He didn't say a word as he nudged the horse forward, leaving the post behind. He had no plan for what came next, only the certainty that he couldn't have done otherwise. The last of his money was gone, and his life had just changed in ways he couldn't yet see. The horse moved at a steady pace along the rudded trail leading out of town, hooves, sending up small clouds of dust that clung in the fading sunlight. Clay kept his eyes forward, jaw- tight under the shadow of his hatbrim, hands steady on the rains, though his stomach turned with unease.
Behind him, the sound of the trading post grew fainter until it was swallowed by the open land. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could still feel the weight of the stairs, the muttered words, the quiet laughter that had followed them as they left. A man spending the last of his coins to buy an Apache woman.
Some saw it as foolish, others as shameful, and more than a few assumed they knew exactly why he had done it. The truth was harder to name. The woman sat stiffly in front of him, shoulders drawn tight, her long black hair lifting slightly in the evening breeze. She hadn't spoken a word since climbing onto the horse, and Clay hadn't expected her to. He kept a careful distance, his chest not quite touching her back, though the space between them was thin.
He could feel the tension in her body, the way she held herself as if ready to spring at the first chance. He wondered if she might try to run once they stopped. Part of him almost hoped she would, if it meant she could find freedom on her own terms. But another part of him, the part that had forced his hand in that trading post, wasn't ready to see her vanish into the dark hills, barefoot, hungry, and with nowhere safe to go. They rode until the town was no more than a smudge behind them.
The land opening wide into rolling scrub and scattered msquite. The sun dipped lower, painting the horizon with dull red light that would soon be gone. Clay's cabin wasn't far, a few miles from the creek that cut through the valley, but the weight of silence made the distance stretch. He cleared his throat, the sound rough after hours of not speaking. "Names claim Mercer," he said, his voice low, uncertain if she'd answered all.
"Got place a ways out. Ain't much, but it's dry and there's food." She didn't turn her head. For a moment, he thought she might stay silent, but then almost too soft to hear, she said. Nia. The word was quick, guarded, but clear.
Klay gave a small nod. She couldn't see. At least now he had a name to hold on to. He kept his eyes on the trail, but his thoughts turned. He wondered how long she had been kept like that, bound and displayed.
He wondered who had captured her in the first place, raiders, soldiers, or men who made their living hunting the vulnerable. He didn't ask. He could see by the rigid way she sat, the shallow rise and fall of her chest that questions would only build more walls. The sky was nearly dark by the time they reached the cabin. It stood plain and weatherworn.
A single room structure Clay had built himself over years of peacemeal work. The corral leaned against one side holding his two horses. The barn sag in places, a roof halfcovered with patchboards, but it still kept the worst of the weather out. Smoke stains marked the chimney, and the door creaked when he pushed it open. It was no fine home, but it was the only thing he could call his.
He dismounted first, then held the rains while Nia slid down. She moved cautiously, as if expecting a trick, her bare feet touching the packed earth with a wse. Clay noticed the raw skin along her soles, dirt pressed deep into the cuts. He thought about offering to carry her inside, but kept the thought buried. She would see pity in that, maybe weakness, too.