Free Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) by T. K. Lukas

Local slaves rebelled and set fire to those buildings. Abolitionists were run out of town, three Negroes hanged, and a judge ordered all the rest of the slaves in the township whipped for good measure. No telling who really done it. But they all got whipped.” She tugged at the fingers of her gloves, then settled her brown, pin eyes on Barleigh. “You aren’t an Abolitionist, are you?”  
    “I, uh, I just stopped here for water and to check my horse’s shoes, ma’am.” A cold sweat broke out on her brow. Her hands shook as she fumbled with untying the leather straps that attached the canteens to the saddle.  
    The mother continued her nosy inquiry, asking where Barleigh came from, where she was going, and might the mother and her daughter be fortunate enough that her destination might also be Austin. “A male escort would be most welcome, given the unrestful atmosphere. Two helpless women traveling alone. . . .” She fretted again with the ribbons on her hat, the frayed ends betraying her long-standing habit.  
    “I’m Bar Flanders, ma’am. Headed to Saint Joseph, Missouri, to hire on with the Pony Express.” She kept her words and eye contact to a minimum, though the mother tried hard to engage her in a staring contest. The daughter, however, never raised her eyes off the ground or her voice above a whisper.  
    “Mirabella, wouldn’t he make a fine young suitor for you?” The mother elbowed her daughter, eyes wide, and her gloved hands fluttered in the air like two seizured birds. “I think he should come to Austin instead. He can work on the ranch, if he wants to ride horses for a living.”
    Barleigh tipped her hat, politely declined, made her excuse to be on her way, tipped her hat again, and aw-shucked her way out of there.  
    While she spurred King away at a fast trot, her mind played with the notion of who she’d have become, if she’d grown up with a fussy mother like that. Would she be an old maid, quiet, shy, and afraid of her own shadow like Mirabella? Maybe fate had it right that she should have grown up without a mother, with Papa raising her as he did, in a saddle, on a horse, under the wide-open sky, just as at ease with a pistol as she was with a pencil.  
    The first close encounter a success, and she was nearer to becoming Bar Flanders, perfecting her persona, growing ever more natural with her boy-self as each hour passed. Sinking into this new somebody she was becoming, she found the clouded image easy to hide behind.
    A small stand of towering cottonwoods lined the banks of a creek where she made camp for the night, their leaves pale yellow with the approaching autumn chill. The place reminded her of where her horse, Willow, was stolen by an Indian boy on the wagon trail north when they had left the Gulf Coast behind. Making a small fire, she sipped coffee from a tin cup, remembering.  
    It had been along the Brazos River between Waco and Fort Worth when she had broken her papa’s number one rule of the wagon trail, to always stay together. She’d ridden off alone like a hotheaded fool.
    *****
    “What am I hearing coming from inside that wagon?” Seamus, Barleigh’s grandfather shouted as he brought up the team of horses to be harnessed for the day’s drive. “Barleigh, what are you doing in the wagon? Birdie is supposed to be repacking breakfast supplies.”
    “She’s through with packing. I’m reading to her. And, I’m teaching her to read, too, just like Papa taught me.” Barleigh poked her head through the flap in the canvas that covered the wagon and smiled at her grandfather.
    “Slaves can’t read. They don’t know how. Come out of there at once, Barleigh.” His face reddened with anger.
    “Birdie can read. I taught her. Go on, Birdie, show Grandfather how well you pronounce the words.” Barleigh crawled out of the wagon and perched on the seat, motioning for Birdie to follow. She held the book out for Birdie to take, but Birdie refused.
    “That not be a