The auction yard wasn’t a place where widows found hope. It was where they went to sell mules, maybe an old saddle, or their last cow. But on that gray afternoon, as dust danced in the air and men shouted tired bids, a woman walked in with just a dollar in her hand and
two shivering children at her side.
Her name was Clarom Regens, and though her belly was swollen with pregnancy and she was still wearing her fresh black mourning dress, her eyes shone with determination. She had buried her husband, Hank, just 47 days before. A fallen tree had broken his back, leaving her with two children under 5
years old, another on the way, and without a penny to buy food for the winter.
Clara wasn’t looking for sympathy. She was looking for a man strong enough to chop wood and repair the roof before the snow came. Volunteers were scarce in her region of Women, with no family, no compassionate neighbors. Many whispered that she was too proud or simply
a burden with so many mouths to feed.
Then the announcement came, making the entire corral fall silent. And now a strong mountain man. He knows how to hunt, track, and keep quiet, shouted the auctioneer, trying not to laugh. He owes it for trespassing on private property and breaking the judge’s window. He has accepted months of
servitude to pay his debt.
They dragged him like a beast—tall, broad, with long hair falling like rope over his shoulders and eyes that scanned the audience as if he didn’t care whether they bought him or left him to rot in a cell. No one offered anything. The women backed away. The men sneered. A child
cried in a corner. Clara didn’t move, one hand on her daughter’s head and the other clutching her coin.
The auctioneer said. He blinked. “Pardon me, ma’am.” He repeated more loudly. Heads turned. Some laughed, others looked down in discomfort, but the mountain man looked at her directly. For the first time, his expression changed. “Sold!” shouted the auctioneer. And that was how Clarens bought
a man.
They returned to their ranch in silence. The children stole glances at the giant who accompanied them. Her son Netfen clung to her dress. Her daughter Abi looked at him as if he were about to turn into a wolf and devour them all. When they reached the gate of the ramshackle house, Clara turned to
him.
I don’t have much food, but you’ll eat what we eat. The roof leaks. The shed fell in. If you fix it, you’ll stay warm. The man nodded once. Deal. What’s your name? she asked. He hesitated. Then Samuel answered. She didn’t know why, but that name stirred something in her chest. A
cold thread of memory touched her soul.
For the next few weeks, Samuel worked like a man born to the axe. He chopped wood until he bled. He repaired the rotten floor. He patched the roof before the first frost. He built a crib for the unborn baby and carved little animals for Net and Abi. He never asked for anything, never spoke unless spoken to, but he watched Clara, always watched her.
And little by little, something changed. The children stopped trembling. Abi offered him a piece of bread one morning. Neten sat beside him on the porch, imitating him as he carved with his knife. And Clara. Clara breathed again. She found herself listening to his footsteps in the morning, the way he cleared his throat before
entering a room. The faint hum of a melody he sometimes hummed when he thought no one was listening.
She found herself staring at his firm, steady hands, the scar on his jaw, and the gentle way he combed Abi’s hair when her fingers ached. One night the wind howled so hard it rattled the shutters. Clara couldn’t sleep. Her back ached, and the baby
was kicking as if he wanted out. She found Samuel on the porch sharpening his knife under the stars.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said suddenly. “Winter here is harsh. You’ve paid your dollar handsomely.” He didn’t look at her. “Do you think I’m staying for the dollar?” he asked quietly. She didn’t answer. Then he turned and said something that made her knees shake. “Clara Mae, I already knew your name.”
She froze.
“What did you say?” he said. “I knew it before the auction, before Hank, before Abi. I knew you when you were Clarame Callowee. I was 17. You were 15. You gave me half your loaf of bread under the table at the trading post while your father yelled at mine.” Her breath caught in her throat. “Samuel.” He nodded slowly.
Samuel Don clutched the door frame, his eyes wide open. But you were gone.
They said your family moved east, that you’d died in the war. I almost died, he said. I came back broken. With shame. I didn’t think I deserved to come home. He instinctively brought his hand to his stomach. I loved you once, he whispered. And I never stopped loving you, he replied. The baby arrived two weeks early.
During the first heavy snowfall of December.
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