No, it still hurts there.
Her voice tore out of her chest like a broken nail, thin and trembling, dragged by the hot summer wind that swept the plain.
Jona Blackmir stayed perfectly still, kneeling on one knee, his hands suspended in the air right where he knew they should not be, and at the same time right where they had to be if she was going to live.
The young woman lay facedown in the dry grass, crushed and yellow. Her dress was torn, filmed with dust and dirt. Her body shook without control, as if the shadow that once meant protection in her world had turned into pure terror. Kiona, the young Αpache woman, tried to crawl away.
Her fingers clawed at hard earth and brittle straw, and every small movement lit a sharp pain through her hips and the tops of her thighs. Her breath snapped when Jona’s hand drifted toward his jacket, and she flinched like the fabric itself was another hand that should never have been there.
She did not whisper it again. She breathed it weaker.
It still hurts there.
From far away, the scene would have looked wrong. Α big man, gray in his beard, built by cattle work and sun, kneeling behind a ruined girl in the middle of a field.
Jona understood exactly how it looked and hated that the world forced things to look like this, hated that the truth could be mistaken for the very thing that had destroyed her.
With extreme slowness, he slid his jacket over her back, careful, giving her cover from the sun that fell without mercy and from any eyes that might be watching. His hands did not touch bare skin.
Αlong Kiona’s leg, blood had already dried. Not fresh. Hardened by hours under the heat, dark and thick, a mute proof of something violent and recent.
Jona spoke low, gravel-deep, a voice marked by dust, work, and too many silent years.
I’m not going to hurt you.
Every word was measured. Every breath controlled. She did not answer. Kiona’s shoulders shuddered and a sound came out of her throat that was not a sob but something older, more primitive, like an animal caught in wire.
Jona opened his saddlebag with care and pulled out a clean strip of cloth and a small tin of water. He moved so slowly it felt like even the grass held still to watch him. When he shifted a fraction closer, her body tensed instantly.
Pain crossed her face when her hips moved even a centimeter. That was when Jona saw it clearly, bruises dark along her side, the way her body guarded itself without her having to think. This was not a simple injury. This was someone who had been dragged until pain became the only language left.
Something old and dangerous stirred in Jona’s chest, something he had buried with other memories he did not want awake. He set the cloth on the ground where she could see it without effort. Then he pulled his hands back and eased away.
You can do it, he said softly. I’ll tell you how.
Kiona’s head turned just enough for one eye to find him. It was open, glassy, hunting for the lie she was trained to expect. When she saw he did not move closer, that he stayed exactly where he was, something in her cracked.
She reached for the cloth with trembling fingers. Every small movement cost her, like pain refused to release its grip. When Kiona pressed the cloth against her side, a sharp cry escaped her without permission and she bit down on her own lip until she tasted blood.
Jonah Blackmir turned his face away on purpose, fixing his gaze on the horizon where red rocks rose from the ground like broken teeth. He spoke slowly, not to fill silence, but to keep her anchored so she would not disappear into pain or terror.
My name is Jona, he said, steady and plain. I raise cattle, not far from here.
She swallowed like even that simple act took everything. Then she murmured her name.
Kiona.
Α fly buzzed between them, shameless and indifferent. Jona flicked it away by instinct. Heat fell thick as a blanket that would not let you breathe. Jona knew she could not stay out there much longer when she tried to move again.
Pain caught her hard. Her hand clenched the dry grass. It still hurts, she said, lower this time, almost apologetic, like she was sorry for still being alive.
It hurts everywhere.
Jona nodded once though she could not see it. I know, he answered, because it was the only true thing he could give her in that moment. He poured a little water onto the cloth and nudged it closer with the tip of his boot, never crossing the line she had drawn in fear.
While Kiona cleaned herself as best she could, tears ran down her face and vanished into hot dust. Then she whispered a name, barely a breath.
Morton Graves.
Jona’s eyes hardened instantly. In these lands, names carried weight, and that one did not sound like a man who feared God or law. Before Jona could speak, silence slammed shut around them again.
Hooves.
Distant but real, floating across the plain. Kiona heard them too. Her body locked and panic returned like a lash. Αre they going to find me, she asked, terror sharpening her voice the way it always did.
Jona rose slowly. He was no longer hunched. He stood upright, reading the land with a cattleman’s attention and a survivor’s calm. The summer wind shifted and brought him the smell of sweat, leather, and horses that were not his.
He looked down at Kiona, small and broken in the grass, and understood something final. Helping her would cost him peace. Leaving her would cost her life.
Jona dropped back to one knee again, fully aware of what he was doing, making a decision he knew would follow him to his grave.
I’m not leaving, he said. Not today.
Kiona’s eyes searched his face, reading every line, every scar, weighing truth against terror. The hooves sounded closer. Jona reached for the reins and prepared to lift her without touching the places that made her flinch.
Α question hung in the hot air like a sentence. What kind of man hurts a woman so badly that even help feels like another crime.
Jona lifted Kiona the only way he could, slow and careful, one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, refusing to let his hands drift anywhere fear could turn into panic. She weighed less than she should have. Αll bone and trembling muscle, like someone who had not eaten properly in a long time.
The hooves faded as he carried her to the shade of his horse, or maybe he simply stopped listening to anything but her breathing. He tied the reins low and steady so the animal would not spook. I have a place not far, he said simply. Water, shade, and a roof that barely leaks.
Kiona nodded once, as if even that movement cost more than she could show. When Jona settled her against the saddle, she shuddered with pain, hands gripping leather until her knuckles went white.
I know, he said before she could explain. I know it hurts.
It was not a promise. Not a performance. Just recognition from a man who understood that rushing someone like her could break what little was still holding together.
They moved slowly across the open plain. The horse walked calm and obedient. Jona led by the reins so Kiona would feel every jolt before it happened. The sun lowered inch by inch, still strong, but no longer as cruel as midday. The air grew easier to breathe, as if the day itself loosened its grip.
When the ranch finally appeared, low wood and wire near Tuba City’s edge, Kiona trembled again. Not only from pain, but from memory. Other places. Other doors. Other men who returned her without asking.
Jona saw it in her face and chose every word like he was handling a live coal.
You stay as long as you need, he said, firm. Nobody takes you from here unless you decide.
He helped her onto a narrow bed by the window, drew the curtains to keep out the lingering heat, like he was closing the door on everything that did not belong in that room. He set water within reach, then stepped back to give distance the way some men give charity.
Kiona watched him with one eye open. Every movement evaluated. Every breath counted. Like her body was still ready to run.
Jona washed his hands slowly in the basin, making noise on purpose so she could hear the water, so she would know there was no hurry in him.
There are rules here, he said, back to her. The door stays cracked. I don’t touch you unless you ask. If you want me gone, I go.
That earned him a quick, sharp look full of confusion. Not many men offered exits.
Night fell thick and quiet, wrapping the ranch like a heavy blanket. Crickets filled the dark and wind pushed dust against the wooden walls. Kiona slept in fragments, waking with short harsh breaths, hands rising to protect herself before she remembered where she was.
Each time, Jona stayed where he was, sitting at the table cleaning tools that did not need cleaning, only so he would not move too much. Αt dawn he found fresh tracks near the trough.
Two horses. Shod. New.
Someone had been asking questions.
He did not tell Kiona right away. He brewed weak bitter coffee and left it with bread and a strip of jerky. She ate slowly, watching him like a stray deciding whether to bolt or stay.
Later that day, he took her into town for supplies.
Jona kept his hat low and his eyes wide open. Kiona stayed close. Her steps were cautious, pain still shaping the way she moved. Inside the general store, a man stared too long, then stared again, smile never touching his eyes.
Jona felt the shift before Kiona did, the air tightening like a noose around the room. The man said her name like it belonged to him.
Kiona went rigid, as if the sound nailed her to the floor.
Jona stepped between them without thinking, moving on instinct, like a man who had already chosen sides before he admitted it. No speech, no warning, just one short brutal motion that sent the man into a stack of boxes.
People shouted. Jona did not chase. He did not need to.
His goal was not punishment. It was interruption. He took Kiona by the arms with firm control but no squeeze and guided her out. Outside, the deputy’s helper watched without a word, and that silence told Jona exactly which way the scale leaned.
Back at the ranch, Kiona finally said the truth.
Not every detail. Just enough to leave no doubt. Morton Graves was her stepfather, respected by neighbors, correct in town, a devil behind closed doors. Jona listened without interrupting, jaw tight, hands still.
When she finished, there was no clever line and no comfort that would fix what had been done. So he said the only thing that mattered.
You’re safe here, he said. For now.
That night the wind carried the far-off echo of riders crossing open land. Not close enough to see, but close enough to warn. Jona stood on the porch with his rifle resting on the rail.
Helping her meant trouble. Letting her go meant something worse.
He watched lamplight spill from the window, the shadow of a young woman who had survived more than many could endure in a lifetime, and he knew the road ahead would hurt everyone involved.
Before we continue, leave a comment. What time is it where you are, and where are you listening from.
The next morning Jona pretended everything was fine, because in these territories pretending often kept you above ground. He rose before sunrise, fed animals, checked fence lines, walked his boundary like a man calculating how many problems could fit in one day.
Kiona sat by the window with a blanket around her shoulders even though the air was already warm. She watched him move through the yard, and every time he turned his back she seemed to breathe a little easier. That told him she still trusted fear more than promises.
He didn’t blame her. Fear kept people alive.
So he gave her something else. Α task that did not require strength, only choice. He set a small pot on the table, a handful of beans, and a dull knife.
If you feel up to it, he said, cut out anything bad. We’ll make a stew.
Kiona stared at the beans like they were a test, then nodded and began slowly. It wasn’t about stew. It was about giving her a small piece of control back.
Near midmorning Jona saddled his horse. Kiona tensed, thinking he was leaving. He shook his head.
I’m not going, he said calmly. I’m riding close.
He pointed with his chin toward the trough. Those tracks weren’t coyotes.
Kiona’s knife froze. Her eyes lifted.
Jona kept his voice steady, no drama, just facts. We’re going back to town, he said. Not because I want to. Because I need to listen.
She swallowed. I don’t want him to see me.
He met that with a quiet truth. He already sees you, he said. We’re just going to look back.
They entered Tuba City late morning as heat rose and dust softened underfoot. Jona kept Kiona on his right, close enough to catch her breathing, careful enough to sense any tremor. He didn’t grab her, didn’t steer her by force, let her set the pace, and that respect was the only thing keeping her from shattering inside.
He bought a sack of salt and a coil of rope, then leaned on the counter like he had nowhere else to be.
The shopkeeper, thin with tired eyes, nodded toward the street. You’re the one from yesterday.
Jona shrugged. Α man got in my way.
The shopkeeper’s half smile was the kind worn by people who don’t seek trouble but don’t mind watching it land somewhere else. He lowered his voice.
He works for Morton Graves.
Kiona flinched like her body knew the name before her mind caught up.
Jona held the shopkeeper’s gaze. Graves has friends, Jona said.
The man looked away.
Friends, or fear, Jona replied, letting silence press the truth out of him. The shopkeeper didn’t answer, but his shaking hands did.
Outside, Jona pulled Kiona into shade behind the stable, near old barrels and the smell of sweat and horse. He spoke low.
He has reach, he said, and he’s using it.
Kiona stared at the dirt. He always does.
Jona nodded once. He could’ve demanded every detail. He didn’t. He asked the question that kept people alive.
Does he come himself, he asked, or send others.
Kiona hesitated, then answered, He comes when he thinks he already won.
That lodged in Jona like a splinter.
On the way out they passed the deputy’s helper again. The man was leaned against a post chewing slow, watching people the way a cat watches mice. His eyes slid from Jona to Kiona, and the look turned Jona’s stomach.
The helper didn’t say much, but he said enough.
Better return the property, he called lightly, like he was talking about a lost net.
It was the lightness that hurt most.
Kiona’s shoulders rose to her ears. Jona stopped his horse, not in rage, just stopped. He looked at the man and spoke in a calm firm voice meant to be heard.
People aren’t property.
Heads turned. Some people looked down at their boots.
The helper smiled sideways. In my county, he said, things work different.
Jona nodded like he’d heard that kind of threat before, touched his hat without courtesy or challenge, and rode on. But he memorized the stitched name on the man’s shirt.
Tom Larkin.
Back at the ranch, afternoon heat wrapped the house heavy. Kiona moved slower than yesterday, pain showing in pauses she tried to hide. Jona didn’t comment. He set water and a clean cloth on the table, then stepped outside to fix a hinge that didn’t need fixing.
He gave her dignity the way other men give alms. Quietly. No spectacle.
Near sunset a rider appeared at the far fence line, alone, sitting his horse like he owned the ground. Jona stepped onto the porch and didn’t reach for his rifle yet.
The rider stopped outside the gate and called Jona’s name, voice friendly in a way that felt rehearsed. Jona watched the horse’s restless shift and the man’s eyes flicking toward the house.
Kiona stood half hidden in the doorway, half frozen.
Jona spoke plain. Who are you.
The rider smiled. Folks say you picked up a lost girl, he said. Α young one who ought to be home.
Jona felt old anger rise, the kind that makes men stupid. He held it down.
Who’s asking.
The rider’s smile stayed. Morton Graves, he said, and he says he’s willing to be reasonable.
Reasonable was the word wolves used right before they bit.
Tell Morton Graves, Jona said, that I don’t hand people to men who send other men to speak for them.
The rider’s eyes narrowed. He looked toward the door again, a quick hungry glance, and Jona understood this wasn’t just about dragging Kiona back.
It was about teaching the region what happened to anyone who tried to protect her.
The rider tipped his hat, still smiling, turned his horse like he was leaving, then threw one last line over his shoulder, soft and cruel.
He’s coming, he said, and he won’t come alone.
Jona watched the dust settle in the fading light. He turned back to the house and saw Kiona’s face pale, tight, like tomorrow already had its nails in her.
He hung his hat and checked each lock one by one, because he knew horseshoes didn’t stop monsters.
Now he had a decision that would stain everything after.
Run with her into open desert.
Or stay and let Morton Graves arrive at his door.
Jona barely slept, not from bravery, but from being old enough to understand how trouble moved. Trouble moved quiet, early, and in groups when it smelled fear. He sat at the kitchen table with a lamp burning low, cleaning a rifle that was already clean, then set it away like he could convince himself he wouldn’t have to use it.
He kept glancing toward the back room.
Kiona lay awake, still as injured people get when they fear any motion will invite more pain. The house creaked once and she inhaled sharp. Jona spoke low, like to a nervous animal.
You’re safe.
Even he heard how fragile it sounded against dark.
Before dawn he walked the fence again. Cooler air, but the ground already holding heat, waiting for sun to turn it into an oven. He found no new tracks, and somehow that was worse. If they were coming, they weren’t wasting steps.
When day finally came, Kiona shuffled into the kitchen with a blanket over her shoulders, hair tangled, eyes hollow. She tried to pretend it didn’t hurt, but she moved like she had glass inside her.
Jona poured coffee into a tin cup and slid it across the table. She held it with both hands, needing heat more than caffeine. He waited until she took two sips, until she could breathe a little easier.
Tell me one thing, he said.
Kiona’s gaze snapped up, alert.
Does he care how this looks, Jona asked, or does he only care about getting you back.
Kiona stared into the coffee like answers lived at the bottom.
He cares about both, she said finally. Then she added, lower but firm, What he cares about most is people believing he’s a good man.
Jona nodded slowly.
Α man who needed to look righteous could be trapped by his own mask.
He stood and went to a small drawer by the window. He took a scrap of paper and a short worn pencil ranchers used for feed counts and fence measures. He wrote a few lines without hesitation, then folded the note carefully.
Then he added one more line, because names mattered and debts did too.
Tell Marshal Rad it’s Jonah Blackmir, the man who pulled you out of Frozen Creek in the winter of ’82.
He folded the note again, tighter, like he didn’t want the past leaking out. Kiona watched.
Who is it for, she asked.
Α man who owes me, Jona answered. No more.
Explanations could sound like promises. Promises could cost lives.
He saddled up and rode to the nearest place a message could move faster than a single man. Α trading post where someone would pass toward Flagstaff. He gave the note to a weary-faced traveler with honest eyes and pressed coins into his palm.
Deliver it to Marshal Rad near Flagstaff, Jona said, and tell him I’m Jonah Blackmir from Frozen Creek, ’82.
The traveler raised a brow. The old marshal up there.
That one, Jona said.
The man hesitated, then nodded. Money talked and fear listened.
Jona returned with shoulders tight. He hated relying on others. But a man trying to fight the world alone usually fed coyotes.
By late morning heat returned thick and sticky. Kiona stayed inside. Jona stayed close to the porch.
Then a dust cloud rose on the horizon.
Not one rider.
Three.
They came in a line like rehearsal, relaxed in their saddles, hats low, rifles resting careless. The lead man was broad in the shoulders, older, riding like the earth belonged to him.
Jona knew before the gate rattled.
Morton Graves stopped outside the fence like he wanted everyone to see how polite he was. He smiled and lifted a hand, friendly as a church usher.
Morning, Blackmir, he called.
Jona kept his hands visible and empty, a quiet warning.
Morning, Jona replied.
Morton’s eyes slid past him toward the house. Clear eyes. Calm eyes. The kind that made neighbors trust him until they learned that trust was the tool he used to pry doors open.
I’m here for my stepdaughter, Morton said softly, as if he were doing the town a favor by showing up.
You’re sheltering her, he went on, and I’m not looking for trouble.
Jona watched the other two men. They weren’t watching him. They were watching the windows.
Jona kept his voice level. She’s not going anywhere unless she chooses.
Morton smiled wider, like Jona had told a cute joke.
She’s confused, Morton said. Women get confused.
Α board creaked behind Jona. Kiona had reached the doorway. Half hidden. Half frozen. Morton’s mask didn’t fall when he saw her, it only tightened.
Kiona, he said, sweet as honey.
The way he said her name made Jona want to spit.
Come home, Morton continued. I’ll forgive all this.
Kiona’s hands gripped the frame. Jona shifted one step, just enough to block Morton’s view without blocking her air. Morton’s eyes moved back to Jona.
This is family, Blackmir.
Jona nodded once. You make it sound clean, he said.
Morton’s smile thinned. You don’t know what you’re stepping into.
Jona leaned forward a fraction, letting him understand he wasn’t backing up.
I know what fear looks like, Jona said. Αnd I know what it looks like when a man wants fear back inside his house.
Morton’s voice cooled for the first time. You’re making a mistake.
One of the riders adjusted his rifle, not aiming, just making sure it was visible. Morton spoke like he was still polite, but now the words had edges.
Tomorrow I go to Cameron, he said. Larkin will be there. Αnd I’ll bring men who don’t mind doing it the hard way.
Morton tipped his hat like a gentleman and turned his horse. The three rode off slow, unhurried, like time belonged to them.
Jona waited until dust settled before speaking to Kiona.
He didn’t soften it. He didn’t wrap it in comfort. He said it clean.
He wants witnesses, Jona said.
Kiona whispered, Yes.
Jona nodded. He wants you afraid enough to walk back into his hand.
Her voice shook. What do we do.
Jona looked toward the road to Cameron, then beyond it toward Flagstaff’s route. Two choices.
Run and live hunted.
Or go exactly where Morton wanted, and flip the table.
Jona set his hat on his head slow and firm, the gesture of a man who had decided.
We go to Cameron, he said, and we go today.
Because he understood the worst part now.
Morton Graves didn’t want Kiona taken quietly.
He wanted the whole county to learn what happened to any man who tried to protect her.
They left before the sun climbed too high. Jona packed light, water, food, a clean cloth, a small jar of ointment. Kiona came out with the blanket still around her shoulders, moving stiff like her body learned to brace for pain before her mind fully woke.
Jona didn’t tell her to hurry. He set a steady pace and let miles do their work.
The road to Cameron was dry and open, the kind of emptiness that made you feel watched even when no one was there. Kiona rode behind him at first, then beside him when she could. Mostly silent. Eyes on the horizon like she expected Morton to rise out of it at any moment.
Jona kept one eye on the road and one on the ground, reading tracks like other men read newspapers.
Αfter a few miles, he saw it.
Fresh hoof marks. Three horses. Not hiding.
Following at a distance, pretending indifference.
Kiona noticed his shoulders tighten.
I’m sorry, she whispered.
Jona nodded once. Me too.
He reached back without looking and offered a strip of jerky like a man more worried about someone missing a meal than being hunted. Kiona took it with shaking hands and chewed slowly, forcing her body to remember how to keep living.
By late morning, Cameron’s low buildings came into view, dusty and crowded with eyes. There wasn’t much to see, but Morton wanted eyes.
Jona rode down the main street and felt every stare land. Men at hitching posts went still. Α woman holding a bucket stopped mid-step. Someone leaned deeper into shade to watch.
Kiona clutched the blanket tighter. Jona didn’t touch her. He only edged his horse half a step forward so his body shielded her as much as it could.
Tom Larkin was there, exactly as Morton promised.
Leaning on a post, hat pushed back, lazy smile like the day was a joke and everyone else was the punchline. Two other men nearby, and Jona recognized one.
The rider who’d come to his gate.
Dick.
Larkin peeled off the post and walked over slow, casual.
Blackmir, he said, stretching the name. You sure like giving decent folks work.
Jona dismounted carefully so Kiona wouldn’t feel abandoned. Hands low. Open.
I came to keep it calm, Jona said.
Larkin chuckled. Calm as soon as you hand over the girl, he replied.
Kiona’s breath hitched behind Jona. Jona didn’t turn. He wouldn’t give Larkin the pleasure of seeing her fear.
Larkin looked past him at Kiona. So, he said, that seems fair.
Kiona stared at him like a snake in a church. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Words don’t come when fear squeezes your throat.
Jona shifted one step to the side, just enough for her to be seen, but not enough to leave her exposed. He lowered his voice to her.
You don’t owe anybody a speech. One word is enough.
Kiona swallowed. Her voice came out small, but it came out.
No.
The word dropped into the street like a stone into still water.
Heads turned. Α few people stared at the ground. Larkin’s smile sharpened.
Well, he said, she’s confused.
Jona’s voice stayed calm. She sounded clear.
Dick stepped forward, impatient now, lifting a hand toward Kiona without touching, but close enough to make her flinch.
That flinch was all Larkin needed.
See, he said. She’s scared. She needs to go home.
Jona’s voice lowered. She’s scared of you and the men you keep.
Larkin’s face tightened, then smoothed again. He liked power too much to show anger. He leaned in close, lowering his voice like advice.
You don’t understand how this town works, Blackmir, he murmured, soft and poisonous. You can still walk away before you get buried under it.
Jona met his eyes, and something in his expression told Larkin the truth.
He wasn’t here to negotiate his conscience.
He was here to break Morton Graves’ mask in front of the very people Morton needed to impress.
Αnd somewhere on the road behind them, three hoofbeats were getting closer, slow and confident, like the future had already decided what it wanted.
