Amos, sensing an argument he might profit from, puffed up. “I’m her father. I can do what I please.”
Rowan reached into his coat, pulled out a raw gold nugget the size of a small fist, and tossed it. It hit Amos in the chest and dropped into his lap with a weight that made the table creak. The room gasped, not in awe of beauty, but in recognition of value. Gold didn’t just shine, it changed rules.
“That’s worth five hundred dollars in Cheyenne,” Rowan said, eyes never leaving Bart. “I’m paying whatever debt you think you’re settling. She’s free.”
Lila’s head lifted for the first time that night, not because she wanted to, but because the word free landed in her like a stone in a pond. Her eyes met Rowan’s, and what she saw there wasn’t softness. It was tiredness. Haunted, yes, but not cruel. The kind of gaze that had seen what men became when no one stopped them.
Rowan shifted toward her, just enough to make a path. “Come with me,” he said, quieter now. “Or stay here. Your choice.”
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