I shrug. “They said something about selling me as a wilderness wife, blah, blah, blah.”
A laugh sounds. It’s not Dalton, who—despite my light tone—looks ready to spit bullets. Cypher strolls from the forest.
“That’s your own fault, kitten,” he says. “You are such a sweet and docile little thing. Can’t blame them for thinking you’re in need of a big, strong husband. They were just taking care of you.”
“Evidently,” I say.
I rise off Cherise, keeping one eye on her in case she attacks. Dalton walks over and lowers his lips to my ear. “You okay?”
“I will be,” I murmur as softly as I can. “But I’d like to ease out of this.”
He nods. There’s nothing to be gained by getting into a pissing match with these two.
Dalton kisses the top of my head and tugs my hood back up.
“Are you shitting me?” Owen says. “The cowboy? Really?” He shakes his head. “You can do so much better, girl.”
“Girl?” Dalton’s brows shoot up. “She’s a woman, and her name is Casey.”
Owen ignores him. “What the hell do you see in Deputy Dawg here?”
Now my brows are rising, as I say, “Deputy?”
“Owen left Rockton right before my father retired.”
“Eric’s the sheriff now,” Cypher says. “Casey here is a homicide detective. Or is that homicidal detective?”
“Depends on the situation,” I say, smiling my thanks at him for continuing to lighten the mood.
“You’re … a detective?” Owen says. “Like, a cop detective?”
“That’s usually what ‘homicide detective’ means,” Cypher says. “You picked this boy for his looks, didn’t you, Cherise?”
Cherise doesn’t reply. She hasn’t spoken, and in that silence, I feel her assessing, evaluating, and I suppress a shudder. A keen intelligence always catches my attention, but this isn’t the kind that promises a challenging game of Scrabble. This promises a knife through your back when you least expect it.
Owen says, “I thought cops had laws about height and whatnot. She’s such a tiny thing.”
“And yet she had you and Cherise at her mercy, both of you armed, too. Size isn’t everything. I’m sure Cherise tells you that all the time.”
Owen only throws off the insult with a laugh. He’s not the bright one. Nor is he particularly dangerous, much slower to take offense than his partner. I don’t want to be alone with Owen, but he isn’t the type to pull a knife over what’s obviously just ribbing between men.
Cypher continues, “If we’re done chitchatting and waving guns and trying to sell human beings, I’d suggest we go back to camp. We were just chatting with your family, Cherise. I think you’ll want to be part of the conversation.”
Family?
Oh, shit.
This pair didn’t just happen to stumble on me close to the traders’ camp. If I hadn’t jumped to that conclusion sooner, it’s because when I
thought of this family’s poor daughters forced to prostitute themselves, I had not pictured the woman standing in front of me.
At first, I only deliver a mental kick in the ass for my preconceptions. Then it sinks in.
These two people—this couple—are part of the trading family we’ve come to see about Abby.
I look from Cherise to Owen, and my insides freeze.
No. Please, no.