Nayeli stiffened. It was true. The blatant racism at the post had left her without coffee, flour, and sugar for the coming winter.
"I bought them out," Elias said simply. "Flour, sugar, coffee, and some salt pork. It's yours."
"I don't have the coin to pay you for this," Nayeli said, her pride bristling.
"I don't want your coin," Elias said. "And I don't want your gratitude. It’s just leveling the scales for the life I owe you."
He took a step back, tipping his hat once more. "I've taken up work at the Cross-K ranch about twenty miles east of here. If you ever need anything, send word. Otherwise, you won't see me again. Stay warm, Nayeli."
He turned and walked back to his horse.
Nayeli looked at the package. She looked at the man walking away. He was really going to leave. Again. He asked for nothing. He demanded nothing.
"Elias," she called out.
He stopped, one foot in the stirrup, and looked back over his shoulder.
Nayeli lowered the axe. The autumn wind pulled a loose strand of dark hair across her face. She didn't brush it away.
"The coffee is no good if it just sits in the paper," she said softly. "I have a pot on the stove."
Elias stood frozen for a long moment, the wind howling around them. A slow, tentative smile broke across his face—not the smile of a conqueror, but the smile of a man who had been offered a rare, precious gift.
"I'd be mighty obliged, ma'am," he said, stepping down from the stirrup.
He didn't walk toward the cabin; he waited. Nayeli picked up the heavy package of supplies, holding it against her chest. She looked at him, finally meeting his gaze without the armor of her past traumas. She saw only a man who had seen her soul before he had ever looked at her body.
"Come inside out of the cold, Cowboy," the widowed Apache woman said, turning toward the cabin. And for the first time in years, she left the door wide open behind her.