Normally when someone goes to the buy page for any of my books, it should offer a free sample to read. It didn't. Weirdly it has always automatically done it but it did not. That's always bad news.
It also indicated it had accepted the map that is in the paperback but it did not-- which may be how it screwed up the free sample. As much as we do this, it seems it's never a slam dunk.
Here's the map that should have been there which was only intended to give readers an idea of the region of that time.
Southern Arizona 1880s
Meanwhile, this is the sample that should have been offered and will be later today-- we hope:
Tucson, Arizona Territory-- June
1883
She
leaned against the wood frame door, arms crossed over her chest, watching dust
devils whirling up the street. The faint breeze that had kicked up the spinning
spirals did nothing to cool her skin. The sun blazed down with an intensity
that seemed to suck the life from all living things. She shifted her gaze to
the distant mountains, a hazy purple, their outlines jagged against the intense
blue of the sky. Somewhere up there, they said it was cool. She’d have to take
their word for it as her world allowed for no such escapes.
In
the office behind her, the uneven clicking of Martin Matthew’s typewriter told
her he was struggling with the report for her father. Loud voices carried up
the street from one of the string of saloons that began at the corner of
Congress and Meyer Streets. Apparently, she decided, with a cross between
amusement and disapproval, there were a few activities that weren't affected by
heat.
A woman’s voice rang out with
joy—most likely coming from one of the bawdy establishments north of Congress,
the Tenderloin, which no gentle woman was supposed to know existed. As to why
it was called by such an odd name she could only speculate because she could
never ask anyone apt to know.
Farther
away she heard the steady beat of a blacksmith's hammer, a horse's nicker. A
heavily loaded wagon lumbered past, accompanied by the clip clop of hooves,
muffled curses of the driver, and squeak of the springs. The heat put man and
beast in a foul mood… well, except for those in the Tenderloin.
"Abigail,
I could use help on this," came Martin's whine. She moved farther onto the
boardwalk. Holding her dress away from her skin, she wished for the hundredth
time since April that she could wear the loose cotton blouses and skirts of the
Mexican women. At this time of day, they would be down along the Santa Cruz, their colorful laundry stretched
across bushes to dry while they chattered and enjoyed the shade of big,
overhanging cottonwoods.
Changing
one’s station in life, however, was not an option. She sighed. A woman was born
where she was; and from that time on, important decisions were taken from her
control. She either washed clothing along a river bank or she wore clothing ill
suited to the climate. Little of it mattered what the woman wanted.
Martin’s
complaints penetrated her musings. Why on god’s green earth, not that there was
much of that in this land, was it a threat to his manhood for her to dare to go
outside for a few moments?
She
heard his chair squeak as he rose from it. She waited. “What are you doing out
here?” he protested as he squinted at her against the glare of the sun.
"Nothing, Martin. Absolutely
nothing."
"You
should come inside."
“It’s
not cooler inside.”
“Abigail, ladies do not stand on
boardwalks.”
“How do you know that?”
When he had no answer for her, his
irritation grew and turned his face pinker. It wasn’t as though she should
blame him for what he was. He was doing what was written out for him also. She
wondered if he thought he was going to be able to grow a full beard and
mustache. The scanty effort on his face seemed rather sad. Was he fond of those
starched shirts, tidy ties. Perhaps he was as trapped as she. Did he even think
of such things?
Despite what she knew had to be a
mutual lack of attraction between them, she had begun to believe he was the man
her father hoped she would marry whenever he, instead of hinting, got around to
doing something about it. Of course, she would be expected to approve the
convenient arrangement.
She knew she was not a pretty woman.
Beyond marriageable age, she had no prospects to change that. The fact that she
wanted no prospects was beside the point. She had spent her twenty-five years
obeying her father’s dictates; and with such a opportune marriage, she could
continue to take care of him, merely adding a husband and any children that
might be immaculately conceived.
She was determined that there would
be no marriage-- not to Martin Matthews, nor any demanding, unappreciative male
creature. She didn't know how she would escape the trap that had sprung closed
on her long deceased mother and, so far as she could tell, the spirits of all
women; but she would find a way.
Martin’s
eyes reflected nervousness as he glanced down the street and back at her.
"I must insist you come into the office.”
"No."
"No?"
She
smiled, raising her eyebrows. "No."
He
glared. "I cannot accept that, Abigail."
"I
don’t see what you can do… other than tell on me."
He
opened his mouth like a fish; then shut it. She expected more arguments, but he
swung on his heels and headed into the office, the footsteps not stopping at
the front desk, but heading for her father's inner sanctum. She almost laughed.
He was going to do it. He was going to tell on her.
She
turned her gaze to the street where she noticed for the first time men coming
out of the Pedrales Bar. They were roughly garbed, laughing, their boisterous
voices and crude words carrying on the heavy air.
If
she hadn't known that to go into the office now would make Martin believe he
had won, she might have ducked inside when she saw several of the men mount
their horses and wheel them up the street, a route that would take them past
her.
A tall man, garbed in black, strode
from the cantina, cast a last laughing comment behind him, and gave a quick
running leap to vault into his saddle. The whole movement had been like that of
a big cat. She found her attention held by the grace of the man's seat on a
large black horse that showed its spirit by rearing up, then settling down
under a sure hand on the reins.
In
seconds the man had wheeled his horse and was heading up the street at a fast
canter. Abigail pressed herself against the wall. She could not explain the mix
of emotions-- repulsion and fascination-- in equal parts. She didn’t turn her
gaze away even when she saw his head turn toward her. He wouldn't see her,
wouldn't notice a mousy woman like her even if he had, but she felt a sudden
fear.
A heavy gun belt hung on his hip,
slung low. That gun identified him as clearly as her own plain, gray cotton dress
and tightly bound hair would identify her. He was a gunman; she was a spinster.
Startled,
she saw him wheel his horse to a sudden halt in the street in front of
her. Good Lord. His black shirt was open
almost to his waist and she saw through the opening a bare chest. Good god. She
should look away but she couldn’t tear her eyes from him. He took his hat from
his head, ran a muscular forearm across his forehead as he turned and looked
straight at her. No gentleman would have done such a thing; he would’ve
pretended not to see her. Not that she had any reason to suspect such a man to
be a gentleman.
Their gazes met and then to her
shock, he looked her up and down, giving her a clear view of an angular face.
Beneath his bold stroke of a mustache and heavy beard, she could not tell if he
was smiling. She sensed for one wild moment that he was considering coming
toward her, saying something, but he settled his hat onto his head and kicked
his horse into a gallop, leaving a cloud of dust and hundreds of tiny dust
devils in his wake.
In
moments he was at the head of the other men. Like the pack of wolves they
resembled, they raced, yelping for the outskirts of town, woe unto the human or
beast in their way. She watched until the desert haze swallowed every sign that
they had passed. Only then did she go into the office.
"It's
about time," Martin snapped, his expression disapproving. "Don't you
consider the consequences of your actions? Didn't it occur to you men like
those could kidnap a woman, carry her off into the desert, and she'd never be
seen or heard from again?"
Abigail
laughed with genuine amusement. "I
think they could do better than me if that was their intent.”
He
ignored her logic. “Who would have to save you if you were kidnapped?”
She
realized then that he must have seen the men coming from the bar before she,
and it explained his own quick retreat inside.
She
sighed. “Martin, are you reading dime novels again?"
"Tucson is a dangerous place. There was
another killing last night, and I don't read dime novels.”
She
smiled and walked to his desk, pulled out a side drawer, and revealed his
hidden stash. "Let's see what do we have here? Bat Masterson in Dodge, Sam Bass Races Destiny."
Martin, his face flushed, slammed
the drawer before she could read more. "You
are no lady," he snapped.
"Oh, I
definitely am a lady, Martin," she retorted still smoldering over the
limitations that placed on her life. When she saw his hurt expression, she
regretted having ridiculed him. The poor little man was caught in his own
limited world as much as she was. His books were probably his escape. "I'm
sorry, Martin. I shouldn't have made fun of your choice of reading
material."
"You're
sorry?"
"It
was unfair of me."
"I
shouldn't have demanded you come inside either. I was officious." His tone
told her he had decided to be magnanimous. She wasn’t at all sure that she
didn’t prefer him overbearing. For a moment Abigail considered finding
something else for which to apologize. It was too hot for such games. Better to
leave it that he'd bested her as she turned to her ledgers.
As
she struggled with the numbers she was supposed to be organizing and tallying,
she found her thoughts going to the gunman who'd stopped and for a single
moment had become part of her boring life. She remembered her feeling of fear,
something she didn’t experience often. Despite her denial to Martin, she had
felt something dangerous swirled around that man. She just was not sure what.
Foolishly she wondered what he had
seen when he watched her for those few seconds. Had he seen her as it had
seemed? Had he really considered coming toward her as she had momentarily
sensed?
Ridiculous thinking. She knew what
she was-- a plain woman, one who would be old before her time, would never have
lived. She knew her own lack of beauty all too well. Her face was a pleasing
enough oval if it had been softer of line, but instead she had prominent
cheekbones, a stubborn chin, none of the roundness that was so favored in the
great beauties of the time.
Her eyes were brown, not a clear
blue or unusual violet, and worst of all was her nose. She sighed. Her nose was
not that delicate button that graced her friend Priscilla’s face. Nor did she
possess her friend’s delicate, finely tinted porcelain skin. At least for her
own darker skin, she could only blame herself. Despite wearing a hat when out
horseback riding, it seemed nothing protected her enough to avoid darkened
skin.
If she had one characteristic that
might be considered beautiful, something a reckless gunfighter might even
notice, it would be long, brown hair. She was proud of its thickness, the
auburn highlights in the brown, but its very virtues were also its untidy sins.
The thick unruliness forced her to wear it pulled into a bun where only intense
efforts kept it in a semblance of order.
Abigail
had never cared that she had no physical beauty. After all, what difference did
it make to be comely when a woman didn’t desire a husband? She had never cared
until that gunman had looked at her and she'd wanted, for that one moment, to
know that a man had seen her as beautiful.
She
drummed her fingers on the desk. What was wrong with her? She had always taken
pride in her strength. Although tall for a woman, another mark on the debit
side of the ledger, she could work longer and harder than the Priscillas of the
world. The hours with her mare had given her a strong body, long lean legs,
well-muscled arms. She had a good mind, capable of doing the accounting for her
father's Wells Fargo office, leave at five to go home, manage his household,
and still help in the evening with a church bazaar. She had all the skills
desired in a woman of her station. What did any of them mean?
Interrupting
her personal inventory, she realized Martin was talking to her. "What is
disturbing you so much?" he asked, obviously not for the first time. He
left his desk to hover over hers.
"It's
hot."
"Always
wickedly hot in June." Martin sat
in the chair in front of her desk. "Why don't you go home early?"
She
looked up at him-- surprise, mingled with suspicion. "I have work to
finish."
"Which
will wait for tomorrow morning, Abigail."
She
managed a faint smile. "You're right."
Now
it was his turn to show surprise. He recovered and gave her a grin. "Would
you consider going with me to Carrillo's Gardens tonight? I think the coolness
of the lake might be refreshing. Perhaps the amusements would take your mind
from the heat."
What
was this about? Martin had never asked her to go anywhere. Although she had
guessed her father's intentions regarding him, she'd never been certain as to
Martin's own. One invitation didn't give her that answer, but it did mean she
had best tread carefully.
"Thank
you for the thought," she said with a smile, "but I feel you are
right. The heat is bothering me. I don’t feel up to going anywhere
tonight."
"Did
your father mention I will be there tonight for the repast?"
She
remembered. Not difficult to do since Martin dined with them most evenings. She
gathered the files she’d been working on and placed them in a stack to deal
with in the morning. "I'll see what Serafina has planned."
"Something
special, I hope?"
"I
wouldn't count on that. You know Serafina."
"Perhaps
you might suggest--"
Abigail
shook her head. She would never consider finding fault with whatever Serafina
prepared even if it was frijoles every night. She herself could boil water for
tea and had little interest in doing more. If she offended Serafina, she didn't
know where she'd find such a congenial cook. Besides they were finally overcoming
the language barrier. Between her
smattering of Spanish and Serafina’s slowly growing English vocabulary, they
might someday manage a real conversation.
Martin
shrugged as he gave a grimace. "She does fix tasty enchiladas."
