Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

Overview

The adventure and romance of America, her people, her spirit and the West. We are all Americans. This is our story.

Second book of the #1 bestselling, Threads West, An American Saga epic saga, recipient of twenty-eight National Awards--Best Historical Fiction, Best Multi-Cultural, Best Romance and Best Western! Compared by reviewers, authors and readers alike to Lonesome Dove, Centennial, and the Sacketts of L'Amour. Called by some the ''Gone with the Wind of the West,'' and applauded by others as ''rings true and poignant, as authentic and moving as Dances with Wolves.''

The touchstones of the past are the guideposts to the future. Maps of Fate is the continuation of this tale of America, set in the West--new lineages join the many threads of uncommon cultures, differing origins and competing ambitions that entwine into the American spirit. Lives and generations are woven on the loom of history, propelled by fate and freedom to form the tapestry that becomes the whole cloth of the nation. It is uniquely American, this meld of the mosaic.
The saga is wonderfully narrated by national voice Jack Bair, whose incredible inflections, accents, male and female pitches, and obvious connection with the tale brings this story of us alive.

Set in 1855, Book Two continues the page-turning tale of five richly textured, complex generations of unforgettable personalities mandated by fate and history to encounter others of differing origins; the Oglala Sioux family, the elderly black couple setting their life sails for the winds of the freedom, the dark hearted renegade. The secrets of the maps are revealed, and suspense builds as they push westward, hurtling towards unknown destinies, propelled by one adventure, danger, romantic twist and encounter to the next.

Forged in the crucible of history, shaped on the anvil of a dangerous land, the threads of their lives, tragedies, triumphs and torrid loves interweave with the evolution of the West. Armed conflicts, the rancor of slavery, and the discovery of gold, all create lethal surprises when the characters are forced to defend their lands, their loved ones, and their honor. The tragic story of the Indians begins to unfold. The new characters with dark hearts, lost souls, fierce pride, and hopeful innocence, color the tapestry of this epic saga. Others, in search of place and rightful freedom, catapult into the story. An unexpected convergence of events sets in motion the thrilling, yet heartrending conclusion of Book Two, setting the stage for the arduous crossing of Continental Divide, and the passionate tumult of the next Maps of Fate Era novel of the Threads West, An American Saga epic saga; Uncompahgre-where water turns rock red.

You will recognize the characters who live in these pages.
They are the ancestors of your friends, your neighbors, your co-workers, and your family.
They are you. They are us. We are all Americans.
This is not only their story. It is our story.

The decades of the Maps of Fate era novels of the sweeping Threads West book epic saga become the crucible of souls of generations, the building of the heart of the nation, destiny of a people, and the relentless energy and beauty of the western landscape.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940046155426
Publisher:	Reid Lance Rosenthal
Publication date:	03/25/2014
Sold by:	Smashwords
Format:	eBook
Sales rank:	577,453
File size:	933 KB
Age Range:	18 Years

About the Author

Reid is fourth generation land and cattle. He is a rancher, a multiple #1 bestselling author, and the Threads West series has been honored with twenty-five national literary awards including, Best Western, Best Romance, and Best Historical Fiction. His cowboy heart and poet's pen captures the spirit of the western landscape and its influence on generations of its settlers. His long-standing devotion to wild and remote places and to the people--both past and present--who leave their legend and footprint upon America and the American West is the inspiration and descriptive underpinning of all of his writing.
"If your mind and spirit are seduced by images of windswept ridge tops, fluttering of aspen leaves caressed by a canyon breezes and the crimson tendrils of a dying sun...if your fingers feel the silken pulse of a lover and your lips taste the deep kisses of building passion...if nostrils flare with the conjured scents of gunpowder and perfume, sagebrush and pine, and your ears delight in the murmur of river current...if your heart pounds at the clash of good and evil, and with each twist and turn of inter-laced lives, you feel a primal throb, then I have accomplished my mission."
Passion fuels each thrilling, action and romance-packed novel in this widely acclaimed series and epic of the historical west. This is the third book of this saga and Maps of Fate era novels (1854-1875). Reid's works have been compared to Lonesome Dove, Louis L'Amour (with steam) and Centennial, by reviewers and readers alike. Some have called the series, "the Gone with the Wind of the West." Others have acclaimed the tale as "more authentic than Dances with Wolves." Each ensuing book unfolds the riveting, sensual, adventure-filled tale of a country on the cusp of greatness, the cloth of a nation woven from personalities of uncommon origins, and lives weaved into generational tapestries of lust, duplicity, enmity, love and triumph.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

March 18, 1855

SUNLIGHT ON STEEL

* * *

A light upstream breeze stirred the slow-moving current of the Mississippi. The riffles sparkled in bursts of reflected sunlight, lapping against the thick planks of the barge's hull. The small steam paddle wheeler pulling it belched black smoke in time with the uneven chug of its engines. Two heavy braided hemp ropes stretched taut from either corner of the stern to the bow of the barge. The two vessels were making sluggish progress toward the west bank. Above the murmur of the current, the shouts of men, bleats of oxen and nickers of horses floated in the light wind of late dawn.

Zebarriah Taylor's tall, thin frame leaned against the corner bulwark of the port side of the barge. He occasionally glanced up from the smoke he was rolling to take in the scene. His green eyes, deep-set in weathered features, carefully assessed the two wagons and teams that shared the barge with him. Now and then, he glanced at the three pack mules loaded with supplies from St. Louis. The animals fidgeted, shook their heads and stomped their hooves, shifting their weight from left to right. A muscular mustang horse stood perfectly still at Zeb's side, not nervous but completely alert, his eyes focused on something Zeb couldn't see far to the west and beyond the side of the river they were approaching.

"You see something out there I can't, Buck?" The tobiano did not change his stance nor look at Zeb. "Trouble, maybe?" One of the mustang's ears flicked, and he let out a soft whinny.

"Not going to let me in on the secret, are you? Well, never mind, I suppose we'll both find out soon enough."

Raised voices drew Zeb's eyes to the foremost wagon near the bow. He had surveyed the cargo-type rig as it trundled by him when the barge was loading. The wagon was solid, though older and makeshift with an arched canvas cover. His curiosity had been stirred by the couple who shared the driver's seat. Zeb sensed in the stocky, dirty, blond-haired man who drove the rig a discomfited unfamiliarity with wagons, lines and horses. They had only two horses, both older geldings. Not enough, thought Zeb to himself. A young, attractive, redheaded woman shared the driver's seat with the barrel-chested driver. The morning was chill, but not cold, yet she was bundled up, the somber grey shawl over her head not quite concealing semi-curly red hair, which peeked out from well-tailored, thick-knitted wool. Her shoulders were hunched as if the wagon was making its way into the teeth of a blizzard. She sat on the other side of the driving bench, as far from the driver as she could get. Zeb had seen the man's hands clenched tightly around the lines as they drove by and noticed the scars over his knuckles. The woman's jaw was tense and her complexion pale.

Zeb turned to Buck and ran a heavily calloused hand down the mustang's cheek. "Doesn't much look like married bliss to me," he confided to the horse. His reflections were interrupted by more raised voices coming from the front of the barge.

"I don't need any of your lip, woman. I will make these foul-smelling beasts do exactly what I want. I can handle this wagon just fine. I hate being out in the middle of this river. Reminds me of the last time I was on water and that was none too pleasant." The voice had a thick Irish brogue.

There was a pause during which the woman, out of Zeb's line of sight, must have spoken. "Shut your mouth, bitch!" Zeb heard the man shout. But the woman must have disregarded her companion's admonition, for the driver raised his muscular right arm over his shoulder, set to deliver a backhanded blow. Before he could swing, the woman jumped. On the far side of the wagon, Zeb caught a glimpse of high-laced boots with rounded toes. Her feet tangled in the hems of her heavy wool grey skirt and horsehair petticoats, and she almost fell to the barge deck. The driver, cursing, jumped from the near side of the seat and sprinted for the rear of the converted cargo rig, intent on intercepting his fleeing companion. She stopped in startled surprise as they met head-on at the tailgate, directly in front of the team pulling the second wagon. The frightened horses began to back up, lifting their forelegs nervously. Alarmed, the elderly couple in the rearward prairie schooner shouted.

Zeb wrapped the reins once around the saddle horn. "Watch the mules, Buck." He strode toward the couple, their struggles obscured from time to time by the shifting of the horses. When he reached them, the man had the redheaded woman pinned against the back of their wagon, one hand clenched on her upper arm and the other beefy paw around her throat pushing her head back into the canvas. The woman's wide blue eyes darted wildly from side to side. Surprised at how petite she was, Zeb was struck by the fear and loathing plainly etched in her features.

Zeb stood several feet back, reached out one long, lanky arm and jabbed the driver's broad, bulky shoulders tightly fit in a brown canvas jacket. "This barge is mighty cramped — ain't no place to have a fracas," Zeb said.

The man partially turned his head to size Zeb up out of the corner of one eye. His grip around the woman's throat seemed to tighten. Color was draining from her face as she gasped, her hands digging at the man's wrist, desperately trying to pry his fingers from her neck.

"Stay out of my business, coonskin," spat the man.

Zeb's right hand reached swiftly over his shoulder and behind his back. He silently withdrew his fourteen-inch blade knife from its scabbard. He stepped forward, leaned his chest into the man's back, and put the sharp edge to his throat. The man froze. Zeb pushed his lips so close to the man's ear that his dirty blond hair mixed with Zeb's long handlebar mustache. In a cold whisper, Zeb breathed, "Best you take your hands off or in one second I will likely part your head from your shoulders, and I don't say things twice."

Zeb could feel the shock and anger radiate through the man. With one last shove against the woman's throat, the man released his grip and slowly straightened up. Zeb kept the cold steel of the knife pressed firmly against the flesh, just below the man's Adams apple.

"What the hell almighty is all this?" It was the barge captain.

"Nothin' much, Andy. Just makin' sure these teams don't get spooked."

Released from the vise of the burly hands, the woman's knees buckled and she almost fell to the coarse deck of the vessel. She caught herself with one hand on the wagon gate and slowly stood erect, struggling to breathe, her other hand frantically rubbing her neck. Zeb noticed the small band of freckles across the bridge of a delicate nose and the shape of her slightly parted lips as she gasped for air.

The man, still in Zeb's grasp, started to speak and began to turn his body. Zeb pressed the blade into the man's flesh, enough to indent the skin without drawing blood. He raised his forearm, bringing the man to his tiptoes and off balance.

"You would do well to keep your mouth shut. This barge needs to make the other side in one piece; otherwise we'll have bigger problems than this ruckus."

"Well, just hold on ..." the captain began to speak.

Zeb cut him off. "If you want to know what went on, ask them in the wagon behind," he slung his head rearwards. "I suspect they seen what happened."

"And, you need to settle down," he said to the man, his knife still pressed against his thick neck. The woman had regained her breath, though she was still hunched forward massaging her throat.

"Is this your husband, ma'am?"

The woman shook her head with an unusual negative vehemence.

"Well, what is he to you?"

"She's my damn fiancée ..." the man's words died in a gurgle as Zeb drew the steel tighter against the man's windpipe.

"I weren't talking to you." He turned his gaze to the woman. There were tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. "You all right? Can you walk?"

She tentatively moved her head.

"Go on back there by the stern where that horse and three mules is. I'll catch up with you there in a moment, ma'am. After this gentleman gets cooled down a bit."

Zeb waited for the sounds of her boots to recede. With a sudden movement, he took the knife from the man's neck and took two long steps backward, the blade shining in the sun where it pointed from his still extended arm.

The stocky figure whirled. His face was scarlet and twisted and his eyes enraged. His hand began to run down the outside of his right trouser leg.

"If that's a boot blade you'd be going for, I'd think twice."

The man hesitated, and sized up Zeb and his stance carefully. His eyes flicked a glance at the brace of pistols, one cap and ball, the other a Colt Army revolver snugged in Zeb's belt, which anchored the waist of a well-worn fringed buckskin shirt that hung below his hips.

The burly towhead straightened up. "Nobody does that to Jacob O'Shanahan," he snarled through gritted teeth.

Zeb regarded him coolly. "I just did. Now git up in your wagon, have a little sip of whiskey and get unwound. This here crossing will be done shortly. You'll have far bigger things to worry about over the coming months."

Jacob hesitated and then gave a surly shrug. "Didn't catch your name, coonskin."

"Coonskin is my hat. I didn't mention my name."

Jacob leered, "Well, I'm sure we will meet up again, coonskin."

Zeb relaxed slightly, took another stride back and gestured with the tip of the knife, "Up to the front. And yep, I 'spect we will."

He waited until the man clambered back into the driver's seat so just his thick left shoulder was visible behind the front arc of canvas, and then turned and walked back toward the woman and his animals. She was leaning against the side of the barge. The long delicate fingers of one hand stroked Buck's neck. The horse seemed to lean slightly into her touch. She was trembling, still very pale. Very beautiful. The thought flitted across Zeb's mind along with a memory — another time, another woman. Mebbe it's the rising sun shining auburn in her red locks. A bruise was forming around her neck. One hand was spread across her abdomen just below the very pleasant shallow curve of her hips.

Zeb stood several feet away. "You alright, ma'am?"

The woman nodded her head slightly. "I'm Sarah, Sarah Bonney. Thank you for helping me I ... I think I'm going to be sick."

Zeb moved quickly, "Lean out over the side, ma'am, you'll be all right."

Sarah clutched the lip of the gunwale with one hand, kept the other pressed against her belly, bent over the barge sidewall and retched. Zeb stood behind her, his hands resting gently on her square, but slight, shoulders, steadying the small heaving form.

When the nausea had passed, she turned and rested weakly against the bulwark. "I'm sorry —," she started to say, but Zeb interrupted.

"Nothin' to be sorry about. I got a bandana in the saddlebag." He walked to Buck, untied the rawhide fasteners on the flap and turned back to Sarah. "None too clean, but it'll do." He held out the reddish-brown square cut cotton cloth.

"You don't want my vomit on your bandana," Sarah protested feebly.

"Makes no never mind. I can just rinse it in the river when we get off. Take it." Zeb insisted.

She nodded thanks and Zeb noticed how the curled auburn tips of her hair caught the light and brushed against her cheek as she moved her head. He chided himself and stepped back respectfully.

"Miss Bonney, I am Zebarriah Taylor. Them who know me better call me Zeb. That accent of yours — English?"

Sarah looked up into Zeb's eyes and smiled pensively. "Yes, Mr. Taylor. I am from England. Liverpool, to be exact. I landed in New York just a month ago. It seems so much longer." A look of anger and something else shadowed her face momentarily. Her lower lip trembled, she blushed, looked out over the river, and then turned her head back to Zeb. "Are you headed west? Are you going with the wagon train?"

The last question seemed to carry a tone of hope. Her beautiful blue eyes dropped to the two raised purple scars that extended from below his left ear to his chin. He realized with a start it was the first time he actually cared that he had them. Lowering his chin, he angled his face so they were not quite as visible.

"Yes, ma'am, had some business back here, and some supplies to fetch in St. Louis," he nodded at the laden mules and new Grimsley saddles. "Now I'm headed west with the wagons, though I suspect I'll keep some distance for the most part. I'm working ..." somehow speaking that word seemed foreign, and he hesitated, "... I'm helping some folks on the train." He paused again. "It was a bear that done those." He looked down at his thick, elk hide moccasin boots and scuffed one toe on the uneven boards of the deck.

"They make you look quite distinguished, Mr. Taylor ... like someone who has had experience in life." Boldly, she continued, "Like your salt and pepper mustache. Sometime perhaps you shall tell me the story of your bear." Sarah took a breath and smiled. "If you want to, of course. What was your business back here? If you don't mind me asking." Some color came back into her face.

Zeb looked up and felt a grin grow under the bushy shadow of the handlebar curve of his heavy, long mustache. He raised one hand absentmindedly and smoothed a pointed tip where it tapered into the stubble just above his jaw. "One day I might just do that. Nope — don't mind. It was personal. My family was murdered twenty or so years back — the farm burned out by a mad-dog renegade. I lit out for the West. I had to come back and make my peace."

She looked shocked. Zeb took a deep breath, and his eyes flickered toward her wagon, "Is that man, Jacob, your betrothed?"

Sarah abruptly broke her gaze. Her smile vanished. "No ... he's a ... a traveling companion. He tells people that we are engaged to protect my dignity."

Zeb sensed a deeply bitter irony in the last statement, and he stood silent. Seems we both have things we'd rather not speak of.

"I better return to the wagon. It looks like we will be ashore soon." Over her head, Zeb could see the shallow draft steam tug had begun to veer away from the looming shore. The tow ropes had been run forward and cast to the bank where several brawny men were deftly tying them to haul harnesses on two braces of hitched oxen. They would pull the barge the last fifty yards to the very eastern edge of the frontier Zeb knew as home. He looked behind him. Half a mile distant across the chop of the river, square building shapes of uneven heights marked the edge of St. Louis. I won't be seeing you again, ever — my head is settled, he thought with satisfaction. To the north, two large white paddle boats with ornate rails and twin, tall, black stacks churned their way slowly down river.

He turned back, but Sarah was already halfway back to her wagon. Zeb watched her retreating figure for a moment and the slight side to side movement of her hips as she walked, her feminine sway visible even though ensconced in the thick wool and horsehair of her skirt and petticoats.

The memory returned. With an effort he shoved it back somewhere in the musty corner of his mind where it had slept until now. He felt Buck nuzzle the back of his head. The mustang seemed to have his head a bit cocked to the side, and his big brown eyes stared directly into Zeb's.

"What the hell you looking at, Buck? If I want to say more than five words to a woman once every ten years that's my business." Buck's ear flicked forward slightly.

"Wait 'til the damn ramps are all the way down!" Captain Andy shouted up front. There was a soft, muddy grating sound as the upward sloped leading-edge of the keel nestled into the muck and sand that was the eastern edge of the western half of America. Zeb couldn't see Jacob's figure, but he could see his hands pulling back harshly on the lines to the horses.

He reached into his leather shirt, retrieved a suede pouch hanging from his neck, dug out a wad of chew and bit off a chunk. He checked the over-under belly scabbard to make sure the .58 caliber Enfield musket and .52 caliber breech-loading Sharps rifle were snug in the leather, and spat down on the deck. Jacob and Sarah's wagon had begun to roll down the ramp into shore grass greening with coming spring.

Zeb watched as the rig creaked from side to side in the uneven boggy ground and made its way to the group of canva-stopped Conestogas and prairie schooners at the top of a slight rise two hundred yards from the river.

"Mighty interesting. Yep, mighty interesting." He turned to Buck and the mules. "You fellas ready to get back to the mountains?" Two of the pack animals brayed, and Buck tossed his head up and down impatiently, the hackamore leather squeaking in the brisk air. "Okay then, let's go home."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Maps of Fate"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Reid Lance Rosenthal.
Excerpted by permission of Rockin' SR Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Introduction,
CHAPTER ONE Sunlight on Steel,
CHAPTER TWO Threads Converge,
CHAPTER THREE Foreboding,
CHAPTER FOUR Straining Against the Traces,
CHAPTER FIVE Renegade,
CHAPTER SIX Strength of Conviction,
CHAPTER SEVEN Practicalities,
CHAPTER EIGHT Ludwig's Diamonds,
CHAPTER NINE Amongst Friends,
CHAPTER TEN Circular Wagons,
CHAPTER ELEVEN Doe Hide & Brown Shoulders,
CHAPTER TWELVE The Dressing Room,
CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Bullwhip,
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Decision Made,
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Redhead Assertion,
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Dorothy,
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Dangerous Currents,
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Petticoats and Lead,
CHAPTER NINETEEN Tender Trail,
CHAPTER TWENTY Commiseration,
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Confession,
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Revelations,
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Maps of Fate,
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Affront,
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Into the Night,
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Hide of the Tatanka,
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Thread the Needle,
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT The Gift,
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Mormon Wagons,
CHAPTER THIRTY Fort Kearney,
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Prophecy,
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Unshod Horses,
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Unspoken,
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Buck's Run,
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Surprise,
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX The Bond,
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Letting Go,
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Then There Were Three,
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE The Patrol,
CHAPTER FORTY Jagged Frame,
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Badger Creek,
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO Revenge,
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE Sacred Pact,
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR Cherry Creek,
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE Snake Bite,
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX Rails of Freedom,
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN Spirit Whispers,
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT Indecision,
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE Johannes' Promise,