Then Tala lowered her eyes. She allowed him to guide her back towards the chair. Her pride was still there, strong as ever, but the resistance was beginning to fade. That evening, Cal set a plate of beans and a piece of bread on the table. Tala rose again.
She moved slowly, but there was more strength in her steps than the day before. Crossing the small cabin with care, she lowered herself into the chair across from him. They ate without speaking. Only the pop and crackle of burning wood filled the room, but the silence between them had changed. It no longer felt cold.
There was warmth in it now. Something almost familiar. Cal chewed slowly while watching her from across the table. He noticed the hollows beneath her cheeks, the sharp line of her collarbone, and the faint trembling in her fingers whenever she lifted the bread. She was exhausted, but she was not broken.
Halfway through the meal, Tala finally spoke. Why did you help me? Her voice was quiet and uncertain, but the question carried weight. Cal lowered his spoon to the table and leaned back in his chair. He met her eyes before answering.
No grand speech, no excuse, only the truth. Because I couldn't leave you out there to die. Tala parted her lips as though she wanted to say more. Instead, she gave a small nod. Firelight caught the beads woven through her black hair, making them gleam like tiny stars.
Later, when the cabin settled into silence once again, Cal returned to sharpening his knife while Tala rested beneath the blanket. Her eyes were nearly closed with sleep. Still, he could feel her watching him. Not since the day he buried Rose Ransom beneath that old oak in Texas had Cal felt anything quite like this. It was not peace.
Not yet. It was only a crack in the wall he had built around himself. A narrow opening in years of grief and silence. Something inside him, long shut away, had begun to move again. He had no idea where any of it would lead.
But as he looked at Tala, her face warmed by the glow of the fire, Cal understood one thing clearly. She was no longer simply a wounded stranger he had carried out of the woods. She had become the reason that old cabin no longer felt empty. The following morning began like any other. Cal stood outside splitting wood.
Each swing of the axe landing with a hard, steady rhythm. Crack, lift, strike again. The sound carried through the cold air like the beat of a heart. Tala sat near the cabin door grinding corn with the same stubborn determination she had shown from the moment she found the strength to stand again. Morning sunlight spilled over the ridge turning the frost gold.
For a few minutes, the whole world seemed still. Then came the hoof beats. These were not the distant sounds Cal had heard the night before. These were close, heavy, hard. The pounding rolled across the frozen ground.
Cal stopped in the middle of a swing. His gray eyes snapped toward Tala. She had frozen, too. Both hands still wrapped around the mill handle. "They're coming."
She whispered. There was no fear in the words, only certainty. Cal set the axe against the wall, grabbed his rifle, and stepped onto the porch. Tala followed several paces behind him, holding the blanket tightly around her shoulders. Her face had gone pale, but her eyes were burning, fixed on the tree line.