I thought I would not reach another settlement." Elias felt the weight of her words. He remembered the year her band had been forced out. He remembered his father cursing soldiers and settlers alike for stirring up war. And he remembered the girl who had vanished with the others.
Looking at her now, scarred and thin, he felt guilt twist in his chest because he had stayed silent when the camps were burned because he had gone on with his life while hers had been torn apart. Nielli pushed her plate aside after finishing half. Careful not to appear greedy, she unnotted the pouch tied under her dress and pulled out a small roll of sinew thread, a bone needle, and a scrap of cloth, her only supplies. She looked at him with a steady gaze. I need to close the wound better.
She gestured to her side where the fabric was stiff with blood. Elias didn't answer right away. Part of him wanted to leave the room to avoid what he might see, but another part refused to turn his back. Without a word, he lifted the lamp, set it closer, and then stood by in case her hands failed. She gritted her teeth as the needle pierced skin, her breathing sharp.
The first stitch slipped, and her hand shook. Elias leaned in, holding the lamp steady, the light catching the sweat on her forehead. "Take it slow," he said quietly, his voice carrying neither pity nor judgment. She steadied and finished the job, tying the knots with care. By the end, her face was pale, but her hand did not tremble anymore.
She tore a strip from her hamm and wrapped it firm around her ribs. When it was done, Elias poured hot water from the kettle into a cup and dropped a pinch of willow bark into it, letting it steep. He placed it before her. She touched the cup, then looked at him with a faintest nod, a wordless thanks. The silence stretched, heavy, but not hostile.
It was the silence of two people who shared a past but had not yet decided if they could share present. Nielli wondered if he would let her stay or if this was only for the night. She also thought of the town of eyes that would soon turn toward her. Elias wondered the same, already picturing whispers at the store and the sheriff's watchful gaze. Yet neither spoke the decision aloud.
Elias finally took the other chair, sitting across from her, arms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the floorboards as if answers might be found there. The truth was simple. She had survived weeks alone, but she could not last much longer without help, and he had spent too many years turning away from others. This time, he didn't want to. Outside, the corral gate creaked in the wind.
Inside, the stove settled with a pop. Both of them sat in silence. Each holding their own doubts, but neither reaching for the door. For now, that was enough. The next morning broke with a pale sky and a faint chill that came before the sun reached the flats.
Elias stepped out early, the hammer still tucked in his belt, and checked the fence line while his coffee cooled on the porch rail. He had not slept much. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the way Nielli had stitched her own wound by lamplight, her face locked in quiet determination. It was a sight that carried respect, but also unease, because he knew what her presence would stir in town once word spread. Inside, she had woken before dawn, sweeping the floor with a makeshift broom, moving carefully so her ribs did not pull.