Grace and the Guiltless

Chapter 8

Joe caught up to Grace, his brow creased with concern. “Hold up! I told you, both you and your horse need time to heal.”

“I can’t wait. I have to —” Grace stopped as she stepped out into the dazzling sunshine. She had to squint until her eyes adjusted to the brightness. When she opened them, all around her she saw women hard at work — tanning hides, slicing strips of meat from deer carcasses and draping them on drying racks over fires, pounding grain with stone mortars and pestles larger than the one the shaman used. Many of the women had cradleboards strapped to their backs, with babies peeking out from beneath semicircular buckskin hoods decorated with fringe and beadwork.

One of them could have been Zeke. Grace stood still and drew in a breath, trying to suck back the sob that threatened.

Children laughed and played. Some chased hoops with sticks, while dogs barked and ran after them. Others went racing past on horseback. They could have been Daniel and Abby. Women stirring pots over the fire reminded Grace of Ma hunched over the hearth . . . Grace’s heart clenched into a tight knot.

Families everywhere. And she was alone. Her loneliness merged with the ache that spread through her whole body.

It wasn’t fair.

Her whole family had been taken from her. She would never again gather vegetables for supper or pick berries for her family the way these girls were doing. She would never again sit down to a meal with her brothers and sister, or listen to Pa read at night, his deep voice soothing her to sleep.

She would never again have anyone to touch or hold or care for her.

The Guiltless Gang had stolen everything from her.

Grace could feel herself growing shakier as she stood watching the activity swirling around her. It was partly from her heartsickness, but her body was very weak. Still, determined not to prove Joe right, she shuffled one foot in front of the other, trying to rid herself of the quaking feeling.

Joe followed slowly at her side and cocked an eyebrow. “Not ready for this, are you?”

“I am so.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You can barely lift your feet. You’re slower than a slug climbing a water jar.”

Grace gritted her teeth. She would show him. She might not have the stamina to walk as fast as he could, but she’d be darned if she let him show her up in a shooting contest. And she wouldn’t let him know she was still too weak to move any faster. “I’m . . . I’m taking it all in. I’ve never seen Apaches close up.”

“Ndeh,” Joe corrected. “Do you know what Apache means? It means ‘enemy.’ It’s an insult. In fact, if you want to be more specific, these are the Chiricahua people or the Chihuicahui. To the whites, all the so-called ‘Apache’ are the same. But every band, every clan is different.”

Grace didn’t really feel like listening to a lecture from Joe, but at least it kept her mind off the pain of seeing Zeke in each papoose she passed. Or wondering if Daniel would win among the young boys racing horses in the open field, their hair streaming behind them.

The women wore an odd mix of clothing. Some dressed in traditional buckskin poncho-like tops with skirts tied at the waist, but others looked more like Mexican women, with tiered cotton skirts and puff-sleeved white blouses. Most wore multiple strands of jewelry around their necks.

Grace wasn’t the only one gawking. A few children had spotted her, and they dropped their hoops or dismounted their horses, running over and crowding around her. They stared at her curiously, and some of the bolder ones reached up and touched her blond braids with wonder in their eyes. Others poked at Grace’s skin, giggling when they touched its paleness and then looking down at their own brown skin. They chattered to each other excitedly, though some of the shyer children stayed in the background, gawking. Grace felt uncomfortable being the center of attention, but she was grateful for the chance to stop and catch her breath.