The old primer lay on the table, unused for a time. One night, Tyen picked it up. She had learned to read the simple words, "Dog, run, house, fire." But now she pointed to the one that had puzzled her. L O V E.
"I know this word," she said, tracing the letters. It is the warm. It is what stays. She looked up at him, her dark eyes serious. But it is more now.
He took the book from her. He did not need it. He took her hand and placed it on her belly where the child was moving. a small strong kick. "This," he said, his voice thick. He then put her hand on his own heart, which hammered steadily beneath her palm.
"And this," he pointed to the cradle, to the small carved deer, to the new walls of the room he had built. "That," he said, "is love. It is not just a word. It's the It's the work." She looked at the cradle, at his hands, at her own belly.
She finally understood. It was not a feeling. It was a thing. A solid thing you could build and fight for and hold. She nodded.
A slow, deep understanding. "The work," she repeated. Yes, they had to go to town. The baby was coming and they needed flour, salt, and more than anything, cloth. Soft cloth.
Daniel dreaded it. He had not seen a single person since the day he had buried the preacher's men. Brody had never come back. The world had left them alone. He did not want to poke the hornets's nest.
"I will go," he said. "You will stay." "No," Tyen said. Her voice was quiet, but absolute. She was no longer the frightened girl he had found.
She was the mistress of his home, the mother of his child. I will not hide. You said this is my place. I am your wife. I will ride with you.
He argued, but it was useless. Her mind was set. They rode into Santa Fe 2 days later. He rode Sully, his rifle in its scabbard, his pistol on his hip. She rode the mule he had bought, sitting straight and proud, her hair was in its married braids, and her condition was obvious to anyone who looked.
The plaza went silent. It was as if he had thrown a switch. Men who had been talking stopped, their mouths open. Women who had been sweeping their stoops froze, their brooms still. Every eye in Santa Fe turned to them.
To the gaunt bearded killer, Daniel Reed and his pregnant Apache wife. He felt the hatred, the fear, the disgust rolling off them in waves. He kept his hand near his gun, his eyes scanning the rooftops, his body rigid. Tyen, however, looked straight ahead. She did not flinch.
She did not lower her gaze. She was, he realized, braver than he was. He dismounted and tied the horses. He helped her down from the mule, his hand protectively on her back. They walked into the general store.
Silas Cooper was there. His face went pale as if he had seen a ghost. "Reed," he stammered. "Silas," Daniel said. He handed him a list. flour, salt, coffee, lard, and 10 yards of your softest flannel."
Silas scrambled to fill the order, his hands shaking so badly he spilled cornmeal on the floor. He would not look at Tyen, would not even glance in her direction. He weighed the goods, overcharged them by at least 30%, and took Daniel's coin. Daniel was loading the sacks onto the mule when a man stepped out of the saloon. It was Jedodiah Miller, the owner of the ranch where Hackett and Smith had worked.
He was an old man, his face like cured leather, his eyes hard. He was not a fool, and he was not a coward. He walked straight up to Daniel. "Reed," Miller said, his voice clear in the silence. Daniel stopped loading.
He turned. "Miller, I buried two of my men because of you," Miller said. They came to my home, Miller, to steal my wife," Daniel said, his voice low. Miller looked past Daniel at Tyen, who stood by the mule, her hand on her belly. "He saw her, really saw her, not as a squa, but as a young woman, proud and defiant."
His hard gaze softened. Just a fraction, he sighed. A long, weary sound. This is bad business. Reed, the whole town, they're spooked.
They say you're a killer. They say things about her. I don't care what they say. Daniel said you should. Miller said it ain't safe for you.
It ain't safe for that. Why, Reed? Why stay with her? You know what this world is? It's just It's just trouble.
Why? It was the question the whole town wanted to ask. Daniel felt Tyen's gaze on his back. He did not have to think about the answer. He had been thinking about it for months.
He looked the old rancher in the eye. "Because she's mine," he said, his voice simple and clear, carrying across the silent plaza. "And I'm hers." It was an answer so final, so absolute that there was nothing more to be said. Miller stared at him for a long moment, then just shook his head, turned, and walked back into the saloon.
Daniel finished loading the mule. He and Tyen mounted up. They rode out of Santa Fe. The eyes of the town following them until they were just a speck on the trail. They were for good or ill.
Left alone, the summer burned into fall. The aspens turned a fiery impossible gold. The nights grew sharp, promising the first snow. Tyen was heavy, her movement slow, her time near. The storm broke on a cold night in late October.