I thought it would pass. Men always think that. She placed the cup of tea into his hand. Drink all of it. That same afternoon, when the worst of the cold had eased a little, and Clay was finally strong enough to sit upright with his back against the wall, they came.
Eight riders. Vance Crow was among them. Several of the others were men Clay vaguely recognized from Crestfield. Two had badges pinned to their coats. Cal Drury, Seth Ka.
Klay knew they were not county lawmen. They were the sort of men who were handed a badge for one particular piece of business, then quietly stripped of it when the job no longer suited whoever had given it to them. The writers stopped in the yard. Klay stood near the window, though still sick, barely steady on his legs. "I can go outside," Nia said.
Klay was already pulling on his coat and reaching for the rifle when another sound rolled in from the southern edge of the property. Horses. Not eight, more, maybe 20. Clay moved toward the south window. Apache riders.
At least a dozen of them sat along the ridge above the creek, wrapped in blankets, rifles, and bows plainly visible, watching the yard in complete silence. Nia came to stand beside him. She looked toward her people. They were still, steady. They held themselves with the absolute calm of men who had already decided where they intended to stand and felt no need to prove anything beyond that.
"My father had friends," Nia said quietly. "People who cared for him. They've been watching this place since I arrived." She paused. I asked them to keep their distance.
Then she added, "I stopped asking after Vance Crow came the first time." Klay turned toward her. You could have told me. You already had enough to carry. Klay looked back through the window.
Outside, Vance had seen the ridge now. His horse shifted nervously beneath him, understanding the danger before its rider seemed willing to admit it. Cal Drury and Seth Cain had gone completely still. Klay opened the cabin door and stepped onto the porch. He was still sick.
He could feel it in his legs, in his chest, in every bone in his body. But he stayed upright. "I'm going to say this once," he said, his voice firm. "This woman is here because she chose to be here, and she has every right to make that choice. She owes me nothing, and I owe her more than I can measure."