An Obese Noblewoman Was Handed Over to an Apache as Punishment by Her Father, But He Loved Her Like

Chapter 4

**Arabella**

She learned none of this until it was too late to thank Esther. What she learned in her first weeks among the Apache was how to survive.

Her soft hands blistered as she attempted to help with daily tasks. Her clumsy efforts to grind corn ended in spilled flour and fresh tears. The women never mocked her — but their sidelong glances carried judgment all the same.

One morning, Naelli handed her a heavy clay pot and pointed toward the stream. Fetch water. A task so simple a child could manage it.

But the pot was too heavy. Arabella made it halfway back to the village before the vessel slipped from her grasp and shattered against the rocky ground.

She stared at the broken pieces, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

*I can’t even do this.*

She knelt to gather the shards and cut her finger on a jagged edge. Blood welled up, bright red against her pale skin.

A shadow fell across her.

Maka.

She braced for anger. For contempt. For the final confirmation of everything she believed about herself.

Instead, he crouched beside her and gently took her injured hand. From a pouch at his waist, he produced a leaf, crushed it between his fingers, and pressed it to her wound. The bleeding stopped almost immediately.

“Leave this,” he said, indicating the broken pot.

He reached into his own belt and produced a smaller water container — a gourd, worn smooth from years of use, small enough to carry with one hand.

“Start with what you can carry.”

The words settled into her chest like a seed finding soil.

He wasn’t lowering expectations out of pity. He was teaching her to build strength gradually. He was meeting her exactly where she was.

*No one had ever done that before.*

—

That night, Arabella sat outside Naelli’s dwelling, turning the gourd over in her hands. It was unremarkable — weathered, plain, held together by a simple leather strap. But it was also the first thing anyone had ever given her that didn’t come with conditions attached.

She studied the gourd more closely. There was something carved into its surface — a pattern she hadn’t noticed before. Faint, almost worn away by years of handling.

A flower.

*Lavender.*

Her breath caught.

No. It couldn’t be. It was just a coincidence. Gourds had patterns carved into them all the time. It didn’t mean anything.

But she couldn’t stop looking at it. Couldn’t stop tracing the faded lines with her fingertips. Couldn’t stop the memory that surged up — her mother kneeling in her garden, her hands deep in the soil, her face peaceful in a way it never was inside the manor walls.

*Lavender for calm. For protection. For remembrance.*

She looked across the village and found Maka sitting by the central fire. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up.

Their eyes met.

And in that moment, Arabella understood something she couldn’t yet put into words.

*This was not an accident. None of this was an accident.*