Samuel stroked the narrow piece of old cottonwood thoughtfully, absorbing its smoothness. It called out to be carved.
He was one of only a handful of boys living in Elizabethtown, New Mexico Territory, in this year of 1871. Almost all the other children were girls. Even worse, he was the only boy in a house full of overly-particular and opinionated sisters. Samuel scowled at the wood and dug his dirty fingernail into it, cutting a rough zigzag. It felt good to mark up something that they couldn’t complain about, even if he did have to hide behind the woodshed to do it, and didn’t have a knife to cut it proper-like.
“What are you doing?” a young female voice inquired.
Samuel looked up warily. A girl with long honey-brown curls and large gray eyes stood at the corner of the shed, staring at the wood in Samuel’s hands. She moved closer, her eyes still on the old stick. “How’d you mark it like that?” she asked. “All the wood around this town is too twisted and tough to cut into.”
“This here’s cottonwood,” he said. “It’s softer than the pine and other stuff hereabouts.”
“Where’d you get it?”
He stiffened, remembering he was talking to a girl, one who was bound to boss him around. “What’s it to you?” he asked.
“Well, never mind,” she said. She shoved her hands into her pinafore pockets and turned to go, her head down. Her curls covered her face.
“I’m sorry,” Samuel said contritely. He flung the stick away.
The girl crossed the yard to the piece of wood and bent to pick it up. She ran her fingers down the side he hadn’t marked. “It’s very soft,” she said.
“I have a lot of sisters and they’re always bossing me,” Samuel said apologetically.
The girl lifted her head and grinned. “I only have one brother, but he’s always bossing me.”
“What’d you want to know about the wood for?”
“I want to learn how to carve,” she said. “My brother knows but he won’t teach me. He says carving’s only for boys. I was going to try to teach myself but I couldn’t find anything soft enough.”
“I found that stick in our woodpile,” Samuel said. “There’s more in there but I’ll have to dig through the stack in order to get at it.”
“When you do find some, could I have a piece?”
“Sure. Why not?” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You have a knife?”
She smiled triumphantly and pulled a penknife from her pinafore pocket. They grinned at each other. Then she stuck out her hand, ready to shake. “I’m Charlotte,” she said.
from Valley of the Eagles