“Twenty-five cents,” the auctioneer said, desperate now.
That was when a voice came from the back of the crowd, so deep it felt less spoken than carved into the air.
“I’ll take the fat one.”
The words hit the square like a thrown stone.
The crowd parted, instinctively, as if the sound had a body and that body demanded space.
Lark looked up before she could stop herself.
A man stood in the shade near the feed store, massive enough to make the doorway behind him look like a child’s drawing. He wore buckskin and a weathered coat, beard thick across his jaw, shoulders wide as a barn door. A rifle rested easy in the crook of his arm, not aimed, not threatening, simply present, like a truth you couldn’t argue with.
His eyes were the startling thing, though. Not mean. Not hungry. Clear. Sharp. Quietly furious, like a storm choosing patience.
She had heard of him.
Everyone in Ash Hollow had.
