“Wash yourself,” said Ida, her mouth thin and bloodless. “Then go do the laundry. Mrs. Fenton’s clothes are due back by noon. If I hear you talking to anyone in town, to anyone at all, you’ll be sleeping in the dungeon tonight.”
Redstone Gulch was a straitjacket of politeness and averted glances. As Ellie entered town, her laundry basket balanced on her hip, she felt invisible. Ida had spent three years poisoning public opinion, whispering to members of the parish association that Ellie was “disturbed,” simple-minded, and a pyromaniac. A lie that perfectly concealed the truth.
She took the laundry to Mrs. Fenton, a woman whose gentle hands were matched only by her conscientiousness. Mrs. Fenton took the basket without looking at Ellie and slipped three copper coins into a flower box. Three cents for six hours of backbreaking labor: every cent belonged to Ida.
Ellie turned to leave and ran into a wall of denim and sandstone.
“Oh dear,” said a voice. It was a low, rumbling, raspy sound.
A hand landed on her shoulder. The pressure was light, almost delicate, but Ellie flinched as if she’d been branded. She pulled away abruptly, the box of flowers clinking in her hand.
The man was tall, his face sculpted by years of sun and wind, a white scar tracing an irregular path from his temple to his jaw. He was a cowboy, covered in dust and weary, but his brown eyes were steady, the color of hard-packed earth that didn’t move under pressure.
“Gently,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, miss.”
Ellie kept her head down, her heart pounding. “I’m fine. Excuse me.”
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