Summer is a Busy Time For Me

I hope everyone had a wonderful summer. I spent some time relaxing, but I also kept pretty busy.

In addition to working on The Duchess of Idaho, Book Five of the Loving Husband Series, I’ve put together a print and digital copy of Copperfield Review Quarterly, a literary journal for readers and writers of historical fiction. If you want to read some wonderful short historical fiction and history-based poetry, you can check it out here.

Writers Sharing Their Works in Progress

Diana Gabaldon of Outlander fame is one of my favorite authors, and she does a column on her blog called Daily Lines where she shares bits of her work in progress. Outlander fans like me were thrilled to find out that the ninth book in the Outlander series will be published this coming November.

After reading Diana’s blog, I thought I’d occasionally share bits of The Duchess of Idaho with all of you. Keep in mind that the bits have not gone through final edits so they’re still works in progress. I’m not even sure where exactly in the book this particular bit is going to go.

A Similar Style To the Loving Husband Trilogy

Fans of the Loving Husband Trilogy will recognize the style of the excerpt. Yes, it’s written in a similar style as the first three Loving Husband books. And for those of you who have been letting me know, yes, I know that The Duchess of Idaho is the name of a movie. That’s where I got the title from. In fact, the movie plays a role in the story. It will make sense when you read it. To say more than that would be spoilers!

Here’s the excerpt. Enjoy!

An Excerpt From The Duchess of Idaho, A Time Travel Love Story

The white-covered wagons wait impatiently in a haphazard line as everyone readies for the bugle blast to tell them it’s time to begin their day’s journey. The tin-like sound pierces the air and the oxen move forward, hauling their heavy loads step by step over the rough terrain. If we make 18 miles today it will be a good day. We’re moving forward, moving West, the place they’ll call home, they say. 

The oxen become edgy as they press forward. It is as if they sense the strenuous way ahead. Sunburned men, sun-bonneted women, and children with sunny smiles shout to each other. 

“See you at the camp!” they cry, ready for their day’s adventure, because right now that is all this is to them–an adventure.

 There are so many wagons I can’t count them all, but I can see the determination in the travelers’ eyes. They are determined to keep going, some more than others, maybe, but they’re ready. Whatever waits for them on the other side of this continent, they want it, and they’ll risk everything to find it.

I see him again, the young man who keeps catching my attention. I notice how he’s a head taller than those around him and I watch in fascination as his mop of dark curls falls over his pale blue collar. He rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows and snaps his gray suspenders before reaching for the nearest horse. The gray animal exhales, its muscular shoulders lowering as it relaxes under the young man’s easy hand, kind smile, and friendly eyes. Another man slaps the young man’s shoulder and another man nods at something the young man says, his smile bright in amused wryness at something the dark-haired young man said. The young man looks in my direction and for a moment I think he sees me. He steps one foot forward, squints, shakes his head, then turns away as though I’m invisible, or a ghost, or both. Why can no one see me? He walks toward the wagon, pokes his head through the open back, and speaks to someone inside. 

Mothers call to their children, saying get alongside this wagon right this minute or you’ll get lost and we won’t ever see you again. Some children think this is not such a bad thing. Others see their mothers’ stern expressions and they do as they’re told. Hired hands double-check the livestock. Women count their children once more and squint into the distance, their eyes shaded against the sun by hands and bonnets, as if they can see the Pacific Ocean from here.  The air is loud with voices, hundreds of them. 

“Matthew!” a woman calls. 

The dark-haired young man looks into the back of his wagon and says something I can’t hear. He nods when the woman responds. I have not net been close enough to see the color of Matthew’s eyes, but from the distance they look pale, the same light shade as his shirt, now see-through with sweat as he slows the speed of his prairie schooner after a barrage of complaints from the woman inside. 

I’m compelled to walk alongside the wagon though I know no one. I feel thin, airy, a wisp of an idea.  I am here and not here. Finally, a woman nods at me. It’s the first time anyone has acknowledged me. 

“Well?” she says. “If you muddle along at that speed you’ll be left behind. You don’t want that, do you?” She gestures to the green expanse of the prairie. “What would a woman do out here all by her lonesome?”  

I tempted to say no, I don’t want to go, I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. Then I realize that if I don’t go I’ll be here alone, without anyone, just as the woman said. I quicken my stride and now I’m keeping pace with the woman and the others in her company. I’m compelled to follow these strangers for a reason I cannot name. As we  walk, I have the strangest sensation that I’m making the journey for the same reason they are. 

Is there anything out West for me?