Inside, the air felt cooler. A shallow overhang provided shade and the ground was flat enough for a small fire. Elias gathered dry brush while Ata sat near the rock wall, hands resting in her lap. She wasn't trembling anymore, but there was a restless tension under her stillness. Elias sensed another unspoken question.
Why was he traveling alone? Why this land? Why now? He had given her a piece of the truth earlier, but not the full picture. People would want to know more, and so would she.
He set the branches down and finally answered the part he hadn't spoken yet. My brother died because I wasn't there when he needed me. After that, the ranch felt wrong, like it wasn't mine anymore. I tried staying, but every corner reminded me of the mistake, so I left. Ata didn't look away.
She had expected him to offer some dramatic story or an excuse, but he didn't. He just said it plainly as if carrying the truth was part of his punishment. Elias continued, his eyes on the small pile of wood. I don't ride for purpose now. I ride because stopping makes me remember too much.
Ata lowered her gaze. She understood that feeling more than she wanted to admit. She had lost people, too. Some to illness, some to violence, some simply to the harshness of the land. Her scattered family wasn't just a group she traveled with.
They were the last part of her childhood, the last part of what felt like home. She spoke quietly, her voice more controlled than emotional. We were heading north to find a safer winter ground. There was talk of attacks near the southern trails. My aunt wanted the children far from it.
Elias listened without interrupting. Ata rarely gave details. When she did, they carried weight. When the riders came, she continued, "I ran to draw them away. My cousins were carrying the little ones.
" I thought I thought I'd meet them hours later, but I lost the trail when the wind picked up. That explained the exhaustion that had taken her down by the well. Not just physical fatigue, fear, responsibility, and the pressure of protecting others had pushed her too far. You did what you had to, Elias said, his voice steady. Anyone would have gotten turned around in that dust storm.
Ata responded to the reassurance directly, but the tension in her hands eased when the fire crackled to life. Elias set a small pot at top the stones. At sat close enough to feel the warmth, but far enough that her back touched the rock wall, giving her a sense of control over the space. Night settled slowly. Shadows crawled across the canyon floor, stretching long and thin.
Ata looked at Elias for a long moment, studying him, not as a threat, but as a man trying to hold himself together without making it obvious. "Why help me this much? " she asked quietly. "I'm not your family. I'm not your friend.
" Elias poked at the fire with a small stick, keeping his eyes on the sparks. Because leaving you out there would have felt like walking away from my brother again. The honesty hit harder than he intended, but he didn't take it back. Ata didn't move, didn't speak for nearly half a minute. Then she turned her gaze toward the fire and lowered her voice.