"No!" she was gasping. The word half Apache half English cold. No hinda. No. She was reliving it.
The soldiers, the preacher, the men who had hurt her. Tyen, he said, grabbing her shoulder. Wake up. You're here. You're safe.
Her eyes flew open. She did not recognize him. She saw a man, a shadow, and she screamed, lashing out, her nails raking his arm. "It's me," he shouted, pinning her wrists. "It's Daniel.
You're safe. It's the cabin. You're home." Her name, his name, the word home. The panic in her eyes slowly receded, replaced by a devastating, broken recognition.
She collapsed, her body dissolving into sobs. a deep racking sound of grief that he had never heard from her. She had been silent. She had been curious. She had been angry. She had never until now been broken.
He pulled her up, blankets and all, and held her against his chest. He sat on her cot, rocking her like a child, his own aches forgotten. "I've got you," he whispered. "It's over. It's all over.
They're gone. They can't hurt you." She cried for a long time, her face buried in his shirt, her hands gripping his arms as if he were the only solid thing on earth. When the sobs finally quieted, she was shaking from the cold and the shock. He could not leave her there.
Not like this, he scooped her up, her body light as a child's, and carried her from her small, cold room into the main cabin to his cot. He laid her down and pulled the heavy wool blankets over her. He started to move away to take his blankets and sleep on the floor. Her hands shot out, grabbing his wrist, her grip was iron. "Don't go," she whispered, her voice raw.
"I'll be right here on the floor." "No, in." She tugged at his arm. "Hold me. Hold me like I'm yours."
He looked at her. Her face was pale in the moonlight, streaked with tears. Her hair, the intricate braids of a married woman, had come loose on one side. She was not asking for heat. She was not asking for passion.
She was asking for the promise he had made in town to be made real. She was asking for the safety his very body represented. He hesitated. This was the line he had sworn he would not cross. But the memory of her screams and the sight of her trembling broke his resolve.
He slid into the cot, his back to her, and pulled her against him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. "I'm here," he said. "Go to sleep. I've got you."
She pressed her face against his back, her small body fitting against his. He felt her hands come to rest on his stomach, her fingers lacing together. He was intensely aware of her breathing, of the solid living warmth of her. Something unspoken broke between them in the darkness, the line, the boundary between protector and possession, between solace and sin. It was gone.
He did not know when he fell asleep, but he woke to the first light of dawn. His arm still wrapped around her, her body still held tight against his. She was sleeping deeply and without fear for the first time since he had known her. He woke her gently. The spell of the night was broken and an awkwardness settled between them.
She avoided his eyes. Her face flushed and quickly retreated to her room to dress and rebraid her hair. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. But when she emerged, she was calm. The nightmare was gone, and something new was in its place.
A few days later, he came in from the corral. He was stunned, and he stopped in the doorway. The cabin felt different. It was cleaner. His few books were stacked.
But it was Tyen who held his gaze. She was standing by the quern grinding corn. She was barefoot. She was wearing one of his old threadbare flannel shirts. It was enormous on her.
The sleeves rolled up a dozen times, the hem brushing her knees, and she was humming. It was a low, repetitive, tuneless sound, a sound of pure, unthinking contentment. She was swaying with the rhythm of the grinding stone. Her body lost in the motion. She looked up and saw him watching her.
She did not flush. She did not look away. She just smiled. A small, slow smile that lit her eyes. He had seen her curious.
He had seen her terrified. He had seen her angry. He had never in all this time seen her truly happy. The image of her barefoot, wearing his shirt, humming in his home, was the most profoundly domestic thing he had ever witnessed. It stunned him.
It was a vision of a life he had buried 5 years ago. He walked to her. He did not know what he was going to say. He reached out and touched her hair, the tight married braid. Tyen, he whispered.
She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing. Daniel, she breathed. The tension, the longing he had fought for so many months was suddenly unbearable. He bent his head and she rose on her toes. She stopped him.
Her hand came up to his chest. "Wait," she whispered. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, not with fear, but with that same devastating curiosity he had seen before, but this time her voice was fragile, uncertain. "So?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "White people make children this way."
He froze, his heart hammering. It was the same question she had asked about his chest. But it was not the same. This was not an abstract inquiry. "This," he said, his voice thick.
"Is part of it?" "Yes.", she held his gaze. "Can I try too?" He felt the world tilt. The innocence of the request and the profound bone deep need behind it.