He dreamed of holding someone, of the warmth of a body pressed against his, of the scent of woods smoke and pine, and the simple uncomplicated peace of not being alone. He woke before dawn, the ache in his chest sharper than any winter cold. Winter's grip on the high desert did not break, but it loosened. The sun, which for months had been a pale, distant coin, began to carry a fragile warmth. Snow melt trickled from the roof and the ground frozen iron hard for a 100 days softened to a thick cold mud.
The weight of the snows had damaged the cabin. A section of the south roof over the main room had sagged. Daniel knew it was a support beam cracked under the load. It was a clear, cold afternoon when he finally set to fixing it. He'd brought the new timber inside, braced the ceiling, and begun the hard work of chiseling out the old damaged wood.
It was heavy, hot labor. The cabin, with the fire banked low, became stuffy. First, he shed his heavy wool coat. An hour later, his flannel shirt was dark with sweat and sticking to his back. He grunted, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it onto his chair.
The cold air hit his skin, and it was a relief. He went back to work, his back to the room, his arms raised as he worked the chisel and mallet, the muscles in his shoulders and back bunched and released. The product of years of solitude and hard physical survival. He was so focused on the task, on the precise angle of the cut that he did not hear her enter. He only knew she was there when she spoke, her voice quiet, but so close it made him jolt, nearly dropping the heavy mallet.
"Your skin is not like mine." He turned, balancing precariously on the stool. Tyen stood just behind him, her head tilted, her gaze intense and unnervingly analytical. She was not looking at his face. She was staring at his chest.
Daniel felt a hot flush crawl up his neck. He was not a modest man, but this was different. Her stare was not shy, nor was it flirtatious. It was the look of a student examining a new and complicated subject. "It's just work.
It's hot." He stammered, reaching for the shirt. She held up a hand. A small sharp gesture that stopped him. "No, I see."
She took a step closer. He was trapped on the stool, the beam above him, her scrutiny upon him. "The hair is dark, but the skin is white," she observed, as if noting the difference between pine and aspen. She watched the muscles in his arms as he held the tools. "It moves under the skin."
"Tyen, this is it's not proper," he said, his voice strained. She ignored him, her gaze traveling from his shoulders to his abdomen. She saw the old faded scars from his time in the war, the white lines that criss-crossed his ribs. Her eyes were full of a profound, almost scientific curiosity. "Is this why white women want babies?"
The question struck him silent. He could only stare at her. "What?" "The chest," she said, gesturing with her chin. "It is strong.
They see this. They want a child from a strong man to be safe. This is why," he laughed, a short, sharp, nervous sound. He dropped from the stool, snatching his shirt from the chair and pulling it on, fumbling with the buttons. No, that's not People don't have children because a man's got a strong chest.
It's It's more complicated than that. Why? It just is. It's about family. It's about love, I suppose.
He finished the buttons, feeling armored again, though her gaze had not softened. "Love," she repeated. The word sounded foreign on her tongue, an object she was tasting for the first time. Love is strength sometimes," he said, turning back to the beam, his face hidden from her. "Now I need to finish this before the cold sets in."
She did not leave. She sat on the floor, her back against the far wall, and watched him work for another hour. Her question had unsettled something in him. It was the innocence of it, the way she cut through all the layers of politeness and ritual he was used to, and struck at the bare, simple truth. He was strong.
He had survived. And she, who had survived nothing but cruelty, was trying to understand the mechanics of his world, his body, with the same intensity she applied to setting a snare or grinding corn. From that day, the nature of her questions changed. The wall of respectful distance he'd so carefully built between them began to crumble, breached not by him, but by her relentless, guileless curiosity. They were mending a fence line, the air so cold their breath plumed in front of them.
He was wrapping wire, his gloves off for the delicate work. "Your hands are rough," she said, touching the back of his wrist. He pulled his hand back. "It's from the work," he said. Mine are rough, too, she said, holding hers out.
They were calloused, the nails broken. But yours are big. They can hold the axe. They can hold the rifle. Can they hold a small thing?
A bird? I suppose so. Tyen, we have work to do. Another time they were eating their supper, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire. "Why do you not sing?" she asked.
He looked up from his plate of beans. "I'm not a singer." The men in my tribe, they sing when they are proud. When they are sad, your heart is sad. But you do not sing.
"I've got nothing to sing about," he said curtly. "You have this house. You have the horse. You have me." The last three words hung in the air.