I came here because I had nowhere else to walk. I asked for food, not war. If that is too much, I'll leave. Elias's jaw tightened. He turned his head toward her.
The thought of letting her walk back into the flats burned against every part of him that had chosen silence in the past. He shook his head once firmly. You're not leaving. The sheriff watched them both, weighing their words, the lines on his face deepening. Finally, he gave a small nod.
I'll tell folks under my eye. That buys time. But don't fool yourself. Eyes will stay on you. He tipped his hat, pulled the reins, and rode on without another word.
When the dust of his horse settled, Elias exhaled slowly. He looked at Nielli, who had not moved from her place by the stoop. For the first time since she arrived, her shoulders sagged slightly. She whispered, not to him, but to herself. It begins the same everywhere.
Elias heard it and felt the weight of the choice pressing heavier. He knew the questions people would ask. Why risk your own place for her? Why bring old scars back into town? He also knew the answer that mattered most.
That this time he wouldn't look away. That night, he let her sleep on the bed while he took the chair, listening to the creek of the house and the faint murmur of town life carried by the wind. When pain woke her near midnight, he rose without a word, stoked the stove, and warmed a rag for her ribs. She accepted it with a brief glance that carried something unspoken, trust beginning to form again, fragile, but real. By dawn, the two of them had already chosen, though neither said out loud.
She stayed. He kept the door open, and whatever came from town, they would face it together. The sheriff's warning still hung in Elias's mind when the next morning broke. He rose before the sun, as he always did, out of habit more than rest, and found Naelli already awake. She had folded the blanket neatly, swept the floor again, and sat by the stove with a small pot simmering.
The smell of beans mixed with sage drifted through the room. Elias noticed the way she moved, cautious, measured, holding her side when she thought he wasn't watching. She didn't complain, not once, but the pain was plain to see. Over coffee, Elias weighed his choices. He knew the town's talk would grow, and if she was seen as idol or a burden, the whispers would turn sharper.
People here measured worth in work. If Nielli was to stay, she had to be seen as useful, not sheltered. He cleared his throat, his voice steady, but low. Fence on the north sides loose. Need a hand with the wire.