Chapter 1 - Lot Seven
The auctioneer called them Lot Seven.
He did not call the first woman Eda.
He did not call the others Ruth, Mabel, Lena, Susanna, Pearl, or Joelle.
He did not ask where they had been born, what they had survived, whether they had families searching for them, or how seven young women had ended up standing on a rough wooden platform in a frontier town while winter gathered around their boots.
He simply lifted a piece of paper and announced, “Lot Seven.”
The words carried across the frozen yard.
Snow had started before sunrise, but by noon it had become something meaner than snow. Wind drove tiny pieces of ice between the buildings and beneath coat collars. Horses stamped beside hitching posts. Men hunched beneath hats. Women watching from the boardwalk pulled shawls tighter around themselves.
The seven women on the platform had no shawls.
Their dresses were too thin.
Their shoes were patched.
The youngest, Joelle, was seventeen.
She stood between Pearl and Ruth, trying not to let anyone see her teeth chatter.
Eda stood in front.
At twenty-three, she was the oldest, although the past several months had made her feel forty.
She kept one hand behind her where the others could see it.
Steady.
That was the message.
Don't panic.
Don't separate.
Whatever happens, stay together.
She had been repeating those rules since the journey began.
Now the rules were all they had left.
The auctioneer cleared his throat.
“Seven able-bodied young women. Household experience. Sewing, cooking, washing—”
Eda's jaw tightened.
He spoke about them as though describing livestock.
A few men below whispered.
Others stared openly.
Then someone pushed through the crowd.
Clem Hutchkins.
Eda saw him and felt every muscle in her body stiffen.
She had heard his name before she ever saw his face.
People lowered their voices when they said it.
Clem owned land north of town. He traded horses, supplied mining camps, loaned money to desperate ranchers, and somehow always seemed to own a little more property after someone else suffered bad luck.
But that wasn't why Eda feared him.
Three nights earlier, at a roadside station, she had overheard two men talking.
One had said Hutchkins was expecting "the seven."
The other had laughed.
Eda had not slept afterward.
Now he was here.
Whiskey seemed to arrive before he did.
His heavy coat hung open despite the cold. His beard was uneven. His eyes moved slowly across the platform until they settled on Eda.
Then he smiled.
Eda hated that smile.
The auctioneer raised his hand.
“Do I hear five dollars?”
For one terrible second, nobody answered.
Eda almost allowed herself hope.
Then Clem raised two fingers.
“Five.”
Several men laughed.
Eda felt Joelle's fingers catch the back of her dress.
Clem stepped closer.
“That's generous enough.”
Something inside Eda snapped.
Fear had controlled too much of her life already.
She stepped forward.
The auctioneer blinked.
Clem's smile widened.
Eda looked directly into his eyes.
“You'll regret it.”
The laughter stopped.
“What did you say?” Clem asked.
Her knees trembled.
She hoped nobody could see.
“We won't obey.”
Behind her, Ruth inhaled sharply.
Mabel reached for Lena's hand.
Pearl straightened.
Susanna raised her chin.
Joelle stopped hiding.
Seven frightened women stood shoulder to shoulder.
Clem laughed.
“You'll learn.”
Eda did not look away.
Then another voice came from the back of the crowd.
“Seven dollars.”
Nobody laughed this time.
Heads turned.
A tall man stood beside a wagon loaded with sacks of oats and ordinary ranch supplies.
He wore a battered dark hat.
His coat was faded.
His boots had seen better years.
He did not look wealthy enough to be buying anything unnecessary.
Silas Boon had not planned to attend an auction.
He had come into town that morning with a short list folded inside his coat.
Oats.
Lamp oil.
Two hinges.
Nails.
Coffee, if the price hadn't risen again.
That was all.
His ranch lay several miles outside town, where the road narrowed beside cottonwoods and crossed a creek that froze hard every January.
Silas liked it there.
More accurately, he liked that nobody bothered him there.
Once, the ranch house had been different.
There had been curtains in the windows.
Fresh bread cooling beside the stove.
A woman's laughter.
A second coffee cup.
Then fever had taken his wife, Abigail, three winters earlier.
Afterward, Silas stopped attending church suppers.
Stopped visiting neighbors.
Stopped answering invitations.
People said grief had made him strange.
Silas didn't care.
Cattle didn't ask why a man still kept his dead wife's scarf hanging behind the bedroom door.
Horses didn't tell him it was time to move on.
He had come for supplies.
Then he heard Eda say:
We won't obey.
Something about those words stopped him.
He looked around.
Dozens of people were watching.
Nobody was helping.
Silas knew that kind of silence.
It was the silence people used when they wanted to remain decent without paying the price of decency.
He hated it.
So he said, “Seven dollars.”
Clem turned slowly.
“What the hell are you doing, Boon?”
Silas put down his sack of nails.
“Bidding.”
“On them?”
Silas's expression hardened.
“Against you.”
A murmur moved through the crowd.
The auctioneer looked uncomfortable.
“Seven dollars,” he repeated. “Do I hear eight?”
Clem stepped forward.
Then the sheriff moved from beneath the mercantile awning.
Sheriff Amos Bell was an aging man with silver beginning at his temples.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Everyone understood.
The auction had rules.
If Clem wanted the bid, he had to raise it publicly.
For reasons Silas did not yet understand, Clem hesitated.
That hesitation interested Eda.
It frightened her, too.
Clem could afford eight dollars.
He could afford eighty.
Why wasn't he bidding?
The auctioneer waited.
“Seven dollars once.”
Silas looked at the women.
“Twice.”
Clem's face darkened.
“Sold.”
The hammer struck wood.
Silas flinched.
Sold.
He hated the word immediately.
Clem leaned toward him.
“You don't know what you just bought.”
Silas turned.
“I didn't buy anybody.”
“Paper says different.”
“Paper can be wrong.”
Clem smiled without humor.
“You'll regret humiliating me.”
Silas picked up his nails.
“Probably.”
Then he walked toward the platform.
Seven women stiffened simultaneously.
Eda stepped down first.
She positioned herself between Silas and the others.
“You bought us.”
“No.”
“I heard the hammer.”
“So did I.”
“You paid.”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you call that?”
Silas looked toward Clem.
“I paid seven dollars so Hutchkins couldn't.”
Eda searched his face.
She had become good at recognizing lies.
Men looked at your mouth when they lied about affection.
At your body when they lied about protection.
At the floor when they lied about money.
Silas looked directly at her.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“For today?”
“Yes.”
“To get home before the creek freezes worse.”
Eda frowned.
“And from us?”
“Nothing.”
Nobody spoke.
Clem laughed from behind them.
“Don't pretend you're righteous, Boon. Nobody pays for seven girls without wanting something.”
Silas finally turned toward him.
“I wanted you not to have them.”
The silence that followed was different.
Even the auctioneer looked down.
Silas faced Eda again.
“My ranch has food.”
No response.
“A stove.”
Still nothing.
“Extra blankets.”
Joelle's eyes flicked toward him.
“You can stay tonight,” Silas continued. “Tomorrow, leave if you want.”
“Together?” Eda asked.
Silas seemed confused by the question.
“Why wouldn't you?”
That answer disturbed her more than a rehearsed promise might have.
He gestured toward the wagon.
“You can ride.”
Eda shook her head.
“We'll walk.”
“All right.”
“You won't stop us?”
“No.”
“You won't make us work?”
“No.”
“You won't lock the doors?”
Silas's face changed slightly.
Not anger.
Something closer to sadness.
“No.”
Eda looked at the others.
Ruth whispered, “It's freezing.”
Mabel nodded.
Eda looked toward the road.
Then at Clem.
He was still watching.
Waiting.
She understood suddenly.
Whatever Silas was, staying in town was more dangerous.
“Together,” she whispered.
The others nodded.
Silas started walking.
He did not tell them to follow.
After several seconds, they did.
The journey took hours.
Silas stayed ahead.
Not too far.
Not too close.
When Joelle slipped crossing the frozen creek, he turned instinctively, but stopped himself before approaching.
Pearl helped her up.
Silas waited.
That small gesture did not escape Eda.
Men who wanted control always found reasons to touch you.
A stumble.
A doorway.
A wagon step.
Silas simply waited.
By sunset they reached the ranch.
The house stood beneath bare cottonwoods.
Smoke curled from the chimney.
A barn leaned against the wind.
Nothing about the property was grand.
But it looked quiet.
Silas opened the door.
“You sleep inside.”
Eda looked at him.
“And you?”
“Barn.”
Ruth stared.
“You own the house.”
“Still will tomorrow.”
He stepped aside.
Nobody moved.
Then warm air escaped through the doorway.
Joelle began crying.
Not loudly.
Just two tears slipping down her face because she had forgotten what warmth felt like.
Eda entered first.
The others followed.
There was bread beneath a cloth.
Blankets near the hearth.
Firewood stacked beside the stove.
And on the mantel stood a portrait.
A woman with gentle eyes.
Eda noticed Silas looking at it.
“Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
Silas was silent for a moment.
“Gone.”
Nothing more.
Eda understood enough.
That night, the women ate slowly.
Too slowly.
Silas noticed.
People who trusted tomorrow ate until they were full.
People who didn't trust tomorrow saved half their bread.
He pretended not to notice pieces disappearing into pockets.
After supper, he carried another armload of wood inside.
“The bedroom doors lock from inside.”
Seven faces turned toward him.
He placed the wood down.
“The front door, too.”
Then he left.
Eda watched through the window as he crossed toward the barn.
Ruth came beside her.
“Do you trust him?”
“No.”
“Do you think he'll hurt us?”
Eda watched Silas stop beneath the porch lantern.
He wasn't looking at the house.
He was looking down the road.
“No,” she whispered.
“Then what is he doing?”
Eda felt the old fear return.
“I think he's watching for somebody.”
A branch cracked.
Silas turned.
The girls froze.
Another sound came from beyond the fence.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Footsteps through snow.
Slow.
Heavy.
Approaching the house.
Silas came inside immediately.
“Back room.”
Eda stood.
“What?”
“Take the others.”
His voice had changed.
No longer quiet.
No longer awkward.
Controlled.
He reached above the doorway and took down his rifle.
Joelle gasped.
“Silas—”
“Back room.”
The footsteps reached the porch.
Then stopped.
Nobody knocked.
For several seconds, the only sound was breathing on the other side of the door.
Silas raised the rifle.
Eda's face drained of color.
She knew that breathing.
She knew the rhythm of those heavy boots.
And when a shadow crossed beneath the door, she whispered the one name all seven women had hoped never to hear again.
“Clem.”
May you like
And then the front-door handle began to turn.
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