Maya woke before her alarm, pulled from sleep by a dream so vivid and intense that for a moment she forgot where she was. Her hand went instinctively to her lips, which still tingled as if she'd actually been kissed. In the dream, she'd been standing by the sacred lake under starlight, and he had been there—the man from all her previous dreams, but clearer now, more real than ever before.
This time, when she'd reached toward him, he hadn't faded away. Instead, he had taken her hand, pulled her close, and kissed her with a passion that felt more real than anything in her waking life. She could still taste mountain air and woodsmoke on her lips, could still feel the warmth of his hands on her face as he'd whispered against her mouth: "I have been waiting for you, Numa."
Through her hotel room window, the mountains were outlined against a sky that was just beginning to lighten from black to deep purple, and she could hear the distant sound of water running somewhere in the valley below. Maya sat up in bed, touching her lips again and trying to shake off the lingering sensations from the dream. It had felt so real that part of her expected to find pine needles in her hair or the scent of leather on her skin.
She'd slept fitfully, her mind churning with images from yesterday's experience at Elk Ridge. In the clear light of morning, she tried to rationalize what she'd seen and heard—the figure in the valley could have been another hiker, the voice in the wind just the natural sounds of the mountains filtered through her imagination and the emotional high of seeing such beautiful scenery for the first time. But even as she went through these logical explanations, Maya knew they didn't capture the full truth of what she'd experienced.
There had been something else at that overlook, something that went beyond her conscious understanding but felt absolutely real. The word she'd heard carried on the wind—it hadn't sounded like any English word she knew, but it had resonated through her body like a name she'd been waiting her whole life to hear. And the figure by the water... even now, remembering the way that distant gaze had felt like a physical touch made her heart race with a mixture of anticipation and confusion.
Maya showered and dressed carefully in clothes that struck a balance between professional and respectful—dark jeans, a simple blouse, and a blazer that looked serious without being stuffy. Her grandmother Aiyana had always taught her that first impressions mattered, especially when asking people to share their family stories, and Maya wanted to present herself as someone worthy of trust.
She packed her recording equipment, notebooks, and camera into a leather messenger bag that had belonged to her father, thinking that carrying something with family history might bring her luck in uncovering other family histories. After a quick breakfast in the hotel's small dining room—coffee, fresh fruit, and a pastry that the desk clerk assured her was made by someone's grandmother according to a recipe that was "older than the state of Colorado"—Maya set out for her first interview.
Grace Whitehorse lived about ten minutes outside of Willow Springs, in a house that seemed to grow naturally from the landscape around it. The building was constructed of local stone and weathered wood, with large windows that looked out over a meadow where horses grazed peacefully in the morning light. A garden filled with both vegetables and native plants surrounded the house, and Maya could see solar panels on the roof and what looked like a small wind turbine spinning lazily in the mountain breeze.
As Maya parked her rental car in the gravel driveway, an older woman emerged from the house and walked toward her with the unhurried grace of someone completely comfortable in her environment. Grace Whitehorse appeared to be in her seventies, with silver-streaked hair braided down her back and skin that spoke of decades spent outdoors. She wore jeans, boots, and a cotton shirt in a shade of blue that matched the morning sky, and her smile held the warmth Maya had heard in their phone conversations.
"Maya Sterling," Grace said, extending her hand as Maya approached. "It's wonderful to finally meet you in person. How was your drive up from Denver?"
"Beautiful," Maya replied, accepting the firm handshake and noticing the small turquoise earrings that caught the light as Grace moved. "I've never seen landscape like this before. It's... overwhelming, in the best possible way."
"Colorado has that effect on people. Some more than others." Grace's dark eyes studied Maya's face with the kind of attention that suggested she was seeing more than just surface details. "Did you make it up to Elk Ridge yesterday evening?"
"I did. Thank you for the suggestion. The sunset was incredible."
"And what did you think of the valley views from up there? Could you see where the old camping areas would have been?"
Maya felt a flutter of uncertainty. Should she mention what she'd experienced? The figure by the water, the voice in the wind? Grace's expression was patient and encouraging, but Maya didn't want to sound like a city person letting her imagination run wild in the mountains.
"I could see the areas you mentioned in your emails," she said carefully. "It's easy to understand why families would have chosen those locations for seasonal camps. The access to water, the shelter from the mountains, the game trails..."
"But you felt something else too, didn't you?" Grace's voice was gentle but perceptive. "Something that went beyond the practical considerations?"
Maya met Grace's eyes, seeing understanding there rather than skepticism. "I'm not sure how to explain it. The place felt... familiar. Like I'd been there before, even though I know I haven't."
"That's not uncommon for people with Native heritage, especially when they visit ancestral territories for the first time. The connection can be quite strong." Grace gestured toward the house. "Come on inside. I've got coffee brewing, and there's something I want to show you before we start the formal interview."
Grace's house was exactly what Maya had expected from their phone conversations—comfortable, lived-in, filled with books and artifacts that spoke of a life dedicated to preserving history. The living room featured exposed wooden beams, a stone fireplace, and walls lined with photographs, maps, and what appeared to be historical documents in protective frames. Shelves held an eclectic mixture of academic texts, fiction, and what looked like handmade pottery and baskets.
"Have a seat wherever you're comfortable," Grace said, gesturing toward a grouping of chairs near the fireplace. "I'll get that coffee and the materials I wanted to share with you."
Maya settled into a chair that faced the largest wall of historical displays, letting her eyes wander over the collection while she waited. There were photographs of Native American families from what appeared to be the late 1800s and early 1900s, maps showing tribal territories and migration patterns, and several documents that looked like they might be treaties or land agreements. One photograph in particular caught her attention—a group of people standing near what looked like the lake she'd seen from Elk Ridge, though the image was too old and distant to make out individual faces clearly.
"That was taken in 1869," Grace said, returning with two mugs of coffee and following Maya's gaze to the photograph. "One of the last gatherings before the federal government started restricting tribal movements more severely. The photographer was a trader who'd developed relationships with several Ute bands, and he was given permission to document some of their traditional practices."
Maya accepted the coffee—it was excellent, rich and smooth with hints of something that might have been cinnamon—and studied the photograph more closely. "Is that the same lake I could see from Elk Ridge?"
"The very same. We call it Sacred Springs Lake now, though it had different names in different tribal languages." Grace settled into the chair across from Maya, her expression growing more serious. "That lake has been important to various Native communities for hundreds of years. It's where many families would gather for seasonal ceremonies, trade negotiations, and inter-tribal marriages."
"Inter-tribal marriages?"
"Oh yes. Despite what some history books suggest, tribal communities weren't isolated from each other. There was quite a bit of interaction between different groups, especially in border regions like this one. Ute bands would sometimes marry with Cherokee families who'd moved west, or with members of other tribes who were passing through the area." Grace paused, studying Maya's face again. "In fact, that's part of why I was so interested in your research proposal."
Maya felt her heart rate increase. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you mentioned in your emails that you're trying to trace your Cherokee ancestry, particularly a family line that seemed to disappear from Georgia in the 1860s. And you said your grandmother always suspected that some family members had gone west and integrated with other tribal communities."
"That's right. My great-great-great-grandmother, who we think was named Singing Bird, vanished from the Georgia mountains sometime during the Civil War period. My grandmother Aiyana always believed she'd headed west, but we never had any concrete evidence."
Grace stood up and walked to a large wooden chest that sat beneath one of the windows. "Maya, what I'm about to show you is going to sound impossible, but I need you to keep an open mind." She lifted the lid of the chest and carefully withdrew what appeared to be a thick, leather-bound book. "This is one of several historical records that have been maintained by our community for generations. They contain family genealogies, stories, and photographic documentation that goes back to the mid-1800s."
Grace returned to her chair and opened the book carefully, turning pages that looked fragile with age. Maya could see that the pages contained a mixture of handwritten text, what appeared to be family trees, and photographs that had been carefully mounted and preserved.
"Here," Grace said, finding the page she was looking for and turning the book so Maya could see it. "Tell me what you think of this."
Maya leaned forward to examine the page, and her breath caught in her throat. At the top of the page was a photograph of a young woman who could have been Maya's twin. The facial features, the bone structure, even the way she held her head—everything was so similar it was startling. Below the photograph was handwritten text in what appeared to be multiple languages, including English.
"Her name," Grace said quietly, "according to our records, was Singing Bird. She came to our community in 1863, fleeing something in the Georgia mountains. She was Cherokee, but she integrated fully into Ute life and eventually married into one of the prominent families."
Maya stared at the photograph, her hands trembling slightly as she reached out to touch the edge of the page. "This is impossible. She looks exactly like me."
"Family resemblances can be very strong, especially in maternal lines. But Maya, there's more." Grace turned to the next page, which showed a family tree with multiple names and dates. "Singing Bird had three children after she joined our community. Two daughters and a son. One of the daughters eventually moved back east, sometime in the 1880s."
"Back east? To Georgia?"
"We're not certain of the exact location, but the family stories suggest she went to find relatives who might have survived the disruptions of the Civil War period. She married a man with the surname Sterling."
Maya felt the blood drain from her face. Sterling was her family name—her father's surname, which had come down through his line. If one of Singing Bird's daughters had married a Sterling...
"This would make me," Maya said slowly, trying to work through the genealogical implications, "not just Cherokee through my great-great-great-grandmother, but also part Ute through her children who were born here."
"It would indeed. And it would explain why you felt such a strong connection to the landscape yesterday, why the lake and the valley felt familiar even though you'd never been here before." Grace closed the book carefully and set it aside. "Maya, in our traditional beliefs, some people are called back to places where their ancestors lived. The land remembers them, and they remember the land, even if the memory isn't conscious."
Maya sat back in her chair, trying to process what Grace had just shown her. If this genealogy was accurate, then her family connection to this area went far deeper than she'd ever imagined. Not only had her ancestor found refuge here, but she'd built a life, had children, become part of the community in ways that created lasting bonds.
"How certain are you about this information?" Maya asked, her researcher's training kicking in despite the emotional impact of the discovery.
"The photographic evidence and family records are quite reliable. Our community has always been careful about maintaining accurate genealogies, partly because of the legal implications for tribal membership and land rights. But if you'd like additional verification, I can put you in touch with some of the families who have maintained their own records."
"The other interviews I have scheduled—Rose Crow Feather and Thomas Mountain Bear—are they..."
"Related to families that would have known Singing Bird and her children, yes. I thought it would be helpful for you to understand the personal connection before you spoke with them. It changes the nature of the conversations, doesn't it? When you're not just researching history, but uncovering your own family story."
Maya felt tears threatening and took a deep breath to compose herself. This trip had already exceeded her wildest expectations, and she'd only been in Colorado for one day. The implications of what Grace had shown her would take time to fully process, but already she could feel something shifting in her understanding of herself and her place in the world.
"Grace, I need to ask you something, and it's going to sound strange." Maya hesitated, then decided to trust her instincts. "Yesterday, at Elk Ridge, I had an experience that I can't explain rationally. I heard something in the wind—a voice, maybe, calling a name I didn't recognize. And I saw someone in the valley, by the water. When I looked again, they were gone."
Grace's expression grew very serious, but not skeptical. "What did the voice sound like? Can you remember the word you heard?"
"It wasn't English. It sounded like... Numa? Something like that."
Grace was quiet for a long moment, her dark eyes studying Maya's face with an intensity that was both reassuring and slightly unsettling. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight that suggested she was sharing something significant.
"You've heard that word before, haven't you?" Grace asked gently.
Maya felt her breath catch. "Yes. In my dreams, before I came here. But I didn't know what it meant."
"Numa means 'spirit' or 'soul' in the Ute language. It's also sometimes used as a term of endearment, like calling someone 'beloved spirit.'" Grace paused, as if deciding how much to reveal. "Maya, there are stories in our community about that lake, about things that happen there that can't be explained by conventional understanding. Some people are more sensitive to these experiences than others."
"What kind of stories?"
"Stories about the past and present sometimes touching each other in that place. About people seeing things, hearing things, feeling connections that transcend normal time and space." Grace stood up and walked to the window that looked out toward the mountains. "The lake has always been considered sacred, a place where the boundaries between worlds are thinner than usual."
Maya felt a chill run down her spine, remembering the intensity of her experience at Elk Ridge and the way the figure by the water had seemed to be looking directly at her across an impossible distance.
"Grace, do you think it's possible that some places hold memories? That they can somehow show us things that happened in the past?"
"I think," Grace said carefully, turning back to face Maya, "that there are many things in this world that can't be explained by the kind of logic we learn in universities. Our ancestors understood that the physical world and the spiritual world intersect in certain places, at certain times, for certain people. What you experienced yesterday might have been one of those intersections."
"But why me? Why now?"
"Maybe because you're finally in a place where you can hear what your ancestors have been trying to tell you. Maybe because this is where your family story began, and now it's time for you to understand that story fully." Grace returned to her chair and picked up the historical record again. "Or maybe because there are things about your heritage that go deeper than genealogy, connections that exist on levels we don't fully understand."
Maya spent the next two hours with Grace, going through family records, examining photographs, and discussing the historical context of Cherokee and Ute interactions in the 1860s. Grace explained the challenges that Native communities had faced during the Civil War period—pressure from both Union and Confederate forces, disruption of traditional territories, the beginning of the federal reservation system that would eventually confine most tribes to much smaller areas than their ancestral lands.
"Singing Bird would have been fleeing multiple threats," Grace explained, showing Maya maps that illustrated the complexity of tribal territories during the 1860s. "The Georgia Cherokee had already faced removal in the 1830s, but some families managed to hide in the mountains. During the Civil War, even those hidden communities came under pressure from military forces on both sides."
"So she was looking for safety, but also for a community that would accept her."
"Exactly. And the Ute bands in this area had a tradition of integrating refugees from other tribes, especially women and children who needed protection. It wasn't uncommon for Cherokee families to be adopted into Ute communities, particularly if they brought useful skills or knowledge."
Grace showed Maya several other photographs from the historical record, pointing out faces and explaining family relationships that connected multiple generations of both Cherokee and Ute ancestry. Maya found herself studying each image carefully, looking for family resemblances and trying to imagine the lives these people had lived.
One photograph in particular caught her attention—a group of people gathered around what appeared to be a ceremonial fire, with the sacred lake visible in the background. In the center of the group was a man who appeared to be a tribal leader, distinguished by his bearing and the way the others were arranged around him. Even in the faded photograph, there was something compelling about his face, something that made Maya study his features more closely.
"Who is this?" she asked, pointing to the man in the center of the group.
Grace looked at the photograph and smiled. "That's Chief Ouray. He was one of the most respected leaders in this area during the 1860s and 70s. He was known for his diplomatic skills, his ability to negotiate between different tribal factions, and his commitment to protecting his people during a very dangerous time."
Maya stared at the photograph, feeling a strange recognition that she couldn't explain. The man's face was partially shadowed by the limitations of 1860s photography, but there was something about his posture, the way he held his head, that seemed familiar.
"Was he married?"
"At the time this photograph was taken, no. That's an interesting question, and one that's always puzzled historians. By all accounts, Ouray was considered very eligible—he was young, respected, from a prominent family—but for years he showed no interest in any of the women who were suggested as potential wives. The tribal elders used to say he claimed he was waiting for someone, though he never explained who."
"That seems unusual for a chief, doesn't it? Not marrying?"
"Very unusual for someone in his position. Marriage alliances were important for tribal leadership, both for personal happiness and for political stability. But Ouray seemed completely uninterested in traditional arrangements. He would always say that he would know his intended when he met her, and that until then, he preferred to wait." Grace paused meaningfully. "According to our oral traditions, his waiting eventually came to an end. The elders say he did find the woman he had been waiting for, and that their love became legendary among our people."
Maya found herself staring at the photograph again, trying to make out more details of the chief's face. There was something about the way he was positioned in the group, the way his attention seemed to be directed toward the camera—or perhaps toward whoever was behind the camera—that made her feel like he was looking directly at her across more than a century of time.
"Grace, would it be possible for me to photograph this page? For my research records?"
"Of course. These images need to be shared and preserved. Just be careful with the lighting—some of these photographs are quite fragile."
Maya carefully positioned her camera to avoid glare from the window, taking several shots of the page to ensure she captured both the photograph and the handwritten records clearly. As she looked through the camera lens, focusing on Chief Ouray's image, she felt that same strange recognition intensify, as if she was documenting something personally significant rather than just historical material.
"What happened to him? To Chief Ouray?" she asked, lowering her camera.
Grace's expression grew thoughtful rather than sad. "That's a story that has become part of our most sacred oral traditions. In 1869, during a period of increasing attacks from federal authorities, Ouray made the ultimate sacrifice for his people. When soldiers threatened the village, he successfully led our families to safety in the hidden valleys deeper in the mountains."
"So he saved his people?"
"He did. But according to the tribal elders who witnessed it, he also had to make an impossible choice. There was someone very important to him—someone who had come to our community and become part of our family—but she was in danger from the soldiers. To save her life, he had to send her away, back to her own people." Grace paused, her expression becoming more meaningful. "The elders say he disappeared shortly after that, going to the sacred lake one final time. Some believe he followed her wherever she had gone." at the sacred lake just before he disappeared. He'd been going there regularly, sometimes spending entire nights by the water, as if he was waiting for something or someone."
Maya felt a chill run through her body that had nothing to do with the mountain air. "The sacred lake. The same lake I could see from Elk Ridge."
"The very same. And Maya, here's the part that might interest you most—Ouray disappeared just a few months after Singing Bird joined the community. Some of the tribal elders have always wondered if there was a connection between the two events."
"A connection how?"
"Well, Singing Bird was a beautiful woman, and she was unattached when she first arrived. It would have been natural for eligible men to be interested in her. But according to the family stories, she showed no interest in any of them. She seemed to be waiting for someone too."
Maya stared at the photograph of Chief Ouray, her mind spinning with possibilities and connections that seemed too coincidental to be random. A Cherokee woman who fled west and integrated into a Ute community. A Ute chief who refused to marry because he was waiting for someone. Both of them associated with the same sacred lake where Maya had experienced something she couldn't explain.
"Grace, I know this is going to sound like the imagination of someone who's been reading too many romance novels, but do you think it's possible that Singing Bird and Ouray knew each other? That maybe they..."
"Fell in love?" Grace finished gently. "It's not impossible. Inter-tribal marriages did happen, though they weren't always well-documented. And it would explain some of the mysteries surrounding both of their stories."
"But if they were in love, why did he disappear? Why didn't they just get married and build a life together?"
"That," Grace said quietly, "is a question that has puzzled our historians for more than a century. And it's one of the reasons I was so interested in working with you on this research."
Maya looked at the photograph again, studying Ouray's face and trying to imagine what his story might have been. If he had loved Singing Bird, if they had found each other across the boundaries of different tribal communities, what could have forced them apart? What could have made a respected chief abandon his people and his responsibilities?
"Grace, would it be possible for me to visit the sacred lake? I know it's probably not appropriate for outsiders, but given the family connection..."
"I think that can be arranged. In fact, I think it might be necessary." Grace's expression was thoughtful, as if she was working through implications that went beyond what she was willing to say directly. "But Maya, if we do arrange for you to visit the lake, I want you to be prepared for the possibility that you might experience something... unusual. That place has always had a powerful effect on people who are spiritually sensitive, and given your family heritage and what you experienced yesterday at Elk Ridge, I suspect you might be particularly receptive."
"Receptive to what?"
"To whatever the lake and the land want to show you about your family's story. About the connections that exist between past and present, between the people who lived here before and the people who are drawn back to this place now."
Maya felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension that was becoming familiar whenever she contemplated the deeper mysteries surrounding her family history. Part of her wanted to approach this as a straightforward genealogical research project, documenting facts and verifying sources according to academic standards. But another part of her—the part that had been shaped by Grandmother Aiyana's stories about dreams and visions and spiritual guidance—recognized that some discoveries couldn't be made through conventional research methods.
"When could we arrange for me to visit the lake?"
"Tomorrow evening, if you're willing. After you've completed your interviews with Rose and Thomas. They'll be able to give you more context about the community during the 1860s, and I think you'll want to have that background before you visit the lake itself."
"That sounds perfect. And Grace? Thank you for sharing all of this with me. I came here expecting to collect some family stories for a book, but this is turning into something much more significant."
"That's often how it works when people come back to places where their ancestors lived. The land has been waiting to tell you your own story, Maya. Now you're finally ready to hear it."
As Maya drove back to her hotel, her mind was spinning with the revelations of the morning. The family photographs, the genealogical connections, the stories about Singing Bird and Chief Ouray—everything pointed toward a history that was far more complex and personal than she'd ever imagined.
But more than the historical discoveries, Maya found herself thinking about the sacred lake and Grace's promise to arrange a visit. Something had happened to her at Elk Ridge, something that went beyond her rational understanding, and she had a feeling that visiting the lake itself would intensify whatever spiritual or emotional connection she was experiencing to this place and its history.
She spent the afternoon reviewing her notes and preparing for the next day's interviews, but her concentration kept wandering to the photograph of Chief Ouray and the mystery of his disappearance. If he had loved Singing Bird, if they had been connected in the way Grace's stories suggested, what had prevented them from being together? And why did Maya feel such a strong personal investment in uncovering the truth about two people who had lived and died more than a century before she was born?
That evening, she called Anya as she had promised, but found herself struggling to explain what she'd discovered without sounding like she was losing her grip on reality.
"So you found definitive proof of the family connection to Colorado," Anya said after Maya had shared the basic facts about Singing Bird and the genealogical records.
"More than that. I found proof that our ancestor didn't just pass through this area—she built a life here. She integrated into the community, had children, became part of the tribal family networks."
"That's incredible, Maya. It's exactly the kind of personal connection that will make your book really powerful."
"But Anya, there's more. Things that are harder to explain." Maya hesitated, then decided to trust her sister with the full truth. "I'm having experiences here that go beyond normal research. Yesterday I saw something at an overlook that I can't explain rationally. And today Grace showed me historical records that suggest our ancestor might have been involved with a tribal chief who disappeared under mysterious circumstances."
"Involved how?"
"Romantically, maybe. It's not certain, but there are enough coincidences to make it seem possible. And Anya, the more I learn about this place, the more I feel like I'm supposed to be here. Not just for research, but for something deeper."
There was a long pause before Anya spoke, and when she did, her voice carried the careful tone she used when she was trying to balance support with concern.
"Maya, I'm glad you're finding meaningful connections to our family history. But I want you to be careful about reading too much into coincidences and emotional reactions to beautiful places. You're a historian—you know how easy it is to create narratives that fit what we want to believe rather than what the evidence actually supports."
"I know. And I'm trying to maintain professional objectivity. But Anya, what if some things can't be understood through conventional research methods? What if there are connections between past and present that exist on levels we don't usually acknowledge?"
"Then I guess you'll have to decide whether you're writing an academic book or a spiritual memoir. Because those are two very different projects with very different standards of evidence."
After hanging up, Maya sat by her hotel room window looking out at the darkened mountains and thinking about Anya's words. Her sister was right, of course—there was a difference between documented history and personal experience, between verifiable facts and spiritual intuition. But Maya was beginning to suspect that understanding her family's true story would require integrating both approaches, honoring both the academic research and the emotional truths that couldn't be captured in conventional sources.
Suddenly, an idea struck her with startling clarity. What if she wrote about a modern woman who experienced vivid dreams connecting her to a historical Native American warrior? She could explore themes of ancestral memory, spiritual connections across time, and the pull of forgotten heritage. It would be unlike anything she'd written before—part historical fiction, part paranormal romance, part spiritual journey. The kind of book that came from the heart rather than market research.
The concept felt electric with possibility. She could weave together all the elements that were fascinating her about this research—the family mysteries, the sacred sites, the blurred boundaries between past and present. Charles might initially resist the departure from her usual academic approach, but a well-written story about dreams and destiny could have significant commercial appeal in the current market.
Maya pulled out her notebook and began sketching ideas, feeling more creatively energized than she had in months.
Tomorrow she would interview Rose Crow Feather and Thomas Mountain Bear, learning more about the community that had welcomed Singing Bird and the time period when Chief Ouray had lived and disappeared. And tomorrow evening, she would visit the sacred lake itself, hoping to find answers to questions she was only beginning to know how to ask.
As she drifted off to sleep, Maya found herself wondering what Singing Bird had felt when she first saw the lake, whether she too had experienced the sense of recognition and homecoming that seemed to intensify with each hour Maya spent in this place. And she wondered about Chief Ouray, about what had driven him to spend long nights by the sacred water, waiting for something or someone who might or might not ever come.
In her dreams that night, Maya stood by the edge of clear mountain water under a sky full of stars, feeling the presence of someone nearby but unable to see them clearly. In the dreams, she called out questions in languages she didn't recognize, and the wind carried back answers that her sleeping mind understood but her waking consciousness would struggle to remember.
ButChapter 5: Elder Interviews - Rose Crow Feather
Maya woke on her third morning in Colorado feeling more rested than she had in months, despite the vivid dreams that had filled her sleep. The dream from the night before lingered with startling clarity—she had been standing by the sacred lake again, but this time the man with dark eyes had spoken to her in a language she somehow understood, calling her "Numa" with such tenderness that she'd woken with tears on her cheeks.
She touched her lips, remembering the dream kiss that had felt so real it left her questioning the boundaries between sleeping and waking. The taste of mountain air and woodsmoke seemed to linger on her tongue, and she could swear she still felt the warmth of hands that had cupped her face with reverent tenderness.
Through her hotel room window, the mountains stood silhouetted against the dawn sky, their peaks touched with gold from the rising sun. Maya dressed carefully for her second interview, choosing clothing that struck a balance between professional respect and cultural sensitivity. Today she would meet Rose Crow Feather, the eldest of the tribal historians Grace had arranged for her to interview.
At ninety-three years old, Rose was considered one of the most knowledgeable keepers of Ute oral tradition. Unlike yesterday's interview with Grace, which had focused on genealogical records and family connections, Rose specialized in the personal stories and tribal memories that weren't written down anywhere—the kind of history that lived in the hearts and memories of the people who preserved it.
Maya gathered her recording equipment, notebooks, and camera, then made her way to the Pine Lodge's small dining room for coffee and a light breakfast. Jenny, the desk clerk, greeted her with familiar warmth.
"Off to see Rose today?" Jenny asked, refilling Maya's coffee cup. "You're in for something special. That woman knew people personally who lived through the 1860s and 70s. Her great-grandmother used to tell her stories about the chiefs and warriors like they were neighbors she'd just seen yesterday."
"Grace mentioned that Rose has unique perspectives on Chief Ouray," Maya said, feeling her pulse quicken at the mention of the name. "I'm hoping she can share some insights that go beyond the documented history."
"Oh, Rose has stories about Ouray that nobody else knows. Her family was close to his inner circle back then." Jenny's expression grew thoughtful. "Fair warning though—Rose has a way of seeing things that some people find unsettling. She's what my grandmother called 'spirit-touched.' Sometimes she knows things about people that she shouldn't know."
The drive to Rose's home took Maya through landscapes that felt increasingly familiar despite her short time in Colorado. Every turn revealed vistas that stirred something deep in her memory, as if she'd traveled these roads before in dreams or visions.
Rose lived in a modest house about fifteen minutes outside of Willow Springs, set on land that had been in her family for generations. As Maya parked, an elderly woman emerged from the house with the careful but confident movements of someone who had learned to work with age rather than fight against it.
Rose Crow Feather was small in stature but commanded attention through sheer presence. Her silver hair was braided in traditional style, and she wore a simple dress with a turquoise necklace that seemed to catch light from sources Maya couldn't identify.
But it was Rose's eyes that stopped Maya in her tracks. Dark and penetrating, they seemed to look through Maya's professional exterior to something deeper, something that made her feel simultaneously known and evaluated.
"Maya Sterling," Rose said, her voice carrying authority earned through nine decades of being listened to and respected. "Grace told me you've been learning about your family connections to our community. She said you found some interesting photographs yesterday."
"Yes, she was incredibly helpful. She showed me historical records and photographs, including one of Chief Ouray." Maya felt a strange anticipation building. "I'd love to hear your family's perspective on him."
Rose's expression sharpened with interest. "Ah, Ouray. Now there's a story that has fascinated our family for generations. My great-grandmother knew him personally, served on the women's council during his leadership. Come inside—I have things to tell you about that man that aren't written in any history books."
Rose's house reflected a life lived at the intersection of tradition and modernity. Native artifacts shared space with family photographs spanning generations, and handmade items sat alongside contemporary furniture. The living room featured large windows overlooking the mountains, with seating arranged to encourage intimate conversation.
"Sit wherever you're comfortable," Rose said, gesturing toward chairs arranged near the fireplace. "Would you like coffee? I made it strong—figured someone who spends her life reading old documents would need the caffeine."
"Thank you, that sounds perfect." Maya settled into a chair and began setting up her recording equipment. "Rose, Grace mentioned that your family has unique insights into Chief Ouray's character and leadership style. I'd love to hear those stories."
Rose poured coffee from a thermos into two ceramic mugs and settled into her own chair with deliberate movements. "Before we talk about Ouray, I want to know something. Grace showed you his photograph yesterday—what was your reaction to seeing it?"
Maya felt heat rise in her cheeks. The question was more personal than she'd expected, cutting straight to something she wasn't sure she was ready to discuss. "It was... interesting to see what he looked like. To put a face to the historical accounts."
"That's not what I'm asking." Rose's dark eyes studied Maya with uncomfortable intensity. "I'm asking what you felt when you saw his face. What you recognized."
Maya's carefully prepared interview questions scattered like leaves in the wind. She'd expected to guide this conversation, to ask about historical events and tribal traditions. Instead, Rose was probing something far more personal and mysterious.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Maya said carefully, though her heart was beginning to race.
"Child, my great-grandmother used to say that some faces call to us across time because our souls have known them before. She said when you see a photograph of someone and feel like you're looking at someone you've been missing your whole life, that's not coincidence." Rose leaned forward slightly. "Did you bring a copy of that photograph with you?"
Maya's hands trembled slightly as she reached for her camera and scrolled through the images she'd taken at Grace's house. She found the photograph of Chief Ouray and turned the camera so Rose could see the screen.
"This is him," Maya said quietly.
Rose studied the image for a long moment, then looked back at Maya with an expression that seemed to hold both sadness and hope. "And when you look at this face, what do you feel?"
Maya stared at the photograph on her camera screen, her chest tightening with emotions she couldn't name. "I feel like... like I know him. Like I've been looking for him without realizing it." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "Rose, I've been having dreams. Dreams where I see this exact face, where he talks to me and calls me by a name I don't understand. In the dreams, he feels more real than my actual life."
Rose nodded slowly, as if Maya had confirmed something she'd already suspected. "What name does he call you?"
"Numa. He calls me Numa, and when he says it, it feels like my real name, even though Grace had to tell me it means 'spirit' or 'soul' in your language."
"Ah, but there's more to it than Grace probably shared. It's not just what you call someone's spirit—it's what you call someone whose spirit you recognize as belonging with yours." Rose stood up and walked to a wooden chest beneath one of the windows. "Maya, my great-grandmother told me stories about Chief Ouray that were never shared outside our family. Stories about why he never married, why he spent so much time alone by the sacred lake, and what happened to him in his final days."
Rose opened the chest and carefully withdrew a wrapped bundle. "She also left me something that she said would only make sense when the right person came asking the right questions."
Maya watched as Rose unwrapped what appeared to be a small leather journal, its pages yellowed with age. Rose returned to her chair and opened the journal carefully.
"This is my great-grandmother's personal record of her conversations with Chief Ouray during the final year of his life. She was one of the few people he trusted with his... unusual experiences." Rose looked up at Maya. "Tell me about your dreams. Describe them in detail."
Maya found herself sharing things she hadn't told anyone, not even Anya. She described the villages and ceremonies, the sense of belonging that pervaded every dream, and most hesitantly, the conversations she'd had with the man whose face was now displayed on her camera screen.
Rose listened without interruption, occasionally nodding as if Maya's experiences confirmed things written in the journal before her. When Maya finished, Rose was quiet for several minutes, consulting the handwritten pages.
"My great-grandmother wrote this entry in the spring of 1869, just months before Chief Ouray disappeared," Rose said, finding a particular page. "I'm going to read it to you, and I want you to tell me if it sounds familiar."
Rose cleared her throat and began reading in a voice that carried the weight of preserved memory:
"'Ouray came to the women's council today in great distress. He spoke of dreams that have been consuming his sleep for months—dreams of a woman unlike any in our village. He says she has dark skin and speaks our language as if born to it, though he has never seen her among our people or any neighboring tribes. When he wakes from these dreams, he appears exhausted and troubled, as if part of his spirit remains elsewhere. He has asked the council for guidance about these visions.'"
Maya's coffee mug slipped from nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp crack. Coffee spread across the hardwood, but neither woman moved to clean it up.
"There's more," Rose continued, turning the page. "'Ouray has begun spending entire days by the sacred lake, seeking understanding about these dreams. He tells us they feel more real than his waking life, that this woman calls to him with such urgency he can barely function as our chief. The other warriors worry for his mind, but the grandmothers say some souls are called across great distances to find their true mates. They counsel patience and prayer.'"
Maya felt tears streaming down her face without understanding why. The journal entries described experiences that mirrored her own—vivid dreams that felt more real than waking life, an overwhelming sense of connection to someone who shouldn't exist.
"Rose, this describes exactly what I've been experiencing, but from his perspective. How is that possible?"
"Because true spiritual connections don't respect the boundaries that our minds think are fixed. Because some souls are meant to find each other regardless of when they were born." Rose closed the journal carefully and set it aside. "Maya, my great-grandmother wrote about Ouray's behavior in his final days before his disappearance. Would you like to hear what she observed?"
Maya nodded, unable to speak.
Rose turned to the last entries in the journal. "'After the great battle, our chief was gravely wounded protecting the people during their escape to the hidden valleys. For many weeks, we feared he would join the ancestors, but the healers and the spirits kept him with us. When he finally woke, he was different—distant, as if part of his spirit remained elsewhere. He spoke constantly of needing to return to the sacred lake, saying it called to him with great urgency. But the soldiers still patrol that area, and it was not safe for our people to venture back.'"
Rose looked up at Maya. "The final entry is brief but haunting. She wrote: 'We have been caring for Ouray in the mountain refuge for many moons since the great battle—through the full cycle of seasons and into the next. Each day he grows more restless, begging us to take him to the sacred waters, saying something calls to him with great urgency. But the area remains dangerous for our people. Yesterday, when the women went to bring him his morning meal, they found his shelter empty. No tracks, no signs of struggle—he had simply vanished like morning mist. The grandmothers say he found his own way back to the lake, following a call only he could hear. They believe the sacred waters finally claimed him, taking him to wherever his heart belongs.'"
Maya sat in stunned silence, processing the implications of what Rose had shared. "Rose, what exactly happened to him during that battle? How was he injured?"
Rose's expression grew somber. "According to my great-grandmother, he was shot protecting the people during their escape. The bullet went deep, near his heart. For weeks, they thought he would die. The healers had to keep him sleeping most of the time - not because he wanted to sleep, but because they feared if he woke fully, he would try to leave before his body could heal. He was not well enough to travel, and the area around the sacred lake was still too dangerous."
"So he was unconscious for most of those months?"
"Yes. The healers used sacred plants to keep him comfortable and still, allowing his body to mend. But even in his medicine sleep, he would call out, speaking to someone who wasn't there. When he finally woke completely and could stay awake, that's when he became desperate to return to the sacred waters."
Rose looked back at the journal. "My great-grandmother wrote that in his final days of recovery, he said the lake was calling to him with voices he had to answer. The healers knew he was strong enough to survive, but they also knew the moment he could walk, he would try to reach those waters no matter the danger."
"And that's when he disappeared?"
"That's when the spirits called him home to wherever his heart belonged."
"Rose, are you suggesting that Chief Ouray somehow... traveled through time? That he's waiting somewhere for me to find him?"
"I'm telling you what my great-grandmother witnessed and recorded. I'm sharing the stories that have been preserved in our family for more than a century and a half." Rose's expression was serious but gentle. "What you do with that information, how you choose to understand it, is up to you."
Maya looked down at the photograph on her camera screen, studying the face that had become so familiar through her dreams. "In my dreams, when I ask him his name, he never tells me directly. He just says I already know it. But seeing this photograph, hearing these stories... his name is Ouray, isn't it?"
"It was Ouray when he lived in this time. But names are just sounds we use to call to each other across distance. The important thing isn't what you call him—it's that your souls recognize each other despite every logical reason they shouldn't." Rose stood up and returned the journal to the wooden chest. "Maya, there's something else I need to show you."
Rose retrieved another wrapped bundle from the chest, this one smaller and more carefully protected. She unwrapped it to reveal what appeared to be a piece of traditional beadwork—a small medallion decorated with intricate patterns in turquoise and silver.
"Ouray was wearing this when he disappeared. The warriors found it floating on the surface of the sacred lake the morning after he vanished. My great-grandmother retrieved it and kept it safe, believing it would someday need to be returned to its rightful owner."
Rose held the medallion out to Maya. "She always said this piece would recognize the person it belonged to. That when the right woman held it, both she and the medallion would know they were meant to be together."
Maya accepted the medallion with trembling hands. The moment her fingers touched the beadwork, she felt a jolt of electricity run through her body, followed by a sense of completeness she'd never experienced before. The medallion felt warm against her palm, and she could swear it pulsed with some kind of energy.
"It knows you," Rose said quietly. "Just like he knew you, even across more than a century of separation."
Maya held the medallion, feeling tears continue to stream down her face. The weight of everything Rose had shared—the journal entries, the historical accounts, the physical evidence of Ouray's disappearance—painted a picture that challenged everything she thought she knew about the boundaries between past and present.
"Rose, what am I supposed to do with this information? How do I process the possibility that I'm spiritually connected to someone who lived and died more than 150 years ago?"
"First, you stop thinking of him as someone who lived and died. According to our traditions, souls don't die—they just move between different states of existence. If Ouray crossed into the spirit realm to wait for you, then he's not dead. He's just... elsewhere."
Rose returned to her chair and picked up her coffee mug. "Second, you trust the experiences you're having instead of trying to rationalize them away. Your dreams aren't random psychological phenomena—they're communications. The recognition you feel when you look at his photograph isn't coincidence—it's memory."
"Memory of what?"
"Of a love that refused to accept the limitations of ordinary time. Of a connection that was strong enough to pull a chief away from his people and his responsibilities because he knew something more important was waiting for him." Rose's voice carried the authority of someone sharing ancient wisdom. "Maya, some paths can only be walked by people who are willing to trust their hearts more than their minds."
Maya spent the next hour with Rose, listening to additional stories about Chief Ouray that painted a picture of a man torn between duty and spiritual calling. Rose shared accounts of his increasing isolation during his final months, his obsession with spending time by the sacred lake, and the growing conviction among the tribal elders that their chief was being called to a destiny that transcended normal human experience.
"The other thing you need to understand," Rose said as their interview wound down, "is that Ouray's disappearance wasn't seen as a tragedy by the tribal grandmothers. They viewed it as a completion—a man following his spiritual calling to its ultimate conclusion. They believed he had found a way to transcend time itself in service of love."
"But he abandoned his people. He left them without a leader during a dangerous period."
"He left them with the knowledge that some loves are powerful enough to overcome any obstacle. That story became part of our oral tradition, passed down through generations as an example of what's possible when someone has the courage to follow their spiritual truth." Rose smiled for the first time during their interview. "Maya, your dreams aren't calling you to abandon your life. They're calling you to discover what your life is supposed to become."
As Maya prepared to leave, Rose walked her to the car with slow but purposeful steps.
"Keep the medallion," Rose said when Maya tried to return it. "It belongs with you now. But I want you to understand something important about the path you're on."
Rose placed a weathered hand on Maya's arm, her dark eyes holding Maya's gaze with intensity.
"These dreams you're having—stop fighting them. Stop trying to analyze them or explain them away. Open yourself completely to what they're showing you. Listen to every word, feel every emotion, accept every truth they offer, no matter how impossible it seems to your waking mind."
Maya felt a shiver run down her spine. "Rose, what are you telling me?"
"I'm telling you that some things are already written by forces much greater than our understanding. The connection between you and Ouray, the path that brought you here, the love that refuses to accept the boundaries of time—all of this was set in motion long before you were born." Rose's voice carried the weight of prophecy. "Things are going to happen to you that aren't in your control. Events will unfold that challenge everything you think you know about what's possible. Don't fight it. Don't try to stop it. It's written already and can't be changed."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind that ask you to trust in love that transcends every boundary you thought was fixed. The kind that require you to believe in possibilities your mind says are impossible." Rose squeezed Maya's arm gently. "But mostly, the choice to visit the sacred lake when you're ready to discover whether these dreams are calling you toward something that will change your life forever."
Maya drove back to Willow Springs in a state of emotional suspension, the medallion warm in her pocket and Rose's words echoing in her mind. The journal entries had provided historical context for her dreams that was both thrilling and terrifying. If Rose's family records were accurate, then her spiritual experiences weren't unique—they were part of a story that had been unfolding for more than a century.
But it was the medallion that challenged her understanding most directly. The physical sensation of recognition when she'd touched it, the warmth and energy that seemed to emanate from the beadwork, suggested connections that went far beyond psychological projection or wishful thinking.
That evening, Maya sat in her hotel room attempting to organize her notes from the day's interview, but her concentration kept wandering to the medallion that now sat on her nightstand beside her camera. When she looked at the photographs she'd taken of Chief Ouray, she felt the same jolt of recognition and longing that had overwhelmed her at Rose's house.
Her phone rang, and Anya's name appeared on the screen. Maya answered with relief, grateful for the prospect of talking to someone who knew her well enough to help her process these extraordinary experiences.
"How's the research going?" Anya asked. "You sounded a little overwhelmed yesterday when we talked."
Maya found herself sharing the basic facts of her interview with Rose—the journal entries about Chief Ouray's dreams, the historical accounts of his spiritual experiences, the medallion that had somehow recognized her touch. But she held back the deeper implications of what Rose had suggested, unsure how to explain possibilities that challenged the fundamental nature of reality.
"That's fascinating, Maya. It sounds like you're uncovering a love story that spans generations. The kind of personal connection that could make your book really powerful." Anya paused. "But you're not telling me everything, are you? I can hear it in your voice—there's something else."
Maya picked up the medallion, feeling its warmth pulse against her palm. "Anya, what would you say if I told you I think I'm having spiritual communications with someone who lived in the 1860s? That these dreams might be more than just my imagination processing historical research?"
There was a long pause before Anya answered. "I'd say that sounds like something Grandmother Aiyana would have understood completely. She always believed that some connections transcend the boundaries we think separate past and present." Anya's voice grew more serious. "Maya, are you okay? Are these experiences frightening you?"
"They're not frightening exactly. They're just... bigger than anything I thought was possible. And they're calling me toward something I don't understand yet."
"Then trust them. You've always been the one with better intuition about spiritual and emotional truths. If this place and these dreams are calling to you in ways that don't make logical sense, that doesn't mean the calling isn't real."
After hanging up, Maya prepared for bed with the medallion on her nightstand and Rose's journal entries fresh in her memory. Tomorrow she would interview Thomas Mountain Bear, and Grace had mentioned arranging a visit to the sacred lake itself. But tonight, she found herself hoping her dreams would provide clarity about the path she was being asked to follow.
As she drifted off to sleep, Maya clutched the medallion in her hand, feeling its warmth pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat. The last thing she remembered before sleep claimed her was the certain knowledge that tomorrow would bring her even closer to understanding the true nature of the connection that was calling to her across more than a century of time.
In her dreams that night, Maya stood by the sacred lake under starlight, wearing traditional dress that felt as natural as her own skin. Chief Ouray was there, closer than he'd ever been, close enough that she could see the love and recognition in his dark eyes as he reached toward her.
"Numa," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the water. "You found the medallion. You're remembering who you are."
"I'm remembering who we are," Maya corrected, surprised to hear herself speaking fluent Ute.
"Soon you'll see the sacred waters in your time. When you do, you'll understand that some loves are strong enough to bridge any distance." He took her hand, and Maya felt the warmth of his touch like a promise. "Trust what your heart knows, even when your mind says it's impossible. Trust in me. Trust in us."
Maya woke with the medallion still warm in her palm and the absolute certainty that her interview with Thomas Mountain Bear would bring her one step closer to a truth that would change everything she thought she knew about the world.
When she woke the next morning, one phrase echoed clearly in her memory, spoken in a voice that seemed both strange and familiar: "I have been waiting for you, Numa. Come home."