When Doves Fly won an award!

I'm tickled pink to report When Doves Fly won an Honorable Mention in the genre category in Writer's Digest Self-Published book awards!

"Honorable Mention?" you say, with your mouth pulled askew and a feigned look of appreciation.

Yes, yes, I know. Honorable mention usually means:

 

 

 

 

But in this case, it really is an honor. This competition attracts thousands of applicants and only awards a few top places and honorable mentions. So it's actually kind of a big deal.

 

And I'm especially proud that my debut was considered high quality by the folks at Writer's Digest, who know a thing or two about books.

 

Thank you, Writer's Digest, for recognizing my work.

 

I'll be off celebrating. By painting the bathroom. (I'm weird, I know.)

What to do While You Wait for that Other Bird

Great news! When Doves Fly will be on a Kindle Countdown Deal starting on Turkey Day. So while the bird cooks--the other bird!--or during those long drives over the river and through the woods to Grandma's house, you can read a book reviewers are calling "gritty, complex storytelling" and both "timeless and fresh." Works on planes, trains, automobiles, wagons, and even horses.


Amazon:
http://amzn.to/1Vtd7ZF
Amazon UK
http://amzn.to/1hMaMX6
Print
http://amzn.to/1Lr7B3p
https://www.createspace.com/5754093

To request a signed print copy, use the contact form here:
http://www.authorlaurengregory.com/Contact.html

 

 

Excerpt from When Doves Fly by Lauren Gregory

 

Two horses occupied the pen, and both looked used up.

The livery operator, even harder used than his horses, eyed Lily with an arched brow. He wore chaps molded to his legs and a cowboy hat with holes. Tanned rifts covered his face and shifted in strange patterns as he talked.

“Where ya headed?”

“Cheyenne,” she lied.

“Where’s yer men folk?”

“I’ll be making this trip alone.”

“Missy, that’s a long ride. Oughtta at least wait for a party goin’ out.”

Lily set her jaw. “I’ll worry about that. How much for that one?” She pointed to the less-swaybacked roan.

“That’s Charlie. Let you have him for $50.00. Can you even heft a saddle on yer own?”

Her lips pursed, and she walked to a rack loaded with saddles. Struggling, she lifted one over her head. “Satisfied?”

The horseman shrugged. “All right. But ain’t no way you can make it all the way to Cheyenne on yer lonesome. Bandits roamin’ all over now, even if the ride don’t kill ya.”

“Will you sell me the horse or not?”

He opened a packet from his vest and stuffed a plug of tobacco in his cheek. “I reckon.”

“Do you have any mules?”

“For what?” His eyes narrowed.

She tossed him a withering look. “A pack mule, of course.”

His gaze wandered. “Nope. No mules.”

Lily followed his glance and walked to the corner of the building. Several mules munched hay at a paddock trough. She rounded on the man.

“Just what are those? Pigs?”

“Bad enough if I sell you the horse, but that’ll only getcha in so much trouble. I ain’t sendin’ you out on the trail with two animals you can’t handle.”

“Then I’ll have to find someone who wants to make money. Thank you and good day.”

He stuck his leg out, blocking her attempt at a huffing exit. “Listen, missy. You don’t look as if you been doin’ much trail ridin’. I’ll allow you might handle the horse on yer own, mostly ‘cause he’s too old and tired to do much but eat. But a jack’s a different animal, and tryin’ to lead one while you ride ain’t easy, even for trail men with some miles under their belts. What do you need to pack, anyhow?”

Lily pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. She wanted to tell him to mind his business but lifted her chin. “Goods.”

“Er … you can buy goods in Cheyenne, reckon? It’s a bonafide city these days. Stores and everything.”

“Cheyenne isn’t my final destination. Will you sell me a mule, or are you going to spend all day asking questions?” Her nails dug into her palms.

He looked her up and down. “I can’t do it. Take my advice: don’t try it.”

She fumed but changed her tack and offered a sweet smile. “What if I take a hired man? Can I, please, have a mule then?”

“Do I look that brainless?”

“No, truly, I promise. You’re right; I shouldn’t do it on my own. I’ll hire someone. Do you know where I can find a reliable hand?”

The horseman considered her and wagged a finger. “I’ll give ya the address. And I’ll check up on it, too.”

She paid him $95.00 for the horse, mule, and a saddle. As he saddled the horse, he looked at her skirt.

“You know how to ride a western?”

She didn’t meet his gaze. “Of course.”

When he finished, she led the animals away, with no intention of hiring anyone.

 

 

The Caskets -- When Doves Fly Excerpt

In case you missed it, here's one of my favorite scenes from When Doves Fly, my debut #histfic novel set in a Colorado gold rush town in the 1870s.

If you want more, it's available on Amazon in ebook and print!

*  *  *  *  *

 

The caskets lay side by side. Charlotte stood in the parlor doorway, a doll dangling from one hand. She had tried to make herself enter, but her feet wouldn’t move. The black crepe over the windows rippled like ghostly shadows. A glimpse of pallid skin peeked from each coffin.

 

What if they wake? Maggie, their cook, said people sometimes came back to life to claw their way out of their caskets.

 

Charlotte wanted to touch them, to check for life, but a vague fear stopped her. She stayed rooted, cold bare toes on the threshold, eyes fixed on the open boxes, waiting for the children to move.

 

If only Mother would come down. Then I could go in.

 

Charlotte had tried to rouse her mother, but her parents’ door remained locked, and no one answered. Only weak cries had come from the room in the two days since Peter and Cecilia died.

 

Mother had fallen sick, too, but the cholera kept her bedridden for just a day. She’d devoted the next two days to nursing Peter and Cecilia—Charlotte had felt fine. In her delirium, Mother blamed herself for taking the children to the fair, but Charlotte had been the one who pestered until she agreed.

 

If I hadn’t, Peter and Sissy wouldn’t be in caskets. Once a middle child, now an only.

 

After they died, Mother locked her door, and Charlotte hadn’t seen her since. Maggie had arranged the wake and the coming funeral but went home sick—was it only the day before?—after assuring Charlotte that Papa would return home from his business trip any time. Charlotte waited all night, but Papa hadn’t come.

 

Something moved in Peter’s coffin. Charlotte’s eyes widened, and she squeezed Dolly’s arm. A fly drifted from the casket and landed again. She relaxed and released her breath. And waited.

 

The back door banged open. Charlotte didn’t move—she couldn’t. Her limbs had turned to stone.

 

“Eliza!” Papa’s voice rang in the silence. “Maggie?” Footsteps clattered on the wood floor until he reached the hall rug. “Charlotte! Where’s your mother? Why are the drapes …?”

 

His hand fell on her shoulder.

 

She tried to speak, but her cracked lips only trembled.

 

A sick moan came from him, and he pushed past her into the room with the caskets and flies. He bent over the bodies and groaned.

 

“No, no, no,” he chanted. “Peter … Sissy … not both ….”

 

Tears stung Charlotte’s eyes.

 

Papa whirled on her. “Where is your mother?” More a roar than a question.

 

Her body shook. Why is he angry with me?

 

He ran past her and thundered up the stairs. Banging on a door. “Eliza … Eliza!” More heavy footsteps, and he jerked Charlotte by the arm. “Is your mother sick? Where is Maggie? Or Cooper?” He bent, eyes wild, and shook her until her teeth chattered. “Charlotte, answer me!”

 

Sound came from her mouth, but no words.

 

Shoving her aside, he raced upstairs. Yelling and rattling the door as Charlotte collapsed in the parlor doorway.

 

“Papa?”

 

The hall remained quiet. She fell asleep crying, clutching Dolly close.

 

 

 

 

 

New Book Release!

I may or may not have peed my pants today. But I will be changing them, rest assured.

One year, ten months, fourteen days. It doesn't sound like that long, but it's taken a lifetime to reach this milestone. This is what I always wanted. Now I've got it.

On Amazon
http://amzn.to/1jwZ7NC

Sneak Peek at When Doves Fly

An excerpt from Chapter One of When Doves Fly, a new historical fiction novel set in 1870s Colorado, coming September 30, 2015:

Lily Wright departed the train before the other passengers, gripping her carpet bag tight, eager to disappear. The bell clanged their arrival as the train rumbled to a stop, and voices rose over the hiss of steam engines as travelers greeted family and friends. Lily had no one to greet, yet every face resembled her husband’s and filled her with cold dread. Throwing peeks over her shoulder, she dodged and weaved until she found the station agent.

“Where’s the nearest hotel and stagecoach, sir?”

“Welcome to Denver, miss.” He jerked his thumb to the east, beyond the depot. “Plenty hotels within a few blocks, they can get you to a coach.”

She nodded and proceeded inside. People, suitcases, and trunks littered the station. She ducked her head and wound around them. Hair prickled on her neck. Convinced eyes had followed her, she turned, but no one seemed interested. Her heart pounded faster as she skirted the ticket line and burst through the doors to the street.

Wagons lumbered past in the waning evening light. A river of people flowed around her—men in work clothes or suits and bowlers, women in walking dresses with pert bustles—while she stood in front of the depot and searched building signs.

She wanted a smaller place, inexpensive and inconspicuous. She’d thought she would feel safe once she reached Denver, but her anxiety had grown stronger with every mile as the train chugged across the prairie.

Lily negotiated the wide, muddy road with a stream of pedestrians toward a cross-street lined with tall brick and clapboard buildings. When the group reached the other side and went their separate ways, she started up the narrower street, scanning the buildings and stopping at each corner to survey the side roads. After several blocks, a squat, wooden structure with a large sign on the roof drew her attention: The Broadwell House. Her pace picked up.

The noise and chaos fell behind as the traffic and crowds thinned. The buildings cast long shadows over the road, and the mountain sunset blared bright color on the facing side.

Her apprehension dimmed outside the crush of people, and exhaustion weighed her shoulders down. The hotel beckoned. Her hand ached, and she shifted the small suitcase to her other hand as she passed an alley.

An arm shot from the narrow void between buildings and snatched the bag from her fingers. She gasped, but shock throttled a scream in her throat. She swung toward the breach but caught only a glimpse of a darker shadow darting away. Her feet moved a few yards into the alley, but the gloom stopped her.

Wait, what if I catch up with him? Who knows what he might do.

She spun and darted into the road.

“Thief! Help!”              

The street had emptied. The nearest figure, a block away, kept moving in the opposite direction. She opened her mouth to shout again but closed it with a snap.

Heavens, what am I thinking? I can’t get involved with the law here. But my bag ….

She turned back to the alley, but nothing moved, the shadow gone.

“No!”

She stomped her foot and flapped her arms. The bag. Everything. The money! This cannot be happening.

Paralyzed by frustration, Lily couldn’t fathom what to do next. The sun dropped below the skyline. Fear overcame shock. When full dark hit, the street would only present more danger.

She scuttled toward the Broadwell House, where she walked to the clerk’s desk and pulled a purse from her skirt pocket.

“One night, please.”

The clerk flicked her eyes up from a newspaper. “$3.00. No visitors.” She returned her attention to her paper.

Lily dug the money from her purse. The remaining paltry bills and coins worsened the roiling in her stomach. She tucked the pouch back in her pocket and laid three gold coins in the woman’s outstretched hand.

“Up the stairs, on the left.” The clerk slid a key across the desk.

Relieved the woman hadn’t indicated a guest log, Lily snagged the key and hurried to the second floor. She let herself in, slammed the door, and turned the lock.

Minimal furniture filled the modest, tidy room. She bypassed a table with an oil lamp and matches and fell onto the bed. Burying her face in the pillow, she sobbed.

I can’t stay here. He’ll find me here, I just know it. I have to make it to a more remote place. But what will I do when I get there? I can’t start a store with no money. She pummeled the mattress. It’s not fair. All I want is freedom to do as I wish, independence with no one deciding where I can go or how I must live, the chance to be my own. Is that so much to ask?

Dark settled, but she didn’t drift off for hours.

 

 

 

 

 

© 2015 Lauren Gregory All Rights Reserved.

It's Here! Cover & Release Date

First, the good news. The cover for When Doves Fly is ready, and I'm in love.

Next, the great news. The release date is set for September 30, 2015 for the ebook.

The long road leads to some amazing places.





When Doves Fly Book Cover

© 2015 Lauren Gregory All rights reserved.




 

 

Women in Mining Camps, Part 2

Part 2 of my post on Women in Mining Camps, the seminal (light) research from about ten years ago that inspired my upcoming novel, When Doves Fly.

(Yes, it's been longer than a week since Part 1. My apologies, I ran into a band of outlaws who kidnapped me and forced me to finish editing a manuscript. P.S. The writing is a rough ride.)



Westward expansion, and the rise of industry and increased need for steel and minerals, meant mining towns grew in number and often consisted of the first "civilization" in a remote area. As the East grew more urbanized, the West remained a savage and isolated place. "Cornish immigrants James and Mary Bennett were among the first settlers in Mineral Point [Wisconsin] in the late 1830s, and Mary begged her husband to take her away from that 'hardly discovered wilderness,' where 'Indians and wild animals were numerous,' and back to civilization in England. ¹ Many women who followed their husbands to the mining towns had recently immigrated and had little or no experience in an undeveloped, wild land, coming from Europe where even the remote areas had long since been explored and mining was well-established. "As John Rowe observed, 'In Cornwall it was the miner who was old before he was thirty-five; on the early American mining frontier, it was his wife.' ² These difficulties came on top of the inherent risks involved in mining that left many miners injured or dead and their wives without income.³ These women didn't all stay home, but whether married, single, or widowed, history rarely recognized the woman's occupation. Most census records did not record a woman's occupation, even if single, unless it was unusual, so we often don't know how many women worked as servants, milliners, or proprietors of stores or parlors.⁴ However, simply from population records, we can infer that women were as influential and indispensable in the mining towns as elsewhere. In St. Clair, Pennsylvania, a well-established mining town, in 1850 there were only a little over 100 more men than women and more than 700 children in a population of over 2,000. ⁵ Thus, these women formed the backbone of the community, maintaining their families and providing support for the miners. However, changing times and cultural attitudes brought change to the mining towns as in the rest of America.

 



Group of mine workers...and one woman. c. 1895-1905

By the mid-1800s, with westward expansion at its height and new mineral and metal resources discovered farther west, women experienced new-found freedoms. They were encouraged to work outside the home to help their families before marriage and often found themselves widowed and forced to provide financial support, particularly in an industry such as mining. Many women left the mining camps and returned to their families once widowed, but some stayed and developed their own businesses to support themselves and their families until remarrying or moving on. ⁶ The need for women in budding mining camps was sorely felt. New mining camps had a great demand for single women, particularly in areas of rapid expansion such as California during the 1849 gold rush. "…In the West, a woman could make money and have the boldness to call the money her own. Women who had never worked in their lives discovered that the drudgery of work was sweetened by the freedom to earn and save money in their own names." ⁷ In the wild, uncivilized areas where mines sprang up quickly and few men (the men being occupied with mining, which paid much more) could provide such services as waiting tables in hotels or saloons, women found new occupations available. The positions were socially unacceptable for women in the East, but they opened to women in the West out of necessity. Strict social rules followed in the East were set aside for women in these "social" setting positions, where men had previously ruled, such as the requirement that a woman be introduced to a man before speaking to him. ⁸  

Along with the need for women in service sectors, the men needed companionship. It wasn't until the latter 1800s that mining towns, and the country as a whole, saw the development of brothels on a large scale, and usually only once a town was well-established.⁹ Most often, women operated them (if not owned them) and "at late hours provided 'nice young men' with drinks and the social services of a small bevy of female boarders." ¹⁰ In the East, these establishments were less tolerated and the operators were fined or jailed if discovered.¹¹ But in the west, they thrived and often remained legal until well into the 1900s.

Unmarried women had other options, though, particularly in the West. In the chaotic mid-1800s, various industries and areas saw many boom and bust times, forcing single men to seek  new opportunities, often in mining towns. The areas they abandoned had a shortage of marriageable men, and unattached women frequently followed the migration to developing areas to find husbands and employment. ¹² "John McCracken wrote to his sister telling of one such incident. 'I heard not long since of the arrival of an old Lady and her five daughters. They came in a wagon and seemed quite happy to think there were such chances to get well married' (Levy 175)." ¹³ Women would even advertise themselves for marriage, finding that with the abundance of men they could raise their expectations and demand a higher quality of mate. In one "advertisement from a Maryville newspaper of 1849…[a woman gives] self-qualifications for marriage and what she expects in return from the man: 'an old man need not apply, nor any who have not a little more education than she has, and a great deal more gold, for there must be $20,000 settled on her before she will bind herself to perform all the above' (Levy 176)." ¹⁴ In the mining camps, many men avoided the few prostitutes due to fear of disease or simple unavailability. As towns grew, "businessmen" opened more brothels and saw a new avenue for profit in mail-order bride services. They already had sources for women to supply to their brothels, so the "supply chain" of immigrant women was already in place. ¹⁵

Once they arrived in these often lawless, uncivilized western mining camps, women asserted their influence, utilized their skills, and developed new ones. "Many craved the amenities of civilization; they longed for social interaction and sought networks of family and friends for emotional support." ¹⁶ In newly formed mining towns, the few women were lonely and despaired of the conditions in which they lived. They attempted to create homes with canvas tents and dirt floors. Supplies were often slow in arriving, if they arrived at all, and they made do with whatever they found. Louise Clappe wrote her sister from California in 1851, "…Everybody ought to go to the mines, just to see how little it takes to make people comfortable in the world." ¹⁷ Out of this turmoil, women created social connections. While operating their boarding houses, laundry services, and stores, and being mothers and wives, women organized. They developed social organizations and helped to found churches, libraries, schools, and other civic institutions. They created communities in the wilderness. They insisted on social functions to help ease their homesickness while they adjusted to new climates, new cultures, and new occupations. "The Alta California periodical commented upon the positive influence of women in bringing order to chaotic new towns: 'Woman to society is like a cement to the building stone. The society here has no such a cement; its elements float to and fro upon the excited, turbulent, hurried life of California immigrants, or rather, we should say, goldhunters' (quoted in Levy 174)." ¹⁸

Perhaps the most neglected aspect of women's contributions in mining towns, and to some the most surprising, is that of women miners. Although a very small number, especially until the latter half of the 1800s, some women worked alongside men in the coal and lead mine operations. ¹⁹ They endured the same vile working conditions as the men in the deep shafts and dangerous quarries with toxic fumes and the constant risk of explosions and cave-ins. Later, a number of women aided their husbands or worked gold and silver claims alone in the West. Just as on the farms, they shouldered the burden of hard labor when necessary to support their families.

Three men and a woman

These examples show women in mining communities in the 19^th century were vital to the operation not only of the mines, but the growth and development of the community and civic function of the town. They contributed in those capacities in addition to the customary role of wife and mother they continued to perform for their families in harsh conditions. In crude log cabins, and without food or supplies, they managed to create homes that provided for the miner's comfort and daily necessities. And they provided services and labor for the many businesses needed to maintain the mining towns. They were essential to their communities, both in founding them and maintaining them.

---

1. William E. Van Vugt, Britain to America, Mid-Nineteenth-Century Immigrants to the United States (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999), 126.

2. Ibid.

3. Ibid., 95.

4.  Anthony F. C. Wallace, St. Clair: A Nineteenth-Century Coal Town's Experience with a Disaster-Prone Industry (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1987), 131.

5. Ibid.

6. Suzanne Hilton, Miners, Merchants and Maids (New York: Twenty-First Century Books, 1995), 69.

7. Ibid., 62.

8. Ibid., 71.

9. Wallace, St. Clair, 166.

10. Ibid., 167.

11. Ibid.

12. Van Vugt, British to America, 90.
13."Here Comes the Bride", Women's Work in the Long 19^th Century,

(http://www.kennesaw.edu/hss/wwork/Settlement/bride_cc.htm)

14. Ibid.

15. Ibid.

16. Philip J. Deloria, Patricia Nelson Limerick, Jack N. Rakove and David Burner, This Land: A History of the United States (New York: Brandywine Press, 2003), 263.

17. Hilton, Miners, 19.

18. "Here Comes the Bride", Women's Work.

19. Van Vugt, Britain to America, 126.


Images courtesy of Library of Congress - http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/hhh.mi0086.photos.088820p/ & http://www.loc.gov/pictures/resource/ppmsc.01705/

A Battered Dove

Lily knelt on the floor, scrubbing muddy tracks from the rough boards with a stiff brush, and counted the different doves who'd shopped during the week. A knock on the window made her drop the brush and fumble in the folds of fabric at her hip. She found the smooth grip of the gun and lifted her gaze.

Jessie’s face peered in the window between cupped hands, looking toward the back of the store.

Lily let out a gust of air and released the small pistol. She pushed herself up, wincing at her  stiff back and aching knees.

She unlocked the door and smiled, but the girl’s face brought a grimace. “Good morning, Jessie.”

The battered dove gave a small smile. “Mornin’, Miss Wright.”

Dark yellows, browns, and a tinge of maroon tainted half of Jessie’s face. The swelling had abated, but puffy skin still distended the left side, and the eyelid sagged without muscle control.

Lily tried not to stare at the drooping eye and opened the door wider. “Come in, come in. I’m glad you came.”

Jessie limped in. Her body bent to one side in a swaying shuffle, like a wilted flower.

“Do you want to come in back and sit? I’ll make some coffee ….”

“No, ma’am. Don’t want to put you out. I just came by to thank you for helpin’ me the other night.”

She waved a hand. “It was nothing. I only put some salve on it. Please, sit down. Really, it’s no bother at all.” She walked toward the back.

Jessie followed after a moment. In the back room, she let out a soft grunt as she eased into the chair at the table.

“How is everything? You look better.” Lily set the kettle on the stove before pulling two tin cups from a shelf over the washbasin. She left them on the table and sat on a second chair she’d found discarded in the alley.

“I’m still kickin’. My side still hurts quite a lot, but I can get around.”

Lily pointed her chin at the place where Jessie held her hand against her ribs. “I expect they may be broken. Did you see a doctor?”

Jessie snorted. “That chiseler stole my stash. I ain’t got no money to pay a doc. Them parlor girls get their doc paid for, but I ain’t no parlor girl.”

“I see. Well, I imagine it will heal too, if you take it easy.”

She shrugged and tucked a strand of drab hair behind her ear. “Ain’t much work layin’ on my back.”

Heat crept into Lily’s cheeks, and she jumped up to check the kettle. “Have you looked around recently? For a parlor, I mean.” She focused on the coffee to hide her discomfort. “They’re opening a new one every other day, it seems. Maybe you could find a spot in one. They’re … safer. From what I hear, at least.”

“They don’t want a beat up girl like me. You think the fellas get it up lookin’ at this?” She swept her hand around her face. “Ain’t had but one job since I got worked over, and he took it from the backside.”

Lily’s eyes flew open, and her hands froze in the middle of pouring the coarse ground beans into the pot. No one had ever spoken of sex so openly or crudely to her. Her mouth worked to form a response, but embarrassment left her speechless. The silence grew heavy as she finished the coffee.

She turned to the table and caught Jessie smoothing a smirk from her face. Lily frowned and lowered her head, annoyed—and a touch hurt. The girl had nerve laughing at her after she’d taken her in and fixed her up, even if it was only a quick bit of salve. Lily poured the coffee and sat, still silent.

Jessie chuckled. “I’m sorry. Just wondered what you’d say. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” She tilted her head and caught Lily’s eye. “You don’t make much sense, you know. Only ladies I’ve ever heard bein’ nice to us girls for no reason are the nuns down mountain at the charity hospital. You ain’t a nun. So I can’t figure ….” She leaned forward to cradle the warm cup in her hands and watched Lily with a question in her eyes.

Lily chewed her lip, unsure how to respond without giving too much away. “I just don’t see any reason you girls should be treated so poorly. I’ve learned you girls are mostly just doing what you have to do to get along. It’s not my place to judge you or anyone else. I’ve … made my share of mistakes, I suppose. It hurt when I was judged for them.” She met Jessie’s gaze, and let one corner of her mouth pull back with mild amusement. “And honestly, it’s not entirely without reason. There are a lot of you, and I need the business. If I can help a little along the way, even better.”

Jessie lifted a brow. “I guess I could see that.” She took a sip of coffee from the side of her mouth, avoiding the scab on her cut lip. “I’d gamble there’s more to it, but I’ll take that.”

Lily averted her eyes and wiped the table. Was she that transparent? She gave Jessie a strained smile and shrugged. “That’s really all there is. I’m just trying to get the store going.”

An uneasy silence fell between them.

Lily took a drink and studied Jessie over the rim of the cup. She wanted to ask what she wondered about all of the doves. “What are your plans? For the future? What do you really want?”

Jessie licked the cracked skin of her lip and gazed at the floor. Her face held no spark of hope or joy. Her voice went flat. “Used to think I could find a fella and have a farm, a family, a place of our own. Don’t guess that’ll happen now. I guess I ain’t got no plan. I expect I’ll just keep on.”

Lily thought she knew what Jessie left unspoken; she didn’t expect to live long enough to need plans.

“Maybe that will still happen,” Lily said, giving Jessie’s hand a tentative squeeze.

Jessie offered a weary smile, but it seemed an automatic response, like a puppeteer pulling on strings. “I better get goin’. Thanks for the coffee.”


-- Excerpt from my manuscript, When Doves Fly.


*Dove, short for soiled dove, was a euphemism for prostitute.

 

Excerpt from When Doves Fly

Today, I thought I'd offer up my first excerpt from the manuscript. When Doves Fly is a Western/Historical Fiction novel that takes place in 1870s Pennsylvania and Colorado and follows a young woman's quest for absolution and independence. It is still in editing, but I hope to get it out soon!

The caskets lay side by side. Charlotte Martin stood in the parlor doorway, a doll dangling from one hand. She had tried to make herself enter, but her feet wouldn’t move. The black crepe over the windows rippled like ghostly shadows. A glimpse of pallid skin peeked from each coffin.

What if they wake? Maggie, their cook, said people often came back to life to claw their way out of their caskets. Charlotte wanted to touch them, to wake them up, but a vague fear stopped her. She remained rooted, cold bare toes on the threshold, staring at the open boxes, waiting for the children to move. If only Mother would come down. Then I could go in.

Charlotte had tried to rouse her mother, but her parents’ door was locked and no one answered. Mother had been sick, too, but the cholera kept her bedridden for just a day. In her delirium, she’d blamed herself for taking the children to the fair.

Mother had devoted the next two days to nursing Peter and Cecilia—Charlotte had felt fine. After they died, she locked her door and Charlotte hadn’t seen her since. Only weak cries for two days after Peter and Cecilia died. Maggie had arranged the wake and the coming funeral, but went home sick—was it only the day before?—after assuring Charlotte that Papa would be home any time. Charlotte waited all night, but Papa hadn’t come.

Something moved in Peter’s coffin. Charlotte’s eyes widened and she squeezed Dolly’s arm. A fly drifted from the casket and landed again. She relaxed and released her breath. And waited.

The back door banged open. Charlotte didn’t move—she couldn’t, her limbs felt like stone.

“Eliza!” Papa’s voice rang in the silence. “Maggie?” Footsteps clattered on the wood floor until he reached the hall rug. “Charlotte! Where’s your mother? Why are the drapes…?”

His hand fell on her shoulder.

She tried to speak but her cracked lips only trembled.

A sick moan came from him, and he pushed past her into the room with the caskets and flies. “No, no, no, no,” he chanted. “Peter…Sissy…not both….” He bent over the bodies and groaned.

Charlotte’s eyes burned. Once a middle child, now an only.

Papa whirled on her. “Where is your mother?” It was more a roar than a question.

Her body shook. Why is he angry with me?

He ran past her and thundered up the stairs. Banging on a door. “Eliza…Eliza!” More heavy footsteps and he jerked Charlotte by the arm. “Is your mother sick? Where is Maggie? Or Cooper?” He bent, eyes wild, and shook her until her teeth chattered. “Charlotte, answer me!”

Sound came, but no words.

Shoving her aside, he raced upstairs, yelling and rattling the door as Charlotte collapsed in the parlor doorway.

“Papa?” She called, with no response. She fell asleep crying.