She looked at the fire.
“My father will ask again.”
His smile disappeared.
“About the traps?”
“About marriage.”
He nearly choked.
She watched him.
Then the smallest smile appeared.
“You are easy to frighten.”
“I've faced men with guns who were less dangerous than this conversation.”
The daughter looked away, but he saw her smile grow.
He asked, “What will you tell him?”
She considered.
“That he should mind his own business.”
“Excellent.”
“And then I may ask you something.”
His humor disappeared.
“What?”
She looked directly at him.
“If nobody owed anybody anything—if my father had never spoken—would you still look at me the way you do?”
The frontiersman forgot how to breathe.
She waited.
He knew there were answers that protected a man.
He was tired of protection.
“Yes.”
The daughter's smile vanished.
Not from anger.
From something much more frightening.
She stood.
“Good.”
Then she walked away.
The frontiersman stared after her.
He had survived snow, bear traps, gunfire, a massacre, and three years of guilt.
Yet he remained seated beside the fire for nearly an hour because he was suddenly terrified of a single word.
Good.
Chapter Twelve — No Debt Between Us
Winter settled harder over the mountains.
The ranch owner and his men were taken into custody.
The ledger traveled east with sworn statements from the former marshal, the lieutenant, several civilian witnesses, the chief's people, and the frontiersman.
Whether justice would actually follow remained uncertain.
Nobody in the mountains was naive enough to believe paper automatically defeated money.
But the scheme had failed.
The Army patrol withdrew.
The survey was suspended.
The traps stopped appearing.
For the first time in months, the camp breathed without waiting for another deliberate wound.
The frontiersman prepared to leave.
He repaired his saddle.
Packed dried meat.
Sharpened his knife.
Checked the gelding's shoes.
The chief's son watched from a log.
His injured leg was improving.
He could stand with a crutch.
“You run again?”
The frontiersman tightened a saddle strap.
“I'm leaving.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
The warrior grinned.
“Yes.”
The stranger looked at him.
“Your English gets better every day.”
“My sister teaches.”
“That explains the insults.”
The warrior laughed.
Then became serious.
“You saved my life.”
“We've covered this.”
“I say something.”
The frontiersman waited.
“My father speaks foolishly.”
“That may be the wisest thing you've ever said.”
“My sister not payment.”
“I know.”
“She chooses.”
“I know.”
The warrior nodded.
“You choose too.”
The frontiersman looked at him.
“Yes.”
“What choose?”
The stranger returned to the saddle.
“I don't know.”
The warrior sighed dramatically.
“Very slow man.”
The frontiersman threw a glove at him.