A Time of Change: A Trading Post Novel - Hardcover
A Time of Change is a perfect example of the Thurlos's ability to combine passion with tension as they introduce readers to Josephine Buck and other employees at a New Mexico trading post. When The Outpost's owner dies, Josephine, a young Navajo woman, is shocked to discover that Tom Stuart, whom she thought of as a surrogate father, has left her the business.
Ben Stuart and his dad had had problems, but military service changed Ben for the better and put the two men back in each other's lives. His father's sudden death ends any possibility of a true reconciliation and leaves Ben fuming at being disinherited.
Suspecting that Jo had an affair with his father, Ben is determined to get control of the trading post. Jo's hataalii training shows her that Ben is wounded in both body and soul, and she becomes determined to help him.
As Jo and Ben move toward a deeper understanding of each other, they learn that Tom Stuart was murdered and that the trading post at the center of their lives holds many secrets.
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About the Author:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
AIMÉE and DAVID THURLO have won the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for their romantic suspense, the Willa Cather Award for Contemporary Fiction, and the New Mexico Book Award. They are the authors of the critically acclaimed Ella Clah series and many other novels.
ONE
Josephine Buck walked in beauty. She attended school two nights a week at San Juan College in Farmington, New Mexico, and held a part-time job at The Outpost, a trading post adjacent to the Navajo Nation. At age twenty-six, she was also the youngest apprentice to one of the tribe’s most revered hataaliis, medicine men. Though it would take years, someday she hoped to become a Navajo medicine woman—a rare profession for women of her tribe.
Her schedule was impossibly demanding, but through the traditions of the Diné, the Navajo People, she’d found the strength to honor all her commitments. She started each morning by offering her Prayers to Dawn, a ritual as old as the sacred mountains.
Standing on the sage-covered hillside behind her home on the Navajo Reservation, she waited for the first rays of light to peer over the horizon. The moment Sun greeted her, Jo began to chant. “Dawn, beautiful dawn.” Her voice rose, each line reverberating with the power of conviction. The prayer was as much a part of her as the beating of her heart.
At long last, she finished. “Hozhone nas clee, now all is well,” she said, then took a pinch of pollen from her deerskin medicine bag and threw it into the air. The tiny particles danced like yellow glitter in the early morning light, catching in a gentle breeze and dispersing before drifting down to Mother Earth.
Filled with energy, Jo hurried back downhill. She was going to work early to meet with Tom Stuart, the trading post’s Anglo owner. For the past two months, something had been bothering him, but the store was a busy place—she worked thirty-five hours a week there now—and they hadn’t had time to talk about anything except business. Then he’d asked her to stop by his house before work this morning to discuss an important matter. His tone was so grim, he’d scared her a bit. She’d spent a long sleepless night speculating on the reason, each new scenario worse than the last.
Tom was more than her boss; he was the father she wished she’d had, and her friend. When her own father became sick, the former marine turned storekeeper had been there for her. He’d allowed her to keep flexible hours and done everything in his power to help her through that difficult time.
As a good Navajo, Jo believed that balance was the way to harmony. Tom had helped her, and now she’d do the same for him. Jo hurried to her truck and set out, wondering what lay ahead for them today. As she steered into the long curve around the south end of the Hogback formation, the ridge that ran north and south along the Navajo Nation’s eastern boundary, she could see the trading post off in the distance, just off the Rez.
A white van, probably a delivery vehicle, pulled out onto the highway from the turnoff and headed east toward Farmington. The van reminded her of the vehicles used by bank and business couriers, or those extra rental vans used by FedEx around the holidays, except this one had no markings. The odd thing, though, was that it was awfully early for a shipment or food delivery to come in.
Tom’s trading post was a private operation, not affiliated with the tribe. It was modeled after early nineteenth-century businesses, the kind most Navajos had often used to trade or purchase supplies. Painted in a light turquoise blue color, the building contrasted with the surrounding coal-rich countryside that supplied fuel to two major power plants.
Jo drove straight to the big metal gate that led to Tom’s home behind the trading post. His white Chevy pickup stood just inside, parked in its usual spot. Jo pulled up next to the enclosure and walked to the gate. Tom had given her a key to the padlock months ago, but she didn’t have to use it this morning. The chain and lock were nowhere to be seen.
Tom was a man of settled habits, and this change in routine surprised her. Jo strode quickly up the flagstone walk and knocked hard on his front door. Tom was an early riser. A widower, he’d turned what was once his wife’s sewing room into a gym, and worked out every morning. She figured that he’d probably be there now.
Her knock went unanswered. Maybe he’d finished and stepped into the shower. She went to the front window, open about eight inches, and listened for the sound of running water.
“Morning, Tom. It’s me, Jo,” she called out. She expected to catch a whiff of the eye-opening pitch black brew Tom called coffee, but an entirely different scent came wafting out to meet her.
It wasn’t strong, but it was distinctive. For a moment, she struggled to identify it. Then memories of family gatherings and freshly butchered sheep came rushing back. Blood—that was the scent. Maybe he’d been butchering a side of beef someone gave him last night, or possibly a freezer had broken down. If meat had spoiled, he would have arranged to get an early delivery from a butcher shop.
She shivered, not from the cold, but from the thought that niggled at the back of her mind. Something felt ... off.
Jo brushed away the big blowflies that had gathered on the window screen, but they came right back. Uneasy, she circled around to the front door. As she reached into her shoulder bag for the emergency key he’d given her, she noticed that the door wasn’t completely shut. She pushed it with the tip of her boot and it swung open without a sound.
“It’s me. I’m coming in,” Jo called, her skin prickling.
There had been a time people around here didn’t bother to lock their doors, but modern life had ushered in many changes. With thieves and drug crimes more prevalent now, caution had become a fact of life. Yet she’d seen no signs of a break-in, just a door that shouldn’t be open and a missing lock and chain. And there was that white delivery van....
Though she hated the thought of intruding on anyone’s privacy, Jo forced herself to go inside. As she stepped into the living room, the scent of blood grew stronger.
Her entire body began to tremble as she took the room in at a glance. The shelf on the wall that had held antique salt and pepper shakers had been rearranged. The pair of brightly colored parrots she’d often admired were no longer there. Everything else appeared to be in order. But that scent ... Maybe he’d fallen and bumped his head, or cut himself while slicing meat or chicken.
Jo poked her head around the corner into the kitchen. Nobody was there, and the place was immaculate, as usual. No coffee was brewing either. Strange.
“Where are you?” Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her ears as she crossed the living room and went down the hall.
A sudden heart attack wouldn’t explain the heavy scent of blood. She took another whiff, trying to pinpoint its location. Maybe he’d slipped in the shower, or cut himself shaving ... badly.
Seeing the light was on in Tom’s study, Jo hurried toward it and looked inside. Her body turned to ice and for a moment horror kept her frozen to the spot. Tom was slumped across his desk, his forehead resting in a pool of dark blood. All that was left of his temple was a mass of red, gray, and black tissue. His face was turned toward the door, toward her, and his open eyes, opaque and totally lifeless, stared into eternity. With a strangled cry, she looked away. On the floor on Tom’s right side was a revolver. His lifeless hand dangled a foot above the weapon.
Grief and shock raged a battle inside her. This wasn’t happening—it couldn’t be. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Finally something inside her snapped. Panic surged through her and she ran outside as fast as she could. By now her entire body was shaking so hard, she could barely function, but she managed to fumble through her purse and find her cell phone. It took her three tries, but at last she was able to call 911.
As she tried to describe the scene to the emergency operator, she kept having to stop in midsentence and suck in air. Tears were streaming down her face. Finally, inevitably, she tasted the bile rising in her throat. Mumbling she was going to be sick, Jo dropped her purse and phone on the floor of the porch and ran out onto the gravel just in time. Her stomach turned inside out, emptying its meager contents, followed by the dry heaves.
After several moments, Jo stumbled back to where she’d dropped the phone. Wiping her mouth with a tissue, she managed a weak “I’m back.”
Remembering something her hataalii teacher had taught her, Jo forced herself to slow her breathing. Little by little she regained a measure of control and was able to finish speaking to the emergency operator.
Jo was just putting the phone away when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she spun around.
“What’s wrong, Jo? You sick?”
Jo stared at Regina Yazzie. Like her, the young Navajo woman worked nearly full-time at the trading post. Mother to a two-year-old, Regina was about her age, but they were nearly opposites in every conceivable way.
Regina’s close-cropped black hair was highlighted in shades of brown and gold. Jo’s hair was long, thick, and ebony, and at work she usually wore it in a single braid that fell almost to her waist. Regina was also tall for a Navajo woman, standing around five foot seven. Jo was five foot two—if she stood up really straight.
Yet the biggest difference between them went beyond looks and family. Regina was a Modernist Christian, and Jo, an apprentice medicine woman, treasured the traditional beliefs of the Diné.
“What’s going on? Is it Tom?” Regina pressed, turning her head toward the front door of the house. “Did he have a heart attack or something?”
“Don’t use his name,” Jo said, her hand on the medicine bag tied to her be...
Josephine Buck walked in beauty. She attended school two nights a week at San Juan College in Farmington, New Mexico, and held a part-time job at The Outpost, a trading post adjacent to the Navajo Nation. At age twenty-six, she was also the youngest apprentice to one of the tribe’s most revered hataaliis, medicine men. Though it would take years, someday she hoped to become a Navajo medicine woman—a rare profession for women of her tribe.
Her schedule was impossibly demanding, but through the traditions of the Diné, the Navajo People, she’d found the strength to honor all her commitments. She started each morning by offering her Prayers to Dawn, a ritual as old as the sacred mountains.
Standing on the sage-covered hillside behind her home on the Navajo Reservation, she waited for the first rays of light to peer over the horizon. The moment Sun greeted her, Jo began to chant. “Dawn, beautiful dawn.” Her voice rose, each line reverberating with the power of conviction. The prayer was as much a part of her as the beating of her heart.
At long last, she finished. “Hozhone nas clee, now all is well,” she said, then took a pinch of pollen from her deerskin medicine bag and threw it into the air. The tiny particles danced like yellow glitter in the early morning light, catching in a gentle breeze and dispersing before drifting down to Mother Earth.
Filled with energy, Jo hurried back downhill. She was going to work early to meet with Tom Stuart, the trading post’s Anglo owner. For the past two months, something had been bothering him, but the store was a busy place—she worked thirty-five hours a week there now—and they hadn’t had time to talk about anything except business. Then he’d asked her to stop by his house before work this morning to discuss an important matter. His tone was so grim, he’d scared her a bit. She’d spent a long sleepless night speculating on the reason, each new scenario worse than the last.
Tom was more than her boss; he was the father she wished she’d had, and her friend. When her own father became sick, the former marine turned storekeeper had been there for her. He’d allowed her to keep flexible hours and done everything in his power to help her through that difficult time.
As a good Navajo, Jo believed that balance was the way to harmony. Tom had helped her, and now she’d do the same for him. Jo hurried to her truck and set out, wondering what lay ahead for them today. As she steered into the long curve around the south end of the Hogback formation, the ridge that ran north and south along the Navajo Nation’s eastern boundary, she could see the trading post off in the distance, just off the Rez.
A white van, probably a delivery vehicle, pulled out onto the highway from the turnoff and headed east toward Farmington. The van reminded her of the vehicles used by bank and business couriers, or those extra rental vans used by FedEx around the holidays, except this one had no markings. The odd thing, though, was that it was awfully early for a shipment or food delivery to come in.
Tom’s trading post was a private operation, not affiliated with the tribe. It was modeled after early nineteenth-century businesses, the kind most Navajos had often used to trade or purchase supplies. Painted in a light turquoise blue color, the building contrasted with the surrounding coal-rich countryside that supplied fuel to two major power plants.
Jo drove straight to the big metal gate that led to Tom’s home behind the trading post. His white Chevy pickup stood just inside, parked in its usual spot. Jo pulled up next to the enclosure and walked to the gate. Tom had given her a key to the padlock months ago, but she didn’t have to use it this morning. The chain and lock were nowhere to be seen.
Tom was a man of settled habits, and this change in routine surprised her. Jo strode quickly up the flagstone walk and knocked hard on his front door. Tom was an early riser. A widower, he’d turned what was once his wife’s sewing room into a gym, and worked out every morning. She figured that he’d probably be there now.
Her knock went unanswered. Maybe he’d finished and stepped into the shower. She went to the front window, open about eight inches, and listened for the sound of running water.
“Morning, Tom. It’s me, Jo,” she called out. She expected to catch a whiff of the eye-opening pitch black brew Tom called coffee, but an entirely different scent came wafting out to meet her.
It wasn’t strong, but it was distinctive. For a moment, she struggled to identify it. Then memories of family gatherings and freshly butchered sheep came rushing back. Blood—that was the scent. Maybe he’d been butchering a side of beef someone gave him last night, or possibly a freezer had broken down. If meat had spoiled, he would have arranged to get an early delivery from a butcher shop.
She shivered, not from the cold, but from the thought that niggled at the back of her mind. Something felt ... off.
Jo brushed away the big blowflies that had gathered on the window screen, but they came right back. Uneasy, she circled around to the front door. As she reached into her shoulder bag for the emergency key he’d given her, she noticed that the door wasn’t completely shut. She pushed it with the tip of her boot and it swung open without a sound.
“It’s me. I’m coming in,” Jo called, her skin prickling.
There had been a time people around here didn’t bother to lock their doors, but modern life had ushered in many changes. With thieves and drug crimes more prevalent now, caution had become a fact of life. Yet she’d seen no signs of a break-in, just a door that shouldn’t be open and a missing lock and chain. And there was that white delivery van....
Though she hated the thought of intruding on anyone’s privacy, Jo forced herself to go inside. As she stepped into the living room, the scent of blood grew stronger.
Her entire body began to tremble as she took the room in at a glance. The shelf on the wall that had held antique salt and pepper shakers had been rearranged. The pair of brightly colored parrots she’d often admired were no longer there. Everything else appeared to be in order. But that scent ... Maybe he’d fallen and bumped his head, or cut himself while slicing meat or chicken.
Jo poked her head around the corner into the kitchen. Nobody was there, and the place was immaculate, as usual. No coffee was brewing either. Strange.
“Where are you?” Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her ears as she crossed the living room and went down the hall.
A sudden heart attack wouldn’t explain the heavy scent of blood. She took another whiff, trying to pinpoint its location. Maybe he’d slipped in the shower, or cut himself shaving ... badly.
Seeing the light was on in Tom’s study, Jo hurried toward it and looked inside. Her body turned to ice and for a moment horror kept her frozen to the spot. Tom was slumped across his desk, his forehead resting in a pool of dark blood. All that was left of his temple was a mass of red, gray, and black tissue. His face was turned toward the door, toward her, and his open eyes, opaque and totally lifeless, stared into eternity. With a strangled cry, she looked away. On the floor on Tom’s right side was a revolver. His lifeless hand dangled a foot above the weapon.
Grief and shock raged a battle inside her. This wasn’t happening—it couldn’t be. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Finally something inside her snapped. Panic surged through her and she ran outside as fast as she could. By now her entire body was shaking so hard, she could barely function, but she managed to fumble through her purse and find her cell phone. It took her three tries, but at last she was able to call 911.
As she tried to describe the scene to the emergency operator, she kept having to stop in midsentence and suck in air. Tears were streaming down her face. Finally, inevitably, she tasted the bile rising in her throat. Mumbling she was going to be sick, Jo dropped her purse and phone on the floor of the porch and ran out onto the gravel just in time. Her stomach turned inside out, emptying its meager contents, followed by the dry heaves.
After several moments, Jo stumbled back to where she’d dropped the phone. Wiping her mouth with a tissue, she managed a weak “I’m back.”
Remembering something her hataalii teacher had taught her, Jo forced herself to slow her breathing. Little by little she regained a measure of control and was able to finish speaking to the emergency operator.
Jo was just putting the phone away when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she spun around.
“What’s wrong, Jo? You sick?”
Jo stared at Regina Yazzie. Like her, the young Navajo woman worked nearly full-time at the trading post. Mother to a two-year-old, Regina was about her age, but they were nearly opposites in every conceivable way.
Regina’s close-cropped black hair was highlighted in shades of brown and gold. Jo’s hair was long, thick, and ebony, and at work she usually wore it in a single braid that fell almost to her waist. Regina was also tall for a Navajo woman, standing around five foot seven. Jo was five foot two—if she stood up really straight.
Yet the biggest difference between them went beyond looks and family. Regina was a Modernist Christian, and Jo, an apprentice medicine woman, treasured the traditional beliefs of the Diné.
“What’s going on? Is it Tom?” Regina pressed, turning her head toward the front door of the house. “Did he have a heart attack or something?”
“Don’t use his name,” Jo said, her hand on the medicine bag tied to her be...
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- PublisherForge Books
- Publication date2013
- ISBN 10 0765324520
- ISBN 13 9780765324528
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number2
- Number of pages352
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