After the wood was stacked, Clint hauled two buckets down to the creek. He glanced once over his shoulder and saw her following. The blanket dragged around her like a shawl. At the water's edge, he knelt, filling the buckets. She crouched beside him, dipping her hands into the icy stream.
She hissed at the cold, then brought a handful to her mouth, drinking quick before wiping her face with her sleeve. He lifted one of the buckets and handed it toward her. She hesitated, then gripped the handle, struggling with the weight, but she carried it partway before he took it from her again. Inside the cabin, he set about mending a broken strap of harness at the table. She moved slowly around the room, studying the shelves, the tools, the iron stove as if measuring where she fit.
She found a rag and began wiping the dust from the shelves. When he glanced up, she dropped her eyes, embarrassed, but he didn't stop her. At midday, he cooked beans again, dropping a piece of dried pork into the pot. When he set the plate in front of her, she paused, then murmured, "Thank you." The words were halting, her accent heavy, but clear enough. Clint froze, spoon in hand, then gave a small nod.
"You're welcome." They ate in silence, shoulders bent over the table. But the silence was different than before. It was less sharp, less heavy. Later, while he worked outside repairing a fence line, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see her standing with his hammer in her hands.
She held it out awkwardly. He took it jaw-tightening and said, "Thank you." She didn't answer, only lingered a moment before retreating back to the cabin. That evening, as the fire warmed the room, Clint sat sharpening his knife. Ayoka sat across from him, legs folded under her, mending the torn sleeve of her dress with clumsy stitches. She worked slow, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
He found himself watching her hands, small and steady despite the rough thread. When she caught his eye, she looked down fast, cheeks darkening. He cleared his throat. You'll need better clothes. She tilted her head, not understanding.
He tugged at his own sleeve, then gestured to hers, frayed and worn. Clothes? You need better. She followed his hand, then nodded once. eyes dropping to her lap. He wondered if she thought he was mocking her, but he hadn't meant it that way.
He almost explained further, then let it go. Night fell. Clint laid the bed blanket by the stove for her again, but this time she hesitated. She touched the wooden chair instead, shaking her head. Here, she said, pointing.
She want to sit longer, not sleep yet. He lowered himself into the other chair. The fire light flickered across her face. She studied him openly for the first time, her dark eyes steady, unblinking. He met her gaze waiting.