the west the sky was a vibrant fuchsia, and from the east where it was already darkening to inky-blue, the first star twinkled down at her. Remembering her father’s words, she asked the star to give her light on her journey.
Sighing, she stood up and checked the horses that were hobbled near the campsite. The truth was, she’d need more than guidance. She’d come to the Texas Hill Country in a fit of passion, and she’d let that passion drive her, up until now. She’d confronted Jeremy Masterson, her former favorite writer. And what good had it done? None. She didn’t feel a bit better, and his wretched book, which painted a vivid picture of her beloved grandfather as a murdering savage, was still selling off the shelves like hotcakes.
Worse than that was the bitter disappointment that was beginning to spoil even the taste of her camp coffee. She returned to the fire and made herself comfortable, allowing the erratic rhythm of the flames to soothe her.
What had she expected? That was the question that she had to ask—and finally answer. Had she really thought that Jeremy Masterson would stand up in public and say, “Oh, my, I may have made a mistake. Maybe my book is wrong”?
She bit her lip and realized that was exactly how she’d hoped events would turn out. She also knew how silly and naive such an expectation was.
But Jeremy Masterson had been the author she’d loved. His writing about Texas and the vast wilderness that had challenged white and Native American alike, had seduced her. In many ways, he was like a member of her family, but so much more. She’d read all of his books and every one of his stories. She’d hunted down his essays and even the articles he wrote for various Texas newspapers. In his work, he’d shown such a love for the land, for the place called Texas that was as much a part of her as her own skin. And she had fallen in love with him because she felt as if she knew him better than anyone she’d ever known.
And then he’d published Blood on the Moon. And shown her that he was like all the others. History didn’t matter. Accuracy was out the window. Just throw together a good tale about a savage Indian and a noble white man who saved Texas from a bloodbath, and watch the dollars roll in. Jeremy Masterson had sold out, and even if he never recanted a word, Anna had known that she had to tell him. To his face. In public.
Well, he was told. And now it was time to pack up her horses and go home.
“We’ll head back tomorrow,” she said aloud, taking comfort in the sound of her own voice and the nearness of the two horses. She’d brought Calamity and Allegro along because she’d intended to spend a few days riding through the Hill Country. Now, though, she only wanted to load up and go back to El Paso where she belonged. It was time for her to get back to her job at the shelter. She groaned as she thought of the probability that someone at the home for abused women would hear of her threatening an author with a knife. In public. It had been a very emotional display, and could carry a hefty price.
Calamity nickered softly, as if to say that going home was a good idea. Anna went to the horse and stroked her neck. It was early April, but the setting sun had taken all of the spring warmth. She’d need her bedroll tonight.
She heated a can of stew on the fire and tossed dry sticks in the low flames. No matter what she did to keep busy, her mind kept going back to Jeremy Masterson. He was more handsome in person than his photo on his book jacket. She could still hear his voice, a real Texas drawl with the prerequisite “ma’am” when he addressed her.
If only he hadn’t written those things about her grandfather. Since he was writing fiction, why hadn’t he made up a name for the Apache in the book? Everyone else did it. And most didn’t bother to do a bit of research about how things really were. No, it was easier to accept the Hollywood version of the past than to struggle with the issues of right and wrong that were on both sides of the Native American question.
In the distance a coyote howled, and Anna listened to the mournful song. Soon there would be so many people living in Texas that there would be no room for the coyote. Like the bear and panther and wolf, he would disappear. Like the red man.
“The past is over and the future can’t be counted on,” she told herself. She tossed the remains of the coffee in the fire and pulled her blankets over her as she settled on the ground, using her saddle for a pillow.
As a little girl she’d often camped with her grandfather. He’d survived the trial in which he was accused of killing a dozen white settlers. He was a very old man, and Anna had loved to sleep under the stars and listen to his stories. He’d told her about the wiles of the coyote and the bravery of the wolf. And the wisdom of the buffalo that had once roamed free through vast stretches of long grass.
Thunder Horse had been over one hundred when he died on a reservation. But he was not buried there. His ashes were scattered in the very hills where she now camped. Tomorrow, before she went home, she would visit the sacred place where she’d set him free.
The coyote seemed to cry agreement with her plan, and Anna closed her eyes, determined to sleep. But no matter how she tried to relax, she could not. She wasn’t satisfied with her meeting with Jeremy Masterson. He hadn’t believed her. She’d come all this way to straighten him out—and all she’d done was amuse him.
She sat up. She knew where he lived. She’d made it a point to find out. It wouldn’t take long to drive there. And he had offered to talk with her. Maybe if she didn’t create a public scene, he might actually listen to what she had to say. And she might get her knife back.
She knew she was fooling herself. There hadn’t been an inch of bend in the man in the bookstore. Not an inch. But she’d driven a long way, and she wasn’t going home until she tried again.
Throwing off the blankets, she kicked the fire out and checked the hobbles on the horses. They would be fine for a while.
“I must be crazy,” she said aloud.
Even as she talked, she unhitched the horse trailer, got in her truck and slowly headed down the rock-strewn path toward the main road. Jeremy lived out near a small community called Hunt. It was only a twenty-minute drive. She could get there, have her say and get back to her horses in an hour.
The clock on the dash showed midnight when she pulled off the main road and down the narrow lane that led to Jeremy’s home. The grounds, or what she could see of them in the beams of her truck lights, were well tended. The house, when she finally got to it, was modest and cheerful. There were even flowers blooming in the beds. She wondered if he was a secret gardener or if he paid to have the work done.
As she neared the door, which was well lighted, she noticed an herb patch. She didn’t try to stop her smile. This was how she’d imagined Jeremy would live. Bending down, she pinched a few plants and identified basil, lemon dill and mint. She put the herbs in her pocket for luck.
Her knock was bold, and yet it brought no response. She knocked again. The radio was playing inside, and when she waited several minutes and no one came to the door, she moved around to look in an open window. She wasn’t a Peeping Tom, but she couldn’t resist. It would be a thrill to catch a glimpse of him at work—even if he was no longer her favorite author.
A light burned in what appeared to be a study. A big desk chair faced a computer station against the far wall, where a screen of text glowed brightly. Otherwise, the room looked empty.
As her eyes better adjusted to the dim light of the room, she made out a dark shape on the floor. Even as her eyes registered the outline of a body, her brain tried to resist it. Jeremy Masterson wouldn’t sleep on the bare floor. Her impulse was to run—fast. But she couldn’t.
