Then he dropped to one knee beside her and carefully pulled the branches away. Her skin was cold beneath his hand. She flinched when his shadow fell across her, but she did not try to crawl away. Cal slung the rifle over his back, slid one arm beneath her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, then lifted her from the frozen ground. She weighed less than he expected, far less than a healthy woman should have.
Her breath touched his neck in weak, broken bursts, but she was breathing. That was enough. Cal rose with her held firmly against his chest. He started back toward the trail, his boots grinding through the frost while the weight of the decision settled deeper inside him with every step. The cabin he had built for one man would not feel the same after he carried her across the threshold.
He already knew that. But one truth mattered more. He could not leave her there to die. By the time the cabin finally appeared between the trees, Cal's arms were burning. He had carried calves heavier than that woman.
None of them had ever felt so heavy against his chest. Every step back seemed to carry him farther into a life he had never asked for. The cabin stood plain and solid among the pines, built from logs Cal had cut and stacked himself. Smoke still curled from the chimney, carrying the faint smell of the previous night's fire. He pushed the door open with his boot and stepped inside.
The single room held a little warmth, lit by the red glow of coals buried beneath the ashes. A narrow bed stood against one wall, a wool blanket folded neatly across the foot. Cal crossed the floor and lowered the woman onto the mattress as gently as he could. She moved weakly, eyes sweeping across the room like a cornered animal studying every possible way out. Her breathing came too fast, shallow, and uneven.
Cal pulled the blanket over the torn places in her dress, covering her with care, and giving her back whatever dignity he could. Tala watched every movement. There was no trust in her eyes yet, not even close. Cal stirred the fire back to life, hung a kettle from the iron hook, then poured warm water into a tin cup. When he leaned over to hand it to her, their fingertips barely touched.
Her hands were scraped and rough. Both wrists were swollen beneath the rope burns. She drank slowly. A thin stream of water slipped down her chin, but she wasted none of it. Cal studied her face in silence.
Dirt covered her cheeks, yet beneath it he could see high cheekbones and a stubborn strength that had not been beaten out of her. Not yet. He cleared his throat before speaking. What's your name? He asked more out of habit than any real expectation that she would answer.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, in broken English shaped by uncertainty, she finally whispered, "Tala." Cal gave a small nod. "Cal." Nothing more.
Silence settled over the cabin again. Only the soft crackle of the fire and the faint whistle of the kettle disturbed the heavy stillness. Cal stood, reached for an iron skillet, and warmed the beans left over from the night before. For a moment, he thought about how little food remained in the cabin. Winter had already been lean, but the thought of leaving that woman to die in the timber weighed far heavier than sharing what little he had.
He placed the plate in front of her. Tala hesitated. Her gaze shifted from the food to the rancher's face, then back again. At last, hunger won. She began eating slowly, chewing each bite with care, as though even that small effort cost her more strength than she wanted to show.
Across the room, Cal sat beside the table. He picked up his knife, pressed the blade against a damp sharpening stone, and began drawing the steel across it in slow, steady strokes. Once, twice, again, and though it kept his hands busy, his eyes continued drifting back toward the Apache woman now sitting beneath his roof. Cal's gray eyes kept drifting back to her. Questions circled through his mind like buzzards over dry country.