"He will use any excuse."
I thought about the three riders. About their casual cruelty. About how easy it would be to turn one dead Apache boy into a justification for violence. "What are you going to do?" I asked.
"I will return to my people. My father expects it. But I wanted to tell you what my father did not say." He glanced at Takala.
"He sent Takala to you because he knows who you are. He knows you killed Matto. He sent her to test you."
"Test me how?"
"To see if you are a man who deserves a second chance. Or if you are just another killer."
The words hung in the air between us. Takala's face was unreadable. "And what do you think?" I asked. Chaska stood up, wincing slightly.
"I think you saved my life when you could have walked away. I think that means something. But Takala must decide for herself what it means to her."
He left after that, riding back into the darkness. Takala and I stood on opposite sides of the room. The space between us filled with everything we couldn't say. "I will not make this easy for you," she said finally.
"You want forgiveness? You will have to earn it."
"I don't expect forgiveness. I don't deserve it."
"Then what do you expect?"
I thought about that. About what I wanted. What I hoped for. In the end, the answer was simple.
"I expect to keep my word. You're here because of Kuruk's law. I'll respect that. I'll give you a place to live."
"Food. Safety. And I'll never touch you or force anything from you. That's all I can promise."
She searched my face for a long time. Then, without another word, she went back to her room and closed the door. I sat by the stove until the fire burned down to coals. Outside, the first snowflakes of a new storm began to fall.
Soft and silent. Covering everything in white. Somewhere out there, men were planning violence. Somewhere out there, Kuruk was watching to see what I would do.
Somewhere in the past, Matto's ghost waited for justice or vengeance or whatever it is the dead wait for. But in that moment, in my house, with a woman who hated me sleeping behind a closed door, all I could do was tend the fire and wait for morning. The debt was far from paid. The story was far from over.
And I had no idea how much more it would cost before we found our way to the end. The first week passed in careful silence. Takala moved through my house like smoke. Present but untouchable.
Leaving no mark except the meals that appeared on the table and the swept floors I woke to each morning. She never spoke unless I asked her a direct question. And even then, her answers came in single words. Clipped and cold.
I gave her space. What else could I do? The woman's husband was dead by my hand. And no amount of domestic courtesy would change that fact.
So I worked. I fixed the barn roof before the next snowstorm hit. I reinforced the fence posts along the southern boundary. I split enough wood to last through February.