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This rich collection takes the reader from the muddy banks of the Mighty Mo to the gleaming glass and steel of the Sprint Center. The journey highlights memorable moments in our river city's intriguing history, beginning as a trading settlement in 1821. Written by local authors, this anthology covers 20 decades that reflect not just the story of a city, but also the story of America.
I loved researching Kansas City and discovering historical gems and seeing what different writers touched on in their stories. This was a collaborative project with local authors who are writing buddies, friends, and mentors. Contributors include USA Today bestselling authors and several authors who are experiencing the thrill of debuting their first published works.
Bobbie (Sunny) Cole, E. E. Burke, Cheryl Rabin, Laura Stapleton, Michelle Grey, Gwen Duzenberry, Madonna Bock, Amy Harden, Darlene Nicholson, D. L. Rogers, Sally Berneathy, Alfie Thompson, G. A. Edwards, Diana Day-Admire
Find out more about the book here, along with purchase links:
www.midwestromancewriters.com/home/kansas-city-story/
History Inspired
My two stories, which cover two tumultuous decades, are inspired by actual events and historical figures. The Songbird -- set 1863 -- is based on an old newspaper article about an imprisoned singer and a conflicted officer. The Orphan and The Outlaw sees the James/Younger robbery at the Kansas City Exposition in 1872 through the eyes of an orphaned newspaper boy where his chance meeting with an outlaw leads to an unexpected outcome.
Here's an excerpt from The Songbird (1860s)
September 1863, City of Kansas, Union Hotel
Alice Nash put her shoulder against the window frame and tugged with all her might. She’d picked away at the layers of paint until the window sash moved a little. With great effort, she inched it upward. At last a breeze swept in.
On the street three stories below, bluecoats were stationed in front of the hotel and on every corner she could see. If she tried escaping by this route, she’d either be shot or fall to her death which was probably the only reason the window hadn’t been nailed shut.
She straightened and wiped away the perspiration inching down her temple.
It took more ingenuity to get to an itch beneath her bosom. She loosened the strings of her corset and scratched.
Ahhh.
Mama would have a conniption fit if she were here. Thank God, she wasn’t.
She’d been locked in this hot room for three unbearable weeks. She could expire from the heat or strip down to her unmentionables.
Propriety wouldn’t keep her alive.
At least with the window open she had fresh air and a place to sit other than on a smelly cot, the only thing the Yankees had left besides the chamber pot.
She had nothing to read to pass the time, not even an old newspaper.
Her only human contact was with a wizened black cook who acted too scared to speak when she delivered a thin soup once a day. Did the Federals plan to starve her or kill her with boredom?
She’d been charged with treason for nothing more than being loyal to her family. From what little she could find out, a military tribunal would decide her fate.
No justice could be expected from that court.
She swallowed a tight wad of tears. She had only one way to fight this boredom and despair. Thank God the Federals couldn’t confiscate her vocal chords.
Alice leaned against the window frame and began to sing.
“We loved each other then, Lorena, more than we ever dared to tell; and what we might have been, Lorena, had but our loving prospered well….”
The melancholy ballad suited her mood.
Once she’d sung for audiences who’d cheered her. Now she sang to the blue sky and drifting clouds. Singing gave her joy. It was, in a sense, her only way to escape.
The lock clicked.
Alice leapt to her feet and crossed her arms over her exposed chest as the door swung open.
When a soldier stepped inside, she flushed with mortification.
The man’s eyes went wide, registering surprise. Then he performed an immediate about-face. “Beg pardon, miss, I didn’t realize you’d be—
“What did you expect? That I’d be sitting in here knitting to pass the time or lounging, fully dressed, awaiting your pleasure?”
“Miss Nash, forgive me for intruding on your privacy.” The Yankee’s low, smooth baritone seemed intended to be comforting. But she couldn’t help notice he was the only other person in the room, and he’d shut the door.
“I have no privacy here.” She snatched up her satin skirt from across the bed, pulled it over her head and tied it around her waist then fumbled with her jacket. Her hands shook as she did up the buttons.
She was at this man’s mercy. Who would come to her aid if she screamed? Another of his kind?
The intruder stood with his back to her, holding his head and shoulders erect. The auburn hair curling softly from beneath his hat over his collar made him appear youthful and rakish. His dark blue officer’s jacket and light blue trousers hung on his lanky frame. He might’ve filled out the uniform at one time. He still cut an intimidating figure.
Many of the officers stationed in the City of Kansas lived at the Union Hotel. She assumed he was one of them. Seeing as she’d had no contact with him before now, she could only assume why he’d come to her room. Her assumption didn’t provide the slightest reassurance.
“I am…” She refused to say decent. That would imply she had acted improperly, not him. “I am covered.”
When he turned around, she caught her breath with surprise. Handsome wasn’t exactly the right word. Compelling came closer. With his prominent brow, sharp features and golden-brown eyes, he reminded her of the red-tailed hawks that hunted over her family’s fields.
She remained as still and alert as a mouse when a predator’s winged shadow crossed its path. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
“Lieutenant Cyrus Leyton.” The officer removed his hat and smoothed his hand over his hair, the only thing about him that appeared soft. His keen gaze shifted to the open window behind her. “I hope you aren’t considering exiting that way.”
“If so, I’d need wings.”
“You sing beautifully. It’s easy to imagine that you might turn into a songbird and fly away.”
Flattery. Did he think that would gain her trust? He would be sorely disappointed.
“If only it were that easy, I would be long gone, soaring over you and your comrades, and I’d leave a reminder of my presence not quite as pleasant as a song.”
His fleeting smile told her he’d understood her meaning.
She released her breath slowly. He hadn’t taken offense at the suggestion she’d like to poop on his head. But he still hadn’t stated his purpose in visiting her. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. “Are you here to tell me singing is now a crime?”
“Never. Music is one of the few things we all can agree on.” His ardent assertion plucked some sympathetic string on her heart.
Her mind conjured an image of the lieutenant squatted beside a fire in the dead of night, listening to strains of music drifting from a camp somewhere out in the darkness beyond his line of vision. The sounds might stir a sense of kinship with men he would kill the next day.
Alice turned away, momentarily overcome. She went to the window and looked out at the bright blue sky which defied the drab, dirty, divided town below. Her heart ached for more than freedom. She yearned for peace.
Here's an excerpt from The Orphan and The Outlaw (1870s):
Three men on horseback rode full-tilt into the fairgrounds, waving handguns in the air. Fire and smoke spewed from the barrels, accompanied by more loud bangs. Their faces were covered with dark bandanas and only the shadows of their eyes were visible beneath broad-brimmed hats.
All over Kansas City, men carried guns. But none would fire them off in a crowded fair. Well, maybe drunk cowboys.
“Clear out,” one of the men shouted. He shot his gun into the air again to make his point. He immediately replaced that gun with another pistol from one of two gun belts crisscrossing his buttoned-up jacket.
Nope, he wasn’t no rowdy cowboy. An outlaw, maybe.
The mounted attackers rode right up in front of Bran.
Two ladies nearby hiked their full skirts and ran away screaming. One of the farmers grabbed a little girl, tucked her under his arm and skedaddled. Bran couldn’t make his feet move to follow the others and no one dragged him out of the way.
The riders reined in their horses. One of the black beasts snorted and flung white spittle into the air. The closest gunman leaped to the ground, dropped the reins and marched to the ticket booth where the old gent, Mr. White, who looked as pale as his name, clutched the metal box to his chest.
“Give me the money. Now.” The outlaw pointed his gun at Mr. White’s face.
Bran’s stomach shrank to the size of a peach pit. Was he about a witness a murder?
The older gentlemen’s mouth moved but no sound came out. He handed over the box. “H-here,” he stammered. “That’s all there is.”
Cradling the moneybox, the robber swept off his hat and executed a cocky bow. “My thanks to you, sir. We’ll put it to good use.”
He tucked his pistol into his belt and went for his horse. It seemed that he flew into the saddle, he moved so fast.
The other two men waited, guns at the ready, scanning the crowd. With narrowed eyes, they dared anyone who might take a notion to challenge them.
Bran glanced around. Nobody was up to the task. Most of the spectators had run or were rooted to the spot, too scared to move. Like him.
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| Cole Younger |
When one of the horses danced in Bran’s direction, he grabbed the leather pouch tucked beneath his shirt. His heart fluttered like cotton drawers on a clothesline. Would this other robber demand his bag of pennies?
The man’s eyes, visible above the bandana, were clear as a blue sky and twinkled with mirth. “This ought to give your editor something to write about,” he drawled. “Tell him this: The knights ride for Camelot.”
Bran had no idea what the man meant, but he knew for certain the robbery was a bigger story than the fair. After this, nobody would care about schedules or events. He couldn’t give away these papers, unless…
He gripped the remaining sheets in a shaking hand and held up them up. “Want to buy my last three newspapers, mister?”
The man’s eyes registered surprise before they squinted with amusement, deepening the pale lines on either side. “This pup has more grit than any of these mongrels,” he remarked to his companions. “Sure, I’ll buy your newspapers.”
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Proceeds from Kansas City Story will go to Midwest Romance Writers, Inc., a non-profit organization of writers helping other writers.
Kansas City has a fascinating history and I love sharing my hometown with the world. Is there something about your hometown you find particularly interesting or unusual?
Enter the drawing and leave a comment to be entered into a drawing for the eBook Kansas City Story.
I enjoy historical stories and anthologies. Not very familiar with Kansas City. Would love to be included in the drawing. Avid reader and reviewer. Retired American Lit teacher.
ReplyDeletenot really
ReplyDeleteThis was a great anthology to write for. So much amazing talent in one book. I'm grateful they let me participate. <3
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