The day warmed and whatever mist clung to the ridges faded and vanished. They stopped in the road and stripped off their jackets. The road hugged the shoreline loosely, straying around wooded hills and what looked like large holdings at water’s edge. Hard to tell, because where there might have been mansions there were now only blackened ruins and docks. And, again, the boats. Whatever boats, cleated to the docks or rocking on their moorings, had been left untouched. So they walked the edge of the road and skirted the lake, sometimes close, sometimes as much as a half-mile above. They tried twice to shortcut across fields and lost time crossing fences and ditches and scratched their arms in the brambles. Lost time. Did they have time to lose, or gain? Jess wondered. Since they had started walking it almost seemed time was suspended. Or the normal accounting of it. Because time worked best when there was a movement toward or away. Toward desire, away from death. Away from the Big Bang, toward an infinite expansion that might or might not be God. Toward quitting time, beer-thirty, a quinceañera, a vacation, a wedding, a funeral. Toward the sense of a poem, or love, or away from the chaos of a dream. But now they did not know, truly, what they were headed into or out of. Or what flashed on the horizon.

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

And so Storey, who still believed he had a bearing, which was his family, was more eager to try the shortcuts, and Jess had to remind him that they had cost.

And then what once were houses along the shoreline became more frequent, houses with docks and ski boats tied, and little Friendship sloops on moorings—probably a race class up here. There were flagpoles on the lawns that sloped to the water where American flags still hung and lifted in the pulsing breeze. And Jess knew they were getting close to the town and he wondered if whatever militia had blazed through was unionist and punishing a secessionist county. Could you use that term in the third millennium? Unionist? Was any of this really happening? Or was he now in some long, involved anxious dream, in which his grief at the loss of his wife bubbled to the surface and frothed? And from which he would wake, pillow damp, into a hunting trip with Storey . . . wake into a darkness before daybreak that held the same scents of spruce and fir and lakewater that he smelled now? How many dreams within dreams could a person wake from? In grade school everyone said that if you sneezed more than eight times you would die; was it like that?

And if this grim procession or juggernaut of harvest that they were following now—if it was anti-secessionist, why would they burn the places that flew the Stars and Stripes? Wouldn’t they leapfrog around them? And why would a rabidly secessionist town—rabid enough to become a target—let anyone fly an American flag? It made no sense.

Maybe they, whoever they were, knew that flying the flag was a shallow attempt to save one’s skin. Maybe they knew that the town knew they were coming—maybe they knew that, as they attacked, they could not shut down cell service fast enough, not before a few desperate calls got out, warning other folks along the lake, or farther afield. And those people, the townspeople here, armed with the knowledge that the storm was bearing down, maybe in one last act of apostasy, or its inverse, they ran the flags up the poles and prayed.

It was too confusing. They had no idea who was on whose side, or what, really, the sides were about. Jess stopped in the road and shook his head as if trying to clear it.

“What?” Storey said.

“The flags.” Jess pointed.

“So?”

“Didn’t we say that this might be some eruption over secession?”

“So?” Storey blinked down to the landscaped shoreline.

“So what do the flags mean?”

“Hell if I know.”

“I mean, whose side is who on? I’m thinking destruction on
this scale has gotta be full-on military. U.S. of A. So these towns
must be rebel or whatever. Right?”

Storey stood looking east and blinked in the autumn sun, a pale, early-morning sun that was barely an hour clear of the ridges. He stood as if smelling the still-cool breeze that stirred in the long grass at the edge of the road.

“I wonder if it matters,” he said.

“What?”

“I wonder if it matters whose side anyone is on.”

Jess winced at his friend. “What does that mean?”

Storey turned. He tucked his thumbs under the pack straps and shrugged the weight up off his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “All this . . .” He trailed off. Jess waited. “It seems vicious and random.”

“Random?”

“Not random, I guess. Indiscriminate. They’re burning everything. Except the boats.”

“So . . . what, then?”

Storey looked back down to the lake. To the boats there, the flagpoles. “I dunno, Jess. It’s like the heat of the destruction, the savagery . . . It’s like it’s about something deeper than any issue like secession.”

“Burn”

>> READ AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Where to find it:

• Prospector: Search the combined catalogs of 23 Colorado libraries
• Libby: E-books and audio books
• NewPages Guide: List of Colorado independent bookstores
• Bookshop.org: Searchable database of bookstores nationwide

SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

Jess watched his oldest friend. Whose week-old beard had flecks of gray. He knew, watching him, that Storey was thinking about the fierce and pervasive violence and that he was praying that it not spill over into New Hampshire and Vermont and touch his children and his wife. In suggesting that the violence felt deeper than secession he was voicing his own dread that it might not have boundaries.

Jess spat in the road, hitched up his own pack. “It’s probably just some crazy central-Maine shit. Right? Something like this was bound to happen somewhere.”

Storey was more than worried; he was grieving. Already. Jess could see it on his face. But Storey smiled, sad. He appreciated Jess’s effort.

Storey said, “The town would have sent out distress signals. One kind or another.”

“Right.”

“They would have warned everyone else. You know that the attacks, news of them, are zinging all over the news and the internet right now.”

“Right.”

“Why doesn’t it feel that way?”

In half a mile they came to a sign, green, that said “Randall, Population 2,732.” So they had let the sign stand. That did seem random, or at least scattershot, since Green Hill’s, on both sides of town, were gone.

But, as in Green Hill, not much else had been spared. The county road dropped down a gentle hill and into what must have been a pretty Main Street not high above the water. And so the town center was mostly flat, with streets branching down to the shore and a lovely wharf, still intact. On the far side of the wharf, with its walkway and benches and shade trees of oak and pine and maple, was another marina, this one at least twice the size of the one in Green Hill. The trees still stood; the benches invited respite. The boats swung gently on their moorings, as before. The black reek of burned houses watered their eyes.

Again, as they walked the sooted aisles of the narrow streets, they passed only the silent blackened monuments of chimney, hearth, foundation wall. Some still smoked, and when they stirred a heap of cinders with a length of rebar they pushed up glowing embers. They passed what must have been the stone arch entryway to a modest church; nothing else of it stood. Again they called out. Again they knew, without knowing why, that the typhoon of the reapers had passed and gone. Again they found few bodies. There was what must have been a child curled behind a stack of chimney stones, sheltered in what once must have been a hidden cubby or closet. The body was small and blackened and lipless with bared teeth, and Storey lurched from the sight and Jess heard him heave. There was what must have been a couple embraced beneath what must have been a
pickup in what must have been a garage. There was a badly burned body sprawled inside a grove of seven poplars whose unsinged leaves spun and clattered in the easy wind. How did that happen? On the north end of the wharf and behind it, at what once had been an intersection, a street sign still stood—bronzed letters embossed on dark steel: “Water Street.”

It seemed to Jess almost like a taunt; he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t want to look anymore. He walked to the edge of the wharf, which was decked with heavy, weather-grayed planks. They soothed him somehow. As did the prospect of open water, far shore, moored sailboats.

On the closest dock was a classic blue Boston Whaler skiff with a 150 Merc, clean and cleated, ready to travel. Why couldn’t they climb in and cast off? Gun the motor and aim for the distant shoreline? Land at some unburned camp and warn the family, make the calls, get a lift?

Because, Jess suspected, there were no families now. No cedar-shingled cottages with Adirondack chairs on a wide porch, with nursery-bought geraniums hanging from baskets under the eaves, and some yellow Lab barking good-naturedly as he and Storey coasted in. Some barefoot child running after the dog and yelling, “Opey, no! Opey! Bad dog!” Jess throwing a single hitch over the piling and clambering out, the dog now bumping legs and whining, Jess pounding the top of his mallet head with an open palm, the child yelling “Opey, no!” though there was nothing anymore to redress, the child scrambling out to the end of the dock and grabbing his dog by the collar, dragging him back, explaining seriously, “He’s nice, he doesn’t bite!” The mother stepping off the porch, the father from the garden beside the cottage, wiping hands on thighs of blue jeans as in a choreography, as in a movie, as in a Norman Rockwell painting titled The Greeting in which the Sunday-morning boaters are not traumatized strangers but old friends from across the lake who bring jars of honey from their own bees and a Superman comic for Willum, and everyone sticks to their lines. Jess felt a lurch in his chest. Why couldn’t anyone stick to their lines, ever? Life might accede to being idealized for a single freeze-frame picture but the characters always cracked. Or went away. And he knew that if that family ever did in fact exist, and did in fact share moments of joy and days of peace, they existed on this day no longer. He and Storey could get in the boat and power across the lake and run up along the shore and he knew what they’d find. And then what? Somehow they intuited that they were safer in the wake of the holocaust, the way veteran wildland firefighters will “run back into the black,” run for safety into the zone that has just been burned. But you could not follow the devastation forever. Because by the time you were discovered and killed your spirit would be already dead.

Excerpted from “Burn”  by Peter Heller, published by Knopf, an imprint of the Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC.  Copyright © 2024 by Bear One Holdings, LLC.

Peter Heller’s previous novels include “The Dog Stars,” his celebrated debut and breakout bestseller in 2012, as well as the Colorado Book Award-winning “The Painter” in 2014. “The River” from 2019 also became a national bestseller and led to “The Guide” in 2021. “The Last Ranger,” about an enforcement ranger in Yellowstone National Park, was published last year and his latest novel, “Burn,” was published in August, 2024. Heller is also an award winning adventure writer and the author of four books of literary nonfiction. He lives in Denver.

Peter Heller is a longtime contributor to NPR, and a former contributing editor at Outside Magazine, Men’s Journal, and National Geographic Adventure. His previous novels include “The Dog Stars,” his celebrated debut and breakout bestseller in 2012, as well as the Colorado Book Award-winning “The Painter” in 2014. “The River” from 2019 also became a national bestseller and led to “The Guide” in 2021. “The Last Ranger,” about an enforcement ranger in Yellowstone National Park, was published last year and his latest novel, “Burn,” was published in August, 2024. Heller is also an award winning adventure writer and the author of four books of literary nonfiction. He has worked as a dishwasher, construction worker, logger, offshore fisherman, kayak instructor, river guide, and world class pizza deliverer. He lives in Denver.

SunLit: Tell us the backstory of “Burn.” Was there one particular real-life event that cemented the idea of a dystopian narrative, or was this an idea you’d been considering for some time?

Peter Heller: I never have an idea for a novel.  I came up as a poet and I’m always more interested in the music of the language than a plot.  So I start with a first line whose cadence and sound I love and follow it into the second line and the third.  The story rides on the back of the language. 

Pretty soon I bump into whatever’s on my heart, what’s really concerning me.  And that often surprises me.  You don’t have to be an aficionado of current events to feel the fracturing in our country, the growing and fundamental fissures in how we see the world and our roles as individuals and as a society; to see the disagreements curdling to hatred and sometimes to violence. 

I was once teaching kayaking on a remote river in Costa Rica.  We came out after four days and discovered that the Berlin Wall had fallen.  So having two best friends go hunting together in remotest Maine and emerge into a world of bewildering violence does not seem like much of a stretch.

SunLit: Place this excerpt you’ve chosen in context. How does it fit into the book as a whole? Why did you select it?

Heller: As I wrote myself into the narrative, I found myself following (protagonists) Storey and Jess as they moved through this landscape racked by violence.  And like them, I had no real idea what was going on.  I had to discover it with my characters — just as a reader would.  Which was thrilling and kind of terrifying.  I chose the excerpt to give a sense of this movement, and of the deep friendship between the two men.

SunLit: How does the relationship between your characters Jess and Storey, who emerge from their trip to find a starkly divided America, fit into the broader societal and political rift?

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

Heller: Well, there is this sense that whatever happens in this conflict — which may or may not be rippling out into the broader nation — their friendship is solid, irrevocable.  I can only hope that their bond stands for the state of our Union.  That whatever the perceived betrayals or wrongs…we can get past them.  In the history of the world there has never been a nation or a community with the manifold beauty and potential of the United States of America.  I believe that.  I pray that we endure.

SunLit: Your work has been praised often for the way your novels incorporate the natural world. What is the significance of the wilderness setting in which “Burn” unfolds?

Heller: I’m not sure what the significance is of the natural world in “Burn”.  Except that the sheer and enduring beauty of the Earth in her wildness throws into high relief the folly of men.  And that somehow her implacable silence, her refusal to hate or judge, may redeem us.  

SunLit: Your early work in adventure writing explores some amazing exploits, from surfing to sailing with eco-pirates to epic whitewater expeditions. How have those experiences influenced and informed your novels? 

Heller: On those journeys I often encountered wild country at its most ferocious and raw, and witnessed characters under great pressure.  Often, too, I chronicled my own succession of emotions through ambition, pride, desire, fear, love, terror, euphoria.  Worthy ingredients for good fiction.

“Burn”

>> Read an excerpt

Where to find it:

• Prospector: Search the combined catalogs of 23 Colorado libraries
• Libby: E-books and audio books
• NewPages Guide: List of Colorado independent bookstores
• Bookshop.org: Searchable database of bookstores nationwide

SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

SunLit: Within the genre of dystopian fiction, do you have any favorite writers and/or filmmakers whose work has entertained, inspired or influenced you?

Heller: For sure.  Ishiguro slays me.  One of the most disturbing novels I ever read was his “The Unconsoled.”  It may not be strictly dystopian, but the protagonist enters a world that gradually and irretrievably tilts away from what we accept as a stable reality.  The tilting itself becomes the nightmare.  His speculative “Klara and the Sun” I found equally disturbing.  Nor can I ever shake Nevil Shute’s “On The Beach.”  It was written in 1957 and is as chilling today.  A young family in Australia tries to carry on their sweet and normal life as they wait for the fatal fallout from a nuclear World War III to waft into the Southern Hemisphere.  It broke my heart…for all of us.  And then, of course, “The Road.”  Cormac McCarthy is a great and bleak genius.

SunLit: How does the theme of male friendship fit into “Burn” and how do its distinguishing characteristics dovetail with the narrative?

Heller: Jess and Storey have been friends since kindergarten.  They grew up a mile apart on a dirt road above a small town in Vermont and they went through school together, shared a thousand dinners, helped each other’s families cut firewood and make maple syrup.  They know each other’s heartbreaks and joys and they are loyal and forgiving.  They are generous to a fault, usually gentle, but harsh when they need to be.  And they, like all of us, are far from perfect people.  The novel is as much about their friendship and about the search for a certain grace as it is about societal dystopia.

SunLit: Some early readers have described the secessionist battle in “Burn” as a “very possible” scenario in our not-so-distant future. Do you share the view that we may be closer than we think to such a consequence of our deeply divided political and social outlooks?

Heller: I think it could happen the day after tomorrow.  Truly.

SunLit: Many authors who have released books in the last couple of years have talked about the influence, for better or worse, of the pandemic on their creative process. How did you navigate the shutdown?

Heller: The shutdown was tough.  I write in a coffee shop and I had to adjust to writing at home.  That was okay.  Thank God, many of the things I love most are outdoors and often solitary.  I could keep fishing, and running whitewater with others was safe enough.  My wife has a keen sense of humor and that helped a lot.  Someone asked her how COVID went and she gave the best two word answer I ever heard:  She turned to me and said, “You again?”

SunLit: Tell us a little about your writing process. When and where do you prefer to write? Do you have a routine? Do you outline your novels or do they develop as you go?

Heller: I write in a coffee shop, as I said.  I drink two big mugs of strong coffee before I even get there.  When I’m onto a novel, I write a thousand words a day, six or seven days a week.  I never write less and always write just past the quota until I’m into something exciting and then I make myself stop.  That way I’m always in the middle of something, and the next morning I can’t wait to jump out of bed and keep going.  I don’t edit as I go, I don’t usually plot or plan, but follow the language, images, characters…follow a narrative current into new territory.  I want to be as surprised as the reader.

Each week as part of SunLit — The Sun’s literature section — we feature staff recommendations from book stores across Colorado. This week, the staff from Poor Richard’s Books in Colorado Springs recommends a touching summer story, classic King and Longmire’s latest.

The Summer Book

By Tove Jansson
NYRB Classics
$15.95
May 2008
Purchase

From the publisher: Tove Jansson distills the essence of the summer—its sunlight and storms—into 22 crystalline vignettes. This brief novel tells the story of Sophia, a 6-year-old girl awakening to existence, and Sophia’s grandmother, nearing the end of hers, as they spend the summer on a tiny unspoiled island in the Gulf of Finland. The grandmother is unsentimental and wise, if a little cranky; Sophia is impetuous and volatile, but she tends to her grandmother with the care of a new parent. Together they amble over coastline and forest in easy companionship, build boats from bark, create a miniature Venice, write a fanciful study of local bugs. They discuss things that matter to young and old alike: life, death, the nature of God and of love.

From Jeffery Payne, assistant retail manager: Opening the first page of “The Summer Book” we are gently introduced to Sophia – a precocious, inquisitive child with worldly questions and a bit of seething anger just underneath the skin, and her grandmother – wise, caring with sharp words with a glint of mischievousness in eyes and cigarettes in worn pockets.

Jansson captured the pace of summer life on a small remote island in the Gulf of Finland. Skillfully crafted words lull the reader into a quiet space of mind and place. Her keen observations (on both nature and humankind) are a gentle, compassionate soft punch to the stomach at times. Written with a naturalist eye and an obvious love of life on the Finnish coast, “The Summer Book” gives us a good reason to stop and take a few moments to enjoy the waning days of this season.

Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption

By Stephen King
Scribner Book Company
$14
September 2020
Purchase

From the publisher: A mesmerizing tale of unjust imprisonment and offbeat escape, this is one of Stephen King’s most beloved and iconic stories, and it helped make Castle Rock a place readers would return to over and over again. Suspenseful, mysterious, and heart-wrenching, this iconic King novella, populated by a cast of unforgettable characters, is about a fiercely compelling convict named Andy Dufresne who is seeking his ultimate revenge. Originally published in 1982 in the collection “Different Seasons,” it was made into the film “The Shawshank Redemption” in 1994.

From Jeffery Payne, assistant retail manager: Let me be perfectly honest, I am not a Stephen King fan. I don’t know what (story) started it, but I have shied away from reading anything written by Mr. King for decades. Recently when I was stuck without something to read between “major” books, I asked my colleague (Hi, Thom!) for ideas, he suggested, again, this novella.

There isn’t much new to say about “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” other than if one hasn’t read it, put it on the list. The concise and powerful use of words tells a story of hope and determination. The characters are incredibly fully developed even though this is a very small book when compared to King’s other volumes. We are drawn in easily, willingly. There is a reason that King has been a writing monument for many years, he is seriously good at his craft.

First Frost

By Craig Johnson
Viking
$30
May 2024
Purchase

From the publisher: It’s the summer of 1964, and recent college graduates Walt Longmire and Henry Standing Bear read the writing on the wall and enlist to serve in the Vietnam War. As they catch a few final waves in California before reporting for duty, a sudden storm assaults the shores and capsizes a nearby cargo boat. Walt and Henry jump to action, but it’s soon revealed by the police who greet them ashore that the sunken boat carried valuable contraband from underground sources.

The boys, in their early 20s and in the peak of their physical prowess from playing college football for the last four years, head out on Route 66. The question, of course, is how far they will get before the consequences of their actions catch up to them—the answer being, not very.

Back in the present day, Walt is forced to speak before a judge following the fatal events of “The Longmire Defense.” With powerful enemies lurking behind the scenes, the sheriff of Absaroka County must consider his options if he wishes to finish the fight he started. Going back and forth between 1964 and the present day, Craig Johnson brings us a propulsive dual timeline as Walt Longmire stands in the crossfire of good and evil, law and anarchy, compassion and cruelty at two pivotal stages in his life.

From Jeffery Payne, assistant retail manager: Craig Johnson doesn’t disappoint with the latest volume in the Longmire series. In “First Frost” we seesaw between the past, where Longmire and his best friend, Standing Bear, do a good deed, or at least they think it’s a good deed, and how things play out decades later. The page-turning read shows just how decisions of years ago play an important part in where we all are today. The turmoil plays out cleverly, trying and strengthening the patience of friendships and the law. In quintessential Johnson style, there is subtle humor, point-on examination of the human psyche and the great cast of side characters that rarely get their due.

THIS WEEK’S BOOK RECS COME FROM:

Poor Richard’s Books

320 N. Tejon St., Colorado Springs

poorrichardsdowntown.com

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As part of The Colorado Sun’s literature section — SunLit — we’re featuring staff picks from book stores across the state. Read more.

CLARA

Clara Carver never much liked the Black Place. Even at age nine, a big girl now, she’d never grown used to its rancid smell and the things that would brush across her skin like fallen eyelashes in the dark. She would leap to her feet and smack at her neck or her leg, and sometimes her hand would come away wet with an insect’s insides. Sometimes, and more often than not, she would leave the Black Place covered in welts from the ants and blister beetles that lived there, anxious for Mother’s calamine lotion to calm her sores.

Father told her the length of time she spent in the Black Place was up to her. If she were to mind her manners and do what he said, she could leave as quickly as a few short hours. If she were to cry and bang and cause a ruckus, time would pass much slower. Father said the things he did to her — the things that made her insides churn and left her whimpering with her arms wrapped around her knees — were a sign of his love for her.

“Clara, never forget how much I love you.”

It seemed that his love changed with his moods. When the corn came in thick and sweet, and money was flush, Father would take Clara for ice cream at the malt shop in Meeker, along with Mother. He would laugh and tell stories of the harvest, and how hard the men worked to bring it in. Mother would lace her fingers together and smile at him, and to anyone who passed, they seemed a normal enough family.

There were other times, though, when Father came home smelling of liquor and dragged Clara from whatever she was doing, out through the backyard and into the fields toward the Black Place. Sometimes, Father would force Mother to join him. She never resisted, but she didn’t seem to enjoy it much, and Clara guessed she did what he wanted because she preferred those things to a belt or his fists in her stomach.

Clara only resisted once at age six. She’d been playing in her room with her favorite doll, Mabel, who had a head full of lemon yarn hair, when Father told her to come. She said no. It was late, and she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Mabel all alone for the night. When Father grabbed her, Clara clawed and scratched and kicked and bit. As a result, Father left her in the Black Place for two days. When Clara returned to her room, it was to Mabel lying torn in half with her cotton insides strewn over the pink comforter. Clara cried for a week, and, after that, she decided she would cry no more.

She learned to endure the Black Place. She forced herself to find comfort in the small places Father couldn’t touch. She imagined a park with bright green grass and other children who would chase her up and down slides and push her on blue bucket swings. She pictured places other than the dust-caked farm with its rusted buildings and abandoned tractor equipment, places she’d seen in magazines and read about in books. Places like France with its gleaming metal cities and sun-speckled beaches, the sand as white as snow. She told herself, someday, she would escape the farm and go there.

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

But not today. Today was worse than most. Her stomach hurt, and sharp cramps tore through her abdomen like shards of glass. She craved light and air. She needed to escape the sweltering dark and reeking stench of the Black Place. It was as if something were swelling within her, a creature inside she could no longer control. It burst up her throat, and she climbed the steps to the hatch door and clawed and scraped and screamed for someone — for anyone — to free her. She smashed her fists against the iron hatch until her knuckles bled. Clara didn’t care if her shouts brought the wrath of Father. She only wanted out.

But no one came, and she was about to return to her cot when she heard something click. She cupped a hand against a seam of light as the hatch squealed open, half-expecting to see the familiar outline of Mother’s cruel scowl or Father’s hard, brown eyes. Instead, she saw a girl not much older than herself with soft, white skin and a waterfall of raven-black hair. She wore a warm smile and a dress the color of the summer sky.

“Hello,” the girl said. “I heard you knocking. Would you like to come out?”

Clara nodded and knew she had finally found a friend.

Chapter Two

KAYLA

DAY ONE

I climb a jutting slab of rock and hold Dad’s phone skyward, tap it and hope for a signal or a text, anything to prove the outside world still exists. After three days of backpacking through nowhere, Colorado, I’m not sure it does.

“The Girls in the Cabin”

>> READ AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Where to find it:

• Prospector: Search the combined catalogs of 23 Colorado libraries
• Libby: E-books and audio books
• NewPages Guide: List of Colorado independent bookstores
• Bookshop.org: Searchable database of bookstores nationwide

SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

I’m so pissed at Dad for dragging us out here. Camping somewhere new every night sucks, Dad snoring away in the tent like a broken tractor engine on one side and Emma kicking me on the other. If I had my phone, maybe I could distract myself. But no, Dad made me leave it in the car, even when I begged and begged. “Sorry, kiddo, but we need to spend some time together as a family.” What a load of crap. We stopped being a family the minute Mom died. Now we’re just three strangers who live together.

Besides, camping was Mom’s thing. Not his. He’s only doing it because he thinks he has to — because Mom always talked about backpacking in Colorado someday. He’s driving me crazy, asking me all these questions about boys and school and volleyball like he cares, which he doesn’t. Not really. All he’s ever cared about is his work because it gets him away from me and Emma and all of our drama. Or it used to, anyway. Now, with Mom gone, he’s stuck with us.

But whatever; it’s not like I can do anything about it. And, I have to admit, Colorado is pretty. There are lakes everywhere, stamped in perfect blue circles in between all the fir and pine. And the aspen trees, wow, are the leaves amazing — all these oranges and reds sparkling for as far as you can see. When we hike above the tree line, I can almost lose myself in the scenery. I say “almost” because the moment I do, I can practically feel Mom standing next to me, whispering in my ear.

Isn’t it so beautiful, Kit Kat?

Everything has been so shitty since she died. I can’t remember the last time I felt happy. About anything, really. It would help if I could talk to someone, but Dad is oblivious, and Mimi is never around anymore. Even if she were, she doesn’t get me the way Mom did. I can’t tell her about the stuff with Ethan and what a dick he was to ditch me right after we hooked up. It was my first time, and it couldn’t have been worse. He won’t even look at me now. Mom always told me to wait, that my first time should be special, but that if I did go through with it, I should tell her. And I would have. I totally would have. She wanted to be there to support me. Now there’s no one to do that except Dad.

Dad. Ugh, he thinks everything is just fine because I hang out with Bree and Abby from time to time and get decent grades. He has no idea how much I hate my pasty white legs and skeleton arms, or that my chest belongs to someone in middle school, not that anyone notices. I’m pretty much invisible at Brookline High School. Or I was before Mom died, anyway. Now everyone looks at me like I’m damaged goods:

She’s the one whose mom died, right?

God, she looks so sad all the time . . .

Oh, poor thing, that must be so hard on her. Cancer, I hear.

At first, I thought Mom would beat it. She’d sit there and tell me so — “I’m going to beat this, Kayla. I promise.” — and I was dumb enough to believe her because she seemed so strong. What a joke. She never stood a chance.

I settle onto the rock and stare at Dad’s phone, the dumb thing, then click on the photo icon. A picture appears, one of Bernie mid-bark, chasing Emma around the backyard with her sundress flared behind her like a cape. It’s easy to tell the picture is B.C. (Before Cancer) because she’s got this big smile splashed on her face. A real one, with the corners of her eyes crinkled. In the A.C. pictures, Emma’s smiles are gone, or if they’re there, they’re totally fake.

My finger hovers over the screen, and I tell myself not to do it, not to swipe because I know what comes next. I do it anyway. It’s a selfie of me and Mom at Canobie Lake, Mom in her swimsuit right after her diagnosis, looking happy, normal even, with her face still full and round. (I can beat this!) I swipe again, fall now, the leaves changing, Public Park alive with color. Mom’s hair is gone in this one, her head wrapped in a cherry silk scarf. I hated it when she lost her hair. It felt so mean. Like, how could God take something so beautiful after all he’d put her through, the very thing she loved the most?

I keep scrolling, and my throat swells when I reach the hospital pictures. The first is of Emma nestled next to Mom on the bed, Mom giving the camera a cheery, fake thumbs-up. (Maybe I’ll beat this?) Then one of me plopped in a chair beside her, crying. She has her hand to my chin, both of us staring at each other and being honest for once: there is no beating this, not this time. I remember looking at her and thinking, Don’t you do it. Don’t you dare leave me. I can’t handle it. But I knew she would, and there was nothing — absolutely nothing — I could do about it.

“That’s one of my favorites.”

I nearly drop the phone. Dad stands behind me with his arms crossed and his face flushed red from the climb. For a second, I think he’s about to blow up on me for leaving Emma by herself back at camp, but instead, he settles onto the rock and pats my leg.

“She’s so beautiful in that picture, don’t you think?”

I glance at it, annoyed. Mom wasn’t the only one he thought was beautiful.

“You look just like her, you know.”

“That’s what you always say.” And he does. All the time. It drives me nuts. It’s why I avoid mirrors. Every time I pass one, I see Mom staring back. Her auburn hair. Her lake-green eyes. The lips that are, in my opinion, a little too thin, set above a neck that’s definitely a little too long.

“You know I said no phones on this trip, Kit Kat.”

“Yeah, and I left mine in the car.” Kit Kat. Mom’s nickname for me since I was five. I used to love it. Now I can’t stand it, especially when he says it.

“Hand it over,” he says.

I toss it into his lap. “Fine. It’s not like it works up here, anyway.”

“Look, just hang in there one more day. You can call all your friends tomorrow when we’re back in the car, okay?”

“Whatever,” I mumble.

He falls silent, and we sit there for an awkward moment, watching the clouds blow off the mountains. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it, too: I wish we could go back. Back to when cancer wasn’t a thing and Mom was still alive. We all wish it. Especially Emma. She thinks if she just doesn’t talk, doesn’t say anything, it will somehow change things and bring Mom back. But it won’t. Nothing will. She’s gone, and no matter how quiet Emma is, or how badly Dad wants to fix everything, or how angry I get, things will never be the same.

He squeezes my knee. “We’d better get back before Emma jumps in the lake.”

She won’t. She doesn’t do anything these days but sit around, looking sad while she colors.

“Besides,” he says, pointing at the clouds, “rain’s on the way. We need to set up the tent.”

I move to stand, but he keeps his hand on my knee a moment longer, his eyes serious like he’s about to have one of his “Dad” talks.

“What?” I ask, hoping to get it over with. I can’t handle his lies, how he says he cares and how sorry he is for everything. Blah, blah, blah.

I groan, and he shuts his mouth, suddenly looking angry. My eyes heat up again, but I won’t cry. Not here. Not anywhere. Especially in front of him. After the last year, I’m all cried out.

With a sigh, I stand and head for the trail before he can stop me.

Caleb Stephens is an award-winning author writing from Denver, Colorado. His novels include “The Girls in the Cabin,” a psychological thriller, and “Feeders,” a speculative horror thriller. His dark fiction collection “If Only a Heart and Other Tales of Terror” includes the short story “The Wallpaper Man,” which was adapted to film by Falconer Film & Media in 2022. Join his mailing list and learn more at www.calebstephensauthor.com. Follow him on Instagram @calebstephensauthor.

Caleb Stephens is an award-winning author writing from Denver, Colorado. His novels include “The Girls in the Cabin,” a psychological thriller, and “Feeders,” a speculative horror thriller. His dark fiction collection “If Only a Heart and Other Tales of Terror” includes the short story “The Wallpaper Man,” which was adapted to film by Falconer Film & Media in 2022. Join his mailing list and learn more at www.calebstephensauthor.com. Follow him on Instagram @calebstephensauthor.

“The Girls in the Cabin” was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award in the Thriller category.

SunLit: Tell us this book’s backstory. What inspired you to write it? Where did the story/theme originate?

Caleb Stephens: Great question. The book I wrote before this one, “Feeders” (also based in Colorado) centered on a speculative end-of-the-world narrative. It was horribly complex, and with “The Girls in the Cabin” I wanted to write something a little more straightforward, something that centered on familial themes and grief. 

What I landed on — a family stranded in Colorado’s remote Flat Tops wilderness who are forced to seek shelter on a remote farm during a snowstorm — became much more complicated than I intended. It turns out human monsters are even more difficult to write than the imaginary kind.  

SunLit: Place this excerpt in context. How does it fit into the book as a whole? Why did you select it?

Stephens: I think the best place to start a story is always at the beginning. The first chapter introduces the reader to Clara Carver, a troubled girl struggling to find a way to survive in horrible circumstances — someone who comes into play later in the book. 

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

The second chapter introduces the reader to the McKenna family (Chris, Kayla, and Emma) as they struggle to reconnect on a backpacking trip after the tragic loss of Chris’s wife and the girls’ mother to cancer. Things haven’t exactly gone to plan in this regard, and when Emma follows a rabbit into the forest, they go much worse. 

SunLit: Tell us about creating this book. What influences and/or experiences informed the project before you sat down to write? And once you did begin to write, did the work take you in any unexpected directions?

Stephens: As a Colorado native who grew up in the southwestern part of the state (Cortez), I always wanted to write a book where the state not only served as the setting, but also as a character. Some of my favorite books such as “Misery” by Stephen King, and “The Fisherman” by John Langan do this so well. 

I love books where, as you read, you can feel the snow on your face, or taste the rain as it falls. Settings should be immersive. And that’s what I wanted to do with this book — immerse the reader in a life-or-death struggle with a family and pose the question: How far would you go to save the ones you love? 

As to the writing taking me in unexpected directions, the answer is yes. It always does, and sometimes it demands that you bend to its will. For this book, I wrote all of Clara’s chapters in epistolary (diary) format. In the end that format didn’t serve the overall story the way it should. So, after a few stiff drinks (and a few more months of writing) I rewrote a third of the book. It was incredibly frustrating, and absolutely the right decision. The book is better for it.

SunLit: Are there lessons you take away from each experience of writing a book? And if so, what did the process of writing this book add to your knowledge and understanding of your craft and/or the subject matter?

Stephens: Absolutely. Each book is its own animal with its own unique challenges. Some of them just pour onto the page and others you have to rip out by the neck. I had to rip this one out. I wanted to give up so many times. 

The lesson I took away from this novel was that each book will take as long as it will take. It could be a year. It could be several. And you can’t force it. You have to accept that it comes on its own terms.

SunLit: What were the biggest challenges you faced in writing this book?

Stephens: This was my first multi-point-of-view novel, and nailing every character’s particular voice was like pulling teeth. I think I went through about seven versions before I was satisfied. Another lesson I’ve learned with writing is that a book is close to done when you are so sick of it, you can’t stand to read another word. 

By the time I’d finished, I’d never been as sick of a book as this one, and for that reason, I knew I’d written something worthwhile. 

SunLit: If you could pick just one thing – a theme, lesson, emotion or realization — that readers would take from this book, what would that be? 

Stephens: I’ll start by saying that different readers take away different themes, which is part of the beauty of writing. Something you’ve created in your life serves a purpose in theirs. For me, what I hope bleeds through is that sometimes the love and connection you’re seeking in your life has been there all along. You just haven’t looked in the right place. 

SunLit: In a highly politicized atmosphere where books, and people’s access to them, has become increasingly contentious, what would you add to the conversation about books, libraries and generally the availability of literature in the public sphere?

Stephens: I think banning books is an awful thing to do. I think people should be able to choose what they want to read and where they want to read it. Books are just another form of free speech. Censoring them, to me at least, amounts to government overreach. 

As a counterpoint to this, I think that, at times, readers can also take books, and especially fiction, too seriously. It’s easy to rip apart someone else’s work, to find something within to be angry about. Sometimes, it’s best to just kick back, open a book, and enjoy the ride. No book is perfect.

SunLit: Walk us through your writing process: Where and how do you write? 

“The Girls in the Cabin”

>> Read an excerpt

Where to find it:

• Prospector: Search the combined catalogs of 23 Colorado libraries
• Libby: E-books and audio books
• NewPages Guide: List of Colorado independent bookstores
• Bookshop.org: Searchable database of bookstores nationwide

SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

Stephens: I have a family. I have a full-time job. I also have this burning desire to write. I feel like (outside of my family) it’s my purpose in life. It’s why I’m here. And to balance all of life’s demands, and write with any consistency, can be difficult, which is why I write at 5 a.m. in my home office every morning before going to work. 

I try to achieve a realistic word count (500 words a day). That kind of word count turns into a first draft in about six months. And you can realistically write a novel a year if you just stick with it, so that’s what I do. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that I have an incredibly supportive wife who allows me the time and space to write. I wouldn’t be where I am without her.

SunLit: How did you find your publisher, Joffe Books?

Stephens: I’m a formerly agented writer. Without going into details, I spent around a year-and-a-half writing this book, and another year waiting as my literary agent pitched it to publishers. We had interest but never received an offer. 

After splitting ways with my agent, I submitted this book to Joffe Books on my own, and they took it! I was thrilled. Joffe is the UK’s largest independent publisher, and they’ve done an incredible job in getting my book out there. It’s sold far more copies than I ever realistically expected to sell. I’m so grateful they took a shot on me.

SunLit: Tell us about your next project.

Stephens: I’m working on my next psychological thriller, a story that centers on a pair of estranged sisters forced to confront their issues on a Caribbean cruise, chartered by a suspected cult.

Just a few more quick questions

SunLit: Do you look forward to the actual work of writing or is it a chore that you dread but must do to achieve good things?

Stephens: I love writing. Sometimes it’s hard to get going — it’s easy to get distracted with social media and marketing — but I do look forward to getting lost in the words.

SunLit: What’s the first piece of writing – at any age – that you remember being proud of?

Stephens: Probably stuff I wrote in high school, but my real first shot of pride came after writing a failed novel in my early 30s. I almost walked away, but my parents loved it and encouraged me to keep going. I know all parents love their kids’ stuff, but for me, I took pride in knowing that they truly enjoyed the book. They gave me the confidence to continue. 

SunLit: When you look back at your early professional writing, how do you feel about it? Impressed? Embarrassed? Satisfied? Wish you could have a do-over?

Stephens: I think my early writing is what it took to get to where I am now, so I wouldn’t change anything. The only exception? I would have started writing much, much sooner. 

SunLit: What three writers, from any era, can you imagine having over for a great discussion about literature and writing? And why?

Stephens: Cormac McCarthy – He’s a legend, and “The Road” is my favorite novel of all time. J.R.R. Tolkien – Because my passion for reading started with “The Hobbit.” I’d love to thank him as well as have second breakfast together.  Stephen King – He just seems like a cool guy to hang out with.

SunLit: Do you have a favorite quote about writing?

Stephens: Yes. “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” – Mark Twain. 

My why? I’m a writer.

SunLit: What does the current collection of books on your home shelves tell visitors about you?

Stephens: There might be something wrong with this guy.

SunLit: Soundtrack or silence? What’s the audio background that helps you write?

Stephens: Silence. Or a coffee shop with white noise. 

SunLit: What event, and at what age, convinced you that you wanted to be a writer?

Stephens: I wrote a short horror story and submitted it to the Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Awards in 2016. It landed an honorable mention, and I thought, at that point, maybe I could actually do this.

SunLit: Greatest fear as an author?

Stephens: Not being able to write. No joke. If you aren’t careful, you can waste your days, and wasted days turn into a wasted life. I’m a firm believer we are here for a reason, but you have to want it. You have to put in the work.

SunLit: Greatest satisfaction?

Stephens: Knowing my words will be here for my kids long after I will.

Each week as part of SunLit — The Sun’s literature section — we feature staff recommendations from book stores across Colorado. This week, the staff from Old Firehouse Books in Fort Collins recommends books about romance, roads and reconciling long-held secrets.

The Pairing

By Casey McQuiston
St. Martin’s Griffin
$20
August 2024
Purchase

From the publisher: Theo and Kit have been a lot of things: childhood best friends, crushes, in love, and now estranged exes. After a brutal breakup on the transatlantic flight to their dream European food and wine tour, they exited each other’s lives once and for all. Time apart has done them good.

All that remains is the unused voucher for the European tour that never happened, good for 48 months after its original date and about to expire. Four years later, it seems like a great idea to finally take the trip. Solo. Separately.

It’s not until they board the tour bus that they discover they’ve both accidentally had the exact same idea, and now they’re trapped with each other for three weeks of stunning views, luscious flavors, and the most romantic cities of France, Spain, and Italy.

From Andrea, event coordinator: Sure, several years later they can get along, as long as they can prove to one another that they’ve moved on. And really, what’s the best way to prove to your ex that you have no feelings for them whatsoever? Definitely a hookup competition!

Casey McQuiston is back at it again with a book that is absolutely hilarious and beautiful and so fun to read. Kit and Theo are wonderful bisexual messes who, while mistake prone, have so much heart and care for the world around them and each other (begrudgingly). And I can’t even explain the incredible FOMO I felt reading about their tour. You will finish this novel and book a tour to Europe immediately after. The explanation of the food, wine, and cities were mouth-watering. (Also, I listened to the audiobook and highly recommend it!! Get yours on Libro.fm today!!)

Killed by a Traffic Engineer

By Wes Marshall
Island Press
$35
June 2024
Purchase

From the publisher: In the U.S. we are nearing 4 million road deaths since we began counting them in 1899. The numbers are getting worse in recent years, yet we continue to accept these deaths as part of doing business. There has been no examination of why we engineer roads that are literally killing us.  Fixing the carnage on our roadways requires a change in mindset and a dramatic transformation of transportation. This goes for traffic engineers in particular because they are still the ones in charge of our streets.

Civil engineering professor Wes Marshall shines a spotlight on how little science there is behind the way that our streets are engineered, which leaves safety as an afterthought. While traffic engineers are not trying to cause deliberate harm to anyone, he explains, they are guilty of creating a transportation system whose designs remain largely based on plausible, but unproven, conjecture.

From Sterling, bookseller: In an attempt to soothe my lingering sadness over not having been able to attend the event we held with the author, I’ve chosen August to highlight a book both impactful and necessary. Wes Marshall takes us on an intense, thorough and sometimes dark yet compassionate tour through the underpinnings of a nigh unquestioned (until recently) profession. This is the ultimate insider’s guide to a fascinating sphere of design tangled up with often disastrous safety outcomes and one that touches our lives by shaping the ways in which we move every single day: the traffic engineer.

The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards

By Jessica Waite
Atria Books
$29.99
July 2024
Purchase

From the publisher: In the midst of mourning her husband’s sudden death, writer Jessica Waite discovered shocking secrets that undermined everything she thought she knew about the man she’d loved and trusted. From uncovered affairs to drug use and a pornography addiction, Waite was overwhelmed reconciling this devastating information with her new reality as a widowed single mom. Then, to further complicate matters, strange, inexplicable coincidences forced her to consider whether her husband was reaching back from beyond the grave.

With her signature candor and unflinching honesty, Waite details her tumultuous love story and the pain of adjusting to the new normal she built for herself and her son. A riveting, difficult, and surprisingly beautiful story, “The Widow’s Guide to Dead Bastards” is also a lyrical exploration of grief, mental health, single parenthood, and betrayal that demonstrates that the most moving love stories aren’t perfect — they’re flawed and poignantly real.

From Revati, general manager: This is an amazing memoir that will make anyone re-examine what it really means to love someone. Jessica Waite writes with such understanding and raw emotion that you can’t help feel the loss, rage, sadness, confusion and love with her. Despite the heavy subject, you will be instantly engaged and I’m sure it’ll be a favorite memoir of the year.

THIS WEEK’S BOOK RECS COME FROM:

Old Firehouse Books

232 Walnut St., Fort Collins

oldfirehousebooks.com

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As part of The Colorado Sun’s literature section — SunLit — we’re featuring staff picks from book stores across the state. Read more.

Author’s note: In Chapter 13, Mary is a 37-year-old woman who made a choice that affected the rest of her life. The excerpt is pivotal in adding depth and intrigue to Mary’s character and introduces her “hidden years” — specifically the 1887-1888 academic year at the beginning of her love affair with her student, Will Housel. 

Will Housel, a handsome young man with brown hair and intense brown eyes, enrolled in Mary’s German class in the fall of 1887. Several years earlier, Will had taken a few classes in the university’s preparatory department, but he stayed only a short time. He then worked for a year or two and attended a school in the Midwest. When he returned to Boulder, he entered the university as a four-year bachelor’s degree candidate in the Department of Philosophy and the Arts. The degree requirements at the time included four courses of Latin and Greek and two each of mathematics, rhetoric, oratory, and German. Will came from a prominent Boulder family. His father, Peter Housel, had operated a grist mill, was an elder in the Boulder Valley Presbyterian Church, and served as Boulder County’s first judge. According to Mary’s student Ernest Pease, who had grown up in Will’s neighborhood, the Housel family was “well-educated and had more books in their home than anyone else.”

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

Like the others in Mary’s class, Will’s introduction to German was in grammar and pronunciation. Then he could begin the study of literature. Germany was still considered the educational and cultural center of the world, so a study of German literature was regarded as a necessary part of one’s education. In the spring of 1888, after Will had signed up again, Mary led his German literature class through the usual study of Goethe’s classic drama Faust. According to newspaper editor Amos Bixby, who still visited the campus and reported on the goings-on from time to time, German literature students longed for the time when “Mephistopheles no longer [was] a painted Devil but a sentient presence whom you are perfectly conscious is ready at any moment to drive a sharp bargain for your soul.”

Translation practice included the Song of the Spirits in which Mephistopheles conjured up a vision to lull the character Faust to sleep. It began with the lines “Melt, ye confining vaults up yonder!” and led into Faust’s revelation of nature, the cosmos, and spiritual beauty. The spirits hypnotized Faust by praising sensuality and relaxed his inhibitions by singing:

Yield to the shining
Ether’s fonder
Cerulean gaze!
Cloudbanks darkling
Dwindle for sparkling
Starlets winking,
Milder sun-rays
Drinking the haze!
Heavenly offspring’s
Graces uplifting,
Swaying and turning,
Drifting they wander,
Lovelorn yearning
Follows them yonder
And their garments’
Fluttering garlands
Cover the far lands,
Cover the arbor
Where thought-rapt lover
Lifelong trusting
Pledges to lover
Arbor to Arbor.

With Mary’s dedication to teaching, it is likely that she gave Will individual attention. They probably discussed the themes in Faust as the story unfolded. Dr. Faust, Goethe’s main character, determined to plumb the depths of how it felt to be human. At twenty-five, Will was a few years older than his classmates. He lived with his parents on their farm at Seventy-Fifth Street and Arapahoe Avenue, a few miles east of Boulder. Each day he rode his horse to the university, stabling him in the wagon shed behind Old Main. 

“Separate Lives”

>> READ AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Where to find it:

• Prospector: Search the combined catalogs of 23 Colorado libraries
• Libby: E-books and audio books
• NewPages Guide: List of Colorado independent bookstores
• Bookshop.org: Searchable database of bookstores nationwide

SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

By this time, Mary had purchased a sidesaddle and a horse named Fanny. Often Mary rode her horse and looked for wildflowers, just as she had done earlier with horses rented from the livery. Even when riding, Mary dressed like a lady in custom-made clothing. Society’s restrictions in the Victorian era dictated a tight-fitting bodice over a corset with voluminous skirts and even a bustle extending the yards of material on the back of the skirt.

It is possible that Mary and Will rode together as she and Winthrop Scarritt had done. At any rate, their teacher–student relationship evolved into a friendship, and at some point, even with all the clothing, the friendship escalated into a romance. 

No one will ever know the details of Mary and Will’s relationship during this time. In the spring of 1888, Mary boarded at the home of a rancher who informed her that he and his wife would be gone from Boulder for a few weeks in order to drive their cattle down from higher pastures in North Park. Perhaps Mary and Will took that opportunity to become lovers.

Mary kept meticulous diaries year after year, yet none from this time period have survived. However, an undated poem, possibly the only written evidence of their intimacy, was stuck into a later diary. It read:

We smiled and stood together for awhile,
swift impulse made us do it.
Your hand reached out toward mine,
your kindly hand.
Or was my hand the first?
What did it matter?
We knew and shared the solitude of crowds,
Lofting above the clatter.

Like Faust, Mary had stepped outside the bounds of morality. Considering the prominence she had achieved in her profession and the idealized role model she had become, her actions were extraordinarily risky.

Silvia Pettem is a Colorado-based historical researcher, writer, and author of more than 20 books on history, biography, missing and unidentified persons, and true crime. She also has a knack for pulling intriguing women out of the past. “Separate Lives” is set in the late 19th century. “In Search of the Blonde Tigress” exposes and expands upon a true crime story from the 1930s, while “Someone’s Daughter” follows a murder investigation from the 1950s. Pettem lives with her husband and two cats in the mountains west of Boulder. She can be reached through her website, silviapettem.com.

Silvia Pettem is a Colorado-based historical researcher, writer, and author of more than 20 books on history, biography, missing and unidentified persons, and true crime. She also has a knack for pulling intriguing women out of the past. “Separate Lives” is set in the late 19th century. “In Search of the Blonde Tigress” exposes and expands upon a true crime story from the 1930s, while “Someone’s Daughter” follows a murder investigation from the 1950s. Pettem lives with her husband and two cats in the mountains west of Boulder. She can be reached through her website, silviapettem.com.

This interview has been lightly edited for length and clarity.

SunLit: Tell us this book’s backstory. How did you first learn about Mary Rippon?

Silvia Pettem: My interest in Mary Rippon began in late 1993 in the small basement room in Norlin Library on the Boulder campus that houses the University of Colorado’s archives. I was interested in the Victorian era and in women’s history, so the librarian suggested I look at some primary source documentation about Mary Rippon. Her name was familiar to me, as it is the name of the university’s outdoor theater where Shakespeare’s plays are performed every summer.

Despite the widespread use of Mary Rippon’s name, however, I had only recently learned that she chaired the German department as the university’s first female professor. And I had assumed that up until her death in 1935, she had led a quiet, scholarly, spinster’s life.

When I studied her photographs in old yearbooks, a plain, gentle-looking woman stared back at me — but I soon discovered that “Miss Rippon,” as she was called, took extraordinary steps to clothe part of her life in secrecy. In fact, her private life would have been considered scandalous at the time, and because of that she kept a low profile during her distinguished 31-year career — never involved in controversy, always praised in the local press.

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

The historical view of the perfect Miss Rippon was altered suddenly in February 1976 when an elderly man from the East Coast made his way down the steps to the archives and donated two photographs to the university. Although the items in this first donation were unrelated to Mary Rippon, the man identified himself to a Colorado Alumnus reporter as “Wilfred Rieder, a descendant of Mary Rippon.” The article caused a minor uproar among librarians, faculty, and long-time Boulder residents. How could the never-married “Miss Rippon” have a descendant? At that time there were no known records or documentation of a secret life. 

A decade later, Wilfred Rieder made a second donation — this time of Mary’s plain leather diaries, journals, and account books. He also told another alumni publication’s reporter that he was Mary Rippon’s grandson. He explained that in 1888, Mary had entered into a romantic relationship with one of her students and had become pregnant. She secretly married, gave birth to a baby girl during a year’s sabbatical in Germany, and then returned to Colorado where she resumed her teaching career.

I was hooked! I spent the next several years reading and studying the donated documents before I started writing the first edition of “Separate Lives,” published in 1999. 

SunLit: Tell us about creating this book. What influences and/or experiences informed the project before you sat down to write? 

Pettem: When I first held Mary’s diaries in my hands, her delicate handwriting pulled me into her day-to-day life. I knew, then, that Mary Rippon’s story needed to be told. The opportunity to write “Separate Lives” was just too good to pass up. In looking back, it literally fell into my lap. As a University of Colorado alum and author of books and articles on Boulder history, I was well aware of Mary’s setting and surroundings. But it was Mary’s writings that allowed me to vicariously experience her life and times and try to imagine her life through her own eyes. 

To help achieve that goal, I wrote my first draft in the first person –– as if I were Mary, and as if I were writing my own memoir. Her diaries were very cryptic, and the process of deciphering them allowed me to “get inside her head.” In my attempts, I believe I gained insight into some of her very private thoughts, even a glimpse into her soul.

SunLit: Place this excerpt in context. How does it fit into the book as a whole? Why did you select it?

Pettem: In Chapter 13, Mary is a 37-year-old woman who made a choice that affected the rest of her life. The excerpt is pivotal in adding depth and intrigue to Mary’s character and introduces her “hidden years” –– specifically the 1887-1888 academic year at the beginning of her love affair with her student, Will Housel. 

“Separate Lives”

>> Read an excerpt

Where to find it:

• Prospector: Search the combined catalogs of 23 Colorado libraries
• Libby: E-books and audio books
• NewPages Guide: List of Colorado independent bookstores
• Bookshop.org: Searchable database of bookstores nationwide

SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

The remainder of Mary’s story focuses on the societal forces that led to Mary’s public and private lives and reveals how and why she managed to separate them. The book (as a whole) chronicles her life, as well as Will’s and that of their daughter, Miriam. This new edition continues into the 21st century with what can best be described as “ongoing ripples” in Mary’s life story.

SunLit: What did the process of writing this book add to your knowledge and understanding of the “separate lives” that Mary Rippon led?

Pettem: Mary’s separate lives are inconceivable to most readers today, and they were hard for me to believe, as well –– until I put her situation into the context of her times. When I started reading late-19th-century books, newspaper articles, and magazine stories, I was able to immerse myself into the historic context of the Victorian era. 

Married men with professional occupations were expected to support their wives and children, but society looked differently at women. Single women professionals were beginning to be accepted, but social norms dictated that if the single woman professional married, she would be taking a job away from a man with a family to support.

Some readers who don’t understand the concept ask why Mary didn’t get a nanny and live openly as both a professor and a mother. Others, who accept that –– in order to keep her job –– she needed to hide her husband and child behind a Victorian veil of secrecy, are incredulous that her few close friends kept the secret, as well.  

People’s feelings and emotions in previous time periods are no different than our feelings and emotions today. That’s why, for instance, today’s readers can understand how Mary and Will’s love affair could happen. But historical context is essential in understanding how Mary handled it. And she did that by separating her private and public lives.

SunLit: What were the biggest challenges you faced in writing this book?

Pettem: Although I had a wealth of primary source documents (diaries, journals, and account books), I still longed for more facts. In some instances, I had to speculate, but in doing so I made it clear to the reader. The original edition was turned down by a reputable publisher who told me that he wouldn’t publish the book unless I cut out all speculation and fictionalized the story, instead. That I refused to do. In my opinion, what makes Mary’s story so interesting is that it is true.

Another challenge was my need to remain nonjudgmental. Mary fascinated me, but I didn’t always agree with her actions. As a mother, myself, I could not have left my young child, for years, on the other side of the ocean. I would have given up my career to be a stay-at-home mom. But Mary may have seen herself as the breadwinner in the family, and turning over parenting to Will a necessity. Personally, I see Mary as a better “mother” to her female students than to her own child. But in order to write her biography, I had to keep my feelings out of her story.

SunLit: What was your biggest takeaway from delving so deeply into Rippon’s story? Is there a theme or lesson readers should take from how she lived – especially given how differently women’s roles are regarded now? 

Pettem: As noted above, it’s essential that historical characters be studied in the context of their times. In Mary’s time, “polite” society refrained from even discussing sexual intimacy between unmarried men and women. Today’s society considers unmarried lovers a norm. However, at the University of Colorado in 1888, there was no rule prohibiting a sexual relationship between a professor and a student as, obviously, no one thought the university needed such a rule. Today, the university requires that all intimate professor-student relationships be publicly disclosed. 

Again, it’s not the people who have changed, but only societal norms.

Historical research is a type of detective work –– one needs to keep an open mind and follow the evidence to see where it leads. Sometimes, as in Mary’s case, the outcome is unexpected. As to how Mary lived out her life, she did have choices (good fodder for book club discussions). She made, and stuck to, the decision that was right for her. I admire her determination.

SunLit: This is an updated version of the book you self-published in 1999. How did you approach taking a fresh look at both your subject and what you wrote the first time around? 

Pettem: After the original version sold out, I turned my attention to other books and various publishers. Lyons Press (a subsidiary of Rowman & Littlefield) published my most recent books. I found that I enjoyed writing on women from previous periods in time. (“The Blonde Tigress” focused on the 1930s, and “Someone’s Daughter” on the 1950s.) I wanted Mary Rippon’s story to continue to be told. My publisher readily agreed. 

What about Mary and Will’s child, Miriam? What happened to her?

Pettem: Without giving away too much of the story, Miriam was born in Stuttgart, Germany, in January 1888. After staying in various European orphanages, and then living with Mary’s extended family in Illinois, she moved in with her father and his second family. Mary would visit, but always as “Aunt Mary.”

There were many parallels in Mary’s and Miriam’s lives. Both of their children were conceived out of wedlock, and both were university foreign language professors. Professionally, Miriam followed in her mother’s footsteps. 

Except for Mary’s few close friends, the mother-daughter relationship was never disclosed during either Mary’s or Miriam’s lifetimes. Miriam’s son (the elderly man who donated Mary’s documents) was the informant for Miriam’s death certificate in 1957. In the place for “father’s name,” he wrote “Will Housel.” In the place for “mother’s name,” he simply wrote “unknown.” At that point in his life, Miriam’s son knew Mary was his grandmother. But he allowed his mother to take Mary’s secret to her grave.

Mary received wide acclaim for her teaching, but she was completely unrecognized as a mother. It’s evident, though, that she was content with her chosen path. Near the end of her life she confided to her diary, “Conventionality is the mother of dreariness.” There was nothing conventional about Mary Rippon.

SunLit: Tell us about your next project.

Pettem: I’m always looking for intriguing women from the past… 

Each week as part of SunLit — The Sun’s literature section — we feature staff recommendations from book stores across Colorado. This week, the staff from the Park Hill Community Bookstore in Denver recommends tales of unsung WWII heroes, comic Western assassins and a family of cannibals.

The Enigma Girls

By Candace Fleming
Scholastic Focus
Prices vary by seller; PHCB Price: $3 PB/$5 HC if available
March 2024
Purchase: In store only

From the publisher: Bletchley Park was a well-kept secret during World War II, operating under the code name Station X. The critical work of code-cracking Nazi missives that went on behind its closed doors could determine a victory or loss against Hitler’s army. Amidst the brilliant cryptographers, flamboyant debutantes, and absent-minded professors working there, it was teenaged girls who kept Station X running. Some could do advanced math, while others spoke a second language. They ran the unwieldy bombe machines, made sense of wireless sound waves, and sorted the decoded messages. They were expected to excel in their fields and most importantly: know how to keep a secret.

From Linda Baie, volunteer coordinator: Fleming follows 10 specific girls as they arrive, find challenges in their billets and in their work, some working in codes and ciphers, some working with the later “bombe” machines, and well into the war, the newly created “colossus” machines. Each one is 20 or younger. One is a debutante who took the invitation as a chance to skip her debutante coming out! One young woman, through constant work beside another worker, a man, eventually married him, though each never revealed all of their secret work. 

The book is tension-filled as the workers rush as quickly as possible to solve messages and to help those in power improve their plans of attack when learning about the enemies’ plans, right up to Hitler’s orders. Although all were proud to be helpful, they often realized that any attack, even successful, meant lives lost. Parts of the London Blitz felt especially sad to read about. Many photos are added within the text that illuminate the telling.

The Sisters Brothers

By Patrick deWitt
House of Anansi Press
List price depends on seller; PHCB Price: $3 PB/$5 HC if available
April 2011
Purchase: In store only

From the publisher: Hermann Kermit Warm is going to die. The enigmatic and powerful man known only as the Commodore has ordered it, and his henchmen, Eli and Charlie Sisters, will make sure of it. Though Eli doesn’t share his brother’s appetite for whiskey and killing, he’s never known anything else. But their prey isn’t an easy mark, and on the road from Oregon City to Warm’s gold-mining claim outside Sacramento, Eli begins to question what he does for a living — and whom he does it for.

With “The Sisters Brothers,” Patrick deWitt pays homage to the classic Western, transforming it into an unforgettable comic tour de force. Filled with a remarkable cast of characters-losers, cheaters, and ne’er-do-wells from all stripes of life — and told by a complex and compelling narrator — it is a violent, lustful odyssey through the underworld of the 1850s frontier that beautifully captures the humor, melancholy, and grit of the Old West and two brothers bound by blood, violence, and love.

From Sheryl Hartmann, volunteer:  I normally avoid western-themed books — probably because I had to watch episode after episode of “Gunsmoke” with my grandparents when I was growing up. In any case, “The Sisters Brothers” is unlike any book I’ve read. It’s a western yes, but the protagonists are exceptionally literate and capable of stunning moral insights. Apparently the author was inspired by a Time-Life book on the California Gold Rush that he found at a yard sale. In 2018 the book was made into a movie starring John C. Reilly and Joaquin Phoenix as the Sisters brothers. It was directed by the well-known French director Jacques Audiard. If the movie had been directed by the Coen brothers I might be tempted to watch it because it seems to me that they’re the only directors who could do justice to the characters and the mood of the narrative.

Mother for Dinner

By Shalom Auslander
Picador
List price depends on seller; PHCB Price: $3 PB/$5 HC if available
September 2020
Purchase: In store only

From the publisher: Seventh Seltzer has done everything he can to break from the past, but in his overbearing, narcissistic mother’s last moments he is drawn back into the life he left behind. At her deathbed, she whispers in his ear the two words he always knew she would: “Eat me.”

This is not unusual, as the Seltzers are Cannibal-Americans, a once proud and thriving ethnic group, but for Seventh, it raises some serious questions, both practical and emotional. Of practical concern, his dead mother is six-foot-two and weighs about four hundred and fifty pounds. Even divided up between Seventh and his eleven brothers, that’s a lot of red meat. Plus Second keeps kosher, Ninth is vegan, First hated her, and Sixth is dead. To make matters worse, even if he can wrangle his brothers together for a feast, the Can-Am people have assimilated, and the only living Cannibal who knows how to perform the ancient ritual is their Uncle Ishmael, whose erratic understanding of their traditions leads to conflict.

Irreverent and written with Auslander’s incomparable humor, “Mother for Dinner” is an exploration of legacy, assimilation, the things we owe our families, and the things we owe ourselves.

From Sheryl Hartmann, volunteer: I first heard about Shalom Auslander when I read his article in The Jewish Chronicle entitled “The 10 classic types of Jew, and how to decide which one you are.” Since I love humor about cultural stereotypes I decided to read some of Auslander’s fiction. “Mother for Dinner” is gruesome and hilarious; irreverent and yet poignant; satirical and, in some places, quite sincere. The arguments Seventh has with Ninth (who is a vegan) about what counts as “eating” provoked convulsive laughter.

I read “Mother for Dinner” before Auslander’s new book “Feh” came out. He’s been on a book tour lately and I’ve heard him interviewed on “Fresh Air” and on Yascha Mounk’s “The Good Fight.” It’s on my hold list at the library.

THIS WEEK’S BOOK RECS COME FROM:

Park Hill Community Bookstore

4620 E 23rd Ave, Denver

(303) 355-8508

parkhillbookstore.org

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As part of The Colorado Sun’s literature section — SunLit — we’re featuring staff picks from book stores across the state. Read more.

Author’s note: This excerpt contains the first few sections of the title story. It introduces Clayton Royster, the protagonist who appears in every story that follows.

“The Waterman”

Sand Point, June 1955

Clayton Royster eased his boat along the brackish channel that led from the bay to the dock behind the seafood market. The market was located along the one road into Sand Point, Virginia, a small town at the head of a peninsula jutting between the Atlantic Ocean to the east and the broad saltmarsh bay to the west. Clayton tied off to the dock cleats, unloaded two baskets brimming with blue crabs and carried them around front. Walter’s Market was a moss-stained, whitewashed cinderblock building with a broad-planked entrance porch and a raw sheet metal roof. The building housed the store in front and living quarters in back. The day was early yet, the ‘Closed’ sign still posted on the door, so he wet down the crabs from the outside spigot and slipped a nickel into the red vending machine on the porch and sat on the step drinking his soda and picking under his fingernails with his pocketknife. The hands, the split nails, cracked knuckles, and calluses fanning across his palms, were the hands of a man older than Clayton’s twenty-three years. But he was proud of them, of what they represented, the seasons crabbing in the bay and fishing in the open sea, more seasons in his few years than most spend in a lifetime. If his hands did not give him away, his deeply tanned face, his brown hair tinted auburn by the elements, the beginning of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and his slight but perpetual squint from the sun’s glare surely would—he was a waterman.

 Soon came a ruckus from inside and Walter’s bulk filled the doorway, white T-shirt straining across his gut, dungarees held up by suspenders. He glanced at Clayton and then turned and hollered toward the back room, “Wish I could get them eggs done right just once.”

Clayton stood. “Got your crabs here.” Walter turned his scowl back on Clayton and then noticed the baskets.

UNDERWRITTEN BY

Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. Explore the SunLit archives at coloradosun.com/sunlit.

“Let’s take a look.” He stepped from the door and lifted the burlap bag covering the crabs. As he assessed the catch, Clayton looked past him to Loretta, who had come barefoot onto the porch in a sleeveless shift, her strawberry hair pulled into a ponytail. She crossed her arms at her chest and stared openly at him, her pale eyes full of trials.

Walter straightened and scratched at a patch of belly exposed at his beltline. “I’ll be honest with you, son. That is a right scrawny lot. I can go maybe seven-fifty a bushel.”

They both knew within a narrow range what price they would settle on, but the haggle was an expected part of doing business.

“You’re probably right,” Clayton said. “I should dump them back into the bay to grow up.”

“I might see my way to eight,” Walter said. “Not a penny more.” Clayton nodded.

When Walter walked inside to retrieve payment, Clayton stepped toward Loretta. “Can you get free for a bit?”

“Maybe. He’s talking about going to Pungo to see about getting sweet corn for the weekend.”

Clayton bent to retie his boot and allowed the back of his hand to brush her calf just to feel the electricity rush through him. He rose and backed away at the sound of Walter returning.

Mid-day, Clayton watched from a stand of pin oaks as Walter climbed into his truck and pulled away, raising a plume of white dust from the crushed shell roadbed. Inside the market, he idled beside a shelf displaying an assortment of carvings from local craftsmen—decoys, sand pipers, gulls—and scanned the dry good isles to ensure the store was free of customers. Satisfied, he walked toward the back and found Loretta behind the checkout counter, sipping from a glass of lemonade, a small rotating fan stirring her hair. He embraced her, tasted the tartness on her lips, her tongue, and he ran his hand down the smooth curve of her back, and bent to kiss the welt showing on her arm. “He do this to you?”

She took his hand and pulled him toward the ice room. “Hurry. He won’t be gone long.”

At First Sight, May 1950

Clayton first laid eyes on Loretta five years earlier, in May of 1950. He was walking the beach with his fishing gear when from the south wended the black dot of a pickup on the hard pack. The truck eventually pulled close and a man who looked to be Clayton’s father’s age, but with loose jowls, raised a finger to the bill of his cap as they passed, but did not stop. A black-and-tan hound occupied the passenger seat, its long face hanging from the window. In the bed of the pickup, an aged lady sat in a rocking chair and beside her a girl shared space with two mattresses and a few wooden crates. Clayton noticed the girl immediately, fifteen or sixteen he guessed, and slender as a surf rod. He willed her to glance his way, but she ignored him, looking out to sea instead. Clayton watched the truck until it disappeared between two dunes toward the blacktop that led into town.

People talked about the newcomers. The man, Walter Pine, had purchased the old Henley market, and quickly gained notice for being fawning with customers, contentious with suppliers, and disengaged with most everyone else.

 “A bit standoffish,” some said of the Pine family, who by and large kept to themselves. “The elderly lady is sickly, I hear.”

“The Waterman”

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SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Read more.

“His mother?”

“So I’m told. The girl tends to her.”

“His daughter?”

“Wife.”

“The girl?”

“Loretta Pine. His wife.”

“There has to be a tale behind that match.”

Indeed, there was. The most repeated version had her daddy involved in some construction accident that left him alive, but feeble-minded. The family needed help getting by, children by the score, and it seemed Walter came up with the solution.

Clayton began selling crabs to Walter during that first summer. He found reasons to hang around the store just to catch sight of Loretta. They began visiting whenever Walter was away, innocently at first, just two young people passing the time. He’d talk of his dream—a commercial boat: a thirty-footer, mahogany hull, Cummings diesel, something that would allow him to earn a living on the water full-time. Loretta told of her family, the pride she took in being able to help provide for them through Walter and the market. Clayton admired her sense of obligation. He’d left his family at sixteen when his father decided to take an insurance job in Richmond. Clayton declined to move and instead went to work at Sonny Ferrell’s ESSO station after school and lived in a spare room that Sonny and his wife were never able to fill with a child of their own.

When Walter’s mother died at the beginning of their second summer season in Sand Point, Walter reluctantly left Loretta in charge of the store while he carted his mother back south for burial. During his absence, one thing led to another between Loretta and Clayton.

Even during an interminable two-year stint drafted into the Army, Clayton ferried back to Sand Point on every furlough from Fort Eustis, and he and Loretta continued to sneak into the ice room for quick, urgent couplings, and snatches of conversation. But that was the whole of it. Once returned and back on the water, Clayton worried about his life spinning in circles, impatient to get on with things but unable to let go of Loretta, and she unwilling to let go of Walter’s money. They’d nearly been caught a half-dozen times but always their luck held.

Sand Point, ice room, June 1955

Until it didn’t.

From the ice room, a sound out front startled them. Clayton tucked to a corner as Loretta ladled a bucket of ice chips and carried it to the display counter. Clayton caught sight of Walter leaning against the counter, red-faced, heaving like a bellows.

“Mr. Pine,” Loretta said. “I thought you were headed to Pungo.”

“Goddamned truck quit on me a mile out. Had to walk back in this goddamned heat.”

“Let me get you some water.”

“Goddamned Zed Phelps passed me right by and didn’t slow a tick. I’ll remember that son-of-a-bitch.”

“Maybe some lemonade?”

“Bring me a beer.”

“I don’t think there is any beer.”

“There’s beer. Find it.”

“I can’t find what’s not there.”

“Watch that mouth.” Walter jabbed a finger towards Loretta’s face. The bucket she held slipped from her grasp, sending ice chips skating across the floor.

“There you go,” Walter said, and clapped her on the ear with the flat of his hand. Loretta staggered but Walter grabbed her by the arm and raised his hand again, but before he could bring it down, Clayton came up from behind and swung a wooden duck decoy to the back of Walter’s head with such force the bird’s head snapped from its body. Walter toppled in slow motion. On the way down, his forehead struck the corner of the countertop and blood began pooling from both wounds as soon as he settled to the floor. Clayton stood over him, still holding the duck head.

“Lord Jesus, what have you done?” Loretta said.

“Is he dead?”

“Go. Hurry.”

“Come with me.”

“Just go.”

Gary Schanbacher was born in the Midwest, raised in the southeast, came west for graduate school, and never left. He is the author of “Crossing Purgatory” (2013), winner of a SPUR Award from the Western Writers of America, and the Langum Prize in American Historical Fiction, and “Migration Patterns: Stories” (2007), a PEN/Hemingway Foundation Award Runner-up, and winner of the Colorado Book Award and the High Plains First Book Award. He and his wife live in Littleton, Colorado.