That night after supper, Loretta sat by the fire, using an overturned bucket as a stool, a mug of gritty coffee cupped in her palms, her gaze fixed sightlessly on the shifting flames. The other women around the fire spoke infrequently, some, Loretta guessed, because they were afraid of another Indian attack, others undoubtedly because they resented her presence and wanted to make sure she knew it. After the spectacle she had made of herself that morning, everyone knew. Loretta was beyond caring. There was an ache inside her chest the size of a boulder. She didn't know if Hunter was alive or dead. She might never know. He was her husband. She loved him. Why couldn't these women understand that? Instead they acted as if she were some kind of vermin in the flour sack. Maybe they were right. She didn't belong here now.