Then Gideon reached inside his coat, drew out a leather pouch, and tossed it at Rufus’s boots.
The pouch hit the boards with a heavy clink. Coins spilled across the platform in bright gold flashes.
A murmur went through the crowd.
Rufus stared. “You serious?”
“I am,” Gideon said. “And if there’s a man here with a taste for hell, let him laugh now and get it over with.”
No one laughed.
Gideon turned to the crowd, his voice carrying clear down the length of the street. “These women are not cattle. They are not property because a drunken fool says so. They are human souls, and if this town has forgotten the difference, then this town is poorer than I thought.”
The sheriff stood near the mercantile porch, one hand resting on his belt. He looked away.
That, Clara thought, was somehow the ugliest thing of all.
Gideon faced her and Naomi again. His tone changed. It lost its steel and became something rougher, gentler, like a hand that knew its own strength and meant not to bruise.
