Still nothing. Just that hard, unblinking stare. Wyatt exhaled through his nose, his breath fogging in the cold. He could leave. Should leave probably.
Whatever trouble she was in wasn't his business. He had a ranch to run, cattle to feed, fences that needed mending before the snow got worse. He didn't need complications, but he also didn't need to lie to himself. He knew what it looked like when someone was running. "Look," he said softer now.
"I don't know what you're mixed up in, and I'm not asking, but you stay out here tonight, you're going to freeze to death. I got a place about 6 miles west. Warm fire, hot food, and a roof that doesn't leak much. You can sleep in the barn if you want. No strings."
Her eyes narrowed. "No strings," she repeated. Her voice was like she hadn't used it in a while. "No strings," Wyatt said again. She studied him for a long moment, and he let her.
He knew what she was doing. She was weighing her options, calculating risk, trying to decide if he was the kind of man who kept his word or the kind who said one thing and did another. He'd seen that look before, on strays, on men who'd lost everything on himself once a long time ago. Finally, she stood slowly. She was taller than he'd expected, nearly his height, and built lean like someone who'd spent most of her life working.
She wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders and picked up a small bundle from the bench, a cloth sack tied with fraying rope. "Barn's fine," she said. Wyatt nodded. "Barn it is." He turned and started walking toward the edge of the platform where his horse was tied.
She followed a few paces behind, quiet as a shadow. He didn't look back, didn't need to. He could hear her boots scuffing the planks, the faint rustle of her shawl in the wind. When they reached his horse, a big rangy gelding named Tucker Wyatt swung into the saddle and offered her a hand up. She hesitated.
"Tucker won't bite," Wyatt said. "Can't say the same for me, but I'll try to behave." Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. She took his hand and let him pull her up behind him.
She settled onto the horse's back with the ease of someone who'd ridden before, though she kept a careful distance between them, her hands gripping the edge of the saddle instead of his coat. Wyatt clicked his tongue and nudged Tucker into a walk. The station fell away behind them, swallowed by the dark. The plain stretched out on all sides, endless and empty, the kind of landscape that made a man feel small. The wind picked up, cutting through his coat, and he felt her shift slightly, leaning closer to block the worst of it.
They rode in silence for a long time. Wyatt wasn't much for talking anyway, and she didn't seem inclined to start. That was fine by him. Words didn't change much out here. The land didn't care what you said.