Klay nodded once. "Don't blame you." He didn't try to argue. He knew better than to expect trust bought with a handful of coins. She went back to eating slower now. Silence filled the space between them.
Heavy but not unbearable. Clay let her finish before he spoke again. "I don't want nothing from you," he said, his voice steady. "Not food, not work, not what those men thought. You're free to leave, but if you do, I reckon you won't get far without shoes or supplies.
So, at least wait until you got those." Nia's jaw tightened, her eyes dropped to the fire, and for the first time since he had seen her on that platform, she looked less like stone and more like someone carrying too much weight. She didn't answer him, but she didn't argue either. Later that morning, Klay saddled his horse to ride the fence line. He kept half an eye on the cabin as he worked, wondering if she would be gone by the time he came back. He imagined her walking barefoot across the scrub, bloodied feet pressing into sharp stones.
The sun burning down, no water to drink. The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. When he returned at midday, she was still there. She had tidied the table, stacked the wood he'd left by the hearth, and swept dirt from the floor with a willow branch she must have found outside. Small things, but they startled him.
He hadn't asked, hadn't expected it. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, watching her move about his cabin, and it felt strange. For years, this space had been silent, filled only with his own footsteps. Now it carried hers, too. That night, when he spread the blanket near the fire for her again, she hesitated before lying down.
Her eyes lingered on him as he settled onto the cot. He could feel the weight of that look, as if she were still testing, still waiting for the moment he might show himself to be no different than the others. Clay rolled onto his side, facing the wall, making sure his hands stayed clear and his breathing even. It took a long time for sleep to come, but when it did, he realized he felt something unfamiliar. Not comfort, not yet, but a sense that the silence of his cabin had shifted into something less lonely.
The following morning broke clear and cold, the air so thin it carried sound farther than usual. Clay had been up since first light, checking the corral and scraping frost off the trough. He moved with the same practiced rhythm he always had, but his mind wasn't settled. Every time he stepped away from the cabin, a part of him expected to return and find her gone. Yet, when he pushed the door open again, there she was, sitting cross-legged near the fire, her hands busy pulling apart strips of dried willow bark she must have gathered while he worked.
She twisted them into a thin cord. Her movements precise and quiet. It struck Clay as odd. She could have slipped out while he was bent over the corral or fetching water from the creek, but she hadn't. She stayed.
He didn't say anything at first, only nodded and set his hat on the peg. He moved about the cabin, pulling out a small sack of flour, measuring out enough to make flat cakes for breakfast. He caught her watching him, but her eyes darted away when he looked back. You could have run, he said finally, his voice low, not accusatory, just a fact. Her hands stilled over the cord, then resumed.