A polished freight wagon sat at the curb like a fancy lie, its paint too clean, its wheels too proud. A banner hung from its side, red letters shouting promises into the sky:
Respectable men filled the square. Ranchers with sun-split lips. Storekeepers who smelled of flour and cashboxes. Prospectors with raw knuckles and pockets that jingled more with hope than gold. Their wives stood behind them, arms crossed, faces pinched with disapproval or curiosity. Boys climbed crates to see better. A dog barked once, then shut up as if it sensed the mood was mean enough without help.
At the wagon’s tailgate, a man in a shiny vest and a hat that looked like it had never met rain cleared his throat. His smile was sharp, practiced, and hungry.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, spreading his arms as if he were presenting art instead of people, “your futures have arrived. Ten ladies. Carefully selected. Properly chaperoned. Each one eager to build a home in the West.”
His name was Cyrus Wetherell, and he spoke the way some men played cards, always sure the next turn would show him the winning hand.
The women stood in a line beside him, hands folded, spines straight, eyes trying not to flinch when the crowd stared. Most were young. Most were pale from city air. Their dresses were tidy, their hair pinned tight, their smiles so careful they looked like they’d been stitched in place.
And then there was Bridget O’Malley.
She stood at the end, as if the line itself had politely decided to leave her last like a bad taste. Twenty-eight, broad-hipped, soft-faced, freckles scattered across her nose like someone had tossed cinnamon and forgot to stop. She wore a plain brown dress that had once been meant to look sturdy. On her, it looked apologetic.
