The Woman on the Painted Horse Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE WOMAN ON THE PAINTED HORSE

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  THE WOMAN ON THE PAINTED HORSE

  ANGELA CHRISTINA ARCHER

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  THE WOMAN ON THE PAINTED HORSE

  Copyright©2014

  ANGELA CHRISTINA ARCHER

  Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-402-9

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  I would like to dedicate this book

  to my wonderful husband.

  Without his encouragement and support,

  I would have given up years ago.

  He is the best husband and father,

  and is my other half.

  And, to my beautiful daughters

  who make my heart whole.

  Without them, my world would be nothing.

  Acknowledgements

  To my parents, Nick and Noreen, thank you for . . . well, for everything. I wouldn’t be who I am today without your love, support, and guidance.

  To my sister, Michelle, brother-in-law, Michael, my nephews, and to all my family and friends, thank you for your love and support, and listening to all my writing rants.

  To my friends, Season and Aurora, thank you both for understanding and for never complaining about the numerous different drafts I sent for you to read, and for your unwavering love and support.

  Writer friends are the Ethels to our Lucys in both friendship

  and plotting out crazy, harebrained ideas . . . like writing a novel for instance.

  To my friend, Sabrina, thank you for threatening me with bodily harm when I didn’t think I could or should continue writing. I never would have made it through the bad writing days without your positive attitude. You are my family, another sister, and I’m so proud of you for all your hard work on your own writing.

  To my friend, Regina, thank you for your unfailing encouragement, support, and the thousands and thousands of hours you spent listening as I worked out plot and character issues. Most importantly, thank you for your unrelenting and sometimes brutal honesty when I needed it. Who would have thought after all these years . . . a Craigslist ad of all places would be where I would find one of my best friends.

  To my friend, Erin, from the moment you sat across the table and we talked about your character Vince, I knew I wanted you in my life forever. Thank you for your encouragement, support, and advice. You have been an inspiration.

  To my friend, Bill, you helped me become a better writer and this novel wouldn’t not be the novel it is today without you. I will forever be grateful for the gift and for your words of advice.

  The heart feels love, happiness, sadness, and loss. The heart does not think. It does not question or reason. It senses emotion, experiences pleasure, suffers pain, and bears heartache.

  The heart fights with the mind in a constant war endured daily between emotion and logic.

  The heart dwells only in emotion, an emotion with unbridled motivation, and it stirs within people a vastness the mind could never grasp.

  Chapter 1

  Shielded in my arms, the newborn infant slept, his warm, bundled little body pressed tight against my chest. As I ran, tree branches ripped at my arms, shredding the lace on my dress. Unrelenting cold chilled through to my bones, and the Alabama mist soaked my clothes as I fought to find our way. Even with my lantern, the murky, early–spring, midnight fog, so thick, obscured the trees and the footpath.

  Negroes—three men, a woman, and a young girl barely out of childhood—stolen from their Master followed me. With teeth chattering, their heavy breaths told of their terror and their footsteps pounded the ground in fierce thuds.

  Light from another lantern bounced and swayed toward us in the dark distance, carried by a hooded stranger and striking instant fear, stopping me dead in my tracks. My knees hit the mud. Peter had mentioned a few days ago that Governor Moore had ordered agents to scour the state and seize any weapons they could find to help with the war, a war fought to preserve laws I broke this very second as I smuggled the slaves north.

  “Shhh,” I whispered, motioning the Negroes to huddle behind me. “Don’t make a sound.”

  We waited in silence, crouched in the thick Privet bushes. In another place and time, the soft, white flowers with their sugar scent would comfort me, bringing memories of warm, spring days frolicking around the manor, but tonight the smell combined with the faint scent of sweat and blood made my stomach turn.

  Mustering my courage, I whistled and waited. The lantern stopped swaying, floating motionless and petrified amongst the trees. The stranger offered no response or showed any movement. My pulse deafened my ears and darkness closed in around me, circling me like wolves would their prey. Perhaps standing just yards from me wasn’t my partners’ lantern, perhaps it was a strangers’, and my actions had doomed us all to the punishment of a hanging.

  Seconds felt like hours, but finally to my relief, the dark figure whistled in response and my fear vanished.

  Clive.

  “We don’t have much time. The hounds and slave hands aren’t far behind me,” I shouted, running to Clive’s side.

  “Sorry for my tardiness, Alexandra. The train attendant detained me for lack of proper paperwork,” he said, rolling his dark eyes. He twisted his long, blond hair in his hands, ringing out the dew and then tucked the curls behind his ears.

  “Don’t concern yourself.” I
handed him the baby, and fetched an envelope from my belt. “I’ve enclosed plenty of cash, along with any paperwork—”

  “You didn’t tell me I’d be smuggling an infant, Alexandra, nor another girl,” he snapped, shoving the baby back into my arms. “We had an agreement for three men and a woman. That is all.”

  “She begged for me to take her. I couldn’t say no because Mr. Cole plans to hang her at dawn, and who knows what he will do to the baby. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “She’s not our problem and neither is the boy.”

  “He’s a fine boy, sir, a quiet boy,” the girl said, grabbing her son from me. “I won’t make trouble for ya. I swears I won’t, sir.” Her voice cracked.

  “I’m not asking, Clive. You know Peter will approve of my decision.”

  Clive exhaled deeply and crossed his arms. I loathed the disdain in his wide set eyes, but as long as he continued to pace, his verbal protest held no influence. Only when he stood rooted in his stance, did he not yield in an argument, which has only happened once in the last few years. For a hard spoken, gruff, burley man, Clive had a heart for the unfortunate.

  “Don’t ever do this to me again,” he said through gritted teeth. “We don’t run children. They’re too much of a risk, and you of all people should know that.”

  Of course, I knew. I’d lived for years with his constant reminder about a run with a child that turned deadly. The image of his blood stained clothing and the wound from a bullet in his arm would never allow me to forget.

  “You have my word I won’t steal away another child.”

  He snatched the envelope from my hands and stuffed it into his pocket. “Inform Peter I’ll return in a few weeks.”

  I flinched as an edge of the paper nicked my finger, and I kissed away the sting. “I will. Travel safely.”

  He nodded and without saying another word, guided our cargo into the darkness. I watched until they disappeared, hoping and praying for their safe travels. For them, freedom meant reaching the border of Alabama and Tennessee. Freedom from a life lived by the warrants of rich cotton plantation owners. Beaten, tortured, forced to breed, tied and chained, bought and paid for, and treated as if they were no more important than cattle. Could there be such a life worse than that of a slave?

  Sincerely, doubtful in my opinion, though I suppose at times my own compared.

  Bluetick hounds howled in the distance, interrupting my thoughts. They followed our scent, knowing the path we had traveled. They were coming for us all, bringing the slave hands with them. The animals could track Clive effortlessly, which wasn’t my desire, of course. Clive needed a chance to escape. The hounds must follow me.

  Hysteria toyed with me, preying on the sickness swirling in my stomach. I picked up a large stick and waited. Two dark, low figures galloped toward me. Though hard to see in the dark mist, their bellowing barks became louder and louder as they drew near, tipping me off to their whereabouts. Mr. Cole’s slave hands shouted as they sprinted behind the beasts, yelling orders at one another to find the slaves and the thief at any cost, and to shoot to kill.

  Panting with long tongues, the hounds growled, the sound vibrated through my fear. In the last seconds, I dashed in the opposite direction that Clive traveled and the animals followed. I shielded my face from the clawing tree branches, but the unrelenting twigs cut and sliced my skin and blood dripped down my neck and arms. I needed to reach the creek over the hill in the distance. If the brutes attacked, they would tear me to shreds. Never had my safety been so uncertain during a slave run as tonight. Surely, Masters have taken their shots at me a few times, but guns fired from such long distances or through the trees rarely held any chance of success.

  As I scrambled up the rocky hill, fanged teeth bit down on the skirt of my dress, and the large black hound yanked and jerked until I fell to the ground with a thud. The smell of this creature’s wet, tangled fur choked me. My feet kicked hard against his attack as I clawed at the rocks and swung the stick. With several swoops, I hit the beast repeatedly on the side of the head, managing my freedom as the scent hound stumbled, lost its balance, and slipped away, disappearing in the rocks below.

  In an instant, the second animal lunged for me, climbing nearly on top of me. Drool dripped from his teeth while his mud soaked claws held my arms, pushing them into the mud. He grabbed the stick and tore it from my hand. With my lantern as my only defense, I swung it, cringing as the beast yelped in pain from the burning hot oil and shards of glass, and I breathed again when the last canine tumbled down the rocky hillside.

  “He’s up there through the rocks,” one of the slave hands shouted as I struggled to my feet.

  Water pounded the earth in the distance. The sound of the river grew as I scaled the rocks with broken nails full of dirt and blood. Reaching the top, I scrambled over a large boulder and ran to the edge of the cliff. Shivering with fear, I stared down upon the cold, dark water below, squinting at the faint pool. It felt as far off as the rose bushes below my second story bedroom window. With no diversion, and nowhere to hide, I glanced over my shoulder, inhaled deeply, and jumped.

  Chapter 2

  Dread, it was a feeling from which I could never separate myself, a feeling that simmered with annoyance in my day to day life. I sat in front of my vanity, inspecting my hair in the mirror. My head still hurt, aching and tired from the brushing, pulling, pinning, and curling it had endured this afternoon. Having been anxiously waiting for tonight for weeks, Mama’s meticulous hands had forced my chocolate strands to hold poses never thought possible. The style was just another choice over which I had no control, but that didn’t surprise me.

  Control was a laughable word to me, unknown and unobtainable, though I craved it like the sick craves medicine.

  Certainly, a young lady of eighteen should have a choice over the facets of her life, but according to my parents, they shouldn’t. No matter how people spoke of the progression in 1861, they lived as if they were still in the dark ages. Under lock and key, I lived trapped in a different world with some far-away evil King and Queen I read about in a fairytale long ago.

  My corset dug into my skin, tied so tight, that I struggled to breathe. Another night spent in utter agony for a fashionable silhouette. I stood and stretched, praying the movement would loosen its suffocating grip, but my prayers went unanswered just as all the other times before.

  Tonight the lace prison held on with a death grip, but for a good reason. For, not only was the corset tight against my skin, so was my audacious gown. Hugging my entire body tight from my shoulders down to my feet, the layer of white lace drenched the white silk underneath. Beginning at the bottom tip of the skirt, the delicate lace pattern continued all the way up my body past my neck, to my jaw line and down both arms, while the silk ended at my breasts. It was unlike any dress ever worn or ever seen, and how others would receive it was a scary mystery.

  Strolling to the window, I opened the tapestries, gazed down onto the dozens and dozens of carriages in the courtyard, and groaned.

  Appears Mama invited everyone in Montgomery, again.

  The cuts under my fingers and on my shoulders still stung from two nights ago. With any luck, none of my wounds would bleed through their scabs, staining my dress tonight for all to see. Lord only knows the unbearable wrath that would then surely await me.

  Oh, how I would rather be running through the trees headed for the border right now, saving lives and helping people than standing here tonight. Never exciting, never stimulating, I found social parties to be perpetually dull. I never understood the enjoyment in conversing with people and laughing at their jokes, while you flashed your jewelry, and boasted about yourself, only to be the subject of gossip after you left. True friends were a rare commodity, unfortunately.

  “I can’t believe Father invited them,” my brother, John, shouted as he slammed
my bedroom door.

  “Invited whom?” I asked, unsure, by the expression on his face, if I wanted the answer.

  “Duncan Cartwright and Mary Buchanan.”

  I faced the window again, crossing my arms in disgust. I hated that one of my only solaces in this world, my beloved brother, loved a woman who didn’t love him in return. John deserved better than that foolish, tramp Mary Buchanan.

  “I thought Duncan’s interests lay with Emily?” I said.

  “Apparently his interests have changed.”

  “Perhaps, now your affections for another can blossom?”

  John grimaced at my insinuation and waved off my words. “You just hush right there. Mr. Buchanan should be honored I seek his daughter’s hand in marriage. He should want her to carry the Monroe name, a name which holds clout in this foolish town.”

  “I would expect such arrogance from Mama, not you. Surely, John, you aren't capable of her snobbery, or else I might have to flog you.” I laughed for a second at my own tease until I caught the look on his face.

  “Why do you mock Mother and Father so much?”

  I stared out the window, uncertain how to answer his question. Divulging the truth, the entire truth wasn’t an option and lying proved no better choice. John didn’t know of my actions, didn’t know about Peter and Clive, and he’d never find out if I could help it.

  “You know I don’t wish to live their lives, John.”

  “Why? Why can’t you accept who you’ve been raised to become?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t give me that shocked and confused look, Alexandra, I know you know what I’m talking about. Thomas Ludlow has chosen you, you out of every unmarried lady waltzed past his eyes. While your beauty, I am certain, will captivate him, you can’t deny Mother’s and Father’s aid in your success. Thomas’s wealth is going to make you richer than our parents. Do you know how powerful Mrs. Alexandra Ludlow will be?”