Shannon here: Donna Schlachter shares an excerpt from her latest Historical Romance, Morgana – Switchboard Sisterhood series. Comment or answer the question in this post to enter the drawing for an ebook copy. Deadline: May 13th, 11:59 pm central time. Here’s Donna:
There are a couple of highlights for me when I’m writing a book. One is when I can write The End on the story. The other is when I see it in print for the first time. Holding that book in my hand is every bit as exciting and creative as when I first developed the idea and put my thoughts on paper.
I am truly blessed to share this story with you. It has some tough issues, including an unwanted pregnancy, an abusive relationship, exploitation of a minority group, and blended families. We tend to think that these issues are modern-day, but as you’ll see in Morgana, they are as old as sin itself.
Excerpt from first chapter:
July 23, 1925
Kansas City, Kansas
Morgana picked up her cousin Juliette’s last letter, mailed from San Francisco while on her honeymoon.
Dear Morgana, you will be thrilled to know…
And yes, she was. Excited for her cousin. Just a few months older than herself, Juliette had lived a love-drenched excitement-filled life with her first husband. After his accidental death—a horrid affair that initially pointed the finger at his wife. Police later proved that an infatuated patient had followed him, causing his fall from the side of a cliff—and a few months living with his mother, Juliette set out for Anchorage in response to an advertisement for switchboard operators.
It seemed that in no time, in a city where men outnumbered women ten to one, she found her second chance at love.
She continued reading the letter, although by now, she knew the words almost by heart.
Perhaps once we return from our month-long honeymoon, you might think to take time from your busy life and visit us here. We have plenty of room. In fact, we’ll practically rattle around in the Bruder Mansion. Can you imagine naming a house after yourself? Patrick said it was his father’s idea. A way to lay down roots in this new country.
She set the letter aside. How foolish her dreams were. Chester’s words were full of confidence and his kisses were sweet. She’d given herself to him willingly. After all, they were getting married, weren’t they? Isn’t that what intimacy like this meant? She’d kept herself pure for her marriage bed, then tossed her gift to the four winds based on empty promises and airy flattery.
She sighed. Well, she’d never have that first time chance again.
And maybe the girls at the switchboard were correct. Who would want a woman saddled with another man’s child? If the real father didn’t want her—or their babe—no man in his right mind would, either.
Which left a passel of gents not in a stable mental state to choose from.
Images of drunks sleeping in doorways and drug addicts singing in a rat-infested alley came to mind. She’d worked downtown and knew the vices a man could get into.
Perhaps that kind of life was all she deserved.
She stood and surveyed her image again, running her hands down her side, through her once-waspish waist, and down her hips. She still had curves—not all exactly in the best places. Could she still attract the eye of a proper gentleman?
Not unless he wanted her for a mistress. That’s what Chester offered. Once she got rid of the brat, as he referred to the baby.
Her hand stroked the still-tender spot on her cheekbone. She’d waited until today to travel, ensuring the bruise had time to dissolve. Chester’s anger was clear and immediate.
Morgana sighed. Maybe she should do what Juliette suggested.
As for us, for the next month, we plan to take it one day at a time. Patrick has much planned for our time in San Francisco, as he knows the best galleries, and, of course, we must visit each, according to him. I overheard him tell my artist friend Helena that he really wants to show me off to those who didn’t think he’d ever marry. I find myself really quite nervous. After all, I am not an artist, and I know nothing about that world. What if they should ask a question that illuminates my total ignorance? Will Patrick wish he could trade me for another?
Which is what Chester Dawson had done. Neglecting to tell her he already had a wife, luring her to his bed, then discarding her like yesterday’s newspaper.
But, her cousin had found true love. Morgana read it in her words.
While the best she could hope for was another chance to make a decent life for herself. And for the little one inside her. Most likely in two different places.
Movement, like the touch of a feather on her abdomen, caught her attention. Did the little one shift position? Kick in protest of its mother’s choices?
She stood and slammed her suitcase shut, engaging the fasteners to hold the lid tight. Then she hefted the bag. Not a lot to show for a lifetime. Perhaps living in a boarding house for the last two years was a blessing. Forced her to cull her belongings into what could fit into one case and a carpetbag.
She donned her hat, pinning it to her curls that Chester said shone like ripe wheat. Hmmph. Sweet words that a person could starve to death feeding on. No substance. Nothing truly good in them.
A final check under the bed—nothing but dust bunnies—and she was off. She’d given her notice last week, and the landlady didn’t seem upset at her leaving. She’d have the room rented again before she’d laundered the sheets.
If she did that much.
Down the stairs. The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed two o’clock. She nodded to the landlady, who cleared the table following the midday meal, then stepped outside.
The air slapped her in the face like a warm, wet towel. She paused on the top step to draw a breath, changed hands on her bags, then stepped down to the sidewalk. Merging with other pedestrians and feeling like a bobber on a river current, she allowed the crowd to sweep her along. At Main Street, she worked her way to the outer fringes of the packed sidewalk, then turned left onto Pershing. A few more blocks, and she stepped inside the relatively cool interior of the Union Station building.
A long and wide corridor hosted seating, plus concessions—although she thought it strange that somebody would need to purchase a hat or a suitcase on their way to board a train—as well as several booths selling hot coffee, iced tea, and sandwiches. She tucked a ham sandwich into her reticule in case of emergency, then sought a porter for directions to her platform.
He did better than that. The portly gentleman, who introduced himself as Fred, offered to take her bags. When she hesitated, he added he didn’t expect a beautiful woman like her to pay him one red cent for the privilege.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she stood there, frozen, undecided.
Goodness, how silly of her. Since when had she blushed on receiving a compliment?
Since Chester stopped whispering sweet nothings into her ear and instead concocted slanderous lies about her handing out her favors to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who asked. Anything to divert attention from himself and try to save face.
After all, he had a wife to think about. To protect.
Hmmph. He hadn’t spent a second doing either as they dallied away the hours in a posh hotel room. Always under a fake name, of course. Smith. Brown. Black. Jones.
How she longed to be called by his name. Missus Dawson. But no.
Missus Smith. Missus Jones.
Constantly reminding her just how cheap and sleazy their time together really was.
Well, she’d show Chester Dawson. She didn’t need him.
Nor any man.
She could take care of herself.
{***}
Alex Handel tapped a toe in time with the hissing and wheezing of the train he waited to board. Seemed everybody wanted to leave Kansas City, Kansas, on this sweltering summer’s day. Maybe they had the right idea. If so, that meant he did, too. Not that the decision for him to head to San Francisco and then on to Anchorage, Alaska, was his.
He glanced at the letter from his manager, Walter Jenson. A company man, if ever there was one, Jenson had worked his way up through the ranks. Alex grunted. To hear Jenson speak of his career, the man made it quite clear he was born to be the manager of Northwest Exploration Company—as if the Good Lord designed it to be so.
Well, Alex wasn’t certain the Creator had that much interest in who lorded it over whom. In fact, right now, he couldn’t rightly say God even knew his name. If He did, why hadn’t He intervened over the past five years?
A burly man pushed past, bumping Alex’s shoulder, causing him to sidestep to regain his balance. How rude some folks were. A newspaper boy held up the morning edition, 1925 census emblazoned across the front upper fold. An eastbound train, loaded with folks heading to Saint Louis and beyond, pulled out on the next platform, decreasing the hubbub and sounds of steam, loading, and conductors ushering passengers into compartments.
He sighed, enjoying the relative quiet.
But only for a moment.
Footsteps neared, and he swiveled his head. A handsome woman, approaching his own age of middle forties, strode along the wooden walkway, eyes searching this same train he awaited. Probably looking for her compartment. He kept his eyes on her, as she seemed burdened with a suitcase and carpetbag, along with a drawstring purse. Not meeting anybody. Traveling, perhaps, to meet her husband? Had she walked far?
He dropped his focus to her feet. Sensible shoes. Everyday heel height. He scanned her from foot to forelock. Cute hat—a black felt high top, decorated demurely with a matching flower and vine-thing that wrapped from the side around the front and then disappeared to the back. The narrow brim framed an unlined face. Hair the color of sun-swept wheat peeked from under the hat, and when she met his gaze—goodness, eyes the color of the ocean stared back at him. Boldly, as if questioning why she held his attention.
His ears burned, and he turned back to the train. When had he gotten so brazen as to assess a stranger’s clothing and demeanor?
Scrambling steps thundered on the deck. A shout. A thunk!
Alex’s head snapped to his right. A child stared at clothing scattered around the woman. She tottered on one foot, the other heel wedged between two boards. She needed help.
The conductor stepped down from the nearest car. “Boarding for San Francisco and points in between. All aboard. Leaving in two minutes.”
Two minutes? What to do? If he missed this train, what would Jenson say? Alex already suspected the man had sought a reason to fire him. The ogre wouldn’t hesitate to call his failure to board this train, to meet the ship in San Fran and travel to Anchorage to open a branch office, evidence of his ongoing ineptitude.
But she needed help.
At her cry, he decided. Walter Jenson might not aid this woman, but thankfully, he was a much different man.
Question for Readers: Have you ever had to live with or rely on family to help you out of a tough situation?
About Donna: A hybrid author, Donna writes squeaky clean historical and contemporary suspense. She has been published more than 60 times in books; is a member of several writers groups; facilitates a critique group; teaches writing classes; ghostwrites; edits; and judges in writing contests. She loves history and research, traveling extensively for both, and is an avid oil painter. She also coaches writers at any stage of their manuscript.
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About the book – Morgana:
Morgana Campbelton, 40 and long in the tooth—at least as far as her friends and contemporaries are concerned—has fallen pregnant to a man who neglected to tell her he was already married. Having spent several years supporting herself by working at the Bell Telephone Company in Kansas City, Kansas, so she could fulfill her dream of becoming a landscape painter, she is summarily fired once her condition becomes apparent. Her lover abandons her, even spreading vicious lies about her loose morals. At her wit’s end, she decides to take her cousin Juliette up on her invitation to join her in Anchorage, Alaska for a holiday. One she hopes will extend into a permanent stay.
Alex Handel, a mining engineer, travels to Anchorage in search of diamonds on behalf of his employer, the Northwest Exploration Company. He’s had a string of failures over the past five years. Fearing he’s lost his knack, he resolves to stay focused on the job. At 43, he can’t afford to lose his reputation—or his paycheck—again. Alaska is his last chance, according to his boss.
Can Morgana and Alex find the life they’re seeking? Will God be allowed to interrupt their plan with His own? Or will they discover that the answer doesn’t lie in the where, but with the who?
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Morgana The Swithboard Sisterhood Series Donna’s Books
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