Sometimes readers ask how I come up with my ideas, how I spin inspiration into a story. My next release, “The Legacy of Boone Wilson” will appear on March 11, 2024. It’s the first in the Laredo series and the second title, “The Endurance of Moses Wilson” is already under contract with World Castle Publishing. Waiting in the wings are more in the series. Written or in process are the following titles:
The Legacy of Boone Wilson
The Endurance of Moses Wilson
The Birthright or Heritage of Ezekiel Wilson
The Heart of Jacob Wilson
The Nature of Garrett Wilson
The Hope of Jemima Wilson
The Courage of Faith Wilson
The Resilience of Hope Wilson
It’s a family saga as big as Texas but how did I come up
with the idea?
Boone’s book began when I was still a newspaper editor in the extreme corner of Southwest Missouri, over both The Neosho Daily News and The Aurora Advertiser. By the time I parted ways with the parent company through a voluntary severance package offered to me (and other editors throughout the nation), Boone’s story was underway. I left the newspaper business behind on December 1, 2020.
Part of my decision to bow out came from a desire to write full-time. Once I had the opportunity Boone’s story blossomed. If you follow my work at all, you’re aware I’ve had quite a few titles released since 2020 and more to come.
Here’s how it began. One day, wandering around the world wide web, I saw a photograph of an unidentified Confederate soldier. Something about him caught my fancy and I began building a story. He became Boone Wilson, late of Kentucky. Here’s the photo:
I saved the photo and in my mind heard one of my favorite, if sad, classic Western songs, “The Streets of Laredo.” The tune is older than the lyrics and comes from an Irish song, “The Bard of Armagh”. If you want to listen, this is an excellent comparison:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qotwe2loixw I named my character Boone Wilson and put him in Laredo in the years after the Civil War. The story begins with Boone propped out on the porch of the local saloon, wrapped in white linen, dying. But schoolteacher Rachel Rose Shaw happens to pass and she is struck by the dying man. Stubborn to the core, she believes he doesn’t necessarily have to die and sets out to help him to live.
That’s where my story departs from the song. It’s called fiction for a reason. In my story, Boone survives although he has a rough time in the process.
Here’s the blurb and cover:
Boone Wilson, a Civil War veteran and cowboy, figures he’ll die before the month is out after he was shot in the chest playing cards. His comrades talk the owner of the local saloon, the aptly named Out of Luck Saloon, to provide a bed that he can die in, and while the weather is warm enough, they carry him down to the porch each day for some air, wrapped up in blankets. That’s where new schoolteacher Rachel Rose McGarrity first sees him. When she stops to see if she can offer any help, she has no idea what she’s getting herself into, but she’s taken with Boone and vows to keep him from dying if she can.
That desire leads to the loss of her job as a schoolteacher because nursing a cowboy in a saloon isn’t respectable. As the wound festers and his fever rises, Rachel remains determined to save his life with the help of his two friends and his fifteen-year-old brother.
While his life hangs in the balance, there will be a reckoning for Rachel’s actions, and if there is a chance at a future, Boone must first survive to find it. A false accusation leads to jail time and a threatened hanging, further complicating his life.
Will Boone survive? And, is love enough? That’s for Boone and Rachel to figure out.
Here’s a snippet from Chapter One:
Boone Wilson knew he’d die before the month was out, and although he would rather live, he accepted his sad fate. After all, with a bullet lodged in his chest, he couldn’t expect anything else. Two weeks after he’d been shot, playing faro at the Out of Luck Saloon in Laredo, he remained both alive and sore. The sharp, burning pain he’d experienced when the bullet slammed into his chest had faded, but he still hurt. There hadn’t been any more bleeding, not since that first night when not only had the wound bled like hog killing time, but he’d tasted the iron bitterness of blood in his mouth. He’d wondered if there might be pus inside the wound, but the sawbones who told Boone that he was as good as dead hadn’t offered any further treatment. Doc Smitty – likely not the man’s actual name – spent more time drunk than anyone Boone had ever known, and that was a remarkable record. The fever that still made Boone’s bones ache and his skin burn were the reasons he thought it might be infected, but since no one figured he’d live, no one bothered to do anything.
He’d trailed cattle all summer long, as he had for the past five years, driving herds from southern Texas to Dodge City or Colorado. If he’d made a mistake, it’d been taking that last drive, one in the fall after the summer grasses were about gone on the trails, then coming back to Laredo to spend the winter. Boone bunked on a ranch that lay between San Antonio and Laredo, but he liked to gamble, so he’d come into Laredo to play.
Boone regretted that now. If he’d stayed on the ranch, he wouldn’t be about to die. After spending a week or more tucked into a bed upstairs at the saloon, he had begged to go outside, and so, each morning, his buddy Deacon Lee carried him downstairs, then tucked him into a chair on the saloon’s front porch. His feet were propped onto part of a busted table, so he was lying down more than sitting up.
Miss Mary, who owned the place, objected and said it was bad for business, then relented. She’d decided Boone could be propped out on the porch each day, at least till it turned cold, and spend his nights in the smallest room upstairs. After all, she’d figured they would bury him before long, but he hadn’t died.
Since it was too hot for a blanket, they’d kept Boone wrapped in white linen sheets. He hated them – they were too much like a damn shroud, and each day, they became filthy from the dust that blew through the streets of Laredo. Because just about everyone believed in the adage feed a cold and starve a fever, he figured if the bullet didn’t kill him first, he’d starve to death. He drank all the coffee anyone would bring him, but he was lucky if he got a biscuit or bite to eat. Most everybody who patronized the Out of Luck knew who Boone was and what had happened to him, so they didn’t waste much time passing pleasantries or sitting down for a conversation. More than once, he heard them whisper that he had one foot in the grave.
Boone was mortally wounded, grave bound, hungry, usually thirsty, and lonely, none of which made him happy. He had no legacy to leave to anyone, not his compadres here, his friends, or his family in faraway Kentucky. That changed, though, the day Miss Rachel Rose Shaw stepped onto the porch and took a seat near Boone.
He knew who she was – the school marm who’d arrived for the new school term, a pretty woman with her waist-length hair pulled up into a tight bun at the back of her head. Miss Rachel didn’t look any older than Boone, who was twenty-six.
“Good afternoon,” she said. Her voice was soft and melodious, not the sharp teacher tone he’d expected. “Is there anything I could get for you? You look so uncomfortable. I’d be happy to get you some water or food or fix that sheet so it’s not so tight.”
Boone cleared his throat. “I’d be most obliged, ma’am, if you could bring me something to eat. I’m near starved.”
She reached out and messed with the sheet bound around him until it was looser. “I can do that. I’ve seen you out here for a week or more. Have you been sick?”
“I’m dying,” he told her. “Got shot in the chest near two weeks ago, and the doc said there wasn’t naught he could do about it. Guess that’s why no one wants to bring me much to eat.”
“I’ll get you some food,” she told him. “I’m Rachel Rose Shaw. I teach school.”
“Boone Wilson, cowboy, from the Double B Ranch,” he replied. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Rachel.”
She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
He watched as she picked up her skirts and marched into the saloon. Boone waited for an outcry, figuring they would toss her out. Mary didn’t like respectable women in her establishment. He heard Mary’s strident voice, then Rachel’s gentler tone. When Rachel returned, she had a tin plate heaped with frijoles, refried beans topped with a bit of salsa, and a spoon, along with some water.
“There weren’t a lot of options,” she told him as she settled onto a chair. “I hope these beans will do.”
“Ma’am, they’re like manna from heaven. I haven’t had much but coffee and a biscuit on occasion.”
Boone reached for the spoon, but she shook her head, filled it, and extended it toward his lips. He opened his mouth just in time and sighed with pleasure as the rich taste of beans filled his mouth. The warm food slid down to his stomach and he managed to eat about half of what she brought.
“Thank you,” he said. “Bless you.”
“I brought you some water, too.”
He sipped the tepid water and then closed his eyes. Rachel laid one hand across his forehead, and he opened them again.
“You’re feverish,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from a dress pocket, wet it, and laid it across his forehead.
“That’s nice.”
She gave him a smile. Then, she tried to reposition him into a more comfortable position.
“I’ll be here again tomorrow,” she told him.
“Don’t you have school?”
“Today’s Saturday, so no, not on Sunday tomorrow.”
Boone liked her company, and he enjoyed the way she fussed over him. He might be dying, but he wasn’t dead yet. “Can you stay awhile?”
Rachel scooted her chair closer, and when she did, he caught a sweet whiff of the sachet she wore. “I certainly can, Mr. Wilson.”
“Call me Boone, please.” He hated the way his voice sounded so weak and the fact fatigue made him want to sleep. He’d rather savor every moment the lady spent at his side.
“Boone, then,” she said. “You may call me Rachel, no need to stand on formalities. How do you feel?”
“Hot and tired,” he said. “And I hurt.”
She removed her bonnet and fanned him with it. Boone welcomed the rush of air.
“Sleep if you can,” Rachel told him. “I won’t leave until you’re asleep. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, as if he could. He didn’t have the strength to shoo away a fly.
The last he recalled before he drifted asleep was that she had refreshed that handkerchief across his head and the rhythmic sway of her bonnet as she waved it back and forth. Boone thought she might have been singing to him, not the songs they sang to the cattle on the trail but old, familiar songs, maybe hymns.
When he woke, he realized he was holding her hand tight. For a moment, he had trouble remembering where he was and what had happened. He started to stretch, then winced when it hurt.
“Rachel?”
“I’m still here,” she said. “It’s getting close to evening. Some of your friends wanted to carry you upstairs, but I asked them to wait till you were awake.”
“Who was it?”
She touched his forehead and cheeks again, then frowned.
“One said he was named Deacon, the other one Mac.”
“They’re two of my pards,” he said.
“I gathered that,” she said, stroking his hair back away from his face. “They were fierce until they decided I was helping, not hurting you. They’ll be back soon – I should go home.”
“Wait.”
Rachel remained until the cowboys came back. Boone saw her flinch when they lifted him up, and he jerked his head to indicate he’d like her to come upstairs, too.
“I think he’d like you to go with him,” Deacon said. He’d noticed, and Boone was glad of that.
She hesitated, but not for long. “I will,” she said. “But will one of you please tell that Mary to leave me alone? She tried to throw me out earlier.”
Boone tried to laugh. “She don’t usually let nice gals in the saloon, Rachel. I’ll square it with her.”
“Save yer strength,” Mac said in a gruff Scots accent. “I’ll tell Mary for ye.”
Whatever he said, Boone couldn’t hear, but Mary didn’t protest when his pals trailed him up the stairs at the back of the saloon. He kept his jaw clenched tight, and his lips pressed in a hard line to avoid groaning, but by the time they laid him on the narrow bed in the smallest room, he wanted to moan aloud. He did cry out as he tried to settle into a position he could stand. The exertion of being brought up, then settling in, took a toll, and Boone shut his eyes, willing himself to catch his breath. Then, maybe, the pain would return to a level he could stand.
Before he could, however, Rachel leaned down. “I’m going to move you,” she told him. “It’s probably going to hurt, but when I’m done, I think it will be better. Will you let me?”
He’d rather fight a wild steer, but he nodded. Deacon tried to intervene. “It’s gonna hurt him,” he said. “We been keeping him shaved ‘cause he wants to be, but every time, it puts him in mortal agony.”
Boone gave a faint nod in agreement. Rachel took it as permission to put him in a different position.
For a woman who couldn’t stand any taller than five feet and appeared slight, he thought she had a lot of strength. With a few moves, Rachel had him rolled onto his right side, his head propped against the pillow. He wore a pair of long-handled underwear pants and a worn shirt. When she tugged at the shirt, he raised a feeble hand to stop her.
“Hurts,” he said.
“I imagine so, but you should have clean garments. Do you have more?”
Boone shook his head. “At the bunkhouse in my pack, but I’ll need ‘em to be buried in.”
The sentence took more effort than he had to give.
“I gotta rest,” he muttered.
From the swish of her skirt, he could tell that Rachel had stepped away from the bed.
“Ye do ken he’s dying?” Mac asked, making no effort to soften his voice. Boone heard it, but it wasn’t anything he didn’t know.
Her reply, however, surprised him. “I don’t know anything of the sort. He may well live if he’s not starved to death and allowed to get some strength back.”
I might not die? She’s the only one who seems to think so, Boone thought with something like wonder and a faint stirring of hope. He struggled against sleep to eavesdrop.
“Bullet’s still in,” Deacon told Rachel. “Digging it out now would be more than he could take. The doc said so.”
“Would that be the one who stays drunk?” she replied, her tone sharp as vinegar. “I don’t know as I’d trust his opinion.”
Deacon’s voice lowered. “Do you know any healing? Cause unless you do, you can’t give Boone or us any hope.”
“I know a bit,” Rachel said. “I was raised by my granny, and she was a mountain healer. The shape Boone’s in, nothing I try will hurt him, and it might help. If nothing else, he might die – if he does – with some comfort.”
“The thing I’m wondering is why ye took up with Boone.” Mac sounded suspicious.
Boone inhaled her lavender scent and sighed when Rachel put her hand across his forehead, light and gentle.
“He looked like he needed someone,” she said.
God knows he did, Boone thought, and then he let his body relax into sleep with one precious thing he’d lacked until now – hope.
The Legacy of Boone Wilson will release in eBook, hardback, paperback, and audio. Until March 11, you can preorder the eBook version but all these outlets will have the other editions on release day.
The Legacy of Boone Wilson links:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/209018340-the-legacy-of-boone-wilson
https://booksprout.co/reviewer/review-copy/view/155027/the-legacy-of-boone-wilson
https://www.amazon.com/Legacy-Boone-Wilson-Laredo-Book-ebook/dp/B0CW1NBSB4/
https://www.worldcastlepublishing.net/lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-legacy-of-boone-wilson-lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy/1144943447
https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details?id=AQAAAECSO1p72M
https://books.apple.com/mt/book/the-legacy-of-boone-wilson/id6478323004
https://www.amazon.de/-/en/Lee-Ann-Sontheimer-Murphy-ebook/dp/B0CW1NBSB4/
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