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About the Author
David Estes was born in El Paso, Texas but moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania when he was very young. He grew up in Pittsburgh and then went to Penn State for college. Eventually he moved to Sydney, Australia where he met his wife and soul mate, Adele, who he’s now been happily married to for more than two years.
A reader all his life, David began writing novels for the children's and YA markets in 2010, and has completed 14 novels, 12 of which have been published. In June of 2012, David became a fulltime writer and is now travelling the world with Adele while he writes books, and she writes and takes photographs.
David gleans inspiration from all sorts of crazy places, like watching random people do entertaining things, dreams (which he jots copious notes about immediately after waking up), and even from thin air sometimes!
David’s a writer with OCD, a love of dancing and singing (but only when no one is looking or listening), a mad-skilled ping-pong player, an obsessive Goodreads group member, and prefers writing at the swimming pool to writing at a table. He loves responding to e-mails, Facebook messages, Tweets, blog comments, and Goodreads comments from his readers, all of whom he considers to be his friends.
A SNEAK PEEK
WATER & STORM COUNTRY
BOOK 3 OF THE COUNTRY SAGA
Available anywhere e-books are sold June 7, 2013!
Chapter One
Huck
Standing on the deck watching the sunrise, I can’t hold back my smile. The air is crisp, a little colder than usual for this time of yar, numbing the tip of my nose, filling each breath with the distinct smell of salt and brine. While endless yellow clouds patrol the ocean, the half-sun splashes purples, pinks and oranges on the ever reddening morning sky.
To the starboard side I can see the shoreline, sandy at first, and then green, rolled out like a welcome mat. Above the land, the yellow clouds darken to black.
In the waters surrounding the ship, I see the familiar dark triangles of sharp-tooths breaking the surface, patrolling the ocean, hoping for an execution or a natural death to give them the chance to taste human flesh yet again.
But even the constant presence of the sharp-tooths can’t wipe away my grin. Not today.
The ship lurches beneath me, riding the crest of yet another big rolling wave. But I don’t stumble, don’t lose my balance, don’t so much as sway from the ship’s movements or the tumultuous wind that whips my shirt in a frenzy around me.
Steady.
Balanced.
A seaman, through and through.
And smiling, bigger than the ocean, relishing the salt spray splashing my face as a wave crashes against the hull, living for the feel of the power rolling and throbbing beneath my feet, laughing when a flock of white-winged big-chins dive bomb the water, each emerging with a nice-sized fish clamped tightly between their beaks.
This is the life. The life of a Soaker. A typical morning in water country.
My life, all about to change.
“Huck,” a deep voice rumbles from behind. Not a murmur, not a greeting: a command.
Startled, I turn quickly, my smile vanishing in an instant. “Father?” I say.
“Admiral Jones,” he says, but I don’t understand. Admiral Jones is what his shipmen call him.
“Sir?” I say.
“Son,” he says, taking two steps forward to reach my side. “Today you become a man.” His words are the truth but I know he doesn’t mean them. Not after what happened. Not after what always happens.
Today’s the start of my fourteenth yar, the yar I cast off my childish ways and become a real seaman, not just the son of one. “I’m ready,” I say, wondering if it’s true. I desperately want to look down, to look away, to escape the piercing stare of my father’s crystal blue eyes, but I don’t—
—because men don’t look away for anyone;
—men aren’t scared of anything;
—men don’t cry.
My father’s creed, one I’ve heard a million and a half times.
And men don’t fail their fathers, like I have so many times before.
Resting a hand on my shoulder, my father—Admiral Jones—says, “Are you? Ready?”
Uh…I think? Maybe? “Aye,” I say, keeping my gaze on his but feeling his disappointment tremble through me.
“Hmm,” Father says, chewing on his lip. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”
I hold my breath because the way he’s looking at me, so full of doubt, so uncertain, with one eyebrow raised, his nostrils flared slightly, his expression lopsided, seems to pick me apart from the outside in, like a big-chin tearing at the flesh of a fish. If I breathe I’m afraid it will come out in a ragged shudder, and then he’ll know.
He’ll know I’m not a man, even if I’m fourteen now.
I feel my face warm while I hold my breath for ten seconds, twenny, as he continues to stare at me, his eyes probing, closing in on the truth.
Just when I start to feel a little lightheaded, he looks away, turns, stomps off, his boots hammering the wooden deck like a funeral drum. I let my breath out as slowly as I can, closing my eyes. “I am a man,” I whisper under my breath, trying to convince myself. “I won’t fail you. Not anymore.” If only I had the guts to say it loud enough for him to hear.
“Walk with me, Son,” my father says without turning around.
“Aye, aye, Father,” I say.
“Admiral Jones,” he replies, and I finally understand. By blood he’s still my father, but by rights he’s the admiral, and I’m one of his men, subject to all the same rules as anyone else.
“Admiral Jones,” I correct, wondering why saying it this time doesn’t feel nearly as good as it always did when I practiced in my cabin.
I hustle to catch up, trying to stride the way he does across the deck. Long steps, chin up, eyes sweeping the ship, taking everything in. As we walk aft, toward the rear of the ship, two of my father’s lieutenants are swashbuckling to the left, or starboard side. Their swords ring out loud and shrill and practiced as they parry and slash and block. It’s a morning ritual for these two, Cain and Hobbs, one I’ve watched with a boyish interest many times before.
When we approach, they stop, planting their blades point-first into the deck. They each raise a flat hand to their foreheads in a rigid salute. “At ease, lieutenants,” my father says.
They relax their arms but continue to stand at attention. “Mornin’, Admiral…Huck,” Cain says, his blue uniform turning dark with sweat stains beneath his armpits. He flashes me a smile.
“Mornin’, Cain,” I say, smiling back.
“Lieutenant Cain,” my father corrects sharply. I look up at him and he’s giving me those dark eyes again, sparkling blue under the morning sun but shrouded in shadow from the brim of his admiral’s cap.
“Lieutenant Cain,” I mumble, feeling stupid. How can I be a man if I can’t even talk right?
“Mornin’, Huck,” Hobbs says with a sneer. Unlike Cain, he’s never liked me.
I frown at his half-smirk. “Mornin’,” I say under my breath.
“Lieutenant,” my father says again.
Stupid, stupid. “Lieutenant,” I say.
“So you’re a man today,” Cain says, slapping me on the back with a firm hand. It hurts a little but I’ve never felt better.
“I am,” I say, beaming.
“That remains to be seen,” my father says, wiping the grin off my face with his words. How do I prove myself to him after what happened two years ago? My mother’s face flashes through my mind: her quick smile, her green eyes, her long blonde hair. The way she’d read to me at night. Tales of great battles against the Stormers, our independence won and lost and won again. Many years ago.
Her face again, not smiling this time: awash with terror, twisted and stricken and looking up at me, pleading—her eyes always pleading…