“‘Amazing grace…’” It had been her settler mother’s favorite song. How did she know that? She couldn’t remember her mother’s face aside from the portrait in LeBeau’s library, but she recalled the song. Her throat tightened as she shuffled to the far end of the pew. She would not think of her mother.
Face frozen in a scold, Aunt Judith pulled in alongside her, taking a seat almost a foot away. Cousin Thea, Mr. Henry, and Aunt Clarey followed close by, leaving Morning Fawn hemmed in between them and the wall on the other side of her. Stupid mistake to bolt ahead and be the first one in. Her heartbeat thrummed in her head.
Dressed in a dark suit and a white cravat, the slender preacher with spectacles stepped up to the pulpit. The music stopped. Thank God. Hungry for air, Beth trained her eyes ahead and swished her fan. Couldn’t they open a window in this place?
The preacher’s voice rose and fell as he read a few verses.God help me. Did He listen? Did He care? A portly woman whose girth dominated the piano bench struck the chords of a hymn on the ivory keys.
The congregation stood. Beth followed suit, gripping the back of the pew in front of her. Then came “Amazing Grace.” The first time had only been the prelude. They’d sing all the verses this time. “‘I once was lost…’”
A snippet of memory. Her mother brushing her hair. Morning Fawn squeezed her eyes shut and tried to swallow, but the acid stuck in her throat. Her mother.Oh, Lord...
The spells, which had started shortly after she’d come to the Comanche and often struck at night, had dissipated after a couple of years. Shortness of breath, shivers, waking dreams. Her Comanche piahad wrapped Morning Fawn in her arms and held her until the terrors faded. However, they’d returned full force since her arrival at the LeBeau plantation, the last home her family had stayed at before they’d headed for the Texas frontier and their deaths—except now, there was no one to hold her.
“‘I once was blind, but now I see…’”
She had to think of something else. The bronze and golden leaves of the pecan and cottonwood trees along the creek on the way here. Had she finished peeling the apples in the basket this morning on the back porch? How many apples were there? But when she started to count them in her head, they turned red, red like blood.
The song finished, and the congregation sat. She did not. Her aunt nudged her arm with a knuckle, nodding toward the pew.
Sweat beaded on Morning Fawn’s temples. Sitting with her mama by the campfire, the last calm moment before the night exploded with nerve-piercing howls, warriors charging, and shrieks. Blood red. The fire and screams. The neighing of horses. Too many horses. She mumbled, “I need to be excused” and squeezed out past half a dozen legs, trampling a shoe in the process.
Mr. Henry jumped to his feet to make room. Heads turned.
Morning Fawn kept going. Couldn’t she go to the privy without causing a commotion? But the privy wasn’t what she was aiming for. Out the door and down the steps, she willed her legs to take one step at a time until she’d made it around the front to the side of the church, away from the curious eyes of the drivers by the hitching posts.
Her head pounded. She had to get away. From the past. From everything.
Stumbling on a root, she bent down and yanked the deplorable shoes off of her feet. Ahead, Mr. Franklin’s chestnut Thoroughbred nibbled on grass, no owner in sight. She’d heard rumors it could beat any horse in the county.
A thought sizzled through her. Freedom. She broke into a run, her skirt flapping against her legs. Pebbles dug into her stocking feet. No walls. No people. Escape. She yanked the lead rope from the rail and grabbed the reins.
The horse snorted as Morning Fawn latched on to the pommel, stuck a foot in the stirrup, and heaved herself onto the saddle.
“Miss Logan—” A man came around the corner.
Morning Fawn snapped the reins and pressed her calves to the horse’s side. The chestnut quickened from a trot to a lope past the weathered fence and down the hill. Horse hooves tore through dried grass and onto the packed-dirt road.
Wind whipped the hat from her head, and her hair unfurled as they galloped past stubby brown picked-over fields, empty of cotton. The blood red faded, along with the screams.
Someone yelled behind her in the distance.
No. She would not, could not stop. She’d never get free. If they caught her, they’d lock her up.
When she’d first arrived at her uncle’s plantation, they’d promised to let her eat once she took off her buckskin garments. She’d gone hungry instead. When they’d finally offered food, she should have suspected something. Instead, she’d gobbled down the dinner and promptly fell into a deep sleep, drugged. Her Comanche clothes were gone when she awoke, along with everything she owned.
She’d been livid. If she’d had her knife, she would have sliced LeBeau. Instead, he’d had his men carry her to the attic, throw her on a mattress, and lock the door on their way out.She’d spent a month there. And he’d threatened to send her to an asylum if she tried to run away again or refused to listen to their lessons on how to be civilized. Her uncle wanted a porcelain doll, not a niece with a mind of her own.
The stink of manure assaulted her nose as she rode past a hog farm.
The horse’s muscles churned beneath Morning Fawn. She tightened her grip on the reins, digging her nails into her palms.
A slave boy, fishing pole across his shoulder, jumped out of her way as she swerved her mount around a corner. Trees. She needed the cover of trees. A jerk of reins, and her mount left the road, pounding down the hill toward the creek. Scatterings of cottonwood, pecan, and mesquite populated the banks.
They plunged through the gurgling water and up the other side. She dodged a limb and bent down over the horse’s withers, her nose inches from the tousled mane. It didn’t matter where she was going. Anywhere was better than here. After her third failed attempt, she’d played it safe too long, waiting for a perfect plan. No more.
CHAPTER 2
Stepping through knee-high sedge grass, First Texas U.S. Cavalryman Lieutenant Devon Reynolds hooked his small shovel on his saddle horn and smacked his gloves together. His shoulders and neck muscles ached as if he’d just finished digging a grave. If they found his buried Federal uniform and his cache of weapons beneath the gnarled roots of the giant elm tree, it’d be his own final resting place.
