"𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐲."
Josephine Whitlock, a Southern belle turned outlaw, flees her impending marriage to a cruel man, leaving behind a life of luxury for the untamed West. Arm...
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My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a reminder of the precious seconds ticking away. I stood at the stable door, my wedding gown - a monstrosity of silk and lace - snagging on every splinter and nail.
"Easy there, Marquess," I whispered, reaching out to stroke my father's prized thoroughbred stallion. The beast snorted, sensing my unease. "We're going for a little ride, you and I."
My trembling hands fumbled with the saddle, the weight of it nearly too much for my arms unused to such labor. But desperation lent me strength, and soon enough, I had Marquess ready.
I gathered the voluminous skirts of my gown, bunching them up as best I could. It took three attempts to hoist myself into the saddle, my legs straddling the horse in a most unladylike fashion. The irony wasn't lost on me - here I was, mere hours from becoming Mrs. Horace Beauregard, fleeing like a common thief in the night.
A dog barked in the distance, and I froze. My eyes darted to the house, searching for any sign of movement. Nothing. I dug my heels into Marquess' flanks, and we were off.
The cool night air whipped at my face as we thundered down the dirt road leading away from town. My veil had long since been lost to the wind, and my carefully coiffed hair was coming undone. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was putting as much distance between myself and Cheyenne as possible.
As the miles stretched behind us, my mind raced with the gravity of what I'd done. I'd left everything behind - my family, my home, my entire world. And for what? Freedom? The thought almost made me laugh. What did I know of freedom?
The sky began to lighten, the first hints of dawn creeping over the horizon. I slowed Marquess to a trot, scanning the landscape for a place to rest. We'd been riding for hours, and exhaustion was setting in.
A small copse of trees near a creek caught my eye. It would have to do. I guided Marquess off the road and into the shelter of the trees. Dismounting was even less graceful than getting on had been, and I landed in an ungainly heap on the ground.
I sat there for a moment, surrounded by the ruins of my wedding gown, and finally allowed myself to cry. Great, heaving sobs wracked my body as the full weight of my actions settled upon me.
"What have I done?" I whispered to no one in particular. "Dear God, what have I done?"
But I knew the answer. I'd saved myself from a life of misery. The image of Horace's cruel smile flashed in my mind, followed by the memory of bruises on our maid's wrist - bruises she'd tried to hide, but I'd seen all the same. I couldn't bear the thought of that being my future.
