Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (9 page)

“It’s not your fault, Birdie. I should have put a stop to Barleigh teaching you. I was afraid something like this would happen if my father found out.”

“No,” Barleigh said, stomping her foot. “You should not have put an end to the reading lessons. You should’ve put an end to Birdie being Grandfather’s slave. Don’t you understand, Papa?” She ran to the campfire and tried to pluck the burning book out of the coals.
 

Henry grabbed his daughter by the shoulders and spun her around. “You read and get ideas about things you don’t understand. What were you thinking, reading
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
to Birdie? Letting her read it aloud? You should have known better.” He kicked at the remaining pages that smoldered and glowed red around the edges.
 

“You bought me the book, Papa, so I’d have something new to read on our journey. Now you say I shouldn’t be reading it. I don’t understand . . . .” Barleigh tried to pull away.

“Look at me, daughter. I do understand your desire for the world to be fair. But darling, you’re only fourteen and too young to understand the world. This is a complicated issue that has no easy solution.”

“The solution is easy, Papa. You and Grandfather are making it hard.”
 

Barleigh didn’t want to listen to him. She just wanted to ride, to ride away from him and her grandfather and the things she didn’t understand. Untying Willow from the wagon, she swung into the saddle.
 

“I can find my way to Fort Worth. I don’t want to ride along with you. I hate that Grandfather won’t let Birdie be free, Papa, and I hate you for not insisting on it.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, they hung like black darts in the air—sharp and hurtful. She wanted them back.
 

“Barleigh,” Henry shouted. “Don’t even think about riding off from here by yourself. It’s too dangerous to ride alone. Barleigh, do you hear me?” He kicked the ground hard, twice, sending a spray of rocks flying. “Damn it, girl. Why are you such a hothead?” He stood, fists on hips, glaring at his daughter.
 

“It’s not just slaves, Henry, who should not be taught to read,” Seamus shouted over his shoulder, the horses now hitched, the wagon ready. “Impudent, young teenage girls should learn sewing and cooking and leave education to men like us who know what to do with it. It was a foolish thing for you to teach that girl to read. You should’ve known better.”

“There’re lots of things I should’ve known better. I don’t count this as one of them.” Henry spoke to his father, but his eyes were on his daughter. His blue eyes were not shining and lively, but hurt and dark.

Barleigh turned away, reining her mare around, spurring much harder than what was needed to escape from the pain in her father’s eyes, from Birdie’s bruised and swollen face, from the madness of her grandfather’s wrath. She wished she hadn’t spurred Willow so hard, wished that she hadn’t thrown those hateful words at her papa, but could do nothing now but ride for Fort Worth.

Spurring the horse into a fast gallop, Barleigh smacked the latigo against the mare’s hip over and over when she didn’t have to. Willow dug down, running faster, trying her damnedest to comply with what was being asked of her. The little mare ran near to exhaustion, trying to please her rider. The harder the horse tried, the more Barleigh sobbed.
 

How could her grandfather be so brutal toward Birdie? Barleigh wondered if she was like him? Did she have it in her, too, whipping and spurring her poor horse as she did? Could that evil streak run through her own blood and harden her bones? The thought terrified her.

“Easy, there, easy now.” She stroked Willow’s neck and slowed her to a walk, bending forward, burying her face in the horse’s mane. “I’m sorry, girl, I shouldn’t have made you run so hard.” Leaning sideways in the saddle, she ran her hands down the horse’s sides, checking for blood. Looking at her unstained hands, she heaved a sigh of relief.
 

A gathering of trees a half mile or so off the trail to the west indicated water. Cottonwood trees edged the banks and offered their long branches to shade the ground. She reined Willow to a stop, unsaddled her, but left the bridle on while keeping the reins tied around her neck to make it easy to catch her.

“I’m sorry, Willow, please forgive me. I’ll never do that again. I promise.” She breathed deeply the smell of the horse’s sweaty neck and stroked the star that swirled at the tip of her blaze. Willow nickered, then dropped her head to the ground and began to graze on the sweet spring grass that grew by the edge of the wide creek, its water cool, clear, and inviting.
 

After filling the canteen, Barleigh poured water on her head, splashing her face, washing off the dusty streaks from her tears. She laid down on the saddle blanket and watched as the horse nipped the green grass clean at the root, while ignoring the cattails and bitter weed that grew along the water’s edge.

Stretching out in the warm sunshine, Barleigh shut her eyes, her mind unsettled and confused. The breeze whispered as it rustled through the cottonwood leaves. Does the tree own the dirt around its roots, taking from it what it wants, or does the dirt own the tree, holding it against its will?
 

Her eyelids grew heavy and she drifted off to sleep, pondering a world out of balance—a world she didn’t understand.
 

The snapping of a twig awoke Barleigh from her nap, and she rolled over onto her side, propping her head in her palm, yawning. “Willow, we better get you saddled and ourselves back on the trail before . . .” Her breath caught in a startled gasp.
 

At the water’s edge, a young Indian boy crouched on all fours, drinking straight out of the pond like a horse, or a coyote, or any other thirsty animal. His dark skin glistened in the sun, his brown eyes, darting between Barleigh and Willow, looked wild. He was a predator sizing up his prey. He sprang to his feet with liquid gracefulness and ran toward the horse. Grabbing a handful of the mare’s mane, he leapt onto her back in one fluid bound, digging his bare heals into her sides, and was gone.

“Willow!” Barleigh screamed, running after the pair, feet tangling, falling, hands out, catching, cactus quills sticking, but it was no use. A trail of sepia-colored dust rose above the trail quite a distance away as the Indian boy galloped the stolen horse from view.

Henry and the wagon caught up with Barleigh as she walked, carrying her saddle. His fear of what could have happened to his daughter turned his initial relief that she was all right into red-hot anger. Barleigh had broken her father’s number one rule and had ridden off alone. She knew that she deserved his rage, and more. She had let her horse get stolen.
 

The remainder of the journey to Fort Worth, she rode in the back of the wagon, curled up with her head resting in Birdie’s lap. She lost herself to the rhythmical sound of Peaty and Boss’s large hooves striking the ground at a fast trot. In a soft, hushed voice, Birdie crooned lullabies just as she had when Barleigh was a small child, while the swaying of the wagon rocked back and forth. The canvas cover, pulled open and tied to the sides, showcased the milk cow trying her best to keep up, the bell that Barleigh had tied around her neck clanging with each stride.
 

Stretching on in a solid flat line, the infinite horizon shimmered. Barleigh kept her eyes alert to any sign of something breaking that line—a lone rider on a stolen horse; a group of riders looking for trouble—but all she saw was dust and dirt and sky.

A searing wind twirled around the wagon, dust swirling upward in a twisting vortex. “Wind hot as the devil’s breath be a bad omen,” Birdie said half to herself. Barleigh’s spine tingled with a creeping chill. A single white cloud as billowy and fluffy as cotton passed overhead, erasing the wagon’s shadow.

*****

They arrived in Fort Worth as the long-reaching orange and pink fingers of the setting sun stretched out to greet them, the sky an inky blue-black to the east. It was June 25, 1855, the journey having taken three weeks and three days.
 

If
fort
is a shortened version of the word
fortress
, Barleigh thought they must be in terrible trouble. Little remained of anything recognizable as fortress-like. High up on a north-facing bluff overlooking the Clear Fork of the Trinity River remained a portion of a wall bearing gun turrets, the heavy wooden shutters thrown open as a bold invitation to the night sky. If stars were the enemies, a clean and clear shot would be certain.
 

Mr. Simon Goldthwaite, the attorney and banker who had corresponded with Henry regarding the property in Palo Pinto, greeted them upon their arrival. He was quick to say that Fort Worth had been disbanded and evacuated over a year prior when the Army ceased its operation as a fortified military outpost. Remaining settlers took over the fort, setting up shops and businesses, using the timber from the fortress walls to build homes, a schoolhouse, and additional buildings for commerce. One unique business, something he called a department store, a Mr. Leonard being the proprietor, deserved special mention.
 

“Imagine a large store with an entire department of boots and shoes, another section full of hardware, another of women’s finery,” he said with a wink and a nod. “Over here you have a department for men, over there, a department for children. Everything you need and don’t yet know you need, all under one roof!” He winked again, slow and deliberate.

“All of the Hostiles have been pushed back farther west,” he explained as reason for the fort’s dismantling. “The Army, with wisdom and forethought, relocated all garrisons to points deeper into Indian Territory.”

“Not all Indians,” Barleigh informed him, “have vacated the area. One is at this very moment well mounted on a fancy little palomino mare named Willow. She stands fourteen and a half hands, has a star and a narrow blaze, four white socks, flaxen mane and tale, with a coat that is a deep autumn leaf gold, just in case you find her.”
 

Henry told Mr. Goldthwaite about the morning’s encounter, which had transpired a few miles north of where the Brazos River flowed through the town of Waco. Mr. Goldthwaite said he would inform the Texas Rangers of the incident, but he assured Henry that folks in Fort Worth were safe.
 

Mr. Goldthwaite planned for the next day a trip to Palo Pinto, a small community half a day’s ride west, to show Henry the new ranch, causing Henry to smile for the first time since having left Corpus Christi.

Barleigh hoped Palo Pinto smelled like it sounded—like a horse. Like a sweaty horse.
 

“The land, eight hundred acres and more to be had if you desire,” said Mr. Goldthwaite, “lies between a fork of the Brazos River and the Coffee Creek, the creek getting its name because it turns dark reddish brown when a storm churns and muddies the water. It foams on top because of the loose silt from the caliche beds, like someone added a helping of cream. I don’t know about you,” he winked, “but I sure do like cream with my coffee.”
 

Barleigh asked if she could name their new home “The Coffee Creek Ranch.” Henry gave a comical wink and a dramatic nod, sending Barleigh into a fit of laughter.

*****

Riding through the township of Dallas, Barleigh had spied a palomino horse tied at a hitching post, and she thought of Willow. Pale yellow cottonwoods putting on their fall colors and yellow horses were nostalgic symbols that triggered melancholy memories.

She poured water on the campfire and then covered it with a scoop of dirt. Huddled deep in her bedroll, she wrapped the black and red Navajo blanket around her shoulders, wondering what the next day’s ride might bring.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

S
EPTEMBER
27, 1860

Jameson appeared with a tray of fresh glasses rimmed in sugar, a pitcher of lemonade, whiskey on the side, and an assortment of ripe fruit. After laying out clean, pressed linen napkins and tidying the table, he asked in a clipped British accent, “Will there be anything else, sir?” The fullness of his dark mustache covered his mouth and hung well below his square jawline, his furry caterpillar eyebrows arching upward to accentuate his inquiry.

“Thank you, Jameson, that’ll be all for now,” said Hughes, centering the tray on the table.

Leighselle watched as Jameson retreated into the shadows of the hotel, his impeccable uniform spotless. The old cloud of doubt and guilt crept into her mind, and she wondered again what it might be like to own a reputable establishment like a hotel, instead of the rowdy saloon, La Verne’s Tavern, that bore her middle name.

She folded and refolded the crisp white napkin, moved the glass of lemonade an inch this way, two inches that way, and picked at the ripe, red strawberry on her plate. “So,” she sighed deeply, eliciting a rattling cough that shook the table, “the rest of my story won’t tell itself, will it?”

“No.” Hughes shook his head. He waited, giving her time to collect her thoughts.

Leighselle’s gaze drifted across the scenic landscape, settling on a point somewhere along a bend in the river. “After the attack, I wanted to die. I felt horrible guilt that somehow I
had
brought it on. But it wasn’t me who died. Typhoid fever was taking its toll in the poorer quarters, and it spread throughout the parish, soon claiming my mother, father, and most of our servants.”

“Good God, Leighselle. I had no idea. How did you survive, after what you’d been through?”

“I had no choice. The next morning, after a night of wishing
I
were dead, I awoke to find the household quiet, mother and father in bed, and
they
were deathly sick. I somehow pulled myself together and found the wherewithal to ride into Vermillion Parish to fetch Doctor Bronstein. He came right away, and for three days we did all we could for my parents. Then I got sick with the typhoid, too.” The memory of typhoid’s deadly fever caused a visible shudder, and Leighselle dotted her forehead with her handkerchief.