by Marsha Ward
What others are saying about
The Man from Shenandoah
“I found The Man from Shenandoah immediately mesmerizing.”
~Jennifer Hill-Russell, Roundtable Reviews
“Whatever happened to good, old fashioned westerns? If you've ever gazed over the shelves wondering this, then Ms. Ward definitely has a book for you. It has all the elements. Most of the characters . . . are straightforward, hard working people who don't have time for nonsense. The setting is very well done, capturing the flavor of pioneering. This book is a pleasant journey indeed. ”
~Cindy Lynn, Midwest Book Review
“This is a book to prize, and not only for its gritty realism, exciting action, and compelling characters. The story further engages us by examining the ties that hold family and community together. Not many Westerns do that. Heartily recommended!”
~C.K. Crigger, Western Writers' Newsletter
“The Man From Shenandoah is a book for the whole family to share. It offers action, romance and a realistic premise. Marsha Ward is a true storyteller who has created characters that demand and hold the reader's interest. Her clear and vivid writing sweeps us along with her characters on their adventures. The reader quickly learns to care about Carl, his family and the girl he loves. The Man From Shenandoah is true to its characters and to the historical story of families moving to the American west to find a better life. This story is a pleasure to read.”
~A. H. Holt, Western Fiction Review
“The Man From Shenandoah is a combination romance/great western saga as we see families make their way across the unforgiving land to a new territory, where they hope to start all over again. Enough action, horses and gun play to keep the menfolk riveted, with enough kissin' and spoonin' to satisfy the women, this novel is a glimpse into America's past and the people who lived in it.”
~Tristi Pinkston, Tristi's Takes Blog
“Reading Marsha Ward's The Man From Shenandoah is like experiencing time travel. I can be curled up comfortably on my couch in the 21st century, and find myself crying for the losses, chuckling at jokes, cheering the triumphs, and booing the bad guys from the 19th century.”
~Rachel Andersen, Author of A Nurse's World
“Kudos to Marsha Ward. This western has everything and the action is non-stop. I highly recommend this excellent novel.”
~Teri Rodeman, LDS Forever Friends Book Nook Review
“It's tight and holds the interest and—as always—[Marsha Ward's] writing is clear, descriptive and gripping...vivid to the point of breathtaking.... [Her] characterization is so good. A more than terrific read!”
~Best-selling LDS Author Kerry Blair
“This is one of the best western novels I have ever read. It is filled with exciting adventures and characters that make the book come alive.”
~Ron, a reader in Arizona
“Marsha, congratulations on a very well written book. I thoroughly enjoyed the characters and the story line. Hope there is a sequel.”
~Sharon, a reader in Illinois
“The Man from Shenandoah is an excellent read. Had a hard time putting it down. The characters are well developed and the description of the locations is vivid. I have read many Westerns and this book is ranked with the best. Highly recommended.”
~Duane, a reader in Arizona
“Hi Marsha. I stayed up 'til midnight last night finishing your book. I was going to just read for an hour or so but I got into it and couldn't put it down. Great book! Great ending. I really, really enjoyed it. [My husband] was going to take it out of town with him because he got into it. But I wouldn't let him. :) I highly recommend it.”
~Mary, a reader in Arizona
“This book follows the great tradition of Louis L'Amour. Marsha Ward's characters are believable and could very well have existed in the Old West. Carl Owen and his family reflect the gritty determination to stand up for what's right no matter the cost.”
~Darrin, a reader in Arizona
“Hello Marsha. I finished The Man from Shenandoah at half-past midnight because I couldn’t put it down (loved the cover). This was a great story; the gripping action, the believable characters, and the historical research. I loved that it was as much a romance as it was a family western.
“You skillfully took me into the past—the Owens had me there with the dust and the snowstorms and western towns and prairie fire. Especially beneficial was the story's ability to inspire me to be a better [person]. I don't want to be so much like that shallow Ida (gulp); I best be gettin' more like Miss Ellen! Thank you for the fast-paced adventure!”
~Lorna, a reader in Utah
“Marsha, Dennis and I thoroughly enjoyed reading your book. We read about half of it on the way up to Utah. While we were there, we found ourselves thinking of Carl and Ida and Ellen and Rod and Julia etc. etc. etc. as if they were real people. We could not wait to get back to reading. On the way home, we took turns reading. I have never been able to read that much in a car. But, I found myself reading for one hour, two hours, three hours, before I took my turn driving and let Dennis read. What great humor! We loved the ending. Your way of describing the feelings and emotions of the characters of your story made them come alive to us. What great talent! Several times Dennis and I commented on your gift to write. Thank you for sharing this with us. We can't wait to read your next book.”
~Susan and Dennis, readers in Arizona
“My husband told me a woman couldn't write Western novels. Then I convinced him to read The Man from Shenandoah. When he was finished, he said, ‘I was wrong. When is her next book coming out? ’”
~Stephanie, a reader in Arizona
The Man from Shenandoah
Marsha Ward
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2009 Marsha Ward
http://marshaward.com
Cover Photo © Corbis
Cover Design by Rex Sowards
All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced in print or electronically, other than brief excerpts for the purpose of reviews, without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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This book is available in print at BN.com, Amazon.com, and other online retailers.
Dedication
To my late husband, Rob, whose unfailing support and love allowed me to explore my talents, and to rise toward my eternal potential.
Acknowledgments
Among the dozens of people whose contributions made this book possible, I must publicly thank three: Carol Crigger, Kerry Blair, and Becky Rohner. Your inestimable suggestions, love, and cheerleading helped me bring this project to fruition.
Introduction
At the close of the Civil War, several things occurred to turn the guts of the boys in gray. A few outfits, not hearing of the end to hostilities, fought on past April 9, 1865. Other units, hoping against reality that the Cause was not lost, turned further south in join with f
orces in the Carolinas. One such unit was the irregular cavalry outfit, Mosby’s Rangers.
When they finally disbanded, and received individual “paroles” as prisoners of war, the shabby boys in butternut ceased to be soldiers, and were admonished not to wear uniforms of the Confederate States of America. An official determination was reached that with the embossed buttons removed, the clothes they wore were no longer uniforms.
This is the story of one young veteran’s introduction to that rule, and his life after Appomattox.
Parole signed by Robert E. Lee at the close of the Civil War:
“We, the undersigned prisoners of war belonging to the Army of Northern Virginia, having been this day surrendered by General Robert E. Lee, C.S. Army, commanding said army, to Lieutenant General U. S. Grant, commanding Armies of the Unites States, do hereby give our solemn parole of honor that we will not hereafter serve in the armies of the Confederate States, or in any military capacity whatever, against the United States of America, or render aid to the enemies of the latter, until properly exchanged, in such manner as shall be mutually approved by the respective authorities…. The within named officers will not be disturbed by the United States authorities so long as they observe their parole and the laws in force where they may reside.”
Chapter 1
The gaunt-featured young man with the lanky build choked down the last of his moldy bread, then got to his feet and climbed atop the stone wall against which he’d been sitting. Carl Owen looked as far as he could see down the Valley Pike, about 200 yards, but no one was in sight. Turning to look at the burned-out field the wall enclosed, he surveyed the gray-toned devastation made muddy by today’s intermittent rain.
Rage rising in him, thundering in his ears as his heartbeat quickened in frustration and hate, he shook his fist at the sky.
“Phil Sheridan, may God spit in your eye for the ruin you brought to this valley. Rot in hell, Sheridan!”
“Get him!” he heard, just before he was tackled from behind, tumbling him off the wall and into the mud. Carl came up sputtering muck. As he wiped gluey sludge from his eyes, someone kicked him. He was hauled to his feet—arms brutally twisted behind his back—and dragged over the wall to where a huge, red-faced sergeant in a faded blue uniform stood waiting for him.
“Yankees,” Carl groaned, berating himself for letting his guard down enough to miss their approach. Panic coursed through his belly. He tried to tear free, but two soldiers gripped his arms, and he finally quit struggling.
The sergeant stood with his legs spread apart, looking Carl up and down. “Johnny Reb, you’re on the loose. We have a stout prisoner of war camp for you up in Washington City.” He bent forward, laughing in Carl’s face, who involuntarily wrinkled his nose and squinted shut his eyes at the overpowering odor of liquor fumes. The man frowned, drew a knife from a sheath on his belt, and tested it on his thumb.
“You look at me, Johnny Reb,” he snarled. “Look at me when I speak to you!”
Carl opened his eyes and stared into the Yankee’s mean eyes. “I have parole papers,” he said, raising his muddy, stubbled chin in defiance.
“You’re violating your parole, wearing the uniform of the Confederate Army,” the Yankee said, and put his blade against Carl’s throat. The young man sucked in a breath, then held it, careful not to move.
Just then, a burly soldier came up behind the sergeant. “Sarge, you told us we were going to find some Southern belles to entertain us,” he complained. “Let’s dump him in the woods.”
“Keep your nose out of official business. I’ll open him up a bit and teach him how to act around his betters.”
From the north, a rider came pounding up the road, spurring his horse, then sawing on the reins to bring it to a halt. He alighted and ran to the sergeant.
“The major’s coming down the road. You’d better not let him catch you cutting another Reb.”
The sergeant cursed and turned back to Carl, grabbing the front of his coat.
“You got no right to wear a uniform, you dirty Rebel pup.” He took a fresh grip on his knife and addressed the soldiers restraining Carl. “Hold him tight while I teach him a lesson.”
Carl felt the tight prickle of fear racing up his spine as the soldiers freshened their hold on his arms. The sergeant looked around at the road, cursed again, turned to Carl, and cut the embossed buttons from his coat. He jerked the coat open, grinning evilly, and cut the buttons from his shirt, as well.
“Now you’re not a soldier.” The man cackled as he pocketed the buttons and sheathed his knife. “Let him loose,” he ordered, motioning to the soldiers. As they dropped his arms, he looked Carl up and down once more, his expression changing to hatred. The sergeant half turned away, then spun back, and with a massive fist knocked Carl flat. “Mount up,” the sergeant barked, and strode toward his horse, weaving a bit.
Lying in the mud, propped on one elbow, Carl wiped blood from his jaw, tasting salt as he tongued his molars to see if they were still tight. He watched the patrol leave, hate burning his belly. He turned over onto his knees and got to his feet, wincing at the pain, then whistled for his horse. Looking around for his hat, he found it on the wall where it had landed when he was attacked. He brushed at the soft, shapeless felt, removing a splash of mud, then he jammed it onto his head.
Sherando came trotting out of the trees, gray coat glistening in the misty rain that had once again begun to fall. The horse jumped the fence to reach Carl and nickered softly. Carl checked to see that the Yankee rifle was secure in the scabbard. “Sure glad them Billy Blues was so drunk they didn’t find you, boy,” he whispered through raw lips.
He swung into the saddle and straightened his back, swiped at his face with both hands to remove as much mud as he could, then ran his fingers through the blond hair at the nape of his neck, tugging loose both tangles and mud. He hoped someone at home had a comb, for he had lost his personal gear in a wild, last-ditch ride for freedom with Colonel John Mosby. Carl’s patrol had ridden into a Yankee camp to surrender after the war’s end. Union officers gave the Confederate cavalrymen parole papers and turned them free instead of holding them as prisoners of war. Carl had stolen the rifle as he left camp, but hadn’t had a chance to replace other gear.
The young man turned his horse onto the Valley Pike, laughing as joy surged through him. “Benjamin will have a comb. It’ll be fine to see him again.” Carl kneed Sherando to a trot, and launched into a tune he’d heard somewhere. “Oh Shenandoah, I’m comin’ to ya. I’m here, you rolling river.”
Carl looked toward the shallow river flowing beside the road and grinned at the cleverness of his new words to an old song. “Hold up that head, horse. We’ll show the folks that a passel of Yankees can’t lick a Virginia boy. We’re goin’ home!”
~~~
“Ma!” Albert ran in yelling from the trees at the corner of the yard. “Somebody’s riding in, mighty confident like,” he panted.
Julia Owen looked up from the corn she was grinding and pushed back a loose lock of dark hair.
“Confident, you say? Does he look like a Yankee?”
Albert hung his head. “I mostly just saw him a-coming before I ran in, Ma. But he’s riding real straight and sure of himself.”
“Get your pa,” she said, grabbing the Sharps rifle from the corner. “There won’t be no Yankees set foot in this house.”
Julia walked through the doorway with the Sharps in firing position and watched as a horseman neared the end of the lane from the pike. Albert spoke the truth, she thought. That man rides bold.
“Hold up right there,” her voice rang out. “Put them hands where I can see ‘em, and get down off that horse.”
The mud-covered young man in the gray coat laughed. “You always did look fine with fire in your eye, Ma.”
“Carl?” She took a step, lowering the rifle barrel toward the ground. “Carl! Is it really you? Lawsy, boy, we almost gave up on ever seeing you again.” She swiped at her eyes with one
hand. “Get off that horse and hug your ma.” Her son dropped gingerly to the muddy ground and approached with long strides.
