Part of her wanted to run. Another part wanted to scream. Her body would allow neither. Pain burned through her shoulder, and fever had drained the strength from her limbs until even sitting upright demanded more energy than she possessed. Slowly, she looked into Wade's eyes again.
She searched for hunger, for contempt, for hatred. She found none of them, only exhaustion. And beneath it, a quiet sadness she recognized. She had seen that same look in the older men of her Apache community. Men who had survived long enough to bury too many friends.
Men whose eyes carried things they no longer knew how to speak about. At last, thirst overcame fear. Her throat felt raw. Heat burned beneath her skin. She needed water.
Cella slowly reached for the cup. Her fingers trembled, but once they closed around the metal, she held it firmly. Warmth seeped from the tin into her palm. The feeling was unfamiliar, strangely comforting. She drank carefully, one swallow, then another.
All the while, her eyes remained fixed on Wade. The warm water moved down her throat and softened the burning dryness inside her. A small measure of relief began spreading through her body. When the cup was empty, she set it down beside the bed. Then she looked at Wade directly.
Why? Her voice was rough from thirst and fever, but there was strength beneath it. It was only one word, yet it carried the weight of everything between them. She was not merely asking why he had carried her out of the canyon. She wanted to know why he was different.
Why had he not looked at her the way the soldiers had? Why had he not treated her like an animal? Why had he not tried to take advantage of her weakness? Why would a stranger give her water and expect nothing in return? Wade had known the question would come eventually.
He had no prepared answer, no polished speech, no promise designed to make himself sound better than he was. He looked at her for a long moment before speaking because I've watched this happen too many times before. His voice remained quiet, and this time I couldn't just stand there and look away. Those words became the first honest bridge between them. The guarded hardness in Cella's eyes eased, if only slightly.
In Wade Harland's face, she found something she had nearly stopped believing existed. Sincerity without a hidden bargain. She knew lies. She knew promises spoken only to gain obedience. She knew the hollow softness of pity offered by people who still looked down on her.