Owen Family Saga Box Set: Books 1-3 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Book Descriptions

  The Man from Shenandoah

  Ride to Raton

  Spanish Glossary

  Trail of Storms

  Books by Marsha Ward

  About the Author

  The Owen Family Saga Box Set

  Books 1-3

  Includes the Following Books by Marsha Ward:

  The Man from Shenandoah

  Ride to Raton

  Trail of Storms

  The Owen Family Saga Box Set Books 1-3

  Copyright 2015 Marsha Ward

  Interior Formatting and Cover Design by Marianna Robb

  Cover Photo Copyright Can Stock Photo Inc. / philipus

  Published by WestWard Books

  Electronic Edition: May, 2015

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Marsha Ward.

  This box set contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any references to places, events or locales are used in a fictitious manner.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting Marsha Ward’s hard work.

  The Books

  THE MAN FROM SHENANDOAH

  Carl Owen doesn't intend to lose anything—not his land, not his cattle, and certainly not his girl—ever again!

  The young cavalryman returns from the Civil War to find the family farm destroyed, his favorite brother dead, food scarce, and his father determined to leave the Shenandoah Valley to build a cattle empire in Colorado Territory. Crossing the continent, Carl falls in love with his brother's fiancée while set to wed another girl, but he might lose everything if the murderous thug Berto Acosta has his way. Carl battles a band of outlaws, a prairie fire, blizzards, a trackless waterless desert, and his own brother—all for the hand of feisty Ellen Bates.

  RIDE TO RATON

  Thinking he’s been unjustly treated by his father, James Owen leaves the family homestead to make a new life for himself.

  The turbulent world of post-Civil War Colorado Territory is full of danger and prejudice. Personal setbacks and bitter loneliness threaten to break the young Confederate veteran. Then James meets another lonely soul, beautiful young Amparo Garcés, who has come from Santa Fe to Colorado to marry a stranger. Through a twist of fate, their futures are changed forever when their lives are merged in a marriage of convenience. James and Amparo undertake a hazardous horseback trek over Raton Pass to Santa Fe, battling a challenging language barrier, their personal demons, and winter’s raging storms.

  TRAIL OF STORMS

  Jessie Bingham put heartbreak aside to tend to her sister’s needs, but when she settled for second best in love, she didn’t know James Owen would come back into her life.

  The aftermath of the Civil War creates cruel circumstances for the Bingham family. When Jessie’s married sister Hannah is brutally attacked, the extended family flees to the West. Brothers George and Ned Heizer soon join the party, bringing news that the Binghams are being pursued. Even after they fight off that threat, the plagues of poverty, bad weather, and Hannah’s frightful secret stalk their journey.

  Nursing her battered heart when she hears James Owen took a wife, Jessie accepts Ned’s offer of marriage, but puts off the wedding until they reach Albuquerque. A stop on the trail brings surprises that launch Jessie into a bewildering tangle of values, emotions, and high adventure.

  The Man from Shenandoah

  Book 1: The Owen Family Saga

  A novel by

  Marsha Ward

  Dedication

  To my late husband, Rob. Your unfailing support and love allowed me to explore my talents, and to rise toward my eternal potential.

  Acknowledgements

  Among the dozens of people whose contributions made this book possible, I must publicly thank three: Carol Crigger, Kerry Blair, and Becky Rohner. Your inestimable suggestions, love, and cheerleading helped me bring this project to fruition.

  Introduction

  Parole signed by Robert E. Lee on April 9, 1865:

  “We, the undersigned prisoners of war belonging to the Army of Northern Virginia, having been this day surrendered by General Robert E. Lee, C.S. Army, commanding said army, to Lieutenant General U. S. Grant, commanding Armies of the Unites States, do hereby give our solemn parole of honor that we will not hereafter serve in the armies of the Confederate States, or in any military capacity whatever, against the United States of America, or render aid to the enemies of the latter, until properly exchanged, in such manner as shall be mutually approved by the respective authorities…. The within named officers will not be disturbed by the United States authorities so long as they observe their parole and the laws in force where they may reside.”

  This was the Beginning of the End of the American Civil War

  After General Lee surrendered to General Grant, a few outfits, not hearing of the end to hostilities, fought on past April 9. Other units, hoping against reality that the Cause was not lost, turned further south in join with forces in the Carolinas. One such group was the irregular cavalry outfit, Mosby’s Rangers.

  When the shabby boys of the unit finally disbanded and received their individual “paroles” as prisoners of war, they ceased to be soldiers, and were admonished not to wear uniforms of the Confederate States of America. An official determination was reached that when the embossed buttons were removed, the clothes they wore were no longer considered to be uniforms.

  This is the story of one young veteran’s introduction to that rule, and his life after the end of formal hostilities.

  Chapter 1

  The gaunt-featured young man with the lanky build choked down the last of his moldy bread, then got to his feet and climbed atop the stone wall against which he’d been sitting. Carl Owen looked as far as he could see down the Valley Pike, about 200 yards, but no one was in sight. Turning to look at the burned-out field the wall enclosed, he surveyed the gray-toned devastation made muddy by today’s intermittent rain.

  Rage rising in him, thundering in his ears as his heartbeat quickened in frustration and hate, he shook his fist at the sky.

  “Phil Sheridan, may God spit in your eye for the ruin you brought to this valley. Rot in hell, Sheridan!”

  “Get him!” he heard, just before he was tackled from behind, tumbling him off the wall and into the mud. Carl came up sputtering muck. As he wiped gluey sludge from his eyes, someone kicked him. He was hauled to his feet—arms brutally twisted behind his back—and dragged over the wall to where a huge, red-faced sergeant in a faded blue uniform stood waiting for him.

  “Yankees,” Carl groaned, berating himself for letting his guard down enough to miss their approach. Panic coursed through his belly. He tried to tear free, but two soldiers gripped his arms, and he finally quit struggling.

  The sergeant stood with his legs spread apart, looking Carl up and down. “Johnny Reb, you’re on the loose. We have a stout prisoner of war camp for you up in Washington City.” He bent forward, laughing in Carl’s face, who involuntarily wrinkled his nose and squinted s
hut his eyes at the overpowering odor of liquor fumes. The man frowned, drew a knife from a sheath on his belt, and tested it on his thumb.

  “You look at me, Johnny Reb,” he snarled. “Look at me when I speak to you!”

  Carl opened his eyes and stared into the Yankee’s mean eyes. “I have parole papers,” he said, raising his muddy, stubbled chin in defiance.

  “You’re violating your parole, wearing the uniform of the Confederate Army,” the Yankee said, and put his blade against Carl’s throat. The young man sucked in a breath, then held it, careful not to move.

  Just then, a burly soldier came up behind the sergeant. “Sarge, you told us we were going to find some Southern belles to entertain us,” he complained. “Let’s dump him in the woods.”

  “Keep your nose out of official business. I’ll open him up a bit and teach him how to act around his betters.”

  From the north, a rider came pounding up the road, spurring his horse, then sawing on the reins to bring it to a halt. He alighted and ran to the sergeant.

  “The major’s coming down the road. You’d better not let him catch you cutting another Reb.”

  The sergeant cursed and turned back to Carl, grabbing the front of his coat.

  “You got no right to wear a uniform, you dirty Rebel pup.” He took a fresh grip on his knife and addressed the soldiers restraining Carl. “Hold him tight while I teach him a lesson.”

  Carl felt the tight prickle of fear racing up his spine as the soldiers freshened their hold on his arms. The sergeant looked around at the road, cursed again, turned to Carl, and cut the embossed buttons from his coat. He jerked the coat open, grinning evilly, and cut the buttons from his shirt, as well.

  “Now you’re not a soldier.” The man cackled as he pocketed the buttons and sheathed his knife. “Let him loose,” he ordered, motioning to the soldiers. As they dropped his arms, he looked Carl up and down once more, his expression changing to hatred. The sergeant half turned away, then spun back, and with a massive fist knocked Carl flat. “Mount up,” the sergeant barked, and strode toward his horse, weaving a bit.

  Lying in the mud, propped on one elbow, Carl wiped blood from his jaw, tasting salt as he tongued his molars to see if they were still tight. He watched the patrol leave, hate burning his belly. He turned over onto his knees and got to his feet, wincing at the pain, then whistled for his horse. Looking around for his hat, he found it on the wall where it had landed when he was attacked. He brushed at the soft, shapeless felt, removing a splash of mud, then he jammed it onto his head.

  Sherando came trotting out of the trees, gray coat glistening in the misty rain that had once again begun to fall. The horse jumped the fence to reach Carl and nickered softly. Carl checked to see that the Yankee rifle was secure in the scabbard. “Sure glad them Billy Blues was so drunk they didn’t find you, boy,” he whispered through raw lips.

  He swung into the saddle and straightened his back, swiped at his face with both hands to remove as much mud as he could, then ran his fingers through the blond hair at the nape of his neck, tugging loose both tangles and mud. He hoped someone at home had a comb, for he had lost his personal gear in a wild, last-ditch ride for freedom with Colonel John Mosby. Carl’s patrol had ridden into a Yankee camp to surrender after the war’s end. Union officers gave the Confederate cavalrymen parole papers and turned them free instead of holding them as prisoners of war. Carl had stolen the rifle as he left camp, but hadn’t had a chance to replace other gear.

  The young man turned his horse onto the Valley Pike, laughing as joy surged through him. “Benjamin will have a comb. It’ll be fine to see him again.” Carl kneed Sherando to a trot, and launched into a tune he’d heard somewhere. “Oh Shenandoah, I’m comin’ to ya. I’m here, you rolling river.”

  Carl looked toward the shallow river flowing beside the road and grinned at the cleverness of his new words to an old song. “Hold up that head, horse. We’ll show the folks that a passel of Yankees can’t lick a Virginia boy. We’re goin’ home!”

  ~~~

  “Ma!” Albert ran in yelling from the trees at the corner of the yard. “Somebody’s riding in, mighty confident like,” he panted.

  Julia Owen looked up from the corn she was grinding and pushed back a loose lock of dark hair.

  “Confident, you say? Does he look like a Yankee?”

  Albert hung his head. “I mostly just saw him a-coming before I ran in, Ma. But he’s riding real straight and sure of himself.”

  “Get your pa,” she said, grabbing the Sharps rifle from the corner. “There won’t be no Yankees set foot in this house.”

  Julia walked through the doorway with the Sharps in firing position and watched as a horseman neared the end of the lane from the pike. Albert spoke the truth, she thought. That man rides bold.

  “Hold up right there,” her voice rang out. “Put them hands where I can see ‘em, and get down off that horse.”

  The mud-covered young man in the gray coat laughed. “You always did look fine with fire in your eye, Ma.”

  “Carl?” She took a step, lowering the rifle barrel toward the ground. “Carl! Is it really you? Lawsy, boy, we almost gave up on ever seeing you again.” She swiped at her eyes with one hand. “Get off that horse and hug your ma.” Her son dropped gingerly to the muddy ground and approached with long strides.

  “Ma, I’m home.” He grabbed her—rifle and all—and swung her into the air.

  She caught sight of the wince that he tried to cover and the dried blood on his face, and immediately began to worry over his health.

  Setting her on her feet, Carl brushed at the mud he had transferred to her dress. “I’m sorry about the mud, Ma. I had a little trouble with some fellers down the road a piece, and we wrasseled around a bit. Here, let me put that rifle aside. I reckon you don’t want to put a ball into me.”

  “You ain’t been hurt? What’s that blood?” She followed him to the front of the house, where he leaned the rifle against the stone wall. “Here, let me look at you.” Julia grabbed his arm, moistened the corner of her apron with her tongue, and dabbed at his face.

  “Ma!” he protested. “It’s just a little cut.”

  “And it needs tending to,” she insisted, then hugged him again.

  ~~~

  Roderick Owen came around the corner of the house, puzzled by the sounds in the front yard, but ready for Albert’s Yankee invasion. He stopped short at the sight of a tall, very grubby man embracing his wife, and Albert bumped into his father from behind.

  “Look here,” Rod threatened, stepping forward.

  Carl turned to meet him. “Have I changed so much, Pa?” He grinned under his smeared camouflage.

  “Rod, it’s Carl. He’s home at last.” Julia wiped the mud from her face with the apron.

  Without a word, Rod enveloped his son in his arms. After a long embrace, he held him off to look at him, and shook his head. “By gum, you sure get your growth dashing around with Mosby. We thought you were dead, boy, not hearing from you, nor seeing you home yet.”

  “I took the long road home, Pa. The Colonel disbanded the Rangers about three weeks into April, but me and some thirty others wouldn’t leave him, so he took us south to join up with General Johnston in the Carolinas. The General gave up before we got there, so Mosby cut us loose and made us go in to get paroled.” He paused a moment, scratching his nose. “They won’t give him a parole, Pa. There’s a price on his head!”

  “I reckon there’s mighty little justice around now, son. Your colonel won’t get fair treatment since Booth shot the President. There’s rumors Mosby had a hand in it.”

  “Somebody shot Jeff Davis?”

  “The other president, Abe Lincoln.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Rod set his jaw, turned his back on his son, and walked toward Carl’s horse, his hand worrying the mud at the front of his shirt and pants. He picked up the horse’s trailing reins and approached his son. “Yes, and it brings hard times upon us. T
here’s no mercy in the boys running the country now.”

  “Mosby had no part in it. I rode with him day and night for over two years. He done no such a thing.”

  “I reckon.”

  “He didn’t. That’s all.” Carl’s stomach growled aloud, and he looked at his mother. “Is there anything to eat? It sure don’t look like Phil Sheridan left much. We heard about his orders to burn out the Valley, Pa, but we laughed. Not one of us believed he could do it with you and Jeb Early’s troops on home ground.”

  “They sent in two and three times our number, son. All we could do was pester them around the edges some.”

  “Well, I’m home now, and this ground will grow food—if we can get seed.” Carl looked about the yard. Albert stood in the shadow at the corner of the house.

  “Who’s that young’un? I don’t recollect leaving anybody that big at home when I left.”

  “It’s me, Albert. I growed a mite.”

  “Can’t be. You were just a little bitty sprout.”

  Albert came out of the shadow and stood where Carl could see him. “I ain’t a sprout now." His voice was a touch heated. "I’ll be fourteen nigh on to Christmas time.”