Read Online Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) by T. K. Lukas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. K. Lukas
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think like a boy—all while acting naturally. However, through trial and error, I have determined it is impossible to stand and pee like a boy.
Today’s travels brought me a few miles east of Fort Worth. Not a bad start at all for a wagon horse. We put a respectable dent in the three hundred and fifty miles left to go. If we average fifty miles a day, then we can make Little Rock, Arkansas by this time next week. From there to Saint Joseph, Missouri is another four hundred seventy five miles, but the Overland Stage can cover one hundred miles or more in twenty-four hours since it makes quick stops to change drivers and horses and to allow passengers comfort breaks.
By my calculations, I’ll be applying at the Central Overland California and Pikes Peak Express Company by the end of October. As Aunt Winnie cautioned, I’ll refrain from referring to it as the COC & PP Express Company, which sent her into another fit of laughter.
If I pocket twenty-five dollars a week all of November, December, and January, I’ll have at least three hundred dollars to finish paying the taxes due on the ranch, plus some. Won’t ol’ Mr. Goldthwaite swallow his teeth when he sees that?
We (me and King) made camp just at sunset. Bone-deep weariness saps my appetite. My desire for food hides itself behind my ribcage. Papa used to say that. “What’s wrong girl? Your hunger hiding behind your ribs?” I’d laugh, he’d laugh, I’d feign starvation. His eyes would twinkle—his grin would spread across his face. Papa’s smile, his ear connecting smile. . . .
I look west and my thoughts tangle. I wonder what’s wrong with me—wrong with my heart. Did I leave it in Palo Pinto? I wasn’t sad this morning leaving Starling. I should have been sad, but I wasn’t. All I could think about was getting on that horse and riding. Not riding away from her, but riding toward this opportunity.
The township of Dallas is tomorrow’s target, so I should close my journal and sleep. I wonder if I’ll have that dream again, that recurring dream I’ve had these past few nights. A wolf, silent and powerful, watches over me and I’m not afraid. He keeps the nightmares at bay.
Tomorrow, I’ll forgive myself for not feeling sad about leaving my baby sister. I’ll put emotions aside. I’ll concentrate on one thing: being Bar Flanders.
*****
October 17, 1860
The township of Dallas was abuzz with activity as Barleigh rode through the middle of the square, stopping at the livery stable to refill her canteens. Everyone was pitching in to rebuild the business district, which had been torched the previous July. Only a few buildings were completely functional. Others were half-gutted shells, although still operational. Most, however, were nothing but charred heaps of blackened rubbish.
Seeing the destruction, smelling the scorched remains of wood and plaster, caused her blood to cool. The memory of that night came rushing back with the sooty breeze that swept through the burned-out streets.
Barleigh rode King past the blackened buildings, looking for the livery stables. A helpful stranger pointed her down Main Street, indicating the building adjacent to Bennett’s Mercantile. Barleigh tipped her hat, said “Much obliged,” and kept riding.
A pinch-faced elderly woman along with her homely daughter who was approaching old maid status were at the stables waiting for the stagecoach. “My widowed sister lives here, but we’re going back home to Austin,” the mother informed Barleigh. Her busy hands fussed at the closures on her dress, with her daughter’s dress, and with the ribbons that held her hat to her head. “You know who did that, don’t you?”
“Ma’am?” Barleigh peered from under the brim of her hat, following the woman’s pointed finger toward the rebuilding project. “Uh, no, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Wasn’t lightning did that,” she said, flipping the handle of her carpet bag back and forth. “Nope.
Today’s travels brought me a few miles east of Fort Worth. Not a bad start at all for a wagon horse. We put a respectable dent in the three hundred and fifty miles left to go. If we average fifty miles a day, then we can make Little Rock, Arkansas by this time next week. From there to Saint Joseph, Missouri is another four hundred seventy five miles, but the Overland Stage can cover one hundred miles or more in twenty-four hours since it makes quick stops to change drivers and horses and to allow passengers comfort breaks.
By my calculations, I’ll be applying at the Central Overland California and Pikes Peak Express Company by the end of October. As Aunt Winnie cautioned, I’ll refrain from referring to it as the COC & PP Express Company, which sent her into another fit of laughter.
If I pocket twenty-five dollars a week all of November, December, and January, I’ll have at least three hundred dollars to finish paying the taxes due on the ranch, plus some. Won’t ol’ Mr. Goldthwaite swallow his teeth when he sees that?
We (me and King) made camp just at sunset. Bone-deep weariness saps my appetite. My desire for food hides itself behind my ribcage. Papa used to say that. “What’s wrong girl? Your hunger hiding behind your ribs?” I’d laugh, he’d laugh, I’d feign starvation. His eyes would twinkle—his grin would spread across his face. Papa’s smile, his ear connecting smile. . . .
I look west and my thoughts tangle. I wonder what’s wrong with me—wrong with my heart. Did I leave it in Palo Pinto? I wasn’t sad this morning leaving Starling. I should have been sad, but I wasn’t. All I could think about was getting on that horse and riding. Not riding away from her, but riding toward this opportunity.
The township of Dallas is tomorrow’s target, so I should close my journal and sleep. I wonder if I’ll have that dream again, that recurring dream I’ve had these past few nights. A wolf, silent and powerful, watches over me and I’m not afraid. He keeps the nightmares at bay.
Tomorrow, I’ll forgive myself for not feeling sad about leaving my baby sister. I’ll put emotions aside. I’ll concentrate on one thing: being Bar Flanders.
*****
October 17, 1860
The township of Dallas was abuzz with activity as Barleigh rode through the middle of the square, stopping at the livery stable to refill her canteens. Everyone was pitching in to rebuild the business district, which had been torched the previous July. Only a few buildings were completely functional. Others were half-gutted shells, although still operational. Most, however, were nothing but charred heaps of blackened rubbish.
Seeing the destruction, smelling the scorched remains of wood and plaster, caused her blood to cool. The memory of that night came rushing back with the sooty breeze that swept through the burned-out streets.
Barleigh rode King past the blackened buildings, looking for the livery stables. A helpful stranger pointed her down Main Street, indicating the building adjacent to Bennett’s Mercantile. Barleigh tipped her hat, said “Much obliged,” and kept riding.
A pinch-faced elderly woman along with her homely daughter who was approaching old maid status were at the stables waiting for the stagecoach. “My widowed sister lives here, but we’re going back home to Austin,” the mother informed Barleigh. Her busy hands fussed at the closures on her dress, with her daughter’s dress, and with the ribbons that held her hat to her head. “You know who did that, don’t you?”
“Ma’am?” Barleigh peered from under the brim of her hat, following the woman’s pointed finger toward the rebuilding project. “Uh, no, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Wasn’t lightning did that,” she said, flipping the handle of her carpet bag back and forth. “Nope.
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