One evening, as they sat by the fire after a long day of clearing snow from the roof, Ayla asked, "Do you ever get scared?" Wyatt glanced at her. "Of what?" "Anything. Everything.
Being alone, losing what you have." He thought about that. "Yeah," he said finally. "I get scared. Just don't let it stop me."
"How?" "By doing what needs doing anyway. Fear's just noise. You can listen to it or you can keep moving." She nodded slowly, absorbing that.
"I've been listening to it for a long time, and now I'm trying to move." Wyatt smiled. "You're doing fine." But the piece didn't last. A week later, just after dawn, Wyatt stepped outside to find fresh tracks in the snow. boot prints leading up to the barn and then back out again.
Heading south, his blood went cold. He went back inside, his face grim. Ayla looked up from the stove and whatever she saw in his expression made her go still. "They were here," Wyatt said. "When?"
"Last night, while we were asleep.", Ayla's face drained of color. "Why didn't they—?" "Don't know. Maybe they were scouting, seeing what we had, how many of us there are." He grabbed the rifle from the rack.
"But they'll be back soon." "What do we do?" Wyatt looked at her. This woman who'd come into his life by accident and turned it into something worth protecting. "We get ready," he said, "and we make damn sure they don't get what they came for."
Ayla straightened, her fear hardening into resolve. "Tell me what you need." They spent the rest of the day preparing. Wyatt checked every window, every door, making sure they could be barred from the inside. He moved ammunition into the cabin along with extra water and food.
Ayla helped him drag heavy furniture into position, creating cover they could use if it came to a fight. "You remember what I taught you?" Wyatt asked, handing her the revolver he kept in his saddle bag. "I remember." "Good.
If they get inside, you aim for center mass, and you don't stop pulling the trigger until they're down. Understand?" "I understand." He hated the necessity of it. Hated that she had to think this way.
But he hated the men hunting her more. That night they didn't sleep. They sat in the dark, backs to the wall, weapons within reach. The wind howled outside and every creak of the cabin made them tense. But the hours passed and no one came.
Dawn broke cold and clear. Wyatt stood and stretched, his muscles stiff. Ayla was slumped against the wall, her eyes half closed. "Get some rest," he said. "I'll keep watch."
"Wyatt, rest," he said more gently. "You're no good to me exhausted." She nodded reluctantly and curled up by the fire. Within minutes, she was asleep. Wyatt sat by the window, rifle across his knees, and watched the horizon.
The sun climbed higher, turning the snow to blinding white. Nothing moved. No riders, no tracks, just the endless expanse of winter. But he knew better than to relax. The waiting was its own kind of torture, the not-knowing worse than any fight.