"We'll work, we'll cook, we'll serve. Just let us in." pleaded the Apache sisters.
The last of the daylight was fading behind the ridgeline, leaving the valley in a gray half-light where snow clung to the shadows and the pines stood dark and unmoving. Rowan Pike sat alone in his cabin, the steady scrape of steel on stone filling the silence. He was sharpening a knife, his motion slow, practiced more out of habit than need.
He lived by himself in this stretch of Colorado territory, 33 years old, broad-shouldered, a man who had done his time riding scout for cavalry patrols and breaking horses on ranches, but who had no taste left for the arguments of towns or the blood feuds of men. His mission now was survival in its simplest form. Cut wood, keep the fire alive, see winter through. Rowan wasn't a grieving widower like so many who hid from the world. His solitude was chosen.
Too many years of watching men tear each other apart for scraps of land or pride had taught him that quiet was worth more than coin. He had no family waiting for him and he wanted none. He had built his cabin, raised his fences, and stayed clear of both soldiers and settlers alike. The knock came without warning. It was sharp, hurried, then followed by another as if someone feared he might not answer quickly enough.
Rowan's hand froze on the knife. His pulse lifted hard in his chest. Few came this way. No neighbors, no travelers unless they were lost or desperate. He set the knife down on the table and glanced at the rifle leaning against the wall.
He didn't pick it up, not yet, but the thought pressed close. Another knock, louder. Rowan stood and crossed the room, boots striking the planks, every step measured. He pulled the door open. Cold air burst inside, carrying the smell of pine and snow.
And on his porch stood three women. They were Apache. Their faces drawn from hunger. Their dresses torn and dirty from hard travel. Their bare feet pressed into the snow on the boards.
The eldest stood in front, maybe 25, her long black hair falling loose around her shoulders. Leather strips still tied into some of the strands. Her deerskin dress was ripped at the seams. The neckline stretched low, exposing more than Rowan wanted to see, but couldn't avoid noticing. Bruises colored her arms, but her posture held dignity.
Her chin lifted even while her lips trembled from cold. Behind her, the middle sister looked sharper, more guarded, about 22. Her eyes flicked to Rowan's rifle almost immediately, weighing whether he would reach for it. She had the kind of look Rowan recognized. Someone used to bracing for the worst, already preparing for it.
The youngest clung to them both, no older than 18 or 19, slight and barefoot. Her breath shaking in clouds. Her eyes were wide with fear, but also with hope, desperate for whatever chance this door might offer. The eldest spoke. Her voice was rough, but steady.