“No what?”
“No questions yet.”
“That seems uneven.”
“You are the one on the ground.”
Another fair point.
She cleaned his side with water from a canteen.
Elias clenched his jaw.
“You’re wasting that.”
“Water?”
“Yes.”
“You need it.”
“So does your horse.”
“My horse drank.”
He looked at the mare.
“Smarter than me.”
“Yes.”
The woman tied folded cloth firmly around his torso.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels.
“You can stand?”
“No.”
“Try.”
“I already did.”
“Try better.”
Elias laughed once.
It hurt enough that he stopped.
She slid one arm beneath his.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You’re small.”
For the first time she looked offended.
Elias clarified.
“Not small. Smaller than me.”
“I know what you meant.”
“I weigh two hundred pounds.”
“Less now.”
He stared.
“Was that a joke?”
“Stand.”
He pushed against the rock.
Pain flashed through his side.
His knees nearly folded.
The woman caught him.
She was stronger than he expected.
Very strong.
Elias leaned against her despite hating the helplessness of it.
His face ended only inches from hers.
Dark brown eyes watched him steadily.
No panic.
No disgust.
No sympathy either.
He appreciated that most.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“No questions.”
“You’re holding me upright. Feels intimate enough for names.”
The corner of her mouth moved.
“Mara.”
“Elias.”
“I know.”
His body became rigid.
Mara felt it.
Her expression changed.
“You know me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She looked toward the leather satchel.
Then at his face.
“You signed my father’s land away.”
Elias nearly fell.
Not because of the wound.
Because suddenly the woman holding him was no longer a stranger.
Eight years earlier, before the Hale County Water Office existed, before the rail line arrived, before Elias inherited his dead brother’s ranch and learned how much a signature could cost, he had worked as a survey chainman for Victor Harrow.
Harrow Cattle Company.
The largest ranching operation between Tucson and the New Mexico line.
Elias remembered a family standing beside Red Willow Spring.
An older Apache man.
Two women.
Children.
A military interpreter.
A surveyor.
Harrow.
And himself.
He remembered the argument.
Not every word.
Enough.
“This land is used by our people.”
“The deed says otherwise.”
“The deed is wrong.”
“This marker was moved.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Elias had been twenty-nine.
Poor.
Angry.
Eager to earn enough to purchase a ranch of his own.
He told himself he was not deciding anything.
He held the chain.
He carried stakes.
He signed the field record as witness.
Nothing more.
Three months later Harrow fenced Red Willow Spring.
Elias never saw the Apache family again.
Until now.
He looked at Mara.
“You were there.”