Fifty Shades of Zane Grey

By JP Mac

More laughs than lewd, this humor-packed E.L. James parody races you around exotic switchbacks as young Anna Ironhead discovers the Old West swarming with suitors in the form of a charming bandit, a sincere scout, and a powerful, mesmerizing railroad tycoon named Lash Grey.

As guns blaze and the Cheyenne raid, shy, murmuring dishwasher Anna wrestles with her heart—not to mention a mind filled with psychological personifications who act out at all the wrong times. Pressed by suitors attracted to her quiet beauty and endearing quirks, Anna must navigate an emotional arroyo as she struggles to find romance among the arrows and dust of a wild, spirited land.

For naive Anna must grasp that passion comes in many shades, but true love is a primary color.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JP Mac
• Release date: Mar 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310212109

JP Mac

Mac's short fiction has appeared in venues such as "The Best of Every Day Fiction Three, "The Cthulhu Mythos Mega Pack," and "Horror: California." A former assistant marathon coach with Team in Training, he enjoys authors such as Jack Vance and Raymond Carver. When not fleeing wildfires in the California hills, Mac is working on a horror novella.

Book preview

FIFTY SHADES OF ZANE GREY

by

JP Mac

Fifty Shades of Zane Grey

Copyright 2015 JP Mac

Library of Congress

All Rights Reserved

Published by Cornerstone Media

Smashwords Edition

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work that went into this edition.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In 1740, Samuel Richardson wrote the first English language best seller, a novel called Pamela.

In 1741, Henry Fielding wrote Shamela, a parody of that best seller.

A proud tradition continues.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

In my awkward ungainly way, I run toward the saloon. I imagine the very worst: Eileen without an eye. Eileen’s brains leaking out like giblets from a cracked gravy boat. Eileen wounded DOWN THERE. I only know that my best friend is shot and has called for me. My Inner Spinster wags a finger and warns of serious trouble. Then she kicks a portion of my brain, causing my right eye to flicker. I have trouble focusing and tumble over a horse trough. Brushing myself off, I run along a dusty street to the scene of the gunplay.

A crowd mills around the entrance of R.I. Perryman’s Sporting Palace. Men talk and spit tobacco, occasionally striking the ground. Only grudgingly do they allow an ugly lout woman such as myself to pass through their ranks. On the rough wooden planks near the batwing doors, I see a blood-soaked Eileen. She sits up against the wall; robin’s egg dress splattered a ghastly red. My heart leaps into my throat and stays there, beating against my tongue and causing my teeth to vibrate.

Took your time, says Eileen. I blush and look down as she scribbles furiously on a notepad. Tearing off a sheet of paper, she hands it to a young boy. "Run this over to the Chronicle. Tell the editor it’s the shooting at Perryman’s Faro table."

As the boy scampers off, I marvel at Eileen’s courage. She is adventurous, and attractive. I am a lowly dishwasher, awkward as a three-legged sheep. In Perryman’s huge, bullet-holed window, I take stock of my overlarge hazel eyes and unruly dark hair that seems determined to vex me at every turn. Tendrils of hair escape my head, landing on the porch and running off. How is that even possible? I roll my big eyes, exasperated by my own plainness. I bite my lip. I murmur inane things. I make a soft honking noise like a Canadian goose.

Stop honking this instant, snaps Eileen.

Jeez, sorry, I whisper.

A .45 round has creased Eileen’s forehead, leaving a streak of blood like the war paint of a Cheyenne Dog Soldier. More seriously, she has been shot clean through the right breast. But far from simpering in pain, as I would have done, Eileen frowns and points her pencil at me.

Anna, you must conduct my interview tomorrow.

But I know nothing of the newspaper game.

Physically, I am a shambles and not fit to interview a hangman’s wife, let alone a railroad titan. All my questions are written down. You have only to ask them. With your wholesome beauty and charm, you will shine like tin in a fire.

My beauty? But I am ugly as sin in an outhouse. Why can’t I have her wholesome good looks and shimmering blonde hair? And her robin’s egg dress—without the bullet holes?

Please, says Eileen. Do not deny me. This interview was difficult to obtain. Why a secretive railroad baron should respond to my request while denying others is, perhaps, a mystery you will solve tomorrow.

I feel heavy breathing on my neck and blush. I know who hovers behind me. Fresh-faced, ambitious, Harney Calhoun is a few years younger then I. His attentions to me are both disturbing and annoying in that order.

Hey, Anna. Hot night in town. Oh, and the stage out of Millipede got held up. Just came over the wire. Wanna go for ice cream?

Eileen looks up sharply at Harney, Tell me of this new mayhem.

On the porch beyond Eileen, one-armed Doc Monker steps over several corpses and kneels beside a wounded cowboy. Using modern Civil War medical techniques, he employs an iron probe to locate a bullet in the man’s intestines. The cowboy screams; blood flows by the cup. My appetite for sweets is quelled.

You know, Harney, I murmur, there are injured people requiring attention.

Harney looks irritated. He is tall; with an Adam’s apple so pronounced it appears to be a young head living in his throat. By jack beans, we could sit inside the shop, don’t you know?

I roll my eyes. Eileen rolls her eyes. Even the gut shot cowboy rolls his eyes. Harney peers down at Eileen as if suddenly aware of her state. Hey, Eileen. Guess you’ve been bosom shot.

You’re like a prairie hawk, Harney. You miss nothing. How many robbers at the Millipede stage? She holds her pencil poised over the blood-dotted notebook.

I break in quickly, Please, Eileen. I’m not a reporter with your nerve and skill. I wash dishes at the boarding house. My hands are thick with pork chop grease.

Clean them by tomorrow, says Eileen, her face fixed on Harney. What property was taken?

Doc Monker, the gut-shot cowboy, and several onlookers glance toward Harney, who beams at being the center of attention. I was done keying a message to Blind Man Falls when it came over the wire. The Marshall at Millipede said Romegas held up the stage and stole thirty-four dollars in silver and a fella’s new pearl gray bowler hat. He left behind his old hat. I guess it was used up some.

Took a man’s hat. That ain’t right, moans the drover.

Someone in the crowd says, That Mexican’s a mean bastard if you cross him.

Clever in his way, says Doc Monker, cleaning forceps by wiping them on his dusty slacks. He hates killing anyone in a hold-up. You can’t rob a dead man twice.

My heart remains in my mouth, making it difficult to speak. I bite my lip. Eileen, I can’t do your interview. Please don’t insist.

"Anna, I will not accept ‘no.’ Do you realize this interview could establish me as a reporter of the first water? Why, it might even propel me all the way to Hay City and an editorial position on the Intelligencer!"

Hay City, huh? says Harney, as if asked his opinion. Aiming mighty high, aren’t we? I’ll be there some day myself. This telegraphing game is only temporary. I’ve a hankering to go into the photographic impression trade. I got an old camera to practice with. ’Course, once I’m established, I’ll be looking for a wife.

Harney glances in my direction. I know he cannot mean me. I am 21 and prefer sitting alone in my attic room and reading tooth powder advertisements due to my blunt, beast-like features. He continues, We could have ice cream tomorrow. What do you say, Anna?

To Eileen I blurt, Where is the interview?

Switchback Junction.

My Inner Spinster shrieks and runs around in terror. It makes concentration very difficult.

Turning to Harney, I say, On the ’morrow, I’m doing newspaper work for Eileen. In addition, I may be having a womanly disorder. Modesty prevents me from saying more.

I guess that’s private woman stuff. But I’m holding a marker on that ice cream.

I blush and flush and smile weakly. Harney departs for the Chronicle with Eileen’s notes on the stage robbery. Alone now, except for the gut-shot drover, Doc Monker, and a crowd of onlookers, I face Eileen and whisper, Switchback Junction? Why not the Gates of Hades? The weekly stage has already left, and the way is perilous with road agents and hostile Indians.

A drop of blood rolls down Eileen’s nose. Her eyes cross, following its descent. I’ve rented a wagon and secured the services of a driver. As for the Indians, they are surly, but mostly south and west of Switchback Junction. But worry not. As you approach Grey’s train, heavily armed men employed by the railroad will ride out and escort you to the interview.

Doc Monker kneels over Eileen. Here, Miss Harrison. Bite this block of oak.

Eileen locks eyes with mine. Be in front of the boarding house at seven o’clock in the morning. Wear a good dress, a sturdy bonnet and a duster. Anna, this is so wonderful of you. You’ll do splendidly.

Double forty-one shades of cow pies.

I murmur in panic, but Eileen no longer listens. As Doc Monker spits on his probe for luck, Eileen bites into the wood block as if it were a moist cake. Soon her heels drum a merry tattoo against the planks.

And that is