"She said that's why you have to treat it with respect, because it's not just dirt. It's memory." "You believe that?" "I want to."
"I want to believe that what we do matters. That the seeds I plant will grow. That the people I've lost aren't just gone, but part of something bigger." "They are," Rhett said.
"You carry them. That makes them part of everything you do." She looked at him, surprised. "When did you get wise?"
"About five minutes ago. Don't expect it to last." A small smile tugged at her mouth. Not much, but real.
"We should get back. There's work to do." They walked back together. The silence between them was comfortable now.
Rhett found himself watching her from the corner of his eye. The way she moved over the rough ground without stumbling. The set of her shoulders. The quiet determination in every step.
She was right about the land remembering. But he was starting to think people remembered, too. Remembered what it felt like to care about something, to build instead of destroy, to trust someone enough to let them see you broken and not flinch away. By evening, they'd cleared most of the debris and started sorting what could be reused.
Rhett was pulling nails from a plank when he heard horses. He straightened, hand moving instinctively toward his gun belt. Three riders were approaching from the east, moving slow and deliberate. Even from a distance, Rhett recognized trouble when he saw it.
"Ayah," he called. "Get inside." She emerged from behind the cabin, saw the riders, and went still. "Who are they?"
"Don't know, but I don't like the look of them." The riders stopped about 20 yards out. The one in front was a big man, broad-shouldered, with a black coat and a badge pinned to his chest. Not sheriff's tin, something territorial.
The two behind him were younger, leaner, with the hard eyes of men who'd seen violence and liked it. "Help you?" Rhett called. The big man dismounted, taking his time. "Name's Coleman. Territorial Land Office."
"This the Callaway property?" "It is." "And you're Rhett Callaway?" "Last I checked."
Coleman's eyes shifted to Ayah and lingered. "That the Apache woman you bought in Domingo Springs?" Every muscle in Rhett's body went tight. "What's it to you?"
"Territorial law says all Apache property needs to be registered, kept in designated areas." Coleman pulled a folded paper from his coat. "Got a complaint filed by a Mr. Gettys. Says you bought this woman but never filed the proper documentation."
"I didn't buy property. I bought a person's freedom. There's a difference." "Not according to the law."
Rhett took a step forward. "Then the law is wrong." One of the younger men moved his hand toward his gun. Coleman held up a hand, stopping him.