"No," he said. "I suppose it doesn't."
They continued riding.
A little later, Nasha asked, "What was her name?"
"Mary."
"Did she love the ranch?"
Wade smiled faintly.
"She loved the horses. Hated the dust. Said the wind carried more dirt into our house than the doors ever let out."
"She sounds wise."
"She was."
Nasha turned her attention to the distant mountains.
"My mother used to say the land remembers everything people do upon it."
Wade followed her gaze.
"Your mother lived near the southern pass?"
"Yes."
"Is she still there?"
Nasha did not answer immediately.
"I do not know."
Wade felt the weight of those words.
He had heard rumors of raids, fires, and families driven from their homes. But rumors were easy to ignore when they happened far away.
"What happened to you?" he asked quietly.
Nasha's hands tightened around the reins.
"Men came to our camp. They said they were looking for stolen cattle. There were no stolen cattle. They took three men, burned two lodges, and ordered the rest of us to leave."
"Vane's men?"
"I saw Vane's black carriage outside the camp the day before."
Wade looked at her sharply.
"You're certain?"
"I remember the silver ornament on the door. And the man who spoke to my uncle called him Mr. Vane."
Wade's mind began connecting things he had tried not to think about.
For months, Vane had been buying land along the southern river. Small ranchers had sold their property after receiving threats. Several families had disappeared from the territory. The sheriff had claimed that they had simply moved away.
"Why would Vane want your camp?"
Nasha shook her head.
"I do not know. But my father had something he wanted."
"What?"
She looked at him.
"A map."
Wade frowned.
"What kind of map?"
"A map showing the old water routes beneath the southern hills. My father knew where the springs were. Vane wanted that knowledge."
Wade glanced toward the mountains.
The southern hills were dry and difficult to cross. Water was scarce, and whoever controlled the springs controlled the cattle routes for miles.
Vane had been buying land there for nearly a year.
Suddenly, the auction made a terrible kind of sense.
"Did your father give him the map?"
"No."
"Where is it now?"
Nasha's eyes returned to the road.
"Somewhere safe."
Wade waited for her to say more, but she remained silent.
By late afternoon, the ranch came into view.
The house stood on a low rise overlooking a broad valley. A red barn leaned slightly to one side, and a windmill turned slowly above a well. Beyond the house, a narrow creek wound through a grove of cottonwoods.
Nasha studied the buildings.
"This is your home?"
"It is."
"It is quiet."
"Too quiet sometimes."
He dismounted and helped her down, though he waited until she accepted his hand.
A dog came bounding around the barn, barking furiously. It was a large, sandy-colored animal with one floppy ear.
"Easy, Scout," Wade called.
The dog stopped in front of Nasha and sniffed her boots.
She crouched slowly and held out her hand.
Scout sniffed her fingers, then sat down.
Wade stared.
"That dog doesn't like anybody."
"Perhaps he recognizes that I am not interested in frightening him."
"Maybe."
Nasha rose.
"Where is the cabin?"
Wade pointed toward a small building near the creek.
"There. It needs a little cleaning, but the roof is sound. There's a stove and a bed. You can lock the door from the inside."
"Thank you."
He hesitated.
"I'll bring you food and blankets."
"I can cook for myself."
"I figured you could."
She looked at him.
"Then why did you say it?"
"Because I didn't know what else to say."
Nasha almost smiled.
For the first time that day, Wade felt that the silence between them might become something other than distance.
But as the sun sank behind the mountains, a rider appeared on the ridge.
He was dressed in a dark coat and carried a rifle across his saddle.
Wade recognized him immediately.
It was one of Vane's men.
The rider stopped at the edge of the property.
"Mr. Sutter!"
Wade walked toward the fence.
"What do you want?"
The man pointed toward Nasha.
"Mr. Vane says you should bring the woman back to town."
Wade's expression hardened.
"Tell Mr. Vane he can come ask me himself."
The rider leaned forward.
"You don't understand. That woman belongs to him."
Wade placed one hand on the fence rail.
"No. She doesn't."
The rider spat into the grass.
"You'll regret this."
"Maybe. But I won't regret it tonight."
The man turned his horse and rode away.
Nasha stood beside the cabin, watching the dust settle.
"Vane will return," she said.
Wade nodded.
"I know."
"He will not stop."
"No."
She looked toward the mountains.
"Then you should know something."
"What?"
"If he comes here, he will not come only for me."
Wade followed her gaze.
For a moment, the valley seemed to grow colder.
"What else does he want?"
Nasha looked at him.
"The map."
The first week passed quietly, though neither Wade nor Nasha believed the peace would last.
She settled into the cabin and began repairing the loose boards around the windows. Wade offered to help, but she declined. She preferred to work alone, and he respected that.
Every morning, she walked to the creek before sunrise. Sometimes she returned with water in a clay vessel. Other times she sat beneath the cottonwoods, looking toward the mountains.
Wade did not ask what she was thinking.
He had learned that grief did not always want company.
On the third morning, he found her standing beside the barn, studying a broken section of fence.
"That post is rotten," she said.
"I know."
"Then why have you not replaced it?"
Wade looked at the post.
"Because I have twenty other things that need doing."
She examined the fence.
"Bring me a hammer."
He blinked.
"What?"
"A hammer. And some nails."
He fetched them.
By noon, Nasha had repaired three sections of fencing and discovered that the barn's southern wall had begun to separate from its foundation.
"You need another support beam," she told him.
Wade leaned against the doorway.
"I was planning to do that next month."
"It will fall before next month."
"You're very certain."
"I am."
He laughed.
"All right. We'll fix it tomorrow."
Nasha looked at him.
"We?"
"If you're willing."
She considered this, then nodded.
The following day, they worked together in the barn. Wade cut the timber, while Nasha measured and marked the beams. She understood construction better than he had expected, and when he asked where she had learned, she explained that her father had built houses and storage shelters for their family.
"My father believed that a person should know how to repair the things that keep them alive," she said.
Wade held the beam in place.
"Sounds like a good man."
"He was."
She looked down at the hammer in her hand.
"He taught me to read the weather, find water, and recognize plants that could heal a wound. He said that knowledge was something no one could take from you."
Wade drove a nail into the timber.
"Your father sounds a lot like mine."
"Was your father a rancher?"
"Yes. He died when I was twenty."
Nasha nodded.
"Then you know what it means to lose someone who taught you how to live."
Wade stopped hammering.
For a moment, he saw Mary standing in the barn doorway, laughing at something he had said years earlier. The memory hurt, but it no longer felt like a wound that could never close.
He returned to work.
That evening, they ate supper at the kitchen table for the first time.
Nasha had prepared beans, bread, and a stew made from venison Wade had brought home. She had also found a small patch of wild onions beside the creek.
Wade took a bite.
"This is better than anything I've cooked in years."
Nasha looked at him.
"What do you usually eat?"
"Whatever doesn't burn."
She laughed.
It was a small sound, but it surprised them both.