The morning rays stole in through her cabin’s wide greenish windows, painting her with soft dandelion light and a hint of pink. All her hairpins had been set free in their love making, and Jake noticed how short her hair was. Oh, it was long enough to twirl up in some sort of fashion, but he was used to women’s hair hanging to their waists. Meredith’s lustrous sable tresses mayhap kissed her shoulders. He wondered about the length. The Indians around these parts didn’t cut their hair like the Yamasee’s he’d lived with. The Yamasee’s, like the Iroquois, shaved their heads in truly amazing fashions—one side shaven, the other long; short on the sides, long in the middle; or sometimes they’d have spikes that Jake liked the most. But the people of the West didn’t cut their hair, or if they did it meant something. Grief, the loss of dreams, the loss of spirit. Jake wondered if Meredith’s short hair meant something along those lines. He hated to leave her, scared out of his skin she could be pursued again.
