My Name Is Cree

  “So you’ll stay?” I asked, leaning back to see his face.

  “I’ll never leave, Cree,” he whispered and drew me closer. “You are my dream.” He looked into my eyes, and lowered his head, pressing his lips to mine. I leaned into him, his words washing over me, a sense of peace permeating every part of my being, and a fire that kindled in my heart when we first met, now glowed so bright and warm I couldn’t contain it. I closed my eyes and smiled.

  I found my way home.

  Epilogue

  I reached for the ledge, my fingertips finding the slim grooves, and pulled. My toe found a foothold and I pushed hard, heaving myself up onto the granite boulder protruding from the ground, towering high into the air, overlooking Birch’s cabin, allowing scenic views of the mountain ranges layered beyond. I sat and waited. Crossing my legs, anticipating the sunset’s glow.

  “What are you doing up there?” he asked.

  I glanced down and smiled, his dark eyes squinting up at me, the wind pushing his hair over his shoulders. I waved him up and pointed across the valley to the honey and syrup painting almost fully on display. His gazed followed my aim. I watched where he placed his hands, and where he positioned his foothold. Exactly where I did. He pulled himself up and stood tall, his hair loose and free, dark and beautiful.

  “Sit with me?” I asked.

  He half smiled and lowered to a partial kneel next to me, resting his stance on the ball of his foot. His eyes resting on me, his gaze a soft smolder. Leaning over he put his hand behind me, pulled me in slightly, his lips softly touching mine. The kiss deepened, and my heart beat faster, the scent of earth and pine swirling over us in the wind.

  “Let’s see this sunset,” he whispered, resting his forehead to mine. He turned toward the west, his hand finding mine, laying over it. The sun simmered a brilliant panoramic scene, the color of gold and pink, of orange and red, all fading from one to the other.

  “It’s breathtaking,” I said, and looked across the horizon, drinking in a sunset I never saw in my forest. From orange smears to pink haze beyond it, I soaked in its beauty. The wind stilled and I sighed, glancing to him, as he watched the display of colors in the sky. Peace settled within me, his presence warm next to me, the night sky dancing before the dark arrived. I breathed in and closed my eyes, wanting to remember this exact moment forever.

  A clear far-off cry pierced the silence.

  I drew in a quick breath and he turned to me, alarmed, our eyes meeting for a split second as we quickly looked behind us, my heart racing, my mind searching for answers.

  “They’re back,” I whispered.

  We stood up, the wind still soft and silent. The mountains to the east were dark, rain clouds moving swiftly from the north, heading towards us.

  “How far away?” I asked.

  “Not far enough…”

  “They’re coming,” I said, my heart pounding.

  “They’re calling your name. Calling for Fox Girl.”

  ###

  About the author

  T.K. Richardson lives in the high country of a national forest, in a cabin built around 1909. The scenery, trees, creeks, rivers and rocks in this story are drawn from her forest home. She shares her forest with bears and mountain lions and legends of Bigfoot (Forest People) which lend to the rich heritage of her way of life as well as the daily dangers they present. Many of the scenes found within this book are drawn from her encounters. The sunsets, too, are typical of what this story depicts – a forest where the trees are so tall and the forest so thick that a sunset is never seen, and the wind that pushes through the treetops sounds like waves in the ocean. Her knowledge of tracking animals, foraging for wild edibles, and surviving in a wild and free land as well as her childhood memories of Native American culture were the inspiration for this story. It is a work of fiction – mostly…

  Visit the author at http://www.tkrichardson.com