Weeks later, she found a small wooden box on a shelf — once used for bullets. Inside lay the leather strip from her first braid.
“You kept it,” she said.
“It reminded me what choice looks like.”
She held it for a long moment.
Then she placed it back.
“I don’t need it anymore.”
That evening, she carried her old auction dress behind the cabin. The ground was cold but soft enough to dig.
She buried it.
Pressed the earth flat.
“You don’t own me anymore,” she whispered.
When she stepped back inside, Cole didn’t ask where she’d been.
He only looked at her dirt-streaked hands and nodded.
“You buried it.”
“Yes.”
He handed her a small wooden bird he’d carved.
“For when storms come back,” he said.
She sat beside him this time, not across.
“I’m not staying because I owe you,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“I’m staying because I like who I am here.”
His smile was small but real. “That’s what I hoped.”
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