PLOTTING WITH WOUNDED HEROES by Cheryl PIerson

My heroes are all wounded. Not just emotionally, but physically, as well. Being a hero in a Cheryl Pierson story is like being an expendable member of the landing party on Star Trek. If you had on a red shirt when you beamed down to the planet’s surface, you could pretty well figure you weren’t going to be returning to the Enterprise in one piece, or alive.

In my historical western release, Fire Eyes, U.S. Marshal Kaed Turner is tortured and shot at the hands of the villain, Andrew Fallon, and his gang of cutthroats. A band of Choctaw Indians deposit Kaed on Jessica Monroe’s doorstep with instructions to take care of him. “Do not allow him to die,” the chief tells her.

Can she save him? Or will he meet the same fate that befell her husband, Billy? Although Kaed’s injuries are severe, he recovers under a combination of Jessica’s expert care and his own resolve and inner strength.

The injuries he sustained give him the time he needs to get to know Jessica quickly. Their relationship becomes more intimate in a shorter time span due to the circumstances. Under normal conditions of courtship, the level their relationship skyrockets to in just a few days would take weeks, or months.

Wounding the hero is a way to also show the evil deeds of the villain. We can develop
a kinship with the hero as he faces what seem to be insurmountable odds against the villain. How will he overcome those odds? Even if he weren’t injured, it would be hard enough—but now, we feel each setback more keenly than ever. He’s vulnerable in a way he has no control over. How will he deal with it, in the face of this imminent danger?

Enter the heroine. She’ll do what she can to help, but will it be enough to make a difference? This is her chance to show what she’s made of, and further the relationship between them. (If he dies, of course, that can’t happen.)

From this point on, as the hero begins to recover, he also regains his confidence as well as his strength.

It’s almost like “The Six Million Dollar Man”: We can build him stronger…faster…better…

He will recover, but now he has something to lose—the newfound love between him and the heroine. Now, he’s deadlier than ever, and it’s all about protecting the woman he loves.

Or, his injuries may give him a view of life that he hadn’t hoped for before. Maybe the heroine’s care and the ensuing love between them make the hero realize qualities in himself he hadn’t known were there.

In my holiday short story, A Night For Miracles, wounded gunman Nick Dalton arrives on widow Angela Bentley’s doorstep in a snowstorm. Angela is tempted at first to turn him away, until she realizes he’s traveling with three half-frozen youngsters, and he’s bleeding.

As she settles the children into the warmth of her home and begins to treat Nick’s injury, she realizes it’s Christmas Eve—“A Night For Miracles,” Nick says wryly. “I’m ready for mine.”

In this excerpt, the undercurrents between them are strong, but Nick realizes Angela’s fears. She’s almost as afraid of taking in a gunman with a reputation as she is of being alone again.

FROM “A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES”

Angela placed the whiskey-damp cloth against the jagged wound. The man flinched, but held himself hard against the pain. Finally, he opened his eyes. She looked into his sun-bronzed face, his deep blue gaze burning with a startling, compelling intensity as he watched her. He moistened his lips, reminding Angela that she should give him a drink. She laid the cloth in a bowl and turned to pour the water into the cup she’d brought.

He spoke first. “What…what’s your name?” His voice was raspy with pain, but held an underlying tone of gentleness. As if he were apologizing for putting her to this trouble, she thought. The sound of it comforted her. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t want to think about it. He’d be leaving soon.

“Angela.” She lifted his head and gently pressed the metal cup to his lips. “Angela Bentley.”

He took two deep swallows of the water. “Angel,” he said, as she drew the cup away and set it on the nightstand. “It fits.”

She looked down, unsure of the compliment and suddenly nervous. She walked to the low oak chest to retrieve the bandaging and dishpan. “And you are…”

“Nick Dalton, ma’am.” His eyes slid shut as she whirled to face him. A cynical smile touched his lips. “I see…you’ve heard of me.”

A killer. A gunfighter. A ruthless mercenary. What was he doing with these children? She’d heard of him, all right, bits and pieces, whispers at the back fence. Gossip, mainly. And the stories consisted of such variation there was no telling what was true and what wasn’t.

She’d heard. She just hadn’t expected him to be so handsome. Hadn’t expected to see kindness in his eyes. Hadn’t expected to have him show up on her doorstep carrying a piece of lead in him, and with three children in tow. She forced herself to respond through stiff lips. “Heard of you? Who hasn’t?”

He met her challenging stare. “I mean you no harm.”

She remained silent, and he closed his eyes once more. His hands rested on the edge of the sheet, and Angela noticed the traces of blood on his left thumb and index finger. He’d tried to stem the blood flow from his right side as he rode. “I’m only human, it seems, after all,” he muttered huskily. “Not a legend tonight. Just a man.”

He was too badly injured to be a threat, and somehow, looking into his face, she found herself trusting him despite his fearsome reputation. She kept her expression blank and approached the bed with the dishpan and the bandaging tucked beneath her arm. She fought off the wave of compassion that threatened to engulf her. It was too dangerous. When she spoke, her tone was curt. “A soldier of fortune, from what I hear.”

He gave a faint smile. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Miss Bentley.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this peek into what makes my heroes ‘tick.’ Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES!

Cheryl's Amazon Author Page:


https://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson

StoryTeller's 7:      Jory Sherman's Literary Walk of Fame

(This interview originally appeared on my blog - on Jan. 22, 2013, and represents the first of a series of interviews with authors/writers who answer seven questions about themselves and their craft).

• In his fifty years of writing professionally, Jory Sherman has published more than 400 books, and several hundred short stories.

• And he's still going strong, producing compelling prose on blogs, and in storytelling.

• His career began in the late Fifties as a poet in San Francisco's famed North Beach.

• Since then, Jory has meandered along a literary walk of fame, collecting numerous awards for excellence in his craft. These include a Spur Award from Western Writers of America for his novel The Medicine Horn, and a Pulitzer Prize nomination for his novel, Grass Kingdom.
• He also the recipient of WWA's highest honor, the Owen Wister Award, presented for lifetime achievement.

Although most of his storytelling has focused on the Western, Jory has written a number of genres over the years.

I'm honored to introduce Jory Sherman for the debut of this blog's StoryTeller's 7 --seven questions for writers, authors, and other creative friends who pay us a visit.

1. Describe your latest project in one sentence, and tell us the inspiration for the story?

 JS: THE BARON DECISION is #7 in a series about 3 ranching families in the Rio Grande Valley.  It begins with the last battle of the Civil War at Palmito Hill in the Rio Grande Valley. It tells the story of the post civil-war tribulations of those ranchers. Published by Cactus Country.

2.  You recently mentioned to me that you have a "bunch of books waiting in the wings," and that you "enjoy the journeys" through your mind. Most writers would give their eyeteeth for one good idea. Where do yours come from that makes them so plentiful?

JS: The stories all bubble up from my subconscious after meditation, or a short night of sleep.  The subconscious, I think, is connected to the Universe.

3.  What made you want to become an author --that gave you the motivation to want to write stories?

JS: Writing is a disease.  I caught it when I was 8.  It seemed a way to express the inexpressible.  The first story was about the death of my puppy.  I cried and then wrote about the dog’s death.

4.  If you were on a late-night train traveling across the US, in conversation with your favorite authors, who would they be (living or dead) and why?

JS: Although I would enjoy continuing conversations with friends who have passed away, like Frank Herbert, Ray Bradbury and Fred Bean, I’d probably enjoy talking with James Joyce and Vladimir Nabokov because of their skills with the English language that are far superior to mine.

5.  Give us three "good to know" facts you want readers to know about you. What question have you always wanted to be asked in an interview, and how would you answer it?

JS: I am a social hermit most of the time.  I thrive in isolation from society, but live in books that I listen to and read on my Kindle.  I study people, but they are not aware of my scrutiny.  I was not always this way.  As I grew older, I got busier and there is little time to socialize.

A question that is never asked, but which I would answer, is “what value do you place on your friends?” My answer would be that friends have the highest value in life, and I miss them when they leave this mortal coil. I just talked to a friend I’ve had for many years. He has written for movies, television and mounted stage plays. He will be 100 years old in March, 2013. Friends are the true treasures of life.

6. What's your favorite way to unwind?

JS: It used to be with a beer, or Jack Daniels. But, I’m diabetic and left all that behind some years ago. I also read more science books than any other. Same with TV.  The Science Channel gives me further explorations into physics, quantum mechanics, the universe, etc. 

I  also love to listen to biographies and autobiographies, and sit outside with my little dog and my cats and kittens. 

My mantra is “never miss a sunrise or a sunset,” and so, I spend a lot of time watching my animal friends cavort and romp in the early morning or late afternoons.  Among them, I’m a strange bird.

7.  What do you consider the best moment of your writing life?

JS: I suppose it would be when I won the Spur from WWA for THE MEDICINE HORN because my publisher, Tom Doherty, got his first award from WWA for that book, and my agent, Nat Sobel was also at my table. I had undergone a triple bypass after an elk hunt with bow in Colorado, and my arteries to the heart were all clogged up. Because of the strong anesthetic, one with a long tail, it took me a year to write that book.  And, Tom did not like the book at all because he mistook the hero for the father, and it was actually the son because it was to be a trilogy.  

Tom liked his heroes to be well over 6 feet tall, and mine were a short man and his small son. He beamed when he was given the plaque for my book and hung it on his office wall in New York.

Visit Jory Sherman's website.

Jory's Blog.

See the list of his novels on Amazon.

THE SECRETS WE KEEP

by Tom Rizzo,
author of Last Stand at Bittercreek and Heroes and Rogues

When I was growing up in a small town in Ohio, a few of us in my neighborhood started a club. The membership qualifications, or even purpose escape me now. All I remember is that membership was open to a select few.
 
Secret handshakes and whispered passwords were part of the ritual of belonging. The guy with the biggest yard happened to have an actual clubhouse at the back of the property, bordering an alleyway. The clubhouse was really nothing more than a shack, fashioned mostly out of old newspapers, cardboard, and a few chunks of wood, with a slanted roof. It reminded me of how frontier families might have built their homes.

As a bonus, this same family also owned the neighborhood’s only Bing cherry tree–those extra-large, heart-shaped cherries, deep maroon in color. His father considered the tree some sort of treasure, I think, because he used to warn us, on a regular basis, and without a smile: “Thou shall not steal.” Of course, it didn’t stop us from periodic, clandestine raids.
 
The durability of the clubhouse always amazed me, especially given the unpredictable weather patterns of the Midwest. The fact that it rarely leaked was testimony enough to the inventiveness of the family who built it – and, without advice from Mother Earth News, which didn’t exist at that time. The big advantage of our one-room clubhouse was its size. We were able to stand upright. Adults were not. This was good, because it limited their presence. After all, who wants uninvited outsiders kneeling around during high-level secret conversations?

The exact nature of our secret discussions eludes me. I do, however, remember a summer day when one of the guys floated the idea of allowing girls to join. A sudden stillness permeated the cramped, humid quarters of the Prospect Street Irregulars. We exchange furtive glances. Eyes rotated to the ceiling. The member who originally brought up the idea slumped to the floor, and shook his head in silent acknowledgement of the sheer audacity of his suggestion. No one spoke of it again.
 
I don’t remember many other votes that carried similar significance. Obviously, we broke no new ground when it came to equal rights, or any other political or social correctness. Our secret society was a front for fun-and-games. Among our biggest challenges: mapping a strategy to raid a Wonder Bread truck, and purloin sample packets containing two slices of bread, and a small pouch of sugar and cinnamon mixture.

Grown-ups run the real secret organizations. They exist at almost every level of society – political, collegiate, fraternal, and ethnic. Only a select few have access to the confidential handshakes, passwords, and coded language shared, usually, during some level of ceremonial initiation.  Sometimes their purposes are innocent. Often, they’re evil or suspect.
 
Nineteenth century America had its share of secret societies, many of them controversial. Among them: the Know-Nothing Party, officially known as the American Party, grew out groups that opposed immigration. Other secret societies – the Order of United Americans, and the Order of the Star Spangled Banner – emerged with the same purpose.

In an 1855 letter, Abraham Lincoln expressed outrage at the Know-Nothings. He wrote that if the party ever won power, the Declaration of Independence would need amending to reflect that all men are created equal except for “negroes, and foreigners, and Catholics.” By 1850, The Know-Nothings collapsed and became extinct.
 
The Noble Order of the Knights of Labor, in 1869, represented the first major effort to organize labor. The effort started as a secret, ritualistic society created by the Philadelphia garment workers. The organization grew slowly, but gained enough strength to state a successful strike in 1885 against railroad baron, Jay Gould. Within the following year, the group grew to a membership of one-half million, but declined, when the American Federation of Labor (AFL) was organized. 

Numerous secret societies emerged in the 19th century. Among them: the Molly Maguires, and the Freemasons. 

Today, hundreds of secret societies operate throughout the U.S., according to Ritual America, written by Adams Parfrey and Craig Heimbichner. 

These groups span a broad spectrum of society. And, like the small secret society of my childhood, there’s a certain exclusionary nature to membership.
                                       # # # 

Drop by Tom's newly refurbished website at  http://www.tomrizzo.com/   and let him know if you like it...
The first 100 subscribers will receive a free copy of Heroes & Rogues.

 

    
The ebook version of Last Stand at Bitter Creek is on sale for $2.99 for a limited time at Amazon and Smashwords.  Please leave a comment to be entered to win a free ebook copy. Winner to be chosen Wednesday, Jan. 23rd.

Here are the story description and a brief excerpt:

A patrol of soldiers massacred...
A hidden gold shipment missing...
A priceless U.S. historical document stolen...
An undercover agent betrayed, and on the run...

For Union Army spy Grant Bonner, the war can't end soon enough. Tired of living a life of deception, he desperately wants to put his past behind him, but agrees to one last assignment.

The mission is compromised and Bonner is entangled in an intricate conspiracy. Ambushed and left for dead, he recovers only to learn his battle for survival and justice has just begun.

Accused of the cold-blooded killing of several fellow soldiers during a train robbery, he makes a daring escape and becomes the target of an unrelenting manhunt.

For some soldiers, the war isn't over, and won't end until Bonner makes his Last Stand at Bitter Creek.

Excerpt:  

"Be careful for God's sake!"

The warning came from one of the three soldiers struggling to transfer the last of five coffins from an army wagon into a railroad baggage car at the Cincinnati Railroad Station.

Bonner had taken refuge from a light rain under the overhanging eaves of the depot, and looked up in alarm to see the three men perform a kind of spontaneous dance trying to maneuver the wooden casket into the boxcar. The weight inside the container appeared to have shifted, slipped from their grasp, and slammed to the ground.

He shoved the cargo manifest he had been reviewing into his belt, and hurried over to the railcar, hoping the mishap didn't generate unnecessary attention, although he noticed a few passengers staring out their windows.

"Couldn't help it, Sir," one of the men said. "Damn thing's heavy, lieutenant. Hell, they're all heavy. No offense, but these guys must have died from overeating."

Bonner noticed the other two trade glances, trying their best not to laugh, but his mind was focused on the comment about the weight of the coffins. It was improbable all the dead soldiers were overweight—not in this army. His first thought was the gold. Smuggling it out in coffins struck him as daring, and a possibility he couldn't ignore. Somehow, he had to find a way to get a look inside those boxes. Retrieving a nearby lantern, he lowered it over the casket to check for damage.

"Lieutenant." A voice, firm and laced with authority, echoed from the darkness beyond the railcar. "Get over here. Now!"