Thomas tried again.
“Are there men coming?”
Her eyes moved toward him.
Then she whispered something in Lakota.
Thomas understood none of it.
“I don't speak your language.”
She swallowed.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Men.”
Thomas looked toward the ridge.
“How many?”
She held up three fingers.
Thomas felt his stomach tighten.
Three riders.
Maybe more.
He glanced at his horse.
Then at the woman.
He could leave.
He could ride home and bolt the door.
But something inside him refused.
He remembered Clara.
He remembered the winter she had found a wounded traveler frozen near their barn.
Thomas had wanted to send him on.
Clara had refused.
“You can be afraid,” she had told him. “Just don't let fear make your decisions.”
Thomas sighed.
“All right.”
He slid one arm beneath the woman's shoulders.
She stiffened.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
She stared at him.
“You can hate me later.”
For the first time, something almost like amusement appeared in her eyes.
Then she fainted.
Thomas lifted her.
She was lighter than she should have been.
He carried her to the horse.
Getting her into the saddle was difficult, but he managed.
Then he mounted behind her and turned toward the farm.
The ride took less than twenty minutes.
It felt like an hour.
Every time the woman stirred, Thomas expected an arrow or bullet to come from the hills.
Nothing came.
They reached the cabin as the sun dropped behind the western ridge.
Thomas carried her inside.
His cabin was small.
One room.
A stove.
A table.
A bed.
A washbasin.
A cedar trunk.
He placed her on the bed.
Then he examined her wounds.
The cut on her forehead was ugly but not deep.
Her ribs were badly bruised.
One ankle was swollen.
But the worst thing was dehydration.
Thomas heated water.
He cleaned her wounds.
He tore strips from an old shirt and wrapped her forehead.
The woman watched him the entire time.
When he finished, she whispered something.
“What?”
She pointed at herself.
Then she said slowly:
“Anya.”
Thomas repeated it.
“Anya.”
She nodded.
Thomas sat back.
“Thomas.”
She studied him.
“Thomas Weller.”
Anya repeated his name carefully.
“Thomas.”
He smiled faintly.
“Close enough.”
Outside, the horses shifted nervously.
Thomas turned toward the window.
Then he heard it.
Hoofbeats.
Far away.
Three riders.
Maybe more.
Thomas reached for his rifle.
Anya suddenly grabbed his wrist.
Her eyes were wide.
“No.”
Thomas looked at her.
“No?”
She shook her head.
Then she pointed toward the eastern ridge.
“They follow.”
Thomas understood.
“You know them?”
Anya nodded.
“Who are they?”
She looked toward the door.
Then she whispered:
“Killers.”
Thomas tightened his grip on the rifle.
“How long?”
Anya closed her eyes.
“Tonight.”
Thomas walked to the window.
The hoofbeats had stopped.
Someone was watching the cabin.
And Thomas realized with a cold certainty that whatever had happened to Anya beside the creek was not over.
It had only just reached his front door.
The Men on the Ridge
The riders did not come that night.
That was worse.
Thomas sat beside the window until dawn with his rifle across his knees.
The cabin remained dark.
Anya slept fitfully.
Once, she woke screaming.
Thomas rose immediately.
She had one hand pressed against her ribs and the other gripping the blanket.
He stood several feet away.
“You're safe.”
Her breathing slowed.
She looked at him.
Then she said something in Lakota.
Thomas shook his head.
“I wish I understood.”
Anya pointed toward the door.
Then toward the ground.
She drew three lines with her finger.
Thomas understood.
Three men.
He nodded.
“They were following you.”
“Yes.”
Her English was weak, but it was there.
Thomas stared at her.
“You speak English.”
“A little.”
“Why didn't you say so?”
She gave him a tired look.
“You did not ask.”
Thomas almost laughed.
It was the first time he had felt anything close to laughter in months.
By sunrise, Anya could sit upright.
Thomas made broth from dried beans and a little salt pork.
She ate slowly.