He would not send them away. The days after their arrival settled into something resembling routine, though it was a routine Rowan had not expected to share. Each morning, the fire was stoked before he reached it. The pot already filled with water. The youngest carrying logs half her size, as if she meant to prove her worth in silence.
The middle sister worked at the hearth, her hands quick, her eyes steady, and Rowan soon realized she could stretch a handful of beans or corn farther than he ever managed on his own. The eldest took charge of what was left undone, cleaning, mending, keeping the others steady. Rowan watched from the edges, silent. The weight of decision still on him, though he no longer thought of sending them away. What the women had not explained in detail was how long they had walked or what dangers they had crossed before reaching his door.
At first, Rowan wondered if men might come looking for them, soldiers, bounty men, or even vengeful settlers. But as days passed without sign of strangers on the road, he understood that the women had truly come from far away. They carried no belongings, no blankets, no tools, nothing but the torn dresses on their backs. It told Rowan that whoever had driven them out had left them with nothing but their lives. That was answer enough.
Trust did not come quickly, but it came in gestures. Rowan noticed it when the eldest left her sisters alone in the cabin one morning to follow him outside while he worked the fence line. She didn't speak at first, only walked near enough that he could see her bruises had begun to fade. She carried herself with the same straight-backed pride as before, but now she watched him work with an expression that was more curious than guarded. Rowan lifted a post in a place, hammering it down with steady blows.
The eldest stood a few paces away, arms crossed against cold. After a long silence, she said, "You keep door open, not locked." Rowan paused, lowering the hammer. "That's right." She gave a small nod, as if she understood more than his words carried. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she turned back toward the cabin. Rowan watched her go, the thought settling heavier than the hammer in his hand.
She had noticed his choice. She knew he'd left them safe inside without bolt or bar. That night, after the meal, the youngest fell asleep quickly curled near the fire. The middle sister sat quietly mending another seam. Rowan worked at carving a handle again, the knife blade flashing in the lamplight.
The eldest sat closest to him, her hands folded in her lap. After a long stretch of silence, she reached across the table and touched the wooden piece he was carving. "You fix things," she said softly. Rowan looked up at her hand resting on the unfinished handle. His chest tightened, though he kept his voice even.