WordWrangling Press
Welcome to WordWrangling Press. Information about, and excerpts from my novel Trail of Hearts, will be available on this page. I hope that readers of romance, fans of the Old West and historic fiction, and lovers of strong women characters, will enjoy this compelling tale of romance, hope, and a family in the throes of change. Trail of Hearts, forthcoming in 2019.
Dear Readers, Trail of Hearts, set in the 1850’s American West, is an adventure; a story of adversity, struggles of the heart, determination, courage, and discovery set in the dramatic landscapes of Arizona and California’s gold country. The characters are strong and colorful individuals who confront the challenges of earthquakes, militias, a harsh winter, and gold-crazed miners, intolerant lawmen. They encounter desperate survivors of violence and experience the compassion of strangers, as this horse culture tale unfolds, creating an engaging and riveting tapestry of the historic frontier.
“I did not want the story to end. PH Garrett is a gifted writer evoking the texture and feeling of life in the 1850’s.” C. Passanisi
TRAIL OF HEARTS
Chapter One
LOST
Clothes streaked with dust, mouth dry as dirt, a young man staggered along crusts of desert sand. A blaze of midday sun seared his face. He stumbled, fighting to stay upright. Near dusk, consciousness returned. Shivers snaked his arms, warning of the cold night to come. He rubbed a stiff hand across his face and winced as it connected with the bruised flesh of his jaw. His body ached. I must a’ took a towellin’, he thought.
The stocky-built man shook his head, tried to clear his vision. His pupils rattled side-to-side of their own accord. He saw two of everything; rock and cactus jumped. Jagged outcrops swam in the twilight. Dazed, he lay back down. When his eyes opened again, ribbons of brilliant red and orange licked underbellies of clouds scudding above the horizon. He recognized long-armed ocotillo and giant, spiny Saquaro silhouetted in the setting sun. He blinked. They stood still. Relieved, he pushed away from the ground and struggled to sit up.
His gaze darted into growing shadows as he waited for the painful pounding in his head to subside. Bugaboo sounds invaded his senses. Scurrying critters, the near silent brush of body against sand, provoked visions of hairy tarantulas coming from their holes. Snakes on the prowl. Where am I? he wondered.
Under a shock of brown hair, he touched a tender lump just above his temple. His hand came away sticky. He stared the dark wet on his fingers. “Blood.” The man puzzled over his situation. Eventide became full on night and questions whirled. in his head. He grappled with his vanished memory. Was there a fight? Did my horse throw me? He broke into a cold sweat. Holy Jesus, who am I? Panic brought him scrambling to his feet. Is someone after me? If only he could remember.
No answers came.
Grateful for a risen moon, its brightness pouring silvery light across the cooling desert floor, he glanced around. He had no weapon. No horse. No shelter. He needed a hidey-hole in which to survive moonset’s cold and its pitch darkness. He brushed desert debris from his homespun shirt. He examined the crushed felt headgear that lay beside him. Exploration of his pant pocket contributed naught but a small collection of coins.
His shirt’s tuck-in yielded a neatly folded, lace trimmed, white square. He fingered the soft fabric, willing it to give up its secrets. Pressing it to his nose he breathed in the fragrance of lavender. Surely a lady’s thingamabob. But the elegant hankie brought no memories. Its lingering scent carried no image of its owner.
Weary as an old hound dog, the cowboy shoved the pretty cloth back into its poke and turned his attention to the task of finding a safe place to sleep. Desert track stretched endless before him. He ignored persistent dizziness and looked for something familiar, a place to rest. Determined, he forced one canvas-covered leg in front of the other.
The toe of his boot scraped a circle gleaming in the sand, he jabbed at it and uncovered a small, silver piece. Curious, he scooped it up. Cradling the round in his calloused palm, he flipped it over. An inscription shone in the moonlight. He ran fingertips across the roughened script, unable to decipher the words. The last bit was smooth except for a dent, the engraving nearly worn away. A watch? He searched for a connection. Nothing.
When the metal fell from his unsteady grasp, he followed it with his eyes, but did not reclaim it. Instead, he resumed his labored walk, until, giving in to exhaustion, he stepped three feet to the left of the old roadbed and lay down. His back pressed into a small mound of desert sand, he wondered if he was destined to die alone, without a name. Then, with no defense against dropping night temperatures, he slept.
PH Garrett. Trail of Hearts
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