Not the stride of something spooked or chased. Deliberate. He turned. She was dressed differently than before. Long skirt of brown cloth, loose blouse, moccasins up past the ankle.
Her hair was braided now, neat and straight. And she wore a necklace of small shells that moved when she rode. She sat the horse like the ground underneath it was hers. Maybe 24 or 25. Not the bound, disheveled woman from the trail 3 years ago.
Not a bit of it. She pulled up 10 yards from the well. Caleb set down the bucket and said good morning. It seemed the right thing. "You were the man who cut the rope. " she said.
He said he was. She nodded once, confirming something she'd already known. She told him her name was Naayeli. Said she'd come from the Chiricahua camp in the Dragoon foothills, four days ride. She'd come because her people were being pushed.
Soldiers had ridden in twice that spring, burning food stores, baskets of dried mescal hearts, jars of preserved acorn mash. Everything the band had put by for a hard summer. A land speculator named Drayden, with money behind him, wanted the eastern slopes of the Dragoons cleared. He'd hired men to do it. The same kind of men who had bound her 3 years ago.
She had come to ask if Caleb would stand with them. Not to fight, to speak. He had clear title to his land and a clean name in the territory. His signature on their grievance at the Mesa Hollow land office would carry weight that a paper signed only by Apache names would not. Not in those days.
Then she waited. Caleb stood at his well a long moment. He thought about the papers the bounty man had shown him three years back. Thought about the way the law bent for men with money. Thought about the photograph on the mantle, the unfinished quilt, all the careful nothing he'd been doing since Clara died.
He said he'd make coffee and she could tell him more. She dismounted. The first few hours were careful. They sat at the rough table outside. Caleb didn't bring her into the cabin.
Not yet. It still had Clara all through it and it didn't feel right. Nayeli told him about her band. The headman Dosela. An elder who'd kept peace with the territory for seven years by moving quietly and trading honestly.