Behind them, the noise of the town faded until it was just the sound of their boots in the dust and the steady rhythm of the wind. Clint didn't look back once they cleared the last building of Dry Creek. The noise of the crowd had already thinned, swallowed by the wind and the open land stretching beyond the town. He kept his stride even, long legs carrying him past the ruts of wagon wheels and out toward the valley road. The woman stayed close, not at his side exactly, but a few steps behind, her bare feet leaving small prints in the dust.
Every few paces he heard the rasp of her breath, quick and shallow, like she was pushing herself to keep up. He slowed once, long enough to glance at her. Her hair clung damp to her cheeks. strands sticking were sweat mixed with dust. Her wrists were raw from the rope. The skin scraped red.
She noticed his look and stiffened as if expecting him to speak. He didn't. He just adjusted his pace so she wouldn't fall behind. By the time the town shrank to a line of roofs against the horizon, the sun was dropping fast. Clint knew better than to push further.
His cabin was still hours away, and riding out that late would be foolish. He spotted a stand of cottonwoods near the creek bed, their branches offering a break from the wind. He motioned with his chin and turned that way. She followed without a word. When they reached the trees, he dropped his saddle bag to the ground and set about clearing a space.
He gathered a few dry sticks, struck a match, and soon had a small fire burning low. She stood apart, hugging her arms across her chest, eyes darting to the shadows as though she expected men to come riding after them. Clint pulled a piece of jerky from his bag, held it out. She didn't take it at first, only stared, uncertain. His arm stayed steady.
Finally, she reached, fingers brushing his hand quick before pulling back. She chewed slow, cautious, her jaw tight like each bite might be her last. You'll need more than that," Clint said quietly. His voice was even, "Not rough, but not soft either." He filled a tin cup from his canteen and passed it over. She drank deep water spilling down her chin, and for the first time, her eyes met his.
They were dark, sharp, full of questions she didn't yet have words to ask in English. He looked back at the fire. He hadn't planned any of this. Truth was, when he cut her loose, he thought she'd run. He would have let her.
He had no business bringing her into his life, but she hadn't run. She had followed. Now here they were, sitting in the brush like fugitives. Clint knew the men in town wouldn't forget. A few of them were drunk enough to chase, and more than a few would carry grudges against him for making fools of them in front of their neighbors.
He rubbed the scar on his jaw without thinking. Trouble had a way of finding him, and he had just bought himself plenty. The woman shivered in the cooling air. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, leaving her skin bare where goose flesh rose. Clint pulled his bed roll from the saddle bag, tossed it toward her.