He says you're his property. He grabbed his spare rifle from the rack, checking the action. He began stuffing boxes of cartridges into a saddlebag. "What?" What does he want?" she asked, standing, her hand on her stomach.
"He wants you. He's coming for you, Brody. The sheriff. He won't stop him. They'll come in numbers."
He threw the saddlebag at her feet. We have to go now. We can't fight them all. We'll go into the high mountains. We can follow the Rio Grand up into the high passes.
They won't find us there. We can winter in the canyons. We have to leave. He was frantic, grabbing blankets, jerky, his mind racing. He was seeing her chain to the wagon again.
He would not let that happen. Tyen watched him. She listened to his words, his panic filling the small room they had built together. He was a soldier and his instinct was to move, to run, to find a defensible possetion. She did not move.
She was perfectly, terribly still. When he had finished, when he stood breathing heavily, a rifle in one hand and a bag in the other, she finally spoke. She walked past him to the cabin door. She looked out. She looked at the small field of green corn, an impossible splash of life in the dry country.
She looked at the new timbers on the roof. She looked at the corral that held his horse and the two chickens she fed every morning. She touched the wooden doorframe, the wood smooth beneath her hand. Then she turned to face him. Her eyes were not filled with fear.
They were hard, as hard as the desert rock. "No," she said. Tyen, you don't understand. They will take you. "No," she repeated, her voice low and absolute.
I will not be stolen again. She stepped toward him. She put her hand on the rifle he held and gently, firmly pushed the barrel toward the floor. She looked him in the eye, her gaze unwavering. "This," she said, her other hand coming to rest on her belly, "is our place now."
Her words, "This is our place now," hung in the air. A declaration that was braver than any bullet. Daniel's panic, the frantic urge to run, cooled. She was right. Running meant they would always be running.
Running meant the world was stronger than they were. Here on this land, he was the hunter. He was the soldier. He was not the prey. "All right," he said, his voice quiet, his mind shifting from flight to a fight.
We stay, but we do it my way. The next two days were spent in a grim, silent preparation. He did not fortify the cabin, that was a death trap. Instead, he prepared the land. He took his spare rifle, the heavy sharps, and a box of cartridges, and stashed them in a rocky crevice high up the ridge, a place that gave him a clear view of the cabin and the single trail leading to it.
He spent an afternoon clearing brush, creating two clear firing lanes. He and Tyen spoke little. The intimacy of the past weeks was replaced by a taut military focus. He showed her how to reload his pistol, his hands guiding hers until the movements were sure. If they come, he said, his voice flat.
"You do not stay in the cabin." You take this pistol. You run. You run for the high rocks, for the place I showed you. You hide.
You do not come out. No matter what you hear. Do you understand? She nodded, her eyes dark. "You will fight them."
"I will stop them," he said. "We will stop them," she corrected, and her hand went unconsciously to her stomach. On the third morning, the sun rose hot and blinding. The air was still, too. The homestead was on its last canteen of water.
The creek was 100 yards down the canyon. A necessary, dangerous trip. I have to go, he said. The canteens are dry. I will come.
No, you stay. You watch. He handed her his field glass. Watch the trail. One rifle shot if you see them.
One, then you run. Don't wait for me. He hated leaving her. Every instinct screamed against it, but thirst was an enemy that would kill them just as surely as Pike. He grabbed the two largest wooden buckets and headed down the trail, his rifle in his other hand.
He moved quickly, his eyes scanning, his ears straining. Tyen stood on the porch. The rifle heavy in her hands, she watched him disappear into the pinons. The silence of the valley was absolute, broken only by the buzz of a fly. She was using the field glass, scanning the ridge.
When she saw them, not on the main trail, but coming over the northern ridge, the hard way, the way they would not be expected. Four riders, one in a black coat, Clay Hackett, Jeb Smith the Drifter, and Reverend Pike. Her heart did not hammer. It went cold and still. One rifle shot.
She raised the rifle, aimed at the sky, and fired. The sound cracked across the valley. Then she did as he said. She dropped the rifle, grabbed the pistol he had left for her, and ran. She did not run for the cabin.
She ran for the trees, but she was not fast enough. They had heard the shot. They spurred their horses crashing through the brush and saw her. "There she is!" Hackett roared, his voice thick with hate.
"Grab the!" Tyen ran barefoot, her feet slipping on the pine needles, but the horses were fast. The drifter cut her off, his horse rearing as he blocked her path. She spun, but Hackett was on her. He launched himself from the saddle, tackling her. his heavy body driving the air from her lungs.