He simply leaned back, folded his arms, and closed his eyes against the fire light. The silence lingered, but it was no longer the same. By the fifth morning together, the rhythm of life in the cabin had changed in ways Clay hadn't expected. The chores were the same. Splitting wood, hauling water, patching fences, boiling beans.
But the silence carried differently. Where once the cabin had echoed with nothing but his own footsteps, now there were two sets moving across the worn floorboards. Nia's presence filled the space in small, steady ways. Her careful sweeping, the sound of her soft steps to the creek, the quiet clatter of her spoon in the pot. It unsettled him at first, then settled into something he couldn't quite name.
Nia's health was improving slowly. The hollow look in her face softened after regular meals. The raw skin at her wrists had begun to scab over, though she still rubbed them absent-mindedly, as if the memory of ropes still pressed there. Her feet, cut and bruised from walking barefoot too long, remained tender. Clay noticed her wsece sometimes when she moved across the packed dirt floor, though she tried to hide it.
He left the shoes he had bought near her blanket, saying nothing. After a few days, she began to wear them, breaking them in with short walks outside the cabin. Clay never asked her to explain where she came from or how she had been taken. The answers might come one day, or they might not. What mattered was that she was here now.
He knew the land well enough to realize she had nowhere else safe to turn. But word was already spreading. On his trip to town for supplies, Klay felt the weight of eyes on him heavier than usual. The storekeeper kept his questions short, but there was something in his stare. Curiosity sharpened into judgment.
A pair of ranch hands near the saloon muttered as clay passed. Their voices low, but their laughter sharp. He ignored it, but it burned in his gut. Jeb Rollins must have spoken after spotting the figure near Clay's cabin days earlier. That meant talk was traveling fast, and soon it would become more than whispers.
When he returned, Nia was standing near the corral, her hand brushing the flank of his geling. She looked up as he approached, weary but calmer than before. The sight of her outside unsettled him. If neighbors had seen once, they could see again, but he said nothing, only handed her the small bundle he carried, salt, coffee, and a bit of dried pork. That evening, as they sat by the fire, she spoke first.
They talked. Her voice was quiet, but direct. Klay glanced at her, surprised she had asked. He gave a short nod. Some her jaw tightened.
Bad talk. He didn't answer right away. He stared into the flames, weighing his words. Most folks don't understand. They don't care to.