Tell you about me, huh? Fortunately, most of you will be reading this directly on my website, so it will be easy to figure out. :-D I don't even need to include links to my other books, because they are around here somewhere, depending on the device you are using to view this.

I have been writing since the fifth grade. I still have the quick, two-page, hand-written story that my teacher picked out as the best and helped me think, "Maybe I got what it takes." I pull it out every once in a while when I am doing a presentation to my son's class to show them that even though their stories right now may not be the best, if writing is what they want to do -- even if it is hard, and it is still hard for me -- they can take what they are learning now and use it later in life.

I have seven novels for all ages and three story prompt books. Four of the books are collaborations with my son, the other six are completely mine. Right now, my time is mostly taken up by our Story Prompts for Kids books. I want to have all 10 out by my birthday in April so we can do a "boxed set" for Teacher Appreciation Week.

Buffy's best friend is Red, a member of the Umatilla tribe. Agent Jiro asks her at the beginning of their relationship, "Isn't calling [a member of a Native American tribe] Red offensive?" Buffy explains that her name in Sahaptin, the language of the Umtilla, means "Red Hawk." Since "Red" is much easier to pronounce than her actual name, Buffy and other friends are able to shorten her name.

Red is feisty. She takes great pride in making people try to pronounce her Sahaptin name, especially the ignorant white folks who come to Wild Horse Casino for their gambling fix. She is about ten years older than Buffy, and a cousin of Buffy's late husband, but that hasn't hurt their friendship. Red was the first that Buffy called when the urn containing her husband's ashes was dropped off at her doorstep, and Red was the one who inserted Buffy into the investigation of a suspicious death on the Reservation.

A week after the flood crested, the river had receded enough to begin cleaning up. All of the men of the village and quite a few of the women collected the fallen trees and branches—most of which would be put to use in fires and repairing buildings damaged in the rain. Stones were collected to begin rebuilding the mill and bridge across the small river. The now-slow-moving current allowed anyone to swim across, and in places even wade through, helping the villagers reconnect with their friends and family on the other side of the river.

For Isabel, though, life was the same as ever. She and 3-year-old Sophia were busy every day in the neighboring forest collecting food to supplement Edmund’s income. Everything their father made went to the local alehouse keeper, so Isabel did what she could to supplement the family’s income, selling the eggs and fish she and Sophia collected that they didn’t need to feed the family of five. If she had wanted to, Isabel could have called all of the fish in the river and driven them into town to sell, and was tempted to do just every once in a while. She knew, however, that would not help her convince her uncle she was not a witch.

That week after the flood, Isabel and Sophia spent more time in the forest than usual, trying to stay away from the public eye. One of these days, she knew, Peter would begin telling everyone what he had seen her do, and then her life would be forfeit. She only prayed that she would have enough foreknowledge to be able to flee the village before her uncle came to collect her.

Isabel and Sophia were returning to the village one late afternoon with a collection of fish, eggs, herbs, and other assorted foodstuffs when a stranger stepped out of the underbrush onto the path in front of them.

Peter.

Isabel pushed her little sister behind her and stood ready to defend her little sister if necessary.

“What do you want?” she asked, perhaps a little more harshly than she had intended.

“To thank you for saving my sister,” Peter said, his brown eyes locked on hers. There was an emotion there that Isabel could not read.

“I… I do not know what you are talking about,” Isabel stammered.

“Do not worry,” he said, holding up his hand. “I simply wanted to assure you that I will not tell anyone about what you did and Mary is still too emotional to remember much. Your secret is safe.”

Isabel had no idea how to take this new information. Why would the badger’s boy, who did the odd jobs around the village his father refused to, help her in any way? Especially after what happened between their families.

Peter and Mary’s father had once sold her father a few rare supplies he needed to finish a dress for a noblewoman, but then claimed to the magisters that the tailor shortchanged him. The local solicitor and mayor heard the case and ruled in the favor of Isabel’s father, and the badger had never let anyone forget it. After a time, the badger was told to stay only on his side of the river, and was never to return to Isabel’s side.

“Why?” was the only thing she could think to ask. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you even asking? You saved my sister’s life,” Peter said, taking a hesitant step toward her. “You are amazing.”

Isabel looked over her shoulder at Sophia, who was looking up at her with wide, fear-filled eyes the same color as their mother’s had been.

“We should get back home. Edmund will be worried if we tarry too long.”

Peter smiled widely and for some reason Isabel felt her heart leap at the sight. “That is why I am here. Your brother has hired me to be his caddie. He told me to come find you and bring you home.”

“You?” Isabel asked. The thought of being reminded day in and day out that her life was forfeit if she, or now Edmund, did anything against this boy filled her with dread. However, she had learned to trust Edmund’s decisions in the past three years, and if this was his decision, she would have to live with it.

“We will be able to see a lot more of each other,” Peter said. “I do hope we can become good friends.”

Isabel looked at him strangely. Why would this boy—knowing what she was—want to have anything to do with her? While they rarely saw the badger himself in Mass, Peter always made sure that his younger siblings were in every Mass unless they were practically dying of the plague. Why would such a righteous person want anything to do with someone as “touched by Satan,” as her uncle always put it, as her?

Shaking her head, she allowed Peter to lead the way home. Whatever the reason, they were not able to discuss it with Sophia around. Maybe one day, they would find themselves alone somewhere where they could speak freely.


Photo credit: James Allan