"She worth it?"
I thought about the question. About everything that had brought us to this moment. The deaths. The debts.
The complicated web of obligation and guilt, and something that might eventually become something more. "Yes," I said. He nodded.
"Then God help you both."
After Quinn left, Takala and I stood in the yard for a long time, not speaking. The sun climbed higher. The snow began to melt in patches.
Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried. "You should not have done that," she said finally. "You should have let me go."
"Probably."
"You will lose everything because of me."
"I've already lost everything once. At least this time, it's my choice."
She turned to look at me fully, and for the first time since she'd arrived, I saw something in her eyes that wasn't hatred or pain. It was curiosity. Wonder, even.
"Why?" she asked. "Why choose this? Choose me? I am the wife of a man you killed."
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Maybe because you're the only person who understands what it costs to keep living after everything you love is gone. Maybe because I'm tired of running from my mistakes."
"Or maybe because when Hollis said he was taking you, I realized I didn't want you to go."
She didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she walked back into the house, and I followed. That night, she left her door open. Not an invitation.
Not forgiveness. But a sign that something had shifted. Some wall had developed its first crack. I lay on my bedroll and listened to her breathing and thought about Quinn's question.
Was she worth it? Was any of this worth it? I didn't have an answer yet, but I knew I was going to find out, whatever the cost. Outside, the wind picked up.
Carrying the smell of snow and pine and the distant smoke of fires I couldn't see. The army was gathering. War was coming. And I was standing in the path of it by choice.
For the first time in my life, making a decision based on something other than fear or duty. It felt terrifying and right in equal measure. Sleep came late, and when it did, I didn't dream of Rio Grande or burning villages or the faces of the dead. I dreamed of morning.
And coffee. And a woman's voice asking me to pass the salt. Small things. Ordinary things.
Things worth fighting for. The calm lasted three days. Three days of something that almost resembled normal life. Takala and I fell into a rhythm.
Not comfortable exactly, but functional. She cooked. I worked the ranch. We ate meals together, and sometimes we talked.