No shoes, no water, no tribe, she answered after a pause. Her English was broken, but clear. Nowhere to go. Clay felt the words sit heavy in the room. He knew what it was to be without anyone.
After the war, after losing his wife and boy to fever in the same cruel winter, he had cut himself off from people. He had worked cattle until his back broke down, then scraped enough money together to buy his friend's land when the man passed without kin. Since then he had lived small, speaking little, because speaking only reminded him of what he no longer had. He wasn't about to lay all that before her, but the truth of it pressed against him. He set the skillet on the fire.
The smell of browning flower rising, filling the cabin. He broke the silence. I'll ride into town later. Bring back shoes. Something better than that dress, too.
Her eyes flicked down to the torn neckline to frayed him. For the first time since he'd seen her, her hand came up to cover her chest, almost protective. She didn't thank him, but she didn't argue either. By midm morning, Klay saddled the horse. He hesitated at the door, looking back at her.
You'll be safe here. Don't open to anyone. Nia tilted her head uncertain. Who come? Clay's jaw tightened.
Sometimes traders cut through or neighbors ride by. Not often, but if they see you, there be talk. He didn't add what kind of talk. He didn't need to. She understood enough.
The ride to town was long, and Clay felt the weight of every mile. He kept his hat low, kept his mouth shut when he stepped into the dry good store. He bought a plain cotton dress, nothing fancy, just sturdy, and a pair of shoes that looked close enough to her size. When a storekeeper raised a brow, Klay ignored it. He left quick, keeping his purchases wrapped tight under his arm.
Back at the cabin, he found her sitting just where he left her, feeding sticks into the fire. She looked at the bundle he carried, suspicion clouding her face as if unsure what it meant. He set it down near her without explanation. For you." Her hands lingered over the fabric, testing the weight. She unfolded the dress slowly, eyes narrowing as though expecting some hidden demand.
When none came, she folded it again and set it aside, her face unreadable. The days that followed settled into a rhythm neither of them had planned. Clay worked outside, splitting wood, mending the sagging corral fence, patching the barn roof. Nia remained close to the cabin, but each day she took on more small tasks. She swept dirt from the floor, fetched water from the creek in his dented pale, stirred beans at the stove when his hands were busy.