The Horseman (17 page)

Yours,

Marcia Lynn McClure

(And now it’s time for “A Few of Marcia’s
Trivial Snippets!”)

Snippet #1
—The Pray-to-Plummer Pass
Play. As my friend Gina would say, “So…here’s the thing.” My mom
graduated in 1955 from Cañon City High School in Colorado, and
among the many stories I remember her telling while I was growing
up was the exciting story of Cañon City High’s football team and
the Pray-to-Plummer pass play. I can still see the twinkle that
would leap to her warm brown eyes as she’d recount the exciting
football play between the lineman Charles Plummer and end Buster
Pray. Apparently, this play was something wonderful and exciting to
behold and led to touchdowns, fans cheering with elation, and so
on. The Pray-to-Plummer pass play was the stuff of legends—at least
in Cañon City—as well as a pretty fun tongue twister for me to grow
up repeating to myself. Therefore (and I’m sure you figured this
out long ago), since my mom is always, always on my mind and in my
heart and since her memory is failing so quickly and I feel a near
desperation to preserve every memory of hers that I am able,
Gunner’s friend and Bethanne’s love interest, Charlie Plummer, is
named after Charles “Lanky” Plummer, the 1952 senior class hero of
Cañon City High’s football team! Also, the stallion that sired
Brown Bonnie, Buster Pray, is named after Buster “Bus” Pray,
Plummer’s counterpart in the Pray-to-Plummer pass play. And all
because my mom’s voice was echoing “the Pray-to-Plummer pass play”
through my memory the day I was inspired to write and introduce
Charlie’s character. For weeks I wasn’t able to get “the
Pray-to-Plummer pass play” out of my head. I’m so weird!
(Seriously, say it five times fast: The Pray-to-Plummer pass play,
the Pray-to-Plummer pass play, the pray-to-prummer prass play. See?
It’s tougher than you might think!)

Snippet #1 Addendum
—FYI, Joe Cotton
was a real racehorse. He won the Kentucky Derby in 1885. If you
seem to recognize his name, it’s because Joe Cotton was the
racehorse mentioned in my book
The Windswept Flame
—the horse
Cedar Dale was lucky enough to witness win the Derby in 1885. Joe
Cotton was rumored to have been killed in an accident in 1888, but
in truth Joe was purchased by a man who used him as a breeding
stallion. And then between 1895, ten years after winning the
Kentucky Derby, Joe Cotton was employed pulling a hack (basically a
horse-drawn school bus) and frequently seen until sometime before
1905. As for Old Billy, he was a foundation sire for the American
Quarter Horse breed, foaled in 1862. Gunner’s stud, Stackhouse, and
his mare Brown Bonnie, however—well, Stackhouse is named for the
place from whence I order my raspberry almonds every holiday
season, and Brown Bonnie just sounded like a cute name. Ha ha!

Snippet #2
—How did Sassy the horse get
her name? I’m not even sure I should tell you this, but one night
while watching one of my documentaries (I
love
documentaries), I learned that one of the notable reasons that the
“Old World” countries wanted so desperately to colonize the “New
World” was because of the sassafras plant. Sassafras (which grew in
abundance in Virginia—i.e., Roanoke and Jamestown) was thought to
be just about the only cure for syphilis (which was running rampant
in the Old World) at the time. It’s kind of gross to think that the
British, Spaniards, and French had to colonize a whole new
continent because of syphilis! Eww! Of course, that’s not the only
reason for the colonization, but apparently it was a big one.
Nevertheless, as I was watching this documentary on syphilis and
sassafras, I made a conscious decision to focus on why sassafras
was important in my own life—why, root beer, of course! Root
beer—the only soda pop I like, the soda pop of my childhood (my
aunt Sharon made dee-double-licious root beer)! Not to mention root
bear barrels, the hard candy that tastes like root beer. So as I
was sitting watching a documentary on syphilis and sassafras and
trying to focus on root beer and sassafras instead, I thought,
“Hmmm. Sassafras…that’s a good name for a horse.”

Snippet #3
—Victorian Mourning Dress
Rituals. After you read the following, no further explanation will
be needed as to why I “relaxed” (well, did away with, in truth) the
mourning dress rituals Briney would’ve been expected to adhere to
upon Mrs. Fletcher’s death—especially since I wanted Briney’s new
life of freedom to be bright and happy. Keep in mind that things
were somewhat more relaxed here in the western United States. Even
so, it was not until World War I that the stringent mourning
expectations of the Victorian era began to change. The Great War
necessitated the end of such lengthy (and often expensive) dressing
rituals when it came to mourning, simply because so many lives were
being lost, and a country shrouded in black would’ve been a
hopeless one indeed.

This is an excerpt from
Polite Society at
Home and Abroad
, published in 1891, which is
“not in copyright.”

A
widow’s bonnet
should be of heavy crape, with white crape or
tarlatan
border, and the veil must be worn over the
face. At the end of three months, she may wear the veil
descending
from the back of her bonnet.
This deep veil must be worn a year, and mourning must be worn two
years. Many widows never return to gay colors, and some wear
mourning the rest of their lives.

A widower wears mourning for a year. His
mourning must consist of a black suit, black gloves and necktie,
and a deep weed on his hat. Those who are very punctilious in such
matters wear black-edged linen and black studs and
cuff-buttons.

For parents or children deep mourning is
worn for a year. After that, though mourning is worn another year,
the material is changed, and crape is dispensed with.

A sudden transition at the end of the period
of mourning, from black to glaring colors, should not be made. Any
change of this nature should be gradual.

Crape and soft woolen goods for brothers and
sisters are worn for six months; after that gray, black, and white
can be adopted.

Of course there are no set limits to the
period of wearing mourning, for these matters vary with the
individual tastes and feelings of the wearer. Custom has laid down
certain rules, which, however, can be widely departed from at
will.

For uncles, aunts, cousins, and
grandparents, black suits without crape are worn.

Children wear mourning for a parent one
year. It seems an unnatural custom to put very small children into
deep black, even for so near a friend as a parent. The little ones
do not comprehend the loss that has come to them; why teach them
the meaning of their sad garb?

Gentlemen in mourning wear weeds, whose
depth is proportioned to the closeness of their relationship to the
dead. Their mourning is adhered to only as long as the ladies of
their household wear it.

(Holy smokes, right?)

Snippet #4
—Eugene’s Quaker
Grandfather. Our family stands in admiration of and with
unconditional love for a wonderful couple who are, oh, twenty or so
years older than Kevin and I. We find that both Eugene and his
wife, Clara, are profoundly wise people. Clara is a true mentor to
me—one from whom I’ve learned more in the few years I’ve known her
than I did from tens of hundreds of people I knew in all those
years before. She’s my mentor, my friend, my gun buddy, and one of
the greatest joys to my heart and soul. As for her husband,
Eugene—he’s her counterpart, especially to my two sons. Eugene is
an incredibly masculine man who has inspired my sons to reach for
greatness, as well as to pursue their dreams of working in law
enforcement. Yet one of my favorite things about Eugene is—well, he
has
awesome
stories! I could go on for hours about some of
my favorites, but the one that he gave me permission to tell you is
this: Eugene comes from good, righteous Quaker stock. I think this
heritage is strong in Eugene, in that I don’t know if I’ve ever
heard him speak badly of anyone (politicians not included—but they
dig their own graves, if you know what I mean). Continuing on,
Eugene’s paternal grandfather and grandmother were Quakers. And as
the scandalous story goes, after a few children were born to
Eugene’s Quaker grandparents—well, let me put it simply. Eugene’s
Quaker grandmother was quite a strict woman…in every aspect of her
life—
every
aspect. Thus, you can imagine the utter
astonishment (and ensuing scandal) when Eugene’s grandfather up and
divorced his Quaker wife and married the woman who ran the town
brothel! Of course, the story is much more interesting (and
detailed) when Eugene is telling it. But it did lend me the
inspiration for Gunner’s grandparents’ colorful past. Eugene’s
story also inspired me along the paths of Gunner expressing his
feelings over not judging people by their heritage or their past
but by the person they become. Eugene explained that although he
loved his Quaker grandmother, he has much fonder memories of his
ex-madam grandmother. To sort of paraphrase a quote from Eugene,
“You know, if you were horsing around and broke one of her teacups,
she didn’t get mad at you.” Grandmothers who don’t scold their
grandchildren for accidentally breaking things are the kind of
grandmothers children should have, you know? Oh, that Eugene! He
sure has some great stories!

Snippet #5
—What’s with the peach pie
again
? Okay, I know that peach pie has made an appearance in
several of my books—well, at least one that I can think of right
offhand (
The Touch of Sage
). And if you’re wondering why it
was included in this book as well, I’ll tell you that I wondered
the same thing! I kept thinking, “What’s with me and peach pie?”
Therefore, I sat down for a moment during this author’s note and
thought about exactly why peach pie has shown up in another story.
And you know what I realized? It’s because
I
feel deprived
of peach pie! I
love
peach pie, and I never get to have it!
Probably because (1) I don’t bake nearly as much as I used
to—hardly at all in fact. (2) I like
good
peach pie, not
so-so peach pie. (3) Peach pie is an essential part of life, and
I’m missing out. But fear not! I’ve made a goal to run down to the
Flying Star restaurant in Corrales next week and pick up a piece of
peach pie for myself. That way maybe you can imagine the yumminess
of some other delicious treat in my next book for a change, okay?
(I especially love peach pie when it’s warm from the oven, with
butter and granulated sugar slathered all over the top crust and
with a scoop of high-quality vanilla ice cream on the side! Yikes!
I’ve gotta get out more!)

Snippet #6
—Nimrod. As you know, the
most famous man named Nimrod was a great hunter, as well as the
being the great-grandson of Noah. Thus, originally when someone was
referred to as “Nimrod,” it referred to his being a hunter.
Eventually it became a term among hunters to refer to someone who
was a clumsy hunter. So, naturally, Bugs Bunny frequently referred
to Elmer Fudd as “Nimrod.” The problem was that most people didn’t
understand the “clumsy hunter” meaning. Therefore, by the early
1980s, “nimrod” had become a synonym for “idiot.” So, yes, I did
name Nimrod Fletcher because he was an idiot. I guess I am a little
too transparent sometimes, hmmm.

Snippet #7
—Lastly, if you’re wondering
why there seem to be some loose ends with this story (such as, “Did
Bethanne and Charlie get married?” and “What happened to Nimrod?
Did he hang for trying to kill Gunner?”), the answer is this: I
simply wanted Gunner and Briney’s story to funnel to a focus on
just
them
. I wanted us all to feel the way they felt there
in the hayloft—how they felt at the end of the book when savoring
the warmth and loving atmosphere of their home and family—as if
there were no one else in all the world.

My everlasting admiration, gratitude and
love…

To my husband, Kevin…

My inspiration…

My heart’s desire…

The man of my every dream!

Marcia Lynn McClure’s intoxicating succession
of novels, novellas, and e-books—including
A Crimson Frost
,
The Visions of Ransom Lake
,
Kissing Cousins
and
Untethered
—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.”