Where is this novel going?

This week I'm participating in a Week of Writing, or WoW, sponsored by American Night Writers Association. I committed myself to write at least 100 words per day, and so far, I'm surpassing that goal.

I've debated a bit about exposing this raw output, but it's what I wrote yesterday and today. I might edit it here, but let's take it a minute at a time, shall we? I haven't cleaned up all the Spanish, so disregard that. (Or, if you see any errors, kindly point them out so I won't forget to edit them.)

Marie brought her head-long rush to a stop, working to keep upright as she teetered before three men seated around a barrel. Laying on top of it were two planks that formed a rough table, which was littered with cards and poker markers that shook and bounced as the men scrambled to their feet. Blinking back indignant tears, Marie realized she knew two of the men, the Dominguez brothers. Enrique reached forward and snatched a bottle of liquor off the table and hid it behind his back. Patricio removed a cigarillo from his lips and palmed it.

"Señorita Maria, ¿que le pasó? Ah, what ees happen weeth you?" he asked in a mixture of Spanish and English, his voice raspy with concern.

Marie shook her head, more to clear it than to indicate a negative response. "I— Nothing of— It was a momentary trifle," she ended, flustered more than she would have wished. That Tom! She must speak with Pa, as soon as could be done.

"If there's something we can do, miss?" the man unknown to her asked, his voice low and melodious. "We would be happy to assist you in any way." He removed his hat and inclined his head.

She noticed that his hair appeared to be black and wavy in the firelight, not unlike that of her brother James. She put the back of her hand to her nose to mask a snuffle. "Thank you sir. There's nothing of importance to be done. I thank you all for your concern." She nodded toward the men and turned to go, but the black-haired man grasped her elbow and stopped her.

"Miss. I beg you to sit and compose yourself." He motioned to his recently-abandoned chair, then spoke to Patricio, "Traiga un vaso de agua." Then he again addressed Marie. "Will you take a glass of water? You seem uncomfortable."

"I— I thank you, sir. And you are. . . ?"

"C. G. Alderson, at your service." He bowed as he made his hat cut a figure through the air.

Marie imagined the hat would look quite at home if it had a feather sweeping from the side of the crown. Oddly, the thought did not strike her as ridiculous, but as courtly and comforting. The man seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare. With that, Marie took the chair offered by Mr. Alderson.

Enrique Dominguez brought her a tin cup of water, and Marie accepted it, wondering when Patricio had delegated the task to his brother. She put the cup to her lips, sighed, and took a sip. What did it matter who fetched the water? Her life had shattered into shards around her ears.

"Miss, you really must allow us to help you, if you have trouble to be mended."

It was the same man speaking, Mr. Alderson.

"Sí, señorita," chimed in Enrique. "Queremos— We want to ayud—help you si es posible." He looked at Patricio, as though he were seeking affirmation that his speech was in proper form.

"It was nothing," she repeated. "A slight disagreement."

"Who would offer you such an affront?" Mr. Alderson seemed taken aback at the temerity of annoying her. "You have but to mention his name." An unspoken threat to the malefactor hung in the air.

"His name?" Marie felt a small smile lifting her lips. "You are sure a man wronged me?" Her tears had gone.

Alderson hung his head. "Dear lady, I beg your pardon at making any false assumption." He raised his head again and looked her straight in the eye, one eyebrow raised. "It would be the highest dishonor to distress such a fair creature as yourself. That is my only defense, that I imagined some scoundrel of the male persuasion gave you an insult. Was I not right, dear lady?"

"Sir, you were not wrong, but I doubt the offense will reoccur." Marie heard herself using formal language, and cast her eyes down to mask any delight that might be showing in them. "Once my father takes a hand. . . ." She stopped herself. It was likely that her father would disregard any misgivings she had at this late date. "That is to say. . . ." Again, she felt at a loss for words. What could she say, not knowing where this weekend's affair would lead her? Might Pa go through with his scheme to announce her engagement to that odious young man? Her mouth went dry.

"You are distressed anew," Mr. Alderson stated. "Would a sip of spirits fortify you?"

Marie first felt shock, then reconsidered, as the feeling drained off. Why not? It works for men. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Somehow, she found herself steadying the bottle that Mr. Alderson had wiped on his sleeve and brought to her mouth. She took a sip. White fire burned down her throat as she swallowed once, twice, then thrust the bottle away.

"There. That should hearten you."

Marie felt herself shudder at the strong taste. She licked her lips to cleanse them of a lingering drop. It burned her tongue. She sensed, rather than saw Mr. Alderson tilt his head at the Dominguez brothers, who melted away from the table and left her alone with him.

Alderson placed the bottle on the table and seated himself beside her. He drew the chair close, momentarily bumping his knee against hers. "You must tell me your troubles, my dear," he said.

Okay, where do we go from here?

A Kind Contrast

Back in January, I shared a bit that gave Marie a lump in the pit of her stomach. I want to give a contrast with this part, which actually comes a bit earlier in the book.

Marie slipped off Bess and led her toward a tie post. Mrs. Bates came from the house and joined her, beaming at her, as Marie secured the horse.

"Marie Owen! It's a favorable day when I get a caller." She hugged Marie, then called out in Spanish, motioning over a brown-skinned lad who was working nearby. "Ven aquí, joven. Quídate del caballo."

The boy dropped his pitchfork and came running to see what Mrs. Bates needed. She explained, while Marie marveled at the woman's command of a foreign tongue.

"Mrs. Bates," she exclaimed when the boy had taken charge of Bess. "I didn't know you spoke Spanish."

Muriel Bates drew Marie along toward the house, laughing as they went. "Why girl, a body has to know how to speak it hereabouts if you want to get the work done. It's a pretty tongue." She clucked at Marie's tangled hair. "Now we'll just take a brush to that mess of locks, and put buttermilk on your face to take the sting out of the burn."

In no more than five minutes, Marie sat on a chair in the kitchen, holding a cloth Muriel had soaked in buttermilk to her face. She felt the heat lifting from her skin.

Muriel ran a brush through Marie's hair, patiently working out the knots. "Tell me the news, Marie. How is your ma? Is Ellen well? How is that husband of hers? Is he on the mend?"

Marie spoke through the fabric. "Ma is doin' as well as one might expect. Carl is still down in bed, but Ellen says he's makin' progress." She paused to remove the cloth and turn it over to the cool side. "Ellen is well, and she is happy. I ain't ever seen a body so content."

"That's right gratifyin' to hear, girl." Muriel worked at a particularly stubborn tangle for a moment, then asked, "Did your brother return yet? Mr. Bates said your pa was right vexed that he left."

"No," Marie mumbled. "He's still gone. Ma is grievin'."

"I imagine so. I imagine so," Muriel repeated, and lapsed into silence as she tackled another matted-up spot in Marie's hair.

Marie squeaked as the hairbrush pulled tight against her tender scalp.

"I'm sorry, girl," Muriel crooned. "Let me try finger combing through that one." She put down the brush and used her fingers to coax the hair to separate. "You didn't bring any pins to put up your hair?"

"No. Pa was in such a hurry to leave, and I didn't think to dress my hair, nor to bring my bonnet. I'm payin' the price now." Marie sighed.

"Let me wet that cloth again. I have plenty of buttermilk today." Muriel took the cloth from Marie, dipped it in a bowl, and wrung out the excess moisture. "I reckon the butter specks will look like freckles, but they'll wash." She gave the cloth back to Marie, and started in on the last tangle. "I don't have no spare hairpins. I can try something new, though, a little trick I learned from Paco's mama. She helps out here and there when I need her," she continued. "She's the one teachin' me the Spanish tongue."

Once Marie's hair flowed freely down her back, Muriel took a piece of leather and a smoothed-down piece of wood, and twisted the hair into a bunch at the back of Marie's head. "This won't hurt a bit," she murmured, fitted the leather piece over the top of the hair, and thrust the wooden spike through a pair of holes in the leather. "There now," she said, making sure the clasp was secure. "That's right pretty, and will keep the tangles away." She patted Marie's shoulder. "Or you could make braids."

Marie caught her breath. "I never thought of braids, being so old, and all."

"Old!" Muriel laughed. "When did you get to be old? You're just now at your best, girl."

"My sister tells me I'm old."

"Julianna? That girl has no sense. Get the notion of bein' old out of your head, Marie. That will only give you the vapors. You're as lovely as can be, and don't you forget it."

Rod Owen poked his head into the kitchen. "Time to leave, daughter."

"I'm comin' Pa," Marie said, and removed the cloth from her face as Rod exited the room as fast as he had entered it. "I thank you for the buttermilk cure, Mrs. Bates, and for pulling the snarls out of my hair." She touched the leather clasp. "May I use this while I'm down hereabouts? I'll bring it to you when we come back through."

"You keep it, girl. I'll have Mr. Bates make me another."

"Thank you, ma'am."

What a difference between Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Morgan! You can see where Ellen Bates Owen got her caring heart.

Have you ever experienced kindness when you were feeling down? How did it impact your outlook on life?

Is This the TITLE?

It's been a bit uncomfortable for me this time around, writing a novel without some semblance of a title to stick on it. Up to now, I've been referring to my WIP as Owen Fam 4, but that is highly unsatisfactory.

After saying "meh" to hundreds of titles, I've arrived at one that makes my heart quiver in delicious, secret delight. Will it do the same for you?

Here it is:

Miss Owen Trips

I know you're going, "Huh?" It's okay. At least it's a working title, and there are several levels of reasons this works for the novel. It's better than "Heedless" or "Unwise and Unwary" or "Unwise Eyes and Lying Lips". When you read the book, at last, it will all come right.

So, what do you think? First impressions? Thoughts? Reactions?

You hate it. That's okay. Tell me why.