The air was stale, smelling of old smoke and male solitude. The girl's eyes darted everywhere. She looked at the locked rifle rack, the empty cot, the way the door bolted from the inside. She was a captive animal, measuring the dimensions of a new cage. "My name is Daniel," he said, striking a match and lighting the kindling in the fireplace.
"Daniel Reed." She said nothing. She watched the flames catch. "I need to clean that cut," he said. He went to the sink, poured water from the basin into a small pot, and set it on the hook over the fire to warm.
He pulled a tin from a shelf. "Salve." When he approached her with the wet cloth, she flinched and raised her hands to protect her face. "Easy now," he said, his voice low and steady. "Just water, just cleaning the dirt."
He moved slowly. He dabbed at the blood on her forehead. The cut was shallow but dirty. She hissed when the warm water touched it, but she let him clean it. He put a dab of the stinging salve on it.
Her skin was hot. She had a fever. "You need to eat something better than jerky," he said. He made a thin gruel from cornmeal and water, adding a spoonful of molasses for strength. He held the bowl out to her.
She stared at it. "Food," he said. "Eat." She took the bowl and ate, her eyes never leaving him. When she was done, she set the bowl on the floor.
Night was falling. The wind howled outside, a high, lonely sound. The cabin was warming up. But the girl, Tyen, though he did not know her name, was still shaking. "You can have the cot," he said, pointing to it.
"It's warm. I'll take the floor." She looked at the cot, a simple frame with a straw stuffed mattress and several thick wool blankets. She looked at him, then she shook her head. A short, sharp negative.
"It's safe," he said. "I won't. I sleep on the floor." She stood up, walked to the door, and unbolted it. She slipped outside into the freezing dark.
Daniel cursed under his breath. He grabbed a blanket, and followed her. She had huddled on the porch, her back against the cabin wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. You'll die out here," he said, frustrated. "It's going to snow before morning.
Get inside." She pressed herself harder against the wall, her eyes pleading. He understood. The room had one door. He was a man.
She had been in locked rooms with men before. He threw the blanket over her. "Stubborn," he muttered. He went back inside, leaving the door cracked open, and sat in the chair, watching the fire. He did not sleep.