Finally, she spoke, voice quiet, words broken but deliberate. Why me? He frowned. What do you mean? Her hand lifted slightly, trembling, pointing to herself.
Why free? Clint leaned back, staring at the fire. The truth was, he had asked himself the same question since yesterday. Why had he stepped in? Why did he drag her here instead of letting her run off into the brush?
He rubbed the scar on his jaw. Felt the old ache in his chest. "Because I couldn't watch it happen," he said finally. His voice was rough, low, but honest. She studied him a long moment, lips pressing together.
Then she lowered her eyes, nodding once. She didn't ask again. Clint laid down in his bed, not long after, listening to the soft creek of the chair as she shifted near the fire. He knew this wasn't simple. He had brought her here, but she wasn't a guest.
Not yet. She wasn't a prisoner either. She was something in between, something he didn't have words for. When his eyes closed, he heard the faint sound of fabric rustling, the fire stirred, and then the quiet rhythm of her breath. The cabin no longer felt as empty.
It carried weight now, the kind that settled in a man's chest and told him nothing would be the same again. The weather turned colder that week, the kind of wind that carried grit against the windows and made the boards groan. Clint woke before sunrise as usual, stoked the stove and pulled on his coat. When he turned, he saw Ayoka already awake, crouched near the fire with her blanket around her shoulders. Her hair fell in loose strands, and her eyes were steady on him.
She didn't flinch anymore when he moved. Stay warm," he muttered, stepping outside with his tools. He wasn't sure if she caught the words, but she didn't need to. He spent the morning checking fence lines. The cattle had wandered too close to the ridge the week before, and one post had cracked under pressure.
As he hammered a replacement, he looked up to see her walking toward him. She carried a small bucket, her steps slow in the mud, but she came straight across the field without hesitation. She set the bucket down beside him. Inside was a piece of bread and a cup of water. Clint looked at her then at the bucket.
"Thank you," he said. She didn't answer, just stood with her arms folded across her chest against the wind. After a moment, she crouched, picked up a loose nail, and held it out. He took it, slid into the wood, and brought the hammer down. She stayed, handing him another when he finished the first.