The old woman’s fingers closed around the edge of the blanket.
Ethan Miller stopped breathing.
He stood in the center of the Apache camp with red evening light burning against the canyon walls and dozens of silent faces turned toward him.
The blanket was thick.
Heavy wool.
Bands of deep crimson, cream, black, turquoise, and ochre covered its surface in geometric patterns bright enough to catch the last sunlight.
Beneath it stood the woman Ethan had just agreed to marry.
He could not see her face.
Could not see her hands.
Could not even tell where beneath the folds her shoulders ended and the rest of her began.
He knew only what Chief Chaska had told him.
Twenty summers.
Healthy.
Strong.
Intelligent.
And no warrior had agreed to take her as a wife.
Ethan had spent the last several minutes imagining reasons.
A scar.
An illness.
Some deformity.
Perhaps a temper so violent that every man in camp preferred death by horse kick.
He had heard stranger stories.
Men traveling alone through Arizona Territory collected stories the way boots collected dust.
Some were true.
Most were not.
Yet something had to explain the silence around this woman.
Something had to explain the way every warrior in the camp watched Ethan as if waiting to see whether he would run.
He had already given his answer.
Yes.
That word stood behind him now like a closed door.
Ethan did not take back his word.
Not anymore.
The elderly woman lifted the blanket.
Another woman standing on the opposite side took hold of the second corner.
Together they drew it downward.
First came black hair.
Long.
Straight.
Shining almost blue beneath the sunset.
Then a forehead.
Dark brows.
Eyes.
Ethan’s thoughts stopped there.
Amber-brown eyes fixed directly on him.
Not lowered.
Not shy.
Not grateful.
They were steady enough to make him feel as if he were the one standing beneath a blanket waiting to be inspected.
The cloth dropped farther.
A straight nose.
High cheekbones.
A composed mouth.
Then shoulders beneath a simple traditional dress, modestly cut, finely made, without anything extravagant.
The blanket reached the ground.
Ethan remained motionless.
The woman before him was beautiful.
Not delicately.
Not in the polished way women looked in portraits displayed behind shop windows in Tucson.
Her beauty was sharper than that.
Alive.
Her face seemed built to reveal thought even when she said nothing.
And at that moment, her expression held only evaluation.
Ethan realized his mouth had opened slightly.
He closed it.
Several young warriors nearby noticed.
One smiled.
Another muttered something in Apache that caused two men beside him to laugh.
The woman did not.
She simply looked at Ethan.
He had expected embarrassment.
Instead he felt embarrassed.
Chief Chaska stepped forward.
“This is my daughter.”
Ethan nodded.
He looked at her.
“Nahimana.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly when her father spoke her name.
She understood English.
Ethan could tell immediately.
“How much?” she asked.
Her English was quieter than Chaska’s but clear.
Ethan frowned.
“How much what?”
“How much did my father tell you?”
Chaska said something sharply in Apache.
Nahimana never looked away from Ethan.
He answered carefully.
“He said you were his daughter.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“He said no warrior here would marry you.”
Something moved through the watching crowd.
Not laughter.
Tension.
Nahimana turned slowly toward her father.
Chaska’s jaw tightened.
Then she looked back at Ethan.
“And you believed him?”
Ethan hesitated.
“That was what I was told.”
“Did you ask why?”
“I thought about asking.”
“You did not.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Ethan glanced toward Chaska.
The chief’s expression warned him that there might be no correct answer.