Page 22 of Shoshone Sun

The wind howled outside the cabin, but inside, the warmth of the fireplace and the steady presence of family created a sense of calm. The snow, relentless once again, continued to blanket the land in its white covering, but the cabin was a sanctuary from the world beyond. The world where fear and uncertainty loomed just beyond the door. Inside, life seemed to carry on, despite everything that had happened.

Flying Arrow was healing. His body was no longer as frail; it no longer trembled with weakness. His wound, though still a source of pain, had begun to mend. Jane could see the subtle changes in him as the days passed. The first time she had seen him conscious, his eyes had been clouded with pain and confusion. But now, he regularly looked at her with something different in his gaze—something clearer. He was regaining his strength, and with it, a new awareness of his situation and his surroundings.

Jane had taken on the task of nursing him back to health as if it were her duty, her calling, and though part of her wished it were simply an obligation she could carry out without question, another part of her was beginning to realize how deeply involved she was becoming in the process. She cared for him—truly cared for him—and this feeling was new, unexpected. She was careful not to dwell on it, but every time their eyes met, the connection between them seemed to deepen.

On Christmas day, the wind outside carried with it the bitter cold of winter, snow blanketing the world in a thick layer of white, the landscape stretching endlessly in every direction. Inside, the warmth of the fireplace crackled and danced, its flickering flames casting a soft glow over the room. The smell of pine mingled with the scent of roasting venison, and the cheerful hum of Paul’s fiddle filled the air.

Mary moved quietly around the room, the hem of her simple calico dress brushing the floor as she set the table. A small, freshly cut pine tree stood in the corner, its sparse branches adorned with simple ornaments—handmade paper garlands, a few shiny beads, and a couple of red ribbons that Mary had fashioned from scraps of fabric. There were no elaborate decorations, but the modest tree felt like a treasure.

Paul now stood by the fire, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he stoked the flames, sending a burst of warmth through the cabin. He smiled to himself, watching his wife’s graceful movements, and then glanced over at Flying Arrow lying on a blanket by the fireplace. The wound in his side had been serious, but with Jane’s careful nursing, Flying Arrow was finally on the mend.

Jane sat beside him, her eyes fixed on the flames. The settlers’ celebrations were far from the Christmas dinners and presents she’d grown used to in England, but they were enough. More than enough, in their own quiet way.

“Everything’s ready, Paul,” Mary said softly, looking up from the table where she had set out bowls of boiled potatoes, a hunk of venison, and fresh biscuits.

Paul grinned, his rugged face softened by the warmth of the fire. “It’s wonderful, Mary. I don’t think we could ask for anything more.” His gaze moved to Flying Arrow, whose dark eyes glinted with curiosity. Paul and Mary had taken Flying Arrow in without hesitation. It wasn’t the first time they'd offered their shelter to someone in need, but this was different—Flying Arrow wasn’t just any man. He was a living reminder of the fragile and sometimes violent relationship between settlers and the Indian tribes in the region.

“Tonight,” Paul continued, his voice more serious now, “we’ll all sit together. It’s a time for peace, for hope. I think that’s something we could all use.”

Mary nodded, her expression thoughtful. She turned to Jane. “Why don’t you help me serve the food, sweetheart?”

Jane rose to her feet “Of course.”

Paul helped Flying Arrow to his feet and supported him during the short walk to the kitchen table. As they all sat down together—Paul and Mary on one side, Jane and Flying Arrow on the other—there was an unspoken understanding that this Christmas would be remembered, not for its presents or decorations, but for the simple gift of shared humanity.

The meal was humble. There was no turkey or goose, no lavish spread of Christmas puddings and cakes, but the venison tasted rich, and the warmth of the food filled them in a way they hadn’t expected. They spoke of simple things—how the weather had been brutal this year, how the farm had been doing, and whether the next spring would bring better fortunes.

After the meal, Paul took a deep breath. “I’ve got something for you all,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“First you, Mary.” From his pocket, Paul pulled out a black velvet box.

With trembling fingers, Mary took it from his hand. “You shouldn’t have, Paul!” she cautioned as she opened it to reveal a ruby-red ring set in delicate silver. She gasped and fell into his arms in tears. “It’s gorgeous!”

After hugging his wife, Paul pulled out a small bundle wrapped in burlap from beneath the table. He handed it to Jane, who gasped in delight. Inside were two hand-carved wooden hearts, one of dark wood, the other of light.

“They’re beautiful! Thank you!” Jane whispered, clutching them to her chest.

Paul smiled broadly and turned to Flying Arrow. “And for you,” he said, pulling a pair of fur-lined moccasins from behind his back. “For when you’re strong enough to travel again. We may not have much to offer, but we’ll share what we can.”

Flying Arrow looked at the moccasins, then up at Paul, his dark eyes full of emotion. “Thank you,” he said, a tear in his eye acknowledgment of his gratitude for the kindness shown to him, one stranger among many in the harshness of the wilderness.

The evening passed gently, each of them wrapped in the warmth of the fire and the quiet companionship. Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, it was as though time itself had softened, allowing them all a brief respite from the struggles that lay beyond the cabin walls.

As the night grew late, Mary leaned back in her chair, her face well-lit by the firelight. “I’m very glad we’re all together,” she said softly, her voice full of quiet contentment.

“I am too,” Paul agreed, putting his arm around her shoulders. “In a world like this, it’s all we can ask for.”

Flying Arrow, now lying back on his blanket by the fireplace, spoke. “Thank you for letting me into your home, Paul and Mary.” Then he turned to Jane seated on her stool beside him and smiled, “And thank you, Jane, for so good taking care of me.”

Jane smiled, and gently corrected him “… for taking care of me so well, is how you should say it. And you are very welcome!”

And as the fire crackled and the night deepened, they sat in silent companionship, each heart warmed not just by the fire, but by the simple joy of being together.

Days turned to weeks, and with the passing of each day, Flying Arrow grew stronger. The blankets that had once cocooned him against the cold were now less necessary, and his movements were no longer slow and tentative. He had begun to sit up for longer periods, his strength returning in small increments. The firelight that danced across his features now revealed a strength that matched his name—Flying Arrow.

Jane noticed the change in him most clearly when he’d recovered enough to sit outside on the cabin’s small porch during the late January afternoons. His face, still paler than normal from his ordeal, was soft in the fading sunlight, his dark eyes absorbing everything around him. He’d look out over the winter landscape, as if contemplating the world with a quiet wisdom.

One afternoon, Jane brought him a bowl of broth out onto the porch. Flying Arrow smiled at her as she approached with the steaming dish in her hands. He had learned much more English by now, and though his knowledge of the language was not yet perfect, it was good enough to bridge the narrowing distance between them.

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