Her skin flushed with fever. Her breathing came shallow and uneven. Lips parted as if every breath cost her something. Inola was at her side in an instant, kneeling, brushing damp hair back from her sister's forehead with hands that trembled now that the chase was over. She was worse today," Inola whispered.
"I didn't want to leave her." Ethan didn't answer. He crossed the space in long strides and knelt oppossete Inola. Careful not to crowd her, he placed two fingers lightly at Nidita's neck. Feeling the frantic flutter beneath the skin, then withdrew just as quietly.
"Bring her inside," he said. "Slow! Don't jar her." The cabin filled with lamplight and heat as they settled Nidita onto the narrow bed. Ethan moved with the economy of someone used to making do setting water to boil, tearing clean strips from an old linen shirt, stoking the fire without a word.
He worked through the night, changing cloths on Nidita's brow, coaxing sips of water between her lips when the fever eased enough to allow it. He never rushed, never raised his voice. And when Nidita whimpered in her sleep, he waited for Inola to soothe her before stepping in again, as if he understood without being told where his place ended. Inola watched all of it. She had expected suspicion, impatience, maybe even regret.
Instead, she saw steadiness, a gentleness that did not announce itself. Ethan did not ask questions that night. He did not demand thanks. He simply stayed. By morning, the fever had broken its first hold.
Niditah slept deeper, her breathing less ragged. Ethan stepped outside to wash his hands in the cold trough water. Steam lifted from his skin. When he came back in, Inola was still seated beside the bed. Eyes rimmed red with exhaustion.
"You should rest," he said. She shook her head. "If I sleep, I won't hear her." Ethan nodded as if that made sense. He set a plate of beans and bread on the small table and pushed it toward her.
"Eat anyway." She did. Days followed in a rhythm neither of them named. Ethan tended the ranch at dawn and dusk, returning often to check on Nidita. Inola gathered wood, cleaned, and learned the quiet rules of the place where to step so the floor wouldn't creak, how to keep the fire steady, when to leave Ethan alone.
They spoke little, but the silence between them changed. It softened, became something that didn't bruise when you leaned into it. In the evenings, when the heat loosened its grip, Inola told him small things, not confessions, facts, that they had come from the Chiricahua foothills, that their parents had