Hoby glanced at the old bunkhouse, where the tack hung dusty and unused. At the empty corrals. At the house where his boys had grown up and moved away, where his wife had died of a broken heart—or so the neighbors said—three years after Tala left.
"I'm not staying," Tala said quietly. "After this is done, I have to go back. My people need me."
Tala looked toward the mountain, and for a moment Hoby saw the child she'd been—the one who could speak to horses and find water in a drought and read the weather in the flight of birds. -HobyBuchanon- Native American Indian Girl Returns
"How did you find your way here?"
Hoby took off his hat, ran a hand through his silvering hair. "I did come back. Three days after they took you. The place was locked up. They said you'd been sent to the reservation school in Oklahoma. Said no forwarding address." Hoby glanced at the old bunkhouse, where the
She stepped closer, and Hoby saw for the first time the weariness in her eyes, the weight of something more than just the road.
"What do you need?" he asked.
He looked back at the young woman who had walked a thousand miles to find him.
Hoby's throat tightened. "I should have fought harder." "I'm not staying," Tala said quietly
"They changed my name. Said 'Tala' was too hard to pronounce. Called me 'Margaret.'" She almost smiled. "I ran away seven times. The eighth time, I stayed gone."