Joined: 23 Dec 2011
Location: Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
|Posted: Sat Dec 01, 2012 12:46 pm Post subject: New Historical Romance Reconstructing Jackson Excerpt
|Historical Romance, Reconstructing Jackson has 16 Five Star Reviews at Amazon! http://www.amazon.com/Reconstructing-Jackson-ebook/dp/B009LMKGUW/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1349389500&sr=1-1&keywords=Reconstructing+jackson An excerpt is below:
“Need some help, mister?”
“I’ll be fine, thank you,” Reed Jackson said.
The conductor approached through whirls of black smoke and repeated, “Do ya need some help?”
The whistle blew as Reed replied. “I’m a cripple, not deaf, you jackass. I said I’d be fine.”
The conductor squinted through ashed air and hefted himself onto the train’s step. “OK, son,” he shouted.
The train pulled away and Reed struggled to pull his bag on to his lap and wheel himself to the step of the station house. A sign, swinging in the locomotive’s draft, read ‘Fenton, Missouri - Population 6,502.’
“Is there a boy about who can get my trunks to the hotel?” Reed shouted into the dim building. The scrawny station manager shaded his eyes as he stepped into the dirt street.
“Where ya be headin’?” he asked.
“The Ames Hotel,” Reed replied.
Reed contemplated the man who was now rubbing his jaw and eyeing his wheelchair; the last, hopefully, in a long line of nosy, prying half-wits whom Reed had encountered on this tortuous journey. The man knelt down and touched the leather strapping of the wheels.
“Please don’t touch the chair, sir,” Reed said.
He stood, eyes still perusing Reed and his belongings. “In the war?”
“Is there someone able to bring my trunks to the Ames Hotel?” Reed repeated.
“From the sound of that drawl, I’d bet my Helen’s berry pie, you was wearing gray,” the stationmaster added.
The man’s self-righteous smile did nothing to lighten Reed’s mood. He was tired, his leg hurt, and he wanted nothing more than complete and utter silence, followed by a long soak in a tub. But this was to be his new hometown. His fresh start. This imbecile may need his services as an attorney if he killed his pie-making wife, Reed thought.
“I served in the confederacy, sir.”
“Damn. I was right. A Johnny Reb, huh?”
“I consider myself a U.S. citizen,” Reed replied.
“Well, yeah but . . .”
“Excuse me,” Reed said as reached his hands to the wheels of his chair. “I must get to the hotel. I’m expected.”
The stationmaster turned as a man and woman approached. “Reed?” the man called.
“Henry.” Reed recognized his cousin from the remarkable likeness the man had to Reed’s mother. Tall and dark with great smiles marked the Ames family.
Henry clasped Reed’s hand and shook, turning to a petite blond beside him. “Reed, this is my wife, Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen, this is my cousin, Reed Jackson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir. How was your trip?” she shouted over the clang, roar and bedlam of the station.
Mary Ellen Ames wore an expensive, up-to-date gown and filled it most attractively, Reed noticed. He smiled his best Southern charm and held her dainty, gloved hand in his. “Dirty, hot and long.”
Read more at http://www.hollybushbooks.com/reconstructing_jackson/
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