"You said I mattered. That's not a reason. That's just words." Wyatt set his own plate aside and leaned back in his chair. He wasn't good at this.
Talking about things that lived beneath the surface. But she deserved an honest answer. "Had a sister once," he said. Younger than me. Sweet kid.
Got mixed up with the wrong man when she was about your age. He was charming at first, or so she said. By the time we realized what he really was, it was too late. He'd isolated her, convinced her she had nowhere else to go. When she finally tried to leave, he killed her.
Ayla's face went pale. Wyatt, I was working a cattle drive up north when it happened, he continued, his voice flat. Didn't find out till I got back three months later. By then, he'd disappeared. Never did find him.
Never got justice for her. He stopped, his throat tight. He hadn't talked about Sarah in years. hadn't let himself think about her, about the guilt that still sat like a stone in his chest. "So when I see someone running," he said quietly, "Someone who's scared and hurt and got nowhere to go, I don't walk away. Can't bring Sarah back.
But maybe I can do right by someone else." Ayla was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was thick. "I'm sorry," she said, "About your sister." "Me, too."
She reached across the table and put her hand over his. The gesture was simple, but it hit him harder than he'd expected. He looked down at their joined hands, hers small and scarred, his rough and calloused, and felt something shift in his chest. "Thank you for telling me," Ayla said. Wyatt nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
After a moment, she withdrew her hand and stood, gathering the dishes. He watched her move around the cabin, quiet and efficient, and realized with a start that he didn't want her to leave. Not in the spring, not ever. The thought should have scared him. Instead, it just felt right.
That night, Ayla slept in the cabin again, and Wyatt kept watch by the door. But somewhere around midnight, exhaustion finally won. He dozed off in the chair, the rifle slipping sideways across his lap. When he woke with a start an hour later, heart pounding, it was to find Ayla sitting up by the fire, fully alert. "Go to bed," she said quietly.
"I'll watch." "You need sleep, too." "I'll sleep when you wake up. We'll take turns." It made sense.
He was too tired to argue. He moved to the narrow cot against the wall and lay down, boots still on, and fell asleep almost instantly. When he woke again, pale winter light was filtering through the window. Ayla was asleep by the fire. The blanket pulled up to her chin, her face soft in a way he'd never seen it.