"I'm your childhood love," said the Apache beauty. Elias's jaw tightened. The words cut past years of silence and drift. He felt the sting of guilt at how easily he could have turned away a woman who once meant something to him. For a moment he wrestled with doubt about the town, about the trouble her presence could bring, about whether he was strong enough to carry someone else's weight again.
Then he set the board down, pulled the nail from his teeth, and crossed to the gate. He didn't speak a welcome, didn't promise anything. Instead, he pushed the gate open, stepped aside, and gestured toward the stoop where a bucket of water stood in the shade. His voice was flat but steady. Sit.
Nielli crossed into the yard. Her knees threatening to buckle with relief. For the first time in weeks, she felt a small shift inside. Fear wasn't gone, but she wasn't alone anymore. Nielli lowered herself onto the stoop slowly, careful not to let the torn cloth pull at her ribs.
The bucket of water stood in front of her, sunlight glinting on the tin ladle, and she reached for it with hands that trembled more from weakness than fear. The first swallow burned her throat, but she kept drinking until her chest eased. Elias stood a few paces away, hammer still in his hand, silent and watchful. His thoughts pressed on him. This was no longer a memory at his gate.
This was flesh and blood, and her presence meant trouble with the town. Yet he couldn't send her back out into the flats. Not when he could see the wound dark against her dress and the raw exhaustion on her face. Inside the house, the air was close and heavy from the stove that had been burning since morning. The room was plain, one table, two chairs, a narrow bed pushed against the wall, and shelves with a few jars of beans and dried corn.
Elias had built it for himself, never thinking about company, he motioned her in, and she followed, stepping across the threshold with hesitation, knowing how rare it was for someone here to open a door to her. She looked around quickly, registering the bare boards, the tools stacked in the corner, the way everything was kept in order. It spoke of a man who lived alone, who worked hard, and who trusted little. Elias pointed to the table, then set down the plate he had left from his own meal. Cornbread, a heel of bacon, beans thickened from the morning.
She looked at him, waiting, not wanting to assume. He gave a short nod. Eat. That one word settled her doubt. She took small bites, pacing herself, her eyes dropping to the food as if afraid he might take it back.
While she ate, Elias poured water into a basin, set it on the table, and placed a folded cloth beside it. Then he hesitated, realizing what the silence in the room carried. He spoke with a measured tone, his eyes fixed on her wound. You walked far. From where?
She chewed slowly, swallowed, then answered from the river west of here. Weeks my people scattered after soldiers came. I kept moving east. Her voice was flat, not dramatic, but the words carried the truth of hunger and flight. She added after a pause, "I avoided ranchers, avoided dogs, hid when I had to.