That had made him more frightening to the townspeople than any rumor.
Her father had promised fifty dollars.
That was why Gideon was downstairs.
Rosalie closed her eyes.
She wished she could say she had fought.
She wished she could say she had screamed.
But the truth was uglier.
There was nothing left in the Ashford household to fight with.
The bank had already taken the farm.
Creditors had taken the horses.
Her father had sold nearly every piece of furniture worth selling.
Her brother Merrick had spent whatever remained on gambling and whiskey.
And the winter had arrived early.
Three nights earlier, Rosalie had found her father sitting at the kitchen table with an eviction notice in one hand and an empty bottle in the other.
He had looked at her.
Not like a father.
Like a man examining the last object in a burning house.
Then he had said:
