Pete laughed, spitting a stream of tobacco juice that landed inches from the hem of Naya's dress. "You playing dress-up, sweetie?" Pete sneered at Naya. "Putting ribbons on a mule does not make it a horse. You are still just a bought.
How much did he pay for you again?" "Twenty dollars." Elias felt the old rage, the red wave that wanted to smash bone, but he remembered Naya's words, "Make your hands do good." He gently disengaged his arm from Naya's grip. He stepped forward, closing the distance between him and the drunk.
He did not raise his fists. He did not go for his gun. He stood tall, his shoulders square, his face open and calm. Elias turned to the crowd that had gathered. He looked at the storekeep, at the blacksmith, at the women watching from the windows.
Then he put his arm around Naya's shoulders and pulled her close to his side. "This is Naya Ward," Elias said. His voice was not a shout, but it carried to every corner of the street. "She is my wife." She is the mistress of my ranch, and she is the finest woman I have ever known."
He looked directly at Pete. "If you have a problem with Mrs. Ward, you have a problem with me, and I am done fighting with children. Go sleep it off, son." Pete blinked, confused by the lack of violence and the absolute certainty in Elias's voice. He looked around for support, but the crowd was silent.
The dignity of the moment had shamed them. Pete muttered a curse and stumbled away. Elias turned back to Naya. Her eyes were shining. She squeezed his hand, a silent message of pride, but the victory was short-lived.
A slow clapping sound came from the shadows of the saloon porch. Clay Harlan stepped out, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was dressed in a fine gray suit, looking every inch the king of the county. "Very touching, Ward," Harlan said, his voice dry as dust. "A moving performance."
Harlan walked down the steps, stopping a few feet away. "But let us not pretend," he said, raising his voice so the town could hear, "you can call her Mrs. Ward all you like. You can dress her up in calico, but we all know what she is. She is government property that you leased." "She is my wife," Elias said, his voice hardening.
"I have the paper." Harlan laughed. "A bill of sale from a corrupt agent? That is not a marriage license. Elias, that is a receipt.
In the eyes of the territory, you're just shacking up with a ward of the state." Harlan stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menace. "And the government can recall its property whenever it sees fit, especially if that property is being misused. Watch your step, Ward. You are playing a dangerous game."
"We are leaving," Elias said. He took Naya's arm and led her away, his back stiff. Harlan watched them go, smoke curling from his cigar, his eyes cold and calculating. As they loaded the supplies onto the pack mule, a man approached them from the alleyway. It was Dr. Henry Aris.