By Jamie Sims Coakley
It had taken three days by wagon to get to Arkansas and the Chester Hotel. Now all she could do was wait—sold as she was. No different than the prostitutes upstairs except less free, not less wild. He’d blamed it on her mother’s hair, then beat her within an inch of her life to get her into the wagon. She’d figure it out later. Now, sitting in the shade of the black oak trees, listening for the train whistle she was resigned. It was stupid to think she could ever be free. After all, she was born a woman.