Mr. Gable continued, voice softening into that “I know better than you” kindness that could bruise worse than bluntness.
“All rock and ravine,” he said. “No water to speak of. It’s a tax burden. The only thing it’s ever been good for is sheltering rattlesnakes from the sun.”
He gestured to the shelves behind him. Flour sacks. Tin coffee. Axe heads glinting under a coat of oil.
“Seventeen dollars will get you a stagecoach ticket east,” he added. “Maybe a few meals to spare. That’s the sensible play, girl.”
Lena glanced at her palm where the coins rested. A ticket east meant becoming a stranger in a bigger town with the same empty hands. Different streets. Same hunger.
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