Tika

The Prairie, 1851 The vast prairie stretched endlessly beneath the bruised sky, the sun sinking low on the horizon. The golden grass swayed in the evening breeze, whispering secrets of the land’s past. Tika sat astride her horse, her keen eyes locked on the lone rider ahead. He was a white man, dressed in a dusty coat, his hat pulled low over his face. His horse, a weary bay, snorted and pawed at the earth. She did not trust him. She had seen too many like him—settlers, traders, soldiers. Some came with words of peace, others with muskets. But she could not turn away. He was alone, and that made him dangerous, but also vulnerable.