Introduction
Everyone I speak to about the books is fascinated by the background of this mystery cowboy Silas Lopez. Nobody explains it better than Silas himself, so I am sharing an excerpt from book one, The Washashore, in which Wren Bradfrord manages to draw a bit of backstory out of Silas.
Excerpt, The Washashore, Chapter 58
“Your turn. Tell me something about you, Silas Lopez.”
“Not much to tell.”
“Start with the name.”
“Can do that. Grandfather was a near-giant named Silas. Lopez is my mother’s family name.”
When he offered nothing more, she smiled. “And? That’s a start . . .”
Guess we’re not off the hook yet.
He reflected before continuing, “Old family too. Around Cortez, Colorado. Spanish colonists. Roughly same period as your kin—mine were 1590s. Originally settled in Santa Fe. Taos later. Did badly by the Pueblo people.”
She winced slightly. Waited him out.
“Eventually, some settled north, into what’s now Colorado. My people were among them.”
“Fascinating. This is your mother’s family?”
“Yes. Spanish.”
“Who was your father?”
He shrugged. “Never met him.”
“You never met your dad?” she asked, visibly surprised. She pinched a full and freckled upper lip with two fingers, thinking it over. “In a million years, I would never have guessed you grew up without a fatherly role model.”
“Uncles. Cousins. Other ranch hands . . .” He shrugged. “Grew up around men.”
“So, who was he, this father?”
“White. Also a mountain of a man. Descended from prospectors, exploiters. My mother’s family land probably caught his eye. Back in the day, land was prized for prospecting. Now, it’s grazing, water rights, other mineral rights.”
“So, your mom still owns land out there?”
“Good chunk of the original holdings. Still owns about one hundred twenty thousand acres or so. Scrubland. Grassland. Some stands of pinyon. Few year-round creeks, two with native cutthroat trout. She supports herself and pays the taxes with grazing fees, gas leases, some water rights. Also, a wireless company put a rig on the ridgeline. Wind developers probably next.”
“Wow. I bet it’s beautiful,” she said.
Silas nodded with a faraway look. “It’s what I know.”
“Can I ask what happened with your father?”
He shrugged, unable to wrestle the contempt out of his face. “One of many deadbeats she couldn’t say no to. Heard she was pregnant and vanished. Never saw him again.”
“I’m sorry,” Wren said, momentarily placing her hand on his.
“Don’t be. She’s proud. Gave me her family name—Lopez—on the birth certificate.” He looked off. “But she was also sentimental. Gave me his father’s first name, Silas.” Not used to talking this much about myself, but notice things’ve been different lately. She draws me out.
Looking through the cottage’s wavy old single-pane glass, he could see even the last traces of evening light had faded.
She let the quiet stretch, left him alone with the weight of it. Then stood and uncorked a wine bottle by the white porcelain sink. She came back with two jelly jars, setting them on the battered wicker coffee table.
He looked at the garnet liquid. “Don’t know ’bout wine,” he said.
“Don’t know if you want any?” she asked, clarifying.
“Don’t mind a sip. Sayin’ don’t know good from bad.”
“Me, neither,” she said with a laugh of relief. “And you know what—who cares? I know what I like. They call this table wine, and I think it’s decent.”
Silas sipped, nodding his agreement. “Yep.”
“So, your mom never married?” Wren went on, not letting it go. “By choice?”
“Choice? Huh! I guess.”
She tilted her head, both reddish-blonde brows rising.
“Seemed like all she had to choose from were bad guys,” he said. “Bad guys you wouldn’t wanna marry. Lookin’ to take, not to give. Certainly not to commit.”
Echoes of distant pain were evident in his tone, despite his best efforts. Perhaps sensing them, Wren changed the subject. “What’s she like?”
He watched the candlelight flickering in its storm glass on the table, eyes soft with memories.
“People say she’s beautiful . . .”
“What do you say?”
“I’d allow people are right about that. Tough as sagebrush too. Raised me single-handedly.”
“What was your childhood like?”
“On horseback, mainly. From earliest I can remember.”
“You and your mom would ride?”
“Yes. I always rode a pinto—a painted pony. They’ve got large spots of white against color—maybe that’s why I like spotted dogs,” he said, smiling.
“Did she teach you to work with horses?”
“She was good with them, sure. But I don’t recall lessons. I can’t recall a time I didn’t already know how to ride. Grew up that way. It was second nature to me. Guess I probably know horses better than people.”
If you are interested in ordering The Washashore you can find it at—or order it from— these local bookstores:
Wellesley Books (Wellesley, MA), The Bookshop of Needham (Needham, MA), Provincetown Bookshop (Provincetown, MA) and Elm Street Books (New Canaan, CT)
Or if you want the convenience and speed of online, but still want to support local bookstores, grab The Washashore through Bookshop.org!
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