Web Blog of Connie Vines, author or multi-genre fiction. Awards: H.O.L.T. Medallion (Honoring Outstanding Literary Talent), Orange Rose, Award of Excellence--Contemporary Romance; Independent eBook Award, Dream Realm Award. National Book Award and Frankfurt Book Award, nominee--YA Historical Fiction. Blog includes guest bloggers and snippets of WIP.
SUNDAY SNIPPETS by Ginger Simpson #sundaysnips 07/19/15
Another offering from Odessa. Week before last...before the re-run, the wagon Odessa and her father traveled in overturned, pinning her father beneath the wheel.
The dirt unfurled
like a brown ribbon between the expanse of cactus and sagebrush. Odessa,
refusing to let her father see her hopelessness, blinked back tears.
Anger heated her
blood. This was all her fault. First her mother died giving birth, and now her
father was dying because of her. He wanted her to have a woman’s influence in
her life—have more opportunities. Their trip had gone smoothly until Papa
whipped the horses to a faster pace to combat the heat—stir a breeze where none
existed. The same wheel that spun now had been the one that slipped into a ragged
rut and tipped the wagon over. She’d jumped clear, but her father remained
pinned beneath the sideboard from the waist down. The accident snapped the
harness rigging, and the animals ran off. What she wouldn’t give for one to
wander back right now.
She rushed to the
other side and pulled with all her might on the front wheel. Praying for
strength, she gritted her teeth and tugged until splinters from the
prickly-wooded spoke tore into her flesh. There was nothing she could do. The
wagon wouldn’t shift.
above her left eye and she swiped her knuckles across the spot. Blood mixed
with the dirt on her hand and created rust-colored mud. She wiped the stain on
her sleeve and scanned the area for something to use for leverage. Her father
had often lifted things by using a piece of wood or a log from a fallen tree. She
hitched up her skirt and traipsed through sparse knee-high growth, praying to
“Stay with me, Papa, I’m looking.” She cast
another hopeful glance at the trail. Still no one in sight. Why had they decided
to make this wretched trip to Phoenix? Just
because Aunt Susan lived there? Odessa’s stomach churned with fear and her mind
spun in a hundred directions. What if she couldn’t get Papa out?
She spied nothing
but rocks, boulders and a broken saguaro limb too rotten to use. Her shoulders
sagged as she returned empty handed to the wagon. Her father’s face appeared even
more ashen and his breathing ragged. A scarlet pool colored the dirt beneath
him. She hunkered beside him and took his hand. Why had God let this happen?
Now...hop on over to my pals and see what they're sharing: