CHARLOTTE

JS Anthony

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

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Charlotte sat on the wagon seat, her back straight, her chin held high, her hands folded tightly in her lap.  She looked neither right or left, or even ahead.  Her eyes seemed to see nothing, her gaze turned inward.  Her thoughts were gathered deep inside where no harm could come to them.

There was little to see anyway.  The prairie grass extended away to the horizon in every direction, an endless faintly green and golden sea.  If she concentrated, she might notice the wind sweeping through in shifting patterns, stirring the grass in waves.  She might also notice the swarms of insects that rose and fell silently or the hawks soaring overhead.  She chose not to notice any of these things.  If she concentrated on anything, it was that small core at the center of her being, the person who she was, the truth that she would not let go of no matter what.  This was the vow she’d made to herself.  This was the vow she’d keep.

She felt the sun, that couldn’t be helped.  She’d refused to put on a bonnet, though one had been offered to her.  She knew the gesture represented one of so few kindnesses, and that she should at least have been gracious in that regard.  But where in the name of heaven, she wanted to ask someone, did graciousness belong in this world as she now knew it.  The sun was in fact welcome, warming her skin, easing the hurt that still lived in her battered face, hopefully turning away the bruises, suffusing her cheek with rose-colored hues rather than awful black and blue.

Charlotte could also hear without having to listen.  The hawk that had been circling above cried out on its broad downward arc.  The wind vibrated against the arched canvas, making a humming sound in the struts.  The horses’ harnesses jangled and the horses themselves blew and snorted as they walked along in the heat.

Beside her, Charlotte’s father remained silent as well, his thoughts also turned inward.  He held the reins between the fingers of both hands and flipped them now and then, though there was no reason.  Only one pace could be had, and that was ploddingly slow.  Only one direction could be followed, and that was south.