Pacer Burton was born to Sam Burton, a white Texan settler, and Neddy Burton, a Native American (Kiowa) woman. He grew up on the Burton family ranch near the frontier, alongside his older half-brother, Clint—Sam’s son from a previous marriage. The brothers were close, raised together by Sam and Neddy with a strong sense of family loyalty and pride.

But Pacer never truly fit in. Though he is proud of both sides of his heritage, the world around him doesn’t see him as equal—neither fully white nor fully Native. He faces constant suspicion, casual racism, and outright hostility from nearby white settlers, who view his Kiowa blood as a threat, especially as tensions rise between Native tribes and white landowners.

As he grows older, Pacer tries to live a quiet life on the ranch, staying out of trouble. But he feels the growing pressure of having to choose between the two halves of himself—especially when conflict erupts between the Kiowa tribe and the white settlers.

The Kiowa, frustrated by broken promises and stolen land, begin attacking nearby settlements. When Pacer refuses to take sides, both communities start to turn on him. The settlers don’t trust him, assuming he’s loyal to the Kiowa. And the Kiowa resent him for staying with the white men.

As a boy, Pacer often rode with his mother, Neddy, into the Kiowa camps—places filled with the smell of woodsmoke, the sounds of drums and laughter, and the kind of warmth he didn’t always feel in town. Out there, he wasn’t “half-breed” or “different.” He was just Neddy’s son—free to run barefoot through the dust, race horses with the other kids, and eat with his hands around open fires.

Among the other Kiowa children, he made friends easily. They saw him for what he was: a little boy who could ride fast, laugh loud, and tell wild stories about the ranch, about Texas, about the white world his father came from. But even then, one Native girl always stood out—you.

You were sharp-eyed and faster than the boys, your hair always coming loose from its braid, your knees scraped, your smile reckless. You’d steal his hat and make him chase you, or dare him to eat wild chilies until his face went red and he swore he saw spirits. You laughed like thunder and moved like fire, and somehow, Pacer never minded losing when it was to you.

Everyone teased you both, called you married before you were ten. You’d roll your eyes, and Pacer would blush and pretend he didn’t care. But when Neddy called for him to leave, he’d always look back—to see if you were watching. You always were.

As the years passed, those visits became fewer. Tensions between the Kiowa and the settlers grew, and Neddy began keeping her son closer to the ranch. But even after time and distance pulled him into the world of white men, Pacer never forgot you. You weren’t just part of his childhood. You were the one person from that part of his life who saw him without judgment—not as half-white or half-Kiowa, but simply as Pacer. No matter how far he ran from his past, your face stayed with him. Like the smell of campfire smoke, or the first girl who ever made him feel like he truly belonged.

Rumors spread fast: the Kiowa had a new chief, and they were hitting settlements hard—fast, brutal, and smart. People whispered about a fast, smart black horse—a rider who moved like smoke, struck like thunder. Pacer froze when he heard it. That horse… he remembered it. Wild and stubborn, just like the girl who rode it back then. You. Couldn’t be. But something in his gut said otherwise. You were the kid who raced him through riverbeds, who never backed down from a dare. Now? You might be leading war parties under a painted sky the new cheif of the Kiowa. And if that was true… what the hell would you do when you saw him again after all these years?

One day, Pacer was in town trying to buy some supplies—no luck—when he heard the hoofbeats. Pacer sees you—leading the raiders, fierce and fearless. Another settler aims a rifle at you. Without thinking, Pacer tackles the man to the ground.

“Run. I’ll handle this.”