“And your father?”
“He never recovered. Not really. He kept working, kept eating, kept getting up in the morning. But something inside him had gone.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
She remained silent.
“My father died two winters later,” Nathaniel continued. “After that, I sold the farm. I told myself there was nothing left to stay for.”
“Where did you go?”
“Everywhere.”
He smiled without humor.
“I learned to ride cattle, fix fences, shoot straight, and sleep in places where nobody knew my name.”
“And you liked that?”
“At first.”
“What about now?”
Nathaniel looked toward the valley.
Children were chasing one another near the river.
A woman laughed outside a nearby house.
Smoke curled from cooking fires.
“I don't know,” he admitted.
Ayana watched his profile.
For the first time, she understood that his wandering had not necessarily been freedom.
Sometimes people moved constantly because standing still meant remembering.
She placed her hand beside his.
Their fingers almost touched.
Neither moved away.
The silence between them was gentle.
Then Nathaniel said, “Your father still watches me like he expects me to steal something.”
Ayana smiled.
“He does.”
“Does he know I'm building you a shelf?”
“He knows.”
“And?”
“He said you should use stronger joints.”
Nathaniel sighed.
“Everyone's a carpenter.”
Ayana laughed.
And this time, she allowed her fingers to rest against his.
The first snowfall came unexpectedly.
It was early for the season, and the mountains turned white overnight.
The valley itself received only a dusting, but temperatures fell sharply.
Nathaniel helped move supplies into storage.
Ayana distributed blankets and prepared remedies for coughing children.
One evening, they were trapped in her shelter when a sudden storm brought icy rain and strong winds.
The roof rattled.
The fire burned low.
Nathaniel sat near the doorway, repairing a leather strap.
Ayana sorted dried herbs at the table.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then she said, “May I ask you something?”
He looked up.
“Of course.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
His hands stopped.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you're asking about love or foolishness.”
“Are they different?”
“Sometimes.”
She watched him.
“Tell me.”
Nathaniel set the strap aside.
“When I was twenty-four, I met a woman in Kansas. Her name was Eleanor. She was kind, beautiful, and much too sensible to marry a man who spent more time with horses than people.”
“You loved her?”
“I thought I did.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted a house. Children. A steady life.”
“And you?”
“I wanted to keep riding.”
Ayana lowered her gaze.
“So you left.”
“Yes.”
“Did she ask you to stay?”
He hesitated.
“Once.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nathaniel looked at the fire.
“Because I was afraid.”
Ayana waited.
“Afraid of losing another home. Another family. I convinced myself that if I never belonged anywhere, nobody could take anything from me.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was.”
“Did you ever see her again?”
“Years later. She had married a schoolteacher. They had two children.”
“Were you angry?”
“No.”
“Sad?”
“A little.”
He smiled faintly.
“Mostly I was relieved. She deserved the life she wanted.”
Ayana considered that.
“Do you regret leaving?”
“I regret not being honest sooner.”
“With her?”
“With myself.”
The fire cracked softly.
Outside, wind pressed against the walls.
Ayana folded her hands.
“I was engaged once.”
Nathaniel looked up.
She had never spoken of it before.
“You don't have to tell me.”
“I know.”
She drew a breath.
“His name was Nakoa.”
Nathaniel remained still.
“He was respected. His family was respected. My father approved of him. Everyone said we would have a good life.”
“Did you love him?”
“I believed I did.”
“What happened?”
She looked at her hands.
“I became ill.”
Nathaniel waited.
“The fever damaged something inside me. A physician said I would probably never have children.”
He said nothing.
Ayana continued.
“When Nakoa found out, he ended the engagement.”
Nathaniel's jaw tightened.
“He told me his family needed sons. He said it wasn't personal.”
She laughed bitterly.
“As though there could be anything more personal.”
Nathaniel stared into the fire.
“What did you say?”
“I told him to leave.”
“Good.”
She looked up sharply.
He met her eyes.
“Good,” he repeated.
Ayana swallowed.
“For a long time, I thought I had been cruel.”
“Cruel?”
“He was disappointed.”
“So were you.”
“He wanted children.”
“There's nothing wrong with wanting children.”
“I know.”
“But there is something wrong with treating a person as though their only purpose is to provide them.”
Ayana looked away.
Her eyes burned.
Nathaniel continued gently.
“You didn't stop being yourself because a physician told you something about your body.”
She closed her eyes.
“You make it sound simple.”
“It isn't.”
“Then why do you say it so easily?”
“Because sometimes the truth is simple even when accepting it isn't.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
She wiped it away angrily.
“I hate this.”
“What?”
“Crying in front of people.”
Nathaniel reached into his pocket and offered a clean handkerchief.
“Then I'll look at the fire.”
She gave a small, broken laugh.
He turned his head.
For several minutes, she cried quietly.
Nathaniel did not try to stop her.
He did not tell her that everything would be fine.
He simply sat nearby.
When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse.
“Do you know what hurt most?”
He turned.
“What?”
“Not losing him.”
Nathaniel waited.
“It was watching everyone change the way they looked at me. Before the illness, I was Ayana. A healer. A daughter. A woman with skills and dreams. Afterward, I became the woman who could not have children.”
Her hands trembled.
“Even my father began speaking about me as though I were a burden someone had to accept.”
Nathaniel felt anger rise in his chest.
Not toward her father alone.
Toward every person who had reduced her life to an absence.
He moved closer.
“Ayana.”
She looked at him.