Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged American
frontier in 1850. Your wagon awaits, and the untamed wilderness calls. This
epic western adventure will test the mettle of even the bravest souls.
Dorcas
Moon and her family set forth in search of opportunity and a brighter future.
Yet, what awaits them is a relentless gauntlet of life-threatening challenges:
miserable weather, ravenous insects, scorching sunburns, and unforgiving
terrain. It's not merely a battle for survival but a test of their unity and
sanity.
Amidst
the chaos, Dorcas faces ceaseless trials: her husband's unending bickering, her
daughter's descent into madness, and the ever-present danger of lethal
rattlesnakes, intensifying the peril with each step. The specter of death looms
large, with diseases spreading and the eerie howls of rabid wolves piercing the
night. Will the haunting image of wolves desecrating a grave push Dorcas over
the edge?
With
each mile, the migration poses a haunting question: Who will endure the
relentless quest to cross the continent, and who will leave their bones to rest
beside the trail? The pathway is bordered by graves, a chilling reminder of the
steep cost of dreams.
A Grave Every Mile marks the commencement of an
unforgettable saga. Start reading Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail now to immerse
yourself in an expedition where every decision carries the weight of life,
death, and the pursuit of a brighter future along the Oregon Trail.
Buy Links:
This title is available on #KindleUnlimited.
Universal Link
•*´¨)✯ ¸.•*¨) ✮ ( ¸.•´✶
Excerpt
Independence, Missouri,
April 13, 1850
I hate it when men
fight. After a man throws his first punch, he doesn’t remember why he’s
fighting. Where’s the marshal? A town the size of Independence must have a
lawman.
A crowd gathers in
the rutty street as two men face each other, circling, waiting for an
opportunity to swing. The blond combatant hollers in a high-pitched voice,
“Take that back, Bobby.”
The dark-haired
man, evidently Bobby, shouts, “No, I won’t. You can’t make me.”
The other man
shouts, “You can’t talk about my wife like that. I’ll rip your head off.”
“She may be your
wife, Wayne, but she’s also my sister. I’ll say what I want.”
Wayne lands a
glancing blow on Bobby's cheek. As the punched man’s face turns, I realize
these aren’t men. They’re practically boys.
The crowd cheers,
encouraging them on. I’ve heard enough. If nobody is going to stop them, I
will. My youngest daughter whines as I slide her from my hip, and wails when
her feet reach the boardwalk in front of the dry goods store. My
twelve-year-old daughter’s eyes reflect trepidation and I reassure her. “Don’t
worry, Rose, honey. Hold Dahlia Jane’s hand. Stay right here until I return,
and please don’t wander off, for Heaven’s sake.” I glance about to see where my
husband and the boys are, but they're nowhere in sight. Not that Larkin would
intervene. He would just shake his head and frown.
Two steps from the
walkway, in front of the mercantile, my boots meet the muddy, uneven street.
Even over the heads of observers, now three deep, I peg the fighters. At times
like these, being a woman who is taller than most men is an advantage. As I
push people aside, the two men growl at each other. Their arms lock as the
evenly matched scrappers transition from fisticuffs to grappling. A trickle of
blood dribbles from the corner of Bobby's mouth, and Wayne has a crimson
eyebrow.
A tidy-looking
young woman catches my attention. First, she addresses the dark-haired man,
evidently her husband. “Stop it, Bobby." Then she reprimands her brother.
"Knock it off, Wayne. You are creating a scene. Somebody will get hurt.”
She glances up at me, her brow furrowed. It seems like a plea for help. I
should know better than to interfere in the business of strangers. How many
times have I been warned not to get involved? I can never help myself in such
situations.
I step toward the
snarling bruisers, grab each man by the back of his shirt, and separate them.
The scrawny hooligans are surprisingly easy to lift. Maybe they seem so light
because of all the years I spent chopping wood. The brown-haired man squirms
more than his opponent, who implores, “What are you doing, lady? Have you gone
mad?”
“My name ain’t
Lady. It’s Dorcas, or Mrs. Moon, if you must.” Their dangling legs barely reach
the ground. I clutch wads of fabric in my fists and their feet dance urgently
beneath them, trying to find purchase within the muck. I feel like a schoolmarm
interrupting a playground scuffle, but these are not children. I gaze into the
dark eyes of one boy, then the bright eyes of the other. “What’s gotten into
you? I’m sure you know better than to behave like this. What would your mothers
think to see you now? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
The people around
us shuffle out of the way, and I’m surprised by an oncoming carriage. It’s too
late to duck to the side of the street. A team of shiny black horses swiftly
conveys a magnificent rig through a gloppy puddle a few feet from the boys and
me, drenching my pink checked dress in pungent mud.
David
Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve
books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in
1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a
Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a
member of the Historical Novel Society.
Alpine
landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is
also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the
range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over
four thousand feet above sea level.
Dave
is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should
be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on
treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.
Author Links:
Pinterest:
https://www.pinterest.com/AuthorDaveFITZGERALD
