He was tall, broad through the chest and shoulders, his skin bronzed by sun and something older than the town could name without fear. His dark hair fell past his shoulders in a loose spill, and though rusted shackles bit into his wrists, he stood as straight as a fence post newly set. The iron had carved raw grooves into his flesh, but he refused to curl around the pain like the crowd seemed to want him to.
He didn’t glare. He didn’t plead. He simply looked.
And that calm unsettled them more than shouting ever could.
Sheriff McCrae raised his hands as if he were announcing a raffle. “Step right up, folks,” he called, voice thick with authority and a salesman’s shine. “We got ourselves a genuine wild one. Caught him stealin’ horses off the Crowley spread. Judge says he’s to be sold to cover the damages.”
A ripple rolled through the crowd. Not sympathy. Not curiosity. Something uglier, warmed by the sun and fed by years of easy cruelty.
“Savage,” someone spat.
