There was nothing Mother could do about the starkness of my expression, coupled with an odd tenacity that the new Elizabeth Ann displayed. Mother had high hopes that the bleakness would pass, as all things did. The tenacity? It’s still with me.

How could the bleakness pass? I yearned to know what had happened to Hawk. Did he get to Canada? Was he in Indian Territory? At Lapwai? Was he even alive? The thought of that dear man lying dead somewhere shook me to the marrow of my bones. Don’t be fooled by what you read in those vacuous stories that McCall’s and Ladies Home Journal print. Love hurts, especially when you have no way of knowing what has happened to the man you adore. You feel torn in two, and hope seems like a distant memory.

As I paced and anguished in the quiet of my room, I asked myself when I began to love him. I couldn’t put a finger on it until it occurred to me one night that first of all, I liked Hawk. (Oh, don’t scoff.) He was smart, clever, witty in that way of The People, and honestly, really nice to look at. I’ll admit to admiring his legs, something your average proper white lady could never say about any gentlemen caller in an Omaha parlor. Let’s be honest here: A man in a loincloth is easy to look at, if you catch my drift.

But love him, with the idea that this is the man you want to marry and have your children with? Maybe I could trace it to that awful scene at the horse herd, when I raked him verbally over the coals and tried to strike him. He could have done anything then, but he chose to comfort me. Yes, that was probably the beginning, even though I didn’t know it at the time. Yes. He was kind when he didn’t have to be, because maybe, just maybe, he loved me, too.

There you have it. By 1879, I was declared redeemed and valid for all general purposes. I spent less time pacing in my room, but more time in our stable a genteel distance from the house, watching Fair One, my Nez Perce horse. She returned to health and vigor much sooner than I did. After some unnecessary coaxing on my part – he loved horses, too – Father had her bred to a dignified roan. Her colt was a delight – all legs, ears and those wonderful spots. I named him Poker Joe and took great pleasure in watching him frisk about with his mother, who appeared content in her relatively small paddock. I suppose she had had her fill of journeys. Another year added another spotted delight, a filly this time.