Louisa Rawlings (75 page)

Marcy was born in the mountains, attached to the High Peaks, and yet she yearns to leave and see the world. Drew, Willough’s artist brother, has rejected his father’s business and thrown himself into painting. Together they travel the world, but is love enough to see them through the hard times?

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Forever Wild:

The streak of lightning knifed out of the sky and slashed at a solitary hemlock on the far shore. Marcy sucked in her breath sharply, watching in horrified fascination as the tree splintered and crumbled, a puff of blue smoke rising from the charred spot where the lightning had hit. She lifted a hand to cover the involuntary cry that had sprung to her lips, and saw that her fingers were shaking.

“Tarnation, Marcy Tompkins,” she whispered. “What ails you?” She’d seen a hundred storms and laughed in the face of thunder and lightning. She took a deep breath, stilling her thudding heart, then giggled aloud.

Look at you, miss, she thought. Scared and shaking like an old woman because of a bit of lightning. She looked up at the mountains that ringed the lake; the pines of Owls Head were beginning to sigh in the wind.

Why should I be afraid? she thought. This is mine. The mountains. The wilderness. It’s always been mine.

And the lake. Especially the lake. There were a thousand of them in the Adirondack Wilderness, but only one Long Lake. Her lake. Part of the chain that stretched for more than a hundred miles to the border of Canada. She’d paddled its length countless times, her boat gliding smoothly on the current. She knew it as a lover would—its every mood, each bend and curve, its rages when the wind whipped across it, as now it did, its friendly silences. It was in her blood, this aching love of the lake, of the wilderness.

She smiled, remembering. Her father had felt it, too, that long-ago day, standing on the veranda of their small cabin that looked out upon the ten-mile length of Long Lake. Just come home from the war, he was. And still wearing the sash of his New York regiment, with a bit of black crape pinned on out of respect for poor Mr. Lincoln.

He’d kissed her mother, then walked silently out to the veranda, while Marcy tagged behind, wishing he’d notice what a big girl she’d become since he’d marched off to fight for the Union. He’d gazed out on the lake, the western shore already in shadow, the tops of the bordering pines still on fire with the last rays of the sun. A golden eagle had swooped low, then wheeled and turned, heading toward Round Island. Her father had stood there, the tears washing his weather-beaten cheeks. Then he’d gulped, cleared his throat, and harrumphed loudly.

“Marcy,” he’d said, “you reckon Pickwacket Pond is fished out yet?”

“I love you, Daddy,” she’d whispered, and clasped the hand he’d held out to her.

So long ago. Marcy sighed, then ducked under a tree as the first raindrops began to fall. She’d never make the cabin now. Might as well watch the storm a little longer, then head for Uncle Jack’s barn during a lull.

Yes. It’s in my blood, she thought. This region. Just as it had been in her father’s. Then how to explain her sudden panic? The heart-tearing urge to run as far from the mountains as she could get? She’d come down to this sheltered cove, as she so often did, to watch the storm, to hear the thunder building far away across the lake, rolling through the valleys and echoing against the side of Owls Head. It never failed to thrill her. The air so still, oppressive almost. The black clouds gathering silently. The lake like glass. Then the first messenger of the storm: a gust of wind, bending the tops of the trees, working its way down the lake in serrated ranks like a ghostly army, ravaging the smooth surface.

Then the lightning had struck the hemlock tree, splintering it, and Marcy had shuddered.

“Nature is good,” her father always said. “Mother Nature. She looks after her children.”

“What else do we need?” her mother would ask, mending her worn dress one more time. “We have each other. We have this beautiful country. Nature is good to us.”

“No,” said Marcy softly, her heart twisting with pain. “No!” she cried. She raised tear-filled eyes to the shattered hemlock across the lake. The tree is dead, she thought. Why? How can Nature be good? What did the tree ever do, except to give comfort and shelter? And now it’s dead.

Almost against her will, she turned to look at the ruins on the edge of the shore. And her parents were dead, buried in the wreckage of their cabin.

Explain that, Mother Nature, she thought in bewilderment. Why did the earth shake so hard that the chimney toppled? They didn’t deserve that. They trusted in you.

She shivered involuntarily. The earthquake had happened seven months ago. And since then, sleeping in her bed in Uncle Jack’s cabin, she’d never felt completely safe. Not ever again.

She sighed and wiped at her cheeks. Maybe she should get away. Leave the North Woods. It wasn’t that she was actually afraid, of course. She still loved her mountains and her lake. But maybe it was time to see a little more of the world. She’d been to Albany only once, and Saratoga three times. And though she hadn’t much patience for the city slickers who’d crowded into North Creek since Dr. Durant had extended the railroad up from Saratoga Springs in ’71, she had to admit that the women’s gowns and parasols were the prettiest things she’d ever seen. She’d look nice in pretty dresses like that. She was a woman now. Eighteen last month. And even if her mirror hadn’t told her so, she knew she was good-looking. Every time she went over to Mr. Sabattis’s Boardinghouse to help out in the kitchen or clean the rooms for a few extra dollars, the fancy Dans, up for a few weeks of fishing and hunting and “roughing it,” would eye her like hungry kids at a strawberry festival.

Yes. She was good-looking. Not as tall as she would have liked, and a little rounder and stronger and healthier-looking than those frail, pale creatures who came up from New York City for rustic pleasures and pure air and didn’t even have the sense to leave their corsets behind. But her hair was a rich mahogany with reddish glints, and her eyes were the blue-green of the rocks that shimmered in the bed of the Opalescent River. She’d look pretty in a fancy dress.

But first she had to get away from the North Woods.

And do what? she thought. She could take care of herself in the woods, but in the city…what was she fit for? She couldn’t hunt and fish in the city. She could clean other people’s houses, of course. But for that, she might as well stay in Long Lake and work in the boardinghouse.

Or she could get married.

She laughed aloud at the sudden thought. Tarnation! Why not? The summer was just beginning. The tourists and sportsmen would be invading the mountains, as they had every year since Mr. Murray had published his book on his adventures in the Wilderness. “Murray’s Fools” they’d called them in the summer of 1870, three years ago. That flock of greenhorns who’d come swarming into the mountains for a summer of disaster and cold and crowding. But the men were young and knew the ways of the world. And if she were ever to leave, they would be her ticket. Her friend Zeb Cary, the blacksmith’s son, had somehow stopped being a marriageable prospect ages ago, though she still let him kiss her and take some liberties.

It might be fun—to live in a city, to marry one of those nice young men, to wear pretty dresses.

To feel safe again.

Not that she was afraid of the mountains that had taken her parents from her. No. She shook the unwelcome thoughts from her brain. It was only natural to want to see something of the world. To have all the things she’d only dreamed of. She’d find a man to marry her and take her away.

The key to winning her hand is simple—he just needs to figure out what women want.

Daughter of Gold

© 2013 Janeen O’Kerry

Niamh travels to the late summer festival known as the Lughnasa Fair, a great gathering of the kingdoms. There she meets Bryan, a member of the Fianna, a group of the king’s finest fighting men. He wishes her to be his “Lughnasa Sister”—his mate for the fourteen days of the Fair—but Niamh wants an offer of marriage. And the offer must come from a man who can answer her riddle: What three things does a woman want most from a man?

Yet Bryan has little time to think on Niamh’s riddle, for the Fair is plagued by a supernatural creature: the puca—a malevolent, destructive spirit in the shape of a black horse with fiery red eyes. Putting aside other matters, Bryan and Niamh must work to solve the mystery of the puca and save the people of the Fair—and their future—together.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Daughter of Gold:

Back down the road, the horses Bryan held threw their heads up and looked into the darkness in the direction Leary had gone. And then Bryan heard the sound of fast galloping hoofbeats and his brother’s terrified shouting.

“Stop! Stop! Let me go—let me off!
Stop
!”

And down the road, all but invisible in the cloud-covered night, charged a powerful black pony with Leary clinging to its back. Yet Bryan could see in an instant that this was no natural animal. It wore an old rope halter with a trailing lead, but its eyes blazed a furious orange. By their light Bryan could see the creature’s bared teeth and flattened ears.

“Leary! What are you doing? Get off of that beast. Get away from it!”

“I
can’t!”

And to Bryan’s horror, the malevolent black pony slid to a stop right in front of him and the two horses he held.

Bryan held tight to the reins, certain the horses would be terrified of such a monstrous beast. His own heart beat wildly and he wanted nothing more than to turn and run away, where he might at least have a chance to draw his sword.

But to his amazement, the two horses he held did not move at all. And the black pony ignored him entirely. Instead, it reached out its heavy head to touch noses with Anfa, who calmly returned the gesture. All the while Leary clung desperately to its mane, his face white with terror.

“Leary, get down. Get down!” Bryan whispered.

“I can’t.” Leary’s voice shook with fear. “I cannot move!” And Bryan could see that his brother’s fingers were locked to the creature’s neck, entangled in its wild thick mane, and that his trembling legs were clamped tight to the shaggy sides as though lashed there with rope.

Then Leary cried out as the beast whirled around and bolted down the road again, snapping its terrified rider’s head back and leaving Bryan and the horses standing alone in the grass. Anfa nickered softly, and both he and Luath peered into the darkness where the strange creature had disappeared.

Bryan dropped Anfa’s reins and in one swift move vaulted onto Luath’s back. “Leary!” he shouted, and sent the stallion racing down the road. “Leary! I’m coming! Keep trying to get away from it!”

Far ahead of him in the darkness, Bryan could see the glowing yellow eyes of the beast as it continued to gallop and could hear the pounding of its heavy hooves on the road. He urged Luath on faster, determined to catch up, but it seemed the creature would allow him to close in and then draw away whenever it pleased. It raced at speeds no natural horse could ever have attained.

Bryan could do nothing but grit his teeth and keep following, urging Luath on and straining to keep those hideous yellow eyes in sight. Leary had been right when he’d said that Bryan could never turn down a challenge—he hated to lose at anything, and was even more determined to win this particular race as his brother’s terrified cries floated back to him on the night wind.

Suddenly the animal swung off the road and headed straight for the river. The water was dark and glistening by the faint light of the cloud-veiled stars. Bryan heard Leary cry out again as his wild mount took him for a gallop right along the riverbank, right down the treacherous path where the water met the earth and where high grass hid the holes and mud and rocks that might well cripple any racing horse and send its rider flying headlong into the shallow, rock-strewn riverbed.

Leary’s terrified screams filled the night.

At last the treacherous pony swerved away from the riverbank and raced down the road again with Bryan and Luath still giving chase. It tore down the path for a time—for what seemed to Bryan to be forever—until it turned toward the river again, dashed between the trees separating the water from the road, and ran straight toward a campsite—a campsite where a small fire burned and where a family and their wagons and cattle had settled for the night.

As it galloped in a wide circle around the small encampment, the black pony threw up its head and neighed—though it sounded like deep raucous laughter instead of the natural call of a horse. Leary added his own terrified cries to the awful sound.

The little group of people around the fire instantly leaped to their feet and stood huddled together near the flames. A glance showed Bryan that they were an older man, an older woman, a couple of younger men and a younger girl—and then, there, walking out toward the monstrous black pony that had invaded their camp, was a tall young woman with flowing hair and a simple gown and the glint of a bright gold comb just above her forehead.

The beast went on tearing around the clearing in a wide circle, the light from its yellow eyes blending with the glare of the fire. Bryan pulled Luath to a stop near the big wooden wagon. “Stay away from it!” he cried to the young woman. “It is no natural horse! It is a monster! Stay away!”