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To his credit, he didn’t show any impatience with her silly fears. Or not-so-silly fears. That was the problem, she had no idea if her imagination was just running wild or if there really could be bears nearby.
“Things are always scarier in the dark,” he said softly as he backtracked toward her. “Can I hold your hand? Would that help?”
“Yes, I think it would.”
His warm hand, big as a lion’s paw, came around hers. They both wore gloves against the cold, but even so, his touch was comforting. They hiked side by side, even though there wasn’t quite room enough on the trail for that and they kept bumping into each other. Before long, he settled his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. After that they hiked in perfect synchronicity.
And warmth.
And something else.
Maybe…awareness?
She lost herself in the feel of his strong body moving alongside her. Flexing thighs, compact stride, agile movements. He guided her so perfectly. A nudge when they were about to hit a tree root, so she’d remember to step over it. A slowdown when they reached a muddy patch of the trail. A tug around the remains of a mouse dropped by an owl.
He moved so fluidly in this alien territory. She found it mesmerizing.
After a time, she asked him to tell her about their surroundings, and he launched into a fascinating account of all the wild things that inhabited this territory. He’d personally encountered everything from beavers to lynx, not to mention many black bears.
“For better or worse, at least we don’t have to worry about grizzly bears. Those haven’t been seen in Minnesota in centuries. But I’ve heard stories from Canada. Want to hear them?”
“Maybe those can wait until we’re safely inside a house with the doors locked.”
“You let me know when, and I’ll come tell you stories.”
“You’ll be my Scheherazade?”
“Yes, whatever that is.”
The gaps in his knowledge always surprised her. “She was the bride of a sultan who had a bad habit of marrying someone new every night, then executing her in the morning. On her wedding night, she told him a story, but when dawn came, she still hadn’t reached the end. He had to let her live another day to hear more. She told him a new story every night for a thousand and one nights, and by then he was in love with her and pardoned her. Not only had she saved her own life, but those of all the young women he would have married if she hadn’t bewitched him with her storytelling.” She hesitated, unsure if she should share this next part. “Maura used to call me Scheherazade because I used to read my books to her and we’d brainstorm story ideas.”
“Scheherazade,” he repeated, sounding entranced. “It suits you. Did she have red hair?”
“Probably not, because it’s a Persian tale about the power of storytelling.”
“I believe in the power of storytelling. I’ve spent too many nights around a campfire not to. On the rez with Redbull, too. That’s where you hear the best stories. They go back hundreds of years. Redbull can trace his family back thirty-five generations. He says each generation tweaks the stories so who knows what’s true. But it doesn’t matter, it’s still a good story.”
“How did you meet Redbull?”
“Hunting. We were teenagers. I didn’t know anything about hunting because I’d only ever lived in a city. I was roaming around the woods when I spotted Redbull and his family setting up a blind. It was him, his father, his uncle. I had no idea what they were doing, but I tried to stay out of sight. Redbull’s dad nearly shot me, but then they figured out I wasn’t a deer. They dragged me behind the blind and lectured me about wearing orange in hunting season. Right after that they shot a big nine-point buck, so they decided I was a lucky charm. After that I got invited to lots of hunting trips. Fishing too. I tried to get good at all that stuff so I could live up to my lucky charm rep.”
“Did you get good?”
Galen wasn’t normally this chatty, and she knew exactly why he was talking up a storm like this. He was trying to distract her, to uplift her and keep her moving. Maybe he was just doing his job, but even so, she appreciated it.
“Oh yeah. Then Redbull’s aunt got hold of me and dragged me on her blueberry picking expeditions. I got real good at that too. I’m practically a legend now.”
“I’ve heard that if you’re really accepted by a tribe, they give you a name.”
“Tribal initiation.” He lowered his voice to a solemn tone. “There’s an all-night drumming session and a meeting of elders to choose your name. Just call me Walks on Pine Cones.”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, I’m just kidding. Maybe some tribes or nations give names to non-Natives, I’m not sure. We have eleven recognized tribes in Minnesota alone and they have different customs and histories. Generally, names are pretty important in the community. I just stick with Galen. If I was really going to be part of the tribe, I’d have to marry an enrolled member, and even then they’d have to decide if they like me enough to grant me membership.”
Her ears perked up at the mention of Galen marrying. He seemed so very single, and yet also she knew he was really good with kids. “You sound like you’ve looked into it.”
“I dated a girl from the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Chippewa for a while. She’s one of Redbull’s cousins. We got pretty serious.”
