The street shifted. Heads turned. The drunk blinked, offended. Men murmured, annoyed at money entering the game like a sudden storm.
Clara’s gaze snapped toward the speaker before she could stop herself.
He stood at the back edge of the crowd, separate from the others as if he’d been placed there by a different kind of fate. Tall—six feet at least—with a weathered face shaped by sun and wind and the patient cruelty of long days. He wore work-worn brown canvas pants and a faded blue shirt, clean but old. His hat was pushed back enough to show dark hair threaded with early gray.
His eyes were the color of slate after rain.
They met Clara’s for one heartbeat. Not hungry. Not calculating. Just steady—like a fence post that had survived winter after winter and refused to lean.
“One hundred,” he repeated, looking at the auctioneer now. “Cash. Right now.”
The auctioneer’s grin stretched so wide it looked painful.
“Well now! That’s a serious bid. Mr…?”
The man’s jaw tightened as if he disliked being named.
“Cole Mercer,” he said.
