The ranch seemed to sigh with relief. The winter was coming, but the barn was patched and the pantry was full. Naya moved through the days with a secret smile. She stopped eating the dried meat she usually loved, claiming it smelled wrong. She tired easily in the afternoons.
One evening, as Elias was oiling his saddle by the fire, Naya came to stand before him. She did not speak. She simply took his hand and placed it flat against her stomach. Elias looked up, confused. Then he saw her face.
It was radiant with terror and joy. "Naya?" he whispered. "The moon has not come," she said. "And the sickness?" "It is here in the mornings."
Elias froze. His hand trembled against the warmth of her belly. "Are you sure?" "I am sure." "My body remembers."
Elias stared at her stomach. A child. His child. A life created from the ashes of their pasts. He did not speak.
He could not. The emotion swelled in his throat, choking him. He buried his face in her apron, wrapping his arms around her hips. His shoulders shook. "Elias?"
Naya asked, stroking his hair, suddenly afraid. "Are you sorry?" He looked up, his face wet with tears. "No." he choked out. "No.
I am I am terrified." He stood up and pulled her into a crushingly tight embrace. "I will protect you," he vowed, his voice fierce and guttural. "I will kill anyone who touches you. I will burn the world down before I let them hurt this child."
Naya held him, feeling the violent tremor of his love. It warmed her, but it also frightened her. She knew the world they lived in. She knew that a child of mixed blood would be a target, and she knew that Elias's love was now a weapon, sharp and dangerous. But secrets do not keep in small towns.
The news of the marriage in San Rosalita trickled back to Ocotillo Wells. Rumors of Naya's condition began to spread, whispered by the washerwoman who had seen Naya retching behind the store, confirmed by the extra supplies Elias was buying in the back room of the saloon, amidst the smoke and the smell of stale beer. Clay Harlan sat with Silas Thorne. "Married." Harland spat, slamming a glass down.
"Legally." Thorn wiped his sweating forehead. "The judge in San Rosalita is a stickler, Clay. We cannot just tear up the paper. It is in the territorial record now.