You bury these men. Bury them deep. He rode off, leaving them in the sudden ringing silence of the canyon. Daniel turned to Tyen. The trembling had taken over her body.
Violent shudders. The terror she had held back now consumed her. He dropped the rifle and gathered her into his arms, lifting her as he had the day he found her. She weighed almost nothing. He carried her back to the cabin.
His heart a cold, heavy knot in his chest. The cabin was a wreck. The door was splintered. The table overturned. The small slate she had been writing on was shattered on the floor.
He did not put her down. He sat in his chair, the one she had sat in when she was sick, and held her, cradling her as she wept. She cried silently, her body shaking, her face pressed into his neck. He said nothing. He just held her, his hand stroking her hair, his own body aching with the aftermath of the fight.
He held her for a long time until the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows into the cabin. Her shaking finally subsided. He pulled back, holding her face in his hands. Her eyes were swollen. Her face stre with dirt and tears.
He gently wiped the bloodstain from her arm. "It's over," he whispered, his voice raw. "No more running ever. You're safe. I swear it.
You're safe." He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her tear-soaked eyelids. He kissed her mouth, a desperate, affirming kiss that was not about passion, but about life, a promise. "This land," he said, looking around the broken room. "It's not just my land.
"This is yours, Tyen. This is our place." No one will ever take you from it again. She nodded, her breath hitching. She was exhausted, her body drained, her mind bruised.
That night, he cleaned the cabin, repaired the door, and laid her in the cot. He was going to sleep on the floor to stand watch, but she would not let him. She needed him close. He lay beside her, holding her, the rifle leaning against the wall. within arms reach. He listened to the night sounds, every snap of a twig, every hoot of an owl.
He would not sleep. Not tonight. He felt her stir. Hours later, in the deep dark, she did not wake from a nightmare. She was quiet, contemplative.
She took his hand, the one that had held the rifle, the one that had saved her, and she guided it. She pressed his palm flat against her belly. The skin was warm. He could feel the slight firm swell beneath the child in the terror in the blood. He had forgotten.