She was offering her body, her life, and the promise of children, the most primal currency she had, in exchange for safety. He saw the tremor in her hands, which she held clenched at her sides to hide the shaking. He realized in that second that she was terrified. She had picked him out of the crowd and pinned all her hope on the slim chance that he was not like the others. If he turned away now, if he walked back to his horse and rode out, she would be destroyed.
The man with the scar would take her, or the brothel owner would drag her away. He would be leaving her to a slow death. Elias looked at the Indian agent, who was pushing his way through the crowd, his face red with indignation. "Get back in the pen," Thorne shouted. "You do not choose the buyer, woman."
The rancher with the scar stepped forward, grinning. "I will take her off your hands, Thorne. She has got spirit. I will have fun breaking that one. I will give you $10 for the trouble. $10, the price of a good saddle blanket."
Elias felt the anger flare hot and white in his chest. It burned away the fatigue. It burned away the desire to be invisible. He looked at Naya. She was still watching him, her breath held in her chest, waiting for his verdict.
"20 dollars," Elias said. His voice was rasping, unused to speaking so loudly, but it carried. The crowd turned to him. The rancher scowled. "Who are you?"
"I am the man buying this woman," Elias said, his voice steadying. "I bid $20." The rancher spat. "25, 30." Elias countered without blinking.
The rancher hesitated. $30 was a lot of money for a woman he considered old and troublesome. He looked at Elias, saw the hand hovering near the worn walnut grip of the Colt on his hip, and saw the cold, dead look in Elias's gray eyes. The rancher shrugged and stepped back. "She is all yours, stranger. Hope she cuts your throat in your sleep."
Elias ignored him. He walked up to the crate where the agent stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small pouch where he kept his savings. It was money meant for winter supplies, for grain, for lumber to fix the leaking roof of his cabin. He counted out the coins, silver dollars and a few crumpled bills.
"30 dollars," Elias said, placing the money on the crate. "But I want the paper written my way." Thorne looked at the money, greed warring with irritation. "What do you mean, your way?" Elias looked back at Naya.
She had not moved. She was watching him with a look of intense, bewildered relief. "Write it down," Elias said. "She is not a servant. She is not property to be traded again.
She is under my protection as a wife." A ripple of shock went through the crowd. A white man marrying an Apache was not unheard of, but it was looked upon with scorn, a step down into the dirt. Thorne laughed, a nervous, bubbling sound. "A wife?