The mountain man stepped between her and the door.
Outside, her father shouted again.
"Open up! I've come to collect what's mine!"
The mountain man's expression turned frighteningly still.
He looked toward the knife resting on the table.
Then toward the frightened woman behind him.
And he said something she would remember for the rest of her life.
"Nobody owns you."
Earlier that afternoon, the trading post at Briar Hollow had been crowded with ranch hands, merchants, and travelers trying to purchase supplies before the next storm.
A potbellied stove stood near the center of the room.
Coils of rope hung beside shelves filled with canned goods, flour, coffee, and lamp oil.
The floorboards creaked beneath muddy boots.
Men gathered near the counter, discussing cattle prices and the condition of the mountain passes.
The young woman stood beside her father.
She wore the cream corset and brown skirt he'd demanded she put on that morning.
She hated the garment.
It pinched her waist, restricted her breathing, and forced her shoulders into an uncomfortable posture.
Her father believed it made her look more respectable.
She believed it made her look like somebody trying desperately to become a different person.
That distinction had never mattered to him.
He was a hard-faced man in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair, a narrow mouth, and the sour expression of someone who believed the world had cheated him.
He owned a struggling cattle operation outside Briar Hollow.
Once, the property had been successful.
But poor financial decisions, neglected repairs, and years of gambling had reduced the ranch to a collection of aging buildings and unpaid bills.
He blamed the weather.
The markets.
The railroad.
The bank.
Sometimes he blamed his deceased wife.
Most often, he blamed his daughter.
She was twenty-five and unmarried.
That fact offended him.
He considered her age an embarrassment, as though her value decreased with every birthday.
He also resented her size.
She was taller and fuller-figured than the women in fashionable catalog illustrations, with generous hips, a soft waist, and a naturally curving figure that no amount of tight lacing could make disappear.
Her mother had been built similarly.
But where her mother had carried herself with confidence, her daughter had spent years learning to apologize for taking up space.
Her father constantly reminded her that she was fortunate anyone might want her.
He said she ate too much.
Worked too slowly.
Talked too much when she questioned him.
And was ungrateful whenever she asked for money she'd earned through sewing, cleaning, or helping manage the ranch accounts.
She had learned to hide her earnings beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom.