“The stormy black sky had faded to dark gray, and in the distance white, billowing clouds blew across the prairie. They began racing one another, tossed by the wind, and the sun shining on them made them appear a brilliant white against the evening sky.Memories crowded about her:a French trader with laughing eyes; a long ride into Fort Kearney; and somewhere, far back,a little mound of stones receding into the wide plain as a wagon rumbled away.Then he came, a Lakota brave, one with his snow white pony. They bounded together across the sky,and with each leap Jesse's heart fluttered.She stood on the prairie,her long red braides decorated with feathers, the part dusted with ochre. She raised a trembling hand in greeting, but he was gone.Her hand fell back against the quilt, and Jesse saw the clouds again and realized it had only been a memory. She was an old woman,too tired to help with the supper,perhaps even too tired to be of use to Lisbeth.The clouds outside came closer,and the old heart fluttered at the memory of a man who rode on the wind long ago.Now it seemed that the rode again across the sky,into the room.He raised one hand in greeting."I will ask the Father," he had said, "and I will come for you."Jesse sat up in bed,her face alive with a new light.Rides the Wind smiled and reached out to sweep her up behind him. And the Father said, "Come home.The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places;yes,I have a goodly heritage.Psalm 16:6”