"I refuse to marry, huh?" The voice came sharp from beyond the wooden slats of the pen I'd rigged together for Yara, our family's one cow—more precious than gold these days.
I looked up. Bradley Hastings leaned there, hat tilted back, suspenders loose over his pressed shirt, his grin as slick as the pomade in his hair. He rested his arms on the fence as though the world had been built to prop him up. I rolled my eyes and bent again to work, scraping Yara's stall, the iron shovel rasping against the worn boards.
"You know as well as I do," he drawled, "a girl can't get ahead in this world without a husband. Money doesn't fall into a lady's lap unless a man puts it there."
I kept at my work, the scrape of metal against wood my only answer.
"Why fight it?" His tone oozed false kindness. "Marry me, and you'll be done with all this—no more muck, no more empty cupboards, no more worrying about the rent. You'd only have to look after me, and in return, you could live easy. New dresses, good meals, a warm house—you could have the life every girl dreams of."
I stopped then. Turning, I lifted the shovel and held it close enough to his smug face that the smell of dung mingled with his fine cologne. Even Yara gave a low grunt, as though she, too, had had enough.
"I'll never marry," I said, my voice steady, sharp as the shovel's edge. "Least of all to a man like you—born with his path laid out before he'd even learned to walk. You've never known real hunger, never had to earn your keep, and you've no care for those who do. All you've ever valued is money." I stepped closer, my words like a lash. "But listen to me, Mr. Hastings: respect and loyalty aren't for sale. So save your breath, and stay away from me."