I was twelve years old the first time I read the trilogy by Richmond P. Hobson Jr. — a.k.a. Rich Hobson. Book one, Grass Beyond the Mountains took place some thirty years before I opened the cover. It didn’t take me long to grasp that I knew some parts of the country the setting was established in. Some would say it was in our so-called backyard. And how cool was it that he passed through our area to get to his destination. Naming towns along the way that were part of my life.

Normally, when you see my name and the words Carrot Ranch, you link them to the 99Word flash fiction stories I write.

This week, however, I have had the pleasure of joining this literary community as a guest columnist.

Submitting your work to strangers and waiting for their comments is a daunting experience. One that has taken me a long time to feel comfortable with. You might think that can’t be because I have published books and had my work included in anthologies. I can tell you, it still isn’t easy putting yourself out there knowing what you write is not everyone’s cup of tea. 

Recently I threw caution to the wind, took an excerpt from one of the books I am writing, and posted it on one of the blogs I follow. This is a writing blog that has a broad range of writers contributing, encouraging and offering constructive comments. Every so often they ask for a snippet of what you’re working on. ​

The following is the piece I submitted and some of the comments I received in return. I should tell you that this book is a WIP and is not expected to be published until next year (maybe). I currently call it The Ranch, but that might change. I’ll see how I feel when it’s done.

Excerpt from The Ranch
By Ann Edall-Robson

Laying under the slicker, Emi wrapped her body as best as she could around Marc to keep him warm. He had drifted in and out of consciousness since she’d talked to Jake. The blood had stopped dripping from his shoulder, but the jagged red marks she could see through his shredded shirt were still oozing droplets along their ridges. His distorted arm with its wrist still wrapped in a chunk of the bridle rein lay at a precarious angle out in front of them.

“Where the hell are they?” she whispered more to hear a voice than expecting an answer from anyone.

“Em.”

“Stay still. I’m here, Jake’s on his way.”

“Hurt.”

Emi snuggled closer trying to give off as much of her body warmth to the injured man as she could.

“It’ll be okay.”

​The sound of the truck in the distance slid her mind even further into survival mode. Easing herself out from under the coat, she stood picking up her rifle from the stump where she had leaned it within her reach. Four strides down the trail towards the corrals, she stopped, pointed the rifle skyward and shot three rounds in rapid succession.

There were three short blasts from a truck horn in answer.

She had told Jake they were about a mile from the corrals. The sound of voices and doors slamming confirmed help was on its way.

Returning to Marc, she checked his pulse, felt his forehead and ran her finger down his cheek stopping above the shallow gash on his jaw.

“Em.”

Crouched on her haunches, she spoke softly to the man she was going to marry.​

“They’re coming. Help is here.”