Not yet.
The woman curled beneath the blanket.
She kept her eyes open for hours.
Eventually, exhaustion defeated fear.
Before dawn, she fell asleep.
Maren did too.
When morning came, pale sunlight entered through cracks in the wooden wall.
The woman woke suddenly.
Fear returned to her face.
Maren was already pulling on his boots.
“You hungry?”
She stared at him.
The question seemed stranger to her than the rifle had been.
Finally, she nodded.
Maren put beans and salt pork into a pan.
The smell filled the cabin.
He gave her a plate.
She didn't eat.
“Go ahead.”
She looked at him.
“You eat first.”
Maren understood.
She expected him to test the food.
He took a bite.
“There.”
She ate.
At first, desperately.
Then slowly.
When she finished, she looked ashamed of how quickly she had eaten.
“I can work,” she said.
“You don't have to.”
“I work.”
Maren studied her.
He understood then.
Work meant usefulness.
Usefulness meant safety.
If she was useful, perhaps she believed he would not throw her out.
He nodded toward the woodpile.
“Bring in some kindling.”
She stood immediately.
She glanced at the door.
“It's open,” he said.
She stepped outside.
Maren watched her through the window.
For six years, his cabin had been a place of grief.
Now another person's footsteps disturbed the silence.
And Maren realized something he had not expected.
The silence no longer felt quite the same.
By the afternoon, Maren had learned three things about the woman.
She was stronger than she looked.
She trusted no one.
And she was determined not to be helpless.
She gathered kindling, swept the floor, and repaired a tear in Maren's old coat using a bone needle from a small pouch she had somehow managed to keep.
Her hands were skilled.
Maren noticed the cuts.
He brought her a clean rag.
“For your hand.”
She stared at it.
Then accepted it.
He waited.
“What is your name?”
Her fingers stopped moving.
For several seconds, there was only the sound of the fire.
Finally, she answered.
“Atsila.”
Maren repeated it carefully.
“Atsila.”
She looked surprised.
Perhaps people had mispronounced her name before.
“Maren Crowe,” he said.
She studied him.
“Maren.”
He nodded.
That was the beginning.
Not romance.
Not trust.
Just names.
Two people who had survived long enough to introduce themselves.
That evening, Atsila told him what had happened.
Her husband had died after an illness.
His family blamed her.
They told her she carried bad spirits.
They said two children who died at birth had died because of her.
Eventually, they sent her away.
She wandered until a group of men found her.
They tied her.
They intended to trade her.
She escaped when the men became drunk.
The rest Maren could see on her body.
He didn't ask for details she wasn't ready to give.
He simply listened.
“If they find me,” she whispered, “they take me back.”
Maren looked into the fire.
“No.”
She looked at him.
“No?”
“They don't take you from here.”
Atsila studied his face.
“Why?”
Maren didn't have an easy answer.
Because he hated what men had done to her.
Because he remembered Ruth.
Because he had spent too many years pretending that doing nothing was the same as being innocent.
Because when Atsila had knelt in the dirt and offered to become someone's obedient wife simply to stay alive, something inside him had broken.
Instead he said:
“Because you're here.”
The next morning was bitterly cold.
A thin frost covered the yard.
Maren planned to repair the western fence.
When he picked up his tools, Atsila stood.
“I come.”
“No.”
“I work.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I have walked worse.”
Maren almost smiled.
She had pride.
He understood pride.
Sometimes pride was the last thing keeping a wounded person standing.
He walked to the corner of the cabin.
There, hanging from a peg, were Ruth's old boots.
They had remained untouched for six years.
Maren took them down.
Atsila stared.
“Take them.”
“Her boots.”
“Yes.”
“I cannot.”
“She has no use for them.”
Atsila slowly accepted them.