Bob had never liked him.
Now he liked him even less.
Boone grabbed the woman's arm.
She pulled away.
"Stand still."
She did not.
Boone slapped her.
The crowd laughed.
Bob's jaw tightened.
"Five dollars!" Boone shouted.
Nobody bid.
"Strong hands! Good worker! Young and healthy!"
A man near the front called:
"Three!"
Boone shook his head.
"Five."
"Three!"
"Five."
The man shrugged.
Another tossed a coin into the dirt.
"There's your five."
Laughter spread through the crowd.
The woman looked at the coin.
Then she lifted her eyes.
She did not cry.
She did not plead.
She did not lower her head.
There was something in her expression that made Bob forget the heat.
She looked angry.
Not helpless.
Angry.
As though she had decided that whatever happened next, she would remember every face.
Every voice.
Every hand that had laughed.
Bob stepped forward.
"Five dollars."
The laughter stopped.
Boone looked at him.
"You serious?"
Bob reached into his pocket.
He had exactly eleven dollars and sixty cents left after buying his supplies.
He put five dollars into Boone's hand.
"Untie her."
Someone laughed.
"You buying an Apache woman, Miller?"
Bob turned.
A ranch hand named Clay Mercer stood near the saloon.
"I bought her freedom."
Mercer laughed harder.
"That's not what the law says."
Bob stared at him.
"Then the law can come talk to me."
The laughter faded.
Boone looked from Bob to the money.
Then he grinned.
"You've got yourself a bargain."
He untied the woman's wrists.
She rubbed them slowly.
Bob expected gratitude.
He received none.
Instead, she stepped away from Boone and stood several feet from Bob.
Her eyes remained fixed on him.
"You understand me?" Bob asked.
She said nothing.
Boone laughed.
"She understands enough."
Bob looked at him.
"Is she hurt?"
"Not my problem."
"Does she have somewhere to go?"
Boone shrugged.
"Also not my problem."
Bob's face hardened.
He turned toward the woman.
"You can come with me if you want."
Still nothing.
"I won't hurt you."
Her eyes narrowed.
Bob realized how meaningless those words must have sounded.
Every man who had hurt her probably said something before doing it.
So he tried again.
"You don't owe me anything."
That got a reaction.
Her eyes shifted slightly.
Bob pointed toward his horse.
"I have a ranch north of here. You can leave whenever you want."
She looked at the horse.
Then at him.
Then at the road.
She could have run.
Instead, after a long moment, she followed him.
The crowd watched them leave.
No one spoke.
Bob mounted his horse.
The woman walked beside him.
They rode north beneath the burning Texas sky.
Neither said a word for nearly an hour.
Then she spoke.
Her voice was quiet.
"My name is Naya."
Bob looked down.
"Naya?"
She nodded.
He touched the brim of his hat.
"Bob."
"I know."
He frowned.
"You know my name?"
She looked ahead.
"Boone said it."
Bob remembered.
Boone had called him Miller.
Naya had listened.
She noticed everything.
That was the first thing Bob learned about her.
The second was that she was not afraid of him.
She was afraid of what men could do.
There was a difference.
And Bob would spend the months ahead learning how important that difference was.
The Woman at Miller's Creek
By sunset, the ranch appeared beyond a line of mesquite trees.
Miller's Creek was little more than a wooden house, a barn, a corral, and a shallow stream that disappeared underground during the driest months.
Naya stopped when she saw it.
Bob noticed.
"Not much."
She said nothing.
"I know."
He dismounted.
"You can sleep in the house."
Her eyes moved toward the barn.
Bob understood.
"You want the barn?"
She nodded.
"All right."
He led her inside anyway.
The house had two rooms.
A kitchen.
A bedroom.
A small table.
A stove.
One chair.
Bob looked around.
"You can take the bed."
Naya immediately shook her head.
"Fine. Chair."
Another shake.
"Floor?"
She looked at the floor.
Then nodded.
Bob sighed.
"You've got more stubbornness than anyone I've ever met."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
He brought her a blanket.