The day was rainy, and since I'd been up late the night/morning before, I decided to take a little nap and enjoy the natural cool while the rain saturated the air and fell on the thirsty earth.
I awoke to a steady banging on my front door. Good grief, I thought. It can't be a wildfire with all this moisture. Not sure why else someone would make all that racket, I hurried to the door and flung it open.
Fuzzy as I was with sleep, I was confused to be confronted by a slight young woman dressed in 19th-century finery. I know I frowned, but her face already bore that expression, her mouth down-turned and her eyebrows drawn together, which made unflattering lines on her face.
Me (blurting the words): Who are you?
Her (angry, angry, angry): You know who I am! You said I'm spoiled. I never heard the like. I've half a mind to tell my father how to get here to deal with you, you wicked . . .(her voice peters out as she takes a breath.)
Me (half-offended, but stoic): Oh. Ella Ruth Allen. So Ben spilled the beans.
Ella Ruth: I do not know what that means.
Me: It means Benjamin told you about our conversation.
Ella Ruth (in a prissy tone): No. He did not have to do that.
Me: What do you mean?
Ella Ruth: I followed him last week, and learned his secret, his little rainbow trick. All I had to do was stand beside the rainbow and listen.
Me (speechless)
Ella Ruth (snorting at what must have been my astounded face): You writer people think you can keep us in the dark. Well, it did not serve you well to keep the rainbow entrance secret. I will let my father know about you and your vile ways.
Me: Your father hasn't made an appearance. He does not exist yet.
Ella Ruth (glares at me)
Me (narrowing my eyes at her.): Perhaps this writer person will not put him into a scene at all. Then he will never exist. How about them apples, missy?
Ella Ruth: Humph!
Me (pointing down the ramp): Get off my porch.
Ella Ruth swirls her skirts angrily and starts down the ramp to disappear into the misty rain.
Me (muttering): I'm going to get a lock for that rainbow!
Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward
*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 time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com or Westward Books.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Ben Owen follows the rainbow
Shortly after I posted a video on Facebook of the gully washer we had yesterday, I sat on my deck to enjoy the cool air. I'm not sure if I nodded off or what, but when I raise my head and open my eyes, a young man sits across the table from me.
He notes my alarm and hastens to assure me that he means no harm, calling me "Mom," and saying he is Benjamin Owen.
I should have known him right off, although he hadn't come visiting before now. He resembles his younger brother, Carl. Or maybe I have that turned around, and should say Carl looks like Ben.
When my breathing regularizes, I become curious about the reason for Ben's visit. Usually, my characters come to urge me to tell their story, but I'm in the midst of doing just that with Rulon Owen, and to a lesser degree, with Ben.
Me: I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Ben.
Ben (eyeing me speculatively): Are you now, Mom?
Me: Indeed.
Ben: Rulon's gettin' the bulk of the words you write. Sometimes I feel a mite cast aside.
Me: This is the first draft, Ben, and I'm jumping around a lot, and writing out-of-order scenes with this novel. Be patient.
Ben (squirming a bit in his chair): I ain't a patient man. Ella Ruth can attest to that.
Me (arching an eyebrow in my best imitation of Randolph Hilbrands): You're much like Rulon in that area. You take care. I don't want to add a tragic subplot about an unwed mother.
Ben (rising to his feet): Unwed mother! I wouldn't-- Well, I'm sorely tempted, but I'd druther not face Ma's fury on that head. She would flail the skin off my bones, she would.
Me (signaling him to be seated): Then control your passions. Don't meet the girl in private. Keep to crowds when she's with you.
Ben: That wasn't my idea, there behind the mill. She crept up on me. Surprised me.
Me: Don't let it happen again.
Ben (hanging his head): She makes it difficult. A body would think, well, it would almost appear she . . . (his voice trails off)
Me: Ben, she's more than a little bit spoiled. She expects to get anything she desires. (I look pointedly at him.) She desires you, but wrapped around her little finger and doing her utmost bidding.
Ben: I get that same feeling, ma'am. I recall that speech she spoke me about the suit she expects me to wear for her dream weddin'! I can't afford such outlandish trappings, nor would I buy them if I could. But ma'am, Mom, how my body does betray me whenever I get a whiff of that good-smellin' perfume she wears!
Me: Benjamin, you must strive to be the good Christian gentleman your mother raised you up to be. Strong. Mannerly. Celibate. (I stress my final word.)
Ben (groans): Ma does have her standards. (He looks at me searchingly.) Did Rulon--
Me: No, he didn't. I expect you to be the consummate Southern gentleman, as well. I have my standards, too.
Ben (seeming to grit his teeth between halting phrases): Then I will . . . give my most . . . fervent efforts toward that end, Mom.
Me: You will keep yourself in hand?
Ben: Help me. Don't let Ella Ruth, ah, ambush me again.
Me (quirking an eyebrow): Fervent efforts, Ben. Fervent efforts.
The sun comes out, and he's gone.
Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward
*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 time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com or Westward Books.
He notes my alarm and hastens to assure me that he means no harm, calling me "Mom," and saying he is Benjamin Owen.
I should have known him right off, although he hadn't come visiting before now. He resembles his younger brother, Carl. Or maybe I have that turned around, and should say Carl looks like Ben.
When my breathing regularizes, I become curious about the reason for Ben's visit. Usually, my characters come to urge me to tell their story, but I'm in the midst of doing just that with Rulon Owen, and to a lesser degree, with Ben.
Me: I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Ben.
Ben (eyeing me speculatively): Are you now, Mom?
Me: Indeed.
Ben: Rulon's gettin' the bulk of the words you write. Sometimes I feel a mite cast aside.
Me: This is the first draft, Ben, and I'm jumping around a lot, and writing out-of-order scenes with this novel. Be patient.
Ben (squirming a bit in his chair): I ain't a patient man. Ella Ruth can attest to that.
Me (arching an eyebrow in my best imitation of Randolph Hilbrands): You're much like Rulon in that area. You take care. I don't want to add a tragic subplot about an unwed mother.
Ben (rising to his feet): Unwed mother! I wouldn't-- Well, I'm sorely tempted, but I'd druther not face Ma's fury on that head. She would flail the skin off my bones, she would.
Me (signaling him to be seated): Then control your passions. Don't meet the girl in private. Keep to crowds when she's with you.
Ben: That wasn't my idea, there behind the mill. She crept up on me. Surprised me.
Me: Don't let it happen again.
Ben (hanging his head): She makes it difficult. A body would think, well, it would almost appear she . . . (his voice trails off)
Me: Ben, she's more than a little bit spoiled. She expects to get anything she desires. (I look pointedly at him.) She desires you, but wrapped around her little finger and doing her utmost bidding.
Ben: I get that same feeling, ma'am. I recall that speech she spoke me about the suit she expects me to wear for her dream weddin'! I can't afford such outlandish trappings, nor would I buy them if I could. But ma'am, Mom, how my body does betray me whenever I get a whiff of that good-smellin' perfume she wears!
Me: Benjamin, you must strive to be the good Christian gentleman your mother raised you up to be. Strong. Mannerly. Celibate. (I stress my final word.)
Ben (groans): Ma does have her standards. (He looks at me searchingly.) Did Rulon--
Me: No, he didn't. I expect you to be the consummate Southern gentleman, as well. I have my standards, too.
Ben (seeming to grit his teeth between halting phrases): Then I will . . . give my most . . . fervent efforts toward that end, Mom.
Me: You will keep yourself in hand?
Ben: Help me. Don't let Ella Ruth, ah, ambush me again.
Me (quirking an eyebrow): Fervent efforts, Ben. Fervent efforts.
The sun comes out, and he's gone.
Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward
*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 time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com or Westward Books.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Research, Writing, and Visual Cues
When it comes to writing novels, I don't follow a strict progression of tasks. Let me explain.
Because I write historical novels, I need to do research, so I don't fall into the third group of writers.
I don't always know what I need to know when I begin a project, so I can't research everything before I write. Therefore, I don't belong in the first category, either.
I'm among those in the middle category above: I get the background covered, start writing, then fill in the gaps when they come along. I think of this as first, using the shotgun approach, then using a rifle to target the specifics.
Once I've identified certain facts, I find that I need constant reminders of them. I'm afflicted with ADHD, remember?
Because I am a visual-learner, I depend on visual cues to remember these key items as I write the current novel. I make several charts or graphs, which are actually poster-board sheets I hang on my walls or attach to the front door with magnets. These sheets have various types of information on them.
One sheet shows a column with a rough timeline of the major battles of the eastern theater of the Civil War. My characters are not much concerned with the war battles west of Virginia. A column on the rest of the page notes how my characters were impacted by these events. I should have used more space on the timeline side, as the second column needs more room. Oh well.
Another sheet reminds me of which military units are aggregated to make up larger units, that is: company > regiment > brigade > division > corps > army. I hope I got that right, as I'm not looking at the sheet.
A third sheet shows the configuration and changes there-to of the eastern fighting forces of the Confederacy. The death of major commanders often meant the entire army got reorganized. As units received casualties, they often were combined. New regiments were raised and places found for them.
My intent isn't to document these changes, but to show where they impact my characters. You see, I have assigned most of my characters to actual historical Civil War units. In only one case have I chosen to create a bogus cavalry company.
If Character A started out in actual Company Z of Regiment 1 of the infantry, and his unit was wiped out and combined with another after Battle 100, he might write home about it. If his Company didn't actually participate in a certain battle, I can't write a scene showing him in the heat of the fray.
Alas, I discovered I need to dump a scene I wrote before I learned that a character's historical unit wasn't at First Manassas. Part of the problem came about because I hadn't isolated the company he would join before I wrote the scene. I knew his regiment was in the battle, so I assumed my character's company would be. Only after I picked the company in which he would enlist did I learn that, for whatever reason, it hadn't been on the field of battle. Erk!
I know all this sounds like an awful lot of work. To be truthful, it is! However, my method makes it possible for me to function at least halfway like a human being, and to let loose the stories rolling around in my head. That's worth the extra work!
Let me know if you think the stories are worth the pain, or if I am just too weird for this world.
- Some writers do all their research before they write the first creative word.
- Some writers do quite a bit of research to get a solid overview before they begin writing, then continue to research while they write, as they discover they need specific details.
- Some writers make it all up, without any need for research.
Because I write historical novels, I need to do research, so I don't fall into the third group of writers.
I don't always know what I need to know when I begin a project, so I can't research everything before I write. Therefore, I don't belong in the first category, either.
I'm among those in the middle category above: I get the background covered, start writing, then fill in the gaps when they come along. I think of this as first, using the shotgun approach, then using a rifle to target the specifics.
Once I've identified certain facts, I find that I need constant reminders of them. I'm afflicted with ADHD, remember?
Because I am a visual-learner, I depend on visual cues to remember these key items as I write the current novel. I make several charts or graphs, which are actually poster-board sheets I hang on my walls or attach to the front door with magnets. These sheets have various types of information on them.
One sheet shows a column with a rough timeline of the major battles of the eastern theater of the Civil War. My characters are not much concerned with the war battles west of Virginia. A column on the rest of the page notes how my characters were impacted by these events. I should have used more space on the timeline side, as the second column needs more room. Oh well.
Another sheet reminds me of which military units are aggregated to make up larger units, that is: company > regiment > brigade > division > corps > army. I hope I got that right, as I'm not looking at the sheet.
A third sheet shows the configuration and changes there-to of the eastern fighting forces of the Confederacy. The death of major commanders often meant the entire army got reorganized. As units received casualties, they often were combined. New regiments were raised and places found for them.
My intent isn't to document these changes, but to show where they impact my characters. You see, I have assigned most of my characters to actual historical Civil War units. In only one case have I chosen to create a bogus cavalry company.
If Character A started out in actual Company Z of Regiment 1 of the infantry, and his unit was wiped out and combined with another after Battle 100, he might write home about it. If his Company didn't actually participate in a certain battle, I can't write a scene showing him in the heat of the fray.
Alas, I discovered I need to dump a scene I wrote before I learned that a character's historical unit wasn't at First Manassas. Part of the problem came about because I hadn't isolated the company he would join before I wrote the scene. I knew his regiment was in the battle, so I assumed my character's company would be. Only after I picked the company in which he would enlist did I learn that, for whatever reason, it hadn't been on the field of battle. Erk!
I know all this sounds like an awful lot of work. To be truthful, it is! However, my method makes it possible for me to function at least halfway like a human being, and to let loose the stories rolling around in my head. That's worth the extra work!
Let me know if you think the stories are worth the pain, or if I am just too weird for this world.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Rulon Owen Visits Me Again
I decided to take a power nap after a very edifying, but exhausting, weekend. As I dozed, Rulon Owen showed up. I let him in the door, seated him, and performed the amenities. He wasn't interested in food or drink.
Me: Should you be here?
Rulon (his face coloring): Perhaps not, but I won't stay long. I need to give you my thanks for beginnin' my tale. It is . . . easier now to go on.
Me (studying his face): You are going to have a hard time over the next few years.
Rulon: Years? It won't take years to give the Yankees their comeuppance!
Me: I live now. I know a few things.
Rulon: Hmm. You have a point. (He seems abashed.)
Me: I will bring you through it, but expect hard things.
Rulon: Thank you for the warning words. (He tilts his head.) I am a mite chagrinned to see myself as you see me.
Me (not sure if I should grin or not. Thinking better of it.): You're young and strong, and have plenty of vitality.
Rulon (quirking an eyebrow): I am a lustful dog.
Me (tilting my head): That too. I hope getting married helped.
Rulon (mouth twitching. I don't know whether to expect a frown, or what. Finally, he chooses to share a huge grin.): It did.
Me: Good. Now go to war. Get that out of your system.
Rulon: You make it seem like a rite of passage.
Me: In a way, it is. You'll be fine, but don't expect it to be easy, you hear?
Rulon (sobering): You will take care of Mary?
Me (nodding): I will. (I rise to my feet, not knowing where Mary is waiting, not wanting her to wait long.) Expect hard times.
Rulon (rising, his face cautious): You've said that four times, now. You won't tell me details?
Me: No. Go back to your wife. Your time with her now is short.
Rulon. Don't I know it! Thank you, Mom.
And he's gone.
Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward
*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 time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.
Me: Should you be here?
Rulon (his face coloring): Perhaps not, but I won't stay long. I need to give you my thanks for beginnin' my tale. It is . . . easier now to go on.
Me (studying his face): You are going to have a hard time over the next few years.
Rulon: Years? It won't take years to give the Yankees their comeuppance!
Me: I live now. I know a few things.
Rulon: Hmm. You have a point. (He seems abashed.)
Me: I will bring you through it, but expect hard things.
Rulon: Thank you for the warning words. (He tilts his head.) I am a mite chagrinned to see myself as you see me.
Me (not sure if I should grin or not. Thinking better of it.): You're young and strong, and have plenty of vitality.
Rulon (quirking an eyebrow): I am a lustful dog.
Me (tilting my head): That too. I hope getting married helped.
Rulon (mouth twitching. I don't know whether to expect a frown, or what. Finally, he chooses to share a huge grin.): It did.
Me: Good. Now go to war. Get that out of your system.
Rulon: You make it seem like a rite of passage.
Me: In a way, it is. You'll be fine, but don't expect it to be easy, you hear?
Rulon (sobering): You will take care of Mary?
Me (nodding): I will. (I rise to my feet, not knowing where Mary is waiting, not wanting her to wait long.) Expect hard times.
Rulon (rising, his face cautious): You've said that four times, now. You won't tell me details?
Me: No. Go back to your wife. Your time with her now is short.
Rulon. Don't I know it! Thank you, Mom.
And he's gone.
Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward
*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 time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Harry or Ezra: The Problem of Minor Characters
I'm in the final stages of creating a new print edition for The Man from Shenandoah. As I was checking my personal copy of the first version for places I had marked that had errors of one type or another, such as a typographical error, misspelled word, point-of-view mistake, and the like, I came across a startling fact with vital importance to the story I'm writing now, but that's issue is for another post. The most important issue was a name that caught my eye, after I had created the portable document file (pdf) version to upload to CreateSpace. I stopped work as though I had been struck by lightning, and did not upload the pdf.
It was the name of a minor character. He'll never be a major character. He'll never have a book of his own. Why did his name strike me with such intensity that I put off the upload until I had a moment to do more research?
Because I was not sure if the name was correct.
You see, I remembered that I had changed it in the past. I knew at one point I had called him Ezra, if only on the character card bearing the names of his brothers and sisters. I had to be absolutely sure the name showing up in the new print edition of The Man from Shenandoah was the same name he'd carried in Spinster's Folly, or any other place he'd appeared in the "Owen Family Saga."
I've finished my research, and it shows that this young squirt carried the name "Harry" in Spinster's Folly as well as in the original print copy of The Man from Shenandoah. His name changed to Ezra in the ebook version, though.
[Marsha heaves a huge sigh]
I'll have to fix that sometime, but I won't rush right out and do it today. With a cast of hundreds of characters in "The Owen Family Saga," it's not a terribly important blemish, although it does raise a rash on my internal editor.
The upshot of this research expedition is that even minor characters can cause problems for a writer if the writer is inconsistent in keeping track of the masses. Harry Ezra Morgan, you're a snot-nosed little troublemaker!
~~~
Have you ever come across a name change in a novel as you're reading it? Did it irritate you, or spoil the story in your mind? Or were you compassionate and forgiving to the harried author?
Tell me what you think about typos and other errors in printed or electronic books. How do they color your reading experience?
Thank you!
It was the name of a minor character. He'll never be a major character. He'll never have a book of his own. Why did his name strike me with such intensity that I put off the upload until I had a moment to do more research?
Because I was not sure if the name was correct.
You see, I remembered that I had changed it in the past. I knew at one point I had called him Ezra, if only on the character card bearing the names of his brothers and sisters. I had to be absolutely sure the name showing up in the new print edition of The Man from Shenandoah was the same name he'd carried in Spinster's Folly, or any other place he'd appeared in the "Owen Family Saga."
I've finished my research, and it shows that this young squirt carried the name "Harry" in Spinster's Folly as well as in the original print copy of The Man from Shenandoah. His name changed to Ezra in the ebook version, though.
[Marsha heaves a huge sigh]
I'll have to fix that sometime, but I won't rush right out and do it today. With a cast of hundreds of characters in "The Owen Family Saga," it's not a terribly important blemish, although it does raise a rash on my internal editor.
The upshot of this research expedition is that even minor characters can cause problems for a writer if the writer is inconsistent in keeping track of the masses. Harry Ezra Morgan, you're a snot-nosed little troublemaker!
~~~
Have you ever come across a name change in a novel as you're reading it? Did it irritate you, or spoil the story in your mind? Or were you compassionate and forgiving to the harried author?
Tell me what you think about typos and other errors in printed or electronic books. How do they color your reading experience?
Thank you!
Friday, March 8, 2013
Rulon Owen is a sentimental fellow
I wrote a paragraph on Monday that might find its way into Gone for A Soldier. As you can tell, it's part of a letter:
My heart hangs heavy in my bosom today. As I listened to the meloncholy music of a comrade playin’ the tune "Lorena" on his banjo, another fellow started in singin’ the words. My dear Mary, I about fell to weepin’. These days have been long and burdensome, and many of our comrades have fallen. I long for the day when I can return to your sweet embrace.
Rulon
It will have more to it, of course, but has possibilities. I'm just excited that it came to me and I wrote it down.
My heart hangs heavy in my bosom today. As I listened to the meloncholy music of a comrade playin’ the tune "Lorena" on his banjo, another fellow started in singin’ the words. My dear Mary, I about fell to weepin’. These days have been long and burdensome, and many of our comrades have fallen. I long for the day when I can return to your sweet embrace.
Rulon
It will have more to it, of course, but has possibilities. I'm just excited that it came to me and I wrote it down.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Rulon Owen is Not a Patient Man
I'm outside, slogging through the snow to the garbage can I've stashed on the other side of the road for the winter so I don't have to move it back and forth during periods when the half-dollar size granite rocks are covered ankle-deep with snow. Truth be told, I don't like to trundle the bin over the granite rocks, either. Good thing the cross-road neighbors don't visit very often, I think, hauling my plastic bags by their pull ties to the black monstrosity.
"Looks like you could use a hand," someone behind me says in a deep voice, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.
I whirl around the best I can with two heavy bags impeding my pirouette. My heart pounds as hard as it did the last time someone told me Sean Connery had fallen to his death from a crag in New Zealand.
A grey-hatted man sits astride a reddish horse that nickers softly, its breath streaming from its nostrils like steam escaping from a broken pipe. I back up as the man swings down from the saddle and drops the reins to ground-tie the animal.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice quavering ever so slightly. I don't tote a firearm with me when I take out the garbage. Maybe that should change.
"Mom," he says, relieving me of first one bag, then the other. "You've met me. You should know me by now."
I'm a bit rattled by his choice of words. My sons call me "Mom" in just that impatient tone of voice, making more than one syllable out of the word.
My mind is jumping from one compartment of my brain to another, rattling the filing cabinet drawers I jerk open as I search for clues to help me remember this man.
"I'm younger," he says, turning away from me to study the garbage bin.
Cole? Bob? John? Jim? No. He doesn't resemble the outlaw Younger brothers. My gosh, who is he? I'm beginning to slip into fear.
He sets the bags on the ground and bends his head sideways to examine the lip of the black lid. He raises an arm to test it. Discovering that it moves, he thrusts it upward, and the lid flies back. He chuckles. I'm moving backward, puzzled by his actions. He picks up the bags, chucks them in the bin, closes the lid, and turns to me, dusting his hands together.
"Them parcels have a slippery feel, but the keg is harder. What do you call that material?"
When he raises his hand to tilt back his hat, I finally know him.
"Rulon," I exhale. Rod Owen's oldest boy, and he's much more boyish looking than the man I'd met a couple of years ago. "Plastic. They are both made of plastic, but different types."
"Humph," he snorts. "Plastic."
"You'd best come inside," I tell him, glancing at the horse, and wondering if it's better to tie it to the rail of the back-door deck or the ramp's railing. The back door is locked, but I don't want the horse destroying my Heat Trak electric mat, so I settle for a third choice, the railing on the covered deck closest to the shed. That will hide the animal sufficiently that someone won't come along and elect to take a joy-ride.
Rulon ties the horse where I tell him to, then wipes off his boots before entering my living room.
"Sit down and take your ease," I say, lapsing into a genteel Civil War-era-matron persona. "May I get you a refreshment?" I mentally go over the contents of my refrigerator and cupboards. "I can offer you water, mint tea, pineapple juice...." I stop as his brow contorts in confusion. "Never mind the pineapple juice. How about hot chocolate?" I shiver. "That seems a good choice. I also have a loaf cake."
Rulon sits, perched uneasily on the edge of my chair. "I believe I've tasted that 'hot chocolate' somewhere. Don't it take quite a time to brew it?"
I think of the luxury we have in our time. Instant beverages from a foil package. "No, this is special," I say. "It won't take very long. Will you take cake, as well?"
"I reckon," he says. "Thank you, Mom."
I leave him alone, knowing he's not even going to offer to assist me in preparing the repast. That is a woman's work, and Rulon is decidedly not a woman.
He's more handsome than I had remembered, full of face and not worn down by privation. He wasn't cautious in moving his body. "He hasn't been hit by shrapnel yet," I whisper, the truth dawning on me. This is the pre-war Rulon.
When I enter the room again, carrying a tray with cups of hot chocolate and plates of cake, I notice he's fidgeting, flicking one thumbnail with the other and biting his lower lip. I set down the tray and serve him.
He samples the chocolate, but it's hot and he blows on it.
"Tell me about the family," I say. I want to know the timeline I'm dealing with.
"Ma and Pa are well. Brother Ben's got himself a job at the mill." He grinned. "He's sparkin' Ella Ruth Meems. Figures to marry her right soon." He sips at the beverage.
My heart contracts, squeezing hard. I don't know Ella Ruth. I imagine I'll get to know her this year, probably too intimately for comfort.
"And you?" I manage to ask, forcing my lips into a smile. "You're getting long in the tooth and not wed yet."
"I am not," he sputters. "I mean, I aim to marry, just as soon..." His voice fades as his head drops. He tries to mask his chagrin by chugging the chocolate, but it's still hot, and he sputters anew, then coughs.
I hand him a tissue. He looks at it coldly, then sets his drink down on the table and wipes his mouth. He nibbles at the cake.
"Rulon, are you seeing someone?"
"Yes!" He barks the word. "Yes," he repeats, and breathes heavily. "I come to ask you to get on with writin' my tale."
He's rushing his words now, spilling them out so fast I feel obliged to stop him, but I can't, not yet.
"I'm forbidden to wed her until you write out the words and make it real. I can scarcely stand this waiting, waiting, everlasting waiting. She won't let me--"
"Rulon!" I cut him off. "You can't do that."
He's breathing hard now, nearly gasping with pain. His yearning is almost palpable, his drive to possess filling my room with the musk of desire, and I won't tolerate the dark aspect of his need.
"Get yourself in hand! Of course she won't permit you taking liberties. She's only a bit of a girl, and doesn't realize how she's pushing you to your limit."
"You know that?" he groans and narrows his brows as he gazes at me. "You know her?" He moves one leg awkwardly.
I acknowledge his distress. "I think you'd best stay the night here. I'll call my neighbor about sheltering your horse."
He slumps forward, nerveless, and I am glad he has set down the chocolate. "I'm a cur," he whispers, then groans again.
"No, you're a young man full of yourself. It will do you good to be removed from Mary for a while."
He shuts his eyes and compresses his lips, then nods slowly. "I'll stop here for the night, on one condition." He looks up at me, his eyes full of challenge. "You have to start writin' down the words."
Now it's my turn to nod. "I'll begin inside of a month."
Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward
*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 time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.
"Looks like you could use a hand," someone behind me says in a deep voice, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.
I whirl around the best I can with two heavy bags impeding my pirouette. My heart pounds as hard as it did the last time someone told me Sean Connery had fallen to his death from a crag in New Zealand.
A grey-hatted man sits astride a reddish horse that nickers softly, its breath streaming from its nostrils like steam escaping from a broken pipe. I back up as the man swings down from the saddle and drops the reins to ground-tie the animal.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice quavering ever so slightly. I don't tote a firearm with me when I take out the garbage. Maybe that should change.
"Mom," he says, relieving me of first one bag, then the other. "You've met me. You should know me by now."
I'm a bit rattled by his choice of words. My sons call me "Mom" in just that impatient tone of voice, making more than one syllable out of the word.
My mind is jumping from one compartment of my brain to another, rattling the filing cabinet drawers I jerk open as I search for clues to help me remember this man.
"I'm younger," he says, turning away from me to study the garbage bin.
Cole? Bob? John? Jim? No. He doesn't resemble the outlaw Younger brothers. My gosh, who is he? I'm beginning to slip into fear.
He sets the bags on the ground and bends his head sideways to examine the lip of the black lid. He raises an arm to test it. Discovering that it moves, he thrusts it upward, and the lid flies back. He chuckles. I'm moving backward, puzzled by his actions. He picks up the bags, chucks them in the bin, closes the lid, and turns to me, dusting his hands together.
"Them parcels have a slippery feel, but the keg is harder. What do you call that material?"
When he raises his hand to tilt back his hat, I finally know him.
"Rulon," I exhale. Rod Owen's oldest boy, and he's much more boyish looking than the man I'd met a couple of years ago. "Plastic. They are both made of plastic, but different types."
"Humph," he snorts. "Plastic."
"You'd best come inside," I tell him, glancing at the horse, and wondering if it's better to tie it to the rail of the back-door deck or the ramp's railing. The back door is locked, but I don't want the horse destroying my Heat Trak electric mat, so I settle for a third choice, the railing on the covered deck closest to the shed. That will hide the animal sufficiently that someone won't come along and elect to take a joy-ride.
Rulon ties the horse where I tell him to, then wipes off his boots before entering my living room.
"Sit down and take your ease," I say, lapsing into a genteel Civil War-era-matron persona. "May I get you a refreshment?" I mentally go over the contents of my refrigerator and cupboards. "I can offer you water, mint tea, pineapple juice...." I stop as his brow contorts in confusion. "Never mind the pineapple juice. How about hot chocolate?" I shiver. "That seems a good choice. I also have a loaf cake."
Rulon sits, perched uneasily on the edge of my chair. "I believe I've tasted that 'hot chocolate' somewhere. Don't it take quite a time to brew it?"
I think of the luxury we have in our time. Instant beverages from a foil package. "No, this is special," I say. "It won't take very long. Will you take cake, as well?"
"I reckon," he says. "Thank you, Mom."
I leave him alone, knowing he's not even going to offer to assist me in preparing the repast. That is a woman's work, and Rulon is decidedly not a woman.
He's more handsome than I had remembered, full of face and not worn down by privation. He wasn't cautious in moving his body. "He hasn't been hit by shrapnel yet," I whisper, the truth dawning on me. This is the pre-war Rulon.
When I enter the room again, carrying a tray with cups of hot chocolate and plates of cake, I notice he's fidgeting, flicking one thumbnail with the other and biting his lower lip. I set down the tray and serve him.
He samples the chocolate, but it's hot and he blows on it.
"Tell me about the family," I say. I want to know the timeline I'm dealing with.
"Ma and Pa are well. Brother Ben's got himself a job at the mill." He grinned. "He's sparkin' Ella Ruth Meems. Figures to marry her right soon." He sips at the beverage.
My heart contracts, squeezing hard. I don't know Ella Ruth. I imagine I'll get to know her this year, probably too intimately for comfort.
"And you?" I manage to ask, forcing my lips into a smile. "You're getting long in the tooth and not wed yet."
"I am not," he sputters. "I mean, I aim to marry, just as soon..." His voice fades as his head drops. He tries to mask his chagrin by chugging the chocolate, but it's still hot, and he sputters anew, then coughs.
I hand him a tissue. He looks at it coldly, then sets his drink down on the table and wipes his mouth. He nibbles at the cake.
"Rulon, are you seeing someone?"
"Yes!" He barks the word. "Yes," he repeats, and breathes heavily. "I come to ask you to get on with writin' my tale."
He's rushing his words now, spilling them out so fast I feel obliged to stop him, but I can't, not yet.
"I'm forbidden to wed her until you write out the words and make it real. I can scarcely stand this waiting, waiting, everlasting waiting. She won't let me--"
"Rulon!" I cut him off. "You can't do that."
He's breathing hard now, nearly gasping with pain. His yearning is almost palpable, his drive to possess filling my room with the musk of desire, and I won't tolerate the dark aspect of his need.
"Get yourself in hand! Of course she won't permit you taking liberties. She's only a bit of a girl, and doesn't realize how she's pushing you to your limit."
"You know that?" he groans and narrows his brows as he gazes at me. "You know her?" He moves one leg awkwardly.
I acknowledge his distress. "I think you'd best stay the night here. I'll call my neighbor about sheltering your horse."
He slumps forward, nerveless, and I am glad he has set down the chocolate. "I'm a cur," he whispers, then groans again.
"No, you're a young man full of yourself. It will do you good to be removed from Mary for a while."
He shuts his eyes and compresses his lips, then nods slowly. "I'll stop here for the night, on one condition." He looks up at me, his eyes full of challenge. "You have to start writin' down the words."
Now it's my turn to nod. "I'll begin inside of a month."
Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward
*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 time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.
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