Excerpt of Rider on Fire by Sharon Sala

The small squirrel was just ready to scold — its little mouth partially opened as it clutched the acorn close to its chest. In the right light, one could almost believe the tail had just twitched.

Franklin Blue Cat called it The Sassy One. It was one of his latest carvings and in three months would be featured, along with thirty other pieces of his work, in a prestigious art gallery in Santa Fe. He hoped he lived long enough to see it.

Franklin often thought how strange the turns his life had taken. Had anyone told him that one day he would become known the world over for his simple carvings, he would have called them crazy. He would also have called them crazy for telling him that, at the age of sixty, he would be alone and dying of cancer. He'd always imagined himself going into old age surrounded by children and grandchildren with a loving wife at his side.

He set aside the squirrel. As he did, the pain he'd been living with for some months took a sharp upward spike, making Franklin reel where he stood. He waited until the worst of it passed, then stumbled to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed.

He considered giving Adam Two Eagles a call. Adam's father had been the clan healer. Everyone had assumed that Adam would follow in his father's footsteps. Only Adam had rebelled. Instead, he had taken the white man's way and left the Kiamichi Mountains to go to college, graduated from Oklahoma State University with an MBA, and from there, gone straight into the army to eventually become one of their elite — an Army Ranger.

Then, during the ensuing years, something had happened to Adam that caused him to quit the military, and brought him home. He'd come back to eastern Oklahoma, to his Kiowa roots, and stepped into his father's footsteps as if he'd never been away.

Adam never talked about what had changed him, but Franklin knew it had been bad. He saw the shadows in Adam's eyes when he thought no one was looking. However, Franklin knew something that Adam did not. Franklin knew it would pass. He'd lived long enough to know life was in a constant state of flux.

As Franklin drifted to sleep, he dreamed, all the way back to his younger days and the woman who'd stolen his heart.

Leila of the laughing eyes and long dark hair. He couldn't remember when he hadn't loved her. They'd made love every chance they could get — with passion, but without caution.

Sleep took him to the day he had learned that Leila's family was moving. She'd been twenty-two to his thirty — old enough to stay behind. He'd begged her to stay but there had been a look on her face he'd never seen before, and instead of accepting his offer of marriage, she'd been unable to meet his gaze.

His heartbeat accelerated as he relived the panic. In his mind, he could see her face through the back window of the car as her father drove away.

She was crying — his Leila of the laughing eyes was sobbing as she waved goodbye. He could see her mouth moving.

Franklin shifted on the bed. This was new. He didn't remember her calling out. In real life, she'd done nothing but cry as they drove away. It was the way he'd remembered it for all these years. So why had the dream been different? What was it she was trying to say?

He swung his legs to the side of the bed and then stood, giving himself time to decide if he had the strength to move. Finally, he walked out of his bedroom, then through the kitchen to the back porch. The night air was sultry and still.

He stood for a few moments, absorbing the impact of the dream, waiting for understanding. At first, he felt nothing. His mind was blank, but he knew what to do. It was the same thing he always did as he began a new piece of work. All he had to do was look at the block of wood until he saw whatever it was that was waiting to come out. Only then did he begin carving.

Following his instincts, he closed his eyes, took a slow breath, then waited for the words Leila had been trying to say.

It was quiet on the mountain. Almost too quiet. Even the night birds were silent and the coyotes seemed to have gone to ground. There was nothing to distract Franklin from watching his dream, letting it replay in his head. He stood motionless for so long that dew settled on his bare feet, while an owl, feeling no threat, passed silently behind him on its way out to hunt.

And then understanding came, and with it, shock. Franklin turned abruptly and looked back at his house, almost expecting Leila to be on the porch, but there was no one there.

He turned again, this time looking to the trees beyond his home. He'd been born on this land. His parents had died in this house, and soon, so would he. But there was something he knew now that he had not known yesterday.

Leila had taken something of his when she'd left him. His child.

Right in the middle of his revelation, exhaustion hit. Damn this cancer. His legs began to shake and his hands began to tremble. He walked back to the house, stumbling slightly as he stepped up on the porch, then dragged himself into the house.

What if he could find his Leila — even if she was no longer his? He wanted to see their child — no — he needed to know that a part of him would live on, even after he was gone. Tomorrow, he would call Adam Two Eagles. Adam would know what to do.

Adam Two Eagles rarely had to stretch to reach anything. At three inches over six feet tall, he usually towered over others. His features were Native American, but less defined than his father's had been. His mother had been Navajo and the mix of Kiowa and Navajo had blended well, making Adam a very handsome man. His dark hair was thick and long, falling far below his shoulders — a far cry from the buzz cut he'd worn in the military. But that seemed so long ago that it might as well have been from another life.

This morning, he was readying himself for a trip up the Kiamichis. There were some plants he wanted for healing that grew only in the higher elevation. It would mean at least a half-day's hike up and back — nothing he hadn't done countless times before — only today, he felt unsettled. He kept going from room to room, thinking there was something else he was supposed to do, but nothing occurred to him. Finally, he'd given up and prepared to leave.

If he hadn't forgotten the bag he liked to carry his herbs and plants in, he would have already been gone when the phone rang. But he was digging through a closet, and ignoring the ring would have been like a doctor ignoring a call for help.

"Hello."