“And hell,” the auctioneer said, jerking his chin toward the far side of the ring, “take the woman too. Comes with the lot.”
For a heartbeat, Silas thought he’d misheard.
Then the laughter started again.
It came from everywhere: men in sweat-stained hats, boys trying to learn what kind of man the world rewarded, old ranchers who’d forgotten they’d once been young and decent. Someone whistled. Someone clapped. A voice from the back shouted something foul that made half the yard howl.
And beneath it all, there was a smaller sound.
Rope dragging across packed earth.
Silas turned.
She stood behind the horses, half hidden in their shadow, wrists bound in front of her with rope so old it had darkened to the color of dried blood. Her dress hung torn at one shoulder, stained with sweat and dirt, as if it had been borrowed from a scarecrow and then returned with interest. Her feet were bare on the hot ground. Her hair fell in a tangled curtain across her face, hiding everything but her mouth, pressed into a tight, bloodless line.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t flinch.
