Her fingers, so small and delicate, were surprisingly firm. She dipped the cloth in the water and gently began to clean the cut on his knuckle. He hissed as the water stung. "Hold still," she commanded, her voice low. She cleaned his hand, her touch methodical.
Then she moved to his face. She dabbed at the swelling, her touch impossibly light. He sat frozen, watching her. Her face was inches from his, her expression one of intense, unwavering focus. Her brows were knit.
Her lips pressed together. She was not afraid. She was angry. Her hands were trembling. He saw it then.
It was not fear. It was a fine, deep tremor, a rage that had nowhere to go. She finished cleaning the cut over his eye. She opened the salve and gently applied it to his skin. Her fingers were so light they barely touched him.
"No one," she whispered. Her voice so quiet he almost didn't hear it. She did not look up from her work. "No one ever bled for me." The words hit him harder than Hackett's fist.
He realized in that moment that every man in her life had been a source of pain, a taker. He was the first one to ever take pain on her behalf. He reached up, his uninjured hand and covered hers where it rested on his cheek. Her skin was warm. The trembling passed from her to him.
"They won't come here," he said, his voice rough. "I made sure of that." She finally looked at him. Her eyes were dark, and in their depths, he saw something new. Not gratitude, not curiosity.
It was a fierce, possessive, terrible understanding. She saw his wound not as a weakness, but as a brand. He had been marked. He was hers. That night, the space between them vanished.
He was exhausted. He ate the stew she had prepared, his body demanding rest. He didn't bother to undress, just kicked off his boots and fell onto his cot, pulling a blanket over him. The cabin was dark. The fire banked to embers.
The nightmare tore him from sleep hours later, but it was not his own. It was a scream, a thin, muffled sound of pure terror from her room. He was on his feet before he was awake, his hand reaching for the rifle he kept by the bed. He crossed the cabin in two strides and threw her door open. She was thrashing on her cot, tangled in her blankets, fighting an invisible enemy.
"No!" she was gasping. The word half Apache half English cold. No hinda. No. She was reliving it.
The soldiers, the preacher, the men who had hurt her. Tyen, he said, grabbing her shoulder. Wake up. You're here. You're safe.
Her eyes flew open. She did not recognize him. She saw a man, a shadow, and she screamed, lashing out, her nails raking his arm. "It's me," he shouted, pinning her wrists. "It's Daniel.