She put the deed on the counter.
He didn’t touch it at first. He just stared at the paper as if it might bite.
Finally he pinched it between thumb and forefinger, squinted, and rubbed the faded ink with a slow motion that felt like pity.
“The Hollow Rock claim,” he sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m sorry about your grandmother. Truly. But this… this is less than nothing.”
Lena kept her face still. She’d learned young that if you let feelings show, people treated them like an invitation to step closer and take a piece.
Mr. Gable continued, voice softening into that “I know better than you” kindness that could bruise worse than bluntness.
“All rock and ravine,” he said. “No water to speak of. It’s a tax burden. The only thing it’s ever been good for is sheltering rattlesnakes from the sun.”
He gestured to the shelves behind him. Flour sacks. Tin coffee. Axe heads glinting under a coat of oil.
“Seventeen dollars will get you a stagecoach ticket east,” he added. “Maybe a few meals to spare. That’s the sensible play, girl.”
Lena glanced at her palm where the coins rested. A ticket east meant becoming a stranger in a bigger town with the same empty hands. Different streets. Same hunger.
