I will not be stolen again. She stepped toward him. She put her hand on the rifle he held and gently, firmly pushed the barrel toward the floor. She looked him in the eye, her gaze unwavering. "This," she said, her other hand coming to rest on her belly, "is our place now."
Her words, "This is our place now," hung in the air. A declaration that was braver than any bullet. Daniel's panic, the frantic urge to run, cooled. She was right. Running meant they would always be running.
Running meant the world was stronger than they were. Here on this land, he was the hunter. He was the soldier. He was not the prey. "All right," he said, his voice quiet, his mind shifting from flight to a fight.
We stay, but we do it my way. The next two days were spent in a grim, silent preparation. He did not fortify the cabin, that was a death trap. Instead, he prepared the land. He took his spare rifle, the heavy sharps, and a box of cartridges, and stashed them in a rocky crevice high up the ridge, a place that gave him a clear view of the cabin and the single trail leading to it.
He spent an afternoon clearing brush, creating two clear firing lanes. He and Tyen spoke little. The intimacy of the past weeks was replaced by a taut military focus. He showed her how to reload his pistol, his hands guiding hers until the movements were sure. If they come, he said, his voice flat.
"You do not stay in the cabin." You take this pistol. You run. You run for the high rocks, for the place I showed you. You hide.
You do not come out. No matter what you hear. Do you understand? She nodded, her eyes dark. "You will fight them."
"I will stop them," he said. "We will stop them," she corrected, and her hand went unconsciously to her stomach. On the third morning, the sun rose hot and blinding. The air was still, too. The homestead was on its last canteen of water.
The creek was 100 yards down the canyon. A necessary, dangerous trip. I have to go, he said. The canteens are dry. I will come.
No, you stay. You watch. He handed her his field glass. Watch the trail. One rifle shot if you see them.
One, then you run. Don't wait for me. He hated leaving her. Every instinct screamed against it, but thirst was an enemy that would kill them just as surely as Pike. He grabbed the two largest wooden buckets and headed down the trail, his rifle in his other hand.
He moved quickly, his eyes scanning, his ears straining. Tyen stood on the porch. The rifle heavy in her hands, she watched him disappear into the pinons. The silence of the valley was absolute, broken only by the buzz of a fly. She was using the field glass, scanning the ridge.