Ride With Brother Quotes

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Ride?" Rhage snorted. "Please. That thing is a sewing machine with an air dam taped to it. My GTO could dust the fucker in fourth gear from a dead stop." When there was an odd sound from behind, John looked back. So did the three Brothers. "What." Xhex bristled and crossed her arms over her chest. "I can laugh, you know. And that's . . . pretty damn funny." Rhage beamed. "I knew I liked you.
J.R. Ward (Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #8))
Procrastination is not the problem. It is the solution. It is the universe's way of saying stop, slow down, you move too fast. Listen to the music. Whoa whoa, listen to the music. Because music makes the people come together, it makes the bourgeois and the rebel. So come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody try to love one another. Because what the world needs now is love, sweet love. And I know that love is a battlefield, but boogie on reggae woman because you're gonna make it after all. So celebrate good times, come on. I've gotta stop I've gotta come to my senses, I've been out riding fences for so long... oops I did it again... um... What I'm trying to say is, if you leave tonight and you don't remember anything else that I've said, leave here and remember this: Procrastinate now, don't put it off.
Ellen DeGeneres
So," I (Percy) said glumly. "We're going to get a ride from your brother, huh?" Artemis's silver eyes gleamed. "Yes, boy. You see, Bianca di Angelo is not the only one with an annoying brother. It's time for you to meet my irresponsible twin, Apollo.
Rick Riordan (The Titan's Curse (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, #3))
You don’t fool me, he says in a low voice. Is that right? Yea, he says. I see it in yer eyes. All you care about’s yer precious brother. That aint true, I says. If it’d been Emmi they took, he says, Emmi an not Lugh…would you of gone after her? I take in a breath to say of course I would but the look on his face stops me. there ain’t no point in lyin when he already knows the truth. He leaves go of me an steps back. I thought so, he says. Yer sister’ll be safer with me than she could ever be with you. You jest ride along on yer high horse an leave her to me.
Moira Young (Blood Red Road (Dust Lands, #1))
Fairy tales are full of girls who wait, who endure, who suffer. Good girls. Obedient girls. Girls who crush nettles until their hands bleed. Girls who haul water for witches. Girls who wander through deserts or sleep in ashes or make homes for transformed brothers in the woods. Girls without hands, without eyes, without the power of speech, without any power at all. But then a prince rides up and sees the girl and finds her beautiful. Beautiful, not despite her suffering, but because of it.
Holly Black (The Lost Sisters (The Folk of the Air, #1.5))
The Cold Peace wasn’t what took Mark away from us,” said Julian, his cheeks burning with color. “That was you. The Wild Hunt. We can see by your eyes that you ride with Gwyn, don’t deny it.” “Oh,” said Kieran with a slight smirk on his lips. “I would not deny that.” Emma wondered if anyone else heard Julian’s intake of breath. “So you know my brother.” The smirk never left Kieran’s face. “Of course I do.
Cassandra Clare (Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices, #1))
If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reek you could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you. The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thigh at this smooth pasture neighbor to your hair or the crease that cuts your back. This ankle. You will be known among strangers as the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at you before marriage never touch you -- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers. I buried my hands in saffron, disguised them over smoking tar, helped the honey gatherers... When we swam once I touched you in water and our bodies remained free, you could hold me and be blind of smell. You climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other women the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter. And you searched your arms for the missing perfume. and knew what good is it to be the lime burner's daughter left with no trace as if not spoken to in an act of love as if wounded without the pleasure of scar. You touched your belly to my hands in the dry air and said I am the cinnamon peeler's wife. Smell me.
Michael Ondaatje (The Cinnamon Peeler: Selected Poems)
Hollis " I said "you're messing with me right now aren't you You're in Paris or somewhere and just-" "What " he replied. "No This is the real deal. Here I'll prove it." There was a muffled noise followed by some static. Then I heard my mother recite at a distance in her most droll flat tone "Yes. It is true. Your brother is in love and in my kitchen.
Sarah Dessen (Along for the Ride)
Jase rested his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. His warm breath danced over my lips. “I want to take you out on a date. I want to take you horseback riding. I want to tell your brother. I want to take you home to my parents and introduce you as my girlfriend. I want to prove this means more to me. I want to do this the right way.
J. Lynn (Be with Me (Wait for You, #2))
One day the grandmother presented the little girl with a red velvet riding hood; and as it fitted her very well, she would never wear anything else; and so she was called Little Red Riding Hood.
Jacob Grimm (Grimm's Fairy Tales)
Lee Nightingale is a supreme badass. Hawk’s a bona fide superhero who doesn’t wear a ridiculous suit. This is no joke. He probably sensed our discussion through powers he got when his mom was pushin’ him out and got struck by lightning or something. I don’t ask. He’s an ally. He’s also a brother of Tack’s. I’m just happy he isn’t an enemy.
Kristen Ashley (Ride Steady (Chaos, #3))
Learning to let go of expectations is a ticket to peace. It allows us to ride over every crisis—small or large, brother-in-law or end-of-quarter office lockdown—like a beach ball on water. The next time a problem arises in your life, take a deep breath, let out a sigh, and replace the thought Oh no! with the thought Okay.
Martha N. Beck
You don't notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theater whom no one notices until she slips out.Then only those near the door themselves, like Grandma Lynn, notice; to the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room. Grandma Lynn died several years later, but I have yet to see her here. I imagine her tying it on in her heaven, drinking mint juleps with Tennessee Williams and Dean Martin. She'll be here in her own sweet time, I'm sure. If I'm to be honest with you, I still sneak away to watch my family sometimes. I can't help it, and sometimes they still think of me. They can't help it.... It was a suprise to everyone when Lindsey found out she was pregnant...My father dreamed that one day he might teach another child to love ships in bottles. He knew there would be both sadness and joy in it; that it would always hold an echo of me. I would like to tell you that it is beautiful here, that I am, and you will one day be, forever safe. But this heaven is not about safety just as, in its graciousness, it isn't about gritty reality. We have fun. We do things that leave humans stumped and grateful, like Buckley's garden coming up one year, all of its crazy jumble of plants blooming all at once. I did that for my mother who, having stayed, found herself facing the yard again. Marvel was what she did at all the flowers and herbs and budding weeds. Marveling was what she mostly did after she came back- at the twists life took. And my parents gave my leftover possessions to the Goodwill, along with Grandma Lynn's things. They kept sharing when they felt me. Being together, thinking and talking about the dead, became a perfectly normal part of their life. And I listened to my brother, Buckley, as he beat the drums. Ray became Dr. Singh... And he had more and more moments that he chose not to disbelieve. Even if surrounding him were the serious surgeons and scientists who ruled over a world of black and white, he maintained this possibility: that the ushering strangers that sometimes appeared to the dying were not the results of strokes, that he had called Ruth by my name, and that he had, indeed, made love to me. If he ever doubted, he called Ruth. Ruth, who graduated from a closet to a closet-sized studio on the Lower East Side. Ruth, who was still trying to find a way to write down whom she saw and what she had experienced. Ruth, who wanted everyone to believe what she knew: that the dead truly talk to us, that in the air between the living, spirits bob and weave and laugh with us. They are the oxygen we breathe. Now I am in the place I call this wide wide Heaven because it includes all my simplest desires but also the most humble and grand. The word my grandfather uses is comfort. So there are cakes and pillows and colors galore, but underneath this more obvious patchwork quilt are places like a quiet room where you can go and hold someone's hand and not have to say anything. Give no story. Make no claim. Where you can live at the edge of your skin for as long as you wish. This wide wide Heaven is about flathead nails and the soft down of new leaves, wide roller coaster rides and escaped marbles that fall then hang then take you somewhere you could never have imagined in your small-heaven dreams.
Alice Sebold (The Lovely Bones)
He’s not just yours today, Sam. You have to share. He’s my brother, and he’s leaving me too.” He pounded again on the door. “This is your thirty minute notice. You have a half hour to do your deed, ride him hard, and then get dressed. I want my time with him.
Tijan (Fallen Fourth Down (Fallen Crest High, #4))
It’s easier for me to make sense of it that way than it is for me to face the other way—reality. And yet, those evil spirits that were unleashed—be they fake entities from a stupid carnival ride, or cruel malevolencies from dark spiritual chasms of our universe—have stayed with me all these years
Tim Cummings (ORPHANS)
In all honesty, I’d enjoyed the horse ride more than the man ride. At least the horse had been a stallion. Looking back, my lab TA was more like a Shetland pony—hairy and small.
Penny Reid (Truth or Beard (Winston Brothers, #1))
The Doors The End This is the end, beautiful friend This is the end, my only friend The end of our elaborate plans The end of ev'rything that stands The end No safety or surprise The end I'll never look into your eyes again Can you picture what will be So limitless and free Desperately in need of some strangers hand In a desperate land Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain And all the children are insane All the children are insane Waiting for the summer rain There's danger on the edge of town Ride the king's highway Weird scenes inside the goldmine Ride the highway West baby Ride the snake Ride the snake To the lake To the lake The ancient lake baby The snake is long Seven miles Ride the snake He's old And his skin is cold The west is the best The west is the best Get here and we'll do the rest The blue bus is calling us The blue bus is calling us Driver, where you taking us? The killer awoke before dawn He put his boots on He took a face from the ancient gallery And he walked on down the hall He went into the room where his sister lived And then he paid a visit to his brother And then he walked on down the hall And he came to a door And he looked inside Father? Yes son I want to kill you Mother, I want to............. Come on, baby, take a chance with us Come on, baby, take a chance with us Come on, baby, take a chance with us And meet me at the back of the blue bus This is the end, beautiful friend This is the end, my only friend The end It hurts to set you free But you'll never follow me The end of laughter and soft lies The end of nights we tried to die This is the end
Jim Morrison (The Doors: The Complete Lyrics)
It's only because I've lived with brothers that I realise, after a moment, that he's not looking outside but rather inside, wrestling with something inside himself. And there's nothing for it but to wait. Finally, he asks, "Do you want to ride him?
Maggie Stiefvater (The Scorpio Races)
While Louie might be the sun, Josh was the moon and the stars. He was my gravity, my tide, my ride or die. He was more like my little brother than my nephew, and in some ways, we had grown up together. I had loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him. Loved him from the moment I knew he was a spark of life, and I was going to love him every day of my life.
Mariana Zapata (Wait for It)
Love is never perfect, big brother. It's what you make of the imperfections in it that makes the ride worthwhile.
Jay Crownover (Rome (Marked Men, #3))
We startled some strange, long-necked shaggy creatures that had been grazing in the field, and I swear one of them spit at Feniul. Hagen slipped off of Leontes'neck and started to follow the creatures into the little copse of trees they had taken shelter in, fascinated, but I called him back. "They spit."I said. "They probably bite as well." "They are ill tempered things,"Amacarin agreed."But I saw someone riding one yesterday. It did not look like a smooth-gaited beast, though." Now there was even more longing in Hagen's face." Luka started laughing. "I shall buy you one when you finish your apprenticeship." He told my brother. "It can be your mastery gift. A hairy, spitting cow horse.
Jessica Day George (Dragon Spear (Dragon Slippers, #3))
In all honesty, I’d enjoyed the horse ride more than the man ride. At least the horse had been a stallion.
Penny Reid (Truth or Beard (Winston Brothers, #1))
Tack’s voice was granite when he started, “They will not take her boy, and the time to fuck with Carissa Teodoro is now over.” Joker’s voice was a quiet growl when he started, “You know you got my love, brother.” “I do,” Tack returned. “And it’s a privilege, Carson.
Kristen Ashley (Ride Steady (Chaos, #3))
Jem was safe from her, and he would ride away with a song on his lips and a laugh at her expense, forgetful of her, and of his brother, and of God; while she dragged through the years, sullen and bitter, the stain of silence marking her, coming in the end to ridicule as a soured spinster who had been kissed once in her life and could not forget it.
Daphne du Maurier (Jamaica Inn)
Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses. Flood waters await us in our avenues. Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche Over unprotected villages. The sky slips low and grey and threatening. We question ourselves. What have we done to so affront nature? We worry God. Are you there? Are you there really? Does the covenant you made with us still hold? Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters, Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air. The world is encouraged to come away from rancor, Come the way of friendship. It is the Glad Season. Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner. Flood waters recede into memory. Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us As we make our way to higher ground. Hope is born again in the faces of children It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets. Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things, Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors. In our joy, we think we hear a whisper. At first it is too soft. Then only half heard. We listen carefully as it gathers strength. We hear a sweetness. The word is Peace. It is loud now. It is louder. Louder than the explosion of bombs. We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence. It is what we have hungered for. Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace. A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies. Security for our beloveds and their beloveds. We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas. We beckon this good season to wait a while with us. We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come. Peace. Come and fill us and our world with your majesty. We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian, Implore you, to stay a while with us. So we may learn by your shimmering light How to look beyond complexion and see community. It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time. On this platform of peace, we can create a language To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other. At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ Into the great religions of the world. We jubilate the precious advent of trust. We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope. All the earth's tribes loosen their voices To celebrate the promise of Peace. We, Angels and Mortal's, Believers and Non-Believers, Look heavenward and speak the word aloud. Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud. Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation. Peace, My Brother. Peace, My Sister. Peace, My Soul.
Maya Angelou (Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem)
I'm not letting you go after this." He raised his head. "Marry me, Phoebe, please. Damn the courtship. Damn your brother. Damn the waiting. I can't...I can't breathe when you're not with me. I love you with all my cynical heart. Be my wife and teach me to laugh and let me buy you beer and ride with me on the beaches of Cornwall. Be my love and my wife forevermore." (Captain James Trevellion)
Elizabeth Hoyt (Dearest Rogue (Maiden Lane, #8))
Once upon a time there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. No, no, wait. Once upon a time there were three bears who lived in a wee house in the woods. Once upon a time there were three soldiers, tramping together down the road after the war. Once upon a time there were three little pigs. Once upon a time there were three brothers. No, this is it. This is the variation I want. Once upon a time there were three Beautiful children, two boys and a girl. When each baby was born, the parents rejoiced, the heavens rejoiced, even the fairies rejoiced. The fairies came to christening parties and gave the babies magical gifts. Bounce, effort, and snark. Contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. Sugar, curiosity, and rain. And yet, there was a witch. There's always a witch. This which was the same age as the beautiful children, and as she and they grew, she was jealous of the girl, and jealous of the boys, too. They were blessed with all these fairy gifts, gifts the witch had been denied at her own christening. The eldest boy was strong and fast, capable and handsome. Though it's true, he was exceptionally short. The next boy was studious and open hearted. Though it's true, he was an outsider. And the girl was witty, Generous, and ethical. Though it's true, she felt powerless. The witch, she was none of these things, for her parents had angered the fairies. No gifts were ever bestowed upon her. She was lonely. Her only strength was her dark and ugly magic. She confuse being spartan with being charitable, and gave away her possessions without truly doing good with them. She confuse being sick with being brave, and suffered agonies while imagining she merited praise for it. She confused wit with intelligence, and made people laugh rather than lightening their hearts are making them think. Hey magic was all she had, and she used it to destroy what she most admired. She visited each young person in turn in their tenth birthday, but did not harm them out right. The protection of some kind fairy - the lilac fairy, perhaps - prevented her from doing so. What she did instead was cursed them. "When you are sixteen," proclaimed the witch in a rage of jealousy, "you shall prick your finger on a spindle - no, you shall strike a match - yes, you will strike a match and did in its flame." The parents of the beautiful children were frightened of the curse, and tried, as people will do, to avoid it. They moved themselves and the children far away, to a castle on a windswept Island. A castle where there were no matches. There, surely, they would be safe. There, Surely, the witch would never find them. But find them she did. And when they were fifteen, these beautiful children, just before their sixteenth birthdays and when they're nervous parents not yet expecting it, the jealous which toxic, hateful self into their lives in the shape of a blonde meeting. The maiden befriended the beautiful children. She kissed him and took them on the boat rides and brought them fudge and told them stories. Then she gave them a box of matches. The children were entranced, for nearly sixteen they have never seen fire. Go on, strike, said the witch, smiling. Fire is beautiful. Nothing bad will happen. Go on, she said, the flames will cleanse your souls. Go on, she said, for you are independent thinkers. Go on, she said. What is this life we lead, if you did not take action? And they listened. They took the matches from her and they struck them. The witch watched their beauty burn, Their bounce, Their intelligence, Their wit, Their open hearts, Their charm, Their dreams for the future. She watched it all disappear in smoke.
E. Lockhart (We Were Liars)
Because when a guy sees a car he likes, all he can think about is getting under the hood or taking her for a ride.
Penny Reid (Truth or Beard (Winston Brothers, #1))
Tack studied him before he remarked, “You think I’m whipped.” Joker made no reply. He wouldn’t disrespect a brother like that, especially not Tack. But he did think that. Absolutely. Tack grinned and took a pull from his beer. After he dropped it, he said reflectively, still grinning. “Maybe I am. Though, the way I am and the woman holds that whip, it’s a good thing to be.
Kristen Ashley (Ride Steady (Chaos, #3))
It's hard to describe the feeling. And I knew from Horus's memory that this kind of union was very rare-like the one time when the coin doesn't land heads or tails, but stands on it's edge, perfectly balanced. He did not control me. I did not use him for power. We acted as one. Our voices spoke in harmony. "Now." And the magic bonds that held us shattered. My combat avatar formed around me, lifting me off the floor and encasing me with golden energy. I stepped forward and raised my sword. The falcon warrior mimicked the movement, perfectly attuned to my wishes. Set turned and regarded me with cold eyes. "So, Horus," he said. "You managed to find the pedals of your little bike, eh? That does not mean you can ride." "I am Carter Kane," I said. "Blood of the Pharaohs, Eye of Horus. And now, Set-brother,uncle,traitor-I'm going to crush you like a gnat.
Rick Riordan (The Red Pyramid (The Kane Chronicles, #1))
My God … how magnificent of a man do you have to be to go through what you went through, doing it alone, nobody to ease the way, the pain, no mother, no brother no sister, all by yourself enduring that and fight your way to becoming all that you are. It isn’t amazing. It’s a darned miracle.
Kristen Ashley (Ride Steady (Chaos, #3))
Butterfly, I need you to get this,” he interrupted me firmly. “I’ve been in love with you since high school. I’ll be in love with you when you walk down the aisle to me, push out our first kid, our second, our third, cry when they go off to college, nag at them to give you grandbabies, and sit next to me on our couch in our pad in assisted living. I got that. I got my family. I got my brothers. I’m healed. You do not have to go off keyin’ my dad’s car. I’m good. Stop tryin’ to make me that way. You already got me there.
Kristen Ashley (Ride Steady (Chaos, #3))
Hello, beautiful. Just wrap those long, sexy legs around me and I’ll ride you anywhere, any time you want.” Talfryn “This one’s all yours. Go ahead, brother, wrap your long, sexy legs right around his waist and ride him all night long.” Cadegan
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Son of No One (Dark-Hunter, #23; Hellchaser, #5; Were-Hunter, #8, Lords of Avalon, #3))
This book is dedicated to the Ancient Ones, to the Lord of Abominations, Humwawa, whose face is a mass of entrails, whose breath is the stench of dung and the perfume of death, Dark Angel of all that is excreted and sours, Lord of Decay, Lord of the Future, who rides on a whispering south wind, to Pazuzu, Lord of Fevers and Plagues, Dark Angel of the Four Winds with rotting genitals from which he howls through sharpened teeth over stricken cities, to Kutulu, the Sleeping Serpent who cannot be summoned, to the Akhkharu, who such the blood of men since they desire to become men, to the Lalussu, who haunt the places of men, to Gelal and Lilit, who invade the beds of men and whose children are born in secret places, to Addu, raiser of storms who can fill the night sky with brightness, to Malah, Lord of Courage and Bravery, to Zahgurim, whose number is twenty-three and who kills in an unnatural fashion, to Zahrim, a warrior among warriors, to Itzamna, Spirit of Early Mists and Showers, to Ix Chel, the Spider-Web-that-Catches-the-Dew-of-Morning, to Zuhuy Kak, Virgin Fire, to Ah Dziz, the Master of Cold, to Kak U Pacat, who works in fire, to Ix Tab, Goddess of Ropes and Snares, patroness of those who hang themselves, to Schmuun, the Silent One, twin brother of Ix Tab, to Xolotl the Unformed, Lord of Rebirth, to Aguchi, Master of Ejaculations, to Osiris and Amen in phallic form, to Hex Chun Chan, the Dangerous One, to Ah Pook, the Destroyer, to the Great Old One and the Star Beast, to Pan, God of Panic, to the nameless gods of dispersal and emptiness, to Hassan i Sabbah, Master of Assassins. To all the scribes and artists and practitioners of magic through whom these spirits have been manifested…. NOTHING IS TRUE. EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED.
William S. Burroughs (Cities of the Red Night)
V grabbed him by the lapels and yanked him up against his body. The brother was trembling from head to foot, his eyes glowing like crystals in the night. "You are not my enemy." Instantly pissed off, Butch gripped V's shoulders, bunching up the leather jacket in his fists. "How do we know for sure." V bared his fangs and hissed, his black eyebrows cranking down hard. Butch gave the aggression right back, hoping, praying, ready for them to start clocking each other. He was jonesing to hit and get hit back; he wanted blood all over the both of them. For long moments, they stayed locked together, muscles straining, sweat blooming, right on the edge. Then Vishous's voice came out into space between their faces, the cracked tone riding a panting, desperate breath and getting bucked off. "You are my only friend. Never my enemy." No telling who embraced who first, but the urge to beat the living shit out of the other guy bled from their bodies, leaving only the bond between them. They wound up tight together and stood for a time in the cold wind. When they stepped back, it was awkwardly and with embarrassment.
J.R. Ward (Lover Revealed (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #4))
Jared called me. You missed your appointment today. He was worried," Raelynn said." Ah, shiiit," Sebastian groaned. " Alright, I'll call him in a few minutes. In the meantime why don't you get naked and come ride me," Sebastian smiled and glanced up at her with his glassy green eyes.Raelynn barked out a laugh at the out of no where comment. " You're crazy," Raelynn chuckled. " You already knew that, sweet cheeks," he said with a devilish smirk.
Andria Large (Sebastian (The Beck Brothers, #2))
Three days after that, the funeral was held, and while riding from the church to the cemetery Ava looked out the widow and noticed that everyone she passed was crying. "Old people, college students, even the colored men at the gas station-- the soul brothers, or whatever we're supposed to call them now." It was such an outdated term, I just had to use it myself. "How did the soul brothers know your father?" "That's just it," she said. "No one told us until after the burial that Kennedy had been shot. It happened when we were in the church, so that's what everyone was so upset about. The president, not my father.
David Sedaris (When You Are Engulfed in Flames)
Max felt his eye twitching. He knew he should be yelling, but his limbs wouldn’t move. This was what it felt like to be paralyzed with rage. Yes, he was going to do it. He was going to finally go utterly psychotic and prove the whole town right. He was going to walk over to those arrogant assholes and take the first one apart. Then he’d beat the other one to death with his dead brother’s leg. He looked to his own brother. Rye would save him from his towering rage. Rye would have calming words. Rye would talk him down. Rye’s face was red as he pointed at the young cowboys. “You, kill now, Max.
Sophie Oak (Three to Ride (Nights in Bliss, Colorado, #1))
It had been fun to ride the fairy tale of Baz Acker actually giving a shit about him, but he knew firsthand fairy tales were a lot more Grimm brothers and much less Walt Disney.
Heidi Cullinan (Lonely Hearts (Love Lessons #3))
So, look, you can't leave," Doug said, sitting straight up and turning towards her. "if you do, Miller's gonna revert and Caleb and Ian are gonna ride roughshod and Sean'll go back to being ghost brother and Finn..." Megan's heart slipped. "Finn what?" "Finn will be destroyed," Doug said, looking her in the eye. "You got that dude all up in a twist, you know that, right?" "What does that even mean?" Megan asked. "All's I know is, he found out you left and he locked himself in the shed and barricaded the door. No one's seen him since," Doug said. "When I bolted, Sean and Evan were trying to boost Caleb up onto the roof so he could look through the skylight and make sure the kid wasn't dead or something." Megan swallowed hard. "Wow.
Kate Brian (Megan Meade's Guide to the McGowan Boys)
Now then, young man,” he cried in the nasal twang of the West Riding. “I’m Mr. Dinsdale’s brother. I farm over in Listondale.” I put down my equipment and nodded. “How do you do? My name is Herriot.
James Herriot (All Creatures Great and Small (All Creatures Great and Small, #1))
Desmond ushered the man inside. He was stooped and ugly, with an unkempt beard and unwashed clothes, yet Father greeted him pleasantly and asked his name. “Yoren, as it please m’lord. My pardons for the hour.” He bowed to Arya. “And this must be your son. He has your look.” “I’m a girl,” Arya said, exasperated. If the old man was down from the Wall, he must have come by way of Winterfell. “Do you know my brothers?” she asked excitedly. “Robb and Bran are at Winterfell, and Jon’s on the Wall. Jon Snow, he’s in the Night’s Watch too, you must know him, he has a direwolf, a white one with red eyes. Is Jon a ranger yet? I’m Arya Stark.” The old man in his smelly black clothes was looking at her oddly, but Arya could not seem to stop talking. “When you ride back to the Wall, would you bring Jon a letter if I wrote one?” She wished Jon were here right now. He’d believe her about the dungeons and the fat man with the forked beard and the wizard in the steel cap.
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
That motherfucker, he taught you to think you were garbage. You took that on. You were a kid. You had no fuckin’ choice. But he was wrong, Joke. And the only person who doesn’t get that shit is you. Get it. Get over it. Get your head outta your ass. And find what you deserve. Find some fuckin’ happy. If it isn’t this girl, it isn’t. But whatever it is, I want it for you. Your brothers want it for you. Their old ladies want it for you. The only one who isn’t lookin’ for that for you is you.
Kristen Ashley (Ride Steady (Chaos, #3))
Miss Edi: My brother Bertrand is the laziest person in the world. David: Oh yeah? And how lazy is that? Miss Edi: When he was three and saw all his gifts under the Christmas tree, he said, 'Who's going to open them for me?' David: I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was six, my father bought him a bicycle and took him out to teach him to ride it. David: And? Miss Edi: Bertrand did very well. My father ran along behind him, holding on, and my brother balanced perfectly. But when my father let go and the bicycle stopped, Bertrand asked why. When my father said he had to push on the pedals, my brother left it lying there in the street, and he never got on a bicycle again. David: Not bad, but I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was twelve, my parents took us out to a restaurant, the first one we'd ever been to, and my father ordered steaks for each of us. When my brother's came, he looked at it and asked how he was to eat it. My father showed him how to cut the steak, then how to chew it. My brother called the waiter back and ordered a bowl of mashed potatoes. David: Okay, that's getting up there, but I have heard a few worse. Miss Edi: When he was sixteen, my mother arranged for her beloved son to go to a dance with a very nice young girl. He was to pick her up at six pm. At six-thirty Bertrand was sitting in the living room and my father asked him why he hadn't gone on his date. My brother said, 'Because she hasn't come to get me yet.
Jude Deveraux (Lavender Morning (Edilean, #1))
A grim expression came over Syah’s face. “The colt you speak of lost its mother during a storm. If this stallion was that colt, it is not just wild, it is insane. That horse will break your bones.” “And that will be a worthy end, a prince struck down by such a noble steed.” Fasime pushed himself off the support of the fence, but Oman grabbed his arm. “It’s not worth it, Brother.” “I can tame him.” “What will we tell Mother and Father if he kills you?” Oman questioned. “Tell them I gave my life with pride. Do not punish him if he kills me. Release him back into the wild, and my spirit will ride him into the mist.
D.M. Raver (Brother Betrayed)
Your brothers have set off a stink bomb in the second-floor boys’ lavatory,
James Patterson (School's Out - Forever (Maximum Ride, #2))
So ride on, my brothers, and rest in peace. Wherever you are, may you always have the sun on your back, your fists in the wind, and the road stretching out before you
Laura Kaye (Ride Hard (Raven Riders, #1))
Where I grew up, death is a constant visitor. A virus, bacteria, a parasite; drought and famine; soldiers, and torturers; could bring it to anyone, any time. Death comes riding on raindrops that turned to floods. It catches the imagination of men in positions of authority who order their subordinates to hunt, torture, and kill people they imagine to be enemies. Death lures many others to take their own lives in order to escape a dismal reality. For many women, because of the perception of lost honor, death comes at the hands of a father, brother, or husband. Death comes to young women giving birth to new life, leaving the newborn orphaned in the hands of strangers. For those who live in anarchy and civil war, as in the country of my birth, Somalia, death is everywhere.
Ayaan Hirsi Ali (Infidel)
When I was little, my brother drew an image for me on the train ride home from the academy. It was a map of Internment, only instead of the real city, he'd drawn a castle for the clock tower. And the buildings were all different somehow. Mysterious. And right at the edge he drew a ladder that went down and disappeared into the clouds. It was the most spectacular thing I'd ever seen, and getting ready for my bath that night, I discovered it had fallen from a hole on my skirt pocket. I wanted to go out and look for it, but my mother told me the sweepers had already come. The paper would be collected with all the other forgotten-about things and it would be compressed and recycled into something new. I looked for it the next day, anyway, to no avail. I couldn't believe such a wonderful thing could be destroyed so simply. I learned that it could. Anything could be destroyed.
Lauren DeStefano (Perfect Ruin (The Internment Chronicles, #1))
By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position at the head of the lists. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon and his brothers were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded stableboy named Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain That Rides would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handl
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
That's the real excellent scary part, that feeling, and that feeling won't come if the lady from next door is there and your mom won't ride the ride, because what brings on that feeling most is when your mom rides wedged in tight with you and your brother on nights like this, when your mom will scream the excellent scream, the scream that people you see in snatches on the boardwalk stop and stare for, the scream that stops the ride next door, the scream that tells us to our hearts the bolts have finally broken.
Mark Richard (The Ice at the Bottom of the World: Stories)
One day on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it when the smell of blood drew a shadowcat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?” He chuckled. “It shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wisewoman did some healing. She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me.” He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. “But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears … and most of all, no red. The men of the Night’s Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said. “I left the next morning … for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could wear any cloak he chose.
George R.R. Martin (A Storm of Swords (A Song of Ice and Fire, #3))
I don't give a damn about your brother James and his friends. Their theory was not new, it has worked for centuries. But it wasn't foolproof. There is just one point that they overlooked. They thought it was safe to ride on my brain, because they assumed that the goal of my journey was wealth. All their calculations rested on the premise that I wanted to make money. What if I didn't?
Ayn Rand (Atlas Shrugged)
Gabriel couldn’t believe he had to get a ride from his brother. Christ, this was humiliating. They’d always had a car. He’d never needed to beg a ride to pick a girl up. Especially to study. He felt about thirteen. Maybe Michael would offer to take them for ice cream, after. Kemmerer, Brigid (2012-08-28). Spark (Elemental Book 2) (p. 210). Kensington Publishing Corp. Kindle Edition.
Brigid Kemmerer (Spark (Elemental, #2))
After September 11th, I never much liked the trend of everyone and his brother wearing the hats and jackets of the NYPD and FDNY. Only the people who do the job should get to wear the hat. Would you wear someone else's Medal of Honor? Yes, it's a tribute, and sincere tribute is always appropriate for these brave people. But wearing their symbols is also rubbing off a piece of heroism that isn't yours.
Bill Maher (When You Ride Alone You Ride With Bin Laden: What the Government Should Be Telling Us to Help Fight the War on Terrorism)
If the three brothers all ride horses, there are six animals and eighteen legs involved: that is true rationalism, and fairyland is full of it.
G.K. Chesterton
Horst grinned. ‘Well, look at us. The necromancer and the vampire against the forces of elemental evil. The Brothers Cabal ride again!’ ‘Yeehaw,’ said Cabal evenly.
Jonathan L. Howard (The Brothers Cabal (Johannes Cabal, #4))
Riding with Dornan just feels wrong. I don’t feel free in the wind; I feel trapped, like a butterfly encased in glass.
Lili St. Germain (Six Brothers (Gypsy Brothers, #2))
I am commanding you, as an older and wiser brother, to get over here, get on this caterpillar, and ride to the top of this mushroom with me.
Elle Lothlorien (Alice in Wonderland)
The Chin have held us down for a long time, but that is over. We ride to war, brother.
Conn Iggulden (Genghis: Lords of the Bow (Conqueror, #2))
When a guy sees a car he likes, all he can think about is getting under the hood or taking her for a ride.
Penny Reid (Truth or Beard (Winston Brothers, #1))
Not much of a gentleman, but what did I care? I just wished he’d walk a little slower. I needed a little more time before the dreaded car ride. I followed him to a shiny burgundy Mercedes. The Steels had money. A lot of it. While I went home from college during the summers and did secretarial work for my father’s construction company, Marj took whirlwind tours to Europe and cruises to the Greek Isles.
Helen Hardt (Craving (Steel Brothers Saga, #1))
I need the lessons. I’m hiding in class by staring at my shoes. I’m hiding during lunch in the bathroom, eating hard rolls saved from dinner. I’m hiding during outside time in the same bathroom. I’m hiding after school until Brother Khôi rides up to our secret corner. With Vu Lee I squat in weight on legs, back straight arms at my sides, fingers relaxed, eyes everywhere at once I’m practicing to be seen.
Thanhha Lai (Inside Out & Back Again)
On Internment, you can be anything you dream--a novelist or a singer, a florist or a factory worker. You can spend entire afternoons watching clouds so close it's as though you're riding on them. Your life is yours to embrace or to squander. There's only one rule: You don't approach the edge. If you do, it's already over. My brother is proof of that. He has successfully quieted my delusions I held about seeing the ground for myself.
Lauren DeStefano (Perfect Ruin (The Internment Chronicles, #1))
I think I’m going to leave soon,” he said, finishing his water. He didn’t look at me when he said, “Do you need a ride?” “No,” I said. I tried to swallow my disappointment that he was leaving already. “I came with those guys over there.” I pointed at Conrad and Jeremiah. He nodded. “I figured, the way your brother kept looking over here.” I almost choked. “My brother? Who? Him?” I pointed at Conrad. He wasn’t looking at us. He was looking at a blond girl in a Red Sox cap, and she was looking right back. He was laughing, and he never laughed. “Yeah.” “He’s not my brother. He tries to act like he is, but he’s not,” I said. “He thinks he’s everybody’s big brother. It’s so patronizing…
Jenny Han (The Summer I Turned Pretty (Summer, #1))
That was uncanny in an eerie way, Hawk calling you right when we started talking about him.” “Lee Nightingale is a supreme badass. Hawk’s a bona fide superhero who doesn’t wear a ridiculous suit. This is no joke. He probably sensed our discussion thought powers he got when his mom was pushin’ him out and got struck by lightning or something. I don’t ask. He’s an ally. He’s also a brother of Tack’s. I’m just happy he isn’t an enemy.” “I kinda wanna meet him now
Kristen Ashley (Ride Steady (Chaos, #3))
In real life, I looked at my father and mother and understood dimly that it was harder to be a girl, that boys had it easier. Here, boys could buy and ride motorcycles and come and leave when they wanted to and exude a kind of cool while they stood shirtless at the edge of the street, talking and laughing with one another, passing a beer around, smoking cigarettes. Meanwhile, the women I knew were working even when they weren’t at work: cooking, washing loads of clothes, hanging them to dry, and cleaning the house. There was no time for them to just relax and be. Even then I dimly knew there was some gendered differences between my brother and me, knew that what the world expected of us and allowed us would differ.
Jesmyn Ward (Men We Reaped)
You know you're nuts, right?" His brother should know him better than to be surprised that when he did something, he went all in. "No, I'm just that good." Although when riding a bucking animal that out-weighed a man by ten times, being a little crazy didn't hurt.
Cat Johnson (Midnight Ride (Midnight Cowboys, #1))
There’s a vast world beyond the tiny fragment that each of us inhabits, and going out into it is the only way to understand other people, their cultures and religions: you can’t travel and have the sorts of experiences we were having without learning something from the interactions involved.
Ryan Pyle (The Middle Kingdom Ride: Two brothers, two motorcycles, one epic journey around China)
She knew what he’d be like. Being near him would start out as a rollercoaster ride—her nerves would be frayed and she’d be completely terrified. With every inch toward the sky, Severine would want to be back on the ground. Then the ride would take off. She’d have no time to think. The ride would direct her body which way to go, and her stomach would drop at the rush of speed. Her eyes would be clenched tightly because she’d be too afraid to look around. At the end, everything would slow, and it would all be over. With her pulse racing, and a high running through her system, she’d walk away,
Calia Read (Every Which Way (Sloan Brothers, #1))
The car ride ended too quickly and by the time we’d reached our destination, I felt affection for Billy and Beau Winston. What does this say about me? Was I doomed to go through life developing an affection for every new person I spoke to for longer than an hour? If so, maybe my parents had been right to keep me sheltered.
Penny Reid (Beard Science (Winston Brothers, #3))
What happened?" he asks,voice laced with concern. "I..." I merged with a cockroach-caught a ride next to your twin's Calvin Klein underwear label-and after I watched him play with a demon coyote and snack on bloodied bits that could've been either animal or human, he fed glowing, white orbs to the walking dead-then crushed me under the hell of his boot... "I'm not sure," I say,willing my head to feel better,to stop spinning, and a moment later it does. "I guess I passed out,or something..." I cringe,hating the lie but knowing there's no way I could ever present him the truth. I start to stand,pretending not to notice when he offers a hand. "I need to call my ride." I fumble for my phone, reluctant to bother Paloma and Chay at this hour,but they're pretty much my only real option. "Don't be silly.I'll drive you." Dace follows me out of the stall,watching as I call Paloma's number,then Chay's-face scrunching in confusion when they both fail to answer.It doesn't make any sense. "Daire-why won't you let me help you?" he says.My name on his lips sounding just like ti did in the dream. Our eyes meeting in the mirror,mine astonished, his chagrined,when he adds, "Yeah,I asked around.Uncovered your real name. So shoot me." And when he smiles,when he smiles and runs a nervous hand through his glossy,dark hair-well,I'm tempted to shake my head and refuse him again. Maybe he goes by the name of Whitefeather, but technically,he's still a Richter.A good Richter-a kind Richter-still,I need to do what I can to avoid him.To ignore that irresistible stream of kindness and warmth that swarms all around him. Need to cleanse myself of those dreams once and for all.We are not bound.Nor are we fated.I'm a Seeker-he's the spawn of a Richter-and my only destiny is to stop his brother from...whatever it is that he's doing. But,more immediately,I need to get home.And there's no denying I could do a lot worse than catching a ride with gorgeous Dace Whitefeather.
Alyson Noel (Fated (Soul Seekers, #1))
But with the morning almost gone, with seven bodachs in the recreation room, with living boneyards stalking the storm, with Death opening the door to a luge chute and inviting me to go for a bobsled ride, I didn't have time to put on a victim suit and tell the woeful tale of my sorrowful childhood. Neither time nor the inclination
Dean Koontz (Brother Odd (Odd Thomas, #3))
Tom felt his darkness. His father was beautiful and clever, his mother was short and mathematically sure. Each of his brothers and sisters had looks or gifts or fortune. Tom loved all of them passionately, but he felt heavy and earth-bound. He climbed ecstatic mountains and floundered in the rocky darkness between the peaks. He had spurts of bravery but they were bracketed in battens of cowardice. Samuel said that Tom was quavering over greatness, trying to decide whether he could take the cold responsibility. Samuel knew his son’s quality and felt the potential of violence, and it frightened him, for Samuel had no violence—even when he hit Adam Trask with his fist he had no violence. And the books that came into the house, some of them secretly—well, Samuel rode lightly on top of a book and he balanced happily among ideas the way a man rides white rapids in a canoe. But Tom got into a book, crawled and groveled between the covers, tunneled like a mole among the thoughts, and came up with the book all over his face and hands. John Steinbeck. East of Eden (Kindle Locations 4766-4770). Viking.
John Steinbeck
Hubris you say, brother? Please, tell us the nature of the prince's actions against you. Let everyone know exactly how Prince Styxx offended you." Bethany Disguised as Athena "He has held himself up as a god. His arrogance and pride are an affront to us all." Apollo "Held himself up as a god? Pray tell, when was this? .... Ah, yes, I remember... It was when he dared to slay your Atlantean grandson during battle. Is that not right, brother? I'm sure, like me, you remember that day well. The Atlanteans, led to our shores by your own blood kin, were slaughtering hundreds of Greeks until the beach sands turned red from good Greek blood. The onslaught was so fierce that entire veteran regiments fled from the Atlanteans and cowered. Even the brave, noble Dorians pulled back in fear. But not Prince Styxx. He rode in like a lion and jumped from his horse to save the life of a young shield-bearer who was about to be killed by one of the Atlantean giants." Bethany/Athena Bethany swept her gaze around the people there, who were completely silent now. "And with reckless disregard for his own life and limb, this prince picked the boy up and put him on the back of his royal steed and told him to ride to safety. He spent the rest of the day fighting on foot. Not as a prince or a god, but as a mere, heroic Greek soldier." She turned back to Apollo. "His actions so enraged the Atlantean gods that they turned all of their animosity toward him. And still Prince Styxx fought on for his people, wounded, bloody, and tired. He never backed off or backed down. Not even when your own grandson almost buried his axe through the prince's skull. He hit Styxx's hoplon so hard, it splintered a portion of it off. And as Xan held the prince down, the prince, who was barely more than a child, managed to stab him through the ribs. But now that I think about it, you don't remember that day, do you, Apollo? You weren't even there when it was fought, but later that very night-
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Styxx (Dark-Hunter, #22))
His expression I remember from the first time I met him. Open, direct. But no longer anonymous. I know certain telling details now. Like he can't stand his brother and he gets one haircut a year. He likes Raymond Chandler and John Irving, Wallce Stegner and Joan Didion. That he loves the blues and songs that tell stories. Riding the ferries just to be on water. His favorite flavor is caramel.
Judi Hendricks (Bread Alone)
My brother talks about car accidents the same way I talk about family. I don’t know when he learned to forgive. I don’t remember teaching him that. I don’t remember learning it myself. His life’s ambition is to be the man my father never was: to step up to the plate, to grow into a firefighter’s uniform or ride shotgun in an ambulance. I am still stuck on the bathroom floor with my resentment.
Trista Mateer (The Dogs I Have Kissed)
That night, after the lates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself. Grey Wind led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. "We'll find a horse for you, I promise," Robb whispered at last. "Are they ever coming back?" Bran asked him. "Yes," Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. "Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn't that surprise her, to see you ahorse?" Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother's smile. "And afterward, we'll ride north to see the Wall. We won't even tell Jon we're coming, we'll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure." "An adventure," Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb's face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together.
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
Come. You can borrow a horse and go to him. I will send word to Winterfrost that if Merrick returns, you have gone to find him.” “Why?” Cassius stopped and looked at her. “Why would you do all this? I have ruined his reputation. I…” “Love my brother, that is what you do and that is all that matters to me. You still love him, do you not?” she asked. “With every ounce of my heart and soul,” Cassius replied. “Nothing matters more than that.” No…no it didn’t. They hurried the rest of the way to the stables. Princess Marjorie watched while Cassius prepared Tabby to ride. When he finished, he hiked his bag more securely on his shoulder before using the stirrup to climb into the saddle. “Thank you, Your High—Marjorie,” he told her, and then he was gone, flying through the woods and to their magical place beneath the canopy of dreams where all their stories could come true.
Riley Hart (Ever After)
I believe in God and evolution. / I believe in the Bible and the Qur’an. / I believe in Christmas and he New World. / I believe that there is good in each of us / no matter who we are or what we believe in. / I believe in the words of my grandfather. / I believe in the city and the South the past and the present. / I believe in Black people and White people coming together. / I believe in nonviolence and “Power to the People.” / I believe in my little brother’s pale skin and my own dark brown. / I believe in my sister’s brilliance and the too-easy books I love to read. / I believe in my mother on a bus and Black people refusing to ride. / I believe in good friends and good food. I believe in johnny pumps and jump ropes, / Malcolm and Martin, Buckeyes and Birmingham, / Writing and listening, bad words and good words – / I believe in Brooklyn! I believe in one day and someday and this perfect moment called Now.
Jacqueline Woodson (Brown Girl Dreaming)
Depression goes through stages, but if left unchecked and not treated, this elevator ride will eventually go all the way to the bottom floor. And finally you find yourself bereft of choices, unable to figure out a way up or out, and pretty soon one overarching impulse begins winning the battle for your mind: “Kill yourself.” And once you get over the shock of those words in your head, the horror of it, it begins to start sounding appealing, even possessing a strange resolve, logic. In fact, it’s the only thing you have left that is logical. It becomes the only road to relief. As if just the planning of it provides the first solace you’ve felt that you can remember. And you become comfortable with it. You begin to plan it and contemplate the details of how best to do it, as if you were planning travel arrangements for a vacation. You just have to get out. O-U-T. You see the white space behind the letter O? You just want to crawl through that O and be out of this inescapable hurt that is this thing they call clinical depression. “How am I going to do this?” becomes the only tape playing. And if you are really, really, really depressed and you’re really there, you’re gonna find a way. I found a way. I had a way. And I did it. I made sure Opal was out of the house and on a business trip. My planning took a few weeks. I knew exactly how I was going to do it: I didn’t want to make too much of a mess. There was gonna be no blood, no drama. There was just going to be, “Now you see me, now you don’t.” That’s what it was going to be. So I did it. And it was over. Or so I thought. About twenty-four hours later I woke up. I was groggy; zoned out to the point at which I couldn’t put a sentence together for the next couple of days. But I was semifunctional, and as these drugs and shit that I took began to wear off slowly but surely, I realized, “Okay, I fucked up. I didn’t make it.” I thought I did all the right stuff, left no room for error, but something happened. And this perfect, flawless plan was thwarted. As if some force rebuked me and said, “Not yet. You’re not going anywhere.” The only reason I could have made it, after the amount of pills and alcohol and shit I took, was that somebody or something decided it wasn’t my time. It certainly wasn’t me making that call. It was something external. And when you’re infused with the presence of this positive external force, which is so much greater than all of your efforts to the contrary, that’s about as empowering a moment as you can have in your life. These days we have a plethora of drugs one can take to ameliorate the intensity of this lack of hope, lack of direction, lack of choice. So fuck it and don’t be embarrassed or feel like you can handle it yourself, because lemme tell ya something: you can’t. Get fuckin’ help. The negative demon is strong, and you may not be as fortunate as I was. My brother wasn’t. For me, despair eventually gave way to resolve, and resolve gave way to hope, and hope gave way to “Holy shit. I feel better than I’ve ever felt right now.” Having actually gone right up to the white light, looked right at it, and some force in the universe turned me around, I found, with apologies to Mr. Dylan, my direction home. I felt more alive than I’ve ever felt. I’m not exaggerating when I say for the next six months I felt like Superman. Like I’m gonna fucking go through walls. That’s how strong I felt. I had this positive force in me. I was saved. I was protected. I was like the only guy who survived and walked away from a major plane crash. I was here to do something big. What started as the darkest moment in my life became this surge of focus, direction, energy, and empowerment.
Ron Perlman (Easy Street: The Hard Way)
When people dream something as a child, it doesn’t always come true. But my childhood dream of what kind of man I would marry and spend the rest of my life with did come true. I always knew my husband would be tall, dark, and handsome, but he also had to have a rugged look, as if he’d just walked out of the wilderness. He had to love the outdoors and be able to survive there if needed. I also wanted him to be able to take command of any situation when needed. I wanted him to be a leader but with a sense of humor, too. I wanted him to work and make a living. I wanted him to be a man’s man, but with gentleness and love for me and his children, and be ready to defend us at all times. More than anything else, I wanted to feel loved and protected. What I didn’t know when I found the man who filled my dreams was that I had found a diamond in the rough. It would take a lifetime to perfect that diamond on the long journey of life. Phil and I have had many good years, some hard years, a few sad years, and a lot of struggling years to get where we are now. God put us in each other’s paths. It has always been a wonderful ride for me. I have a husband who is my best buddy and friend, my lover, my Christian brother, my champion, and the person who will always be there through thick and thin. There is no greater love than your love for God, but right under that is your love for your husband, your partner in life. One of the greatest tragedies I see is people not putting every effort into the foundation of their marriage. My grandmother told me that it’s one man and one woman for life and that your marriage is worth fighting for. We had a few hard and bumpy years, but prayer, patience, and some suffering and hope-plus remembering an old lady’s words-were what got me through the difficult times. We have given it our all for our marriage and family, and my dreams did come true. Phil is and will always be my hero!
Phil Robertson (Happy, Happy, Happy: My Life and Legacy as the Duck Commander)
It is a bitter thing,” growled Pyotr, “to be a father whose sons abandon him. Or to be a man with no sons to mourn his passing.” “I will have brothers in Christ to mourn me,” Sasha rejoined. “And you have Kolya and Alyosha.” “You will take nothing with you, Sasha, if you go,” snapped Pyotr. “The clothes on your back, your sword, and that mad horse you think to ride—but you will not be my son.” Sasha looked younger than ever. His face showed white under the tan. “I must go, Father,” he said. “Do not hate me for going.
Katherine Arden (The Bear and the Nightingale (Winternight Trilogy, #1))
It was Jaime, [Tyrion] thought, despairing. He was my own blood, my big strong brother. When I was small he brought me toys, barrel hoops and blocks and a carved wooden lion. He gave me my first pony and taught me how to ride him. When he said that he had bought you for me, I never doubted him. Why would I? He was Jaime, and you were just some girl who'd played a part. I had feared it from the start, from the moment you first smiled at me and let me touch your hand. My own father could not love me. Why would you if not for gold?
George R.R. Martin (A Dance with Dragons (A Song of Ice and Fire, #5))
When an opportunity presents itself, and you have a choice of either living life—risky as it might be—or continuing to do what’s expected . . .” Claire paused, waiting for me to meet her gaze, a knowing smile curving her lips. She was quoting me, one of my favorite lines from my first film, Taco Tuesday. I returned her grin and finished the quote, “You have to grab that regal centaur by the mane and ride it over the rainbow of opportunity.” We finished together, “Or else it might mistake you for a unicorn and try to impregnate you.
Penny Reid (Grin and Beard It (Winston Brothers, #2))
And so, as the passengers drifted off to sleep to the rhythmic clicking of steel wheels against rail, little did they dream that, riding in the car at the end of their train, were six men who represented an estimated one-fourth of the total wealth of the entire world. This was the roster of the Aldrich car that night: Nelson W. Aldrich, Republican "whip" in the Senate, Chairman of the National Monetary Commission, business associate of J.P. Morgan, father-in-law to John D. Rockefeller, Jr.; Abraham Piatt Andrew, Assistant Secretary of the U.S. Treasury; Frank A. Vanderlip, president of the National City Bank of New York, the most powerful of the banks at that time, representing William Rockefeller and the international investment banking house of Kuhn, Loeb & Company; Henry P. Davison, senior partner of the J.P. Morgan Company; Benjamin Strong, head of J.P. Morgan's Bankers Trust Company;1 6. Paul M. Warburg, a partner in Kuhn, Loeb & Company, a representative of the Rothschild banking dynasty in England and France, and brother to Max Warburg who was head of the Warburg banking consortium in Germany and the Netherlands.2
G. Edward Griffin (The Creature from Jekyll Island)
Miriam really hates for me to ride to and from the ranch alone so your coming along should make her feel better. Right, Miriam?" Miriam cast her a don't-play-my-own-tricks-on-me look. For her benefactress's peace of mind, less than for Rider's knowledge, Willow added, "I've told Miriam she doesn't need to worry about me. I always carry a pistol." Rider's brows shot up. "You pack a gun?" "Uh-huh, an old Colt .45. It was a present from Nick, my oldest brother." "And I bet you know how to shoot it, too." He smiled wryly. "I ain't no quick draw, but I usually hit what I aim at.
Charlotte McPherren (Song of the Willow)
The hardest thing about being wanted was the hardest thing about wanting—wanting badly enough that it gave you stomachache, wanting in a way that was partly about kissing and partly about swallowing whole, the way a snake gulps down a mouse or the Big Bad Wolf gulps down Red Riding Hood—wanting turned someone you felt like you knew into a stranger. Whether that person was your brother’s best friend or a sleeping prince in a glass prison or a girl who kissed you at a party, the moment you wanted more than just touching your mouth to theirs they became terrifying and you became terrified.
Holly Black
To Roland's relief, Jean de Joinville came to his aid. "Sire, this good knight wants only to preserve your life. Let us all ride together against the Egyptians." "If I ride against them alone, God will protect me," said Louis. A new figure pushed into the circle. He wore the white surcoat and red cross of a Templar over his mail. With a leap of his heart, Roland recognized Guido Bruchesi. Guido looked at him but did not acknowledge him. He went directly to the King. He spoke quietly but firmly. "Sire, what you have just said is presumption." "I do not see how that could be, brother Templar." But Louis took his foot out of the stirrup as Roland watched with growing hope. You can always catch Louis's attention with a religious argument, Roland thought, even on the battlefield. "Sire," said Guido, "Satan tempted our Seigneur Jesus, telling Him that if He cast Himself down from the mountaintop, angels would lift him up." Guido cast a sidelong look at Amalric. "You, Sire, are being tempted to ride alone against the whole Egyptian army, expecting God's protection. You are demanding a miracle. That is presumption." Louis was silent for a moment. "Perhaps you are right." Roland let out a long breath.
Robert Shea (All Things Are Lights)
Ribs hurting?" When he only shrugged, she shook her head. "Let me take a look." "She barely caught me." "Oh,for heaven's sake." Impatient, Keeley did what she would have done with one of her brothers: She tugged Brian's T-shirt out of his jeans. "Well,darling,if I'd known you were so anxious to get me undressed,I'd have cooperated fully,and in private." "Shut up.God, Brian, you said it was nothing." "It's not much." His definition of not much was a softball-size bruise the ribs in a burst of ugly red and black. "Macho is tedious, so just shut up." He started to grin,then yelped when she pressed her fingers to the bruise. "Hell, woman,if that's your idea of tender mercies, keep them." "You could have a cracked rib. You need an X ray." "I don't need a damned-ouch! Bollocks and bloody hell, stop poking." He tried to pull his shirt down, but she simply yanked it up again. "Stand still,and don't be a baby." "A minute ago it was don't be macho, now it's don't be a baby. What do you want?" "For you to behave sensibly." "It's difficult for a man to behave sensibly when a woman's taking his clothes off in broad daylight. If you're going to kiss it and make it better, I've several other bruises. I've a dandy one on my ass as it happens." "I'm sure that's terribly amusing.One of the men can drive you to the emergency room" "No one's driving me anywhere. I'd know if my ribs are cracked as I've had a few in my time.It's a bruise, and it's throbbing like a bitch now that you've been playing with it." She spotted another, riding high on his hip,and gave that a poke. This time he groaned. "Keeley,you're torturing me here." "Im just trying..." She trailed off as she lifted her head and saw his eyes. It wasn't pain or annoyance in them now. It was heat,and it was frustration. And it was surprisingly gratifying. "Really?" It was wrong,and it was foolish, but a sip of power was a heady thing.She trailed her fingers along his hip, up his ribs and down again, and felt his mucles quiver. "Why don't you stop me?" His throat hurt. "You make my head swim. And you know it." "Maybe I do.Now.Maybe I like it." She'd never been deliberately provocative before. Had never wanted to be. And she'd never known the thrill of having a strong man turn to putty under her hands. "Maybe I've thought about you, Brian,the way you said I would." "You pick a fine time to tell me when there's people everywhere, and your father one of them.
Nora Roberts (Irish Rebel (Irish Hearts, #3))
I tried to put myself in his place, and realized we looked exactly like what we were: a family. These strangely tied together individuals trying desperately to keep both ourselves and one another happy. Succeeding, and failing, and succeeding. When Jeremy called me up to light one of the thirteen candles on the cake, he said the kindest things, and I knew he meant each and every one. He talked about me teaching him how to ride a bike, how to swim, how to kick an arcade game in just the right place to get a free play. He was remembering the best of me. The way he spoke, I almost recognized who he was talking about.
David Levithan (How They Met, and Other Stories)
Mom ran out of the room and came back with one of the army-surplus blankets I hated because the wool was so scratchy. She threw the blanket around me to smother the flames. Dad had gone off in the car, so Mom grabbed me and my younger brother, Brian, and hurried over to the trailer next to ours. The woman who lived there was hanging her laundry on the clothesline. She had clothespins in her mouth. Mom, in an unnaturally calm voice, explained what had happened and asked if we could please have a ride to the hospital. The woman dropped her clothespins and laundry right there in the dirt and, without saying anything, ran for her car
Jeannette Walls (The Glass Castle)
Through all these times and formative young years, Lara, my sister, was a rock to me. My mother had suffered three miscarriages after having Lara, and eight years on she was convinced that she wasn’t going to be able to have more children. But Mum got pregnant, and she tells me she spent nine months in bed to make sure she didn’t miscarry. It worked. Mum saved me. The end result, though, was that she was probably pleased to get me out, and that Lara finally got herself a precious baby brother; or in effect, her own baby. So Lara ended up doing everything for me, and I adored her for it. While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth. In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes. I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of.
Bear Grylls (Mud, Sweat and Tears)
she whispers into my truculence and I succumb to that thing called faith that blind old hag who left her brothers and sisters under the overpass she strokes her way into my soul a divining rod slips from the heavens a greasy old senior citizen with stale coffee breath and a proverb for any situation she recounts the transgressions from a lifetime ago with a glassine vision the images move in a circular sway, dashing from light to dark truisms to falsehoods this is a woman, my friend, with whom you can ride the river and gaze at the mountain this is a woman with a heart fired by the very furnace of Hell yet beats with the sonnets of God
Daniel Ames (Feasting at the Table of the Damned)
Taggart finally broke the pattern. "Can you at least explain why?" Jane growled. God, she hated being outnumbered. This was like riding herd on her little brothers, only worse because "I'll beat you if you do" wasn't an acceptable answer. "First rule of shooting a show on Elfhome." She grabbed Hal and made him face each of the two newbies so there was no way they could miss the mask of dark purple bruises across Hal's face. "Avoid getting 'The Face' damaged. Viewers don't like raccoon boys. Hal is out of production until the bruising can be covered with makeup. We've got fifty days and a grocery list of face-chewing monsters to film. We have to think about damage control." "Second rule!" She let Hal go and held up two fingers. "Get as much footage as possible of the monster before you kill it. People don't like looking at dead monsters if you don't give them lots of time seeing it alive. Right now we have got something dark moving at night in water. No one has ever seen this before, so we can't use stock footage to pad. We blow the whistle and it will come out of the water and try to rip your face off – violating rule one – and then we'll have to kill it and thus break rule two." "Sounds reasonable," Taggart said. "Would we really have to kill it?" Nigel's tone suggested he equated it to torturing kittens. "If it's trying its damnest to eat you? Yes!" Jane cried.
Wen Spencer (Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden (Elfhome, #1.5))
Some people sailed through life, as if riding one of those gliders her brother Gary liked to fly, taking off from the highest hill, not knowing where the wind would take him, but enjoying the ride the whole way. Sara wasn't the gliding type. She always had to make things a little harder for herself. "You're always getting in your own way," Gary had told her after she had lost her job in New York and confided to him she didn't know what to do next. It wasn't exactly the advice she wanted to hear. But the words had remained with her. She spent more time thinking about things than doing them. Another pearl of wisdom from brother Gary. Gary the freelance journalist. Gary the traveler. The glider.
R.L. Stine (Superstitious)
We’ll leave you,” Westhaven said, stepping forward to kiss Sophie’s forehead. “Don’t stay out too long in this weather. Sindal, welcome to the family.” “Welcome,” Valentine said, “but if you so much as give Sophie reason to wince, I will delight in thrashing you.” He kissed Sophie’s cheek and stepped back. “And then I’ll stand you to a round,” St. Just said, extending a hand to Vim then drawing Sophie forward into the hug. “You’ll send the boy to me when it’s time to learn how to ride.” It wasn’t a request, but it was sufficiently controversial that as they walked off in the direction of Morelands, all three brothers could tear into a rousing good argument about who would teach the lad to ride, to dance, to flirt, to shoot…
Grace Burrowes (Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (The Duke's Daughters, #1; Windham, #4))
So, look, you can’t leave,” Doug said, sitting up straight and turning toward her. “If you do, Miller’s gonna revert and Caleb and Ian are gonna ride roughshod and Sean’ll go back to being Ghost Brother and Finn…” Megan’s heart slipped. “Finn what?” “Finn will be destroyed,” Doug said, looking her in the eye. “You got that dude all up in a twist, you know that, right?” “What does that even mean?” Megan asked. “All’s I know is, he found out you left and he locked himself in the shed and barricaded the door. No one’s seen him since,” Doug said. “When I bolted, Sean and Evan were trying to boost Caleb up onto the roof so he could look through the skylight and make sure the kid wasn’t dead or something.” Megan swallowed hard. “Wow.
Kate Brian (Megan Meade's Guide to the McGowan Boys)
He was halfway to the house, thinking to set the cabbage inside the kitchen door,when a brown blur thundered past him. Joanna Robbins tore out of the barn astride a magnificent chestnut quarter horse. She leaned forward in the saddle,hat flopping against her back, hair streaming out behind her in a wild curly mass as she urged her mount to a full-out gallop. Unable to do anything but stare, Crockett stood dumbstruck as she raced past. She was the most amazing horsewoman he'd ever seen. Joanna Robbins. The shy creature who claimed painting and reading were her favorite pastimes had just bolted across the yard like a seasoned jockey atop Thoroughbred. She might have inherited her mother's grace and manners, but the woman rode like her outlaw father.Maybe better.
Karen Witemeyer (Stealing the Preacher (Archer Brothers, #2))
As the sole surviving child of that family, I find myself left with certain difficulties in the area of speech and language, problems of tense and person, and of definition. To start with definition, does ‘sole surviving child’ effectively mean ‘only child’? Now that I have no siblings, can I still define myself as a sister? This leads into tense: unquestionably I was a sister, who had a brother, but if someone asks me, ‘Do you [not did you ever] have any brothers and sisters?’, how should I answer? If I say, in the present tense, ‘No, I don’t,’ am I declaring the truth, or concealing it? And then – moving on to the question of person or persons – even if the sibling question has not explicitly been asked, when I tell, in the course of an ordinary conversation, an ordinary story about myself, do I talk about my parents, my childhood, my family, say that I grew up in London, I was brought up Jewish, I always went to my grandparents on a Saturday? Or do I say that we went the local school, loved to ride our bikes up and down the street, climbed trees on the wasteland that we called The Green and that, as we got older, we grew more and more impatient with our father? My dilemma here is not that ‘we’ would be incorrect in the past tense, it is rather that – like the answer to the sibling question – the use of the first person plural has the potential to lead a casual conversation towards a revelation that would render it no longer casual. So, Julian, what would you rather I did? Sprinkle a little bit of trauma wherever I go, or finish off what you started, and obliterate you? Which is your preferred legacy?
Joanne Limburg (Small Pieces: A Book of Lamentations)
I would have no problem with you driving my car if you would keep it under ninety." "And I'd have no problem with riding in your car if you'd keep it over geriatric," Ronan replied." It was early November; the trees were handsome; the sky was clear; excitement was in the air. The three brothers debated in a Goodwill parking lot; those entering and leaving stared. they were an eye-catchingly mismatched threesome: Ronan, with his ominous boots and ominous expression; Declan, with his perfectly controlled curls and dutiful gray suit; Matthew, with his outstandingly ugly checked pants and cheerfully blue puffer coat. Ronan continued, "There are stains that spread faster than you drive. If you drive, it'll take fourteen years to get there. Seventeen. Forty. One hundred. We'll be driving to your funeral by the end.
Maggie Stiefvater (Call Down the Hawk (Dreamer Trilogy, #1))
Alone in the bathroom, I stared into the mirror over the sink. Who was I looking at? Andrew or Drew? The boy on the lawn had been wearing my jeans, my T-shirt, my running shoes. I was wearing his clothes. I’d whistled for his dog the way he would have. I’d called his mother “Mama” as naturally as I’d once called my mother “Mom.” If I stayed here long enough, would I sink down into Andrew’s life and forget I’d ever been anyone else? No, no, no. Splashing cold water on my face, I reminded myself I was just acting a part. When I won the marble game, the curtain would go down on the last act. I’d be Drew again and Andrew would be Andrew--for keeps. Till then, I’d call Mrs. Tyler “Mama” and Mr. Tyler “Papa,” I’d think of Hannah and Theo as my brother and sister, I’d whistle for Buster, I’d do whatever my role demanded. Outside, a horn blew and Theo yelled, “Andrew, hurry up or we’ll leave without you!” Yes--I’d even ride in a genuine Model T.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Get it off!" Julian howled, shimmying his back in front of Sacha. Sacha was too busy being doubled over laughing his ass off to give half a shit about the fact that his friend had gotten crapped on by a bird. For the second time in less than an hour. We were at King's Park in Perth, the largest inner-city park in the world, the day after we’d arrived in the Land Down Under. Sacha, Julian, my brother, Isaiah and I had all caught a ride to the beautiful location late that morning. What had started with me banging on my brother’s door so he could accompany me somewhere, ended up becoming an extended invitation to the other guys during breakfast. "Quit laughing and somebody wipe it off!" Julian was practically screeching as he made his stop in front of me, hoping I'd be his savior. I wanted to help Julian with his issue. Really. I did. The problem was that I couldn't stop cracking up either. “Gaby! Please! Get it off!” It seriously took everything inside of me to get it together. I finally cleaned the gooey spot with the last napkin I’d tucked into my pocket earlier, but it took longer than it normally would have. A second later another bird swarmed overhead and made him start cursing in annoyance and probably fear. It was bad enough to get pooped on once, but twice? And in front of Eli and Sacha? There was no way Julian was ever going to be able to live it down. "I feel like I should take a shit on you too now. What exactly am I missing out on, you know?" Eli cackled, slapping the poor guy on the back before immediately yanking his hand away and checking it with a grimace. The same bird swooped dangerously over our heads, and I started crying, not imagining the look of pure horror on Julian's face all over again. "You better run before they come after you again," Sacha teased him through a gulp of air. He stole a glance in my direction, and then lost it once more; this loud, belly-aching laugh that fueled my own.
Mariana Zapata (Rhythm, Chord & Malykhin)
There’s no use in talking about the plan, because of course nothing went the way it was supposed to. Even the passage of time was horribly distorted. At first the ride to the hill seemed endless, with me sneaking looks at my brother, who was increasingly unsteady in his saddle. The Marquis insisted on riding in front of us the last little distance, where we saw a row of four horse riders waiting--the outer two bearing banners, dripping from the rain, but the flags’ green and gold still brilliant, and the inner two riders brawny and cruel faced and very much at ease, wearing the plumed helms of command. “I just wanted to see if you traitors would dare to face me,” Galdran said, his caustic voice making me feel sick inside. Sick--and angry. The Marquis bowed low over his horse’s withers, every line of his body indicative of irony. Galdran’s face flushed dark purple. “I confess,” Shevraeth drawled, “we had a small wager on whether you would have the courage to face us.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
Once he stared the car, I said, “I just want you to know I’m paying for my meal, because I know it’ll be full price, and I didn’t want you to think I was expecting you to pay for it, because this isn’t a date. It’s just the team and the host sisters, brothers, whatever, getting together to have some fun tonight since it’s raining…or was raining…it’s obviously not raining now. And you’re just giving me a ride, not a meal.” Shut me up! Shut me up! Shut me up! He shifted into reverse, then backed out of the driveway. “I’m buying your dinner.” “No, really--” “Dani.” It was the first time I could recall him actually saying my name. I loved the way it just rumbled, his voice so deep, so perfect. I wanted him to say it again, over and over. But he’d stopped in the middle of the street. I figured any minute Dad was going to come barreling out of the house to find out what was wrong. I looked over at Jason. “I’m buying your dinner, as my thanks to you for convincing your family to host me. Just accept it, okay?” I nodded. “Okay.” He drove, and I settled into my seat, wondering what other surprises the night might hold.
Rachel Hawthorne (The Boyfriend League)
Meanwhile one can observe on every side that dreary phenomenon, the middle-class person who is an ardent Socialist at twenty-five and a sniffish Conservative at thirty-five. In a way his recoil is natural enough–at any rate, one can see how his thoughts run. Perhaps a classless society doesn't mean a beatific state of affairs in which we shall all go on behaving exactly as before except that there will be no class-hatred and no snobbishness; perhaps it means a bleak world in which all our ideals, our codes, our tastes–our 'ideology', in fact–will have no meaning. Perhaps this class-breaking business isn't so simple as it looked! On the contrary, it is a wild ride into the darkness, and it may be that at the end of it the smile will be on the face of the tiger. With loving, though slightly patronizing smiles we set out to greet our proletarian brothers, and behold! our proletarian brothers–in so far as we understand them–are not asking for our greetings, they are asking us to commit suicide. When the bourgeois sees it in that form he takes to flight, and if his flight is rapid enough it may carry him to Fascism.
George Orwell (The Road to Wigan Pier)
That movie you made me watch, first time at your house. Love and redemption. You said, ‘The most beautiful stories ever told are the most difficult to take.’You said that, Red. Right out. And I knew if you got that, when it was later and I shared my shit with you, you’d get me. I never thought my story was beautiful. I thought it was shit. But you said that and when you did, I saw it. The ride is not over but if I can keep my Club together and find a sweet, feisty woman who’s got my back and enough to her that she’ll stay there, holding me up not dragging me down, I figure I’d find my way to beauty eventually. And I’d find absolution because I’d know, I earned the love of that woman, a woman who’s got so much to her it’ll take years to dig down and find the heart of her, that would be my reward.”Ohmigod. Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Did he just say that? Did. He. Just. Say that? “And you told me,”Tack continued, his face coming closer, “I had that when I first met you.”“I—”“So I was hooked to that shit, I did it, I participated in it, I was loyal to my brothers as I’d vowed I’d be and I pulled me and my Club out of it. I did that but that didn’t erase what we did. You are my absolution.
Kristen Ashley (Motorcycle Man (Dream Man, #4))
But here through the dusk comes one who is not glad to be at rest. He is a workman on the ranch, an old man, an immigrant Italian. He takes his hat off to me in all servility, because, forsooth, I am to him a lord of life. I am food to him, and shelter, and existence. He has toiled like a beast all his days, and lived less comfortably than my horses in their deep-strawed stalls. He is labour-crippled. He shambles as he walks. One shoulder is twisted higher than the other. His hands are gnarled claws, repulsive, horrible. As an apparition he is a pretty miserable specimen. His brain is as stupid as his body is ugly. "His brain is so stupid that he does not know he is an apparition," the White Logic chuckles to me. "He is sense-drunk. He is the slave of the dream of life. His brain is filled with superrational sanctions and obsessions. He believes in a transcendent over-world. He has listened to the vagaries of the prophets, who have given to him the sumptuous bubble of Paradise. He feels inarticulate self-affinities, with self-conjured non-realities. He sees penumbral visions of himself titubating fantastically through days and nights of space and stars. Beyond the shadow of any doubt he is convinced that the universe was made for him, and that it is his destiny to live for ever in the immaterial and supersensuous realms he and his kind have builded of the stuff of semblance and deception. "But you, who have opened the books and who share my awful confidence—you know him for what he is, brother to you and the dust, a cosmic joke, a sport of chemistry, a garmented beast that arose out of the ruck of screaming beastliness by virtue and accident of two opposable great toes. He is brother as well to the gorilla and the chimpanzee. He thumps his chest in anger, and roars and quivers with cataleptic ferocity. He knows monstrous, atavistic promptings, and he is composed of all manner of shreds of abysmal and forgotten instincts." "Yet he dreams he is immortal," I argue feebly. "It is vastly wonderful for so stupid a clod to bestride the shoulders of time and ride the eternities." "Pah!" is the retort. "Would you then shut the books and exchange places with this thing that is only an appetite and a desire, a marionette of the belly and the loins?" "To be stupid is to be happy," I contend. "Then your ideal of happiness is a jelly-like organism floating in a tideless, tepid twilight sea, eh?
Jack London (John Barleycorn)
I hurried over to Conrad, walking so fast I kicked up sand behind me. “Hey, I’m gonna get a ride,” I said breathlessly. The blond Red Sox girl looked me up and down. “Hello,” she said. Conrad said, “With who?” I pointed at Cam. “Him.” “You’re not riding with someone you don’t even know,” he said flatly. “I do so know him. He’s Sextus.” He narrowed his eyes. “Sex what?” “Never mind. His name is Cam, he’s studying whales, and you don’t get to decide who I ride home with. I was just letting you know, as a courtesy. I wasn’t asking for your permission.” I started to walk away, but he grabbed my elbow. “I don’t care what he’s studying. It’s not gonna happen,” he said casually, but his grip was tight. “If you want to go, I’ll take you.” I took a deep breath. I had to keep cool. I wasn’t going to let him goad me into being a baby, not in front of all these people. “No, thanks,” I said, trying to walk away again. But he didn’t let go. “I thought you already had a boyfriend?” His tone was mocking, and I knew he’d seen through my lie the night before. I wanted so badly to throw a handful of sand in his face. I tried to twist out of his grip. “Let go of me! That hurts!” He let go immediately, his face red. It didn’t really hurt, but I wanted to embarrass him the way he was embarrassing me. I said loudly, “I’d rather ride with a stranger than with someone who’s been drinking!” “I’ve had one beer,” he snapped. “I weigh a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Wait half an hour and I’ll take you. Stop being such a brat.” I could feel tears starting to spark my eyelids. I looked over my shoulder to see if Cam was watching. He was. “You’re an asshole,” I said. He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “And you’re a four-year-old.” As I walked away, I heard the girl ask, “Is she your girlfriend?” I whirled around, and we both said “No!” at the same time. Confused, she said, “Well, is she your little sister?” like I wasn’t standing right there. Her perfume was heavy. It felt like it filled all the air around us, like we were breathing her in. “No, I’m not his little sister.” I hated this girl for being a witness to all this. It was humiliating. And she was pretty, in the same kind of way Taylor was pretty, which somehow made things worse. Conrad said, “Her mom is best friends with my mom.” So that was all I was to him? His mom’s friend’s daughter? I took a deep breath, and without even thinking, I said to the girl, “I’ve known Conrad my whole life. So let me be the one to tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree. Conrad will never love anyone as much as he loves himself, if you know what I mean-“ I lifted up my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Shut up, Belly,” Conrad warned. The tops of his ears were turning bright red. It was a low blow, but I didn’t care. He deserved it. Red Sox girl frowned. “What is she talking about, Conrad?” To her I blurted out, “Oh, I’m sorry, do you not know what the idiom ‘barking up the wrong tree’ means?” Her pretty face twisted. “You little skank,” she hissed. I could feel myself shrinking. I wished I could take it back. I’d never gotten into a fight with a girl before, or with anyone for that matter. Thankfully, Conrad broke in then and pointed to the bonfire. “Belly, go back over there, and wait for me to come get you,” he said harshly. That’s when Jeremiah ambled over. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?” he asked, smiling in his easy, goofy way. “Your brother is a jerk,” I said. “That’s what’s going on.” Jeremiah put his arm around me. He smelled like beer. “You guys play nice, you hear?” I shrugged out of his hold and said, “I am playing nice. Tell your brother to play nice.” “Wait, are you guys brother and sister too?” the girl asked. Conrad said, “Don’t even think about leaving with that guy.
Jenny Han (The Summer I Turned Pretty (Summer, #1))
We’re to have no communication with anyone outside of our own people,” she said. My first reaction was disbelief. Then I thought of that letter of thanks I’d planned on writing, and even though I had not told anyone, humiliation burned through me, followed by anger all the more bright for the sense of betrayal that underlay it all. Why betrayal? Shevraeth had never pretended to be on my side. Therefore he had saved my life purely for his own ends. Worse, my brother was somehow involved with his plans; I remembered Nessaren’s subtle reaction to his mention, and I wondered if there had been some sort of reference to Bran in that letter Nessaren had just received. What else could this mean but that I was again to be used to force my brother to surrender? Fury had withered all my good feelings, but I was determined not to show any of it, and I sat with my gaze on my hands, which were gripped in my lap, until I felt that I had my emotions under control again. When I realized that the silence had grown protracted, I looked up and forced a polite smile. “I don’t suppose you know where your Marquis is?” I asked, striving for a tone of nonchalance. A quick exchange of looks, then Nessaren said, “I cannot tell you exactly, for I do not know, but he said that if you were to ask, I was to tender his compliments and regrets, but say events required him to move quickly.” And we’re not? I thought about us waiting out the rain, and those nice picnics, and realized that Nessaren had been watching me pretty carefully. It was no accident that we’d stopped for rests, then; Nessaren had very accurately gauged my strength. A fast run would have meant riding through rain and through nights, stopping only to change horses. We hadn’t even had to do that. Once again my emotions took a spin. I had had a taste of the way prisoners could be conveyed when the Baron had me thrown over a saddle for the trip to Chovilun. Nessaren and her riding had made certain that my journey so far was as pleasant as they could make it. Is this, I wondered acidly, possibly an attempt to win me to Shevraeth’s side in whatever game he’s playing with the King and the Baron? Just the thought made me wild to face their Marquis once again and give him the benefit of my opinions. But none of this could be shown now, I told myself. My quarrel was not with Nessaren and the equerries, who were just following orders. It was with their leader. I glanced up, saw that they seemed to be waiting. For a reaction? “Anyone know a good song?” I asked.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
This is weird for me, too, you know. It’s like, ever since I got that letter…” He hesitates. “Forget it.” “Just say it,” I say. “Ever since I got that letter, things have been messed up between us. It’s not fair. You got to say everything you wanted to say, and I’m the one who has to rearrange the way I think about you; I have to make sense of it in my head. You totally blindsided me, and then you just shut me out. You start dating Kavinsky, you stop being my friend.” He exhales. “Ever since I got your letter…I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” Whatever I was expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. It definitely wasn’t that. “Josh…” “I know you don’t want to hear it, but just let me say what I need to say, okay?” I nod. “I hate that you’re with Kavinsky. I hate it. He’s not good enough for you. I’m sorry to say it, but he’s just not. In my opinion, no guy will ever be good enough for you. Least of all me.” Josh ducks his head, and then suddenly he looks up at me and says, “There was this one time, I guess it was a couple of summers ago. We were walking home from somebody’s house--I think it was Mike’s.” It was hot, around dusk. I was mad because Mike’s older brother Jimmy had said he’d give us a ride home, and then he went somewhere and didn’t come back, so we had to walk. I was wearing espadrilles and my feet were hurting something terrible. Josh kept telling me to keep up with him. Quietly he says, “It was just me and you. You had on that tan suede shirt you used to wear, with the straps, and it showed your belly button.” “My Pocahontas-meets-seventies-Cher-style shirt.” Oh, how I loved that shirt. “I almost kissed you that day. I thought about it. It was this weird impulse I had. I just wanted to see what it would be like.” My heart stops. “And then?” “And then I don’t know. I guess I forgot about it.” I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry you got that letter. You were never supposed to see that. It wasn’t meant for you to ever read. It was just for me.” “Maybe it was fate. Maybe this was all supposed to happen just like this, because…because it was always gonna be you and me.” I say the first thing that comes to mind. “No, it wasn’t.” And I realize it’s true. This is the moment I realize I don’t love him, that I haven’t for a while. That maybe I never did. Because he’s right there for the taking: I could kiss him again; I could make him mine. But I don’t want him. I want someone else. It feels strange to have spent so much time wishing for something, for someone, and then one day, suddenly, to just stop.
Jenny Han (To All the Boys I've Loved Before (To All the Boys I've Loved Before, #1))
Melinda Pratt rides city bus number twelve to her cello lesson, wearing her mother's jean jacket and only one sock. Hallo, world, says Minna. Minna often addresses the world, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. Bus number twelve is her favorite place for watching, inside and out. The bus passes cars and bicycles and people walking dogs. It passes store windows, and every so often Minna sees her face reflection, two dark eyes in a face as pale as a winter dawn. There are fourteen people on the bus today. Minna stands up to count them. She likes to count people, telephone poles, hats, umbrellas, and, lately, earrings. One girl, sitting directly in front of Minna, has seven earrings, five in one ear. She has wisps of dyed green hair that lie like forsythia buds against her neck. There are, Minna knows, a king, a past president of the United States, and a beauty queen on the bus. Minna can tell by looking. The king yawns and scratches his ear with his little finger. Scratches, not picks. The beauty queen sleeps, her mouth open, her hair the color of tomatoes not yet ripe. The past preside of the United States reads Teen Love and Body Builder's Annual. Next to Minna, leaning against the seat, is her cello in its zippered canvas case. Next to her cello is her younger brother, McGrew, who is humming. McGrew always hums. Sometimes he hums sentences, though most often it comes out like singing. McGrew's teachers do not enjoy McGrew answering questions in hums or song. Neither does the school principal, Mr. Ripley. McGrew spends lots of time sitting on the bench outside Mr. Ripley's office, humming. Today McGrew is humming the newspaper. First the headlines, then the sports section, then the comics. McGrew only laughs at the headlines. Minna smiles at her brother. He is small and stocky and compact like a suitcase. Minna loves him. McGrew always tells the truth, even when he shouldn't. He is kind. And he lends Minna money from the coffee jar he keeps beneath his mattress. Minna looks out the bus window and thinks about her life. Her one life. She likes artichokes and blue fingernail polish and Mozart played too fast. She loves baseball, and the month of March because no one else much likes March, and every shade of brown she has ever seen. But this is only one life. Someday, she knows, she will have another life. A better one. McGrew knows this, too. McGrew is ten years old. He knows nearly everything. He knows, for instance, that his older sister, Minna Pratt, age eleven, is sitting patiently next to her cello waiting to be a woman.
Patricia MacLachlan (The Facts and Fictions of Minna Pratt)
In the deep woods of the far North, under feathery leaves of fern, was a great fairyland of merry elves, sometimes called forest brownies. These elves lived joyfully. They had everything at hand and did not need to worry much about living. Berries and nuts grew plentiful in the forest. Rivers and springs provided the elves with crystal water. Flowers prepared them drink from their flavorful juices, which the munchkins loved greatly. At midnight the elves climbed into flower cups and drank drops of their sweet water with much delight. Every elf would tell a wonderful fairy tale to the flower to thank it for the treat. Despite this abundance, the pixies did not sit back and do nothing. They tinkered with their tasks all day long. They cleaned their houses. They swung on tree branches and swam in forested streams. Together with the early birds, they welcomed the sunrise, listened to the thunder growling, the whispering of leaves and blades of grass, and the conversations of the animals. The birds told them about warm countries, sunbeams whispered of distant seas, and the moon spoke of treasures hidden deeply in the earth. In winter, the elves lived in abandoned nests and hollows. Every sunny day they came out of their burrows and made the forest ring with their happy shouts, throwing tiny snowballs in all directions and building snowmen as small as the pinky finger of a little girl. The munchkins thought they were giants five times as large as them. With the first breath of spring, the elves left their winter residences and moved to the cups of the snowdrop flowers. Looking around, they watched the snow as it turned black and melted. They kept an eye on the blossoming of hazel trees while the leaves were still sleeping in their warm buds. They observed squirrels moving their last winter supplies from storage back to their homes. Gnomes welcomed the birds coming back to their old nests, where the elves lived during winters. Little by little, the forest once more grew green. One moonlight night, elves were sitting at an old willow tree and listening to mermaids singing about their underwater kingdom. “Brothers! Where is Murzilka? He has not been around for a long time!” said one of the elves, Father Beardie, who had a long white beard. He was older than others and well respected in his striped stocking cap. “I’m here,” a snotty voice arose, and Murzilka himself, nicknamed Feather Head, jumped from the top of the tree. All the brothers loved Murzilka, but thought he was lazy, as he actually was. Also, he loved to dress in a tailcoat, tall black hat, boots with narrow toes, a cane and a single eyeglass, being very proud of that look. “Do you know where I’m coming from? The very Arctic Ocean!” roared he. Usually, his words were hard to believe. That time, though, his announcement sounded so marvelous that all elves around him were agape with wonder. “You were there, really? Were you? How did you get there?” asked the sprites. “As easy as ABC! I came by the fox one day and caught her packing her things to visit her cousin, a silver fox who lives by the Arctic Ocean. “Take me with you,” I said to the fox. “Oh, no, you’ll freeze there! You know, it’s cold there!” she said. “Come on.” I said. “What are you talking about? What cold? Summer is here.” “Here we have summer, but there they have winter,” she answered. “No,” I thought. “She must be lying because she does not want to give me a ride.” Without telling her a word, I jumped upon her back and hid in her bushy fur, so even Father Frost could not find me. Like it or not, she had to take me with her. We ran for a long time. Another forest followed our woods, and then a boundless plain opened, a swamp covered with lichen and moss. Despite the intense heat, it had not entirely thawed. “This is tundra,” said my fellow traveler. “Tundra? What is tundra?” asked I. “Tundra is a huge, forever frozen wetland covering the entire coast of the Arctic Ocean.
Anna Khvolson
I opened the front door of my parents’ house the next evening. His starched blue denim shirt caught my eye only seconds before his equally blue eyes did. “Hello,” he said, smiling. Those eyes. They were fixed on mine, and mine on his, for more seconds than is customary at the very beginning of a first date. My knees--the knees that had turned to rubber bands that night four months earlier in a temporary fit of illogical lust--were once again as firm as cooked spaghetti. “Hello,” I answered. I was wearing sleek black pants, a violet V-necked sweater, and spiked black boots--a glaring contrast to the natural, faded denim ensemble he’d chosen. Fashionwise, we were hilariously mismatched. I could sense that he noticed this, too, as my skinny heels obnoxiously clomped along the pavement of my parents’ driveway. We talked through dinner; if I ate, I wasn’t aware of it. We talked about my childhood on the golf course; about his upbringing in the country. About my dad, the doctor; about his dad, the rancher. About my lifelong commitment to ballet; about his lifelong passion for football. About my brother Mike; about his older brother, Todd, who had died when he was a teenager. About Los Angeles and celebrities; cows and agriculture. By the end of the evening, I had no idea what exactly I’d even said. All I knew was, I was riding in a Ford F250 diesel pickup with a cowboy--and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.
Ree Drummond (The Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels)
What was in New York?” “I had to sign a new contract. A Thin Blue Line was renewed for another season.” “Oh, that’s awesome!” I heard rumblings on a few of the news outlets that the show might get dropped. “I really hope you’re finally able to get a new partner. I don’t know why they keep pushing that story line. Tina is not a good match for Jimmy. Brody and I have been riding together for almost seven years, and I would punch myself in the face before I ever kissed him. The show needs to give Jimmy a woman who he saved or something. That would be an interesting plot. Also, your brother on the show has to stop sleeping with that model. Twitter went nuts when he went back to her. She’s a bitch.” Eli’s gaze shifts to mine, and he chuckles. “I thought you didn’t watch the show.” Crap. I did say that. I chew on my thumb and shrug. “I guess I’ve seen a few seasons.” I say the last word under my breath, hoping he didn’t catch it. “Seasons?” No such luck. “Whatever. It’s just to see how bad you butcher my job.” Eli shakes his head and grabs my hand. His fingers thread with mine and then he gently squeezes. “Sounds like you’re a little more invested than that.” “Fine,” I admit. “I watch it religiously." He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “I knew you liked me.” I laugh and hit his chest with our entwined hands. “You’re crazy. I like your show, but seriously, tell the writers they need to clear that up.
Corinne Michaels (We Own Tonight (Second Time Around, #1))
Rider's head snapped up at the sound of gravel crunching under Willow's boots. The sight of the girl in boy's garb birthed an oath. Beneath her cotton shirt, her breasts bounced freely with each step. And within the tight mannish pants, her hips swung in an unconscious rhythm, clearly proclaiming her all woman. Hell, she might as well be naked! His body's reaction was immediate. Cursing his lack of control, he turned sideways, facing her horse, and pretended to adjust the saddle straps. Willow took Sugar's reins and waited for Rider to move aside. He didn't budge an inch. Instead, he tipped his hat back on his head, revealing undisguised disapproval. "Is that the way you always dress?" he bit out. Willow stiffened, immediately defensive. Criticizing herself was one thing; putting up with Sinclair's disdain was another! "If you were expecting a dress, you're crazy!" she snapped. "It would be suicide in this country." "Haven't you ever heard of riding skirts?" "Yes. I'm not as dumb as you seem to think. But fancy riding skirts cost money I don't have. 'Sides, pants are a hell of a lot more useful on the ranch than some damn riding skirt! Now, if you're done jawing about my clothes, I'd like to get a move on before dark." "Somebody ought to wash that barnyard mouth of yours,woman." Willow rested her hand on her gun. "You can try, if you dare." As if I'd draw on a woman, Rider cursed silently, stepping out of her way. As she hoisted herself into the saddle, he was perversely captivated by the way the faded demin stretched over her round bottom. He imagined her long slender legs wrapped around him and how her perfect heart-shaped buttocks would fill his hands and...Oh,hell, what was he doing standing here, gaping like some callow youth? Maybe the girl was right.Maybe he was crazy. One moment he was giving the little witch hell for wearing men's pants; the next he was ogling her in them. He started to turn away, then reached out and gave her booted ankle an angry jerk. "Now what?" Icy turquoise eyes met his, dark and searing. "Do you have any idea what you look like in that get-up? No self-respecting lady would dress like that. It's an open invitation to a man. And if you think that gun you're wearing is going to protect you, you're badly mistaken." Willow gritted her teeth in mounting ire. "So what's it to you, Sinclair? You ain't my pa and you ain't my brother. Hell,my clothes cover me just as good as yours cover you!" She slapped his hand from her ankle, jerked Sugar around, and spurred the mare into a brisk gallop. Before the fine red dust settled, Rider was on his horse, racing after her. Dammit, she's right.Why should I care how she dresses? Heaven knows it certainly has no bearing on my mission. No, agreed a little voice in his head, but it sure is distacting as hell! He'd always prided himself on his cool control; it had saved his backside more than once. But staying in any kind of control around Willow Vaughn was like trying to tame a whimsical March wind-impossible!
Charlotte McPherren (Song of the Willow)
I’ll go,” Thad said. Zane looked at him in surprise. “I appreciate the offer, but this isn’t part of your vacation. This is hard, dangerous work. Cold and wet, too.” Thad shrugged. “I want to help. I can ride and point the steers in the right direction. Will that be enough?” “I’ll go, too,” Martin said. “Me, too.” The last voice came from behind him. Zane turned to see Phoebe leaning against the wall. Maya groaned. “Dammit, Phoebe, if you go, I’ll have to, as well. Do you know what this weather is going to do to my hair?” Phoebe smiled. “Wear a hat.” “Oh, yeah, that’ll help in this rain.” “You don’t have to do this,” Zane said. “Not any of you.” “We know that,” Thad said. “We’re all in this together. Now I say we head out and save us some cattle.” Chase nodded. “They’re greenhorns, Zane, but there’s plenty of them. Without them, we can’t get the herd to safety.” Zane knew his brother was right. He didn’t have a choice. Not if he wanted to save the steers. “Get the horses saddled up,” he told Chase. “We’ll be out in five minutes.” He turned back to everyone else. “Dress warmly. Make the top layer as waterproof as you can.” He nodded at Eddie and Gladys. “We’ll need some food.” Eddie nodded, then grabbed Andrea and C.J. and pulled them toward the stairs. Zane turned to Phoebe, who smiled at him. “They’re going to help,” she said. He frowned. “I know.” “They like you. We all like you.” “Oh. My. God.” He turned and saw Maya staring at him. “I just got it,” she said. “You had sex with Phoebe.” She looked at Phoebe. “You had sex with Zane. I can’t decide if this is great or too gross for words.” Phoebe laughed. Zane walked toward his room. “Just get dressed.
Susan Mallery (Kiss Me (Fool's Gold, #17))
Wondering how I would make it through a hand-to-hand duel, I glanced around--and just then I saw one of Galdran’s equerries fall from his saddle, his banner-spear spinning through the air toward me. Instinctively my free hand reached up and I caught the spear by the shaft. Ignoring the sting in my hand, I jammed my sword into its sheath and started whirling the spear round and round, making the banner snap and stream as my prancing, sidling horse circled round my brother. Horses turned their heads and backed away; no one was able to edge up and get in a good blow at Bran, who swayed in his saddle, his bad arm hanging limp. The warriors fell back, and no one swung at me. Dimly I became aware of an ugly, harsh voice shouting over the crash and thuds of battle. Keeping the banner whirling, I guided my horse with my knees and risked a glance back over my shoulder--and looked straight into Galdran’s rage-darkened face. He said something, spittle flying from his mouth, as he pointed straight at me. A moment later a flicker of movement on my immediate left caused me to glance round. Shevraeth was there, next to me. “Fall back,” he ordered, his voice sharp. “No. Got to protect Bran--” There was no time for more. The Marquis was beset by furious attackers as the King shouted orders from a short distance away. Then more riders appeared from somewhere, and for a moment everything was too chaotic to follow. I found myself suddenly on the edge of the battle; there were too many fighters on both sides between my brother and me. Too many fighters in the liveries of the Baron and the King. Despair burned through me, cold as winter ice. We were losing. Then my horse plunged aside, I shifted in the saddle, and I found myself face-to-face with Galdran. He glared at me with hatred; I had this sudden, strange feeling that if we had both been small children facing each other in a village squabble he would have screamed at me, It’s all your fault! His lips drew back from his teeth. “You, I will kill myself,” he snarled, and he raised his great, flat-bladed sword. I cast away the flimsy spear and drew my sword just a scarce moment before Galdran struck. The first blow nearly knocked me out off the horse. I parried it--just barely--pain shooting up my arm into my back. My arm was numb, so I used both hands to raise my blade against the expected next blow. But as Galdran’s sword came down toward my head, it was met by a ringing strike that sent sparks arcing through the air. I looked--saw the Marquis, hair flying, horse dancing, circling round Galdran and forcing his attention away. Then the two were fighting desperately, the King falling back. I watched in fascination until two of the King’s guards rode to Galdran’s aid, and Shevraeth was suddenly fighting against three. It seemed that the Marquis was going to lose, and I realized I couldn’t watch. Remembering my brother I forced my mount round so I could ride to his aid. But when I spotted him in the chaos of lunging horses and crashing weapons, he was staring past my shoulder, his eyes distended. “Meliara!” he yelled, trying to ride toward me. I turned my head, saw the Marquis now fighting against three guards; and once again the King was coming directly at me, sword swinging in a blur. I flung my sword at him and ducked. A blow caught me painfully across the back of my helm, and darkness rushed up to swallow me.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
Hey,” Chase said as he approached. “The rain sucks.” “Agreed.” His younger brother settled on a log. “I checked on the cattle. They’re fine. The clouds don’t look like there’s going to be any lightning or thunder, but they look plenty wet.” Zane nodded. “Storm’s supposed to last two days. I was hoping it would hold off until Saturday.” Chase sipped his coffee. “Everybody okay?” There was something about the question. Zane stared at him. “What do you mean?” “Nothing. Just checking.” Had Chase heard something in the night? Zane shook his head. Not possible. His tent had been some distance from the others, and the rain had blocked out a lot of noise. Nothing about his brother’s expression told what he was thinking. “We’re heading back today, right?” Chase said. “That’s the plan. I wish it wasn’t a two-day ride.” “There’s--” Chase stopped speaking and stared at his coffee. Zane knew what he’d been about to say. Reilly’s place. It was only about an hour’s ride. The old man would give them shelter until the worst of the storm passed, and even send out a few of his men to watch over the cattle until then. But Zane wasn’t about to impose on his neighbor. Not now and not ever. He glanced at the sky and wondered how long he could take a stand in weather like this. Whatever his issues with Reilly, his guests’ safety came first. “I better see how everyone’s doing,” he said as he tossed the rest of his coffee into the fire. “Before you go,” Chase said and held out something in his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you had enough with you.” Zane stared at the three condoms resting on his brother’s palm. Then he glanced at Chase, who was grinning. “Way to go, big brother.” Not knowing what to say, Zane rose and stalked off. But not before he took the condoms. He might be stubborn, but he wasn’t a fool.
Susan Mallery (Kiss Me (Fool's Gold, #17))
what I knew that morning in March 1977 as we settled around the conference table. I wasn’t even sure how these guys reached us, or how they’d arranged this meeting. “Okay, fellas,” I said, “what’ve you got?” It was a beautiful day, I remember. The light outside the room was a buttery pale yellow, and the sky was blue for the first time in months, so I was distracted, a little spring feverish, as Rudy leaned his weight on the edge of the conference table and smiled. “Mr. Knight, we’ve come up with a way to inject . . . air . . . into a running shoe.” I frowned and dropped my pencil. “Why?” I said. “For greater cushioning,” he said. “For greater support. For the ride of a lifetime.” I stared. “You’re kidding me, right?” I’d heard a lot of silliness from a lot of different people in the shoe business, but this. Oh. Brother. Rudy handed me a pair of soles that looked as if they’d been teleported from the twenty-second century. Big, clunky, they were clear thick plastic and inside were—bubbles? I turned them over. “Bubbles?” I said. “Pressurized air bags,” he said. I set down the soles and gave Rudy a closer look, a full head-to-toe. Six-three, lanky, with unruly dark hair, bottle-bottom glasses, a lopsided grin, and a severe vitamin D deficiency, I thought. Not enough sunshine. Or else a long-lost member of the Addams Family. He saw me appraising him, saw my skepticism, and wasn’t the least fazed. He walked to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and began writing numbers, symbols, equations. He explained at some length why an air shoe would work, why it would never go flat, why it was the Next Big Thing. When he finished I stared at the blackboard. As a trained accountant I’d spent a good part of my life looking at blackboards, but this Rudy fella’s scribbles were something else. Indecipherable.
Phil Knight (Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of NIKE)
In a slow, pleasant voice, Prince Alaerec asked mild questions--weather, travel, Bran’s day and how he’d filled it. I stayed silent as the three of them worked away at this limping conversation. The Renselaeus father and son were skilled enough at nothing-talk, but poor Bran stumbled over half his words, sending frequent glances at me. In the past I’d often spoken for both of us, for truth was he felt awkward with his tongue and was somewhat shy with new people, but I did not feel like speaking until I’d sorted my emotions out--and there was no time for that. To bridge his own feelings, my brother gulped at the very fine wine they offered. Soon a servant came in and announced that dinner was ready, and the old Prince rose slowly, leaning heavily on a cane. His back was straight, though, as he led the way to a dining room. Bran and I fell in behind, I treading cautiously, with my skirts bunched in either hand. Bran snickered. I looked up, saw him watching me, his face flushed. “Life, Mel, are you supposed to walk like that?” He snickered again, swallowed the rest of his third glass of wine, then added, “Looks like you got eggs in those shoes.” “I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk,” I mumbled, acutely aware of that bland-faced, elegantly dressed Marquis right behind us, and elbowed Bran in the side. “Stop laughing! If I drop these skirts, I’ll trip over them.” “Why didn’t you just ask for riding gear?” “And a coach-and-six while I was at it? This is what they gave me.” “Well, it looks right enough,” he admitted, squinting down at me. “It’s just--seeing you in one of those fancy gowns reminds me of--” I didn’t want to hear what it reminded him of. “You’re drunk as four skunks, you idiot,” I muttered, and not especially softly, either. “You’d best lay it aside until you get some food into you.” He sighed. “Right enough. I confess, I didn’t think you’d really get here--thought that there’d be another bad hit.” “Well, I don’t see we’re all that safe yet,” I said under my breath.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
Dom, are you out here?” called a voice from somewhere beyond the stables. Damn it all. It was Tristan. Swiftly Dom donned his shirt. “Be quiet,” he whispered to Jane, “and he’ll go away.” Tristan’s voice sounded again, even nearer now. “I swear to God, Dom, if you ride off to London in the dark and make a liar out of me before Ravenswood, I will kick you from here to France!” “He won’t go away,” Jane whispered back, a hint of desperation in her voice. “He promised Ravenswood that you wouldn’t head for London with broken carriage lamps, and now he’ll want to make sure that you don’t.” Which meant his arse of a brother wasn’t going to stop looking for him. Any minute now, he’d be striding into the harness room. Then Jane would have to marry Dom. As soon as the thought entered Dom’s head, it apparently occurred to her, too, for she paled and stepped near enough to whisper, “Please. Not like this.” He stared at her ashen face, and his stomach sank. He couldn’t force her to wed him. After what had happened between them years ago, she would never forgive him for taking her choice away from her yet again. Besides, he didn’t want to force her into anything. The only way he could prove that he didn’t intend to run roughshod over her for the rest of their lives was to walk away now. Even if it killed him. Bloody hell. “I’ll draw Tristan away from the stables,” Dom said tersely as he shoved his stocking feet into his boots. “That will give you a chance to finish dressing and sneak back into the house.” Relief spreading over her face, she bobbed her head. He buttoned up his shirt. “It will also give you a chance to decide what you want.” Gathering up his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, he added in a low murmur, “But know this, Jane. I am not, nor ever intend to be, a man like your father. Somewhere inside of you, you must…” He winced. “You surely do know it.” He waited long enough to see uncertainty flicker in her eyes. Then he strode out of the harness room and closed the door behind him.
Sabrina Jeffries (If the Viscount Falls (The Duke's Men, #4))
There’s no use in talking about the plan, because of course nothing went the way it was supposed to. Even the passage of time was horribly distorted. At first the ride to the hill seemed endless, with me sneaking looks at my brother, who was increasingly unsteady in his saddle. The Marquis insisted on riding in front of us the last little distance, where we saw a row of four horse riders waiting--the outer two bearing banners, dripping from the rain, but the flags’ green and gold still brilliant, and the inner two riders brawny and cruel faced and very much at ease, wearing the plumed helms of command. “I just wanted to see if you traitors would dare to face me,” Galdran said, his caustic voice making me feel sick inside. Sick--and angry. The Marquis bowed low over his horse’s withers, every line of his body indicative of irony. Galdran’s face flushed dark purple. “I confess,” Shevraeth drawled, “we had a small wager on whether you would have the courage to face us.” “Kill them!” Galdran roared. And that’s the moment when time changed and everything happened at once. At the edge of my vision I saw arrows fly, but none reached us. A weird humming vibrated through my skull; at first I thought it was just me, then I realized all the war horses, despite their training, were in a panic. For a few short, desperate breaths, all my attention was spent calming my own mount. Galdran’s reared, and he shouted orders at his equerries as he fought to keep his seat. The two banner-bearing warriors flipped up the ends of their poles, flicked away some kind of binding, and aimed sharp steel points at the Marquis as they charged. All around me was chaos--the hiss and clang of steel weapons being drawn, the nickering of horses, grunts and shouts and yells. “To me! To me!” That was Bran’s cry. Four Renselaeus warriors came to his aid. I kneed my mount forward and brandished my weapon, trying to edge up on Bran’s weak side. Horseback fighting was something we’d drilled in rarely, for this was not mountain-type warfare. I met the blade of one of Bran’s attackers, and shock rang up my arm. Thoughts chased through my brain; except for those few days with Nessaren’s riding, I hadn’t practiced for weeks, and now I was going to feel it.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
The riders fanned out, but my immediate escort rode straight to the overhanging rusty roof that formed a rudimentary barn. The Marquis dismounted and stretched out his hand to grip the bridle of my horse. “Inside,” he said to me. I dismounted. Again the ground seemed to heave beneath my feet, but I leaned against the shoulders of my mount until the world steadied, and then I straightened up. The Marquis walked toward the open doorway. In a kind of blank daze, I followed the sweeping black cloak inside and down a tiny hall, to a door made of old, rickety twigs bound together. The Marquis opened this and waved me into a little room. I took two steps inside it, looked-- And there, lying on a narrow bed, with books and papers strewn about him, was my brother, Branaric. “Mel!” he exclaimed. “Burn it, you were right,” he said past me. “Ran her to ground at Vesingrui, eh?” A voice spoke behind me. “They were just about to drop on us.” I turned, saw the Marquis leaning in the doorway, a growing puddle of rainwater at his feet. For a long moment I could do nothing except stand as if rooted. The world seemed about to dissolve for a sickening moment, but I sucked in a ragged breath and it righted again, and I threw myself down on my knees next to the bed, knocking my soggy, shapeless hat off, and hugged Branaric fiercely. “Mel, Mel,” Bran said, laughing, then he groaned and fell back on his pillows. “Softly, girl. Curse it! I’m weak as a newborn kitten.” “And will be for a time,” came the voice from the doorway. “Once your explanations have been made, I exhort you to remember Mistress Kylar’s warning.” “Aye, I’ve it well in mine,” Bran said. And as the door closed, he looked up at me from fever-bright eyes. “He was right! Said you’d go straight after ‘em, sword and knife. What’s with you?” “You said, ‘A trap.’ I thought it was them,” I muttered through suddenly numb lips. “Wasn’t it?” “Didn’t you see the riding of greeners?” Bran retorted. “It was Debegri, right enough. He had paid informants in those inns, for he was on the watch for your return. Why d’you think Vidanric sent the escort?” “Vidanric?” “His name,” Branaric said, still staring at me with that odd gaze. “You could try to use it--only polite. After all, Shevraeth is just a title, and he doesn’t go about calling either of us Tlanth.” I’d rather cut out my tongue, I thought, but I said nothing.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth. In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes. I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of. It is why we have always been so close. To her, I am still her little baby brother. And I love her for that. But--and this is the big but--growing up with Lara, there was never a moment’s peace. Even from day one, as a newborn babe in the hospital’s maternity ward, I was paraded around, shown off to anyone and everyone--I was my sister’s new “toy.” And it never stopped. It makes me smile now, but I am sure it is why in later life I craved the peace and solitude that mountains and the sea bring. I didn’t want to perform for anyone, I just wanted space to grow and find myself among all the madness. It took a while to understand where this love of the wild came from, but in truth it probably developed from the intimacy found with my father on the shores of Northern Ireland and the will to escape a loving but bossy elder sister. (God bless her!) I can joke about this nowadays with Lara, and through it all she still remains my closest ally and friend; but she is always the extrovert, wishing she could be on the stage or on the chat show couch, where I tend just to long for quiet times with my friends and family. In short, Lara would be much better at being famous than me. She sums it up well, I think: Until Bear was born I hated being the only child--I complained to Mum and Dad that I was lonely. It felt weird not having a brother or sister when all my friends had them. Bear’s arrival was so exciting (once I’d got over the disappointment of him being a boy, because I’d always wanted a sister!). But the moment I set eyes on him, crying his eyes out in his crib, I thought: That’s my baby. I’m going to look after him. I picked him up, he stopped crying, and from then until he got too big, I dragged him around everywhere.
Bear Grylls (Mud, Sweat and Tears)
The less said about that morning’s ride, the better. I would have been uncomfortable even if I’d been riding with Branaric, for my leg ached steadily from the jarring of the horse’s pace. To be riding along in the clasp of an enemy just made my spirits feel the worse. We only had one conversation, right at the start, when he apologized for the discomfort of the ride and reminded me that there would be a carriage--and reasonable comfort--before the day was gone. I said, in as surly a tone as possible, “You might have thought of that before we left. I mean, since no one asked my opinion on the matter.” “It was purely an impulse of disinterested benevolence that precipitated our departure,” he responded equably--as if I’d been as polite as one of his simpering Court ladies. “What do you mean by that?” “I mean that it seemed very likely that your brother and his adherents were going to mount another rescue attempt, and this time there was no chance of our being taken by surprise.” He paused, letting me figure that out. He meant the King’s warriors would have killed everyone, or else taken them all prisoner, and he had forestalled such a thing. Why he should want to prevent this opportunity to defeat all our people at once didn’t make sense to me; I kept quiet. He went on after a moment, “Since the King requires a report on our progress, and as it seemed expedient to remove you, I decided to combine the two. It appears to have worked, at least for a time.” Which meant he’d stalled Branaric--with what? Threats against my life if our people tried anything? The thought made me wild with anger, with a determination to escape so strong that for a time it took all my self-control not to fling myself from that horse and run, bad leg or no. For at last I faced the real truth: that by my own carelessness, I might very well have graveled our entire cause. I knew my brother. Branaric would not risk my life--and this man seemed to have figured that much out. The Marquis made a couple other attempts at conversation, but I ignored him. I have to confess that, for a short time, hot tears of rage and self-loathing stung my eyes and dripped down my face. I didn’t trust my voice; the only consolation I had for my eroding self-respect was that my face couldn’t be seen. When the tears had dried at last, and I had taken a surreptitious swipe at my nose and eyes with my sleeve, I gritted my teeth and turned my thoughts back to escape.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
and Bran was suddenly afraid. Old sour-smelling Yoren looked up at Robb, unimpressed. “Whatever you say, m’lord,” he said. He sucked at a piece of meat between his teeth. The youngest of the black brothers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s not a man on the Wall knows the haunted forest better than Benjen Stark. He’ll find his way back.” “Well,” said Yoren, “maybe he will and maybe he won’t. Good men have gone into those woods before, and never come out.” All Bran could think of was Old Nan’s story of the Others and the last hero, hounded through the white woods by dead men and spiders big as hounds. He was afraid for a moment, until he remembered how that story ended. “The children will help him,” he blurted, “the children of the forest!” Theon Greyjoy sniggered, and Maester Luwin said, “Bran, the children of the forest have been dead and gone for thousands of years. All that is left of them are the faces in the trees.” “Down here, might be that’s true, Maester,” Yoren said, “but up past the Wall, who’s to say? Up there, a man can’t always tell what’s alive and what’s dead.” That night, after the plates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself. Grey Wind led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. “We’ll find a horse for you, I promise,” Robb whispered at last. “Are they ever coming back?” Bran asked him. “Yes,” Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. “Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn’t that surprise her, to see you ahorse?” Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother’s smile. “And afterward, we’ll ride north to see the Wall. We won’t even tell Jon we’re coming, we’ll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure.” “An adventure,” Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb’s face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together. EDDARD “Lord Arryn’s death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord,” Grand Maester Pycelle said.
George R.R. Martin (A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1))
Tom carried with him a glass full of wine, which clearly hadn’t been his first of the evening. He swaggered and swayed as he started to speak, and his eyes, while not quite at half mast, were certainly well on their way. “In my mind,” Tom began, “this is what love is all about.” Sounded good. A little slurred, but it was nice and simple. “And…and…and in my mind,” Tom continued, “in my mind, I know this is all about…this is all love here.” Oh dear. Oh no. “And all I can say is that in my mind,” he went on, “it’s just so great to know that true love is possible right now in this time.” Crickets. Tap-tap. Is this thing on? “I’ve known this guy for a long, long time,” he resumed, pointing to Marlboro Man, who was sitting and listening respectfully. “And…in my mind, all I have to say is that’s a long…long time.” Tom was dead serious. This was not a joke toast. This was not a ribbing toast. This was what was “in his mind.” He made that clear over and over. “I just want to finish by saying…that in my mind, love is…love is…everything,” he continued. People around the room began to snicker. At the large table where Marlboro Man and I sat with our friends, people began to crack up. Everyone except Marlboro Man. Instead of snickering and laughing at his friend--whom he’d known since they were boys and who, he knew, had recently gone through a rough couple of years--Marlboro Man quietly motioned to everyone at our table with a tactful “Shhhh,” followed by a quietly whispered “Don’t laugh at him.” Then Marlboro Man did what I should have known he’d do. He stood up, walked up to his friend, who was rapidly entering into embarrassing territory…and gave him a friendly handshake, patting him on the shoulder. And the dinner crowd, rather than bursting into the uproarious laughter that had been imminent moments before, clapped instead. I watched the man I was about to marry, who’d always demonstrated a tenderness and compassion for people--whether in movies or in real life--who were subject to being teased or ridiculed. He’d never shown a spot of discomfort in front of my handicapped brother Mike, for all the times Mike had sat on his lap or begged him for rides to the mall. He’d never mocked or ridiculed another person as long as I’d known him. And while his good friend Tom wasn’t exactly developmentally disabled, he’d just gotten perilously close to being voted Class Clown by a room full of people at our rehearsal dinner. But Marlboro Man had swept in and ensured that didn’t happen. My heart swelled with emotion.
Ree Drummond (The Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels)
I told you before--you mustn’t let Edward scare you. He’s a bully and a coward. What would Frank Merriwell do if he were you?” Frank Merriwell--I was thoroughly sick of hearing that name. “I don’t care what some dumb guy in a story would do. I’m not going to fight Edward.” “Fight me then.” Hannah raised her fists and danced around on her bare feet, bouncing, ducking, and swinging at the air around my head. “Pretend I’m Edward!” I ducked a punch, and she swung again. “Put up your dukes,” she ordered, “defend yourself, sir.” This time Hannah clipped my chin hard enough to knock me down. Her shirtwaist was completely untucked, her face was smudged, her hair was tumbling down her back and hanging in her eyes. “On your feet, sir,” she shouted. “Let’s see your fighting spirit!” Hannah was making so much noise she didn’t hear John Larkin push aside the branches and enter the grove. When he saw her take another swing at me, he started laughing. Hannah whirled around, her face scarlet, and stared at John. “What do you mean by sneaking up on us like a common Peeping Tom?” “With the noise you’ve been making, you wouldn’t have noticed a herd of rampaging elephants.” John was still laughing, but Hannah was furious. Putting her fists on her hips, she scowled at him. “Well, now you know the truth about me. I’m no lady and I never claimed to be one. I suppose you’ll start taking Amelia Carter for rides in your precious tin lizzie and treating her to sodas at your father’s drugstore. I’m sure she’d never brawl with her brothers.” Theo and I looked at each other. We were both hoping Hannah would make John leave. Before he came along and ruined everything, we’d been having fun. To my disappointment, John didn’t seem to realize he was unwanted. Leaning against a tree, he watched Hannah run her hands through her hair. “I don’t know what you’re so fired up about,” he said. “Why should I want to take Amelia anywhere? I’ve never met a more boring girl. As for her brothers--a little brawling wouldn’t hurt them. Or Amelia either.” Hannah turned away, her face flushed, and John winked at me. “Your sister’s first rate,” he said, “but I wager I know a sight more about boxing than she does. Why not let me show you a thing or two?” Happy again, Hannah smiled at John. “What a grand idea! But go slow, Andrew’s still weak.” When John took off his jacket, I edged closer to Hannah. “I like your lessons,” I said to her, scowling at John. He was rolling up his sleeves, probably to show off his muscles. Next to him, I was nothing but a skinny little baby. He’d knock me flat and everyone would laugh at me.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
Though she could feel Dom darting glances at her the whole time, she couldn’t face him, couldn’t even look at him. Not just now, when she was still in turmoil about what they’d done. About what he’d said to her at the end. It will also give you a chance to decide what you want. That was the trouble. She didn’t know what she wanted. Well, she did know--she wanted to marry Dom the courteous gentleman. But not Dom the Almighty. She wanted the Dom who mourned for the six children who’d lost their mother needlessly, not the Dom who was sure Nancy was a whore because she’d married his bastard of a brother. But what if both parts were him? What if she couldn’t have one without the other? Why, he hadn’t even said he loved her! Then again, neither had she, so she could hardly fault him for that. Their past was still too raw, and they were both still afraid. Perhaps he’d been waiting for her to say it. She’d certainly been waiting for him. Because then she might really believe he meant to make a life with her again, and not go running off at the first sign of disaster. Like, perhaps, if Nancy proved to be bearing George’s son. “Since it’s such a beautiful morning,” Dom said, “I was thinking that someone might prefer to ride in the phaeton with me. What do you think, Jane? Shall you join me?” He was asking. Deliberately asking, not ordering. And she could feel his expectant gaze on her, indeed, feel everyone’s expectant gazes on her. But her thoughts were too jangled right now, and an enforced ride with him would only jangle them more. Especially since they’d be trapped together for half the day. She wouldn’t be able to escape. Not that she necessarily wanted to escape. Did she? Oh, Lord, she couldn’t handle this at the moment. “Actually, I was looking forward to chatting with your sister in His Grace’s coach. If you don’t mind.” Only then did she meet his gaze. It showed nothing of his thoughts, which made everything worse. She’d begun to recognize that bland expression; he only wore it when he was protecting himself. And if he felt a need to protect himself, then she’d hurt him. She swallowed hard. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Perhaps she should ride with him. Clear the air. Perhaps she was being a coward. “Whichever you prefer,” he said curtly. Then he walked briskly down the steps to his waiting phaeton, leapt in, and set it going. And the decision was made for her. Again. No, she couldn’t blame this one on him. This one was entirely hers. She’d sent him running away. Everyone knew it, too, which was nowhere more apparent than in the carriage once they were all settled in and headed off.
Sabrina Jeffries (If the Viscount Falls (The Duke's Men, #4))
You look like a goddess,” he murmured as he raked his eyes down her form. And she melted into a puddle. “Thank you.” She tried to sound cool and sophisticated. “I much prefer wearing a gown that’s not too tight.” “Except where it should be.” He dropped his gaze pointedly to her bosom. The frank admiration in his eyes made her glad that she’d let Betty guide her choice for tonight. After that other scandalous gown, she’d been reluctant to wear anything low cut, but this one did look beautiful on her, even with its décolletage. Salmon had always been a good color for her, and the satin rouleaux trim made her feel pretty and elegant. “So it’s presentable enough for dinner with your family?” she asked. “They don’t even deserve to see you in it.” The low rumble of his voice made her breath catch in her throat. “I only wish that you and I could-“ “You do look lovely,” said another voice. Lord Gabriel came up from behind Oliver, dressed all in black as usual. A look of pure mischief crossed his face. “Sorry I’m late, Miss Butterfield, but thank you, brother, for keeping her company until I arrived.” Oliver glared at him. “What the devil do you mean?” “I’m taking the young lady down to dinner.” “That office should be left to her fiancé, don’t you think?” Oliver bit out. “Pretend fiancé. You have no real claim on her. And since you had her to yourself all day…” Lord Gabriel offered his arm. “Shall we, Miss Butterfield?” Maria hesitated, unsure what to do. But Oliver was a danger to her sanity, and his brother wasn’t. So she was better off with Lord Gabriel. “Thank you, sir,” she said, taking his arm. “Now just wait one blasted minute. You can’t-“ “What? Be friendly to our guest?” Lord Gabriel asked, his face a mask of innocence. “Really, old boy, I didn’t realize it mattered that much. But if it upsets you to see Miss Butterfield on the arm of another man, I’ll certainly yield the field.” Lord Gabriel’s words seemed to give Oliver pause. Glancing from Maria to his brother, he smiled, though it didn’t nearly reach his eyes. “No, it’s fine,” he said tightly. “Perfectly fine.” When they headed down the hall with Oliver following behind, Lord Gabriel flashed her a conspiratorial glance. She wasn’t sure what the conspiracy was, but since it seemed to irritate Oliver, she went along. The incident was only the first in a series that continued throughout the week. Whenever she and Oliver found themselves alone, even for a moment, one of his siblings popped up to offer some entertainment-a stroll in the gardens, a ride into Ealing, a game of loo. With each instance, Oliver grew more annoyed, for no reason that she could see. Unless… No, that was crazy.
Sabrina Jeffries (The Truth About Lord Stoneville (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #1))
It’s no wonder your grandmother despairs of you. God only knows what a trial you are to your poor parents.” The humor vanished abruptly from his face. “Sadly, my parents are too dead to be overly concerned about my behavior.” His words were flip, but the sudden glint of grief in his eyes told another tale. “Please forgive me,” she said hastily, cursing her quick tongue. “It’s awful to lose your parents. I know that better than anyone.” “No need for apologies.” He pushed away from the door. “They despaired of me long before they died, so you weren’t far off the mark.” “Still, it was very wrong of me to-“ “Come now, Miss Butterfield, this has naught to do with my proposal. Will you pretend to be my fiancée or not?” When she hesitated, he went on with a hint of anger, “I don’t see why you make such a fuss over it. It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything wicked.” That ridiculous remark banished her brief moment of sympathy. “You’re asking me to lie! To deceive a woman for the sake of your purpose, whatever that is. It goes against every moral principle-“ “And threatening to stab a man does not?” He cast her a thin smile. “Think of it as playing a role, like an actress. You and your cousin will be guests at my estate for a week or two, entirely at your leisure.” A dark gleam shone in his eyes. “I can even set up an effigy of myself for you to stab at will.” “That does sound tempting,” she shot back. “As for Freddy there, he can ride and hunt and play cards with my brothers. It’s better entertainment than he’d find in the gaol.” “As long as you feed me, sir,” Freddy said, “I’ll follow you anywhere.” “Freddy!” Maria cried. “What? That blasted inn where we’re staying is flea-ridden and cold as a witch’s tit. Plus, you keep such tight hold on my purse strings that I’m famished all the time. What’s wrong with helping this fellow if it means we finally sleep in decent beds? And it’s not a big thing, your pretending to be betrothed to him.” “I’m already betrothed, thank you very much,” she shot back. “And what about Nathan? While we’re off deceiving this man’s poor grandmother, Nathan might be hurt or in trouble. You expect me just to give up searching for him so you can get a decent meal?” “And keep from being hanged,” Freddy pointed out. “Let’s not forget that.” “Ah, the missing fiancé,” Lord Stoneville said coldly. “I did wonder when you would bring him back into it.” She glowered at him. “I never let him out of it. he’s the reason I’m here.” “So you say.” That inflamed her temper. “Now see here, you insufferable, arrogant-“ “Fine. If you insist on clinging to your wild story, how about this: while you pretend to be my fiancée, I’ll hire someone to look for fiancé. A simple trade of services.
Sabrina Jeffries (The Truth About Lord Stoneville (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #1))
I would rather face the devil himself than that man,” Elizabeth said with a repressed shudder. “I daresay,” Lucinda agreed, clutching her umbrella with one hand and the side of the cart with her other. The nearer the time came, the more angry and confused Elizabeth became about this meeting. For the first four days of their journey, her tension had been greatly allayed by the scenic grandeur of Scotland with its rolling hills and deep valleys carpeted in bluebells and hawthorne. Now, however, as the hour of confronting him drew near, not even the sight of the mountains decked out in spring flowers or the bright blue lakes below could calm her mounting tension. “Furthermore, I cannot believe he has the slightest desire to see me.” “We shall soon find out.” In the hills above the high, winding track that passed for a road, a shepherd paused to gape at an old wooden wagon making its laborious way along the road below. “Lookee there, Will,” he told his brother. “Do you see what I see?” The brother looked down and gaped, his lips parting in a toothless grin of glee at the comical sight of two ladies-bonnets, gloves, and all-who were perched primly and precariously on the back of Sean MacLaesh’s haywagon, their backs ramrod-stiff, their feet sticking straight out beyond the wagon. “Don’t that beat all,” Will laughed, and high above the haywagon he swept off his cap in a mocking salute to the ladies. “I heered in the village Ian Thornton was acomin’ home. I’ll wager ‘e’s arrived, and them two are his fancy pieces, come to warm ‘is bed an’ see to ‘is needs.” Blessedly unaware of the conjecture taking place between the two spectators up in the hills, Miss Throckmorton-Jones brushed angrily and ineffectually at the coating of dust clinging to her black skirts. “I have never in all my life been subjected to such treatment!” she hissed furiously as the wagon they were riding in gave another violet, creaking lurch and her shoulder banged into Elizabeth’s. “You may depend on this-I shall give Mr. Ian Thornton a piece of my mind for inviting two gentlewomen to this godforsaken wilderness, and never even mentioning that a traveling baroche is too wide for the roads!” Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something soothing, but just then the wagon gave another teeth-jarring lurch, and she clutched at the wooden side. “From what little I know of him, Lucy,” she managed finally when the wagon righted, “he wouldn’t care in the least what we’ve been through. He’s rude and inconsiderate-and those are his good points-“ “Whoa there, whoa,” the farmer called out, sawing back on the swayback nags reins and bringing the wagon to a groaning stop. “That’s the Thornton place up there atop yon hill,” the farmer said, pointing.
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
So…,” I began. Was it just a high school thing? Or worse, I imagined, is it just that I’m not and never will be a country girl? Is it that country girls have some wild sense of abandon that I wasn’t born with? A reckless side, a fun, adventurous side that makes them worthy of riding next to boys in pickups? Am I untouchable? Am I too prim? Too proper? I’m not! I’m really not! I’m fun and adventurous. Reckless, too! I have a pair of jeans: Anne Kleins! And I want to be Middle Seat Worthy. Please, Marlboro Man…please. I’ve never wanted anything this much. “So, um…why don’t you do it anymore?” I asked. “Bucket seats,” Marlboro Man answered, his hand still resting on my leg. Made sense. I settled in and relaxed a bit. But I had another question I’d been mulling over. “Mind if I ask you another question?” I said. “Go ahead,” he replied. I cleared my throat and sat up straight in my seat. “How come…how come it took you so long to call me?” I couldn’t help but grin. It was one of the most direct questions I’d ever asked him. He looked in my direction, then back toward the road. “You don’t have to tell me,” I said. And he didn’t. But I’d wondered more than a handful of times, and as long as he was coming clean about bucket seats and other important matters, I thought it would be a good time to ask him why four months had passed between the first night we’d met in the smoky bar and the night he’d finally called to invite me to dinner. I remembered being knocked over by his magnetism that night during Christmas vacation. What had he thought of me? Had he forgotten me instantly, then remembered me in a flash that April night after my brother’s wedding? Or had he intentionally waited four months to call? Was it some kind of country boy protocol I didn’t know about? I was a girl. I simply had to know. “I was…,” he began. “Well, I was dating someone else.” I’ll kill her with my bare hands. “Oh,” I said in return. It was all I could muster. “Plus, I was running a herd of cows in Nebraska and having to drive up there every week,” he continued. “I just wasn’t here enough to break things off with her in the right way…and I didn’t want to call you and ask you out until that was all resolved.” I repeated myself. “Oh.” What was her name? She’s dead to me. “I liked you, though,” he said, flashing me a smile. “I thought about you.” I couldn’t help but smile back. “You did?” I asked quietly, still wondering what the girl’s name was. I wouldn’t rest till I knew. “I did,” he said sweetly, stroking my leg with his hand. “You were different.” I stopped short of interrogating him further, of asking him to specify what he meant by “different.” And it didn’t take much imagination to figure it out. As he drove me around his familiar homeland, it was obvious what he would have considered “different” about me. I didn’t know anything about the country.
Ree Drummond (The Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels)
Why hadn’t he told me? Because I’d called him a liar and untrustworthy, and had made it plain I wasn’t going to change my opinion, no matter what. Then why hadn’t he told my brother, who did trust him? That I couldn’t answer. And in a sense it didn’t matter. What did matter was that I had been wrong about Shevraeth. I had been so wrong I had nearly gotten a lot of people killed for no reason. Just thinking it made me grit my teeth, and in a way it felt almost as bad as cleaning the fester from my wounded foot. Which was right, because I had to clean out from my mind the fester caused by anger and hatred. I remembered suddenly that horrible day in Galdran’s dungeon when the Marquis had come to me himself and offered me a choice between death and surrender. “It might buy you time,” he’d said. At that moment I’d seen surrender as dishonor, and it had taken courage to refuse. He’d seen that and had acknowledged it in many different ways, including his words two days before about my being a heroine. Generous words, meant to brace me up. What I saw now was the grim courage it had taken to act his part in Galdran’s Court, all the time planning to change things with the least amount of damage to innocent people. And when Branaric and I had come crashing into his plans, he’d included us as much as he could in his net of safety. My subsequent brushes with death were, I saw miserably now, my own fault. I had to respect what he’d done. He’d come to respect us for our ideals, that much was clear. What he might think of me personally… Suddenly I felt an overwhelming desire to be home. I wanted badly to clean out our castle, and replant Mama’s garden, and walk in the sunny glades, and think, and read, and learn. I no longer wanted to face the world in ignorance, wearing castoff clothing and old horse blankets. But first there was something I had to do. I slipped out the door; paused, listening. From Branaric’s room came the sound of slow, deep breathing. I stepped inside the room Shevraeth had been using, saw a half-folded map on the table, a neat pile of papers, a pen and inkwell, and a folded pair of gloves. Pulling out the wallet from my clothes, I opened it and extracted Debegri’s letter. This I laid on the table beside the papers. Then I knelt down and picked up the pen. Finding a blank sheet of paper, I wrote in slow, careful letters: You’ll probably need this to convince Galdran’s old allies. Then I retreated to my room, pulled the borrowed tunic over my head, bound up my ratty braid, settled the overlarge hat onto my head, and slipped out the door. At the end of the little hall was another door, which opened onto a clearing. Under a dilapidated roof waited a string of fine horses, and a few Renselaeus stable hands sat about. When they saw me, they sprang to their feet. “My lady?” One bowed. “I should like a ride,” I said, my heart thumping. But they didn’t argue, or refuse, or send someone to warn someone else. Working together, in a trice they had a fine, fresh mare saddled and ready. And in another trice I was on her back and riding out, on my way home.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
Khesot was looking not at the map but at us, his old eyes sad. I winced, knowing what he’d say if asked: that he had not been trained for his position any more than nature had suited Bran and me for war. But there was no other choice. “So if Hrani takes her riding up here on Mount Elios, mayhap they can spy out Galdran’s numbers better,” Branaric said slowly. “Then we send out someone to lure ‘em to the Ghost Fall Ravine.” I forced my attention back to the map. “Even if the Marquis fails to see so obvious a trap,” I said, finally, smoothing a wrinkle with my fingers, “they’re necessarily all strung out going through that bottleneck. I don’t see how we can account for many of them before they figure out what we’re at, and retreat. I say we strike fast, in total surprise. We could set fire to their tents and steal all their mounts. That’d set ‘em back a little.” Bran frowned. “None of our attempts to scare ‘em off have worked, though--even with Debegri. He just sent for more reinforcements, and now there’s this new commander. Attacking their camp sounds more risky to us than to them.” Khesot still said nothing, leaning over only to tap out and reload his pipe. I followed the direction of his gaze to my brother’s face. Had Branaric been born without title or parental plans, he probably would have found his way into a band of traveling players and there enjoyed a life’s contentment. Did one not know him by sight, there was no sign in his worn dress or in his manner that he was a count--and this was even more true for me. I looked at Khesot and wondered if he felt sad that though today was my Flower Day there would be no dancing--no music, or laughter, or family to celebrate the leaving of childhood behind. Among the aristocrats in the lowlands, Flower Day was celebrated with fine dresses and satin slippers and expensive gifts. Did he pity us? He couldn’t understand that I had no regrets for something I’d never known--and believed I never would know. But I controlled my impatience, and my tongue, because I knew from long experience that he was again seeing our mother in us--in our wide, dark-lashed eyes and auburn hair--and she had dearly loved pretty clothing, music, her rose garden. And Galdran had had her killed. “What do you think?” Bran addressed Khesot, who smiled ruefully. “You’ll pardon an old man, my lord, my lady. I’m more tired than I thought. My mind wandered and I did not hear what you asked.” “Can you second-guess this Shevraeth?” Branaric asked. “He seems to be driving us back into our hills--to what purpose? Why hasn’t he taken over any of our villages? He knows where they lie--and he has the forces. If he does that, traps or no traps, arrows or no arrows, we’re lost. We won’t be able to retake them.” Khesot puffed again, watching smoke curl lazily toward the tent roof. In my mind I saw, clearly, that straight-backed figure on the dapple-gray horse, his long black cloak slung back over the animal’s haunches, his plumed helm of command on his head. With either phenomenal courage or outright arrogance he had ignored the possibility of our arrows, the crowned sun stitched on his tunic gleaming in the noonday light as he directed the day’s battle.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
He removed his hand from his worn, pleasantly snug jeans…and it held something small. Holy Lord, I said to myself. What in the name of kingdom come is going on here? His face wore a sweet, sweet smile. I stood there completely frozen. “Um…what?” I asked. I could formulate no words but these. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead he took my left hand in his, opened up my fingers, and placed a diamond ring onto my palm, which was, by now, beginning to sweat. “I said,” he closed my hand tightly around the ring. “I want you to marry me.” He paused for a moment. “If you need time to think about it, I’ll understand.” His hands were still wrapped around my knuckles. He touched his forehead to mine, and the ligaments of my knees turned to spaghetti. Marry you? My mind raced a mile a minute. Ten miles a second. I had three million thoughts all at once, and my heart thumped wildly in my chest. Marry you? But then I’d have to cut my hair short. Married women have short hair, and they get it fixed at the beauty shop. Marry you? But then I’d have to make casseroles. Marry you? But then I’d have to wear yellow rubber gloves to do the dishes. Marry you? As in, move out to the country and actually live with you? In your house? In the country? But I…I…I don’t live in the country. I don’t know how. I can’t ride a horse. I’m scared of spiders. I forced myself to speak again. “Um…what?” I repeated, a touch of frantic urgency to my voice. “You heard me,” Marlboro Man said, still smiling. He knew this would catch me by surprise. Just then my brother Mike laid on the horn again. He leaned out of the window and yelled at the top of his lungs, “C’mon! I am gonna b-b-be late for lunch!” Mike didn’t like being late. Marlboro Man laughed. “Be right there, Mike!” I would have laughed, too, at the hilarious scene playing out before my eyes. A ring. A proposal. My developmentally disabled and highly impatient brother Mike, waiting for Marlboro Man to drive him to the mall. The horn of the diesel pickup. Normally, I would have laughed. But this time I was way, way too stunned. “I’d better go,” Marlboro Man said, leaning forward and kissing my cheek. I still grasped the diamond ring in my warm, sweaty hand. “I don’t want Mike to burst a blood vessel.” He laughed out loud, clearly enjoying it all. I tried to speak but couldn’t. I’d been rendered totally mute. Nothing could have prepared me for those ten minutes of my life. The last thing I remember, I’d awakened at eleven. Moments later, I was hiding in my bathroom, trying, in all my early-morning ugliness, to avoid being seen by Marlboro Man, who’d dropped by unexpectedly. Now I was standing on the front porch, a diamond ring in my hand. It was all completely surreal. Marlboro Man turned to leave. “You can give me your answer later,” he said, grinning, his Wranglers waving good-bye to me in the bright noonday sun. But then it all came flashing across my line of sight. The boots in the bar, the icy blue-green eyes, the starched shirt, the Wranglers…the first date, the long talks, my breakdown in his kitchen, the movies, the nights on his porch, the kisses, the long drives, the hugs…the all-encompassing, mind-numbing passion I felt. It played frame by frame in my mind in a steady stream. “Hey,” I said, walking toward him and effortlessly sliding the ring on my finger. I wrapped my arms around his neck as his arms, instinctively, wrapped around my waist and raised me off the ground in our all-too-familiar pose. “Yep,” I said effortlessly. He smiled and hugged me tightly. Mike, once again, laid on the horn, oblivious to what had just happened. Marlboro Man said nothing more. He simply kissed me, smiled, then drove my brother to the mall.
Ree Drummond (The Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels)
Can you second-guess this Shevraeth?” Branaric asked. “He seems to be driving us back into our hills--to what purpose? Why hasn’t he taken over any of our villages? He knows where they lie--and he has the forces. If he does that, traps or no traps, arrows or no arrows, we’re lost. We won’t be able to retake them.” Khesot puffed again, watching smoke curl lazily toward the tent roof. In my mind I saw, clearly, that straight-backed figure on the dapple-gray horse, his long black cloak slung back over the animal’s haunches, his plumed helm of command on his head. With either phenomenal courage or outright arrogance he had ignored the possibility of our arrows, the crowned sun stitched on his tunic gleaming in the noonday light as he directed the day’s battle. “I do not know,” Khesot said slowly. “But judging from our constant retreats of the last week, I confess freely, I do not believe him to be stupid.” I said, “I find it impossible to believe that a Court fop--really, Azmus reported gossip in Remalna claiming him to be the most brainless dandy of them all--could suddenly become so great a leader.” Khesot tapped his pipe again. “Hard to say. Certainly Galdran’s famed army did poorly enough against us until he came. But maybe he has good captains, and unlike Debegri, he may listen to them. They cannot all be stupid,” Khesot said. “They’ve been guarding the coast and keeping peace in the cities all these years. It could also be they learned from those first weeks’ losses to us. They certainly respect us a deal more than they did at the outset.” He closed his eyes. “Which is why I say we ought to attack them at their camp.” I jabbed a finger at the map. “There are too many of them to carry their own water. They’ll have to camp by a stream, right? Oh, I suppose it isn’t realistic, but how I love the image of us setting fire to their tents, and them swarming about like angry ants while we laugh our way back into the hills.” Branaric’s ready grin lightened his somber expression. He started to say something, then was taken by a sudden, fierce yawn. Almost immediately my own mouth opened in a jaw-cracking yawn that made my eyes sting. “We can discuss our alternatives with the riding leaders after we eat, if I may suggest, my lord, my lady,” Khesot said, looking anxiously from one of us to the other. “Let me send Saluen to the cook tent for something hot.” Khesot rose and moved to the flap of the tent to look out. He made a sign to the young man standing guard under the rain canopy a short distance away. Saluen came, Khesot gave his order, and we all watched Saluen lope down the trail to the cook tent. Khesot stayed on his feet, beckoning to my brother. With careful fingers I rolled up our map. I was peripherally aware of the other two talking in low voices, until Branaric confronted me with surprise and consternation plain on his face. Branaric waited until I had stowed the map away, then he grabbed me in a sudden, fierce hug. “Next year,” he said in a husky voice. “Can’t make much of your Flower Day, but next year I promise you’ll have a Name Day celebration to be remembered forever--and it’ll be in the capital!” “With us as winners, right?” I said, laughing. “It’s all right, Bran. I don’t think I’m ready for Flower Day yet, anyway. Maybe being so short has made me age slower, or something. I’ll be just as happy dancing with the children another year.” Bran smiled back, then turned away and resumed his quiet conversation with Khesot. I listened for a moment to the murmur of their voices and looked at but didn’t really notice the steady rain, or the faintly glowing tents. Instead my inner eye kept returning to the memory of our people running before a mass of orderly brown-and-green-clad soldiers, overseen by a straight figure in a black cloak riding back and forth along a high ridge.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
We have a long ride ahead of us tonight, and you wouldn’t want to regret your first good meal in days.” In weeks, I thought as I picked up a spoon, but I didn’t say it out loud--it felt disloyal somehow. Then the sense of what he’d said sank in, and I almost lost my appetite again. “How long to the capital?” “We will arrive sometime tomorrow morning,” he said. I grimaced down at my soup, then braced myself up, thinking that I’d better eat, hungry or not, for I’d need my strength. “What is Galdran like?” I asked, adding sourly, “Besides being a tyrant, a coward, and a Covenant breaker?” Shevraeth sat with his mug in his hands. He hadn’t eaten much, but he was on his second cup of the coffee. “This is the third time you’ve brought that up,” he said. “How do you know he intends to break the Covenant?” “We have proof.” I saw his eyes narrow, and I added in my hardest voice, “And don’t waste your breath threatening me about getting it, because you won’t. You really think I’d tell you what and where it is, just to have it destroyed? We may not be doing so well, but it seems my brother and I and our little untrained army are the only hope the Hill Folk have.” The Marquis was silent for a long pause, during which my anger slowly evaporated, leaving me feeling more uncomfortable by the moment. I realized why just before he spoke: By refusing to tell him, I was implying that he, too, wanted to break the Covenant. Well, doesn’t he?--if he’s allied with Galdran! I thought. “To your question,” the Marquis said, setting his cup down, “’What is Galdran like?’ By that I take it you mean, What kind of treatment can you expect from the King? If you take the time to consider the circumstances outside of your mountain life, you might be able to answer that for yourself.” Despite the mild humor, the light, drawling voice managed somehow to sting. “The King has been in the midst of trade negotiations with Denlieff for over a year. You have cost him time and money that were better applied elsewhere. And a civil war never enhances the credit of the government in the eyes of visiting diplomats from the Empress in Cheras-al-Kherval, who does not look for causes so much as signs of slack control.” I dropped my spoon in the empty soup bowl. “So if he cracks down even harder on the people, it’s all our fault, is that it?” “You might contemplate, during your measures of leisure,” he said, “what the purpose of a permanent court serves, besides to squander the gold earned by the sweat of the peasants’ brows. And consider this: The only reason you and your brother have not been in Athanarel all along is because the King considered you too harmless to bother keeping an eye on.” And with a polite gesture: “Are you finished?” “Yes.” I was ensconced again in the carriage with my pillows and aching leg for company, and we resumed journeying. The effect of the coffee was to banish sleep. Restless, angry with myself, angrier with my companion and with the unlucky happenstance that had brought me to this pass, I turned my thoughts once again to escape. Clouds gathered and darkness fell very swiftly. When I could no longer see clearly, I hauled myself up and felt my way to the door. The only plan I could think of was to open the door, tumble out, and hopefully lose myself in the darkness. This would work only if no one was riding beside the carriage, watching. A quick peek--a longer look--no one in sight. I eased myself down onto the floor and then opened the door a crack, peering back. I was about to fling the door wider when the carriage lurched around a curve and the door almost jerked out of my hand. I half fell against the doorway, caught myself, and a moment later heard a galloping horse come up from behind the carriage. I didn’t look to see who was on it, but slammed the door shut and climbed back onto the seat. And composed myself for sleep. I knew I’d need it.
Sherwood Smith (Crown Duel (Crown & Court, #1))
It is not uncommon for the cyclist, in the first flush of enthusiasm which quickly follows the unpleasantness of taming the steel steed, to remark, ‘Wheeling is just like flying!’ This is true in more ways than one.… Both modes of travel are riding upon the air, though in one case a small quantity of air is carried in a bag and in the other the air is unbagged.… To learn to wheel one must learn to balance; to learn to fly one must learn to balance.
Lawrence Goldstone (Birdmen: The Wright Brothers, Glenn Curtiss, and the Battle to Control the Skies)
We contended that whatever diminishes the sense of superiority in men makes them more manly, brotherly, and pleasant to have about; we felt sure that the bluff, the swagger, the bravado of young men would not outlive the mastery of the outdoor arts in which his sister is now successfully engaged...indeed, we felt that if she continued to improve after the fashion of the last decade her physical achievements will be such that it will become the pride of many a ruddy youth to be known as "that girl's brother.
Frances E. Willard (How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle: Reflections of an Influential 19th Century Woman)
Everything in life's a chance. Nothing is a sure thing. People die, they leave, they change. Joe could go through a midlife crisis next week. He could quit his job buy a motorcycle, and ride off with a stripper. - Angie
Claudia Connor (Worth the Fall (The McKinney Brothers, #1))
It was really scary today! My friend Ella came over with her brother Tim just as I was getting ready to go for a ride. Anyway, Mom said they could come to the paddock with us to have a little ride themselves. They were so excited as neither of them had ever been on a horse before.
Katrina Kahler (My First Pony (Diary of a Horse Mad Girl #1))
In 1975, a 17-year-old boy was killed while riding his Moped. He was killed exactly one year after his 17-year-old brother was killed while riding the same Moped in the same intersection by the same taxi with the same driver carrying the same passenger.
Scott Matthews (3666 Interesting, Fun And Crazy Facts You Won't Believe Are True - The Knowledge Encyclopedia To Win Trivia (Amazing World Facts Book Book 4))
Elijah, which was a promise I wasn't sure I was going to be able to keep, judging by the way Elijah had looked nowhere but at Tori for the entire half an hour car ride to my grandparents' beach house. I only knew that Elijah had been watching Tori because the area my eyes could go to was minimal, thanks to the fact that I had to avoid looking toward the front of the car. I hadn't realized Ky would be coming along with us, but I guessed it made sense. With Ky and Tori there, there would probably be a whole lot of people trying to steer clear of others at the house. Although, I wasn't sure whether I was going to be dodging Ky or the other way around. Somewhere along the line, I'd lost track of who didn't want to see whom. "I'm surprised you lads were able to pry yourselves away from your girlfriends long enough to come to the beach for the night. Will they survive without you?" Tori's eyes were narrowed out the window as she said the words she was using as a weapon.
Julia Keanini (Crushing on My Brothers' Best Friend (Sweet Water High, #2))
connection. In April 1855 my great-granduncle Alexander Carter Jr. and his younger brother, Thomas Marion Carter, left their home in Scioto County, Ohio, and headed west. Starting by steamboat, the two brothers floated down the Ohio River until it joined the Mississippi and then traveled upstream to St. Louis. In St. Louis they found little transportation west, so they walked, hitched rides, and rode horseback to reach St. Joseph, Missouri. There they caught a stagecoach to Council Bluffs, Iowa, riding on top of the stage, with seventeen men and women-a three-day ordeal. On May 14, nineteen days after leaving St. Louis, the brothers crossed the Missouri River and landed on the town site of Omaha, then a community of cotton tents and shanties, where lots were being offered to anyone willing to build on them. They refused this offer and pressed on to their final destination, DeSoto, Washington County, Nebraska Territory, where they found only one completed log house and another under construction. There they homesteaded the town of Blair, Nebraska. For three generations there were Carters in Nebraska, first in Blair and then in Omaha, where I was bom. As a native Nebraskan, I feel a particular affinity for William F. Cody, who lived most of his adult life in Nebraska. My father, George W. Carter, could have seen Buffalo Bill's Wild West when it came to Omaha in August 1908. I wish I had known the old scout personally; I am glad I have come to know him better while writing this book. It is also my fond hope that readers will feel as I do, that Buffalo Bill Cody is well worth knowing. Writing a biography of someone long dead is always a challenge. You must come to understand the person, the motivations, the key events that altered the course of history. And there are the records, the letters, the reminiscences of contemporaries. In Bill. Cody's case the documentation is plentiful but sometimes contradictory. Did Buffalo Bill kill Yellow Hand-the "first scalp for Custer"-for example? There are those who say he did and detractors who say he did not. Who are. we . to ' believe? For the most part, if I found two or three accounts that agreed with each other, particularly if there were official government .records supporting him, I felt sure I could give the credit to Cody.
Robert A. Carter (Buffalo Bill Cody: The Man Behind the Legend)
My little brother riding his chicken
Zack Zombie (A Scare of a Dare (Diary of a Minecraft Zombie, #1))
He was riding a train one day, full of his new idea, when George Westinghouse’s younger brother, Herman, happened to sit down next to him. They began talking; soon Stanley told Herman about his idea for a self-regulating alternating-current generator.24 Herman knew a good idea when he heard one. He connected Stanley with George, the successful developer of the air brake and other railroad machinery that made long trains and long-distance transportation practical. George was just then considering entering the electric-lighting field, pursuing alternating-current technology rather than direct current. He had recruited a team of young engineers to build a knowledge base for him, but he wasn’t yet fully committed. Stanley’s work won him over. Early in 1884 he hired the twenty-five-year-old to develop a complete AC system, from generators to motors and lighting.
Richard Rhodes (Energy: A Human History)
In the end, Wyatt Earp and his brothers will be forever remembered as the mythical gunfighters who took on the Cowboys at the O.K. Corral. But in 1900, a journalist who knew them well provided their finest and most accurate epitaph. “The Earp boys always had a reputation for absolute fearlessness and a worse reputation that they do not deserve. They were not rustlers. They were sports, it is true, every one of them. They played high, rode hard, and shot quick, but they were open-hearted, generous and would go to the limit for a friend. Either for trailing Apaches, horse and cattle thieves, or stage robbers, they outstripped any posse. They were simply ‘men with the bark on.’”39 Rightly or wrongly, we will never see their like again.
John Boessenecker (Ride the Devil's Herd: Wyatt Earp's Epic Battle Against the West's Biggest Outlaw Gang)
Hey, you,” a voice calls out. I turn to look, and find Bob Caster perched on a gleaming motorcycle with wide, shiny handlebars. I point to myself and ask, “Who? Me?” “Yes, you,” he says. He squints at me like he’s trying to look inside me. I cross my arms under my breasts to block his piercing gaze, and his eyes drop down to my boobs. He licks his lips ever so slowly, and then his eyes travel back up. Heat creeps up my cheeks, but I refuse to fidget on my feet. I stare straight at him. “You want to take a ride with me?” he asks. He revs the bike. I point a finger. “On that?” He grins that sideways grin again. “Well, I wasn’t offering my personal services.” He glances down at his button fly, and then he laughs. He runs a hand lovingly down the shiny chrome handlebar, his touch reverent and respectful. “Of course on this.” I point to the center of my chest and then at the bike. “You want to take me for a ride on that?” He stares at me. I finally let that feet fidget thing happen and want to kick myself. “Is it safe?” He shakes a cigarette out of a pack and takes his time lighting it. He inhales deeply and holds it for a moment. Then he blows it out and says, “I won’t let you get hurt.” I look at my car and then at him. He revs the engine again. “Where are we going?” “For a ride,” he says with a shrug. “When will we be back?” I step closer to him and his eyes light up a little. And I like it. “When we get done.” Be still my heart. He flicks his cigarette into the grass. “Are you coming or what?” “Okay,” I say. He looks surprised. “Yeah?” “Yes.” He takes the helmet off his head and holds it out to me. I pull my ponytail free and tug the helmet on. He reaches out to buckle the strap for me, his fingers gentle. “How old are you?” he asks, his voice strong but quiet. “Nineteen.” “Good.” He grins. He motions for me to climb on behind him and I do, my thighs spread around his hips. He lifts my feet and shows me where to put them. “Why is that good?” I ask close to his ear. He looks back over his shoulder. “Because I don’t want to go back to jail.” He doesn’t wait. He hits the gas and I shriek as we take off through the parking lot and onto the open road. He reaches back with one hand and puts my hand on his waist, and I automatically follow with the other. I hold on tightly to the man who just told me he doesn’t want to go back to jail, and I wonder what the heck I just got myself into.
Tammy Falkner (Yes You (The Reed Brothers #9.5))
You’re really beautiful,” I blurt out. I cringe when she stops, turns to face me and smiles at me. My belly clenches and my dick notices how much I like her. “Thank you,” she says as she sits down on the end of the dock. She tugs her shoes and socks from her feet and shoves her socks inside the shoes. Her bare toes peek up at me and she sighs as she dips them in the water. She leans back on her palms and tips her face up to the sky. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she says without even looking at me. She breathes in and out through her nose, slowly. “Did you enjoy the ride?” She smiles and nods. “I want to do it some more. Like, all the time. Every day. All day.” She giggles and I find myself grinning with her. With me? Or does she just mean riding? I am afraid to ask. “Why did you come with me?” I ask instead. She tips her face toward me. “Because you asked me.” She snorts and then giggles. “Even though you only did it because I chased you down in the quad. I nearly tackled you.” She winces. “Sorry about that.” “Best thing that’s happened to me all day,” I say. Shit. Did I say that out loud? I sit beside her on the dock. “Me too,” she says quietly.
Tammy Falkner (Yes You (The Reed Brothers #9.5))
For the past hour, I’ve been riding with my cheek pressed tightly against his back. It feels nice and safe and comfortable. “I didn’t want to come back,” he says to me from over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at me. Something tells me he would look everywhere but at me even if we were facing one another. “Then why did you?” I lean to the side so I can see his face. He has a fine dusting of hair on his jaw and I want to touch it to see if it’s bristly or soft. I force my hands into my lap. “I figured you’d be ready to ditch me.” His eyes meet mine and hold them. “I wasn’t,” I say softly. A grin tips the corners of his lips. “Good.” “I’m really excited about Saturday. How should I dress?” “I was hoping you might wear nothing.” I freeze. Mainly because I can’t take a deep breath. Air? What’s that? “I’m just kidding!” he rushes to say, and he raises his hands to cup my face, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I was only joking. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. What you have on now will work. We’re not going anywhere fancy.” “Okay.” I draw in a breath. “I’m in the A building in the complex. Room 23. Or should I just meet you somewhere?” “I’ll pick you up.” I can’t stop smiling. I probably look like the worst sort of ninny. “I’ll see you then.” He unstraps my helmet and I get off his bike. My legs are wobbly as I stand up, and he helps me straighten myself and get steady with a hand beneath my elbow. “I had a lot of fun today.” “I did too.” He looks almost like it hurts him to admit that. “I’ll see you Saturday,” I whisper to him.
Tammy Falkner (Yes You (The Reed Brothers #9.5))
Can I come in?” I ask. “No.” My belly drops. “No?” He shakes his head. “No.” “Please.” He shakes his head again, but he’s looking a little chagrined. “You should go.” “I’m not leaving.” He shrugs. “Fine. Suit yourself.” He closes the door in my face. I stand there on the stoop, not sure what to do with myself. Dad left with Phil, and I don’t have another ride. I sit down on the top step. A gentle drizzle begins to fall. I pull my knees up to my chest and scoot back under the overhang, but it’s not enough. I’m getting soaked. The door opens. “Jesus Christ, Madison. Are you seriously going to sit there in the rain?” My teeth are starting to chatter. “Just until my dad gets back. Then I’ll get out of your hair.” “Get in here,” he snarls. “No, I’m fine right here.” “Is this what life with you is going to be like? You declining every time I make a suggestion and me having to force you into it?” He hooks an arm beneath my knees and one behind my shoulders and scoops me up. “Jesus, you’re a lot of trouble,
Tammy Falkner (Yes You (The Reed Brothers #9.5))
Thank you for bringing me out here. If I never see you again, I want to tell you that I had a really great time.” The thought of never seeing her again kills me. I take a deep breath. “What if I told you I want to see you again?” I hold that breath. She says nothing. “Guess not,” I mutter. She shoves my shoulder. “Shut up. I was thinking.” “If it requires that much thought, you’d better say no.” “No.” My heart falls. I should have seen that one coming. Rich girls don’t fall for guys like me. “I don’t want to say no,” she rushes on to say. She sits up and looks down at me. “Unless you want me to say no. Do you want me to say no?” I take her hand in mine. “I want you to say yes.” “What would we do?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “It would be a date. I have no idea.” “Would…you…kiss me?” I cough into my fist. “Well, I hope so,” I croak. “What else would we do?” “Umm…dinner?” “Mmhmm.” “Umm…maybe a movie.” “Mmhmm.” “Maybe we could take a walk.” Girls like that shit, right? “Could we go on a picnic?” “If you want to.” “I want to. When?” I scratch my head. “When is good for you?” “I don’t have anything to do on Saturday night.” “Seriously?” She nods. Then she squints at me. “Are you just asking me to be nice?” A laugh bursts from my throat. “Sweetheart, nice is not a word that has ever been used to describe me.” “So, we’re going on a date on Saturday,” she sings out and claps her hands. “I’m so excited.” Her happiness is catching. Holy shit. I am in so much trouble. “I had better get you back home.” I’ve enjoyed my time with her and I’m really not ready to give her up yet. “Can we ride some more?” she asks, blinking those green eyes at me. I suddenly realize that I would give her just about anything she wanted. She suddenly leans over and kisses my cheek really quickly. “Thank you,” she says.
Tammy Falkner (Yes You (The Reed Brothers #9.5))
You aren’t going to get her? She’s your wife. Her place is beside you.” “A man cannot own a woman, cousin. He can only…” Hunter’s words trailed off. A picture of Loretta’s face flashed in his mind. “He can only love her. The blood of the tosi tivo will flow bridle high. To force her to stay with us while we slaughter her people would be torture. Before this is over, my name will be a curse upon her lips.” Red Buffalo drew away and lifted his ravaged face skyward. “So you have lost her. I’m sorry, Hunter. It’s my fault.” “Not yours alone. This would have come to pass no matter what. Red Buffalo, I have to make sure my woman makes it safely to her wooden walls. Only a few men can be spared to ride with me. Warrior needs to be here these next few days, with his children. I must trail the tosi tivo, make certain they do not harm her and her Aye-mee. If things go wrong, we may have to attack. I need your strong arm. Can you set your hate for her aside and ride beside me?” Red Buffalo wiped his cheeks dry with the heels of his hands. “You want me beside you? After all I’ve done?” Hunter clamped a hand around his cousin’s arm. “I’m afraid to go without you. Her life depends on us.” Red Buffalo straightened his shoulders. “Then I am with you.” Hunter nodded. “Once again my brother, yes?” Red Buffalo pushed to his feet. “Yes--your brother.” He clasped Hunter’s hand and met his gaze, fresh tears spilling down his face. “About my hate…” His mouth quivered. “I will not only set it aside, I will bury it. If I must, I will die for her.” Hunter blinked away tears of his own. “I have lost too many already, cousin. Do nothing boisa to prove your loyalty to me. Protect her, yes. But guard your back while you’re at it.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
I need your strong arm. Can you set your hate for her aside and ride beside me?” Red Buffalo wiped his cheeks dry with the heels of his hands. “You want me beside you? After all I’ve done?” Hunter clamped a hand around his cousin’s arm. “I’m afraid to go without you. Her life depends on us.” Red Buffalo straightened his shoulders. “Then I am with you.” Hunter nodded. “Once again my brother, yes?” Red Buffalo pushed to his feet. “Yes--your brother.” He clasped Hunter’s hand and met his gaze, fresh tears spilling down his face. “About my hate…” His mouth quivered. “I will not only set it aside, I will bury it. If I must, I will die for her.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
I will go wherever the Great Ones lead me,” Hunter whispered. “You know I will. It’s just that I can’t see the path they want me to follow. There is no one to lead me.” “The path will be there. When you turn your face westward you will know, deep within, where to place your feet.” Warrior’s voice rang with certainty. “I would ask one thing of you, tah-mah. Ride beside me one last time into battle. It will be our final memory of each other, yes?” Once again Hunter remembered looking into that white man’s blue eyes. The battles shall stretch before him with no horizon. When would it ever end? But his brother had made this request of him. “I will ride with you,” Hunter whispered. “One last time.” Straightening his pallet, Warrior stretched out on his back, so close his arm brushed Hunter’s. After a long while he said, “You will tell your sons and daughters about me, yes?” Hunter wished he could weep, but the tears were dammed behind his lids, aching and burning. “Yes. And you will tell yours of me?” “I will tell them.” Warrior’s voice cracked. “Of you and your golden one and the song that led you west. Love her well, tah-mah. The days together are brief.” “Yes.” Hunter knew Warrior was thinking of Maiden of the Tall Grass. In a husky voice, he added, “Far too brief.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
The hate has gone from you to a faraway place you cannot find, as it was spoken in the prophecy. That’s why it is time for you to walk your own way. You must fight the last great fight for the People, yes? And you must fight it alone. I have to stay here. For our mother, my children. You’re our hope, our only hope.” “You call it hope? I call it running away.” “No! When we run, we find someplace familiar and safe. Winter will be upon us soon. You will face uncertainty and great danger when you go west.” Giving Hunter a small shake, Warrior cried, “You are our hope, Hunter! Why can’t you see that? When the last Comanche puts down his weapon, when the last chief says it is finished, we will know it is not finished. We will know that the People live on--far away from this place--that our songs are being sung, that our ways are being honored. I know you feel great fear, but fear has never stopped you. You mustn’t let it stop you now.” “I will go wherever the Great Ones lead me,” Hunter whispered. “You know I will. It’s just that I can’t see the path they want me to follow. There is no one to lead me.” “The path will be there. When you turn your face westward you will know, deep within, where to place your feet.” Warrior’s voice rang with certainty. “I would ask one thing of you, tah-mah. Ride beside me one last time into battle. It will be our final memory of each other, yes?” Once again Hunter remembered looking into that white man’s blue eyes. The battles shall stretch before him with no horizon. When would it ever end? But his brother had made this request of him. “I will ride with you,” Hunter whispered. “One last time.” Straightening his pallet, Warrior stretched out on his back, so close his arm brushed Hunter’s. After a long while he said, “You will tell your sons and daughters about me, yes?” Hunter wished he could weep, but the tears were dammed behind his lids, aching and burning. “Yes. And you will tell yours of me?” “I will tell them.” Warrior’s voice cracked. “Of you and your golden one and the song that led you west. Love her well, tah-mah. The days together are brief.” “Yes.” Hunter knew Warrior was thinking of Maiden of the Tall Grass. In a husky voice, he added, “Far too brief.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
I would ask one thing of you, tah-mah. Ride beside me one last time into battle. It will be our final memory of each other, yes?” Once again Hunter remembered looking into that white man’s blue eyes. The battles shall stretch before him with no horizon. When would it ever end? But his brother had made this request of him. “I will ride with you,” Hunter whispered. “One last time.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
My parents must have known deep down I was extraordinary, because whenever I asked if I was going to have any brothers or sisters, they’d reply, “You’re enough.
Chris Colfer (Adventures from the Land of Stories: The Mother Goose Diaries / Queen Red Riding Hood's Guide to Royalty)
On the eighth day of Hunter’s absence, along toward dusk, Loretta heard a distant yodeling sound and glanced up from Maiden’s cooking fire to see men riding in. It wasn’t difficult to spot Hunter, several horse lengths ahead of the others, leading what looked like a mule carrying a priest. Loretta rose on her tiptoe, frowning. Surely she couldn’t be seeing what she thought she was seeing. What priest in his right mind would visit a Comanche village? Glancing around at Maiden’s neighbors, Loretta saw her bewilderment mirrored on every face. Then she looked at Warrior, who had been reclining nearby, guarding her. He had leaped to his feet upon hearing the men ride in. He slid a wary glance toward her and cocked an eyebrow. “My brother brings a Black Robe?” It was a priest. Loretta craned her neck to see. Hunter rode directly to the central fire, which had already been lit in preparation for nightfall, and dragged the priest off the mule. After barking a command at the poor man, he spun on his heel and came directly toward Maiden’s lodge, his stride purposeful, his jaw clenched in determination. Loretta drew a deep breath. Suddenly, incredulously, she knew why Hunter had brought a priest into the village. His footsteps slowed as he drew close, the muscles in his thighs bunching and drawing the leather of his pants taut. Loretta stiffened at the challenge his eyes issued. Lifting her chin, she waited for him to reach her, riveting her gaze on his broad shoulders, resisting the urge to run. Those long, powerful legs of his would easily outdistance her. “I have brought you a Black Robe,” he said tersely, and nodded toward the waiting priest. “He will pray your God words over us, yes?” With that, Hunter grasped her firmly by the arm and drew her toward the central fire, never breaking stride despite Loretta’s attempts to slow him down. “I won’t marry you!” she cried frantically. He threw her a look charged with martial arrogance. “You will be my wife, little one. My way or yours, in the end, it will be so.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
She corrected herself. So many hungry men and women. Any person who could ride, fight, and hunt was welcome to join today’s protectorate of the kingdom, and King Nash didn’t require that person to be a man. Or, more particularly, Prince Brigan didn’t. It was called the King’s Army, but really it was Brigan’s. People said that at twenty-seven Nash was kingly, but that when it came to bashing heads the younger brother was the one with the touch.
Kristin Cashore (Fire)
in her fingers. “Don’t you want me to say something like that? Isn’t that why you’re here?” “I... well...” Walker swallowed hard. “Is the truth always such a challenge?” “What, are you some seer? A truth divining rod?” “Was. Now I don’t care,” Shane said. “And if hunting ghosts gives you a thrill, buckle up, enjoy the ride. I have enough trouble with the living.” “It doesn’t give me a thrill,” Walker said, pushing the tea away. “I want to get some publicity for the hotel.” “And ghosts will do that?” What was Shane, her conscience? “People like mysteries, right? The unknown.” The more Walker thought about it, the more she thought she was right. This was going to work if she could get Calum on board. “Maybe.” Shane shrugged and arranged her cocktail napkins in a short spiral tower. “But what if the unknown becomes known?” Shane asked. “What then?” The sun was a red orange fireball flaming towards the shadowy horizon when Calum finally made his way back towards the hotel. He’d enjoyed another coffee with Laird and his fiancé, Tucker as well as Laird’s brother Kane and his wife and young daughter.
Sinclair Jayne (Halloween at the Graff (Holiday at the Graff, #1))
It all went off as scheduled: the stately walk to the depot; the solemn train ride, during which we sat staring shyly into the seat in front of us; the difficult walk from Grand Central across Forty-second to Fifth, with pedestrians clipping us and cutting in between us; the bus ride to Fifty-ninth Street; then the Plaza itself, and the cinnamon toast, and the music, and the excitement. The thundering quality of the occasion must have delivered a mental shock to me, deadening my recollection, for I have only the dimmest memory of leading Eileen onto the dance floor to execute two or three unspeakable rounds, in which I vainly tried to adapt my violent sister-and-brother wrestling act into something graceful and appropriate. It must have been awful. And at six o’clock, emerging, I gave no thought to any further entertainment, such as dinner in town.
E.B. White (Essays of E. B. White)
Come and get a ride on the Wild Stallion, Alex Bishop! Six-foot something, dirty blond hair, and a smart mouth to boot! He may be a cocky son of a bitch, but don’t worry, his mama taught him right. He’ll wine and dine you before fucking you till you forget your own name! Now ladies, who’s first?
Kennedy Fox (Taming Him (Bishop Brothers, #1))
I used to be a roller coaster girl" (for Ntozake Shange) I used to be a roller coaster girl 7 times in a row No vertigo in these skinny legs My lipstick bubblegum pink As my panther 10 speed. never kissed Nappy pigtails, no-brand gym shoes White lined yellow short-shorts Scratched up legs pedaling past borders of humus and baba ganoush Masjids and liquor stores City chicken, pepperoni bread and superman ice cream Cones. Yellow black blending with bits of Arabic Islam and Catholicism. My daddy was Jesus My mother was quiet Jayne Kennedy was worshipped by my brother Mark I don’t remember having my own bed before 12. Me and my sister Lisa shared. Sometimes all three Moore girls slept in the Queen. You grow up so close never close enough. I used to be a roller coaster girl Wild child full of flowers and ideas Useless crushes on polish boys in a school full of white girls. Future black swan singing Zeppelin, U2 and Rick Springfield Hoping to be Jessie’s Girl I could outrun my brothers and Everybody else to that reoccurring line I used to be a roller coaster girl Till you told me I was moving too fast Said my rush made your head spin My laughter hurt your ears A scream of happiness A whisper of freedom Pouring out my armpits Sweating up my neck You were always the scared one I kept my eyes open for the entire trip Right before the drop I would brace myself And let that force push my head back into That hard iron seat My arms nearly fell off a few times Still, I kept running back to the line When I was done Same way I kept running back to you I used to be a roller coaster girl I wasn’t scared of mountains or falling Hell, I looked forward to flying and dropping Off this earth and coming back to life every once in a while I found some peace in being out of control allowing my blood to race through my veins for 180 seconds I earned my sometime nicotine pull I buy my own damn drinks & the ocean Still calls my name when it feels my toes Near its shore. I still love roller coasters & you grew up to be Afraid of all girls who cld ride Fearlessly like me.
Jessica Care Moore
but made due west, over softly rolling hills and through well-treed valleys, by green trails sometimes clearly marked, sometimes less defined, but markedly keeping a direct line uphill and down alike, here where the lie of the land was open and the gradients gentle enough for pleasant riding. “An old, old road,” said Cadfael. “It starts from Chester, and makes straight for the head of Conwy’s tidal water, where once, they say, there was a fort the like of Chester. At low tide, if you know the sands, you can ford the river there, but with the tide boats can ply some way beyond.” “And after the river crossing?” asked Mark, attentive and glowing. “Then we climb. To look westward from there, you’d think no track could possibly pass, but pass it does, up and over the mountains, and down at last to the sea.
Ellis Peters (The Summer of the Danes (The Chronicles of Brother Cadfael Book 18))
Someone touches his shoulder. He has to brace himself against the sloping wall to avoid falling over. Marie-Laure stands behind him in her nightdress. The violins spiral down, then back up. Etienne takes Marie-Laure’s hand and together, beneath the low, sloping roof—the record spinning, the transmitter sending it over the ramparts, right through the bodies of the Germans and out to sea—they dance. He spins her; her fingers flicker through the air. In the candlelight, she looks of another world, her face all freckles, and in the center of the freckles those two eyes hang unmoving like the egg cases of spiders. They do not track him, but they do not unnerve him, either; they seem almost to see into a separate, deeper place, a world that consists only of music. Graceful. Lean. Coordinated as she whirls, though how she knows what dancing is, he could never guess. The song plays on. He lets it go too long. The antenna is still up, probably dimly visible against the sky; the whole attic might as well shine like a beacon. But in the candlelight, in the sweet rush of the concerto, Marie-Laure bites her lower lip, and her face gives off a secondary glow, reminding him of the marshes beyond the town walls, in those winter dusks when the sun has set but isn’t fully swallowed, and big patches of reeds catch red pools of light and burn—places he used to go with his brother, in what seems like lifetimes ago. This, he thinks, is what the numbers mean. The concerto ends. A wasp goes tap tap tap along the ceiling. The transmitter remains on, the microphone tucked into the bell of the electrophone as the needle traces the outermost groove. Marie-Laure breathes heavily, smiling. After she has gone back to sleep, after Etienne has blown out his candle, he kneels for a long time beside his bed. The bony figure of Death rides the streets below, stopping his mount now and then to peer into windows. Horns of fire on his head and smoke leaking from his nostrils and, in his skeletal hand, a list newly charged with addresses. Gazing first at the crew of officers unloading from their limousines into the chateau. Then at the glowing rooms of the perfumer Claude Levitte. Then at the dark tall house of Etienne LeBlanc. Pass us by, Horseman. Pass this house by.
Anthony Doerr (All the Light We Cannot See)
The supreme test of a charitable mind is toleration for the opinions of others,–an admission that perchance we do not know it quite all. It is much easier to give a $5 bill to a beggar than to forgive a brother who rides his pitiless logic over our prejudices.
William Cowper Brann (The Complete Works of Brann the Iconoclast Volume V)
THE RECKONING BROTHER’S KEEPER SINS OF THE FATHER THE BURNING THE DODGE CITY MASSACRE HELL HATH NO FURY THE RIVER RUNS RED DEATH DANCE BLOOD TRAIL BADGE OF HONOR LONG GUNS WANTED TIN MAN RETRIBUTION HIRED GUN HUNTED RESURRECTION IN COLD BLOOD REAGAN’S RIDERS THE BOUNTY WAGON TRAIN THE KILLING HOMBRE BODY COUNT HUNT DOWN FROM THE GRAVE BLACK RAVEN THE BOUNTY HUNTERS TO HELL AND BACK MACHETE STREETS OF LAREDO RIDE OF REVENGE COLD JUSTICE GOD’S GUN DARK CLOUD REDEMPTION TROUBLE IN NAVARRO BLACK HEART COMING SOON… THE 39TH BOOK IN THE JESS WILLIAMS WESTERN SERIES
Robert J. Thomas (BLACK HEART: Thirty-Eighth in a Series of Jess Williams Westerns (A Jess Williams Western Book 38))
The men vacated the cell, then locked the bishop, his priests, and the guards in the room. Christian and the men led her from the dungeon, up to the aboveground hallway where she could see the light from outside. She half expected someone to stop them, but they walked as if there were no fear in any of them. As if they knew no one in Venice could keep them from leaving. “I hope you’re ready to ride, my lady,” Christian said earnestly. “I fear Venice is no longer welcoming to us.” True enough. They had risked much to save her, and for that she would always be grateful. “What of the others? All of you will be excommunicated for this.” Phantom laughed at that. “Too late for me. I was damned long ago by both churches.” “As for the rest of us,” Ioan said, “the bishop would have to know our names and nationalities to implement his excommunication. We’ll just make sure that when we return this way, we bypass this city.” She gave a nervous laugh at his nonchalance. At all of them for their actions. There were few men in this world who would dare so much to help another person. “I can’t believe you would all do this for me.” Ioan stopped to look at her. “You are one of us now, Adara. Queen, heretic, and beautiful lady. We, as brothers, have marched through the fires of hell together already. What’s a little papal damnation compared to that?” Christian threw open the door that led to the street outside so that she could see the whole of their army waiting for them. She was free. It was the most spectacular thing she had ever seen. And she owed it all to the man beside her. She looked about for her horse, but didn’t see it. Before she could ask about it, and in a manner that belied his grave words, Christian swung her up onto the back of his white stallion, then mounted behind her. “What is it you do, my lord?” He surrounded her in his embrace as he took the reins into his hands. “I just damned my eternal soul for you, my lady. Therefore I think it best that I keep you in close proximity before anything worse happens.” “I doubt there is anything worse than damning your soul, Christian.” “Aye, there is.” She could think of nothing else. “And what would that be?” “Losing you.” His words washed over her like a silken caress that touched her all the way to her soul. This man who had lived his life so nobly had forsaken all to protect her. Surely no one had ever sacrificed more. Not caring who saw them, she leaned her head against his chest and held him to her. “I love you, Christian, more than anything else in this world.” Christian’s entire being burned with her words. He wanted to tell her that he loved her as well, but the words choked him. He didn’t dare utter them for fear of losing her. He’d come so close already that it scared him all the more. It didn’t seem to be God’s will that he should have hearth or home. In truth, he was scared to even hope for it. But with her…a tiny part of him wanted to believe that there was hope for them. Unable to tell her what he felt, he held her to him and kissed her soundly. Ioan loudly cleared his throat. “You know, Christian, that bishop is most likely calling for aid even as we sit here and do nothing. I would suggest we set heel to flank before we find ourselves brothers-in-hell once more.” Reluctantly, he pulled back and gave a quick nibble to her lips. “Aye, let us leave this cursed place.
Kinley MacGregor (Return of the Warrior (Brotherhood of the Sword #6))
Have you ever seen such? She rides like a boy, shoots like a boy. Why, when she was thirteen she actually beat the Drake’s boy, Virgil, in the turkey shoot,” whispered a scandalized voice. “Her brother, Jonathan, dressed her up in boy’s clothing to compete so he could win a bet!” “Oh, but she does look so pretty, all dressed up with her dark hair pulled back so. And those eyes! I remember her dear mother. She looks so like her mother, and Jonathan, also. It’s a shame that she’s too bold by
Jerri Hines (Winds of Betrayal Books 1 & 2: The Cry For Freedom and Embrace of Enemy)
Well, if he wants to be king, he’ll just plain have to get used to questions and toadies and all the rest of it,” I said. Remembering the conversation at dinner and wondering if I’d made an idiot of myself, I added crossly, “I don’t have any sympathy at all. In fact, I wish he hadn’t come up here. If he needed rest from the fatigue of taking over a kingdom, why couldn’t he go to that fabulous palace in Renselaeus? Or to Shevraeth, which I’ll just bet has an equally fabulous palace?” Nee sighed. “Is that a rhetorical or a real question?” “Real. And I don’t want to ask Bran because he’s so likely to hop out with my question when we’re all together and fry me with embarrassment,” I finished bitterly. She gave a sympathetic grin. “Well, I suspect it’s to present a united front, politically speaking. You haven’t been to Court, so you don’t quite comprehend how much you and your brother have become heroes--symbols--to the kingdom. Especially you, which is why there were some murmurs and speculations when you never came to the capital.” I shook my head. “Symbol for failure, maybe. We didn’t win--Shevraeth did.” She gave me an odd look midway between surprise and curiosity. “But to return to your question, Vidanric’s tendency to keep his own counsel ought to be reassuring as far as people hopping out with embarrassing words are concerned. If I were you--and I know it’s so much easier to give advice than to follow it--I’d sit down with him, when no one else is at hand, and talk it out.” Just the thought of seeking him out for a private talk made me shudder. “I’d rather walk down the mountain in shoes full of snails.” It was Nee’s turn to shudder. “Life! I’d rather do almost anything than that--” A “Ho!” outside the door interrupted her. Bran carelessly flung the tapestry aside and sauntered in. “There y’are, Nee. Come out on the balcony with me? It’s actually nice out, and we’ve got both moons up.” He extended his hand. Nee looked over at me as she slid her hand into his. “Want to come?” I looked at those clasped hands, then away. “No, thanks,” I said airily. “I think I’ll practice my fan, then read myself to sleep. Good night.” They went out, Bran’s hand sliding round her waist. The tapestry dropped into place on Nee’s soft laugh. I got up and moved to my window, staring out at the stars. It seemed an utter mystery to me how Bran and Nimiar enjoyed looking at each other. Touching each other. Even the practical Oria, I realized--the friend who told me once that things were more interesting than people--had freely admitted to liking flirting. How does that happen? I shook my head, thinking that it would never happen to me. Did I want it to? Suddenly I was restless and the castle was too confining. Within the space of a few breaths I had gotten rid of my civilized clothing and soft shoes and had pulled my worn, patched tunic, trousers, and tough old mocs from the trunk in the corner. I slipped out of my room and down the stair without anyone seeing me, and before the moons had traveled the space of a hand across the sky, I was riding along the silver-lit trails with the wind in my hair and the distant harps of the Hill Folk singing forlornly on the mountaintops.
Sherwood Smith (Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2))
I was still brooding over this question when I heard a polite tap outside the tapestry, and a moment later, there was the equally quiet impact of a boot heel on the new tile floor, then another. A weird feeling prickled down my spine, and I twisted around to face the Marquis of Shevraeth, who stood just inside the room. He raised his hands and said, “I am unarmed.” I realized I was glaring. “I hate people creeping up behind me,” I muttered. He glanced at the twenty paces or so of floor between us, then up at the shelves, the map, the new books. Was he comparing this library with the famed Athanarel one--or the equally (no doubt!) impressive one at his home in Renselaeus? I folded my arms and waited for either satire or condescension. When he spoke, the subject took me by surprise. “You said once that your father burned the Astiar library. Did you ever find out why?” “It was the night we found out that my mother had been killed,” I said reluctantly. The old grief oppressed me, and I fought to keep my thoughts clear. “By the order of Galdran Merindar.” “Do you know why he ordered her murder?” he asked over his shoulder, as he went on perusing the books. I shook my head. “No. There’s no way to find out that I can think of. Even if we discovered those who carried out the deed, they might not know the real reasons.” I added sourly, “Well do I remember how Galdran issued lies to cover his misdeeds: Last year, when he commenced the attack against us, he dared to say that it was we who were breaking the Covenant!” I couldn’t help adding somewhat accusingly, “Did you believe that? Not later, but when the war first started.” “No.” I couldn’t see his face. Only his back, and the long pale hair, and his lightly clasped hands were in view as he surveyed my shelves. This was the first time the two of us had conversed alone, for I had been careful to avoid such meetings during his visit. Not wanting to prolong it, I still felt compelled to amplify. I said, “My mother was the last of the royal Calahanras family. Galdran must have thought her a threat, even though she retired from Court life when she adopted into the Astiar family.” Shevraeth was walking along the shelves now, his hands still behind his back. “Yet Galdran had taken no action against your mother previously.” “No. But she’d never left Tlanth before, not since her marriage. She was on her way to Remalna-city. We only know that it was his own household guards, disguised as brigands, that did the job, because they didn’t quite kill the stablegirl who was riding on the luggage coach and she recognized the horses as Merindar horses.” I tightened my grip on my elbows. “You don’t believe it?” Again he glanced back at me. “Do you know your mother’s errand in the capital?” His voice was calm, quiet, always with that faint drawl as if he chose his words with care. Suddenly my voice sounded too loud, and much too combative, to my ears. Of course that made my face go crimson with heat. “Visiting.” This effectively ended the subject, and I waited for him to leave. He turned around then, studying me reflectively. The length of the room still lay between us. “I had hoped,” he said, “that you would honor me with a few moments’ further discourse.” “About what?” I demanded. “I came here at your brother’s invitation.” He spoke in a conversational tone, as though I’d been pleasant and encouraging. “My reasons for accepting were partly because I wanted an interlude of relative tranquility, and partly for diplomatic reasons.” “Yes, Nimiar told me about your wanting to present a solid front with the infamous Astiars. I understand, and I said I’d go along.” “Please permit me to express my profound gratitude.” He bowed gracefully.
Sherwood Smith (Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2))
My gaze fell on a plain door-tapestry at the other end of the room. A service access? I turned and saw a narrow, discreet outline of a door tucked in the corner between two bookshelves; that was the service door, then. Might I find some kind of archive beyond that tapestry? I crossed the room, heard no noise beyond, so I lifted the tapestry. The room was small, filled with light. It was a corner room, with two entrances, floor-to-ceiling windows in two walls, and bookshelves everywhere else. In the slanting rays of the morning sun I saw a writing table angled between the windows--and kneeling at the table, dressed in riding clothes, was the Marquis of Shevraeth. He put down his pen and looked up inquiringly. Feeling that to run back out would be cowardly, I said, “Your mother invited me to use the library. I thought this might be an archive.” “It is,” he said. “Memoirs from kings and queens addressed specifically to heirs. Most are about laws. A few are diaries of Court life. Look around.” He picked up the pen again and waved it toward the shelves. “Over there you’ll find the book of laws by Turic the Third, he of the twelve thousand proclamations. Next to it is his daughter’s, rescinding most of them.” He pushed a pile of papers in my direction. “Or if you’d like to peruse something more recent, here are Galdran’s expenditure lists and so forth. They give a fairly comprehensive overview of his policies.” I stepped into the room and bent down to lift up two or three of the papers. Some were proposals for increases in taxes for certain nobles; the fourth was a list of people “to be watched.” I looked at him in surprise. “You found these just lying around?” “Yes,” he said, sitting back on his cushion. The morning light highlighted the smudges of tiredness under his eyes. “He did not expect to be defeated. Your brother and I rode back here in haste, as soon as we could, in order to prevent looting; but such was Galdran’s hold on the place that, even though the news had preceded us by two days, I found his rooms completely undisturbed. I don’t think anyone believed he was really dead--they expected one of his ugly little ploys to catch out ‘traitors.’” I whistled, turning over another paper. “Wish I could have been there,” I said. “You could have been.” This brought me back to reality with a jolt. Of course I could have been there--but I had left without warning, without saying good-bye even to my own brother, in my haste to retreat to home and sanity. And memory. I glanced at him just in time to see him wince slightly and shake his head. Was that regret? For his words--or for my actions that day?
Sherwood Smith (Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2))
Lady Meliara?” There was a tap outside the door, and Oria’s mother, Julen, lifted the tapestry. Oria and I both stared in surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully. “More Fire Sticks?” I asked. “In midwinter?” “Just found them outside the gate.” Julen laid them down, looked from one of us to the other, and went out. Oria grinned at me. “Maybe they’re a present. You did save the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk know it.” “I didn’t do it,” I muttered. “All I did was make mistakes.” Oria crossed her arms. “Not mistakes. Misunderstandings. Those, at least, can be fixed. Which is all the more reason to go to Court--” “And what?” I asked sharply. “Get myself into trouble again?” Oria stood silently, and suddenly I was aware of the social gulf between us, and I knew she was as well. It happened like that sometimes. We’d be working side by side, cleaning or scraping or carrying, and then a liveried equerry would dash up the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she the servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter and discuss it or not as I saw fit. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, stuffing the Marquise’s letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown. “You know how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind.” “I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it this once. You need to make your peace,” Oria said quietly. “You left your brother and the Marquis without so much as a by-your-leave, and I think it’s gnawing at you. Because you keep watching that road.” I felt my temper flare, but I didn’t say anything because I knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn’t angry with her. I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to smile. “Perhaps you may be right, and I’ll write to Bran by and by. But here, listen to this!” And I picked up the book I’d been reading before the letter came. “This is one of the ones I got just before the snows closed the roads: ‘And in several places throughout the world there are caves with ancient paintings and Iyon Daiyin glyphs.’” I looked up from the book. “Doesn’t that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest horse and ride and ride until you find these places?” Oria shuddered. “Not me. I like it fine right here at home.” “Use your imagination!” I read on. “‘Some of the caves depict constellations never seen in our skies--’” I stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic pattern of the time changes, but the clang of warning bells at the guardhouse just down the road. “Someone’s coming!” I exclaimed. Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. “And the Hill Folk saw them.” She pointed at the Fire Sticks. “‘Them?’” I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and nodded. “Means a crowd, true enough.” Julen reappeared then, and tapped at the door. “Countess, I believe we have company on the road.” She looked in, and I said, “I hadn’t expected anyone.” Then my heart thumped, and I added, “It could be the fine weather has melted the snows down-mountain--d’you think it might be Branaric at last? I don’t see how it could be anyone else!” “Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?” Oria asked. “Maybe he’s brought lots of servants?” I suggested doubtfully. “Perhaps his half year at Court has given him elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to. Or he’s hired artisans from the capital to help forward our work on the castle. I hope it’s artisans,” I added. “Either way, we’ll be wanted to find space for these newcomers,” Julen said to her daughter. She picked up the Fire Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. “You ought to put on one of those gowns of your mother’s that we remade, my lady.” “For my brother?” I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about me as we slipped out of my room. “I don’t need to impress him, even if he has gotten used to Court ways!
Sherwood Smith (Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2))
Tis true I haven’t seen much of anyone these mornings, but I’ve been locked up studying for a special project. But I’m nearly done, and so I find myself free.” Then Trishe had her opportunity to come forward and request that I join them, which I professed myself honored to do, and the awkward moment passed. I urged my mount in on the other side of Trishe’s and, in the friendliest voice I could assume, told her how they would all know about my secret project very soon. I didn’t actually look at little red-haired Lady Arasa Elbanek or her skinny, long-nosed brother, but I could sense them both listening avidly. This meant, I thought happily as I dropped back to ride next to Nee, that my confidential conversation with Trishe would be all over Athanarel before the bells for green-change rang. So I congratulated myself on a fine, subtle social save--until we reached Trishe’s picnic site. In the chaos of dismounting and tendering the horses to the waiting servants, I happened to catch Shevraeth’s gaze. Those gray eyes, always so accursedly observant, were now narrowed with humor, but his mouth was mock-solemn as he said, “I have the honor to introduce to you Lady Elenet Kheraev of Grumareth.
Sherwood Smith (Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2))
I thought about myself showing up on his trail, put there by servants who were--I realized now--doing their very best to throw us together, but with almost disastrous results. It was only his own faith that saved that situation, a faith I hadn’t shared. I looked at him, and again saw that assessing glance. “The throne won’t be ordered until you give the word. You need time to decide if this is the life you want,” he said. “Of all the women I know you’ve the least interest in rank for the sake of rank.” “The direct result of growing up a barefoot countess,” I said, trying for lightness. He smiled back, then took both my hands. “Which brings us to a piece of unpleasant news that I have not known how to broach.” “Unpleasant--oh, can’t it wait?” I exclaimed. “If you wish.” At once I scolded myself for cowardice. “And leave you with the burden? Tell me, if the telling eases it.” He made a faint grimace. “I don’t know that anything can ease it, but it is something you wanted to know and could not find out.” I felt coldness turn my bones to water. “My mother?” “Your mother,” he said slowly, still holding my hands, “apparently was learning sorcery. For the best of motives--to help the kingdom, and to prevent war. She was selected by the Council of Mages to study magic. Her books came from Erev-li-Erval. Apparently the Marquise found out when she was there to establish Flauvic at the Court of the Empress. She sent a courier to apprise her brother.” “And he had her killed.” Now I could not stop the tears from burning my eyes, and they ran unheeded down my cheeks. “And Papa knew about the magic. Which must be why he burned the books.” “And why he neglected your education, for he must have feared that you would inherit her potential for magic-learning. Anyway, I found the Marquise’s letter among Galdran’s things last year. I just did not know how to tell you--how to find the right time, or place.” “And I could have found out last year, if I’d not run away.” I took a deep, unsteady breath. “Well. Now I know. Shall we get on with our task?” “Are you ready for another ride?” “Of course.” He kissed my hands, first one, then the other. I felt that thrill run through me, chasing away for now the pain of grief, of regret. “Then let’s address the business before us. I hope and trust we’ll have the remainder of our lives to talk all this over and compare misguided reactions, but for now…” He rose and pulled me to my feet. Still holding on to my hands, he continued, “…shall we agree to a fresh beginning?” I squeezed his hands back. “Agreed.” “Then let me hear my name from you, just once, before we proceed further. My name, not any of the titles.” “Vidanric,” I said, and he kissed me again, then laughed. Soon we were racing side by side cross-country again, on the last leg of the journey to Remalna-city.
Sherwood Smith (Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2))
Audrey’s reaction to the tall, dark-haired ex-soldier had been more than a little perplexing. Christopher hadn’t understood why his normally sanguine sister-in-law became so shy and clumsy whenever Bennett was near. “It’s because he’s a tiger,” Beatrix had explained in private, “and Audrey is a swan, and tigers always make swans nervous. She finds him very attractive, but she doesn’t think he’s the kind of gentleman she should keep company with.” Bennett, for his part, seemed quite taken with Audrey, but every time he had made a careful advance to her, she had retreated. And then with startling quickness, the two of them seemed to have become fast friends. They went on rides and walks together and corresponded frequently when they were apart. When they were both in London, they were always seen in each other’s company. Mystified by the change in their formerly awkward relationship, Christopher asked Bennett what had happened to alter it. “I told her I was impotent from old war wounds,” Bennett said. “That calmed her nerves considerably.” Taken aback, Christopher had brought himself to ask gingerly, “Are you?” “Hell no,” came Bennett’s indignant reply. “I only said it because she was so skittish around me. And it worked.” Christopher had given him a sardonic glance. “Are you ever going to tell Audrey the truth?” A mischievous smile had played at the corners of Bennett’s lips. “I may let her cure me soon,” he admitted. Seeing Christopher’s expression, he had added hastily that his intentions were entirely honorable. It was a good match. And in Christopher’s opinion, his brother would have approved.
Lisa Kleypas (Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways, #5))
The four of them stand in the cockpit of the Misdemeanor as they motor from one town to another. They pass their house, which is not theirs any longer. Libby cuts the throttle, and they stall there in front of their sprawling memory. The four of them have come up for the closing; since all of them are owners, they all must be present to sign away this place. They have given most of the land to the Maine Preservation Society, and the house, they have sold to a family who promises not to tear the whole thing down, though they know that is a lie. The oak is yellow and peeks from behind the house. The glossy white windows of the great room look down upon them. It is cold and they all wear their foul-weather gear, bright-yellow slickers, except Gwen, in a red poncho to accommodate the swell of her belly. Libby keeps one hand on the tiller and the other she slips into Tom’s hand. He gives it a squeeze and then puts his arm around her. Danny moves from the stern to stand between Tom and Gwen. They all stand on the starboard side looking at the house. Libby and Tom, then Danny, his hand resting on his brother’s shoulder, and Gwen next to him, her arms crossed over her protruding belly, her hair long and dark hanging down her back. She is no longer a beacon, but a buoy in her poncho, red right returning. The sky is gray and low and promises a choppy ferry ride to the mainland, but there in the safe haven of the harbor it is calm and windless, and the house isn’t empty, but expectant. The flat water, dark green now, lies empty, the float pulled out the month before. Going from town dock to town dock, there is no need for a tender. There is no way for them to come ashore, even if they wanted to. A house like this is not supposed to exist now. It comes from another era. It is a ghost, like the schooners that sail through the thoroughfare every summer. It is an aberration, a figment. It is their great shingled memory.
Sarah Moriarty (North Haven)
Did you ever think maybe you’d just stay, ride it out, see what happened? Was that an option for you?” He didn’t ask defensively, though it took a bit to keep the edge from his voice. He was all but grilling her so he couldn’t go and get upset if he didn’t like the answers he got. But he was human, and this wasn’t any easier on him than it was on her. “It might have been.” “If?” He heard her take a steadying breath and felt himself bracing for her response. “If I’d felt about you the way I felt about the rest of your family. Like you were a brother or something.” “But?” “Looking for a little ego stroke?” She swatted at him then, tried for a playful laugh, but the serious undertone remained. “But I had feelings for you. Well, lust and feelings. We had a friendship, then I had lust. And I really didn’t think, even if you were interested in me, that was something you’d pursue, given your position as employer and me being temporary. So…I don’t know…” “But when you came back here to Maine you didn’t head out again.” “I didn’t go back to Australia either,” she reminded him. When he didn’t say anything for some time, she said, “What are you thinking? I’ve been pretty frank so go ahead, be honest with me.” “Okay,” he said. “I guess I can’t help but think that you didn’t head back out on the road, you didn’t come back to Australia either--but you also didn’t write, keep in touch. And not because you were out in the jungle somewhere, unable to drop a postcard in the mail. You were right here, with all the modern technological conveniences at your fingertips. But you didn’t send a single e-mail. Not even to Sadie. And I can’t help but think that maybe that means we were all a lot more important to you than you wanted to admit or keeping in touch, at least with her, would have been no big deal. You also haven’t even mentioned us to anyone here, as far as I know, other than your uncle. Which, given how long you stayed and how much we’d come to mean to you, seems odd to me, too. So…maybe the only way you thought you could get over us was to put us firmly in your rearview mirror. Only then…you never started looking ahead again either.” She said nothing, and a quick glance showed she was staring out the side window of the car, her hands in her lap, fingers twisting and untwisting. “Or maybe we really were easily left in the past, and the change in you is more because you got home and your entire family was living here, all together, for the first time in your adult life,” he said, giving her an out. “And it makes you want to stay, even though you don’t know what, precisely, you want to do here yourself.” He paused, then said the rest of what he was thinking, what he was feeling. “And maybe you stay because it’s the closest thing you can have to what you had started building with us, and remain safe while having it.
Donna Kauffman (Starfish Moon (Brides of Blueberry Cove, #3))
Riding a bull the way Taggart was ridding this one was both a test of courage and a celebration of life. It was a walk on the edge of disaster – a balancing act of beauty and terror, of power and grace. Well done, it was a compliment to both the man and the animal. It showcased the animal’s force, his cunning, his strength, his determination. And it pitted them against a far weaker, but equally graceful, wily and determined human being. It was a ballet of stimulus and response, a waltz of twist and spin.
Anne McAllister (The Cowboy and the Kid (Tanner Brothers #4; Code of the West #4))
The two of us with our scrappy motor and no idea what was going to happen next, a Persian version of the Blues Brothers scene – there’s 106 miles to Qom, we’ve got a full tank of benzin, half a pack of pistachios, it’s sunny out, and I’m wearing a hijab. Bezan berim!
Lois Pryce (Revolutionary Ride: On the Road to Shiraz, the Heart of Iran)
The Reluctant Cowboy I try never to go too far down the path of predicting what any of my children will do when they grow up, because I’ve learned firsthand that life can change on a dime and it very often turns out completely different than originally planned. And I haven’t even grown up yet myself, so who am I to even think about such things? Of all my children, though, I would say that (God willing and the creek don’t rise) my older son, Bryce, is the one who seems most destined to be a rancher. Since he was young, he has sprung out of bed when it’s time to saddle the horses, and the cowboy way of life just comes naturally to him. Now, my youngest, Todd, on the other hand? Well…I’m not sure! While he started working on the ranch at the same age (birth) as his older brother, he’s never exactly inhaled and embraced his ranching duties in the same way. Oh, he shows up and he does the job, all right. He’s Todd Drummond, after all, and he’s a great kid! It’s just that he doesn’t lie awake at night thinking about the herd he’ll have one day. But that’s the cool thing about Todd. There’s a whole world going on under the surface, and as he’s saddling and riding his horse, I can see that thirteen-year-old mind a-churning. He might be thinking about the next Marvel movie that’s on its way to theaters. He might be remembering the suit of armor he saved scrap metal to build when he was young. He might be imagining what position he’ll play in football (his favorite sport) next year. Or he might be noodling on the long conversation he had with one of the older congregants at our Presbyterian church last Sunday. He’s got a rich bank of memories and perspectives swimming around in that noggin of his. And this is only something a mama would say: I love to watch the kid think. What will Todd be when he grows up? There’s no way of knowing. He might be an illustrator for a comic book series, the host of a radio sports show, an accountant, a doctor, a salesman, a diplomat, minister, missionary, or coach. Although…I do know a certain cattle rancher around these parts who was reportedly exactly like Todd when he was a boy. His head was somewhere else when he was on his horse, and ranching wouldn’t have been described as his favorite line of work. This gentleman loved Spider-Man and football, and he never lay awake at night thinking about the herd he’d have one day. Then, when he grew up, his love for ranching set in. He realized he loved Osage County, raising cattle, and living on the land. And he made the choice to do the thing he never thought he’d wind up doing. And he’s never regretted it for a single day! (I know the gentleman. I’m married to him.) It’ll be fun to watch Todd’s future unfold.
Ree Drummond (The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Come and Get It! Simple, Scrumptious Recipes for Crazy Busy Lives)
We’ll figure it out, brother. Her dad could cause problems for us, no doubt about it, but we’ll deal with whatever happens. There isn’t a doubt in my mind she’s yours, and that means she’s ours.” He shrugged. “The ol’ladies have already accepted her. It’s possible you’re just along for the ride at this point.
Candace Blevins (McGyver (Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Club Book 13))
Red-faced, she shrank back behind the door before Devon could catch her spying on him. Soon she heard him approach, the floor creaking beneath his feet, and a dry Turkish towel was extended through the partially open doorway. She took it gratefully and wrapped it around herself. “Are you adequately covered?” she brought herself to ask. “I doubt anyone would call it adequate.” “Would you like to wait in here?” she offered reluctantly. The bathroom was warmer than the drafty bedroom. “No.” “But it’s as cold as ice out there.” “Precisely,” came his brusque reply. Judging from his voice, he was standing just on the other side of the door. “What the devil are you wearing, by the way?” “My riding habit.” “It looks like half a riding habit.” “I leave off the overskirt when I train Asad.” At his lack of response, she added, “Mr. Bloom approves of my breeches. He says that he could almost mistake me for one of the stable boys.” “Then he must be blind. No man with eyes in his head would ever mistake you for a boy.” Devon paused. “From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back. “I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.” Unable to restrain herself any longer, Kathleen went to the open gap in the doorway and glared at him. “You were the one who hired the plumbers!” she hissed. “The plumbers are the least of it. Someone needs to take the situation in hand.” “If you’re foolish enough to imagine you could take me in hand--” “Oh, I’d begin with you,” he assured her feelingly.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
From now on, you’ll ride in skirts or not at all.” “What?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re giving me orders?” “Someone has to, if you’re going to behave with so little propriety.” “You are lecturing me about bloody propriety, you sodding hypocrite?” “I suppose you learned that filthy language at the stables.” “No, from your brother,” she shot back. “I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
No man can save his brother’s soul, or pay his brother’s debt.
Louis L'Amour (Riding for the Brand: A Western Trio)
I’ll be damned if I have to win her approval before making decisions about my estate.” “Unlike either of us, she has a conscience. It won’t hurt you at all to hear her opinion. Especially since she happens to be right.” “You just said you agreed with my position!” “From a practical standpoint. Morally, Kathleen is right.” West watched as his brother prowled away from the table and back again, pacing like a caged tiger. “You have to understand something about her,” he said. “She’s spirited on the surface, but sensitive at the core. If you show her just a little consideration--” “I don’t need you to explain her to me.” “I know her better than you,” West said sharply. “I’ve been living with her, for God’s sake.” That earned him a chilling glance. “Do you want her?” Devon asked brusquely. West was baffled by the question, which seemed to have come from nowhere. “Want her? In the biblical sense? Of course not, she’s a widow. Theo’s widow. How could anyone…” His voice faded as he saw that Devon had resumed pacing, his expression murderous. Thunderstruck, West realized what the most likely reason was for all the free-floating hostility and high-riding tension between Devon and Kathleen. He closed his eyes briefly. This was bad. Bad for everyone, bad for the future, just bloody awful compounding badness in all directions.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her. The dray bobbed its head and pawed the ground with one hoof. She would have to ride back with him, she realized in despair. There was no alternative. Wrapping her arms around herself, she said anxiously, “F-first I have something to say to you.” Devon’s brows lifted, his face cold. “I…” She swallowed hard, and the words came out in a rush. “What I said in the study earlier was unkind, and untrue, and I’m s-sorry for it. It was very wrong of me. I shall make that very clear to Mr. Totthill and Mr. Fogg. And your brother.” His expression changed, one corner of his mouth curling upward in the hint of a smile that sent her heartbeat into chaos. “You needn’t bother mentioning it to them. All three will be calling me far worse before all is said and done.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
Ease up on the reins,” Kathleen said. “Just give the horse more slack and let him pick his way through.” West complied immediately. “Would a bit more advice be unwelcome?” she dared to ask. “Fire away.” “You tend to slouch in the saddle. That makes it difficult for you to follow the horse’s motion, and it will make your back sore later. If you sit tall and relaxed…yes, like that…now you’re centered.” “Thank you.” Kathleen smiled, pleased by his willingness to take direction from a woman. “You don’t ride badly. With regular practice, you would be quite proficient.” She paused. “I take it you don’t ride often in town?” “No, I travel by foot or hackney.” “But your brother…” Kathleen began, thinking of Devon’s assured horsemanship. “He rides every morning. A big dapple gray that’s as mean as the devil if it goes one day without hard exercise.” A pause. “They have that in common.” “So that’s why Trenear is so fit,” Kathleen murmured. “It doesn’t stop at riding. He belongs to a pugilism club where they batter each other senseless, in the savate style.” “What is that?” “A kind of fighting that developed in the streets of Old Paris. Quite vicious. My brother secretly hopes to be attacked by ruffians someday, but so far, no luck.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
I take it you don’t ride often in town?” “No, I travel by foot or hackney.” “But your brother…” Kathleen began, thinking of Devon’s assured horsemanship. “He rides every morning. A big dapple gray that’s as mean as the devil if it goes one day without hard exercise.” A pause. “They have that in common.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
Now the sun's gone to hell and The moon's riding high Let me bid you farewell Every man has to die But it's written in the starlight And every line in your palm We are fools to make war On our brothers in arms
Mark Knopfler (Dire Straits - Brothers in Arms)
It had been often commented upon that Vibe offspring tended to be crazy as bedbugs. ‘Fax’s brother Cragmont had run away with a trapeze girl, then brought her back to New York to get married, the wedding being actually performed on trapezes, groom and best man, dressed in tails and silk opera hats held on with elastic, swinging upside down by their knees in perfect synchrony across the perilous Æther to meet the bride and her father, a carnival “jointee” or concessionaire, in matched excursion from their own side of the ring, bridesmaids observed at every hand up twirling by their chins in billows of spangling, forty feet above the faces of the guests, feathers dyed a deep acid green sweeping and stirring the cigar smoke rising from the crowd. Cragmont Vibe was but thirteen that circus summer he became a husband and began what would become, even for the day, an enormous family. The third brother, Fleetwood, best man at this ceremony, had also got out of the house early, fast-talking his way onto an expedition heading for Africa. He kept as clear of political games as of any real scientific inquiry, preferring to take the title of “Explorer” literally, and do nothing but explore. It did not hurt Fleetwood’s chances that a hefty Vibe trust fund was there to pick up the bills for bespoke pith helmets and meat lozenges and so forth. Kit met him one spring weekend out at the Vibe manor on Long Island. “Say, but you’ve never seen our cottage,” ‘Fax said one day after classes. “What are you doing this weekend? Unless there’s another factory girl or pizza princess or something in the works.” “Do I use that tone of voice about the Seven Sisters material you specialize in?” “I’ve nothing against the newer races,” ‘Fax protested. “But you might like to meet Cousin Dittany anyway.” “The one at Smith.” “Mount Holyoke, actually.” “Can’t wait.” They arrived under a dourly overcast sky. Even in cheerier illumination, the Vibe mansion would have registered as a place best kept clear of—four stories tall, square, unadorned, dark stone facing looking much older than the known date of construction. Despite its aspect of abandonment, an uneasy tenancy was still pursued within, perhaps by some collateral branch of Vibes . . . it was unclear. There was the matter of the second floor. Only the servants were allowed there. It “belonged,” in some way nobody was eager to specify, to previous occupants. “Someone’s living there?” “Someone’s there.” . . . from time to time, a door swinging shut on a glimpse of back stairway, a muffled footfall . . . an ambiguous movement across a distant doorframe . . . a threat of somehow being obliged to perform a daily search through the forbidden level, just at dusk, so detailed that contact with the unseen occupants, in some form, at some unannounced moment, would be inevitable . . . all dustless and tidy, shadows in permanent possession, window-drapes and upholstery in deep hues of green, claret, and indigo, servants who did not speak, who would or could not meet one’s gaze . . . and in the next room, the next instant, waiting . . . “Real nice of you to have me here, folks,” chirped Kit at breakfast. “Fellow sleeps like a top. Well, except . . .” Pause in the orderly gobbling and scarfing. Interest from all around the table. “I mean, who came in the room in the middle of the night like that?” “You’re sure,” said Scarsdale, “it wasn’t just the wind, or the place settling.” “They were walking around, like they were looking for something.” Glances were exchanged, failed to be exchanged, were sent out but not returned. “Kit, you haven’t seen the stables yet,” Cousin Dittany offered at last. “Wouldn’t you like to go riding?
Thomas Pynchon (Against the Day)
In addition, I feel a personal connection. In April 1855 my great-granduncle Alexander Carter Jr. and his younger brother, Thomas Marion Carter, left their home in Scioto County, Ohio, and headed west. Starting by steamboat, the two brothers floated down the Ohio River until it joined the Mississippi and then traveled upstream to St. Louis. In St. Louis they found little transportation west, so they walked, hitched rides, and rode horseback to reach St. Joseph, Missouri. There they caught a stagecoach to Council Bluffs, Iowa, riding on top of the stage, with seventeen men and women-a three-day ordeal.
Robert A. Carter (Buffalo Bill Cody: The Man Behind the Legend)
Got a brother served up at the Dhashara pass, he always did say you lot let your women run riot. Mouthing off like they were men, riding horses, carrying weapons, shit like that.” “Been known to happen,” Egar agreed. “Yeah, well, that shit won’t wash down here. This is Yhelteth, this is the Empire. We’re civilized. Women know their place. And truth is, I’m about fucking sick of the trouble we get from your kind coming in here.” Grudging, bitten off. “No offense.
Richard K. Morgan (The Cold Commands (A Land Fit for Heroes, #2))
I find it ironic that my father should die this way. He was so safety-conscious that everything he built was two or three times stronger than necessary. We joked that his carnival rides were likely to sink through to China if a heavy rain ever hit. And everything he built was grounded, vented, and had backup systems. On the other hand, my father was so obsessed with Oak Island that I had remarked to my husband as we left the island three years earlier that the only way my father would ever leave Oak Island was “feet first.” I had meant that he would find one way or another to hang on and keep trying until he died from old age. I certainly did not mean this. Karl Graeser was a fine man with a wife and two daughters who deeply loved him. he was a successful businessman who was enthusiastic, adventuresome, and always ready to lend a hand. A terrible loss. And Cyril Hiltz. He was no treasure hunter. He didn’t sign on to risk his life. He came to the island that day only to earn a few dollars. But when that crucial moment came, he rushed in to help the others. He was only 16 years old. His loss is especially cruel. My father, Robert Ernest Restall, had lived a rich and varied life--the life he wanted. He was 60 years old. Not nearly enough time, but they were 60 good years. My brother Bobby, Robert Keith Restall, is another matter. Twenty-four is too young to die. Bobby was smart and funny and always upbeat. He never had a chance. My brother deserved better than this. But, of course, they all did.
Lee Lamb (Oak Island Family: The Restall Hunt for Buried Treasure)
The capital city of the Dominican Republic is Santo Domingo, founded in 1496 by Bartholomew Columbus, Christopher’s brother. Rafael Leónidas Trujillo served as President from 1930 to 1938 and again from 1942 to 1952, continuing to rule for the rest of the time as an unelected strongman using figurehead presidents. He renamed the capital city of the Dominican Republic to Ciudad Trujillo after himself. His régime lasted for over thirty years, until his assassination on May 30, 1961, while riding in his car on the outskirts of the city. After he was gunned down, his riddled body was taken to France and interred in the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, bringing to an end “La Era de Trujillo.” Six years later Trujillo’s body was moved to the El Pardo Cemetery near Madrid, Spain, where it now rests.
Hank Bracker