Saturday, January 30, 2016

Sample Saturday: The Zion Trail

Welcome to Sample Saturday!

I'm pleased to report that formatting is finished for the ebook version of The Zion Trail, and it only lacks some "publisher" work before it is released next month. See that box over to the right? The one that says, "Enter your email address..." That is where you subscribe to my Readers Mailing List so you will be among the first to learn the Launch Date of this brand new novel.

Am I excited? Maybe not as much as when the house on the hillside behind my house burned to the ground on Tuesday night, but that's a different kind of excitement (more like terror).


Instead, I am excited in a good way.

I'm also excited that the final version of the ebook cover is finished. Here. It. Is:


See the tag line? Guess what that means.

Enough suspense. Here's the sample for today. The Marshall family is about to make a huge change in their lives:
~~~

Late one night I awoke to use the chamber pot and heard my mother sobbing to my father that she could no longer bear to live here. The next morning, he presented us with a plan: instead of continuing to figure out how to plant crops this season, at the end of March we would gather to Zion, which meant we would begin a journey to Nauvoo, Illinois, on the banks of the Mississippi River.

Oh, the fuss and feathers that flew over that scheme! Sarah refused to go, crying the night through and arising with swollen, red eyes and a severe attitude not much mended by sleep. I had no patience with her. Taxed by all that had occurred, even the thought of losing my field did not deter my hope that another place—any place—would be better than this one.

Pa and John and I bore the brunt of carrying out the plan in the limited time until March thirty-first. Ma was still too weak to participate in much of the work, Mary Eliza was too young, and Sarah refused to perform any labor having to do with our removal. Accordingly, Pa tasked me with many kitchen chores. I therefore learned to accomplish many housewifely chores, and didn’t regret a minute of it.

John found my cheerfulness in the kitchen to be strange, and ragged me about it unmercifully. I didn’t care. I was desperate to get to Zion. If cooking and cleaning up and doing whatever I could to make it possible was unmanly, I simply did not care. Who was to notice? We had no visitors, no nearby kin, no one to wonder at my unnatural education in kitchen skills.

Only one thing chafed me: sharing kitchen time with Sarah. Although I wondered where my former compassion for my sister had gone, I had grown impatient with her constant haranguing against my faith, and her adamant refusal to obey our father. In my mind, she lived under her father’s roof; therefore, she owed him obedience.
~~~


Okay, what do you think is going to happen next?

Go sign up for the Readers Mailing List over there at the top of the right sidebar. See you next week!


Saturday, January 23, 2016

Sample Saturday: The Zion Trail

Welcome to Sample Saturday!

Before I get started with a tidbit from The Zion Trail, I'd like to report that I've finished writing the novel and the editing is complete. That means the production work, that is, ebook formatting, is underway. All you have to do is go over to that box at the top of the right column and sign up for my Readers Mailing List so you will know the exact date on which a shiny new ebook will be available. (Enjoy the special bonus novel you get for subscribing, while you wait for the new one.)

You may notice there's a Contact Form below that. If you prefer to hold a book in your hands for reading, it's a good idea for you to also use that form to tell me you'll buy a print edition, because unless I know there is a demand for a physical book, it won't happen, folks. Use one or both of those forms today!

Back to the Sample. In this tidbit, Lije Marshall's mother has sent him to the barn to retrieve his little sister, Mary Eliza, because it's lunch time (called "dinner," according to the naming-of-meals at the time, which is 1843 in rural Pennsylvania).
~~~

“Mary Eliza, Ma wants you,” I called into the vastness of the barn. My voice echoed a bit, then I heard my name whispered. The sound came from above me. I went toward the ladder that led upward and into the loft, fear blending with anger. Mary Eliza was forbidden to climb the ladder, for she was only three years old, and the height was dangerous if she fell.

I started up the ladder. When my head came level with the loft floor, I saw my sister a foot away, arms clasped around a beam, hugging it for all she was worth.

The sight of my plump sister clutching the beam cleansed the anger and the fear in my heart. In the midst of the instantaneous wash of relief, I asked, “Pumpkin, what are you doing? It's time for dinner. Come over here and Lije will give you a horsey ride.”

“Lije, I scared.” Her voice shook so that I hardly recognized it. “I scared,” she repeated, remaining frozen to the beam.

“Here, now,” I said, climbing slowly up the rest of the ladder. “Lije will come up and get you out of this dusty old loft.”

I put out my hand to lift myself over the lip of the loft, and she closed her eyes and screamed.

~~~


What on earth is the matter with that girl? What do you think has alarmed her? Comment below.

As you wait for next week's Sample, go ahead and buy one of my short stories. The Usual Game takes a look at a working man in the early days of the State of Arizona, who does something unusual one night after work. Get it from one of the vendors below:

The Usual Game (An Arizona Short Story) is available at the following online retailers: Smashwords all formats | Kindle | nook | Kobo | iTunes Bookstore

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Sample Saturday: Mended by Moonlight

Welcome to Sample Saturday! In this scene from Mended by Moonlight, which I expect to release in July of this year, Ella Ruth Allen has been obliged by her mother to accompany her on a social visit. Ella Ruth is a widow, who thinks never to marry again.
~~~

Mended by Moonlight
Ella Ruth sat in Mrs. Patience Costain's parlor, wondering if she was expected to say anything to the woman, or if Momma would carry the burden of the conversation.

So far, all she had been required to do was nod and attempt to smile, and drink sweet tea as she nibbled on a cookie. Then Mrs. Costain turned her body slightly in Ella Ruth's direction.


"Have you been widowed for long, my dear?"


Ella Ruth's hand shook and she hastened to set down her tea cup. "More than six months, ma'am."


The woman smiled brightly at her. "Oh. Isn't it about time you looked for another husband?"


The woman's words sent shock cascading through her body until it left her numb. Ella Ruth attempted to subdue the anger that followed. She drew in a large volume of air, then answered slowly. "I do not feel haste is in order, ma'am."

"But six months! If you wait much longer, all the eligible men will be snapped up."


"Many of our men have died, ma'am," Ella Ruth pointed out, her back so stiff that pain radiated into her.


"Oh, but I expect many a young man from the North to arrive presently, seeking a new place to make a start. My husband has several excellent properties to offer. Who else can afford to buy them?"


Although she tried to master it, Ella Ruth's outrage must have been apparent to her mother, for she quickly gave an answer.


"I'm sure my daughter will seek a husband when she is ready, Mrs. Costain." She set down her own cup and brushed at her lap. "I thank you for the pleasant visit. We must be on our way." She rose and beckoned to Ella Ruth. "Come, my dear. We have other visits to make."


Departing as rapidly as she could, Ella Ruth waited on the stoop for her mother to bid Mrs. Costain farewell, then accompanied her to the buggy.


"The nerve of that woman," Momma said, tossing her head with enough force to make the feathers on her hat dance.


Ella Ruth took her hand and pressed it. Momma had some sympathies for her after all.

~~~

Thank you for visiting. My next novel, The Zion Trail, will be published in February, 2016. The initial release will be as an ebook. If my Readers show there is sufficient demand, I will create a print edition. See below how to let me know. *


To receive notice of the exact date when The Zion Trail will be published, along with news about releases of other books, novellas, and short stories, and to learn of special offers and sales, click here to join my Readers email list. In your inbox, you will also get instructions on how to download a free ebook copy of my last novel, Gone for a Soldier! Click Now!

* Contact me using the Contact Form in the right sidebar to tell me you'll purchase The Zion Trail as a print book. I look forward to hearing from you!


Saturday, January 09, 2016

Sample Saturday: War Party

I wasn't sure I would be able to post something for today, because I've had at least five power outages during this week of snow storms. But yay! The power is on for now, and as I warm back up, I'm going to share part of a short story called War Party, set in Arizona.

It recounts a tragedy that led up to a fictional participation in an actual event, the Battle of Salt River Canyon at Skeleton Cave in Arizona Territory. Here's the first scene.
~~~


$0.99 at Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle store.

War Party, Scene 1


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After you give your answer, be sure to go buy the story to learn what happens to Rolla:

Smashwords in all ebook formats| Kindle

Saturday, January 02, 2016

Sample Saturday: The Zion Trail

Welcome to Sample Saturday. This scene is an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, The Zion Trail, which will be available in ebook format early next year. The Marshall family has been away from their farm for several days to attend a church service. Caution: Mormon beliefs are briefly discussed in this excerpt.
~~~

When we crested the ridge and entered our valley, the air held a smoky bite. It was like stepping into a smokehouse. I wondered what had occurred in our absence, and I knew Pa was on the alert.

Then, as we passed Jeremiah Rommel's farmstead, the man stepped into the road and called to Pa.

“There's trouble, James,” he said in his thick German accent.

Pa pulled up the horses, and Mr. Rommel came to Pa's side of the wagon and motioned him to descend. They walked off a few paces, so I didn't hear what they discussed, but Pa's sudden cry of “What?” rang in my memory for weeks afterwards.

The previous day, masked marauders appeared as Mr. Rommel slopped our hogs at dusk, hogs we had planned to butcher soon. The raiders shot the hogs, killed the chickens, pushed Mr. Rommel into a ditch, then fired the barn. Fired the barn! I imagined the frantic lowing of the cows as they shoved against the confining walls of the stalls, slowly choking on the thick smoke of the burning corn and wheat, and finally roasting to death in the conflagration.

How can I tell of the sorrow, of the overwhelming loss? I cannot bear to recount it. The only glimmer of light amid the smoky pall of destruction was the contents of the root cellar. And yet, we could not survive on vegetables alone. Without the hog meat, the chickens and eggs, the milk and occasional beef, we would starve.

That appeared to be the intention of our foes. There was no credit to be had at the mercantile establishments. We had no surplus foodstuffs to trade for implements to replace the plowshares, hoes, harrows, and other equipment lost in the fire. Harnesses, rope, buckets, barrels, feed—all was gone, and we were left no way to get more.

Pa and I tried to hire ourselves out for any work we could feasibly do. No one with jobs available wanted a Mormon or two working on their place.

On one particularly discouraging day, I reminded my father of the story of young Nephi, who, when his bow lost its spring and his family similarly faced starvation, turned to God for enlightenment. Pa went still for several moments, his face taking on a solemn aspect, and then he agreed that we must use all powers at our disposal. His hand on my shoulder was more praise than words could have said.

We fasted—of necessity, but also with faith and prayer—to find answers to our critical lack of food. Pa finally resorted to using kitchen implements to melt down the pewter candlesticks for shot, while I begged the neighbors for chicken dung so we could manufacture gunpowder. When we had gathered a meager store of both, he and I went hunting, stressed almost to the breaking point by the knowledge that every shot must count. In that manner, I learned to be a marksman.

Using our utmost ingenuity, we crafted snares, and trapped foxes and smaller fur-bearing animals. When we could find no buyers for the skins, we used them to clothe ourselves.

I shot a deer, and Pa brought down a fat bear that had become a neighborhood nuisance from visiting folks' garbage pits. With the meat portioned out on a strict schedule, we hoped to keep our bodies and souls together until spring.
~~~

Thank you for visiting. The Zion Trail will be published early in 2016 as an ebook, and if there is sufficient demand, in print. * To keep up-to-date on when The Zion Trail will be published, along with other new releases, and to learn of special offers and sales, click here to join my Readers email list. In your inbox, you will also receive instructions on how to download a free ebook of my last novel, Gone for a Soldier.

* Contact me using the Contact Form at the right to indicate your desire to purchase The Zion Trail as a print book.

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