Chapter 1 - The Woman He Pointed At
A woman slammed her fist against the saloon table and shouted:
"Don't you dare laugh at me!"
Mountain man Silas Mercer stepped forward and picked up a torn marriage contract.
One number had been scratched beside her name.
Ten.
Silas realized someone had already marked her before he arrived.
The saloon went silent.
Martha Bell stood at the end of the line with both hands clenched at her sides.
She was thirty-two years old, tall for a woman, broad through the shoulders, and heavier than every other bride in the room. Her gray dress had been repaired so many times that the original stitching was nearly impossible to find. Thick auburn hair had been twisted into a practical knot at the back of her head, though several curls had escaped during the long wagon ride into Colorado.
She had spent most of the journey pretending not to hear the whispers.
Too big.
Too loud.
Too old.
Too much woman.
The nine other brides had not all been cruel. Some had even been kind. But Martha had learned years ago that pity could cut almost as deeply as mockery.
Then Silas Mercer had walked through the door.
Every conversation stopped.
Even the saloon owner, Mr. Pike, seemed to forget how to breathe.
Martha had heard the stories.
Everyone had.
Silas Mercer lived beyond Black Ridge, several miles from the nearest settlement. He trapped through winters that killed cattle where they stood. He had once carried an injured man twelve miles through a blizzard. Another story claimed he had shot three horse thieves without getting down from his saddle.
Martha did not know which stories were true.
She only knew that the man standing in front of her looked capable of surviving all of them.
He was perhaps forty.
Tall.
Broad.
Dark-haired.
His beard was thick but trimmed enough to show that neglect was not the same thing as carelessness.
Snow melted slowly from the shoulders of his brown leather coat.
His eyes moved over the women.
One blonde smiled nervously.
Silas continued walking.
A brunette lowered her gaze and blushed.
He passed her too.
Another woman straightened her burgundy dress.
Silas barely looked at her.
Mr. Pike hurried beside him with his ledger open.
"Miss Abigail Dunn," he whispered. "Twenty-four. Excellent seamstress. Healthy family."
Silas kept walking.
"Miss Caroline Weaver. Twenty-six. Reads and writes beautifully."
No response.
"Miss Elsie—"
Silas stopped.
Not in front of Elsie.
In front of Martha.
Martha stared back.
His gaze moved from her boots to her face, but there was nothing hungry in it.
Nothing mocking either.
That almost made her more suspicious.
She folded her arms.
"You got something to say?"
Someone behind her gasped.
Mr. Pike looked ready to faint.
Silas pointed at Martha.
"Her."
Mr. Pike blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Her."
"You mean Miss Bell?"
Silas nodded.
Mr. Pike leaned closer and lowered his voice as though Martha could not hear him.
"Mr. Mercer, perhaps you misunderstood the arrangement. You are permitted to speak with all ten ladies before making—"
"I've seen them."
"But Miss Bell—"
Martha's face hardened.
Mr. Pike stopped.
Silas turned his head slowly toward him.
"But Miss Bell what?"
Mr. Pike swallowed.
"Nothing."
One of the women behind Martha gave a small nervous laugh.
Another whispered something.
Martha heard one word.
Big.
Heat rose into her cheeks.
She stepped forward.
"If this is a joke, Mr. Mercer, I suggest you finish laughing before I break your nose."
Silas looked at her for several seconds.
Then, unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth moved.
Not a smile.
Almost.
"I don't joke about marriage."
Martha stared at him.
"Neither do I."
"Good."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough to start."
"You walked past nine women without asking a question."
"I asked Pike questions before I came."
Martha glanced toward the matchmaker.
Mr. Pike suddenly found his ledger fascinating.
"What questions?"
Silas answered without looking away from her.
"Who could cook."
Several women raised their hands slightly.
"Who could sew."
More hands.
"Who had worked a farm."
Only three.
"Who could butcher an animal."
Martha's arms loosened.
One other woman raised a hesitant hand.
"Who could split wood."
Only Martha.
Silas nodded toward her.
"You."
Martha gave a humorless laugh.
"So you want a hired hand."
"No."
"What do you want?"
"A wife who won't die the first winter."
The room became uncomfortable.
Martha's expression changed.
"You could have said that more kindly."
"I could have lied."
That answer irritated her.
It also interested her.
Mr. Pike cleared his throat.
"Perhaps we should discuss the contracts."
Silas reached into his coat and placed a folded stack of banknotes on the table.
The room went silent again.
Mr. Pike's eyebrows rose.
"That is considerably more than the transportation fee."
"Pay the women's return passage if they don't choose a husband."
Several brides stared at Silas.
Martha did too.
Mr. Pike blinked.
"All of them?"
"All."
"Why?"
Silas's jaw tightened.
"Because nobody should be trapped three states from home."
Something shifted inside Martha.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But the first crack in her certainty that Silas Mercer was exactly what the rumors claimed.
Mr. Pike gathered the money quickly.
"Very generous."
Silas's eyes dropped to the contract in his hand.
That was when Martha noticed the tear.
"My paper."
Silas turned it over.
There, beside her name, someone had carved a small number into the edge with the tip of a knife.
Martha frowned.
"I didn't do that."
Silas looked toward Pike.
The matchmaker's face lost color.
"What does it mean?" Martha asked.
"Probably nothing," Pike said.
Silas stared at him.
Pike swallowed.
"I number paperwork."
"With a knife?"
Silence.
Martha stepped closer.
"Mr. Pike."
"It's been a difficult journey. Perhaps someone damaged it."
Martha pulled up her sleeve.
A red line crossed her upper arm.
Silas noticed immediately.
"What happened?"
"Crate broke loose in the wagon."
"No."
Martha frowned.
"You weren't there."
Silas pointed to the cut.
"That's narrow. Straight. Not splintered."
Mr. Pike interrupted.
"Surely this isn't important."
Silas looked toward the back of the saloon.
A closed wooden door stood behind the bar.
The only door in the room that had remained locked since the brides arrived.
Martha followed his gaze.
During the previous night, while sleeping in the upstairs rooms, she had heard footsteps below.
Then voices.
Men arguing.
One sentence had stayed with her.
The tenth one hasn't signed yet.
At the time she had assumed they meant some forgotten shipping paper.
Now she looked at the scratched number.
Ten.
Her stomach tightened.
"Silas."
It was the first time she had used his name.
He noticed.
"What?"
"I heard something last night."
Pike's hand stopped moving.
Silas saw it.
"What did you hear?"
Martha told him.
Nobody spoke afterward.
Silas placed the contract on the table.
"Who was downstairs?"
Pike shook his head.
"Could have been anyone."
"The saloon was locked."
"I run a business."
"You run something."
The mountain man's voice remained quiet.
That was worse than shouting.
Pike backed toward the counter.
Martha glanced at the other women.
The blonde nearest her suddenly looked terrified.
"Abigail?"
The young woman hesitated.
Then whispered, "I heard it too."
Another bride nodded.
"Men came after midnight."
"How many?" Silas asked.
"Three, maybe four."
"What did they say?"
Abigail looked toward Mr. Pike.
He shook his head almost invisibly.
Martha saw it.
So did Silas.
Silas stepped between Pike and the women.
"What did they say?"
Abigail's voice trembled.
"They said somebody had paid extra for one of us."
Martha felt cold despite the stove.
"Which one?"
Abigail looked at her.
"The tenth."
Martha stared at the number scratched beside her name.
Silas's hand settled near his gun.
Mr. Pike suddenly bolted toward the locked back door.
Silas moved faster.
He caught Pike by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
"Key."
"I don't have it."
Silas tightened his grip.
"The key."
Pike's eyes darted toward a hook under the bar.
Martha reached it first.
A brass key hung beneath a rag.
She picked it up.
Silas released Pike.
"Stay behind me."
Martha almost laughed.
"I've spent thirty-two years being told where to stand."
"Martha."
Something in his tone stopped her.
Not authority.
Concern.
Real concern.
She handed him the key.
The other brides backed away.
Silas approached the door.
He inserted the key.
A click sounded.
Pike whispered, "You don't want to open that."
Silas looked over his shoulder.
"That's usually what a guilty man says."
He turned the knob.
The door opened two inches.
Something heavy struck the other side.
Silas drew his revolver.
Martha saw a boot through the gap.
Then a hand.
Then blood.
Silas pushed the door wider.
A man lay motionless on the floor.
Martha recognized him.
He had driven the brides' wagon into town.
Clutched in his dead hand was another marriage contract.
Her name was written across the top.
And someone had written one sentence beneath it.
DELIVER MARTHA BELL TO BLACK CANYON BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
Silas looked at Martha.
May you like
Then came three slow knocks from beneath the floor.
Someone was still down there.
