"Seemed like the thing to do," he finally said. Her expression didn't change. "That's not an answer." "It's the only one I've got."
They stood there in the fading light, two strangers in the middle of nowhere, the canyon wind picking up and stirring the dust between them. "My name is Ayah," she said. "Rhett." She nodded once, then walked past him toward the cabin.
She didn't look back. Rhett stood in the yard until the sun dropped below the rim of the canyon and the sky turned the color of a healing bruise. Then he unsaddled Ash, fed him, and made his way to the barn. Sleep didn't come easily.
It never did. The next morning, Rhett woke to the smell of coffee. He sat up fast, hand going instinctively to the revolver he kept under his bedroll. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the barn wood, painting stripes across the hay-strewn floor.
The smell was unmistakable. Strong, bitter, real. He pulled on his boots and stepped outside. The air was already warming, the kind of dry heat that settled into your bones.
Ayah was crouched by a small fire she'd built in a ring of stones near the well. A dented pot balanced on the flames. She looked up when he approached but didn't speak. "You made coffee," Rhett said.
"Brilliant observation." "You had beans." She went back to watching the pot. Rhett scratched the back of his neck, feeling off balance.
"Didn't think you'd still be here." "Where would I go?" Fair point. She poured coffee into a tin cup and held it out.
Rhett took it, their fingers not quite touching. The coffee was strong enough to strip paint and tasted like the best thing he'd had in months. "Thank you," he said. Ayah poured herself a cup and stood looking out toward the canyon.
"This land is dying." Rhett followed her gaze. She wasn't wrong. The scrub was brown.
The soil cracked. The few cottonwoods near the creek were barely clinging to life. "Yeah," he said. "I know."
"Why do you stay?" "Why do you ask so many questions?" She glanced at him, and for the first time, something almost like amusement crossed her face. "You bought me. I didn't buy you. I think I'm owed a few questions."
Rhett couldn't argue with that. "I stay because I don't have anywhere else to go," he said after a moment. "And because leaving's easier than fixing things." Ayah sipped her coffee, considering him.
"You're not a rancher." "What gave it away?" "Your hands." She nodded toward them.
"They're scarred, but not from ranch work, and you move like someone who spent more time running than building." Rhett looked down at his hands. She was right. The scars were old, some from rope burns, some from fights.
One long one crossed his palm from a knife fight in Silver City he'd barely walked away from. "You're observant," he said. "I'm alive," she replied. "Same thing."