Reed felt the old pressure in his chest again, the mix of guilt, grief, and something like obligation. He hadn't meant to carry anyone else's burden after Martha died. For 3 years he'd lived with his routines, mend the fence, tend the mare, patch the roof, eat plain meals at the table. He never thought to change any of it. But now, in less than an hour, this woman had unsettled that silence.
To break the weight of it, Reed stood and walked to the stove. He pulled out a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and a jar of dry beans. "You hungry? " he asked, his voice flat but carrying more concern than he meant to show. Nollin's eyes flickered with relief, though her posture stayed composed. "I can eat, but let me earn it.
I'll work for food. " "You already worked," he said, nodding toward the swept floor and the basin gleaming in the corner. She shook her head. "That was for the water. " "A meal deserves more," Reed almost argued, but the stubbornness in her tone stopped him. He set the bread and beans on the table anyway, motioning for her to sit. She hesitated, then took the chair across from him.
The meal was plain, hard-crust bread and beans boiled soft, but when she bit into it, her jaw tightened against the simple relief of eating after days of hunger. Reed ate quietly, too, watching her without making it obvious. The fire cracked. Outside, a coyote yipped once in the distance, then faded into the night. When a meal was done, Nollin spoke again, her tone measured.
"If I stay, even for a day, will the town come knocking at your door? " Reed leaned back, his arms crossed. He considered the question, the risks. "They'll talk," he admitted. "They'll talk plenty. Some might try to stir trouble, but Sheriff Pike, he's fairer than most.
Long as there's no fight, he won't put his hand in it. And I don't answer to the storefront gossips. " Her eyes softened slightly, the first sign of trust since she'd arrived. "Then I'll stay until morning. After that, we'll see. " Reed gave a slow nod, though inside he felt the weight of what morning might mean. He didn't know yet if he wanted her gone or not.
What he did know was that his house no longer felt like just a shell filled with memories. It felt unsettled, alive in a way that was both unsettling and not unwelcome. That night, he laid a spare blanket on the pallet near the stove. "You'll be warm enough here," he said. She accepted it without a word, lying down with her hands folded on her chest, her breathing evening out as exhaustion pulled her under.
Reed sat on the step just outside the door, staring into the dark pasture, the mare shifting in her stall, the wind carrying dry dust across the yard. He asked himself the question again, why had he opened the door? But no answer came, only the quiet knowledge that he had, and that had already tied him to something larger than he had planned. Morning brought a sharp chill that cut through the gaps in the cabin's walls. The fire in the stove had died down to ash, and the smell of smoke lingered faintly in the air.