Death of Eden:

Outlaw
by
Emily Martens
&
Chelsey Colleen Hankins

Copyrighted Material
Publishers note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to
people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Copyright Chelsey Colleen Hankins & Emily Martens 2014
Excerpts used from the Public Domain works:
The Deeds Done Disunion the Remedy. The Semi-Weekly Mississippian 7 Nov, 1860. Jackson, MS.
Print
The Crisis. Morning Courier 9 Nov 1860 New Orleans, LA. Print
The Following Resolution. Charleston Mercury 10 Nov 1860 Charleston, SC. Print
The Union in Danger. Staunton Spectator 13 Nov 1860. Staunton, VA. Print
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or
other -- except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles -- without the prior written permission of
the authors.
Front cover photography by Chelsey Colleen Hankins
Copyright 2014 used by permission.
Cover design and interior layout by Kathy Martens
www.kathymartens.com
Additional copies of this work including e-book format may be purchased by visiting the authors
website: www.deathofeden.com or on amazon.com
ISBN-13 978-1495393044
ISBN-10 1495393046









To understand the world, you must first understand a place like Mississippi.
~William Faulkner


Prologue
October 4, 1853
Eden, Mississippi

Jesse
Jesse charged from the shelter of the trees, his lungs burning, his heart bellowing in his
ears. The old familiar house rose up like a pale beacon in the darkness, a lone candle in a
window guiding him home. He reached the dead, gnarled tree that leaned against the south wall,
expertly scaling the skeletal limbs.
Jesse climbed through the open window, trying desperately not to make a sound; the last
thing he needed was to wake someone. Once inside he leaned forward, putting his hands on his
knees, trying to catch his breath. Looking around his room, he realized this may very well be the
last time he would ever set foot in here.
There aint time for that shit, he thought. Theyre comin.
Kneeling beside the bed, he pulled out a beaten pack he used to house the wooden
soldiers his father had carved when he was a boy. Jesse dumped the figures on the bed and
snatched up an extra shirt and his work pants, stuffing them inside. What else?
Glancing around the room he caught sight of his dresser. Jesse walked toward it and
opened the top drawer. He pushed aside some white folded shirts and grabbed the two guns
hidden beneath them. Jesse traced his fingers over the name inscribed on the handle: LOCKE.
The last two guns his father ever made. He had hidden them in the drawer years ago to keep his
mother from selling them after his fathers death. Jesse wondered for a moment what his father
would think of him now. He quickly buried the unwelcome thought and put one gun in his
holster and the other in the pack.
A creak at the door caused him to jump. He turned around as a small, pale girl, just past
the edge of childhood, entered with a candle clutched in her hand. Jesse let out his breath. It was
only Jo. She frowned disapprovingly, her stern expression almost matronly despite her
strawberry school girls braids.
Jesse, what are you doin? she whispered urgently.
Jo, go back to bed, snapped Jesse.
If this is another half-cocked huntin trip of yours and Hanks, you best tell Mama
youre leavin this time. Near about scared the ever-livin out of her the last time you just turned
up missin, Jo warned, rolling her eyes.
I said go back to bed! growled Jesse, pushing her toward the door. He returned to his
delirious hunt around the room, snatching up a few belongings and shoving them into the bag.
Jo watched from the doorway, blue eyes enormous with concern. Jesse, whats wrong?
What happened?
Jesse turned to her, trying to mask the terror on his face. Youll hear about it soon
enough, he said. Look, Jo, you have to promise me that you wont come lookin for me.
Jo took a step back, confused. Come lookin for you? Jesse, youre startin to scare me!
Where are you goin? she demanded.
Jesse shook his head. That aint important. Just promise me!
Jo looked at Jesse for a moment. This is ridiculous! she said, turning for the door.
Where are you goin? called Jesse.
Im gonna find Hank. Maybe he can talk you out of whatever the hell it is youre doin!
she called back.
Hank knows, said Jesse.
Just tell her, he thought. Shes gonna find out anyway.
Jo stopped and turned to face her brother. Jesse, whatever it is, whatever trouble youve
gone and gotten yourself into, I am sure we can work it all out. We can talk to Sheriff Walker in
the mornin and
Jesse cut her off. Jo, stop it. I wish I could tell you whats goin on, but I cant. This is
the way its gotta be.
He slung the pack over one shoulder and pushed past her down the stairs. Jo hurried after
him.
What am I supposed to tell Mama? she asked.
Jesse sighed, his hand resting on the doorknob. You dont have to go. You can tell them
the truth. Someone will listen.
Dont tell her anything. Its best to go on as if you didnt see me tonight, he said,
opening the door.
Jo looked up at her older brother. Jesse, she said pleadingly as her tears escaped her
eyes and made their way down her face.
Jesse turned back to her, a deep, empty pit opening up in his stomach. You aint got the
time for this! urged an angry voice in the back of his mind.
Jesse touched her cheek gently, willing himself not to cry. You take care of yourself, Jo.
No matter what happens after Im gone you make sure to take care of yourself.
Jo nodded silently, taking Jesses hand from her face and holding it in her own. Jesse
kissed her forehead, turning to the darkness before the stinging tears slipped from his eyes.
He made his way to the barn where his old gray stallion, Flint, waited in his stall. Jesse
saddled the horse with unsteady fingers, wondering how long before the bloodhounds howls
would sound the pursuit. He climbed onto his horse, shaking the thoughts from his mind. He had
to ride, thats all he knew. With a swift kick he spurred the horse to a gallop, forcing himself not
to look back.

Chapter 1
September 24, 1860
Eden, Mississippi

Hank
Eden, Mississippi was nestled in the corner of the state almost rubbing shoulders with
Louisiana. With the rushing muddy waters of the Mississippi River on one side of her and
endless fields of cotton on the other, she was a place of profit and beauty strangely untouched by
the affairs of an increasingly hostile outside world.
The sun had just begun to stretch a yellow tendril above the little town as Hank Walker
ventured slowly toward the jailhouse. Already, the shopkeepers had turned over their signs and
unlocked their doors. Women in bright skirts and lacy hats walked briskly past him, pausing for a
smile and a quick, Mornin, Deputy Walker, as they sashayed on to their errands before the
humid heat fully set in. Hank nodded politely to them, tipping his hat, and continued his way
down the street.
Hank looked up at the well-kept shops and houses that crowded Main Street. Though he
had lived there all his life, nothing ever seemed to change. The faces aged, and the subtle decay
of time worked its mischief on wood and brick, yet somehow he always felt as if time flowed
differently here. Just as the rest of the world seemed to leave the town to its own affairs, the
people of Eden were content to let the rest of the world alone. Nothing too terrible ever seemed
to happen in the town, which made Hanks job exceedingly easy, most days.
Most days, thought Hank bitterly. He sighed, wishing he could be sitting by the river with
a fishing poleanywhere, really, but marching toward the long, repetitive lecture he was headed
for.
The jailhouse stood a somber red brick relic near the edge of town. It was the second
oldest building in Eden surpassed only by the brothel on the opposite end of Main Street. Hank
paused on the steps, taking a deep, steadying breath before continuing inside.
The interior of the jail was as worn as its outer shell. The wood floors creaked as Hank
walked through the door. He hung his hat and coat on the rack and looked down the short row of
cells. Still empty, he thought.
To his left, the Sheriff stood in the office glaring at him. Hank slowly walked toward
him. Mornin', Pop, he said warily.
Sheriff Walker fixed him with his steely-eyed gaze, a well-seasoned look that terrorized
Hank since he could crawl into mischief. His stomach clenched. Shit, here we go, he thought.
Hank, you wanna tell me why outta the four men I sent you to arrest this last night, I
dont have a goddamn one of em in custody? the Sheriff demanded.
No justifiable cause for arrest, Pop, Hank said, giving the only explanation he could.
Those orders came directly from Mayor Kennedy himself. That should be cause
enough.
Hank met his fathers eyes without flinching. I aint gonna arrest someone who aint
done a goddamn thing wrong!
Youre gonna be Sheriff one day, Hank, the man said, losing his patience. If you
wanna keep food on the table for that wife and son of yours, you will learn to follow goddamn
orders! The Mayor wanted those men arrested and off their farms, and it was your job to see it
done.
Youre the Mayors bloodhound, Pop, not me, snarled Hank.
Youre whoever the hell I tell you to be, Hank, yelled his father. Dont you forget it!
Hank shook his head. Swallowing the overwhelming desire to throw a punch, he turned,
walking back to the front door.
Where do you think youre goin? his father bellowed.
I dunno, Sheriff, replied Hank over his shoulder. Why dont you tell me?
Without waiting for the reply, he slammed the door behind him and escaped out into the
street.

Jo
Jo pulled the light dressing gown around her as she slipped noiselessly down the hall. She
was tired. So tired. The last trick had turned blessedly quick, and the shamefaced man handed
over more than enough to cover his brief moment of pleasure.
Below, the discordant plunking of the piano encouraged the saloon patrons to drink
another round with a fast, chaotic tune. Jo stopped in front of a mirror hanging on the wall to
inspect herself. She quickly ran her fingers through her auburn hair and proceeded to Annies
room, knocking lightly when she reached the door.
Its open, drawled Annie in her low, raspy voice.
Pistol Annie Stevens had taken Jo in when she was fifteen and was more a mother to her
than her own. Not that it was her faultcan't be much of a mother when youre dead.
Jo entered the room and placed the money on the scuffed desk where Annie sat.
Here you go, Annie, Jo said with exhaustion.
Annie crooked an eyebrow, her lips twisting in a wry smile. How was he?
Quick draw, Jo said, letting a small laugh escape her lips. I almost felt bad chargin
him.
Jo began to leave, looking forward to the solace of her bed when Annies sharp voice
stopped her.
Josephine, the woman called.
Slowly, she turned back toward Annie, pulling a few more bills out of her corset. She
handed them over reluctantly.
Thank you now run on downstairs. I thought I heard that cocksucker, Mitch Barnett,
down there terrorizin the girls.
Yes, ma'am, Jo replied, barely concealing her irritation.
As she walked to the stairs, her head began to pound. She shook off the dizziness and
headed down the staircase into the rustic, sparsely decorated saloon. The usual collection of
weary farmers and dirty cowhands sat at mismatched tables, tipping back their whiskey and
watching the whores flittering between them like bright-winged butterflies. This was not a place
one would find Eden's elite. True, Jo herself had her fair share of clients from the upper class, but
they all tended to drink down the street at the hotel. The plantation owners and bankers would
never find themselves at home here, but Jo did; aged wood, chipping paint and all, she would
take it over a plush hotel bar any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
In the far corner a slim figure with hungry, wolfish features cornered a pretty, dark-haired
girl, her eyes starting out of her head like a frightened rabbit.
Lauralyn, Annie wants you upstairs now! said Jo.
Hearing her sharp command, the man straightened up, turning around with a sly grin.
Deputy Mitch Barnett had the reputation of being the most ruthless and dedicated of the
Sherriffs hands, and for some yet undiscovered reason, he chose to spend his off hours wreaking
havoc on Jos nerves. Cocksuckin son of a bitch, thought Jo venomously.
Lauralyn scurried away from him, pausing questioningly near Jo.
Stay up there 'til I come and get you, Jo whispered, sending her on her way.
Jo walked toward Mitch slowly, glaring at him with eyes narrowed. I thought I told you
to stay the fuck out of my bar, Mitch, Jo said sternly.
Mitch smirked, looking her up and down brazenly. This aint your bar, beautiful, and I
got just as much right to be here as anybody else. Now why dont you be a good little girl and
apologize. I promise Ill make it worth your while.
Jo stared at Mitch coldly. They had been here before. She could not remember how many
times she had had to throw him out of Annies, yet he always came scuttling back. Like a fuckin'
cockroach, she thought.
Jo softened her gaze and leaned into him. I'm sorry, Mitch, she said calmly. Im sorry
I didnt shoot you the last time you were here. Now get the hell out!
Mitch chuckled, giving her a wink. Well, alrighty, Ms. Jo but you can bet Ill be
back.
Jo breathed a sigh of relief as Mitch sauntered out the door. She scanned the room
quickly. Thankfully, the incident seemed to have gone unnoticed by the other patrons. Not that
she was surprised. People at Annies were usually only concerned with two things: whiskey and
pussy, not necessarily in that order.
Noticing the bar had been left unattended againGoddamn Tom Miller! Useless piece of
shit!Jo took up the post, trying to put Mitch out of her mind. He would be back; she knew that
for a fact. Maybe I should shoot him, she thought. It aint like the town would miss him.
Her thoughts were interrupted as she spotted the man at the end of the bar. He sat
slumped with his head leaning against one fist, his beard overgrown by a day or two. His deep
blue eyes stared off into the distance as if looking for an answer from some unseen realm.
Jo smiled fondly as she made her way to him. She knew him well. Ben McClain was a
regular at Annies most every day, though it seemed to Jo his visits were coming earlier and
earlier.
What can I get ya, preacher man? she said in a friendly voice.
He looked up at her, startled, then smiled, his eyes slightly unfocused. Well, how about
a visit to church this Sunday? he asked with his subtle lilt.
Preacher, how many times you gonna come in tryin to save me from fire and
brimstone? she replied, shaking her head. Had anyone else taken to saving her soul, she would
have torn them apart like an angry bear, but she could listen to the Irishmans brogue all day no
matter what bullshit he chose to babble on about.
As many times as it takes, he answered emphatically, jabbing the bar with his index
finger. The Lord doesnt care what ya do, Josephine, only who you are. He would not turn any
true believer away from the house of worship, and neither will I.
Jo could not help but laugh.
You know as well as I do what would happen if I waltzed into that congregation,
Preacherthem society women would faint at the sighta me. And those men would be quite
ashamed to have their Saturday night sin disrupt their Sunday mornin forgiveness. Youd lose
every soul in your congregation, she said matter-of-factly.
He held her gaze solemnly. Im only concerned with savin one soul, Josephine Locke.
Jo cocked her head to one side. And what makes you think my soul needs savin?
He smiled genially. Call it a preachers intuition.
Jo reached under the bar and retrieved a bottle of whiskey. She opened it and began to fill
the preachers glass. I would rather call it the ramblings of an old drunk but six of one, I
suppose, she said, eyeing him as she poured.
He took the glass, swirling the amber liquid around inside. Youre a good girl,
Josephine, he said.
Jo smiled at him. I know, she said teasingly. Too good.
He downed his drink and returned to whatever contemplations had previously occupied
his mind. Jo kept busy behind the bar until Tom Miller finally showed up, red-eyed and drowsy,
to take over. She nearly made it half way to her bedroom before Annie poked her head into the
hallway asking her to run down to the general store for supplies.
Reluctantly, Jo agreed. Between last nights customers and the unfortunate fellow that
morning, she had not gotten a lick of sleep; why Annie never sent the other girls on the errands
she had no clue, but she never could tell Annie no. She quickly changed into a dress that she
deemed appropriate to wear in public and set off.
The moment she stepped outside, Jo appreciated her choice of attire. It was much too
humid and hot to be confined in the long-sleeved atrocities most of the women in town wore. Jo
tried to hide her amusement as the ladies whispered and gawked at her off the shoulder,
sleeveless dress. Being a whore had its advantages; she was under no social convention to act
demure and proper, and she was not sweating through her undergarmentswhat few she had
bothered with, that was.
Though Brodermans General Store was always crowded, the browsing patrons parted
like the Red Sea to let Jo pass. She ignored them and made her purchases quickly.
You have a nice day now, Mr. Broderman called after her.
She nodded and lifting her uncomfortably heavy bags, turned to leave. Mr. Broderman
had always been kind to her, though by the withering look he had received from Mrs.
Broderman, that last piece of common courtesy was going to cost him.
Jo pushed open the door with an elbow and found herself once again in the heat. A
conspicuously ornate coach rolled down the street toward her, drawn by two magnificent white
horses. She paused as the coach thundered past, the sun glinting off the polished wood panels.
Sure as hell dont see that every day, Jo mused aloud.
Sure dont.
The voice behind her made her jump, nearly upsetting the overfull bags. Jo turned
around, her stomach clenching as she recognized the mess of sandy hair and apologetic half-
smile.
Goddamn it, Hank, she thought.
Jo had known Hank Walker since they were children and even then that smile of his
could turn her inside out, though now she did her best to stay out of his way.
Deputy, she said, attempting impassiveness. The word fell from her lips more icily than
she intended. Not that her coldness was at all unjustified; he did arrest one of the whores from
Annies not a week ago.
What, we cant even be cordial to each other anymore? asked Hank, fixing his sea
green eyes on her face.
Jo forced herself not to get caught in them. I aint in the habit of bein cordial to men
who arrest my girls for no fuckin reason.
Theyre not your girls, theyre Annies girls, said Hank, and you know perfectly well
that after what happened last month, she aint supposed to be carryin a gun.
Well what else is she supposed to do with low-down shits like Mitch Barnett coming
into my bar every night? Hes just lucky it wasnt me who had the gun. I wouldntve missed,
Jo said infuriated.
I was just doin my job, Jo, answered Hank quietly.
Jo found herself looking directly into his gaze, and she knew it was time to go. Good old
Hank, always doin what hes told. Now if youll excuse me, I have some business of low moral
character to attend to. You wouldnt approve. Good day, Deputy.
She walked away quickly, unable to fight the deep ache rapidly spreading in her chest.
Hanks voice trailed after her, Good day, Ms. Locke.
Jo said nothing but continued on her way, willing herself not to turn around. These
interactions with Hank happened far too often, and if she was being honest with herself, not near
enough.
Stop your fuckin cryin, she told herself fiercely. It aint worth it. Whats done is done.
With that she pushed it to the back of her mind where similar thoughts were kept, and
headed back to Annie's.

Ben
I wouldnt be too concerned with it at this point, said Ben with what he hoped was an
encouraging smile.
Mrs. Walker looked up at him anxiously. She looked so tireddark shadows circled
beneath her azure eyes and tendrils of dark chestnut hair escaped the bun tied carelessly on the
back of her neck. She was far too young to look so harrowed. Damn shame, he thought.
Seems to be nothing more than a cough, Ben continued. Keep an eye on him and let
me know on Sunday if there isnt a change.
The Reverend had taken over as the doctor in Eden a few months ago when Dr. Pierce, the
real physician, dropped dead without any warning. Unable to entice a new doctor, Ben stepped in.
He did the best he could with what little training he actually had. Most of the time it was
sufficient; people in Eden did not seem to get too sick, except for Noah Walker who could not
seem to get well. Looking at the exhausted woman before him, he could not bring himself to tell
her he truly did not know what was wrong with her son.
What about the fever, Reverend? she persisted. It has not let up for days. And I cannot
get him to eat without a fight.
Children fall ill all the time. I see no need to worry yourself over it right now," he said
trying to sound reassuring. He reached into his bag and pulled out a jar filled with herbs. Steep
this like tea, and give it to him before bed. It should help with the fever.
She took the jar, mustering a weak smile. Thank you, Reverend.
He peered into the nursery where a small, fair-haired boy sat playing happily with his
carved wooden soldiers.
Ill see you again soon, Noah, said Ben.
Noah glanced up with enormous blue eyes. Flashing a wide grin he called, Bye,
Wevwin!
He returned to his toys, immediately forgetting the world of worried adults. Ben walked
slowly down the stairs toward the front door. Mrs. Walker trailed behind. The anxious line
appeared on her forehead again as they reached the door.
I am afraid I will not be able to pay you until next week, she said, probing his eyes
pleadingly. But I will come by no later than Wednesday.
Ben smiled softly at her, trying to ignore his raging headache. Shouldnt have had
whiskey for breakfast at Annies this morning, he thought wryly to himself.
Of course, Mrs. Walker. Dont you worry about it.
She smiled, her face relaxing slightly. Thank you.
He nodded and set off down the walkway. Glancing at the dilapidated lower fence, he
thought, I should offer to fix that someday when my head isnt like to explode.
The thought slipped his mind before he made it half way down the road.

Mary Anne
Mary Anne peered out the coach window, watching the landscape fly past behind a cloud
of dust from the wheels. Outside, slaves toiled in the heat, their low songs lifting hauntingly from
among the rolling cotton fields. She heaved a forlorn sigh, longing for the wild plains of Texas.
She would never feel at home here.
Lawrence Grove sojourned near the mighty Mississippi, a titan among the many palatial
estates that surrounded the town proper. The plantation belonged to William Kennedy, esteemed
Mayor of Eden and Mary Annes only blood kin left in the world except for an errant older
brother sent to live abroad for his many indiscretions.
Mary Anne had been brought to Eden following the death of her parents, and upon taking
in all the Deep South had to offer she was sure Mississippi was going to be the death of her. Why
she could not stay in her beloved Texas she did not know, but it had been written in her fathers
will that if both her parents were to die before she married, Mary Anne was to go and live with
her mothers brothera fact Mary Anne had not been privy to until the reading of that will. So
here she was, hundreds of miles away from home, arriving at a plantation so grand it looked as
though it belonged among the chateaus of France rather than the hills of Mississippi.
Lord in Heaven, grumbled Sue, wringing her brown hands together.
Sue Jackson had taken care of Mary Anne since she could remember, singing her to sleep
and scolding her for the endless mischief she concocted as a child. Her family had lived at the
Hollingsworths ranch for generations and remained the most trusted of Mary Annes fathers
slaves. Most had been sold at auction when John Hollingsworth died. Only Sue remained.
The plantation house rested atop a lush, grassy hill surrounded by a shady orchard. The
coach jerked to a stop near the grand staircase that rose to the colossal doors that guarded the
entrance. Mary Anne climbed out quickly, not waiting for the coachman to come around.
As the slaves began unloading the various trunks and bags from the coach, Mary Anne
and Sue walked up the stairs to the oversized veranda where a beautiful womanMary Anne
presumed it was her auntwaited for them. She wore an elegant green dress with a tightly
cinched waist and a formidable hoop skirt that kept the rest of the world at a safe distance. Her
pale gold locks were perfectly tamed into an elaborate up do without so much as a hair out of
place. As they approached, she flicked her sharp brown eyes over Mary Anne, her lips pursing
disdainfully. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of scrutiny, the woman spoke.
Welcome to Lawrence Grove, Miss Hollingsworth, she said formally.
Mary Anne smiled affably, replying, You can call me Mary Anne, Aunt Harriet. It is not
as if we are strangers.
I am accustomed to treatin my guests with respect. I realize that anyone raised in Texas
would lack many graces, but I expect you to conduct yourself to a certain standard while livin
under my roof. Do I make myself clear? Harriet replied coldly.
Mary Anne frowned, taken aback by the statement. She had only just met this woman;
what could she have possibly done to offend her so?
Clear as crystal, she replied with a hint of sarcasm.
Harriets delicate eyebrows arched dangerously. Excuse me?
Yes, ma'am, Mary Anne said quickly, realizing this was not the sort of woman to
appreciate such a sense of humoror any sense of humor from the look of her.
Harriet nodded curtly. Minnie will show you to your room. I expect you will want to
change into somethin more fittin. We take lunch promptly at twelve.
Yes, maam, Mary Anne said again with a small nod of her head.
Harriet turned on her heel, her skirt swaying gracefully as she glided back into the house.
A small, slender slave girl approached them, her dark eyes lowered demurely. Follow
me, Ms. Mary Anne.
Mary Anne and Sue fell in step behind Minnie, following her through the front doors.
Lawrence Grove was even bigger inside than it looked from the carriage, if that were possible.
Passing through the foyer, the house unfolded to a large open great room. Mary Anne could not
help but imagine the ostentatious parties that were no doubt thrown here. Each side the house
broke off into various studies, salons, and a large dining room. In the middle of the cavernous
great room, occupying much of the space was an elaborate staircase that split at the first landing
and continued on either side.
Minnie guided them up the stairs, taking the left branch through a dizzying series of
twisting hallways until they reached Mary Annes quarters. How Minnie knew this room from a
hundred other identical doors, she could not fathom.
I may never find my way out of here, she thought.
Minnie opened the door, stepping aside for Mary Anne and Sue to enter. Mary Anne
surveyed the clutter of expensive furnishings with dismaythe enormous bed with the frilled
canopy, the rich mahogany desk, the elaborately carved chairs with their pretentious satin covers,
and the bookshelves overflowing with ancient tomes whose authors she did not recognize.
Lord in Heaven, she grumbled. Where am I supposed to put my things? There is hardly
even room to walk.
Sue examined the room with the same disgusted grimace. Let me open a window and
toss some of them ugly chairs outside, she said a hint of a smile on her lips.
Mary Anne laughed. Best add the drapes too.
Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Mary Anne? asked Minnie fretfully.
Go on, give her some time to settle herself, commanded Sue.
Minnie frowned at Sue, but obeyed immediately.
Help me out of this dress, Susie. I cant breathe in it, said Mary Anne.
Sue freed her from the heavy skirts and loosened the laces on her corset. Mary Anne
inhaled deeply, grateful to finally catch her breath again.
How am I supposed to live here? she asked collapsing on the bed. All my friends are
back home, and you know how much I hate writin letters. They will have forgotten me inside a
month.
Sue smiled affectionately. Nobodys gonna forget a pretty face like yours, Ms. Mary
Anne. And who you gonna miss anyway? Not that prissy little Hannah girl. She had face like a
weasel and a temper to match.
What about Wes? Hes worth missing, said Mary Anne sadly, thinking fondly on her
friend. He had been with her through everything from her brothers departure to her parents
death, and now theyd been ripped apart, and she would be forced to face this new life alone.
Sue shook her head. That boy aint gonna forget about you. I wouldnt be surprised if he
showed up one day out of the blue to take you on home.
Mary Anne looked at Sue from the corner of her eye. Stop tryin to make me feel better,
Susie. Id much rather be miserable.
Sue laughed, easing herself into one of the hideous chairs near the bed. You gonna be
miserable enough. Miss Harrietll have you swimmin in petticoats before noon.
Mary Anne smiled despite herself, thinking about the way her aunt looked on the porch.
Lord, help me. She looks like a layer cake. But I suppose my taste must be a little lackin, bein
from Texas and all.
Mary Anne fell silent for moment, once again overwhelmed with homesickness. I want to
go home, Susie, she said, trying her hardest to hold back the tears.
Sue stood with a small groan and joined her on the bed, pulling Mary Anne protectively
into her arms. Mary Anne rested her head against Sues chest, and listened to the comforting
throb of her heart. The sad truth was no one was coming for her. Her parents, her brother, her
Wes, they had all abandoned her. So here she was, stuck in a small Mississippi town where she
was sure no one would find her.

End of Sample

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