And that was what stopped him. If she had begged, he could have hardened himself and said no. If she had lied, he could have turned cold. But she didn't.
She just waited, quiet and tense, shoulders bunched like she'd bolt if he so much as stepped too fast toward her. Calder cursed under his breath, lowering the rifle. He crossed to the chair by the wall and grabbed the extra wool blanket. He tossed it toward her with a motion sharper than he meant it to be.
"You stay there," he said gruffly. "Don't touch me." She caught it slowly, her fingers trembling, then pulled it around herself and curled tighter against the wall. Calder turned back to the table and let the lantern burn low.
He sat on the edge of the cot with his rifle across his knees for a long time, staring at the fireless stove, listening to the wind and to her breathing. It wasn't fear he felt now. It was something harder to name. She was trouble.
That much he knew. No one showed up like this without a story that could bring more men to his door. He could tell her to leave at dawn, wash his hands of her, and go back to the quiet that had kept him alive this long. But the memory of her bare, cracked feet and the bruises on her arms wouldn't leave him alone.
Whatever she was running from had already stripped her down to bone and desperation. He couldn't quite bring himself to be the one to finish it. When he finally lay back down, it was with the rifle still close to his hand and every sense tuned sharp. He listened to every breath she took until the wind drowned them both out.
Sleep didn't come easy, and for the first time in years, Calder Boone wasn't sure he wanted it to. Morning came gray and bitter, the kind of light that made everything look colder. Calder woke before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, as he always did. Habit.
His eyes went first to the far edge of the cot. She was still there, a small shape under the blanket. Her dark hair spilled out in messy ropes across her face. For a moment, he thought maybe she'd slipped out in the night.
But then she stirred, a faint sound leaving her throat as she tucked the blanket tighter. Calder swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood, joints stiff from a night spent half awake. He went to the stove, stirred the ashes, and got a small flame going before pulling down the tin coffee pot. The familiar sound of water hitting metal filled the silence, grounding him.
He needed normal. When the smell of coffee spread through the room, she sat up slowly, still clutching the blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes found him immediately, alert but not panicked. "You're still here," he said, more to himself than to her.
She didn't answer. Calder poured two cups, set one down on the table closest to where she sat, then took his own to the chair. "It's hot," he said. She hesitated, then unwrapped herself just enough to crawl toward the cup.
Her feet touched the floor, and he saw her wince. Up close, her soles were split and bruised. Some cuts were deep enough to bleed again when she stepped. "Sit back down," he said, sharper than he meant to.
"You'll tear them worse." She froze, then lowered herself back onto the blanket. Calder let out a slow breath, set his own cup down, and got up. He rummaged in the chest by the wall until he found a small tin of salve he used for saddle sores and burns.
He crouched near her, set the tin down between them, and nodded at her feet. "Hold still." She didn't move at first, just watched him with that same sharp, unreadable stare. Then she shifted, pulling her feet out from under the blanket.
Calder worked in silence, dabbing the salve over the worst cuts, wrapping them with clean strips of cloth he tore from an old shirt. Her skin was cold under his hands, cold enough he could feel it through the calluses on his fingers. When he was done, he stood and put the tin away. "You'll stay inside today," he said.
"Let them heal." Still no answer, but she didn't look away. Calder made a pot of beans and set a bowl in front of her. She ate slowly at first, like she wasn't sure it was meant for her.