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Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
Type: Fiction
Pages: 321
Copyright: 2012
ISBN-13: 9781480240827
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Just when he thought he'd eliminated the vendetta threat to himself and his family, just when he thought he could return to his academic life, Michael Yellow Squirrel returns, stronger and more vengeful than ever.
Not again.
It’s taken Andy Maxwell two summers—1908-1910—to help his family recover from the effects of the murderous attack on them and their Sierra Nevada Ranch. That vendetta nearly killed his mother, severely damaged barn, house, and livestock, and exhumed some long-buried family secrets—including the fact that his father was black. He’s had to alter his whole notion of who he is and where he came from. But now that he’s Shanghaied the vendetta’s perpetrator, nursed his mother back to health, and got the ranch operating again, he thinks he can return to grad school and pursue his history doctorate in peace.
Not so.
First of all, it turns out they don’t want a miscegenated mongrel in the University of California doctorate program. Just when he’s enlisted the eminent San Francisco journalist, Ambrose Bierce, to help him attack that problem, it turns out that the murderer’s Shanghai arrangement didn't stick. Michael Yellow Squirrel has returned for another try at eliminating every last Maxwell on earth. So much for school. Andy’s back to defending himself and his family against a savage and formidable enemy.
And then there’s the election.
Hiram Johnson is running as a reformer for California governor against the railroad barons and needs a Republican Assembly candidate from Andy’s district to replace the recently-deceased incumbent. Time is short. Andy’s a prominent rancher with name recognition among the local voters, and Johnson wants him on the ticket, but why would Andy make himself an easy target for his nemesis? The answer? The promise of a post-election appointment to the university board of regents where he could influence the policy that bars him from his dream of a place among the academics.
And then there are the women.
Andy’s just revived the relationship with the love of his life, the debutante daughter of a prominent, if corrupt, state senator, and that’s going pretty well. But an Arapaho princess he thought he’d left behind two years ago suddenly returns to threaten the new version of his old love.
So, Andy Maxwell, how are you going to deal with all these quandaries? My historical thriller, The Second Vendetta answers that question and many more with a tale-telling style that pulls readers into the book and doesn’t let them go till they’ve turned the last page, wishing there were more yet to turn.
Excerpt
ONE
A FEAST OF FAREWELL
“I’m telling you son,” his Uncle Cooper was saying, “you better off here on the Circle M. It’s going to be different out there now that you a black man.”
“Coop,” Andy Maxwell replied, “You’re talking like you never heard about emancipation. It’s 1910, and the University of California isn’t a plantation. It’s ideas that count there, not race.”
“Uh, huh,” Aunt Amelia said, “and how many of them professors is colored, Andy?”
Amelia’s question stopped him for a moment. Crystal and china gleamed in the twilight. Aromas of roasted meat and baked sweets still hung in the air. It looked as if his farewell banquet was in danger of degenerating into serious discussion now that the town guests had left and only his mother, his aunt, and his uncle remained at the table.
He’d known Cooper and Amelia as his relatives for only two years, the same amount of time he’d known he was half-Negro. For twenty years his mother had attributed his fathering to her darkish absentee husband. But in the summer of 1908, the vendetta that had nearly destroyed every last Maxwell had opened the curtain on some family secrets. He smiled across the remains of the feast at his unique family. His mother smiled back, but Amelia and Cooper looked almost grim as they awaited his answer.
“You know, Amelia,” he said, “You’ve got me. I can’t think of a single Negro professor.” Cooper and Amelia shared a look and a nod. “So why don’t I…” He executed a mock drum roll on the table top, raised his arms, grinned “…become the first one?”
Cooper threw up his hands. Amelia said, “Boy, you’re more hard-headed than your daddy, Lord rest his soul.”
“That’s the truth,” Cooper said.
“Uncle, join the celebration. Yellow Squirrel’s rampage is over. Mother’s healed and back to her old caballera self. Thanks to the great job you’ve done of taking over for Shelby—for father—as foreman, the Circle M is in tip-top shape. You don’t need me here.”
His mother reached across the table and clasped Amelia’s hand. “You know Shelby would have given an arm for the chance at a university education, Amelia. Your brother would have been proud to see Andy standing up for himself.”
Cooper said, “That don’t change nothing. This boy is so ignorant he’s worse off than David going up against Goliath.”
“Things worked out all right for David, Coop,” Carolyn Maxwell said.
“There was only one Goliath,” Cooper said. He folded his arms across his chest.
Why was Mom was sticking up for him now? She didn’t want him to go any more than Cooper or Amelia did. He leaned back in his chair. “Hey, Mom, you’re finally on my side?”
“Always,” she said. “Which is why I agree with Coop.”
“But you just said—”
“I’ve decided stopped wasting my breath is all.”
“People,” he said, “I’m just going down the mountain and across the river. Not to the moon. Never more than a telegram and a day’s travel away.”
“I ain’t saying…” Cooper’s voice was tight with frustration. “Ah, to hell with it. This conversation always turns out the same.” He waved a dismissive hand and rose, digging into his shirt pocket for tobacco and papers.
“No call to be cursing, now,” Amelia said.
A chorus of dogs sounded from the ranch yard. All heads turned toward the front door. “Hello the house,” called a rumbling bass voice.
“Who the hell?” Cooper said.
Amelia spoke sharply again. “Cooper—”
“I know, woman. But it’s Saturday night and all the hands is in town and they’s no call to bother a man at suppertime.”
Andy rose. “I’ll get it, Uncle.”
“I’m most there already,” Cooper said as he opened the front door. “Probably drifters looking for work.” He closed the door behind him.
Through the lace curtains Andy glimpsed two horsemen slouched in their saddles near the porch rail. He saw the flare from a match flare as Cooper lit his cigarette, heard low murmurs. He sipped his cognac, apprehensive, hoping the strangers would cause no trouble, spoil the evening. He was so eager to catch his train back to school in the morning he could hardly keep his feet in one place. The front porch murmurs turned to shouts.
“Now see here, boy, if you don’t bring out the boss man, we’ll have your hide on a fencepost right here and now.”
“Oh, Mercy,” Amelia said, rising to her feet.
His mother started toward the front door, but he got there first, threw it open and stepped onto the porch.
“About time we got a white man out here,” the rider snarled. “This fool—”
“Whoa.” Andy pointed a finger. “You don’t—” Cooper blocked his path.
“Ain’t none of your concern, professor. You only a dinner guest, after all.”
He turned back to the rider. “You want the boss man,” he said, “you looking at him.” The cowboys twisted in their saddles. Their horses scuffed nervously, raised some dust. Cooper drew on his cigarette, exhaled. “You gents want to work roundup, come back next month. I got nothing right now.”
Finally, the deep-voiced man spoke, his voice low. “Ain’t no nigger—”
“Let’s go, Slade,” the other rider said. “I hear a bottle of whisky calling my name all the way from town.” He reined his horse and trotted toward the archway that graced the entrance to the Circle M yard.
The man called Slade said, “My rebel daddy would rise up out of his grave to see me taking orders from your kind.” He spat at the ground, then followed his partner into the night.
He watched the spitter cross the bridge out of the yard, listened to his mother comforting Amelia, heard the front door close. “That was scary for a minute,” he said.
Cooper smiled. “You ignorant, boy. Like I said.” He pinched out the coal of his cigarette, began humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” the tune he carried everywhere. He dropped the butt into his tobacco pouch. “Got to see to that new colt now.” He trotted down the steps and across the yard, humming as he went.
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