then rode on again only to face extreme isolation across the barren flats, west to where the Green and Colorado rivers came together. Only the nighttime ritual of Bible reading offered any element of peace.
Someday life will be better. She’d find her promised land.
She dreaded the next hundred miles. Buzzards circled the sky, and desert fever threatened anyone who braved forward. Luckily the springs flowed freely, and she didn’t have to battle the blazing heat.
At last she reached the part of her journey where the surroundings abounded in rich, earthy hues. Sand and clay formed the orange-red dry land, while greenish-gray sage, twisted pines, and junipers rose from remote spots. At times the clouds in the distance seemed to be outlined in tints of red, or perhaps she merely saw a reflection of the clay-baked earth.
I can’t head into Robber’s Roost. How stupid of me to consider it. Every man there will be looking for Jenkins’s reward. I can sleep a few more nights with my saddle as a pillow.
She studied the lookout points on all sides of the circular shaped hideaway, knowing more than one pair of eyes watched from behind huge rocks. Scanning the horizon line where two flat-topped buttes faced east and north, Casey hid her hair beneath her hat. Perhaps none of them would recognize the lone rider. Foolish thought. She had better sense. They already knew her horse, had heard the rumors.
Lifting her rifle high, she waved to where she knew guards positioned themselves. They’d seen her coming for miles, but the formality of a signal offered them respect, if there could be honor among desperadoes.
Morgan had been right. For a woman, there were worse things than dying.
Forty miles to the west lay Hanksville, thirty miles south lay Dandy Crossing, and fifty-five miles to the north flowed the Green River. Although she faced indecision as to which direction to continue, she held no notions of heading east into more barren territory. Riding through a graveyard had little appeal.
Morgan talked of Texas. The country was an outlaw’s refuge with miles upon miles of huge, free territory, especially for those who wanted a fresh start.
The decision made, Casey rode southeast to Santa Fe along the Old Spanish Trail for another nearly five hundred miles. She wondered about hostile Indians, but they couldn’t be worse than Jenkins.
In Santa Fe, she walked into a hotel. A young man barely old enough to shave scowled at her. “I’d like a room, please,” she said.
“Figured that.” The kid wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “Gotta have the money up front.”
Casey lifted the saddlebag from her shoulder and dug out a few bills. “How much?”
“Depends.”
Casey lifted a brow and met his gaze. How the kid had lived this long amazed her. Jenkins would have finished him right there. “Depends on what?”
“If you’re runnin’ from the law or something else.”
Casey leaned on the wooden enclosure separating them. “So my money buys me protection from the sheriff or an angry husband?”
“Whatever you need.” He slid her a cocky half smile.
“Neither. I need a room, now. Do I look up your pa, or are we doing business?”
The kid winced for a brief second, but she caught it. “My pa’s gone.”
“Then I suggest you take care of me before I let you find out who you’re riling.”
The kid’s features hardened, and the look reminded her of a younger Tim. He turned the register her way, and she scribbled in Shawne Flanagan—a mixture of her middle name and her mother’s maiden name.
She took a bath, washed her clothes, and slept for twelve hours straight. With a full stomach—more food than she’d eaten in days—she sought out a mercantile.
“Mornin’,” a thin, gray-haired, matronly lady said. “How can I help you?”
Casey glanced down at her worn jeans and shirt, grateful she’d washed them. “I need a traveling dress.”
The woman offered a generous smile. “I have just the one for you—perfect color for your pretty hair and just right for traveling.” She nodded her head to punctuate her words. “Right this way.”
In the back of the store, Casey saw the ladies’ clothing. The mercantile had six ready-made dresses, more than she had ever seen at one time—unless she counted the scant clothing the girls at Rose’s Place wore. The owner selected a dark blue dress with the collar, cuffs, and sashes in cream. Beneath a long, fitted, double-breasted jacket trimmed in midnight-blue buttons rested a deep purple skirt gathered in the back with a bustle. Fine. So