For the first couple of years she kept correspondences to friends with no return address on her part, all of which had diminished by the time she perched on a barstool in a part of New Mexico that barely touched Texas, and even then she wasn't quite sure where she was. It was the second day she'd stayed anywhere in three years, and since that day she thanked the lord she had.
She stayed for a blanket; her last one was worn to threads from years of hard riding, and she desperately needed a new one. She was trying to persuade a cowboy to give her one over a bottle of beer. He was hard and lean and stubborn as leather, and did not seem to be allured.
"Letter for you." She glanced up to see an older man ambling towards her with a fold of stationery in his hand. He held it out for her to take and she did hesitantly.
"Thanks."
"Sure has got a lota stamps." She smiled wanly and agreed, bending her neck to study the postage stamps. The stamps painted a rough map of her journey, and that fact made her wonder who was so invested in finding her.
She slipped a shaking index finger beneath the flap, tearing the envelope open.
Nadine,
I need to talk to you.
John Bell (1964)
The message itself was enough to steal her breath in a loud gasp and leave her mind reeling. She looked for a return address and left with a hasty "thanks" to the cowboy without a new blanket.
How long had it been? Longer than five years, six at least and maybe seven. Figures danced through her head while she calculated the dates; eight years. The mare bellowed when she approached, stamping her hoof against the ground and scratching her roan face against a post.
She untied the reigns, swung herself into the saddle, and began a calculated route towards Oklahoma.