Gideon Rourke.
The mountain man on Banner Ridge, the one folks said had once served as a scout and came back from the wars with a blade scar across his palm and a silence nobody could buy. A man the town avoided, but also relied on whenever wolves came down or blizzards swallowed the pass.
He stepped forward. Boots raised dust. People leaned away as though his size might spread.
The auctioneer stammered. “M-Mr. Rourke. You… you sure?”
Gideon didn’t repeat himself. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver dollar, and flicked it. The coin flashed in the sun, bright as a verdict, then landed in the auctioneer’s hand with a hard, final weight.
“That enough?”
The auctioneer nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, sir. That’s… that’s fine.”
Lark barely had time to breathe before Gideon reached up, not roughly, not like the workhouse men who grabbed wrists to remind you who owned you. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, set her into the back of his wagon as if placing something fragile somewhere safe, and climbed to the driver’s bench.
The crowd stayed silent, but now it wasn’t boredom.
Now it was confusion.
