“You biddin’, or you sleepin’, Kane?” Hank Dawson leaned on a fence post beside him, a string of tobacco spit staining the dirt like he was signing his name to the earth.
“Thinking,” Silas muttered.
Hank gave a soft chuckle. “Dangerous habit.”
Silas didn’t answer. He watched the ring as two bay geldings were pushed inside. They moved with that tired, resigned pace that came from poor feed and hard miles, ribs showing under rough coats. But their legs were clean. Their eyes were clear. They weren’t pretty, but they were sound enough for a man who’d learned to settle for “enough” because “perfect” belonged to other people.
The auctioneer lifted his cane like a conductor about to lead an orchestra of greed.
“Next lot! Two bay geldings. Sound enough if you ain’t picky. I’ll start at twelve dollars for the pair. Come on now, gentlemen. Winner ain’t buyin’ your hay for you.”
A hand went up. Then another. The numbers climbed in small, reluctant steps, the way money does when the men holding it know winter will come.
“Fourteen!”
“Fourteen and a half!”
Silas waited. Patience was something his father had taught him, and stubbornness was what his mother had poured into him the way she poured lye into soap: carefully, with purpose, because the world was filthy and you had to make something that could cut through it.
