The concept of Land of Hills and Valleys, a murder mystery set in 1930s Wyoming, goes back to 2009, when I won that year’s NaNoWriMo with 50,000 words of an incomplete version under a different title. That original version was so juvenile that it’s embarrassing to even look at my early notes now, but I always did feel there was a germ of something good in the mystery plot. Over the ensuing years I re-outlined it several times, added some twists to the plot and even changed the culprit more than once, but never got it any further off the ground than that. Something was just lacking.

Then, last summer, I had a moment of inspiration—to try writing it in the first person. I totally scrapped the early drafts and started from scratch again, and found that the new narration not only worked, it gave the story the spark of life it had been missing. Now it’s a bit like a Mary Stewart romantic-suspense novel meets the setting and mood of Mary O’Hara’s My Friend Flicka.

I’ve reached the halfway point of my rough draft, which seemed like a good time to share a few snippets. Here’s a sampling, all from the first half of the book:

We turned into a stretch of woods, on ground rising to the north—first a fairylike grove of wind-rustled aspens, and then higher up as the rocks broke more and more from the moss-carpeted soil, dark, close-ranked, rich-scented pines, their gnarled roots crawling over and winding between the blocks of granite. I held unashamedly to the saddle horn as our horses climbed, and ducked the prickly evergreen branches that swept across the narrow trail we followed.

*

I said nothing, but pressed my lips in a straight line and fixed my eyes on the third button of his frayed denim coat. I’d said I wasn’t a little girl, but I felt like an obstinate child whose only weapon is silence.

Sutherland’s harsh laugh grated on my very skin. “Have it your way, Lena. I’ll be seeing you.”

*

My door had a lock that could be turned from inside, but it was stiff and creaky and I wasn’t even sure I could make it turn all the way. Even if I could, it would make more noise than anything in the house. I stood there in my nightgown with my ear close to the crack of the door, cold toes curled on the bare floor.

*

We trailed at a leisurely pace past shorn hayfields, swaying goldenrod with mottled leaves shedding a mellow spicy scent in the sunshine, and occasional wind-whipped cottonwoods beginning to scatter their leaves. There was next to no traffic on the dirt roads—only twice did we meet an automobile churning through the dust, which honked and slowed as the boys parted the cattle and then nosed its way slowly through the herd. I waved to the drivers as they picked up speed again on the other side, and the plodding Herefords closed over the road again like a slow-moving Red Sea.

*

She must have seen I looked shocked, for she added more temperately, “Don’t think I’m excusing murder, because I’m not, by any means. Nor saying the truth ought to be buried. All I want to say is, there’s no need for you to waste your pity on him.”

*

The world turned upside-down and hit me hard, and I lay gasping for breath, flat on my back in the ditch with the cheery blue and white of sky and floating clouds high above me. I stared at the clouds and fought for breath, with a kind of incredulity.

*

There was a shoebox on the floor almost out of sight beneath the hem of the dress, and it it were a little embroidered purse with a broken clasp, a wide tortoiseshell comb such as girls used to put up their back hair in my mother’s day, and a couple of ribbons. It was almost more than I could bear. Why hadn’t he written? Why hadn’t he set things right between them, or at least tried?

 

Well, what do you think? Would you want to hear more of this story?