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“I did. And if you really don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”
She was silent as they rode through pockets of wild sage, scrub brush and tall grass. As her horse rocked her, she turned the kerchief around her neck, the frayed edges brushing her skin. “This was my dad’s. He wore it whenever he went riding. He liked to tease that it would come in handy if a dust storm came up. His stories about his father serving in World War II, as well as his own experiences in Vietnam, were written down in a diary he kept. My mother gave it to me on my twelfth birthday.”
“Why your twelfth?”
“I was having trouble fitting in at school. I didn’t know how to handle being Cheyenne, and at times growing up, it made me feel like an outsider. Ryder faced the same problem, but a guy can be a loner and that can be attractive by itself. He knew who he was when he hit his teens. He also knew he wanted to be a cop. I just felt…different from everyone else.”
“When did you stop feeling different?”
“I never did. But I learned to like being different. Remembering the myths and fables my father told me helped me see how life fit together, how the past becomes the present, how being Cheyenne is something to be proud of. But it wasn’t always so, and I feel guilty about that.”
“You were a kid.”
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