‘Choose any woman you want, cowboy,’ the sheriff said. ‘Then I’ll marry the obese Amish girl.’ Hannah.”

The voice cracked like a whip. “Get up this instant.”

Hannah’s eyes flew open. Her heart thudded in her chest. The morning light was barely breaking through the cracks in the wooden wall, but her mother was already standing at the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes sharp with disdain. “The sheriff has called all the girls. Every last one.” Her mother’s voice dripped with bitterness. “They’re choosing wives today. A fine day for most families, but not for me.”

Hannah swallowed hard.

“You’ll go,” her mother pressed on. “Even though no man in his right mind would ever choose you. You’ll still stand there like the rest. So I’m not shamed for keeping you hidden at home.”

The words stung. They always did. Hannah curled her fingers into the thin blanket, wishing she could vanish, but there was no use. Her mother had no mercy for softness.

“Don’t just sit there staring. The bucket’s empty. Go fetch water and bring back vegetables, too. You might as well be useful since you’ll never be wanted.” Her mother’s footsteps retreated, leaving the room colder than before.

Hannah forced herself up, pulling on her faded dress. The seams strained at her shoulders. She wrapped her old shawl around herself, the edges fraying where she had mended them over and over. She stepped outside into the early morning.

The air was cool, but the town was already waking. Horses clattered down the street. Shopkeepers pulled open shutters. Voices carried, and with them came the whispers. “There she goes.” “Sheriff’s gathering won’t change her fate.” “No man would burden himself with her.”

Hannah’s eyes fixed on the dirt road ahead. Her bucket knocked softly against her leg as she walked faster, trying to outrun the words. But they followed her, clinging like burrs to her skin. Her chest tightened. If she could just get to the well quickly. If she could just make it back home.

A small cry stopped her. She turned her head. By the side of the road, a little boy sat in the dust, clutching his knee. His face was streaked with tears. Passers-by walked on without slowing. A few glanced, then shook their heads. Nobody stopped.

Hannah hesitated. She knew what the whispers would say if she knelt there, if she showed her soft heart again. But her feet carried her forward anyway. She crouched beside the boy, her voice gentle. “Shh, it’s all right. Let me see.”

The boy sniffled, lifting his scraped knee. Dirt clung to the shallow cut. Hannah tore a strip from the corner of her shawl and dabbed carefully. “You’re brave. See, nothing to be afraid of.” The boy’s tears slowed. His lip trembled, then curled into the tiniest smile. “Thank you.”

Hannah smiled back, though her own eyes stung. She gave his hair a soft pat, then rose to her feet again. Across the street, a group of women whispered. “Always tending to strays.” “Strange girl.” Their laughter followed her. Hannah pulled her shawl tighter. The boy’s smile lingered in her mind like a fragile flame, but it wasn’t enough to warm her from the chill of the stares.

The well came into view. Girls clustered nearby, their dresses clean, their ribbons bright. They laughed easily, tossing their hair, rehearsing smiles they’d soon wear for the men who might claim them. Hannah lowered her gaze, ashamed of her plainness. She dropped the bucket into the well and watched her reflection ripple in the water. Round face, tired eyes, cheeks already burning. Her mother’s words echoed again. “No man would ever choose you.” Hannah gripped the rope and whispered into the hollow air, “Let it be over quickly. Please, just let it be over.” The bucket hit the water with a splash, the sound loud in the quiet morning. She pulled it up with trembling arms, knowing this was only the beginning of a day she could not escape.

The market was crowded when Hannah arrived. Voices overlapped, vendors shouting, mothers bargaining, children weaving between stalls. Hannah pulled her shawl tight, hoping to go unnoticed. She never did.

“Look,” a voice called. She felt it before she turned, eyes on her, laughter rising. Three boys leaned against the apple cart, grins wide. “Dance, Hannah, dance!” one shouted. “Show us how light you are!” The others roared.

Hannah froze. Heat flushed her cheeks. “Please,” she muttered, clutching her basket. “Leave me be.”

They circled closer. “You’re made for stomping, not dancing.” “Careful, she might crack the ground.” Their laughter stabbed her chest. One boy clapped like a drum. “Dance for us, Hannah.”

Her foot shifted to pass them. Her skirt tangled. She stumbled, arms flailing. The basket tipped. Carrots rolled into the dirt. The crowd erupted. Women with baskets. Old men at stalls, even children pointing. The laughter swelled like a cruel wave.

Hannah dropped to her knees, scrambling for the vegetables. Her eyes blurred, hands shook. “Why was I made this way?” she whispered, drowned by the noise. Her throat tightened. She wanted to vanish, but she couldn’t. She gathered the last carrot, rose, basket clutched, shawl hiding her tears. Behind her, the boys shouted, “Dance again, Hannah. That was the best one yet.” Their jeers chased her through the market. Each step grew heavier. Her heart pounded. She slipped into an alley away from the noise. Only then did tears fall freely. Her mother’s voice replayed. “You’ll never be wanted. Never.”

Hannah leaned against the wall, breath shaky. She hugged her basket close as if it could shield her. Alone, hidden, she whispered, “Is there any place in this world for me?” No answer came, only distant laughter on the wind.

The sun had barely risen higher when the town bell clanged. Its sharp echo rolled down the dusty streets, bouncing off wooden walls. Hannah flinched at the sound. A man in a worn vest stepped into the square, the town crier. His voice boomed over the chatter. “By order of the sheriff,” every head turned, every step paused. “All unmarried women are to appear at the gathering today. Men will choose their brides so this town may prosper.”

A hush fell. Then whispers spread like fire. “It’s today.” “Lord, help us.” “It’s today.” “Did you hear? They’ll all be lined up.” Women clutched their daughters’ arms, rushing them inside. Baskets were dropped, washcloths abandoned, bread ovens left burning. Doors slammed open, then shut again as mothers pulled out their best ribbons and pressed dresses flat with trembling hands.

Inside one small cabin, Hannah’s mother spun around sharply. “You heard him,” her voice was sharp as a whip. “Fix your hair. At least look decent. Don’t shame me more than you already do.”

Hannah’s hands fumbled with her shawl. Her heart pounded. “But mama,” she whispered, “no one will—”

Her mother’s glare silenced her. “You’ll go. Even if no man chooses you, you’ll stand there. Do you hear me?”

Hannah lowered her eyes. “Yes, mama.”

Her mother’s hurried steps filled the room, drawers yanked open, clothes tossed aside. She pulled out the red dress. “This one’s better than rags.” Hannah hesitated. It clung too close, but there was no argument. A white cap was tied beneath her chin. “There. At least you look disciplined.” As she slipped into the dress, the boy’s jeers echoed. “Dance, Hannah, dance.” Her chest tightened. Now she must stand before the town.

Her hands trembled. “The sheriff said, ‘All girls.’” “Even you,” her mother muttered, “don’t shame me.”

Through the window, neighbors readied their daughters, braids neat, pastel dresses bright. Hannah looked down. The red dress clung. The cap framed her cheeks, a dirt smudge at the hem. Her reflection showed tired eyes, flushed skin, hair slipping loose. She already heard the laughter and whispers.

Her mother shoved her forward. “Go!” The door opened. Sunlight spilled over her. Each step down the porch grew heavier. The town ahead buzzed. Doors clapping, horses stomping, voices rising. Eyes followed. Pity, scorn, laughter. “She’s going too,” a woman muttered. “Can you imagine?” another whispered. Hannah kept her gaze on the ground and walked slowly toward the square, toward her fate.

 

The town square throbbed with noise. Dust rose under wagons and boots. Mothers tugged daughters forward, smoothing hair and sleeves. Fathers lingered at the edge, arms folded, eyes sharp. Hannah slowed. The red dress strained. The bonnet framed her flushed face. Every glance burned. “There she is, big as a mule, standing proud.” She forced herself onward.

At the front, girls lined up, light dresses, ribbons neat, faces anxious but hopeful. Hannah took her place at the far end. The crowd rippled. “She’ll be left standing.” “Who’d want her?” “She’s wasting time.” Her eyes stayed low, but her mother’s glare from the crowd pinned her in place, so she stood.

The sheriff climbed the platform, boots loud, gaze sweeping the women like cattle. Deputies waited behind him, rifles across their chests. “By order of law,” the sheriff called, “these women stand today. Men of Reedridge will choose their brides. No woman excused. No man will defy.” The word struck the square. Mothers clutched daughters tighter. Girls whispered, cheeks flushed, some still smiling with nervous hope.

Hannah’s heart pounded. The dress pulled at her shoulders. The bonnet pressed hot. She already heard the laughter that would follow. The market boy’s chant echoed in her head. “Dance, Hannah, dance.” The memory rose like a storm. Beside her, a slimmer girl glanced over with the faintest smile. Almost kind. It made Hannah’s throat ache. Kindness would not last.

The sheriff raised his hand. “Men of Reedridge, step forward. Make your choice.” The square roared alive, boots scraped. Mothers shoved daughters forward, ribbons fluttering. Hannah kept her head bowed. Dust swirled at her feet. Her heart begged for escape, but there was none. The choosing had begun.

The sheriff’s boots crunched on dry dirt as he stepped forward, his voice cutting through the restless crowd. “Bring him up.” Heads turned as a towering figure emerged. The giant cowboy, broad shoulders, sun-darkened skin, hands like iron. He stood taller than anyone else, a presence that silenced whispers.

The sheriff pointed. “This town respects strength. You’ll set the example. Choose a bride.” A ripple ran through the people. Mothers nudged daughters. Ribbons were straightened. Prayers whispered. Every girl on the line held her breath.

The cowboy’s jaw tightened. “I came here for no marriage.” The sheriff’s brow furrowed. “You’ll do your duty. A town cannot prosper without families. The law demands order.” The cowboy’s chest rose heavy. “I owe no law my heart.”

Gasps spread through the crowd. Some smirked, eager for a fight. The sheriff stepped closer, barely reaching the man’s shoulder. “Don’t mistake yourself for untouchable. Today, every man will choose.”

The cowboy’s eyes swept the trembling women. “I will not.” The refusal cracked like a whip. Uneasy murmurs rose. Men barking, women whispering. The sheriff raised his hand for silence. “Refuse me here and you’ll answer to more than whispers.” The cowboy stood unmoved, arms crossed, a mountain of defiance.

“This isn’t about what you want,” the sheriff pressed. “It’s about duty. If the strongest man refuses, what hope do the rest have?” The silence stretched. Mothers clutched children. Men leaned forward. Finally, the cowboy shook his head, steady and final. “I did not come for this.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll find, cowboy, that no man leaves here untouched by duty.” The crowd erupted again, shouts, laughter, whispers piling together. The women fidgeted, hearts pounding, and at the center, the cowboy stood firm, resisting, unbroken.

The sheriff’s voice thundered across the square. “Even she stands here with courage. Will you ignore her?” The crowd hushed. His hand pointed straight at Hannah. Heads turned, dozens of eyes locked onto her. A ripple of laughter rolled out.

“She really thinks someone will pick her?” a woman muttered. “Look at her dress. Look at her shape,” another whispered loud enough for all to hear. Hannah froze. Every muscle stiff. She stared at the ground, wishing the earth would open and swallow her whole. Her cheeks burned hot. The jeers grew louder.

“Cowboy, if you’re forced to choose, why not take her? She’s waiting for you. Go on, make her day.” The voices struck like stones. Hannah’s shoulders trembled. Tears pressed against her eyes, threatening to spill. She blinked hard, fighting them back.

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed at the cowboy. “You see, even she, the one they all mock, stands here braver than most. What excuse have you left, son?” The cowboy’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move. The silence stretched, long, heavy. Hannah felt every second like a blade across her skin. One thought echoed in her mind. *Please just let this end. I can’t stand here any longer.*

The sheriff folded his arms. “What say you?” The cowboy’s eyes swept across the line of girls, then landed on Hannah. Her stomach dropped. Her head bowed even lower, strands of hair falling over her face to hide her tears. She braced herself for the final blow.

All eyes were on the cowboy. The sheriff waited, arms crossed. The crowd leaned in, hungry for a scene. Finally, the cowboy lifted his chin. His voice was steady. “Her. I choose her.”

The words cut through the square like a blade. A gasp, sharp and sudden. Then laughter erupted, rolling across the people like thunder. “Her?” “You can’t be serious.” “Out of all the girls, he picked that one.” Hannah’s heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers curling into fists. She dared not look up. Now she was the center of attention, but for all the wrong reasons.

The sheriff raised his brow, half amused, half satisfied. “So be it. Choice is made. Witness it all. You’ve heard the man.” He struck his boot against the wooden platform with a heavy stamp, sealing the decision.

The laughter didn’t stop. Men slapped their knees. Women covered their mouths to hide their smirks. Children pointed, whispering. Hannah’s mother turned away, covering her face with her hand. That sight pierced Hannah deeper than every cruel word the crowd hurled at her. She felt small, exposed. A hundred voices drowned out the one that mattered.

The cowboy stood tall, unflinching. He didn’t smile. He didn’t defend his choice. He simply stood by it. The crowd cheered louder, expecting him to crack, to laugh, to admit it was a joke. But he didn’t. And that silence unsettled them more than anything.

Hannah wiped at her tears, though it was useless. Her vision blurred. Her thoughts spiraled. *Why me? What game is this?*

The sheriff motioned toward the church steps. “It’s done. Let it be recorded.” No one cheered. No one clapped. The only sound left was the cruel laughter that refused to die down. Hannah stood frozen, her feet heavy as stone. Her world had shifted in an instant, and she didn’t know whether to fear it or cling to it. The cowboy finally moved, just one step forward, not toward the crowd, toward her. And though she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, Hannah felt the weight of it, the choice that had changed her life forever.

The sheriff’s stamp echoed against the wooden platform. The choice was sealed. The crowd erupted again, louder this time. “Of all the girls, he picked her.” “Poor fool doesn’t know what he’s doing.” “He’ll regret it by morning.” Hannah’s hands shook as she clutched her shawl tighter. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She wanted to vanish, but there was no escape. The sheriff waved them off. “Go on then, husband and wife.”

The cowboy stepped down first. His boots thudded against the dirt. He didn’t look at the crowd, didn’t look at her, just stood waiting. Hannah hesitated, her legs heavy. When she finally moved, the whispers followed like shadows. “Look at her shuffle.” “She’s crying already.” “She doesn’t deserve a man like him.” Her face burned hotter. She walked beside him, each step heavier than the last. The people parted only to laugh behind their hands as the pair passed. “Poor man saddled with her.” The words stung sharper than stones.

Hannah dared to glance upward at the cowboy. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed ahead. He gave nothing away. That silence confused her most of all. Was he angry? Ashamed? Regretting every second? Her chest tightened. She lowered her gaze again, staring at the dust beneath her feet.

The walk through town felt endless. Children giggled. Women whispered. Every corner carried fresh humiliation. By the time they reached the edge of town, Hannah’s tears had already streaked her face. She kept her head down, praying he hadn’t noticed. The road stretched toward open land. The voices faded behind them. For the first time, the laughter was gone, but the silence between them weighed heavier. She wanted to speak, just a word, anything. But fear held her tongue. *What could I say? He didn’t want this either.*

When the ranch finally came into sight, relief mixed with dread. It was far from town, tucked away, quiet. No crowd here, no laughter. Yet the memory of their voices still rang in her head.

Inside the house, the cowboy moved about with calm efficiency. He set his hat down, lit the lamp, poured himself water. Not a single word for her. Hannah lingered near the door, fingers twisting in her shawl. Her body trembled with exhaustion, her heart with shame. At last, she slipped into a small corner of the house and sat. The tears she had held back all day finally poured. She pressed her hands to her face, shoulders shaking. *I’ve ruined his life. They were right. I don’t belong to anyone.* The walls around her heard what no one else would. Her broken sobs muffled into the night. And yet, even as despair wrapped her tighter, one thought flickered faintly inside. *He didn’t mock me, not once.* That small spark, too fragile to name, was the only warmth she carried to sleep.

The ranch was nothing like town. No mocking voices, no cruel stares, only the wind moving across the fields, only the sound of horses shifting in their stalls. For Hannah, it felt like stepping into another world. The cowboy, Samuel, did not speak much at first, but his silence was not sharp like her mother’s. It was steady like the ground beneath her feet.

He showed her where water was drawn, where the hens laid their eggs, how to scatter feed so the chickens rushed toward her. At first, she stumbled, spilling grain everywhere. She expected him to laugh. He didn’t. Instead, he bent down, picked up her dropped bucket, and said quietly, “Try again, slower this time.” No anger, no scorn, just patience.

Day by day, Hannah learned. She swept the porch. She mended a torn saddle strap with trembling fingers. She even tried her hand at baking bread, though the first loaf came out hard as stone. Samuel tasted it anyway. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Not bad,” he said. Her chest ached at the kindness in his voice. For the first time, someone allowed her to fail without shame.

Evenings brought silence, the kind that wrapped around them like a blanket. Hannah often found him sitting by the fire, a silver locket in his hand. Inside, she once glimpsed the face of a woman, faded with time. He didn’t speak of her. But Hannah saw the grief in his eyes when he closed the locket and set it aside. Her heart softened. He too carried pain. He too knew what it was to be alone.

One morning, Samuel asked her to ride with him. The thought made her panic. “I’ve never been on a horse,” she whispered. He studied her, then nodded once. “Then today you’ll learn.” She nearly refused, fear twisting her stomach. But something in his tone, calm, certain, made her step closer. He lifted her into the saddle as though she weighed nothing. The horse shifted and she clutched the reins wide-eyed. “Easy,” he said, steadying her with a hand at her back. “I’ve got you.” And he did. Every nervous breath, every uncertain move, he guided her through it. By the time the sun dipped low, Hannah sat taller. Her laughter startled even herself when the horse broke into a gentle trot. For once, she didn’t feel clumsy. She felt alive.

Trust came slowly. It wasn’t in grand words or sudden gestures. It was in the little things. The way he waited for her to sit before eating. The way he noticed when her hands were raw from work and quietly left salve on the table. The way he listened, truly listened, when she spoke, even if she stumbled over her words. And she, in turn, began to see his quiet strength for what it was. Not hardness, but gentleness carefully guarded.

One evening, as she set bread on the table, Samuel paused. “You’re stronger than you think, Hannah.” Her head snapped up, startled. No one had ever spoken those words to her. Her eyes burned, and she looked away quickly. But inside, something shifted. A fragile spark, long buried, began to grow. The town’s people had called her worthless. Her own mother had said no man would want her. But here, in the quiet of the ranch, she was learning she could be more. She was learning she had value, not because of how she looked, not because of what the town thought, but because one man treated her as if she mattered, and because slowly she was beginning to believe it, too.

At night, lying awake, Hannah sometimes thought of that day in the square: the laughter, the jeers, the humiliation. But then she thought of the way Samuel had stood tall beside her, the way he had chosen her without a word of shame. And now, the way he was teaching her to live, not as a burden, but as a partner. The memory no longer stung the same way. It was turning into something else: the beginning of a new life, the slow, quiet building of trust, and the first fragile roots of love.

The town square buzzed again weeks after the marriages had been declared. Merchants shouting, mothers gossiping, children chasing one another in the dust. But when Hannah and Samuel walked in, heads turned. The whispers began all over again. “There they are.” “Why keep her?” “He could have had any woman.” “Must be some joke to him.” The words pricked Hannah’s chest like thorns. Her steps faltered, eyes dropping to the ground. Old fears rushed back: the square, the stares. But beside her, Samuel didn’t slow. His jaw was steady. His hand brushed hers, a small anchor. And then he stopped right in the center of the square.

All eyes on them. Hannah froze. The sheriff raised a brow from his porch. A circle of men leaned closer to hear. The women covered their mouths, waiting for something cruel. Samuel’s voice rang out, deep and even. “She is my wife.” The whispers died instantly. The square fell silent. His eyes swept over the crowd. “You all mocked her. You said no one would want her.” He paused, his hand tightening around Hannah’s. “But I tell you this, the only voice that matters to me is hers.”

The word struck like thunder. No laughter followed, no jeers, only stunned silence. For the first time, Hannah didn’t bow her head. She lifted her chin, heart pounding, eyes stinging, but not from shame.

The crowd’s eyes burned against her, waiting for weakness. But instead of shrinking, something in her snapped free. Her whole life, she had been told she was less: too heavy, too clumsy, too unworthy. Yet here was a man who had seen her worth without her having to prove it, and that gave her the courage to show it. She stepped forward. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders. The crowd murmured again. She took a deep breath, her voice steady.

“You laughed when I stumbled. You said I wasn’t fit for even a dance.” Her eyes swept across them, stopping on the very boys who used to jeer. “Well, tonight I will dance, but not for you.” Her hand reached for Samuel’s. His strong fingers curled around hers without hesitation. The air shifted. What had begun as mockery turned into a silence that pressed heavy.

The cowboy’s deep voice softened. “Are you sure?” Her eyes glistened. “This with you. I’m not afraid.” He nodded once, then pulled her gently into the open space of the square.

The fiddler, unsure at first, lifted his bow. Someone whispered, “Play!” And so he did. The music rose, slow and haunting. Not the quick jigs the crowd was used to, but something steadier, stronger. Hannah’s chest trembled as Samuel’s arms settled firmly around her waist. His other hand guided hers. Step by step, they moved together.

The people who once laughed now stood frozen. For Hannah wasn’t stumbling. She wasn’t clumsy. She was graceful because Samuel moved with her, not against her, because she trusted him, because for once she believed she deserved this. Her dress swirled as they turned. Her cheeks glowed, not with shame, but with joy.

Samuel leaned close, his voice low enough only for her. “Let them see. You’re more than they ever knew.” Tears blurred her vision, but she smiled. She had never felt so light. The music swelled. He spun her gently, then pulled her back into his chest. The crowd gasped, and then, something Hannah never expected, applause broke out. Not everyone. Some still scowled, but others, touched despite themselves, clapped softly. Even the fiddler played with more heart, as if carried away by her courage.

For the first time, Hannah wasn’t the joke. She was the woman who stood tall, who danced where once she had been mocked, who claimed joy on her own terms.

Samuel’s lips brushed her ear. “I’ve never seen anyone braver.” Her heart ached, but in the sweetest way. For years she had longed to be loved. Not for her body, not for what she lacked, but for who she was. And now, here, under the same sun that once burned her with shame, she found it.

The music slowed. They ended in each other’s arms. The silence that followed was louder than the laughter had ever been. Samuel straightened, his hands still firm at her back. He looked across the faces. “If you think her unworthy, then you’ve never known true strength.” Then softer, just for her, “And I choose you again. Every time.”

Hannah’s eyes brimmed. Not from pain, not from fear, but from something she never thought she’d feel. Pride. The jeers did not matter anymore. For the first time, she was not hiding.

Hand in hand, they walked away. Not hurried, not ashamed, and though whispers still lingered, no one laughed, because laughter had no power over them now. Hannah’s strength had spoken louder than words. And in Samuel’s steady embrace, she knew she was finally home. Not chosen out of pity, not tolerated out of duty, but loved and celebrated for exactly who she was. And the dance that once mocked her had become the dance that set her free.

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