But one name came through, clear and sharp. Taza, her brother. He was right. She broke the fever the next morning, her eyes heavy, but clear. Josiah had barely slept.
You stayed? She asked, her voice a ragged whisper. He nodded. You're still here. It wasn't much, but it mattered.
He hadn't run. Even when she burned, even when she screamed, he had stayed. As her strength returned, she began to ask more questions. She learned that he had built the cabin himself, that the nearest town was a halfday's ride, that he didn't go there often because he didn't like people. When she asked about his wife, he fell silent.
She didn't press him. She respected his silence just as he respected her scars. One afternoon, she pulled the dress she had been wearing tighter around her chest. The fabric, torn and worn, hung loose, her shoulders bare. She glanced at him.
He was at the table, chopping onions. He saw her, looked, then looked away. "Doesn't it bother you?" she asked, her voice a challenge. He set the knife down and looked at her again, his pale blue eyes steady, unwavering. "You're a woman," she scoffed.
"A broken one?" "No," he said, his voice flat. Just that. And then he went back to chopping. That night, something changed. She didn't pull the blanket so high.
She didn't turn away when he lifted her into the cot. She looked at him fullon, saw the line of his jaw, the stubble on his neck, the weariness in his eyes. "You ain't scared of me," she said, half statement, half test. "No," he replied. "Why?" He looked at her, his gaze steady.
"Because you're alive." She let out a slow breath and nodded. And for the first time, she smiled. Not wide, not long, but real. And in that small, fragile smile, Josiah Thorne saw a flicker of the life he had thought he had lost forever. Spring deepened into early summer.
The days stretched longer, and the air turned warmer, filled with the dry scent of mess. The land outside the cabin remained quiet. No riders, no travelers, just the wind sighing through the brush and the occasional cry of a hawk circling high above. Inside, the rhythm between them held. Tala wore one of Josiah's old shirts now, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric wide and comfortable.
He had left it folded on the foot of her cot one morning. A silent practical offering. That morning she asked what he had done before all this. Drove cattle, he said, his hands busy repairing a saddle near the barn door. A little mining.