She froze, staring at it as though it might be a trick. Take it, he said slowly. She lowered herself onto it, pulling the edge around her shoulders. She didn't lie down. Not yet.
She watched him while he worked, her eyes never leaving him as he cleaned his revolver by the fire and then set it aside within reach. Only when he stretched out a few feet away, did she settle, curling tight under the blanket, the silence stretched. It wasn't comfortable, not yet, but it wasn't the sharp silence of the crowd either. This one carried weight, but not cruelty. Clint lay with his hat tipped low.
Listening to the night's sounds, the rush of the creek, the distant call of a coyote, the crackle of the fire. He knew sleep wouldn't come easy. Too many memories still woke him. The war, the knife fight that left him scarred, the faces of men he couldn't save. And now this.
He wondered what kind of fool he was, dragging a woman he didn't know into his life, just because he couldn't stand watching her die in the street. But when he turned his head and saw her breathing slow under the blanket, lashes resting against her cheeks, he knew why. He couldn't let it happen again. Not when he had the power to stop it. Ayoka didn't sleep quickly either.
Every crack in the brush made her stiffen. Every pop of the fire brought back the jeers of the man. But the ropes were gone, and no one stood laughing at her now. She shifted once, testing the edge of the blanket, and whispered something in her own tongue, so faint it was lost to the night. She didn't know if this man meant to keep her, to trade her, or to leave her at the next stop.
She only knew he hadn't raised his hand against her, and he had given her water and warmth when he didn't have to. At last, her eyes closed. She stayed curled tight, but sleep crept over her. Clint kept his eyes on the fire until the wood sank to ambers. His hand rested near the revolver, as it always did.
He told himself he'd only watch until he was sure she wasn't going to bolt in the night. But when his own eyes shut, she was still there, not running, not gone. And when dawn came, pale light spreading across the land, she was still lying close enough for him to hear her breath steady in the morning chill. The morning broke cold, thin light pushing through the bare cottonwood branches. Clint stirred first, rising stiffly from the ground.
His hand brushed the revolver by instinct, then relaxed when he saw the woman still curled on the bed roll. She blinked awake at the sound of him moving, sitting up quick, eyes wary, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. "We've got ground to cover," Clint said, his voice even. He didn't know if she understood all of it, but he made a motion with his hand, rising, walking, and she nodded. He packed his few things into the saddle bag, left the fire to die in ash, and they set out along the trail.
The wind had shifted cold, carrying grit across the valley floor. The woman walked silent beside him, arms wrapped tight against the chill. Her feet were raw from the day before. Dirt caked to the small cuts where gravel had bitten in. He noticed her limp, but said nothing, only slowed his stride enough that she didn't fall behind.