Grace and the Guiltless

Chapter 7

In the distance, Grace was aware of stomping, chanting, bells jingling. Pounding drums vibrated the air, and feet slapped the earth around her, jarring her body. Her head thumped and ached.

The noise faded. Her body convulsed with violent shivers. She was burning and freezing at the same time. Cool hands touched her forehead. Liquids dribbled between her chattering teeth, down her throat. Grace struggled to open her eyes, but her eyelids were much too heavy.

Smoke swirled around her, filling her lungs and making her choke. Grace thrashed. She had to get out. To save Zeke. She reached out to cradle him close to her chest, but pain ripped through her arm, jerking her awake.

Where was she?

Poles arched overhead, baskets dangled from the rafters. Through the haze, Grace made out walls that looked like tufts of grass.

Fur lined the hard ground beneath her. A rough wool blanket covered her.

A strange murmuring sound came from above, and a dark-skinned man leaned over her, a cotton headband wrapped around his forehead. His long black hair fell forward and almost brushed her chest.

Grace sucked back a scream and squeezed her eyes shut.

An Apache.

Had she been captured by the Apache? Would they torture her?

Did they kill you first and then take your scalp? Or did they do it while you were still alive? Was he getting ready to kill her?

Grace watched him through slitted eyelids. What was that in his hand? He chanted strange words and shook what looked like a gigantic leather baby rattle painted with yellow and blue designs. Eagle feathers dangled from the handle. Was it a club?

He bent closer, laid a hand on her forehead. She flinched, and her chest constricted so she could barely breathe. She swallowed, trying to suck back the terror. A scream gurgled up from her chest, and she reared back. She had to get away —

“You are awake. That is good.”

He spoke English? Grace opened one eye, then the other. That strange rattle had disappeared. In its place, he held a handful of eagle feathers. With a brushing motion, he spread the smoke, and another cloud drifted toward her. Grace coughed, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You hurt here?” He tapped his fingers to his forehead, making the shell necklaces on his buckskin-covered chest clink together.

Was he warning her he was going to hurt her? Or was he asking if she had a headache?

His broad smile seemed friendly enough, but Grace stayed on high alert. She searched for an exit. Behind him, a buffalo hide hung across a doorway. If her exhausted muscles would cooperate, maybe she could distract him and run. She tried to scoot back when he turned to pick up a gourd bowl behind him, but her left arm throbbed so much it couldn’t support her weight.

The man turned around again, bowl in hand, and pointed to his chest. “I am Cheveyo.”

His name? He wouldn’t introduce himself before he killed her, would he? Grace’s heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a canter.

“My people call me Spirit Warrior.” Then he pointed to her. “You?”

“Me?” Her voice squeaked. “You mean my name?”

He nodded.

“I’m Grace.”

“Gurrr-asss,” he repeated. “English is hard to speak. Ahote teaches me, but I do not always learn well.”