TATE ROSE UNPACKED A string of bells from her saddlebag and laid them gently over the thick neck of her gelding, a sorrel with one blue eye. The garland unfurled with a soft jingle. Small, brass bells—dented and tinged green—danced unevenly down the long ribbon to touch the horse's flat knees. The ribbon itself was black like burnt wood, edges frayed from storage and travel. On the underside, faint lines of old animal sweat stiffened the fabric.

     The gelding dragged a small step sideways at the sounds, clipping his bare front hooves against the red rock. Tate let her palm travel to his warm shoulder to steady him, rooting herself to his body. Her cramped back relaxed at the unobtrusive softness of the bells, grateful for the way they hushed her buzzing mind, and she let the calm flow through her fingers, putting Basile at ease.

     Dear friends, she thought, protect us as we travel this uncertain veil. With the intention set, she teased the bells for one last reassurance and unhitched Basile's split rein from the saddle horn.

     They stood just inside the mouth of a gorge. The dry riverbed pulled away at their feet and disappeared in a long, slow-bending line of sand and rock around a curve, caught in the wake of the tall, craggy walls. The gorge cut the desert in half, holding the sky hostage far, far, overhead, while below, stunted cholla crept across the ground, preferring to crawl in the dust rather than stand up straight. Their grey-green fingers—alive with sharp needles—snatched mercilessly at fur and clothing.

     Mindful of the sleeping weight on her back, Tate gathered the front of her skirt and tucked the hem into her belt. It was an unseasonably warm June, even for Utah. Any breeze she could persuade under her skirts was a blessing. She wasn't above removing layers, alone as she was with a baby and a horse, but the time and place for that had long past her by, somewhere between the last mesa and a barren creek bed. Now, at the mouth of the Offering Gorge, undress of any kind would be disrespectful. She tested the limits with the bloomers peeking out at her knees, but the gorge mainly was dry river rock, and a broken ankle this far out, with only said baby and a tired horse, was her first concern.

     It was Tate's first time back to the Offering Gorge since she'd given birth here, alone. No, not entirely alone. Supervised. And it was the memory of those strange faces, clay-caked hands, and eyes like caught stars that set Tate's nerves tight beneath her skin. Just knowing she might see the fairies again both exhilarated and terrified her. Stepping into the territory of the Desert Folk was no small thing. How many people across the centuries had vanished into this same gorge? A dusty, rock-riddled crack between worlds.

     Up ahead, a weathered wood sign leaned against the only green tree Tate had seen for days. The trunk was silver in the sunlight, twisted and bent to one side like a soldier nursing a gunshot to the ribs. The leaves weren't leaves, but rows of long needles, nearly thorns, that grew in clumps up and down the crook'd limbs. At the base of the strange, strange tree, a large wooden box sat, always in the shade.

     Clicking her tongue to urge Basile into following, Tate started toward it.

WEAPONS FORBIDDEN

LEAVE ALL BEFORE ENTRANCE

     The words on the sign glared at Tate as she stopped before it. The letters burned deep into the grey, warped timber, annoyed her. The skull of an unlucky pronghorn sat atop the sign—all thick black horns and blank eye sockets—and it stared back, equally disgruntled, as she crouched slow, wary of the sleeping baby tied to her back. The shade from the wounded tree faded into the paper-white sunshine beyond the stretch of its odd, prickly arms. The shadow barely grazed the toes of her boots and gave no relief from the heat.

     Tate pulled the crate lid off. Sand drizzled between the dry slats, pouring onto the pile of rusted carcasses hidden inside. Guns. Knives. Iron. Tate sifted through the dead and wiggled loose a saber. The blade had long since turned thin as red lace and snapped to a jagged stump attached to the guard.

     She replaced it and straightened to her full height. Unimpressively small in the presence of the god-sized landscape surrounding her. Sighing, she unhooked the flap on her saddle bag and withdrew a revolver. Flicking the cylinder to one side, she emptied the chambers, letting all six bullets drop like heavy rain into the sand at her feet.

     She spun the empty cylinder and, with a second sigh seeded in regret and reluctance, Tate tossed the shiny gun atop the rusted pyre. The only footprint left of the people who'd dared to push this far.

     How many...?

     Tate's nerves kicked her in the throat, cutting off her air and quickening her heartbeat. Shoving a hand into her skirt pocket, she grasped the small, round mirror tucked against the lining. The delicate gold sides fit her palm perfectly, and she pulled it out. For a bright white second, she caught the sun on its face and blinked against it, tilting the mirror until she saw her sleeping daughter, Talia, settled in the sling.

     Talia's cheek squished against the faded floral pattern of Tate's weary dress, holding her head in place. Her skin was flushed red from the heat, the same color as the prickly bushes that roamed the shale at the mouth of the gorge. A thin scarf pinned to the back of Tate's wide-brimmed hat shaded Talia from the harsh midday sun.

     She's fine. We're fine. We have an agreement. Tate forced herself to breathe, knowing with each thud of her heart that any agreement with a Desert Folk could change faster than the winds that came down the valleys.

     To answer her momma's thoughts, Talia huffed; her light breath stirred the damp curls near her nose. Her hair was more golden than straw-colored, pale on the fringes, and delicate like silk thread, a contrast to Tate, whose dark brown curls tangled together atop her head, pinned into submission by the circumference of the dust-eaten hat. Drool traced the folds of Talia's crinkled neck, but Tate resisted the urge to use a handkerchief. Traveling was easier when Talia slept. Unpacking her now would wake her and make the last few miles to the altar more difficult.       

     Tate's fingers twitched at the thought of the altar. Her anxiety slid along the split rein in her hand, leaving her fingertips to latch onto Basile at the other end. The horse took it as an invitation to graze, and he moved, by silent command, toward a patch of scraggly grass padding the ground. His hooves knocked clumsily into the rocks—as usual, Tate thought—as he stepped. He'd wear his toes to stubs before he'd pick up his feet. Basile was muscular and strong but not near as sure-footed as Tate liked her animals to be. Still, she'd gotten him in a good deal, and he was sweet enough. The thwump, thwump of his big, searching lips mixed with the soft titter of the brass bells, and for a moment, Tate felt calm again.

     The wind stirred Basile's mane, raising it from his neck, revealing a dark sweat line cuddled up underneath. He lifted his head. His ears pricked forward, and he stopped chewing. Blades of tough grass stuck out of the corner of his mouth, forgotten. Something had changed. Some sort of news his thin-skinned nostrils picked off the wind had drawn his attention back the way they'd come.

     Tate looked. The sun winked in the mirror some more. In between the bright flashes, something caught Tate's eye. Not Talia, her baby, or the slight uptick of her tanned, freckled nose, but a tall, thin smudge in the distance behind them. Tate squinted. There was no detail at first. Age had eaten the mirror's silver backing in spots, and the hot air shimmered worse in the reflection. The smudge had a familiar cut. A gunslinger, maybe. On a horse?

     What she'd guessed was a horse turned its head. Antlers, like an elk, angled into view, but the body belied sense, all hindquarters, and withers—a whisking tail.

     A horse that wasn't a horse.

     And the rider...

     Tate inhaled sharply and dropped the mirror as if bitten. Lifting a foot, she crunched her heel through the glass, shattering it, and glanced over her shoulder.

     The horizon was empty, only dry riverbed and the purplish bruise of distant buttes against the hard sky. Basile groaned and returned to foraging, unbothered by whatever had caught his interest a second prior. The wrinkled, soft skin of his nose brushed the ground again, sending a small lizard darting for cover.

     Old Ones, grant us protection. Tate smoothed the fabric at her waist, a small act to find composure. After the sort of scars that traced her life backward to birth, brutal and ugly and she refused to peel them open now. Not with Fate about to hand her and the baby the best chance for survival either would ever have in this life.

     Talia stirred, rubbing her face across Tate's back. Tate reached around to pat the closest moccasined foot she could find. "Shush, baby. Don't fret," she whispered, "Mama's gonna make everything good." Despite her resolve, tender fear broke soil like a fresh green shoot. The reflection of the dark figure haunted Tate. It was far too soon to be seeing the Folk yet. They still had a way to walk to reach the Offering Altar, and rarely did those strange creatures venture the wrong side of their hollow.

     Tate clicked her tongue to Basile, who'd strung his way out, bringing him back in line. It was time to move. She jiggled the rein, "Walk on."

     Basile followed her, stepping gingerly onto the rocks. Flies busied themselves on his haunches, and his skin flinched now and again to shake them off. His first, deliberate step set the bells draped over his withers to clinking. Tate led the way into the gorge ahead of the soft tinkle, listening to the breeze carry the sound airily up the rock walls like a cheerful threat.

A/N: Thank you for reading this first chapter in what I hope will be a fun trip!