May 31 or June 1?

Too many people have sent me communications today dated June 1. Last time I looked at the calendar (1 second ago), it's still May 31.

I think the confusion comes in because many people think May has only 30 days.

Not so. May is one of the long months, with a proud 31 at the tail. 

How do folks keep all the months straight?

My grandmother taught me a very simple trick years ago: hold up your fist, so the back of your hand faces you. It doesn't matter which hand you use.

Tap on the knuckle closest to you with the forefinger of the other hand. Say "January." 

No. It doesn't have to be said aloud. You can mutter it into your beard, for all I care. Just think "January" to yourself, if you're shy.

Now tap the valley between your first knuckle and the second. Think or say "February." Yes, it does have two "r"s in it.

Repeat the process with the next few months. Keep going.

Are you at July yet? That's the pinkie finger knuckle. Tap it again, saying or thinking "August."

Now come back the other way, with "September" in the valley, "October" back atop a knuckle, and go on to "December."

No, there aren't enough months to get back to the beginning, but leave it alone, okay?

What did you learn from this little exercise?

Yes, Jackie. That's right. The long months are on top of the knuckles, and the short ones are in the valleys. Thus, May really does have 31 days.

Repeat the exercise just to cement it in your mind. Now, whenever you are in doubt as to whether or not you have a day left in which to do your visit or home teaching (a reference for LDS Church members), do the knuckle exercise. Yes, you can do it mentally, if you're a visual person. If not, raise your fist and start tapping.

BTW, if you've never visited the blog where my characters and I chat and I post snippets of new work, please wander on over to The Characters in Marsha's Head. And don't miss the Sample Sunday/Saturday posts on this blog, so you can read excerpts from my previous novels.

Thank you!

Sneek Peek at a new scene

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."

Sample Saturday: Ride to Raton, Excerpt 2 from Chapter 2

Here's my third "Sample Saturday" offering, the rest of Chapter Two of the second novel in the Owen Family Saga, Ride to Raton.

To learn more about Sample Sunday, see this post on the Kindle Author blog. To find more samples of e-books, follow the Twitter hash tag #SampleSunday.

New lower price: $2.99 on Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle

$15.95 at Amazon.com for Trade Paperback

Chapter Two, Scene Two

Sunset blazed orange and gold across the pale blue rim of the western sky as Amparo paused at the edge of the plaza. She adjusted her white lace shawl to cover her black hair before she ascended the stone steps leading to the portals of the whitewashed church. Waves of heat rising from the stonework shimmered in the air like silken veils barring the way between her and sanctuary. Her feet, girdled by leather sandals, felt shriveled and gritty, as though they were baked by the afternoon air. The oppression of the day’s oven-like temperature would soon abate with the coming of the night, but what could relieve the oppression in her heart?

O mi papá. What have I done? Have I truly kept your soul in Purgatory? It must not be! Holy Virgin, show me how to send my papá to heaven!

The girl climbed the steps, passed through the large open doors of the church and stopped in the welcome cool of the hall to dip her finger into the waiting font of holy water. The moisture caressed her finger as she made the sign of the cross, whispering the words that accompanied the action. She moved forward between the rows of wooden pews into the church, trying to gather peace to her from under the vaulted ceiling above her head. She put out her left hand and grasped the back of the nearest pew, sank to her right knee before the Host, then arose and slipped into a pew on her right.

Her knees found depressions in the hard leather cushion of the kneeler as she bowed her head, pulled her mother’s rosary from her pocket, and whispered the “Our Father.” At the end of her prayer, as the hush of the place surrounded her, her soul cried out: Blessed Mary, my papá was so good, so kind to all. Surely his soul will have ascended to Heaven by now? Oh, Holy Mother, can my little wish to stay in Santa Fe be so evil?

Half a dozen people knelt in the half-light of the church, although evening mass would not be celebrated for another hour. Amparo leaned back into the pew, worn smooth by the sliding action of hundreds of worshipers over the years. She pulled the ends of her shawl tightly across her chest, as though she was attempting to draw a cloak of privacy around herself.

After a while, her hands began to twitch from tension, and she stretched them out in front of her, opening them wide. Her beads clicked against the missal box attached to the back of the pew, and her hand closed on the nearest book. She drew it toward her, enfolded it against her breast. Her head bowed, she sank forward onto her knees once more.

Then the idea came, the offering she must make, the sacrifice she must suffer to show God her intention.

Amparo rose and placed the missal back in the box. She moved quickly across the center aisle and into the left-hand row of pews, heading toward the side aisle. Her sandaled feet slip slapped on the bare stone walkway as she moved past the confession boxes toward the front of the church where a small chapel branched off to the left.

She stopped before a large wrought iron stand containing both lit and unlit vigil candles, and dropped a small coin into the offering box before she lighted the wick of a candle on the front row. As its light flickered heavenward she slipped into the side chapel to kneel at a rail before which a metal latticework grille protected the painted plaster statue of the Virgin Mother.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee,” she said, gazing up at the haunting sadness on the face of the Madonna and wondering if the same sadness was reflected on her own. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”

Amparo looked at her hands, tightly woven around the rosary and resting on the rail. Then she looked upon the Lady’s face once more. The moment had come. The vow must be spoken.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, I have no money to buy an indulgence so that my dear papá may ascend from Purgatory into Heaven,” she whispered. “To show Our Lord how much I love Him, to show my complete devotion, dearest Lady, I offer up a vow. It is this: I will obey the woman in her plan. I will go to the Territory of Colorado, and I will marry the stranger.”

Amparo paused to take a shuddering breath. Then she continued. “This is my intention, the desire of my heart, to please Our Lord Jesus enough that He will take my papá to His bosom.” Her head bowed until it touched her thumbs, and she waited for a moment, hearing the pounding of her pulse in her ears. “Blessed Virgin, let your prayers ascend to God that He may hear my petition.”

Amparo stretched out her arms in supplication to the figure of Our Lady, and she remained in that position, listening to the rustle of the wax candles burning behind her, to the click of rosary beads being told among the pews.

It seemed a very long time later that her soul found strength enough to raise her body from her knees.

Blessed Mother, I must go now. There is much to do. The woman says it is arranged that I leave in two days. Do not forget me, Blessed Virgin! Do not forget my petition, and my sacrifice!

Amparo crept with slow steps from the church, harboring a small joy in one corner of her heart because she was leaving obedience as a sacrifice upon the altar. The rest of her heart was full of unease at the thought of going into a world of strangers, like the one awaiting her in Colorado.
~~~

Young, devout Amparo believes that the Virgin Mary has influence with God, and will intercede on her behalf because of her sacrifice. Have you ever bargained with God? Do you think it gained you the boon or blessing you asked for? Can we live better lives every day to demonstrate obedience to the holy principles we believe in?

Sample Saturday: Ride to Raton, Excerpt from Chapter 2

Here's my second Sample Saturday offering, an excerpt from Chapter 2 of the second novel in The Owen Family Saga, Ride to Raton.

To learn more about Sample Sunday, see this post on the Kindle Author blog. To find more samples of e-books, follow the Twitter hash tag #SampleSunday.

$3.99 on Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle

$15.95 at Amazon.com for Trade Paperback

Chapter Two

As Amparo Garcés y Martinez wrung another rivulet of soapy water from the twisted white blouse she held in her brown hands, she gazed above the roofline of her home toward the sun-bathed mountains notching the horizon beyond Santa Fe. Puffy white clouds hung above the hills as though they were pinned on a clothesline stretched across the brilliant blue sky. Vegetation painted the slopes in variegated hues of greens and browns.

This is beauty, she thought, sighing, and glanced toward the shrine tucked into a niche in the corner of the courtyard. María Santísima, is Heaven so lovely a place as Santa Fe? Is my dear papá there? Tell me it is so, Holy Mother. If I know he is happy, I can bear to live without him.

Amparo wiped one eye with the back of her hand, then gave the blouse another twist. I miss him so much, Little Beloved Mother. I never got to tell him goodbye.

She took a deep breath and let it escape slowly from between her full lips. Oh, Madre de Dios, give me a little of your strength. Help me to bear my burdens with a light heart.

Amparo remembered the blouse clasped in her slim hands, shook it gently to uncoil it, then thrust the garment into the rinsing pool of the stone laundry basin. A few drops of water splashed onto her richly embroidered green satin skirt. She frowned, exclaimed, “¡Vaya!” and grabbed for a dry rag to sop up the liquid before it spotted the stiff cloth. She dropped the rag to the flagstone beneath her soft slippers and raised her arm to her head to push back the fringe of soft black hair clinging to her damp forehead.

I am sorry, Virgen Santa. I became distracted. I know it is absurd to wear my best clothes for this task. But they are the only clean clothes I have left, and if I am to have anything else to wear, I must do the laundry myself. You see, the woman came home from her errand this morning and dismissed the maid before she could even begin the washing.

“¡Chica!” cried a disapproving voice from a doorway. Amparo jumped. The voice continued. “Why do you wear your good clothes to do the wash? You will ruin them, and I cannot buy you any more fine things.”

“Señora Catarina, you startled me!” The girl turned from the washtub and snatched up another blouse from a woven basket at her feet. “I could not help but wear these clothes. They were all I had to wear when you sent Lupe away.” She rubbed the blouse with a bar of soap smelling strongly of lye, then began to scrub the garment against the stone washboard in front of her.

A slender woman with thin red lips and wide eyes fringed with spiky black lashes stepped into the courtyard, her long black taffeta skirt swishing with the motion of her hips. She approached a pot of geraniums hanging from a bracket against the kitchen wall and, plucking a blossom, inserted it into the black knot of hair coiled at the back of her head.

“You forgot to call me ‘Mamá’,” said the woman, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “Until I met with the lawyer, I did not realize we were so poor that we could not afford to keep Lupe,” she added, arching her dark brows. “We will have to conserve until matters improve, so for the time being, you will wash the clothes and linen, and I will watch that Rafaela does not waste any food as she cooks.”

“My papá would not want me to do the wash always,” the girl protested, shaking her shoulder to dislodge a thick braid of black hair that rested upon it. “He said I must learn to keep a household, but I also must remember to be a lady.”

“Then your papá should have left more money to me and not so much to the beggars on the street,” the woman answered in a sharp tone. “You will do as you are told, chica.”

Amparo drew herself up proudly, rapidly blinking her dark brown eyes. “My papá was a great man to give money to the poor. He said we did not need much, and he was looking forward to receiving his reward for good deeds in Heaven, once he arrived there.”

“And for his stupid deeds, I have to suffer.” Catarina folded her arms across the front of her white blouse.

Amparo bit her lip. “My papá was not stupid. And it will not injure us to suffer in life.” She looked at the woman for a moment, then resumed her labors.

The woman drew in a noisy breath. “If you like to suffer, then we will do so,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “We will not buy cream for the coffee, and no more sugar.”

Before Amparo could protest, the iron knocker boomed against the front door six times. The sound filled the courtyard with echoes. The girl stopped scrubbing and looked up. “Shall I see who is at the door?”

Catarina shook her head. “Keep working. I will go.” The woman moved in the direction of the front hallway, and Amparo went back to her work.

As she worked, she heard a murmur of voices at the front door. When it stopped, Catarina came back across the courtyard toward the laundry basin. Her mouth was brittle with a smile of satisfaction as she slowly fanned a folded sheet of paper before her face.

“Well, chica, perhaps I will have cream and sugar after all.”

Amparo raised her arms from the washbasin and dropped a skirt into the rinse tub. “What is that?”

Catarina regarded the girl with a cold look in her narrowed eyes. She tapped the paper against the open palm of one hand.

Why does she hate me so much, Holy Mother? Amparo asked silently.

Presently the woman spoke. “It is a way out of our difficulties, chica.” She turned away.

“What do you mean?”

Catarina cocked her head, then slowly pivoted on her high-heeled shoes. The smile on her lips sent a chill up Amparo’s neck, and she felt a prickle at her scalp. The woman held the paper high. “If you must know, this is your salvation.”

The girl took two steps forward, then stood stiffly beside the washbasin as Catarina came toward her, looked her over, then circled behind Amparo, trailing her free hand along the girl’s shoulders.

Amparo shuddered at her touch.

“When your papá had the poor taste to die, I asked my friend Señor Fuentes for his assistance.” Now Catarina was again in front of Amparo, her carefully rouged upper lip curling as she tilted Amparo’s chin upward with two fingers. “He saw you in the marketplace one day, and suggested that there is one good solution to my struggles.”

The woman turned Amparo’s head from side to side with her hand. “I am sure now that he was right.” Catarina loosed the girl’s face and tapped the paper. “Señor Fuentes received this communication yesterday. There is a man, a young man, who lives in the Territory of Colorado.” She paused, again arching a brow. “He is seeking a wife.”

“You are going to remarry?”

“No. It is not I who shall be a bride.” Her thin lips twisted toward a smile, and her eyes went hard as she gloated.

“¡Ave María, Madre de Dios!” Amparo whispered as comprehension froze her face. Her body went rigid, her hands in midair.

“You are to meet him in a small village known as Leones on the twenty-sixth day of October. Señor Fuentes is making arrangements for your jornada.”

“My journey?” Amparo’s hands dropped to her sides.

“Yes.” Catarina consulted the paper. “In the mission church you will marry the man, one Julio Rodríguez y Guzmán. In a few days, he will make a fine settlement on you. I, of course, will see to the disposition of the money.”

“Vaya, mi mamá,” said the girl, almost whispering. She swallowed, trying to wet her arid throat. “It is too soon to talk of marriage. I am not seventeen for two more weeks. I know nothing of men.” Virgen Santísima, intercede for me now in this time of trial.

“You’ve gone pale, chica. You do not appreciate our wonderful news?”

Amparo shook her head to clear it, then took a deep breath to settle herself.

“I suppose you do not want to go to the man? You would rather stay here and starve?” The woman laughed as Amparo shook her head again. “You need not worry, chica. It is very simple to please a man.”

Catarina approached Amparo and, taking her by the hand, drew her out into the middle of the courtyard. She tilted her head and looked at the girl.

“First, you will undress, so that he may appreciate your charms.” Catarina’s voice was low, seductive. “Do not look so shocked, chica. After all, you will be married. He will touch you.” The woman caressed Amparo’s cheek, and the girl shrank from her. Catarina laughed and drew her handkerchief from her pocket. “He will probably kiss you. Then he will take you to the bed, and you will lie down, perhaps upon silken sheets and pillows.” The woman trailed the scrap of silk across Amparo’s hand. “That will be pleasant upon your skin.” Catarina gave a bark of a laugh, and waved one hand in the air matter-of-factly. “Then he will do what he will do. You will pretend that you like it.”

Amparo lowered her head, attempting to hide her horrified face. After a moment, she looked up to find the woman appraising her.

“Will you like it?” Catarina smiled on one side of her mouth. “Will you like it when he touches you, strokes you, when he makes you a woman?” She laughed. “No, I do not suppose that a timorous child like you will appreciate the pleasures your bridegroom will bring to you.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course, it is possible that he will not be gentle. No matter. I will have cream in my coffee, and you will be the mistress of a large rancho. Make an heir for the man quickly, chica.” She turned away dismissively.

Amparo drew a quick breath. She took another, then angry words burst from her mouth. “You are selling me to this stranger! You are selling me like a...whore!”

Catarina gasped, turned, and struck Amparo across the face. The girl fell to the tile floor, hitting her arm against a large carved chest. She hunched her shoulders, clasped the injured arm against her chest with her other hand. Her eyes were tearless. Santa María, I will not cry.

“It is impossible to help you, chica. You appreciate nothing. Nothing!”

“You cannot make me do this hateful thing,” Amparo cried out, her back braced against the chest.

“Evil, willful girl, if it takes a stick to teach you, that is how you will learn to be obedient.”

“I will not do this,” Amparo whispered.

“Ungrateful child! Because of your thoughtless, selfish deviltry, your papá will weep in Purgatory forevermore!” The woman swept from the room, skirts rustling.

Forever in Purgatory? It cannot be so! Amparo fell forward onto the cold floor before the shrine. Blessed Virgin, tell me my papá is safely in Heaven!
~~~

Has anyone ever manipulated you to comply with their wishes? How did you feel? Did it cause a rift in your relationship?

Shopping Miracle

I really lucked out last week.

Since I'm going on a road trip sometime in the future, I needed to find a long-sleeved, light-weight shirt, preferable white, preferable gauzy (because I like gauzy fabrics, and they're usually wrinkle-free). This is because long hours spent traveling in a car can cause significant arm sunburns if you take certain medications. I take one such medication, and was just about to tear out my hair. Why?

All the catalogs from which I buy clothing are into summer clothing sales. Summer clothing includes shorts, peddle pushers, and sleeveless tops, all of which I abhor, and some three-quarter-length-sleeved shirts, which don't suit my purpose of covering my arms sufficiently to prevent sunburn on them.

Then, on a day trip to the Valley, I spotted the perfect solution: a white tab-sleeved shirt (you roll up the full-length sleeves and use a little tab with a button to keep them at 3/4 length) in seersucker. I bought it a size big so I can used it to layer over another top or blouse, and now I have my wonderful skin-saver. Huzzah!

The Secret Projects Unveiled

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.

 

Sample Saturday: Ride to Raton, Chapter 1

A while ago, I started putting up excerpts of my first novel, The Man from Shenandoah, as a part of Sample Sunday, an ebook awareness campaign. However, I didn't like using the Sabbath day for commercial purposes, so when I got distracted by something else, it was easy to stop doing it. 

Today I had a bright idea (and it's an indicator of my high stress/busyness level that I didn't have the thought way before now). Why not move my sample to SATURDAY? Duh!

So, here is a sample chapter from Book 2 in The Owen Family Saga, Ride to Raton.

To learn more about Sample Sunday, see this post on the Kindle Author blog. To find more samples of e-books, follow the Twitter hash tag #SampleSunday.

$3.99 on Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle

$15.95 at Amazon.com for Trade Paperback

And now, the sample:

Chapter One

As soon as James Owen heard the Spanish priest’s final amen, he stepped back from the makeshift altar in the Colorado meadow and made his legs carry him to the edge of the forest. Behind him he knew Ma, Pa, and the rest of the family and guests were crowding around to congratulate the bride and groom.

The bride was Ellen Bates—who’d been his fiancée.

And the groom was his brother, Carl.

His own brother...

James gagged.

When his stomach had emptied itself over the pine needles and columbines, he straightened up, chest heaving, and gripped a sapling until the quivering left his legs. He yanked his high, stiff collar loose and threw it on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve, then threw a quick glance behind him.

Carl now sat down on the chair his brothers had used to bring him to the meadow. The bridegroom’s gunshot wound was bleeding; a crimson stain spread across the hip of his trousers. Ellen fussed around, pointing at his brothers, Rulon and Clay. She shooed off the other cowboys, who seemed eager to put her on their shoulders for a shiveree.

Ma was looking toward James, her forehead furrowed with worry. She took two steps toward him, then stopped. He cleared his throat and spat, straightened his shoulders—which ached from the strain of keeping himself tightly under control—and took the path that led through the forest to the ranch headquarters.

He heard Ma call out, “James!” then “Rod, go see—”

“Leave Pa out of it,” James grunted so low that she couldn’t possibly hear him, and kept moving. He stamped through the trees, pounding his fist into his open hand and wishing it was Carl’s face. He approached a holding pen, where a wild horse wheeled and snorted, upset by the young man’s noise.

James swore at his brother for getting injured. When he gets well— He pressed his lips tightly together, as though to restrain his vengeful thoughts.

The black horse watched every move James made, its wary eyes following him as he approached. It snorted, sniffed the air, then whirled around to track his progress along the fence line. James looked at the beast that Carl had caught as the Owen men returned from Texas with a herd of cattle and a crew of cowboys. When a gang of ruffians had kidnapped two young ladies, the Owen crew had confronted them in a gun battle. Carl had been sorely wounded.

A harsh sound escaped James’s throat. It wasn’t quite a laugh. He took Miss Ellen. I’ll take the mustang.

James stalked into the shed, snatched a rope from where it hung on a peg pounded into the wall, and stalked out again. Entering the enclosure, he leaned against the gate and built a loop in his rope. Let’s see if the Texan’s roping trick works. He looked up.

The black snorted and moved off as far as it could get in the pen. James stepped toward the horse, holding the rope behind him. He crowded the animal to one side of the corral, then flipped the loop up from the ground and around the horse’s neck.

Gripping the rope with one hand, he ran to the horse, grabbed a handful of mane, and hauled himself up. The horse tried to shake him off, but he got his right leg over its back just as the animal reared on its hind legs, bellowing. James stayed on, clamping his knees against the rough hair and bending low over the neck.

You’re not so easily rid of me.

The black met the ground stiff legged, screaming, and James felt his stomach crowding his throat. He swallowed hard, digging his boots into the barrel of the animal as it whipped up its heels, tucking its head toward the earth. Then the two of them were airborne, and James braced for the shock of landing against the black’s spine. His teeth jarred together, then again and again and again as, pitching, bucking, whirling, the beast tried to get James’s weight off its back.

“Blasted devil horse,” he muttered as he came down hard, a little off center, and grabbed for a new fistful of the stiff black mane hairs. But the horse was in the air again—head and heels together, back arched—and James lost his grasp on the mane and the rope. Flying off, he landed on his left shoulder in the center of the ring.

“You fool, you’re like to be killed!”

James shook his head to clear away his father’s strident voice, looked for the horse, then rolled clear when it dove at him with stiff front legs. Rising from the dust, he ran after the animal, grabbing for the trailing rope with his left hand as he kneaded his sore shoulder with his right.

“Don’t you know when you’ve had enough?” yelled his father as he opened the gate. “Get out of there, you—”

James had the rope in his hands and wrapped it around his left arm. Then he dug in his heels to bring the horse under control.

“You’re crazy,” Roderick Owen shouted, shutting the gate and lending his weight to the end of the lariat whipping free behind his son.

“Get off my rope!”

“You’re double dumb crazy.” Rod held on, hauling backward.

“Get off! You’re cutting my arm!”

Rod let go of the rope, and James was jerked forward, scrambling to keep his feet under him. Suddenly the animal quit fighting, its head drooping. It stood against the fence, quivering, its slick black sides heaving as it filled its lungs.

James flipped the noose off the animal’s neck and dropped it in the dust, to the accompaniment of catcalls from a line of spectators along the fence. Doubled over, hands on his knees, his gasping matched the horse’s. When he finally got his breath, he spat the grit from his mouth, surveyed the men peering through the fence, and waved his arms at them.

“This ain’t a free show,” he yelled. “You’all get away from here!”

The crowd broke up, each man muttering his displeasure as he drifted back toward the meadow. James watched them go as he kneaded his shoulder again. He turned on his father.

“Why’d you butt in on my business?”

“You were next to getting killed, trying to ride that outlaw horse.”

“I’m not talking about the horse. I’m talking about Miss Ellen. And Miss Jessica! You forced me to leave her behind in the Shenandoah and hatched a scheme to marry Miss Ellen to me. You got her pa to agree for a few sacks of provisions and a wagon!” James spat on the ground.

“It wasn’t quite like that.”

James ignored his father’s response as his words rushed on. “You dragged me across the country, preaching duty every day. I obeyed you. I put off Miss Jessica to court Miss Ellen. I did my duty, Pa, and I even grew fond of her. I looked forward to settling down, having a little house, raising up young—”

“Stop it!” Rod’s eyes narrowed. He squinted at his son’s left sleeve, watching a line of blood seep through the fabric. “You’re hurt, boy.”

James glanced at the sleeve, then shook his arm, wincing as pain lanced through the shoulder. He looked up, glaring. “Carl had no claim to Ellen, yet you let him take her from me. Did you think I wouldn’t mind?”

Rod Owen’s face resembled a limestone outcrop bristling with fire blackened buffalo grass stubble. His voice came out in a whisper. “It was Ellen’s choice, James. She loves Carl.”

“No!” James sucked in a ragged breath. “She wouldn’t gainsay her pa’s pledge.”

“James, there’s no telling what’s in the mind of a woman. Maybe Miss Ellen didn’t cotton to the idea of being traded for a wagon. I thought it was a good deal for both her and her folks. Somehow she didn’t come to care for you.”

“That didn’t matter to me!” James shouted.

“She came to love your brother, and when he saved her life, that was good enough for her pa.” Rod shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Set your mind to keeping peace, now, and we’ll get back to ranching.”

The young man’s breathing tore at his throat, and pain seared through his belly. “Peace?” He looked square at his father, then fury rose up and he jabbed the man’s chest with his forefinger. “My pride and my affection for that girl is stomped into the ground, and now you call for peace?” He swore, his voice venomous, and his finger jabbed harder.

Rod knocked down James’s hand. His voice was quiet, yet rumbled around the corral when he spoke. “Keep your place, son.”

James reared back, gathered himself, then spat on the ground. “There is no place for me here.”

Silence stretched like silver cobwebs between the peeled logs surrounding the two men. Even the horse was quiet. A bushy tailed squirrel rushed up a nearby pine tree, found a limb, and held its breath. Suddenly it chattered, scolding the frozen humans, then flicked its tail as it scuttled away up the tree trunk.

“Once you leave go of that anger, your place will be as large as your brother’s. We got a big job of work ahead, son. Now settle down and let’s get back to the party.”

James stood still, his head thrown back. He was silent.

Rod scowled. “I’ve preached peace amongst my sons as long as I’ve had them. It makes the work go smoother.” He rubbed his beard. “I need you here, James, but if you can’t keep…” His voice trailed off to silence.

James squinted at his father.

Rod pulled in a breath and held it a long time before he let it go. His words came out soft as a breeze down the mountain. “Son, I reckon you’re too prideful and angry right now to keep peace. Until you get free of that, the best thing is for you to light a shuck for someplace else.”

~~~

Have you ever had such a traumatic difference of opinion with a family member that you cut yourself off from contact with them? Did you eventually come to a place in your life where you re-established that family bond? Tell us how you did it.

Q & A: Light a shuck

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.

A Matter of Tea . . . and Other Stories

Remember that fierce earthquake back in March that was followed by a huge tsunami that killed a whole bunch of Japanese folks? Well, recovery is still going on, and we can help.

My friend Charles T. Whipple put together a collection of short stories, and called it A Matter of Tea and Other Stories. First it came out as an ebook; now it's in print! All the royalties go toward relief efforts.

Charlie's still doing his part in drumming up relief funds. Here's a brief account and a photo from a benefit appearance he did recently in Tokyo.

Here's the link to CreateSpace, where you can buy the book. You might notice on that page my small contribution to the effort, an endorsement, commonly called a "blurb," for Charlie's book.

The book is affordable, less than the cost of three gallons of gas, and the money goes for an excellent humanitarian cause. Now go. Buy!

Thank you.