This week, we’re welcoming historical fiction author Celia Hayes, who writes novels of the Old West. Her novel, Daughter of Texas, is the first of her series on the drama of a woman's life in Texas. Join us Sunday, when Celia will be here to talk about the novel and offer a copy to a lucky winner. Here's the blurb:
Before the cattle drives … Before the
Alamo …Before the legends were born. She was there, and she saw it all. On the day that she was twelve years old, Margaret
Becker came to Texas with her parents and her younger brothers. The witch-woman
looked at her hands, and foretold her future; two husbands, a large house, many
friends, joy, sorrow and love.
Before the cattle drives … Before the
Alamo …Before the legends were born. She was there, and she saw it all. On the day that she was twelve years old, Margaret
Becker came to Texas with her parents and her younger brothers. The witch-woman
looked at her hands, and foretold her future; two husbands, a large house, many
friends, joy, sorrow and love.
The
witch woman would not say what she saw for Margaret's younger brothers, Rudi
and Carl – for Texas was a Mexican colony. Before the Becker children were
full-grown, the war for Texas independence would come upon them all and show no
mercy.
During
her life, she would observe and participate in great events. She would meet and
pass her own judgment on great men and lesser men as well; a loyal friend, able
political hostess . . . and at the end,
a survivor and witness. But in all of her life, there would be only one man who
would ever hold – and break – her heart!
**An Excerpt from Daughter of Texas**
Chapter 15 – A Muddy Field Near
Harrisburg
“Ma!
Miz Vining!” Davy called. “It’s the Army! They’re coming, just along the road
there. General Sam and all! The Army is coming!”
“Oh, my God – a prayer answered,”
Margaret breathed, but Maggie’s expression remained bleak. Others of the
families encamped in that muddy meadow began to gather as they heard the sounds
of marching feet and men’s voices raised in the notes of a ribald song, borne
on the morning air.
There was a party of mounted men, first –
with General Houston among them, on a brave white horse. His face was set with
determination, and he looked neither right nor left. The men following were at
first hidden by trees around the turn in the road, but the sound of their voices
and brisk but uneven marching filled the morning. The song – which truly was
rather rude – died abruptly away as the first marchers saw the women and
children watching by the roadside. A slight rustle of consternation rippled
through the ranks. Margaret searched for her husband among the horsemen, looked
for the elegant black shape of Bucephalus, but did not see either of them.
“There are so many more!” Maggie
exclaimed, standing beside her. Roused by the noise of the marching men, and by
Davy’s calls, other refugees were joining them at the side of the road, women
looking frantically at each face among the marching ranks, searching for a dear
face, familiar garments among the motley throng, or holding up their smaller
children. There wasn’t a uniform among them that Margaret could see, other than
a small cluster of men in grey and others in blue coats – coats with darker
patches upon them where shapes picked out in gold braid had been torn off. Most
wore plain coats, or round jackets; the men whom she recognized mostly had
fringed hunting coats. Every man bore a rifle or a musket, on a sling over
their shoulders, though – and all at very nearly the same angle. The general’s
drillmasters must have been at it night and day, for weeks.
“Dragon’s teeth,” Margaret said, teased
by a faint memory of a tale that Opa Heinrich had told her once, long ago.
Maggie looked at her in surprise. “Dragon’s teeth. When the dragon’s teeth were
sown, as we sow corn – the teeth become fully armed fighters, springing up from
the furrows. Such were sown, all across our lands, and now here they are!”
The children were cheering, crying
excitedly when they saw a familiar face, the face of brothers, uncles and
fathers; Mrs. Burnett, with her gray hair straggling down her shoulders, came
running from her wagon, hastily rolling it into a bun as she ran.
“William!” she called, “William Burnett –
where are you!”
“I’m here, Liddy!” an older man called to
her from middle of the ranks of marching men, men who were so much younger it
wrung Margaret’s heart. “Stay with the girls, Liddy!” Mrs. Barnett darted into the crush and threw
her arms around him, snatching a kiss and a brief embrace, before his company
marched on. Many faces were familiar to
Margaret – neighbors and friends of her husbands’, faces which she recognized
from last fall when the militia volunteers had come to Gonzales in defense of
their little cannon – men from Mina, from Bexar, from Beeson’s Crossing, the
two soldier-volunteers who had brought them meat and firewood on that first day
of this long march east, the flaming red hair and pale freckled face of Harry
Karnes, but they were a mere scattering among the larger number of strangers.
One by one, with their limbers following, came the two cannon that Margaret had
seen in the camp at Groce’s Crossing, drawn each by several teams of horses
straining at their harnesses to draw the heavy gun-carriages through the mud
and ruts of the Harrisburg Road.
“Where have they all come from?” Pru
marveled, holding up Sarah’s baby, “Darlin’ little girl, now you can say you
saw the Army of Texas on the march!”
“Where are you going?” Margaret called to
them, hardly expecting an answer, but several passing close by answered in
chorus, amid jovial laughter.
“To fight Santy-Anna, ma-am! Word is that
he has gone up the river looking for us!” “We ain’t but a days march away from
him, ma’am!” “Oh, but we aim to surprise him, for sure!” “Aim is right, ma’am,
aim is right!”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Davy
Darst shrugging into his jacket, running at a purposeful jog, his musket and
haversack and a rolled blanket slung over his shoulders.
Maggie saw him too, and cried, “David
Darst – where do you think you’re going?”
“With the Army, Ma!” he answered, hastily
embracing her. “’Bye, Ma!”
“You come right back here, David Darst!”
Maggie shouted after him, but he had already run into the mass of men and boys,
falling into a place in the march. He waved at them once, cheerfully. Then he
was gone, lost in the ranks and leaving Maggie distraught and furious, and
Margaret feeling as if she had seen this many times and would see it again.
“Come with me,” Maggie commanded. “We must fetch him back, at once!”
“I think not,” Margaret answered slowly.
“I believe he will be in a better and safer place with his fellows than he will
be with us. If the Mexican Army comes upon us, with our tents and wagons, and
Mama and Sarah’s babe – then all they will find will be women and little
children. He is a boy of near to fighting age. With that musket – they will
assuredly execute him as a rebel.”
“But you heard what they said – they are
going to turn and fight now!” Maggie was still distraught. Margaret looked
after the last of the Army, a handful of horsemen ranging this way and that.
None of them were Race, and she sighed a little in disappointment.
“So they are,” she answered, with an
assurance that she did not in truth feel. “But I have a better feeling in
trusting General Houston with the lives of our own. He will not fail us, Maggie
– or our men. I am confident of it.”
Daughter
of Texas is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
Visit Celia's blog, Facebook and Goodreads page.