Deathmarch (Broslin Creek Book 7) by Dana Marton

Author:Dana Marton [Marton, Dana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dana Marton
Published: 2021-02-01T18:30:00+00:00

Her stomach fluttered. How weird was that? She wasn’t used to having emotional support, having someone in her corner. She was used to the aloneness, her way of life, although, she preferred to call it self-sufficiency. She hadn’t contemplated before how a friendly face might make a difference, that it would feel this…nice.

Well, don’t get used to it. She slipped the phone into her bag that sat on the corner of the voice equipment table next to her.

“Ready?” Ginny asked.

“I was born ready, ma’am,” Allie responded in an Old West cadence, slipping into character.

Ginny pushed through the curtain, then walked to the middle of the stage. She smiled as she drew a deep breath. “Welcome, all, to this highly anticipated event. On behalf of the Broslin Historical Society, it is my great pleasure to welcome Annie Oakley.”

She clapped, and so did the rest of the audience, although their enthusiasm was decidedly lackluster. Allie was Tony Bianchi’s daughter, after all. She had a feeling they weren’t entirely buying her try at an honest occupation. Especially since just days ago, she’d been arrested for murder. They were there to judge her for themselves.

Let them.

Allie took in the stage where she’d spent some of the best hours of her high school years. Same scuffed floor, same blue curtains, same brass lights—as close to feeling that she’d come home as she was going to get.

She allowed herself a second to feel, then she put the past away, shut all noise out of her mind, and strode forward with her saddle bags, her all-purpose antique rifle slung over her shoulder. Not the Parker Brothers 12-gauge shotgun Annie used in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show to impress Queen Victoria and others, but close enough as far as the audience would be able to tell from the distance.

A stack of wood occupied the middle of the stage, lit with a red light from below to look as if a fire burned. In the “fire,” on a fat stone, a tin coffeepot waited for her.

“Howdy, folks.” She looked at the audience, touching two fingers to her hat. “Mind if I share your fire? Night’s mighty cold.”

When a few brave voices invited her to join them, she dropped her saddlebags at her feet, shook out her bedroll, and sat.

“Coffee would be appreciated. I thank you for your kindness.” She pulled her tin cup from a saddlebag and poured. Sipped. “Can’t repay you with much beyond a tale or two. But I’d be glad to tell those, if you’d like to hear them.”

The audience responded. If Harper was among them, Allie didn’t see him. She couldn’t see past the spotlight pointed at the stage.

“Best start with who I am.” Annie settled in. “I was born Phoebe Ann Mosey, in a year so dry, the bushes followed the dogs around.” She paused while the audience laughed. “These days, most folks know me as Annie Oakley. You might have seen me in the papers wearing a fancy dress, but I wasn’t born no lady.

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