Chapter 1 - The Weight of Gold
The gold coins sat on the wet pine plank between Christa’s ruined boots, gleaming dully against the gray rain. Eight double eagles. Eighty dollars in gold—more coin than most men in Black Creek saw in a year of timber work or panning gravel.
Rooker licked his lips, his eyes darting from the gold to the mountain man standing six feet four inches in front of him. A thin coat of sweat broke out under his oiled canvas hat despite the freezing November rain.
"You understand the terms, Sullivan?" Rooker repeated, his greasy smile returning like a slick of oil on water. "She belongs to you now. Debt’s paid. No returns, no complaints, and no legal recourse if she tries to run."
Gideon Sullivan didn't look at Rooker. His pale gray eyes remained fixed on Christa Hale.
Up close, he could see the wild, trapped-animal terror in her dark eyes, the faint blue tint of her lips, and the violent, uncontrollable shivering racking her thin frame. She looked like a birch sapling caught in a mountain blizzard, ready to snap at the next gust.
"I take what I buy," Gideon said, his voice flat and gravelly. "And I don't need your legal talk."
Gideon reached out a massive, calloused hand, swept the eight gold coins into his leather pouch, and tossed the pouch directly at Rooker’s chest. Rooker caught it awkwardly, clutching it to his ribs as if he expected the mountain man to tear it back out of his hands.
"Step down, girl," Gideon said quietly.
Christa stared at him. She couldn't feel her feet anymore. The cold had numbed her legs from the knees down, and the sudden shift from public humilation to ownership by a giant stranger who smelled of pine smoke, wet fur, and leather left her paralyzed.
"My brothers..." Christa gasped, her voice barely a whisper against the drumming rain.
Rooker leaned forward, his small eyes narrowing. "The boys stay, Sullivan. That wasn't part of the—"
Before Rooker could finish his sentence, Gideon’s left hand shot out like an striking timber wolf. His iron fingers clamped around the lapels of Rooker’s waxed canvas coat, pulling the town boss six inches off the platform until they were nose-to-nose.
"Where are the boys?" Gideon asked softly.
The crowd under the saloon awning went dead silent. The two hired thugs Rooker kept near the door reached for their holsters, but one look at Gideon’s broad back and the heavy broadaxe strapped beside his pack mule made their hands freeze over their gun butts.
"In... in Miller’s barn," Rooker choked out, his slick face turning purple. "Across the street. Beneath the hayloft."
Gideon released him. Rooker dropped back onto the wooden planks, coughing and gasping for breath, clutching his throat with both hands.
Gideon didn't look back. He reached up, grabbed Christa under her arms, and lifted her off the barrels as easily as if she were a sack of dry oats. He set her on the muddy ground, stripped off his heavy wool riding blanket from his lead mule, and draped it over her trembling shoulders.
"Show me," Gideon grunted, turning his face toward the dark timber frame of Miller’s barn across the sea of churned mud.
Christa clutched the heavy, coarse wool around her chest. It smelled of pine resin and clean horse sweat, but it was warm—the first warmth she had felt in four days. She took one step, her frozen ankle gave way, and she stumbled.
Gideon’s hand caught her elbow before her knees hit the mud. He didn't say a word. He simply adjusted his grip, keeping his arm solid as an iron rail beside her, giving her something to lean on as they crossed the street.
Inside the dark, drafty barn, the air smelled of old clover and wet leather.
Huddled beneath a pile of moldy horse blankets in the corner beneath the hayloft stairs were two small boys. Samuel, eleven years old, held a rusted skinning knife in his small, filthy hand, his body positioned over eight-year-old Toby, who was shivering violently with a wet, rasping cough.
"Christa!" Samuel cried out, springing to his feet with the knife raised, his face pale and fierce. "Get away from her!"
Christa broke away from Gideon, dropping to her knees on the barn floor, throwing her arms around both boys. "Samuel! Toby! It's okay! It's over! He... he bought us out!"
Samuel stared over his sister’s head at the massive man standing in the barn doorway. The boy’s eyes were filled with the same desperate, sharp courage that Gideon had seen on Christa’s face on the whiskey barrels.
Gideon looked down at the three of them—the thin girl with blood soaking her boots, the fierce boy with the rusty knife, and the little child whose lungs were rattling with a dark winter cold.
May you like
He reached into his canvas duster pocket, pulled out a cloth-wrapped parcel of dried salt beef and a small tin of maple sugar, and tossed it into the hay beside Samuel.
"Eat," Gideon said, his voice quiet in the dim barn. "We have ten miles to climb before the snow hits the pass."
