He left it open. An offer, not a command. Nielli looked at him, reading the meaning beneath the words. He wasn't testing her strength. He was giving her a way to belong, to prove herself.
She set the pot aside, tightened the wrap around her ribs, and nodded once. Show me. The two of them walked out into the yard. The boards leaned where cattle had pressed through last season, the ground undercut by wind. Elias carried a shovel and a spool of wire.
She carried a hammer. He dug while she held the post upright, her face tightening with the strain, but refusing to yield. When the wire slipped, she adjusted her grip without waiting for him to correct her. Elias watched from the corner of his eye. Her hands were quick, practiced.
She had worked before, maybe not on a corral, but enough to know the rhythm of labor. By midday, they had reset two posts and braced a corner. Sweat clung to their skin, dust rising from the dry ground, but neither spoke much beyond what was needed. Hold it steady, hand me the nail, pull tighter. Their silence wasn't empty.
It was the kind that builds trust and shared effort. When they paused, Elias asked what had kept her alive these past weeks. It was a question that had lingered in his mind since the night she arrived. Nielli answered plainly, her voice even prickly pears, creek water, roots when I could find them. I stayed low, avoided trails.
If soldiers saw me, I would not be here. She didn't embellish, didn't the truth. Elias felt a heaviness in his chest, picturing her alone, carrying wounds without help. He realized then how deliberate her choice had been in coming here. Not desperation alone, but memory.
She had remembered the boy who once shared bread and believed he might not turn her away as others would. That afternoon, Nielli insisted on cooking. She took what little they had, cornmeal, beans, a strip of salt pork, and stretched it into something that felt like a meal. She added herbs from her pouch, stirring slowly, the steam rising in the small house. Elias sat at the table watching.
He thought of how long it had been since another person had moved about this space, since he had heard the sound of someone else's hands working at his stove. He had built this place to keep others out, and now it no longer felt empty. When the food was ready, she set his bowl in front of him first. It was a small gesture, but Elias noticed it. "Respect, gratitude," he nodded, not out of politeness, but acknowledgement.
They ate without hurry. And for the first time since her arrival, the silence between them carried less weight. Later, when Elias prepared to ride into town for supplies, Nielli asked quietly, "Do you want me to stay inside?" The question revealed her fear. That being seen might worsen the talk.