In a faint glow, Clay noticed her hands resting near her face, the skin at her wrists raw from the rope that had bound her. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and pulled on his boots. For years, he had lived by routine. Rise before the sun, split wood, tend the horses, and check the cattle. Nothing had changed that pattern except his own aging bones.
But now there was someone else in the room, and it made each step heavier. He wondered if she would still be there when he came back in from the yard. Outside, the morning air bit sharp against his face. The ground was hard, the grass thin, and the horizon stretched wide with no sign of neighbors. His spread wasn't much.
80 Acres that looked like more than they were, most of it too dry for good grazing. He had two horses, three cattle that survived off scrub, and what hay he could trade for, and a patch of land he tried to scratch a living from. His barn leaned, his fences sagged, and his roof leaked in the spring rains. But it was his, and that had been enough until yesterday. Anyway, he said to work with the axe, splitting logs and stacking them along the wall.
Each crack of wood against steel echoed across the still land. As he worked, his mind circled back to the same question. What now? He had bought her freedom, but freedom without a plan was no kindness. She had no shoes, no supplies, and nowhere safe to walk to.
He knew the nearest Apache band had been pushed north two winter's back, and soldiers patrolled the hills beyond. If she tried to leave on her own, she wouldn't make it far before hunger or worse caught her. By the time he returned inside, the sky had begun to pale. Nia was awake, sitting cross-legged near the fire, watching him with the same sharp eyes as the night before. She hadn't touched anything in the cabin.
The tin plate from supper was still on the table, the spoon resting neat inside it. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, tangled, but still striking in the lantern light. Clay set the wood down by the hearth. "You eat?" he asked, though he could see she hadn't. She shook her head once, slow.
He busied himself at the stove again, cooking another pot of beans. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. As he moved about the cabin, he felt her eyes on him, following every step, every sound. Not trust, just watchfulness, as if memorizing where he kept things, how close he came, what he might do next. He slid the plate toward her when the beans were done.
This time she didn't hesitate as long. She ate steady, each spoonful quick, but her back stayed rigid, ready to bolt if needed. Clay leaned against the table, arms crossed, keeping his voice even. I'll ride into town tomorrow. Get shoes, maybe a dress.
You'll need both if you're going to decide whether to stay or go. Her spoon paused halfway at her mouth. She looked at him then, eyes narrowing as if trying to gauge his meaning. Stay or go? Was that truly her choice?
He held her gaze, not moving. And after a moment, she set the spoon down again. "I don't trust you," she said finally, her voice low and rough. Her English carried the clipped edge of someone who had learned it secondhand. But her words were sharp enough.