The woman appeared at the edge of Thomas Hale's wheat field just before sunset.

At first, Thomas thought she was a deer.

Something moved between the tall grass near the creek, disappearing whenever the wind pushed the wheat in one direction and appearing again when the stalks swayed back.

Thomas stopped repairing the broken fence.

He leaned against the wooden post and watched.

The movement came again.

Not a deer.

A person.

Thomas immediately reached for the rifle resting against the fence.

He had lived on the Dakota frontier long enough to understand that an unexpected figure near his property could mean trouble.

It was 1877, and the territory had become a place where rumors traveled faster than horses.

People spoke of raids.

Of soldiers.

Of stolen cattle.

Of burned cabins.

Of battles nobody in town had actually witnessed but everyone claimed to understand.

Thomas had learned not to trust stories told around saloon tables.

He trusted tracks.

He trusted weather.

He trusted the condition of his horses.

And he trusted the rifle in his hands.

But when the figure finally emerged from the grass, he did not see an attacker.

He saw a woman barely able to stand.

She stumbled toward the creek.

Then collapsed.

Thomas lowered the rifle.

For several seconds, he remained where he was.

The woman wore a torn buckskin dress darkened by dust and blood. One side of her face was swollen. Her hair had come loose from its braids, and one arm was wrapped around her ribs.

She was clearly Lakota.

Thomas looked toward the western hills.

Nothing moved.

He looked toward the road.

Empty.

His farm was isolated.

The nearest settlement was almost nine miles away.

If he helped her, there was no telling what consequences might follow.

If she belonged to a war party, perhaps they would come searching for her.

If soldiers found her on his property, they might accuse him of aiding an enemy.

Thomas knew exactly what the sensible choice was.

Walk away.

He could return to the farmhouse.

Lock the door.

Pretend he had seen nothing.

Nobody would know.

Nobody would blame him.

He took one step backward.

Then he remembered his wife.

Anna had been dead for four years, but Thomas still remembered the things she used to say when he became too practical.

"There's a difference between protecting yourself and becoming the kind of man you can no longer respect."

Thomas closed his eyes.

"Damn you, Anna."

He picked up the canteen from the fence post.

Then he walked toward the woman.

She heard his footsteps.

Her head lifted.

Her hand moved weakly toward a knife at her waist.

Thomas stopped several yards away.

"Easy."

Her eyes were fierce despite her exhaustion.

Thomas placed the rifle on the ground.

Then he slowly removed the canteen from his belt.

"I've got water."

She stared at him.

He held it up.

"Water."

She understood that word.

Or perhaps she understood his gesture.

Her lips moved.

No sound came out.

Thomas approached slowly.

When he reached her, he knelt.

Her skin was burning.

She had a deep cut above her eyebrow and another wound along her shoulder.

Thomas uncorked the canteen.

She tried to grab it.

"Slow."

She ignored him.

She drank too quickly.

Thomas pulled the canteen away.

She glared at him.

"I know," he muttered. "You're thirsty."

He waited.

Then gave her another drink.

This time she swallowed more carefully.

Thomas studied her face.

She was young.

Perhaps twenty-five.

Perhaps thirty.

It was difficult to tell.

Exhaustion had taken years from her expression.

She looked toward the hills.

Thomas followed her gaze.

Nothing.

"Are they coming?"

She looked back at him.

He pointed toward the mountains.

"Your people?"

Her expression changed.

Fear.

Only for a second.

Then it disappeared.

Thomas understood.

Someone was coming.

He did not know whether they were coming for her or for him.

He helped her stand.

She nearly collapsed again.