The wind rattled the shutters, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. He thought about the bruise on Ayla's wrist, about the way she'd flinched when he'd moved too fast, about the careful, measured way she'd answered his questions, like every word cost her something. He didn't know her story, and he wasn't fool enough to think she'd tell him. Not yet, maybe not ever. But he knew enough to recognize the shape of it.
Someone had hurt her. Someone had made her run. And now she was here in his barn eating his food, trying to figure out if he was safe or just another kind of danger. Wyatt rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He'd give her time.
That was all he could do. Time and space and the promise that as long as she was on his land, no one would lay a hand on her. It was the least he could offer. And maybe if she stayed long enough, it would be enough. Morning came cold and gray.
Wyatt woke before dawn as he always did and dressed quickly in the dark. He built up the fire, made coffee, and fried eggs and bacon in the cast-iron skillet. When everything was ready, he stepped outside and crossed the yard to the barn. Ayla was already awake. She'd folded the blankets neatly and stacked them on the crate, and she was standing by the door, looking out at the fields.
She turned when she heard his footsteps. "Morning," Wyatt said. "Morning," she replied. Got breakfast if you want it. She followed him to the cabin without a word.
Inside, he gestured to the table and she sat. He set a plate in front of her and poured her a cup of coffee, black and strong. She picked up the fork and ate slowly, methodically, like someone who'd learned not to waste food. Wyatt sat across from her and ate his own meal. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
It was just quiet, the kind of quiet you got used to when you lived alone. When she finished, she pushed the plate away and looked at him. "I can work," she said. Wyatt raised an eyebrow. "Didn't ask you to."
"I know," she said. "But I'm not taking charity. If I'm staying, I'm working." He considered that. "You know anything about ranching?"
"Some. I can mend fences, feed animals, chop wood." "All right," Wyatt said. "There's plenty to do. You can start with the horses.
They need hay and fresh water." She nodded and stood, carrying her plate to the basin. She washed it without being asked, then headed for the door. "Ayla," Wyatt said. She stopped, looking back.
"You don't have to prove anything," he said. "Not to me." Her expression softened just a little. "Maybe not," she said. "But I need to prove it to myself."
She left, and Wyatt sat alone at the table, his coffee growing cold in his hands. Over the next few days, Ayla became a fixture on the ranch. She worked hard, harder than he'd expected, and she didn't complain. She mucked stalls, hauled water, repaired broken tools, and helped him drag cedar posts across the north pasture to replace a section of fence that had collapsed in the last storm. She didn't talk much, but she didn't need to.