Writer in the Pines

Sweet Saturday Sample: Thumps and Losers

2012-01-28T00:07:00.008-07:00

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples! Because I have made a reputation as a writer of Western tales, folks might think I never have written anything in any other form or genre. On the contrary, I can write short works in other time periods. This week I'm giving two samples, one from each of the two short stories in my ebook, Thumps and Losers.

Thumps in the Night

Two thumps awakened Muriel Harris in the night. She clutched the covers to her chin, wishing Mel hadn’t had to leave on a business trip the day after they’d moved to the country.

The thump came again, louder this time, followed by a screech of metal against metal. Muriel reached for the flashlight she’d put on the bedside table because the worker from the rural electric company hadn’t made it out to their place to turn on the electricity yet. She cursed her carelessness in leaving her cell phone on the patio.

The smooth metal flashlight felt cool in her hand as she got out of bed, but before she could switch on the beam, the flashlight slipped out of her shaking fingers and crashed to the floor. Muriel went to her knees in the dark, feeling around for the flashlight, but it was not to be found.

A clatter of metal came from the kitchen, and Muriel jumped to her feet. What was out there?

Losers Weepers

“Mom,” cried ten-year-old Bobby Brown as he rushed in the door from school. “Guess what I found on the street! It’s a wallet, Mom, and there’s a lot of money in it.”

Thelma Brown put down the iron and brushed back the hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. She looked on as Bobby opened the wallet and spread out the cash on the worn kitchen table. “Money, huh? Where’d you find all this money?”

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On US Kindle Store

On UK Kindle Store

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Sweet Saturday Sample: War Party

2012-01-21T00:12:00.004-07:00

Welcome to Sweet Saturday Samples. Here's just a mouthful of my short story based on a real event, War Party:

War Party

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.

~~~

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Interview and Prizes

2012-01-19T12:55:00.000-07:00

Not here on my blog. The Interview is of me, though, and it's on the Mormon Mommy Writers Blog. Nikki Wilson asked me for the Interview to go along with a fabulous offering from American Night Writers Association (ANWA), and a couple of my ebooks that I'm giving away, to celebrate the third anniversary of the MMW blog. I got that gig because I am the founder of ANWA, and she wanted to know all about the origins and growth of the organization.

Coming soon: I'll have a couple of book reviews in the next few months, as well as Sweet Saturday Samples each weekend, so come back often. Thank you!

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt from Cottonwood Cowboys

2012-01-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

I can't believe how fast the first two weeks of January have flown by! And that I completely forgot to post my Sweet Saturday Sample after I signed up to participate. I'm very sorry. Here is an excerpt from my short story, Cottonwood Cowboys, available as a ebook at all Kindle stores, or at Smashwords.com in many ebook formats.

---

Cottonwood Cowboys

The week ran along fine until Thursday night.

Then the big cottonwood came crashing down on the corral.

It about ruined my weekend.

I guess I didn’t mind so much that I was stuck on the two-man saw with Curly, but Saturday afternoon working toward evening was a poor time to pull tree clearing duty, especially this Saturday, with the dance all laid out at the school house, and a new schoolmarm to gaze at.

I reckon it wasn’t Curly’s fault; there wasn’t a finer hand than Curly, except maybe for me, on the whole Four Rivers, Arizona, spread. It was just that I was itching to get to that dance, having caught a beforehand sign of that schoolmarm when last I was in town.

The trouble was, Curly was just as anxious to get duded up and out to the school house as I was, and I didn’t want him to get an edge on me.

I guess it weren’t Amos Ramsey’s fault neither. But I sure cussed him some under my breath while I worked that saw back and forth as fast as I could stand. Old Amos owned the Four Rivers Ranch, and I thought sure he was going to leave that old, rotten tree for another day or two, seeing as how it had been laying there since the storm brought it down on Thursday night, and he hadn’t seen fit to give orders to clear it away.

Old Amos changed his mind along about Saturday noon, and decided he surely could use some firewood from that stringy tree, and while Curly and me were at it, we might as well clear the whole mess from the corral. And after that, if we didn’t mind, we could fix the section of fence that got mashed with the tree atop it.

“Tarnation,” I said, along with a few other little things, once Old Amos was safely out of earshot. “I reckon I hired on to do just about anything, as long as it could be done from the back of a horse.”

Curly growled something in reply, and yanked on the handle of the saw.

“Well, I allow as how I hate to dig postholes about as bad as anything,” I came back.

Curly wasn’t thrilled, neither.

---

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Special Offer: The Owen Family Saga Sampler

2011-12-27T17:11:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt Eight from Ride to Raton

2011-12-17T00:01:00.011-07:00

This is our last Sweet Saturday Sample of the year; we’ll return for the second weekend in January 2012. Watch here for new samples beginning on January 14.

In this excerpt from Ride to Raton, we get a glimpse into Amparo's thoughts on the matter of marrying a replacement for her dead bridegroom.

~~~

When the men had gone, Amparo sat alone in the chapel once more, letting the events of the last half hour flood over her. Her bridegroom was dead—another had taken his place. A shudder shook her frame, and she bit her lip.

Madre de Dios, he is Anglo. He does not speak my language.

Amparo fingered the smooth wooden beads of her mother’s rosary. Yet...he has a kind aspect. There is strength in the shape of his face, but there is gentleness in his eyes. She held the cross to her cheek, then brought it to her lips and kissed it. Beloved Mother, if I must marry a stranger—and that is my vow—can there be some little hope for tenderness? Can he come to care for me?

The girl clasped her hands under her bowed head, slid forward to kneel on the hard wooden prayer bench, and whispered several “Ave Marías”. When she had finished, she rose from the bench and left the pew.

Amparo looked for the priest in his room at the back of the chapel. He was not there, but she found him at the front door, looking out into the square with a troubled look on his face. She touched his robe, and he turned to her.

“My Father, the Anglos are gone.”

“Yes. They will come again later. Little daughter, the young one has agreed to kneel beside you this evening and become your master. I will bless this union with him only if you wish it.” Father Gallegos pursed his lips. “There is rebellion in his soul.”

Amparo bowed her head so the priest could not see her eyes. Dearest Mary, I think it is pain.

The priest lifted her chin. “You do not agree? Tell me your heart, little one.”

Amparo looked up into the kind brown eyes of the padre. “He seems to be a good man, my Father. Although he is a stranger and an Anglo, he felt obligation to tell me of Señor Rodríguez’s death. He does not want me to be alone in a strange place. These things are good.”

“I wonder if he will accept the burden of marriage for long, my child.”

The girl looked at the priest for a long time. Without my sacrifice my papá will suffer for eternity, she thought. She looked out at the dusty square, at the women disappearing into their adobe houses, carrying their clean laundry in baskets on their heads. They all have homes, husbands, families. Amparo straightened her shoulders.

“I have come a long distance, my Father. There is nothing for me at home. I will give myself to the Anglo and pray that I will not be a burden to him.”

The priest touched Amparo on the forehead. “You are young, my child. He is young. Where there is youth, there is hope. Go now and prepare.”

Amparo bent her head and kissed the priest’s hand. Then she walked toward the tiny storage room that had become her refuge. She closed the door behind her and leaned on it.

Holy Mother, there is a stirring within me. Almost, I feel happy, almost, I feel at peace. Let this feeling lift me up and sustain me, Blessed Mary, for this night I must go to the Anglo’s bed.
~~~

I hope you have enjoyed these excerpts from Ride to Raton. The novel is available from Smashwords.com in many electronic book formats, and from Amazon.com in print and Kindle editions. Also available at Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, Amazon.es and Amazon.it. Use the search term "Marsha Ward"

~~~

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Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt Seven from Ride to Raton

2011-12-10T00:31:00.020-07:00

Sorry, I used the new blogger interface to do this post, and it clearly did not like me, so I've had to re-do it. Good thing I stayed up late!

The time has come to see what happened at the mission church when James met Amparo. Enjoy this excerpt from Ride to Raton. I surely did enjoy writing it.
~~~

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. And 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. But 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.

~~~

Ride to Raton is available from Smashwords.com in many electronic book formats, and from Amazon.com in print and Kindle editions. Also available at Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, Amazon.es and Amazon.it. Search term: "Marsha Ward"

~~~

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December 7, 1941

2011-12-07T12:25:00.001-07:00

President Franklin D. Roosevelt called it a date which will live in infamy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6ScDXwYjWA&feature=related

*The Presidential Address to Congress of December 8, 1941 was delivered at 12:30 p.m. that day to a Joint Session of Congress by United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt, one day after the Empire of Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor Naval Base, Hawaii. The name derives from the first line of the speech: Roosevelt describing the previous day as "a date which will live in infamy".

Within an hour of the speech, Congress passed a formal declaration of war against Japan and officially brought the U.S. into World War II.

Remember Pearl Harbor!

Enough said.

* Thanks, Wikipedia.

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt Six from Ride to Raton

2011-12-03T00:01:00.002-07:00

After exchanging news with Tom O'Connor, James Owen gets down to the business at hand in this excerpt from Ride to Raton.

~~~

James inhaled the spicy odor of the beans, put aside his thoughts, and finished his meal. Then he brought out the letter.

“What’s that you have there, James, boy?”

James recounted his adventure up the country and explained what he intended to do. “This letter was in the man’s jacket, and it’s writ in a clear hand, but it’s writ in Spanish. I can’t make it out,” he finished.

Tom put out his paw for the paper. “I read a little of the lingo, and if I can’t make it out, Rosalinda can. Or, we can take it to her pa.”

“I’m obliged,” James said, handing over the letter. “The fellow was decked out in his best clothes. Carried these, too.” He took out the leather sack and emptied the jewelry onto the table. The gold ring spun around on the polished tabletop with a whirring noise, then came to rest, and the ear bobs glittered in a heap nearby.

Rosalinda swooped down on the ring and held it to the light. “Es un anillo nupcial,” she said.

“It’s a wedding ring,” Tom explained. “Likely the man was on his way to get married. These here,” he lifted the ear bobs, “these here pretties look like the presents men folk around here give their brides.” He turned his attention to the letter.

Up to this moment the situation had seemed sad enough, but hadn’t overly disturbed James. Of a sudden a great wash of melancholy come upon him. That poor fellow he’d planted was stuck up there in the ground without tasting the happiness he’d planned for, and some little girl was waiting for him, all a flutter, like as not, never even knowing she should be mourning him and their lost life together. Pain came back, a mournful feeling down in James’s belly, compassion for two strangers.

Tom looked up from studying the letter. “Listen here. I can make out some of this note. ‘I have made arrangements to send Amparo Garcés y Martínez, the daughter of Catarina viuda de Garcés of Santa Fe, to be your bride.’ There’s something about meeting on the twenty sixth. That’s near a week past. It’s written to Julio Rodríguez y Guzmán—that ain’t anyone from town—and it’s signed by a lawyer.” He tapped a word on the paper. “‘Viuda’ means the mother’s a widow woman.”

James rubbed his forefinger back and forth over the smoothness of the tabletop next to his plate. “It sounds like the girl doesn’t know the fellow. How’d you say her name again?”

“‘Ahm-par-o’,” said the blacksmith slowly. “I’d say Rodríguez sent for a bride. Packing a daughter off like that is a common enough way out of money problems for a widow. One less mouth to feed, and a marriage payment, besides.”

James rubbed so hard at the tabletop that he about wore the polish off that patch of table. “You called him ‘Rodríguez.’ Ain’t he ‘Guzmán’?”

“They got a strange way of naming here, carrying both papa and mama’s last names. Mexicans set a lot of store by family. Their customs are a mite tangled, but you get used to them.”

Miss Amparo Garcés was coming to meet a stranger, and him dead. James’s finger moved faster as he wondered what would happen to the girl now. He laid his hand flat down on the table to save the finish, looked at his squared off fingernails, and asked Tom.

The blacksmith shrugged his large shoulders and answered, “The ink is smudged where the note tells their meeting place. Wherever she lands, I reckon the folk’ll have to ship her back to Santa Fe to Mama.”

James’s gut went dead cold as he felt the hair rise behind his neck. “The priest,” he whispered. “Your girl Rida said it’s his job to marry folks. Miss Amparo’s coming here.”

Tom sniffed. “I don’t recall hearing anything about a new girl hereabouts.” He paused and studied the paper, tracing the signature with his finger. “But then, I been away for a spell.”

James sat still, recalling the feeling of the bullet Danny O’Brien had shot into his side in Pueblo City. If it had lodged in his belly, he thought it would have felt the same as the cold, cumbersome lump now sitting in his innards. What if the young lady was here in town, waiting and wondering what kind of life she would have with Julio Rodríguez? He had taken upon himself a duty to close down that man’s life, a duty to tie up the loose ends left hanging when his horse pitched him into that rocky outcrop of sandstone. That duty, the way James saw it, now included talking to his intended bride, telling her the bad news.

Tom sat silent, working through the letter again. His wife placed the wedding ring beside the ear bobs on the table. Her skirt rustled as she returned to the fireplace and clanked pots together.

James shoved his plate to one side, put his two fists side by side and looked at them. There was dirt under his thumbnails, blisters where Rand’s mule team lines had worn against his bare fingers. Something bitter came up his throat, and he swallowed it down.

How can I tell Miss Amparo that no kind of married life awaits her in this town, that she’ll have to go back home, likely to poverty, and maybe even starvation?

“Ask your wife if the young lady’s here,” he said, slow and quiet.

Tom asked, and Rosalinda came back from the fire and answered in staccato fashion. She went on for a long time, sneering a time or two, and James marveled at Tom’s knack for sorting the sounds into words. Tom’s got the gift of tongues, I reckon, James thought. I’ve got to learn Spanish, too, if I’m going to live in this country.

When he turned back to James, Tom had a puzzled look on his face. “I’ll be whipped,” he snorted. “She’s here, all right. Been setting in the church for five days, never saying boo. Some fellow coming through on the way to visit his ailing father-in-law brought her on horseback, but he left soon as he gave her over to the priest.” Tom grinned. “She must be an eyeful, ‘cause Rosalinda badmouthed her something awful. My mujer can’t stand not being the prettiest woman around.”

James shook to his toes, and looked around the room, for what, he didn’t know. Maybe he was searching out the mournful shadow that pressed upon his soul.

“What am I going to tell her, Tom? How can I march up to a stranger and say ‘Go home. There isn’t a place for you here’?”

“Best leap right in and get it done,” he said.

“You don’t reckon she’ll cry, do you?”

“Let me get my shirt on, and I’ll take you over to the church and you can see for yourself, James, boy.”

James let loose a sigh. “I got a bad feeling, Tom. I wish I’d never found that Rodríguez fellow.”

~~~

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Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt Five from Ride to Raton

2011-11-26T00:02:00.002-07:00

After several weeks of sore trials--including getting shot for being in the wrong place at the wrong time--James Owen is again on his way in Ride to Raton. Having come across someone with more misfortune than himself, James buries the man and decides to try notifying his family of his demise. He takes a leather pouch to give to the kin, and proceeds toward the nearest town, where he looks up a former Virginia neighbor.

~~~

The plank door opened inward, and Tom O’Connor’s thick body filled the space. He was bootless, and his large hands hurriedly hoisted suspenders over bare shoulders. Thrusting his head forward, he blinked in the sunlight, and his black brows drew together as he frowned. The woman’s voice coming from deep inside the room kept up the flood of sharp, foreign words.

It was evident that the man had been about some private business. James inhaled noisily and wished he could twist away like a wind spiral he’d seen whipping up snowflakes the day before. Then the scowl on Tom’s face changed to resignation, and he crooked his neck to turn his head toward the room.

“¡Cállate! Tenemos visitante,” he hollered. “We’ve got company, so hush up.”

“I reckon I come at the wrong time,” James muttered.

Tom’s face returned to view. “You’re Rod Owen’s son. James, isn’t it? How old are you, boy?”

James felt a creeping flush crossing his jaw, and hoped his beard was full enough by now to hide it. “Old enough to know I ain’t a welcome sight. I’ll be going.”

“No, you come along in. It’ll keep.” His right eyelid lowered in a slow wink. “But Rosalinda won’t like it. I reckon she won’t take to you right off. I been away for a while, and she likes my company.”

The man stepped back from the door and motioned for James to enter the comfortable room. “Come along in, now. Set down and rest your feet.” He walked James to the table and sat down. “Rosalinda, fetch some food. Comida,” he said, then turned his head toward the young man. “I’m teachin’ her English, now that I got some of her tongue learned. You’re hungry?”

“I came to say hello, not to clean out your larder,” James said. But he sat anyway—in a chair like any chair, yet foreign to his eyes—and took off his hat, rolled it between his fingers, then hung it on the chair back next to him.

He could see Tom had married a girl from a decent home, because the finish on that table he sat up to was slick enough to mirror every whisker on a body’s face. Right then, he looked more scruffy than polished, and shame licked at his gizzard like a flame searching for fuel.

“We’ve plenty of food.” Tom swiveled in his chair and shouted toward the fireplace. “¡Comida, mujer! Step lively.”

James fished in his pocket to feel the letter as the woman dropped a plate in front of him. Hush my mouth, she’s angry, he thought, jerking up his chin. As his eyes met hers, he knew he had offended Rosalinda

Of medium height, with eyes black and furious, tucking her white blouse hastily into the waistband of her skirt, Rosalinda backed off and shook untamed hair behind her shoulders. “I no am happy,” she declared.

He shook his own head to break contact with those hot eyes. Rosalinda O’Connor was a beauty, and seemed to give off crackles of lightning that sapped his strength. She was like no one he had ever met before.

One deep breath revived him. “Your wife is Spanish?”

“Mexican. Her family owns most of the land between here and the Apishapa River. Ain’t she purty?”

“You got to get you a stronger word, Tom O’Connor. I never laid eyes on anybody akin to her before.” James’s voice sank to a whisper. “Does she get riled like that regular?”

The blacksmith threw his muscled torso backward against his chair, barking out his laugh. “Ain’t you a caution. Eat up, James, boy. Your grub’s getting cold.”

Thinking it polite to eat, James listened with half an ear to Tom’s comments about the condition of horse’s hooves on the surrounding farms as he tucked into the food. From time to time he glanced up, keeping track of Rosalinda’s movements at the fireplace.

He had always thought of his own black hair as ordinary: crisp and curly, yes, but common enough. Rosalinda’s hair was straight, black as fireplace soot, and hung to her elbows.

Then a wonderment came upon him, a yearning to know how that hair would feel strung between his fingers like the mane of an unsaddled horse. Hair to be touched, he thought, then jerked himself upright in his seat. Hair to be left alone. She’s a woman wed. Like Ellen. Pain swept from his ears to his toes at the thought, and he felt his face creasing in a grimace.

Rosalinda startled James with laughter. “You no am happy, too.” She pulled down the corners of her mouth with her fingers, imitating what she saw on his face. Turning her back to dish up food for her husband, she laughed again.

“Tarnation! Is she pokin’ fun at me?” His hands balled into fists, and he breathed deep for a moment. “First she’s riled, then she makes a face and laughs.”

Tom chuckled. “You ain’t likely to meet up with another woman like mine. She’s got some moods, and they change three to the minute, but she can cook mighty fair, and she sure chased off the lonesome.” He looked up from his food and pursed his lips. “I reckon I’m a man needs to be married, and I’m right lucky to find her.”

James didn’t want to believe himself so mean spirited that he would begrudge Tom a bit of happiness after he’d been a widower for a couple of years, but his words touched fire down James’s spine. Something Tom had said burned hot into his soul, but the blacksmith went on speaking, and James couldn’t sort out his first words and pay mind to the rest at the same time. He decided to listen now and ponder later.

~~~

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Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt Four from Ride to Raton

2011-11-19T00:01:00.003-07:00

For Sweet Saturday Samples, let's have one last look at Amparo's problems before we skip to another section of Ride to Raton:
~~~

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.

~~~

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Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt Three from Ride to Raton

2011-11-12T00:01:00.006-07:00

This week for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors), here's another excerpt from Chapter Two of Ride to Raton. Amparo learns what the paper says, and what it means for her. The excerpt is rated PG for violence and sexual innuendo:
~~~

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 heart. 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!
~~~

~~~

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Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt Two from Ride to Raton

2011-11-05T00:04:00.002-07:00

This week for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors), here's an excerpt from Chapter Two of Ride to Raton, in which we meet a young Hispanic girl with troubles of her own:

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.”

~~~

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15 Lovely Blogs (Because I Received a Blog Award)

2011-11-03T15:11:00.001-07:00

Sweet Joyce DiPastena of JDP News has awarded Writer in the Pines the "One Lovely Blog Award." Thank you, Joyce! You're so kind.

In order to accept the award, I have to share seven random facts about myself. Here they are:

1. I'm busy moving house.
2. I haven't cooked a Thanksgiving Turkey in about six years.
3. I like murder, mayhem, and madness, but only in fiction--and Allstate Insurance ads.
4. I find it hard to fall asleep unless I'm listening to an audio book.
5. I love candy corn, but it's usually only available around Halloween.
6. I possess WAY too many books.
7. I'm often alone, but rarely lonely. You see, I have voices in my head.

Now, here's my list of fifteen lovely blogs. I hope you will visit them and say hello to the lovely bloggers who write them:

Murphy's Law (Heidi L. Murphy)
Ranee' S. Clark
A View from the Other Side of the Hill (Laurie "L.C." Lewis)
Stephanie Says So (Stephanie Abney)
Kristy's Stories (Kristy Tate)
Canda's InkBlast (Canda Mortensen)
Requisite Respite (Susan Knight)
mudrock and pink nail polish (Mandi Tucker Slack)
Jolene B. Perry
Rebecca Talley
Shirley Bahlmann Biz (Shirley Bahlmann)
Weaving a Tale or Two (Donna K. Weaver)
Rachael Renee Anderson
My Mind Really is in Another World (Sarah E. Bradley)
Shaunna Gonzales

Ladies, to claim the award, you must:

1. Thank the giver and link back to his or her site.
2. Provide seven random facts about yourself.
3. Pass the award to fifteen other blogs, then let them know, and link to their sites.
4. Copy the award logo and paste it on your site.

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt One from Ride to Raton

2011-10-29T00:01:00.018-07:00

For this week's sample for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors), we're moving on to the second book in "The Owen Family Saga," Ride to Raton. Having arrived in Colorado Territory, the Owen family is celebrating what should be a wonderful event. However, one family member doesn't see it that way, and here's why:

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.”

~~~

This novel is available from Smashwords.com in many electronic book formats, and from Amazon.com in print and Kindle editions. Also available at Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, and Amazon.fr. Search term: "Marsha Ward"
~~~
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Sweet Saturday Sample: A Seventh Excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah

2011-10-22T00:06:00.002-07:00

This week's sample for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors) is once again an excerpt from the Western novel The Man from Shenandoah, the first book in "The Owen Family Saga." This week, we learn more about the devastation visited upon the Shenandoah Valley when Phil Sheridan received orders from General Grant to burn it bare. I hope you like twists in your novels.

~~~

Carl and Rod headed for the house as the sun dropped toward the horizon. The rain earlier in the day had left the air cool and sweet, and a light breeze was blowing the final clouds away. Carl handed the milk pail to his father at the door.

“I’m all covered with mud, Pa. Best I wash up before I eat.”

“You’ll have to use the crick, son. The Yankees knocked the top of the well apart and dumped it into the shaft. I ain’t got it cleaned out yet.”

“Then I’ll bring back some water.”

Carl took two pails from the back stoop and slogged his way through the muck of the yard to the creek path. He felt like a small boy again, recalling the times he’d walked this path before the well was dug.

Carl came up to the creek, knelt, and dipped the pails into the deepest part of the water. After he set them high on the bank, he removed his shirt, tossed it aside, and plunged his arms into the water. Gasping with the impact of the cold, he splashed it onto his head and chest.

Once his face was clean, he wiped off his boots and rubbed most of the mud from his pants, then rinsed his shirt in the stream and wrung it out several times. He shook out the shirt and put it on, shivering when the cold, wet cloth made contact with his flesh.

Twilight took away most of the daylight as Carl paused to look into the water of the creek where it pooled below him. He saw a distorted reflection of the outline of his form in the dim light. Nineteen years had built his body well and tall, but the last four, with the privations of war, had hardened the muscles of his frame and made his features gaunt. His hair was too long, and the week’s growth of sandy red beard itched. He’d have to hunt up scissors and a razor as well as a comb.

As night fell, Carl shrugged his shoulders to rearrange the damp shirt, picked up the pails, and headed back to the house, guided by the lamplight from the kitchen window. Breeze on the shirt chilled him, and he walked a little faster. At the steps he re-scraped his boots, then opened the door and went inside.

“We’re just fixing to eat,” Julia called. She turned and saw the water buckets. “Thank you, son. You saved me a trip.”

Carl pulled up a chair to the table and joined Rod and Albert.

“It ain’t much, Carl, but it’ll keep you from blowing away.” Julia waved her hand toward the food. “We’re lucky to have greens. They popped up down by the crick, and I picked them late this afternoon. ‘Course, there’s corn pone, and we have milk, but there ain’t no real coffee, just roasted chicory.” She sighed as she sat at her place. “We’ll have real food again once we get a crop up.”

“That’s something we need to do some talking about,” Rod declared. “First, let’s give thanks for Carl’s safe return, and for this food we got.”

At the end of the grace, Carl glanced across the table at his father. There had been something in his voice that foretold serious business. Rod must have felt his stare, for he looked up, his beard wrinkling as he chewed.

Rod swallowed, then said, “Tell me how it looks south of here, son. What did Sheridan leave for the folks in the south end of the Valley? You came from Staunton, I reckon?” Rod took a bite of greens.

“He burnt or pulled down homes, barns, crops, orchards, ‘most everything, all the way to Staunton and beyond. It’s a famine time. A crow flying by would have to bring his own rations.” He paused to chew a piece of pone. “Ma, it’s a wonder to me the Yankees left our house alone when they came back through.”

“I had my good Sharps rifle, and I set right there in the doorway and wouldn’t budge none. After a while they left me be and went out back to burn the barn.”

“Marie could-a been killed,” Albert said, frowning. “Them dirty Yankees didn’t wait ‘til she was out of the barn to set it afire.” Albert’s eyes looked dark and fierce. “I wish I’d a been down here shooting me some Yankees instead of up in the hills with Clay and all them cows!”

“Likely they’d have shot you, Albert,” Carl said. “Praise God you was up there!”

Rod’s mouth tightened. “What about livestock, son? What did you see?”

“I reckon we’ve got more cattle than any five stock men down the Valley, Pa. Maybe five pigs, thin stuff; not more’n ten hens anywhere. I reckon Grant didn’t want no more supplies coming out of the Shenandoah. He meant for little Phil Sheridan to clean us out, and he did the job.”

“Lucky I was warned some,” Julia said, “or I wouldn’t have had time to send the boys off up the hill.”

Rod chewed his food slowly, his face looking thoughtful. “I reckon we’re eating about as well as Rand Hilbrands. The Yankees missed burning the store in Mount Jackson, so he still has food to put on his table.”

“What happened over to Chester Bates’ place, Pa?”

“He lost his barn, and the house is gutted out. They burned his fields bare. The Bates family is about wiped off the face of the earth, I’d say.”

“Are they all dead?”

“They’ve got their lives and little else.”

“That’s sure a pity.” Carl wiped his mouth with his hand. “They had the prettiest stone house I believe I’ve ever seen. Where are they living now?”

“Right on the place, in the old tool shed.”

“Hush, that’s a shame. There’s no finer man than Chester Bates, ‘cept for you and John Mosby, Pa.”

“Andy Campbell says his pa’s so mad about his place being wrecked, he wants to clear out and go someplace else,” Albert reported.

Rod Owen cleared his throat. “That’s just what I aim to do.”

~~~

Click this link to read Sweet Saturday Samples from other Authors.

Sweet Saturday Sample: A Sixth Excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah

2011-10-15T00:01:00.003-07:00

This week's sample for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors) is once again an excerpt from the Western novel The Man from Shenandoah, the first book in "The Owen Family Saga." After the drama of last week's sample, you'll find a bit of levity in this one. I hope you enjoy it.
~~~
Rod approached his chair and sagged into it, while Carl returned to his stool. Both men sat slumped for a time, saying nothing as the pain sat upon their shoulders. After a time, Rod threw back his head.

“Your ma’s kept the family going whilst we were gone, son, and she’s the one saw to it that we didn’t starve when we returned. I got a leave to come home in December, on account of our mounts were starving for lack of forage, and I’ll be switched if she hadn’t outsmarted that cocky Phil Sheridan. She saved most of the corn by tying the sacks on the backs of the stock, and sending Clay and Albert to the hills with the animals. She saved the crop and the herd, both. I’m mighty proud of her.”

“Ma, that was right canny thinking. I’d like to see Sheridan’s face should he find out you outfoxed him.”

Julia shook her head and continued with the meal.

“We ain’t tooting our horn about the food we got, Carl,” Rod said. “It’s mighty little for our needs, and even so, we had to send the girls into town.”

“How serious was Rulon hurt, Pa?”

“Well, he had a right smart mess of holes in him. The surgeon sent him home to die, but there ain’t no quit in Rulon. That little wife of his nursed him along real well, too. He’s mostly out of bed now, finally on the mend.” Rod rose to his feet. “Say, come out and help me milk, son. That brindle cow the Yankees stole last fall wandered up to the fence today, bawling and kicking and carrying on to be let in the gate, but she’s still half wild. There’s a calf trailing her, so she must have milk.”

Carl nodded. “Sure, Pa. I reckon a body don’t forget how to do the chores.”

As the men stepped out the back door, Carl glanced around at what was left of the yard behind the house, and took in a rasping breath. The vegetable garden was a sea of mud, while out yonder, wreckage marked where the barn had been. All that remained were the burned beams and blackened supports that had fallen onto the floor. Two mounds of gray ashes, scattered by wind and rain, showed where the hay had been stacked. The animal pens were in ruins, poles broken and strewn about. Someone had piled brush in the gaps until new poles were cut.

Carl waved an arm at the view. “Was it like this when you got home, Pa?”

“Pretty near. The boys and I ain’t had a lot of time to clean up much.”

The brindle cow tied in the pen rolled her eyes and lowed in fright at the men’s approach. Rod expelled his breath. “She always was skittish, Carl. I reckon she got away from Sheridan’s soldiers and wintered back in the oak groves. She had her calf, then got lonely for home.”

Carl stepped around behind the cow. “Mind that hoof.” Rod spoke sharply as the brindle kicked out at the young man.

Carl dodged away and snorted. “She must be a Yankee lover. Welcome home to you too, cow.” He patted her flank.

“Grab the pail and set to work, son. She wants milking.”

Just then the hungry calf tied behind the remains of the barn began to bawl. Brindle pulled her head backward, and Rod reached for the rope to snub her on a shorter line. Lacking a stool, Carl squatted on his heels and began to milk.

The cow sidestepped, nearly catching Carl’s foot. He avoided her hoof, and then she whipped her tail against his face. He turned away, saving his eyes from the coarse hair. Then she lifted her hoof and banged it hard against the pail, but Carl snatched it away in time to save the contents from spilling.

“Whoa, cow!” he yelled, as she swung her hindquarters against him. “You’re right, Pa. She’s gone wild.” He scrambled out of the way, bringing the pail with him. “I call the job done. Let that calf come over here.”

Rod grinned, went for the bawling creature, and untied the tether rope. “We’re all out of practice of milking, son,” he called. “I reckon I’d druther fight Yankees than get stepped on by a wild cow. I know James feels the same, after milking the white-face cow.”

“Is he in one piece?” Carl asked, looking sidelong at his pa.

Rod turned the calf loose, and it ran to its mother. He grinned again as it began to suckle. Then his face went somber. “He got a flesh wound at Five Forks, outside Richmond, but it’s healing clean. He can swing an ax, so I sent him up by the mountain to cut wood. Likely he’ll be home tomorrow night with a load of fence poles.”

“It’ll be good to see him.” Relief softened Carl’s voice.
~~~
This novel is available from Smashwords.com in many electronic book formats, and from Amazon.com in print and Kindle editions. Also available at Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, and Amazon.fr. Search term: "Marsha Ward"
~~~

Other Authors with samples this week:

1.	J. Gunnar Grey, mystery~adventure
2.	Jean Joachim Contemporary Romance
3.	Kay Springsteen contemporary romance
4.	Jennifer Lowery~Romantic Suspense
5.	Beth Trissel-Historical/paranormal romance
6.	Sandra Nachlinger/Sandra Allen - Romance
7.	Ranee` S. Clark - YA
8.	Carrie-Anne Brownian ~ historical fiction
9.	Melynda Price, paranormal romance
10.	J.F. Jenkins, YA
11.	Chynna Laird - YA (special needs)
12.	Joyce DiPastena - medieval romance
13.	Marsha Ward~Westerns with Heart & Grit
14.	Rachel Rossano - Science Fiction/Paranormal
15.	Mirriam Smyth - Paranormal Romance
16.	Morgan Kearns - Paranormal Romance
17.	Dianne Hartsock-paranormal/suspense
18.	Emily and Dakota-YA
19.	Lindsay Downs-Mystery
20.	Jennifer T. Alli - Paranormal Romance
21.	Jenna Jaxon--Contemporary
22.	Patricia Kiyono, contemporary romance
23.	Elaine Cantrell-Contemporary Romance
24.	Gwendolyn Gage - Christian Historical Romance

Sweet Saturday Sample: A Fifth Excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah

2011-10-08T00:01:00.035-07:00

This week's sample for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors) is once again an excerpt from the Western novel The Man from Shenandoah, the first book in "The Owen Family Saga." Carl and his parents move indoors to continue their reunion, which holds surprises for the young man. I hope you enjoy this sample.
~~~

After knocking the mud from his boots, Carl entered the house, shrugged out of his wet coat, and hung it on a peg inside the door. He pulled his shirt together the best he could and glanced around the room, savoring its warmth and cheerfulness. Then he took the stool his father indicated and moved it close to the fire before sitting.

“What happened to your buttons, boy?” Rod asked. “Were you obliged to sell them for food?” He also sat, and crossed one leg over the other.

“Naw. Some fat Yankee sergeant down the road a ways cut them off me. Said I was in uniform and didn’t have the right.”

“That’s where you got the cuts and bruises and the mud, Carl?” his mother asked.

“I reckon, but they didn’t hurt me none.” He eased his rib cage from side to side to be sure.

Rod slapped his thigh in anger. “Yankees,” he spit out.

Carl looked up, feeling a similar heat. “They ain’t mannerly, that’s for sure, but I came out lucky anyhow. Didn’t lose nothing but my buttons. I hid my horse back in the willows along the creek, and they were too drunk to spot him, so they missed the rifle I snuck off the Yankee weapon pile after I got my parole.”

“Drunk, you say? That sounds like the same Yankee bunch that’s been back and forth through this part of the Valley, teasing and tormenting the folks.”

“Could be them.” Carl shrugged, then looked around the room once more. “Ma, where’s Marie and the little girl? Ain’t they supposed to help you?”

Julia smiled. “Your little sister is nigh on to twelve years old, boy. We kept having birthdays while you were away. You’ve had a couple yourself. Ain’t you about nineteen now?”

“Closer to twenty, Ma. I ain’t a young’un no more.”

Julia looked at Carl’s bearded face. “I see you been over the mountain, son.” She paused to form a corn cake. “I sent the girls in to Mount Jackson to Rulon’s place. Mary’s not feeling well, and she’s got Rulon to tend to, so they’re helping out with young Roddy. You heard Rulon got hurt bad?”

Carl nodded.

“There’s also more food in town,” Rod explained. “Your ma has her wits scraped down to a nubbin to find us enough to eat since Sheridan paid his call.”

“Clay went in with the girls,” Julia added. “He’s got a job at the livery, so there’s just Pa and James and Albert to fix for.”

“And Benjamin,” Carl reminded her.

He watched his mother’s body stiffen, and saw his father rise and take a protecting step toward her. Silence hung in the room like a curtain made of combed cotton fibers, thick and heavy and oppressive. Then Rod spoke, his words muffled and measured.

“Benjamin fell at Waynesboro. I had no way to get word home. Your ma only found out when I got here.”

The words bucked into Carl with the kick of a mule. He sagged on the stool and his head dropped against his hands. First, Peter had fallen at the Second Battle of Manassas, or Bull Run, as the Yankees called it. Then Rulon, the eldest, was sorely wounded in the siege of Petersburg last October. Now Benjamin was gone. Carl felt his ears ringing hollow, filling his skull with a soft buzzing.

He rose to his feet and faced his parents. “I’m powerful sorry,” he said, holding himself still. “Benjamin was always such a lucky cuss, full of life, and all. It don’t seem right he’d be gone.”

Carl bowed his head, took a deep breath, and began again. “Ma, I know he was your favorite son, and I don’t hold it against him. He was the favorite of everybody.”

He took a step toward his mother, watching her white, crumpling face. With another step he had her in his arms, patting her head and shoulders. “There, Ma, you cry. It’ll do you good.”

Rod’s arms went around the pair. “The boy talks sense, Julia. You ain’t cried since you got the news. Let the tears wash out the grief you been carrying around.” He continued gruffly, “I reckon I already done my sorrowing.”

The men waited, suspended, as Julia’s sobs tore the air. After a long time, she quieted, wiped the tears from her cheeks with her apron, and stepped out of the men’s arms. Her face was changed, resigned. “I reckon that’ll have to do for Benjamin, ‘cause the living need their daily bread.” She went back to the table, wiped her hands, and continued to fix supper.
~~~

This novel is available from Smashwords.com in many electronic book formats, and from Amazon.com in print and Kindle editions. Also available at Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, and Amazon.fr. Search term: "Marsha Ward"
~~~

This week's participants:

1.	Kay Springsteen contemporary romance
2.	Sandy & Sandra – Contemporary Romance
3.	Mirriam Smyth – Paranormal Romance
4.	Jennifer Lowery~Romantic Suspense
5.	J. Gunnar Grey, mystery~adventure
6.	J. F. Jenkins Contemporary
7.	Marsha Ward~Westerns with Heart & Grit
8.	Rachel Rossano – fantasy/romance
9.	Beth Trissel-Historical/paranormal romance
10.	Lisa Beth Darling~Paranormal Romance Thrillers
11.	Joyce DiPastena – medieval romance
12.	Mike Arsuaga, paranormal romance
13.	Jean Joachim Contemporary Romance
14.	Meg Mims – Historical
15.	Patricia Kiyono, contemporary romance
16.	Dianne Hartsock-paranormal/suspense
17.	Carrie-Anne Brownian ~ historical fiction
18.	Lindsay Downs-YA
19.	Lindsay Downs-Mystery
20.	Linsey Lanier – Romantic Mystery
21.	Jenna Jaxon–historical romance
22.	Sherry Gloag – Paranormal
23.	Morgan Kearns – Contemporary Romance
24.	Elaine Cantrell, contemporary romance
25.	Chynna Laird – YA Suspense
26.	The Way of Impressions – Christian Historical Romance

Grateful Thanks

2011-10-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I have been enjoying LDS General Conference. I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sometimes we are called Mormons. Whatever we are called, we are followers of Jesus Christ, who we believe is the Son of God, our Heavenly Father. We believe that the Church is led here on earth by a prophet, apostles, and other Church leaders. Every six months, our leaders give us counsel through five two-hour meetings known as General Conference. We members participate in General Conference by watching, listening, and pondering about what we hear. Whether we watch at home on TV, on the Internet, or in Church buildings via satellite feed, the vast majority of us are grateful for the twice-a-year experience.

I bear you my testimony that Jesus Christ is indeed the Son of God. By following His teachings and commandments, I can be happy and I can look forward to being with my family forever. I am pleased to serve in the Church as a musician and record-keeper.

If you want to know more about my religion and beliefs by seeing what went on this weekend, I invite you to check out the Conference links at http://lds.org/general-conference/sessions/2011/10?lang=eng. If English is not your native tongue, there is a wide choice of languages to which you can listen. For more information about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, go to http://mormon.org/.

Sweet Saturday Sample: A Fourth Excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah

2011-10-01T00:01:00.003-07:00

Roderick Owen came around the corner of the house, puzzled by the sounds in the front yard, but ready for Albert’s Yankee invasion. He stopped short at the sight of a tall, very grubby man embracing his wife, and Albert bumped into Rod from behind.

“Look here,” Rod threatened, stepping forward.

Carl turned to meet him. “Have I changed so much, Pa?” He grinned under his smeared camouflage.

“Rod, it’s Carl. He’s home at last.” Julia wiped the mud from her face with the apron.

Without a word, Rod enveloped his son in his arms. After a long embrace, he held him off to look at him, and shook his head. “By gum, you sure get your growth dashing around with Mosby. We thought you were dead, boy, not hearing from you, nor seeing you home yet.”

“I took the long road home, Pa. The Colonel disbanded the Rangers about three weeks into April, but me and some thirty others wouldn’t leave him, so he took us south to join up with General Johnston in the Carolinas. The General gave up before we got there, so Mosby cut us loose and made us go in to get paroled.” He paused a moment, scratching his nose. “They won’t give him a parole, Pa. There’s a price on his head!”

“I reckon there’s mighty little justice around now, son. Your colonel won’t get fair treatment since Booth shot the President. There’s rumors Mosby had a hand in it.”

“Somebody shot Jeff Davis?”

“The other president, Abe Lincoln.”

“Is he dead?”

Rod set his jaw, turned his back on his son, and walked toward Carl’s horse, his hand worrying the mud at the front of his shirt and pants. He picked up the horse’s trailing reins and approached his son. “Yes, and it brings hard times upon us. There’s no mercy in the boys running the country now.”

“Mosby had no part in it. I rode with him day and night for over two years. He done no such a thing.”

“I reckon.”

“He didn’t. That’s all.” Carl’s stomach growled aloud, and he looked at his mother. “Is there anything to eat? It sure don’t look like Phil Sheridan left much. We heard about his orders to burn out the Valley, Pa, but we laughed. Not one of us believed he could do it with you and Jeb Early’s troops on home ground.”

“They sent in two and three times our number, son. All we could do was pester them around the edges some.”

“Well, I’m home now, and this ground will grow food—if we can get seed.” Carl looked about the yard. Albert stood in the shadow at the corner of the house.

“Who’s that young’un? I don’t recollect leaving anybody that big at home when I left.”

“It’s me, Albert. I growed a mite.”

“Can’t be. You were just a little bitty sprout.”

Albert came out of the shadow and stood where Carl could see him. “I ain’t a sprout now." His voice was a touch heated. "I’ll be fourteen nigh on to Christmas time.”

“You aged a right smart bit, Albert. Been doing most all the chores, I reckon.”

“You left ‘em to do.”

Carl nodded. “I figured you three boys could handle the farm. When Peter died, I felt obliged to take his place in the fight.”

“I reckon.” Albert looked at the ground and kicked the mud.

“I didn’t know James would go, too.”

“They drafted him.”

Julia moved forward and pulled on Carl’s arm. “Come in and set, boy. Doubtless you’re weary, riding all day. I’ll finish the pone we’re having for supper while you tell your pa what shape the Valley’s in down south of here. He’s been asking after news of the state of things since he got home.”

“Now Julie, the boy’s just got here. I can quiz him later while he eats.” Rod turned to his youngest son. “Albert, take your brother’s horse out back and put him in the pen behind the barn. See if you can find some grain. That animal’s come far with your brother.”

“Yes, Pa.” Albert took the reins and led Sherando around the corner of the house.

~~~

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt #3 from The Man from Shenandoah

2011-09-24T00:01:00.017-07:00

This week's snippet for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors) is once again an excerpt from the Western novel The Man from Shenandoah, the first book in "The Owen Family Saga." We'll meet other members of the Owen family. I hope you enjoy this sample.

Edited to add missing words (in blue). Blogger, what's up with that?

“Ma!” Albert ran in yelling from the trees at the corner of the yard. “Somebody’s riding in, mighty confident like,” he panted.

Julia Owen looked up from the corn she was grinding and pushed back a loose lock of dark hair.

“Confident, you say? Does he look like a Yankee?”

Albert hung his head. “I mostly just saw him a-coming before I ran in, Ma. But he’s riding real straight and sure of himself.”

“Get your pa,” she said, grabbing the Sharps rifle from the corner. “There won’t be no Yankees set foot in this house.”

Julia walked through the doorway with the Sharps in firing position and watched as a horseman neared the end of the lane from the pike. Albert spoke the truth, she thought. That man rides bold.

“Hold up right there,” her voice rang out. “Put them hands where I can see ‘em, and get down off that horse.”

The mud-covered young man in the gray coat laughed. “You always did look fine with fire in your eye, Ma.”

“Carl?” She took a step, lowering the rifle barrel toward the ground. “Carl! Is it really you? Lawsy, boy, we almo

st gave up on ever seeing you again.” She swiped at her eyes with one hand. “Get off that horse and hug your ma.” Her son dropped gingerly to the muddy ground and approached with long strides.

“Ma, I’m home.” He grabbed her—rifle and all—and swung her into the air.

She caught sight of the wince that he tried to cover and the dried blood on his face, and immediately began to worry over his health.

Setting her on her feet, Carl brushed at the mud he had transferred to her dress. “I’m sorry about the mud, Ma. I had a little trouble with some fellers down the road a piece, and we wrasseled around a bit. Here, let me put that rifle aside. I reckon you don’t want to put a ball into me.”

“You ain’t been hurt? What’s that blood?” She followed him to the front of the house, where he leaned the rifle against the stone wall. “Here, let me look at you.” Julia grabbed his arm, moistened the corner of her apron with her tongue, and dabbed at his face.

“Ma!” he protested. “It’s just a little cut.”

“And it needs tending to,” she insisted, then hugged him again.
~~~

Participants in this week's Sweet Saturday Sample:

1.	Joyce DiPastena - medieval romance
2.	Lisa Beth Darling-Paranormal Thrillers
3.	Kay Springsteen contemporary romance
4.	Jennifer Lowery~Romantic Suspense
5.	Mirriam Smyth - Paranormal Romance
6.	J.F. Jenkins YA/Urban Fantasy
7.	Marsha Ward~Westerns with Heart & Grit
8.	Patricia Preston~historical romance
9.	Jean Joachim Contemporary Romance
10.	Rachel Rossano-fantasy
11.	Beth Trissel-Historical/paranormal romance
12.	Patricia Kiyono - historical romance
13.	Meg Mims - Western Historical Suspense
14.	J. Gunnar Grey, mystery-adventure
15.	Carrie-Anne Brownian ~ historical fiction
16.	Dianne Hartsock-paranormal/suspense
17.	Emily and Dakota-YA
18.	Lindsay Downs-Mystery
19.	Lia Davis~paranormal romance
20.	Sherry Gloag sweet paranormal
21.	Elaine Cantrell-contemporary romance
22.	Joselyn Vaughn ~ contemporary romance
23.	Trish McCallan - paranormal romantic thriller
24.	Liz Botts-YA/Romance
25.	Gwendolyn Gage ~ Christian Historical Romance

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt #2 from The Man from Shenandoah

2011-09-17T00:01:00.003-07:00

This week's snippet for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors) is once again an excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah, the first novel in "The Owen Family Saga." We find the main character, Carl Owen, in dire straits. I hope you enjoy this sample.

From the north, a rider came pounding up the road, spurring his horse, then sawing on the reins to bring it to a halt. He alighted and ran to the sergeant.

“The major’s coming down the road. You’d better not let him catch you cutting another Reb.”

The sergeant cursed and turned back to Carl, grabbing the front of his coat.

“You got no right to wear a uniform, you dirty Rebel pup.” He took a fresh grip on his knife and addressed the soldiers restraining Carl. “Hold him tight while I teach him a lesson.”

Carl felt the tight prickle of fear racing up his spine as the soldiers freshened their hold on his arms. The sergeant looked around at the road, cursed again, turned to Carl, and cut the embossed buttons from his coat. He jerked the coat open, grinning evilly, and cut the buttons from his shirt, as well.

“Now you’re not a soldier.” The man cackled as he pocketed the buttons and sheathed his knife. “Let him loose,” he ordered, motioning to the soldiers. As they dropped his arms, he looked Carl up and down once more, his expression changing to hatred. The sergeant half turned away, then spun back, and with a massive fist knocked Carl flat. “Mount up,” the sergeant barked, and strode toward his horse, weaving a bit.

Lying in the mud, propped on one elbow, Carl wiped blood from his jaw, tasting salt as he tongued his molars to see if they were still tight. He watched the patrol leave, hate burning his belly. He turned over onto his knees and got to his feet, wincing at the pain, then whistled for his horse. Looking around for his hat, he found it on the wall where it had landed when he was attacked. He brushed at the soft, shapeless felt, removing a splash of mud, then he jammed it onto his head.

Sherando came trotting out of the trees, gray coat glistening in the misty rain that had once again begun to fall. The horse jumped the fence to reach Carl and nickered softly. Carl checked to see that the Yankee rifle was secure in the scabbard. “Sure glad them Billy Blues was so drunk they didn’t find you, boy,” he whispered through raw lips.

He swung into the saddle and straightened his back, swiped at his face with both hands to remove as much mud as he could, then ran his fingers through the blond hair at the nape of his neck, tugging loose both tangles and mud. He hoped someone at home had a comb, for he had lost his personal gear in a wild, last-ditch ride for freedom with Colonel John Mosby. Carl’s patrol had ridden into a Yankee camp to surrender after the war’s end. Union officers gave the Confederate cavalrymen parole papers and turned them free instead of holding them as prisoners of war. Carl had stolen the rifle as he left camp, but hadn’t had a chance to replace other gear.

The young man turned his horse onto the Valley Pike, laughing as joy surged through him. “Benjamin will have a comb. It’ll be fine to see him again.” Carl kneed Sherando to a trot, and launched into a tune he’d heard somewhere. “Oh Shenandoah, I’m comin’ to ya. I’m here, you rolling river.”

Carl looked toward the shallow river flowing beside the road and grinned at the cleverness of his new words to an old song. “Hold up that head, horse. We’ll show the folks that a passel of Yankees can’t lick a Virginia boy. We’re goin’ home!”
~~~

Participants in this week's Sweet Saturday Sample:

1.	J. Gunnar Grey, mystery-adventure
2.	Kay Springsteen C. Romance
3.	Mirriam Smyth – Contemporary Romance
4.	Jennifer Lowery~Romantic Suspense
5.	Jean Joachim, contemporary romance
6.	Chynna Laird – YA
7.	Emily and Dakota-YA
8.	J.F. Jenkins YA/Urban Fantasy
9.	Lindsay Downs-Mystery
10.	Rachel Rossano, science fiction
11.	Cheri Schmidt ~YA Paranormal Romance
12.	Beth Trissel-Historical/paranormal romance
13.	Patricia Kiyono, historical romance
14.	Felicia Rogers~ contemporary romance
15.	Joyce DiPastena – medieval romance
16.	Lisa Beth Darling-Paranormal Erotic Thrillers
17.	Joselyn Vaughn ~ contemporary romance
18.	Sandy & Sandra ~ Contemporary Romance
19.	Marsha Ward~Westerns with Heart & Grit
20.	Lia Davis, paranormal romance
21.	Andrea Buginsky – YA fantasy
22.	M.E. Romana – Romantic Suspense
23.	Dianne Hartsock-paranorml/suspense
24.	Bri Clark, paranormal romance
25.	Elaine Cantrell, contemporary romance
26.	Carrie-Anne Brownian ~ historical fiction
27.	Morgan Kearns – Contemporary Romance
28.	Liz Botts–YA romance
29.	Sherry Gloag – Sweet Paranormal
30.	Patricia Preston~historical romance

9/11

2011-09-11T00:01:00.004-07:00

Everyone I know is sharing/blogging their feelings about the events of 9/11/2001. I'm not sure I can bear to do so. It's not a case of having lost someone dear to me, nor have I ever lived in New York or Washington, D.C. or Pennsylvania. It's that the emotions are still so live within me: outrage, sorrow, vicarious grief. I've suffered plenty of raw emotions in my life, and I can't bear to let them free again.

Instead, I want to have a simple, quiet day of reflection, worshipping God Almighty, and resting from the evils of the world.

I hope you will have such a day, too.

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah

2011-09-10T00:01:00.008-07:00

This week's snippet for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors) is an excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah, the first novel in "The Owen Family Saga." I hope you enjoy it.

The gaunt-featured young man with the lanky build choked down the last of his moldy bread, then got to his feet and climbed atop the stone wall against which he’d been sitting. Carl Owen looked as far as he could see down the Valley Pike, about 200 yards, but no one was in sight. Turning to look at the burned-out field the wall enclosed, he surveyed the gray-toned devastation made muddy by today’s intermittent rain.

Rage ris

ing in him, thundering in his ears as his heartbeat quickened in frustration and hate, he shook his fist at the sky.

“Phil Sheridan, may God spit in your eye for the ruin you brought to this valley. Rot in hell, Sheridan!”

“Get him!” h

e heard, just before he was tackled from behind, tumbling him off the wall and into the mud. Carl came up sputtering muck. As he wiped gluey sludge from his eyes, someone kicked him. He was hauled to his feet—arms brutally twisted behind his back—and dragged over the wall to where a huge, red-faced sergeant in a faded blue uniform stood waiting for him.

“Yankees,” Carl groaned, berating himself for letting his guard down enough to miss their approach. Panic coursed through his belly. He tried to tear free, but two soldiers gripped his arms, and he finally quit struggling.

The sergeant stood with his legs spread apart, looking Carl up and down. “Johnny Reb, you’re on the loose. We have a stout prisoner of war camp for you up in Washington City.” He bent forward, laughing in Carl’s face, who involuntarily wrinkled his nose and squinted shut his eyes at the overpowering odor of liquor fumes. The man frowned, drew a knife from a sheath on his belt, and tested it on his thumb.

“You look at me, Johnny Reb,” he snarled. “Look at me when I speak to you!”

Carl opened his eyes and stared into the Yankee’s mean eyes. “I have parole papers,” he said, raising his muddy, stubbled chin in defiance.

“You’re violating your parole, wearing the uniform of the Confederate Army,” the Yankee said, and put his blade against Carl’s throat. The young man sucked in a breath, then held it, careful not to move.

Just then, a burly soldier came up behind the sergeant. “Sarge, you told us we were going to find some Southern belles to entertain us,” he complained. “Let’s dump him in the woods.”

“Keep your nose out of official business. I’ll open him up a bit and teach him how to act around his betters.”

~~~

Here are excerpts from other authors who are participating this week in Sweet Saturday Samples:

1. J. Gunnar Grey, mystery-adventure
2. Kay Springsteen, contemporary
3. Jennifer Lowery~Romantic Suspense
4. Sandy & Sandra, women’s fiction & romance
5. Joyce DiPastena – medieval romance (PG)
6. Jessica Knauss, magical realism
7. Joselyn Vaughn ~ contemporary romance
8. Patricia Kiyono, historical romance
9. J.F. Jenkins, YA fantasy
10. Marsha Ward~Westerns with Heart & Grit
11. Beth Trissel-Historical/paranormal romance
12. Morgan Kearns, romance
13. Chynna Laird – YA
14. Dianne Hartsock-paranormal suspense
15. Lindsay Downs-Mystery
16. Emily Dahill and Dakota, YA
17. Rachel Rossano, science fiction
18. Jean Joachim, contemporary romance
19. Bri Clark, contemporary and paranormal romance
20. Sherry Gloag, romance
21. Lia Davis, paranormal romance
22. The Way of Impressions, historical romance
23. Liz Botts, YA romance

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt from Slim and the Schoolmarm

2011-09-03T00:01:00.017-07:00

I started a novel a long time ago and called it Slim and the Schoolmarm. I haven't finished it yet, as it got sidelined by my current series, The Owen Family Saga. I thought it might make a good Sweet Saturday Sample for today. Here's the beginning scene from this Western novel. [Edited to add the missing words, which appear in blue below.]

“Do not come to Arizona. Stop. Accidents happen. Stop.”

Alice-Anne Barrows turned the telegram sheet to the back, as though it would give her further information. Nothing enlightened her there. She looked at the message again.

“I cannot imagine what this signifies, Cousin. Are you certain it was meant for me?”

Clarissa Pembroke looked up from the bandage she was knitting and nodded her graying head. “Yes, dear. See, your name is on the envelope. Who has sent it?”

“There is no name given. This is a puzzle. What does it mean?” Alice-Anne rose from her place on the sofa and paced the room.

“Is there a place of origination, my dear? I don’t think we know anyone in the West.” Miss Pembroke twisted her thin frame in her comfortable chair near the fireplace, following Alice-Anne’s progress.

Alice-Anne stopped and examined the paper once more. “Oh! Of course. It says ‘Bitter Springs, A.T.’ The initials must indicate ‘Arizona Territory’.” She read the message once more, then asked, “Who would want to bully me, Cousin? And at such a distance from New York City! I think this is a prank.” She crumpled up the telegram as though preparing to throw it into the fireplace, then changed her mind and smoothed it out, folded it neatly, and replaced it in the envelope.

Miss Pembroke shook her head. “I have no idea, dear.”

“I have no patience for
pranksters.” The young woman brushed back a blonde curl that threatened to fall into her eye, then put the envelope into her pocket. She took a deep breath. “Will you come to the lecture tonight? Doctor Harley is to speak about treating poisons.”

“I thought Mr. Spencer was calling this evening.”

Alice-Anne stepped to the window and moved the heavy damask drape aside. A distant bell jangled, drawing her eye to the horse-drawn streetcar at the end of the avenue. She turned to face her cousin. “I sent Will a message that I wouldn’t be receiving callers.”

“He is no ordinary caller, Alice-Anne. I do believe he will offer for your hand soon.”

“Oh, Cousin!” The young woman crossed the parlor to kneel at the older woman’s side. “Please, don’t encourage him. I know he means to ask me, but I don’t love him.”

“I wish you had the luxury of refusing every offer, but your stocks—” Miss Pembroke broke off and left

unspoken the fact of her cousin’s diminishing means.

“I will dismiss the servants and take a smaller house. I can find a position as a governess, or even clerk in a shop. I don’t love him, Cousin. I want a love match—like Momma and Papa.”

The older woman sighed. “It would help if I could find employment again. I cannot believe my usefulness as a nurse is over because of a few gray hairs.” She straightened her back as though in denial of aging. “Let us not fret about it, dear. If Mr. Spencer is not coming to call tonight, I will go and enjoy the lecture with you.” She held up her knitting. “This bandage will be finished by then, and I can take it and another eleven to the good doctor.”

~~~

Here's the list of participants in this Sweet Saturday Sample blog hop. Have fun reading them!

Awesome August Blog Hop!

2011-08-29T00:01:00.013-07:00

Welcome to the Awesome August Blog Hop, where bloggers from all over the Internet have come together to throw a summertime party!

Every blog on this hop is offering a fun prize, and entering is quick and easy. Simply follow the instructions on each blog, leave a comment, and bop right along to the next blog. You can win multiple times, so be sure to check out all the participating blogs!

On my blog, you can win an extremely rare autographed copy of best-selling YA author Janette Rallison's second novel, Dakota's Revenge! The book has never been read, so it's in brand-new condition. (I have my own personalized, autographed copy, so yes, I have read the novel.)

To enter:

1. Become a follower of my blog. If you're already a follower here, go follow my other blog at The Characters in Marsha's Head. A new window or tab should open up, so you don't have to leave this blog.

2. Fly on over to Amazon and click "like" on my first novel, The Man from Shenandoah.

3. Leave me a comment and tell me that you've done both things. If your e-mail isn't available through your profile, I'll need you to leave that, too - I can't tell you if you've won if I can't contact you!

This blog hop runs through Wednesday night (August 31) at midnight, so be sure to enter before then! The winner will be notified by e-mail.

Now that you've entered my contest, come meet all my other blog friends and see what fun things they are offering!

Awesome August Blog Hop Participants

1. Tristi Pinkston, LDS Author
2. Karen Hoover
3. Michael Young
4. Kristy Tate
5. cindy Hogan
6. Julie Bellon
7. Margot Hovley
8. Laurie Lewis
9. Mandi Slack
10. Melanie Jacobson
11. Joyce DiPastena
12. Renae Mackley

13. Debbi Weitzell
14. Donna Hatch
15. Carolyn Frank
16. Marsha Ward
17. Stacy Coles
18. Bonnie Harris
19. Danyelle Ferguson aka Queen of the Clan
20. Diony George
21. Lisa Asanuma
22. Susan Dayley
23. Christine Bryant @ Day Dreamer
24. Stephanie Humphreys

25. Ranee` Clark
26. Tamera Westhoff
27. I Am A Reader, Not A Writer
28. Heather Justesen
29. Rebecca Talley
30. Jennifer Hurst
31. Aimee Brown
32. Cheryl Christensen
33. Rachelle Christensen
34. Imaginary Reads
35. Andrea Pearson

Learn more about Awesome August Blog Hop here.
View More Awesome August Blog Hop Participants
Get The Code

Sweet Saturday Sample: Excerpt from Trail of Storms

2011-08-20T00:01:00.010-07:00

This week's snippet for Sweet Saturday Samples (clean fiction excerpts from authors) is an excerpt from Chapter Two of Trail of Storms. The setting is Mount Jackson in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley just after the American Civil War, the genre is historical Western fiction, and the rating is G. Please note that I've skipped a raw scene. Sorry. But you want to buy the book anyway, right?
~~~

Robert ran down the Pike, his heart thudding in his chest. Where would the man take Hannah? If he was intent on doing her harm, he’d want a private place, like a barn or a grove of trees, even though the occupation soldiers and cavalry were doing pretty much as they liked these days. He’d have to ask if Hannah and the rider had been seen passing by. That might be useless—folks were staying out of each other’s business. His breath rattled in his throat. His side burned with pain. His legs seemed made of lead. No matter, he thought, and continued his headlong dash. Hannah needs me.

When he stumbled and fell, Robert lay with his face in the dust for a moment, then raised his head and eyed the road. The marks of horses’ hooves mocked him. I don’t know how to track. I don’t know what’s fresh and what might be five days old. He scrambled to his knees, got to his feet, and looked around. He was outside of town and had passed two farms already. Have I gone too far? He took a steadying breath. No. Those farms had been burned out by the Yankees. Their barns hadn’t been rebuilt yet and the woodlots were gone. No privacy there. Robert began to run again. George Heizer’s dairy farm was next. He had a barn.

Robert approached the Heizer place. From the lane he could see two men standing by a wagon in the barnyard, talking. They seemed calm, not looking over their shoulders or fidgeting. No Yankee’s been there, he decided, and continued down the pike. I’ll try at McNeely’s.

Robert ran another two hundred yards, turned into McNeely’s farmyard, skidded to a stop at the door of the house and rapped. His windpipe wheezed and his lungs burned as he sucked breath into them. After a moment, Mistress Maude moved the curtain to one side and peered out. She opened the door a crack, her white face telling of her fear.

Before he could say a word, the woman began.

“Mr. Fletcher! Oh, please, can you look? My Patrick won’t be home until after dark.”

“Look where, Mrs. McNeely?”

“Oh my! Out in the stable. There’s been the most horrid sounds coming from out there for such a long time. Screams, very terrible sounds, they were.”

He ground his teeth. “Do you have a gun?”

“A gun? Oh, no, Mr. Fletcher. We had to give it up.”

“A knife, then. Lend me your butcher knife.”

Her gasp told Robert how she felt about that idea as she closed the door in his face. He heard the lock snapping into place.

He found a stout stick of firewood he could wrap his fingers around, not thinking what he would do with it, but somehow needing to feel the wood’s heft, needing to have a weapon. He strode toward the stable.

~~~

Trail of Storms is available at Amazon US as a print book:
http://www.amazon.com/Trail-Storms-Marsha-Ward/dp/1440126046/
As a Kindle Edition in the US:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55714
~~~
Now find another sample to read:

Sample Saturday: Trail of Storms, Excerpt 3 from Chapter 1

2011-08-13T00:01:00.021-07:00

Today's Sample for the Sweet Saturday Samples blog hop follows the scene in last week's sample from Trail of Storms. The setting is Mount Jackson in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley just after the American Civil War, the genre is historical Western fiction, and the rating is an intense G.
~~~

Jessie shoved open the door of the bank with such force that it banged against the wall. Several customers turned to gaze at her in surprise. The clerks and tellers looked up from their work.

Jessie located Hannah’s husband, Robert Fletcher, in the teller’s cage at the end of the row. She ran across the tile floor and pushed aside the woman standing opposite him.

“You must come, now!” Jessie said to the man, gasping as she struggled to draw air into her burning lungs.

“Miss Jessica—” He turned to his customer. “I’m sorry, Miz Addison. I’m sure she didn’t mean—” He broke off and faced Jessie again, frown lines deeply creasing his face and sweat breaking out on his forehead. “What happened to you? You’re quite … untidy.” Robert took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the brow on both sides of his pronounced widow’s peak.

“Mr. Fletcher—Robert—Hannah’s been taken!” Jessie put out a shaking hand and grasped the counter to support herself. “We’ve got to get help.”

Robert took in a sharp breath. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket as he turned and leaped over the gate separating the teller’s cages from the customer area.

Before Jessie could blink, he grasped her by the elbow and shook her arm. “What do you mean, ‘Hannah’s been taken’?”

Jessie’s trembling almost overcame her. She forced herself to find her voice, still breathing with difficulty as Robert’s grip tightened. “You know those Yankee riders? One of them grabbed her and took her off. Oh, Mr. Fletcher, Heppie’s in such a state I had—”

An oath escaped Robert Fletcher’s lips as he dropped her arm. “Take me there,” he grunted, barging through the door to the street. She caught up to him and led off at a run, lifting her skirts out of the way of her feet.

They cut across the street, darting between vehicles and horses, bumping without apology into passersby, their silent haste fed by adrenaline and fear.

When they arrived at the street where Hannah had been abducted, Heppie bolted out of Mrs. Wiggins’s door, crying into her handkerchief. “Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I’m so glad to see you.”

Robert nodded briefly to Heppie, then turned and asked Jessie, “Which way did he go?”

Jessie pointed south on the Valley Pike. “It’s the redheaded one.”

Robert thrust Jessie into Heppie’s arms, saying, “Go to your ma’s. I’ll bring her there,” and ran down the street.

“Jessie, did you see his face?” Heppie wailed.

Jessie shook in her sister’s embrace as new fear enveloped her. “Yes. I’m afraid he’ll kill that Yankee.”

~~~

Trail of Storms is available at Amazon US as a print book:
http://www.amazon.com/Trail-Storms-Marsha-Ward/dp/1440126046/
As a Kindle Edition in the US:
http://www.amazon.com/Trail-Storms-Owen-Family-ebook/dp/B004Z1L266/
At Amazon UK as a print book:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trail-Storms-Marsha-Ward/dp/1440126046/
As a Kindle Edition in the UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trail-Storms-Owen-Family-ebook/dp/B004Z1L266/
At Smashword.com in many ebook formats: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55714
~~~
Now find another sample to read:

A Productive Day

2011-08-11T22:34:00.000-07:00

I can't complain about a day when I get to meet with other writers, or one where I write 374 words in half an hour, or one where I store away six boxes of books so I can get more elbow room around here. I own hundreds, if not thousands, of books. They tend to take over in 740 sq. ft.

Because eventually I will have a new novel in the Owen Family Saga series, I'm trying to make a list of all you all (I know I spelled it wrong, you Southerners) who are avid readers of my work and who are very likely to buy Spinster's Folly. I want to make sure you get the news when it comes out. Please drop me a line or make a comment here so I know you're seriously interested, and I'll put you on that special list of folks who get the word first.

Sample Saturday: Trail of Storms, Excerpt 2 from Chapter 1

2011-08-06T00:01:00.009-07:00

Jessie looked over her shoulder at Hannah and Heppie, who walked away from her toward the street corner, leaving Jessie to collect payment for a pie. Mrs. Wiggins, however, seemed inclined to chat.

Please just pay me, Jessie thought, looking the other way down the street. I don’t want us running into those Yankees again. She turned back to Mrs. Wiggins, anxious about the distance between her and her sisters. She didn’t want to be alone, even for the few seconds it would take her to catch up.

Mrs. Wiggins looked at Jessie expectantly. She must have asked a question.

Shrugging her shoulders to shake off her reverie, Jessie said, “I’m so sorry, ma’am, I fear I was woolgathering. What’s that you said?”

The stout little woman sighed. “Jessie dear, I was askin’ if your ma could bake me a loaf of sourdough bread for tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll need payment for the pie first, ma’am,” Jessie said, hoping it didn’t sound too rude.

“Can’t y’all wait to the end of the week?” Mrs. Wiggins looked flustered.

“Times are hard, ma’am. Ma needs to buy supplies.” Jessie glanced over her shoulder again. Hannah and Heppie were a half block away. A cold chill ran through her.

“That’s right, Jessie dear. Times are hard indeed, but Mr. Wiggins wanted an apple pie for his birthday.” Mrs. Wiggins sighed. “I’ll get your money.” She turned her back, left the door open, and took the pie into the house.

Jessie tapped her toe as she waited, watching her sisters grow smaller and smaller. Her stomach tightened on her breakfast and made her queasy. Hurry up! she thought, and mentally berated the twins for leaving her here. She was the “little sister.” More often than not, they stuck together and left her to do the more distasteful things like collect money from customers.

After what seemed like forever, Mrs. Wiggins returned with a few coins and counted out the price of the pie.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll tell Ma about your bread,” Jessie said as she put the money into her pocket.

Mrs. Wiggins closed the door forcefully, as if to protest Jessie’s insistence on being paid.

Jessie snorted. Silly old bat! Of course she has to pay Ma now. How does she expect— Jessie left the thought alone and went on to her more immediate worry. With one hand she scooped up the basket she’d put on the porch while she waited, and with the other she grabbed her skirt, racing off after her sisters. “Hannah,” she called out. “Heppie! Wait for me.”

Jessie had covered half the distance that separated her from the twins when she tripped on a root and fell, landing on the hard dirt with her forearms straddling the basket.

Pain lanced through her arms but was instantly supplanted by the smart of her embarrassment. Oh, what mortification! You’d think I was twelve years old instead of eighteen, trippin’ over a danged root.

Heppie had looked back in time to see the fall. “Jessie,” she cried out, and started toward her, motioning for her to get up—as if Jessie were perfectly content to lie sprawled across the path as she was. Hannah continued on to the corner, then turned and waited while Jessie scrambled to her feet and Heppie helped her brush off her skirts.

“Jessie! Are you hurt?”

She rubbed her sore arms, getting the dirt off. “I reckon I’ll be—”

Jessie saw the man at that moment, the rider the Yankees called Red. In what seemed only a few seconds, he jumped off his horse, grabbed Hannah around the waist, and was back in his saddle, having thrown Hannah over the front of his horse like a sack of grain. Her basket tumbled through the air, spewing loaves of bread onto the ground. Jessie cried out and pointed, unable to form words to describe what she was seeing. Heppie turned and began to scream. Jessie lifted her skirts and ran toward the corner as fast as she could. He can’t be takin’ her, she thought, her heart pounding in her ears.
~~~

Available at Amazon US as a print book:
http://www.amazon.com/Trail-Storms-Marsha-Ward/dp/1440126046/
As a Kindle Edition in the US:
http://www.amazon.com/Trail-Storms-Owen-Family-ebook/dp/B004Z1L266/
At Amazon UK as a print book:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trail-Storms-Marsha-Ward/dp/1440126046/
As a Kindle Edition in the UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trail-Storms-Owen-Family-ebook/dp/B004Z1L266/
At Smashword.com in many ebook formats: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55714
~~~
Now find another sample to read:

July Kindle Sales

2011-08-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

In keeping with my open and honest approach to sales figures from my venture into selling ebooks on Kindle, here are my sales figures for July. The numbers represent how many of each story or novel were sold from 7/01/2011 to 7/31/2011.

The US Kindle Store:
Cottonwood Cowboys - 1
Ride to Raton - 24
The Man from Shenandoah - 40
The Owen Family Saga Sampler - 6
The Usual Game - 1
Thumps & Losers - 1
Trail of Storms - 28
War Party - 3

That is 104 units sold!

The UK Kindle Store:
Ride to Raton - 2
The Man from Shenandoah - 3
The Owen Family Saga Sampler - 4
Trail of Storms - 2
War Party - 1

The UK sales totaled 12 units.

So far in August I have 29 units sold from the US store and 0 from the UK.

Please let your British, Scots, Irish and Welsh cousins and friends know about my books in their local Kindle store.

And, if you know anyone in Germany . . . let them know great Westerns are available for them (in English) at Kindle DE.

Thanks 

Book Review: The Assassination of Governor Boggs, by Rod Miller

2011-08-02T16:14:00.001-07:00

I interviewed author Rod Miller on this blog in October of 2007. His list of works was quite impressive at that time, and he's added several new works since then, which you can read about on his website.

Today, I'm reviewing his new historical novel, The Assassination of Governor Boggs, which was recently released by Bonneville Books. If you read the interview, you'll note that at that time, he had just got his mind around how to tell this story. Well, tell it he does, and in a rip-snorting fashion!

From the back cover:

After an attempted assassination, Governor Lilburn Boggs couldn't prove who'd taken a shot at him, leaving the identity of his assailant a mystery. Twenty-five years later and after the passing of Gov. Boggs, Pinkerton Detective Calvin Pogue has been hired by the Boggs family to open this cold case and find out the truth about the assassin. From Missouri to California and into the heart of the Utah Territory, Detective Pogue relentlessly seeks clues that lead him to the legendary Mormon gunman Porter Rockwell--who still isn't making things easy for anyone!

Join Detective Pogue as he steps into this hair-raising mystery and tracks down Gov. Boggs's enemies and friends to a finale you won't believe.

This fast-paced historical mystery had me turning pages as quickly as I could to keep up with the story of a war-crippled Pinkerton detective traveling throughout the American West, seeking clues in this case gone cold. The folks he meets, many of whom are legends themselves, recount their memories of the events of the incomplete assassination, each in his own voice and way, whether they were a sheriff, an attorney, or a passer-by.

In that time, when the Mormon Church was getting its start and trying to survive among neighbors who didn't much like them--and vice versa--government on the frontier pretty much ignored the written law and took it into their own hands in order to shake loose an irritating burr under their saddle: a large, united body of folks with strange beliefs and ways. Governor Boggs hated the Mormons, and made no secret of that fact, acting on his hate in some pretty bizarre pronouncements and orders. In return, the Mormons, under his persecution, returned the emotion. No wonder everything came together with an attempt upon his life.

Rod Miller's decisive writing clearly illuminates this bitter period of the American experience. Anyone who wonders about the early Mormon Church, the Missouri period, or life on the frontier, should get a taste of that wild time from this novel.

The Assassination of Governor Boggs is available at LDS bookstores, and online at Deseret Book, as both a print book and in a Kindle edition at Amazon.com, and at Barnes and Noble.com. (The print book is on sale now at Amazon and BN.)

Sample Saturday: Trail of Storms, Excerpt 1 from Chapter 1

2011-07-30T00:22:00.000-07:00

Today's Sample is from the third novel in the Owen Family Saga, Trail of Storms. The setting is Mount Jackson in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley just after the American Civil War, the genre is historical Western fiction, and the rating is PG-13 due to violence.

I began this series of Samples to coordinate with Sample Sunday, but since I don't like to do marketing on the Sabbath day, I shifted my samples to Saturday. I was briefly interrupted by major surgery and recovery therefrom, but now I'm back, and I'm taking part in the Sweet Saturday Samples blog hop, where authors are presenting Clean Fiction Excerpts on their blogs.

$3.99 on Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle

$16.95 at Amazon.com for Trade Paperback

Chapter One, Scene One

“You girls stick tight together. Those blasted Yankee riders are still botherin’ folks.”

Jessica Bingham paused outside the bakery’s front door, letting Ma’s words roll off her shoulders as she rearranged the loaves of freshly baked bread in her basket. She looked down the quiet street. The rising sun’s pink and gold rays chased night’s shadows from the cracks and crannies of Mount Jackson’s storefronts. She inhaled the fresh scents of the morning to clear the heavy odor of yeast from her nose. Spring was here. “Hmmm,” she sighed, and felt a smile of satisfaction lift her mouth. Ma was wrong to worry. This perfect day could hold no danger to her or her sisters.

And yet . . . the previous week, two young married ladies had been knocked to the ground by a band of cavalrymen of the occupation force. One merely had the wind knocked out of her, but the other had lost her unborn babe. Her husband had protested. He’d been badly beaten. A feeling of unease crept over Jessica. Perhaps there were no perfect days in Virginia anymore?

Her older, recently married sister, Hannah, pushed past, saying, “Jessie, get yourself out of my way. This bread won’t deliver itself.”

Jessie stepped aside and let Hannah pass, since she always seemed to be in a hurry. She had to take the lead in every endeavor, and couldn’t abide being late. Maybe that’s why she was born first of the twins.

The other twin, Hepzibah, came out of the door and stopped at Jessie’s side. She nudged Jessie and said, rolling her eyes, “Hannah’s just so rude. Don’t give in to her. Ever since she got married, she thinks she’s the queen of the world.”

Jessie shrugged and stepped out into the street, Hepzibah following after. “Maybe she is, in Robert Fletcher’s eyes. He treats her like a fine lady.”

Hepzibah made a small, anguished sound. Jessie looked around at her sister, whose expression had changed to chagrin.

Jessie said in a rush, “Oh Heppie, don’t mind my prattle. I reckon George loves you just as much as Robert does Hannah. He’s bound to say so real soon.”

This time, Heppie’s sound was definitely a sigh, and her eyes began to redden.

Jessie, trying to divert Heppie from having a crying spell in the middle of the street, called out to Hannah, who strode along five yards ahead of them. “Wait for us. Ma will have a conniption if we don’t stay together.” She looked around the deserted street, her nerves beginning to twang. “Do you see any riders down the road?”

“No,” Hannah replied. “It’s too early for those lazy bums to be out. Besides, I ain’t seen ‘em for days. Ma’s just got a bug in her ear.” Hannah carried her basket of baked goods on her hip. She stopped walking and gave it a little hitch to make it ride higher.

“Do you reckon they’ve left town?” Heppie asked Jessie as they followed Hannah.

Jessie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a customer told Ma they’re still here.” She turned her head to look behind her. “I don’t see them.”

“That don’t mean they’re not around the corner,” Heppie said, sniffing, then wiping her nose with a tiny scrap of a handkerchief. “Look sharp.”

Jessie shivered. Her stomach began to ache, and she felt vulnerable and unsafe. The Yankees had already won the war, ravaging the country in the process. It was terribly hard to make ends meet these days. She’d heard Ma crying at night on that score. Why didn’t the Yankees go home and leave the people of Mount Jackson alone?

She thought of Hannah, who lived with Robert in a house on the other side of town. During the time he worked at the bank, Hannah was all alone. She may lord it over Heppie and me for not being married, but maybe she’s afraid too. She does spend an awful lot of each day at our house.

Jessie stepped over a stick in her path. I reckon I don’t blame her, she thought. She hesitated a moment, sniffing the air. Was that dust she smelled? Don’t panic. Likely a wagon passed on the Valley Pike. At that moment, the sound of hoofbeats coming up behind them raised chills along her spine. She whirled and faced four mounted Yankees, who had seemed to rise out of the very ground.

The men caught up and circled the three women before they could take another step. Two of them spat tobacco juice near the girls’ shoes. One failed to launch his mouthful properly, dribbling juice down the front of his shirt.

“Cal, you can’t hit a tin can with a turnip,” said one man whose dirty red hair poked out in points where it escaped his cap. His laughter rang through the empty street.

Jessie grabbed hold of Hannah’s arm with her free hand. She felt Heppie clutching at her skirt band. Jessie looked around, frantic. Where were the Miller brothers? They were always up early, coming down the street as the girls left the bakery.

“Sez you, Red,” the Yankee named Cal said, spitting a fresh stream that landed on Heppie’s shoulder.

Heppie screamed, dropped her basket, and tried to wipe the juice off.

Cal chewed on his wad of tobacco, turned, and shot a spurt of juice in Hannah’s direction. She shrieked as it hit her cheek. Red laughed again, and waved his cap in the air.

“Hannah!” Jessie shouted, and pulled her sister closer to her. The stink of the tobacco filled her nose as she dashed it away from Hannah’s eye with her hand.

The third man, whose black moustache contained bits of food, said to Heppie, “Here, let me wipe that for you.” He leaned down and grabbed a lock of Heppie’s blonde hair. She cried out as he yanked on it, pulling her closer to his horse.

“You need a knife, Bull?” asked the fourth Yankee, reaching into his pocket.

Bull swore. “I can get my own trophies, Foster. Put away your knife.”

“Get away from her!” Jessie shouted. Her heart thrummed in her chest. She tried to think of what to do even as she shoved at the man’s arm, getting the juice from her hand on his uniform sleeve. He let go of Heppie’s hair and turned on Jessie, trying to swat at her hand, but she evaded his reach. Hannah was cowering away from Foster, who called her unpleasant names. The other men rode in circles around the three young women, laughing, whistling, and making rude talk.

“Go back to the store,” Jessie urged her sisters. She stripped the white towel from her basket and flapped it in the face of the nearest horse. It reared, dumping Red, and galloped off down the road. The girls pushed their way through the interrupted circle and ran for the front door of the bakery. Behind them, Jessie heard the laughter and catcalls the other men showered on the unseated rider, who swore at them, his horse, and Jessie herself.

Heppie made it to the door first, wrenching it open. Hannah followed hard on her heels, and Jessie brought up the rear.

“Lock it, Jessie,” shrieked Heppie. Her big blue eyes seemed ready to leap out of her face.

Jessie twisted the lock, wondering if it would keep the men out if they wanted to enter. “Ma,” she cried out as her mother rushed into the shop from the kitchen. “Those Yankees! They spit tobacco juice at us. Just look at Heppie’s dress!”

“They’re so crude,” Heppie moaned, swiping at her shoulder. “I’ll never get this stain off me!”

“There, there, girls.” Ma gathered the young women into her arms. “Did they hurt you?” Jessie felt her mother’s body shaking.

Hannah loosed herself from Ma’s grasp and dabbed at her cheek with a handkerchief. “I hate tobacco!”

Ma let go of the girls. “Jessie? You ain’t been harmed?”

“No, Ma.” Jessie started to hug herself to control her quaking, but remembered in time that her hand was still smeared with slime. She walked behind the bakery display case, found a cloth, and wiped her hand with it. The day had just begun, and already it was a disaster.

Ma went to the window and looked out. “Are the Yankees still out there?” She craned her neck to the right. “Looks like they’re goin’ off down the street,” she said. “One of ‘em is chasin’ a horse. What happened?”

“Jessie spooked his mount and got us out of there,” Hannah said. Her voice sounded calmer. “Heppie, let’s go clean ourselves up.” She took Heppie’s arm, and the twins went into the kitchen.

“Ma.” Jessie joined her mother at the window. “Do we have to go out there again?”

Ma took a deep, shuddering breath, then let it out slowly. It seemed to steady her. “Folks’ll be lookin’ for their bread and pastries. If you leave by the back door, it’s most likely the Yankees won’t even spot you.” She gave Jessie a pat on the shoulder. “I know those Yankee louts are mighty rude to folks, but I don’t think you’ll come to real harm if you stay together. When Hannah and Heppie have cleaned up, you three scoot.”

Jessie sighed. Ma’s right. Folks need their baked goods, and heaven knows we need the money. She shivered. They would have to go back out. Without a protector. Her brother Luke was too young to do much good. Her heart pounded in her chest. Oh Pa! Why did you have to die and leave us so helpless?
---

The aftermath of the American Civil created cruel circumstances for the Bingham family, and a brutal attack on Hannah drove the extended family to flee to the West. Imagine how horrible circumstances would have to be in your life for you and your family to leave your home overnight. Share your thoughts and feelings.

Why I'm a Dedicated Indie Author

2011-07-26T01:17:00.157-07:00

Indie Author = an author who publishes his or her work independently of traditional or "legacy" publishers, which work may take the form of either print books, electronic books, or both.

I have several writer friends who have done some variety of independent publishing, and more who are curious about what indie publishing can do for their bottom line. I thought I would share some facts about what a big change a few hours' work has made in my life.

Long-time friends know why I started "self-publishing" several years ago, despite the bias against those writers who did so. For those who don't know, I had a serious health crisis, and didn't want to die with manuscripts unpublished. Therefore, I put out three print books with iUniverse.

Then my books were such a resounding success with you fantastic readers that I couldn't stop to wait for a gatekeeper to accept/schedule/publish my work. Each new book being part of a series about my Owen family, that wasn't likely to happen anyway. Traditional publishers usually don't buy a series book in the middle of the arc. I am currently working on a fourth in the series I now have entitled the Owen Family Saga.

When the electronic book distributor Smashwords.com came to town two years or so ago, I jumped on the ebook bandwagon, and signed up with my first two novels.

I decided to hold off on the third until I finished writing the fourth. A stupid decision, I discovered later, as I educated myself under writers J. A. Konrath, Dean Wesley Smith, and other early electronic book authors. Smashwords delivers content to most of the big ebook retailers, including Sony, Kobo Books, and B&N--before they came up with Pub-It. Smashwords has NOT been successful in getting distribution to Amazon, YET, and the head honcho, Mark Coker, advised us Smashwords authors and publishers to go over to the Amazon Kindle site and do it ourselves. I'd heard the Kindle preparation process was complicated and difficult, so again, I held off.

In the meantime, I had some sales through the Smashwords channels. Royalties in the two figures.

Then I decided I'd put things off long enough, added my third novel to Smashwords in late April-early May,

and decided to see how hard it really was to format for Kindle. Astonishingly, with the free software Kindle Direct Publishing offered, it was easier than preparing a manuscript for Smashwords!

I uploaded my three novels to Amazon Kindle, and heck, just because more content is better, added several short stories and an anthology, which I also uploaded to Smashwords. I topped it all off with a Sampler of three chapters each of the three published novels, and a chapter from the forthcoming one. My prices ranged from $.99 to $3.99.

Now I had TEN ebooks of various sizes (let's call them units) going through both Smashwords distribution and through Kindle's three stores: US, UK, and Germany.

Let me just say that I've had no, zero, zip sales through the German (DE) store. I understand a bit more now why that is, but it's irrelevent to this discussion.

After I uploaded my works, I joined a couple of Facebook groups, mentioned the works, and then got busy preparing for a road trip with a girlfriend. This took up most of May.

June. June brought me pretty low. I had emergency major surgery, and thus did no marketing for my books.

July arrived. I was beginning to feel like a human being again, and, curious to see if I'd sold any ebooks on Kindle, I took a look at my sales figures.

I about got my socks knocked off! In May I had sales of 90 UNITS in the US Kindle store ($209.03 royalty), and 5 UNITS in the UK store ($6.35 royalty).

In June I sold 94 units in the US and 3 units in the UK. Royalty figures were not available per month yet, but for the period of June 4 through July 9, the royalties from the US store are $287.09 and 63 pence for the UK.

In July thus far, I've sold 81 units in the US and 11 units in the UK.

Yes, I know, these aren't figures in the tens of thousands of sales or royalties yet, but ebooks have the advantage of the long tail. They never get swept off a bookstore's shelf after a month. They are FOR.EVER!

Remember, I've done little or no advertising that my work is even out there, and these are Western-flavored novels and stories, for the most part, not the more-in-demand romances (per se), mysteries, thrillers, dystopian YA novels, vampire tales, or zombie stories.

So, the big question is: Am I ever likely to send queries, try to get an agent, or nervously stand in line hoping for a gatekeeper to say I'm good enough to publish? I don't know. You be the judge.

Works by Marsha Ward
Print books, novels: The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms
Ebooks, novels: The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms
Ebook Collection (prose & poetry): No More Strangers
Recipe Book: Rapid Recipes for Writers...and Other Busy People
Short Stories: Cottonwood Cowboys, War Party, The Usual Game, Thumps & Losers (2 stories)
Sampler: The Owen Family Saga Sampler (Three chapters each from the three novels in the Owen Family Saga, plus a bonus chapter from the forthcoming novel, Spinster's Folly)

My electronic books are available at Smashwords.com in many ebook formats; Amazon Kindle in the US, UK, and Germany; Barnes & Noble; and other online ebook retailers.

My print books are available at iUniverse.com, Amazon.com, bn.com, marshaward.com, and other online retailers.

Blog Tour: All That Was Promised, by Vickie Hall

2011-07-19T06:00:00.124-07:00

Perhaps because some of my forebears came from Wales, I readily agreed to review the recently released LDS historical novel, All That Was Promised, for this blog tour. I wasn't disappointed to find tidbits about Welsh culture and cuisine sprinkled throughout the work. Vickie Hall did her homework for her debut novel, but it doesn't show unduly, as she avoids the mistake of many new authors of throwing in every bit of research, simply because they know stuff the reader surely must need to know, as well.

The book is published by the Bonneville Books imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc. They do some of the most stunning cover art in the LDS marketplace:

This novel, which was provided to me by the publisher, is most suited for LDS teens and women.

From the back cover: Ben's expression registered his surprise. "You're a minister?" he asked, curiously.

Richard cleared his throat as a telling grin twisted his mouth. "Aye, that I am."

Leah returned to the compact parlor and gave the missionary a scant glance. "Do you find that amusin', Mr. Lachlan?"

"No, not at all," he replied sincerely. "People from all walks of life recognize the truth of the gospel."

An encounter with a Mormon missionary and his unusual message of a "restored gospel" leave Richard Kenyon, a young Methodist minister, questioning his life's work when he cannot deny a growing testimony of this peculiar American religion. But Richard soon finds himself struggling to recognize the promised blessings of the gospel when violent persecution shakes the fledgling Church in Wales.

An accomplished composer and produced playwright, Vickie Hall has turned a new leaf in her life by trying her hand at fiction. All That Was Promised is based upon the journals of her Welsh progenitors. It gives her great joy to tell their story in a fiction format.

I found the story in All That Was Promised to be well-told, and most of the characters to be nicely developed. I liked Richard Kenyon's sincerity. I ached for his wife, Leah's, childless state and struggles to accept the changes that Richard's conversion brings into their lives. I was horrified at the persecution, the senseless destruction and beatings--even until death--that the Saints in Wales endured. Although my Welsh ancestors came to America before they found the gospel, I could imagine how difficult it would have been for them to undergo such trials.

I do have a quibble with the manner in which the author chose to use Point of View for her characters. Actually, I suspect she didn't choose it so much as she was perhaps ignorant of how Point of View works.

There is an old, not-so-much-in-favor-now Viewpoint called Omniscient. As author Orson Scott Card explains in his excellent how-to book for novelists, Characters & Viewpoint, "The only time we (authors) can act out our godlike role in front of the audience is when we write using the third-person omniscient point of view." Card continues: "As an omniscient narrator, you float over the landscape wherever you want, moving from place to place in the twinkling of an eye. You pull the reader along with you like Superman taking Lois Lane out for a flight, and whenever you see something interesting, you explain to the reader exactly what's going on. You can show the reader every character's thoughts, dreams, memories, and desires; you can let the reader see any moment of the past or future."

Sounds like A Christmas Carol.

Unfortunately, no one uses Third-person Omniscient Viewpoint to good effect these days. Mostly, there is a lot of "head-hopping" going on, which pulls the modern reader not along on a flight of fancy, but out of the story, instead. I persevered, and found that I could mostly ignore the viewpoint shifts, even when they occurred in successive paragraphs.

Since this novel was published by a commercial publisher, I lay the blame for the POV errors on the head of the editor, who should have gently guided her author into making appropriate changes so that we only saw one character's point of view per scene, and not a mishmash of every possible thought and reaction of every character present.

That, along with an abundance of adverbs and adjectives, were my only complaints with this novel. There is evidently a sequel in the works. I look forward to reading it for further adventures with Richard and Leah Kenyon.

To learn more about Vickie Hall, check her website here, and her blog here.

All That Was Promised is available in LDS bookstores and at Amazon in print format here, and in Kindle format here.

National Day of the Cowboy - July 23

2011-07-17T05:40:00.001-07:00

Saturday, July 23rd, is the annual National Day of the Cowboy, and the Barnes and Noble in Redlands, CA will be hosting the "Read 'em Cowboy!" book fair. A portion of sales from the book fair will go to the Western Writers of America's Homestead Foundation, so please consider participating.

It's not necessary that you physically attend the event (though the more, the merrier!). By using vouchers you can download and print from the event's Facebook page, you can make a purchase at any Barnes and Noble store, and a percentage will go to Homestead. If you buy online at www.bn.com/bookfairs, just enter the Bookfair ID# (10510444) when prompted at checkout.

You can make these purchases in-store (preferable, because the donated to Homestead is higher) or online anytime from July 23rd through July 28th and B&N will honor the vouchers/Bookfair ID# The amount B&N donates back will vary from 10% to 20% of all sales, depending upon the grand total of qualifying sales.

Here's a great excuse to add to your Western library (books, music, movies all count), do some early Christmas shopping, or just support Western Writers of America . You'll also be helping to clue booksellers in about the National Day of the Cowboy - and reminding them to stock more Western titles!

Recovery

2011-07-16T17:38:00.000-07:00

Some of you--probably those of you who have checked this blog in vain for new material over the last couple of months--know that I had what was essentially emergency surgery at the beginning of June. That has had a profound impact on my lifestyle and ability to do just plain stuff for the last six weeks. Although I am not back 100% yet, I'm feeling much better, and able to do more in a day than say, just last week.

I'm getting cranky and ornery, and that's always a good sign of recovery. I hope I won't get too out-of-control before good sense prevails again, and I become my previously good-natured self.

Hang in there with me. I've got some blog tours and book reviews coming up, and I look forward to working on my manuscript again very soon.

Making some progress

2011-07-06T07:31:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to say that I'm gaining some strength. Every new day is one to conquer, but I'm getting there.

Hurray!

2011-06-21T13:07:00.002-07:00

I get to go home today!

Sorry to disappear

2011-06-11T11:19:00.000-07:00

It seems I will be soon doing a hospital review as well as book reviews. Not today, though. I'm pretty tired, although doing well after unplanned major surgery. I'm out of the hospital and into a nursing center.

See you later!

May 31 or June 1?

2011-05-31T13:30:00.001-07:00

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!

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

2011-05-28T23:36:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-21T01:00:00.033-07:00

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