Secrets are the engine of the story. Maybe the characters know what is going on, but the readers don’t. Or the readers know, but the characters don’t (don’t get in the carriage, Mary!). Or only the author knows and everyone else has to read on to find out.
This week, I’m finishing a subscriber short story which will go out in my newsletter in a couple of days. The reader who won the right to chose the ingredients for the story picked a heroine who has a well-founded fear of men, a castle, and an enemies to lovers plot line. With ingredients like that, of course my hero and my heroine were both keeping secrets. I’ll give you an excerpt where their secrets put them at cross purposes.
Please share your excerpts. The secret might be anything, big or small. Let’s play. (Oh, and if you’re not a newsletter subscriber and would like to receive five or six newsletters a year with a short story and some news about me, my books, and my friends’ books, the subscription button is in the right menu.)
Anne had followed them out, her fine eyes flashing scorn as she watched her cousin leave. No wonder Cleghorn wanted her. Edward was fighting his own entirely inappropriate response.
“A large dowry, I take it?” he asked. Margaret’s had been 10,000 pounds. If Anne’s was the same, why was she not married? Ah. The child Cleghorn had mentioned. She had, presumably, followed her sister’s path. A pity. She had been a sweet wee girl.
“Large enough. Clarence thinks it should have been his. You didn’t come here to talk to me about my dowry, Lord Hicklestone. I am grateful for your intervention, but I would like you to state your business.”
“My business. Yes. Well. May I sit down?” Edward gestured towards the bench. Sitting would help him disguise his body’s enthusiasm for getting to know her better. This was Margaret’s little sister, for crying out loud! He forced himself to remember the scene that had sent him fleeing England: his betrothed, her eyes shut in ecstasy while his brother pounded into her. Sure enough, the thought helped to shrivel his interest. However lovely she looked, however ladylike she appeared, she was of the same blood as the deceitful bitch that had ruined his life.
“Yes, of course.” Anne nodded. Edward took a moment to remember the question, but when she took a seat at one end the bench, he sat at the other. She was certainly more direct than her sister, no subtle hints, no flirting glances. He would do her the courtesy of being direct in return.
“I came to let you know that I plan to complete the demolition of the castle. It is not a safe place to live, Miss Cleghorn, so you and your sister will need to make other arrangements.”
Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, and the colour drained from her face then flooded back in. “Make other arrangements? You mean to throw us out?” She blinked rapidly.
Were those tears? Edward shifted uneasily. “It is not safe,” he repeated.
She lifted her chin, and her voice was cold when she said. “We have lived here more than seven years, Lord Hicklestone. None of us have been injured.”
Her glare was so potent, he almost looked down at his chest to see if his coat was smoldering. The rumble and thud of a falling rock on the other side of the wall strengthened his determination. “Nevertheless, I could not reconcile it with my conscience to allow you to continue to put yourself in danger, Miss Cleghorn.”
For some reason, that sent her fury up another notch. “You and your conscience ignored us for many years, sir, and we have managed just fine without you. Or your brother.”
What the hell did that mean? “I did not know the condition of the castle or that you lived here. Not until this morning.” His own temper flared. Why was he defending himself to her? She was living rent free on his land! But hold on. Perhaps she could not afford to move?
He needed more information. Mitcham was not able to answer his questions, and he’d ridden over here without asking anyone else. How long had they lived here? Why did John allow it? And now another one. Who had fathered Anne’s daughter? What promises had John made to them – promises he had no intention of keeping, probably, but Edward was not such a louse.
Great stories, Jude, Marie. My WIP has a heroine with lots of secrets, but none as intriguing as the villain who had her thrown from her home. This book will be the first in my Legend series. I hope to release it in the middle of next year.
The Legend of Skinner Jonas (working title)
Two weeks later, with Boyd all but recovered, Elise managed to stop before she careened into The Gun’s long torso. “What are you doin’ here?” Please God, don’t let him say he’s staying here.
“Visitin’ a friend. What about you Mister Jonas? What keeps you to Muddy Brown Camp?”
“Nothin’ that concerns you, so get out my way,” she snarled. She should have been on her way the day after she arrived. She could have paid someone to care for Boyd. Why she’d stayed, she couldn’t say.
Carlos turned sideways, and with his back against the wall sidled past her to the door. “Hope your friend gets better soon.”
“Hmpf.” She wouldn’t let him draw her into a confrontation. Like before she could feel his eyes on her back. The less time she spent near Carlos The Gun, the more likely she’d live to see him jailed or dead. She’d have her revenge on the man, but now was not the time. She climbed the stairs and worried about who was staying at the boarding house that knew Carlos. Had Boyd seen him? Probably not, or he’d have tried to arrest the man. Boyd was almost well, so he might have tried. Maybe the Gun had come to kill her friend. She ran up the last few stairs and dashed into Boyd’s room.
The man was snoring. She didn’t know whether to be glad he was finally resting or mad that he wasn’t awake to tell her if he’d seen The Gun. All in all, it was probably better that he rested. With the swelling gone and his head no longer aching, she needn’t mop up melted ice. She picked up the heap of items tossed on the floor from his saddle bags. As she made her way to her own room, she wondered idly why Boyd, usually neat to a fault, had left the mess. then made her way to her own room.
She wished she could wash, but Skinner had never been fond of cleanliness, and she had to wear layers of dirt to maintain her disguise. Over the past weeks the only times she left Boyd’s side were to see to personal needs and take her meals at the saloon. Winona, the barkeep and owner of the saloon had a chinaman who cooked for the saloon’s customers. Boyd wasn’t the best of patients, and Elise might have enjoyed the brief respites of her meals but the back of her neck always itched. It took a whole day, but she finally noticed The Gun watching her whenever she went out. What was he still doing in Muddy Brown Camp when he’d implied he was heading out, and why was he watching her?
Over a bowl of steaming, fragrant stew she pondered The Gun’s possible motives, and what he was doing so far from the Flying V. What she knew of the man came only from personal experience. He’d arrived with a lawyer in tow, four days after her father had been sent to prison. The Gun radiated danger and strength, and he’d set about ensuring that every hand on the Flying V knew he was in charge and feared the consequences of crossing him. The lawyer had shown her the will disowning her, but it was The Gun who claimed her father wanted her off the ranch. In blunt terms the Segundo had told her to pack her bags and leave. She’d refused.
With very little effort The Gun had her bound and gagged and tossed, without any belongings, into the wagon that took the lawyer back to ??Cheyenne. There, she’d been released and abandoned. Her fury at The Gun’s rough handling soon gave way to worry about shelter, food and clothing. The good citizens of ??Cheyenne, remembered only that she was a murderer’s daughter, not that she had turned her villainous father over to the law and testified against him in court.
What happened after she walked away from ??Cheyenne didn’t bear thinking about. But those events had led her here, back under the watch of Carlos the Gun. She couldn’t imagine what interest he would have in her? No, not her, Skinner Jonas. Nothing indicated that The Gun had penetrated her disguise. Which was surprising in itself. She fooled a lot of people, but she hadn’t fooled Boyd. The Gun struck her as being at least as perceptive and dangerous as Boyd Alvarez, maybe more so, given Carlos was on the wrong side of the law.
She paid for her meal and headed for the stable. If she and Boyd were leaving tomorrow, she’d best check on the team.
She stopped at the corral to greet the mules and give each a carrot. The stable door was ajar, and she slid quietly through the opening that let in the weak evening light. She walked down the line of stalls to the two large enclosures in the back. Hellion and Vermillion both whickered as she approached. A slight movement off to her right showed two figures moving deeper into the shadows. She easily recognized the stable master by his short stature. Less easy to see, she identified the other man as Carlos The Gun by the smooth easy movements that would make him invisible, if she hadn’t seen his outline before he drew the stable master into the shadows.
Her neck prickled. The Gun was always around. Why hadn’t he moved on, and why watch her so much? She entered Hellion’s stall rubbing his chin the way he liked and talking as she checked his hooves and legs. She repeated the process with Vermillion and was shutting the stall door when the stable master appeared at her side.
“Them’s some mighty fine animals. You wouldn’t be innerested in selling would ya?”
“Wouldn’t give up these percherons to save my life.”
“That’s what I thought. Got a buyer, ifn ya ever change yer mind.”
Elise looked past the man’s shoulder to where he’d been standing with The Gun but could see nothing in the deep shadows under the hayloft. She shrugged. “Won’t happen.”
“Hear’d ya been spendin’ a lot a time at the trading post?’
She ignored the invitation to share her business. “I’ll be leavin’ in the mornin’. Need to settle up.”
“Two bits, fourteen days, for stablin’, plus another four bits for feed. Four dollars oughta do it.”
Elise contemplated dickering that feed should be included in the stabling. Deciding the reward money Boyd had given her was enough of a windfall to make up the difference, she dug in her pocket then gave the money to the stable owner.
He gave her a gap-toothed grin. I’ll have ‘em fed, watered and ready for you to load up at dawn.”
“I want to leave an hour before sunrise.”
“Okay. They’ll be ready.”
“Thanks.”
All through the conversation she’d watched for movement under the hayloft and seen nothing. She turned to leave and her neck prickled. She kept moving. Once outside she dodged quickly into the alley between the stable and the boarding house.
A man with fluid steps emerged from the stable. He could only be The Gun. He paused a moment about ten feet from the stable and turned a slow full circle scanning as he moved.
Elise held still, barely breathing. If he didn’t see her, she’d go inside the boarding house by the back door. Hopefully she’d be long gone from Muddy Brown Camp before The Gun woke up in the morning. Whatever he wanted, he wouldn’t get it from her or her persona as Skinner Jonas.
That’s one hell of a secret, Rue. I’m looking forward to this one.
As someone who has lived in places that needed a lot of work, it almost never means you want to leave. Intriguing.
I think secrets are auxiliary engines to a story, though sometimes even the characters are unaware of their existence or significance. My one story, now in partial hiatus because of NaNo prep, the hero is shunning the heroine because he’s afraid of and for her and he can’t face this situation happening a second time. Resolving it is almost a case of writer’s block, as I don’t know if I want to make it dramatic or have them talk about it like sensible people. My NaNo planning is now at about 2/3 my creative energy right now. I have significant secrets in every story, but most require a lot of set up… so here’s a flash with a secret.
—
Mama Says
Dorothy looked out her office window, pedestrians far below walking in lines like tiny ants. She shivered from the cold breeze of early spring, but she wanted to chase away the stale air, the stink of winter and loneliness since Mike.
She would try again, like her late Mama said. Mr. Right could be just around the corner.
The office clock interrupted her people-watching. Dorothy took her makeup kit to the ladies’ room and tried to fix the damaged genes her Mama left her. Her large, reddish freckles were muted. Thick stubble on her arms was harder to hide than skin spots. She created eyebrows and attached eyelashes. Dorothy drew her hair lower and added gel to make it stay. Frowning, she added color to her cheeks and eyes, then added the most popular gloss and lip color.
“Pretty Woman is as Pretty Woman does,” came from Dorothy’s lips in a slight drawl. She loosened all but one of the front hooks of her bra, and unbuttoned more of her blouse buttons before adding expensive perfume, hoping the stubble on her legs wouldn’t be noticed.
Thrush Tavern, east by the river, was tonight’s bar. She’d had luck meeting men there, few women came inside from the patio. Once parked under the wilder trees by the river, Dorothy made one more change for the evening and put on very high heels and walked carefully inside. She wobbled to the bar and ordered.
Dorothy watched the crowd, drinking her first drink. She made eye contact and leaned forward to catch attention from men streaming in after their workday.
She ordered another drink, spreading her knees a little and looking at different men. Dorothy finally ate some hot wings with precise cleanliness.
Darryl came over to chat and he slid his fingers under her skirt-hem. His shirt was finer than Michael’s had been and he smelled good.
Dorothy said nothing when he moved even closer, but couldn’t repress a start at his squeeze. “Not here, darlin,’ I’m a good girl.”
“Wanna be my gal, I decide.”
Running her hand up his arm to his shoulder, she agreed, “Anything, I’m an old-fashioned gal. You are a handsome stud. We can make beautiful babies together.”
“Stop chattering at me, I’ll show you happy.” His grin was triumphant. He pulled her to her feet and she stumbled, outside to the bushes away from the tavern and next to the water. He forced her to her hands and knees, his greater weight a strain on her skinny limbs his hand blocking her mouth. “Damn, you got thick stubble, bitch…”
She bit him hard as he started.
Soon he finished and fell over.
Paralyzed, Darryl looked up.
She smiled, her mandibles showing now. “Beautiful babies. But Mama doesn’t need a father anymore, babies need dinner.”
=== …for the season. 😀
Nice! Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.