She tried it the next morning, her arms straining at first, but she made it to the chicken coupe by midday, and sat there in the sun, a small, triumphant smile on her face. That night, she asked him to help her bathe. He carried her to the wooden tub outside the barn, the water already warm. He helped her wash, his hands gentle on her back, down her arms, across the curve of her hip, and the smooth skin that led to the edge of the scarred thigh. When he carried her back to the cabin, wrapped in a wool blanket, she pressed her mouth against his shoulder, a silent, grateful kiss.
Later, she pulled herself up into his lap near the fire and rested her head against his chest, her hand over his heart. He did not move. He just sat there holding her, listening to the sound of the wind against the glass and her breathing, slow and steady and alive. The quiet of their world was shattered one morning by the sound of a rider. Not a neighbor, not a friend, a stranger, a man with new boots and a gun on his hip, who called himself Harlon and said he had come from Yuma.
Heard about a wounded Apache woman, he said, his eyes cold and assessing. Survived a blast near Copper Creek. Word also says you were left behind. Behind the barn, Josiah stepped out quietly, his rifle in hand. "What do you want?" Tala asked, her voice flat.
Haron shrugged. Some folks are offering a bounty for Apache fighters. Doesn't matter about the legs, just the name. A flash of something deeper than fear, colder than anger went through her. She did not move.
She did not glance behind her. She just stared straight at the man. "You here for the bounty?" she asked. He smiled, just scouting. It was then that Josiah stepped into view, his rifle held low, but his meaning clear.
"It ain't true," he said. Harlon turned, his hand drifting to his belt. "She's under my roof," Josiah said, his voice quiet, but unshakable. "And she stays." "A long, tense moment passed." Harlon looked between the two of them, weighing his chances. He saw the flat, empty look in Josiah's eyes, the look of a man who had already lived through worse, and he made his choice.
"No need for blood," he muttered. "Ain't nothing here worth dying over." He turned his horse and rode off. Not fast, but not slow either. Josiah didn't lower the rifle until the dust cloud was a speck in the distance. When he finally stepped up onto the porch, Tala's hand was still wrapped tight around the knife handle under her blanket.
"She let it go slowly, exhaling for the first time in minutes." "They know," she said. "They always did," Josiah replied. "Just didn't care until now." He sat beside her, both of them staring out at the trail. "You think he'll be back?" she asked. Josiah shook his head.
He'll send someone worse. That night, they did not talk much. After dinner, Josiah pulled up a trap door from beneath the rug under the table, revealing a hidden space beneath the floor. "If we need it," he said. "You built that for me?" she asked, her voice quiet.
He nodded. "After you had the fever." She looked at him for a long time, then leaned forward and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that was full of a fierce, protective love. I'll kill for this place," she said. "You understand that." I already have, he replied. The morning after Harlland's visit, the wind blew hard from the east, stirring grit through the valley.