Chapter 2: The Root in the Water

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This entry is part 2 of 8 in the series In 1879 Arizona, My Cult Boss Chained an Apache Girl to the Chapel Porch—What I Did That Night Changed Everything

In 1879 Arizona, My Cult Boss Chained an Apache Girl to the Chapel Porch—What I Did That Night Changed Everything

Chapter 1: Four Silver Dollars and an Iron Chain

Chapter 2: The Root in the Water

Chapter 3: The San Francisco Wire

Chapter 4: The Decree on the Oak

Chapter 5: Midnight at the Lockup

Chapter 6: Smoke over New Zion

Chapter 7: The Gap in the Mesa

Chapter 8: The Sunrise on Sandstone

The heavy wooden door of the lockup creaked shut behind me, the sound echoing hollowly in the sudden quiet. I stood for a moment, letting the darkness settle. The chapel clock had just struck eleven. Kincaid’s words about treason and hanging still felt like a chill wind against my skin.

My gaze fell on the clay jug of well water I’d left beside Nalin. She hadn’t touched it since I’d loosened the iron ring on her ankle.

I picked it up. A faint, earthy smell, not quite like the desert dust, clung to the spout. It reminded me of something I’d smelled once in a Chiricahua encampment, a bitter root the medicine men used to dull pain, or sometimes to send someone into a deep, heavy sleep.

I knelt, peering at the water in the dim light filtering through the small, high window. Tiny, almost imperceptible flecks swirled at the bottom. Jimson weed. Kincaid hadn’t given her fresh water. He’d given her poison.

A cold knot tightened in my gut. He wanted her quiet, paralyzed, before Pike and Rust came for her. He wanted her unable to fight back.

But then I remembered. Earlier, when I’d poured the first cup, a sudden jerk had made me spill a good splash of it onto the dirt floor. I had been focused on her raw, swollen skin where the iron had rubbed. I hadn’t even thought about the water itself.

I looked at Nalin. Her eyes, though weary, were sharp and fully aware. They tracked my every move. She hadn’t drunk enough for it to take hold. The small spill had saved her.

She lifted her hand, slowly, carefully. Tucked between her thumb and forefinger, pulled from somewhere deep inside her moccasin, was a small, tarnished brass key. It caught the weak moonlight, a tiny glint of defiance.

She pushed it towards me without a sound, her gaze unwavering.

My fingers closed around the cold metal. It was small, delicate, but heavy with unspoken meaning. Before I could move, before I could even try to fit it into the lock on her leg irons, the distinct crunch of heavy boots with iron spurs grated on the gravel path outside the wooden door.

They were coming.