Weathered Too Young Trivia Snippets
Snippet #1—Shortly before I wrote Weathered Too Young, I was expecting a rare visit from Sandy. She lived in Farmington, New Mexico, at the time and was coming down for a couple of days. I was so excited—so I made a sign to put at the end of our street to greet her. With my sign and duct tape in hand, I walked down to the end of the street to attach the sign to the street sign at the corner. A huge walking stick cactus was growing very near the street sign, and although I was aware of it initially, I sort of forgot about it. As I stepped back from attaching the welcome sign to the street sign, my right thigh brushed up against the cactus. Oh my heck! I could never have imagined the pain! The house was maybe a block or two away, and by the time I got home and stripped off my jeans, only about a quarter of an inch of the cactus needles were still visible above my flesh! The other three-quarters of an inch of each needle had worked their way deep into my muscle (or fat—whichever way you want to look at it—probably muscle back then though). I had to use the pliers to pull the cactus needles out, and the bruising and soreness they left—unbelievable! Thus, real life inspires fiction—and poor Lark!
Snippet #2—My mother once told me a story about a team of draft horses her father owned—Dolly and Coaly. They weren’t Clydesdales, but they were a team nearly their entire lives. One day my grandpa took Coaly (and only Coaly) out to do something. Dolly was beside herself at being left behind! She was so upset, she bolted into a barbed wire fence, seriously wounding herself. Her legs and chest were severely lacerated. My mom remembers my grandpa using clothespins to hold her wounds closed until they started to heal. Dolly did heal, and she and Coaly worked as a team for many more years. I don’t know which is which, but just for fun, here’s a photo of Dolly and Coaly taken in approximately 1943. That’s my grandpa with the lines and my mom and her baby sister beside him.
And now, enjoy the prologue of
the Weathered Too Young sequel,
The Windswept Flame,
by Marcia Lynn McClure.
Prologue
Soft pink and warm orange entwined, reaching across the azure of the evening spring sky toward the setting sun. Gentle wisps of clouds floated like phantom feathers fanning across the broad arc of heaven overhead. The scent of new rain still lingered in the air and on the pasture grasses. The cool breeze caused Cedar Dale to shiver, and she pulled her shawl more snuggly about her shoulders. Still, it was only a cool breeze, not a cold one—for spring was whispering of warmer weather to come, and winter had grown tired of lingering to listen.
There was no sound, save the quiet whisper of the breeze through the grass, the comforting lowing of cattle in the distance, and the sweet song of some lingering night-trilling bird. Nature’s soothing ballad—her lullaby of settling dusk—offered a nearly forgotten solace to Cedar’s tired mind and tattered spirit. She closed her eyes and breathed—breathed the fresh evening air of young spring—the scents of renewing life—and she fancied for a moment that her soul had mended.
It was a great relief to Cedar, leaving the city behind—leaving the people she’d known there—the people who had known her. Though her guilt plagued her, she inwardly admitted it was likewise a great relief to leave Logan’s grave behind—and even her father’s. The tombstones of James Francis Dale and Logan Aaron Davies were daily reminders of tragedy, heartbreak, and loss. Even in that moment, standing in spring’s promising evening, Cedar could envision her father’s and Logan’s tombstones, together in the city’s cemetery. There they would ever remain—impervious, lasting reminders of how cruel the world and life itself could be—impervious, lasting reminders of the moment and the losses that had forever changed Cedar and her mother.
Cedar’s heart ached for the painful reminiscing, and she fisted the fabric of her shirtwaist in one hand where the pain was most intense. Tears threatened in her eyes, yet she closed them and again inhaled the soft scent of dusk settling over the pastures. The fragrance of evening did calm her, and she opened her eyes in time to see the sky erupt into more brilliant colors than the soft pastels it had worn just a moment before.
It had been Cedar’s mother, Flora Dale, who had suggested she and her daughter return to the old house and vast pastures near the small town where Cedar had been born—return to the place where Cedar had thrived during her childhood. The years spent with her father and mother comfortable and loved in the little farmhouse had been the substance of happy contentment. Days spent by her mother in baking bread, feeding chickens, and breathing in a life of hard work perhaps, but also of serenity and hope. Those were days when the child Cedar once had frolicked through the surrounding meadows and fields, waded in cool, clear creeks, and captured grasshoppers and caterpillars in chubby, dirt-smudged hands. To Cedar, those had been the days of cheerful play—of lying in the pasture grass and gazing into the bluest sky as the clouds lazily drifted. To Cedar, those had been the days of hope in things that might be—hope in endless happiness and cheer—even hope in love.
The city had never felt like home to Cedar. The city had choked and bound her spirit in a manner. Too many houses and city buildings blocked a clear view of the horizon—or even the sky. Too many people bustled about with too many things to drive them to misery and fatigue. And at last, too many fears and anxieties had begun to linger in her dreams.
Yes, Cedar had been more than merely willing and ready to leave the city in search of the tranquility and the promise of blessed isolation—though she was disappointed to find how tightly her trepidation, insecurity, and distrust in mankind still gripped her. Her sleep was yet broken and restless, her anxieties and fears causing her to startle easily. She wondered if the events of almost two years ago would ever release their strangling grasp on her.
Yet now Cedar felt the slightest smile curve her mouth as she watched the sun set in the west. For there she stood, not in the city but in a pasture of cool, moist grass—no tall building to impair her view—no bitter scents of the city causing her nose to wrinkle in displeasure—no tombstones erected nearby to remind her of the horrors that had befallen her and her mother. Furthermore, it was a testament to her father’s true nature and longing, his having never sold the farm. Cedar was somewhat comforted in knowing that if she could not have her father, she could at least linger in the place where her family had been most happy. There was no comfort in having lost Logan—none that she had been able to find as yet. Still, she fancied that even her heart’s aching for Logan’s loss was not quite so brutal as she stood there in the pasture—a night bird’s sweet trilling and the subtle fragrance of spring rain still lingering at sunset.
Tom Evans dropped his saddlebags to the floor and collapsed into the chair that had once been his mother’s favorite. The house was quiet—hauntingly so—and he sighed with the weight of fatigue. The two days’ ride back to the ranch had seemed longer than usual, probably for the sake that he’d been hammered by spring rain for most of it. He sighed as he pulled off his boots and socks and dropped them next to his saddlebag. Tom stretched his long legs out in front of him, removing his hat and tossing it to the sofa nearby.
Raking a hand over his head and through his brown hair, he thought that he should’ve had his sister-in-law, Lark, trim it up for him while he was up helping to raise the new barn. Now he’d have to ride into town and have the barber cut it for him. The thought caused his feelings of fatigue to increase. He shook his head and chuckled, thinking how very like his older brother he was—all the way down to feeling his age.
It seemed like only yesterday that Lark Lawrence had shown up on the front porch and melted his brother’s Slater’s cold, hard heart. Truth was it had been months, not days, and now Slater and Lark were settled on the new ranch up north, with a new barn to boot. Tom rubbed at his sore shoulder—a reminder that he’d helped raise it.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he let his mind wander back a bit—back to the day he’d opened the door and found Lark standing on the porch
, to the moment he’d known she’d managed to pierce Slater’s leathery old hide and plunge into his soul. He thought of Katherine and the children—of the warm, loving Christmas they’d all spent together. He smiled when he remembered how happy Katherine had looked on her wedding day only the month before—when Eldon Pickering had slid that gold band on her finger and hauled her and the children out to the old Cathcart place Eldon had managed to purchase. Tom had feared Kate would never get over her husband John’s death. Fact was, he knew she wouldn’t—how could she? Still, he and Slater had both hoped Kate would at least be able to move on one day, find love again, and she had with Eldon Pickering.
Shaking his head, he mumbled, “Who woulda thunk it? Kate and ol’ Eldon.” He chuckled, delighted by imagining his and Slater’s old ranch hand Eldon Pickering married to their beloved cousin Katherine and having three children to wrangle as well as his own herd.
For a moment, Tom’s smile faded as the memory of the cowhand they’d lost the day the outlaw Samson Kane had come gunning for Slater washed over him. Grady James had been a good hand. Tom’s guilt over Grady’s death was thick and heavy, even for the fact he owned no blame for it. Fact was, he even felt guilty over Chet Leigh’s jumping over the fence to be an outlaw and getting himself killed too. Tom certainly owned no blame for Chet’s sad end either, but he still felt bad about it.
Tom exhaled another heavy sigh, tucked his hands behind his head, and stretched. He hoped the two new hands he’d hired before leaving to help out Slater and Lark had kept the ranch in check. Ray Kirby was an older horseman, experienced, and seemed as responsible as ever Eldon had been. And though Pete LaRue was young, he could break a horse near as fast as Tom could.
A whiff of worry and anxiety flittered through Tom’s mind a moment. What was he thinking by giving up raising cattle to breed horses? Yet his daddy had always said Tom had more horse in him than bovine. His daddy swore Tom took after his mother’s side of the family. The truth of it was, Tom knew he was meant for horses. So he forced his fatigue-borne worry to the back of his mind and reminded himself how handsome the new thoroughbred stallion he’d ridden all the way to Kentucky to bring home two months before was. The sleek, chestnut stallion had cost him nearly his entire share of the money he and Slater had gotten from Reno Garrett when they’d sold him half the ranch. But it didn’t matter. Tom knew the new stud would help make Tom Evans the best horse breeder this side of Kentucky. Furthermore, he still had the money Slater had insisted on paying him for his share of the herd.
Tom silently assured himself that their parents would be happy knowing that Slater was running cattle up north on his own place and Tom was breeding horses on what was now his. Still, all at once, Tom felt a strange sense of lonesomeness creeping around at the back of his neck. Slater was gone, Lark, even Kate and the children. Tom had never thought such quiet and solitude would unsettle him, but it did. He chuckled, figuring it was just what he deserved for not having any empathy for his brother over the years. He’d plum lost patience with the attitude of agedness Slater had harbored before Lark came along to save him. But now—now as he sat all alone in the house, his shoulder aching from the exertion of the barn raising, his hind quarters aching from the hard, long ride home—he thought maybe he could’ve owned a little more sympathy for his brother at times.
Groaning, Tom stood up. Unfastening his shirt, he tossed it to the sofa. Pushing his blue jeans down to his ankles, he simply stepped out of them, leaving them in a heap on the floor next to his boots and saddlebags as he headed for the stairs. He was careless of leaving his clothes strewn in the parlor. After all, what did it matter? No one was there to see them anymore.
My everlasting admiration, gratitude, and love…
To my husband, Kevin…
Proof that heroes really do exist!
I Love You!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcia Lynn McClure’s intoxicating succession of novels, novellas, and e-books—including The Visions of Ransom Lake, A Crimson Frost, The Pirate Ruse, and most recently The Chimney Sweep Charm—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
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
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
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