They say you can’t go back home, but Marin Sinclair, end-of-life doula, doesn’t expect her life to be in danger when she answers a mysterious plea for help from a long-ago friend and returns to Dinetah, the Navajo Nation. Her past there holds memories she is reluctant to confront, but what about her life then would make someone want to kill her?
Navajo Nation Police Sergeant Justin Blue Eyes shares a connection with Marin from the past, and he has a few questions of his own when Marin disappears―such as why the Nuclear Regulatory Commission has agents investigating the abandoned uranium mines on the reservation and how Marin is connected.
Marin needs to survive to find any answers, and to do so she is forced to run, going off the grid on her own in the Lukachukai mountains with unknown killers close behind.
The Bilagaana woman’s eyes were wide and staring, and even if she wasn’t a ghost-witch Haastiin Sani thought maybe she was crazy. Only someone crazy would have been out here alone in the dark and the rain. Crazy people must be treated with care, and the same for ghost-witches. It didn’t help to make them angry.
He looked at the woman, considering.
She was trembling now, as if cold, but witches and crazy people both were known to be clever. The sooner he saw her off the better, and he jerked his chin toward the direction of his camp and motioned the woman to follow. He would show her every hospitality and then gently nudge her on her way.
She looked somewhat better when he gave her a cup of hot coffee and offered the frybread his daughter had left for him, inviting her with a nod to take it, and tears came into her eyes as her lips and chin began to tremble.
Very much like a normal person, but it could be a ruse to cause him to relax his vigilance so she could blow corpse dust over him. He busied himself with the fire and wished fervently to be rid of this evil.
Marin knew she made this man very uncomfortable, and she thought she even knew why, considering where and how he had found her, but she didn’t know how to relieve his fears without making things worse.
“Thank you,” Marin murmured to the old man. “Ahéhee’,” she repeated.
She studied the man on the other side of the fire. His face was seamed and wrinkled, his frame was tall and spare beneath the loose shirt of red cotton tied with a woven sash. His gray hair was worn long, and there was a turquoise bead woven into a strand of hair near one temple.
A hogan was built higher up the slope, a blanket hanging across the eastern door, and an empty sheep pen was tucked into a rocky cliff a short way from it. A handsome bay horse wearing a rope halter stood nearby, sheltering under overhanging boards propped between a few corral poles and the cliff.
She looked around for the sheep she knew must be somewhere close by, and the dogs, but they weren’t in sight. She didn’t see any sort of vehicle either, or any other person besides the old man, watching her surreptitiously.
The old man cleared his throat suddenly, and she flinched, startled, but instead of speaking, the old man rose to his feet and walked toward the corral.
She stood as well, thinking he meant for her to follow, but he gave no sign, and she paused.
Passing Marin without word or look, he ducked under the hogan’s blanket door, emerging a moment later with an ancient-looking saddle, a bridle, and a thick saddle blanket woven in red and black yarns.
Silently, he began to saddle the horse, smoothing the blanket across the horse’s back and throwing the saddle over, pulling the cinch tight. He put the bridle on last, settling the bit into the horse’s mouth before reaching to adjust the braided ear straps. Without looking at her, he walked back, thrust the reins towards Marin, and spoke for the first time.
“You go now,” he said, and pursed his lips, pushing his chin toward the east.
Marin opened her mouth to object to taking his horse and slowly closed it again. The old man was giving her a way to get down the mountain, and she had no wish to bring trouble to him if Tolliver managed to follow her here.
She took the reins.
Haastiin Sanii grunted and stepped away toward the fire, and Marin tied her jacket to the saddle, surprised when he returned and pushed the remainder of the frybread into her hands.
“Over there,” he said, pointing again with his chin, “is a good way down.”
She waited for any more words the man might offer, for he seemed to be listening and thinking carefully, but he said nothing. He slapped the horse on the rump and stepped away.
“You go now,” he repeated.
Marin mounted, then turned in the saddle. “I’ll leave the horse at a trading post below,” she said.
Haastiin Sanii shrugged, relieved, as he watched her ride away. She was someone in a lot of trouble or someone bringing a lot of trouble, but he had done the best he could.
He looked down at his sash and fingered the gun he had found beside the spring, then looked down the trail at the woman on his grandson’s horse. He wondered if she knew a flashflood was coming and if she knew enough to stay out of the canyon.
He shrugged again, figured a ghost-witch would know and a crazy person wouldn’t care.
Drawing from her years in the Southwest and the Navajo Nation, Jan Payne writes on themes of courage, regret, hope, and restoration in a world of created kinships. Through her characters’ lives and shared dangers—Marin Sinclair, end-of-life doula; Sergeant Justin Blue Eyes of the Navajo Nation Police; Cullen MacPherson, agent for the Nuclear Regulatory Commission; Garret Washburn, teenaged ward of Marin’s, and Lewis George, Raven spirit-guide-cum-trickster—she takes readers on a journey through the complex interactions of cultural backgrounds and personal histories, highlighting the way kinships forged in crisis have the power to reshape our lives.Jan Payne lived on the Dineh (Navajo) reservation in Sanostee, on the New Mexico side of the Lukachukai mountain range, where she spent summers climbing mesas, taking camping trips on horseback, exploring ghost towns in the mountains of Colorado, or working with her dad breaking and training horses in Sanostee. Her two most memorable summer jobs were at a Durango, Colorado dude ranch working with pack mule trains and a brief stint as a camp cook at a uranium mining site.
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