Rose's Pledge by Dianna Crawford, Sally Laity

challenge, I’d say.” He smirked.
    Her irritation mounting as she stood by listening to the bizarre turn of the conversation, Rose planted her fists on her hips. “Pudding! Cows! I cannot believe any of this. It’s simply not to be endured.”
    “Quiet, woman!” The trader returned his attention to Kinyon. “Me an’ Branson figgered we wouldn’t say nothin’ to the comp’ny. More profit for us both that way. ‘Sides, I got my wife’s brothers to help me keep an eye on the place.”
    Kinyon kneaded his chin. “Looks like you two have things all worked out between you, then.” He shook his head, appearing to mull something over in his mind. “Well, think on this. What say I get you a couple puddin’ recipes an’ trade ‘em an’ whatever you paid for the woman—plus a little profit, a’course—an’ that’ll make us all happy. How much did you lay out for her, anyway?”
    For one brief moment, Rose felt a ray of hope that this trustworthy-looking man wanted to save her from her fate. Then she realized she was merely being bartered for again. Hopelessly outmatched, she gave a huff and turned in proud defiance to stride away.
    Smith grabbed her arm, halting her midstep, and glared at Nate. “Even if the gal was for sale at any price—and she ain’t—when did you ever have fifty pounds jinglin’ in that pouch of yourn, I’d like ta know?”
    “Fifty pounds?” Kinyon hiked his brows. “You paid fifty pounds for her?” He eyed Rose up and down with an intensity that made her cringe.
    Humiliated beyond belief, Rose knew she must look a fright, having worn the same clothes for days. Even her once-fashionable hat was droopy, and when had she last run a brush through her tangled hair? She lowered her gaze to her hands, noticing that Smith’s grubby fingers still gripped her arm. She felt as if she was in the middle of a nightmare—only this bad dream was all too real and had barely begun. Hearing the jingling of some coins, she raised her lashes, not entirely ready to relinquish all hope.
    Nate Kinyon emptied his leather pouch into his open palm, fingering through the contents as he mentally tallied the sum. “I can give you eleven pounds, two shillings, sixteen Spanish dollars, and four bits on account. How’s that? I’ll have the rest next spring after trappin’ season.” He stole a quick glance at Rose then looked at the trader. “I’m good for it. You know I am.”
    Smith gave a dubious half smirk, a sly spark in his beady eyes. “I’m sure ya are. Only those promises won’t do my innards one lick’a good.” He shifted his stance and glanced around the settlement. “So where’s that huntin’ partner of yourn? Thought you two was joined at the hip.”
    He shrugged. “Black Horse Bob ain’t comin’ out with me. Right now he’s over playin’ cards with some of your boys. Said he’d wait there till I get back.”
    Nodding, Smith cocked his head. “You two’d have more spendin’ money if you’d stop throwin’ it away at cards. Never did put much stock in gamblin’ meself.”
    A sheepish hue tinged the tips of Kinyon’s ears as he looked at Rose. He straightened to his full height. “Spent most of my purse on these city duds I’m sportin’. Didn’t want Ma to think I’d gone all woodsy.”
    Surmising that someone with the name “Black Horse Bob” must have a long, horsey-looking face, Rose peered over the tall man’s shoulder and up the bank toward the buildings, trying to spot someone of that description. A jolt of alarm whipped through her when she saw as many Indians as white men milling about now—heathens who, she’d heard, scalped people, skinned them, and ate their hearts. A nervous chill went through her.
    Oddly enough, no one else seemed uneasy. She drew a measure of comfort from that. Perhaps the things she’d heard back in England were just talk. After all, Mr. Smith wouldn’t be so interested in acquiring a “puddin’ maker” if living in Indian