Carolyn Davidson by Runaway Page A

from overhead.
    Will tipped his head back, one hand snatching his hat from his head as he peered upward. A small face gazeddown from the opening to the hayloft, dark braids hanging on either side.
    “What are you doin’ up there, young’un? Where’d you come from?”
    The girl scooted closer to the ladder and, with a rolling movement exposing petticoats and stocking-clad legs, set her shoes on the crude ladder and began the trip down.
    “I’m Maggie. Who are you? Is that a real Indian over there?” By the time her feet hit the floor, she had delivered her barrage of questions and was busily smoothing her skirts into place.
    Many Fingers folded his arms, assuming a posture that would have done credit to Sitting Bull, if Will was any judge. Granted, his black hair and ruddy complexion were almost a guarantee of his heritage. But the tall moccasins he wore and the feather he’d stuck into his headband were classic touches Will suspected were hued with a bit of defiance.
    “This is Many Fingers. I’m Will Tolliver, and who do you belong to?” Her narrow face looked somehow familiar, and yet there was no doubt he’d never seen the girl before. For a moment he wondered if a neighbor’s child had wandered by, and then she spoke again.
    “My grandma’s name is Miz Tolliver and this is her barn. Do you know her?”
    Will squatted, bringing him to eye level with the child. “Yeah. She’s my mother, and I suspect you belong to one of my brothers, don’t you?”
    “Is Uncle Eben and Uncle Samuel your brothers?” she asked, reaching up to twist one of her braids around her fingers. Her small face was so earnest, her eyes so blindingly blue and familiar, she was almost like a carbon copy of…Josie. She had to be Josie’s child.
    “Who’s your mother?” Will asked, reaching to brush a wisp of hay from her sleeve.
    “My mother’s not here,” Maggie answered. “She had to go away.”
    “Is your mother named Josie?” Will asked, fighting the urge to draw her into his embrace. His hand slid to clasp hers within his grasp and his eyes were drawn to the sight of her plump fingers spread across his palm.
    “My daddy calls her Josie and so does Grandma. I just call her Mama.” Flexing her fingers against his callused skin, she eyed him warily. “Do you know my mama?”
    “She’s my sister, honey. That makes you my niece. What do you think of that?” His words were husky with an emotion he could not hide, and he cleared his throat noisily.
    “Am I supposed to call you Uncle Will?” she asked dubiously. “And what do I call him?” She gestured at the watching man.
    “You can call me Tall Horse,” Many Fingers said, halting Will’s reply.
    “Tall Horse?” Spoken in unison, the words were a query in themselves.
    “I never heard of anybody called that,” Maggie announced.
    “Me, neither,” Will echoed. “How many names you got?”
    Many Fingers shrugged. “Several. Tall Horse is what the tribe called me.”
    From outside the barn a loud clanging drowned out Will’s reply, and Maggie squeezed his index finger with her pudgy fist. She urged him toward the doorway.
    “That means that supper is about ready. Grandma wants me to wash my hands before I eat.”
    Will freed himself from her grip. “I’ll unload my muleand bring the pack inside. You go on ahead, Maggie. We’ll be right behind you.”
    The child nodded and ran off, her pigtails bobbing. Will watched in wonder. She sure was the picture of Josie. At least, the Josie he’d last seen ten years ago. And that would make her about twenty-two years old now. Maybe she’d show up tonight from wherever she’d had to go.
    “How long has she been gone?” Will asked unbelievingly.
    His mother shrugged, placing a bowl of stew before him. “Almost a year now. She sent a letter a month or so ago, said she was about ready to come back and get Maggie.”
    Will cast a glance at the child sitting across the table. “How…?” He broke off the question