Summary:
Sometimes a man’s biggest blunder can turn into his greatest triumph.
Orphaned at fourteen, Crow Poulin now has to hunt and trap the White Mountains of Arizona, as his father had taught him, all alone. It’s a lonely existence, until one morning, while checking his trap line, Crow finds more than a rabbit in a snare. He stumbles across the outlaw Jack Wittington lying half dead in the wilds. He takes the wanted man in, heals him, and in return for saving his life, the smooth-talking criminal invites Crow to join his family. Starved for human interaction and a father figure, Crow leaves the mountains behind for what he assumes will be a brighter future.
Six years pass. Crow is now a man, as well as a member of the Wittington Gang. He may be considered an outlaw, but his father’s morals are warring loudly with the lifestyle of his adopted family. When the gang decides to rob a train, Crow has no choice but to go along to keep a tight rein on the more bloodthirsty members. It doesn’t take long for the scheme to go horribly astray.
Instead of gold-filled coffers, the gang finds Spencer Haughton, son of cattle baron and railroad tycoon Woodford Haughton, cowering in the family’s opulent private car. The outlaws grab the sickly heir in hopes of ransoming him off. Things then go from bad to worse for them when the law rides down on the Wittington hideout and Crow is given Spencer to hide until the ransom is paid. The pretty young man is nothing at all like anyone Crow has ever met before. Delicate, refined, well-educated, and possessed of a singing voice to rival the songs of the birds in the trees, Crow slowly finds himself falling for the winsome rich boy. But can two such opposite souls find the love they’re both seeking in each other’s arms?
Historical, western, romance . . . what else is there?
When I started The Ballad of Crow & Sparrow I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew it would be good and that I would walk away entertained because it was written by VL Locey. I've loved her co-authored work with RJ Scott and loved the few solo stories of her's that I've also read but none were historical. No worries because this story was beautifully written. I loved the balance of accuracy and fiction, it was the little elements that really suck you into the era, you know she did her research but she also isn't delivering a history lesson. Entertainment all the way.
As for Crow & Sparrow, love the names by the way, I won't go into too much detail as I don't want to give anything away. I'll say this, their meeting is not what I would call a "cute meet", honestly it's fraught with tension and "never gonna happen" atmosphere but right away you know it's definitely gonna happen all the same. Balancing that tension and danger with romance can be risky but Locey not only pulls it off, she knocks it out of the park.
If you don't usually read historicals I still highly recommend reading The Ballad of Crow & Sparrow. The blending of friendship and danger, strength and discovery, romance and feuding brings to life a really great read that will entertain from beginning to end.
Prologue
White Mountains, Arizona
Fall 1879
“…Et ne nous soumets pas à la tentation, mais délivre-nous du mal, car c'est à toi qu'appartiennent le règne, la puissance et la gloire, pour les siècles des siècles. Amen.”
I knelt beside the grave, the freshly dug dirt ripe and pungent in my snotty nose and let the final words of Papa’s favorite prayer drift off on the cold wind. My back, arms, and legs ached as deeply as my heart. Staring at the mound of dirt over Papa, I felt drained. Digging the hole had taken me days, for the ground still had frost in it and I was weak from my own battle with the sickness that had claimed Papa.
The pox had sickened me badly, but I had survived with only a few scars. Papa had not been so lucky. After nursing me back from a sure death, he had fallen ill. I tried my best to heal him, as he had me, but I was wobbly as a new fawn, sickly, and sleepy. I missed several cool water sponges for him, and the herbal tea he had forced into me to combat the fever were also missed, due to my falling asleep by his bed.
“Forgive me, Papa. I failed you,” I coughed, patting the cold dirt with a blistered hand. Gin whimpered at my side. I petted her soft head. Papa had traded one of his prized bottles of gin for this dog. A gift for my fourteenth birthday. She was young still but possessed of great intelligence and obedient. Much more so than my father’s horse, Wind, who was whinnying at me to come feed him. He did not understand that I still had lines to check or a father to mourn. All he knew was that he was hungry. Sometimes, I envy animals. They did not have to mourn the dead or worry for the future. All they needed to do was what was asked of them. “I did not keep death from you as you did for me.”
A wail of anguish washed over me, and I fell forward to the cold, cold ground and wept until darkness settled on the mountain. Wind had given up asking for his hay. Gin tugged on my sleeve when snow began to fall, and somehow the dog got me up and pulled me from the grave under the gnarled oak. I glanced back at the cross I had made, and felt a great loneliness settle inside me. Now I had no one save a horse and a dog. Mama had passed long ago, before I could get to know her face, and now Papa was gone.
I pulled off my damp coat and fur-lined boots and crawled into my bed. Papa’s bed and bedding had been burned yesterday, the flames leaping up into the wintry sky for hours. I fell into bed fully clothed, hungry beyond measure, but too grieved to eat. As I waited for sleep, I heard the words of my father in my head.
“You are a man now, Crow. You will do well. Be strong. Be pure of heart. Make me proud.”
I did not feel like a man. I felt like a fourteen-year-old boy who was terrified of what the mountain would do to him. Gin lay down beside the bed where Papa had said she must sleep, for dogs had fleas. With the fire blazing and my heart heavy, I whispered to my dog to join me under the covers, fleas be damned.
Spring, 1880
The wind woke me. It whirled and roared around the cabin, small slips of frigid air seeping through the cracks between the logs. I rolled to my side, facing the fireplace, and pulled the mound of furs up over my ear. Eyes and nose exposed, I lay in my bed, the wool and horsehair padding under me doing little to keep my side from the rough ropes supporting the mattress. Next summer, I’d have to make a new pad, maybe trade some furs for cotton or shoot more goose for down to plump my new bed. The fire in the hearth was low, just some glowing red coals. The tip of my nose grew cold quickly, so I burrowed deeper under the furs and old military blankets. New old blankets. When Papa had died, I had burned every blanket we had traded for from that passing travelling caravan then I had lit flame to his bed. The blankets had brought the pox into our cabin. The few round scars on my belly itched just to remind me of the horrors.
That summer seven months ago seemed like a different lifetime now. On days like this, when the snow was blowing and the traps sat waiting, I wished I had someone to share the work with. Papa or Mama—although I recall little of her—or someone else. A nice man. Pretty, young like me, with soft lips who would let me stay in the bed—our bed—and go ride the lines. That was my special wish. I discussed it with no one, not ever, because it was forbidden, according to Papa’s God. Since I had no knowledge of Mama’s gods, because Papa had said they were heathen gods and forbid me to speak of them, I didn’t know if the Mohawk felt as Papa did about sins and deviants. Perhaps all people hated men like me. I’d not known many people. Papa had distrusted most folk.
A yawn rose up. The wind blew and sparkling snow dust rode into the cabin on a sliver of morning sun. I had to get up. There were snares and traps to check. Papa had always been adamant about tending to the animals in the traps quickly.
“It is cruel to let a creature linger in pain,” he would tell me as we rode along the slopes, rivers, and ponds.
“Oui, Pére” I would reply.
Papa favored agreement. He was a harsh man, but spoke two languages, French and English, which he taught me. He could read well and tried to teach me many times. I grew to hate those nights bent over his worn Bible, trying to make sense of the letters and sounds he said they should make. The letters and words looked backward to me. Papa concluded that I was simply dim-witted when it came to reading and stopped trying to teach me. Still, though, I liked stories when others read them to me.
Perhaps I was dim-witted, but I knew the value of a fisher fur and how to track a deer through the summer woods. I could barter well but sang poorly. I knew prime pelts from poor ones, and my aim was sharp with a gun and a knife. Perhaps I wasn’t the smartest man, but I was clever and easy on the eyes, according to that whore I once met.
She had been riding with three men who had come to our cabin with pox-ridden blankets and other items to trade last summer. She showed me her wares, then got mad when I’d not give her money to fuck her. She threw a boot at me, and I had to run to avoid the other pink boot aimed at my head. Papa had beaten me badly for even looking at the woman, but I had never seen what a lady had under her skirts. I’d not been impressed. The men bathing in the creek were much more appealing, but that was, of course, a secret buried deeply inside.
A cold nose wiggled under the covers, wet and black it snuffled around in my hair, making me laugh softly and paw at the long snout.
“Dumb dog,” I chuckled, lifting the mound of furs to let Gin join me on the narrow bed. Papa would never have allowed such a thing, but this tiny cabin was mine now, and Gin was my only friend in the world, next to Wind, who was probably chewing on his stall in frustration.
The sandy-colored dog snuggled in close and sighed. I rubbed her belly for a while, but my conscience soon got the better of me and I had to get up. With Gin dancing around my feet, I leaped from worn woven rug to worn woven rug, the wooden floor as cold as Gin’s nose. I chucked some round pine logs into the fire, bending down low to blow on the embers until they ignited the sticky bark. Once the flames were leaping, I slid my feet into my moccasins, threw open the door and whined at the new snow that had piled up overnight. Gin sat beside me, whimpering at the sight as well. Then, my eyes found the beauty of the scenery. The mountains coated with white, the sagging boughs of the trees heavy with snow, the bright blue sky. I breathed in the cold air, admiring the land as Papa had before me. He would often say that God had given men the world to tame and tend, and so we must appreciate her beauty and treat her kindly.
“March is bad, but soon, April will come,” I said, scratching the top of Gin’s head between short, erect ears. “Go do your business and I will do mine.” She raced off into the snow. I pissed out the door and to the left. That would help keep the porcupines from gnawing on my home, according to my father. The path that I had wallowed down to the barn was now partly filled in. The cold air whipped over my cock. I shuddered, shook, tucked it back into my long johns, and whistled for my dog.
Gin raced inside, tongue lolling, and shook gobs of snow off. I threw up my arms to keep the icy cold fluff from hitting me in the face. I so wanted coffee, but there was no time to ready a pot and wait for it to perk over the fire, so Gin and I had some fish jerky and water for breakfast. Dressing was quick; buckskin pants over my long john bottoms, a thick wool sweater under a duster coat made of tough bison leather. It had been my father’s and now fit me reasonably well. I’d grown into it over the past few months. My boots were also leather, up to the knee with rabbit fur lining. Papa traded ten beaver pelts for them last summer and they were worth every fur we’d parted with. Leather gloves, a thick scarf knitted by my mother for my father, and a hat made from a red fox. The flaps covered my ears and could be tied tightly to keep it tight to my head. The fox’s tail hung down between my shoulders. Gin barked at the fox on my head, as she always did.
“He’s not going to bite me now,” I assured her, grabbed my Smith & Wesson from the kitchen table, stoked the fire well, and waded out into the cold. The mountains were already alive with bird song that the wind carried along with soft flakes of snow. Gin and I waded to the barn, then threw the door open. It was a small building, just big enough for two horses. I’d thought of getting a mule. I still wished for one, but I’d not be able to afford to feed two animals through the winter. Perhaps if the payout for furs was high this summer, I could find a cheap mule, but for now my Paint gelding Wind carried everything for me.
His ears were back when I walked to his stall. He flashed me some teeth when I reached out to pet him. Gin sat by the doors, tail wagging, ready to go because she knew breakfast—a real dog breakfast—was coming soon.
“Un tel visage de cheval laid,” I joked as Wind had a handsome horse face, not an ugly one. Wind nickered, tossing his head, brown mane flowing, to show me just how angry he was. “Come now, I am only a little late.”
The horse took a step, then two, and put his nose against my outstretched hand. I had been forgiven my laziness. I was then allowed to saddle the gelding and get on my way, rifle riding beside me, knife at my hip, Gin leading the way. The dog and the horse knew the trap line well. We rode up the base of the mountain, then across, lopping down along a small brook, then making a circle of the lake. This late in March, the furs were no longer quite at prime, many were already shaggy, but I was in no place to toss away lesser grade pelts. My food stores were low and the trip down to Sourwood to sell my furs was months away.
The snares always did well. Four fat rabbits were caught. One I threw to Gin, and she ran off to eat her meal while I reset the snare. Wind carried me along the brook, the edges of the running water iced but the middle flowing freely. Gin stopped to drink, as did Wind, and I sat there watching a bright red bird flit from tree to tree. The wind was strong, shaking the naked branches and fat pine boughs, whistling through deadfalls. Gin’s head shot up, water running from her jowls and off she went, barking madly. Wind stomped a foot, the shallow water splashing up over his fetlocks to his knees.
“Allez,” I said, giving the horse a soft nudge in the sides. He followed the barking dog, surefootedly picking his way along the snowy deer trail that Gin had streaked down. The dog had stopped running already, her frenzied barks coming from a thick swatch of blowdown trees to my left. I slid off my horse, tossed the reins to the ground, and grabbed my rifle from the leather scabbard that lay under the fender/stirrup. Then I began scrambling over dead trees coated with snow and ice. Perhaps she had treed something, or found a denned up bear or badger, neither of which I wanted my dog to tangle with.
I spied Gin and her quarry ahead and slowed my dangerous rush over the uprooted pines and aspens. She’d not winded a grizzly or a fat boar raccoon. No, she had found a man. He was pale as the snow and weakly swatting at Gin as she tugged on his pantleg.
“Stop,” I barked at the dog, and she dropped the man’s pantleg instantly, her lip still raised and the short golden fur on her back on edge. Such a scrapper, she was. Not knowing what kind of man I faced, I cradled my rifle in my arms, my approach slow. He was an older man, bald, a crooked nose, and a thick scraggly brown mustache.
“Sweet Jesus, you’re a big one,” he coughed weakly. “You don’t want my scalp. It’s bald as a baby’s balls.” I came to a stop beside my dog, my sight roaming over the paunchy old man with the ugly face. He worked up a grisly sort of smile. His teeth were stained, but his blue eyes seemed kind. “Must be that squaw milk grows you bucks big and strong, eh?”
Gin snarled a warning. I shushed the dog.
“You speak any kind of English?” I remained silent, wary, looking for any signs that he planned to reach for the guns strapped to his thigh. “Okay, well, my Apache is rough but…”
“I am not Apache,” I told him to spare his butchering of a proud language.
“Ah, well, you do speak English. Good. Fine dog you got there. Feisty.” Sweat ran down his brow into his eyes. I took a tentative step closer and sniffed the air. The scent of rot was thick around him. “I’ve been shot, you see…” He lifted the thick horse blanket from his lap. I drew down on him before he could blink. “No! Fuck sake, don’t fucking shoot me again!”
My gaze darted to his legs and the red snow under him. The stench of infection was ripe and hot on the cold wind.
“How long have you been here?” I enquired, lowering the barrel of my gun. The little color he had in his face leeched out and he slumped to the side, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Gin tipped her head and yipped.
I thought to simply ride off, but couldn’t. Papa’s God said one should be kind to strangers. Path chosen, I gathered the sick man up, carried him to Wind, who tried to bite the feverish man several times as I loaded him up into the saddle, and then walked home with a sick man lashed to my horse.
Wind was not happy, and kept trying to turn and nip at the stranger who woke and babbled and drifted off several times before we reached my cabin with the grave under the great oak. Wind was happy to have the man off his back. I carried him into my cabin—he was not a big man—and laid him on my bed. Gin sat down by the bed, her attention on the unknown person moaning and thrashing upon the mattress.
It had been some time since I’d tended to a sick man, the last being my father. I’d been weak then myself, wobbling about like a newborn elk calf, just recovered from my rashes. Perhaps if I had been stronger, he might have survived. Perhaps not. I gathered around what I could of my meager healing supplies. I was no healer, but I could tend minor wounds well.
Gin lay down beside the bed, nose resting on paws, giving me someone to talk to. The man was fevered and speaking nonsense. I cut off his pant leg and nearly gagged at the smell and sight of the festering wound. His thigh was fire red, the entry wound oozing foul looking pus. I glanced down at Gin.
“This is going to be ugly,” I said. She whined in reply. I stood, then gathered up what I needed: hot water heating in the fire, my skinning knife, a pouch of healing herbs that Papa had traded for from an old Apache woman outside Sourwood, and an old shirt for bandages. I still needed rope from the barn, so I made a dash outside. Wind had wandered back into his stall while I’d checked the man. I hurried to unsaddle him and tell him he was brave and strong. He nipped my ass while I was forking some hay into his manger for thanks.
When I returned to the cabin, Gin was on duty guarding the man. He was no threat to anything in his condition, but she was vigilant. Knowing things would get bad, I tied him to the bed, found an old bottle of gin—Papa’s favorite drink—and kneeled beside him. What came next was not pretty, but it was necessary. I doused the putrid wound with gin. My patient moaned. Then, I began cutting away the dead and dying flesh. He screamed and thrashed but the ropes were snug and soon, he passed out. Gin was glad. So was I. He screamed like a woman.
I worked for a long time, until it was dark outside and I had to light the kerosene lamp to finish applying the slave I’d made out of the various herbs and some bear grease. Desert plants from down near Sourwood were helpful for many things, Papa had told me. When the wound had been cleaned and bandaged, I tossed the bloody rags and other foulness into the fire and washed my filthy hands in the remaining warm water. The lye soap burned the scrapes along my knuckles, but that was good.
I then made a quick broth by tossing a rabbit into my pot of melted snow with a small cubed potato. Gin and I ate, then curled up in front of the stone hearth, her spine resting on mine. We shared a thin blanket to ensure the sick man had the good furs. It was so cold on the floor that I slept with my clothes and boots on.
That night, I dreamed of a beautiful woman with long black hair and soft brown eyes offering me a bowl of corn soup. I took it and ate it all quickly. She told me that the river of my life was now flowing in a new direction. When I asked where the river was taking me, she patted my cheek before fading away, leaving me gifts of corn, squash, and beans in my empty soup bowl. I awoke during the night, smiled into the murky darkness feeling safe and loved, and curled myself around Gin as my guest snored loudly.
The man never woke up that first night, but he cried and cussed and spoke of bizarre things. He lingered in a fevered state for five days. I returned from checking my traps and doing a bit of hunting on the sixth day to find him sitting up in my bed, ashen and wobbly. Gin had been left behind to guard him. He lifted a shaky hand in greeting, then wet his cracked lips.
“That dog…she don’t like me,” he said, then paused to lap at his lips again. “Christ, you’re a big son-of-a-bitch.”
“You said that already,” I replied, stomping snow off my boots, then tossing the three gray squirrels to the kitchen table.
“I did?” He blinked clear eyes at me. I nodded, untied my boots, dipped a tin coffee cup into the bucket of water on the floor, and walked to my bed. Gin padded over to the hearth to rest, now that her job was done. I helped him lift the cup to his lips. He drank greedily and I eased the water from him.
“Not so much too fast,” I said, leaving the mug with him as I untied my boots and began cutting the back legs off the skinned squirrels. One got thrown to Gin. She fell on it ravenously, her gaze on the stranger as she ate.
“What else did I say?” I turned my head to look over my shoulder at him.
“Crazy things.” I went back to preparing our dinner. There were a few spongy potatoes left and two carrots. Then, we would be down to simply meat until spring thaw came. I prayed that fur prices were high this year. I needed so much.
“What kind of crazy things?”
I chucked a fat rear leg into the cast iron kettle. “Things about money, mostly, and loose women.”
That made him laugh. He had a hearty laugh. “Ah, well, sure enough that’s a man, eh? Lying on death’s door but still talking about pussy.” I shrugged. Gin was busy with her dinner, the sound of thin bones crunching and the chop of a cleaver hitting old wood filled the cabin. A log popped and rolled in the fireplace. “You don’t say much, do you?”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“Well, how about we exchange names. Seems the least I could do for a man what saved my life is to give him my name.” I nodded, wiped my hands on my pants, laid down the cleaver, and turned to look at him. He was sound asleep, tin cup dangling off a finger, mouth open, snoring like a fat dog in front of a warm fire. I padded over to the bed, took the cup from him, and pulled a soft gray wolf fur up to his round chin.
Several hours later, he roused again, this time asking to use the latrine. I handed him a chamber pot and waited.
“Guess you done this for me when I was talking nonsense, eh?” I inclined my head, took the pot and tossed the urine out the door. “I appreciate your saving me, but I must ask. Where the hell are my clothes?”
“You soiled them. They were burnt in the fire. They stank.” Gin lay by the fire, nothing moving but the whiskers over her eyes. I returned to my seat in the corner and the beaver pelt stretched over a fleshing board. This one was still prime and would fetch a nice price. The meat would be dinner tomorrow, most of it. Some I put aside with the castor for bobcat lure.
“Well, shit,” he muttered.
“Yes, exactly.”
That made him laugh. “You’re a funny kid. Any chance I can get some drawers?”
“When your shit has firmed up, you can have some of mine. Not before.”
“Fair enough.”
I thought so as well, and went back to drawing my fleshing knife along the inside of the pelt. After all the meat I could remove was taken off, the pelt would be stretched and dried and tanned. When summer came and it was time to go to town to trade, all the pelts would be gathered into a bundle, wrapped up in poor quality skins, such as summer beaver or badly cured or shot-up elk, to protect the better quality fur. These bundles were called a pièce and weighed roughly about ninety pounds.
“That food I smell?” I glanced up from my work. The man was staring at me. I laid aside my knife and went to the hearth, using the ladle that hung beside the hearth to pull the pot away from the fire. “Thank you kindly. I’d thank you by name, as is fitting, but I don’t recall you telling me your name.”
He took the bowl and spoon with tender care. The furs had slid down to his lap to reveal a soft belly covered with grizzled brown and white hair.
“My name is Crow Poulin,” I said, then offered him my hand. He slid his palm over mine and gave me a weak shake.
“Crow Poulin. Poo-lihn. That’s a right odd combination of names.” He spooned some broth to his mouth, droplets of rich brown liquid dribbled to his bare chest. “You look pure Injun, ’side from them gray eyes, but you sound like a Frenchie. Damn, this is good soup.”
“My father was from Château-Richer in Quebec, Canada. He come down into America and met my mother while trading furs with a Mohawk tribe in New York State. Her name was Katsitsienhawi, which means ‘she carries flowers’ but Papa could not pronounce her Mohawk name so he bade her to change her name to Rose.”
I wasn’t sure why I was telling this man such personal details. Perhaps it was just because I was so lonely, or because he listened to me and seemed to be interested. Few people paid mind to what a half-breed had to say.
“Rose is a pretty name. Mine is John Wittington, and I am indebted to you for saving my life, Crow Poulin.”
“And for washing your flat, hairy ass,” I added, which made him snort and choke on his soup.
“You’re a funny buck. I like you.” I turned from the compliment, uneasy with hearing such things from a white man. Hell, from anyone to be honest. Even Papa wasn’t given to handing out sweet words or sentiments. “You ever consider doing anything else for a living?”
I returned to my stool and my pelt, the flesh already growing tacky on the sharp blade of the two-handled knife.
“No.” Gin got up and went to the door. Again, I left my work to tend to someone else. She made a round of the cabin as she always did, then squatted to piss. Once back inside, John wanted more soup, so I fetched it for him. “Who shot you?”
He glanced up at me, his thick brown mustache wet with broth but his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Well now, Crow Poulin, that’s a long story.”
“It will be a long night,” I pointed out, went back to my stool, and returned to preparing my pelt, the fire cracking in the hearth, sweet pine smoke lying along the ceiling timbers like fog. Gin stretched out; her feet pointed at the flames. Outside it was still. The call of a nearby owl could be heard through the walls.
“Aye, that it will. Well, the bullet that left me in such an unseemly and sickly state was the result of a slight altercation with a lawman who, if I may say, was incorrect about his assumption of my presumed guilt.” John took a loud sip of soup. “It had not been me who had stolen that horse. Surely a smart and handsome boy as yourself can tell that I’m far too knowledgeable to steal a horse of such inferior quality.”
“All I know of you is that you are too stupid to hide when someone shoots at you.”
He grinned and winked. “There’s that wit,” he said as he waved his spoon at me. “Damn bastard shot my horse, too. Course, he was a stupid shit of a horse, but still…”
“I would hunt down and kill any man who shot my horse or my dog. They are my only friends,” I said flatly because I spoke the truth. John studied me over his steaming soup for a long, long time.
“Not anymore. Now you can count John Wittington as your friend, Crow Poulin.”
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
