It was pragmatic. It was a political calculation. Elias was cleared of murder, the shooting ruled as justifiable homicide in defense of life and property. Silas Thorne was not jailed, for he knew too many secrets about powerful men in the territory, but he was stripped of his post and reassigned to a desk in a damp, miserable office in Washington, far from the land he had exploited. As for the practice of selling prisoners, the investigators issued a quiet, stern directive to the town council.
It was to stop immediately. It for business, and it was bringing too much scrutiny from the East. It was a bitter, partial victory. Harlan was dead, but the prejudice that had created him remained. Elias and Naya rode back to the ranch in silence.
They had won the right to exist, but the cost had been high. Rebuilding began the next day. It was slow, backbreaking work. The barn was a loss. They had to clear the charred timber and start from the foundation up, but they were not entirely alone.
Two days after the verdict, a wagon rolled into the yard. It was the neighbor, a gruff old rancher named McPherson, who had never spoken more than two words to Elias in 5 years. He climbed down, spat tobacco juice into the dust, and unloaded a stack of seasoned pine lumber. "I had extra," McPherson grunted, not looking at Naya. "Hate to see good wood rot."
He drove off before Elias could thank him. Another day, Billy returned, bringing two of his brothers. They did not say much, but they worked from dawn until dusk, helping Elias frame the new walls. They worked out of guilt, perhaps, or out of a grudging respect for the man who had outdrawn Clay Harlan, but they worked. The land, however, remained unforgiving.
The drought that had plagued them all summer stretched into the late autumn. The wind was a constant, abrasive presence, driving grit into the fresh wounds of the wood and the skin. The dust storms came frequently, turning the sky a sickly yellow and forcing Naya to stay inside, pacing the small cabin like a caged lioness. Her pregnancy was entering its final month, and with the swelling of her body came the return of the fear. It lived in the house with them, a third presence.
Naya would wake in the night gasping, her hands clutching her belly. She dreamt of the snow. She dreamt of the long march. She dreamt of a small, cold body in her arms that would not wake up. Elias would wake with her.
He would not speak, for there were no words that could fight the past. He would simply pull her close, wrapping his arms around her, fitting his body against the curve of her spine. He would murmur soft, nonsensical sounds, the kind a man makes to soothe a frightened horse, while his own heart hammered with terror. He was terrified that he had promised her a future he could not deliver. He was terrified that his violence had poisoned the child.
He was terrified that he would fail her when she needed him most. But in the daylight, the fear softened into something quieter, deeper. They sat on the porch in the evenings, wrapped in the buffalo robe, watching the sun set behind the purple hills. Naya would sit between his legs, leaning back against his chest, and Elias would rest his large, scarred hands over the mound of her stomach. "He moves like a warrior," Naya whispered one evening as the baby kicked hard against Elias's palm.
"Or a dancer." Elias suggested, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Maybe he will be a man of peace. Maybe he will play the fiddle instead of the gun." Naya laughed, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against his chest.