Bridget’s fingers curled around her Bible so hard the leather creaked. She stared at the sawdust on the mud, breathing through the shame like it was smoke filling her lungs.
She had endured insults in kitchens and church pews, whispered behind fans and shouted across streets. But never like this. Never with her future being auctioned in broad daylight.
Cyrus leaned closer, voice honeyed. “Come now. Any takers?”
The jeers rose again, and then something else cut through them: the slow, deliberate strike of hooves on cobblestones.
The sound didn’t hurry. It didn’t apologize. It came like a verdict.
People turned.
A horse stepped into the square, taller and broader than any animal in town, its coat dark as wet earth. On its back sat a man who looked carved from the mountains themselves. He wore a worn coat, patched at the elbows, and his boots were caked with trail mud. A thick beard streaked with iron-gray covered his jaw. A scar ran down one cheek, pale against weathered skin.
His eyes were the color of a storm that hadn’t decided whether to bless the land or break it.
Whispers moved like wind through grass.
“That’s Caleb Stone.”
