So here she was, wrists tied, traveling toward a ranch she’d never seen, to a man she’d never met.
She stared out the wagon slats at the sky, where the first stars were starting to prick through like hesitant hope.
“At least,” she thought, tasting dust and bitterness, “the sky can’t own me.”
Night fell, and with it came the smell of sage and old woodsmoke. The wagon wheels crunched over gravel as they turned off the main track and onto a narrower trail flanked by fencing that seemed to go on forever.
Then the ranch appeared, spread across moonlit land like something half-dreamed: a simple cabin with light in the windows, a barn with a slanted roof, corrals, and a line of cottonwoods near a creek that still ran despite the dry season. Horses shifted in the stables, their silhouettes dark against the lamplight.
And there, near the barn, a man stood hammering wood with steady, practiced blows, as if he’d decided the world would make sense as long as nails went where they were supposed to.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sun-browned skin and the kind of posture that belonged to men who spent their lives outdoors. His hair was dark, wind-tossed, and his hands were rough even from a distance.
When the wagon stopped, he turned slowly.
His eyes were a clear, startling blue.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped forward, gaze narrowing as he took in the sight: the trader, the bound girl, the way she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
