Blackwater Crossing
David Griffith
Author Bio
David Griffith has lived around packers and outfitters, loggers and cowboys—and always with horses. His people have been settlers and homesteaders, early immigrants from Illinois to Missouri, then west to Montana, and finally north to the Canadian wilderness.
Cattle and horses seemed as essential to life as oxygen and water, and to ride a bucking horse well was at times necessary for survival.
His writing showcases an intimate knowledge of cowboy life and the land, from Canada to the drug corridors of the Sierra Madre. He still runs a cattle ranch in the big river country of British Columbia which provides a continuous stream of background for his novels. Though the characters are mostly fictional, his books provide an intimate picture of the Mexican cartels who continue to supply drugs to the millions of Americans whose lives are irretrievably twisted and torn by this scourge of death.
Description
A fistful of buckles and a dusted off Counterintelligence degree are poor currency in a fight with a Mexican drug cartel. But rodeo cowboy Lonnie Bowers has little else when he attempts to rescue his best friend Brian from the most sadistic and ruthless smuggler on the border. It doesn’t go well, but then neither is the rest of his life.
Lonnie never thought it would happen. In all the years he’s spent on the road, he’s been so careful—until the night in Fort Worth. And of course Clarissa found out. Now, the best thing that ever happened to him is gone, and though he’d give anything to go back and do it over, it’s too late. Then, with the divorce looming and his career on life-support, his soon-to-be ex-wife Clarissa is mauled in a cougar attack. Lonnie knows he has to see her one last time. The visit doesn’t go at all as planned, and he walks away with deep regret for the love he has squandered.
Clarissa chronicles her own story of hurt and betrayal as she struggles with a new faith, one with seemingly few answers. She retreats to the remote Blackwater Ranch to seek advice she’s not sure she can follow.
Lonnie’s search for Brian leads him into North America’s own golden triangle of drug production. High in the Sierra Madre of Mexico, Lonnie discovers too late that life is anything but fair. Here, his long-ago training is less than sufficient to protect him from a brutal, lingering death.
Book excerpt
. I held her eyes with mine, this time not wavering, and I tried to break through all the hurt and anger between us. “Clarissa, I want you to understand. I made a mistake that I will regret as long as I live. I am deeply sorry, and—there is no other woman.”
Her answer was her silence, charged with all the bitterness of the past. We huddled at our respective ends, too wounded to move, as if the table between us were a vast battlefield. The pain was again raw, and our eyes escaped to the corners of the room to avoid contact.
My third cup of coffee and the afternoon were gone. Now I had to use the bathroom, but I didn’t want to use hers. The familiar makeup, hairbrushes, and pink toothbrush would bring too many memories. No, I had better just go.
I stood, awkward, embarrassed, and dejected. The visit had been a mistake; painful—for both of us. I put my coffee cup in the sink and turned to Clarissa, pondering how to say goodbye. Our eyes met, and mine slid down the angry stitches in her face to the injured right arm she was holding close to her breast. She stood in the middle of the kitchen floor and blurted something about Brian’s family. I told her to call me if she got a radio message from them, and promised to do the same as soon as I had any news. I’d made it to the door, and with my hand on the knob I turned toward her. What I wanted to say had to be now.
“Clarissa, I know it doesn’t mean a whole lot coming from me, but you are a beautiful woman. Don’t ever think those scars take away from that.” I tried to smile; desperate to part as friends, but of course it didn’t work. She wiped at her eyes, and I had to swallow hard and look away. I shuffled from one foot to the other while I waited for her to get her angry, bitter tears under control. The scars would never have mattered to me. I wished she wasn’t angry. More than anything else, I’d wanted to . . . to help her somehow, even if it was too late to help us.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll call you and let you know when I can come up again—if you’d like?”
She nodded, a lone tear tracking down her cheek, both of us knowing that it would be easier if that didn’t happen. Prolonging this pain was useless. I would not see her again, and my whole chest contracted with a wrenching grief as I tore my eyes from her face, reached for the door and fumbled it open.
Author Website