Season of the Wolf Pt. 01

Ginger is a good match for Grace, patiently plodding along the trail at an even pace. It's a long ride to the place I want to show Grace first. I give Horse a little more rein and nudge his flank with the heel of my boot to get him going. Grace is doing well enough with Ginger and the two of them can handle a faster pace. Ginger needs no prompting to move into a slow canter. Grace automatically adjusts her weight in the saddle to compensate.

I snicker as Grace grows braver and coaxes Ginger to increase her speed. The trail is narrow, but I've chosen a sure-footed horse for her. I pull back on the reins and much to Horse's protests let her pass us. Another expanse of flat grazing land is up ahead. Lured by the promise of a rest and mouthfuls of tender grass, Ginger breaks into a full run. I'm worried that Grace will be frightened by the sudden burst of speed, but I hear her laughing and urging Ginger faster.

Horse is stubborn and chomping at the bit in his eagerness to get to the grazing land himself. It isn't like Ginger is going to eat all the grass, but there's no convincing Horse of that. Rather than fight him, I give him his head. He takes it and we've caught up with Ginger and Grace in no time. Ginger is a good horse, but not a filly anymore. She is broke out in a lather and will have to be cooled down before setting to graze. I whistle for Grace and make a motion for her to slow down. She immediately understands and eases Ginger into a slow trot.

Her face is alight with smiles and the sound of her laughter drifts in the air. She guides Ginger up beside me and we're riding together side by side. The sheen of sweat on her cheeks makes her flushed skin glow. Her hair drifts over her shoulders as a breeze toys with the ends. Grace pulls to a stop and points to a distant spot at the border of the woods. I see it. The flick of brown ears honing in on the noise we're making.

My wolf lifts his head in curiosity evaluating if the yearling buck is worth the effort it would take to hunt it when there's a saddlebag full of food and much easier prey hiding in the tall grass. He decides it isn't and settles back into a doze in our shared mental space.

Sometimes, you have to let your beast off the chain. This isn't one of those times and I'm grateful my wolf is content to slumber rather than fight me for our shared body. He loves Grace as much as I do and neither one of us want to do anything to scare her off. I'm smiling as the startled deer goes bounding into the woods. Grace licks her lips and I can see the stirring of instincts she doesn't begin to comprehend. We take our time finishing the trek to the destination I have planned. It doesn't occur to her as she looks up at the shrill sound of a hawk's cry, but it does to me. The seed that was already planted deep within her beginning to sprout. Her eyes are just now starting to open and she is finally starting to see.

Chapter 12

It's hot and I'm grateful for the rest in the shade. The spot Han chose is perfect for a picnic. The clear water of a still pond reflects a picture perfect sky. The tree shields us from the worst of the midday sun and heat with its broad dense vibrant green leaves. Han is perfectly at peace in this place and I am beginning to see why. Other than a few troublesome flies buzzing around our heads. It is very calming to sit and watch nature do her thing.

The horses graze nearby in the tall grass. He has hobbled the horses to keep them from running off and if it bothers them they make no sign of it. I'm a bit busy grazing, myself. It's amazing how hungry I am and I devour my sandwich in two bites. I'm working my way though a pile of celery sticks and my half of the apple Han divvied up for the two of us to share. He watches me eat and I smile shyly at him.

We've ridden for what seems like hours. I've seen cornfields and wheat fields that stretch as far as the eye can see. I've navigated Ginger along a trail that wound through hilly dense woods bordered by a babbling creek and flat planes of grass dotted with wildflowers. Everything is green and alive and the things that live and grow here have a rhythm of their own. I'm just a voyeur in this wild untamed place. Han tells me we've only covered half of what is mine. I find myself a bit in awe of it all and can't wrap my head around the idea of anyone owning so much open space.

I honestly didn't think about it when I left the house. In retrospect I shouldn't have asked. Especially since Han excused himself to duck behind a thick patch of brambles to do the very same thing himself. I'm wondering where the bathroom is. Han is practically smirking at my embarrassment. When I pose the question he points in the general direction of the woods and advises me that if it has leaves of three I'd better not use it for toilet paper unless I want poison ivy.

I snatch up my used napkin and stomp off toward the woods. It's a bit awkward crouching down behind what I now know is a blackberry bramble. Christine would be laughing her ass off at me. Han assured me that this is private property and nobody will stumble on me while I'm doing my business. I'm don't know if I'm more worried about someone seeing my bare ass or something biting it. I guess the latter as a fat bumble bee buzzes a little too close for comfort. After getting in the proper mindset and doing what needs done, I frown at the botch job I've made of it. I quickly clean up and stash the damp napkin in a pile of leaves.

Han is unfettered by my return and lazily glances out of the corner of his eye at me as I wash my hands at the edge of the pond. He hops up as if I've given him an idea and begins to strip. I quickly glance away as he drops his shirt onto the grass and works to unfasten his belt and the button on his jeans. I flush and count to ten at the sound of denim tossed onto the grass. I don't want to know if he goes commando or not. Well, I do and I'm tempted to sneak a peek. But, that would be rude and a little too obvious of me all things considered.

At a full trot, he goes streaking past me and leaps into the pond. I stifle a giggle at his polka dotted boxers and try like hell not to notice his bulging pecs as he bounces up out of the water and lets loose a whoop. "Come on in," he shouts. I shake my head. I'm not wearing polka dotted boxers and I'm not about to go skinny-dipping in front of a complete stranger. He paddles past and splashes at me calling me a chicken. When I still refuse despite his goading. He steps it up a notch and tells me not to be such a girl.

I retort that I am a girl. He raises a brow and states quite plainly that the fact hadn't escaped him. I'm flushed so red beneath his heated stare. The water he splashes at before paddling away feels cool and refreshing on my skin.

I know I'm being a big baby. We're both adults and surely, Han has seen his share of women's underwear and probably plenty of women in them. I know what boy parts look like. Though I've got nothing to compare Han's to. Thanks to my limited experience with men. I've got bathing suits that are far skimpier than the sports bra and boy shorts I'm wearing underneath my jeans and t-shirt.

The sun blazes down practically baking me alive and I'm sweating profusely. It has transformed from a warm, sunny morning to a miserably hot and sweltering afternoon. Han backstrokes past my perch at the edge of the pond and pins me with a look that tells me that I don't know what I'm missing. He does look like he's having fun puttering around in the water. I'm not scared of him ogling me or putting his hands where they're not wanted. I'm more frightened of my reaction to him than of him doing anything I don't want. Because I realize that I do want.

Han scrambles onto the bank and drips water all over me before shaking himself off like a dog. I was in less danger from him when he was in the water than I am now with his boxers clinging obscenely to his groin. Beads of water sluice down his rock hard abdomen and form rivulets to roll down his muscular thighs. His leg hair is a dusty brown. His nearness has the desired effect and I'm on my feet, yanking off my clothes, and bolting for the pond before he can tempt me further.

The coolness of the water is a relief from the heat of the day. Every part of my body sighs in contentment as I paddle around. Han is back in the pond, treading water, but keeping a casual distance from me. The two of us play, splashing one another when something startles me as it brushes past my foot. I'm behaving like a total girl climbing up onto Han's back to get away from whatever it was. He guffaws at my folly and points out that we're swimming in one of his favorite fishing holes. But, he makes no move to dislodge me from my perch on his back and begins to taxi me around the pond.

The flex and bunch of his muscles beneath my grip make me very aware of him. I push off his back and swim the grassy shore. I've literally been swimming with the fishes and he assures me that the water is perfectly safe. I don't care. I may be safe, but he isn't. Not from me anyway.

The worst of the heat of the day has passed and I find a shady spot to air dry. He plops down onto the grass beside me and the both of us are silent. He stretches out on his belly facing me and toys with blades of grass. I likewise, am on my stomach, playing with my own patch of grass. The attraction isn't one sided. I know that now and I realize that he is trying just as hard to hide it as I am. He shakes the water out of his hair and slowly moves to brush my tangled locks away from my face.

He'd stop if I wanted him to. I put up no argument as he tucks the wet strands behind my ear and cups my cheek in his big warm hand. Maybe it's the wildness of this place. Maybe it's just that he happens to be the only person I remotely could call a friend within a two thousand mile radius. I realize I'm beginning to trust him and whatever charm he has is beginning to wear through the thin veneer of my resistance. His thumb traces my lower lip and I know he wants exactly the same thing I do. His eyes meet mine and I feel the heat in me reflected in them. We're both burning. It's not a good idea. In fact, it's probably the worst idea I've ever had, but I want him to kiss me.

The moment is here and just as quickly as it came it's gone. Han suddenly withdraws and is up on his feet, pulling on his jeans and boots. Our lips were inches from touching and he put on the brakes. Now who's the chicken? He tells me that if I'm going to see the rest of the place before sundown. We need to get back into the saddle.

Confused by his sudden shift of gears, I dress and save my questions for later. I'm up in the saddle and following him down a trail that leads onto a dirt road. I'm curious about where we're going. Other than explaining his reasons for the almost kiss, Han has been very free with information today. I'm certain he'll tell me what he wants to tell me when he wants to tell it and that includes his reasons for the kiss that wasn't.

We turn off the dirt path. The horses strain as they begin the climb up a narrow trail that leads high up onto a wide flat plane shaded by towering oaks. There's a feel to this place that goes beyond the gravestones positioned in neat rows in a circular pattern instead of the traditional rectangle or square.

Han climbs down from Horse and motions for me to do the same. He ties Horse and Ginger to the lower branches of a tree and feels around on the path for a stone. He places the stone in my palm and picks up another for himself. I can't help but ask what we're doing here and what I'm supposed to do with the stone. He says something in a language I don't understand and presses a finger to my lips to still any further questions. He crouches low to pull off his boots and bends to untie my tennis shoes.

We pad barefoot through the soft grass and stop at one of the grave markers. I recognize the name. The grave is newer and the grass is thin and struggling for a foothold. He places the stone at the base of the headstone and steps back. I do the same and he reaches over to take my hand. "I thought you'd like to meet the rest of your family, Winona."

Chapter 13

Han, as it turns out is a very patient teacher and definitely a much better historian than I could ever hope to be. There is a history to this remote cemetery in the woods. Graveyards have never really bothered me. Guiltily, I have to admit that I've never been a big one for visiting the dead. It isn't that I think that the departed don't deserve to be remembered. It's just that I'd rather do it in my own way instead of going to a specific place. That obviously isn't the case for Han and he holds this small cemetery in great revere. For me, it was almost as if I could feel the past, like the fingers of an unseen hand reaching out to find me here, in the present.

Hallowed ground or not, the place gave me a severe case of the willies. The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled and my arms broke out in goose bumps. Even though there was no one around. I got the eerie sensation of eyes on my back. But, it was only my imagination and Han's vivid recanting of the stories of the dead buried here.

The first grave was dug on November 8th in the year 1811. According to Han, there were many graves dug and many dead put to rest that day. The battle of Tippecanoe was fought and lost on November 7th. . It didn't last long as far as battles went. Out of ammunition and on the wake of what was going to be an obvious slaughter. The warriors gathered up what remained of their families and fled for their lives into the woods.

After the smoke settled and Harrison's army broke camp and marched for Vincennes. The warriors and their families returned to Prophetstown, the place they called Tippecanoe, only to find it reduced to a smoldering pile of ash and the graves of their dead desecrated by the army for no other purpose than the taking of scalps as souvenirs. The warriors removed their dead and brought them here to rest in peace.

Han told the history as if it had just happened yesterday and not over two hundred years ago. None of the graves were marked, but he seemed to know the location of each and every one of them and the names of the warriors buried there. He paused at one grave longer than the others and paid the flat plot special homage. I don't know whether to believe him or not, but he claims Tecumseh is buried in the spot.

I don't know a thing about Native American history. So, I've got no choice but to take Han at his word until I can get on the Internet and research things for myself. He gave me a speculative look when I mentioned it. He told me to go ahead and do my research, but the truth of the stories he had to tell weren't found on any website or in any history book. He said the truth of a story depends on the point of view of the person doing the telling. Only the dead know the truth for certain.

Not all of the graves were unmarked. There were headstones marking some of the newer graves. Some of the stones were old, covered by moss, and so weathered that the inscriptions were impossible to read. There were new stones too, with the names and dates neatly carved in stone. Han knew the story of the people buried in the graves. He gave me a moment to study the headstones before moving on to the one he brought me here to see. The headstone of grandfather's grave, Nathaniel Blake Galloway or High Backed Wolf, otherwise known as, Neeheeoeewootis.

My biological mom and dad are buried in the cemetery also. I now have names to fill in the blanks. Han says my grandfather spent a small fortune to find my mother and bring her home to rest. Her name was Angela Baker Galloway, or Rain Wolf, Asasgawahya and she died twenty-four years ago. Though the grave is almost as new as my grandfather's. My father's gravestone was simpler without the embellishments of my grandfather's or my mother's. His grave is newer than my grandfather's or my mothers. The earth is still bare in places where the grass hasn't grown back yet. His name was Josiah Blake Galloway and the date carved in such neat block numbers was just eight months ago.

I asked Han why he told me my father died of a broken heart after my mother left with me in tow when it's obvious he died so recently. Han's face, usually so open and expressive, grew blank and as closed off as the explanation he offered. He said that the man who was my father. The man every one knew as Joe did die twenty-four years ago. The man who took his place, the man he became, was not the man who was once my father. My prodding did no good. Han refused to give anything else up in terms of answers to my questions.

We rode back in silence with my questions left unanswered to simmer in my mind. I know there's a lot more to the story than what Han has told me. I don't know what. I also don't understand why Han won't tell me any more than he has or what his reasons for holding back are.

After we returned to the house, Han didn't stick around. He probably knew I'd keep at him until he finally caved and answered my questions. He was pensively quiet, taking the reins from my hands and leading the horses to the barn while leaving me to my own devices. I showered and ate a simple supper of cereal alone. With nothing better to do, I wandered out to the old porch swing and had a seat.

Thinking of nothing but the past, I watched the sun dip below the tree line. I'd love to check out Han's version of history. Compare it to the history I've always accepted as the absolute truth. This house is a relic from another time and I have no way to verify Han's story. There isn't any Internet access or even a landline for me to telephone Christine. My cell phone has no reception. I'm as isolated and alone as I've ever been in my life.

My grandfather didn't own a TV. I have movies downloaded to my P.C., but even my old tried and true favorites can't hold my attention. Out of desperation I grabbed a classic off the bookshelf and quickly found I didn't possess the concentration needed to read the first paragraph. I eyed the desk and wondered if the answers I was after were tucked away inside. Surely, my grandfather had records of some sort. Death certificates, birth certificates, an old family bible, transfers of property, or something that might give me a clue about this strange family I was born into.

I'm uncomfortable digging through a stranger's private things. Snooping through the remnants of someone else's life just seems wrong. There are so many warring parts of me. My logical mind battles that half of what Han has told me can't possibly be true. My sense of reason argues for facts and proof. I'm not convinced Han or my grandfather even has the right person and it must be some kind of mistake. I'm not who they think I am.

The side of me that is more emotion than rational wants to grab onto the sketchy paper trail Han has, to this point, produced and hold that sense of home and belonging in the palm of her hand. I'm finally home she argues while the logical side banters back yeah, well prove it.

It has grown dark and clocks are about as plentiful as TV sets, telephones, and Internet connections in this damn house. The hands on the old mantle clock are frozen in place on the six and the twelve. I have no idea if it was six PM or AM or even what year month or day it was when the clock stopped working. I fumble with the key used to wind the clock and have no clue of how to make it start ticking again.

Tomorrow I resolve to dig through every damn drawer and search every nook and cranny from the basement to the attic for the proof I need. Everyone has a paper trail a mile long. I need to have a sense of who these people were. There must be pictures, old Christmas cards, something left behind besides unmarked graves, vague epitaphs, and cryptic explanations.