She Was the Last Woman Standing When Every Prettier Girl Had Already Been Chosen — The Only Cowboy Who Hadn’t Moved Yet Crossed the Square Toward Her
THE BAKERY The rooster hadn’t even crowed. Rosa’s eyes snapped open. “Rosalind.” Her father’s voice cut through the thin walls like thunder. “Those ovens won’t light themselves.” She rolled off the cot, back already aching, feet freezing on the kitchen floor. By sunrise, three dozen loaves were rising — sweat on her neck, flour on…
