The Curse Of Scattershale Gulch - an excerpt

For Sample Sunday this week I give you an excerpt from my latest novelette -- a Mick and Casey Mystery with a little ghost story mixed in.

In the first chapter, Mick and Casey expected to meet a friend, Oren, who works as a "messenger" for a stagecoach company. But Oren has died of a fall from his horse....

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Chapter 2 of The Curse of Scattershale Gulch
by Camille LaGuire

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I WENT OFF to the saloon, a dark little place with a couple of little rickety tables and a long bar. Casey and Turcotte the lawyer were standing at the bar. In the corner was a couple of guys playing checkers, or maybe taking a nap. I couldn't tell.

I told Casey about Oren's misfortune. She took off her hat and slapped it on the bar and raised her glass. Distracting as it was getting a rare glimpse of her bare forehead, I found myself watching Turcotte, who had turned pale and was now staring at me.

"Died? He...fell?" he stammered, and he turned to the bartender, who appeared to already know about it, since he was nodding. "In Scattershale Gulch?"

"Yeah," said the bartender.

"That's the same as...." Turcotte finished his drink instead of his sentence.

"Same as Bronco Annie," said the bartender, filling Turcotte's glass again. Turcotte leaned over his glass and looked pale, but then tightened his fist around it.

"Damn recklessness," he announced, like it needed a label. "That's what it was." He looked at me, and licked his lips, and then looked at Casey, like it was her fault. "Bronco Annie was reckless, too. Like that one," he said, and he pointed at Casey. "You should have seen this girl jump off the top of that stage. Damn recklessness. That's the trouble."

I picked up my beer and stepped back to be out of the line of fire between Casey and Turcotte, but Casey wasn't sure she should be offended. She put her hat back on and tilted it back and then leaned on the bar, which was a little tricky since she's so short.

"How'd this Bronco Annie die?" she asked.

"You having second thoughts about recklessness?"

Casey took a drink of her whiskey and shook her head.

"Nah. Wondering if it's how we want to go," she said, and she wagged her thumb at me to include me in her plans for a wild demise. I didn't mind. I was willing to go where she went.

"It was nothing to aspire to," Turcotte snapped. "I was here that night. She was drunk, and in a brawling mood, and it was dark, and cold and wet outside. And then somebody brought word that her favorite mare was in foal, and she jumped on that half wild stallion of hers and went tearing back to her place. She took a short cut, down a gulch with a steep trail. The footing was bad and the horse took a misstep, and they both went down and broke their necks."

We paused in silence a moment, and then Casey set down her drink in disgust.

"Well, that's not much," she said. I had to agree. As stories went, it was short and dull. Casey was clearly in the mood for something more embroidered, especially about a woman like herself, and she scowled. "That ain't much at all. Anybody could die that way."

"Sure, and anybody did!"

That came from behind us, a female voice as Irish as my Aunt Fiona. We turned and saw a young woman, maybe my age--early twenties--but she looked as young as Casey. She had hair as pale as sunlight, which rippled back to where it was gathered with a black ribbon, and her skin was flushed with sunburn and scattered with freckles across porcelain. Her eyes were a pale blue, almost silver, like maybe they were washed out by the sun like her hair.

And I thought, she's the gal Oren was coming to see.

She had a plate in each hand, with steak, eggs and potatoes. They were nothing special, but they smelled good. Casey, though, was not as easily distracted as I was.

"You mean Oren?" she asked. "When you say anybody?"

"I mean more than Oren." She went over to the rickety table and set the plates down. Then she held out a pair of forks toward us. "Mr. Smith thought you might be hungry, working as messengers and all."

"Thanks," I said, and I took the fork from her before saying, "but we ain't messengers."

"No?" she said, and she looked pointedly at the guns slung on our hips. "And what are you?"

"Range detectives," said Casey firmly, and she shoveled a big fork of eggs into her mouth.

"And there's a difference?" she asked.

"A messenger's got a steady job," I said.

Casey swallowed her eggs, and narrowed her eyes at the woman.

"Who else died riding wild?"

"Perhaps not riding so wild," she said, "but down that very same trail there were a few. Bronco Annie was the first. Then Mr. Turcotte had his own little accident, didn't he? Scared him so bad, he left town."

Turcotte took a deep breath. "As you can see, I'm alive."

"After that it was a rancher named Ben Lattimer, and a year later it was his brother Luke. And now it's Oren. All down the same trail into Scatter-Shale Gulch."

"A dangerous trail," said Turcotte. "Bad footing."

"Dangerous in the dark for sure," said the lass. She looked toward the window. "And so I had better be going while there's still daylight. Wouldn't want to be on that trail at night."

She drew up her black shawl and headed for the door. I noticed that her dress was patched and, plain. And black. She turned as she got to the door.

"If you're range detectives, perhaps you'd be interested to know," she said. "When they found Annie's horse, he'd been shot. Through the breast."

She laid a hand on her own breast to illustrate, and then she went out. I stared after her for a minute, and then I turned back to Turcotte and the bartender.

"Is that so?" I said.

"I don't know, I didn't see it," said Turcotte. "And I went to Johnson City soon after that."

I looked at the bartender. He nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "Ben Lattimer said he'd shot it. Put it out of its misery."

"Lattimer is the guy died on that same trail later on."

"Yep."

The bartender didn't look too comfortable about that. I didn't blame him.

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Tomorrow I'll post some notes on the writing of The Curse of Scattershale Gulch.

The Curse of Scattershale Gulch is an 8500 word novelette, available for just 99 cents at Amazon's Kindle Store, as well as Kindle UK. Smashwords has multiple formats for all kinds of e-readers -- including just reading it right there on their site. (It should be available on Apple's iBookstore, and Barnes and Noble's Nook store within a week or so.)

Sea Sprite - an Excerpt From The Adventure of Anna the Great

Today we have another excerpt from The Adventure of Anna the Great, a story of adventure, intrigue and horses.

Context for Today's Excerpt: Anna disguised herself as a boy, Albert, and set off looking for adventure. She found it and a job in the royal stables. Sea Sprite is an angry and dangerous horse whom the rotten head stableman, Wilhelm Bloch, uses to "punish" the stable boys. Anna has been watching the noblemen have tournaments and competitions all day long and is itching for some action, when Block decides that she needs to be taken down a peg... and he tells her to exercise Sea Sprite.

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An Excerpt from Chapter X - Sea Sprite
(In which Anna and the meanest horse in the stable agree wholeheartedly on their next course of action....)


I REALIZED THAT I was supposed to be frightened at the prospect of riding Sea Sprite, but I could not help but be thrilled. Sea Sprite was a gorgeous horse, and I could not imagine anyone keeping such a horse at the royal stable, in a loose box no less, if he were not a great horse.

“Hi, Sprite. Want to go for a ride?” I called. Sea Sprite dashed his body against the wall and raked his teeth across the bars. Even with the solid wall between us I took a step back. Maybe I was wrong about being thrilled. Aunt Elfie always said I was too impetuous. Oh, well. I went to get his bridle and my saddle.

When I returned I thought I ought to get his bridle on him first thing so I could control him. I opened the top door of the stall and held the bridle in front of me like a shield.

Then a remarkable thing happened. Sea Sprite’s ears came up. I had never seen them up before.
He came forward and lipped the bridle, practically taking it out of my hand. That was a good sign. He liked his bridle.

He did not try to bite me at all while I bridled him, and only once when I saddled him, and that when I pulled the girth up too tight too fast. Otherwise he was very cooperative.

“You want to go, don’t ya boy,” I said, scratching his neck. I think boredom affects horses more than people. People, after all, are not usually shut up in a little stall all day. No wonder he had been so grumpy. He wanted to go.

I wanted to go too, and I have to admit, when he resisted going into the ring and pulled for the park and its long trails, I gave in to him. I did not want to ride in a boring old ring either.

I also gave him his pace, a fast, big striding trot. Even at that pace he pulled. He wanted to run. There were still a number of people in the park, so I held him back as long as I could. Then when we got into the open I let out a whoop and we charged across the field.

It was a fast full exhilarating gallop. There was a breeze off the mountains, and our speed made it seem a gale force. Wind made my shirt flap and my hair swirl. That was a good feeling, being away from the barn, and my hair was short and could not get into my mouth and eyes.

I rose out of the saddle and let out another whoop of encouragement. I grabbed a handful of mane and closed my eyes, riding on feel as we flew over the gentle dips and rises of the park. I had been right in the first place. It was thrilling to ride Sea Sprite. Even if it was foolish, it was thrilling.

I urged him on some more and opened my eyes. A small knot of people had wandered out onto the green. They were standing with their backs to us, admiring the scenery of the mountains.

I sat down hard and pulled on the reins. It made not the slightest bit of difference. Sea Sprite galloped on unchecked. Most horses avoid trampling people, but I was not certain about Sea Sprite. I let out a yell of warning and pulled on one rein, bracing my other hand on his neck, in hopes of turning him, or at least getting him off balance. It did slow him down, for two paces. He galloped sideways a moment and then shot off in a new direction.

Well. First crisis overcome. It seemed we could come to a compromise. We would go where I wanted, but at his pace. That was a relief, since I really wanted to go fast myself anyway. Unfortunately, while I made sure we trampled no pedestrians, I failed to notice where I had guided him. I looked up to see that we were but one stride from a dense bit of forest.

I flattened myself against his neck to avoid low branches and we plunged in. Something hard struck my knee, and all parts of me were whipped by leaves and branches. The denseness of the undergrowth slowed Sea Sprite considerably. He broke stride and settled into an excited trot. It was the ideal time to gain control, but I was afraid to look up for fear of the branches. It was hard to regain the reins too, since the twigs kept snatching them away, and my hands were soon covered with scratches.

I finally did get a proper hold on him, and at that moment the forest began to clear and I could sit up. We had reached one of the cross country trails. We cantered to the left, this time with me firmly in control. I wanted to be sure, however, and when the path widened out to a clearing I put him through some figures at an easy trot. Sea Sprite was no dressage horse, and he had no will to become one. Running was all he really liked to do, it seemed.

I pulled him to a halt and patted him on the neck. His ears pricked up, and he looked down the path. I heard the pounding of hooves. In a moment two horsemen, galloping neck and neck, appeared on the trail, then disappeared over a fence further on. One of them was the marquis, and the other I thought must be Captain Kohlman. The horse race. I had forgotten.

Sea Sprite jumped to go after them, and I did not hold him back. Although there were no silver spurs waiting at the end of the race, the whole day of longing to win something had got competition into my blood.

We raced after them, no question this time about control. Horse and rider both wanted the same thing. My heart seemed to pound with his hooves. I hardly noticed the first jump as we flew over. My attention was on the two tails about twenty-five paces ahead. I urged Sea Sprite on as the trail swerved left onto a downgrade. He laid himself flat out, not letting up around the curve, or even on the downslope, which said a lot for his courage. Horses do not usually like to risk going head over heels. We were closing the distance.

Near the bottom of the hill was another fence. I do not much like jumps on a downgrade—it is a little like running down stairs and skipping a step. Sea Sprite, however, took it smooth and fast. He wasted no energy jumping up, but out and long. We were at least another stride closer, and he laid himself out again.

On the flat we could not gain much, but over each jump and around each bend we shortened the distance. Sea Sprite jumped big, and long, and he threw himself around the curves. He seemed experienced at this kind of race. Soon his nose was up with Captain Kohlman’s flank, the marquis having pulled a length ahead. They both must have known that another horse had joined the race, but neither looked to see who it was.

Over one more jump and we were up with Kohlman.

“Go, Sprite, go!” I hissed and urged him on. Sea Sprite could not increase his speed much, but he tried, and we began to pull away from the captain, and up on the marquis.

We were heading back toward the palace now. There were spectators lining up in the open spaces. I caught sight of Hans and Philip up ahead, waving, or perhaps gesturing. I was not sure and had no time to notice. I was just about up with the marquis.

“Go!” I said once more to Sprite. The marquis glanced back. Then he sat up straight and looked back again, as his pace slowed and he fell back.

“Good God, it’s Albert!” he said, and he urged his horse on again. Sea Sprite was too far ahead now, though, and it was irritating that we had got there because the marquis had let up. We would have been ahead by our own efforts over the next jump, if not before.

That next jump lay ahead of me. It was a water ditch with a bank in front of it. I did not know much about the strategy of taking a water ditch. We had a creek at home and that was as far as my water experience went. Sea Sprite had seemed to know what he was doing so far, though, so I gave him his head and grabbed a handful of mane, prepared to follow whatever he did.

As we got closer I saw that the water was too broad to jump. Apparently we were to jump off the bank into the water, and gallop through. That seemed straightforward enough. I prepared myself for the downward plunge as we approached the bank.

Then something white flew by, just in front of us. A lady’s parasol, caught by the wind. Sea Sprite started sideways, but I kept going forward. I tried holding his mane and hooking my knee on the saddle, but as the momentum carried us both up the bank I found I could not stop our parting. I rolled through the air, slamming flat on my back on top of the bank and skidding over and down.

Splash!

The water was muddy, and I got some in my mouth, but I could not cough. All the air had been knocked from my lungs by the impact. I struggled to my feet, wheezing a little. Hans and Philip were already there, pulling me out of the water. The marquis was just behind, flinging aside his reins and running to help.

I rolled over on the bank and lay a minute. It seemed as if the whole city were there looking at me in a crowd of concerned faces.

“Are you all right, Albert?” asked the marquis.

I was all right, perfectly all right. Never better. But when I tried to answer, the sound that came out of my throat was rather like a long dead frog’s ghostly death curse.

“Crooaakk!” I said, trying to sit up.

“No, no, no,” said the marquis. “Lie down.”

“He’s all right,” said Tybalt, casually poking his one unconcerned face in at me. “Just got the wind knocked out of him.”

I nodded and pointed to him.

“I think he’s right, your grace,” said Philip, looking me over. He started to feel my collar bone and poke my ribs.

“All right,” I said, my voice beginning to come back to normal. I pushed his hands away. “I’m all right.”

The marquis breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, Albert,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the stable.”

“Wait a minute,” said Tybalt. “He should get back on the horse and take that jump again.”

“Really, Stenbau,” said the marquis. “I think that if Albert gains a little fear from this experience, he could use it.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the boy,” said Tybalt with a grin. “It’s the horse. He’ll never take that jump again it he doesn’t go over it now.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. I was feeling a little stiff, but I could ride a horse. I could always ride a horse.

“No,” said the marquis and Philip together.

“I’m okay,” I said, getting up unsteadily. “I can ride.”

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Tomorrow, I'll post a little more about the writing of this clip.

If you'd like to read more of The Adventure of Anna the Great, you can find it in ebook form at Amazon's Kindle Store, Kindle UK Store, Smashwords. and Barnes and Noble's Nookstore. Look for it at Apple's iBookstore, Sony, Kobo and Diesel, too.

Wife Of Freedom - an Excerpt

This week's Sample Sunday excerpt is from The Wife of Freedom, a melodrama about a woman who is what she is, no matter how much she tries not to be.

Mary Alwyn is a wild soul, a free spirit who has tried very very hard to fit in with the staid and puritanical society around her (in a world something like America just before the revolution). She's married to an ardent revolutionary -- Jackie the Freedom, a blacksmith who writes incendiary pamphlets and gets himself into trouble a lot -- but his attention is on the revolution and Mary is adrift.
This excerpt from Chapter 3 begins the morning after she met Henry Pembroke, a handsome and elegant officer in the royal army. A troop of soldiers has arrived at Mary's door, seeking to arrest her husband. The husband has long slipped away, and Mary goes to face the soldiers.

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From Chapter 3 of The Wife of Freedom
by Camille LaGuire

It was always a debate as to whether to let them in, or to stand on her rights and make them knock the door down. Either way, she could delay them while Jackie played his game of strutting around in public, but never being caught until the thing blew over...or until he was caught. A flogging didn’t matter, if it got attention. His wife’s distress was not even noticeable to him.

But as for the door, she’d better open it, because Jackie’d never get around to fixing a broken one. Mary pulled it open, looking harried, as if interrupted in her sewing. It was Major Pembroke, standing with that nobleman’s ease, his head cocked in deference and concern. Prettier in the daylight, yet.

“Major Pembroke,” she said in a little bit of a gasp.

“Marm,” he said, removing his hat. “Is your husband at home?”

“No, he’s at the printer’s.”

“We’ve just come from there, marm. He isn’t there. Nor is there anyone else. Not even the press itself.”

“Oh, dear. They must have moved it again, then.”

“Do you know where they would have moved it to?”

“Won’t you come in?”

His hesitation was almost invisible.

“Thank you, marm,” and he stepped inside, shutting the door in the faces of the two soldiers with him.

And all the time it was going through Mary’s head: if you were going to be unfaithful, did it really matter if you did it instantly? How many meetings was appropriate before you actually succumbed? Wasn’t it always inappropriate? Shades of her childhood came back to her, when Mrs. Cress would marvel at how “she didn’t even hesitate!” whenever Mary had jumped into a mud puddle. And Mary could never understand how thinking about it first could make a crime less serious.

“Are you sure your husband is not at home?”

“Are you asking to find out where he is, or for more personal reasons?”

His mouth widened in a pleased smile. A pleasing smile. She took a deep breath as he leaned in.

“And what kind of personal reasons would you mean, marm?”

She let the breath out and thought what an idiot she was. And that if she was too forward, she’d drive him away. But if he could be driven away with honesty, what good was he? She didn’t know how to be coy, even if he did.

“Perhaps you’d better have them search,” she said, snapping her mouth shut and stepping back.

He smiled and opened the door. The soldiers trundled in, glancing sidelong at her.

“Make sure he’s not hiding here somewhere,” he told them. They tromped through the house. At least she didn’t have to worry about that. Jackie claimed to have the Freedom to Dream in his head, and she and the major were standing on top of the cache of arms. The major stood very close to her, angled a bit away so as to seem more decent. He seemed comfortable to let the silence draw out for a bit. She stood primly, with her hands clasped before her, eyes cast down. She noticed that the major had very fine boots. And a fine pair of legs going into them. What you could see of her own boots were scuffed. She slipped a foot back, more out of sight and shifted her weight, tilting her head.

Then he spoke, his face much closer to her ear than she expected. Not looking at her boots at all.

“Marm, tell me where to have them search next.”

“What?” The proximity and the words startled her and she stepped back to regain her balance. She looked at him, and his face showed a sly earnestness.

“Tell me where to send them to search next,” he insisted.

And suddenly the logic flooded back into her that they were there to haul Jackie away and beat him. She widened her eyes and stared at him, and her face turned hot with a deep flush.

“I cannot tell you that,” she said.

He looked disconcerted, and then leaned in closer and lowered his voice.

“I mean, where should they search that would occupy them for some time?”

“I don’t know,” she said, waving her hands in the air as the soldiers returned. “You’ve had your search, now get out.”

The soldiers grinned at one another, as she waved them toward the door, and they filed out. The major paused and took her hand, bowing gently over it.

“Marm, I apologize,” he said. “I did not wish to cause you distress.”

He kissed just the tips of her fingers, which stopped her nervous gesture to push him out.

“And I regret any misunderstandings,” he added, with an odd emphasis. He carefully turned her hand over and very slowly kissed the palm of her hand, so slowly, his breath tickled her wrist.

Then with a bow, he left.

* * *

Mary spent the whole day thinking about him. In the evening Jackie came home excited and a little drunk. He gave her a big happy kiss, and a clutch to her backside, but between the drink and the fact that he hadn’t slept the night before, he was out before she could get him undressed.

“Oh, Jackie,” she said. She took two steps back and looked at him. He was always doing. Always busy. Always two steps ahead of himself. And as a result he never really was where he was. He was never there. And Mary, no matter how she tried, could never seem to be any place but where she was now. Could never really keep her mind on the future. A big puddle of mud and her shoes pinched, and that’s as far as her mind naturally went.

“I’ll be making a mistake,” she said aloud. She reached out and took hold of his face, which as rough and in need of a shave. Two days in need of it. He stirred, and she held her breath, but he didn’t awaken. “Perhaps I wouldn’t make the mistake if you were here,” she whispered.

He snorted and then began to softly snore. She pulled back and brushed her hand over his face impatiently, but she couldn’t tell if it was disgust or relief. It wasn’t his fault, anyway. It wasn’t his mistake, it was hers. The Freedom to Fall, she thought. That was the first Freedom Paper he’d written. You make your own mistakes. You don’t need any help from any lords or masters.

She turned away and took a little extra time about washing herself, and thought about the here and now. She may have had trouble getting her mind on the future, but she realized she didn’t have any trouble at all getting away from the here. Her mind wandered freely enough just now. And where it went was to him. Major Pembroke.

She crawled into bed, her back to her snoring husband, and slept alone with her dreams.

The next day, Jackie was gone before daybreak, along with his papers. When the major returned, she didn’t misunderstand, and she didn’t spend the morning alone.

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Tomorrow, I'll post some notes on how and why this story came about in my Story Notes: The Wife of Freedom.

If you'd like to read more of The Wife of Freedom, you're in luck! This week Smashwords is having a sale for "Read an eBook Week." This ebook and several others of mine are on sale for half price (others for free). The sale lasts from March 6-12, 2011. (It should start around midnight tonight, but I'm not sure which time zone.) Buy The Wife of Freedom, or heck out my whole book list at my profile page on Smashwords.

You can also find The Wife of Freedom at the regular price of $3.95 at Amazon's Kindle Store, Kindle UK Store, and Barnes and Noble's Nookstore. Look for it at Apple's iBookstore, Sony, Kobo and Diesel, too.

The Royal Stableboy - An excerpt from The Adventure of Anna The Great

Today we have another excerpt from The Adventure of Anna the Great, a story of adventure, intrigue and horses.

Context for Today's Excerpt: Anna disguised herself as a boy, Albert, and set off looking for adventure. She tried to foil a kidnapping the night before, and failed. (Although in the process she injured the mysterious kidnapper she calls "The Gentleman in Black" in the hand.) As a reward for her attempt, she was given a job as a stableboy in the royal stables of her tiny country.

* * * * *

An Excerpt from Chapter 5 - "The Royal Stableboy"
(In Which Anna Comes Face to Face With Two Troublemakers, One With Two Legs, The Other With Four....)

* * * * *
Safely shut in my room, I stripped and tried on the livery. The trousers were too large, but with the help of a belt it did not look too bad. The jacket was long enough to conceal the worst of it, and the pant cuffs were hidden in my boots. The only trouble was a bit of bagginess around the knees.

I was nervous. I supported the queen, but that did not stop me from being excited about meeting Prince Hugo. He was, after all, the Prince Hugo. I looked in the mirror and carefully adjusted my cap. Hans burst in without knocking. I noticed he had a cap on now, and without the silly feathers. He did not say anything, but he glanced at me and went to the mirror to adjust his own cap.

“You say it looks smart?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Especially on you. Yours fits.”

“Not that it matters,” Hans said, looking back at the mirror. “We can never look too sharp for Uncle Wil, and nobody else will notice.”

“Somebody might. Maybe Hugo.”

“Oh, yeah. Hugo.”

“He’s pretty bad, you say.”

“It’s not really him,” said Hans. “He rides in a carriage usually and doesn’t come back here. It’s the people with him. They won’t really be so bad, though. Not for you. It’s me who it’s rough on. Hugo’s got this nephew, Tybalt von Stenbau....”

“That viscount you were talking about.”

“Yes. He hates me, and his horse hates me too. Every time he comes he seeks me out, because he knows I’m afraid of his horse.”

“Point him out to me and I’ll take the horse first,” I said.

“He won’t let you. He hates me.” Hans gave me a resigned smile.

“We can try,” I said. “Maybe we can shake him up a little.”

“If you really want to,” said Hans. “I won’t complain. The horse is dark grey, kind of unusual because it doesn’t have any dapples. Just solid color, with a black mane and tail.”

“Is it really that awful a horse?”

“No worse that Sea Sprite, probably. But Tybalt makes it hard by giving a lot of instructions, and I guess once I let him run over me the first time, he just plain won’t obey.” Hans shook his head. I could not tell if he meant the man or the horse.

#

From the gateway of the stable yard we could see a number of carriages and horsemen approaching. It was a large group, though at that distance and angle I could not see how many carriages. The whole speeding mass made a lively clot of motion on the roadway, with the carriages trundling and horsemen darting in and out. It was moving very fast, too fast for the people who were beginning to gather along the street. Then it passed from my view as it entered the center of the city.

“That’s all we’ll see,” said Hans. “The carriages will go to the front, and only some of the horsemen will come back here.”

“Quite a show, though,” I said. “So many. They must be coming to stay a while.”

“If you’re courting a queen, you do it in style.” He let out a short laugh and ran a finger around his collar.

“What have you heard about the wedding?” I asked. “Is it certain?”

“Well, there are still only rumors,” he said. “There’s been a lot of visiting back and forth, but as you say, it looks like Hugo, and Sigmond and the rest of their lot are here to stay. I bet there will be an announcement very soon, or none at all.”

“Maybe while I’m here,” I said.

“You’re not staying?” he said, looking around quickly.

“Only for a while,” I began to say. A loud clatter of hooves interrupted me.

“Here they are now,” said Hans. A small group of horses entered the yard, making more clatter than their number seemed to account for. “There. That’s the one.”

I turned in the direction Hans pointed and ran to take the bridle of the tall, slate grey horse, which was the one making most of the noise. I stopped short, however, when I saw the rider. His lean form swung down gracefully, in spite of the animal’s stamping and shying. It was no other than the Gentleman in Black.

My hand took the cheek piece of the bridle, of its own volition, for my mind was too stunned to command it. The rider turned and reached out a gloved hand to snatch it away. The glove was bulky, as if it had a bandage under it.

“Where’s that other boy? I want....” He stopped as he saw my face, his mouth open in surprise. Then he closed it and smiled. “Hello, Pipsqueak.”

“I have a name, sir,” I said. “It’s Albert.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Albert. Of course.” He said it with half a grin and half a look of mock seriousness. The horse threw its head up and backed off. I went with him, for it was useless to try to pit my weight against his.

“See here,” said the rider. “I don’t want you snatching at his mouth with the reins. Take him by the cheek piece. Oh, so you have.”

When the horse saw that I was not going to fight with him, he relented to a few gentle tugs and I led him back. The rider rocked back on his heels and played with his riding crop. He was still dressed in black, but now he had on a long grey overcoat with a black fur collar. He wore a cap too, which was pushed too far forward. He nodded thoughtfully as I came back to him.

“See to it that he is well walked out. He’s had a hard ride. Loosen . . . oh.” He paused as I reached back to loosen the girth. “When he’s cool give him plenty of water, but be sure that it isn’t too cold. I want it tepid.” He started to turn away and the horse laid back his ears, baring his teeth at me. I had, at least, control of his head and he could not bite me.

“Sir? What’s his name?” I asked.

“Regis,” he said, turning back again to face me, “because he’s nobler than anyone here.” He shot a glance at the palace. “Excepting me, of course.” He paused to look me up and down. “Somebody get this boy a proper set of clothes,” he said loudly. “His pants are falling down.”

He turned heel and walked briskly away. My pants were not falling down, but I was embarrassed all the same.

I was not sure what to do. I had to report this to the marquis, but I also had this horse to care for, a horse which was ardently trying to follow his master. I pulled gently on him, and after a short battle I had him walking forward at least, though not entirely in the direction I wanted.

Since the culprit already knew I recognized him, and had not yet run away, and as I had his horse, I decided that it would do no harm to finish my work before I sought out the marquis.

Regis was very uncooperative for the first few minutes. He planted his feet suddenly and even gentle coaxing would not budge him. Then he exploded into a stomping fit and while I was occupied with his feet, his head snaked around, teeth bared. He hit me in the hip, but he did not bite because he snapped his head away too quickly. I took a hold of his snaffle rein to get more control. I did not care what my orders were, and I had no intention of snatching at the animal’s mouth.

The animal’s mouth, however, had every intention of snatching at me. He bit at me again, at my arm, taking a mouthful of sleeve and tugging. He paused, one ear coming forward.

“You’re all bluff!” I said to him, and he laid back his ears again. I scratched his forehead and called him a silly boy. The ears came up and he started walking. I think he was too tired to play anymore.

We turned in our circuit to walk in the direction of the palace. I looked up at it and saw, on an upper balcony, a slim dark figure leaning on the balustrade. He was watching me. I did not know how long he had been there, and I stopped. In a moment two women came out and spoke to him, and he went in with them. I turned to Regis and felt his chest. He was cool enough, and I felt a sudden urgency to see the marquis.

* * * * *

Tomorrow, I'll post a little more about the writing of this clip.

If you'd like to read more of The Adventure of Anna the Great, you can find it in ebook form at Amazon's Kindle Store, Kindle UK Store, Smashwords. and Barnes and Noble's Nookstore. Look for it at Apple's iBookstore, Sony, Kobo and Diesel, too.

"The Scenic Route" - a screenplay excerpt

For Sample Sunday this week, I'm posting an excerpt from my screenplay, THE SCENIC ROUTE. (NOTE: THIS IS NOT IN PROPER SCREENPLAY FORMAT. I modified the format to make it easier to read on small handheld devices and across multiple platforms.)

The Scenic Route is the story of Luther and Sol, a pair of young bank robbers who have been on the run pretty much their whole lives. They just pulled off a big robbery but got lost during the getaway and then more lost, and more lost.

As of this point in the story, they have shaken off the cops, and others who are chasing them to take the money from them. They've gained a friend in Brenda, a retired show girl who needed a ride, and they finally have got some great directions on how to get back to the interstate. Well, pretty good directions, anyway....

From THE SCENIC ROUTE
by Camille LaGuire

EXT. RIVER -- DAY

The Cutlass is parked at a stop sign. The road here ends at a crossroad and river. Luther, Sol and Brenda stand beside the river, staring across.

SOL: She said we should cross the river.

BRENDA: Maybe she meant swim.

LUTHER: We're on the wrong road is all. We're still going in the right direction.

BRENDA: How do you figure that?

LUTHER: We're supposed to cross the river, and there's the river. We've just got to go along and find a bridge.

SOL: Okay. Which way?

LUTHER: Left.

He points right. Sol nods and heads back to the car.

BRENDA: Oh my god. I don't believe this.

LUTHER: What?

BRENDA: What way did you just point?

Luther points again.

BRENDA: No, say it. Which direction, right or left?

Luther can see what's coming. He drops his arm.

LUTHER: They're just words.

BRENDA: I can see how you boys got lost. You can't tell right from left.

LUTHER: I pointed.

BRENDA (to Sol): And neither can you.

Sol shrugs.

SOL: That's how we hooked up. Skipping special ed together.

BRENDA: You're dyslexic, right? Can you read?

LUTHER: Of course I can. I'm not stupid.

BRENDA: I didn't say you were. But if you were skipping class....

LUTHER: I can read just fine. I can't write so good, and I get a little confused on left and right. That's all.

She nods and starts to reply, but he interrupts.

LUTHER: They're just words. People get all hung up on left and right but you know, you turn around and left isn't left anymore. All of a sudden, it's right. That's stupid. There's that way and that way. If I say "left" and point right... (he points left) ...Sol knows what I mean.

SOL: Yeah. That way.

He points the same way. Brenda sighs and shakes her head.

BRENDA: There are tricks you can use to remember.

LUTHER: It's not memory. It's a different way of seeing things.

BRENDA: If you hold up your left hand, your finger and thumb make an L for left. See?

She holds up her hand to illustrate. Luther holds up his right in mirror image.

LUTHER: So does your right hand. The L just points the other way.

SOL: We learned that one when we were five.

LUTHER: If either of us really have to figure it out, we just gotta stop and think for a minute. A left turn goes across traffic. Right turn on red.

He points, and for the first time his gestures match the direction he's talking about.

BRENDA: Sorry, boys.

LUTHER: No problem. I mean, we're lost. Right and left are just meaningless concepts.

SOL: Constructs.

LUTHER: Right, constructs. Like right and wrong. We're outlaws, and we're lost, so we don't care what right is. It's all arbitration.

BRENDA: Arbitrary.

LUTHER: That too.

They all head back toward the car. Luther pauses before they get in.

LUTHER: That was a joke.

BRENDA: I know.

LUTHER: I'm not dumb. They gave us a test in juvenile hall once, and it showed I wasn't dumb. Sol's even smarter than me.

BRENDA: I thought you'd never been caught.

LUTHER: As a kid, yeah, but not as an adult. Which proves I learn pretty good, doesn't it?

*****
In tomorrow's post I will give you some background on the writing of "The Scenic Route."

NOTE: The Scenic Route is currently not available for purchase (some vendors might still have it around, though).  I am going to revamp it, maybe novelize it. It will be re-released as a new book later.

(Warning, The Scenic Route is an R-rated crime comedy -- with bad language and mild sexual situations, and main characters who have trouble with right and wrong as well as right and left.)

Harsh Climate - opening pages of a thriller

For Sample Sunday, I am offering up the opening pages of my new novella.

Harsh Climate is the story of a pair of teens who find themselves stranded on a desolate road in the middle of winter. When they seek shelter in an abandoned farm house, they find it's the lair or a gang of vicious kidnappers. But you know what? These two are up for it.

* * * * *

Excerpt from Chapter 1 of Harsh Climate

IT HAD BEEN an unusually warm early fall, but the temperature had dropped rapidly that day, leaving the landscape of Overton blanketed with light snow. And now after the snow, with a clear dark sky, the temperature dropped further and the wind picked up. A crust of ice began to form on ponds and in ditches, and sidewalk puddles became a slick of black ice. The stars were like pinpricks of ice.

Clyde Watkins turned the battered Oldsmobile into the driveway on Windsor Street. He was seventeen and not dressed for the weather: no socks, worn sneakers, and just an extra sweatshirt for warmth. It was his own damn fault. He’d left his coat at a party somewhere, and he never did like socks.

He hesitated before getting out, but it wasn’t really the cold wind or snow. He looked with trepidation at the house. Even inside the car he thought he could hear yelling. Mr. Bleur, Vicki’s dad, was not happy. He was a state trooper and he scared the hell out of Clyde. But there was no point in delaying. Vicki wanted a rescue so he was there to provide it.

Clyde threw himself out of the car and ran to the house. Tiny ice crystals worked their way into his shoes, making his ankles ache. He ducked his head and jumped up on the porch and knocked.

Inside he could hear Vicki shouting.

“That’s what’s wrong with you!” she said. “You don’t care!”

“Oh, sure,” roared the voice of her father, so loud he must have been standing near the door. “Miss Teen-Queen I-don’t-care girl is telling me I don’t care.”

“I care! I care about everything,” screamed Vicki. “You don’t even know how to care any more. You’re just a cynical old fart!”

Clyde sighed. It was not going to get any better and he was cold. He knocked again, louder this time. The door jerked open and Mr. Bleur glared down at him.

“Oh, Christ, it’s Poughkeepsie,” he said, as if Clyde were just a package left on the step—a package Mr. Bleur was not much interested in receiving.

“Actually I’m from—” began Clyde, but he was interrupted by Vicki, who stood on the stairs behind her father.

“That’s Denver,” she said firmly. “And tell him I’ll be right there.”

“—I’m from Toledo,” continued Clyde, “and my name is—”

Mr. Bleur shut the door in his face as if Clyde wasn’t even there.

Clyde stood on the porch and considered whether this was worth it. He was about to strike out on the open road with the most interesting girl in school. Worth it. But there was no point in just standing there on the cold porch. Vicki needed a ride.

He tried the knob, and found the door was not locked. He pushed it open and stepped into the warmth of the house.

Mr. Bleur was glaring up the stairs after his daughter. He didn’t turn around to look at Clyde, but he knew he was there.

“She’s not going anywhere, Poughkeepsie, so you can just forget it,” he said.

“My name is—” began Clyde one more time, but then Mr. Bleur turned to glare at him. Man that guy had a tough glare. Clyde backed away a step.

“Are you her boyfriend now?”

“No?” said Clyde. They’d never dated, they were just friends more or less, so he assumed that was true. Mr. Bleur turned and shouted up the stairs.

“So is this your fag ballet partner?”

“Don’t be a homophobe!” shouted Vicki from somewhere upstairs.

“No, I’m not,” said Clyde. He supposed he shouldn’t be a homophobe either, but he didn’t want that misunderstood.

“So what are you doing here?” growled Mr. Bleur, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He slapped the air dismissively, with a force that could have knocked over a horse, and went into the next room.

Clyde stood alone in the entryway, and looked after Bleur.

“I... guess I don’t have any purpose here whatsoever,” he said. He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and called up. “Vicki?”

“I’ll be right there, Denver,” she called from somewhere out of sight.

“No she won’t!” roared her father from the next room.

“I’ll wait in the car,” said Clyde.

“It’ll be a long wait!” called Mr. Bleur.

Clyde went back to the car, figuring that Mr. Bleur was probably wrong.

It was so cold in the car already. One of the windows didn’t quite close and the wind seemed to sneak in, like one of those evil mists in a horror movie. He considered starting the car to let the heater run, but he wasn’t sure about the gas. If they were going all the way to Colorado then they were going to need gas.

At least he thought they were going to Colorado. Vicki had been calling him Denver ever since he agreed to drive, but she’d never actually said where she wanted to go. She was kind of obnoxious, really, but Clyde had this philosophy about people. If you let them get to you, you miss out on a lot of life. If you get offended all the time, you might not notice something really cool right there on the other side of the insult. Besides, life’s too short to deal with other people’s shit.

So he sat and shivered and considered whether he should start calling himself Denver, The Ride Guy. Everybody else was calling him Denver now at school.

Vicki came running around from the back of the house. She must have snuck out. She was hauling a large suitcase with her. She just made it to the car when her father threw open a window.

“Is that a suitcase? Where the heck are you going?”

Vicki threw the suitcase in the back seat.

“Go!” she yelled and she jumped into the passenger seat.

Clyde started the car. Of course it took a minute to turn over. Mr. Bleur disappeared from the window, and he knew it was only a minute before he’d come running out the door. But then the engine roared roughly to life, and Clyde hit the reverse so fast his tires squealed.

Vicki buckled her seatbelt. She may have been a rebel but she was a cop’s daughter. She settled back.

“This doesn’t make you my boyfriend.”

“I know,” said Clyde. “I’m doing this for the gas money.” He paused. “You have got the gas money, right?”

“Of course,” she said, and she patted her purse.

“Then westward ho.”

She paused, and he could tell she was looking at him. Why did he say something stupid like that?

“Thanks, Denver,” she said at last.

“My name Clyde,” he said. “And I’m from Toledo.”

“Denver’s a better name,” she said.

He glanced away from the slippery road to look at her. She was smiling a thin smile. Mona Lisa style. God, she was beautiful. Blond hair, green eyes, lithe and energetic. She was a dancer and sometimes her body just seem like a taut spring—even in her lumpy winter coat.

He took a breath and turned back to the road before he ran them into a ditch. Okay, Denver was better. He could be Denver.

* * * * *

If you'd like to read more of Harsh Climate, the ebook is currently for sale for $1.99 at Amazon's Kindle Store, and Kindle UK Store. The book is also available in various formats for most ebook readers or computers at Smashwords.

Coming soon to Apple's iBookstore, and other online stores like B&N's Nook, Sony, Kobo and Diesel, too.

Anna Errant - An excerpt from The Adventure of Anna The Great

I slacked off a bit today. I am doing the rewrite/polish for Harsh Climate, and just did the read through and some notes. I will post a publishing schedule for the first half of the year tomorrow, along with my more specific writing goals, which I plan to do month by month.

In the meantime - it's time for Sample Sunday!

Here is an excerpt from my first book, The Adventure of Anna The Great, an old-fashioned swashbuckler about a girl dressed as a boy who goes out looking for trouble.

* * * * *

An Excerpt from Chapter 2 - "Anna Errant"
(In Which Anna Finds a Small Adventure, and The First Hints of a Larger One....)

* * * * *

I WAS NOT far from a town—one never is far from anything in Lifbau—and in no time at all I found a livery stable with a stall available for a few hours. I saw to it that Jupiter’s needs were cared for and I strolled off to find my own breakfast.

I went into a bakery to buy a loaf of fresh bread, and to try out my new identity. It was a small place, but crowded. I moved around for a minute before approaching the counter, to give everyone a chance to see me. No one said anything, which I am sure they would have if they had guessed I was a girl. I moved up to the counter, where the heavy-set baker was gossiping with an equally heavy woman customer.

“I’d like a loaf...,” I started to say, in a very confident and masculine way.

“A minute lad!” said the baker sharply, waving his hand at me. I smiled at him for calling me lad, but he did not even look at me. “... the queen’ll marry him any day now ....”

“Excuse me,” I said, still smiling.

“I don’t care when she’ll marry,” said the woman. “It’s who that worries ....”

“Excuse me!”

The baker slapped a loaf on the counter, and held out his hand for the money, still gabbing on about the latest royal rumor, which I suppose was more interesting than local gossip.

I tried to ask for some butter and milk, but it was pointless. He hardly knew I was there. I walked around for a while, and found a shop with a dairy cow, but though they sold me their goods, they hardly noticed me either. Nobody noticed me.

I know it was silly, but I was disappointed. I felt as if I should be noticed. I had very successfully become another person. It was quite an achievement. Of course, it was my very success that kept me from being noticed. To them I was just a boy, a gentleman by my clothes, and perhaps a bit too young to have a sword at my side, but nothing unusual, no matter how exceptional I felt. The fact that the world was not as enthusiastic as I was put me in a bad mood. I would prove myself if the chance came.

I stalked back to the stable, imitating a soldier I had once met after he had lost a fencing match and considered himself cheated. It was a fun role, and I threw myself into the character. I had worked myself into quite a jolly rage by the time I entered the narrow street which ran up to the back of the stable.

The street was made to look all the narrower by the three and four story houses which lined either side. Very little light got into it at that time of morning, and that suited it. It was a dark sort of place, with closed up shops, dirt, peeling paint, and small yellowed windows. Also fitting the street was a drab old woman who was being harassed by a young bully.

She was only trying to pass by, but the lad, who was about sixteen, would trip her or pull at her shopping bag, while his friends jeered. The bully was keeping ahead of her, walking backwards so he could face her. He could not see me.

This was my chance, I thought, a good deed and a touch of adventure. I gathered myself up and charged, shoving with both my hands on the small of his back. He went down on his face, his arms and legs sprawling.

“That should teach you to leave an old woman be,” I said. He rolled over and got up. I changed my estimate of his age upward to seventeen or eighteen. He was big, and once he saw that I was not, he scowled.

“Hey, Squirt,” he said, and he swung his fist at me. His scarred knuckles hit me square in the forehead. I toppled backward, falling on my right elbow and bruising it. I was dazed for a minute and I could not hear or see. My left hand went straight to my sword, but I hesitated in drawing it. The bully, after all, was unarmed.

The dizziness began to clear and I heard laughing. Four other boys, not so big as the first, but big enough, had joined him and all were laughing heartily at me.

“Look out,” called the first. “His Majesty’s drawing his sword!”

That got my temper up, and when I get mad I get blindly furious. I whipped out my sword and struggled to my feet.

“Oh ho, boys! Run, he’s after us!” It was a great joke to them, but still they skipped out of range as I turned slowly around, watching them and facing any that came at me. The big one pretended to have a sword of his own, and they all poked imaginary weapons at me, while mimicking my fencer’s stance. I slashed my sword across in front of them, and they all leaped back. I ran at them, swiping my sword back and forth as if it were a sabre. Half of them retreated to the safety of a doorway. I turned and saw the rest gathering. I raised my sword and chased them off with a yell, but the first group crept up from behind and hooted at me.

“Over here, Sir Squirt,” the big one said, mimicking my movements.

I felt a whack across the back of my head, and I whirled violently to swipe at the retreating boy who had hit me, but I did not chase him, since another was edging up to the left. I pointed my sword at him, and he stepped back, in mock fear. The rest stayed back, but ready to close in.

I closed my eyes and wished I had minded my own business. This was not the kind of adventure I wanted. I could not see any way to triumph. I could not make them stop, and I felt silly making false lunges at any who came near. My elbow stung.

Keep your dignity, I said to myself. I drew a deep breath and looked around. The old woman had long since made her escape, and I had effectively cleared a path for myself. I drew myself up, trying to hide the shaking that had come over me with the lessening of anger, and sheathed my sword. I walked off with as much dignity as I could muster.

Whistles and catcalls sounded behind me, coming closer. They were following me. My whole body ached to turn around and look, or run. Dignity, I said to myself, you can win with dignity, so I did not turn and did not run. I wanted to see what they were doing. I knew it was probably nothing. They were just following. No need to look back and dignify them. It was best to ignore them.

The stable was not far away. I could see a bunch of loungers in the doorway, watching with keen interest. None of them had made any move to help the old woman or myself, but then, I did not want any help.

“Woo hoo! Let’s see your sword again!”

I wanted to give that big one a cut across the face. Dignity, I thought. Keep cool. One foot in front of the other and you will be out of this.

Something hit my back. I felt my chest tighten up as I froze in anger. My passions were so high that for a minute I thought that I would either cry or kill somebody. The loungers at the stable began to laugh.

I could not help but turn to see what hit me, but I did it slowly, as if merely curious. They had thrown an apple at me. I stopped and picked it up. I would have taken a bite out of it, but it was badly bruised, so I just tossed it in the air and caught it. I turned away without looking at them and walked the short distance left, past the chuckling loungers, and directly to Jupiter, to whom I fed the apple. He ate it with a relish.

I had won. It was not much of a victory, and I did not feel triumphant, but I guessed I had really won. This, I supposed, was what adventures were like in the real world, so I had better get used to it. I was still shaking. I hated being so emotional. I put my arms around Jupiter’s neck until the trembling went out of them. I granted myself that I was tired. I was reacting to the high emotions of the night before, and for that matter, for weeks of planning.

I washed my face in Jupiter’s water bucket and went to pay the stableman. He was busy with a harried but beautiful woman whose coach had a broken wheel.

“I must get to Lifbau this evening,” she said with a very slightly accented voice. She looked worried, but her voice was commanding. I admired her control. My voice squeaks at the slightest hint of stress.

“There will be a coach in an hour,” said the stableman. “That’s as much as I can do.”

“Oh, very well,” said the woman. “I’ll need to move my bags.” She looked pointedly at the loungers. They had been closely watching the conversation, but now pretended not to notice her. They must have had their pockets full, for they ignored her even when she pulled out her purse.

“I’ll get them,” I said, and popped over to her side. The woman continued to regard the men thoughtfully. I thought I saw an odd look cross her face, a flash of emotion, perhaps anger or even fear. It was gone as quickly as it came. She turned away from the men and patted me on the shoulder absent-mindedly.

“Are you sure there is nothing sooner?” she asked of the stableman.

He said no, and I got the woman’s bags from the carriage. They were only a pair of carpet bags, which surprised me, because she seemed the fashionable type. I was directed to put them with the other packages that were ready for the coach. She paid me, and I paid the stableman.

As I led Jupiter out, I noticed that the bullies were still on the street. I was still angry. I mounted and waited, looking at them. They must have thought I stopped in fear, for they gathered together and came toward me, grinning at the chance for new sport. In one fluid movement I drew my sword and urged Jupiter to a gallop, letting out a bloody yell.

Their faces changed from mocking to horror in an instant, and they scattered. The leader went left, so I went left, around him, cutting him off. I ignored the others to focus on him. I trapped him against the wall and held him there with my sword.

“Feel lucky you get off with your life, worm!”

It was a line from a very cheap novel, which I had read until it fell apart.

I wheeled around to salute the onlookers, but I was disappointed to see they were not watching. Most of them were gone, the rest were pestering some gentleman, for money I supposed. Their hands were out and their smiles were supplicating.

Triumph is no fun without an audience, so I let out another whoop and cantered by them, making a defiant salute with my sword as I passed. I thought I heard someone say something about a “pipsqueak” but I imagined it was said with some respect.

* * * * *

If you'd like to read more of The Adventure of Anna the Great, the ebook is currently on sale for $2.99 at Amazon's Kindle Store, Kindle UK Store.

The book is also available in various formats for most ebook readers or computers at Smashwords. Look for it at Apple's iBookstore, as well as the online stores for B&N's Nook, Sony, Kobo and Diesel, too.