AUCTIONED TO THE COWBOYS: A COWBOY MARRIAGE AUCTION REVERSE HAREM ROMANCE (AUCTIONED SERIES Book 3)

1

TAYLOR

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Standing in the lingering evening sunlight, I trace my fingers over the outline of the fading bruise on my cheek.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, but the memory of how it got there lingers past the pain. The light from the front of the house and the crudely parked, rusting truck outside reveal my father’s home. The familiar sinking feeling I get every time I return here takes my breath away.

The bag of buttery pastries and pies clutched in my hand smells delicious. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to quell his temper. Swallowing hard, I know I have no choice but to go inside.

One day at a time.

It’s the only way I get through for Molly.

Glancing again at the neglected house I call home, I drop my head and carry myself on autopilot along the weed-lined path of our front yard, careful to avoid the cracks. Voices carry through the front door, and my heart kicks up a notch. Reaching for my keys, I give myself another moment before I go inside, trying to control the tremble of my fingers.

I’m careful to open the door quietly, almost holding my breath.

“Taylor!” Molly runs and hurls herself at me as I step into the dingy hall with its lingering dampness.

She’s still slightly shorter than me, but it won’t be long before she catches up. I hold her close, and she rests her head against my shoulder. Her relief at my arrival is palpable, and I plant a kiss firmly on the top of her head.

“How was the trip today? Did Mrs. Gulliver let you bring some books home?”

She doesn’t get to answer my question. My father’s shadow looms in the hallway like a specter. I close the door behind me, even though the danger is in front of me. He’s accompanied by the smell of sweat, liquor, and something smoky and stale.

Sensing Molly’s heightened unease, I stroke the top of her head, curling her silky blonde locks between my fingers to let her know that I’ll keep her safe.

The four-year age gap between us feels much more significant, as though the daily trauma we experience has forced me to age and trapped her in childhood.

I flinch as something flies past me, shattering violently against the door as splintering glass showers like a rainstorm. The broken pieces fall to the mat around me and Molly. Glinting in the low light of the hall, they almost look like frost.

“Make dinner. And clear up this goddamn mess before someone gets hurt.” Dad turns and staggers back into the den. “You need to lay off the donuts, girl!” His voice is tinged with ridicule, and I try to block out the insult, dusting myself down.

After giving no response, I head into the kitchen to find the dustpan. I don’t take the bait. When I return, Molly’s sunken hazel eyes fix on me, seeking reassurance.

“Hey, Molls. Set the table. I’ve got pie for tonight, chicken, and vegetables—your favorite.”

Glad of something to do, she makes for the kitchen, but not before glancing over her shoulder.

After sweeping, I gather the dirty plates strewn on the counter and heat a pan of water to wash them. So much of the kitchen is ancient and broken. While everything’s soaking, I slice the pie.

The three of us sit around the kitchen table. Dad shovels the food into his mouth like a wild animal feasting on a carcass. He grunts as he chews, and flakes of pastry and sauce cling to his unshaven chin.

He clutches a can, guzzling back gulps of cheap beer, smacking his lips with each swallow, and spreading the debris across his jawline with the back of his rough, calloused hand.

“Stop eyeballing me, girl.”

I ignore his comment. Molly pushes her food around her plate, picking at it hesitantly like a baby bird. When she’s nervous, she can’t eat—the opposite of me.

“Are you not hungry, Molly? I thought this pie was your favorite!”

She drops her fork and lowers her head as I reach over to grab her hand with mine.

“I don’t want to look at her goddamn long face. Eat the food, you ungrateful bitch.”

Molly’s eyes gloss with tears, but it has been a long while since either of us has fully shown our father the effects of his abuse on our emotions.

I finish my food quickly, never sure how long I’m going to have before he loses his temper and swipes the plates from the table. I give Molly a donut, which she manages a few bites of. She needs fresh fruit and vegetables, but I can’t get those for ten percent of the marked price after hours at the bakery. Whatever money Dad gets goes on beer, cigarettes, and gambling. The food bank has had nothing fresh for over two weeks.

Dad shoves his cleared plate across the table at me and slams his empty can down with enough force to make everything on the surface jump. He stares at me with his watery yellow eyes, his mouth curling. When he licks his teeth, I hold my breath, braced for violence.

“Molly, go upstairs now,” I say gently. “You can read your book. I’ll be up soon.”

Molly’s eyes are wide and frightened, but she does what I ask so quickly that her chair almost overturns on the linoleum.

I take Dad’s plate and rest it on top of mine, bracing the muscles in my arms so my hands don’t shake. Seconds tick past.

“You and me, we gotta talk. Clear up this mess, then I’ll be waiting.” He throws his chair back and swaggers back to the den. It clatters to the floor, leaving a loaded echo like a gunshot.

Moments later, the TV sound drowns out my pounding pulse, and I focus all my attention on doing the dishes. The trash is overflowing, so I take it outside. When I’m walking back with the empty can, Dad yells, “Get in here!”

I place the trashcan on the floor and hover in the den doorway. Dad remains sprawled in an armchair, gray shadows shrinking his soulless eyes.

“SIT DOWN.”

I shuffle towards the armchair by the window, lowering myself steadily. It was my mom’s favorite spot, but now it’s just another place in a house of fear and misery. My angst builds in the silence that hangs between us.

“You’re out of here, girl. Just like you want.”

I snap my head up. He emits a low chuckle laced with menace. His eyes trail over my body, his stare harsh and critical. The last time he looked at me like that, his friend found his way into my bed, and the next day, Dad had enough money to replace our broken TV.

That was the day the last of my innocence was stolen.

“This time tomorrow, you’ll be off my hands and someone else’s problem.”

“What?”

Silence settles for a moment before he dissolves into a coughing fit, the sound rattling in his lungs.

“Over the state line, in Knubsworth County, there’s a cattle market for the local ranches. After that, there’s another kind of auction. One where a lonely cowboy can get himself a wife. Or, in your case, another goddamn heifer to add to his herd.”

I stare at him, his words only half going in. An auction for people. Is that even legal?

My blank expression amuses him.

“I’ve got debts to pay, and you’re just another mouth to feed.” The irony.

“So you’re going to sell me?” I sound incredulous, and I don’t know why. He’s been using me since mom died in whatever way he chooses. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

One thing I won’t do is beg.

There’s no point. If he doesn’t want me here. he’ll get rid of me one way or another. There are many ways he could do it that are worse than a bride auction. At least the men who go to those things want a wife, not just a warm body to use for thirty minutes, although the idea of being a wife to a stranger at only nineteen is not what I imagined for my future.

Dad’s eyes linger on me. He’s waiting for tears or pleading. He’d enjoy both options, feeding on my emotions like a parasite. It’s why I trap every ounce of panic, every flicker of dread, every hot pulse of fear behind a mask of impassive expression. I’ll never give him that part of me. The soft, weak part that wishes he was a loving father, not a monster. The part that wishes he had died instead of my momma.

When he’s bored with my silent stillness, he hauls himself to his feet and swaggers into the hallway and into his boots and jacket before slamming the door behind him.

The spin of the gravel as he takes off into the night, over the limit and dangerous to everyone, is usually a relief.

But tonight, as I sit in my mom’s favorite chair, panic is my only emotion.

Molly.

Her name explodes through my mind like a door slamming shut, violent and final. My little sister’s upstairs. I hope she’s reading and not craning to listen to the conversation I’m still reeling from. I won’t be able to hide anything from her, but at least I can tell her in a way to give her hope.

Hope is a fragile thing, a dangerous thing, but in times of smothering darkness, it’s the only tiny flickering flame we can hold on to.

The floorboards creak as I tiptoe up the stairs and into our shared room. Molly is already asleep with her book resting on her chest. The lamp in the corner casts a warm glow over her frail resting form. Does she know?

Careful not to disturb her, I reach into the closet and find my overnight bag. I set about stuffing it with clothes, books, and finally, the photo I keep hidden from my father.

I trace my fingers over the four faces staring back at me. My own looks almost unfamiliar. My smile is genuine because it isn’t hiding pain like it is now. I was barely eleven years old, but puberty was clearly setting in. Next to me is Molly, at eight years old, grinning coyly at the camera, blonde hair in wisps around her pale porcelain face. My beautiful mom is nestled between us both, her long, fair hair swept into a bun. I touch her face in the picture, tears narrowing my throat to nothing.

Our mom looks so proud of her kids; her eyes show so much love.

God, I miss her voice, her smell, her energy. Everything.

The void in my heart grows wider as I linger on the scene.

My grandma stands behind us all, her arms spanning the people she loved so dearly, guarding her brood with pride. Her face is crinkled into lines, telling of a life of joy and pain.

I have her eyes. If only I had her grit.

I swipe at a lonely tear and shove the photo deep into the bag, along with a pad, pen, and a few bills. Instead of making for my bed, I climb in beside Molly. She shifts and settles closer, her warm hands reaching for me as I scoop her against my body.

“I love you, T!” Her voice is a fragile whisper.

“I love you, too, Mollymoo. Sorry, I woke you.”

“I’m glad you did. Dad told me you’re going tomorrow. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“I’m so sorry, Molly. I’d never choose to leave you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know. But I’m scared. What’s going to happen to us?”

“I don’t know, Moll. But I promise I’ll find a way to get you out of here. I won’t stop ’til I do. Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

“Good.”

She takes a deep breath, and as her body tenses, she swallows hard, gulping back tears.

We’ve both learned to stifle our emotions because what’s the point of crying when no one cares to fix what’s making you sad? I fill the silence so she doesn’t have to.

“I want you to go to The Bakehouse tomorrow morning. They’re expecting me on shift. Saturdays are busy. They’ll need someone. Speak to Natalie and explain you’ll stand in until I come back. Don’t tell them where I’m going. Say it’s a family emergency.”

“But I can’t. I don’t know anything about the bakery. I won’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay. I’ll call Natalie in the morning and give her a story. She’ll look out for you. It’s a good place to work. And an escape from here. You’ll always have something to eat.” I hope the last part is the clincher. Despite her not having a huge appetite, sweet treats are a different story.

She inhales again, and I hug her closer.

“Listen, there’s something else you need to know, but you mustn’t tell Dad. In the back of the closet, where the floorboards are loose, I’ve stashed some dollars. It’s for an emergency. I’m leaving it for you. Make sure you get some healthy food, you hear me? But hide it from Dad so he doesn’t suspect anything. You need fresh fruit and vegetables. Don’t forget. Candy won’t build your body right.”

Her swallow is a crackling sound of tears locked in the tunnel of a tightly clenched throat. She turns her face into my body, and she jerks just once with a sob she didn’t have the strength to hold inside.

“I love you, T—”

My heart breaks. “I love you, sweet girl. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m going to be fine, and I’ll find a way for us to be together. Maybe this is our path to freedom. Maybe this is the way we’ll escape.”

I say it as much to convince myself as Molly. The flicker of hope snuffs out as quickly as it ignited.

The unknown is as bleak as the arid rolling plains surrounding this town.

My heart is dust.

After a few minutes, Molly’s breathing turns quiet and steady. I’m so tired, I could sleep for a week and still quake from exhaustion, but rest is elusive. The seconds tick past, stretching endlessly into the night, and my thoughts spiral.

Sometime later, the front door bangs shut, and the staggering steps on the floorboards downstairs alert me that my father is home.

My pulse quickens. The time on the clock reads 2:03am.

I anticipate creaking on the stairs, and I brace myself in the haunting darkness. When the house is silent again, I realize he must have fallen asleep in the den.

Morning comes, but no joy accompanies the first rays that break through the gaps in the drapes.

My life here is bleak, but at least it’s familiar, and I have Molly. She has me.

Who knows where I’m going? Maybe no one will bid on me. Maybe Dad will bring me back even more humiliated and miserable. His fists will fly if that happens.

I’ll make myself as pretty as I can.

I’ll try to appeal to a nice man who I can beg to save Molly.

With a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach, I know with certainty that there’s no going back now. I have to do this.

For Molly.

But also for me.