Saddlebags Quotes

Warriors of light always have a certain gleam in their eyes. They are of this world, they are part of the lives of others, and they set out on their journey with no saddlebags and no sandals. They are often cowardly. They do not always make the right decisions. They suffer over the most trivial things, they have mean thoughts, and sometimes believe that they are incapable of growing. They frequently deem themselves unworthy of any blessing or miracle. They are not always quite sure what they are doing here. They spend many sleepless nights, believing that their lives have no meaning. That is why they are warriors of light. Because they make mistakes. Because they ask themselves questions. Because they are looking for a reason - and are sure to find it.

Janco leaned on the threshold of my door with his face creased in annoyance. “Did she just—” “Yes.” “But I don’t—” “Yes. You do. We both stink.” “Well, I’m not—” “Yes. You are.” He huffed. “You won’t let—” “No. No complaining. Let’s go.” I grabbed a clean shirt and pants from my saddlebags. “Well, she could have handled it better,” he grumped. “No. She couldn’t.” He settled into a sulky silence as we visited the bathhouse.

Be careful, little girl. That’s not a toy.” I hopped off and ran my finger along the letters emblazoned on the saddlebags. “What’s C.B. stand for anyway?” “Those are my initials.” “Let me guess…Cocky Bastard?

Dressed as a man, her horse unencumbered by anything but the bare necessities, she had the look of a survivor, a fighter, and he respected the hell our of her for it, especially when she slid the pistol out of one of the saddlebags and aimed it at him.

Gertrudis got on her horse and rode away. She wasn't riding alone--she carried her childhood beside her, in the cream fritters she had enclosed in a jar in her saddlebag

There is no better people-watching than at the airport: the whole world packed into such a tight space, moving fast with all their essentials in their rolling bags. And what caught my attention, as I took a few breaths and lay my eyes on the crowds, were all the imperfections. Everybody had them. Every single person that walked past me had some kind of flaw. Bushy eyebrows, moles, flared nostrils, crooked teeth, crows'-feet, hunched backs, dowagers' humps, double chins, floppy earlobes, nose hairs, potbellies, scars, nicotine stains, upper arm fat, trick knees, saddlebags, collapsed arches, bruises, warts, puffy eyes, pimples. Nobody was perfect. Not even close. And everybody had wrinkles from smiling and squinting and craning their necks. Everybody had marks on their bodies from years of living - a trail of life left on them, evidence of all the adventures and sleepless nights and practical jokes and heartbreaks that had made them who they were. In that moment, I suddenly loved us all the more for our flaws, for being broken and human, for being embarrassed and lonely, for being hopeful or tired or disappointed or sick or brave or angry. For being who we were, for making the world interesting. It was a good reminder that the human condition is imperfection. And that's how it's supposed to be.

Another last-minute, good-deed job,” Royce grumbled as he stuffed supplies into his saddlebag. “True,” Hadrian said, slinging his sword belt over his shoulder, “but this is at least a paying job.” “You should have told him the real reason we saved him from Trumbul— because we wouldn’t see the hundred tenents otherwise.” “That was your reason. Besides, how often do we get to do royal contracts? If word gets around, we’ll be able to command top salaries.” “If word gets around, we’ll be hanged.

Warriors of the Light always have a certain gleam in their eyes. They are of this world. They are part of the lives of other people and they set out on their journey with no saddlebags and no sandals. They are often cowardly. They do not always make the right decisions. They suffer over the most trivial things; they have mean thoughts and sometimes believe they are incapable of growing. They frequently deem themselves unworthy of any blessing or miracle. They are not always quite sure of what they are doing here. They spend many sleepless nights, believing that their lives have no meaning. That is why they are Warriors of the Light. Because they make mistakes, because they ask themselves questions, because they are looking for a reason they are sure to find it.

Now, now!” Chiron called. His saddlebags were overflowing with extra first-aid kits and emergency flares. “We won’t need any help making this a dangerous challenge. Let’s have a good clean three-legged death race. And another thing, campers, given the problems our test group had this morning, please repeat after me: Do not end up in Peru.” “Do not end up in Peru,” everyone chanted.

Pepper woke up thinking of butts. And nothing else. Ladies' butts. Skinny butts, big butts, saddlebag butts, flabby and firm butts, the kind that sit so high they seem like part of the woman's back, the kind that ride low and form a UU just above the thighs like in the old television commercials for Hanes Underalls, butts that wiggle and butts that jiggle, sagging butts and robust butts, butts that hardly make an impression under a pair of jeans; sidewinder butts and trumpet butts -- the ones so meaty they actually spread out until they appear to be a woman's thighs (ass so fat you can see it from the front), butts as knotty as acorns, butts as smooth as a slice of Gouda, butts with pimples and butts with cellulite, the kind that have pockmarks or red splotches, butts with tattoos and butts with bullet scars. Butts you can cup in your warm hands. Butts and butts and butts. In other words, Pepper woke up horny.

I know a lot of hot, unconventionally beautiful ladies who kick ass and have sex with rock-star dudes and aren't sorry about it at all. I need to say this loud for the girls in the back of the class: if a dude doesn't want to have to use both hands to grab your ass, that's totally cool; its his choice. But that doesn't make you a piece of shit. You hoist up your saddlebags and go find some dude who thinks you're rad and doesn't mind wiping the sweat off your bottom stomach when you switch sex positions. Don't be all down in the dumps (like a truck truck truck) and let opportunists and perverts take advantage of some low self-esteem you're absolutely too awesome to have.

When you argue with verve in your saddlebags, you are extremely alive. That is why you yell and holler and shake your fist — could there be anything sweeter than convincing someone to see the world your way? What else is talking for, or jokes, or stories, or battles? The Loudest Magic, and how I loved it.

When Philippa had first demanded his help in eluding Kate and travelling to St Mary’s, he had indignantly refused. He was there now because he had discovered, to his astonishment, that she was desperate, and perfectly capable of going without him. Why she had got it into her young head she must see this man Crawford, Cheese-wame didn’t know. But after pointing out bitterly that (a) he would lose his job; (b) the rogues in the Debatable would kill them, (c) that she would catch her death of cold and (d) that Kate would never speak to either of them again, he went, his belt filled with knives and her belongings as well as his own in the two saddlebags behind his powerful thighs, while Philippa rode sedately beside him on her smaller horse, green with excitement, with her father’s pistol tied to her waist like a ship’s log and banging against her thin knees.

saddlebags and called for water to be heated. He knelt and removed his outer tunic and rolled the white sleeves of the inner one. He rubbed astringent oil into his hands and along his forearms to the elbow, to the amusement of the nephew, who drew a wrongheaded moral from the notion of a physician who medicated himself and not his patient. The stranger

If you pull a rope and some duct tape out of those saddlebags, I’m going to freak. Jeana E. Mann. Intoxicated (Kindle Locations 746-747).

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

saddlebags and called for water to be heated. He knelt and removed his outer tunic and rolled the white sleeves of the inner one. He rubbed astringent oil into his hands and along his forearms to the elbow, to the amusement of the nephew, who drew a wrongheaded moral from the notion of a physician who medicated himself and not his patient. The stranger leaned in to sniff at the Italian’s breath, pressed an ear against his chest and took the poor fellow’s pulse. While he worked, he asked about the

You’re not mad?” “Because I had to go out in the rain, in the middle of the night, pull up the stakes on your tent, resecure it somewhere else so it would dry out, then cart your saddlebags over to Cookie’s wagon, wake him up and then listen to him complain?

Jason Lycurgus. Who, driven perhaps by the compulsion of the flamboyant name given him by the sardonic embittered woodenlegged indomitable father who perhaps still believed with his heart that what he wanted to be was a classicist schoolteacher, rode up the Natchez Trace one day in 1811 with a pair of fine pistols and one meagre saddlebag on a small lightwaisted but stronghocked mare which could do the first two furlongs in definitely under the halfminute and the next two in not appreciably more, though that was all.

As historian Gary Ferguson writes, "while livestock may be the kindling, the real fuel for the burn is that the federal government is behind the project. . . . Westerners couldn't buy a more perfect evil if they rode straight to hell with a saddlebag full of cash." Or, as one stockman said in 1989, "It's not so much the wolves we're afraid of, it's the wolf managers.

This poetry is utilitarian—heavy-duty, industrial strength poetry. It is meant to be read aloud and, even better, memorized and recited. It is best used in the natural world where there are starlit skies, the warmth of blazing fires, and sounds and sights of open expanse. This book is meant to be carried with you in the glove box of a pickup truck, the back pocket of a worn pair of pants, even a saddlebag. It is not made to take up space on a library shelf, squeezed between other unread volumes. Take it along; you never know when the opportunity will be just right. Nothing pleases more than to see copies of the book twice as thick as the original from continued page turning, with turned-down corners marking favorite poems, or the whole shape curved to match the owner’s posterior.

Behind the abandoned house, two faerie horses chew on dandelions as they wait for their riders. Slight as deer, with a soft halo of light surrounding their bodies, they glide between the trees like ghosts. Oak goes to the first. Her coat a soft grey, her mane braided into something that looks like netting, and which is hung with gold beads. Tooled leather saddlebags rest against her flanks. She nuzzles into his hand.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art

She was disappointed. She kept her voice low. “Have you heard of a Lienid noble Graced with fighting?” “You saw him, did you?” Raffin said, and she swung her eyes to his face, surprised. “As you came into the courtyard? He’s been lurking around. Hard to look that one in the eyes, eh? He’s the son of the Lienid king.” He was here? She hadn’t expected that. She focused on her saddlebags once more. “Ror’s heir?” “Great hills, no. He has six older brothers. His name is the silliest I’ve heard for the seventh heir to a throne. Prince Greening Grandemalion.” Raffin smiled. “Have you ever heard the like?” “Why is he here?” “Ah,” Raffin said. “It’s quite interesting, really. He claims to be searching for his kidnapped grandfather.” Katsa looked up from her bags, into his laughing blue eyes. “You haven’t—” “Of course not. I’ve been waiting for you.

He is a slave.” “He is a man, as I am.” Kestrel slipped from her saddle, stood face-to-face with Ronan, and lied. “He is nothing to me.” Ronan’s anger dimmed a little. He waited, listening. “I never should have challenged Irex.” Kestrel decided to weave some truth into her story, to toughen the fabric of it. “But he and I have an unfriendly history. He made me an offer last spring. I turned him down. Since then, he has been…aggressive.” She had Ronan’s sympathy then, and she was grateful, for she didn’t know what she would do if he and Jess turned their backs on her. She needed them--not only today, but always. “Irex angered me. The slave was just an excuse.” How much easier everything would be if that were so. But Kestrel wouldn’t let herself consider the truth. She didn’t want to know its shape or see its face. “I was thoughtless and rash, but I’ve drawn my tiles and must play them. Will you help me, Ronan? Will you do as I asked in my letter?” “Yes.” He still looked unhappy. “Though as far as I can see, there is little for me to do but stand and watch you fight.” “And Jess? Will she be at the duel?” “Yes, as soon as she is done weeping her eyes out. What a fright you’ve given us, Kestrel.” Kestrel opened a saddlebag and passed Ronan the purse with the death-price. He took it, recognizing it by its weight and the fact that her letter had told him to expect it. Softly, he said, “You frightened me.” She embraced him, stepping into his arms. They relaxed around her. His chin rested on top of her head, and she felt his forgiveness. She tried to push away thoughts of Arin on the auction block, of the look in his eyes when he asked where his honor was, of him swearing at her guards in his tongue. She held Ronan more tightly, pressing her cheek against his chest. Ronan sighed. “I’ll ride with you to Irex’s house,” he said, “and see you safely home after you’ve won.

I hurt my hip, too.” “Let me see.” She made a face and yelped when her cheek protested even that slight movement. “You don’t need to see my hip. It’s fine.” “If the skin’s broken, it’ll need cleaning, too,” he said, unbuckling her belt. “Stop that.” “Think of me as your doctor,” he said, as he unsnapped and then unzipped her jeans. “My doctor doesn’t usually undress me,” she snapped. “And my patients already come undressed.” He laughed. “Life your hips,” he said. “Up!” he ordered, when she hesitated. She put her one good hand on his shoulder to brace herself and lifted her hips as he pulled her torn jeans down. To her surprise, her bikini underwear was shredded, and the skin underneath was bloody. “Uh-oh.” She was still staring at the injury on her hip when she felt him pulling off her boots. She started to protest, saw the warning look in his eyes, and shut her mouth. He pulled her jeans off, leaving her legs bare above her white boot socks. “Was that really necessary?” “You’re decent,” he said, straightening the tails of her Western shirt over her shredded bikini underwear. “I can put your boots back on if you like.” Bay shook her head and laughed. “Just get the first-aid kit, and let me take care of myself.” He grimaced. “If I’m not mistaken, you packed the first-aid kit in your saddlebags.” Bay winced. “You’re right.” She stared down the canyon as far as she could see. There was no sign of her horse. “How long do you think it’ll take him to stop running?” “He won’t have gone far. But I need to set up camp before it gets dark. And I’m not hunting for your horse in the dark, for the same reason I’m not hunting for your brother in the dark.” “Where am I supposed to sleep? My bedroll and tent are with my horse.” “You should have thought of that before you started that little striptease of yours.” “You’re the one who shouted and scared me half to death. I was only trying to cool off.” “And heating me up in the process!” “I can’t help it if you have a vivid imagination.” “It didn’t take much to imagine to see your breasts,” he shot back. “You opened your blouse right up and bent over and flapped your shirt like you were waving a red flag at a bull” “I was getting some air!” “You slid your butt around that saddle like you were sitting right on my lap.” “That’s ridiculous!” “Then you lifted your arms to hold your hair up and those perfect little breasts of yours—” “That’s enough,” she interrupted. “You’re crazy if you think—” “You mean you weren’t inviting me to kiss my way around those wispy curls at your nape?” “I most certainly was not!” “Could’ve fooled me.” She searched for the worst insult she could think of to sling at him. “You—you—Bullying Blackthorne!” “Damned contentious Creed!

In God’s own name, Sir Knight of the Sorry Face, I just can’t stand some of these things you come out with, making me think that everything you tell me about chivalries, and winning kingdoms and empires, and giving islands away and doing other favours and great deeds, as knight errants do, must all be empty lies, and a fraction or a friction or whatever it is you call it. Because anyone who hears you saying that a barber’s basin is Mambrino’s helmet, and sticking to your story for days on end – what’s he going to think except that the man who says things like that must be queer in the head? Yes, I’ve got the basin in my saddle-bag, well dented, and the reason I’ve got it there is to take it home and mend it for trimming my beard, if God’s good enough to let me see my wife and children again some day.

She was well into her course of self-recrimination when he returned. The flap parted, and a very wet Zane crawled in beside her. “You okay?” he asked, as he set down the flashlight and touched her cheek. “Getting warm?” She nodded, then sniffed. “I’m sorry.” His dark eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled. “It was worth it.” “What?” “I get to say I told you so.” She sniffed again. “You’re not mad?” “Because I had to go out in the rain, in the middle of the night, pull up the stakes on your tent, resecure it somewhere else so it would dry out, then cart your saddlebags over to Cookie’s wagon, wake him up and then listen to him complain?” She winced. “Those would be the reasons.” “I’m not mad.” She couldn’t believe it. “But I was stupid.” “You’re a greenhorn. You didn’t know any better.” “You tried to tell me. I should have listened.” He smiled. “That’ll teach you. The man always knows best.” “That’s so not true.” “It is in this case. So are you naked?” The switch in topic caught her unaware. She shimmied a little deeper into the sleeping bag. “I, ah, left on my panties.” Zane swore softly. “I guess I deserved that for asking.” “Deserved what?” “You don’t want to know.” Suddenly she did. Very much. But she didn’t know how to ask. So she tried a different subject. “Are we going to share the sleeping bag?” “I thought I’d go stay with Cookie.” “Oh.” Disappointment flooded her way more than the river had. It was just as cold, but not as wet. “Phoebe, we talked about this,” he reminded her. “You deserve better than a quickie out in the open.” “We’re in a tent,” she said before she could stop herself. “And it doesn’t have to be quick.

Thank you for coming with me.” She knew it was no small thing. Dom was Monarch of Iona now, the leader of an enclave shattered by war and betrayal. He should have been at home with his people, helping them restore what was nearly lost forever. Instead, he looked grimly down a sand dune, his clothes poorly suited to the climate, his appearance sticking sticking out of the desert like the sorest of thumbs. While so many things had changed, Dom’s ability to look out of place never did. He even wore his usual cloak, a twin to the one he lost months ago. The gray green had become a comfort like nothing else, just like the silhouette of his familiar form. He loomed always, never far from her side. It was enough to make Sorasa’s eyes sting, and turn her face to hide in her hood for a long moment. Dom paid it no notice, letting her recover. Instead, he fished an apple from his saddlebags and took a noisy bite. “I saved the realm,” he said, shrugging. The least I can do is try to see some of it.” Sorasa was used to Elder manners by now. Their distant ways, their inability to understand subtle hints. The side of her mouth raised against her hood, and she turned back to face him, smirking. “Thank you for coming with me,” she said again. “Oh,” he answered, shifting to look at her. The green of his eyes danced, bright against the desert. “Where else would I go?” Then he passed the rest of the apple over to her. She finished the rest without a thought. His hand lingered, though, scarred knuckles on a tattooed arm. She did not push him away. Instead, Sorasa leaned, so that her shoulder brushed his own, putting some of her weight on him. “Am I still a waste of arsenic?” he said, his eyes never moving from her face. Sorasa stopped short, blinking in confusion. “What?” “When we first met.” His own smirk unfurled. “You called me a waste of arsenic.” In a tavern in Byllskos, after I dumped poison in his cup, and watched him drink it all. Sorasa laughed at the memory, her voice echoing over the empty dunes. In that moment, she thought Domacridhan was her death, another assassin sent to kill her. Now she knew he was the opposite entirely. Slowly, she raised her arm and he did not flinch. It felt strange still, terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. His cheek was cool under under her hand, his scars familiar against her palm. Elders were less affected by the desert heat, a fact that Sorasa used to her full advantage. “No,” she answered, pulling his face down to her own. “I would waste all the arsenic in the world on you.” “Is that a compliment, Amhara?” Dom muttered against her lips. No, she tried to reply. On the golden sand, their shadows met, grain by grain, until there was no space left at all.

heavy saddlebags and walked to the nearest

Mr. Smith?” she said, much as he’d said “Flora.” Flora was the first name she thought of when she decided not to reveal who she was. “Aye, that’s right,” he said with that sincere smile she didn’t trust at all. “But you’re Scottish.” She slipped out of her clogs, then was sorry she did because barefoot, she lost a good two inches in height. “Smith is a gey common name north of the border.” Whereas there was only one Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, she thought grimly. She glanced toward the fine leather baggage piled beside the table. “That’s odd. The initials on your saddlebags are E.A.A.M.” To her satisfaction, chagrin flashed in those deep-set, dark blue eyes. Take that, Ewan Macrae, whatever that double A stands for. “Arrogant Ass,” I’m guessing. After

Specific body parts, “problem areas,” also get labels—fupa, gunt, cankles, thunder thighs, Hi Susans, wings, cottage cheese thighs, hail damage, muffin tops, side boob, back fat, love handles, saddlebags, spare tires, double chins, gocks, man boobs, beer bellies.

hell can't zip it up into one of my saddlebags because I'm

were hitched at mangers filled with hay. Strapped to the flanks of each horse was a table. Guests, in formal riding attire, mounted their assigned horses and were served course after course of food by waiters dressed as grooms. From the shoulders of each horse, meanwhile, were slung two saddlebags, each filled with ice and bottles of champagne. As they dined, the guests sipped champagne through

The horses, reluctant and excited from the first, become furious and wild. At the next shoal-personal nastiness being past consideration-we dismount, at knee-deep, to give them a moment's rest, shifting the mule's saddle to the trembling long-legged mare, and turning Mr. Brown loose, to follow as he could. After a breathing-spell we resume our splashed seats and the line of wade. Experience has taught us something, and we are more shrewd in choice of footing, the slopes around large trees being attractively high ground, until, by a stumble on a covered root, a knee is nearly crushed against a cypress trunk. Gullies now commence, cut by the rapid course of waters flowing off before north winds, in which it is good luck to escape instant drowning. Then quag again; the pony bogs; the mare, quivering and unmanageable, jumps sidelong among loose corduroy; and here are two riders standing waist-deep in mud and water between two frantic, plunging-horses, fortunately not beneath them. Nack soon extricates himself, and joins the mule, looking on terrified from behind. Fanny, delirious, believes all her legs broken and strewn about her, and falls, with a whining snort, upon her side. With incessant struggles she makes herself a mud bath, in which, with blood-shot eyes, she furiously rotates, striking, now and then, some stump, against which she rises only to fall upon the other side, or upon her back, until her powers are exhausted, and her head sinks beneath the surface. Mingled with our uppermost sympathy are thoughts of the soaked note-books, and other contents of the saddle-bags, and of the.hundred dollars that drown with her. What of dense soil there was beneath her is now stirred to porridge, and it is a dangerous exploit to approach. But, with joint hands, we length succeed in grappling her bridle, and then in hauling her nostrils above water. She revives only for a new tumult of dizzy pawing, before which we hastily retreat. At a second pause her lariat is secured, and the saddle cut adrift. For a half-hour the alternate resuscitation continues, until we are able to drag the head of the poor beast, half strangled by the rope, as well as the mud and water, toward firmer ground, where she recovers slowly her senses and her footing. Any further attempts at crossing the somewhat "wet" Neches bottoms are, of course, abandoned, and even the return to the ferry is a serious sort of joke. However, we congratulate ourselves that we are leaving, not entering the State.

I’m sorry it had to end this way. The Master said it would be easier to let you go like this, rather than shame you by publicly asking you to leave early. Kasida is yours—as is the Master’s letter of approval, which is in the saddlebag. Go home. I will miss you,

What would you have of us?” “My lord, we seek the Marrow and come prepared to buy it.” There was a murmur of amazement and uneasiness. Barkhan silenced it with a gesture. “Who seeks the Marrow, Mistress? It is the fate of all men to die.” “Some there are, my lord, who cannot resign themselves to death. But you know well that no man has sent us.” Linda’s voice was carefully respectful, despite the arrogance of her words. Barkhan shifted, and his broad hand gripped the arm of his chair. “You wish to obtain how much?” “Only a little: as much as may fill this box.” And Linda held up the carven sandalwood box that Ygerna had placed in her saddlebag on the day they set out toward Lake Evaine. Barkhan gave a short, hard snort of laughter. “Just so much as may restore a witch’s life! Oh, yes, we hear the news in these parts, for all you may think we spend our lives burrowing like moles beneath the ground. But the sorceress had some hidden in her chamber. Have you searched among the ruins?” “Yes, Lord Barkhan. It was gone.” He gave a scornful smile. “So the Mer-People despoiled her palace when the fear of her no longer kept them from it? Well, they are a cowardly folk, and that we have always known.” “My lord!” interrupted Helve. “We must not give them what they ask--no matter what they offer us in payment.” “Why not, Helve?” “The Marrow is a great gift: the greatest, perhaps, the dwarfs can give to mortal men, though for all the harm it has done, I wish it were buried and forgotten. And it has never yet been used except for evil.” Barkhan turned again to Linda. “What would you bribe us with?

She glanced at Davis to see him quietly staring at her. Startled, Emma put her hand to her stomach to quiet the butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence there. “Oh, Mr. Cooper, I thought you were still asleep.” Once again her voice sounded breathless to her ears. “Well, did you?” Davis studied her with a slight grin and a twinkle in those strange blue eyes. “Did I what?” One bow arched as he regarded her intently. “Find what you were looking for?” “Mr. Cooper.” She raised her chin up. “I was merely making sure there was nothing in your saddlebags that might endanger our trip.” Heat rose from her stomach, burning her face. She quickly looked down, her stiff fingers fumbling with two tin cups. “Well, ma’am, since my gun is here beside me, what could be in my saddle bags that would endanger our trip?” His voice hitched like he swallowed laughter.

As she lay there contemplating her escape, every sound was amplified to Zoe’s ears. The water running interminably in the sink. The scratch of a razor against his whiskered jaw. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. The scar on Zoe’s forehead ached, but she pressed her face into the pillow to wait . . . and wait . . . until she heard the front door open and close. Moving to the bedroom window to watch Chris leave, Zoe carefully parted the blinds, peering out. He didn’t suspect a thing. His briefcase went into the back seat first—a burnished leather saddlebag from The Frye Company, cognac,

Molly, I need you to answer me, hon.” She swallowed. One more moment of silence and Bailey would bust in . . . and get shot in the process. “I’ll be careful. I’m just . . . I’m sleepy. Don’t worry about me.” “I’ll go, but some good news first. Michael’s saddlebags were as loaded down as a Wells Fargo coach. That must be the money Russell stole. Your pa will be happy.” The pistol was lying on the floor now, although still in his grip. It was an odd-shaped gun. Her head cocked. “And finding the gun will clear Anne of murdering Mr. Nimenko,” she said. “What?” “The strange gun. The missing foreign gun of Mr. Nimenko.” Michael’s head bolted upright. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her again. “If you find it, I mean. If you find Mr. Nimenko’s gun, then everyone will know that Anne is innocent.” Silence. “I’ve got to go,” Bailey said. “I’d better join the others.” His fingers tapped against the door. “I love you.” Molly froze, unable to answer. Michael’s eyes turned into mean slits. “Answer him,” he mouthed, “now.” She looked away and tried to forget the murderous weapon pointed in her direction. One slide of Michael’s slippery gloves and she was dead. She might never have another opportunity. “I love you, too, Bailey.” The tapping stilled. “Good night, Molly.” And he was gone. —

Blood at the Root' is an attempt to understand how the people of my home place arrived at that moment, and to trace the origins of the 'whites only' world they fought so desperately to preserve. To do that, we will need to go all the way back to the beginning of the racial cleansing, in the violent months of September and October 1912. That was the autumn when white men first loaded their saddlebags with shotgun shells, coils of rope, cans of kerosene, and sticks of dynamite - and used them to send the black people of Forsyth County running for their lives.

his Colt. He took his Winchester from the corner where it leaned and filled a coat pocket with extra shells from his saddlebag. He told Belivev, “I’ll ride double with you to the livery stable and get my horse. Then we’ll see what we can do about

His horse was tethered by the barn, and he carried Emma to it and held her close enough so she could pluck the surprise from his saddlebag. “Is it mine?” she asked. “It is.” She beamed and clutched the rag doll tight against her chest. “Her name’s gonna be Clara.” “Sounds like a good name to me.” He shook the rag doll’s limp arm. “Nice to meet you, Clara.” That drew a giggle from Emma.

I suppose you’re wondering where I’ve been,” Caleb said, sounding damnably pleased with himself as he climbed down from the gelding’s back. “I wasn’t wondering any such thing.” Lily’s arms were folded, and her chin was thrust out. She couldn’t help noticing that Caleb wasn’t wearing his uniform—he had on dark trousers and a cotton shirt. On his head in place of the tasseled campaign hat was a slouchy leather one. Although he wasn’t wearing a holster and pistol, there was a rifle in the scabbard on his saddle. Caleb grinned as he reached up for his saddlebags. “That being the case, you probably wouldn’t be interested in the presents I brought you.” Lily took a reluctant step nearer. “Presents?” He slung the bulging saddlebags over one sturdy shoulder and gave a long-suffering sigh. “You won’t want to see them, of course.” Lily bit her lower lip. “That would depend,” she said. Caleb laughed. “On what?” There was no helping it; Lily had to smile. “On what they are, silly.” He tossed the saddlebags to Lily, and they nearly knocked her over. “Go ahead, sodbuster. Have a look.” Feeling self-conscious, Lily opened the flap of one saddlebag and peeked inside. It was bulging with fragrant, tangy oranges, and Lily’s mouth watered at the prospect of such a treat. In the other saddlebag she found two dime novels, Wilhelmina and the Wild Indians and Evelyn and the Mountain Man, along with a bar of chocolate and two pretty tortoiseshell combs for her hair. “I don’t know what to say,” Lily whispered. She’d never received so many wonderful presents at one time in her life. “Except for thank you, of course.” Caleb kissed her forehead. “Am I back in your good graces now?” Lily looked up at him, clutching the saddlebags to her chest. “That depends on whether or not you’ve decided to marry me.” His jawline tightened, and for one terrible moment Lily was afraid he meant to take back the oranges and the books and the chocolate and the combs. “I’ve decided,” he answered. His voice was so cold that Lily didn’t need to ask what that decision was. She flung the saddlebags with their cherished contents back into his arms, whirled on one heel, and strode back to the garden plot, where she began hoeing again with a vengeance.

Chocolate Crunchy Crunch was invented by Genghis Khan’s chef, Bharli Zup. The Mongol hordes always carried some in their saddlebags when they rode out to burn and pillage. The original recipe included the pulverized bones of Polish peasants.” “Those Mongols.” I shook my head. “I, uh, assume you updated the recipe a bit?

Death, Andre, the prior thought, as he now buckled up his saddlebags for a long journey, and not the sort of death unleashed here, either. Death in the very oldest Catholic sense, as in Saint John’s Gospel and the Didache: death of the soul as opposed to the road of life. For there are only two ways, dear Father Andre . . . but did anyone ever actually teach you that? It is only these simplest and plainest things we find so hard, anymore.

Hey, buddy,” Liberty yelled, “back away from the saddlebag. My snacks are in there!” The man looked shocked, backed up, and fell over into a tub beside the road. Water splashed over a woman dressed in fine clothes, who yelled at the man. Wet in the tub, the man pointed at Liberty, who looked just like any horse on the street. The drenched woman

One thing I know about women is they wait for the perfect man to ride in and solve all their problems. Then, they find he’s got saddlebags full of his own.

The best find hadn’t been in the bunker, though. The garage had a half-dozen unused but well-maintained bicycles, complete with saddlebags. Even

With his other hand, he pulls a small crossbow from a saddlebag and notches a bolt with his teeth.

saddlebag.

War pulled a large paper-wrapped package out of his saddlebag. “We’ve got . . . let’s see now . . . Egg and Cress, Chicken Tikka, and Mature Cheese with Crunchy Pickle, I think.” THEY DO SUCH MARVELOUS THINGS WITH SANDWICHES THESE DAYS. “Oh . . . and Bacon Surprise.” REALLY? WHAT IS SO SURPRISING ABOUT BACON? “I don’t know. I suppose it comes as something of a shock to the pig.

saddlebags,

He melded into the crowd, sidling around them so they wouldn’t look at his singed butt, and the more he thought about it the more he realized he was glad he hadn’t had access to his badge. He retrieved his clothing and the saddlebag and melded into the night.

NOWHERE TO RUN. 1 Three hours after he’d broken camp, repacked, and pushed his horses higher into the mountain range, Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett paused on the lip of a wide hollow basin and dug in his saddlebag for his notebook.

Baxter snatched up the automatic typewriter and plumped it into Pinemont’s broad lap, slapping the mike into the big writer’s fat hands. “The sun is pasted to the burning sky like a scarlet cookie,” dictated the bearded man. “A scarlet sugar cookie. Buzzards circle far off. We slowly, ever so slowly, truck across the heat crazed sands of Old California. The birds swoop and we, with stunning impact, zoom in. Zoom with dazzling speed and lock in on a tight shot of… of… horse cock.” “Don Diego,” supplied Baxter. “The hero’s name is Don Diego.” “Don Diego. His hand reaches up and slowly, ever so slowly, he peels the scarlet mask from his grim face. The mask is limp, like a scarlet pancake. He puts the mask in his saddle bag and from it, from the intricately carved leather saddlebag, he withdraws the deed to the hacienda.” Pinemont lifted the typing machine off himself and reached for a beer.

Hajj Khaled looked up at the sky. He reached out for his yellow keffiyeh and wrapped it around his neck. He placed his coat in Hamama's saddlebag. He looked at his two companions, and in his olive-green eyes they saw a mysterious gleam. He smiled.

At the moment, the main impediment to progress was Claire, who had—blast the woman—halted her mare in front of him and slid off in order to gather yet another bit of herbage from the trailside. As though the entire house was not filled from doorstep to rooftree with plants already, and her saddlebags a-bulge with more!

need to say this loud for the girls in the back of the class: if a dude doesn’t want to have to use both hands to grab your ass that’s totally cool; it’s his choice. But that doesn’t make you a piece of shit. You hoist up your saddlebags and go find some dude who thinks you’re rad and doesn’t mind wiping the sweat off your bottom stomach when you switch sex positions. Don’t be all down in the dumps (like a truck truck truck) and let opportunists and perverts take advantage of some low self-esteem you’re absolutely too awesome to have.

I looked at Curran. The lion melted. Skin stretched, bones twisted, and human Curran straightened. He was completely nude. Gloriously nude. Hrefna raised her eyebrows. Curran pulled jeans and a shirt from my saddlebag. “Well,” Hrefna said. “I always wondered why you went all shapeshifter. Explains things.

Gertrudis got onto her horse and rode away. She wasn't riding alone--she carried her childhood beside her, in the cream fritters she had enclosed in a jar in her saddlebag.

The bandit was no amateur, whipping one revolver after another from his saddlebag, draining the cylinders in a strobing, crackling cloud of gunsmoke, until only the whinnies of a few horses drifted up from the gully below.

For Stokley and Esmé How well I remember When it came as a visitor on foot And dwelt a while amongst us A melody in the semblance of a mountain cat. Well, where is our purpose now? Like so many questions I answer this one With the eye-averted peeling of a pear. With a bow I bid goodnight And pass through terrace doors Into the simple splendors Of another temperate spring; But this much I know: It is not lost among the autumn leaves on Peter’s Square. It is not among the ashes in the Athenaeum ash cans. It is not inside the blue pagodas of your fine Chinoiserie. It is not in Vronsky’s saddlebags; Not in Sonnet XXX, stanza one; Not on twenty-seven red . . . Where Is It Now? (Lines 1–19) Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov 1913

In the parking lot of the ferry terminal in Maine that day, I gathered up all the pieces of myself that I'd given away in that relationship. I tucked them securely inside the saddlebag, glanced at the atlas, and then headed in my own direction at my own pace.

It is not in Vronsky’s saddlebags; Not in Sonnet XXX, stanza one; Not on twenty-seven red . . . Where Is It Now? (Lines 1–19) Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov 1913

saddlebags. “And please tell Kiri she should put her shoes on. Lucas will have a fit if she serves like that.” “Mummy, why do I have to put on shoes? Kiri isn’t wearing any.” George met Gwyneira and her daughter in the corridor outside his room just as he was about to go down to dinner. He had done his best as far as evening wear went. Though slightly wrinkled, his light brown suit was handsomely tailored and much more becoming than the comfortable leather pants and waxed jacket he had acquired in Australia. Gwyneira and the captivating little red-haired girl who was squabbling so loudly were likewise elegantly attired. Though not in the latest fashion. Gwyneira was wearing a turquoise evening gown of such breathtaking refinement that, even in the best London salons, it would have created a stir—especially with a woman as beautiful as Gwyneira modeling it. The little girl wore a pale green shift that was almost entirely concealed by her abundant red-gold locks. When Fleur’s hair hung down loose, it frizzed a bit, like that of a gold tinsel angel. Her delicate green shoes matched the adorable little dress, but the little one obviously preferred to carry them in her hands than wear them on her feet. “They pinch!” she complained. “Fleur, they don’t pinch,” her mother declared. “We just bought them four weeks ago, and they were on the verge of being too big then. Not even you grow that fast. And even if they do pinch, a lady bears a small degree of pain without complaining.” “Like the Indians? Ruben says that in America they take stakes and hurt themselves for fun to see who’s the bravest. His daddy told him. But Ruben thinks that’s dumb, and so do I.” “That’s her opinion on the subject of being ‘ladylike,’” Gwyneira remarked, looking to George for help. “Come, Fleurette. This is a gentleman. He’s from England, like Ruben’s mummy and me. If you behave properly, maybe he’ll greet you by kissing your hand and call you ‘my lady.’ But only if you wear shoes.” “Mr. McKenzie always calls me ‘my lady’ even if I walk around barefoot.” “He must not come from England, then,” George said, playing along. “And he certainly hasn’t been introduced to the queen.” This honor had been conferred on the Greenwoods the year before, and George’s mother would probably chatter on about it for the rest of her

have to kill whoever’s chasing you. Can you do that?” Corman hesitated. “I—I never kilt nobody before,” Corman said. Slocum weighed the man’s words. Corman was obviously frightened, scared of losing his life. But was he also afraid of killing someone, even in self-defense? That was what separated the men from the boys. Corman had years on him, but perhaps not much wisdom. “Ever shoot a Winchester? Or a Henry?” Corman nodded. “Both,” he said. “I have a Yellow Boy.” He paused. “Back at my digs.” “That’s a heavy rifle,” Slocum said. “The Winchester is lighter.” “I know.” “Well, if push comes to shove, you can have my Winchester. It’s loaded. Just jack a shell into the chamber and start shooting.” “Do you think it will come to that?” “You’re the one being chased, Corman. What do you think?” Corman went silent. But he listened to the wind, and wisps of fog, or cloud, were beginning to seep into the cracks of the boulders around them and creep along the ground like thin cotton batting, ever so slowly. Slocum checked the Winchester and handed it to Corman. He went to his bedroll and took out the sawed-off Greener shotgun that he kept rolled up in it. He grabbed some shells from his saddlebag and put two in the shotgun, and snapped the barrel back into the receiver, where it locked. The shotshells were all double-ought buck and, at close range, would tear a man to pieces. Besides the Colt .45 six-gun on his

You probably don’t even realize that you’ve been societally conditioned to see the white woman as the ideal. On some level, winning the white man’s prize is a symbol that you are now equal to him. You acquire her as an extension of your success.” “Acquire her?” I throw my voice across the desk like a blade, honed and precise. “It’s natural really,” he continues matter-of-factly. “It’s the ultimate act of defiance against those who have traditionally oppressed you. She’s an ideal to achieve, and we see that, in every aspect of your life, you’re an overachiever.” “Bris isn’t some ideal, some lie mainstream media fed me and I fell for. This is love, not politics.” “Love is politics,” he counters. “Because love is merely a function of your values and priorities.” “If you think love is politics, then I see why your marriage failed.” A storm cloud bursts on his face, raining anger. “Watch it, Grip,” he says. “You’re way out of line.” “I’m out of line?” Incredulity and fury brawl within me. “You dare to bring this bullshit to me, insult the woman I plan to marry, insult me this way, and then you say I’m out of line?” He narrows his eyes on my face at the word “marry.” “That’s your decision, of course,” he says. “Not one I would ever make. I believe the greatest expression of commitment to Black people and the Black family is the commitment to a Black woman. For that reason, I don’t date outside of Black, much less marry.” “Oh, so I imagined the vibe between you and Callie?” A mocking laugh grates in my throat. “You don’t date or marry outside your race, but you’d fuck outside of it if Callie was down.” The fury in his eyes bores into me. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” “I really have no idea who I’m talking to.” I grab my saddlebag and stand, my hands shaking with the rage I’m suppressing. “I can’t believe I moved to New York to study under a bigot.

The jar her hand had chosen—and it was an odd old wooden jar, a recognizable crooked shape under her fingers, a reject because it would not sit straight on a shelf, the only empty jar she could find when at the last minute she’d decided to take a little more honey on her journey, a little of the mysterious honey, the honey that seemed to suggest laughter and joy and a long bright horizon, the strong-tasting honey whose distinguishing source she could not identify. She’d almost laughed when she decanted it because the bigger crock it lived in was also very crooked, not merely a reject but so lopsided that her mother had kept trying to throw it out, and her father kept rescuing it; and when her father died her mother kept it after all, for those memories of him. Mirasol had thought, as she carefully poured, that perhaps this honey had an affinity for those who do not sit securely, who do not rest peacefully, who limp instead of walk. She hadn’t quite been able to laugh, but she’d been smiling when she tucked it into its corner of a saddlebag, and the smile had been as refreshing as cold water Ron a hot day. This was the honey that had given her energy in the sennight past when she had none, the honey she had put last into the cup for her last-of-all stop on the pavilion hill.

How do we go around it?” I dismounted, walking to the edge and tapping the heel of my boot on the thick ice. “We don’t.” He pulled the bag from the saddle and dropped it over his head to hang across his shoulder. “We walk across.” “Across?” I stared at him. “Across.” The mountain stood over us, watching. “There’s no way to go around?” “There is, but it will take another full day to go that way.” He worked on my saddlebag, pulling at the riggings. I stared at the lake. “What if we fall in?” “We won’t.” He smiled, and I looked away when I felt heat painting across my skin again.

bike was old and loud and smelled like something was burning when he rode it, but it was also loaded with chrome, its tank was a sweet cobalt blue, and with the detachable windshield and leather saddlebags that came with it, it was in shape enough to carry him out onto the road all over again.

Find what y’all are looking for?” The raspy voice caused her to jump. Emma dropped the saddlebag with a thud. The most beautiful crystal blue eyes she’d ever seen stared back at her. They glowed with either anger or humor, not knowing the man well enough to be sure. She straightened her shoulders. “My goodness, Mr. Davis, you scared me half to death. I thought you were asleep.