Not the color, but the same look of a soul caught between two worlds belonging to neither. He was not a hero. He was not a good man. Not anymore. He was just a man haunted.
He could not save, but he could not ride away from her ghost. "Come on," he said, his voice softer. He held out his hand. She watched him for another full minute, then with halting painful steps, her bare feet bleeding on the stones. She walked to him.
She did not take his hand. She just stood beside the horse, waiting. Daniel leaned down, hooked an arm around her waist, and lifted her. She weighed almost nothing. He settled her in front of him on the saddle.
Her back pressed against his chest. She was rigid, a block of ice, trembling so hard he could feel it in his own bones. He wrapped the old blanket around her, tucked it tight, and turned Sully's head toward the mountains. "You're safe," he whispered to the wind, or perhaps to himself. "It's all right."
She did not make a sound the entire ride home. His homestead was high up, nestled in a small valley where the piñon pines gave way to aspen and spruce. It was isolated, a full day's ride from Santa Fe, and that was how he liked it. The cabin was sturdy, built of timber he had cut and hewn himself, with a stone chimney and a deep porch. A small barn and a fenced-in corral stood nearby.
It was a lonely place, a place to forget the world. He slid off the horse and reached up for her. She let him take her, her body pliant and cold. He carried her inside and set her down on the single chair by the cold hearth. The cabin was one room, a cot, a table, two chairs, a dry sink, and shelves of tins and books.
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.
He heard her coughing around midnight. Just before dawn, when the frost was a thick white pelt on the ground, he went out. She was asleep, but it was a bad sleep. Her breathing was shallow and her skin was icy. He scooped her up.
She was too weak to fight. He carried her inside, laid her on the cot, and piled every blanket he owned on top of her. He built the fire up until it was roaring. and he sat beside her, bathing her face with a cool cloth as the fever took hold. She was sick for 4 days. She woke in terror, shouting in a language he didn't know, fighting shadows.
He held her down gently, forcing water and thin broth between her lips. He did not sleep except in the chair for an hour at a time. He talked to her, the sound of his voice seeming to soothe the panic. He told her about the homestead, about his horse, about the way the weather turned. He did not talk about Ara.
On the fifth day, the fever broke. He woke to find her watching him. Her eyes were clear, the terror replaced by a deep, bottomless caution. She was still wary of the cabin, so he found a compromise. The back porch was deep, used for storing wood and tools.