She winced, a sharp intake of breath, her hand grabbing at her side. He paused, then crouched beside her. "You'll rip your stitches," he said, his voice low and rough from disuse. It was the first full sentence he had said since finding her. She stared at him, her lips parted, a flicker of surprise in her dark eyes.
He held her gaze for a second longer, then reached an arm behind her back, and helped her sit straighter. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the subtle tremor in her muscles. She was strong, or trying to be. He saw it now, clearer in the daylight, the cold fury that burned beneath the surface of her pain. It was not a fury directed at him, but at everything, at the world that had broken her.
He pulled over an old three-legged chair he had made years ago. "Try this," he muttered. "She didn't move." He pointed again, his gesture firm. "You slide forward. Arms here.
Hold steady. She didn't answer, but she moved, her body a testament to a will that would not be broken. She gritted her teeth, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she eased her weight from the cot to the chair. He held her upper back, steadying her without pressing, and when she was finally in place, he let go. She sat for a minute, adjusting her balance, her palms resting on the edge of her thighs, or where they used to be.
Her eyes swept the cabin, taking in the details. The rifle by the door, the pair of worn boots, the long crack that ran through the wall above the stove. The place was quiet, worn, lived in. "You live here alone?" she asked, her voice low and raw, but firming. He nodded.
She studied him, her gaze lingering on the thin white scar that ran from his jaw to just under his left ear, the slight drag in his right leg when he walked. She looked down at her own legs and a bitter unspoken understanding passed between them. "You could have left me," she said. "I didn't," he replied simply. A silence hung between them, not hostile, but heavy, like dust settling after a storm.
He went to the table, scooped some stew from a pot, and brought it to her in a fresh tin bowl. This time, she took it, her fingers shaking as she ate. He didn't stare, didn't sit close. He just stayed nearby, his presence a quiet, unobtrusive guard against the ghosts that haunted the small, silent room. Later that afternoon, she tried to crawl across the floor.
Josiah had gone to the shed to fetch nails. When he came back in, she was halfway between the cot and the water barrel, dragging herself forward with both arms, her face soaked in sweat, the blanket falling away. He stopped watching her. His own scars, the ones on the inside, aching in sympathy. She looked up, her breathing hard.
I am not going to rot in that bed, she muttered, her voice a low, fierce growl. He didn't argue. Instead, he crossed the room, crouched down, and lifted her up under the arms. She tensed when his hands brushed her ribs, but she didn't pull away. He placed her gently back on the cot.
Then he walked outside again into the harsh unforgiving sunlight of the Arizona afternoon. That night, under the flickering light of a hanging oil lamp in the barn, he built her something. He saw it and hammered, taking apart an old broken chair, using its frame to shape a rolling platform, flat and low with small side rails and cloth padding on the base. By morning, it was finished. He brought it inside and set it beside her cot.