You were afraid. I still am. Being afraid doesn't mean you failed. Clara looked at him. Then what does being strong mean?
Taza sat several feet away, choosing what you do while you're afraid. She thought about that for a long time. The following weeks changed Clara more than she expected. She had arrived at Taza's ranch unable to walk without pain. Now she could cross the yard on her own.
At first, Taza encouraged her to rest. But Clara insisted on helping. She wanted to feel useful, not because she owed him, because she wanted to know what she could accomplish. She began with small tasks. She helped prepare meals.
She gathered vegetables from the garden. She cleaned the kitchen. Eventually, she started spending time around the horses. One young mare was particularly difficult. The animal had been frightened by something in its past and refused to let anyone near.
One of the ranch hands tried to approach it, but the mayor pulled away. "Leave her," Clara said. The ranch hand looked at her. "She won't let anyone near her. That's why. " Clara walked toward the fence.
Taza watched from a distance. She did not grab the mayor. She did not force it. She simply sat on the ground nearby. For nearly half an hour, she did nothing.
The mayor remained at the far end of the enclosure. Then slowly, it began moving toward her. Clara remained still. Another few minutes passed. The horse finally stopped beside her.
Clara reached out carefully. Her fingers touched its neck. Taza smiled faintly from the fence. Later, Clara asked him why he was smiling. You understand frightened things.
She looked down. Maybe because I know what it feels like. Taza's expression became serious. You're not a frightened thing. Clara looked at him.
I'm trying not to be. You don't have to stop being afraid to become strong. That sentence stayed with her. Their relationship changed quietly. There were no sudden promises, declarations.
Instead, there were small moments. Taza began leaving a lantern outside Clara's window when he worked late. Clara started saving coffee for him in the mornings. They sometimes sat beneath the cottonwood tree after sunset. They talked about simple things, horses, weather, the valley, her mother's memories, his childhood.
One evening, Clara finally asked him why people in town feared him. Taza looked toward the mountains. People fear what they don't understand. Do you think they misunderstand you? Yes.
Does it bother you? Sometimes. Clara smiled faintly. I understand that. Taza looked at her.
You understand? People misunderstood me too. He nodded. Neither spoke for several moments. Then Clara asked about his family.
Taza was quiet. My people taught me that a person's actions tell you more than their words. Clara looked at him. Who taught you that? My mother.
What happened to her? Taza looked down. She died many years ago. Clara's expression softened. I'm sorry.