Leaving people behind didn't stop the memories. Didn't stop the guilt either. Ata listened without interrupting. She didn't know his brother's story yet, but she could see the weight of it in his posture. How he carried himself with a mix of discipline and fatigue.
After a long silence, she spoke. "People help me once, then they didn't. I learned it's better not to trust too quickly. " "I don't expect quick, " Elias replied. "Just steady.
" She looked away again, unsettled by how simple and sincere the words sounded. She wasn't used to men speaking without wanting something in return. When the heat softened, they stepped out of the canyon and continued their journey. Ata rode the horse without argument this time. Elias walked beside her, careful not to stand too close, giving her space she didn't have to fight for.
The land ahead stretched long and open with a northern ridge faintly visible in the distance. Ata glanced at Elias once. Not a long look, but enough to signal something had shifted. Her shoulders weren't as rigid. Her eyes didn't carry the same immediate suspicion.
She was still guarded, but a small part of her had started to believe he wouldn't turn on her. They traveled in silence, but for the first time, that silence held the beginning of trust rather than tension. The sun climbed higher as they continued north, turning the land bright and colorless. At rode the horse with a straighter posture now, though she still held the saddle horn with both hands. Elias walked beside her, his steps steady and unhurried.
He didn't ask how she felt or whether she was strong enough to continue. He could see the answer in her breathing and the way she scanned the horizon. Still cautious, still alert, but not on the verge of collapse anymore. By late afternoon, the ground sloped upward toward the first low cliffs of the northern ridge. The terrain grew rougher with sharp rocks and twisted brush scattered across the path.
Elias paused and studied the land ahead. A camp once stood here, he said, pointing to a flattened patch of dirt and a discarded twig framework from an old cook fire. Not recent, but not too old either. At slid off the horse to look for herself, her boots pressed softly into the disturbed dust. She crouched down and touched a faint imprint, a sandal lighter than a boot mark, a child's track halfworn by wind.
Her expression tightened, a quiet blend of hope and fear. Elias saw it but didn't comment. They were here, she said softly. My cousins. They travel with the children out front.
Elias nodded. They probably kept moving before the heat rose. Ata turned slowly in a full circle, scanning for direction. She didn't ask the question out loud, but Elias answered anyway. They likely headed toward the canyon mouth, he said.
Water pools there after rainfall. It's the best place to check. This addressed a question many listeners would have wondered. How can they track her family in such a wide empty land? Elias explained it naturally.
Apache travel lines follow water and shade. Most folks don't know the patterns, but I've hired on as a scout enough times to read them. Ata him carefully. You worked with scouts? I worked with anyone who needed a rider who didn't ask many questions, he said.
Ranchers, mail caravans, sometimes survey teams. I learned pieces of everything. His tone held no pride, just fact. The wind picked up again. Elias motioned toward a narrow gap between two cliffs.
We'll make camp there. It'll hide us from riders. Ata enclosed spaces. He saw it and how her eyes narrowed and her posture stiffened. But she followed him, stepping into the canyon where the walls rose high and blocked the worst of the sun.
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.