My father and Roy Rogers are to blame.
Daddy was a fascinating storyteller. Many evenings after supper, he would relate tales of his family after they came to Texas from Georgia in 1877. Mesmerized, I sat spellbound even if he told a story I’d heard before. I visualized them as he spoke—frozen in place during the dramatic events, laughed at the humorous ones, and empathized with the sad stories.
In one of the stories, a relative from Georgia came to visit his Texas kin, one of whom was the local sheriff. During his stay, the bank was robbed. The sheriff quickly formed a posse and rode after the robbers. Apparently, some folks in town decided the man from Georgia must be guilty since he was the only stranger in town. A mob formed and dragged the Georgian to a hanging tree. They had the noose ready when the sheriff and posse returned with the real robbers. Usually, Texas is a friendly place, but I doubt if that Georgian ever returned. Wouldn’t that make a good television show?
This and other exciting tales convinced me that Texas was the Wild West. My family lived in Southern California at the time, and I longed to visit Texas.
About the time Daddy had sparked my overactive imagination, I saw my first Roy Rogers movie. I was in love! I pictured myself marrying Roy when I was grown—he would miraculously not have aged. My friends and I played Roy Rogers, rounding up rustlers or capturing the robbers to recover the bank’s money. All of this happened with me riding at Roy’s side, of course. You may scoff, but many of my adult friends admit to the same crush on Roy. Imagine how devastated I was to learn that he hadn’t waited for me but had been married to Dale Evans for years. Jilted!
My upset was mollified when we moved back to Texas just before I was eight. Right away, Daddy drove us to Oklahoma to visit my grandmother. I was on the edge of my seat, peering out the window as we traveled through range land. I must have driven my parents nuts talking about seeing real cowboys. As Daddy explained that those types of cowboys were only in movies, we drove by a group of real cowboys rounding up cattle for market. I ignored the cattle truck to stare at the men, many of whom wore chaps, as they worked the cattle. I felt vindicated. Maybe the part of the state to which we had moved was for cotton, wheat, and sorghum farmers, but I had seen the real Wild West.
Over the years, my enchantment grew, especially with the American West during the years from 1865 through 1895. I loved learning as much as I could about the state’s history, but preferred writing stories set after the
Civil War. My fascination with the West opened trails into a bewitching world I wanted to share with readers. I wanted all my facts to be accurate, which meant research for each book. At times, I’d spend an hour researching a fact that appeared as only a phrase in the book. Taking time to make the story credible was important. That doesn’t mean I made no mistakes, but I’m not confessing to what they are. You’ll have to read the books to discover those for yourself.
