Too small.
They stood so close their bodies touched, hands clasped together in a chain. Burlap sacks covered their heads, tied at their necks like feed bags. Through the rough cloth came muffled sobs, the sound of children trying not to break apart.
Elias felt something in his chest crack, a seam he’d sewn shut for years.
Harland’s voice was low. “The Huxley sisters. Orphans. Their adoptive folks died last month. County says there’s no money to keep ‘em. So… they’re selling custody to the highest bidder. Calling it ‘responsibility.’”
Elias stared at the sacks. “Who put those on them?”
Harland didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Outside, a man stepped forward, too clean for this dusty town, too expensive to belong to anyone but himself. He wore polished boots and a tailored coat, and he moved like the world would arrange itself around his wants.
Clay Rourke. The biggest rancher in three counties. Water rights. Grazing permits. Deputies who smiled too quickly when he spoke.
The town didn’t just fear him. It had built a quiet religion around him: Don’t anger Clay Rourke and you’ll survive.
Elias had heard that hymn even up in the mountains.
