They stood at the fence in the way of men who respect each other's silence. The mare, River Wolf said eventually. The bay, Rosie. She's better, Cole said. River Wolf nodded confirming something he'd already known.
They were quiet again. "Take care of her," River Wolf said. Cole turned to look at him. That's my intention. It was my father's intention, too.
For me to take care of her. River Wolf's jaw moved. Something working through him. I taught her everything I knew. I was proud of her.
He looked at the fire, at Kaya. Visible across the yard moving between people with the ease of someone at home. And then I let the camp decide she was too much. I could have fought it. I didn't.
Cole said nothing. River Wolf wasn't asking for absolution. You didn't know me, River Wolf said. You walked in and agreed to take her sight unseen because a man who owed you a debt said, "Please." And you were better to her in 3 months than her family was in 3 years.
The fire crackled. A horse shifted. She gave herself what she needed, Cole said carefully. I just didn't get in the way. River Wolf looked at him.
A long reading look. The family trait. Kaya's eyes in a different face. That is not a small thing, he said. Not getting in the way.
No, Cole agreed. I don't suppose it is. They stood at the fence a while longer. If you don't keep caring for her, River Wolf said eventually. Conversationally, I'll come back.
I know. And she'll probably help you, Cole finished. Yes, I've considered that. River Wolf almost smiled. The specific almost.
Kaya had the same one. Good, he said. You're learning. He went back to the camp. Cole stood at the fence and looked at the Arizona stars.
The ones his father had said were close enough to touch. The ones Kaya had been naming for him slowly over recent weeks. The one she'd learned from the brother who was standing 20 ft away looking at the same sky from the other direction. He thought about what River Wolf had said. Not getting in the way.
Both small and not small simultaneously. He'd spent 25 years being told by his father, by the land, by the general weight of the life he'd chosen that what a man does is what matters. The work, the cattle, the fence. The practical forward motion of practical days. He hadn't considered that sometimes what a man doesn't do is the point.
The not flinching. The not requiring. The not filling on you with my silence with noise because the noise makes him more comfortable. The choosing to stand beside someone and let them be what they are. He'd thought that was nothing.
He was understanding now that it wasn't nothing at all. Gray Elk found him near midnight. The camp quieter, the fire lower. Most of the warriors in their blankets. Cole was on the porch just sitting the night around him.