It only cared what you did. About halfway to the ranch, she spoke. "Why'd you stop?" Wyatt glanced over his shoulder. "What's that?"
At the station, she said, "Why'd you stop?" You could have kept walking." He thought about that. "Could have," he agreed. "Didn't seem right, though.
Most people don't care what's right. Most people aren't worth knowing." She went quiet again, but he felt her grip on the saddle relax just a fraction. When the ranch came into view, it wasn't much to look at. A low cabin with a stone chimney, a barn that sagged on one side, a corral with three horses standing hipshot in the cold.
The yard was mud and frozen grass scattered with tools and firewood. It looked like what it was, a place where a man worked alone and didn't waste time on appearances. Wyatt dismounted and helped her down. She landed light on her feet, her eyes sweeping over the property with the same careful assessment she'd given him earlier. "Barn's through there," he said, pointing.
"There's hay in the loft, blankets in the tack room. I'll bring you something to eat in a bit." She nodded, still watching him. "What's your name?" he asked. She hesitated, then said.
"Ayla." Wyatt, he said, touching the brim of his hat. Welcome to the middle of nowhere, "Ayla." He led Tucker to the corral and unsaddled him, working quickly in the cold. By the time he finished, Ayla had disappeared into the barn.
He stood there for a moment, looking at the dark shape of the building, then turned and headed for the cabin. Inside, the fire had burned low. He stoked it back to life, added a few logs, and set a pot of stew on the stove to reheat. While it warmed, he cut thick slices of bread and poured water into a tin cup. When the stew was hot, he ladled it into a bowl, wrapped the bread in a cloth, and carried everything out to the barn.
The door creaked when he pushed it open. Ayla was sitting on a bale of hay near the back, her satchel at her feet, her shawl still wrapped tight. She looked up when he came in, her expression unreadable. "Figured you'd be hungry," Wyatt said, setting the bowl and bread on a crate nearby. "Stews nothing fancy, but it's hot."
"Thank you," she said quietly. He nodded and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him. "You live here alone?" Wyatt paused in the doorway. "Yeah."
"No wife, no family?" "No." She didn't ask why, and he didn't offer an explanation. He just tipped his hat and walked back to the cabin, leaving her to her meal. That night, Wyatt lay in his narrow bed and stared at the ceiling.