New Reading Order for Owen Family Saga?

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

July was such a stressful month. Some of the stress was bad and some was good. I'm just very happy to have survived it!

* I've been mulling over a re-vamp of the suggested order of reading the books of the Owen Family Saga. I'll let you know my thoughts on order below, then you can tell me YOUR thoughts.

* The first step of doing a re-order would be to go into the back end at Kindle and change the book number designations on the five books so they would show up on Amazon with a new order.

* The second thing to do (at my leisure, as I don't want to take away from writing time and effort) is remove all references to book number on the ebook covers, just in case I change my mind and want to change to some other order. Sheesh!

* That's simple enough to do for THE MAN FROM SHENANDOAH, RIDE TO RATON, and TRAIL OF STORMS. GONE FOR A SOLDIER already gives only the series title. I would have to contact the designer of the cover of SPINSTER'S FOLLY to take the book number off and send me revised covers.

* Some of the paperback covers never were numbered, fortunately. I can do new covers for a couple of them, but SPINSTER'S FOLLY, as I said above, requires contacting the designer.

Here's the reading order I've been thinking about:

1. Gone for a Soldier

2. The Man from Shenandoah

3. Spinster's Folly

4. Ride to Raton

5. Trail of Storms

If you've read them all, or even only a few of them, what do YOU think about changing to this new suggested reading order?

Sample Saturday - Ride to Raton

Welcome back to Sample Saturday!

Some writers plan out everything they will ever write. When I finished The Man from Shenandoah, I thought I had written the only full-length novel I would ever write. I thought that was it for these people, and any further long-form fiction.

But evidently I had more to tell. I left James Owen sorely wounded in heart and mind, and he demanded that I give him a chance to work through his pain.

Accordingly, I wrote Ride to Raton (It probably should have been called Ride to Raton Pass, but I liked the sound of the three words, and totally forgot the fact that there is a town in New Mexico named Raton). I thought this novel would finish up my account of the Owen family from Virginia.

Boy, was I wrong! The two books have grown to five, with offshoots and spinoffs going in all directions, and more to come.

It's been quite a while since I've posted any scenes or samples from Ride to Raton. This never-before-posted scene occurs after James is shot in Pueblo, Colorado Territory, by a disgruntled former Union soldier. Randolph Hilbrands, a friend of James's father, has taken him into his home to recuperate.
~~~

“Mister James, Mister James, wake up, please? You must be hungry.”

Surprised to hear his name, James rolled over, grinning at the soothing touch of the water on his naked body, and swam upward from exploring the bottom of the pond behind the flour mill on a creek feeding the Shenandoah River. He tried to shrug off the hand that gently touched his right shoulder, but the movement brought such a flood of pain to his side that he moaned before he could catch himself.

“Please, Mister James. Ma said I wasn’t to come back to the kitchen without feeding you. If you don’t wake up soon, your food’ll be stone cold.”

He thrust his head and shoulders above the water, opened one eye, then immediately shut it against the sunlight that streamed through an open window between muslin drapes and hit his face. His body felt bloated, invaded by aches and twitches. And although he was still naked, he seemed to be lying half covered by a sheet and quilt on a bed inside a room, instead of treading water in the millpond.

Someone besides himself was in the room. “Six little beans!” he grunted, trying to shade his eyes with his left hand, remembering that a girl’s voice had addressed him. “It’s brighter than noon day in here. Can you shut them curtains?”

A young girl put the tray of food on the washstand and ran to the window to pull the drapes together. She returned to stand beside the bed, and James blinked his eyes as she drew near.

The girl was about fifteen, he judged, slender and blonde. She wore a white bib apron with a full skirt over a light weight gingham gown patterned with sprigs of lilacs on a white background. Her wavy hair hung below her shoulders, tied back with a white ribbon. The girl smiled, tentatively, and one dimple appeared in her cheek.

“Who’re you?” he asked, wondering how he came to be between the sheets. The last thing he remembered, he had been lying atop the coverlet, enduring the sting of a thousand hornets as Amanda Hilbrands’ needle pierced the flesh of his side. Now he looked around. The tub was gone from the room, and the towel had disappeared from around his hips. James blinked twice, and reached down to draw the sheet over his chest, grateful that the quilt masked his nakedness from the girl.

“I’m Sylvia. My pa runs the hotel. Don’t you recall he brought you here?”

James shut his eyes for a moment, less to remember his arrival than to recall where he had heard the girl’s voice before. He gave his head a shake, then opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” he sighed, a long drawn out sound, and fingered the bandage around his chest. “Your ma put this thread into me a couple of hours ago.”

“That was two days back!” the girl exclaimed. “You’ve been asleep since then.”

“Six little beans! Did I take a fever?” James got himself onto his elbows, and the girl bent forward to put a pillow behind his back so he could sit partway up. As the sheet slipped and gathered in creases about his waist, the girl’s hair brushed his shoulder.

The blonde hair—he could see it on another head, arranged in tumbling ringlets behind a face twisted with fury. A voice—with the same timbre as this girl’s voice—batted at his ears: “You never came around, Carl Owen. Cecil was here. I have a right to marry a man I can trust!”

James shuddered.

“No.” A frown furrowed Sylvia’s forehead. “I reckon you’re just wore out. You been through a lot of woe since you came to Pueblo City.” She turned away to bring the food tray, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed with the tray on her lap. “This is a good room, though. Pa let Ida use it for her wedding night.”

A wrenching pain invaded James’s gut. Ida Hilbrands had breathed this air, her body had lain on this bed. The body that should have quieted Carl’s lusts was given to an English dandy—on this bed, beneath this quilt. James swallowed. His throat closed on cotton.

The girl touched his wrist. James’s arm twitched under the cool fingers.

“Are you all right, Mister James?”

He cleared his throat. “You sound like your…older sister.”

“You mean Mary?” The girl’s face brightened. “How is her little baby doing? We all want to see her.” Sylvia picked up a spoon and a bowl and stirred the contents.

James again eased the sheet up to cover his chest. “The little gal’s growing, but no, I wasn’t speaking of Mary.” The sheet bunched in his lap again, and James jerked it upward and pinned it underneath his arm.

“Oh. You mean—”

“Ida! I mean Ida.” His voice rasped in his throat as he said the name.

The girl looked puzzled. “Are you angry with Ida?”

James felt his face settling into ridges as he scowled. Angry? The word was wrong. Wrong and far too weak. I hate her. I despise her wide blue eyes and her lying, cheating heart. He cleared his throat again. “I have reason.” His breath left his lungs in a lengthy shudder.

Sylvia looked at him for a moment, puzzlement crinkling the skin around her eyes. Then she picked up a spoon.

“Here, have a taste of porridge. Ma made it fresh for you today.” Sylvia held the spoon to James’s lips, and he accepted the morsel. “What did Ida do to you? I thought it was Carl she threw over.”

For a moment, he could only chew, then swallow. He sensed no taste, no savor. Before he had a chance to speak, Sylvia put another spoonful of mush into his mouth. He swallowed that down, then, as Sylvia brought up another bite, James shook his head.

They’ll know sooner or later. Pa will come in for supplies, or Ma will send a note to Mrs. H. by a passing stranger. He turned his head to look at the doorway. Will I be gone, first? Or will Danny O’Brien shoot me in the back? He looked at the girl and squeezed his hands into fists. The pain forced his mouth open.

“You didn’t hear, I reckon. Carl got over being mad at Ida. He wed Ellen Bates about a week past.”

“Oh, Mister James! She was pledged to you!” Sylvia dropped the spoon into the bowl, and it clanked against the side.

Instantly, he repented of his burst of words. “Forget I said that. Just forget it!”

“I’m sorry.” Sylvia held her hands tightly together in front of her mouth.

James snorted. “It’s done and over.”

“How could that happen?” The girl moved the tray from her lap to the bed and leaned forward.

Bitterness rose in James’s throat, and he turned his head to swallow it down.

Sylvia bounced once on the bed. “Ida caused it. She sure is mean.”

James shuddered anew, slumping against the pillow. “Go away,” he said.

“What?”

“Take your gruel and leave me be. I’m weary.”

“But you didn’t finish.”

“Tell your Ma I fell asleep again. It won’t be a lie. Look. I’m nodding off now.” James shut his eyes.

He heard her get to her feet and pick up the tray. “I reckon I tired you out, talking so much.”

“It’s not you. I’m wore out, like you said.” James twitched the quilt higher on his chest. Suddenly he bolted upright, winced, then lay down again. “You’d better get your papa, girl. I got to put myself deeper in his debt.”
~~~

If you haven't yet read Ride to Raton, here are links for print and ebook copies:
Print books $15.95: Amazon | Barnes and Noble
ebooks $3.99: Smashwords all formats | Kindle | nook | Kobo | iTunes Bookstore

Please remember that in this new world of publishing, YOUR reviews are vital to authors. Go post a review on any of my books, novellas, or short stories you have read. They don't have to be long. You only need to express what you thought about the work, and perhaps why. Did you like the characters? Did the history of the period excite you? Was the story enjoyable? Would you recommend the work to your friends? Writing a review is your chance to do just that.

Thank you!

Sample Saturday

EEK! It's Saturday again, and I almost missed it.

Here's a scene from Book 2 of the Owen Family Saga, Ride to Raton. James Owen has just had "firm" words with the man for whom he is working to pay off a debt of honor. He is also two weeks or so out from being shot by a disgruntled drunk, which is why he's so cautious.
~~~

James turned on his heel and walked out the door. He paused at the doorway leading outside and looked into the yard. Everything seemed normal. Then he strode toward the stables.

As he entered the dimness of the interior, James stepped to one side of the door and stopped, hand on his pistol butt. This was the time for an attack, while his eyes were adjusting to the half light, so he listened. The scuffling sound he heard sent him into a dive behind a stall partition, trying to draw the revolver as he went down. He fell hard on his left shoulder, landing on scar tissue from a bayonet wound he’d received during the war. He swore softly, rolling to a crouch with his pistol in his hand.

James blinked several times to free his eyes of fragments of straw, but remained otherwise motionless, trying to locate the source of the danger. There was no sound but the pounding of his heart in his ears for long moments, then, the shuffling noise he had first heard came again from the other side of the shed.

From the darkness beyond the door, through the rectangular light, and into the darkness again, scurried a large rat. James holstered his revolver and wiped sweat from his eyes. He got to his feet and started toward where the hay fork hung on the wall.

James heard the report of the pistol at the same moment a lead ball whizzed past his right ear. He hit the straw covered floor again. James rolled to his left, toward the protection of the nearest stall. The shot had come from the direction of the shuttered window near the back of the shed, close to where the harnesses were draped to dry on pegs, looking like so many brown spider webs in the dim light.

Ma, they’re at it again. Can’t a man pay his debt and leave a place still in one piece? With his revolver in his hand, James waited for what would come next—another shot, a rush of men, or the marshal, Tate. As he waited, a bead of sweat ran out from under his hat, down his temple, and into his beard. His side and shoulder throbbed with pain. Six little beans! Why’d I ever stop in Pueblo Town?

No shot came, and James slipped out of the stall and rushed to the doorway. He glanced into the alley. No one was in sight, so he slid through the door and made his way to the back corner of the shed.

Holding his breath, James craned his neck around the corner. One man stood there with a revolver pressed to a crack in the shutter and one eye up to a knothole in the wood. Two steps, and James was behind him. The man reacted to the slight noise of his coming by whispering, “That you, Li—”

James laid the pistol barrel un-gently alongside the man’s head and caught his body as he crumpled.

No. It’s me, James Owen, and I’m tired of dodging lead for no good reason, he thought as he holstered his gun and laid the limp body on the straw covered dirt. Tarnation. This can wear a man down.
~~~

Thanks for visiting. You can purchase Ride to Raton in your chosen version from the vendors below.

Ride to Raton: Book 2 - in print and ebook formats
Print: Amazon | Barnes and Noble | ebooks: Smashwords all formats | Kindle | nook | Kobo | iTunes Bookstore

Holy Week (Semana Santa) Contest

In commemoration of the events that changed the world 2000-odd years ago, I'm holding a

HOLY WEEK CONTEST

which begins today (Palm Sunday) and ends at noon on Monday, April 21 (Easter Monday in Canada). The prize for the

HOLY WEEK CONTEST

is an autographed copy of one of my Owen Family Saga novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, or Spinster's Folly.

If the winner is not from the United States, I will email him or her instructions for downloading a free copy of the novel of their choice as an e-book. They then can go to Authorgraph.com and put in a request for a digital autograph (or they can do it from the gadget over in the left sidebar).

Each person who follows the rules below and comments on this post with the desired information will have his or her name placed in my ten-gallon contest-drawing hat. The winner's name will be drawn from the hat on Easter Monday, April 21, at 12:30 p.m. Mountain Standard Time (because, you know, I live in Arizona).

Here are the Rules: 

1. Think about the novels you have read from the Owen Family Saga. 
2. Determine which is your favorite character.
3. Figure out why they are your favorite character.
4. Comment on this post and tell me who that character is and why he or she is your favorite.
5. Tell which book you want autographed and sent to you if you win.
6. Include your email address for winner notification.
7. You may only enter the HOLY WEEK CONTEST one time (but see the Bonus Rules below).

Bonus Rules:

• If you also include in your comment which book made you like this character best, I will put your name into the hat a second time.
• If you include a favorite passage from one of the novels that is no longer than three paragraphs long and is pertinent to why you like your favorite character, I will put your name into the hat a third time.

Remember: This contest starts today and runs through Monday, April 21. Each commenter may enter only one time, as you know, favorite is favorite, after all... even if your opinion of your favorite character will change next time you re-read one of the Owen Family Saga novels... or read the next one, Gone for a Soldier, coming later this summer.

Good luck to all of you!

Saturday Sample, March 8, 2014

Welcome back to Saturday Samples! This week I'm giving you a scene from Ride to Raton, the second novel in the Owen Family Saga. James Owen has contracted a marriage of convenience with a Hispanic girl named Amparo, since the man she was sent to marry has died. James intends to return her to her home in Santa Fe. She has a different view on the subject. Winter is coming, but that's not the least of their troubles.
~~~

          It was late afternoon when James and Amparo neared Trinidad, one of the towns along the trail to Santa Fe. They crossed the Purgatory River beneath the looming height of stair‑stepped, flat‑topped Fisher’s Peak, then pulled their horses to a stop on Main Street in front of a store.
          Amparo craned her neck to one side to look down the street, then to the other side, and glanced back the way they had come. “Aquí estamos,” she said.
          James shrugged his shoulders at her words. “This is Trinidad. I hope the storekeeper has a good warm blanket he’ll sell me cheap.”
          After he got down and tied the horses and mules to a rail set into posts, he put up his arms to help Amparo to dismount.
          Behind him he heard a loud cackle, followed by a rude laugh. Then a slurred voice called out, “Looky here. A new boy in town. And he’s brought his own fancy girl.”
          James’s back stiffened as his body tensed, but he tried to keep his face clear so Amparo wouldn’t see there was a problem.
          “A dirty Mexican, at that,” rasped a second voice. “Hey girlie, guess what I got for you.” The voices joined in ugly laughter.
          James lowered Amparo to the ground. One part of his mind appreciated the lightness of her body, the swirl of her cape as her feet touched the street. Another part thought, I’m not minded to pick a fight today, but when a man takes on a duty, he has to protect his stewardship. He turned to face the challenge, keeping the girl behind him and to his left side as his right hand dangled handy to the gun he wore in his holster.
          Two men sat on barrels in front of the store, sharing a bottle of whiskey. They kept up their nasty talk, laughing and pointing at James and Amparo.
          “Excuse me, gents,” James began. His voice sounded mild in his ears, but he didn’t feel mild. He felt mean—mean and ruffled—for these men had said some harsh things about the girl at his side. “I like a good joke, but I reckon I missed yours. Tell it again so I can join the merriment.”
          “He can talk.” One man nudged the other. The two held their sides, laughing fit to bust a gut and rocking from side to side.
          “That’s a mighty fine greaser gal you got there,” the second man hooted. “She belong just to you, or do we get a sample?”
          As the man talked, Amparo caught a quick breath. She must have heard the word `greaser’ before, James thought. Her sandal slid in the gravel as she backed up a step.
          James took one step forward. “She’s a lady,” he said with a brittle edge on his voice.
          “Yeah. Sure she is,” the first man said, leering and winking at Amparo. “Ain’t you gonna share her?” He took a pull from the whiskey bottle.
          “We’ll be glad to pay you,” the second man said, then he fished a coin from his pocket and tossed it at James’s feet.
          The bright circle plumped into the dust, and James stared at it, feeling the nerves pinging in his tight jaw. He had to concentrate to keep his hand from pulling the gun.
          “She’s my wife,” James declared. He heard his words echoing off the front of the building back to him. They had a ring like a fine and shining quarter thrown on a marble countertop.
          “The devil you say,” the first man sneered, then giggled.
          “No white man needs to marry a Mexican,” tittered the second. “Not when he can get it free.” He collapsed from the barrel to the ground. The first man bent over to raise up his friend, and fell in a heap atop him.
          The trouble was over. These men are harmless enough, James reflected, although their words bit deep into his soul. He kicked the coin aside, took Amparo’s hand, and stepped past the men into the store.
          “Malditos. Bad mans,” she whispered, and her hand shook in his.
          When he looked at her to see if she was frightened, the angry set of her chin and the fire in her eyes cleared up his worry. His chest expanded as he drew in a breath of relief mixed with pride.
          “That’s a girl. They’re only drunks.” James smiled and watched the corners of Amparo’s mouth inch upward, then he squeezed her hand and led her deeper into the store.
          At the back counter stood a man with a large nose and a green visor over his eyes. He looked up and cleared his throat. “We don’t serve Mexicans,” he said, sniffing.
          “She goes where I go,” James answered.
          “Then take your business out of here. I don’t like greasers.”
          That fine, proud feeling left James, and he clenched his teeth to stifle a hot retort. He could feel muscles bunching along his jaw, down his neck, and through his chest to his belly. Despite the tightness of his body, an oath got through his teeth, and he grabbed Amparo’s hand and hurried her along as he stalked down the aisle.
          “This town must be full of Yankees,” James muttered. “You don’t deserve this kind of treatment.”
          As he stepped from the door, several gunshots brought him up short, and he moved sideways to shield Amparo behind him. He couldn’t see who had fired, due to the stinking gray cloud of smoke that drifted over to them, but there were no more shots, and soon he saw the results of the gunplay lying crumpled in the street.
          The drunks from the front of the store lurched to the edge of the boardwalk to stare down at the body, and James turned to block Amparo’s view. “This town is roaring,” he told her between his teeth. “There’s no safety for us here.”
          He helped Amparo to mount, then untied the animals, swung into his saddle, and gigged the sorrel to a trot.
~~~

Racial discrimination has always been an ugly issue. I'm proud of James for standing up for a woman who is essentially a stranger to him.

What do you do when you encounter those who would consciously cause others pain? Have you yourself dealt with discrimination because of your race? Did anyone stick up for you?

I hope you enjoyed this scene from Ride to Raton. Some readers cite it among their favorite books. Thank you for visiting. I love to read your comments, so if anything in the sample compels you to speak up, rest assured that I eventually read what you write and will reply, if needed. Questions? I'm open to them, too.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Thank you!

Marsha Ward is the award-winning author of the acclaimed novel series featuring the Owen family. Her latest book, Spinster's Folly, won the 2013 USA Best Book Award for Western Fiction. A former journalist, Ward has published over 900 articles, columns, poems and short stories. She is the founder of American Night Writers Association aka ANWA.

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