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had taken three sips before Anne began.
    â€œWhat do you know of your great-grandmother’s people?”
    The question startled Kara. She had thought Anne would explain. “Some,” she said slowly.
    Anne nodded encouragement, so Kara told her what she knew.
    â€œIn 1917, my great-grandfather, Harley ‘Irish’ Sheridan, found this Indian woman and her baby in the woods. The woman had been shot. Before she died, she pushed the baby into his arms and whispered, ‘Wakara.’
    â€œHe took the baby to the closest town. No one knew anything about the woman, but they decided she and thebaby must be from a band of Nez Perce still living on a nearby reservation.
    â€œFor some reason my great-grandfather didn’t want to take the baby there, so he asked a missionary couple if they would keep her. Anyway, he told them the baby’s name was Wakara and left her with them. When Wakara turned fifteen, he went back for her. He married her and took her to Portland.
    â€œWhen Irish died, he left a drawing. A charcoal sketch of Wakara as a bride. Would you like to see it?”
    When Anne nodded, Kara hurried to her room. Why was she so excited about this? But she knew the answer. She loved the story, and no one but Tia had ever been interested before.
    She walked back to the table and slid the framed drawing in front of Anne. “There was a letter too, explaining about Wakara’s background.
    â€œI was the first girl in three generations. Dad says my Grandpa Sheridan came to the hospital when I was born, took one look, and said, ‘Her name is Wakara.’ He gave my parents the letter and the picture of his mother. They hung it in the nursery, and I’ve had it ever since.”
    Anne smiled. “Ah, it is right that your grandfather named you. She is beautiful, and I think you are very much alike.”
    Kara flushed. “Grandpa Sheridan named my dad Harley after his father, so I guess my folks thought it was fine for him to name me after his mother.”
    Kara sighed and picked up the picture. “The story’s so romantic, but sad too. My great-grandmother died before she turned twenty-one. Grandpa Sheridan was raised by some cousins.”
    When Kara had finished, the woman touched her hand. “My father wrote a book about the Yana people.”
    â€œSo, that’s how you knew about the name?”
    Anne nodded, picked up both mugs, and headed toward the kitchen. “The guests come tomorrow. We must get some sleep,” she said.
    â€œBut . . .” Kara started to call her back. What if Anne was right? What if her great-grandmother hadn’t been Nez Perce like they’d thought all along, but had belonged to these Yana people instead?
    Well, yeah , she reasoned, what if? That doesn’t change a thing. Everything else is true . But it was an eerie feeling to grow up thinking you were part of one nationality and then find out you were really something else.
    Kara looked at her watch. Nine o’clock. The men were still bent over the radio, and Ryan had fallen asleep on the floor. What would they think about it? She shook her head. It wouldn’t bother them a bit. Dad might be surprised, but neither he nor Greg nor Ryan had the slightest resemblance to the first Wakara.
    Anne was already halfway up the narrow stairs to her room by the time Kara realized she had said “Good night.”
    Kara scooped up Ryan, tucked him into his own bed, and raced for the shower.
    When she had turned off her lantern and crawled into bed, she tried to pray, but the things Anne had said kept crowding into her mind. Who was the first Wakara? It shouldn’t make that much difference, but it did. If her great-grandmother was not Nez Perce, but a member of this Yana tribe, then so was she!
    She had to find out. She had done most of the talking this time. Next time it was Anne’s turn. She rolled over and tucked her hand under the pillow, pulling her