GENRE: Gay Interracial Historical Western Romance
LENGTH: 52,975 words
RATING:

Hardened beyond his nineteen years, Todd Webster Morgan is determined to find gold high in the Sierra Nevadas. But his dream is violently upended. Complicating matters even more, he meets a young Chinese immigrant named Lâo Jian, whose own dreams of finding gold have been quashed by violence.

But life back in Sacramento isn’t any easier. Todd’s mother struggles to make ends meet. His invalid uncle becomes increasingly angry. Todd seeks employment with little success. Meanwhile his friendship with Lâo Jian turns to love. But their relationship is strained as anti-Chinese sentiment grows.

Todd vows not to lose Lâo Jian. The couple must risk everything to make a life for themselves. A life that requires facing fear and prejudice head on.

Won Gold Medal in the 2012 Foreword Reviews Book of the Year Awards and was a Finalist in the 25th Annual Lambda Literary Awards.

EXCERPT:

I studied the terrain on the other side of the hill. “First thing we need to do is get away from this place. I’m still filled with fear the other Irishmen might come after us if they see McGrath dead down yonder. Only thing is ...” I looked over my shoulder at the opposite side of the hill. “McGrath’s gun down there, and it seems foolish not to take it along for protection. But I’m not sure how smart it is carrying a dead man’s gun.” I knew I was mostly thinking out loud, but I wished more than anything Lao Jian could give me a nudge one way or the other. But he just studied me.

I finally concluded it made sense. My knife had got me this far. Of course, I didn’t run into any real trouble along the first part of my journey. My current circumstance proved my foolishness in thinking it would carry me through this entire journey. In my optimism and determination, I never dreamt I’d be in the middle of a skirmish with the Irish. Who knew what else lay ahead? If I’d had experience, I’d have planned things better. I knew for sure I overpaid for my tent and supplies. And that at any given moment some claim jumper could have done me real harm.

I started back down to where McGrath had fallen. Then I heard Lao Jian call out.

“Voices!” he said.

I stopped in my tracks. I turned and listened. Of course the rest of the Irish would return eventually, once they realized McGrath was missing. Should have realized this from the start.

I couldn’t hear anything. I looked back at Lao Jian. He pointed off to his left, down the other side of the descent.

Still, I heard no voices. But then ... I heard thumping. Rumbling.

My muscles tightened. I pictured the worst. There was no way Lao Jian and I were a match for armed, angry men.

Suddenly, the sound rang out through the trees: A man shouting!

Lao Jian had run partially down the side of the hill. He pointed beyond a stand of pines. “Stagecoach!” he yelled.

He was right. A coach, about a hundred feet down, raced like the wind. I couldn’t imagine this wasn’t a normal route. The Quincy-to-Truckee line ran about a mile below this point, along the lower stretch of the river. It was clear the driver was agitated, trying to ease the horses. I started down the hill, toward them, but then thought better. What if they were being chased by robbers?

I heard Lao Jian come up behind me. “What is it?”

“Not sure.”

Right then we heard a clunking sound, beyond our line of vision.

“That didn’t sound good,” I said.

“We must go see,” Lao Jian said. “We must check.”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

As fast as I could run, I dodged trees and rocks and made my way to McGrath’s corpse. I held my breath, crouched down, and pried the gun out of his hand. Then I undid the buckle of his holster, trying hard not to let my eyes drift to McGrath’s face. I pulled the holster out from under him. I grabbed the gun, stood up, and buckled the holster around my waist then slid the gun into place. Running even faster, I headed back to Lao Jian, touched his arm as I passed him, and motioned him to follow me. He was a good runner, keeping pace with me, even pulling ahead a couple times.

When we rounded the bend, we saw the coach. Its right side had wedged up over a boulder. Two men stood at the wheel. They were arguing with each other.

They clammed up when they saw us. I didn’t know if maybe it was because I was a hardscrabble mess carrying a gun or if it was the sight of Lao Jian that so confounded them. I felt different wearing McGrath’s gun, and I shouldn’t blame these two men if they thought I meant to rob them. Dumb reasoning, I figured, since a lot of men sported guns at all junctions.

“Is everything all right here?” I asked, at once realizing how stupidly worded my question was.

“What’s it look like to you?” the driver -- who was the taller and younger of the two men -- responded.

I corrected my words. “Anyone hurt?” I meant to appear as intelligent as I was concerned, though it seemed neither attribute would matter.

“No one is hurt, mercifully, young man,” the portly, older gentleman said.

“Mercifully is right, no thanks to you,” the driver said.

“Now just one moment, sir. I was --”

“My advice to you,” the driver interrupted, “is that had better be the last damn time you throw something at a nest of rattlesnakes, especially when a team of horses is already spooked.”

The driver glared at the man for a few seconds, then turned his attention to us. He scanned me up and down, likely wondering what I was doing up in these parts. Then he took a long look at Lao Jian, likely wondering what we were doing together.