When you're not, you mend them. Her words hit him harder than he wanted to admit. He turned away, carrying the full bucket to the trough, but the truth of it followed him. By midday, they had moved on to the corral. Reed showed her the fence line where rails had sagged and posts leaned from years of wind.
Together they lifted the rails back into place, hammered pegs until the wood held firm, and patched gaps with split boards. Nowlin worked without complaint, sweat streaking her temples. Her hands blistering against the hammer handle, yet she never slowed. Reed noticed the difference. Most ranch hands would grumble or demand more pay, but she worked with the focus of someone proving she belonged.
Inside the house later, she mended tack with neat, precise stitches. Reed watched her from the table as he sharpened a knife. The silence felt different now, no longer heavy, but steady. Each sound purposeful, the scrape of the blade on stone, the pull of thread through leather. He caught himself thinking that the cabin hadn't felt this alive since Martha was there, though in a different way.
That evening, Reed saddled his horse for a trip into town. Nowlin stood near the door, arms crossed, watching. You're going for supplies? Flour, tobacco, and nails, he said. People will see me if I go with you.
They've already seen you, Reed replied. His tone was flat, but his jaw was set. Might as well let them get used to it. In town, the reaction was immediate. As they walked down the boardwalk toward the general store, a woman pulled her child close, whispering sharp words under her breath.
A ranch hand leaning against the livery muttered something Reed didn't catch, but the tone carried. Reed ignored it, his eyes forward, but he felt the weight of each stare. Nollin walked beside him, her shoulders squared, refusing to look away. Inside the store, the keeper weighed out the flour without comment, though his hands moved stiffly. He slid the sack across the counter and glanced at Nollin, but said nothing.
Reed placed the money down hard enough to end the moment. On their way out, Sheriff Pike stepped off the boardwalk, arms crossed. He looked from Reed to Nollin, his expression unreadable. "Council's been on me," he said. "They wanted to ask if she's staying. " Reed straightened.