations shining above. She wouldn't, couldn't, love another the way she loved him.

Running Buck's gaze held hers, searching for a response, a flicker of hope in his dark eyes. Their usual banter, filled with playful jabs and childhood laughter, seemed a lifetime ago. He leaned closer, the warmth of his breath tickling her cheek. The air crackled with a new kind of awareness, a current that sent shivers dancing down her spine.

Siobhan, her heart pounding, closed the distance between them. Her kiss was hesitant at first, a mere whisper of lips brushing against his. The innocence of their childhood bond intertwined with the awakening awareness of something deeper.

As they parted, Running Buck's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the curve of her jawline. "I will wait," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Siobhan nodded, words failing her in the face of such raw emotion. Instead, she snuggled closer to him, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the vast expanse of stars above and the promise of a future together, no matter the obstacles that lay ahead.

---

Chapter 8

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1857

Impatiently, Siobhan watched her father eating breakfast, knowing he was going out to visit the Kiowa, and she wanted to leave before her mother got up. It was always easier to avoid a fight altogether.

Three weeks had passed since her birthday, a seemingly endless stretch of time interrupted only by the memory of Running Buck's tender kiss. She had only been able to visit the Kiowa camp once since then, and on that occasion, Running Buck was away on a hunt with his elder brother.

"Siobhan." Atticus cleared his throat. His voice, usually warm and gentle, held a hint of apprehension.

"Yes, Papa?"

He set his mug down, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of concern and a strange indecisiveness. "I've been thinking about things, and I believe that at your age, you should be engaging in activities more typical for girls your age."

Siobhan's smile faltered. "What do you mean, Papa?" She inquired, a flicker of unease settling in her stomach.

"I mean that I've been taking you along on my ventures, and you haven't had the chance to develop your own interests." Atticus explained, his voice laced with a note of apology.

Siobhan felt a surge of frustration bubble within her. "Are you referring to visiting the Kiowa?" She asked.

Atticus hesitated before nodding. "Yes, among other things." He confessed, a frown creasing his brow. "I just think it's time for you to focus on something here, or find a hobby more suited for..."

He trailed off, unable to finish his thought. Siobhan knew exactly what he had been about to say and bristled at the implication. "More suited for who?" She interrupted, her voice rising slightly.

"Siobhan—"

"Papa, what is this about?" She pressed, her gaze fixed on him.

Atticus took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping defeatedly. "You're too old to be going there now." He mumbled, shaking his head. "It was fine when you were a child, but those boys have grown into young men, and the way they look at you..."

"Papa—" Siobhan began, her voice barely a whisper.

"No, Siobhan, you don't understand these things." He cut her off, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. "I don't like the way they look at you. It makes me nervous."

The door creaked open, and Eadaoine swept into the room, her usually vibrant emerald eyes narrowed into a glare. "Who is looking at my daughter in what way?" She demanded, her voice laced with icy fury. "Your filthy savages?"

Siobhan winced at the venom in her mother's voice. The use of such a hateful term sent a fresh wave of anger surging through her.

"Mother!" She exclaimed, unable to contain her growing frustration.

"I was just thinking that since Siobhan is coming of age, she should be engaging in more appropriate activities." Atticus sighed as he finished the last bite of his breakfast.

"Well, I'm glad you've finally come to your senses!" Eadaoine said firmly, her lips twisting into a smug smile.

Atticus looked at his wife and daughter, his heart heavy with the weight of their disagreement. He understood Eadaoine's concerns. Siobhan was on the cusp of womanhood, and the Kiowa traditions of early marriage did little to ease his anxieties. Yet, he also recognized the deep bond Siobhan shared with the tribe, especially with Running Buck and Little Bird. He had witnessed their friendship blossom over the years, and a part of him admired the connection they shared. But he had seen the way the young man had begun to look at his daughter. He knew all too well that look.

Eadaoine's spine stiffened, her chin lifting as she delivered her proclamation with the finality of a judge's gavel. "I'll make arrangements with my family," she declared, her voice ringing with joy. "They'll welcome us with open arms while we secure a fitting residence in Philadelphia."

"Mother, no!" Siobhan's protest erupted, raw and desperate.

Eadaoine's eyes flashed dangerously. "Mind your tongue, young lady!" she snapped, her words cracking like a whip. She turned to Atticus, triumph gleaming in her eyes. "You see? Such insolence! She's scarcely better than those... those people she's been cavorting with."

Atticus's brow furrowed, a hint of resistance flickering across his features. "Uprooting ourselves across the country seems... extreme," he ventured cautiously.

Eadaoine's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Oh, Atticus," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "You're welcome to remain here with your feathered acquaintances if you so choose. But make no mistake – we are returning to Philadelphia."

The kitchen fell silent, the weight of Eadaoine's words settling over them. Siobhan's eyes darted between her parents, noting her father's slumped shoulders and averted gaze. It was clear who held the reins of power in this moment.

Eadaoine stood tall, her emerald eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of one who knows they've won a crucial battle. Her declaration hung in the air, not as a suggestion or a topic for debate, but as an immutable fact. Philadelphia wasn't just a possibility – in Eadaoine's mind, it was already their future.

Siobhan felt the walls of her world contracting, squeezing the air from her lungs. The prairie beyond their homestead, once a symbol of endless possibility, now seemed to mock her with its openness. Her mind raced, grasping for arguments, for any way to change the course her mother had set.

But as she opened her mouth to speak, Eadaoine's stern gaze silenced her. In that moment, Siobhan realized the futility of further protest – at least for now. Her mother's will was an immovable force.

The air in the kitchen grew thick with simmering emotions. Atticus's gaze settled on his daughter, noting the stubborn set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes that mirrored his own conflicted determination. In that moment, he realized that any decision made would irrevocably alter the course of their lives. The delicate balance they'd maintained for years had finally tipped, and the consequences would ripple out far beyond their small farmhouse.

---

Chapter 9

Butte Meadows, Nebraska - 1857

Atticus's boots stirred up small clouds of dust as he stepped down from the wagon, his movements heavy with resignation. The creak of the wooden wheels seemed to echo the ache in his heart as he raised a hand in a solemn greeting to Charging Horse. The Kiowa chief's weathered face, etched with the wisdom of years, reflected a deep understanding of the pain etched across Atticus's features.

"Your daughter isn't with you," Charging Horse observed, his tone gentle yet probing.

Atticus swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat like burrs. "Her mother took her back east," he finally managed, each syllable weighted with regret.

Charging Horse's hand found Atticus's shoulder, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in Atticus's chest. "There are things beyond our control," he murmured, the Kiowa words rolling off his tongue with the cadence of an ancient truth.

Atticus's gaze dropped to his boots, scuffed and worn from countless journeys between two worlds. "I know," he rasped, the admission tasting bitter on his tongue. "But it feels like I failed her."

"You have not failed," Charging Horse countered, his voice firm yet kind. "You instilled in your daughter a strong spirit, a curiosity for the world. These are gifts that will stay with her, no matter where she goes."

A flicker of hope, fragile as a newly kindled flame, sparked in Atticus's eyes. He looked up at the chief, searching his face for any sign of doubt. "You truly believe that?"

"I do," Charging Horse affirmed, his dark eyes steady and sure.

The weight of their exchange hung in the air, as tangible as the scent of sage carried on the prairie wind. It was into this charged atmosphere that Little Bird emerged from between the teepees, her dark braids swaying with each step. Her approach faltered as she took in Atticus's solitary figure, her large brown eyes clouding with concern.

"Where is Siobhan?" The question fell from her lips in a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter some fragile hope.

Atticus's throat constricted, the pain of delivering this news anew threatening to overwhelm him. "Her mother took her back to her family in Philadelphia," he managed, his voice thick with emotion.

Little Bird staggered slightly, tears welling up in her eyes, transforming them into twin pools of sorrow.

It was at this moment that Running Buck materialized beside her, his lean frame taut with tension. He had approached silently, drawn by some instinct that told him something was terribly wrong. As the meaning of Atticus's words sank in, Running Buck's face hardened, a mask slipping into place to conceal the turmoil within.

"For how long?" he asked, his voice stripped of its usual warmth and vitality.

Atticus met the young man's gaze, recognizing the depth of emotion Running Buck was struggling to contain. "She ain't coming back, son," he said plainly, the harsh truth hanging between them like a barrier.

Running Buck's jaw clenched, the muscles working beneath his skin as he fought to maintain his composure. He understood Little Bird's pain, the ache of a severed connection. But for him, Siobhan's absence felt like a vital part of himself had been torn away.

"Son," Atticus began, his voice gentle but firm, "Siobhan's gone to a world very different from this one. A world that may not understand..."

"I don't care," Running Buck interrupted, his voice gaining strength. "I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. No matter how long it takes."

Atticus's eyes softened with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. "I'm sorry, Buck," he said, the words heavy with finality. "Siobhan is not coming back."

The statement hung in the air, sharp and unyielding. Running Buck felt as if the ground beneath his feet had suddenly shifted, leaving him unsteady and disoriented.

Without another word, Atticus turned and climbed back into his wagon. The creak of wood and the soft thud of hooves marked his departure, leaving a void that seemed to grow with each passing moment.

As the sound of the wagon faded into the distance, Charging Horse stepped closer to Running Buck. His weathered face held a depth of understanding that transcended words.

"I am sorry the girl has gone," Charging Horse said, his English clear and measured, with only a slight accent. "But we must remember that all things happen for a reason. Little Bird was chosen for you. It is a good match, one that will bring strength to our tribe."

The chief's words pierced through the fog of Running Buck's grief, igniting a spark of confusion and disbelief. He turned to Little Bird, searching her face for any sign of prior knowledge or agreement.

Little Bird's eyes, still glistening with tears shed for her lost friend, now held a new emotion – a mixture of resignation and uncertainty. She stepped closer to Running Buck, her movements tentative yet purposeful.

As Charging Horse moved away, his soft footsteps fading into the background, Running Buck and Little Bird stood side by side, their shoulders nearly touching. The familiar comfort of their friendship mingled with a new, uncertain tension.

After a moment's hesitation, Little Bird's hand found Running Buck's. Their fingers intertwined, a gesture born of shared grief and the weight of expectations now resting upon them. Neither spoke, but in the gentle pressure of their clasped hands, a silent understanding passed between them.

They were both mourning – Running Buck for a future now lost, Little Bird for a friend who had become like a sister. Yet in their shared sorrow, there was also a flicker of something else. A recognition, perhaps, that they were not alone in facing the path that lay ahead.

Their gazes met briefly, fear, uncertainty, and a hint of curiosity all mingled in that look. They were stepping into unknown territory, guided by the wisdom of their elders but treading carefully, each aware of the other's hesitation.

---

Part Two – Dust & Moonlight

Chapter 10

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - 1866

The lawyer's visit lingered in Siobhan's mind, his words about estate and inheritance. After a year steeped in loss, this latest blow felt like a cruel twist of fate. Uncle Shamus - her anchor, her last connection to family - was gone. His final letter offered a bittersweet solace.

Siobhan's fingers trembled as she unfolded the worn paper, her uncle's familiar script sprawling across the page. "Siobhan," it began, "If you're reading this, dear girl, I'm no longer with you, and for that, I am deeply sorry." Tears welled, blurring the ink. "The time we've shared has truly been the greatest years of my life."

A wistful smile crept across her face. Years together had been a sanctuary after the war's devastation and her mother's passing. The letter continued, "As you know, the war took so much from all of us..."

The mention of the conflict tore at barely-healed wounds. When it began, Siobhan had been hidden away at the female academy in Missouri, her mother's attempt to mold her into marriageable material. But as news of casualties mounted, something stirred within her - a need to contribute, to make a difference.

Defying her mother's wishes, Siobhan returned to Pennsylvania and Uncle Shamus. There, she found purpose. Days blurred together as she tended wounded soldiers, their bodies and spirits ravaged. When not at hospitals, she joined the Christian Coalition for Women, mending uniforms and crafting small comforts for those on the front lines.

"As you know," the letter continued, "my own dear wife passed, and I never had a family of my own. I've thought of you as a daughter these past years we've spent together..."

Siobhan's gaze drifted to the empty decanter on her uncle's desk, its promise of oblivion tempting. A clatter startled her from her reverie. A small wooden box lay toppled on the desk's corner, its faded label reading "Atticus Kelly." Her father's name.

Heart pounding, she carefully opened it. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay two envelopes. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the one addressed in her father's hand, bracing herself for what secrets it might hold.

---

Chapter 11

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - 1866

May 24th, 1865

My Dearest Siobhan,

Word has at last reached these dusty plains – the war is over, praise be! I pray this letter finds you and your mother well, safe in the shelter of your Uncle Shamus's home.

My plans, however, have taken an unexpected turn. As I readied myself for the journey north, news came of a treaty. The Lakota people are scattering from their lands, lured by government promises.

Knowing their plight and the trials of starting anew on strange soil, I felt compelled to offer aid. They may face unscrupulous men or struggle to adapt. My knowledge of their ways, limited though it may be, could prove of use in these trying times.

Thus, with a heavy heart but clear conscience, I must set my course westward. I shall spend time with the Lakota, ensuring their welfare and offering what guidance I can.

Fear not, my darling daughter, my journey to you and your mother is but delayed, not abandoned. I will write again when matters are clearer. Until then, hold fast to the joy of peace and know that I carry you both in my heart.

With all my love,

Your Father

Siobhan lowered the letter, a wave of grief washing over her. The familiar sting of disappointment mirrored the emptiness that had haunted her for years. Her father spoke of duty and helping others – noble sentiments that rang hollow in the face of his constant absence.

Her mother's voice, tinged with years of bitterness, echoed in her mind. "He's a dreamer, Siobhan, always chasing some cause or another. Never a thought for the wife and child left behind." A harsh truth Siobhan had come to understand all too well.

The letter, penned just over a year ago, spoke of visiting after the war's end. Anger flared within her. Where had he been while she tended to the wounded, her heart heavy with the horrors she'd witnessed? He hadn't come when her mother fell ill, nor when she passed. He hadn't been there when his own brother drew his last breath.

A tear traced a warm path down her cheek. She understood his dedication to helping others, a quality she grudgingly admired. But what of his own flesh and blood? The promise to see her "when matters are clearer" felt like a cruel echo of all his unfulfilled promises.

Siobhan carefully folded the letter, tucking it away with a leaden heart. Her father, it seemed, was a man of good intentions and a trail of broken vows. She would have to forge ahead, carving out a future for herself in this world – alone.

---

Chapter 12

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - 1866

Siobhan returned her father's letter to the box, her fingers lingering on the worn edges. Uncle Shamus had likely kept it from her to shield her from further heartache. The second letter lay nestled beside it, its elegant script a stark contrast to her father's rugged hand.

Her joints protested as she rose, the floorboards groaning beneath her feet. Siobhan made her way to the fireplace, sinking into the cushioned chair. Dying embers cast flickering shadows across the room as she unfolded the letter. Her breath caught when she saw the name at the bottom – Little Bird.

January 25, 1862

Mr. Kelly,

I write in hopes of reconnecting with your daughter, Siobhan. I am Camille, once known as Little Bird – the white girl with dark hair who played alongside Siobhan in the Kiowa village. Life has led me to St. Joseph, Missouri, where I've made a home with my husband. Memories of our childhood friendship often surface, and I wonder how Siobhan's path has unfolded. If you would be so kind as to pass this letter to her, I would be most grateful.

Sincerely,

Camille Barlow – Little Bird

Siobhan set the letter aside, closing her eyes. She grasped at fading memories of her father's face, of the Kiowa village. Only once before had she received word from him, when she was fourteen and newly arrived in Pennsylvania. She recalled devouring that letter, each word searing itself into her young mind.

Her father had written of Red Bear and Sweetgrass Woman expecting a child, but it was the news of T'àu éy T'ái's betrothal to Little Bird that had shattered her. For months, she'd nursed a broken heart, clinging to whispered promises made under Nebraska skies.

At twenty-two, Siobhan viewed those childhood vows through a lens of hard-won wisdom. T'àu éy T'ái was a man now, with his own desires and duties. Still, a twinge of envy pricked at her heart. She pushed it aside, genuinely wishing happiness for both Running Buck and Little Bird.

With renewed energy, Siobhan returned to the desk. She pulled out a crisp sheet of paper, dipped the pen, and pondered the name 'Barlow.' What life had Running Buck and Camille built in Missouri? Did they have children? Eager to reconnect with a fragment of her past, Siobhan began to write.

---

Chapter 13

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - 1866

June 12, 1866

Dear Camille,

Your letter brought such unexpected joy! To learn of your safety and contentment in marriage warms my heart. I can think of none more deserving of happiness than you, my old friend.

Life has taken me on quite a journey since we parted. My parents, hoping to shield me from the war's reach, sent me to school in Missouri. Their intentions were clear - to keep me safe, occupied, and in a position to secure a suitable marriage. But as you well know, I've never been one to follow the expected path.

To my mother's dismay, I felt called to make a difference. These past years have found me in soldiers' kitchens, mending uniforms, and reading letters to those whose eyes failed them. Oh, Camille, the words those brave men penned to their loved ones - they shattered my heart time and again.

Do you recall that summer day when Running Buck was teaching us to shoot arrows from horseback? His fierce determination to impress us led to that dreadful fall. I can still hear the sickening snap of his arm breaking. How quickly the air of competition vanished as his brother and the older boys rushed to help. They reset his bone right there in the field, and oh, Camille - the way Running Buck bit back his scream, his dark eyes meeting mine, brimming with pain yet so full of pride. I think that was the moment I truly fell in love with him. His bravery in the face of such agony, the man I saw emerging in that instant... it etched itself upon my heart.

It seems only right that my dearest sister should find happiness with my first love. Please know that I am truly joyful for you both.

My path takes me southward soon. I am to aid in the hospitals of southern Pennsylvania, tending those still suffering from this terrible war. Perhaps fate might see our roads cross once more?

Should you wish to write again, please direct your letters to the address below. I hold dear the hope of seeing you.

Your friend always,

Siobhan Kelly

As Siobhan sealed the letter, her mind drifted. Despite the years, she still found herself daydreaming of that young man who had touched her heart so deeply. His dark, piercing gaze and that unwavering spirit lingered in her memory. At twenty-two, her entire life stretched before her.

---

Chapter 14

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - 1866

Dear Siobhan,

Your letter brought such joy! I'd nearly given up hope of ever hearing from you again. I trust this finds you rested after your hospital duties. Though the war has ended, I imagine its scars linger. Your strength in tending to our wounded soldiers speaks volumes of your character.

Oh, how your memory of Running Buck's fall from his horse made me laugh! I'd almost forgotten that day. His pride suffered far more than his arm, I'd wager. I must confess, I was always a touch envious of the bond you two shared. The way his eyes sought you out, even as the older boys reset his arm - it was clear even then how deeply he cared for you. When you left, Siobhan... well, let's just say his heart took far longer to mend than his arm.

I should clarify something, though. The man who holds my heart is my husband, William Barlow. We met at Fort Laramie, and his love has been my guiding light ever since. I never dreamed I'd find such happiness.

Billy, as I call him, is cut from a different cloth entirely. He's got a keen mind for business and the gentlest heart. Every day with him feels like a gift.

But enough about me! Your letter has stirred up so many childhood memories. I long to catch up properly. Won't you consider a trip to St. Joseph? Billy and I would be overjoyed to host you. Our spare room is always ready, and our home is never short on laughter.

Think on it, dear sister. Your visit would be the brightest part of our year.

With love,

Camille

Siobhan lowered Camille's letter, her brow furrowed in contemplation. The room around her faded as her mind grappled with the unexpected turns life had taken. Running Buck, not married to Camille? A flicker of something - relief? curiosity? - stirred in her chest before she could quash it.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine the life she once thought lay ahead for Running Buck. In her mind's eye, she saw him, older now, but still with that mischievous glint in his dark eyes. He'd be a patient father, she mused, teaching his children to ride and shoot with the same determination he'd shown in their youth.

A wistful smile played on her lips as she pictured little ones, cousins perhaps, splashing in the same cool stream where she and Running Buck had whiled away countless summer afternoons. Their laughter would echo across the plains, much as hers and Running Buck's once had.

But where was he now? Did he have a family of his own? The questions tugged at her heart, a bittersweet ache of nostalgia and curiosity intertwined.

Siobhan's thoughts drifted to the village. Her father's infrequent letters had mentioned their relocation years ago, a necessary move in the face of encroaching settlers. Yet in her mind, the village remained unchanged - a patchwork of tipis set against the vast Nebraska sky, the air filled with the scent of wood smoke and the rhythmic beat of drums.

She knew, logically, that time had marched on. The world had shifted, reshaped by war and westward expansion. But in the quiet corners of her heart, that slice of her childhood remained preserved, like a pressed flower between the pages of a cherished book.

Siobhan opened her eyes, returning to the present. The letter from Camille lay before her, an unexpected bridge between past and present. She picked it up again, rereading the invitation to St. Joseph. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to step forward, to reconcile the memories of her past with the realities of the present.

---

Chapter 15

St. Joseph, Missouri – 1867

The sound of the approaching train pierced the afternoon air, a welcome distraction from the nervous energy thrumming through Camille. She paced the platform, her steps quick and light, reminiscent of a child eagerly awaiting a long-promised treat.

William leaned against a nearby post, a bemused smile playing on his lips as he watched his wife's restless movements. "Darlin'," he drawled, his voice warm and rich as honey, "I reckon your pacin' ain't gonna make that train arrive any quicker."

Camille whirled around, a playful glint in her blue eyes. "Oh hush, you," she retorted, but her mock annoyance quickly melted into excitement. "Look! There it is!" She exclaimed, pointing down the tracks.

A plume of white smoke billowed into the clear sky, heralding the arrival of their long-awaited guest. William straightened, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket. "Remind me again," he said, his tone teasing, "what does this friend of yours look like?"

"William Barlow!" Camille chided, her voice a mix of exasperation and fondness. "Haven't you listened to a word I've said? I haven't seen Siobhan since we were girls, no more than twelve or thirteen."

William's eyes crinkled with mirth as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to get your feathers ruffled."

Camille's face softened as she watched the train coming closer. "She was real pretty," she said, thinking back. "Had curly red hair, green eyes, and freckles all over. I used to play connect-the-dots with those freckles on her arms, making animal shapes like we did with stars at night."

"Sounds like a right unfortunate combination," William quipped, unable to resist.

Camille swatted his arm playfully, but couldn't suppress her smile. "Billy!" She scolded, her eyes sparkling. "You're impossible sometimes, you know that?"

He caught her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "And yet you love me anyway," he murmured, his voice low and tender.

Their moment was interrupted by the train's arrival. As passengers began to disembark, Camille's excitement bubbled over. "There she is!" She exclaimed, pointing towards a tall, slender woman with auburn curls cascading down her back.

William turned, his eyebrows rising slightly. The woman who emerged from the crowd was striking, her wide-set green eyes scanning the platform with a mix of apprehension and hope.

"Still think it's an unfortunate combination?" Camille asked, a smug smile playing on her lips.

William cleared his throat, struggling to find his voice. "Well, I... that is..."

Camille's smile widened as she called out, "Siobhan!"

The reunion that followed was a whirlwind of hugs, laughter, and excited chatter. As the initial flurry of greetings subsided, William stepped forward to introduce himself properly.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss. Kelly," he said, his voice warm and sincere. "I've heard quite a bit about your adventures with my wife."

As they made their way to the waiting wagon, the conversation flowed easily, punctuated by bursts of laughter and shared memories. William listened, a fond smile on his face as he watched Camille come alive with the joy of reconnecting with her old friend.

The journey home was filled with stories – Siobhan's experiences in Philadelphia, Camille and William's life in St. Joseph. As dusk settled over the landscape, casting long shadows across the rolling hills, William's hand found Camille's, their fingers entwining with the ease of long familiarity.

"Almost home," he murmured, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. The look they shared spoke of love, of contentment, of the quiet joy found in sharing their life together.

As they pulled up to their charming two-story house, Camille leaned into William's side, a contented sigh escaping her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

"For what, darlin'?" He asked, his arm settling around her shoulders.

"For this. For everything." She gestured towards Siobhan, who was taking in the sight of their home with wonder. "For understanding how much this means to me."

William pressed a soft kiss to her temple. "Anything for you, my love," he murmured. eir tender moment was interrupted by Siobhan's delighted exclamation over the porch swing. As they helped her with her luggage, the air was filled with laughter and the promise of stories yet to be shared, the bonds of friendship and love weaving a tapestry of warmth around them all.

---

Chapter 16

St. Joseph, Missouri - 1867

St. Joseph bustled with life as Camille and William showed Siobhan around. They explored the markets, browsed quaint shops, and discovered hidden corners of the city. But it was their excursions to the countryside that truly awakened something in Siobhan.

They picnicked by a waterfall, its rush drowning out thoughts of Philadelphia. On horseback, they raced across rolling hills, the wind in their hair stirring memories of childhood adventures. One afternoon, Camille led Siobhan to a secluded meadow bursting with wildflowers. As Siobhan knelt, running her fingers through soft petals, a sense of belonging washed over her.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Siobhan ventured.

Camille nodded. "Of course."

"I'm surprised you and Billy don't have children yet."

Camille's smile faltered. "We did. Two. But they..." She sighed. "They didn't make it past a few days."

"Oh, Camille. I'm so sorry."

"We're not giving up," Camille said, forcing a smile.

Siobhan hugged her friend tightly. "You'll be a wonderful mother."

They lay back in the grass, gazing at the sky. For a moment, they were children again, free from the weight of the world.

"Look, a bear!" Camille pointed at a shapeless cloud.

Siobhan squinted. "A bear? Looks more like a raccoon to me."

Their laughter echoed across the meadow. As they continued their game, Siobhan felt a part of herself awakening, a lightness she'd thought lost forever.

"There!" Siobhan pointed. "A buffalo herd, stampeding across the prairie!"

Camille's smile wavered. The word "buffalo" hung heavy between them, stirring memories she'd tried to bury. Fragments flashed through her mind – the Kiowa village, the terror of hunters, then... nothing.

Siobhan squeezed her hand. "Hey. You okay?"

Camille blinked. "Just... lost in thought for a moment."

Siobhan hesitated, then asked softly, "Why didn't you marry Running Buck?"

Camille's eyes clouded. She took a deep breath before answering. "After... after the buffalo hunters came, everything changed. They..." She trailed off, her voice catching. "They did terrible things, Siobhan. Things I can't bring myself to speak of..."

Siobhan reached for her friend's hand, offering silent support.

"Eventually, they took me to Fort Laramie," Camille continued. "That's where I met Billy."

"Tell me about him," Siobhan urged gently, sensing Camille needed the distraction.

A small smile touched Camille's lips. "He was so kind. Patient. He'd bring me little gifts - wildflowers, a ribbon for my hair. We'd take walks along the fort walls, talking for hours. When he proposed, I didn't hesitate."

Siobhan squeezed her hand. "He sounds wonderful."

Camille's expression grew somber. "I did see Running Buck again, years later. He was working at the Pony Express station in Rock Creek."

"How was he?" Siobhan asked, her heart quickening.

Camille paused, weighing her words. "Different," she said quietly. "There was a... restlessness about him. He never really the same after you left. Even all those years later, I could see the hurt lingering in his eyes. It was like... like a part of him was stuck in the past, unable to move forward."

She reached out, squeezing Siobhan's hand. "Seeing him like that... it just confirmed that I'd made the right choice. We weren't meant for each other, not really. But you..." Camille trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

A heavy silence fell between them. Siobhan felt an ache in her chest, mourning for the boy she'd known and the man he'd become

After a moment, Camille turned to her. "What about you? Any special men in your life?"

Siobhan shook her head. "No one serious." She shrugged. "The war took so much. It didn't leave much time for romance."

Camille nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Sometimes life takes us down unexpected paths."

As they sat in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, both women felt the weight of their shared past and the paths that had led them to this moment. The afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the grass, a bittersweet reminder of the passage of time and the choices that shape their lives.

As Siobhan recounted her adventures at the academy in Missouri, Camille found her attention drifting. A small white lie sat heavy on her conscience – the claim of having no contact with Buck. The truth was, he was closer than Siobhan realized, just a couple of days' ride away. In fact, Camille and Billy had already hatched a secret plan. They'd surprise Siobhan with a visit to Buck's place, a reunion for the three of them after a decade.

The prospect of seeing Siobhan's face light up with joy was a thrill in itself, but Camille couldn't deny a flicker of excitement for Buck's reaction as well. The years had passed, and she held onto the innocent affections of their childhood, hoping this surprise would possibly rekindle a spark.

---

Chapter 17

Eagle Canyon, Nebraska - 1867

"She's a wild thing, isn't she?" Billy exclaimed with a chuckle, his eyes gleaming with amusement as Siobhan sped past their wagon on horseback. Her laughter, carried on the wind, echoed across the valley.

Camille smiled wistfully. "She always has been." A shadow of sadness flickered across her face for a fleeting moment, a memory of the tearful goodbye etched in her mind. "It's why her father sent her away."

Billy placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his gaze softening. "I'm sure he wanted what was best for his daughter."

"I guess so." Camille nodded, the harsh truth of his words settling in her chest.

Siobhan urged her horse faster along the dusty trail. The wind whipped through her auburn braids, carrying the scent of sagebrush and wildflowers. The sun beat down on her back, but Siobhan barely registered the heat. It was a welcome contrast to the damp, coal-choked air of Philadelphia, where she spent most of her days. Here, in the vast expanse of land, she felt a sense of exhilaration she hadn't experienced in years.

As they rounded a bend in the trail, she spotted a weathered wooden sign proclaiming "Eagle Canyon – 2 Miles." A smile bloomed on her face. Eagle Canyon held a special place in their childhood memories. It was a hidden oasis, a place where they'd spent countless hours exploring hidden caves and chasing elusive butterflies.

Siobhan slowed her horse to a trot as they entered the small town of Eagle Canyon. Everything here seemed to move at a slower pace, a welcome change from the frenetic energy of the city. Unlike the towering brick buildings and cobbled streets, she was accustomed to, Eagle Canyon boasted simple wooden structures with porches overflowing with colorful flower boxes. People strolled by, their faces etched with the lines of hard work and weathered by the sun. They made eye contact with her, offering friendly nods and smiles – a stark contrast to the hurried anonymity of city life.

"How do you like it?" Camille asked, pulling the wagon alongside Siobhan. Dust particles danced in the sunlight filtering through the canvas top.

Siobhan took a deep breath, savoring the scent of fresh bread and wood smoke that hung in the air. "It's lovely," she said, her voice filled with genuine warmth. "It has such a peaceful feel to it. I can definitely see why you wanted to come here."

"I knew you'd love it!" Camille beamed. "Billy and I are going to head into the general store and stock up on some supplies. Would you mind staying with the wagon and the horses for a bit?"

"Not at all." Siobhan replied, dismounting and tying the reins to a hitching post. As Camille and William jumped down from the wagon, she couldn't help but notice a conspiratorial glint in Camille's eyes.

Billy raised a questioning eyebrow at his wife. "So what's your plan?"

Camille's smile widened. "I don't know yet!" She teased, pushing him playfully towards the store. "Would you just get in there and give me a couple of minutes?"

Siobhan watched them go, a mixture of amusement and curiosity swirling within her. Something was definitely brewing, and she couldn't wait to find out what it was. Leaning against the side of the wagon, she glanced around the bustling town square. Children chased each other with squeals of delight, a blacksmith hammered away at a piece of red-hot metal, and a group of cowboys lounged on a nearby bench, swapping stories.

---

Part Three – Celestial Alignment

Chapter 18

Eagle Canyon, Nebraska - 1867

Buck leaned against the grime-streaked window of his office, squinting into the afternoon glare. The dusty street shimmered like a mirage, broken only by the approach of a covered wagon. His brow furrowed slightly. Camille and William never passed through Eagle Canyon without stopping. Had he forgotten a planned visit?

The wagon rolled straight to the general store. Buck shrugged, figuring they'd make their way over soon enough. He grabbed his hat and stepped out into the heat, each boot-step across the street kicking up tiny dust clouds.

A flash of red caught his eye. Buck paused, memories long buried beneath layers of responsibility clawing their way to the surface. Images of a skinny girl with fiery hair and freckles flooded his mind.

The woman turned, and Buck's breath caught. The resemblance was uncanny – that cascade of red hair, the elegant neck, and those familiar dimples that used to drive him half-mad with a mix of longing and teenage awkwardness. Clear green eyes, crisp and bright under dark lashes, met his gaze.

Realizing he was staring, Buck quickly crossed to her, removing his hat.

"Good day, Marshal," Siobhan mumbled, her cheeks flushing under the man's intense gaze. Self-consciousness prickled at her skin, amplified by the unfamiliar weight of his eyes on her. She stole a glance at the badge pinned to his worn leather vest – a silver star gleaming against the fabric.

A prickle of recognition crawled up her spine, unsettling yet strangely comforting. It was in the way he held himself, a quiet strength radiating from his broad frame. The years had etched lines on his face, speaking of hardship and responsibility, but something deeper remained.

She studied him, searching for a flicker of familiarity. Did those crinkles at the corners deepen into the same mischievous smile that used to steal her breath? The high cheekbones, the curve of his lips – these echoed a face etched in her memory. Surely, it couldn't be him.

"Siobhan?" His low rumble carried a note of disbelief.

Her eyes widened, those clear green pools filled with shock and wonder. "It can't be," she breathed. "T'àu éy T'ái?"

A slow grin spread across his face, years melting away. "I haven't heard that name in a long time."

They stood frozen, drinking in the sight of each other, the busy street fading away. Siobhan's hand twitched, as if fighting the urge to reach out and touch him, to prove he was real.

"I never thought..." Buck began, his voice thick with emotion.

"Surprise!" Camille's gleeful voice broke the spell as she emerged from the store, William at her side. The couple beamed at the reunion unfolding before them, their plan a resounding success.

---

Chapter 19

Eagle Canyon, Nebraska - 1867

Siobhan's world tilted as she looked between the Marshal and Camille. "You?" Her voice cracked. "You planned this?"

Camille's smile widened, her blue eyes twinkling. "Are you surprised?" She asked softly.

Surprised didn't begin to cover it. Siobhan felt like she'd been swept up by a tornado, dropped into a place both familiar and strange. This man couldn't be the same boy who'd taught her to swim. Yet, with each look, she saw glimpses of him – the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his gaze set her heart a flutter.

"Yes," Siobhan finally managed, the word heavy with disbelief.

Buck looked just as stunned. His surprise had turned to careful curiosity as he met Siobhan's eyes. Something passed between them before he turned to Camille. "You definitely surprised me," he agreed

"Can you meet us for supper?" Billy's loud voice broke the moment. He clapped Buck on the back like an old friend.

Buck cleared his throat, breaking his connection with Siobhan. "Of course, let me tell my deputy." Relief crossed his face, a short break from the storm of feelings around them.

Siobhan watched him walk across the dusty street, his tall form drawing eyes even from far off. The minutes dragged. Every part of her wanted to follow him, to grab a moment alone, but propriety kept her in place.

When Buck came back, their eyes met again. A smile played on his lips, and the air felt charged. Siobhan's cheeks grew hot under Camille and William's watchful eyes.

Buck's smile grew, a knowing look in his eyes. It was the same look that used to make her stomach flutter when they were young. Now, it sent a tremor through her, lighting a spark she hadn't known was there all these years.

Billy, not noticing the tension, spoke up. "Where do you recommend, Buck?" He asked.

Buck chuckled, the deep sound sending another jolt through Siobhan. "Well, there aren't too many places here. This ain't St. Joe," he admitted. "You have three choices. The hotel has a restaurant that serves the basics. Then there's a new place down the street – French food, new place, good but a little fancy. And there's always the saloon."

"Hotel it is then," William declared with a laugh.

As they walked to the hotel, Buck fell in step beside Siobhan, offering his arm. She paused, then slipped her arm through his. The touch sent a tingle up her arm, reminding her of their old connection.

The hotel restaurant was busy, full of tired travelers and loud cowboys. They got seated quickly, probably thanks to Buck's badge.

Once they sat down, talk came easy, full of old memories and catching up on lost time. But even with all the laughing and stories, Siobhan felt like there were deeper talks waiting to happen. Talks that couldn't happen with their friends watching.

When William left to check on the horses, the table got quiet. Siobhan glanced at Buck, catching him staring at her. She looked away quick, feeling her neck get hot. The air between them felt thick with silent questions and a want for something more.

"So you go by Buck now?" Siobhan finally asked, her voice soft, trying to break the silence.

"It's a lot easier for folks around here to pronounce," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"I suppose so," Siobhan said back, a small smile on her lips.

Their talk wandered through the years apart. Buck told her about riding for the Pony Express, then scouting for the army. Siobhan shared her time helping in war hospitals. With each word, the connection between them seemed to grow stronger.

As they ate, they kept stealing glances at each other. Each look felt like a silent plea to really talk, to reconnect away from their friends' eyes. The want to get away, to find a quiet spot just for them, got stronger with every minute.

"How long are you in town for?" Buck asked, his voice surprisingly quiet. He frowned a little, matching the worry Siobhan suddenly felt.

Camille's eyes lit up. "Actually," she cut in, a mischievous smile on her face, "Siobhan, your train doesn't leave for Philadelphia for another week, and being so close to Omaha..." She looked between Buck and Siobhan. "Why, Buck, you could just escort her there, couldn't you?"

Siobhan's jaw dropped. Had Camille planned this whole reunion? The idea made her cheeks warm. She glanced at Buck, seeing surprise in his eyes that quickly turned to something more – maybe hope?

Buck leaned close to Siobhan, his voice a low whisper above the restaurant noise. "If it's alright with you," he murmured, "I can make arrangements for you to stay in one of the rooms here at the hotel."

Siobhan couldn't find her voice, caught between shock and growing excitement. She just nodded. This trip, meant to be a visit with an old friend, had taken an unexpected turn. Despite her doubts, it sent a thrill of excitement through her.

---

Chapter 20

Eagle Canyon, Nebraska - 1867

The rooster's crow shattered the morning stillness, signaling the bittersweet moment of Camille and Billy's departure. Siobhan's heart felt heavy as she approached her friend.

"Camille," she began softly, "I'm not sure about this. I came to visit you, and now you're leaving. It doesn't feel right."

Camille's expression turned serious. "Siobhan, stop it right now," she said firmly. "For once, think about yourself and what you want!" Her eyes darted to a familiar figure approaching on the dusty road. Buck.

With a swift movement, Camille pulled Siobhan close to the wagon. "This," she whispered, nodding towards Buck, "might be your second chance. Can't you see that?"

Understanding dawned on Siobhan's face. She hugged Camille tightly before joining Buck on the boardwalk. With a final wave, she watched her friends disappear down the road.

A moment of silence stretched between them, filled with nervous questions. Siobhan cleared her throat, but Buck simply smiled, his eyes warm with fondness.

"Mornin', Siobhan," he said, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver through her.

"Good morning, Buck," she replied, a smile playing at her lips.

Buck cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Regrettably, duty calls," he admitted, disappointment coloring his tone. "There's trouble brewing at the saloon I need to handle before it gets out of hand."

"I understand," Siobhan nodded.

Buck leaned in slightly, his voice low. "Perhaps this evening we could have dinner?" A slow smile spread across his face, reminiscent of the mischievous boy she once knew.

"I'd like that very much," Siobhan replied, her smile mirroring his.

With the day stretching before her, Siobhan decided to explore the town. The main street, though dusty, held a quaint charm. She browsed the general store, marveling at the eclectic mix of essentials. Bolts of fabric sat beside canned goods, while farming tools hung from the ceiling. The shopkeeper, a kindly older man, answered her curious questions about frontier life.

Her wanderings led her to a tiny room proudly labeled "Town Library." Inside, the scent of old paper and leather enveloped her. Though small, the shelves held a surprising variety of books. Siobhan ran her fingers along the spines, smiling at familiar titles mixed with practical guides on homesteading. She lost track of time, engrossed in a worn copy of "Jane Eyre" until the lowering sun reminded her of her dinner plans.

Back at the hotel, Siobhan fretted over her limited wardrobe. She finally settled on a pale yellow dress. With nimble fingers, she pinned her hair up, allowing a few tendrils to frame her face. A touch of stain on her lips completed the look.

Her heart fluttered as she descended to the lobby. There stood Buck, a far cry from the lanky boy of her memories. He cut an impressive figure in a crisp white shirt and dark vest. His shoulders had broadened, filling out his frame with a strength born of hard work. Yet his eyes, warm and kind, were exactly as she remembered.

Buck's gaze swept over her, a mix of admiration and something deeper flickering in his eyes. He held out his hand, and Siobhan's breath caught as her smaller one was enveloped in his warm, calloused grip.

"Siobhan," he breathed, his voice low and husky. "You look... absolutely beautiful."

A blush crept up Siobhan's cheeks. "Thank you," she murmured, suddenly shy under his intense gaze. "You clean up quite nicely yourself."

A grin played at the corners of Buck's mouth. "I try every so often," he teased, his thumb gently tracing lazy circles on her hand.

---

Chapter 21

Eagle Canyon, Nebraska - 1867

As they stepped into the restaurant, Siobhan's eyes widened in delighted surprise. The space had been transformed into a charming slice of Paris on the frontier. Crisp white tablecloths adorned intimate tables, each graced with a flickering candle and a single rose. Soft, amber light from delicate sconces bathed the room in a warm glow, reflecting off the few pieces of polished silverware. The walls, a calming blue, were adorned with simple yet elegant French prints.

A heavenly aroma wafted from the kitchen, a tantalizing blend of herbs and spices that hinted at culinary delights to come. The gentle clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation created a cozy atmosphere that felt worlds away from the dusty streets outside.

Siobhan flushed under Buck's admiring gaze as they were seated. "Thank you," she murmured. "This place is... unexpected."

Buck chuckled warmly, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "The owner's wife was a cook in New Orleans. It's a nice change from the usual fare."

As they settled in, perusing menus written in elegant script, conversation flowed as easily as the wine Buck ordered. Comfortable silences punctuated their talk, each laden with deeper meaning. Buck regaled her with tales from his Pony Express days, his eyes dancing with amusement at the memories.

"We were just kids," he said, shaking his head with a fond smile. "Teaspoon never even suspected Louise was a girl."

A fleeting shadow crossed Siobhan's face. "Do you keep in touch with any of them?"

Buck's smile softened, tinged with nostalgia. "Kid and Lou live a few hours from here. Teaspoon... he's no longer with us."

"I'm sorry," Siobhan whispered, reaching out to touch his hand gently. The warmth of his skin under her fingers sent a pleasant tingle up her arm.

As they savored the French cuisine – dishes with names Siobhan could barely pronounce but flavors that danced on her tongue – their conversation meandered through shared memories and the years apart. Siobhan spoke of her life in Philadelphia, the challenges and joys of caring for her uncle after her mother's passing.

The candlelight cast a soft glow on Buck's features, highlighting the strength and character etched there by years of frontier life. Yet in his eyes, Siobhan caught glimpses of the boy she once knew, full of mischief and dreams. As the evening progressed, she found herself leaning in closer, drawn by the deep timbre of his voice and the connection that seemed to grow stronger with each shared story and lingering glance.

"How did you choose the name Cross?" Siobhan asked, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.

Buck's cheeks colored slightly. "It's from the mission school, actually. When I first got there, I couldn't write. A nun asked me to write my name, so I just made an X. That became my last name. When I left, I figured it was as good as any."

Siobhan's laughter, warm and genuine, filled the air. Buck joined in, squeezing her hand gently. "Let's get out of here," he suggested.

They strolled through the quiet town, the cool night air carrying the scent of wildflowers. Buck led her to a small park, where a small bench beckoned beneath gnarled oak trees.

"Tell me about the mission school," Siobhan prompted gently as they sat.

Buck's expression turned serious. "It wasn't easy," he admitted, his gaze distant. "Our village had been raided by buffalo hunters. We lost so many..."

Siobhan's heart ached for him. She placed her hand on his, offering silent comfort. "Your brother? Sweetgrass Woman?"

Buck's jaw tightened, pain flickering across his face. "We were both on the hunt that day," he said quietly. "Sweetgrass Woman... she—" He paused, visibly struggling with the memory.

Siobhan squeezed his hand, her touch conveying empathy and understanding.

"The nuns took me in," Buck continued after a moment. "They taught me to read and write. That's where I met Ike."

"Ike?" Siobhan encouraged, noticing how Buck's face softened at the name.

"My best friend. We were inseparable, dreaming of leaving the mission someday. He joined the Pony Express with me."

"What happened to him?" Siobhan asked softly.

"He was shot," Buck's voice wavered slightly. "Protecting the woman he loved."

Siobhan held his hand tightly, offering silent support.

Buck took a deep breath, visibly shaking off the melancholy. "Enough about me," he said, his tone lightening. "Tell me about that fancy academy of yours."

Siobhan laughed softly. "It wasn't that interesting, truly. I wanted freedom, and my mother wanted me to find a husband."

Buck's eyebrow arched playfully. "And did you?" He teased, a hint of his old mischief returning.

"What, find a husband?" Siobhan's cheeks flushed.

"Well," Buck drawled, a smirk playing on his lips, "you must have had your pick of gentlemen."

Siobhan met his teasing with a coy smile. "Perhaps," she admitted. "But if I had a husband waiting at home, I wouldn't be here now, would I?"

Her words hung in the air, a playful challenge laced with deeper meaning. Buck's chuckle was warm and genuine. "Noted," he conceded with a nod.

As the night deepened, Siobhan stifled a yawn. Buck stood, offering his hand. "It's getting late, and I have an early day tomorrow."

Siobhan took his hand, savoring the warmth of his touch. "Well—" she began, reluctant for the evening to end.

"I want to take you somewhere tomorrow," Buck interrupted, his voice low and earnest. "After I finish work."

Siobhan's heart quickened. "Where?"

Buck's lips curled into a secretive smile. "It's a surprise. I promise it'll be worth it."

"Haven't you had enough surprises lately?" Siobhan teased gently.

"Don't worry," Buck chuckled, his eyes warm. "This one's special."

They stood there a moment longer, the air between them thick with expectations. Siobhan felt torn between propriety and a yearning for something more.

"I should walk you back to the hotel," Buck said softly.

The walk back was filled with comfortable silence, broken only by nature's nighttime chorus. At the hotel entrance, Buck paused, the moonlight illuminating his strong features.

"Thank you for dinner, Buck," Siobhan whispered.

"It was my pleasure," he replied, his gaze lingering on her face.

For a heartbeat, it seemed Buck might lean in. Siobhan's breath caught, her heart racing. But Buck pulled back slightly, a flicker of regret in his eyes. "Good night, Siobhan," he murmured.

"Good night, Buck," Siobhan managed, her lips tingling with anticipation of a kiss that didn't come.

As she entered the hotel, disappointment mingled with hope. The memory of Buck's touch lingered as she drifted off to sleep, her dreams filled with dusty plains, tender moments, and the promise of tomorrow.

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Chapter 22

Eagle Canyon, Nebraska - 1867

Buck glanced up as a shadow fell across the doorway. Siobhan stood there, hands clasped, her fiery red hair tamed into a single braid cascading down her back. Her lavender dress complemented her pale skin and rosy lips in a way that made Buck's breath catch.

"Am I early?" Siobhan asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

"Not at all," Buck replied, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Siobhan, meet Tom Jessup, one of my deputies. Tom, this is Siobhan Kelly."

They exchanged polite greetings, Tom's curious gaze flickering between the two. After a few instructions to his deputy, Buck grabbed his hat and led Siobhan outside.

On the boardwalk, Buck couldn't help but admire her again. "You look beautiful," he said, his voice softer than intended.

Siobhan's cheeks flushed pink. "Thank you," she murmured, ducking her head slightly. "Where are we off to?"

Buck's eyes sparkled with mischief. "It's a surprise. Think you can manage a ride in that dress?"

Siobhan raised an eyebrow, lifting her skirt just enough to reveal sturdy riding boots. In one fluid motion, she mounted the black mare beside Buck's chestnut stallion. "The real question is, can you keep up?" She challenged, a playful smirk on her lips.

Buck's jaw dropped slightly, pleasantly surprised by her boldness. With a laugh, he swung onto his horse. "We'll see about that!"

They raced through town, leaving a trail of dust in their wake. Siobhan's skill in the saddle matched his own, her confidence a stark contrast to the timid girl he remembered. The thrill of the ride, coupled with her unexpected prowess, sent a jolt of exhilaration through Buck.

As they approached his cabin, nestled in the foothills of a majestic canyon, Siobhan slowed to a trot.

"I didn't know you could ride like that," Buck called out, impressed.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Buck Cross," Siobhan replied with a wink. "I've picked up a few skills since we were kids."

"Clearly," Buck chuckled. "No more falling off stationary horses, I see."

"Hey now," Siobhan protested, laughter in her voice. "I'll have you know I'm a proper lady now. I only fall off moving horses."

Their laughter mingled as they dismounted. Buck offered his hand to help Siobhan down, a spark passing between them at the touch. He led her to a path winding up through the foothills, the air filled with the scent of wildflowers and sage.

At the canyon's edge, Siobhan gasped at the breathtaking vista before them. "Buck, this is... incredible," she breathed.

"I bought this land recently," he admitted, spreading out a blanket. "I'm hoping to build a ranch here someday. A place of my own."

As they settled on the blanket, Siobhan's eyes sparkled with interest. "I am surprised you haven't already settled down with a brood of kids running around your feet."

Buck chuckled, handing her a sandwich. His fingers lingered against hers for a moment. "Well, I guess I was waiting for the right person to come along," he said, his gaze meeting hers with a hint of suggestion.

Siobhan felt a warmth spread through her chest. "Is that so?" she replied, her voice soft but playful.

"What about you?" Buck said, his tone light but his eyes serious. "You must be eager to get back to the city."

"The city never held much appeal for me." Siobhan's laugh was warm and genuine. "Give me prairie grass, mountains and streams with an endless sky any day."

"I remember," Buck nodded, a fond smile playing on his lips. "You used to say you'd live in a teepee if your mother would let you."

"I still might," Siobhan quipped, raising an eyebrow challengingly. "Though I hear building a ranch can be quite the adventure too."

Their eyes met, a moment of understanding passing between them. As they ate, their conversation flowed easily, peppered with playful jabs and shared memories. The afternoon stretched on, neither in a hurry to break the spell of this unexpected connection rediscovered.

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Chapter 23

Eagle Canyon, Nebraska - 1867

They ate in comfortable silence, the gentle chirping of birds and the distant murmur of wind through the canyon their only companions. As they finished, Buck began sharing stories from his past, his voice soft and reflective.

He spoke of a stagecoach robbery he and his best friend Ike had encountered, recounting the fear, the chase, and the unwavering loyalty that bound them together. Siobhan listened intently, captivated by the mix of excitement and sadness in Buck's eyes as he spoke.

As he finished his tale, Siobhan reached out, gently wiping a smudge of mustard from Buck's lip with her thumb. The simple gesture lingered, a connection sparking between them. Buck caught her hand, his touch sending a shiver through her.

"We're missing the sunset," Siobhan murmured, her cheeks flushing.

Buck smiled, reaching into his pocket for two peppermint candies. "Your favorite," he said, offering one to her.

"You remembered." Siobhan smiled, unwrapping the candy.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues, they sat in comfortable silence. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, nestled on the hillside.

When the stars emerged, twinkling above them, Buck's voice broke the silence. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"My thirteenth birthday," Siobhan answered softly, her fingers touching the necklace hidden beneath her dress.

Buck's eyes widened. "You still have it?"

"I've always kept it close," she confessed. "It reminds me of you."

A wave of memories washed over them. Buck took a deep breath, his eyes meeting hers. "Siobhan, I know this might seem sudden, but—"

"—it feels right," Siobhan finished, her heart racing.

"I love you, Siobhan." He nodded, a tender smile spreading across his face. "I always have."

"Oh, Buck," Siobhan whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. "I love you too."

"Khote t'day aim doe," Buck murmured, his hand resting over her heart.

"You told me that when you gave me this necklace," Siobhan said softly.

"It means 'with all my heart, I hold you,'" he explained, his voice filled with emotion.

Their lips met in a kiss that was both tender and sure, years of separation melting away. The taste of peppermint lingered as they parted, both breathless and smiling.

In that moment, under the vast canopy of stars, they were home. The canyon stood as a silent witness to their reunion, to a love that had endured time and distance. As they held each other close, they looked forward to their future together, as boundless and beautiful as the star-filled sky above them.

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Kiowa Names & Words

Áuso̱dau Má - Sweetgrass Woman

A:cáui Dáu:gya - Song Bird

A:cáui Syânde - Little Bird

Sáuihé:dàu 'tah day - Blue Eyes

P'áu úldàu Má é - Red Bear

T'àu éy T'ái - Running Buck

Bay soy aum – Hurry up

dè hàdêl - who is this?

Hàu – Yes

Thaw gyah – good (to do good)

Da'-kiH – Great Spirit

Khote t'day aim doe - I love you

(literal translation is with all my heart I hold you)

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THANK YOU for reading!

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Afterword

Buck Cross and other characters from the TV show The Young Riders belong to the copyright holders of The Young Riders. (1989-1992)

No infringements of copyright by any rights-holder to The Young Riders is intended or implied.

The author receives NO monetary benefit from the electronic or physical distribution of this work.

ALL original characters created by the author, as well as plot and book art, are copyrighted by the author.

Please do not distribute these works without permission from the author.

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About the Author

Holly, a 2nd generation California Native, relocated to the Midwest after the 2018 Camp Fire devastated her hometown. She brought along with her unwavering love of her home state, her loyal companion Cass, better known as Cass the Stinky Chicken.

In the 90's she became a devoted fan of 'The Young Riders' series. Inspired by the characters and the time period, she crafts tales set in the Wild West, often featuring the beloved character, Buck Cross.

In addition to her historical interests, Holly is a recognized fashion designer and custom doll artist under the brand D.A. Fashion.

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