PRIDE'S CHILDREN - a novel of obsession, betrayal, and love. Book 1

Chapter 2, Scene 1 - Daughter of Jairus

Chapter 2

Daughter of Jairus

 ~ ~ ~

“Are you ready?” Jake spoke quietly from the covered wagon’s seat.

 I will never be ready. Meggie surveyed the wasted, wretched landscape, turning slowly to burn this place into her memory: to the east, interminably flat, ochre grasses hid the wheels, floating the wagons on an endless swell-less sea; southward, a faint band of green marked the borders of the Platte; north and west rose mountains so dark and tall crossing them must be impossible; and behind her, sentinels, the gnarly scrub oak and the great rock shaded the darker rectangle where her heart was buried.

 She climbed the schooner’s step.

 Jake twitched reins in hand. “Giddyap.”

 She would not need to look again.

 Prairie Fires, Chapter 18.

 ~ ~ ~

 ...in other ‘news’ Irish actor ANDREW O’CONNELL has joined the ranks of actors who think they can sing, who dump personal money on vanity tours. His voice scarred by smoke, he fronts an Irish pub band, the DEADLY NIGHTSHADES, who should hang on to their day jobs. Not ready for big time...

 www.musicpetes.com, Nov. 15, 2004

 ~ ~ ~

“If all the critics say I’m entirely the wrong fellow for it.” Andrew shrugged as he answered Dana’s question, ‘What makes you sign on to a project?’ That was easy enough.

“Afraid of getting typecast?”

“Deathly.”

“You’re filming in America next.” Dana hunkered down, elbows propped on the arms of her chair, hands clasped attentively in her lap. “Incident at Bunker Hill for director Grant Sykes. You’re the villain.”

“They told me I’d be playing the hero!” Beat. “A loyal Englishman!”

Laughter and whistling from the upper decks.

“Irish, eh?” He pretended to be surprised. “Ye can burn me in effigy later—may be I’m not very good at it.”

Appreciative chuckles.

“Who else is starring?”

“John Robbins.” He paused for the clapping and hooting. Popular lad, Johnny. “And Peter.” It would be good to be around Peter again. “Lots of horses.”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

“Eh?”

“The beautiful Miss Bianca Doyle?” Dana cocked her head, smirked. “You were seen deep in conversation with her at last year’s Academy Award ceremonies…”

“We were talking about a role.” Not the right time for that one yet. “You’d be thinking they’d let me have me fun first. I’ve met her once.” Vultures. The verbal fencing was trickier than that with a sword—at least you knew then who you were trying to kill. “Even I need more time than that.”

She leaned in closer. “You’ll get a chance for a lot more talking soon.”

Ah. It’s a scoop you’ll be wanting. He’d been a minnow last time. Now she honored him as top prey. All in good fun, of course—Dana would not antagonize guests. Why had he thought women were easier? She was displaying signs of the shark: sharp teeth—embedded in his flesh, quick darting in and out—with a chunk of that flesh as her prize. He let the pause lengthen—dead air was her problem.

A derisive squawk from George’s bass.

Dana cast a glance in the band’s direction, chuckled in concession. “You’ll let us know?”

“The minute there’s a contract to put ink on.” And the bloody thing is public.

“We’ll be waiting for it anxiously.” Dana acknowledged the swell of applause. “Now, tell us about your band, the Deadly Nightshades.”

Hooting from the crowd.

“They’re all very shy fellows.”

Laughter.

“You’ve been playing together a long time.”

“Since we were barely out of nappies.” And never enough time any more.

“You’d just finished your first US tour when Roland hit.”

“Aye.”

“You realize future tickets’ll be bought by women who want to see Roland in the flesh, who’ve never heard you sing and who don’t give a damn if you can?”

Roland changed everything. Not even the band was safe. “If they like what they’re hearing—the big if—they’ll be coming back. We’re getting ready to cut another CD. We managed to move more than fifty of the first one; that encouraged the lads.”

Scattered applause; a few people waved CD cases.

Dana caught a cue from the producer on the sidelines. “And you’ll all have to wait, folks—time for a word from our sponsors. When we come back, novelist K. Beth Winter!”

The camera rolled back, the monitor switched to commercial.

Dana stretched her neck, cracked her vertebrae. “It always gets me, the tension.” The shark smiled at him unapologetically. “Four minutes. Need anything?”

“Nope.” Damn American smoking laws. He deposited his mug on the table, shifted gratefully in a chair that had become a prison. He was the momentary eye in a hurricane of frenetic activity. Privacy—versus the publicity clauses in his contract. It left a metallic taste, as if he’d had a gun in his mouth. Since Roland—offers to be sifted and winnowed. Bianca Doyle directing Dodgson was but a faint possibility. She was one of many in the Hollywood firmament: competent at women’s emotions, sleek, taut-bodied, sexually free, available—interchangeable.

In the wings, the woman from the greenroom sat bowed over a book.

Stage fright? Prayer? What did she have to hide?

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