"We'll obey. We'll work. We'll cook. We'll bond. Just let us in." Rowan gripped the doorframe.
He felt the weight of her words more than the cold pushing against his skin. He'd seen Apache families driven from their land, hounded by settlers and soldiers, blamed for every raid, whether guilty or not. These three carried the look of women who had been through it. Pushed too far, beaten down, yet refusing to die quiet. His mind worked quickly.
If he let them in, they would need food, fire, shelter, supplies that were already running tight. Their presence could bring trouble if word spread in town. Settlers hated the sight of Apache faces. But if he turned them away now, they would not last the night. He knew it as sure as the snow under their feet.
Rowan's jaw tightened. His first instinct was to keep his door closed. He had built this life to avoid being dragged into other people's troubles. And here trouble was staring him in the face with bare feet and bruised skin. The eldest didn't beg again.
She simply held his stare steady as if daring him to make the choice. Rowan felt a knot in his chest. He wasn't a man given to pity. He had learned long ago that pity didn't keep anyone alive. But this wasn't about pity.
It was about whether he could watch three women freeze to death on his porch while he sat by the fire sharpening a knife. His silence stretched. Then, slowly, Rowan stepped back from the door. He gave a short nod. No words, just enough.
The eldest moved first, pushing her sisters ahead of her. They slipped inside quickly, their thin bodies brushing past him, carrying the sharp smell of cold, leather, and smoke. The door shut behind them, the latch clicking into place. Rowan turned back toward the fire. The women stood near it, huddled close.
Their eyes flicking around the cabin, sparse, rough, but warmer than the night outside. None of them spoke. Rowan didn't either. The only sound was the pop of the fire in the hearth and the wind pressing faintly against the shutters. For the first time in years, Rowan Pike was not alone.
The cabin felt tighter with four people inside. The air heavier though the fire did its best to push warmth into the corners. Rowan sat back at the table, the knife and whetstone still there, but he didn't touch them. He watched as the three women stood near the hearth, their eyes darting across the room as if trying to measure where they were and whether they were safe. The eldest kept her shoulders square, but Rowan noticed the way her fingers trembled when she held them out toward the fire.
She was the one who had spoken at the door, and her presence carried weight. The middle sister had a sharper edge in her gaze. Rowan guessed she was the one who had tried to take charge when the eldest faltered, though she deferred once her sister stepped forward. The youngest stayed closest to the fire, pressing her hands to her arms as if she could rub life back into herself. Rowan realized none of them had eaten recently.