The metal tweezers scraped against bone, sending a sick shudder through Rosalie’s arm as Gideon’s knuckles turned white against the pine boards.
On the eighth night of her marriage, Rosalie Ashford held an oil lamp beside her husband’s face and saw something black moving deep inside his swollen ear.
Gideon Rook was doubled over in agony, gripping the table while she reached for her sewing tweezers.
Whatever had been tormenting the deaf rancher since childhood was alive.
Eight days earlier, Rosalie’s father had sold her future for fifty dollars.
The Ashford household was drowning in debt, and Rosalie had become the easiest thing left to bargain away.
Her father called the arrangement practical.
Her drunken brother Merrick told her she should be grateful.
No one asked what Rosalie wanted.
Snow covered Coldwater on her wedding morning as she stood before a cracked mirror wearing her late mother’s faded ivory gown.
