An Agent's Inbox #10

Dear Agent:

Fifteen-year-old Samantha Young has nowhere to go when her father, a Chinaman, perishes in a blaze that consumes their dry goods store and leaves her an orphan. So when the richest man in St. Joseph, Missouri, offers her lodging in his hotel, she takes it. Only it’s not a hotel, it’s a brothel.

When he attempts to test out the goods, she bashes him with a scrubbing brush. Now she faces the noose. The law in 1849 will not side with a Chinese girl, even if she killed in self-defense.

She flees west with Annamae, a runaway slave. They disguise themselves as young men and join a trio of cowboys bound for the California gold rush.

Samantha’s father died before explaining why he gave his westward-bound business partner her mother’s jade bracelet. If Samantha can keep up the boy act, not easy for the demure and somewhat squeamish violinist, she might avoid capture long enough recover the only thing that remains of her family. Maybe even discover why her Father wanted to move them out to barren California. But when she falls in love with one of the cowboys, the act begins to crumble.

GOLDEN BOYS is an 80,000 word historical YA novel that follows Samantha’s journey from girl to adult (with a stint as a boy) through the frontier of a changing society.

Sincerely,
S.L.


GOLDEN BOYS

They say death aims only once and never misses, but I doubt Ty Yorkshire thought it would strike with a scrubbing brush. Now his face wears the mask of surprise that sometimes appears at the end: his eyes bulge like quail eggs, his mouth curves around a profanity.

The brush is fused to my hand and I shake it several times before it drops. It clatters beside the dead man’s head.

I shiver in my nakedness and notice the blood speckling my arm. Reality begins to smother me as the grandfather clock tolls ten. Does killing a man who tries to assault me count as murder? For me, it probably does.

The law in Missouri, in 1849, does not side with a Chinaman’s daughter, even if my Father died in a fire just this afternoon...

9 a.m. I strap my violin across my back then heft the pink conch shell, the one from the curiosity shop in New York. Father listens to it every night so he can hear the Pacific Ocean. I set it back down harder than I should.

I pass through our tiny living space to the shop in front. Father’s cutting fat quarters from the calico, his scissors snipping in precise increments.

The wood floor creaks as I sweep by the sacks of coffee and tea stamped with the word “Whistle.” Father does not look up from his work. When I reach the wooden spoons, he says, “Don’t forget your shawl.”

I slow and consider going without so I don’t ruin my exit. But it wouldn’t be proper.