Desert Dreams by Deborah Cox Read Free Book Online

you come inside and have some tea? Perhaps some dinner?"
    "By all means," the man insisted. "Maggie was
a dear friend."
    She was already off the stoop and on the sidewalk, gasping
for breath, struggling to make sense of it all. "Thank you anyway, but I
have to—"
    Her throat closed, and she couldn't finish. Turning away, she
picked up her carpetbag and hurried back toward the stage depot.
    Rounding a corner, she stopped and leaned against a pole for
support. A sob escaped her control, and she clutched a fist to her chest. She
would not cry. Crying did no good. It changed nothing. She was alone, more
alone than she had ever been in her life, and she needed to decide what to do,
not give in to tears.
    The sky was darkening. She certainly couldn't stay here. She'd
have to go back to the hotel she had scorned earlier. 
    It just cost money, something she had precious little of.
Money for a bed. Money for food. She didn’t know if she could go another day
without eating, and what did it matter? What was she going to do now?
    She’d think of something, but not now. It took all her
strength and resolve to straighten her spine, to turn away from her dream and
head back to the hotel.
    * * * * *
    She didn't know what time it was when she finally gave up
trying to sleep and got out of bed. Somewhere in the town, a rooster crowed, so
it must be nearly dawn. Lighting a lamp beside the bed, she rubbed her face in
an attempt to clear her head. Exhaustion and hopelessness lurked in the
shadows, ready to swallow her if she allowed it.
    She had to be strong. She'd always had to be strong.
    With a weary sigh, she went to stand by the open window. What
was she supposed to do now? The prospect of trying to make some kind of life
for herself alone in this foreign place filled her with dread.
    In all the world she had no one. Her mother's wealthy family
in New Orleans had turned its back on them when her mother had married someone
not of their choosing. Her father had no family. She had no one, nothing.
Hopelessness and stark aloneness crushed her.
    I could die and no one would care.
    Swiping angrily at the tears that welled in her eyes, she
knelt on the floor beside the bed, shoving her hand underneath the mattress,
thinking about her father and reliving the night of his death over and over in her
mind.
    Until her father had been shot on the street in Natchez, she
hadn't realized that blood had an odor or that death had an odor. Smelling it
again just last night had brought back a flood of memories.
    She closed her eyes tightly. Her mind played the "what
if" game. What if Papa hadn't gone back out that night? What if he hadn't
cheated at cards in order to win? What if Borden McKenna hadn't caught him?
What if Borden McKenna had truly loved her?
    As her hand closed around the object she had been groping for
beneath the mattress, she tried to empty her mind. She pulled out the worn
leather pouch and sat on the bed once again, stroking the bag's soft surface.
    She'd made the running bag in Baton Rouge. So much had
happened since then, she wasn't sure which of the fifty or so women who had
taken refuge in the orphanage during the bombardment had come up with the idea.
It didn't matter anymore. Whoever thought of it had made all of their lives
easier. The next time they had to flee, their hands were free and their
belongings hidden and secure inside their petticoats.
    Even now, she could almost hear the cannon fire from the
ships on the river that had sent her and the rest of the population fleeing
through the streets in the middle of the night.
    The running bag could be attached to hooks sewn inside the
waistband of her skirt so that she could flee at a moment's notice without
leaving behind her most prized possessions. At the same time, she could keep
her hands free. It had worked well, and she had kept it, even after her father
had sent Borden McKenna to Baton Rouge to find her and bring her to Natchez.
    Opening the bag now, she spread its