Spotted Eagle Mountain Sad nights linger through the blackness of a hound.

He seemed repentant. Or, as apologetic as she'd expect from a stranger. Her eyes did not leave him as he spoke, though her ears pivoted, keeping track of her surroundings in case he was not alone. The last thing she needed was to be chased off by some testosterone-rich fools. But he didn't leave either; perhaps he was intrigued by the plants she'd destroyed — his question made her narrow her gaze slightly.

These plants, she shifted so he could look at the crumpled shoots missing their buds, if he felt the need, relieve women of unwanted parasites. Her agitated expression melted as she spoke, becoming something closer to a smirk, as she wondered what he might glean from this explanation. It was a morbid way to speak of pregnancies.