The night air was crisp and sweet in the north, much like she remembered it. While she still had many miles to travel, she noticed a distinct odor in the air – something that drew her home. It was different from her new home, from her new farm, from her new river. That air was fresh. Home smelled like warm soil, like the tang of homemade sweet tea. That was what lingered in the air as she began to set up camp for the night, though she wasn’t sure whether it was birthed from her own memory or from the environment itself.

Emma laid out her bedroll on the ground beside the pile of wood she had gathered earlier. Once she had her fire lit, she tossed aside the stick she had been using to create friction and blew on the orange flames, coaxing them upward. The fire crackled to life as leaves and bark curled and turned to ash.

Most times, when she was traveling, she made camp wherever she could. She would rarely settle for an open field, though. Too much wide-open space. Too much opportunity for someone to sneak up on her. She found it was better to put her back to something – a rock, or a body of water. As she had neared the Great Lakes, her options grew sparser. Her path that night had led her to the St. Claire River. With the help of a kind, old man and his rickety boat, she had managed to cross the river, putting her at the halfway mark in her journey. She tried to take comfort in this, and with the knowledge that she was ahead of her schedule. Her horse was exhausted, but she had six days before the execution.

Plenty of time.

The sun was dazzling in the clear evening, unleashing a torrent of orange-red rays across the lush, jade landscape and the blue-green river. As the water folded over itself, a calm wind blew and Emma savored the evening night as she laid down on her bedroll and looked up at the darkening sky.

Halfway.

She was getting close.

While her body was tired, her mind was still wide awake. As the air began to nip at her skin with cold teeth, she slipped into the bedroll and allowed its warmth to hug her. She stared at the darkening sky. Before long, the powder-blue turned to black velvet, permeated by white stars that glistened and shone through. The world around her grew quiet, except for the cans she had strung up around her small camp, which sometimes clattered in a gust of wind. The flames of the fire flickered in the night air, and before long the warmth it offered began to ebb as its power was diminished and its flames turned to embers.

There was something ethereal and powerful about the night air, about the calm noises the river offered, about the velvet blackness overhead. Her eyes grew heavy, and she closed them, allowing the calm of the world to envelop her.

Her heart lurched in her chest as she heard the cans around her camp clatter. She opened her eyes and sat up, pulling her revolver from its holster beside her. To her surprise, an older woman was approaching her. In her hand was a long cane, elegantly whittled from a piece of dark wood. Her eyes were bright green and surrounded by wrinkles. Her forehead was prominent and shining in the starlight, and her hair was swept back in a thick bun. She was wearing a tattered cloak and ripped pants. Most odd of all was her feet, which were bare and calloused.

“I’m sorry to bother you ma’am,” the woman said, “but would you mind if I sat with you for a while? I’ve been walking for quite some time and I could use a place to rest.”
Emma placed her revolver beside her on the bedroll after pushing the hammer up. She nodded and used her boot to push one of the logs in the fire. A swell of crackling flame burst into the air, unleashing a dazzling spectacle of sparks, before the fire resumed its previous stature.

“Thank you,” the woman said. She walked up to the fire and sat down on the ground across from Emma, groaning as she placed her cane beside her. She put her hands closer to the flames, and she stared through the orange conflagration at Emma, her green eyes searching and considering. Yet, Emma did not feel afraid. The old woman did so thoughtfully and with respect, and when Emma began to grow uncomfortable, she looked away and rubbed her hands together.

“It’s kind of you to do this,” the woman said. “Not many folks seem trusting anymore. Can’t say I blame them all that much, but it makes finding a resting place more difficult.”

“Where are you heading?” Emma asked. “Seems awful late t’ be walking around.”

“Oh, I don’t have much of a destination,” the old woman said. “I just like the journey. Walking across the plains and through the trees. Seeing the world. It seems the older the years get, the less people are inclined to look at the world around them.” The woman paused before reaching out to the fire again. “What brings you out to these parts?”

“I’m visiting a friend,” Emma said. “Got some unfinished business, too.”
“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

The woman’s green eyes began to twinkle. “You don’t trust me, do you?” She nodded toward the revolver, which Emma’s hand was still placed near.

“Old habits,” Emma said without moving her hand. “When I was younger, I learned to stay on edge.”

“That must be tiring.”
“It is,” Emma said. “But I prefer being tired over being dead.”

The woman laughed, the sound akin to the river that was flowing nearby, and she flashed an endearing smile.

“He hasn’t been to these parts in a long time,” she said.

Emma’s heart panged with fear. “Who do you mean?”

“The black-eyed man,” the woman said. “I assume that’s who you meant. The one who put you on edge.”

“He’s one of them, yes,” Emma acknowledged. “How did you know that?”

“I’ve come across him many times,” the woman said. “He likes to speak in riddles and to create chaos where he can. Yet, he overestimates his sway. He tells everyone he is immortal, and inevitably he is driven away. He finds a new home and settles down to repeat the cycle.”

“How do you know he’s gone?” Emma asked.

“You can just tell,” the woman said. She looked up at the black sky. Clouds were rolling in overhead, but the moon was still shining bright. “The land devours itself when he’s around. Clouds turn black; water devours the Earth; ungodly creatures are unleashed. He brings destruction and pain down on the places he inhabits. But, like all things, he is fallible. When he leaves, the world thrives. The air smells sweeter. The grass grows greener. Birds sit in trees, and deer roam in the forest. You can feel life when he leaves.”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Emma said. She was still cautious, but her fear had abated.

The old woman nodded. She was still looking up at the sky.

“He and I have crossed paths many times,” she said. “I’m often left picking up his messes. Take comfort, though; he doesn’t strike fear in hearts quite like he used to. He thrives on the worst human instincts. As change blossoms, the world evolves. One day, he won’t have a chance to settle his darkness. I just hope I’ll still be around to see that day.”

“Forgive my asking, but – who are you?” Emma asked.

The woman looked down from the skies then, and they made eye contact. Emma felt warmth ripple through her heart.

“She would be proud of you,” the old woman said. “She was always proud of you. So was he. All they ever wanted from you was for you to be smart, kind, and strong. You have far exceeded their expectations.”

Emma sat in stunned silence. Even without specificity, she knew who the old woman was talking about. Old pain unearthed itself in her heart, followed by a heavy dose of melancholy. She wanted to learn more. She wanted to ask questions, and to talk with the old woman all night. Yet, even as she thought about her desires, her eyes began to grow heavy. The world darkened around her as her eyelids slipped downward. Then she was asleep, swimming through comforting dreams.

When she awoke the next morning, she was saddened to see the old woman was gone. Yellow rays pierced white morning clouds, and the air was sweet and fresh – brisk, but not cold. Her fire had died down to embers, but she could still see orange specks burning deep within the smoldering wood, wisps of smoke trailing into the sky with lazy swirls.

On the ground, where the woman had been sitting, was an ear of corn.

Emma smiled and stood from her bedroll. When she picked it up, she felt the same, warm flutter in her heart that she had the night before. She placed the corn in her pack, and then began to tear down her small campsite.

The air warmed as the sun rose in the sky. As Emma rode toward Breckenridge, a part of her wondered what she would do when she saw Matthew. A part of her hoped that he would be dumb enough to draw on her, or to attack her. She could already taste the saccharine flavor of revenge as she thought about drawing her revolver on him and emptying its cylinder into his chest.

First, help Rose save Luis.

Then, find Matthew.

On the evening of her tenth day of travel, Emma noticed a sign on the side of the road pointing toward Breckenridge. The sun had dipped toward the horizon, unleashing a dazzling mosaic of purples and deep ambers across the lush land and water. The sign in front of her was a simple arrow, but it was enough to tell her what she needed to know.

She was close.

Next Chapter: Emma