Casey, before the birth of her daughter, alone for weeks at a time, took long walks through town, imagined kissing her husband under the moon in the little park along the river just south of the bridge, imagined him swinging high into the air the children she was sure God would bless them with one day. Despite generations of silence and hiding, when Casey became pregnant with her daughter, she began avoiding the section of the river where Leonard had caught his last breath—the oak trees and the willows and one lone surviving apple tree held the memory of his murder in their fiber. As Casey’s spirit opened during her pregnancy, her body bearing a child whose looks were undeniably Indian, from blood coursing through her, Leonard’s fear and the terror of the times caught her, hurrying her awa
