The rejection hung in the hot, still air, as solid and unyielding as the rock-strewn earth at Beatrice’s feet. Wes Callahan’s back was turned to her, a clear dismissal, as he stomped up the two warped steps to his porch.
The shotgun remained in the crook of his arm, a silent, final word on the matter.
Humiliation, hot and sharp, pricked at Beatrice’s skin, a sensation far more uncomfortable than the oppressive Texas sun. She had come all this way, endured the suffocating train cars, the leering stares in town, the terrifying folly of her own pride in the desert, only to be turned away by a belligerent recluse.
Her scientific purpose, her father’s life, the respect she so desperately craved—all of it felt impossibly distant, a mirage shimmering on the horizon. For a moment, she was no longer Dr. Kincaid, respected botanist from Boston, but a small, foolish girl who had strayed too far from home.
She straightened her spine, the whalebone corset a familiar, rigid comfort against her crumbling resolve. Giving up was not in her nature.
But as she stared at the man’s hostile silhouette, she could find no new argument, no fresh angle of persuasion. He saw her as an invader, a parasite, and no amount of money or Latin nomenclature would change that.
Defeat settled in her bones, heavy as lead.
“I see I have wasted your time,” she said, her voice taut with the effort of keeping it steady. “And my own.”
She turned to leave, her impractical boots skidding on the loose gravel. Each step away from the cabin felt like a surrender.
“Wait.”
The voice was not Callahan’s gravelly rasp. It was soft, raspy with age, yet carried a quiet authority that stopped Beatrice in her tracks.
From the shaded doorway of the cabin, a woman emerged. She was small and stooped, her face a beautiful, intricate map of wrinkles, her dark eyes holding a depth that seemed to absorb the harsh sunlight without blinking.
Her long, silver-shot black hair was tied back in a simple knot. She wore a plain cotton dress, its colors faded by the sun and countless washings, and moved with a slow, deliberate grace that belied her years.
Wes Callahan’s posture shifted. The hard lines of his back softened almost imperceptibly as he turned to face the old woman.
He said nothing, but a new kind of tension entered the air—not hostility, but a deep, ingrained respect.
The woman’s gaze fell upon Beatrice, and it was a curious thing. It was not the condescending appraisal of the townspeople, nor the contemptuous dismissal of her grandson.
It was a look of quiet, thorough assessment. Her eyes traveled from Beatrice’s sweat-dampened collar to the scuffed toes of her boots, lingering on the leather satchel clutched in her white-knuckled grip.
Without a word, the woman shuffled past Wes and descended the steps. She stopped before a collection of clay pots near the porch, where several hardy-looking plants with fleshy leaves were growing.
Her gnarled fingers gently touched a leaf, a caress of an old friend. Then she looked back at Beatrice and gestured toward the plants.
Beatrice hesitated, unsure of what was being asked of her.
“She wants to know what you see,” Wes grunted, his voice grudging.
It was a test. A different kind of test from his shotgun and his sneers.
Beatrice took a breath, pushing aside her frustration and focusing on the familiar comfort of her discipline. She stepped closer, her gaze sharpening.
“Agave lechuguilla,” she said, her voice regaining its professional timbre. “A valuable plant.
The fibers can be used for rope, the roots for soap. It’s also… highly toxic if ingested improperly. But the most interesting thing is its monocarpic nature.
It blooms only once, a magnificent stalk, and then it dies. It gives everything for that single act of creation.”
She found herself looking at the old woman as she spoke, not at Wes. The woman’s expression remained placid, but her dark eyes seemed to hold a flicker of understanding, a connection that transcended language.
Beatrice pointed to another, smaller succulent. “And that, a Echinocereus.
The people here call it a Claret Cup cactus, I believe. Its flowers are a stunning shade of red.
Edible fruit, too, if you can get past the spines.”
The woman nodded slowly. She then turned her gaze to Wes and began to speak.
The language was like nothing Beatrice had ever heard. It was a cascade of soft consonants and guttural clicks, flowing with a rhythm that seemed to rise from the earth itself.
It was Comanche. Though Beatrice could not understand a single word, the meaning was carried in the tone—a calm, reasoned persuasion.
Wes’s reply was short, clipped, and sounded like a denial. His arms were crossed, his jaw set in a stubborn line.
He glanced at Beatrice as if she were a piece of particularly bothersome luggage he’d been asked to carry.
His grandmother, whom Beatrice now understood to be the matriarch Running Water, was not deterred. She placed a hand on his forearm, and the simple touch seemed to drain some of the rigidity from his frame.
She spoke again, her voice a little lower, more insistent. Her eyes, however, were on the distant canyons, the lands she was speaking of.
Beatrice watched them, mesmerized by the silent conversation playing out in their expressions. She saw Wes’s deep-seated distrust warring with the profound respect he held for this woman.
Running Water was appealing to something deeper than his greed or his misanthropy. She was appealing to his duty.
Her argument seemed to go on, a gentle but persistent current wearing away at the stone of his resolve. She gestured toward Beatrice, then back to the land.
Beatrice caught the flicker of a word she’d heard in town—Taiboo, the Comanche word for the white man. But the way Running Water said it seemed to lack the usual venom; it was merely a descriptor.
Finally, Wes let out a long, weary sigh. The sound was one of profound reluctance, of a man agreeing to something against his every instinct.
He uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his dark hair, his gaze fixed on the ground. When he finally lifted his head to look at Beatrice, his eyes were as cold and hard as ever, but the outright rejection was gone, replaced by a grim resignation.
“My grandmother… she sees things differently,” he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “She believes your quest is not one of plunder.
She thinks your knowledge of the green things might be a way to listen to the land, not just take from it.” He spat on the ground. “I think she’s a soft-hearted old woman who still believes a rattlesnake can be charmed.”
Beatrice’s heart gave a powerful thump. Hope, fragile and tentative, began to unfurl within her.
“Then… you’ll help me?” she asked, hardly daring to breathe.
Wes’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I’ll make you a bargain, Dr. Kincaid.”
He practically sneered her title. “A thorny bargain. I will guide you into the canyons.
I will take you to the places where a flower like the one you describe might grow. I will keep you alive.
That is the extent of my offer.”
He took a step toward her, his proximity overwhelming. He smelled of dust, leather, and something wild and unsettling.
“But you will do so on my terms. My terms alone.”
He held up a single, calloused finger. “One: Where I lead, you follow. No dawdling, no wandering off to inspect every weed that catches your eye.
Our pace is my pace.”
A second finger joined the first. “Two: You ask a question, I’ll answer it if I feel like it.
I ask you a question, you answer it. But you do not question my methods or my commands.
If I tell you to jump, you don’t ask why, you ask how high and from which ledge.”
A third finger. His voice dropped lower, taking on a lethal edge.
“Three: You touch nothing—not a rock, not a leaf, not a single blade of grass—without my express permission. Your books are filled with words about this land.
My skin is filled with the scars it gives to the foolish. You will trust the scars, not the words.”
He paused, letting the weight of his ultimatum settle upon her. “This is not Boston.
There are no constables to call, no tidy rules of engagement. Out there,” he gestured to the vast, shimmering expanse behind him, “the only law is survival.
My law. You follow it to the letter, or I leave you for the vultures. Do you understand?”
Every fiber of Beatrice’s being bristled. She was a scholar, a woman of science and intellect, accustomed to leading her own expeditions, to being the authority in her field.
The thought of ceding all control, of submitting her will to this… this coarse, uncivilized man, was galling. It was an affront to her independence, to her very identity.
His rules were designed not just for safety, but for subjugation. He wanted to humble her, to strip away her precious education and remake her in the image of something he could tolerate.
Her pride screamed at her to refuse. To turn on her heel, march back to Redemption, and find another way.
But there was no other way.
She thought of her father, his breath rattling in his chest, his skin pale as parchment. She thought of the condescending smiles of her university colleagues, already certain of her failure.
And she thought of the Ghost Lily, waiting in some hidden canyon, a testament to nature’s secret wonders, a promise of a cure.
Her purpose was greater than her pride.
She met Wes Callahan’s challenging stare, her own gaze as steady as she could make it. She would swallow this bitter pill.
She would bend, for now, so that she would not break.
“Your terms are… severe,” she said, her voice a tight coil of restraint. “But my need is greater than my objection.”
She lifted her chin. “I accept your thorny bargain, Mr. Callahan.”
A flicker of something—surprise? grudging respect?—passed through his eyes before the cynical mask slammed back into place.
He gave a curt, single nod.
“Be back here at sunrise,” he commanded. “Bring only what you can carry on your back.
Wear sturdy boots, trousers if you have them. Leave that ridiculous dress for the church socials.”
Without another word, he turned and stalked back into the cabin, the screen door slamming shut behind him with a crack of finality.
Beatrice was left standing in the oppressive heat, alone with Running Water. The old woman gave her a small, enigmatic smile, her dark eyes seeming to say, The first step is the hardest.
She then turned and followed her grandson inside, leaving Beatrice to the silence and the dust, the bitter taste of compromise in her mouth and the dawning, terrifying reality of the journey ahead.