Chapter Two: Empathy

Juliana

 

 

"If you've come to daydream and piddle away the day, we'll do this another time," he says plainly.

"I'm trying. I really am. There's so much going on right now with my family. It's hard not to get distracted."

"Then this is the perfect time to train your focus. When you are inattentive, it is easy for menacing spirits to harass you."

"That explains a lot," I say, thinking how preoccupied I've been this entire summer, which ultimately led to being haunted by ghosts, followed by demons, and possessed by a succubus. Those are only the highlights. Now, visions are plaguing me.

“It happened again this morning,” I say.

“Tell me what you saw,” Chris says.

“I was eating a bowl of cereal and just like that, I was completely gone. Like my mind was being controlled by aliens or something. Why is this happening now? I don’t like being out of control in that way. The visions come to me and I have no power to stop them. What if I had been cooking? I could have burnt my house down.”

“I do not believe you will set fire to your kitchen,” he says flatly. “Tell me everything you remember.”

Chris Abeyta, my shaman friend, and lately, my personal healer and otherworldly adviser, has been sitting at his workbench stringing beads on sinew since I walked into the sunroom at the back of his cabin. I'm here for our second official training session. He convinced me how important it is that I learn how to control and use my paranormal abilities. After I psychically took my brother's deadly virus from him into my own body and nearly died from that little stunt, the importance became even more evident. I didn't know it was possible to take sickness from someone, and yet I still accomplished the unimaginable feat. I also had my neck sliced open by my brother's girlfriend, Star. Although it was mostly an accident by a girl who suffered from mental health issues, Chris believes if I had used my ability to read people’s auras and energies, I would have known how unstable she was. Since I'm now trying to take better care of myself, I'm taking Chris up on his offer to teach me how to wield the "gifts" I've been given by “Creator” — what he calls the great and vast universe. My attempts to ignore and pretend I can't see and hear the dead, or all the other weirdo stuff I can do, is working out about as well as ignoring an atom bomb.

“In the vision, there was a lot of darkness. And it’s hard to breathe,” I say. “I think it’s nighttime and there were other people with me.”

“Male or female?” Chris interrupts as I concentrate on remembering what I saw mid-cornflakes.

I attempt to look deeper into my brain. “Male. Definitely all guys. I’m the only girl.”

“You are in the vision?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Does it matter?”

His face reveals little change of expression as he half-heartedly shrugs and returns his attention to the necklace of beads he’s assembling.

“Go on,” he says.

Swallowing the lump of trepidation in the back of my throat, I close my eyes and try to recall the images. “Heavy and hot breath in the dark. Not from humans, but from animals, I think. There’s sounds I can’t explain. A lot of movement and fear. It’s so dark that I’m mostly feeling things and not seeing them. I’m afraid I’m going to fall. My throat is burning.” Replaying the vision refreshes the unease and a shudder passes through my body.

“Tell me the rest,” Chris says.

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, but continue.

“There’s fire. Flames in the sky. The fear almost overwhelms me. Ghosts circle us. There’s chaos hitting me from all directions. Inside me and outside of me — if that makes any sense. Which it probably doesn’t. Unrecognizable movements and sounds. The pounding sounds are like a heartbeat, or a dozen heartbeats, and then more black. I remember coughing and being surrounded by the dark for a long time before my bowl of cereal was staring back at me again.”

"Okay. This is for you." He hands me the string of beads.

They're little more than what I made for my mom in preschool. But the beads are warm and smooth in my hand and I lower them to my side, not sure what to do with them. “Thanks?” I say with a doubtful look. “That’s all you’ve got for me?”

Chris's eyelids flicker in his perpetual state of being perturbed with me. His down-turned mouth deepens in disapproval at my choice of words. "The necklace will protect you against the newly dead. And the answer is yes. That is all I have to say about your latest vision, Ant."

His given nickname for me isn't my favorite. I'd much rather be called vixen and love — Nathaniel's choices. I sigh contentedly, thinking about the sound of Nathaniel's voice.

"Juliana, if you are coming with me today, you need to train your teenaged brain to remain alert."

"I thought we were staying at your house today," I say quickly, snapping out of my dreamy memory of Nathaniel and his silky voice and muscular body. Thinking about my boyfriend is so much easier than dealing with the rest of my life and the ghosts and spirits who show up unannounced and uninvited.

"Come or do not. I must see my father. I will think on your vision while we drive."

"To the reservation?" I ask.

"That's where he lives."

I swallow to moisten my suddenly dry mouth. No definitive answer comes to mind. I've only been on the reservation outside of town for open-to-the-public festivals and gatherings. My grandfather had relations there once, but he said our relatives moved away or joined the spirit world a long time ago. My grandmother's people are from the northeast. Even though I'm half Native American, I've never felt any connection to the local tribes in my area of the Southwest.

"Are we still working on protection and communicating with the spirits today?"

"Yes, Ant." Chris tucks another string of beads into the breast pocket of his army green canvas vest. "My father would like to meet you," he adds.

"Why's that?" I ask.

"A shaman’s motives are his own. You should ask him if you want to know."

"Should I be worried?" I ask.

Chris gives me one of his characteristically unreadable flat stares before walking out the back door.

 

∞

 

A bay colored horse rears and bucks inside the paddock as we roll down the dusty driveway. The horse nearly collides with the fence before switching directions on a dime and barreling toward the opposite corner of the corralled yard. I crane my neck, looking for a problem or whatever has the horse worked up, but a sun-faded wooden barn blocks my view as we continue toward an adobe house.

I turn back around in the truck seat. "Your dad owns horses?" I ask Chris.

"And cats, chickens, and probably some sheep. And—" He doesn't finish. The pickup truck stops in front of an animal sprawled across the road. The dog is nearly identical in color to the sandy dirt. I know the dog’s alive because he lifts his nose, nostrils twitching as he processes our scent. The dog relaxes once more to laze in the sun and ignore the arrival of visitors.

"And dogs," Chris finishes. "That's Bird." Chris stares at the napping indeterminable breed of dog. "Lula will be the one who looks like she's starving. She's not and don't let her fool you. And Fetch is the creature who never leaves my father's side except to chase a stick, should someone have pity on him and throw it."

Chris shifts into park and shuts off the truck. After a formal introduction to Bird, who barely lifts his head to sniff my hand, we walk toward the house. Pinion trees, sagebrush, and chamisa line the drive. Rocky bluffs rise above the Piedra River, running wide and lazy behind the house.

"Did you grow up here?"

"Sometimes," Chris says cryptically.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

He doesn't answer because we hear the horse from the paddock whinny followed by a loud crack of wood. Chris opens the screen door of the house and two dogs nearly run me over in their haste to get outside.

“White Wolf, you in there?”

“You call your father White Wolf?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” he says again. “He’s not here,” Chris adds and turns on his booted heel.

The screen door clicks shut behind us as we start walking toward the barn. Near the paddock area, I see the horse prancing wild-eyed in the far corner of its fenced yard. I notice a couple of broken fence rails, but otherwise the area looks secure.

"What's the matter?" I ask as we near the barn door.

"Hush," Chris says with an abrupt wave of his hand.

I slow my approach, suddenly feeling queasy and unsure if I want to enter the barn. One more step forward and I know I don't. Reaching out, I place my hand on Chris's arm. The sudden clenching in my gut almost has me doubled over.

Chris stills and turns a penetrating gaze on me. "Jules, what is wrong?"

"I'm sick," I manage to say. "There's something really wrong."

"Stay here. I need to check on the other horse and find my father."

A quick nod and I back away from the barn. I hear an animal snorting, blowing, and stamping the ground inside. A loud whinny echoes out of the open door. The bay horse in the paddock answers in return. Out of curiosity, I hurry down the length of the barn to check on the reddish-brown horse in the paddock. It's galloping straight in my direction. The massive animal rears at the last second before crashing into the fence. She still looks crazy-eyed and her skin shivers over the withers as she sees me. Instead of jumping out of the way, I cower, but the horse manages to twist away. Her front forelock buckles and she falls to her knee. I gasp in empathy and reach a hand out as if I can help steady her. She recovers and bolts for the other side of the yard.

For reasons I don't fully understand, I rise from my crouching position and duck through the fence. Why would any sane person enter a pen containing a mad stampeding horse? I don't ask myself these kinds of things when animals are involved. I have to help. She’s prancing in an anxiety-filled dance along the railing. I lower my gaze and approach slowly. When I was younger, I spent plenty of time with my grandmother’s horses. The desire to be around these majestic animals has been waning over the last few years. When I was twelve, I couldn't get enough of them. I would have happily ridden away with the next rodeo circuit, but as I managed my way through high school, I found I wanted to hike and climb with my own two feet, and not on the back of an animal. When my grandmother’s last mare died, I stopped riding altogether. However, I never stopped loving these animals and seeing this distress is more than I can bear.

I slow my breathing and in a soothing tone, I say, "Whoa there, girl."

She throws her head about and paws the hoof-trodden ground. Turning slightly to the side and relaxing the tension in my shoulders and back, I keep up the soft talk. "You're all right now. Take it easy."

She lets me edge in. I grab her harness and stroke her neck. The feeling of her anxiety ripples through me and I want to shudder from head to toe, but I force my body to stop reacting to the strong emotions I'm suddenly experiencing. She's already skittish and doesn't need me to make it worse. The gut wrenching subsides as I focus on the horse instead of the barn.

I brush my hand along the sweep of her sun-warmed neck trying to soothe with confidence and reassurance even though I'm neither of these things.

Now that we've met, I visually check her for wounds. On her right side, I don't see anything wrong, but I still have the other side to inspect. Moving my hand up, I scratch under her ear and tell her what I want to do. "I'm going to check your other side now."

I inch my way around her head, holding the harness, and moving with care. I stroke the white star with a small blaze running down her muzzle and I finally stare straight into her knowing brown eyes.

"What happened out here?" I ask gently.

They won't take him. Help him. He can't go.

Still gripping the harness, I back up a step and raise my brows. What? The horse spoke to me... What?! Her voice was clear and full of fear. I heard her inside my head like she spoke aloud. I don't hear animals speaking. This isn’t right. Having forgotten that I wanted to check for injuries, all I manage to do is stand and stare at her for what feels like an eternal second while trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.

No more messages enter my mind. In fact, there’s not a lick of validation of what I experienced was actually real. A loud crash from inside the barn followed by a loud cry of pain jerks my attention away from the horse. I release the harness and run toward the barn.

The inside of the barn may as well be a cave compared to the glaring daylight outside. My eyes need to adjust before I can focus on anything inside, but there’s no time as I’m suddenly facing a monstrous black shadow hurtling toward me. I dive sideways as a black horse with white socks tears out of the barn.

"Chris! Where are you?" I scramble to my feet and run through the open doorway, praying there’s not another horse on the loose.

"Call the police, Juliana," I hear from somewhere inside.

I hurry along the rough-hewn boards of the stalls toward the sound of Chris's voice. The stall door hangs open, smashed and nearly pulverized. I edge around the ragged splinters and cracked wood to see Chris kneeling over a man who appears unconscious. In the dim light, he looks young, easily in his twenties or thirties. I immediately assume this isn't Chris's father.

"Who is that? What happened?"

The man’s spirit rises out of his body. I stumble backward. I've seen this before, but when my brother, Jared, left his body, I was so shocked and saddened all I could do was insist he return to life. He did — thank goodness — with the help of Nathaniel and two EMTs. Jared started breathing again before reality could sink in. In that horrific moment, I didn't have time to think about the details of what was happening. This time it’s entirely different. I don't know this man and I don't want to either.

There’s anger and a vengeful gleam in his dead stare. His eyes are dark and hateful, but there’s also something seriously wrong with the way his stomach and neck appear flattened. He turns to Chris and launches an attack. I scurry farther away as Chris wards off the spirit by deflecting the advance. Running away would be so easy, but I can’t leave Chris behind. Not after everything he’s done for me. The spirit lengthens, growing to the size of a looming monster. The rage seethes from the spirit as he attempts to swing a fist at Chris. The man is yelling. I can see his mouth moving but there’s no sound.

Chris hurls orders with verbal force toward the ghost’s face. "Spirit, be away from here! Go now and seek your ancestors!"

The shaman’s body language remains calm, considering a ghost is attacking him, but his voice is commanding. He reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out the string of beads. My attention returns to the spirit. He’s an exact copy of the man on the straw covered floor. He has the look of a Native with his burnt umber skin tone, black hair, and distinct facial features. His jeans, cowboy boots, and T-shirt aren't remarkable but the white, red, and black face paint, and the armbands around his biceps make him stand out.

Deciding I don't need these shenanigans after all and Chris can handle himself, I make ready to dash out of the barn much like the escaped horse, but I’m knocked to the ground. The spirit moved so quickly I didn't see him coming at me. He looms eight feet tall over me as I roll onto my back. He bares his teeth in a snarl as he hovers like an angry ghoul looking for an easy treat. Unable to breathe as my diaphragm recovers from the unexpected hard landing, I watch in utter disbelief as the hateful spirit reaches for me, but can't get a hold of my body. I fumble to retrieve the beads from my pocket. Chris's earlier words ring inside my head, “They're for protection from the recently deceased.” Wish he would’ve told me to put them on.

I wave the talisman in the air as I scramble over the dust and straw covered floor. He flinches as if repelled as I find my feet and run toward the light of the open barn door.

At my back, I hear Chris continue to demand that the spirit pay heed and be away from this place. He switches between his native tongue and English.

I don't realize I'm turned around and have exited a different barn door until the river comes rushing up to meet me. A skinny brown dog stands along the bank whimpering and barking. Past the dog, a green canoe is being paddled by a white-haired man. A gray and black dog hangs two front paws over the side like an excited passenger. A couple seconds later and they disappear from view, rounding a bend in the river and the bank growing thick with red willows.

Reorienting my position, I switch directions and run for the house to call the police. A shadow passes over me with an icy gust of wind. Gooseflesh rises up my spine and down my arms. Chris sprints out of the barn intent on pursuing the fleeing ghost. The dark shadow of the ghost fades into the daylight and disappears. Chris howls a warrior’s cry. The sound echoes off the plateau on the opposite side of the river and bounces back at us.

The desire to travel back in time and stay in bed today is a fantasy best left buried in my subconscious, yet the idea taunts me. Chris warned we’d be learning protection and communication with spirits, but this is not what I had in mind.

Chris's labored breath and determined steps as we hurry to the house aren't nearly as disturbing as his aura. I want to know what happened inside the barn. Who’s the dead guy? Where did Chris's father go and why? Why didn't an angel appear to take the spirit to the afterlife? I don't ask any questions. Chris’s aura is as dark as midnight during a new moon. The waves of dense energy pulsing out of him make me keep my distance. He dials 9-1-1.

The arrival of the ambulance and detectives is almost as disturbing as hearing a horse's thoughts and having a dead guy try to jump me. Almost, but not quite. At least, cops and medics exist in the physical plane. I try not to watch as they cart the body out of the barn and load it into the ambulance, but I can't seem to help myself. It’s only the former shell of a man, I remind myself. I know his spirit is gone, but maybe that’s why it’s so unnerving. The remaining flesh is only a husk. The knowledge isn't digesting well. Knowing a soul can be something malicious after it passes on is sitting in my gut like a rotten egg.

"Nathaniel Evans, if you have a second, I could really use a friend right now," I whisper it to the surrounding parched hills, the deep water of the river, and to the pygmy nuthatches flittering about in the nearby cedar trees. He'll hear me. I don't usually call like this, but the loneliness of being out in the middle of the high desert and not knowing anyone, the shock of seeing the dead guy, and Chris acting so aloof and harsh is more than I want to deal with alone.

Chris is preoccupied filling out forms and talking to a detective in front of his father's house. Everyone seems to know each other. Except for me. I'm an outsider.

A cloud of pale dust rises from the direction of the main road and a sheriff’s SUV comes into sight. He parks behind the long line of emergency vehicles crowding the driveway. When I see his familiar face, I cringe. The same county sheriff I've had recent run-ins with has arrived. Of course, he has.

Officer Suarez acknowledges my presence with a brief, "Ms. Crowson."

He not only remembers my name, but looks equally surprised and displeased to see me, too. "You have anything to do with what has happened out here today?" He glances at my beaded necklace and without saying the words, I know he recognizes the talisman for what it is.

I swallow hard, only now noticing my mouth is so dry I can hardly speak. "Umm... no, sir," I say.

He frowns and then keeps moving past me toward Chris and the plain-clothes detective.

I kick at the dust and listen to Chris repeat to Officer Suarez what he’s already said to the other detective.

"I walked into the barn at three-thirty, give or take ten minutes, and found the man on the ground. No, I do not recognize him and I have never seen him before. I checked him out and found him already deceased. I called the police. I don’t know where my father is."

I glance away from the men so no one will be able to read my face. Chris skipped everything that happened with the spirit and he didn't mention his father. The detectives thank Chris for responding quickly and thoroughly to the emergency. I make myself take deep steadying breaths. Chris doesn't say anything to me or look at me when it's my turn to give my statement.

Since they don't ask about Sherman White Wolf Abeyta, I follow Chris's lead and don't mention him or the canoe, even though my mind is racing with questions. Officer Suarez watches me closely. His prying gaze makes me want to crawl into the nearest prairie dog hole and hide until they all go away. I didn't do anything wrong. The feelings of guilt are absurd and yet there they are, like a hot blade at my belly waiting to spill my guts.

"I need some water." I clear my throat and glance at Chris's pickup truck where my bag and water bottle are.

Nathaniel’s standing by the white truck in his spirit body. Seeing him eases my nerves enough to let out the breath I didn't know I was holding.

Officer Suarez brings my attention back to the immediate situation. "Ms. Crowson. You have been part of two mysterious deaths in one summer. Do you find the coincidence distressing?"

I stare at him like he has a peanut for a brain. "Distressing?" It’s so hard not to roll my eyes right now, or laugh like a loon, that I stare at him opened mouthed and wonder if he can see my desert-dry tonsils. "Mason fell out a window. I didn't have anything to do with his accident. And today? Believe me, I wish to the marrow of my bones I was at home."

"Yet, here the two of you are. We can see the victim was trampled by a horse, but why are you and Chris all the way out here today? I don't think you mentioned your reason for visiting White Wolf."

I cut my gaze over to the truck once more. The horse crushed the stranger. That would explain the flattened chest and odd angle of his neck. Nathaniel stands closer to me now. Close enough to hear us talking but far enough to give Chris his wide berth of personal space. As far as I can tell, no one else has seen Nathaniel except Chris and me. I don't want to appear shifty to Suarez, so I compose myself and answer with the truth.

"Chris said his father would like to meet me and I agreed to come along."

"And what is your relationship with Chris, exactly?"

Do I really have to answer? Did he ask Chris the same question? My tolerance toward this investigation is wearing thin quickly, and I’m having some strong feelings of empathy for why my brother dislikes cops so much. They can ask anything and if you don't want to answer then you're automatically coming across as being guilty or uncooperative. What does my relationship with Chris have to do with the trampled dead guy?

"Chris is a friend." I leave out the part about Chris helping me understand my woo-woo paranormal abilities. Who would understand that Chris is mentoring me in the ways of spirits and ghosts, protection and energies I don't even fully comprehend?

Officer Suarez writes something on his notepad. The other detective has since moved on and I wonder if this sheriff has any right to still be questioning me. His suspicions are so obvious there may as well be a flashing light over his shoulder that says, "I know you're hiding something." I try to ignore the neon even though it’s flashing its imaginative existence in my face.

"Is there anything else you would like to tell me, Ms. Crowson?"

Outwardly, he's all collected and professional, but I'm too sensitive of a person, and it's difficult for me to be around someone who is having such negative thoughts about my character and motivations.

"Uhhh..." I stammer again. "Actually, yes there is."

This seems to perk him up a bit. He leans in, like he knew his instincts weren't leading him astray and now he’s about to be rewarded with a juicy tip or secret.

"When we arrived, I noticed the bay horse was really excited. She was bucking and rearing before we got out of the truck."

He writes it down and I notice the instant quelling of his eagerness. Whatever he thought I was going to say didn't live up to what I actually said. "That's it. Can I get something to drink now?"

"Here's my card," he says. "If there’s anything else, any little detail you think of later, call me."

"I will." I try to make it as earnest a statement as I can and tuck his card in my pocket.

He tips his hat and I gratefully walk away in the opposite direction.

If I could only fall into Nathaniel's arms right now... but I can't. If he suddenly appears out of nowhere, there will be more questions.

I open the truck door and reach for my water bottle. Nathaniel stands close by, boxing me in behind the door.

"I was so wrong to think you would stay out of trouble while I was at work."

"Thanks a lot," I mumble.

"Thought you said your streak of mishaps was well behind you, vixen." He raises a hand and cups my cheek with his angelic hand. I tilt my face into it and close my eyes for a second, feeling his spirit touch. "Are you all right?" he asks softly.

I turn my back to the house so hopefully no one will see me talking to myself. Well, not myself, but no one here except Chris knows I'm having a conversation with an Angel of Death. "How do I stop being me? I could use a day off."

"Don't say that. You're the most extraordinary person I know and there's no stand-ins allowed."

"I'm not sure about that." The ambulance and the county coroner back up, turn around, and pull away. "If you can find a replacement, then why can't I?"

"I hope you're not being serious, Juliana. Our situations aren't comparable. You're alive and I want to be."

I heave a sigh and then guzzle the sun baked hot water from my bottle. Nathaniel is giving me the look; the one he gives me when he’s being über serious and wants me to agree with him over the severity of whatever drama is currently being discussed.

I lower my voice as people walk out of the house. "Just sayin' maybe you don't have it so bad after all, and I could use a break from all this." I roll my eyes toward the cop cars and the barn.

"What happened out here? I recognize Chris's truck, but whose house is this?"

"Chris’s father’s. And I'm not even sure. There was a dead guy in the barn and Chris is being even more Chris than normal," I say.

"Speak of the devil. Here he comes."

I catch my lower lip with my teeth and gnaw on my anxiety at his approach. Chris calls Nathaniel a Shadow of Creator. In the recent past he’s been, to say the least, unreceptive toward my boyfriend.

"Don't go all mad shaman on me," I say as Chris walks up to the truck.

His harsh gaze doesn't even focus on us and I wonder for a second if he heard me, but he says, "It's not welcome here."

"I asked him to come."

"You should practice some restraint. Especially, when asking a Shadow to visit you."

Chris opens the driver’s side door and then pops open the half door to access the small back seat. He sets his medicine bundle to the side and begins rearranging his belongings. Chris pushes jumper cables aside and then stuffs a flashlight and first aid kit into a large and already mostly full hiking pack. He slings it over his shoulder and places the medicine bundle under his arm before closing up the truck and turning for the barn.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't have time for your questions, Ant."

I fall into step behind Chris and Nathaniel stays with me. I don't want to be anywhere near the barn, but Chris's purposeful steps are quickly giving me anxiety over being stranded in the middle of the reservation, miles away from any town. He enters the barn and I halt at the entrance, peering inside with caution. Another dead body would just about ruin my year.

Chris opens a door to a tack room and enters the small space containing saddles, pads, and bags. He inspects and chooses bridles and lead ropes from the pegs on the wall.

"Hey, wait a second," I say, realizing my sudden fear of being left behind is actually happening. "Are you going for a ride?"

"I’ll ride one and lead the other."

"Whoa. Wait up. The horses are under a lot of stress," I say.

"Par for the course today," Chris says as he opens a door into the main part of the barn holding a lead rope and a hackamore.

Nathaniel places his hand on my shoulder. I turn into him, resting my forehead against his suddenly very real and very solid chest.

"Want to fill me in? Or do you just want me to be here?" Nathaniel asks.

"Both. But I have to find out what Chris is doing first before I can tell you. And I don't want to be stranded out here."

I walk through the tack room and into the barn. All the doors have been thrown wide open for the emergency squad and the investigators. The barn is a completely different place now with the sun angling in and highlighting the motes of dust hanging in the air. Regardless of the light, I avert my gaze from the broken stall where the dead man had been lying in the straw.

"Chris," Nathaniel says from over my shoulder.

Chris ties the bay horse to a rail with a lead rope.

He ignores us and returns to the tack room, then reappears a moment later holding a saddle blanket.

"Who died here? And what part does Juliana have in all this?"

"You do not get to speak my name, death bringer," Chris says without looking our way.

"Give me a freaking break, Chris. Nathaniel isn't here to harm you — or me."

"Which is why he is still standing here and not banished from my father’s house and property,” he states. “There is much happening right now. I have no time to deal with your nonsense."

"What is going on? Why was the spirit so angry?" I ask.

"He was a vengeful ah-roo pitch."

"How am I supposed to know what that is?"

Chris stops moving and turns to me, not Nathaniel. "Men will sometimes find sport in harming one another. This one took it too far. I suspect he isn't finished and is after my father. There may be much more going on that I do not know. I am going to find out."

"Right now?"

"Yes. The ancestors are urging me to move fast. The evil in the stranger's spirit caught me off guard. I will make it right."

Chris tightens the cinch strap on the saddle. The bay horse doesn't seem to mind. In fact, her ears are forward and she appears more than willing to cooperate.

"She's doing much better," I say.

"Vannah is a good animal. She will take me to my father without complaint."

Chris wraps Vannah's reins loosely around the rail and unclasps her lead rope. He leaves the barn and returns with the black horse.

I feel myself shy away as they approach.

"What is it?" Nathaniel whispers near my ear.

"The horse is still traumatized," I say.

"How do you know?"

"I feel it."

"Should you tell Chris?" Nathaniel asks.

I'm not sure what to say or think and give a half-hearted shrug. I would have sworn I heard Vannah's thoughts a few hours earlier, but as I stand near her now, there’s only silence.

"Jules thinks the horse is too traumatized by what happened earlier," Nathaniel speaks for me.

Chris leads the black gelding to the rail and loops the rope around. "She is correct. I need Mika right now. He's going to have to get over it."

"Chris, I... Err…"

"I don't have time, Juliana."

He begins the process of saddling all over again. Chris is curt but not cruel with his words. His tone is so Chris I hardly notice his abruptness much anymore. Nathaniel bristles though and I intertwine my fingers with his.

Chris continues, "I must find White Wolf before it is too late."

"Too late for what?" I ask.

"I am not certain enough to say in detail."

Chris loads a sleeping bag and his backpack on top of Mika’s empty saddle. He places his medicine bundle inside a saddlebag on Vannah before loosening her reins from the rail and leading her around. Chris ties Mika’s lead rope to a loop dangling from Vannah's saddle and mounts the bay horse. Vannah appears ready for whatever is coming.

A brave girl, I think, as I stare at her large brown eye.

Ride Mika. He likes women. He needs a calming friend. Vannah's voice is clear like summer sunlight in my mind. I cough to clear my throat, or maybe my head.

"She talks?" I say to no one but my astonished self.

I'm sure Nathaniel hears me, but not so sure about Chris.

Chris clicks his tongue and Vannah immediately begins to lumber toward the open door.

"Chris, wait."

"No time. There is betrayal on the family land. My father will need me this night."

I jog along the side of Chris and Vannah. "You're going to leave me out here?"

"Whoa, Vannah." He shifts his weight back in the saddle to stop the horse.

Chris glances at me like he is seeing me for the first time since we arrived at his father's small ranch. He blinks as if clearing dust from his eyes, or maybe adjusting to the sunlight now shining on us. He pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it to me. Quick reflexes aren’t my strong point and I miss by a mile, but Nathaniel has my back and catches Chris's truck keys.

"Drive my truck back to town."

"Really?"

"Yes. Now, I must leave."

"How do you know where to go?" I ask, unable to contain my anxieties any longer. What is he thinking? He's going to go searching all over the freaking world for a hateful ghost and an elderly shaman?

"Great Spirit and my guides will lead me." Chris leans forward and nudges the horse with his heels.

Vannah looks at me one more time with her soulful eyes. Then she follows her order and leads them out into the yard. As soon as Chris is past the paddock, he urges the two horses forward. They trot away through the brush, past the house, and down to the river.

"What did the horse tell you?" Nathaniel says.

"Horses don't talk," I say.

"But she does to you, doesn't she?"

"Nathaniel, I could use a day off from myself."