The Characters in Marsha's Head

41 Words

2012-01-27T20:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was able to tinker with a scene and write 41 words. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the word count at that time. Probably because I don't have a proper place for writing it down. I used to, then the year changed, and the darling little writer's calender I was using is no longer available. I must find something else, really soon! I have the beginnings of a new scene written in a notebook, which I didn't have time to locate and grab the other day as I left the house.

And how is YOUR New Year coming along?

I'm still alive

2011-12-27T16:59:00.000-07:00

It's been a tough couple of months, trying to move and keep life going at the same time. I'm into my new home, but there's still a lot of stuff in the old one. Winter came and brought a couple of snowfalls, which makes it difficult to move things.

Anyway, as a reminder that I'm still here, I'm making a special offer:

From now until December 31, 2011, The Owen Family Saga Sampler is free at Smashwords.com. It contains three chapters each from the first three novels in The Owen Family Saga, plus a bonus look at the forthcoming Book 4: Spinster's Folly.

One reviewer says about my work: "Marsha Ward really does write Westerns with heart. And her Owen family saga is among the best you'll ever read. Learn what our ancestors did to build this land. Like the Man from Shenandoah. Highly recommended." ~Chuck Tyrell, author of The Prodigal

To get the free e-book, create a free membership at Smashwords.com, then use Coupon Code QL37G at checkout.

A Big Brother's Role

2011-08-29T13:16:00.003-07:00

I'm skipping back to Chapter 3 of Spinster's Folly to explore the role of a big brother in a girl's life. Here's a fragment where Marie's oldest brother, Rulon, fills his role perfectly:

After she had eaten and cleaned up, Marie prepared her bed at the foot of a tree, and then sat on her quilt for a while, her back against the trunk. Rulon strolled over and squatted beside her.

"You all set here?" He picked at his teeth with a flayed willow twig.

"Yes sir. Almost as comfy as my bed at home." She hugged herself. "I reckon I'll sleep after a bit. I can't bring myself to close my eyes yet."

"It's a pretty night," he said, looking at the stars. When he looked at Marie again, he tilted his head to one side. "Are you sore, Sis? You've been in the saddle for a long stretch, and you're not used to the sort of work you've been doin' today."

Marie smiled wryly. "You caught me out, didn't you? I'm also burned and windblown and flybitten. I'll make a handsome prize for Tom Morgan."

"No, Sis," Rulon said, drawing out the initial vowel as he shook his head. "You're a beauty despite a tad bit of sunburn. Tom Morgan's a fool if he won't see that tomorrow."

Marie rolled her eyes. "Big brothers always say such dainty things."

"The truth ain't a dainty thing." Rulon smiled. "Granted I'm your big brother, and I might be a mite partial to you, but there's no denyin' you're a gem of a woman, Marie. You stand the competition on their noses, girl."

Marie couldn't help but laugh.

"There now." He patted her hand. "That's what I like to hear."

"Rulon, who do you reckon is my competition?"

"Just a figure of speech, Sis. There is no competition that stands up to you."

"There is no competition at all. I'm the only girl left single hereabouts." Marie ducked her head so Rulon wouldn't see hopelessness in her eyes.

He put two fingers under her chin, raised her face, and looked at her for a long time. "Marie. That is an unfortunate circumstance. You are worth more than any three girls back home. Don't forget that. Not ever."

Marie hoped the deepening darkness prevented Rulon from seeing the tears that suddenly caused her vision to swim. "That's sweet of you to say," she whispered, catching his hand. "No wonder Mary thinks the sun rises and sets on you."

Now Rulon ducked his head. "Go on!"

"I reckon I think that, too, Big Brother." She pushed him on the shoulder. "I'm sleepy now. You needn't watch over me tonight."

He touched her on the tip of her nose. "That's what big brothers are for." He got to his feet. "Good night, Sis."

"Good night, Rulon."

If you have a big brother or big brother surrogate who has always protected you in a pinch, what have you done to pay back his affection and concern? If you haven't made that overture yet, isn't it time to do so?

From Chapter 13, Spinster's Folly

2011-08-21T18:22:00.000-07:00

A bit more for your enjoyment:

It seemed to Marie to be a shameful thing that she kept nodding off, but she couldn't help it. Bess's gait was most easy, and she was so tired. The strain of the day's events, not to mention the blow to her face when she fell, had built up a great lethargy, and she kept giving in to the need to sleep.

She awoke with a jolt when a chill wind hit her cheek. She shivered. The moon's light had diminished due to an obscuring bank of clouds. With the wind picking up, she feared it would soon rain, so she urged Bess to overtake Mr. Alderson once more.

"Will we camp before the storm comes?" she asked him, a note of anxiety making her voice sound high and thin to her ears.

Mr. Alderson looked up at the sky and tilted his head. "I imagine we do need to seek shelter. Look for any trees, or a butte we can camp beside." He patted her hand. "We'll be safe. Don't worry."

"I can't help a bit of nerves."

"So you can't. Let me relieve your mind. I'll do the worrying from now on." He smiled in the dim light and gave her hand a final pat before turning away.

Marie heaved a sigh and let Mr. Alderson take the lead again. Perhaps all would be well with Mr. Alderson doing the thinking. After all, she was entrusting her entire life and future to him. She felt a bit of her burden lifting from her shoulders. Yes, all will be well.

After a while, she heard a laugh from Mr. Alderson.

"See there? I believe we've come upon a stream. We'll have good shelter there."

Soon they were dismounting near the bank, and found the wind was cut somewhat by a stand of oak trees that lined the creek.

"I'll water the horses. You find wood and build a fire," Mr. Alderson said.

Marie nodded, grateful that the rain hadn't yet started. She'd still be able to find dry kindling for her fire. She hurried to her task, and gathered enough kindling, sticks, and branches for a small fire. Mr. Alderson could search out more wood later, if they needed to keep the fire going for long. She hoped he had a hand ax in one of his saddlebags, in case he needed to cut a large branch.

After arranging her wood to her satisfaction on a patch of earth she had scraped bare, she put a piece of cotton wool underneath, and struck flint and steel together until the resultant sparks set the tinder to smoldering in a couple of places. She carefully blew on the best spots, then pulled back when they burst into flame. She pushed the tinder together so the flames would intensify, and soon the kindling was ablaze. It didn't take long until her sticks were also afire, and she rocked back on her heels to admire her work.
~~~

Have you ever built your own campfire? When and where?

More from Spinster's Folly

2011-08-15T11:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a bit more from my forthcoming novel, Spinster's Folly, for your enjoyment:

Marie slid from the saddle into Mr. Alderson's arms. She stumbled a bit, but with his aid, she recovered herself.

Mr. Alderson clasped her tightly, pressing kisses on her brow, her cheeks, then finally, on her lips. Marie responded, relief at getting away clean feeding her fervor. At last, they broke apart and looked at each other.

“I am so gratified that you came,” Mr. Alderson said. “We really should be on our way.” He hugged Marie again, then whispered, “My companions may miss me. I'm not sure they were asleep when I left the camp.”

A tingle of fear swept down Marie's spine. “Let's leave now,” she agreed.

Marie remounted with a boost from her swain, then he got up on his horse, signaled with his head the direction they would take, and they left the meadow for the path through the trees and out of the Owen claims. Soon they found the well-traveled road, and made their way north.
~~~

It appears that Marie's feeling of relief at being free of her odious situation is mixed with fear of being caught. What situation in your own life could be akin to Marie's?

Don't be shy in commenting about anything else you wish. You don't need to answer the question posed above.

I'm Writing!

2011-08-06T16:36:00.000-07:00

Today I pushed to write the final scene in Spinster's Folly. No, that doesn't mean I've finished the book, just that last scene. There's still a lot to put between where I left off and the ending. However, this scene is powerful! Here's a tidbit from the draft:

"I reckon I love you," Bill said. "I reckon my affection for you began to growin' that first day we met, with you all shocked and discombobulated, with leaves and dirt and such on your dress. Despite your dishevelment, I knew that underneath, you were the most beautiful girl in the world."

"Don't mock me!"

"I'd never do that."

Marie bent her shoulders forward and hugged herself. "I don't want your pity."

Bill sat for a long time, looking down at the hatful of fire. Finally he lifted his head and gazed at Marie. He swallowed, then spoke, his voice steady, but with a marked gentleness. "I bear you no pity. Only the devotion of a revived man who's heart was tore out when you left. It was bruised and battered when your pa told me he was marryin' you to the farmer, but it shattered in pieces when you left with Alderson. I thought never to see you again."

Marie turned her head aside, unwilling to see the hurt in his eyes. "Going with him was my great folly," she said, her tone bitter. "He bore me no love, as he had led me to believe."

"He's nothing but a confidence man, a very practiced confidence man."
~~~

Have you ever been seriously betrayed? How did you feel about it?

I'm ready to write again

2011-08-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's true. I'm feeling very good, and although I have a huge life project that will be going on for several months, I WILL WRITE. In the meantime, please enjoy this little tidbit from the upcoming Spinster's Folly.

Marie tiptoed across the plank bridge toward the stable. She still hadn't decided whether to take her black riding horse or Bess, the gentle mare she'd ridden on the Cuchara expedition. Both were good mounts, but the remembrance of Bess's easy gait and comfortable ride weighed heavily in her favor. Besides, the black could be uppity of a morning, and Bess never was. In the end, Marie chose the more comfortable horse, and led Bess from the darkness of the stable so she could tie her bundle behind the saddle.

Do I have all I'll need? she questioned herself before she mounted. She'd brought no trinkets or baubles, but only a change of clothes, the cooking utensils she'd selected earlier in the day, the poke weighing heavily where she'd hidden it inside her bodice, and food and water for the journey. She left behind a letter, written on the sly, saying she was heading north with "my own true love," and that the next time anyone from the homestead saw her, she would "be a married woman."

Once in the saddle atop Bess's broad back, she surveyed the meadow, with the embers of all the campfires scattered across it, looking for the surest route through them. If she bent her way south around the Bates's camp, then between the Campbells and the Hilbrands, she should soon be out of harm's way.

Gently putting her heels to the horse's sides, she sat forward, and Bess moved out into the night, nickering softly.

"Oh hush, Bess," Marie whispered. Perhaps she should have blindfolded the mare and led her? It's too late for that, she acknowledged to herself, and merely patted the mare's neck and whispered soft encouragement.

Once she heard voices, and froze, reining Bess to a halt. She listened, and located the sounds as coming from the far side of the meadow. A couple up late, romancing? She couldn't tell, as no clear words came to her ears. Judging the late-night chatterers to be no threat to her, she clucked to Bess, and got the animal moving again. In only a few moments more, she would be through the visitors' camps, and well away.

Sample Sunday: War Party

2011-07-31T14:21:00.000-07:00

War Party is a story I wrote as my assignment when I took a correspondence course in short story writing several years ago. It has languished on my computer, unpublished (but not for lack of trying in those early days) until recently, when I put it on Amazon.com in the Kindle stores. It recounts a tragedy that led up to a fictional participation in an actual event, the Battle of Salt River Canyon at Skeleton Cave in Arizona Territory. Here's the first scene.

$0.99 at Smashwords and Amazon's US Kindle store.

War Party, Scene 1

Black smoke drew Rolla's eye, smoke where there should not be smoke. Then he heard the noise: high, piercing yips, and a woman's scream, and the flat report of gunshots.

A sand hill girdled with stunted mesquite trees blocked his view of the home place. The boy tongued the grass stem from his teeth as the dun-colored pack horse swung its head, nostrils wide, and the rope between the boy and horse tightened. Water in the barrels sloshed and splashed over the rims. Rolla smelled dank wetness as it cut through the dust on the sides of the casks.

He heard Pa's angry voice, and more shots, and the eternal yips, chilling his spine. Rolla started to run, pulling the dun behind, but the horse resisted, so he tied a fumbled knot around a mesquite branch. Then he scrambled and panted his way up the slope.

Rolla reached the top and flopped belly-down behind a tangle-branched creosote bush. He broke a stem so he could see through the shrub, and a tarry odor filled his lungs. Now he saw the source of the smoke. On the right, the dugout roof and door were ablaze, and to the left, hay stacks burned next to the corrals. The boy tried to count the dashing, milling figures with long black hair tied down by rolled bandanas, but because of the dust and smoke, he lost the total.

Apaches! he thought, remembering a neighbor's warning: "They's got hair down to here, boy, and them dirty white cloths to hide their nekkedness. And most often they's got a white band of paint clear acrost their faces, from ear to ear, nose and all."

One of the raiders knocked down the corral poles. The stock spilled out, chased by another Indian, and the rest of the band bunched behind, whooping, and drove the protesting animals onto the trail.

When the Apaches were a cloud of ocher dust, Rolla slid down the hill and, kicking the tree, snapped the spiny branch holding the horse's tether rope. He ran along the path, jerking the animal behind him, not caring about the water.

The boy came yelling into the yard between the overturned wagon and the stone fence surrounding the garden plot. "Pa!" he called, and saw a dark brown patch on the tan earth near the wagon. The boy dropped the horse's rope and followed scuff marks around the vehicle.

His father lay in a heap, and Rolla skidded to a halt beside him. "Pa," he cried, and knelt to shake the man. "Pa, wake up. They're gone." Then he recoiled, and held himself rigid at the sight of the stark white and crimson circle on the top of Pa's head. Rolla drew in a deep breath, and took in the dust and smoke, and the sweet-rank stench of blood.

The first, numbing shock passed, and the boy laid his hand inside his father's coat, checking for a heartbeat. There was none, and he stumbled to his feet.

"Ma?" he asked, looking around, swallowing hard, and he saw the splash of white petticoats behind the black wash kettle. "No, please," he prayed, feet dragging, as he approached the place where one shoe stuck out from in back of the boiling pot. He stopped, then peered around the column of rising steam.

Ma lay stretched out, eyes wide, mouth twisted, and the bodice of her gray dress was dark with blood. Her shawl looked like a yellow butterfly on the ground, and Rolla picked it up, fingering the soft wool. The threads caught on his chapped hands, and he clenched his fists over the wrap.

"Ma!" he yelled, and an echo returned from the hill as he draped the shawl over her terrified features. As he got up, he shook with restrained rage, and for a moment he stood, quivering, as though he were rooted between the two fallen figures. Then the youth dug one grave on the flat behind the corral: a large one beside the two small ones already there in the Arizona sand. After he rolled rocks atop the mounded earth, Rolla took his hat by the crown, pulled it forward off his head, and mumbled the Lord's Prayer before he stamped back to the yard.

The boy kicked through the rubble of the corral and found the riding saddle. He caught and tethered the dun, dumped the water barrels, loosened the pack saddle, and pushed it to the ground. Then he hoisted the riding saddle onto the horse's back.

Although the smoking roof poles had collapsed, and the front part of the house sagged, the fire had burned itself out, and Rolla wrestled the charred door aside and stepped into the dugout.

He found saddlebags, and stuffed them with whatever came first to hand: a loaf of bread; tins of tomatoes; his store-bought shirt; ammunition for the Winchester he had found under his father's body, brass dulled with blood. Then he rolled and tied a pair of quilts. Last, he picked up the photographic portrait of Matt and Kate Wood on their wedding day, and carried everything out into the daylight.

Rolla stared hard at the picture, as though by staring he could bring his parents to life. A dark sigh shook his body, and he pressed his lips together, shuddering at the contrast between this almost smiling couple and the mutilated corpses he had buried.

"I'll get 'em, Pa," he choked, his voice high, thin. "Those 'Paches killed their last white folks."

He shoved the portrait into his coat pocket, then hoisted the saddlebags behind the saddle, secured them, and tied on his bedroll. The rifle he jammed into the boot, then he loosed the horse, gathered the reins, and stepped onto the chopping stump to reach the stirrup. Mounted, he took one last, bitter look around, then bounced his heels off the mustang's ribs, and it skittered out of the yard and onto the trail.

~~~

Young Rolla has revenge in mind. Have you every been so provoked that you thought of killing someone? How could you defuse that strong emotion? What else might Rolla have done in these circumstances instead of vowing revenge upon a band of Indians?

Spinster's Folly, Chapter 12

2011-07-16T19:51:00.000-07:00

It's been quite a while since I posted anything from my manuscript. Although I'm not back to work on it yet, I did print it out today so I could review it before I begin writing again next week.

Here's a scene from where I left off before my Great Hospital Adventure:

Marie's stomach roiled with nerves as she backed down the loft ladder. She carried her shoes in her hand, hoping her stocking feet would make less noise on the floor. There was one plank to be avoided at all costs; it would shriek if she stepped on it. Although she could hear Pa's regular snores, if he heard that plank! Well, she'd be discovered, and all her plans would be for naught.

She was safely halfway across the floor when she remembered she needed her sunbonnet, or her face would suffer a recurrence of the burn it received on her trip to the Cuchara land. Even though Mrs. Bates's sweet leather clasp would keep her hair in order, it would not help with the sun.

Restraining a sigh, Marie finished her trek to the door and placed her shoes beside the wall. Then she retraced her steps across the room and up the ladder. Feeling her way in the darkness deeper than stove soot, she found the article and put it on her head, tying the strings under her chin. This severely restricted her sight to the sides, but at least she would have the bonnet when she needed it tomorrow.

In her haste to get back to the door, she almost stepped on the squeaking floorboard, but stopped herself in time, rocking in her abrupt halt, and holding her breath as Pa snorted in his sleep.

Would he awake? Was her escape to be thwarted? She didn't dare breathe until the sonorous exhalations became regular again. Then she let out her breath slowly, sidestepped to avoid the villainous board, and resumed her trip across the room.

Now, to get out the door. The hinges sometimes made noise, but Marie hoped the oil she had put on the leather that afternoon would keep that from happening. She picked up her shoes, took a shuddering breath, and pulled the latch.

The wooden stop lifted, the door opened soundlessly at her touch, and then, she was free!

I just dropped the price...

2011-06-13T16:45:00.001-07:00

on The Owen Family Saga Sampler.

Although it's quite a nice collection, it is, after all, a sampler, with three chapters each from the first three books of the Saga, and a bonus chapter from book four, Spinster's Folly. Therefore, I've reduced the price from $2.99 to $.99 on both Smashwords.com and Amazon.com. The catch?

There are two:

I may not keep the price this low forever.

Amazon's price change process is not instantaneous. It takes them up to 48 hours to make the adjustment. Smashwords, though, has already changed the price on its site, so don't wait. Get thee over to their site, buy The Owen Family Saga Sampler, and get yourself introduced to that fabled Owen Family from the Shenandoah.

In the meantime, I'll continue my recovery from unplanned surgery so I can finish the fourth book.

UPDATE:

Amazon has changed the price, so go there, if it's more convenient for your KINDLE purchasing.

Sneek Peek at a new scene

2011-05-29T16:15:00.000-07:00

I just wrote this scene last night, and thought I'd throw it out there to see if I get any comments.

Marie finished washing the dishes with the water she had heated. Ma still had not returned, and Marie became curious and a bit concerned. After she had worked herself into a fret, she set off to find her.

That task wasn't hard. Hearing a wail that could only have come from her mother's throat, Marie broke into a run. The continuing anguished sound came from the meadow, and as soon as she could, Marie arrived and found the source.

Ma would have crumpled in a heap, save that Pa was holding her up, his arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace. Mr. and Mrs. Hilbrands from Pueblo Town were standing nearby, Mrs. Hilbrands wringing her hands, and Mr. Hilbrands stroking his chin and muttering, "I didn't think she'd take it so hard," over and over.

Pa caught sight of Marie and motioned her over with his head.

Does he think I won't come near because she's crying? Marie thought, still regarding her father poorly. She looked a question at Mr. Hilbrands, and patted her mother's cheeks, saying, "There now, Ma. It can't be that bad."

Ma answered in a high, thin voice, "He's been shot, daughter."

"Who, Ma?" she asked, as a chill passed through her body. She knew full well the commotion must have something to do with James.

"It's James."

"What about him, Ma?"

"He left the Hilbrands, but he's shot up."

Marie looked at the Hilbrands, gauging which of them would tell the clearer story, and decided to query the missus.

"Ma'am, is it all that bad?"

Mrs. Hilbrands quit the hand-wringing and seemed to pull herself together. "He was some bad, with two wounds, but is not in danger of death. He refused to let Mr. Hilbrands write a note to your Ma and Pa. He left a few days ago, and I do not know for sure where he went."

"I reckon he was much improved when he left after some weeks with us," Mr. Hilbrands chimed in. "He sat the saddle fine."

"Julie," Pa murmured. "You hear that? He could ride when he left Pueblo Town."

"Mandy said the daughter told her he could stretch his arms above his head when he decided he'd had enough of bed rest. He drove a mule team for me before he took out. I reckon he's on the mend, Miz Owen."

Ma wiped her eyes and straightened in Pa's arms. Marie stepped back.

"I regret fussing so much," Ma said, her voice still thin and whispery. "It came as a great shock," she took a gulp of air and continued, "to learn he was doin' so poorly and I didn't know of it. I should have felt his wounds in my gut."

"Julie, you can't sense everything," Pa protested.

"I should have known," she insisted.

"Ma, Mr. Hilbrands says he's on the mend now," Marie said. "Take comfort in that."

Ma stood still, breathing deeply. "It appears he's not going to come home soon as I'd hoped."

"He did ask about a job with Angus Campbell," Mr. Hilbrands said. "He didn't stop in to give you greetings on his way south?"

Ma shook her head. "He did not," she said, with a return to a moaning sound.

"There now, Ma," Marie said, stepping up to stroke her cheek. "He'll come back when he's calmed down some. A body must be a tad bit angry when he's been shot up."

"It was a drunk Irish did it, I was told," Mr. Hilbrands put forth.

No one had anything to say in reply to that, and Mr. Hilbrands continued, "I think the worst of it was over when young James left town."

"The worst of what?" asked Marie.

Mr Hilbrands shook his head. "There's still some sentiment against those of us who, ahem, who took sides against the Union," he said with a shake of his head. "There are saloons who cater to Unionists, and other who serve the Southerners in town. They don't mix freely."

"Oh dear," Marie said, mostly to herself. Then she spoke up in a firm voice. "Ma, he's out of the town, and it's a good and proper that he left. We will hear from him by and by, I know it."

Ma gave a moaning sigh, then shook off Pa's arms. "We will pray fervently for that," she said, then turned to Mrs. Hilbrands. "Amanda, despite the news you bring, you're mighty welcome to our homestead. Rod, help Mr. Hilbrands unload the wagon."

The Secret Projects Unveiled

2011-05-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

I've been hinting all over the Internet about being engaged in a special or secret project. Well, I've finished it, and I'm back to writing Spinster's Folly.

What was I doing?

I was learning how to convert and upload manuscripts to the Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing website. I then did the conversions and uploading of my three novels, several short stories, and a couple of special collections. See the results here.

Why did I delay this vital step in making my work available to huge segments of the reading public in the United States, the UK, and Germany? First of all, I had been told it was complicated and difficult. Secondly, I told myself I needed to finish Spinster's Folly before I learned how to do something else.

Then it became apparent to me that such a delay was silly, and in fact, was cutting into potential sales and extra income that I need. Once I determined that I should wipe out my folly, I decided to investigate the difficulty factor. Lo and behold, I discovered that with free software and careful attention to details (which I love), the process was well within my skill set.

Therefore, I converted and uploaded all three novels to the Kindle stores, as well as uploading Trail of Storms to Smashwords.com. Now all the novels are available to a much larger audience, and, I'm happy to report, there are sales being made!

Heeding the sage advice of one of my indie-publishing mentors, JA Konrath, I also put up several short stories and a couple of collections, including a sampler of chapters from the three novels of The Owen Family Saga. There will be more bundles in various configurations in the future.

Q & A: Light a shuck

2011-05-09T07:54:00.000-07:00

Q: At the end of the first chapter of Ride to Raton, Rod Owen tells his son James that until he can get free of his pride and anger, he should "light a shuck for someplace else." What does that mean?

A: In the days before electrification, once the sun went down, it got DARK. In the inky blackness of a moonless night, one couldn't travel much without a lantern or a light of some kind. If someone went visiting and forgot to take a lantern in case they were out past dark, they might be offered a twist of a dried corn shuck (husk) or two, which, when set afire, would provide enough light to get them on their way until their eyes could adjust to the darkness. The term "light a shuck" came to mean to leave one place for another, and also, to leave in a hurry, so as not to waste the light from the fast-burning corn shuck.

My New Project is Alive!

2011-04-24T01:14:00.000-07:00

No More Strangers is a collection of six short stories, three poems, and an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, Spinster's Folly.

No More Strangers, the eBook, is found at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55150 regularly priced at $3.99. However, in celebration of Easter, I'm having a special introductory sale that ends Tuesday at midnight PDT.

Use the coupon code QF77F at checkout, and receive the collection for 50% off=$1.99

Chapter 1, Scene 1

2011-04-20T17:33:00.001-07:00

Just because, and due to some behind-the-scene stuff, I've decided to post the beginning of the fourth Owen Family Saga novel again. It's been re-worked since it appeared in draft form in September of 2009. I'll most likely go over it again before it's published, but here is the present version. I hope you enjoy it.

Marie Owen pressed forward through the crowd that surrounded her brother Carl and his new bride, Ellen Bates. She pushed her way across the patch of trampled grass in the Colorado meadow, trying to get closer to the bridal pair. Ma was hugging on Ellen while Mrs. Bates dabbed at her eyes. Mr. Bates stood alongside them, looking stern.

Someone leaving the site of the makeshift altar in a great hurry bumped Marie's shoulder hard, and a flailing hand knocked her bonnet askew. She cried out, "Have a care!" as she turned to see who had been so heedless, then shook her head as she realized it was only her next older brother, James, fleeing from Carl's triumphant grin.

"You behave, James," she muttered, loosening the strings beneath her chin so she could straighten her headgear. When she was satisfied that it was once again firmly in place, she returned to her purpose of reaching Ellen.

Her youngest brother, Albert, was her last obstacle. He had wormed his way to the front of the crowd, and was enthusiastically engaged in kissing Ellen's cheek. Marie elbowed the youth aside, reached her friend, and threw her arms around her.

"Lawsy," Marie whispered in Ellen's ear as she hugged her tight. "I thought this day would never come for you. Now you're my sister, Mrs. Carl Owen!"

Ellen pushed back from the embrace slightly, her green eyes shining like dewdrops above her freckled cheeks. "It was so sudden. I didn't figure Pa would bring the priest with him." Her voice quivered. "Who would have thought . . ." She scanned the meadow, craning her neck back and forth. "Where is James?"

Marie squeezed Ellen's arm. "Now don't you fret about him on your weddin' day. He'll get over a little disappointment."

"I want to tell him I am sorry."

"Don't you bother. He's been acting like such a ninny. It was plain as the nose on your face that you loved Carl and not him."

Ellen ducked her head, but when she raised it a moment later, her radiant smile spoke of her happiness.

Marie couldn't help kissing her cheek. "I'm thrilled for you," she murmured, and gave Ellen another hug.

"I cannot believe this happened so fast," Ellen whispered. She took a deep breath, then turned to look at the new husband, who was sitting himself down on a chair, his face white.

Ellen's smiled disappeared, and she turned back to Marie as people shoved against them. "Carl's bleedin'. I have to get him back to the cabin." She gripped Marie's shoulder. "You'll be next to marry," she said in a rush. "I see the way Bill Henry looks at you."

"What?" Marie protested, but Ellen had slipped away, entreating Rulon and Clay Owen to haul up the chair and carry Carl to the house.

Marie stood rooted in place by her friend's astonishing words, and watched a crimson stain spread across the hip of Carl's trousers. A shiver of fear coursed down her spine. Carl had been wounded in a shootout with kidnappers. Would he bleed to death because he got out of bed to marry Ellen? No! Surely not. Ellen was as good a nurse as anyone hereabouts. She would take ample care of Carl and pull him through this bad spell.

"James!" Ma's sharp call cut through the babble of voices.

Marie turned to see what had alarmed her mother, and saw James loping into the forest. She breathed out in exasperation. He had been so temperamental lately, stumping around like a bear with a hangnail.
"Rod, go see--"

Marie went to her mother's side. "He's fine, Ma. Give him a fortnight to clear his mind, and he'll be the light of your eyes again."

Ma grasped Marie's wrist without looking at her. She spoke low. "Daughter, he's not fine. Make your pa go after him." She glanced down at her clenched hand, opened it, and let Marie go free. "Tell your pa--"

"James is man-grown, Ma."

Her mother seemed not to hear her. "Good, Rod is going." She called out, "Bring him back," sighed, gave herself a shake, then turned her attention to the departing newlyweds.

Marie shrugged her shoulders and followed her mother's gaze. Ellen walked beside Carl, fussing a little, patting his hand. His brothers carried his chair toward the little log house Carl had built with his own hands to receive his bride. No matter that his wife wasn't the one Pa had intended for him. It seemed such an age since Pa had connived to arrange marriages for two of his sons before they'd all fled the ruins of the Shenandoah Valley, and headed out for Colorado Territory. Carl's betrothed, Ida Hilbrands, was long gone.

"Good riddance," Marie said aloud.

"Good riddance to what?" a young female voice said behind her.

Marie jumped and whirled to face her sister. "Julianna! Don't creep up on me like that. It's not ladylike."

"What do you know about being a lady? More like a spinster, if you ask me."

"Spinster? Don't you call me names!"

"I will if I want to. You're gettin' awful long in the tooth, Marie. You've got no beaus in sight. Pa surely wasn't thinking when he left you off his marryin' list." Julianna swished her skirt with both hands and let her tongue quickly dart from between her lips then retreat back into her mouth.

Marie felt warm blood rising into her neck and face at her sister's insolence. "Leave Pa out of this," she barked. "You see how well his plans turned out." She gestured toward the departing couple. "True affection conquered his meddlesome--" She fumbled for a word, then spat out, "meddling. Ellen is happy, so I am happy."

Julianna smirked, pointing toward the forest. "James ain't happy. He stomped off. Pa went after him, glowerin' almost as much as James."

Marie balled her fists, glaring at her sister. "Thank you for telling me something I already know, Miss Snippety Nose. James'll mend, given enough time."

"But in no time at all, Pa will have to put you on the shelf. Nobody will even look at you by Christmas, Old Maid!"

Has anyone ever called you a spinster, or suggested it was time you got married? How did you react?

Title Search: The Adventure

2011-04-18T05:14:00.000-07:00

Although I haven't written since late Friday night--I've had this pesky task to do called getting-the-tax-return-finished-and-sent-off--I do think it is possible that I am on to something in the title department.

Here's one of the big reasons why finding a title matters so much to me: I'm planning on releasing a collection of prose and poetry in the very near future, and I want to include a preview of this fourth Owen Family Saga novel at the back. I really don't want to call it OwenFam4. It needs its own identity.

I know, I know. Books have been released with previews in them from novels that eventually end up with a different title, but that creates confusion. I don't like confusion. That's why I've been pressing pretty hard to whittle my very long list down to a short one.

I'll keep you posted on the progress.

Uh Oh!

2011-04-15T02:32:00.001-07:00

I wrote this yesterday, and edited it today, adding 15 words and deleting a couple.

Marie drew her skirt together at the knees, hands gripping the cloth. "Sir, I don't know what you mean."

Mr. Alderson tilted his head and the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Why, Miss Owen, you seem quite vexed with troubles. Won't you allow me to share your burden, even only a tiny bit?" His thumb and forefinger almost touched.

The fire from the liquor seemed to be spreading from Marie's stomach to her limbs. She brought a finger to her lips to bite the nail, then thought better of it, and dropped her hand back into her lap. "You are a stranger, sir. How odd that you wish to be my confidant."

The man drew back a trifle, pressed his lips together, then blurted out, "I beg your pardon for moving beyond my place, Miss Owen. Your beauty overwhelms me." He sucked in a breath through pursed lips, and hung his head. His voice sounded hollow as he said, "I do beg your pardon, very humbly, Miss. Please forgive me."

Marie felt in a forgiving mood as the skin of her hands felt soft enough to run off her fingers like melted butter. "I..." she began, but her voice faded. "It's not... Usually I would not..." She shook her head gently, feeling as though her brains would collide with the bones of her skull if she exerted herself overmuch. "You are forgiven, Mr. Alderson," she said in a rush, before her voice failed her again. "Forgiven," she repeated for emphasis. The consonants ran together.

Mr. Alderson raised his head and stared into her eyes. "You are quite...magnificent," he said slowly. "Magnificent and magnanimous, together in one generous soul. I feel as though I were in the presence of a royal personage. Such grace. Such charm." He took her hand in both of his, and lifted it toward his lips. He stopped midway, and murmured, "I am quite overcome with feelings, Miss Owen. Will you permit...?" and he kissed the inside of her wrist.

Looking at the man's bent head, Marie wondered that his moustache did not tickle her skin. Instead, it felt stiff, yet flexible and yielding at the same time, and his warm lips spread the heat from the alcohol up her arm. She knew she must remove her hand from his grasp, but her strength failed her just as her voice had, and the lethargy caused her head to rest on her shoulder.

He made circles on her wrist with the back of one finger, his nail smooth, not catching her skin with jagged edges or nicks, but sliding over her skin like it rode on a film of sweet oil.

"Sir," she protested, her voice little more than an echo, as he began to place kisses as gentle as the touch of a moth's wing on the heel of her hand, then moved gradually down onto the sensitive flesh of her palm. Such gentle kisses, stirring her blood and driving her inhibitions far away, far up the mountain and into the depths of a dark pool of water where she had sat once in time, a man bending over her, offering a cup of cool water. Who had that been? Her head swam as memory eluded her, and she swallowed, no longer fighting the wild pulse of blood that throbbed in her temples.

She raised her head with an effort. The fire had gone to embers, no longer lighting the table before her. The man beside her murmured, "So lovely," and placed his hand on her knee.

An internal alarm roused her senses. This is wrong. I did not tolerate Tom's hands on me. This man is a stranger. He has less right. She shifted her body so that her limbs slid out from under the man's hand. "I...must go," she said, grateful that her voice seemed steady. She pushed herself to her feet against the man's protests. "You must forebear, sir," she added, tugging her hand free. "Goodnight."

Steering herself toward the light of the distant lantern hanging from the door post of her father's house, Marie splashed through the creek and felt the shock of the cold water bring her wits into sharper focus. She grimaced against the headache starting behind her eyes, but made it through the front door and into the loft before anyone greeted her or made note of her wet shoes and hem.

I'm shameless, she told herself. A shameless spinster, acting like a brazen hussy. And yet, some of the warmth from the man's moth-like kisses had not faded from her body, and she wrapped herself in that warmth as she fell asleep.

I really shouldn't tease you all this way. Maybe I'm the shameless hussy.

Almost dreck, my copyright, who knows if it will appear in the finished product?

New Tidbit

2011-04-13T18:15:00.000-07:00

Here's a short scene I finished up yesterday, er, that is, this morning. I hope you like it.

Bill keep his face smooth as Chico threw down his cards. It would be unseemly to chortle over his good luck tonight. He had helped luck along a trifle, and didn't want to share that fact with Chico or the other players in the bunk house. Maybe I'm just an ornery cuss. He dropped his wrist below the table top, shook the other ace out of his sleeve and slid it into his boot top. I only hankered to know if it could be done. He'd find a way to return Chico's cash to him later. It wasn't like when that little scoundrel, Bertie Owen, had cleaned him out. He hadn't felt any impulse to turn over his ill-gotten gains.

Chico pushed back his chair, the lamplight flickering over his scowl. "Hang it all, Henry! Where'd you get so lucky? Miss Marie ain't here to plant a kiss on your cards."

Bill raised a finger and tilted back his hat so he could see Chico. "Don't go mixing the lady into our game, Chico. She ain't a factor in your bad luck."

Chico took off his own hat and slammed it onto the floor. "Damn you, Bill Henry! That was my last three dollars! Now I can't--"

Bill cut off the diatribe by saying, "Have it back, friend, with interest. I don't want a five-spot standing between us," as he extracted a five dollar note from the pile of bills before him and slid it across the table toward Chico.

Chico snatched up the bill, his face relaxing just a mite. "Someday you'll go too far, friend."

Allowing a grin, Bill said, "You've come all the way from Texas with me, Henderson. You know I'm the best friend you have."

"Humph," Chico grunted, picked up his hat, and strode toward the bunk house door, stuffing the money into his shirt pocket with one hand and his hat onto his head with the other.

"Have you gentlemen had enough?" Bill asked the other players.

A chorus of agreement met his question, and Bill took a few bills off the pile and pocketed them as he arose. "Split it up, boys," he said, indicated the remainder. "Be fair." Then he made an exit amidst the cacophany he left in his wake.

As always, my copyright, my draft-quality dreck. Any comments?

Title, Title, Where is My Title?

2011-04-01T17:26:00.001-07:00

It appears I'm still hunting for a title. Much as I love and appreciate it, there was little enthusiasm among readers for "Miss Owen Trips." That's a factor to which I need to pay attention.

Yesterday I was reading poems by Robert Louis Stevenson, and came across one entitled "To Any Reader," from A Child's Garden of Verses. The final lines go like this:

For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.

So, do you think I can use "Child of Air" as the title? I know there's nothing "Western" in it, so it's just a fancy I've picked up and flung before you all.

What do you say? Should I be reading poetry by Robert Service or Baxter Black instead?

Where is this novel going?

2011-03-23T00:14:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-13T21:51:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-03-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

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.

In Honor of Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T21:44:00.000-07:00

And as a part of the * Romance blogfest here, I'm posting a scene from my first novel, The Man from Shenandoah, where Carl Owen gets his first look at Ellen Bates since he returned from service in the Civil War. I've edited it slightly to make it a bit more accessible to first-time readers:

Carl Owen turned his horse off the main road toward his brother Rulon’s house. The sun had come out bright and strong, and it felt good and warm on his back. He grinned as he recalled his conversation with his father. “Hush, we’re going west.”

As he reached the corner, Carl saw a group of mounted men dashing up the cross street in front of him. Panic rose in his throat and sqeezed it shut as he recognized the Yankee patrol that had jumped him and beat him when he'd been on his way home from the war. He wheeled his horse to find a place of concealment. Then he realized where he was, turned the horse again, and tried to calm his pounding heart. The soldiers were probably racing through the streets of Mount Jackson to make a ruckus, and he felt foolish to be caught in their trap.

“Easy, boy,” he told his horse. “It ain’t likely they’ll take after me in town.”

The Yankees drew up at the far end of the street, then turned and started back to town. As they thundered toward him, Carl noticed a young girl opposite him, evidently trying to decide whether to cross. She hesitated a moment, then bolted out into the street. In the middle, she looked around at the approaching soldiers, tripped, and fell into the road.

Without thinking, Carl spurred his horse into the street, leaned out from his saddle, and plucked the arising girl from the muck. The horse carried them across the road while the Yankees whooped and whistled as they rushed by, venting their disappointment. Carl got down the street, turned a corner, then pulled up, set the girl on her feet and slid from the saddle.

“Hush my mouth! That was the foolest thing I ever seen a body do!” Carl made no attempt to stop the hot words from tumbling out of his mouth. He glared at the girl, standing in the street with her chin up and her eyes flashing, auburn hair disheveled, the front of her clothes mud-caked and dripping. “You surely could have been killed, and that’s a fact! You keep clear away from that gang of Yankees, you hear? Darn fool girl, anyhow.” He remounted and left her standing there, pridefully biting back tears of relief. Then he rode away, shaking mud and slime off his arm, and muttering to himself.

Love at first sight . . . or not so much?

*Since I'm not exactly sure my existing published novel qualifies under the rules, I'm not making a whole lot about this post. However, I hope you enjoy it.

A Look Into the Future

2011-01-03T04:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes things don't turn out as you first imagined they would, and you get glimpses of the folly of poor choices. Marie Owen certainly has gotten herself into an interesting place:

Ed Morgan halted the horses in the dooryard of the cabin, set the brake, and looped the lines around the handle.

"Lizzie, don't fret," he said in an undertone, but loud enough that Marie heard it as she stood behind Ma.

Lizzie? I'd not like to be called that, Marie thought, biting her lip to prevent herself from frowning. Good thing my name is plain enough and can't be made small.

"Elizabeth," Ma said. "Mr. Morgan."

Her voice wasn't cold, Marie judged. It merely gave the barest of greetings. What was wrong?

"Julia, you picked a pretty place to settle," Mrs. Morgan said, climbing down from the wagon over her husband's feet. "Look at this meadow, and you have your own creek!"

"We have a river," Ed Morgan muttered, but his wife ignored him.

She turned to give the house a good looking-over, shading her eyes from the rays of the lowering sun. "Your cabin is so sweet, just like your house back home."

"This is home," Ma said, a trifle stiffly.

"Yes, yes, of course. It's so quaintly situated. Did Mr. Owen pick the location?" She went on, with no expectation of being answered. "Of course he did. Only a man would put such a distance between the house and the water." She turned on a smile.

"I picked the location," Ma said, and this time, ice crept into her response. "I'll have a garden put in next spring between the creek and the house."

"Well, I never! You're going to have to bring up the water? Your man won't see to it that the boys water the vegetables?" She turned a circle and faced Ma, her smile broadening.

Ma squared her shoulders. "Come in and quench your thirst, Elizabeth. We have water enough here for that."

"Oh, we couldn't wear out our welcome when we've just arrived," Mrs. Morgan answered. "Just tell us where to pitch our camp, and we'll settle in. Mr. Morgan and the boys need a good night's rest so they can do a good day's work on your barn."

Marie heard her mother's quick inward breath. "Suit yourself," Ma said, and waved her hand toward the south. "Pick out a spot." Her voice sounded for all the world as though she spoke through clenched teeth.

She refused our hospitality! No wonder Ma's cross with her. What sort of family am I fixin' to join?

Is hysteria next?

Have you ever realized you've made a poor choice? What did you do to mend the situation?

Happy New Year!

2010-12-31T13:54:00.000-07:00

To all my readers and friends: May this New Year bring much happiness and fulfillment into your lives.

From Marsha, the Owen Family, and all their friends.

Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing

2010-12-10T06:42:00.000-07:00

Be careful what you wish for

2010-12-10T05:57:00.002-07:00

The new novel is progressing well. Last night's output reminds me of the old saw, "Be careful what you wish for." A character sees hopes dashed and a future muddied. What really lies ahead?

I still haven't found the right title, but I'm getting closer. I don't think "Be careful what you wish for" would make a good novel title, though.

I wish I could find a way to condense these words from the lyrics of "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing" into a stunning title:

and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.

I think that sums up the yearning my character is experiencing to have her own home, filled with light and love. She's not finding it in last night's output!

Did you ever have a wish turn to ashes in your mouth? What do you wish for now? Something safer?

Ellen Bates teaches us about love

2010-12-06T17:36:00.000-07:00

Here's a snippet where Ellen shares her newlywed joy with Marie:

Marie headed toward the creek, intent on dipping up a handful of water to cool her face. Her cheeks still burned from the encounter with her pa, and she didn't want Ma asking uncomfortable questions.

"Drat Pa anyway," she muttered, head down as she tromped along the bank to her favorite place. "Why does he meddle so?" She started to gather her skirts to kneel in the grass.

"Marie? What's wrong, sweetie?"

Marie dropped her dress and looked toward the origin of the familiar voice. Yes, it was Ellen, standing on the opposite side of the creek. What was she doing here? She should be in her cabin, tending to Carl.

"I--" She brushed at one cheek, feeling for heat. Perhaps her blush had faded. "I've been out riding," she said, in case it hadn't. "I thought you'd be up yonder." She gestured toward the forested bench where Carl had built his new home.

Ellen's chuckle surprised Marie, but she tried to hide her expression by rubbing her forehead.

"I can't be there all day and night. We needed water, and I wanted a stroll, besides."

"Ain't newlyweds supposed to stay indoors? Most all the ones I've known went away and I didn't see them for a long time after the weddin'."

"It's a tiny mite different when the groom is laid up with a horrid wound," Ellen, said, but there was no hint of self-pity in her tone.

In fact, Marie detected laughter underneath the grim words. "What's funny?" she demanded to know. "You're all sunshiny for a bride in such a circumstance."

Ellen laughed out loud. "I like being married," she said, once she had regained composure. "I like bein' Carl's wife. He's cheerful, and he's funny, and he loves me to pieces." She wrapped her arms around herself, smiling.

Marie frowned, and thought, Will Tom Morgan ever make me feel that way? A shiver ran through her body, top to toe. She hugged herself then, feeling alienated from her friend by her discouragement.

Ellen noticed Marie's movement and laughed again. "Look at us," she said, "a pair of sillies a-huggin' on ourselves."

What's your favorite expression of joy in a novel? Did you write it? If not, who did?

An Independent Woman

2010-11-26T15:43:00.001-07:00

I'm trying to set Marie Owen up as having an independent streak, in a time when independence in women wasn't valued. How well did I do here?

As the first vestiges of light brightened the eastern sky, Marie let her horse follow Rulon's toward the corral. They drew up in a line behind Rod on the left side of the trail.

The cowboys had driven the chosen beef cattle down from the mountain the previous afternoon. Now they mooed and moved around in the enclosure, as Clay went to unlatch the gate and let them out.

The moment Clay swung the gate open, a fat steer burst through the hole, and Albert, on the right side, and Rod, on the left, headed the animal toward the trail south. The other eleven steers followed. Clay mounted his horse and caught up to Albert, while Marie let Rulon follow their father. She lagged to the rear, as she had been told to do the previous day. She didn't expect to do any work, but found that she occasionally needed to urge a cow forward. Bess seemed to know what to do, so she eased up on the reins and let the horse have its head. Marie merely hung on for the ride.

After a while, Marie began to enjoy chasing the errant cows. One took off to the left, and Marie leaned forward in the saddle, put her heels into Bess's sides and yelled "Hi there!" The horse jumped forward, and set out after the cow. With Marie's vocal encouragement, Bess drove the animal back to the little herd.

Rod looked around, and rode back to where Marie followed the cows. "I don't mean for you to work the cattle, Daughter. Follow along, and if a cow escapes, call out for one of your brothers."

"I can do the job, Pa," she answered back.

He gave her a disapproving look, but said nothing else before returning to his position at the side of the herd.

"Hmm," Marie said. "He's going to allow it." She didn't dare give vent to the yell she wanted to launch. Instead, she whispered, "Yippee."

Do you like reading about women who have spunk? Or do you prefer that they be rescued from their difficulties by the Male Main Character?

A passel of pain

2010-11-06T02:07:00.000-07:00

On Facebook I mentioned dredging up pain from my past to bring a character to life. Those who know me well can guess what I referred to. Here's the result of this exercise in self-torture:

Marie sank against Ellen and surprised herself by bursting into tears. They spilled from between her closed lids, hot and stinging, accompanied by sobs that shook her shoulders and tore at her throat. Shame suffused her body, shame at losing control of her emotions, shame at caring so deeply about her father's ongoing slight, shame at her actions toward Bill Henry, who had only been trying to help her, after all. She sobbed on, despite Ellen's comforting embrace, despite her father's claim that he would see to her wants and needs, knowing that marriage to a reluctant Tom would never bring her the happiness Ellen enjoyed. Then she sobbed because she was a hypocrite, begrudging Ellen her joy because she was miserable. Finally, she sobbed because James was gone. James had left them, and she didn't know if she would ever see him again. Her last exchange with him had been to belittle his pain, to berate him for his heedless flight from grief. She had not said goodbye.

Do you harbor pain? Can you use it somehow to help others? 

BIAM: Book-in-a-Month

2010-11-03T00:13:00.000-07:00

In an attempt not to scare myself, I made a goal of writing 25 words a day for the Book-in-a-Month that's going on at ANWAWrite. It's working so far! I've exceeded my goal by several times, and on the second day, I broke 11 thousand words total in this book!

I'm gratified by the interest you all show in my work. Thank you so much!

USA BOOK NEWS ANNOUNCES WINNERS AND FINALISTS OF THE “BEST BOOKS 2010” AWARDS

2010-10-26T04:27:00.000-07:00

Mainstream & Independent Titles Score Top Honors in the 7th Annual “Best Books” Awards

LOS ANGELES – USABookNews.com, the premiere online magazine and review website for mainstream and independent publishing houses, announced the winners and finalists of THE “BEST BOOKS 2010” AWARDS (BBA) on October 26, 2010. Over 500 winners and finalists were announced in over 140 categories covering print and audio books. Awards were presented for titles published in 2010 and late 2009.

Trail of Storms by Marsha Ward (iUniverse) was named the Finalist in the Western Fiction category.

USABookNews.com is an online publication providing coverage for books from mainstream and independent publishers to the world online community.

Bill shared another bit with me

2010-09-09T03:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I attended a writers' group at the new bookstore in town. Afterward, I took a couple of hours to edit and write in their cafe. Here's a small piece Bill Henry shared with me:

Bill thought of the first day he'd met Marie. Fresh from Texas, driving a herd of cattle, the Owen crew had encountered the little sister, half-paralyzed with fear. She'd barely missed being abducted by an outlaw band. She was safe, but the miscreants had kidnapped Marie and the Bates girl--she who was now Carl Owen's bride.

The Owens and their hired hands had tracked the party to a cave, and finally rescued the girls at great cost. His own cousin had paid the ultimate price.

For a moment, Bill let the barely abated grief wash over him, but his cheerful mood didn't want to go toward darkness just now.

On the way down the mountain, they'd stumbled across a deep black pool of water shaded by trees and surrounded by protective boulders. Rulon Owen had called a brief halt to better bind up Carl's wounds so he wouldn't expire from loss of blood

Marie reluctantly rested beside the pool, expressing her anxiety over Carl's dire condition and her desire to reach home. Be that as it may, Bill got the idea she had appreciated the beauty of the spot as she gazed around at the sheltered area. He'd brought her a tin cup to dip into the water. She'd looked up at him then, an intense gratitude in her dark eyes as she thanked him in a quavering voice for being one of her rescuers.

That was the moment when she had captured his interest. Even bedraggled as she was, with her shoulders and sleeves covered with dirt and her hair tangled and bedecked with twigs and leaves, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Ever since that day, Bill had thought of the pool as their special spot.

Thoughts?

Woo Hoo!

2010-08-26T03:53:00.001-07:00

I broke 10,000 words! 10,398, to be exact.

I'm shooting for 50-60,000 words, so I'm getting there!

I Haven't Stepped on My Tack Yet

2010-08-24T04:15:00.002-07:00

Iconic YA author Robert Newton Peck once said not to worry about titles. He claimed they would come quite suddenly, like stepping on a tack in the dark of night, and they'd be exactly the right thing.

Well, with this book, I haven't stepped on that tack yet. I haven't even got out of bed yet.

I take that back. Tonight, I haven't even GONE to bed yet. I worked on filling out a scene a little, and laid down 222 new good words.

Usually, I try not to edit scene by scene, over and over. I strive to do a complete draft, very spare in the description department, but rich in dialogal story-telling. Then I go back and add narrative, checking motivations, pumping up the emotions, and filling in accompanying actions. If I can complete this book in a draft and two edits, I will count myself extremely blessed.

However, I'm participating in an online critique group, and that usually demands rewrites of the submitted scenes to honor suggestions that work. We'll see if this plan of action turns out to be a good thing for the novel. In the meantime, I'm plugging along! Tomorrow I'll work on a needed transition I left out before.

Having Fun with the Characters

2010-08-23T04:12:00.003-07:00

I worked on a bit of editing last night, getting one scene ready for a critique group, and filling out another on a second pass.

Marie got really angry, and it was kind of fun to see the steam building up and how she exhibited it. I knew that scene needed some tinkering on the action/reaction aspects, and I believe I finally got it right!

Whew!

Now I'm off to bed for a while (yes, I'm up late, not arising early to get kiddoes off to school).

Back to Work--again

2010-08-01T18:16:00.004-07:00

Yesterday I returned from a week away at a Writer's Retreat sponsored by American Night Writers Association, also known as ANWA. It was quite invigorating, and I found that, despite my fears that I wouldn't be able to get in any writing time, I did. Here's a fragment:

The night before Rod Owen trailed his beef cows to the Cuchara, Marie tossed and turned. Julianna elbowed her once, then went back into slumberland, but Marie's mind seemed to bubble with imaginings like a pot boiling over a too-hot stove. It wouldn't allow her the relief of sleep.

She wondered whether she dreaded or anticipated the next few days. If Pa liked Tom's prospects and proposed to add him to the family, the young man's reaction would play a big part in Marie's future. He might accept Pa's suggestion with enthusiasm, and jump into making and carrying out plans for a wedding and a life together with Marie. If, on the other hand, Ed Morgan's son had no notion of marrying her, his disinclination could spell spinsterhood for her.

Who else was there for her to marry? She lay very still, searching every nook and cranny of her brain for prospects. She'd seen the Dominguez brothers once or twice when they had stopped in to water their horses as they traveled on their way to Pueblo town. Enrique and Patricio Dominguez cut blazingly romantic figures, with their wide-brimmed hats and differently-styled clothes, their teeth-flashing smiles and flirtatious comments. She thought the pair of them was tremendously exciting. Given the chance, which one would she choose to wed?

The characters are back in my head!

Character Notes: Albert Owen

2010-07-10T17:32:00.004-07:00

Let's take a look at Albert Owen, Rod and Julia's youngest son.

You can probably tell, from looking at the photos I chose to represent Albert's physical characteristics, that I've been dealing with these characters for a looooooooog time. How long a time?

If you're too young to know the face, it's Michael J. Fox. I believe I saw him on the cover of AARP Magazine a couple of years ago. Yep, that long a time.

Here's the notes I made on Albert:

ALBERT OWEN
This one will be 14 in December, and he is excitable and fierce, but has done yeoman service while his brothers and father have been gone. He has been overworked, and now that the pressure is no longer on him, he has some spare time to get into trouble in. Albert has a light complexion, with dark brown hair and brown eyes.

The cross-outs I made on the original card show that I was influenced by the photos I found to change Albert's hair and eyes from black to brown. I also lightened up his natural skin tone.

I have to laugh at myself for the way I constructed one sentence above. I'm pretty sure I would now say "he has sufficient spare time in which to get in trouble." Given the years from the time I wrote this until now, I'd better have learned a thing or two!

Albert's role in the WIP isn't huge, but he will play a part, in the area of aiding and abetting another character.

Character Notes: Julianna Owen

2010-06-27T19:09:00.005-07:00

Julianna Owen is the youngest of Rod and Julia Owen's ten children (of whom seven still live). She is the second daughter, five years younger than Marie. She was introduced in The Man from Shenandoah, and will play a crucial part in the current novel. No, the novel still doesn't have a name.

I can't recall the name of this actress whose photo I used as representative of Julianna. Wasn't she on a television series? Anyone?

Here is what I wrote on Julianna's character card:

JULIANNA OWEN
Jule, as she is sometimes called, has light blond hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. She looks like a feminine Clay. At eleven, she is still a girl, but will soon be moving into young womanhood. She is a tease, with hands over eyes, pinches, giggles, and stares. She tends to be a little lazy, being the last child, but as the second girl, she has her share of work. She and Marie are not really close, since there is such a disparity in their ages. She is definitely Daddy's girl, and calls her mother and father, Mama and Papa.

It sounds like Jules could drive those around her to distraction. She is now a couple of years older than when we first met her, and probably even more self-aware than before. What will she do in the new novel that is crucial to the plot?

Back to Work

2010-06-27T01:26:00.002-07:00

I have a couple of great opportunities coming up that will allow me to get back in the groove of writing about Marie Owen's adventure. This week is a special writing week sponsored by ANWA, and I'm going to take as much advantage of it as I can. Then, at the end of July, I'll be attending a Writers' Retreat, where I intend to write, write, and write some more. In fact, I plan to become even more of a hermit than I am now!

News That Brings Me Up From Under My Rock

2010-03-30T19:40:00.003-07:00

Although it's been since December that you've seen me here, I want to assure you that I am alive and pretty much well (a persistent sore throat is still bugging me, though).

I have some great news about my ebooks listed on Smashwords. Both The Man from Shenandoah and Ride to Raton will soon be available for the new Apple iPad through the iBookstore.

Smashwords has signed a deal with Apple that will put qualifying books into the new iBookstore catalog, so I've been taking the necessary steps to make sure my novels are in the shipment. This has included obtaining ISBNs (International Standard Book Numbers) for the two books. As soon as the option is available on Smashwords' site, I will take the final step in anticipation of the April 3 release of the iPad.

Of course, the novels continue to be available in several ebook formats at Smashwords.com, so if you already have a computer, netbook, iPhone, iPod touch, smart phone, Kindle, nook, or other ebook reader, you can purchase the first two e-novels in my Owen Family series there at Smashwords; both The Man from Shenandoah and Ride to Raton at 20% off the regular low price right now at Kobobooks.com; and The Man from Shenandoah at Barnes & Noble.com (it's also on sale right now). Amazon and Sony will have both ebooks sometime soon.

Trail of Storms is also available in digital format at iUniverse.com and Books on Board (discounted). This is the original iUniverse version, as I haven't completed a digital edition of Trail of Storms at Smashwords yet.

Now I'll go back into hibernation mode and get back to work on the fourth Owen Family novel. Have a lovely Spring!

My Christmas Gift to Readers

2009-12-23T14:47:00.003-07:00

As a gift to you all, here is a short story I wrote several years ago. It will be part of a future novel.

NO MORE STRANGERS

She was a lone woman in the wagon train now, and it made my heart ache to see her standing there by the flickering campfire, leaning slightly forward in her anxiety to learn the captain’s decision. Hers was a slim figure in the uncertain light, and that was as it should be, for she couldn’t be over eighteen, and had only borne one child that I knew anything about.

Her husband had taken sick with a fever a few days back, and it had worsened until last night. Now he lay out under the prairie sod, and she was left a widow with a son just beginning to walk.

She stood there, trembling slightly, as the captain of ten families, John Armstrong, looked up at her from under his bushy eyebrows as he sat on a keg of flour. He had an air of resignation about him as he tossed the stick he had been whittling into the fire.

“Sister Porter, you may think it a harsh thing, but I got to think of all the families in my care. Now that Brother Porter’s gone, I got to turn you back to Winter Quarters. It’s just two weeks back, and I’ll send a couple of men along on horseback to see you get there safe.” He stopped and looked into the fire, then shrugged his shoulders. “You can go to Zion next season, when you get someone to take charge of your wagon.”

Captain Armstrong fumbled with his clasp knife, then stuffed it into his vest pocket. Sister Porter twisted her hands in the cloth of her apron. The captain looked miserably up at her bleak face, then cleared his throat.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to go to Zion, but a lone woman can’t manage this trek by herself,” he said.

I don’t know what pushed me out into that firelight. Maybe it was the look of despair on her face. Maybe it was that I was all alone too, and knew the pain of loss that was in her heart. At any rate, step out I did, and me a shy young man.

“Captain Armstrong, I don’t have the burden of a wagon to tend to. Allow me to look after the Widow Porter. I’ll see that she keeps up with the others.”

I knew that all the eyes of the assembled Saints of the company were suddenly swung my way, and I blushed in their combined gaze. But the most important glance came from the blue eyes of the young widow. Her look held surprise, but solace was there too, and I felt the hot blush fading from my face. Maybe my act of kindness would give me a feeling of belonging to this company of travelers

“Brother Marshall, if it won’t put you out of your way, I’m sure Sister Porter will be thankful for your help.” Relief spread over John Armstrong’s wide face, and I thought he was glad that my words had made his decision unnecessary. He got up from his keg and disappeared in the darkness.

I turned to the widow, and she was staring at me, curiosity in her look, but a wariness too, for she had just that day put her husband into the ground, and I figured my offer was making her a bit uncomfortable, for all its value to her.

I doffed my old black hat and nodded to her, shyness overcoming my tongue of a sudden, and whisking my words away.

“I thank you for your kindness,” she rescued me. “I know that Captain Armstrong meant well, but I can’t wait another year to go to Zion. I promised him I’d go on,” she finished in a whisper.

Her face twisted a bit, and I feared she would cry, but she mastered the emotion and calmed her countenance again.

I found my tongue. “Is there anything you need doing tonight?”

“No. Now that my future’s settled, I can get on with supper. Won’t you come to the fire and eat, after a while?”

“I’d like that. You can tell me what to do tomorrow.”

I turned away and tended to the needs of my animals. The work gave me a chance to reflect on what I had talked myself into doing. Here I was, a lone man on the way to the Rocky Mountains, and I had taken upon myself the care of a woman and her child, and the responsibility of getting her safe to the Great Salt Lake Valley. And I was only twenty years of age.

Several years back, two missionaries of the Latter-day Saints had come a-preaching in our neighborhood. My father, a God-fearing man, had made them welcome. Though our friends and our kin had scoffed at their message, we had not, and we joined ourselves with the Saints through a ceremony of baptism.

Then the persecutions had begun, and soon a yearning had come upon us to gather to Zion, so we sold the farm and loaded our goods into a wagon. We were five: my father James Marshall, my mother Emily, my younger brother John, our sister Mary Eliza, and myself.

We arrived in Nauvoo, Illinois, to the devastating news that the Prophet Joseph Smith and his brother had been murdered. Despite our grief, we settled in the city for a while, working on the temple, then were driven out in the deep of winter with other Saints.

On February 26, 1846, we crossed the Mississippi River on a covering of ice, and arrived at Sugar Creek Camp. Here we were within sight of our abandoned home, which caused my mother much sorrow. I was relieved when Brother Brigham Young counseled us to move on.

After several days of travel, we camped on the banks of the Chariton River. Father was one of those sent out to trade extra goods for grain and flour. Then we moved on again, first to Garden Grove, and then to Mount Pisgah.

We were asked to stay and raise grain for the Saints who would follow after us. My obedient father settled in and assisted with the planting, until an outbreak of cholera took him, my mother, and my brother John.

Mary Eliza was the only family left to me, and since she was but six years of age, I found her a place with a family in Mount Pisgah, sold what belongings I had no need of, and went south to Missouri to buy myself a horse, and mules to carry our supplies.

I had thought, being a mere youth, that I could get my animals and be out of that unfriendly state before it was discovered that I was what they were calling “a Mormon.” I was wrong.

When I recovered consciousness, I found myself penniless. A farmer—who didn’t care how or if I worshipped God—took me in and put me to work. I spent a year with him, gathering funds for those Missouri mules I wanted. Then a hunger came over me to see my sister again, so I got my wages, bought my animals, and journeyed back to Mount Pisgah.

I arrived to find that my sister and the family keeping her had started for the Rocky Mountains. I followed her to Winter Quarters, but she had already left there, and the season was so advanced that I could not leave for the west.

Although I chafed with disappointment at missing her, I spent the fall and winter making ready for the journey, and left in the spring as a part of this large company.

My year among the Gentiles, as those not of our faith were then known, had caused a few words to be spoken against me by those less charitable than most, and I found myself ill at ease on some days. But for the most part, the company of ten families headed by Captain Armstrong, in which I traveled, was composed of good people. The problem that rubbed me wrong was that they were mostly friends of long standing, and I was a newcomer, and young enough to imagine myself unwelcome.

When I finished caring for my horse and mules, I found my way to the widow’s fire and accepted a plate from her hand.

I could not be sure, due to the dancing of the small light cast by her fire, but it seemed to me that Sister Porter’s eyes were a bit swollen and reddened, and my heart went out to her in her grief. That she had prepared a meal for herself and her boy, and for a stranger too, was a thing of no small moment to me, and I admired her for her determination to endure to the end, no matter what the cost.

As I ate, I glanced up at Sister Porter from time to time, and once I caught her brushing a tear from her cheek. She turned her head, and I knew she was aware of my look.

I felt powerless in that moment. There was no way that I, a stranger, could ease her sorrow. I ducked my head to my meal once again, resolving to find a way to reach out and relieve her pain.

When I had eaten the last morsel from the tin plate, I stood up and took it and my cup over to the washtub sitting atop a barrel. I removed my hat and rolled up my sleeves before she realized that I had intention of washing the dishes.

She stood and came to the washtub as I plunged my hands into the water.

“Brother Marshall.” Her voice held a note of distress. “That’s my duty. I will clear up.”

I looked down at her and smiled in a way I hoped was reassuring.

“I have long practice of the task, Sister. Let me take this way of paying you back for the meal. It was far better fare than I usually can stir up.” I smiled again, hoping she would not press further to do the job herself.

She returned to her seat and picked up her son. I circled the tub until I could look up and see her ever so often. I was curious to know her feelings, since she remained silent so long.

“Why did you speak up to help me?” Her gaze was direct, and it disturbed me. “No one else, not even my friends, said a word.”

The question was unexpected, and I took my time to answer.

“I haven’t fully figured it out yet.” I shook the water from the last cup and wiped it with a flour sack. “I imagine it was because you were all alone, and I remember how I felt to be suddenly alone.” I rubbed my hands dry on the sack.

“Your wife died?”

My ears burned.

“I never had a wife. It was my folks and my brother I lost, back in Mount Pisgah. They got took by the cholera.”

“I’m sorry.” She hugged her son close. “I don’t even know your name, beyond ‘Brother Marshall’.”

“It’s Elijah Marshall. Most folks just call me ‘Lije’.”

“Folks call me ‘Etta’. That’s short for ‘Henrietta’.”

My hat was on my head now, and I felt I ought to go, but I could tell she hungered for conversation, so I stayed.

“That’s a fine name. Puts me in mind of our old farm. There was a girl down the road name of Etta.”

“I’ve never heard of anybody named Elijah, except the Bible prophet. Did your folks give you his name?”

“My pa and ma were God-fearing folk, but they really named me for my grandpa Elijah Scow.”

She smiled. I felt good that something I said brought pleasure to her.

“I expect I’d best get along,” I said. “You’ll be needing to tuck that youngster in bed before long.” I stood up.

“Wait . . . Lije.”

A wonder came over me to hear a woman of her station call my name. I wasn’t prepared for that, somehow, even after we exchanged names.

She continued. “We didn’t talk about what needs doing tomorrow.”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

“Please sit down.”

I sat.

“I won’t need you to drive the team. I learned to do that while Joshua—Brother Porter—lay sick.” She stopped for a moment, and I saw the pain in her eyes.

After a time I said, “I dislike seeing you walk when you could ride on the seat with the child. Captain Armstrong will think I went back on my word.”

“If he says anything, I will make sure he knows different. I won’t be a burden to anyone. Please just keep your eye out for trouble.” Then her voice lowered in pitch. “Could you lend a hand crossing the rivers? I—” She looked down for a moment. “I have a fear of water.”

“I’ll watch out for you. I’ve put my word to it.”

I was invited to her supper fire every night for a week, and I enjoyed our conversations and playing with her son. Once he looked at his mother and said, “Mama.” Then he pointed to me and called out, “Papa!”

I know I colored some as I took him into my arms and replied, “No, I’m Lije.”

That night, Sister Porter asked me to join her in evening prayer, and afterward said it was a comfort to have someone nearby to share that special time. I was glad the fire had died and she couldn’t see my reddened face.

The same evening, as I was walking to my bed, I overheard a woman speaking to her husband from underneath a wagon box.

“ . . . him a Gentile-lover, and her man just laid to rest, too. It’s a scandal, I say. You ought to speak to the Captain.”

I stood pegged to the spot, shaking with the anger that rose in me, then I fled to my camp. After that, I didn’t eat so often with the widow, meaning to spare her from the wicked tongue of that woman.

Then one night Sister Porter came to my camp with her son as I laid my fire.

“Lije, have I offended you? It seems that lately I can’t get you to eat with us. Joseph misses you.” She bent her head and kissed the child.

I got up from my task. “Sister Porter, I—”

She cut me off. “There’s plenty in the kettle. I miss talking to you. Please come.”

I weighed the problem of her need for friendly talk against the gossip sure to be caused by my presence in her camp, and wondered if she knew about the woman’s vicious words.

“Please,” she repeated. “It seems that no one but you will speak to me. I think they’re afraid to hurt my feelings in case they accidentally mention Joshua.”

So the poison is spreading, I thought. I tried to conceal my anger from her, not wanting her to guess the real reason behind the silence she was experiencing. Then I made my choice, vowing to not leave her to suffer in a silent void, despite the wagging tongue.

“I’ll come to eat, but you must share my supplies from now on. I’ve eaten more than my portion of yours.”

Her voice was soft as she answered. “You know I have plenty since—”

“I’ll not eat up your goods,” I replied, a trifle hotly. “You’ll need the extra when you get to Zion, else you’ll starve.” Then I wished to bite off my hasty tongue, as I could see my words brought to her mind that she had no man to fend for her, and she winced at the thought. “Etta, I’m sorry.”

I stepped back a pace. I had called her by her Christian name, and it surprised me to do it.

“I know you don’t mean me harm. You’re right to counsel me to caution. I have been thinking what I can do to earn my way when I reach the Valley, but I fear my talents are few, and they suit me only to be a farmer’s wife.”

I stared at her, fighting down the impulse to comfort her in my arms. I had called her ‘Etta,’ and something within me grew. I hardly heard her words as I tried to stop the growing bubble by reminding myself that just weeks past she had been the wife of another man, but the feeling expanded still, and I had no power to suppress it.

“Since I will share your meal tonight, I’ll bring along my fire.” I stooped and gathered the fuel I had laid, more to hide my face than from her need for fuel, then I preceded her to her camp.

The next day, after I yoked her oxen, I put my foodstuffs into her wagon, and redistributed the load of my belongings on the two mules. On the way back to where I’d left my horse, I saw one woman whispering behind her hand to another, and I sidestepped out of their sight. Let them talk, I thought. I’m only keeping to my duty.

The river swung into the path of our westward progress later that week, and I stopped on a rise to gaze at the watery obstacle. Brush and a few trees grew on the banks of the river, but there was clear evidence of a ford that had been used the past season.

Remembering the fear Etta had expressed to me, I hurried toward her wagon. She had halted on the top of the bank, waiting her turn to enter the water while the first company of ten crossed over.

I pulled up my animals alongside her, and looked down into her frightened eyes.

“Oh Lije, I can’t drive them over. My hands are shaking just to think about that current.” She clasped her hands over the ox goad.

“I’m here,” I answered, and took my leg from the stirrup. I swung down, then led my horse and mules to the rear of the wagon, where I tied them to the tailgate. At her side again, I took the shaking goad from Etta’s hands, and boosted her to the wagon seat. She loosed a small sigh, and I glanced up to her tight face, grinning to lighten her mood, and saw that some of the pallor was fleeing as she regained color. The corners of her mouth tried to respond to my grin, but her effort was what some folks might call wan.

“You set easy now. I’ll get us safely across.” I started to go forward to the lead team, then returned and looked around for her son. “Where’s Joseph?”

She gestured behind the seat. “He’s asleep. I hope he’ll nap through the crossing.”

When our turn finally came, I urged the oxen into the water. Although they didn’t favor getting wet, they had nothing against slaking their thirst, and part of the way across, one of the lead animals quit pulling and dipped his head into the stream.

This action surprised the other beasts, and their agitation at the unexpected stop caused the front of the wagon to tip forward a bit. It wasn’t much, but Etta lost her hold on the seat, and fell in the river. She landed flat on her front, then rolled as the current caught her. I dropped my ox goad and plunged after her.

I’d swum some in our pond back home, but that water didn’t grab at your arms like this did. I concentrated on reaching Etta, who was about ten yards out of my grasp. I heard her splashes as she struggled against the swift current, trying even in her terror to keep her head in the air as the water tumbled her around. From time to time I heard a sound from her, a strangling gurgle as she surfaced.

I made a great effort to swim with long strokes, keeping in the middle of the current so that it would carry me toward Etta. Then the muddy water swirled as it tugged me down, but I fought to keep my own head up, conscious that my sodden clothes and heavy boots were a danger to me. I was tiring, and gasping to get breath, but I labored on and pulled closer to her.

Then I was alongside her, she grabbed me around the neck, and I thought we were doomed to drown. I cried out, “Etta, please!” and she ceased to struggle and allowed me to grasp her about the waist.

I swam to the riverbank, dragged her up to the top of the rise, then held her while she coughed and gagged up the water she had swallowed.

My muscles shook as I held her, retching and choking, but I thought I’d never seen a more lovely sight than the bedraggled, soaked, but live woman in my arms. We both sank to the grass and lay in an exhausted heap until one of the brothers brought up my horse and another. The man was followed by men running along the bank to see if all was well with us.

I got slowly to my feet, aided by the first man to reach us. Then I pulled Etta to her feet amid cheers from up and down the river.

Seeing that we were alive, all but the man holding our horses drifted back to the ford and their work. Etta raised her head, and her first weak words were to thank me.

I stood quivering to hear her praise, wondering where I’d gotten the strength to fight the river, remembering what a poor swimmer I’d always been. Then I knew some power not my own had aided my rescue.

Etta turned to the brother with the horses. “My baby. Is he safe?”

“Quite safe, Sister. The captain rescued your wagon, and the boy slept all the way across. He’s fussing a bit now, though. He was looking around for you.”

“Thank the Lord!”

Thank the Lord, echoed in my soul.

Etta turned to me. “I could not have wished for such a crossing, but you kept your word to get us safely to the other side.”

I helped her mount the spare horse as the other man rode off to continue his work. I took a deep breath.

“If I had my wish, I would ask that you never leave my side.” I stammered a little as I realized the enormity of my statement, but I went on, compelled to share my feelings. “When you were out of my reach in the water, I knew that if you were to die, my life would be empty.” I paused for another breath. “Etta, once you said you were fit only to be a farmer’s wife. I’m a farmer, though I’ve no land yet. When your sorrow has eased, will you be my wife?”

I looked up at her, holding fear in my hands along with my reins, knowing that her answer was the key to my future. Somewhere deep in my belly a feeling stood poised on the edge of a pinnacle, waiting for her reply. Her blue eyes gazed into my dark ones as she kept silence for a time. Then she spoke.

“You, of all the members of the company, have eased my grief. Now you have saved my life. You, who were a stranger to me, I now count my dearest friend.” She stopped, suddenly self-conscious, and fussed the hair away from her face. Then she smoothed the sodden dress across the horse’s back. Last, she looked again at me, and I held my breath.

“I will wed you whenever you say, my Lije.” She smiled, and the mud on her face only made her seem a rare flower of great beauty.

I stepped into my saddle, heart pulsing hard in my throat, feeling the spread of joy I knew as belonging. We are no more strangers, I thought. I turned my horse and grinned at Etta.

“Let’s go see Joseph. Tell him he can soon call me ‘papa’.”

New Scene

2009-10-17T18:18:00.002-07:00

Here's part of a scene from Chapter 2. I'd appreciate your feedback, suggestions, etc.

He's gone and done it, Bill Henry thought as he saddled his horse the next morning. Defied his pa and gone off. He's got more gumption than I thought he did.

Bill swung into the saddle, gathered the reins, and clucked to his mount, a frisky dun mustang Rod Owen had bought in Texas. The animal frog-jumped and bucked for a few minutes, but Bill stuck tight and waited out the horse's temper tantrum. The dun would settle down soon and carry him through the morning without further complaint.

Yes, James Owen had sand, he had to give him that. Who else around here was willing to go toe-to-toe and have it out with Rod Owen? Nobody he knew, including himself right now. Not that Bill thought himself a coward. No, he didn't want to leave Colorado Territory and return to Texas just yet. It suited him fine to be in the employ of the older man.

If I head home now, I'll never see Miss Marie again.

There it was, finally, the hitherto unspoken reason for staying, even though the Owen boys were catching on to every cattle-handling trick he'd taught them faster than he'd supposed it would happen. I don't want to leave here without her.

Now the truth was in the open, so to speak. He'd never yet--until now--admitted to himself the fact that he'd grown very fond of the dark-tressed daughter of his boss--the sprightly miss who rode out each morning to exercise her horse, even earlier than he got out and about.

Yes, Marie was the major reason he'd stayed here in this green land beneath the mountain. Marie.

Bill smiled at the thought of the music in her name. He tugged on the handkerchief he'd knotted around his neck this morning. It was a bright red bandana, and he hoped she would see it--and him--when she returned from her ride. He imagined her picking him out of the other cowhands who would be riding up the mountain with him, off to tend the cattle in the pasture on the slope of the mountain. The kerchief would set him apart, catch her eye, draw it to him. After his encounter with her at the wedding meal, she would surely be thinking of him, kindly, he hoped.

He wondered if the girl had a middle name. Not that it mattered. Marrying him would add another name to her own, anyway. She'd be Marie Owen Henry. Ah, didn't that sound fine? Marie Henry. Wouldn't the boys back home be jealous at his luck, bringing back a wife who was as pretty as any girl he'd even seen. No. Prettier.

Her dark eyes reminded him of the deep black pool of water that he'd found on the mountain, shaded by trees and surrounded by protective boulders. He, the cowhands, and the Owen men had stopped there briefly on the way back from rescuing Marie and the Bates girl--Carl Owen's new bride. Marie had rested beside the pool, anxious to be home, but enjoying the beauty of the spot. He'd brought her a tin cup to dip into the water, and she'd looked up with such a depth of gratitude in her eyes as she thanked him for being one of her rescuers. He knew that was when she had captured his interest. Even bedraggled as she was, with her shoulders and sleeves covered with dirt and her hair tangled and bedecked with twigs and leaves, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

Rapid hoof beats brought him out of his reverie. Who was riding a horse hard this early in the morning? Was James Owen coming back?

As his eyes sorted out the approaching shape, he saw a skirt billowing behind the horse and knew it was Marie. Irritation washed over him. She knew better than to treat horseflesh so harshly. Then anxiety for her welfare crowded out the negative feelings. Had the horse run away with her? Was someone chasing her? He didn't know the state of affairs with the Indian tribes in the area. Maybe she'd had a run in with a party of hostiles.

Bill rode toward the girl, gigging the dun into a gallop, his heart beating as fast as the hooves on the earth. Then he was choking, trying to swallow his fear as he saw her terrified face. Something was horribly wrong.

The usual disclaimers apply: first draft work subject to change, my copyright, comments very welcome.

Some More Stuff

2009-09-15T19:50:00.004-07:00

I've finished Chapter 1 of the fourth Owen Family novel, and here's a bit of the last scene:

Marie shooed Julianna into the cabin, and saw that someone had informed Rulon and Mary of the family meeting. The couple huddled together on the periphery of the family circle at the table, Rulon's arm around Mary's shoulders. She bounced their infant daughter in her arms as Roddy circled the occupants of the room, still riding his stick horse.

Ma sat in her chair, her face pinched and white as though she knew something horrible was in the air.

Pa stood at the head of the table, his forehead drawn into severe lines above his grey eyes. He waved Marie and Julianna into the room, then waited silently while they approached and sat down. He took one deep breath, then another, and began.

"I have hard news. Your brother has taken it into his head that he's not welcome here, and rode out a few minutes ago. He said he'd try his hand at mining. Mining! He's not cut out for going into a hole in the ground." He accented his words by bringing his fist down on the table with a startling thud.

Rod's words caused no little stir among the family members. Marie listened to the hubbub without adding to it, clenching her hands into balls in her lap.

Rulon leaned forward. "You can't be serious, Pa. He'll ride around a while and come back, leaving his troubles in the wind."

At the same time, Albert asked, "Can I have his cabin?" at which Clay cuffed him on the side of the head, yelling, "You ornery son of a--" then bit his lip before he got his own cuffing from Rod.

Julianna had burst into tears, crying out, "That's not fair! James said he'd take me rabbit hunting."

"Hush, Jule!" Ma said sharply, then dissolved into tears herself, throwing her apron over her head, which served to muffle her sobs somewhat.

Pa bent over Ma, awkwardly patting her shoulder and making shushing sounds. He looked up and glared at Albert and Clay, who were rolling on the floor, punching each other.

Marie hid her face in her hands, overcome with the selfishness of her younger siblings . . . and herself. Oh James, she thought, will I ever see you again? It was wrong of me to think only of Ellen's happiness and not see your side of the hill.

The usual disclaimers apply: fresh first draft work subject to change, my copyright, comments very welcome.

A Couple of Snippets

2009-09-05T22:01:00.004-07:00

As you know, I'm working on the fourth Owen Family novel, starring the elder daughter, Marie. Here are a couple of passages I thought you might find intriguing:

1.
Young Roddy, Rulon's boy, came galloping under the oaks astride a stick Pa had fitted with a stuffed horsehead made of burlap. "The horsie bucked," he announced in a high, shrill voice. "Unca James fell off." He pranced around his mother. "Mama, he said bad words."

Marie didn't fight the chortle the boy's comment brought out. I reckon he did, she thought. James don't like blemishes on his reputation as a horseman. She watched Mary bend over and exhort her son about sticking close to her. That baby's growin' up. Good thing Mary's got a new wee one to hold.

2.
She paused a moment, trying to think where Julianna could have taken herself. Then she remembered the girl's preoccupation with marriage, and ran towards Carl's cabin tucked into the woods. As she rounded the bend in the path, she was horrified to see Julianna, back against the log wall of the cabin, listening at the window. She darted forward, grabbed her sister's wrist, and hauled her backward away from the wall.

"Marie! Leave me be!" Julianna shrieked. Ellen put her head out of the window, a startled look on her face, and pulled the shutters closed. "See there, now I can't hear anything," the girl continued. "You're so mean." She struggled against Marie's restraining hand.

"That's a despicable thing to do, spying on the newlyweds like that. You should be ashamed," Marie said, tightening her hold and wrapping her other arm around her sister in a further effort to get her away from the scene. "Whatever possessed you?"

"I need to know about things," Julianna shouted, wriggling in Marie's embrace. "Ma won't tell me what folks do when they're married."

"It's none of your business. You're not married, and won't be for a long spell." Marie stopped dragging Julianna away since they were a suitable distance from the cabin, and stood in the path so she couldn't return.

The girl shrugged off Marie's arms and spat out, "I'll be married before you. Parley Morgan's sweet on me, and I wager we'll be getting married soon. Next spring, perhaps."

"That's preposterous! Parley? He's ages older'n you! Get to the house."

Julianna stood upright, arms akimbo, spewing out venomous words. "You're jealous. You don't have a beau. You won't ever have a beau, because you're too old!"

Marie felt her cheeks burn, and her hand swung in a short arc and caught Julianna on her cheek. "You little vixen," she yelled. "You mind your tongue. Ma's going to hear of this, but not today. She's got enough grief. Get home! Pa wants you."

Julianna turned and stormed off down the path toward the main cabin, muttering imprecations beneath her breath. Marie followed, breathing heavily, trying to calm down. It bothered her that Julianna had such power over her. In a few words, she'd managed to throw Marie's world into a blazing, furious uproar, and she didn't like the feeling. There was trouble ahead, and she needed a clear brain and all her strength to help Ma overcome it.

"Ma will be beside herself," she mumbled out loud, but more to herself than to Julianna's retreating back. "Pa won't be any use. He's madder'n a cat caught in a rain barrel."

The usual disclaimers apply: fresh first draft work subject to change, my copyright, comments very welcome.

A New Novel

2009-09-02T14:13:00.003-07:00

I've been working on the next Owen family novel, and here's just a taste of the beginning.

Marie Owen pressed forward through the crowd surrounding her brother Carl and his new bride, her friend Ellen Bates. Ma was hugging on Ellen, then it was Albert, kissing Ellen's cheek, then Marie reached her, and threw her arms around Ellen.

"Lawsy, I thought this day would never come for you, and suddenly you're Mrs. Carl Owen. My sister!"

Ellen pushed back from the embrace slightly, her green eyes shining like dewdrops. "Yes. I didn't figure Pa would bring the priest with him," she whispered. "Who would have thought..." She looked around the meadow. "Where is James?"

"Now don't you fret about him on your weddin' day. He'll get over his disappointment."

"I wanted to tell him how sorry I am."

"Don't bother. He's acted like such a ninny, not letting go of his claim on you when it was clear as the nose on your face you were in love with Carl."

Ellen ducked her head and turned to look at her new husband, who was sitting himself down on a chair. "I can't believe it's happened so fast." She turned back to Marie as people shoved against them. "Carl's bleedin'. I have to get him home." She gripped Marie's hand. "You're next. I see the way Bill Henry looks at you."

* "What?" Marie protested, but Ellen had slipped away, motioning to Rulon and Clay to pick up the chair to bear Carl away. A crimson stain spread across the hip of Carl's trousers, and a shiver of fear coursed down Marie's spine. Carl hadn't yet recovered from the wounds he'd suffered in the shootout with kidnappers at a cave on the mountainside. Was he going to bleed to death because he got out of bed to marry Ellen?

Remember, this is pure off-the-top-of-my-head organic writing, and it's very much first draft stuff.

Comments? Critiques? Ideas?

* New paragraph added to clarify some stuff. I stopped too soon.

New Character Note: Bill Henry

2009-08-26T18:22:00.003-07:00

Since Bill Henry is going to play a part in the next Owen Family novel, I've come up with some character notes about him that I put into the new novel-writing/project management software I'm going to use for this book. Bill had a card with a picture in the old file, but no notes. I have no idea who the person in the photo is, but I suspect it's from an advertisement. I mostly used bits and pieces of description of Bill from The Man from Shenandoah, in which he was a minor character, to create this character profile.

Hard-working cowman from West Texas, has light brown hair that curls over his shirt collar, and blue eyes. His face is tanned brown, but it's still unseamed. Powerfully built, wears a moustache that droops over the sides of his mouth.

About two years older than Carl, so he was born in 1843. Although he's young, he was the trail boss that trained the Owen men in cattle handling and successfully brought the herd to C.T.

His cousin, Bob Henry, was killed by Frank Tilden when the hands were going after the kidnapped girls in The Man from Shenandoah.

A visit with Marie Owen

2009-08-23T21:27:00.016-07:00

* It wasn't raining today, but after Church, I got a knock on my door. I get up from my nap to go answer it. I open the door. A young woman in dusty 19th Century frontier-style dress stands on my doorstep.

ME: Hello. What can I do for you? (I do a double take.) Oh my gosh! You're Marie, aren't you?

MARIE: Hello, Mom. May I call you that? Rulon told me that's what he called you.

ME: Rulon? He and the boys got back okay?

MARIE: Yes. They...

ME (cutting in): Come in, come in. Can I get you something to drink? Are you hungry?

MARIE (shakes her skirts and brushes off her bodice before she enters the house): Thank you. I reckon I could stand a drink of water.

ME: Sit down. Make yourself at home. (I go get a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator and give it to Marie.)

(MARIE looks at the bottle, turning it over in her hands.)

ME: Give a twist, and the top comes off.

(MARIE turns the bottle on it's side and twists it.)

ME (stifling laughter): I'm sorry, I mean twist that blue thing on the top. It's a lid that twists off and on again.

MARIE (mastering the task): There it goes. (Takes a drink.) That tastes grand. How did you keep it cold in that white box?

ME: That's called a refrigerator. It's kind of a machine that works like a spring house. (I sit down.) Tell me about the boys. How much did they say about our visit? It sounds like they remembered that they came.

MARIE: Rulon remembered the most. He recounted how they rode under the rainbow and ended up in your time. Carl and Clay were a bit hazy on details, but their tales were fantastical and I wasn't sure if they were telling the truth or making fun of me. When I saw a rainbow today, I decided to see if I could come visit. It took a bit of doing, but I finally figured out how to walk under the bow.

ME: And here you are!

MARIE: Yes, here I am. (Her voice is shaking a bit.)

ME: Was it unpleasant?

MARIE: No, not particularly so. Everything just happened so fast, I feel a bit weak. I've been walking for at least an hour to get here.

ME: Well, you just take your rest. I'll get you a bite to eat. (I decide cereal is the fastest thing, and prepare a bowl of Special-K and milk, which I give her, along with a spoon. Wastrel that I am, I give her a paper bowl and plastic spoon.)

MARIE: Thank you, Mom. It is all right to call you that?

ME: Certainly!

MARIE (dipping her spoon tentatively into the cold cereal): I've never seen the like of this food, Mom.

ME: It's the modern version of cooked mush. Somebody learned to roll wheat and oats flat and crisp them up. (I shrug my shoulders.) I think this cereal is mostly rice, but I'm not sure.

(MARIE takes a bite, investigating the cereal. She crunches up the food.) It's strange, but nice. (She holds up her spoon.) There's no weight at all to this white spoon. What's it made of?

ME: Plastic. It's a new material, something like the celluloid that's made into collars in your time, but plastic is different. Many things in our time are made with plastic of one kind or another.

(MARIE finished her bowl of cereal and hands it back to me. She watches in wonder as I throw it away. Then she fixes her gaze on me.) I understand you're thinking about writing my story into a book.

ME (taken aback): Um, I discussed it a bit with a friend of mine. I haven't entirely decided yet.

MARIE: I hope you will. I'm ready to get on with my life.

ME: You are?

MARIE: Yes. I'm in danger of becoming a spinster. Please help me.

ME: Well, sure. I guess I can do that. If I decide to write your story, will you help me with the details?

MARIE: The details?

ME: Yes. Jessie Bingham helped me out on my last book.

MARIE: Jessie? You know Jessie? Of course you know Jessie. You made her up, too. Is she still back in Shenandoah County?

ME: I believe she's on her way to Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory.

MARIE: Where's that?

ME: South of here, I mean south of where you live. It's northeast of here.

MARIE: Just exactly where is "here?"

ME: The State of Arizona. It was created from the western half of New Mexico Territory, in case you don't know.

MARIE: I didn't know that. What's Jessie up to?

ME: She and her family had to leave the Valley. Things got pretty messy after the Unpleasantness ended.

MARIE: But she's all right?

ME (smiling): Yes, I would say so. She's going to marry. . . . Oh! Maybe I shouldn't tell you. I should let that news come from the parties involved.

MARIE (making a pouty face): Don't be mean, Mom. Tell me?

ME: I'm afraid I can't. I'll try to work it into your book.

MARIE (sighs): You're not teasing, are you?

ME: No. I think I owe your ma some comfort.

MARIE: That's a strange thing to say. What comfort will Jessie's news bring Ma? (Her face changes as an idea comes upon her.) Ma carries a burden of grief from losing so many of her sons. Is James yet alive? Is he fixin' to marry Jessie? (She jumps up and pulls me to my feet, then grasps my forearms and bounces up and down.) Oh! That must be the thing! They were sweethearts before we left. It pained him to leave her behind. Tell me it's so!

ME (weakly trying to resist her pressure): I shouldn't say.

MARIE: Oh, please! Is James happy at last? Is he marryin' Jessie?

ME: He's happy. It's a hard-won happiness, but he's happy.

MARIE: But is he marryin' Jessie? Will she be my sister?

ME: You're hard to resist, my dear. She will be your sister.

MARIE: I knew it! I just knew James would find her again. Tell me all about it!

ME (shaking my head): I can't say more. All will be revealed in time. (I look out the window.) It's getting late. Do you intend to go back home now?

MARIE (sighs): I reckon I'd better do that, or Ma will worry. You will write my story, won't you? I promise not to tell Ma about James and Jessie if you do.

ME: I think I can't pass up that promise. I'll start on it tomorrow.

MARIE (kissing me on the cheek): Thank you. Thank you Mom. I hope to see you again.

ME (with a lump in my throat): Yes, I hope you will do that. (I watch as she goes through my open door, down the steps, and into a mist that envelopes her. When the breeze clears it away, she has vanished.)

*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they pass under the rainbow from time to time to visit me in my own place and era. To order my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, and Trail of Storms, visit my website at marshaward.com.

Character Notes: Clayton Owen

2009-08-19T16:23:00.005-07:00

Clay Owen is next younger than Marie. On his character card, I used a photo of actor Bruce Penhall of televisions's "CHiPs" (1977-1983) . I don't see him around much anymore. He was the World Motorcycle Speedway champion of 1981-82, which predated his '82-'83 role as Officer Bruce Nelson, a cadet in the California Highway Patrol, playing in the lineup topped by Erik Estrada, Robert Pine, and Larry Wilcox. Since CHiPs featured motorcycle officers, I'm sure his motorcycling skill stood him in good stead.

Now you know how long ago I clipped this photo from TV Guide(R).

Anyway, getting back to Clayton Owen, here's when I typed on his character card:

CLAY OWEN
At fifteen, Clay is still too gangly to be handsome, but he has promising features and a mop of crisp blond hair. His eyes are grey. Clay kept the family in meat for a year after James was drafted, is responsible, but when he pops his cork, look out, he is apt to do something rash and unthinking. He plays as hard as he works. In a few years, he will be a major character in the continuing saga of the Owen family.

Well, we'll have to see what surprises Clay will bring to the family's adventures. What do YOU think he's going to do?

Character Notes: Marie Owen

2009-08-04T10:25:00.005-07:00

Of the Owen family's two daughters, Marie is the older. She was born between James and Clayton, and is five years older than her sister, Julianna. She was first seen in The Man from Shenandoah, and appears in Jessie Bingham's memories in Trail of Storms.

I have two photos on Marie's card. They are both far too old for the real Marie. One is of a female newscaster whose name escapes me, and the other is of an actress whose name I never knew. Ha! I didn't need names for the photos. Their purpose was to provide a general physical description I could visualize and describe as needed.

Here is what I wrote on Marie's character card:

MARIE OWEN
Marie has thick dark hair and a beautiful smile. She loves a good mystery, and is good at ferreting out people's secrets. Her eyes range from hazel to dark brown, according to her temperament. She enjoys teasing her brothers. Marie is aware of becoming a woman, but has no anxiety to wed. She would love to have several beaus to play off against each other, but will take what comes with a good will. She loves adventure, and looks forward to the trip west with high excitement.

I'm looking forward to getting to know Marie better. Are you?

Character Notes: Amparo Garcés de Owen

2009-07-31T15:05:00.005-07:00

Here are the original character notes I wrote up for Amparo, James Owen's unintended bride in Ride to Raton. Some of the names and facts evolved into others as the writing of the novel progressed. Remember, I am typing exactly what I originally wrote. I've learned a lot about many things since I started this writing journey, including punctuation.

I don't have a picture on Amparo's card. On StoryCasting.com, I put Maya Zapata in the role. I don't have accents, either, so maybe I should leave them out, although it irks me to do so.

AMPARO GARCES MARTINEZ (de OWEN)
Amparo, a girl from Santa Fe, is about 17 years old. Her step-mother, Ana Maria viuda de Garces, recently lost her husband, Amparo's father, to death. In her impoverished and hopeless situation, she has arranged a marriage for Amparo with a wealthy young Mexican rancher in the Huerfano River region of Colorado Territory. Then she shipped the girl off with a family moving north and left town with a man who wanted a companion to go with him to San Francisco. Amparo is up a creek when her intended is thrown from his horse and lights on his head upon a rock in the trail to La Plaza de los Leones, where they were scheduled to meet and marry. She arives, is left off by the family that brought her, and she sits in the church, waiting for the man to show up. Then a handsome young gringo shows up instead, with a grim tale of woe: He buried the days-old body of her bridegroom and set out to find someone to tell and to give his effect to. Amparo, in a strange town without friends, and no future husband, uses her wits to find a substitute spouse. Then she binds him to her in the oldest way; with the only thing left to her: herself.

Okay, if you have questions or comments about Amparo, hit me.

Character Notes: James Owen

2009-07-29T13:40:00.004-07:00

Back to Character Notes. Since I've devoted two novels to telling his story and getting him to a happy place, you might surmise that one of my favorite characters is James Owen. You would be right. There is just something about James that stirs my soul.

The photos I have on James's two, yes, two character cards, are of some unknown advertising actor from an Adidas layout in a magazine. Over on Storycasting.com, I've chosen Lucas Black to play James's role, although I don't know if his hair curls or not, since I've only seen it short.

Several years ago, I acquired a photo in a heavy frame that was on the wall of a restaurant. When I first saw it, I gasped, because it was James! Serendipitously, when the restaurant changed decor, I was able to buy the portrait. (If he really is some outlaw, or somebody's grandpa, please let me know!)

JAMES OWEN
James was a twin, the one who survived babyhood. He has curly black hair and beard (temporary), and dark brn eyes. James is tall and lanky. He was drafted in 1864 when the age dropped to 17 years, and he got a flesh wound at the battle of Five Forks, Apr 2, 1865, in the unsuccessful defense of Richmond. James sees no marriage in his future, as revealed in the story.* He picked up a habit of creative cussing during his war service. His brother, JOHN OWEN, only lived two days after birth.

*This was the original plan, but it got changed over the course of re-writing, revising, and editing The Man from Shenandoah for publication. Readers know this wasn't the case in the published version of James's life.

A Glimpse at Elijah Marshall

2009-07-25T12:07:00.007-07:00

Oops! I never should have brought up the subject of my character Elijah Marshall. He's demanding that I introduce him to you. Since I don't think any of The Zion Trail is on disk anywhere, I'll have to wing it from a typescript. Problem is, I have a couple of differing copies. I guess I'll try the one on top. It's probably the latest revision. Ha! From back in the late 80s! With two spaces after a period! I'll try to restrain my Inner Editor as I type. Here goes: Elijah Marshall in all his imperfect First Person glory.

THE ZION TRAIL
by Marsha Ward
Excerpt from Chapter One

As I made a half-circle at the end of the row, I pulled the horse to a halt, swept off my old hat, and wiped the trickles of sweat from my eyes with the back of my wrist. I ran my fingers through my dripping black hair to train it back from my eyes before I replaced my hat. Settling the shade once again on my head, my eyes caught a movement far up the road to my right. (Yikes! A big woopsie!)

Across the rows of fresh young corn stalks I saw the dust rising slowly into the air as two figures walked along the dry surface of the lane. I knew them for strangers by their dress, for no one in our area wore a black suit except on Sunday, and this was Tuesday.

Curiosity was part of my makeup, so I leaned on the plow a while, watching their progress and wondering about their errand. They saw me, and hopped the ditch to approach the fence as they came alongside my position.

At fifteen, I had reached nearly my full growth, and I wasn't beyond considering myself a man. I did as much as my father on the farm, except for the planning and the worrying, so I wasn't surprised when they hailed me as a man.

"Hello, Brother. Can you give us a drink?" the taller man called, indicating my water bucket under a nearby tree.

I wrapped the lines around the plow handles and strode to the fence. "Plenty, and welcome." I bent to shoo away a drinking yellowjacket, and lifted the pail to the top of the fence.

The taller man drank first, and I saw that he was older by three or four years than the shorter man. As they slaked their thirst, I wondered how long since they had tasted water, for they drank with great gusto, and an air of thankfulness.

Their suits were covered with the fine dust that abounded on our roads, but they seemed not to mind, giving all their thoughts to dipping water down their dusty throats.

While the shorter man drank, the taller one looked at me and smiled. "It's been a long, dusty walk. We're thankful for the water. I am Nathan Caldwell, and my companion is Matthew Long. We are ministers of the gospel, and would welcome the opportunity to preach in your neighborhood."

I stuck out my hand and pumped his. "My name is Elijah Marshall, and my pa will be glad to see you. He's a God-fearing man, and every man of the Lord is welcome in his house." I squinted up at the sun. "It's nearly dinner time. Come and eat with us."

Mr. Long grinned his acceptance as Mr. Caldwell nodded.

"Just follow the road to the first lane on the right," I directed them. "Tell my ma I sent you. I'll be along with the horse by and by."

They waved their thanks as I hauled the bucket off the fence and turned back to the plow. Old Tom still stood where I'd reined him in, flicking flies away with his tail and standing three-legged in the sun. His ears twitched at my approach, and I patted his flank before I unhitched him from the plow.

"Tom, boy, we've got company. Won't that make Ma's eyes dance!"

Character Notes: Julia Helm Owen

2009-07-25T02:10:00.007-07:00

What am I doing up so early? The characters in my head wouldn't let me sleep. Since yesterday was Pioneer Day for LDS Church members in the Western United States (July 24th being the day the Latter-day Saints headed by Brigham Young entered the Great Salt Lake Valley for the first time), I figured I would feature Julia Helm Owen, because she has a cousin who joined the faith. Her son, James, has also done so, but she doesn't know that yet.

Julia's grandfather and grandmother were Elijah Scow and Louisa Phipps. They had two daughters, Phoebe and Emily Scow. Phoebe married Joseph Helm, and their children were Jonathan and Julia. Julia married Roderick Owen, and the rest is "history." Emily Scow married James Marshall. This family joined the LDS Church. Their son, Elijah, chronicles his adventures in an unpublished novel I started several years ago, The Zion Trail.

On the back of the character card, I have two photos of Elinor Donahue, whose early work included 68 episodes of "Father Knows Best" as Betty Anderson, and 12 episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" as Ellie Walker. I think Melissa Gilbert is about old enough to play Julia now. Since Bruce Boxleitner would make a great Rod Owen, the couple is high on my wish list for the roles of the parents in a movie version of The Man from Shenandoah. Of course, there is no movie version in the works at this time. One can hope, right?

Here is the content of Julia's character card notes:

JULIA HELM OWEN
Julia is about 5' 2" tall, dark brown hair and brown eyes, she loves her husband and family, she's not an aristocrat, but a farm woman, but she is very attractive. Her hair is beginning to have a few wisps of grey, she has become quite independent because of keeping things going during the war with her man gone. Levelheaded and quick thinking, Julia taught her children to work and to amount to something thereby. She is called Ma, except by Julianna, her youngest, who calls her Mama. She is a passionate woman, who enjoys her marital relationship, and understands her husband. They usually can say a lot between them with a glance, catching the other's meaning easily. Julia is very religious, has a strict code of gallantry which she has passed to her children.

Character Notes: Rulon Owen

2009-07-01T15:18:00.004-07:00

Since Rulon is the subject of my question on the just-concluded 30-day-long Summer Treasure Hunt, I thought it would be appropriate to post my character card notes on him next. BTW, congratulations to Rachel Hanchett of Arizona, who won my prize for the correct answer.

The photos I have for Rulon are actors Geoffrey Scott, who started out his career on Dark Shadows and continued with a role in Dynasty and guest shots all over the tube in the 80s; and Nicolas Surovy, who started out in The Big Valley, and played roles on soaps and Westerns, and even Star Trek: Voyager. IMDb last shows him in Deadwood.

RULON OWEN
Rulon has dark brown hair and grey eyes. He is not tall, but he is solidly built--might have trouble keeping weight down later. Rulon had been casually courting Mary Hilbrands, but as the war broke out and he joined up, he married her. 9 months later they had a son. Mary lived with her parents until Rulon came home wounded in Oct, 1864. Fulltime wife and motherhood was a shock to her.

Rulon welcomes the change to go to the west. He has nothing to show for 4 years of marriage, and wants to start on building his life.

Character Notes: Carl Owen

2009-06-26T15:58:00.002-07:00

Carl is the main protagonist of my novel, The Man from Shenandoah, so I'll continue this series with him. The photos I put on his note card are of Bruce Boxleitner. He was probably too old to play Carl in a movie at that time, but now I could see him playing Rod.

Carl Owen
Carl is tall, 5-11 or 6 feet, with blond hair, blue eyes, and when he doesn't shave, grows a red beard. He is nice-looking, with a strong, rangy build that has been thinned down by hard riding and short rations while in John Mosby's Rangers. He has matured through his war experiences & thinks he takes responsibility well. Has no vanity, returns from war hardened and much quieter than the pre-war Carl. Still has a sense of humor, but it is hidden, repressed by his initial anger against Phil Sheridan & his burning tactics, then his subsequent anger at his father for treating him like a 16 year old while at the same time arranging his betrothal to a girl he does not care much for.

How do you envision Carl Owen?

Character Notes: Roderick Owen

2009-06-24T12:24:00.007-07:00

For years, I kept the original note cards I made for my first novel's characters. Although the major characters rated 4- x 6-inch cards, some of the minor characters only got 3- x 5-inch cards. I'm thinking I ran out of the larger ones, which were the first ones made. The lesser characters' notes were typed up as they were created in the writing of the novel. All the cards are typed with a typewriter I haven't owned for probably more than twenty years. I came across the cards about three years ago, to my vast delight. I thought they'd been tossed out when I moved.

Here's the note card I wrote about Roderick Owen. I'm going to write it out just as I originally typed it, run-on sentences and all. It's sort of a stream-of-consciousness, creating-on-the-spot note. Interesting to see some old conventions, like the apostrophe after the contraction of "though".

Roderick Owen
is a tall man, with med bl graying hair + full beard throughout story, craggy face, a strong man, he's a stockman, he's worked with dairy cattle in the east, he has blue eyes, and he is tough, he's used to command, he's the head of his household, what he says goes, even with his adult sons. The years have filled out his once slender build with muscle, but he is not fat. He served with Ashby, then with Rosser in the regular Cavalry. He also grew wheat and corn on his farm outside Mount Jackson, Shenandoah Cty, VA. He supported states rights, and thus, the South, tho' he was not a slave-holder. Loves Virginia, but sees hard times ahead. Not a coward, he has gained a sense of adventure from his wartime experiences, and hopes to make a better life in the west.

On the other side of the card I have a photo of actor Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., with an overlay I made of a clear film, upon which I penciled a full beard. A second photo is of Charlton Heston. Below the photos I wrote by hand:

Domineering
2 items in code: Build an empire, and maintain family solidarity (supports the empire)

In your opinion, did Rod Owen come across in The Man from Shenandoah and Ride to Raton according to my original vision, or somehow else? How did you envision him?

An Evening With My Characters, Part II

2009-06-20T18:02:00.003-07:00

(Originally posted at Writer in the Pines on July 30, 2008)

* I run back to my own trailer for a couple of family-size microwave entrees and a bag of frozen vegetables as I wait for the men to clean up, musing on their appearance in my time. Rulon seems to have recovered all the strength he lost from the effects of his grievous war wounds. He's filled out, his chest regaining its former bulk. Carl still limps. I wonder if that will be permanent, given the awful damage to his left leg from the fight with the Acosta gang. Clay is taller than I remember. Ranch work evidently agrees with him.

Arriving back at the spare trailer, I set the microwave to nuke the meals, and bring out a pot for the Italian-style veggies. These guys have probably never seen zucchini, I remind myself as I fill the pot and set it on the stove. The shower runs in the background. I guess the novelty of an indoor waterfall won out over a sit-down bath.

I stare out into the night through the kitchen window, wondering about the men's brother, James. When I last left him--in published form, that is--he was in a world of hurt, estranged and away from the family, grieving over the loss of someone he'd cared a great deal for. I've been there, and my heart breaks for him.

Rulon comes down the hall in stocking feet, his dark hair slicked back, still damp from his shower. I invite him to sit, and he does so, pulling on his boots. I lean back against the counter.

ME: Tell me how you came here. It's pretty amazing to see you all.

RULON (settling in his chair): It was mighty amazing, the three of us riding out to check on the cattle, and seeing a rainbow arched through the sky, just ahead of us. We didn't think nothing of it. Rainbows generally fade back as you approach them. This one, though, it just stood it's ground, and we passed right under. I knew right off something wondrous had occurred.

ME: Why?

RULON: Oh ma'am, uh, Mom, everything was different. We was in a piney forest, for one thing. I found a trail, and we followed it a ways.

ME (breaking in): You always were the best tracker out of your brothers.

RULON (smiles at the compliment): Thank you. I'm teaching 'em some of the tricks.

ME: Sorry I interrupted. Go on.

RULON: We came to a clearing, and the edge of a cliff. Mom, the view was outstanding. Outstanding.

ME: It is indeed. You were on the Mogollon Rim.

RULON: We knew we was out of our time when we saw some of those cars and trucks you explained about. It looked like folks were fixin' to camp out. (He furrows his brow in puzzlement)

ME: Folks do that for recreation nowadays.

RULON: Recreation?

ME (sweeping my hand around the kitchen): All these inventions have given us time beyond what we spend working for a living. Most people don't have animals to tend anymore, so they can get away from their homes and go have fun.

RULON: Can't they have fun at home?

ME (laughing): You'd think so, wouldn't you? The days of gathering around the piano in the parlor for fun are long gone.

RULON: We didn't have a piano, but growing up, we'd sing hymns and the old songs in the parlor, like you said. James had the sweetest voice of all. (Rulon passes his hand over his mouth, and I know he's thinking of his absent brother)

ME: You miss him?

RULON: Him bein' gone feels like a burning fire eating away in my chest. (He slumps forward, his hands tightly gripped between his knees. His voice is low and muffled.) Pa was wrong in the way he treated James. He knows it now. Ma grieves something fierce that her boy is gone.

ME (shaking my head): He's not dead. I wish I could tell you about him. I can't.

RULON (raising his head and sitting up straight again): I reckon you can't. It helps to know he ain't dead. Thanks for that much knowledge.

ME: I don't know if you'll remember talking to me once you go back home. I hope you'll hold on to some measure of comfort.

RULON: I dearly hope so.

ME (stirring the vegetables): Tell me more about your coming here.

RULON: Well, we decided to make camp, since the clouds and thunder come up and we reckoned it would rain soon. We was unpacking our gear when along came a little red car, or maybe it was a covered truck? It was going the other way from all the camping folks, so Carl hailed them and asked if perhaps they had an acquaintance with you. We was mighty pleased to learn Mr. McCabe and Mr. Rains are your neighbors. They said they'd caught themselves as many fish as the law allowed, and since it was fixin' to rain, they was headed home. They said they'd carry a message to you.

ME: I was pretty floored to get the news that you were here.

RULON: Floored?

ME: Amazed.

RULON: Oh. They gave us directions on how to get down the right trails and find you. When they left, the rain come on plenty strong. We packed up and took out after them. I tell you, it was an adventure dodging all the vehicles when we got down to the macadamized road.

ME (guffawing): I'll bet! We call that a highway. It's a turnpike for our motorized vehicles. I imagine it was slick with the rain. I would have liked to see the faces of some of those drivers.

RULON: No you wouldn't. They was plumb angry. Said some mighty foul things, too. Some I didn't even understand. And then they would do this--

ME: Don't show me! I can imagine. Some folks are just plain rude. In their defense, they don't see many horsemen coming down that steep grade. Some of the turns can make a strong man blanch, and coming upon a horse in the road during a cloudburst-- (I laugh again, shaking my head)

RULON (frowning): Once we saw the way of things, we tried to keep to the side and out of their way.

ME (recovering my voice): I'll bet!

Carl and Clay come into the kitchen. I dish up the food and they sit around the table, exclaiming over the zucchini and red peppers and how short a time it took for me to prepare their food. They wait for me to sit down, then Rulon says a short blessing, and the men get down to the business of eating.

*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they passed under the rainbow to visit me in my own place and time. To order my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, and Trail of Storms, visit my website at marshaward.com.

An Evening With My Characters

2009-06-20T17:46:00.003-07:00

(Originally posted at Writer in the Pines on July 28, 2008)

I found out that some of my characters were camping out on the Rim. Because it was so rainy, I invited them to ride down into the hamlet where I live and take advantage of the empty mobile home I own as a much drier sleeping arrangement. They agreed, and the first problem I had was finding a place to put up the horses for the night. After I made a few telephone calls, a neighbor let the men stake out their animals in her orchard. I ferried saddles and gear and men back to the trailer, and introduced them further into the 21st Century.

ME: Here we are. Let me unlock the door and show you around.

CLAY OWEN: The door's made of glass?

ME: It's called an Arcadia door, and it slides open.

(RULON OWEN affectionately ruffles his younger brother's hair): Keep your mouth shut, little brother, or you'll collect a heap of flies. I 'spect that won't be the only wonder you're gonna see.

ME: A lot of things will seem strange. You've leaped past quite a few years.

CARL OWEN: That's so, ma'am. After we passed under the rainbow, we noticed a passel of oddments, like that vehicle you use. We saw some like yours, and others with an open bed in the back.

ME: Mine is called an automobile. Or a car. It's for getting people around, like a buggy or a coach. Those others you saw are trucks. They're best for carrying gear or goods. (I pause and look at my characters standing around the living room, dripping on the rug.) It's odd to hear you call me "ma'am."

RULON: We took a vote, ma'am. We know you're by way of being our "mother," but it don't seem fittin' to call you "Ma." We have a fine ma already. Well, you know that. You made her up.

ME: Yes, years ago. (I gesture around.) This is called a living room. Sort of a parlor. That's the kitchen, but the stove is very different than any you've seen. I'll show you how to work it later. (I shepherd them through the house.) This is the bathroom. It's more than an indoor privy. It's also a washroom. (I turn the faucet on, then off.) You wash your hands here. This tap turns on the cold water, and this one is for hot.

CARL: Hot water?

ME: Yes, there are taps like these in the kitchen, too. I have sort of a boiler outside that heats up the water. Then it's piped in to the taps. (I turn around and indicate the bathtub.) No buckets here, folks. Hot water on tap for your baths.

(CARL bumps Clay's arm): You're overdue.

CLAY (bumping back): Rulon's the oldest. He always says he gets the tub first.

ME: Um, you don't all need to use the same water. See this little hole? And this lever? (I work the lever.) The water goes down into a big pipe that takes it away down yonder. When each of you is finished, you can drain your water and the next man can start fresh. Or you can bathe in the waterfall.

CARL: Out on the creek?

ME: It's an indoor waterfall. (I demonstrate the shower, and the men make appropriate sounds of disbelief.) We call it a shower.

RULON: All these things are miracles to us, ma'am. What's this white chair for?

ME: That's the privy part. (I lift the lid.) We call it a toilet. You answer Nature's call here, then flush it away with this lever. If you're not going to sit, lift the seat and (I feel my cheeks beginning to burn) aim low. Here's the toilet paper.

(CLAY stoops over to examine it): It's a whole roll of soft paper, Rule. (He tugs, and TP unrolls onto the floor.) Oh, sorry, ma'am!

ME (laughing): Just wind it back up, Clay. It comes apart when you need to use it for cleaning up after yourself.

CLAY: Comes apart?

ME: Look at it. It's perforated into squares. Perforated means not quite cut apart. You hold here and pull here, and there you have a square or two. (I hold up two sections of TP.)

(CLAY's face is still red as he winds the TP back on the holder): Thanks for the instruction, ma'am.

ME (looking after RULON and CARL, who have wandered on into the bedroom): It's small, but it's cozy.

RULON: Ma'am, I reckon we all can sleep in that there bed.

ME: I thought you could spread your bedrolls out in the Arizona room, but if you prefer . . .

CARL: We're used to the ground, ma'am, but a bed! We ain't seen such a nice puffy one before.

ME: The house is yours until you need to go back. Do what you want. Except, I really am uncomfortable being called "ma'am." I understand your feelings about not calling me "Ma." You can keep that for Julia. How about calling me "Mom"?

RULON (tries it out): Mom. Mom. What's it mean . . . Mom?

ME: It's short for Mommy! I guess that's not a Southern form of address.

CARL: We use Mama and Ma, or Meemah, ma'am--Mom.

CLAY: I like it.

ME: It's better than calling me "Marsha."

RULON (nods): Yes ma'am, that's not fittin', ma'am, I mean, Mom.

ME: Let's go see the Arizona Room.

CLAY: Why's it called that?

ME: I believe it's because of all the glass to let the sunshine in. Folks think Arizona is hot everywhere, but that's not true. Up here in the forest, the sunlight is welcome.

CARL (looking around): Where's the fireplace, Mom? We can't build a campfire on this purty rug.

ME: You won't need a fire. You'll be warm here.

CARL: We need to cook our supper.

ME: I'll show you how to operate the stove. (We go back into the kitchen and I turn a knob.) This fire comes from piped-in gas. You can make the fire hotter by turning the knob a bit more. Just make sure you turn it off when you've finished cooking!

RULON: Much obliged, ma--Mom. This is surely a wonder!

ME: It is. Modern conveniences have come a long way since your era. (I look around.) I think that's all you need to know for now. There are clean towels in the cupboard in the bathroom. Get cleaned up and I'll wait for you in the parlor.

TO BE CONTINUED

*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they passed under the rainbow to visit me in my own place and time. To order my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, and Trail of Storms, visit my website at marshaward.com.

Those Crazy Characters

2009-06-20T17:38:00.003-07:00

Welcome to the blog where I let the characters from my novels talk up a storm. I'm sure they will drop in from time to time to entertain you with tidbits about themselves and news of what's happening in their world.

Last year I had a chance to talk with some of those characters after they camped out on the Mogollon Rim, and I'll bring those posts over here from my "Writer in the Pines" blog. Then I'll add new posts as the voices in my head dictate.

Enjoy!