The Ballad of an Outlaw Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

You’re Already Dead

Fall 1876

Outskirts of Mason County, Texas

“You remember who I am?” Daphne Goode inquired as she held a spur to Ransom McEntire’s neck. The clomp of his horse's hooves galloping toward Mason grew fainter. No one would notice he’s missing a rider until morning, he thought. Far too late for anyone to come to his aid.

His muscles stiffened as the heel of her boot pressed into his jaw. “You were hanged. I saw it. You were dead. How are you here?” Ransom hissed, his words muffled as Daphne Goode forced his face into the dirt.

“Oh, Ransom. You can’t kill a ghost,” she said, softly digging her spur into the skin protecting his vulnerable carotid artery. “I’ll ask again—do you remember who I am?”“You’re a murderer, a thief, a commonplace low life. And if the rumor is to be believed, a whore,” he hissed.

Daphne lifted her spur from his neck before kicking a tooth from his mouth with the tip of her boot. He grunted, gasping for air, inhaling blood. He retched, depositing thick bile onto the dusty road.

“Now, if you believed that, you wouldn’t speak to me that way— unless you’re that stupid,” she said calmly. “Tell me what you know.”

The undeniable click of a bullet locking into the chamber of a rifle snapped his senses to attention. Ransom rolled over to find Wild Ben Cody with the barrel of a shotgun to his chest.

His eyes widened. All of those rumors, she did it. She seduced the famous Cody into joining her crime spree, he thought. “C-Cody?” He sputtered.

“Address me. One word from me, and you’ll be a tall tale,” Daphne threatened smoothly. His gaze flickered back to her. “What. Do. You. Know? One last chance, Ransom,” Daphne said.

If he were going to die, it wouldn’t be at her hands — this vicious man-eater.

He fortified himself, dragging his torso off the ground until he was kneeling before her.

“I know you’re Daphne Goode. I know that you tried to burn Cohen Plantation House. I know that you killed Elias Cohen. I know you’ve been killin’, thievin’, and whorin’ since!”

He spat out another tooth. White enamel peeked between streaks of deep burgundy blood in the moonlight.

Daphne fanned an ace of hearts between her fingers. “Is that so?” She asked, an amused smirk spread across her face. “Junior? Blaze? Can y’all see to it that Mr. McEntire is comfortable for the journey?” An eerie sweetness laced her voice.

Ransom scoffed. “I knew you wouldn’t kill me. Godless woman.”

“Ransom, you’re already dead. But before I put your body in its grave, you’re going to tell me what I need to know,” Daphne Goode promised from behind the brim of her hat.

***

Present Day,

Irving Hollow, Texas

In Texas, the heat is so intense that you can see and hear it coming before it hits your skin.

A sizzling hum, a warning for newcomers.

A glistening in the distance, heat running toward you from a place you can’t quite make out. Unique in its power and beauty. Only the brave survive the heat of the day in Texas to find relief in the coolness of its nights. The thud of hooves, the warmth of a campfire underneath a blanket of stars. The most spectacular show in any town.

This is my home.

In Irving Hollow, there’s a window into the past on every street. As we make our way home, the town is asleep.

An eerie, mystical feeling raises the hair on my arms.

Driving through new Hollow into old town Hollow, we pass through what was a prospector town, including a historic saloon, a blacksmith, a general store, what I’m pretty sure was a brothel but is now a Christmas decorations shop, still standing from eras past.

The only place with lights on as we pass is the Stardust Hotel. Built in the mid-1870s, it signaled the town’s shift into the 20th century.

Coming into the new Irving Hollow, modern buildings make the old Hollow feel as though you’re a time traveler.

Stop lights blink as we pass the mural of Daphne Goode, infamous outlaw.

Her profile covers the side of the dancehall, red hair flowing along the wall that leads to a courtyard commemorating the Cohen Family and their contributions to Irving Hollow.

“Home,” I sigh to myself.

We’ve been in New Mexico for two weeks, camping like we do every summer. Just the four of us. Well, the three of us now.

It’s been two years since Dad passed. I may as well still be wearing the yellow dress with the daisies on it. Forever sitting at the dining table as my mother broke the news to my older sister, Adi, and me.

I think back to that often.

Wishing I’d savored every moment he was still with us, up until the time my mom told us, if only in my head, my dad was alive. He’d be back any day when the army rotated a new Chaplain into the position.

Turns out his replacement would be the one to visit us. He listened to our grief, and I couldn’t help but think, it should have been you. Not him.

If it had been one day later, it would have been his replacement that passed, and my dad would still be here to see me graduate, to walk Adi down the aisle, to grow old with my mom.

But no.

It didn’t work like that. Life doesn’t work like that.

Not for the people who are the designated supporting acts to the main characters. Like I am. And as a supporting character in other people’s stories, I can’t sob about my own tragedies for long.

It makes people uncomfortable.

And I’m not here for anything if not for the comfort of others.

My dad would take this moment to remind me how blessed I am. I have a roof over my head, shoes on my feet, and I never have to worry if I’ll eat tomorrow.

Still, I always leave a little room for the hurt.

My shoulders rise and fall as I stretch my legs out in the passenger seat.

As a family, we spend quite a bit of time on the road. Throughout various countries, states, and places, we’ve seen it all. There’s a special feeling as you drive back into Texas after being away for a while.

A shift in the atmosphere to welcome you home, a sensation that grows with intensity the closer we get to our house.

My older sister is curled up behind the driver’s seat.

She looks like an angel. Her sweet features and elegant cheekbones are highlighted in the moonlight. Her honey blonde hair peeks from underneath her burnt orange UT hoodie. She’s the spitting image of our father.

I smile as Carry On Wayward Son begins playing quietly over the radio.

“Hi dad,” I whisper.

My mom takes a deep breath through her nose and readjusts her grip on the wheel.

My dad had unmatched taste in music. He made sure my sister and I have an appreciation of the classics, rock, pop, and everything in between.

I hum, bobbing my head.

“AJ, don’t wake Adi.” My mom says.

“Don’t worry, Mom, she’s been asleep since Lubbock. If Alice Cooper didn’t wake her up, I don’t think my humming will do it either. Besides, Dad always said you have to hum a song out of your head. It’s bad luck if you don’t.”

She smiles, a sweet one at the corner of her mouth, the kind of smile she reserved specifically for my dad.

Wonderwall kicks on. “Yes!” I whisper-shout.

“Shh! AJ!”

“Sorry, sorry, my bad.”

I lean back into my seat and roll down the window. The cicadas and Oasis can sing me home.

I’m quietly humming as we pass under a banner that reads: Town musical auditions Saturday at 9 AM! Be there!

I giggle at the use of the exclamation point. Something about it makes me feel like if we’re not there, we’re going to be fined for defying the sign.

But I’d be there, of course.

Adi and I have auditioned for the musical every year since we were 9 and 6, respectively.

We’re passing the amphitheater where our town puts on a musical every fall. It could be mistaken for some small event using a phrase like “town musical”.

It’s not.

The amphitheater where the musical is held holds 1,500 seats and is backdropped by a stunning view of the hill country.

The musical is an enormous undertaking, with hours of rehearsals and thousands of dollars in production. Stage lights nearly outshine the Friday Night Lights here.

I remember when I fell in love with the madness of it all. It wasn’t due to a sweeping performance or a moving song. It was watching the camaraderie between the cast. Bonds that only came from hard work and late nights spent dancing together.

Also, the inevitable, if not cliché, love story.

It’s Hollow lore that during each musical production, two people from the cast fall madly in love.

But I know it’s true. I’ve seen it.

Three years ago, I watched breathlessly as Cade Warner and Francesca Summers practically fell into each other coming off stage. I didn’t mean to watch, but once I saw them, I couldn’t look away.

I’d never seen kissing like that before.

He lavished her, and she reciprocated, the heavy breathing, quiet moans.

Their bodies melding together was mesmerizing. After that night, I watched them, holding hands when they thought no one was looking, Cade subtly motioning for Francesca to meet him backstage during rehearsal. During Cade’s speech before opening night, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

When the musical ended, I hoped, in a small corner of my heart, I’d fall in love during a production, too. But not any kind of love, a passionate love that needed to be concealed behind stage curtains because it burned so bright.

When I did fall in love, it wasn’t in an undeniable burning passion way. It didn’t surprise me.

It was just right, like the feelings warmed before kicking up to a boil.

It was with him. One of my best friends since I can recall.

Ford McEntire.

I gaze down at my iPhone, checking for the thousandth time in the past 7 hours to see if there is a message waiting from him or from anyone. I tap the screen with my thumb, and it illuminates to reveal a selfie of me and my best friends, Emily and Clea, on our last trip to Austin. ‘i love you so much’ sprayed onto a mint green background behind us in the famous burgundy lettering.

I swipe to open my messages app, touching the text chain at the top.

Finally! Cell service after two weeks! I’ve missed you ! We just started driving. Should be home around midnight.

I can’t wait to see you. 2:26 PM

I hope everything is okay… 6:30 PM

Please message me back when you see this. I’m just worried about you. Want to know you’re alright. 7:00 PM

Maybe it's my phone? I click open the text chain to Clea and Emily.

Y’all. I have cell service. Freakin finally. I need a status report. Now. 4:15 PM

Nothing interesting happened while I was gone? 6:17 PM

The word delivered is taunting me in the right corner of every message.

It's not my phone.

I adjust in my seat, pulling the seat belt away from my chest.

My mom appraises the death grip I have on my phone: “Don’t worry, you’ll hear from your friends soon. I’m sure they’re all asleep right now. Give it until the morning.” I nod, “Thanks, Mom. I’m sure you’re right.” My voice breaks.

Our home sits in a lone suburban neighborhood, on the side of a cozy cul-de-sac. The porch lights are on to welcome us home. My mom says a prayer of thank you to God for the safe travels as we park in the driveway next to Adi’s black 4Runner. Well, my black 4Runner. I inherited it after my parents bought Adi a car when she was accepted at the University of Texas. The screen door swings open, and my grandmother greets us. “Y’all survive the drive?” she inquires as if she’s not looking at us safe and sound in front of her. Dash, our dachshund, appears between her feet and greets us, licking my mom’s ankles as soon as her feet are out of the car, his tail wagging happily.

“Help me wake up, Adi, will you, Dash?” My mom quietly opens the car door and places Dash in Adi’s lap. She stirs and begins petting Dash before her eyes open. “Finally, home,” she whispers.

3 minutes later, I drop my suitcase in my bedroom and scramble looking for my headphones and a hair tie. I’m heading to the backyard.

Out there is where we keep my oasis. A trampoline under the stars, shielded partially by the branches of an old mesquite tree. I can spend hours moving with my headphones on. I need an escape from my thoughts. I grab a hair tie off my dresser and step into the Jack and Jill bathroom that Adi and I share when she’s not at school.

Where are they? I sift through a pile of clothes on the ground.

“Looking for these?” Adi dangles my headphones in front of my face.

“Yes! Thank you!” I say as I snatch them out of her hand.

I catch a glimpse of myself and Adi in the mirror— a stark reminder of the oddity of my presence here. My brown skin contrasted with the whiteness of hers. I know that I belong with my family, but every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded I’m not really one of them.

“Could you help me with one more thing?”

“What?” Adi asks, annoyed.

“The bloodsuckers are out.”

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Adi played basketball through high school. I can barely reach the tallest cabinet in the bathroom. Her 5’10” frame elongates, allowing her to reach the bottle of bug spray on the top shelf.

“Here,” she says, passing it down.

“Thank you!” I call out as I turn to rush out of the bathroom.

“Hold up, you owe me a hair brushing.”

“Ugh. Fine. Hurry, Adi. I need to go think.”

She pulls up the small wooden stool we’ve had in the bathroom for as long as I can remember. Running my fingers through Adi’s silky hair, I remember wanting to be just like her. I’d watch my mother run her fingers through Adi’s hair with ease. When it came to my hair, however, my mom would struggle to comb through thick curls, pulling the brush through until we were both in tears.

She’d search aisles of products looking for one that could make my hair more manageable.

More like theirs. Hair, she understood.

When I started kindergarten, the mother of the only other black student in class, Jordan Daniels, pulled her aside. Mrs. Daniels explained to my mother that she’d been inadvertently damaging my hair with home relaxers to straighten it and burning it with heat tools to keep it straight. She told her she’d need to take me to a black hairdresser.

She gave her a name and a number.

The first time we went to Ms. Diana’s, my mother asked when she should pick me up. Diana looked at my mom and smiled. “Come back around closing at 5. She’ll be done by then.”

Six hours later, I was a brand new kid. I’d spent the day listening to Diana talking with her family members and clients.

All day long, I listened and learned.

My mom arrived at Diana’s at 5 sharp that day.

Seven years later, I still spend two Saturdays a month there.

Gone are the days of begging mom to dye my hair or straighten it.

Back when I would sit on the floor of this very bathroom and press my fingers into my skin to watch the pigment fade under the pressure for a moment, and rush back together as soon as I let go.

I thought if I pressed hard enough, the pigment would begin to drain from me like syrup from a pitcher. I’d see it on the floor in front of me, and then finally, I’d be like my family.

Or if I could find a way to inject more pigment into my skin.

I’d be whole.

Instead of what I am. Half white. Half black. Half as important as anyone else.

If I were all black or all white, at least I’d be one thing. But I’m neither, and therefore I meet the criteria for neither category.

I will never look like my family or anyone else in town, for that matter. That’s what it means to be adopted. You’re always on the outskirts— even in your own home.

But being Ford’s girlfriend changed how I see myself. He’s generous with praise, complimenting my skin, my hair, my eyes, my lips. I’ve never felt beautiful until the day I noticed how he looks at me. For the past year, Ford’s love has numbed the ache of missing my dad and made me feel like I might really belong.

Something my therapist Jasmine and I have discussed ad nauseam.

I dismiss the thought. I have other fish to fry.

I tear out of the bathroom, grab my iPod from my dresser, and gallop outside. Under my mesquite tree, my oasis awaits. I inhale the smell of the hill country— earth, mesquite, and cedar. There’s a campfire atop Cohen’s lookout in the distance.

Austin is 45 minutes from this spot. I roll my shoulders back and exhale.

Why hasn’t anyone responded to me?

Most importantly, him. Why hasn’t he responded to me?

I’ve spent all week in the mountains wanting nothing more than to come down from my mountain top high- to see him.

I wrap my arms around myself.

They’ll message back, they’re your best friends.

He loves you… He’ll text back. It’s going to be okay.