Title Prairie Cinderella
Author Joan Koster
Genre Biographical Historical Fiction
Publisher Tidal Waters Press
Book Blurb
SHE IS GOING TO BE THE GREATEST SCULPTRESS Of THE GILDED AGE
Spirited Vinnie Ream might have been driven from her prairie home to the political hotbed of Washington City by the outbreak of the Civil War. But despite her plainspoken ways and western twang, she’s a survivor, and nothing will stop her from pursuing her art in a world dominated by men.
UNTIL DISASTER STRIKES
But on the cusp of success, all her dreams come tumbling down. With her family destitute and her sister threatened, she does the unthinkable. Can she claw her way back to the top or will she go down in history as a failure?
A biographical historical novel about the power of family ties, the pursuit of fame, and the pain of unrequited love, based on the life of 19th century American sculptor, Vinnie Ream Hoxie.
All proceeds donated to the Freedom to Read Foundation.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
MAY 1861
Fort Smith, Arkansas
Fort Smith is the hottest it’s ever been, but the oppressive air doesn’t stop my feet from churning up the dirt and pebbles. I can’t believe what I’ve heard.
I kick harder as if mere feet could stomp the coming disaster deep into the earth. Sweat pours down my neck and gathers in my armpits. My cotton dress tangles around my legs. My hair tumbles from the pins Mary inserted so carefully this morning. I stick to the shady side of the road. It helps little. Nothing will cool the burning betrayal inside me.
It is only half-a-mile from Pa’s real estate office to the boarding house. It feels like a thousand.
I arrive out of breath and in an unlady-like disarray, sure to set Ma’s tongue to lashing. I don’t care. My world is crashing down around me.
Ma is hanging the wash in the yard like it’s an ordinary day. Sheets drip on the dry dirt. Chickens scratch for bugs. The sun beats down.
I skid to a halt in front of her. “We’re leaving Fort Smith?” I see by the pinch in her lip that it’s true.
My mother wipes her hands on her apron and uses the sweet-talking tone I can’t abide, the one that works so well on Pa. “Calm yourself. You’re sixteen, not a child. Arkansas has seceded from the Union. There’s going to be a war.”
All my hot fury flames out. “But why all the way to Washington City? Going there is what you want, not Pa. He loves the wild prairie. You’re the one who hates it here. You just want to wear fashionable clothes and hobnob with politicians’ wives.”
Ma swipes the hair off her sweaty brow, her sun-crinkled face sufficient reproof against my accusation. “My days of being a fine lady are long gone, child. Not that I ever was one. Society ladies don’t raise three children in a log cabin on the edge of the wilderness with a husband off exploring uncharted territory.” She casts me a smile that hides all sorts of truths. “We are leaving because we can’t stay here, Vinnie. Your pa’s ill. He’s been promised a position in the War Department—a desk job. He can’t ride all day in the saddle, doing government land surveys anymore.”
There’s truth in what she says, but not enough to cool my anger. “Why didn’t you tell me? I had to hear it from the shoeshine boy.”
Ma hangs up another sheet. “We knew you’d react like this—totally unreasonable.”
I stop bouncing my foot and straighten my posture. “Can’t Bobbie do the mapping for Pa?”
“Your brother has no hankering for it, and you know it. He’d rather challenge his Cherokee buddies to a horse race or sit listening to the tribal elders’ stories.”
I pull a wet sheet from the basket and throw it over the line. “Fine, I’ll do the surveys and say Bob did them.”
Ma wags her finger at me. “That there notion is another reason we are going to the Washington . Lord knows I’ve tried to wipe the tomboy out of you. Look at you. I sacrificed my savings to send you and Mary to that female academy. Lied about your age so you could acquire some social graces. What would Major Rollins say if he saw you looking like some country bumpkin? You’ve been raised to be a well-behaved young lady. You’re not one of these native savages.”
My heart does a little twist—not all the natives are savages. There is one . . . but that is an argument for another time.
I clench my fists, gather all my resentment, and spew it out. “I won’t go. You can’t make me. Not now. Not ever. I need space. I need air. I need to be with my friends.”
“What you need is exposure to polite society where your singing and art are appreciated, not wasted on the local bucks, nosing around after you girls. Just think. You and Mary will have a chance to marry fine gentlemen.”
“Mary, maybe. Not me.”
Ma’s chin juts out. “Of course you will marry, Vinnie.”
“I will never marry a snooty Easterner. Never.” I spin around and race to the paddock, whistle for my calico pony, leap onto his bare back, and dash to the gate. Our old coon hound, Thunder, expects a lark and runs after us, ears flapping, his once strong bay, a low grumble. I slow and wait for the old guy to catch up.
Ma shouts after me, “Miss Lavinia Ellen Ream. You get back here right quick. I swore you were too old at sixteen to switch. I see I was wrong.”
No longer listening, I spur my pony down the lane, fleeing to my secret place, far from scolding mothers and impending doom.
In minutes, the last of the town’s buildings lie behind. I lengthen the reins and give my pony his head. Racer needs little guidance. He knows the way.
We cross the wagon train tracks, head into the rolling hills, and follow the familiar deer path down to the Arkansas River’s edge. My bower lies mere inches from the lapping current, the lower leaves mud-stained from the spring floods.
I tether Racer and crawl under the fronds. It’s cooler here. My dress is already filthy, so I plop down on the muddy bank, yank off my boots and stockings, then trail my feet in the cool shallows.
Thunder arrives, panting, and settles into the damp earth beside me. Running my hand down his neck, I pinch off stray burrs. For years, he was Pa’s faithful companion, trekking behind him as he crisscrossed the unknown western lands, fording rivers, sleeping rough, parleying with the Indians, and putting Iowa and Kansas on the map. I pat his head. The old hound’s frontier-stomping days are long over. Soon, mine and Pa’s will be, too.
I scoop up a handful of river clay, roll it in my palm, then smash it flat again and again. I refuse to be uprooted from the prairie I love and taken to the most corrupt city in the land.
With my fingers, I reshape the clay into a ball, work in eye sockets, a strong nose, and broad lips then using my fingernail, I etch in his long, flowing hair. Cornelius Boudinot—the handsomest and smartest man I know—my sister Mary’s heartthrob.
I set the sculpture down and gaze up at the sky. Poor Mary. What must she be feeling, having to leave him behind? If Boudy were mine, nothing would stop me from staying here with him—if he were to ask.
But he hasn’t asked.
I shake my head. And if he did, I’d have to refuse. He can’t be mine. He’s Mary’s. He’s been courting her for months and months. And I would never hurt my sister. I love her too much.
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Special Giveaway:
I will give away e-copies of Prairie Cinderella to three readers, drawn at random, who sign up for my newsletter Historical Tidbits in the month of February.
Author Biography
When she is not writing in her studio by the sea, Joan Koster lives an 1860s farmhouse stacked to the ceiling with books. In a life full of adventures, she has scaled mountains, chased sheep, and been abandoned on an island for longer than she wants to remember.
An ethnographer, educator, and award-winning author who loves mentoring writers, Joan blends her love of history and romance into eye-opening historical novels about women who shouldn’t be forgotten and into romantic thrillers under the pen name, Zara West. She is the author of the award-winning romantic suspense series, The Skin Quartet and the top-selling Write for Success series.
Joan blogs about women who should be remembered at JoanKoster.com, about everyday life during the Civil War at American Civil War Voice, about romance at Zara West Romance, about writing at Zara West’s Journal and teaches numerous online writing courses.
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