It was the start of something neither of them had words for yet. The days that followed carried a new tension, one that neither Clay nor Nia spoke of directly. The chores remained the same, but something lingered in the air. Longer looks, pauses that stretch too far, the way their hands sometimes brushed when passing a cup or tool. Clay kept his distance out of habit and caution, but he could feel the shift all the same.
One morning, as he saddled his horse to ride into town for more grain, Nia stood in the doorway watching him. She wore the cotton dress he had bought, cinched at the waist with a strip of leather cord. It fit her better than the torn deer skin, but her bare shoulders still carried the faint marks of rope burn. He caught himself looking longer than he should, then pulled his eyes away. "You need anything?" he asked, his tone.
Even her brows furrowed as if testing whether he meant the question. "No." He gave a short nod and mounted up. She stayed in the doorway until he disappeared over the ridge. Town was colder this time. The whispers had thickened into something sharper.
A man outside the saloon muttered loud enough for Clay to hear. Mercers got himself a squ in that cabin. Heard he paid for a same as you'd by a mule. Laughter followed ugly and cutting. Klay's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to it.
He finished his errands, kept his head down, and left fast. But the word stuck to him like burrs all the way home. When he returned, Nia was tending a small pot over the fire. The smell of stew filled the cabin. She had added strips of dried pork he brought last week.
She glanced at him when he entered, her eyes flicking over his face. She seemed to sense the weight on him. "They speak of me," she said quietly, more statement than question. Klay set the grain sack down, meeting her gaze. "They don't know you.
They don't matter." Her lips pressed tight and she stirred the pot harder than needed. Words matter. They follow. He didn't deny it. He just leaned back against the wall, arms folded.
Let them talk. My land, my home, not theirs. The firmness in his tone seemed to steady her a little, though he saw the doubt still flicker in her eyes. That night, the wind howled against the shutters colder than before. Clay threw another log on a fire.
He sat at the table, oiling the rifle, while Nia sat near the hearth, mending her dress again with the thin cord she had twisted days earlier. Silence stretched, but it was softer than before. When she finished, she laid the dress aside and spoke suddenly, her voice low. The man who sold me, he came to our camp with soldiers. Took many, some killed, some worse.