March 1864Darla Starr
Proprietor, Darla’s Salon de Joie
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
My mother crept down the back stairs of her father’s place. She was quiet. She was careful. She was sixteen years old and in love. A fat, Texas moon lit her way across the yard. Her lover was waiting by the barn—Cole Younger, nineteen and dashing, blue eyed and fair.
“Belle. Over here.”
Her favorite mare stood saddled by the gate—so shining black it was blue in the moonlight. She swung into the saddle like a man—quick and easy, unafraid. She wore a velvet riding habit and a cowboy’s hat pinned back at the brow—the Belle Starr of legend, bold and daring, flamboyant.
There came a shout from the house—her father.
“Belle, damn you. Get back here!” He had his old ten gauge.
“Goodbye,” she called, laughing.
“Let
