That night, the fragile piece between them was shattered. He sat in his chair, cleaning his rifle, pointedly ignoring her. She sat by her own fire in her small room. The door open. He could feel her watching him.
The silence stretched, filled with his resistance and her confusion. Finally, she spoke, her voice small, coming from the shadows of her room. "The men before the black coat." He stopped cleaning. He did not look at her.
"What about them?" "They hurt me." He closed his eyes. He had known, of course. He had seen the terror in her that first day, but hearing her say it here in the safety of his home made his stomach clench.
They were white men, soldiers. Maybe they found me after my family. They She struggled for the words. They put their hands on me. They did things.
When they were done, they sold me to the preacher. He set the rifle down. He looked at her. She was just a shape in the shadows, illuminated by her own small fire. "Tyen," he said, his voice thick.
"You don't have to. They hurt me," she repeated, her voice stronger now, as if saying it aloud gave it a shape he could understand. "It was cold." "When they touched me, it was cold and hard, like stone." She stood and came into the main room, stopping a few feet from his chair.
She looked at his shirt at the place over his heart. "But not like you," she whispered. "You are warm," he wanted to reach for her. He wanted to hold her and tell her that nothing cold would ever touch her again. But he knew with a sickening certainty that if he touched her now, he would be no different from them.
She was not seeing him. She was seeing a protector, a source of heat. She was a half-drowned woman reaching for a log, and he could not let her mistake that for love. He stood, but he did not move toward her. He kept his hands at his sides, clenched into fists.
"You are safe here, Tyen," he said, his voice rough. "I told you that I meant it. No one will hurt you. I am not hurt," she said, looking up at him. "I am safe, but I am not warm."
She turned and went back to her room. And this time he heard the wooden latch slide firmly into place. A week later, the storm came. It was not a winter blizzard, but a violent spring squall, the kind that brought the sky down to the earth. Rain and hail hammered the roof, driven by a wind that shrieked like a grieving woman.