Patsy and I are true kindred spirits. Our love for antiques, family history, and nearly everything from the past has always been a great bond between us. I remember the first time we met—how instantly we became friends. I also remember the first time our family went out to Wild Horse to visit Lyle and Patsy—remember sitting at her feet as she showed me her greatest antique treasures—the ones she would never sell—not for any price—items that had belonged to Baby Doe Tabor. It was Patsy who first told me the story of Baby Doe and of Leadville—and thus, in a roundabout way, inspired Denver’s character in The Visions of Ransom Lake. We had so much fun together, Patsy and I—and on the trip in 1999, she gifted me one of the most affecting moments of my life—and I suspect she did it without even knowing.
I think we’d been talking about antiques that day—just going over Patsy’s treasures—letting our imaginations and hearts be lost in reminiscing and the past. Patsy said she had something very intriguing she wanted to show me. She explained there was a little grave out in one of the pastures—way out away from any buildings (though in Wild Horse, buildings are rare anyway). She asked me if I wanted to drive out with her—and of course I did. We hopped in her pickup (our family always “hops” into pickups), and she drove us way, way out to an isolated pasture—just her and I. We parked the truck and got out, and she led me to what would become one of the most serene places in my memory. There, out in literally the middle of nowhere, was a small fenced-off plot of ground—maybe 5 feet by 7 feet, at the most. In the center of the fenced area, nearly overgrown with dead foliage, was a little tombstone—Ruth’s tombstone.
The details of that day—of those moments—are few—but they both haunt me and make me happy. As Patsy and I stood there, studying the small grave, she told me about Ruth Paulson—and Ruth Paulson’s story in real life very much mirrors the story of Ruthie States in The Touch of Sage. Ruth’s mother had to go back east to settle some sort of business. She left her children there on the homestead—the older brother was fourteen, I think. Ruth became ill, and the older brother fetched an elderly woman for help—but it was too late. When Ruth’s mother returned, Ruth was already gone—buried. Patsy and I stood before little Ruth’s grave, haunted—in agony with empathy for Ruth’s mother. Naturally, our family history/antique juices kicked in. Pasty told me she’d always wondered what Ruth had looked like, what she’d been buried in, and if anything had been buried with her. As we stood there, we were nearly overwhelmed with the desire to “excavate” her little grave—to let her know someone wanted to know more about her—that she was still remembered. It was haunting then—and it still haunts me. At first I was a little depressed. I thought about the poor little girl all alone out there in that vast lonely pasture. But then—then I began to look around me—stood still in listening to absolutely nothing but the soft breeze through the grass. There were no sounds at all, save that breeze through the grass, and the quiet hum of summer bugs. The sun was bright and warm, and the only intrusion Ruth had to worry about was the occasional cow meandering by—perhaps pausing to graze. It was in those moments that my perception changed a bit. Though I still felt sad for Ruth and her loneliness, I marveled at what a perfect resting place it was. In truth, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful place to lie down and take a long nap. In those moments, I experienced a sense of pure serenity—of peace and quiet the like I had never known before. My brain was free from stress and worry—my body felt light and healthy. The warm summer air—fresh and untainted—filled my lungs, and I fancied I was breathing better than I’d breathed in thirty years.
Moments like these are rare—and, unfortunately, fleeting. In truth, the bulk of the sensation of serenity lasted only that—moments. It wasn’t even minutes—just moments. But they were profound moments. Even now, as I sit here writing, I can tell you that those moments in Ruth’s pasture with Patsy eleven years ago were the last time I remember knowing such true peace and serenity. It was overpowering to my very soul—and still is. If I close my eyes, I can still clasp it to my bosom—pull the sensations and emotions back to mind. I’ve drawn on that experience often—found peace and comfort in remembering it when things are bleak and overwhelming. Although I still worry for Ruth in her lonely isolation, I’m happy for her as well—for I think there could be no better place to be put to a final rest—for restful is what that space truly is.
Little Ruth’s grave was a big part of my inspiration for The Touch of Sage. But there are other things that play into the story, as well. My mom’s maiden name, for instance—States. Patsy Christine States Reed—my mother. It was at a family reunion for the States side of our family that I actually first met Patricia “Patsy” States (Ruth’s grave’s guardian) as well. However, it’s my mom who inspires me most in life—and thereby inspired many aspects of The Touch of Sage.
My mother’s favorite flower is the Colorado columbine. She also favors Indian paintbrush—and I remember how delighted she was each summer when we drove to Colorado—how excited she’d get when we’d see the fiery flash of Indian paintbrush on the high plains or in the pastures as we drove. My mother has a sincere love—a true and deep appreciation for nature. For instance, I love to read her descriptions of the weather. Once you’ve read one of my mom’s descriptions of the weather, you might more easily understand why people used to discuss the weather more often. If they discussed it like my mom does, it must’ve once been one of the most interesting subjects at hand. My mom sees things in nature that I think this busy, stressful world we live in misses most of the time. Pure white diamond-studded snows; crystal clear streams and lakes; crisp, clean, fresh air; lingering twilights, beautiful wildflowers; and the ever quivering, tall, slender, white-trunked quakies (Aspen).—That’s how my mother sees nature—and that’s how Sage sees it.
(Okay—this is totally off topic—but the memory just popped into my head, and it’s so funny I just have to share it! Remember my friend Sandy? The Sandy in the Author’s Note of Weathered Too Young? The “wielding his enormous wife” Sandy from the Author’s Note in Weathered Too Young? Well, my darling Sandy went to Colorado with her husband one year for a business trip. There she bought a postcard for me—a lovely postcard printed from a picture of a hillside covered in purple Colorado columbine. She mailed it off to me, and I received it—delightedly received it, of course. A few weeks later, Sandy called me. “Did you get my postcard?” she asked. “Which one?” I asked in return—for in truth she’d sent me several. “The one from Colorado…the one of the pretty purple concubines!” True story—I’m not kidding!)
My mom’s cornbread stuffing also makes an appearance in this book. Oh, how I loved my mom’s stuffing! As a child, it was my favorite thing about Thanksgiving dinner! (It still is!) Delicious! Delicious and bathed in the wonderful, savory taste of sage! I’m sure the reason I love sage so much is because of my mother’s (and now my, of course) cornbread stuffing! It’s why I included my recipe in the back of this book—it’s a throw-back recipe—a family tradition in our family for who knows how long—a way to help the world find a moment of the past—of serenity through an old recipe. I do grow fresh sage as often as I can—pinch off a leaf or two every few days, bend it, and brush it under my nose in order to enjoy the comforting aroma of the herb. It’s one of my sources of “aromatherapy” I guess—the best kind! And yes—that’s where Sage gets the habit from—she likes the feel of the texture of a sage leaf between her fingers—loves the fragrance it gives. Mmm!
My mother’s mother, Opal Edith Switzler States, used to help her father castrate pigs. Yep—it’s true. This family fact—combined with the lingering presence in my mind of an elderly woman I admired named Rachel—mingled to inspire Mary Anne Farthen’s character.
My grandma was by no means “an old grouch.” However, Rachel lived a life not so unlike Mary’s—and I was afraid of her when I was a child and clueless to the masks often worn by others. Rachel was already an elderly women when I was little—kind of leathery looking—a bit gr
uff and very intimidating. However—as often happens as we grow up—as an adult I matured and was able to see what a true jewel Rachel was—what a true heroine. She knew great loss and hardship in her life—things most of us cannot even fathom—and she wore the evidence of it on her face. Yet, her eyes and her sweet, tender soul were precious. Rachel was the first elderly women I ever looked at and thought, There are so many stories in her…so much life lived. She was young and vibrant once…and her heart and soul are still seventeen. Thus, Mary Anne Farthen is kindred with people I knew—with women I admire and stand in awe of.
Rose Applewhite, on the other hand—now Rose is how I see myself as an elderly women—myself and several of my good friends. Oh, not so much the flirty part of Rose—but the lighthearted, fun part of her. She’s what I aspire to be at sixty-five—wrinkled on the outside and seventeen on the inside! On what do I base this? On the fact that I’m in my forties now—have had friends that are thus far lifelong friends—and, in our hearts, we haven’t aged a day past seventeen! Therefore, it stands to reason we’ll all be more like Rose than we think when we hit our silver-haired years! To me, that is the most wonderful of hopes!
So, there you have it—just a few little tidbits—a few little insights into the workings of my cluttered and ridiculous mind where The Touch of Sage is concerned. At this very moment, there’s a fresh (albeit squished up) sage leaf on my desk, a memory of a little girl’s grave lingering in my heart, and a love for the breeze through pasture grasses in my soul!
The Touch of Sage Trivia Snippets
Snippet #1—Dugger, Tippetts, and Winery were all names of young men our family knew at one time—young men who begged me to be in one of my books. Tippetts even told me he wanted his character to be married to a saloon girl. In real life, Tippetts had gone online and acquired a “Preacher’s License”—thus Reverend Tippetts and his one-time saloon girl wife Scarlett were conceived.
Snippet #2—The Touch of Sage took me longer to complete than any other book I’ve ever written—because I lost part of it the first time! When we moved from Washington to Colorado in 2005, my computer crashed—irrevocably crashed. My entire manuscript for The Windswept Flame as well as seven chapters of The Touch of Sage were lost—unable to be recovered. Therefore, not only did I learn the importance of the words “back up” and “flash drive,” I had to start from Chapter Two and go forward without any of my original manuscript or notes! It was nightmare, and I was so thrown and discouraged that it took me two more years to finish the book.
Snippet #3—In 1989 I was expecting our second child. Way back in the old days, the gender of one’s baby was still in question many times up until the moment of delivery. This was the case with our son, Mitchel. However, the story of his name is fun to know—if you’ve enjoyed the hero in this book. My husband is from New Orleans, and we were and are always looking for ways to keep that family history in mind. Thus, as we sat discussing names for our new baby, we thought we were being quite clever when we came up with the name “Rebel Lee.” (Ahhh—the innocence of youth!) We loved the name! Lee we derived from an obvious source—that being General Robert E. Lee—the great Confederate general who was (very thankfully) defeated during the Civil War. Rebel was derived from the famous Civil War era “Rebel Yell” (which no one actually knows the sound of anymore), seemed a great fit for Lee, and factored in the detail that my Southern Unionist husband is from New Orleans. Oh, we thought we were so clever—loved the name—for about one day. Then we thought, What if we do have a son, name him Rebel, and he decides to live up to his name? Soon thereafter, we pulled our brains out of the helium factory, and when our son was born, we named him Mitchel Lee. And there you have a fun little spin on the hero’s name in The Touch of Sage—Rebel Lee Mitchell.
Snippet #4—You know the whole “cobbler scene”—when Reb strips off his shirt and hands it to Sage to use to take the cobblers out of the oven? Yep—based on a true incident in my life—but that’s all I can say!
Snippet#5—My very loving and grateful thanks, to my cherished friends, Nate and Andrea Childs—for being such a perfectly gorgeous, deliciously romantic model couple for the cover of my favorite edition (finally) of this book! I love you guys soooooo much!
~Marcia Lynn McClure
To my husband, Kevin…
My perfect dream and own little “Johnny Reb!”
And…
With endless gratitude, devotion, and adoration to…
Mom, Dixie, Babs, Sher-Bear, Kay-Ron (a.k.a. El Rabine), and Deb the Deb-Debster!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcia Lynn McClure’s intoxicating succession of novels, novellas, and e-books—including Shackles of Honor, The Visions of Ransom Lake, The McCall Trilogy, and The Bewitching of Amoretta Ipswich—has established her as one of the most favored and engaging authors of true romance. Her unprecedented forte in weaving captivating stories of western, medieval, regency, and contemporary amour void of brusque intimacy has earned her the title “The Queen of Kissing.”
Marcia, who was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, has spent her life intrigued with people, history, love, and romance. A wife, mother, grandmother, family historian, poet, and author, Marcia Lynn McClure spins her tales of splendor for the sake of offering respite through the beauty, mirth, and delight of a worthwhile and wonderful story.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine
A Better Reason to Fall in Love
The Bewitching of Amoretta Ipswich
Born for Thorton’s Sake
The Chimney Sweep Charm
A Crimson Frost
Daydreams
Desert Fire
Divine Deception
Dusty Britches
The Fragrance of her Name
The Haunting of Autumn Lake
The Heavenly Surrender
The Highwayman of Tanglewood
Kiss in the Dark
Kissing Cousins
The Light of the Lovers’ Moon
Love Me
The McCall Trilogy
Midnight Masquerade
An Old-Fashioned Romance
The Pirate Ruse
The Prairie Prince
The Rogue Knight
Romantic Vignettes-The Anthology of Premiere Novellas
Saphyre Snow
Shackles of Honor
Sudden Storms
Sweet Cherry Ray
Take a Walk With Me
The Tide of the Mermaid Tears
The Time of Aspen Falls
To Echo the Past
The Touch of Sage
The Trove of the Passion Room
Untethered
The Visions of Ransom Lake
Weathered Too Young
The Whispered Kiss
The Windswept Flame
And now, enjoy the first chapter of
Sudden Storms
by Marcia Lynn McClure.
“I’ma comin’. I’ma comin’. Hold your horses,” Jolee Gray called. From where she stood at the kitchen window, she couldn’t see who was knocking at the front door. Drying her hands on her apron and tucking a loose strand of tawny hair behind her ear, she crossed the parlor to answer it.
“Yes?” she said, as she opened the door and found a young man standing before her. With sudden curiosity, Jolee’s fair eyebrows rose above her lovely sky-blue eyes as she studied the boy. He was dreadfully thin, and it was obvious he was uneasy. His oversized hat sat low on his brow, making it nearly impossible for her to see his eyes.
“Hello, ma’am,” the boy greeted. Jolee knew at once he must indeed be in his early adolescent years, for his voice was still unaffected by the deepened intonation of a matured man.
“Yes?” Jolee repeated. She smiled at the boy as he nervously twisted the hem of his shirt.
“Um…beggin’ your pardon, ma’am…my name’s Tommy Williams, and I was wonderin’ if ya might have some chores needin’ doin’…somethin’ that might earn
me a meal or two and a place in your barn for a couple of nights,” the boy blurted in an uncertain voice entirely lacking in masculinity.
Jolee studied the boy for a moment. “You sure you’re up to it, boy? Ya look a might…” she began.
“Oh, yes, ma’am! I’m a might small…I know. But, I can work like any old horse ya ever seen!” the boy reassured her, nodding adamantly.
Suspicion began to creep to the front of Jolee’s mind, and she smiled inwardly as well as out. This might be a fun little hand to play out, she thought. She’d go along.
The Touch of Sage Page 26
