Saturday, March 30, 2013

Sweet Saturday Sample - March 30, 2013

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples

This week I'm posting a scene from Chapter 10 of Ride to Raton, in which James Owen meets Amparo Garcés. If you're not familiar with James, he developed a habit of using creative language to get around his father's strict prohibition of cussing. I hope you enjoy the passage on this lovely spring day.
~~~

Six little beans! James said to himself when he saw the girl. She IS prettier than Tom’s wife.

Tom engaged the priest in conversation at the front of the mission chapel while James lingered in the side aisle, arms folded, glancing over his shoulder at the girl in a pew toward the middle of the chapel.

His belly felt heavier than ever as he looked at her, sitting so shy and quiet in the corner of a pew, dressed in a simple white blouse and brown skirt, her shoulders covered by a black shawl. She was slight of build compared to Rosalinda, but well proportioned. Because she was sitting, James couldn’t easily guess her height. He waited, scuffing his boot toe against a rough hewn bench leg while Tom explained to the priest why James wanted to bother the señorita. Once he understood the problem, Padre Gallegos clucked “pobrecita” to himself and led Tom over to meet her. Tom made a “come along” gesture with his hand, and James slowly joined them to stand in the main aisle beside the pew where she sat.

While the girl talked to Tom and the priest, James examined her face. Her skin was smooth, nearly as brown as that of a bay horse, and her hair, black as a bay’s mane is black, was slicked back into a heavy coil at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were the outstanding feature, darkest brown, almost black, with long straight lashes, and they sat in the proper place alongside her straight little nose. She had a woman’s mouth. The sight of it—so full, and waiting for a husband’s kiss that would never come—made him swallow several times.

Between the three of them, they made Miss Amparo Garcés y Martínez understand why Julio Rodríguez y Guzmán was not coming for his bride.

“¿Muerto? ¿Él está muerto?”

Her whisper came from deep in her throat. The horror in her pale face made a chill finger run up James’s back, and he reached down to pat her hand. It was cold, and he wondered how he could warm it and take that awful look out of her eyes.

“I’m sorry he died,” James said, and she looked long at him with those black, deep eyes.

“¿Y qué de mí?” She didn’t turn away or blink, but asked James straight out, like he was the one with the answer to her question. He wished he knew what she had asked, but doubted that he knew the answer.

Tom came to his rescue. “She wants to know what she’s to do.”

“What do I say?” James wondered if his wild feeling of helplessness was coming through his eyes.

“Why don’t you give her the ear bobs while you think about it?” Tom gestured with his head toward the girl.

James fumbled in his pocket for the jewelry and held all of it out to the girl. She shrank back, shaking her head. “This was meant for you,” he said. “Take it.” She didn’t. James looked at Tom.

“What did I do wrong? Can you find out? Wait. Tell her I’ll take her back to her mama in Santa Fe. That’s the least thing I can do.”

Before Tom said a word, the girl whispered something in Spanish. Tom didn’t catch it, but the priest did, and told Tom what she’d said. He turned to James.

“She says it’s bad luck for her to have the ring without a husband.”

“That’s all right. I’ll hold onto it until I get her home.”

Tom told her she was going home. James watched the look on her face, her little brown face, change from fear to stubbornness. Her hands went white from holding them so tight together, and she said something right out loud. Tom looked shocked as he turned to James.

“She says she came to be a bride, and she ain’t leaving without a bridegroom. She won’t go a step until she’s married.”

“Maybe she thinks I’m taking her to my home. Make her clear on that.”

Tom and the priest talked to her again, and there were some words repeated over and over.

“She knows you mean Santa Fe, but she ain’t budging. She says she has to take a husband.” Tom took a piece of linen from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

The girl whispered, “Hize un convenio sagrado.”

Tom looked pained, his eyebrows drawn together in a black line. “She says she made a holy vow. That’s trouble aplenty, James, boy. These young gals take their religion to heart. She’ll never budge now.”

James stood next to the pew, looking from time to time at the girl. He rubbed his ear and stroked his chin, feeling how soft his beard was getting with some length to it. He looked at her hands, still white from squeezing them together. Strong little hands. Chapping a mite from the cold. Is she used to hard work, or was her life in Santa Fe an easy one?

Tom broke into the quiet. “No two ways about it. She’s got to go back where she come from. I got a wife, and the padre ain’t looking for one.” He stared up at the ceiling.

James looked down at the ring and ear bobs in his hand. He thought back to his recent experience with a wedding: the whole Owen family standing in the meadow before the priest, and James cursing to himself and wishing he was in Carl’s place. He thought of Tom, and what he’d said about Rosalinda chasing away the lonesome. I am lonesome....

No, he told himself, I’m more than lonesome. I’m hurting like all the cattle in Texas ran me down and stomped me into the dust, then dragged me through a ten-mile patch of prickly pear.

James’s rate of breathing increased to match his agitation, and, uncomfortable, he looked at the girl to distract himself. She held her chin high, looking toward the front of the church. Somehow, the sight of her calmed him, and his breathing slowly returned to normal.

She’s just a bit of a thing, he thought. She’s all alone here.

The girl turned her head, raising it at the same time, and her eyes made contact with his. For a moment he was motionless, staring into the dark brown depths, sensing extreme anguish. After a time, the girl looked away, biting her lip.

Hush my mouth, she’s got a load of pain, James thought. It ain’t likely she’s mourning that Rodríguez fellow. She never even met him. There’s some other grief weighin’ down her soul.

James looked at his hands, surprised to see that they were boxed into fists, one tightly curled over the metal ornaments. Her burden must be mighty heavy, he thought, to make her give her word to marry Rodríguez. He looked at the girl again, and thought, A little girl pretty as she is should of had six or seven young swains lined up outside her door at home.

He took a deep breath, suddenly angry. She should of picked one of them, instead of traveling all the way up here to wed a stranger. Hush, I should of married Ellen Bates before we left Virginia. By now I’d of had my own hearth and home, and maybe some young’uns like Tom’s, instead of running around the countryside getting shot to pieces and burying strangers in a creek bed.

But the chance for him to make that choice had got away from him. Maybe the same thing had happened to this girl.

James put a fist to his belly to press against a sudden sharp pain that joined the leaden lump in his gut. His movement brought the girl’s eyes around to his once more, and he wondered if her pain was anything like his.

She took a deep, quick breath, unconsciously drawing James’s attention from her face to her form.

Six little beans! A man could forget a multitude of pains if he was cuddled up in a snug cabin next to a girl the likes of this one.

Hold up, James, he told himself, pulling his runaway thoughts down to a trot with a short rein. Don’t you cheat this little girl. She’s far from home, and sitting in a mighty worrisome place. Don’t you add to her troubles by taking advantage. You said you’d see her home to her mama, and that’s where she’s going, with a second chance to get a husband from that crowd of young men outside her door.

James bit his lip, tasting warm blood as his teeth sliced through the smooth inside membrane of his mouth. He stemmed the slightly salty flow with his tongue and swallowed hard.

Then his mouth was open and he was speaking out, and his words surprised himself as much as they surprised Tom. “She came to marry a stranger. I reckon I’m as good a stranger as the next man, and better than some. Tell her I’ll stand as her bridegroom.”

Tom’s face came down in a hurry from gazing at the ceiling, and he looked hard at James, peering into his eyes. The young man stared back, standing his ground, so Tom turned to the girl and spoke.

James watched her face while Tom talked, and his message seemed to bring peace to her soul. She lowered her tight kept shoulders, and her hands returned to their normal color as she loosened those clenched fingers.

Then James wondered why it worried him to feel the pain leaving and the lump of lead dissolving out of his belly.


~~~
Thank you for visiting. Refer to the Buy Links Page above for locations to purchase Ride to Raton, or any of my work.

I love to read your comments, so if anything in the sample compels you to speak up, rest assured that I always read what you write and reply. Questions? I'm open to them, too.

Take note of the "Newsletter" tab above, and please consider signing up for my occasional newsletter, which will contain news about my books, links to original material, and special offers.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Now, use this list to go to other blogs for more Sweet Saturday Samples. I know the other authors participating in Sweet Saturday Samples enjoy comments as much as I do, so please don't be shy. Thank you!

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!

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Sweet Saturday Sample - March 23, 2013

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples

This week, I'm putting up a little bit of action for the menfolk. This excerpt is from Ride to Raton again, and features James Owen, in a bad situation. I hope you enjoy the sample.
~~~

The sun climbed overhead into a cloudless, burnished bowl of a sky. By mid-morning, a tiny hammer pounded against a miniature anvil in James’s skull. As he rode through the broken hills and undulating plains toward the first big town on the trail—Pueblo City—the size of the anvil and the hammer increased until he felt sure the thud was ringing clear to Kansas.

When James at last noticed outbuildings around him, he had to force his eyes open from the squint they’d taken on to shut out the sun’s glare radiating upward from the parched earth. He rode into the welcomed darkness of the runway of a livery barn, rubbed his burning eyes, and dismounted.

“How much to put up my horse and mule?” he asked a tow headed youth lounging on a bale of hay beside the door, just out of the sun’s reach.

“Two bits,” said the boy, poking at his broken front teeth with a sliver of wood. “That includes grain.”

James put his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out his money. “Humph,” he said, rubbing the two quarters in his hand. He gave one to the boy, then stared at the remaining coin before he slid it down into his pocket again. “Can I get a meal cheap around here?”

“The saloon down the street puts out a free lunch...for customers.”

“That’ll have to do. Where can I throw my saddles?”

The boy raised his chin toward the rear of the barn. “Tack room’s got an empty corner. I won’t charge if you haul the gear yourself.”

“I’m obliged,” James muttered. “See to it the animals get the grain.” He turned to lead them away.

“Wait a minute, mister,” called out the boy.

James looked back, raising one eyebrow.

“If you could use some work, ask the bartender for Len Strummond. I hear he’s got a job open.”

“Thanks.” James began to ask what sort of work it was, then clamped his mouth shut. What did it matter, so long as it was hard work, good and hard, and didn’t give him time to think?

He tugged on the reins, and the horse and mule shuffled forward and entered a pair of stalls. When James had stripped the saddles and packs from the animals, and carried the gear into the tack room, he picked up his war bag—the ancient brown catchall with the leather crazed like old china from the neglect the urgency of war had imposed—and walked down the runway toward the sunshine. He took four or five steps along the street in the powdery dust, then heard the youth calling him.

“Mister, wait. I forgot that saloon’s full of Yankees. You can’t go in there.”

James turned half around, anger narrowing his eyes. “That squabble’s done with,” he said, his voice gravelly. Then he spun around and continued down the street.

“It isn’t over in this town,” the boy yelled. James didn’t stop. The boy shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the barn to do his work. “Oh well, what can they do, shoot you?”

James kept walking, watching for the saloon. It loomed ahead in the middle of the block, a free-standing, unpainted lumber building, narrow in width, but standing two stories tall. Noise from the dinnertime crowd poured through two small windows in the front wall.

James shut his eyes for a moment in an attempt to ease the pain throbbing in his head. Then he pushed through the batwing doors and eased to one side of the opening, pausing to look down the long room. After a while his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the saloon, lit only by the windows and a trio of lamps hanging behind the bar.

Seven tables filled the open space of the room. Around them, diners sat in barrel and ladder backed chairs; not a seat was empty. Three or four sturdy men stood along the mahogany bar, drinking their dinner and tucking up their tails, for the crowded tables seemed to push the men against the wooden barrier. Laughter came from a door at the right of the room behind the bar, accompanied by the clink of dishware and the clatter of cutlery dropped to the floor.

The aroma of fresh baked bread teased James’s nose, and he moved into the room and threaded himself between the bar and the tables, brushing the leg of one of the drinkers with his war bag as he passed.

“Yeow!” the man yelled, gripping a half empty whiskey bottle. “That’s me sore leg.”

“I’m almighty sorry, friend. I beg your pardon,” James drawled, trying to squeeze past the man and his neighbor at the bar, who stepped into James’s path. James half-turned and backed a step into the room, facing the bar.

The first man swore, turning from the bar with a lurch. He looked at James, his eyes traveling from his hat to his boots. He spat on the floor. “Ye’re one of them ‘Suth-ren’ butternut rebels come to stink up tha place. This be a Union bar, Johnny Reb. Ye don’t come in here.”

Something cold as a chunk of river ice congealed in James’s belly as he listened to the Irish brogue that was neither pleasant nor lilting coming from the older man. As he turned to face the man’s outraged face, a chill seeped from that icy lump into every empty space in his gut, spread into his chest, then bubbled up into his shoulders and ran down inside his arms to tingle his fingertips. “The war’s over, friend.” There was a hard edge to his voice.

The man’s partner grabbed James’s shoulder. “‘Twon’t never be for Danny O’Brien,” he said, his voice whining. “He’s got a crook leg from that war, and it pains him night and day, Rebel.”

“That’s not my doing.” Irritated, James shook himself loose from the man’s grasp and backed as far as he could into the room, sensing that danger came chiefly from the man called Danny.

“Liar! Ye’re the man thet just now set it off agin,” Danny shouted, bending over to rub his injured thigh. He started to pour himself a drink with his free hand, but it shook so badly that he raised the bottle to his lips, instead, and took a deep swig of the liquor.

The tingling and the sense of danger left James, and he shrugged his shoulders. “It was an unhappy accident. I already begged pardon. Now I’ll be about my business.” He turned toward the man’s friend. “Let me pass,” he said in a curt tone of voice.

The second man backed up a step, then his eyes widened as he looked over James’s shoulder.

“No, Danny! You canna do that!”

James whirled to face the Irishman, who held the bottle in his left hand, and a revolver in his right. The blued barrel wavered, describing circles in the air between the two men.

“Ye’re going to be a’payin’ me back for my pain, Reb,” Danny growled.

James put out his hand, palm in front of him. “Friend, you picked the wrong man to rob. I’ve only two bits to my name.”

“I’ve no need a’ yer money. It’s yer blood I want, and that spilled!”

Danny twisted to his right to set the bottle on the bar. It teetered on the turned edge for a moment, then fell to the floor, the sound shattering the bustle in the room as effectively as the wood planks shattered the glass.

Silence spread in the room like ripples on the still surface of a pond, widening in circles that soon lapped against the farthest reaches of the room. Then the silence fled as men scattered, scrambling from the chairs nearest the bar to huddle against the walls.

“I’m unarmed,” James said, lifting his war bag slightly in his left hand and trying to raise saliva in his mouth. The cold and the tingle were back. He silently belabored himself for not buckling his Army model Colt around his hips when he left the cabin. Icy fingers throbbed to feel the weight of the .44 caliber weapon, which was buckled away out of reach in the carryall.

“Ye canna shoot him down like a dog, Danny,” said a cracking voice behind James. “He has no gun, man.”

“I can and I will, Liam. He’s a dog of a Rebel, and deserves no better.”

“Danny—”

“Quiet, Liam.” Danny laughed. “He’s got his stinking Rebel pride. That’s weapon enough,” he hissed.

James considered if the man was drunk enough that he would miss his shot. He’s holding pretty steady, he thought. A draining sensation sucked at his belly. This fellow wants to plow a furrow through my chest. The cold gathered in from James’s arms and shrank into a frozen lump that lodged just under his ribs. Ma, this is not the way I want to die.
Danny’s laughter was a raw sound as he drew back the hammer of the pistol. James heard the click of the action, and the snick of the cylinder moving into place.

“That’s right, Reb,” Danny whispered. “Ye’re going to pay for this leg, and all the nights I lay crying out in pain, and all the shame it brung me.” His voice rose with his fury. “And then ye’re going to pay for the wife that left me for a whole man.”

“You’re crazy,” muttered James, and his belly twisted in agony because of a girl who had left him for a broken man. Ellen. No! I can’t think of her now. He wrenched his thoughts away from the girl with the laughing green eyes. The gun stopped moving, pointed at his chest, and James whispered, “Don’t do anything foolish, Danny.” Then the muscles of his upper arms bunched as his mind rehearsed the motion of releasing the catch to the war bag.

Danny replied with a yell. He squeezed the trigger and a bullet whined over James’s left shoulder and struck the back wall of the saloon. James heard a wild cry of “No, Danny, no!” As he ducked, crouching over the war bag, tearing at the buckle, the man to his left dropped to the floor and huddled against the bar, whimpering, “Don’t do it, Danny boy.”

“He’s a damnable Rebel, Liam. This is war!” the man howled, re-cocking the pistol.

Still crouched forward, James managed to open the buckle to the bag as Danny got off another shot, yelling all the while. The lead ball caught the flesh of James’s left arm and slammed him to the floor as he yanked his pistol free.

James raised his arm, gritted his teeth, pulled back the hammer, and aimed toward the man as Danny’s third bullet struck him in the right side. He jerked the trigger. The clap of the shot smote his ears.

Danny fell against the bar, screaming, and dropped his gun as a cherry colored stain spread across his left shoulder. The man slid inch by inch down the bar to plop onto the floor as blue powder smoke swirled in the open space. James raised and cocked his gun again as several men stepped forward, muttering. Danny’s friend scuttled across the floor and bent over his fallen comrade.

“You didn’t have to shoot him, mister,” he complained. “Danny was a good man, up until Rosie left him.” He pulled out a grimy handkerchief and pressed it to the Irishman’s wound.

“He didn’t give me a choice.” Breath was coming hard against a shattered rib, and James fought to keep his wavering gun trained on the unfriendly group as he tried to sit up.

“What’s going on here?” A brawny man wearing a pistol in a belt holster and a tin star on a leather vest came through the crowd. “Drop your weapon, boy,” he said, not even bothering to draw his own gun. “I’m the law in this town.”

“The kid shot Danny,” shouted the friend.

“Is he dead?”

“No, but he’s pretty bad off.”

“I don’t think he’s dying, Connolly. I’d say the boy just clipped his shoulder. Get him down to Doc’s place.”

The marshal watched as the man’s friends carried him away, then stooped and plucked the gun from James’s hand. Blood gushed from James’s wounded side, and the man plugged his own handkerchief into the hole. “There,” he said, “That should hold you. Got a name, boy?”

“I’m James Owen,” he said, struggling against a darkness that flitted across his mind like a thousand bats’ wings brushing against his face.

“Well, James Owen, you’d best come with me,” the marshal said. “Watch it now! Looks like you’re fainting. A couple of you fellows hoist him to his feet and bring him along. Chancy, get the doc when he’s through with Danny. Tell him to meet me over to the office.”

Two men dragged James to his feet as he strained to keep his eyes open. “Where’re you takin’ me?” he muttered.

“Guess he’s still alive, boys. Haul him up a bit there. He’s unsteady on his feet.” The marshal yawned, then glanced at James. “We’ve got a nice jail to keep you snug until we find out if you’re a wanted man or just a gun brawler, boy.”

The man took a step toward the door, then turned back to look at James.

“Doc’ll be along by and by to patch you up. He don’t mind calling on his patients in a jail cell, as long as they pay him.” Then the marshal turned his back and banged his way through the doors of the saloon.


~~~
Thank you for visiting. Refer to the Buy Links Page above for locations to purchase Ride to Raton, or any of my work.

I love to read your comments, so if anything in the sample compels you to speak up, rest assured that I always read what you write and reply. Questions? I'm open to them, too.

Take note of the "Newsletter" tab above, and please consider signing up for my occasional newsletter, which will contain news about my books, links to original material, and special offers.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Now, use this list to go to other blogs for more Sweet Saturday Samples. I know the other authors participating in Sweet saturday Samples enjoy comments as much as I do, so please don't be shy. Thank you!

Friday, March 22, 2013

Move Over AZ

Did you know that it is the law in Arizona that whenever you encounter someone parked on the side of the road--whether it be an emergency vehicle, a highway patrolman, a tow truck, or a stranded motorist--you are required to slow down and move over to the next lane?

If you are unable to move over, you MUST SLOW DOWN!

Here's why:



Move Over, drivers in Arizona!

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Sweet Saturday Sample - March 16, 2013

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples

Sometimes as I read, a pure love of language sweeps me away and holds me bound in a wondrous place. I hope you experience that as you read the scene below from Ride to Raton. Some of the passages are favorites of mine . . . but as with children, you should never say for sure which is your absolute favorite. Hmm, should moms, or authors, even have favorites?

Enjoy:

James felt a shudder cross his frame. Pa was still talking. “Are you of a mind to tell me where you’re bound?”

Bound? Pa’s words kicked dirt over some of the fire of James’s rage, and he swallowed hard. Where was he bound? What could he do? A list of his skills ran past his mind—farmer, stock raiser, horse breaker, soldier—

“I don’t reckon there’s call for an infantryman anywhere about.” James bit his lip at voicing his absurd thought.

“Not likely.” Rod waited for a moment before he continued. “What’s your plan?”

“I’ll . . .” James looked around the enclosure, then raised his chin and exhaled. “I’ll dig out Uncle Jonathan’s mine.”

Rod was silent again for a time. He sniffed once. “It was a rich hole before it fell in on him.” He rubbed his beard again. “I’ll lend you a dollar or two to get you on your way. Take the sorrel and the mule and the mining gear.”

James looked at his hands. The nineteen-year-old palms were callused from years of work. The fingers were large and squared off at the tips. Worker’s hands. Hard work would help. He curled the hands into fists. “I’ll take the animals and the gear, but I won’t take your coin. I’ll work my way north.” James glanced up. Pa looks like I took a strap to him. He swallowed again. “Tell Ma I’ll miss her.” His voice seemed caught in his throat.

“Say your own good-byes,” Rod said in a voice that was tight with emotion.

“No. It’ll spoil the party for her.”

James bent, picked up his rope, and coiled it. Then he turned his back on his father, pushed the gate open, and started for the log corral beyond the main cabin, bleakness filling his belly. Ellen was gone, yoked to Carl. Ellen, with her blooming red hair and the dusting of freckles on her nose; with her crooked smile and merry laugh—ripped from him like a piece of flesh by the foreign words of a Spanish priest. The world lost its brightness as he trudged through the dust.

To his left across a creek was a small cabin—home to his oldest brother Rulon, his wife Mary, and their two babies—and to his right stood the main cabin that housed his father and mother and the children younger than himself. He went behind the bigger log house to the corral, and stooped to get under the top pole of the fence that enclosed several grazing horses.

James whistled to a light reddish brown colored horse. It continued to crop grass, although its ears swiveled in his direction. He glanced at the sun; its rays shed no warmth on him today, and he shivered as he made a loop in his rope and pitched it toward the neck of the sorrel horse.

The loop soared over the horse’s head and settled squarely on its shoulders. James walked up the rope toward the animal, talking to it in a soothing tone. He led it through the gate to the nearby shed and saddled up. When James mounted, the sorrel bucked a few times, but he rode out the kinks in the animal, then turned it toward the big shed his father called the stable.

He roused the mule from its slumber and put a pack frame on its back. In one corner of the shed lay the mining equipment four of the Owen men had brought back from a rubble filled hole at Central City that had claimed the life of Ma’s brother.

I never had no mind to go digging in the earth, James thought, squinting at the pick, shovel, and pans. Mining sure wasn’t lucky for Uncle Jonathan. He approached the pile of equipment and gave it a kick. But then, I reckon my luck ran out today. He blew out his breath between pursed lips.

James kicked the equipment again, and figured it would take two weeks of hard riding—no, it would be more like a month, working his way—to get to Central City, northwest of Denver City. And when he got there.... I’ll have to hire out to a miner until I get a grubstake together.

James loaded the tools onto the pack saddle and tied them in place. He raided the cook shack for a handful of dried meat strips and a few hard corn dodgers. With the mule’s lead rope in his hand, he mounted, and kicked the horse toward his unfinished cabin.

A few moments later, the sight of two log walls standing head high, and two others up to his hip deepened James’s gloom. After working full days at his father’s place, he had labored by lantern light to fashion a home for Ellen Bates, but she had slipped from his grasp like quick silver chased across a tabletop.

“Tarnation!” he growled as he looked at the shell of the house that now represented a future that would not be. He slid from the saddle, tied the horse and mule, and ducked under the suspended wagon sheet that roofed his bed and belongings.

James changed his clothes, rolled his bedding, and packed his personal goods into the leather carryall he’d toted during the war. He stepped through the doorway, carrying the war bag and bedding. He stopped beside a mound of logs piled up against the wall and ran his hand over the length of one he’d peeled for use inside the house. Even though the color of the wood was bleaching from bright yellow tan to gray, the piece still had a silky smooth surface that reminded him of the one time he had held Ellen in his arms and kissed her.

She had stood alone on the prairie early one morning near the end of their journey, staring as the first light of dawn revealed a mountain peak in the distant west. Pike’s Peak, it was called, and Ellen was first to spot it as she stood apart from the wagons, the wind whipping her skirt, and her hair streaming loose over her shoulder. She stretched out her arms to the mountain as though she meant to embrace it.

James had felt a quickening of his pulse at the sight of her, a dryness of the throat, a quivering of the sinews that surprised him, as he hadn’t to then felt more than fondness for her. With swift, light strides he went to her and stepped into the circle of her arms. A peculiar look widened her eyes as his mouth came down toward hers, but her lashes descended and shut it away from his view.

Wondrous sensations warmed his veins as James kissed the trembling girl. His arms enfolded her. His hands crept across her shoulders and through her hair until he held her face between them. Only then did he notice her hands pushing gently against his chest. She rolled her head out of his grasp and opened her green, green eyes.

“No, James. Please don’t,” she whispered, and was gone from his arms.

She’s modest, he thought. That’s good and proper. Then he chastised himself. Do your wooing in private, James.

Since that day, he’d kept the memory of the feel of her cheeks in his fingertips, marveling at the softness of a woman’s skin. Now he would never touch her again, and cold flowed down his body as though he had stepped naked under an icy waterfall.

James pressed his lips together and drew his knife, looking at the keen edge of the blade, the finely-honed point. He drew the blade along the meat of the edge of his palm. It was sharp, as always, leaving a thin bead of crimson. A dark thought fluttered in his mind, but he pushed it away and cut the wagon sheet free of the thongs that held it in place above the log walls. He spread the canvas cloth on the packed earth, wrapped all the gear inside, and tied it atop the mule’s packsaddle. Then he mounted up and put the horse onto the trail.

North. Up through Pueblo to Denver City. Then to Central City. I got to put distance between me and Ellen’s eyes.

James settled the horse into a lope for a bit over a mile, then reined in to cross the stream that ran slowly down from behind Carl’s cabin. As he rode through the water without stopping, not looking toward the house on the wooded bench of land to his left, he glanced at his fists. They were balled tight as caterpillar cocoons.

Eyes green as the spring grass, filled with flecks of gold and maidenly modesty. Eyes to lose my soul in.

The horse scrambled up the slope of the bank, the saddle lurched back onto the horse’s croup, and James halted to check the front cinch. He dismounted, raised the stirrup leather, and adjusted the knot on the latigo, but the work didn’t quiet a rage that burned like a prairie fire within: rage against Carl, and against Pa. He cursed his father and brother. If he never set eyes on this range again, he would rest easy. But the horse wheeled when James climbed into the saddle, and his gaze caught Carl’s little house tucked in among the trees.

A chill rose up his spine, lifting the hair on the back of his neck. I am a blind fool, he berated himself, then shouted, “Girl, I would’ve loved you!”

He gigged the horse into a lope through the broken countryside. The mule followed, braying in protest. James merely tightened his grip on the lead rope and lowered his head over the horse’s mane.

James stopped twice to let the animals breathe, cool down, and drink. Other than that, he pushed forward, heedless of the approaching dusk. A last gleam of light streaked the sky, and night lay in wait to engulf the three of them when he finally turned off the trail.

He found a flat area covered with buffalo grass that lay next to a stream of water. His raw anger had abated somewhat, and he tended the animals carefully, removing saddles, packs and head gear. He checked hooves for stones, and led the animals down to the water. While he waited for them to drink, he dabbed at the dried blood on his arm with a water soaked bit of handkerchief. After he hobbled them, he turned them out to graze. When he’d eaten his handful of supper, he lay down with his hat over his eyes and fought his nightmares for an hour’s worth of sleep.


Thank you for visiting. Refer to the Buy Links Page above for locations to purchase Ride to Raton, or any of my work.

Take note of the "Newsletter" tab above, and please consider signing up for my occasional newsletter, which will contain news about my books, links to original material, and special offers.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Now, use this list to go to other blogs for more Sweet Saturday Samples. I know the other authors enjoy comments as much as I do, so don't be shy.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Blog Tour: Another Visit with YA Author Tamara Hart Heiner

I last interviewed Tamara Hart Heiner back on June 21 of 2012 when her previous YA book, Altercation, come out. Now her new book, Inevitable, is being spotlighted in a blog tour.

Tamara lives in Arkansas with her husband and three children, two crazy boys and one pretty little princess. She used to spend a lot of time writing until she had a baby and discovered Facebook. Now you'll often find her on there pretending to have a social life.

She graduated from Brigham Young University with a degree in English. She is also the author of Perilous, the prequel to Altercation. Besides writing, she enjoys all things food, especially baking. You can find out more about what she is writing, and catch deleted scenes from her books on her blog, Chasing Dreams. She also has a Book Giveaway going until April 2, 2013, at Goodreads.com.

Here's the description of Inevitable:


Visions of death plague Jayne, who thinks watching her boyfriend die is the worst that could happen to her. But when she witnesses a murder, Jayne finds herself caught up in a dangerous world of intrigue and suspense.

As it turns out, she is not the only one doing the stalking. The killer is on to her, and all of her visions of the dying don't reveal how her life will end. Somehow, she must stop the murderer before he arranges Jayne's own inevitable death.


That sounds intriguing, and scary! Let's see what Tamara has to say.

ME: Hello again, Tamara. Thank you for being my guest today. If you could give your book to only one person, who would it be and why?

THH: Probably my husband. I'd want him to see what I'd written.

ME: I guess our spouse is always the first person we authors want to impress. I understand you outline your books before you begin writing them. Some writers start their books at the beginning and keep on going until they reach the end, or write linearly. Others start with a scene in the middle and jump around in their writing until they have enough material to edit together. How do you write your books?

THH: I always outline each chapter first. My outlines are basic to allow for flexibility, but it's important for me to know I have enough material for a book and how the book is going to end. If I have multiple point-of-view characters, I write their stories at one time so that I can immerse myself in their thoughts and voices before moving on to the next.

ME: That's an interesting way of getting the job done. Do you have a particular goal you aim to achieve with your writing?

THH: Um... Not really. Finishing is always very important. :)

ME: Absolutely! When we can do that, we're taking a big first step out of the ranks of the want-to-be-authors. Tell me, do you write with music playing? If so, is the music likely to be songs with lyrics or only instrumentals?

THH: No. I need complete silence when I'm writing. Music distracts me.

ME: Me too. I can listen to music to set the mood, but once I begin writing, I have to turn the music off. What would you say is the most challenging part to you about being an author?

THH: Finding time, energy, and desire to market. It would be nice if we could just keep on writing while our books get bought up by people.

ME: [laughing] Wouldn't that be marvelous? How do you want to be remembered, 1) as an author; 2) as a person?

THH: I'm already pretty well known as a person. It would be nice to have everyone see me as an author.


ME: Thank you again, Tamara. Good luck with your book sales!

Inevitable is available on Amazon.com, Smashwords.com, Barnes & Noble.com, and Kobobooks.com

Saturday, March 09, 2013

Sweet Saturday Sample - March 9, 2013

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples

Although I sometimes take on the role of pure point-of-view Nazi, I believe at times a scene may call for a more relaxed style of managing point-of-view. As long as an author does not send a reader into a fit of kicking and screaming and throwing the book because the whole is so horribly confusing that she can't continue, it's good. However, changing and blending point-of-view for a more "fly-on-the-wall" outlook takes skill, plus a good helping of awareness of breaking the rules, to carry it off well.

This piece also illustrates several writing techniques I used, such as sensory writing, that is, the use of the five senses to bring the scene to life, as well as a bit of narrative writing. I also purposely quit italicizing foreign words when the reader would have become accustomed to seeing them. This was to let the italicized thoughts take center stage.

I hope you enjoy the scene.
~~~


Sunrise fanned golden rays into the eastern sky as the horses ridden by Don Enrique Olmedo y Landa and Amparo Garcés y Martínez cantered into the Cuchara River Valley near Leones. The Don had pushed on through the night to get the girl to the mission priest on this, the twenty sixth day of October. Although the girl was weary, Don Enrique’s sense of honor and the memory of his friend, Tomás Garcés y Vega, demanded that he discharge this duty before he continued with his own business.

Covered with dust and chilled to the bone, the girl blinked her eyes to clear them, and a shudder ran through her slender frame as she reined in her horse on a flat section of the river bank. An icy breeze blew, causing the bare branches of the cottonwoods along the river to rub together. Hundreds of birds twittered in the trees, greeting the new day. The river was as dry as Amparo’s mouth.

Santa María, we are nearing the place of my sacrifice. Please, Holy Mother, petition your Beloved Son that He will accept my dear papá into His bosom.

Don Enrique wheeled his horse and came back for the girl, a frown drawing his moustache-covered mouth downward into his beard. “Señorita, what is the trouble? Why have you stopped?”

Amparo turned her anxious face toward the tall, gaunt man. “Please, señor. Permit me a moment to compose myself. Today this place marks the beginning of my new life. I need a little moment.”

The stern face softened. “Poor girl. I understand. However, we must still ride a small distance to arrive at the village. We can stop before we meet the priest, if you like. Be quick, señorita.”

“I am now ready.” The girl sighed, then took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “We will continue, Don Enrique.” Amparo lifted the reins and clucked to her horse, and it moved up to follow the caballero and his pack mules.

All along the road, dust lay thick upon the brush. The trees thinned out as they went upstream, until, when they entered the village, there were no trees in sight.

Don Enrique led the way through the square to the whitewashed mission. There he dismounted and tethered his horse and the mules to a post embedded in the ground in front of the church. Amparo sat stiffly on her mount, trying to keep wisps of hair loosened from her braid from blowing into her face.

“Wait here, señorita. I will rouse the holy Father.” Then he was off, around the back of the church, where Amparo presently heard him pounding the knocker on the door of the priest’s lodgings.

The girl shivered as the sound died away. A large flake of whitewash drifted to the ground from the wall alongside the church door. Off to her right a rooster crowed. A barking dog chased a shadow into the square, then retreated to raise its leg against the side of a house.

Blessed Mother, are the people friendly in this village? Is my bridegroom truly a good man? I wonder if he will receive me kindly.

A pair of voices exchanged messages at the rear of the church. Then Don Enrique came around the corner, followed by a round-shouldered priest who carried a large key.

“Is this the señorita?” The priest gestured toward Amparo, then continued talking to Don Enrique. “I know nothing of her plans. The convent you speak of is quite a distance away, and I do not have any connection with the Sisters there.”

Don Enrique plucked at his beard. “This is most extraordinary. The señora said I was to bear the girl to you and deliver her upon this date, and that you would have made arrangements for her.”

The priest approached Amparo’s horse and looked up at her. “Little daughter,” he said gently, “I am Father Gallegos. Can you explain? I was expecting that a bride would arrive from Santa Fe by today.”

“My Father, this talk of a convent is foreign to me. Señor Fuentes made arrangements to send me here. I am the bride whom you seek.” Amparo’s hands gripped the reins, yet she could not feel them for the numbness in her fingers from the cold breeze blowing through the square.

Satisfied with her answer, Father Gallegos nodded and reached up to pat her hand. “Good. I look forward to the arrival of Don Julio this afternoon. He is anxious to meet you.” He gestured toward the church. “He has had the banns published, and all is in readiness for the ceremony.”

“Listen, what is going on?” queried Don Enrique. “You both talk as though this child is going to wed a stranger.”

The priest turned his head. “That is the case, my son. You may be at ease. Don Julio is a fine man, and will take good care of the señorita.”

“This is incomprehensible! Totally impossible!” Don Enrique’s voice rose a notch in both pitch and volume. “The señora told me the girl was to enter holy orders.”

“Is there any order holier than matrimony, my son? She will have a fine home, servants at her beck and call, all that she needs or desires.”

“I cannot permit it! I was her father’s closest friend! ¡Ay! He would not approve of such a ridiculous plan!” he sputtered. “Don Tomás would turn in his—”

“Don Enrique, please,” Amparo broke in. “I do this thing of my own free will.” She brushed a strand of wind-blown hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“Child, you cannot know what you are doing.” Don Enrique’s face creased in a frown of solicitude.

Amparo sat up straight in her saddle. “Believe me, señor. It is what I wish. Please do not interfere.”

The caballero threw his hands into the air. “I see that the girl has made up her mind, but when I return to Santa Fe, the señora will bear the weight of my most strenuous disapproval. The woman misled me!”

Father Gallegos laid his hand on the Don’s arm. “We cannot know her mind, my son. You must be guided by charity when you speak to the señora. Peace be unto you.”

Don Enrique turned abruptly and strode to Amparo’s mount. “In view of your coming marriage, I will leave you the mule that bears your equipage as a gift, señorita. I cannot delay my departure longer.” He helped the girl to the ground, then turned to the pack mules and separated one from the bunch. He put the lead rope into Amparo’s hand, untethered and mounted his horse, and settled himself into the saddle. “If I had more time, I would not permit this travesty to take place,” he said gruffly, then, leaning out of his saddle, said to the priest, “As I am behind times, it must be as the girl wishes.” He turned back to Amparo and doffed his great embroidered hat. “Adiós, little one. Go with God.” Then Don Enrique re-covered his head, wheeled his horse, and rode out of the village in a great amber cloud of dust.

Father Gallegos took the lead rope from Amparo and tied the mule to the hitching post. She got her horse by the bridle, tugged it to the post, and tied it alongside the mule. The priest put his key into the lock of the church door, turned it, and threw wide the portals. “Come with me, my daughter. I will get a boy to care for your animals and bring in your luggage. You can rest in the chapel until Señora Clara arrives. She is my housekeeper, and I have no doubt that she can find you a place to wash and change your clothes.” He moved into the darkness of the doorway, then returned when Amparo did not follow him directly into the church. “Come in, little one. The Señora will be here soon. Now I must go prepare for the mass.”

“Gracias, my Father. Is there a place where I can sleep? The señor was anxious to conclude my journey by today, so we were obliged to ride all night.”

“Poor little one. Señora Clara will know such things. I will send her to you the instant she arrives. In the meantime, please sit in the chapel and rest.”

The priest escorted Amparo into the little church, and she bent her knee before the Host. Soon she was seated in a dark corner of the chapel, and before long, her head nodded until it touched the enclosed side of the pew, and she slept.

~~~

Thank you for visiting. Refer to the Buy Links Page above for locations to purchase Ride to Raton, or any of my work.

Take note of the "Newsletter" tab above, and please consider signing up for my occasional newsletter, which will contain news about my books, links to original material, and special offers.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Now, use this list to go to other blogs for more Sweet Saturday Samples. I know the other authors enjoy comments as much as I do, so don't be shy.

Friday, March 08, 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.

Saturday, March 02, 2013

Sweet Saturday Sample - March 2, 2013

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples.Sometimes, I think, beginning writers don't give their characters a good strong motivation for their actions. When that happens, the characters can be inconsistent, sometimes doing bizarre things without apparent reason. One of my characters, young Amparo Garcés in Ride to Raton, had ample motivation for her actions:
~~~

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.

~~~

Thank you for visiting. Refer to the Buy Links Page above for locations to purchase Ride to Raton, or any of my work.

Take note of the "Newsletter" tab above, and please consider signing up for my occasional newsletter, which will contain news about my books, links to original material, and special offers.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Now, use this list to go to other blogs for more Sweet Saturday Samples. I know the other authors enjoy comments as much as I do, so don't be shy.
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