A prospector with gold fever in his eyes picked a girl with delicate fingers and promised her a claim near the river. She nodded, and the nod looked like it had been taught.
One by one, the women were led away, swallowed into the town like stones dropped into water. Each time, Bridget’s hope shrank another inch, like a hem being cut shorter with every snip.
When the ninth woman left, the square shifted. The laughter grew louder, not because anything was funny, but because cruelty likes an audience.
Bridget stood alone at the end of the line, her cheeks burning, her throat tight. Cyrus Wetherell lifted his hands again, his smile widening.
“Well now,” he drawled, “it appears we have one bride left.”
A ripple of chuckles moved through the men.
“Sturdy one,” someone muttered, and more laughter followed.
Cyrus tipped his head toward Bridget, as if she were a barrel of flour. “Surely one of you fine gentlemen could use a… dependable woman. Strong back. Good for winter. Good for… whatever a man requires.”
A drunk miner, already half-broken by whiskey, shouted, “I wouldn’t take her if you paid me!”
Another voice called, “She’ll kill a horse with her weight!”
