And he guessed both would earn only more mistrust. Inside the cabin was dim, but warmer. Clay lit a lantern, its glow stretching across the rough huneed table, a single cod against the wall and a stone hearth where the ashes from the morning fire still smoldered. The room smelled of smoke, leather, and the faint scent of horse that clung to his clothes. He set his hat on the peg near the door, then moved toward the hearth, crouching to stir the ashes back to life.
Nia lingered near the door, her back straight, eyes darting across the space as if measuring the distance between every object and every way out. She didn't sit. She didn't relax. Clay kept his movements slow, deliberate, letting her see he wasn't in a hurry to corner her. "I'll get food started," he said, voice even.
He took a tin pot, filled it from a small bucket of water near the door, and set it over the flames. He added beans from a sack, a pinch of salt from a jar. The work was simple, almost automatic. He'd done it so many nights alone that he barely thought about it. But tonight, he felt every motion under her watchful eyes.
When the beans began to soften, he ladled some into a tin plate and sat on the table. Then he stepped back, folding his arms loosely, and waited. For a moment, she didn't move. Her eyes flicked from him to the food, then back again, suspicion clear on her face. Slowly, as if testing a trap, she stepped forward and lowered herself onto the bench.
She picked up the spoon and ate, careful, quiet, though the speed with which she swallowed told him how hungry she really was. Clay busied himself with cleaning his rifle on the other side of the room, giving her space. He thought about the questions she must have. Why'd he spend his last coins? What did he expect from her now?
He didn't have easy answers, not even for himself. All he knew was that the sight of her on that platform had torn something loose in him. Something he couldn't have ignored without hating himself for it. When she finished, she set the spoon down carefully, her eyes rising to meet his for the first time since they'd left town. There was no thanks in them.
Not yet, only a sharp kind of measuring. She wanted to know what kind of man he was. You can see a plane. Clay nodded once, not looking away. You'll sleep in here by the fire.
Cot's mine, but the floor's warm enough. Tomorrow, I'll see about getting you shoes. You could decide if you want to stay or leave when you're stronger. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she lowered them to the fire light. Clay stretched out on the cot, boot still on, rifle propped within reach.
His mind turned over the choices that had led him here. He had no money now, no plan for how to make it through the next weeks. He had brought a stranger into his home, a woman who had every reason to hate men like him, who might vanish the first chance she got. But as he lay staring at the low ceiling, listening to the faint rustle as she settled onto the blanket near the fire, he felt something he hadn't in years. The cabin no longer seemed as empty.
Klay woke before dawn the way he always did. The cabin was quiet except for the low pop of coals in the hearth. He turned his head slightly and saw Nia curled under the blanket near the fire. She hadn't moved much through the night. Her breathing was steady but shallow, her knees tucked up against her chest like she had learned to take up as little space as possible.