Cowboy Time

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I found an interesting article in this month’s Electric Co-Op magazine and want to share it. Cowboys have more ways to tell time than you can shake a stick at and their time isn’t fast or slow. It’s just right.

Do you know how long it takes to mosey? Or lollygag? Me either, but I’m guessing it’s as long as it takes. Ha!

When cowboys were on cattle drives, they told time by the sun and moon. Then when it was time for dinner or supper, they could tell when they heard the cook striking his large iron triangle or rang a bell. No whistle blew and no horn called them. Trail hands joked that the cook had the only watch that mattered and that might be still the case even on modern ranches.

The only time that mattered was daylight and whether the herd was settled for the night or the work done.

By dawn, they were in the saddle, driving the cattle and at night, time passed in shifts—first which began right after the evening meal, midnight, and morning. The cattle calmed to the music so time passed more often by melody instead of a clock.

Often, the dying embers of campfires helped tell the time in the dark. Cowboys not on shift knew to hit the sack and they didn’t dawdle. Many were probably asleep before the embers half died in the fire if the truth was known.

Even distance was measured, not by a watch, but how often they had to stop the horses to rest. For instance, they’d say, “That’s a two-horse ride.” Normally, they stopped to let the horse rest every fifteen to twenty minutes, but shorter if they carried a heavy load or were galloping instead of walking or trotting. So a two-horse jaunt with a single rider and no heavy load was approximately about an hour.

Texas cowboys, circa 1880

The cowboys with timepieces were usually from Waltham or Elgin. Those were well-known for being tough and dependable. Even so, you wouldn’t find many of these dedicated men who rode the range, content with, not only what they had, but also satisfied with who they saw looking back in the mirror. 🙂

I don’t know about you, but I like the idea of “cowboy time.” Life passed in a slower pace and only as fast as you needed. It was very steady and most often you could set your watch by the cowboys’ daily lives. Why would you want anything else? Sounds like a great life to me.

I have to admit, “Cowboy Time” still has a hold on a lot of us. We work till half-past dark, eat when the food’s ready. We don’t need any buzzing on our phones to tell us what to do. Old cowboys whisper a different wisdom—don’t count every minute. Let it pass as slowly as it wants. We’ll all be better for it and you won’t need anxiety medicine.

Find pleasure in the small stuff. An animal, a wildflower, a book, a poem, a child’s drawing. Doesn’t have to be fancy or expensive.

I have one early autographed copy of my new Christmas book, Bright is the Light, to give away. To enter the drawing, are you keeping the right time? What’s your opinion of a slower pace and letting life unfold as it should? In or out?

BRIGHT IS THE LIGHT….

Sometimes the brightest Christmas miracle begins with a single lantern in the window.

Two weeks before Christmas, former soldier Calder Jackson drifts into Jubilee, Texas, half-frozen and desperate to escape a blinding snowstorm. Looking for nothing more than shelter, he never expects to find a family who welcomes him as though he belongs. He hasn’t belonged anywhere for a long while.

Kate Walsh hesitates to take in a male boarder, knowing how fast small-town gossip can ruin a woman’s reputation. However, with a disabled mother and a simple-minded brother depending on her, she needs the money. Before long, Calder becomes more than a tenant. His kindness brings laughter back into their home and gives young Micah the acceptance he’s longed for.

Together, Calder and Micah build a Christmas lantern to place in the window on Christmas Eve, honoring an old Irish tradition that welcomes blessings and guides the way home. Can Calder finally find the elusive peace he’s been chasing? The love he feels for Kate makes everything seem achievable as though the light has been waiting in the window all along.

Filled with hope, faith, and the warmth of family, this heartwarming holiday romance celebrates second chances, unexpected love, and the light that guides us all home.

* * * *

Release date – September 1, 2026 — KU, Kindle, Print

Available for preorder now –  CLICK HERE

FOR EXCERPT — CLICK HERE

I’ll have more copies to give away next month! Let’s Keep Cowboy Time. 🙂

CHERYL’S WINNERS!

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A big shout out to everyone who stopped by today to read and comment on my blog post about details in description of settings! I enjoyed so much hearing about places you’ve been that made a lasting impression on you! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you all, our readers, are the heart and soul of our P&P group and we love you all! 

I picked three winners today! THEY ARE…(DRUMROLL PLEASE….) SARAH GUNTER, JULIE DAHL, TRACY DELEGAL

 

If you ladies will please email me at fabkat_edit@yahoo.com and put WINNER in the subject line so I’ll be sure and see it, you can let me know which digital copy of a book of mine you’d like to have, and  please be sure and confirm your email address you want the book sent to. Thanks again to everyone who stopped by!

THE DEVIL’S IN THE DETAILS #3–SETTING (AND A GIVEAWAY!) by Cheryl Pierson

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Are you a reader who loves descriptions and details of settings? Glittering ballrooms, the bone-chilling cold of a winter in the Rockies…or maybe the oppressive, killing heat of the desert? What about something idyllic, like a river or creek babbling through the woods? A beautiful rose garden, or even the ugly side of description—such as barren prison walls, or a Civil War battlefield?

A beautiful Oklahoma sunset!

It depends on the story, doesn’t it, and again, how much importance those descriptions have on the impact of the action, and the outcome of the story.

Here’s a setting to make you wonder…what’s going on here?

 

But let’s use a ball as our example.

If you’ve never been to an 1800’s ball—and none of us have—we need to know at least the barest details.

Five basic things we need to know are:
What is a ball?
Why is the ball being given?
Who will be invited?
When will the ball be given?
Where will it be held?

That’s enough for some stories. But the main question is—how important is the ball to the plot?

This is where layering comes in—and this one scene, and the details it contains—can be vital to what comes next, or even many scenes later.
So many things can happen at a ball!

Guests can meet for the first time, uninvited guests can show up, clothing can have significance, music can bring back memories, the food can even be poisoned!

Or, the ball can just be a ball, like the old saying attributed to Sigmund Freud, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar…” –and if that’s the case, then tedious description and intricate detail is wasted because the ball is just a vehicle to get from one scene in the story to the next, and has no real underlying importance.

 


Describing the details of the clothing worn is sometimes distracting as it pulls us away from the action. We may be reading about a blue satin gown when we need to be concentrating on the man who lurks in the shadows. Too much description can bog down the reader, and deaden the story, rather than bring it to life.

Why? Because deep description of the things such as décor, clothing, and meals stop the action of the characters. The plot “takes a break” while our minds process all of the description of the scenery, the meals, the clothing. In this case, again, sometimes, “less is more” and we need to let the reader’s mind fill in much of that kind of detail.

Consider this: We know certain facts—a ball costs a lot of money to host. So we already understand that those who are invited are most likely people who move in the same upper crust social circles. Therefore, we know they, too, have money, so are appropriately dressed, arrive in style, and are schooled in proper societal customs. One excellent way to cut through the “red tape” of description (of things we already know) is to describe something that is out of place, or “not right” as this reminds us of what should be—and those details of descriptions we’re already aware of.

Perhaps an impostor at the ball commits a social faux pas without realizing it, alerting others to the fact she isn’t who she pretends to be. Maybe an unlikely hero comes to her aid quickly, offering an excuse, or correcting the mistake before others notice.


This scenario does several things for the story that simple description can’t achieve.

1. Points out the discrepancy in what should be and what is.
2. Allows our characters interaction, and possibly dialogue and observation, rather than the author filling the page with scenic description.
3. Allows the reader the opportunity to learn more about the characters and their personalities through this interaction, and can be a vehicle to reveal something of importance.
4. Can possibly (and hopefully!) further the action during such a scene rather than slowing it by miles of scenic description.

This is not to say that there isn’t a time and a place for detailed descriptions of settings! We can’t call ourselves authors and take the “easy” way out by saying, “It was a ball like any other” by way of description, unless—we put it in the right context.

How about this: 
Jake looked around at the opulent ballroom –the surroundings were familiar in a tiresome, cloying way. Or…maybe was jaded. It was a ball like any other—except for one thing. Something that made him catch his breath and inwardly let go a streak of curses he’d love to shout to the skies. She was here. The woman he’d thought he’d never see again…

Well, anything can happen now, can’t it? Maybe she’s wearing an inappropriate shade of red amidst a sea of violet and blue. There are so many ways to make setting come alive without endless description that many readers become bored with and skim over.

If you read my last installment of this blog series about main characters, the examples I used from Shane (Jack Schaefer) and St. Agnes’ Stand (Tom Eidson) are also prime examples of description of setting as well as character.

But here’s another good one I really think is wonderful from Conagher, by Louis L’Amour. In this story, Evie from “back East” has come out west to marry a man with two children. Evie tries to make the best of things, but she lives in fear, at first. The land is so different, After she’s been there a while, she finds there is a beauty in her surroundings she had to grow to love, in time.


As L’Amour describes the heroine’s (Evie) dismal hopelessness at the land her husband (Jacob) has brought her to, we wonder how she will survive. Yet, Jacob has plans, sees the possibilities that Evie cannot, or will not see. The underlying message is, “The land is what we make of it.”

As the story continues, she begins to appreciate the beauty of the prairie, while acknowledging the solitary loneliness of her existence. She plants a garden, nurturing the plants, and gradually she sees the farm being shaped into a good home from the ramshackle place she’d first laid eyes on.

The land is beautiful, but unforgiving. Her husband is killed in a freak accident, and for months she doesn’t know what has happened to him. She faces the responsibility of raising his two young children from a previous marriage, alone.

In her loneliness, she begins to write notes describing her feelings and ties them to tumbleweeds. The wind scatters the notes and tumbleweeds across the prairie. Conagher, a loner, begins to wonder who could be writing them, and slowly comes to believe that whomever it is, these notes are meant for him.

At one point, visitors come from back East. One of them says to Evie something to the effect of “I don’t know how you can stand it here.”
This is Evie’s response to her:

“I love it here,” she said suddenly. “I think there is something here, something more than all you see and feel…it’s in the wind.

“Oh, it is very hard!” she went on. “I miss women to talk to, I miss the things we had back East–the band concerts, the dances. The only time when we see anyone is like now, when the stage comes. But you do not know what music is until you have heard the wind in the cedars, or the far-off wind in the pines. Someday I am going to get on a horse and ride out there”–she pointed toward the wide grass before them–”until I can see the other side…if there is another side.”

The land, at first her nemesis, has become not only a friend, but a soulmate. L’Amour gives us this description through Evie’s eyes and feelings, not in writing about it from his perspective as the author.

Think of your own writing projects, and books you’ve read. What importance do you give setting in description, plot, even characterization? Within 40 pages of ‘Conagher’, we understand that the land, with all its wild beauty and dangers has become enmeshed in Evie’s character. She can’t leave it, and it will never leave her.

Endless, detailed description can’t do what L’Amour does through Evie’s eyes in a very few sentences.

Do you have a favorite description of a setting you’ve read about, or written about? Or is there a place in your heart that you’ll never forget because of it’s beauty, or maybe the opposite? Be sure to leave a comment! I’m offering a giveaway today of one of my books in Kindle, readers choice, USA only. We love to hear from our readers!

CLICK HERE FOR GREAT READING!   CHERYL’S AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE

Nancy Fraser Has A Passel of Winners!

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We sure had a good time with Miss Nancy! I dearly hope she comes back soon.

Time for the Drawing!

Here’s the list of winners:

DEB KRONENBERG – Their Marriage Bargain

SARAH GUNTER – Their Marriage Bargain

ANN STEWART – A Castle Rock Christmas

TERESA F. – A Castle Rock Christmas

KATE SPARKS – Agnes: Cape Breton Highland Bride

Congratulations all you ladies!! Now watch for Miss Nancy’s email!

Location, Location, Location (And a Fun Giveaway!)-by Nancy Fraser

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Location, Location, Location

Nancy Fraser

As dedicated as most authors are to the authenticity of our characters, their professions, and the historical details of the time period we’ve chosen, we get a small amount of latitude from… you guessed it… our latitude and longitude! Our location, to be exact.

While some authors choose to set their stories in real-life towns with the location’s history already built in, a good majority of western romance authors create their own small pieces of eventual paradise. I say “eventual” because it’s not uncommon for one or both of our main characters to be thrust into a place or situation not of their choosing.

As an author with over sixty sweet, western romances under my belt, I’ve gone in both directions. The three books I wrote for the popular Christmas Quilt series were all set in the real town of Castle Rock, Oregon. I chose Castle Rock because of it’s interesting history. From the early Native American Yakima tribe who drove their horses across the Columbia River, to the thirteen-family wagon train campsite in 1847 who were subject to a livestock stampede initiated by a number of tribes from the surrounding area, the early going was difficult.

Eventually though, Castle Rock was settled. By 1881 they had a train station, a steamboat landing, warehouses for wheat and wool, and a general store. They got their first post office in 1883 (a fact I used when I made my heroine’s father the postmaster). And, while some dreamed of leaving Castle Rock for bigger and better things, that didn’t always happen. My heroines, Audrey, Sarah, and Raine, were destined to find their HEA so I’ve bundled all three stories into A Castle Rock Christmas and the ladies seem right at home.

While bringing history to life is a worthy endeavor, creating a fictitious town is also a lot of fun. In one of my earliest sweet western historical romances, A Christmas Baby for Beatrice, I created White Mountain, Washington. Designed as a somewhat remote location, my hero’s home sat on the side of a mountain, surrounded by trees. Given my hero is an author and a professor of horticulture with his own university-funded greenhouse, the location made sense… even to a city girl like my widowed heroine.

All these exciting locations (real and made up) aside, I’m about to embark on my biggest location challenge. On September 25, I’ll release Agnes: Cape Breton Highland Bride. Set in the Canadian province of Nova Scotia in the early 1900s, it’s part of the National Park Brides series that began a couple of years ago and is still going strong today with it’s third set of books scheduled for this fall.

It’s not just the location that’s going to be a challenge. I’ve been to Cape Breton Highlands National Park a number of times. The story I’m planning is a homage to my late mother-in-law and father-in-law. It’s their love story and, while I may bend a few of the details to fit the book, the locations and romance are all true. I’m excited and nervous in equal measure.

However, before I get myself off to Cape Breton, I still have to deal with one of my favorite twice-used locations, the fictitious town of Santa Rosa, Montana. My latest release, Their Marriage Bargain, is the second book set in the small town not far from Bozeman.

Their Marriage Bargain

Julia Wilson is tired of life in Baltimore, and of her mother’s incessant attempts to marry her off despite having a career of her own. When the opportunity to travel to Montana and work with her doctor cousin presents itself, she jumps at the chance.

Lucas Palmer is the sheriff of Santa Rosa, Montana, a growing town surrounded by large cattle ranches and mining concerns. He’s also a recently jilted groom, his intended shunning the cold winters of Montana in favor of the warmer western coastline. Determined to remain single rather than face another failure, he must delicately sidestep the young women looking to snag a husband.

When Julia arrives, it’s attraction at first sight for both her and the handsome lawman. Yet, she’s determined to settle in with her new job and new home before she even entertains being courted. Frustrated by the unwanted advances of the town’s men, she’s at her wits end when Lucas suggests they strike a bargain.

A pre-marriage, engagement bargain. While they’re both immediately taken off the market, their ruse is anything but convenient with each passing day making them long for a real arrangement, rather than make believe.

Which one will crack first and admit their feelings? Or are they destined to suffer in companionable silence?

You can find Julia’s and Lucas’s adventure on Kindle Unlimited HERE.

GIVEAWAY

I’d love to hear from the followers of Petticoats & Pistols. Do you have a favorite book location? It can be either real or a figment of the author’s imagination. Did they sell their make-believe town so well, that you fell in love?

For all those who comment, I’ll be giving away a few prizes as follows:

Two e-book copies of my latest release, Their Marriage Bargain

Two e-book copies of A Castle Rock Christmas anthology, and

I’ll reserve one e-book copy of Agnes: Cape Breton Highland Bride to be sent on release day.

BONUS! In addition to the above giveaways, Nancy has a free copy of A Christmas Baby for Beatrice for everyone! You can download your free copy Available today through the weekend only.

Thank you so much for allowing me to spend some time here on the blog. I look forward to your comments.

Blessings,

Nancy

~*~*~*~

NANCY FRASER is a bestselling and award-winning author who can’t seem to decide which romance genre suits her best. So, she writes them all.

Her preferred genres are sweet western historical and sweet small-town contemporary. However, she has been known to dabble in the most unusual genres.

When not writing (which is almost never), Nancy dotes on her five wonderful grandchildren and looks forward to traveling and reading when time permits. Nancy lives in Atlantic Canada where she enjoys the relaxed pace and colorful people.

You can follow Nancy here:

Amazon Author Page ~ Bookbub ~ BlueSky Social  ~ Facebook ~ Goodreads

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO US!!

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HAPPY 19TH BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION!

Wow, we never expected to still be here 19 years after P&P’s inception but we’re thrilled we are! Amazing for sure! Could be a record for blog longevity. Anyway, it’s sure blowing our minds.

Here are some fun statistics:

To date, we’ve had 40 different Fillies!!

P&P went live in 2007

Only Pam Crooks, Karen Kay, and Linda Broday remain from Day 1.

8,940 Posts

We’ve celebrated new books, posted delicious and often unusual recipes, holidays, giveaways, historical tidbits, historical figures, western life, personal glimpses of us, crafts, and fun things we and all our guest authors have done. Followers never know what they’ll find when they come over. Maybe the secret to our longevity is the varied content. Whatever it is that draws readers, we’re so very, very grateful.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SUPPORTING US!!

Without you all, there would be no need for us. We’d just be twiddling our thumbs while we grow old. We’re just so grateful for our good fortune in having such supporting readers and authors.

Life offers us so many choices each day and success depends on which ones we choose. We’re not taking this birthday lightly. Or your interest. We plan to keep traveling this road with you as long as we can. You can count on that.

Today, we’re cheering at the top of our lungs. Then tomorrow, we’ll get back to work.

Onward to next year and our big 20th birthday celebration blowout. Gonna be a humdinger so stick around.

 

Karen Kay has Two Winners

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Howdy!

Winners, as usual, are picked at random.  Actually I draw the names I put on slips of paper — so it truly is at random.

Before I announce the winners for the new book, RED HAWK’S WOMAN, I wanted to thank all of you who came to the blog yesterday and who left a message.  I love each and every one of them.

The winners are:

Pam Hamlin and Colleen

Many congratulations go out to you both.  The book will come directly from Amazon so tomorrow, please look for it.

Nancy Fraser is Returning on Friday!

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The very talented Nancy Fraser is next up and will arrive Friday, August14, 2026! Yee-Haw!

She plans to talk about the importance of a location in a story. I’m sure all you lovely people will have a lot to chat with Miss Nancy about.

AND, she has a whole slew of giveaways! I kid you not. To enter the drawing, simply post a comment on her Friday blog giving your opinion on the importance of location.

So shake the wrinkles from your bustle and sashay over here.

If you don’t come, you’ll miss out.

 

 

A Day to Remember

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This past weekend, the Witemeyer clan traveled to College Station, Texas for a momentous occasion. My daughter, Bethany, graduated from Texas A&M with her PhD in Computer Science! WooHoo! We officially have a doctor in the family. 🙂

I’m so incredibly proud of her. Six years of hard work has paid off. Even better, she’s starting this week as a new faculty member at Abilene Christian University, her undergraduate alma mater, which means she’s back home. Hooray!

She is renting a house near campus and will likely be unpacking for a while, but she has her own space and is excited to make it her own.

Interestingly enough, when we attended the commencement ceremony, I learned that Texas A&M is celebrating their 150th anniversary this year. They opened their doors in 1876 as the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas and graduated their first class in 1880. In the early years, they were a military school and required all students to join the Corps of Cadets. Due to the military aspect, women were not allowed to enroll for the first 17 years. Occasionally, the daughters of faculty members could sit in on classes, but they could not enroll or seek degrees. The first female – Rachel Hook – matriculated in 1893, but there were still a lot of restrictions in place. It wasn’t until 1963 that women were admitted on a limited basis, and 1969 that all restrictions were removed for female students.

Texas A&M 1876

I actually have a hero in an upcoming novel who attended the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas back in the early days. The Cadet Corps gave him some weapons training that will come in handy for him as the story progresses. It was fun to incorporate this piece of Texas history in a writing project, especially since the school is connected to my daughter.

I’m so thankful that Texas A&M grew to accept women and expanded their areas of expertise beyond agriculture and mechanical pursuits. As a top-ranked school, they provided a wonderful place for my daughter to grow and flourish in her field.

Do you have a family member you’d like to brag on?
Feel free to share in the comments. I’d love to hear about it!

RED HAWK’S WOMAN Releases Today

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Howdy!  And a hardy welcome to y’all!

How you enjoyed the Patriot Wrap-up Party!  It was lots of fun with games galore, give-aways and more!  Yes, our eight book Patriot series is done now…all books have been released.  But, in my heart, the Patriot Series will go on and on.

But, moving along, we come to the book, RED HAWK’S WOMAN, which is being released today, Tuesday 11 August 2026.  The book has been newly edited and proofed.  It has a new and beautiful cover.  Now, I originally wrote the book in 2007 for Berkley Publishing, a subdivison of Penguin/Putnam.  It’s part of The Lost Clan series, a series of four books, where the future lives of different bands of a tribe rest on the heroes of these stories being able to break a curse.  I should say here that it was written during a time when my editor and the publishing world in general asked for love scenes and so the book is a sensuous love story.

But the new cover is sensational and I’d like to draw attention to the hero on the cover.  He is dressed in his best regalia, complete with quill work and bead work, a looping necklace, beaded moccasins and a quiver case holding his bow and arrows.  And, pay attention to his hair.  This is historically accurate.  The Blackfeet men (and many other men of the northern tribes) wore their hair as shown with a braid at each side of their head and their hair straight up in a pompadour style.  The Blackfeet, unlike other northern tribes, also wore a braid in back.  Also, all Indian men wore earrings.  I keep files of historical photographs of both men and women … and children at this time period.  And I can say that it is rare (very rare) to see a picture of an Indian man during this time period who did not wear earrings.

Note that In the heroine’s hand is a feather the hero of the story, Red Hawk, has given her.

Then there is the environment.  From the snow-topped mountains in the background to the dry prairie, the pines butting up to the foothills, the shallow stream and the horse in the background, it is a beautiful depiction of Montana.

So, I’m going to post the blurb for the book here and follow it up with an excerpt from the book.  Hope you’ll enjoy!

 

RED HAWK’S WOMAN

A spellbinding and sensual Native American historical paranormal romance featuring a centuries-old curse, a passion strong enough to wake a god’s wrath, and two hearts bound by a single morning neither time nor distance could erase.

Their passion is thunder and lightning.
Their fate could be a flood of sorrow.

When Red Hawk’s visions leads him back to the girl he never forgot, he is surprised to to find no flicker of recognition in her eyes…

Effie Rutledge is twenty-five, unmarried, and in no hurry to fix either—she would rather finish her father’s quest than keep house for any man. That quest is four lost artifacts with the power to free a clan trapped between worlds, and she means to see it through, even after every guide in the territory writes her expedition off as cursed. Every guide but one.

He draws her the way water finds the sea, and the pull only deepens as buried memories rise between them. But trust comes hard for them both, and a love this consuming is exactly the kind the Thunder god punishes—with the fate of an entire lost clan hanging on what they choose.

Perfect for readers who love:
– Fated lovers and a centuries-old curse
– A spirited archaeologist and her enigmatic guide
– Sensual Native American historical paranormal romance

 

RED HAWK’S WOMAN

An Excerpt:

The weather on this fine day in Niipiaato’s, or June, the summer month, was pleasant, warm and sunny. It was a condition he had expected, since it had been foretold by the red sun at sunset on the previous day.

“The sun will not lie to you,” he could almost hear his grandfather say, “and if it is red at sunset, the next day will be fair.”

At present, Red Hawk was riding his mustang, a mare, a little distance ahead of the others. His senses were alert for signs of enemies, but not blind to the splendor all around him. The countryside was as fine an example of Mother Earth at her best as he could remember.

Here was a meadow of newly growing green grass. To his right was another sea of green, which was littered with a profusion of flowering dogwood, pink twin flowers and a-sat-chiot-ake or purple locoweed. He took careful note of the latter, for it had a medicinal purpose.

After swinging his left leg over his pony’s neck, he jumped down and walked the short distance to the other meadow, where he proceeded to gather up parts of the plant. They might prove useful later, for their medicine was often good for sore throats or swellings.

The scent, as the wind blew its fragrance around him, was clean, balmy and full of the perfume of the grasses and flowers, and he relished it as he drew in a deep breath. Even the smell of balsam wafted through the air, for this part of the prairie was flanked by stands of pine trees.

In the distance from these meadows, and due north, were snow-capped mountains, majestic looking, steep and rugged, though from this angle, they appeared deceptively serene. These would be the mountains that Effie’s party would either skirt or cross, depending on the safety of the various trails. It was his hope to escape the dangerous mountain passes and bypass them entirely.

“It’s like a fairyland, isn’t it?” He recognized Effie’s voice at once. On foot, she stood above him, since he was still hunched over the ground.

“Fairyland?” he queried, gazing up at her.

“A place of mystical beauty. That’s what a fairyland is. I think that when I was younger I fell in love with this country.”

This he could understand. “I, too, love this land…almost as much as I love and respect my…people, my grandfather.”

“Yes. What is it you are collecting?”

“A plant. We call it a-sat-chiot-ake or purple locoweed. It is used as a medicine for sore throats. We may have need of it later.”

She nodded. “How many days’ journey are left before us, do you suppose?”

“It will depend on the weather and the trails, and if we are bothered by the Crow tribes or not.”

“Bothered?”

“We are in Crow country, and though they are friendly to whites, they are my traditional enemy. Many of their warriors would covet my scalp, if they see I am here. This would not be good, since we are vulnerable to attack.”

“We are?”

“Aa, we are. Though there are four other men with us, I have not observed that any of them are good shots. Perhaps they fight better in hand-to-hand combat. I do not know. I can only hope that the fear of the whites and fear of their retaliation will keep the Crow from attacking us.”

“But we never had trouble when I was here with my father, many years ago.”

“As you have already told me.”

“I guess we were lucky back then.”

“Perhaps you were,” he said. “And I pray that luck is with you as much today as it was in the past.”

“As do I.” She dropped to her knees beside him. “May I help you pick these flowers?”

“I would welcome it. You must grab hold of the flower, stem and all. Do not bother with the roots, for it is the flower and stem I require.”

“All right.” She fell into silence as she worked, but after a moment, she said, “Mr. Hawk, I wish to speak of a delicate matter between us.”

“You may say whatever you please to me.”

Her look was guarded at first, but then she shook her head. “Very well. I have many questions I might ask about you, your life and the Lost Clan, as you might well understand. But first there is another matter that sits heavily on my mind.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Truth be told,” she continued, “I never did answer your question as to marriage, and you have never inquired after it. Have you changed your mind?”

Her question, as well as the subject itself, was indeed delicate. It also had the effect of knocking the breath from him, but he kept the reaction to himself.

“I do not change my mind,” he said, dismayed to hear that his voice was unsteady. “I simply try to give you space to consider it, as well as some time away from me so as to decide the matter for yourself.” He paused. “Did you think I might have changed? That I would take back my offer?”

“Yes.” Her glance skimmed off of his. “You have been…distant from me since we started this journey.”

“I have much on my mind—it is my duty to lead and to protect us.” Again, he hesitated, then, “Did you have an answer for me?” He didn’t look at her. He dared not.

“Yes.” She reached out to touch his hand. “I…I am afraid…that I cannot marry you.”

He nodded without looking at her. It was as he had expected.

But then she added, “Now…”

“Now?”

“I need to find out more about you, about what you said about the Lost Clan, before I can… I was so startled by what you said,” she continued hurriedly, “and you left so quickly after, that I haven’t known what to think. So as you see, I have many questions.”

“Aa, I have had much to consider. But I am here now. If you have other concerns that trouble your thoughts, feel free to question me.”

She didn’t respond right away. In truth, she seemed to be carefully choosing her words, as now and again she sent him a tentative look.

Gazing at her now, with her fiery hair as well as her dress blowing softly about her, she presented such a beautiful picture, it was almost more than he could do to keep himself from staring at her like a lovesick buffalo calf. Though she was on her knees picking several flowers, she now and again frowned at him, and he felt urged to smooth out those two wrinkles between her brows.

“Very well,” she acknowledged, sitting back. “My first question is about the Lost Clan.”

He nodded. “I thought you might have questions for me about this.”

“Yes. Well, what I’ve been trying to understand, and what I can’t quite comprehend is this: You said that you are of the Lost Clan?”

“Aa.”

“But how can this be so? They are a clan of legend, are they not?”

“’Tis so.”

Her frown grew deeper. “I still don’t understand. I am here to dig for evidence that they did at one time exist…but in the past. To say you are of that tribe would infer they are in the present, and not in the past…” Her voice trailed away.

He hesitated and considered her question solemnly. “I understand your confusion, and you are correct, the Lost Clan is a clan of legend. But it is also a clan the Creator blessed with a chance to end the curse.”

“Yes. That’s right. I had almost forgotten that part of the legend. Once a generation, a boy is chosen—”

“To take on real form,” he continued for her, “and to go out into the world in an attempt to end the curse for the Clan.”

“Real form? Then what you’re saying is that you were once entrapped in the mist?”

“Aa.”

“Excuse me, but I find what you are saying a bit hard to believe.”

He shrugged, looking away from her, and glanced back toward the ground. It was as he had thought. The truth was too bizarre to be accepted.

She continued to speak, however. “So what you are saying is that you are one of those boys who was chosen to try to end the curse?”

He grimaced. “Aa, it is so.”

“Hmmm…”

“And yet, no, I am not truly a chosen one.”

She shook her head. “Now I’m really confused.”

“Let me explain. The elders did not wish to choose me. It is as uncomplicated as that.”

“But if they didn’t want to—”

“They had no one else from whom to pick. The rest of the boys from my tribal band were injured.”

“Oh.”

“The day when we met, I was coming from the council where I had been named as champion for my band of the tribe.”

“Were you? How exciting. You must have been delighted.”

“No,” he said flatly. “Though I had long wished to be champion, knowing I was picked only because there was no one else was not the way in which I had dreamed of becoming our tribe’s defender.”

He noted that whether she believed him or not, she at least bestowed upon him a sympathetic look, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“You do not need to be. Regardless of how it was done, I am still the one who must break the curse for my people or live with the knowledge of my failure. You must realize I take this obligation seriously, if for no other reason than to make my grandfather proud.”

“And so you should. It is very commendable. I notice you speak of your grandfather often. You must love him dearly.”

“Aa, it is so. He adopted me when I was so young I do not remember it.”

“Adopted?”

“Aa, though I am of Blackfoot descent, the Lost Clan is not my tribe of birth. My parents, who were visiting the Clan at the time when the trouble began, were killed by the Thunderer. I would have been left homeless, were it not for Grandfather.”

“Your parents were killed by the Thunderer?”

“Aa, aa. In my youth, I often dreamed of revenging myself on the Thunder Being or the Thunderbird, as he is sometimes known, because I blamed him for all my troubles. But I have since grown up, and I have put those desires of vengeance away from me…or at least I have tried to. Now I only seek to free my people, my grandfather.”

“I see.” She drew her hand over the ground, as though trying to decide which flower to pick next. “But tell me, if all you say is so, why are you here with me now? Why aren’t you out somewhere trying to break the curse?”

“Because,” he said without even hesitating, “I am out somewhere trying to break the curse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are somehow connected with the Clan.”

“Oh, am I?” She brightened suddenly. “I think I’m beginning to understand what this is all about. It’s the artifacts, isn’t it? Somehow, these artifacts I carry, and those I search for, are important to you. Am I right?” She looked to him hopefully.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t and remain true to his vision, for a vision, if told to anyone other than a medicine man, was to render the prophecy powerless.

She gazed away from him, and all the while the reddish strands of hair that framed her face fluttered prettily in the wind. He wished he could take her in his arms, if only to make her believe him. But he knew if he wanted her to trust him, to really trust him, he dared not do it.

At last, she said, “I don’t know what to think, Mr. Hawk. Your story is fantastic. Nevertheless, my father certainly believes in the legend, which is the only reason why I am here. However, I have to admit that not only you, but this entire trip, is incredible, more like fantasy than real life. Perhaps if we lived in a more mystical place and time, I might be more inclined to believe these stories. At present it is difficult.”

“Mystical? What do you mean by this word?”

She arched a brow at him. “Mystical means something to do with people or places or things that are not necessarily of the flesh—those instances of mystery, of magic perhaps.”

“Haiya, but there is mystery all around us.”

“Is there, now?”

“’Tis so.” Sitting back on his haunches, he motioned to the environment surrounding them. “Have you never wished for something, and it came true? Never seen the birth of a colt? Never witnessed the Creator’s hand in every blade of grass that grows? Is it so unusual that the Clan is cursed? After all, there is a price to pay for all one’s ill deeds. Grandfather told me this before I left the Clan: he said that no one can escape the consequences of his own acts, for life is an endless circle, and what one forces another to experience, one will, himself, be made to endure. The Clan killed the children of the Thunder god, and now they pay the price for having done so.”

She exhaled. “I think that whether I believe you or not, your grandfather was a wise man.”

“Aa, he was, he is. I have tried to remember those words, for the urge for revenge still festers within my heart.”

“Truly?”

“Aa. I am a warrior. I would risk a warrior’s death to avenge my parents. But I cannot. I must not. I am on a quest—I can never lose sight of this. Grandfather, my entire Clan, depends on me.”

“It is indeed a hefty responsibility that you carry.” She paused, then sat forward, so she might look behind her. “Mr. Hawk, listen. Do you hear them? The wagons? They are not far behind me, and I would like more time to speak with you earnestly about one or two other concerns…”

“Other concerns?”

“Yes. More about the Lost Clan—I still have questions—also, I feel I should tell you that I think someone could be following us. I’m not certain, for I have seen only shadows, but I fear we might indeed have a straggler in our midst.”

“Humph!” Red Hawk considered her words somberly. “I have not been scouting to our rear. Perhaps this has been an error.”

“Perhaps. I will leave it to you to determine. But again, I would like a moment more of your time—away from the others.”

“Aa,” he said, then suggested, “we could talk again while the others take their noonday nap.”

“We could, or maybe we might have our conversation tonight? Once the others are asleep?”

“It could be arranged.”

“Very well, then. I look forward to seeing you tonight. Thank you for your time.”

They both stood then. She turned toward him and dazzled him with a radiant smile. He took hold of her hand, and, as awareness of her swept through him, he wished to never let her go, to never let this moment slip away.

But time has a way of plodding forward, and no man can hold it back. Eventually, she pulled her hand away. Before she left, she brought forward from a hand she’d been hiding behind her back the bouquet of flowers she had picked. “My gift to you.”

It was a simple overture. Still, he hardly knew how to react. As he watched the sun dance off the unusual color of her hair, it came to him how utterly beautiful she was. The freckles on her face had become more pronounced under the steady influence of the sun, and, after raising his fingers toward her, he touched each golden fleck on her face, one by one.

It was almost as an afterthought that he accepted her gift, though as he grasped hold of the flowers, his fingers caressed her palm, stroking her sensitive skin.

Tentatively, she raised her gaze to his. Her lips parted, their wetness engaging, inviting. Unable to help himself, he accepted what he hoped was an invitation, and he bent to press his lips to hers, gently, adoringly.

Desire shot through him. Raising his head only slightly, he brought up a hand to smooth over her cheek, moving down to her neck, her shoulders, pulling her in closer to him.

He said, “Kitsikakomimmo,” then he kissed her again.

“What do those words that mean?” she whispered, her breath coming in short gasps.

“I will tell you tonight.”

“Do you promise?”

“Aa,” he murmured. “I promise.”

Her eyes were closed, and bending, he smoothed his cheek against hers, confiding in her ear, “I have something for you too.”

“Oh?”

“Keep your eyes closed, and give me your hand.”

She complied.

Reaching up to the back of his head, he unfastened the eagle feather suspended from his hair, drew it off and urged it into her hand.

“Open your eyes.”

She did so, and seeing the gift, she smiled up at him.

“’Tis from a golden eagle,” he said. “For you are like this very bird to me. Proud, protective, majestic. Kitsikakomimmo.”

“Kitsikakomimmo,” she repeated after him, and listening to her speak the words, even though he knew she did not grasp their meaning, had his insides tied in knots.

He swallowed hard. “I, too, hear the sounds of the wagons, and they are close. Soon they will be in view, as we will be to them. We will finish our talk tonight.”

“Yes. Tonight.” She stepped back, out of his arms, and he immediately felt bereft. “Thank you for the feather.”

He nodded, then watched as she turned and walked away. Soon, as she stepped toward the wagons, she faded from sight. Though he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help but think, Oh, that she had said yes.

RED HAWK’S WOMAN

Available at Amazon:  $4.99 e-book or get it free on Kindle Unlimited

https://www.amazon.com/Hawks-Woman-Lost-Clan-Book-ebook/dp/B0H5G5GQ3L/ref=sr_1_1?sr=8-1&tag=pettpist-20

 

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Petticoats & Pistols