"Hope, maybe, or the beginning of it." The days turned into weeks, and the rhythm of the ranch settled over them like snow. They worked side by side, speaking only when necessary, but the silence between them was no longer tense. It was comfortable, familiar, the kind of silence shared by people who understood each other without needing words. Wyatt noticed the changes in her, the way she stood straighter, the way her hands no longer shook when she reached for something, the way she smiled just a little when one of the horses nuzzled her shoulder.
She was healing slowly but surely. And if he was honest with himself, so was he. He'd been alone for a long time. Too long maybe. He told himself he preferred it that way, that solitude was easier than the mess of caring about someone.
But having Ayla here, working beside him, sitting across from him at the table, made him realize how empty the ranch had felt before. He didn't say any of that, of course. He wasn't good with words. Never had been. But he made sure she had enough to eat, made sure the barn stayed warm, made sure she knew in whatever small ways he could that she was safe.
And for a while it was enough until the day the riders came. Wyatt saw them first. He was out by the corral shooing one of the horses when he caught the glint of sunlight on metal in the distance. He straightened, shading his eyes, and counted three men on horseback moving slow and deliberate across the southern ridge. His gut tightened.
Ayla was in the barn mending a saddle. He walked quickly to the door and leaned in. "We got company," he said. She looked up, her face going pale. "How many?"
"Three," she stood, setting the saddle aside, her hands already trembling. "It's them," she said. "It has to be." Wyatt didn't waste time arguing. "Stay inside," he said.
"Don't don't come out unless I call for you." "Wyatt, stay inside," he repeated, his voice firm, but not unkind. She nodded, her eyes wide, and he turned and walked back to the corral. The riders were closer now, close enough that he could make out their faces. Hard men, the kind who made their living off other people's misery.
They rained in at the edge of the yard, their horses stamping and blowing, and the one in the middle, a thick-shouldered man with a graying beard, leaned forward in his saddle. "You Mercer?" the man asked. "I am," Wyatt said. His voice was calm, but his hand rested easy on the hammer at his belt. "We're looking for someone," the man said.
"Woman, native, about this tall," he held his hand up. "Might have come through here a few weeks back." Wyatt's jaw tightened. "Don't know what you're talking about." The man's eyes narrowed.
"That so?" "That's so." The rider to the left, younger, with a scar running down his cheek, spat into the dirt. "We got reason to believe she's here, old man. And we ain't leaving without her."
Wyatt didn't move. "You got no reason to believe anything," he said evenly. "And unless you're the law, which I'm guessing you're not, you got no business on my land." The bearded man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She owes us," he said.