Weathered Too Young

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

“Yep,” Slater said.

  The marshal looked to Slater, smiled, and offered a hand.

  “Are you Marshal Evans?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “I’m mighty honored to meet you,” the man said. “Legends ain’t easy to come by.”

  “Thank you,” Slater said. The other marshals mumbled their admiration as well, shaking Slater’s hand before going to inspect the dead outlaw. Yet Slater never let go of Lark, keeping one arm at her waist, even for the blood from the wound at his arm.

  “Johnny!” Katherine exclaimed as Johnny burst into the room then.

  Lark wept as she watched Johnny embrace his mother, his sister, and his brother.

  “I oughta skin you alive for runnin’ off like that!” Katherine scolded even as she kissed her boy over and over again.

  “Looks like the world is finally rid of Samson Kane,” the lead marshal said, smiling at Slater. “The boy says you shot his partner too?”

  Slater nodded. “I’ll point ya to him…but I got me a couple of cowboys here that need some doctorin’. I’ll see to my friends, or the boy can take one of you out to collect Chet Leigh.”

  The marshal glanced to Ralston and then Eldon.

  “We’ll help ya haul these boys to town,” the man said.

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Tom chuckled, shaking his head as he studied the dead outlaw. “Ol’ Matilda would have a fit if she seen the mess you made in here today, Slater,” he said.

  Slater smiled and nodded. “I don’t doubt it. She’s probably rollin’ in her grave right this minute.”

  Lark watched as the marshals dragged Samson Kane’s body out of the house—as they carried Ralston outside—as Katherine wrapped Eldon’s arm with her apron.

  Slater reached up, ripping the sleeve from his shirt and using it to roughly bind his own wound. Johnny sat on the floor, hugging Lizzy and Charlie.

  Lark was astonished by the resilience of youth—by how quickly terror could be squelched when safety had returned. Once the bodies of Samson Kane and Grady were moved, once Eldon and Ralston were bandaged and loaded in the wagon to head for town, Charlie and Lizzy and even Johnny lingered in sitting at the table with their mother. They still trembled now and again—still needed Katherine’s reassuring touch—yet their eyes were bright once more. It seemed that the fear that had hung heavy over them for the past few days had vanished. Slater had vanquished it by killing Samson Kane. Brutal as the morning had been, the sun was bright, and fear was gone.

  Lark glanced from where Katherine and the children sat at the table to where Slater and Tom stood talking to the posse of marshals. She smiled when she saw that Slater was staring at her—his eyes smoldering with admiration and desire.

  “You coulda got yerself killed, provokin’ Samson Kane like that,” he told her. Lark smiled as she saw the residual fear in his eyes—the true and boundless love there. “You knew I’d come for you. I was in the other room and heard you provokin’ Kane. Why did you take such a risk when ya knew I’d come for ya?”

  Lark reached up and placed a hand to his cheek. He was so handsome. Oh, how she loved him! How thoroughly, wholly, and desperately she loved him!

  “Because I did know you’d come for me…and that he’d try to kill you when you did,” she told him.

  A deep moan sounded in Slater’s throat as he pulled Lark into his arms and kissed her. Lark heard the understanding chuckles of Tom and the posse of United States marshals that were looking on, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t shy or embarrassed. In fact, she continued to return Slater’s delicious, impassioned kiss—returned it with full as much driven desire and vigor as Slater used in administering it.

  It wasn’t until Lizzy scolded, “Shame on you, Uncle Slater!” that Lark smiled as Slater chuckled and pulled his mouth from hers.

  “Let’s get these cowboys patched up and see to poor Grady,” he said. He grimaced as he brushed Lark’s cheek with the back of his hand. “That boy gave his life for all of us.” He looked to Tom. “I think he deserves a place in the family cemetery…next to Matilda.”

  “Yes, he does,” Tom said. “Yes, he does.”

  “In the meantime,” Slater began.

  Lark’s body erupted with goose bumps as he put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Are you gonna marry me today so I can keep you in my bed tonight?”

  Lark felt the blush rise to her cheeks—felt a mad rush of delight and desire fill her bosom.

  “Uncle Slater!” Lizzy scolded again. “What’re you sayin’ to make Miss Lark blush so? She’s as red as a tomata!”

  Slater chuckled and looked to Lizzy.

  “I’m just askin’ her if she’ll marry me today so that I can keep her in my—” he began.

  Lark’s hand over his mouth silenced him, however, and he chuckled.

  “Oh!” Lizzy squealed, clapping her hands together. “Are you gonna marry him, Miss Lark? Oh, please do! I know it’s been an awful mornin’—I’m still shakin’—but, oh, do please marry him.”

  Lark blushed, entirely aware of the five United States marshals looking on, of Eldon Pickering, of Tom and Katherine and the children.

  “Of course she’ll marry him,” Tom said, smiling. “After all, it’s why she came here…ain’t it?”

  Lark blushed redder still yet sighed with joy as Slater kissed her once more.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Of course I’ll marry you,” she managed to answer. “After all…it is why I came here, isn’t it?”

  Slater laughed and gathered her into his arms. “Yes, it is, baby. Yes, it is.”

  

  Lark smiled—sighed with perfect joy and contentment as Slater kissed the back of her neck as she lay in his arms.

  Running her hand gently over his bandaged arm, she asked, “How does it feel?”

  “What?” he asked, pulling her body tightly against his and kissing the back of her neck once more.

  “Your arm, silly,” she explained. Slater was warm—oh, so warm—and in his arms, Lark felt more secure than she ever had in her entire life.

  “Oh, that,” he said. “I plum forgot about it. It’s fine.”

  Lark giggled and squirmed in his embrace until she lay facing him.

  “You forgot about it?” she asked. “How could you forget about it?”

  Slater shrugged his broad shoulders and buried a hand in her soft, loose hair.

  “You make me forget everything painful or unhappy,” he said. He smiled. “Right now…I could even forget that I’m a beat-up ol’ lawman and you’re just a spring daffodil.”

  “You’re a handsome lawman, and I’m plenty weathered to keep up with you,” she whispered, breaking into goose bumps as his hand caressed her shoulder.

  “Oh, are ya now?” he teased.

  “Yes,” she giggled.

  His smile broadened. “Well, then…how about you and me round up our own herd and move up north a ways…leave Tom, Katherine, and the children to runnin’ this place?”

  Lark smiled—yet simultaneously frowned. Although she liked the idea of being alone with Slater—of being entirely secluded with her husband—she was worried about the others. Slater was their leader, the rope that tied them all together. If she selfishly stripped him away, how would they manage?

  “You’re not worried about everyone else?” she asked.

  “I do…some,” he admitted. “But Tom’s capable of runnin’ the ranch. He can hire on more cowboys if he needs to. All I know is I want you to myself…all to myself. I’m tired of sharin’ your attention. I want you all to myself.”

  “I want you all to myself too,” Lark confessed as he kissed her.

  “Then you’ll run away with me…up north to a place of our own, Mrs. Evans?” he asked. His voice was low, alluring—entirely bewitching. He owned her will, and Lark suspected he knew it.

  “Of course,” she breathed against his mouth. “After all…it is why I came here, isn’t it?”

  Slater pulle
d her snugly against the powerful warmth of his body. “Yes, it is, baby,” he mumbled as he kissed her. “Yes, it is.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Fifteen years ago I wanted to send something special to one of my closest friends (Sandy) for her upcoming birthday. Unable to think of any sort of original or clever gift to give, I decided to write a story—a story specifically written for Sandy. I had been writing here and there for a while—one or two short stories a year, which I would then copy to give as Christmas presents to a very few close friends and family members. Yet Sandy had always been at the top of my list to receive new stories—as well as being my most encouraging friend when it came to writing. Therefore, I hoped she would enjoy a story written just for her.

  However, in true “Marcia” form, I had waited until the last minute to be hit by both the inspiration to write a story for Sandy as well as the actual idea for a story. I had three small children, was in that crazy (but most beloved and cherished) “young mother with too many things to do” phase of my life, and couldn’t see how I could possibly manage to write a story for Sandy’s birthday. Her birthday is March 7, you see—and I was hit with the inspiration approximately March 1. I’m not exaggerating.

  There was only one thing to do—beg for Kevin’s help! Thus, I asked Kevin if he thought he could entertain the kids for an entire day while I wrote a story for Sandy. Being the kind and heroic hunk of burnin’ love that he is, he agreed—and I was excited to know that I was going to have an entire day to write! At the time, an entire day dedicated to writing was an inconceivable concept to me. Usually I had to steal ten minutes here, half an hour there, or get up at four am to have maybe a solid hour or so to write. So the concept of having an entire day was fairly unfathomable.

  Yes, Kevin had gifted me an entire day so that I might write a gift to Sandy (whom he loves too—after all, our only daughter is named after her). Thus, early in the morning, a few days before Sandy’s birthday in March of 1995, I grabbed the big white flour bucket I used for a desk chair, sat myself down at the computer, and began to write a story entitled Weathered Too Young. Twelve hours later, I’d finished. The inscription read: “To My Bosom Friend, Sandy, In Honor of Your 30th Birthday.” For a cover, the book (rather manuscript) boasted a picture from the front of a card Sandy and I had each purchased for one another in college—the picture of a dark-haired, blue-eyed, gorgeous man that we’d gasped and giggled over when we’d found him in the card store in downtown Rexburg, Idaho, eleven years before. I scrawled Weathered Too Young across the Xerox of the hot-guy card, gift wrapped the manuscript, slid it into an envelope, and mailed it the next morning. Sandy loved the story (at least she claimed to at the time—she still claims to). I let several friends read it over the years, but Weathered Too Young remained fairly exclusive until eight years later, when it was released to the public as an e-book.

  Just before Weathered Too Young was released in e-book form, I did take the opportunity to make some subtle changes. When I began writing, I couldn’t always think of character names I liked at first. Now the names are usually synonymous with the birth of the character, but it didn’t used to happen that way for me in the beginning. Therefore, I would often simply plug in any old name—just to get me through until the character whispered their real name to me. This was definitely the case with Weathered Too Young. Short on time, I’d originally named Lark Lawrence “Lori.” Slater was actually Billy (William Slater), and Tom was Sammy. Being that I had to send the book immediately after writing it, I never had the chance to change the names as I’d wanted to. Therefore, just before the e-book version of Weathered Too Young was released, I did change some names. Now, as you may have noticed (if you read the original e-book version), I also made some name changes along the way while rewriting Weathered Too Young into a novel. Jack became Hadley, and Katherine’s last name was changed from Thatcher to Thornquist (because she’s not at all related to Reese Thatcher from An Old-Fashioned Romance, and I didn’t want anyone to be confused).

  I’m going to pause here and share an absolutely unnecessary tidbit. As I was rewriting Weathered Too Young, I became curious as to whether Samson Kane’s name had actually been Samson Kane in that original manuscript. I thought it had been but wasn’t sure since I don’t even have a copy of that original story. (You know how you make something for somebody but never make one for yourself? That’s what happened here. I found the same thing to be true of cross-stitching many years ago—though, for me, it never seems to be true where cookies and cake is concerned.) Therefore, I picked up the phone and called the person who I knew did have the only original manuscript—my best friend, college roommate, and inspiration in so many ways—Sandy.

  “Was Samson Kane’s name really Samson Kane in that original book I wrote for you?” I asked.

  “Well, let me grab it and see. I have it right here!” Sandy exclaimed. Sandy began to thumb through the old manuscript—the one I’d written so long ago—the one I’d signed “Lolita Ce de Baca,” which is still my pseudonym of choice (I plan to write under it again someday).

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Let me see. Oh, here it is!” (Now this is the funny part. I’m going to type Sandy’s exact words here because she made a verbal typo—not unlike many typos I’m well-known for—only this one cracked me up!)

  “Ah, yes,” she began, “Here we go. It says, ‘Lori turned to see Samson Kane running lamely yet intently toward them, wielding his enormous wife.’ ”

  Instantly, I was undone! I laughed so hard my back hurt, and I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “Oh!” she giggled. “Wait, I mean…wielding his enormous knife!” she corrected. Too late. We were roaring—really busting a gut.

  (Which reminds me of the time my little six-year-old nephew was sitting in the backseat of my sister’s van watching Jumanji. My sister and her kids had just picked me up from the Atlanta airport, and I had brought Jumanji for them to watch on the two-hour trip home. The scene with all the rhinoceroses running through town came on, and my little nephew (who then had trouble saying his Rs) exclaims, “Oh no, Auntie! A herd of stampeding winos!” I had a sudden vision of a crowd of inebriated men racing through the streets and nearly laughed myself into a visit to the hospital! Next time you’re feeling a little blue, just visualize herds of stampeding winos and villains wielding their enormous wives. It’s good for the soul, ain’t it?)

  Anyway, back to my original venue of useless babble—the novel version of Weathered Too Young. I became curious awhile back, being that I could hardly remember the story of Weathered Too Young—as to exactly how it played out. So I printed a copy, sat down, and read it. Instantly, I was agitated. I felt like I’d read a condensed version of something! I mean, the characters had so much more to say. More importantly, Slater and Lark had so much more kissing to do! Sure, the e-book was fun—a quick and easy read, a zippy little escape into romance—but there was so much more! I couldn’t sleep that night. I knew I had to rewrite it—tell more of the story. Furthermore, certain events had been somewhat misrepresented in the original book, being that’d I’d written it so fast. Thus they too were corrected.

  As you may or may not know, an e-book is usually a story that is haunting me, begging to be told, keeping me awake at night. Yet often I’m in the midst of one story or novel when inspiration for another story hits. Thus, I’ll pause—take the time to write the e-book so that my mind can let it go and my friends can have a “quick fix” to read. Readers really enjoy e-books, and I like knowing that a story won’t be lost while it waits its turn to be told. However, once in awhile, an e-book will begin to haunt me after a while—begging for attention once more, demanding to be lengthened into a novel. This is exactly what happened with Weathered Too Young. I couldn’t focus on anything else. I was driven to “flesh out” the story—to let the reader linger in watching Slater and Lark’s relationship develop—to lengthen their passionate moments. And so I silently screamed, “Stop the presses!” I pushed aside the project I had
been working on, for Weathered Too Young needed a broader voice.

  (Blah, blah, blah! Are you thinking, “Sheesh, Marcia! Is there ever one organized, concise thought in your brain?”)

  Of course, the novel Weathered Too Young belongs to Sandy just as the e-book did—just as that original manuscript did. So does the sequel to Weathered Too Young—The Windswept Flame—as well as another little story you may have read entitled Daydreams. Twenty-six years after meeting, Sandy is still the first person I send a story to or send the individual chapters to as I’m writing. I still depend on her affirmation of a story—her approval of it. Sandy—the truest friend—a cherished friendship. In truth, I can’t imagine what my life would have been like without her.

  As one final little ditty into my weirdness, I did call and ask Sandy to tell me everything about the original title pages on that old manuscript.

  She said, “You did! You wrote “Weathered Too Young” in your handwriting, and then you put the picture of that totally hot hairy-chest guy we had hanging in our dorm at Ricks. And then in tiny handwriting, you signed it ‘Lolita Ce de Baca’!”

  I thought you might get a kick out of it, knowing me as you do. So I further imposed on Sandy and asked her to e-mail me the exact text of the original title pages. In Sandy’s own words, here’s how the first few pages of the original manuscript read:

  “Title Page—Handsome guy with too much chest hair up to his chin and incredibly blue eyes is the picture on the cover. In your handwriting it says “Weathered Too Young” above the picture and at the bottom it says “By: Lolita Ce De Baca.” Turn the page and it says…“Weathered Too Young.” Turn the page and it says, at the bottom, “Copyright 1995 by Marcia…/Lolita Ce De Baca (and then in italics) Weathered Too Young is one volume of the (italics here again) Ridiculous Romance Rubbish series by Lolita Ce De Baca. Turn the page and it says…

  To My Bosom Friend, Sandy, In Honor of Your 30th Birthday

  Turn the page and Chapter 1 starts…”

  Every story I write holds a special place in my heart, but Weathered Too Young is unique because of the meandering path it wandered in becoming a novel. Oh, I know I tend to babble on nonsensically, but I hope you enjoyed this little insight into the history of Weathered Too Young. I hope you enjoy knowing that twenty-six years ago two silly girls found true and everlasting friendship as they danced and sang and laughed their way through college—that anytime they’re together, they still dance and sing and laugh…