Page 23 of Shoshone Sun

“Thank you,” he said as he took the hot bowl from her hands. “I feel stronger now. Not so weak.”

Jane smiled softly, taking a seat beside him on the porch bench. “I’m glad to hear that. You’ve been through so much. It’s amazing how quickly you’ve recovered.”

Flying Arrow looked at her, his gaze steady. “You helped me. You gave me more than care. You gave me ... hope.”

Jane’s heart stilled at his words, the weight of them sinking deep into her chest. She could feel the truth in his voice, the vulnerability there. It was something she hadn’t expected to hear. His gratitude was more than just an acknowledgment of her role in saving his life. It was something deeper, something real.

“I did what anyone would have done,” Jane said, her voice faltering slightly. “You were in pain.”

Flying Arrow nodded, his expression serious. “Still ... not everyone would do as you did. You gave me something more than a chance to live. You gave me a reason to keep living.”

She turned her face away, her breath catching in her throat. Her emotions, long held at bay, were beginning to break free, and trickled out like water from a dam. She couldn’t stop herself from feeling the weight of his words. She couldn’t stop the way her chest tightened when he looked at her like that.

As time passed and a quiet Christmas came and went, Jane found herself spending more and more time with Flying Arrow. He was beginning to understand the difficulties of the English language, and he practiced it with her daily. He was patient, learning to pronounce words, repeating them until they felt more natural to his tongue. She helped him with his speech, guiding him through the unfamiliar sounds of her language. In exchange, he shared pieces of his own world with her, telling her stories of his people, of his family, and of the land that had shaped him.

Every night, after the fire had burned low, Jane would sit by the fireplace with Flying Arrow, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the glow of the flames flickering in the distance. Their conversations grew deeper, and their connection became more undeniable. Jane realized that she was no longer simply caring for him. She was drawn to him—truly drawn to him in a way she hadn’t expected.

One evening, as the two of them sat near the fire, their legs touching, the warmth of the fireplace mingling with the warmth of their shared silence, Flying Arrow spoke quietly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts.

“Jane,” he began, his voice almost a whisper, “I have been thinking...”

Jane glanced at him, her heart fluttering nervously. “What about?”

“I ... I do not want to be a burden. You have given so much to me already. I ... I want to repay you, somehow.”

Jane’s heart ached as she looked at him. He was still recovering, still weak in many ways, but his pride—the pride of a warrior, of a man who had lived through hardship—was evident in his words. She reached out, gently touching his arm, offering him what comfort she could.

“You’ve already repaid me, Flying Arrow,” she said softly. “You’ve made it through. That’s all I could have asked for. You don’t need to do anything else.”

But Flying Arrow shook his head, his brow furrowing. “It is not enough. You gave me my life back. You gave me even more than that ... more … more than I can understand. But I want to give something to you. A gift.”

Jane smiled faintly, her breath catching in her throat. She knew what he was offering must be something deeper than just a gift of material value.

“What gift would you give me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Flying Arrow hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. Finally, he looked at her, his gaze intense, almost searching.

“I will teach you my language,” he said softly. “So you can understand me fully. So you can hear my words, my stories, in the way they are meant to be heard.”

Jane’s heart skipped a beat. His offer was simple, yet profound. He wanted to share something deeply personal with her. He wanted her to understand not just his words, but his world.

“I would like that very much,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity. “I would love to learn.”

In that moment, Jane realized that Flying Arrow was not just a man she had helped, not just a patient she had nursed back to health. He was someone she was coming to care for, someone she was beginning to understand in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

Over the next weeks, Flying Arrow began to teach her his language in earnest. They spent hours each day practicing together, his voice soft and patient as he guided her through the words and sounds of his native tongue. Jane, for her part, tried her best to keep up, laughing at her own mistakes and rejoicing in her progress. It became a shared bond between them, a way for them to connect that went beyond the limitations of language itself.

Their lessons became a ritual of sorts, an unspoken promise between them. As winter deepened, so did their relationship. What had begun as simple care and compassion had turned into something more. Something warmer. Something that neither of them could ignore.

It wasn’t long before they were spending even more time together, talking and laughing, sharing stories in both English and Shoshone. Flying Arrow would speak his language, and Jane would repeat the words back, struggling with the unfamiliar sounds. But with each passing day, she found herself growing more confident in his language—and in their bond.

And then, one evening, as the fire crackled between them, something shifted. Flying Arrow looked at her with a deep intensity, his dark eyes holding hers with a quiet certainty.

“Jane,” he whispered, his voice low and soft, “there is more I wish to say ... but my words are not enough.”

Jane’s heart beat faster. She could feel the weight of the moment, the change in the air between them. She knew what he was saying, even without words. She felt it in the way he looked at her, in the way he leaned just a little closer.

She reached out, her fingers brushing his. The touch was soft but electric, a spark passing between them. For the first time, they allowed themselves to lean in, the space between them closing with an almost unbearable tenderness.

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