Violet Intrigue Query

America lies under the rubble of the great Supply War. The global massacre has ended, but the country is divided between wartorn communities who fight tooth-and-nail for the land's remaining resources.

In the isolated town of Rock Ridge, Texas, seventeen-year-old Ellie Hudson immerses herself in the one thing the war hasn't destroyed--baseball. But her power-hungry stepmother wants to start another Civil War and frame Ellie as the instigator. To foil her plan, Ellie must adopt a series of fake identities, gain the trust of the charming Captain Wyatt, and enlist herself in the enemy militia. The odds are against her, but with a little luck and a few faithful friends, she'll manage to save Rock Ridge, find true love, and preserve the American dream--or what's left of it.

VIOLET INTRIGUE is a 65,000 word post-apocalyptic YA fairytale with all-American charm. It's dystopian setting and strong female lead make it a home-run read for fans of The Maze Runner, The Lunar Chronicles, and The Selection.

FIRST CHAPTER SAMPLE
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Chapter One
The Homecoming Gala
 
Once upon a time, I loved playing baseball in the yard with my dad. I loved the crack of the bat as it bit the ball and sent it soaring out past the cornfields. I loved the way he lifted me over his head and spun me after I rounded home plate. My father smiled at me with his clear blue eyes and exclaimed, "Ellie, you're the best player in Texas!"
But once upon a time was a long time ago, and now all of those things are dead. The corn. My father. Even baseball.
Sometimes, when the day has been especially hard, and my arms become riddled with fresh, purple bruises from all the work, and my stepmother’s tongue has no leash at all, I close my eyes and go back to that “once upon a time”. 
 
The thin metal handle from the five-gallon bucket dug sharply into my fingers. I kept my chest lifted up and walked quickly along the path from the well to the pasture. Cool water sloshed onto my jeans and the dry, dusty ground as I waddled, despite my efforts to keep the bucket stable.
I pushed the heavy metal gate open with my back, swung it shut with my foot, and grunted my way over to the steel tub in the corner of the pasture. My horses snorted and shook their manes impatiently at me.
“I’m coming as fast as I can,” I explained before dumping the water into their deep trough. I rolled my shoulders, stretched out my fingers, and indulged in a moment of nostalgia while glaring at the useless mechanical pumps and piping.
I knew it was only a matter of minutes before someone started yelling at me. I’d expected it to be my step-mother or one of her daughters. Instead the frantic cries and scared squawks came from the hen house.Not again, I thought, gritting my teeth. I ran across the grassy pasture, threw open the rear door of the barn and bolted for the shotgun hidden on the top shelf of the storage cabinets. 
The gun was still loaded from the last time someone tried to steal my chickens.  My feet threw up a small dust cloud as I sprinted from the barn up the hill toward the house and the chicken coop.  My biggest hen could scream loud enough for me to hear from almost anywhere on the ranch. And to think, I used to hate her for it. 
As I approached the coop, I nestled the butt of the gun in my shoulder and cleared my throat.
I was ready to deliver my threat when Johnny poked his head around the corner and smiled apologetically. “Thanks a lot,” he said, scowling at the small door of the coop. 
Johnny limped to the far side of the coop and I followed, just to be sure no one inside the house saw him out here. I dropped the gun to my side and caught my breath. “You trying to give me a heart attack?” I asked, releasing the tension in my chest. 
“Sorry,” he said. He leaned into his cane and glanced back toward my house. “I thought they’d be gone but then I heard them and hurried over here to hide.  Didn’t the homecoming gala already start?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know when it starts.” 
"Violet!" Savannah shouted through the front door. “Violet, get in here!” 
“There it is.” I shook my head resentfully. “Check these locks again,” I said, pointing to the huge padlocks on the side of the henhouse. Then I sighed and pushed the gun into Johnny’s free hand. “Make sure that gets put back where it belongs.” 
I walked slowly across the backyard, up the steps and into the kitchen. After I dropped my dirty shoes in the basket beside the back door, I moved through the hallway into the front living room, taking my sweet time as I did so—partially because I was so sore, and partially to irritate Savannah. 
When she and her younger sister, Cheyenne, first started calling me "Violet" because of my bruised arms and legs, I resented it. But not anymore. Violet is more of my name now than Ellie. My father called me Ellie, so they have no right to.
My two stepsisters stood in the front room, striking silly poses—unintentionally, I’m sure—in the huge mirrors along the north wall. I knew they were attempting to be seductive models. I stifled a chuckle.
Savannah glared at me through her unnaturally long lashes. "Button me up," she demanded, before turning her back to me. Obediently, I started slipping the mismatched buttons into the buttonholes in her handmade dress, careful not to pull any of her long, red ringlets.
"Please?" I muttered sarcastically to Savannah, forcing my shaky, sore fingers to cooperate. Savannah had taken bits of frilly pink fabric and beige lace and stitched them together at what I can only guess was her attempt to re-create Victorian fashion. She looked absurd. I think she was trying to impress someone with her sewing. It wasn’t going to work.
Savannah twitched her shoulders at me. “How do you manage to get chicken poop in your hair when it’s so short? I swear you worship those birds.” 
I had to roll my eyes. The fact that she insulted my pixie cut again meant she'd run out of material. Fortunately, I hadn't run out of patience. Not yet.
She was right about the chickens, though. If we hoped to survive, we needed them to stay alive, so I spent a great deal of time making sure their coop was secure and clean and doing all I could to encourage them to lay in the nesting boxes. She should have thanked me for it instead of mocking me. 
Six months ago- before some foreign power decided to play God and detonate an NEMP- everyone bought their eggs and chicken at the grocery store. No one ever bothered with our chickens. Now we get our food at the farmers market, trading eggs for bread and whatever else anyone has to offer. Eggs. Our new monetary system. I could still hardly believe it.
"Do mine now!" Cheyenne demanded, adjusting her silver watch before pulling her shoulders back. Cheyenne had adorable dimples and clusters of freckles on her cheekbones, even when she was following the family tradition of scowling at me. I suppressed a snicker as I saw the "dress" she'd been working on for the past week. Scraps from her older sister's trash pile lined the edges, but for the most part, she'd haphazardly tried to make an old patchwork quilt into a ball gown. The end result was downright hilarious.
Without warning, Theresa bustled into the room. I tried not to cringe but old habits prevailed, and I ducked my head.
It was three years ago, shortly after my fourteenth birthday that my father met Theresa. She was beautiful, tenacious, and smart. Her ambition drew him to her. He told me a few times that she was a fighter, and that with the way things were going, we needed that sort of spirit.
The first time I saw her, I remember wondering if she was the model of a middle-aged southern belle. Her two daughters looked so much like her; beautiful, feminine, and delicate. The idea of having sisters never really appealed to me. Brothers seemed more fun, but Theresa only had girls. Two of them.
Apparently, Theresa was some pageant winner in her hometown Knotwood, a few miles south of us. Her lovely, perfect red hair framed her heart-shaped face. The only wrinkles on her face came out of her eyes from constantly smiling.
Or so I’d thought.
My father had only been dating her for a few weeks when he got the urgent message that he had to deploy again. China wanted to punish us for our debts. The Middle East wanted water. Africa wanted modern healthcare and supplies. That’s why they called it The Supply War. It started out as The Water War, but it spiraled into a world war where everyone scrambled for supplies they didn’t have. Our country “needed” him to lead. And I knew just as well as anyone that he was one of the best leaders, maybe in the whole world. I’d daydreamed about him becoming President or Secretary of Defense someday.
My father, Liam Hudson, was a Major General in the U.S. Army. He held the position of Installation Commander at Fort Eckert for the first fourteen years of my life. Even though he deployed multiple times during The Supply War, he rarely brought the burden of the battlefield back home to Rock Ridge. He let me keep my childhood of princesses, castles, knights, and fairy tales.
But the savagery of war has stolen all of those loves from me.
The first year of that deployment Theresa and her daughters disappeared back to Knotwood, leaving me alone at Hudson Ranch, which wasn’t an unusual situation for me. It wasn't easy having him gone so much throughout my childhood and early teens. If I didn't love him, it would have been great. I'd have his money and the ranch and the house and the stories to brag about. But none of those mattered when he was gone. Rock Ridge wasn't the same without him. And my grades in school plummeted as I tried to take care of our plants and animals on my own.
In February, almost a year after he met Theresa, my dad came home from deployment for a couple weeks of rest and relaxation.  He knew he had to go back to the warzone for another year but he didn’t want to leave me here alone. He and Theresa went to the courthouse and had a quick exchange of vows the night before he went to war again. I know his concern was with leaving me alone, but I would have been better off on my own. He left me with something far more dangerous than loneliness; Theresa. 
Right after he boarded the plane, Theresa’s kindness and beauty transformed into hateful, spiteful meanness. It didn’t take long for me to learn that as beautiful as she was on the outside, she was just as ugly on the inside.
The ranch belonged to her after that. And now my dad was gone for good. One of the billions of casualties of these past six years. I don’t know how long it takes for people to get used to living with a hole in their heart. My mom, Ann, died when I was born and while there was definitely an ache for that missing relationship, it was nothing compared to the way my father’s death crippled me five months ago. 
"Don't bother asking if you can come," Theresa barked at me, as if I cared about going to the homecoming gala.
Theresa turned and I zipped up the back of her dress. I have no idea where she got it, but it appeared to be an old wedding dress she’d dyed deep purple. It was lovely, but too low cut in the front for a woman over fifty. I’d say she was well-endowed, but I’m pretty sure she bought her boobs before the wars broke out. Naturally, I’d never asked her.
"I don't even want to go," I confessed, casually surveying a new bruise blooming above my wrist. I thought it was a bit strange to hold a dance. Granted the wars were over, but was it really appropriate to celebrate? Sure, it gave a good distraction from our mourning, but it seemed ill-timed to me. 
To celebrate Jackson Wyatt’s homecoming, the Wyatts invited all of Rock Ridge to their home for a gala. 
"You'd miss the opportunity to see a war-friend of your father’s? Not the ‘angel of a daughter’ he thought you were then, are you?" Theresa lifted her eyebrows, as if daring me to talk back. She always did that after delivering an insult, like she wanted me to test her and engage in some battle. Talking back didn't take bravery or courage—biting my tongue did.
I began counting my breaths in an effort to diffuse my anger. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. I slowly drew my fourth breath. In. Calmly, in as composed a tone as I could manage, I delivered my response. "It has nothing to do with him. I'm just not one for galas." I shrugged, thinking of how I’d spend my time with them away. A grin crept across my face.
Savannah narrowed her eyebrows. "You really don't care about Captain Jackson Wyatt?"
I shrugged again. "I care about him. I mean, I'm glad he’s home safe. From what everyone says, he was quite the hero out there, on the battlefield." As I tried to picture him in his army uniform, decorated with ribbons and medals, the only image that came to mind was the thirteen-year-old boy that the neighborhood kids and I used to play baseball with. That was before his dad left again and his nanny became so strict about his education that he was almost always confined to his house.
That was five years before he went to war with his father. I would have loved to see Jackson, but he wouldn’t remember me—not after almost seven years apart. Even back in our ball-playing days, we played on opposite teams, and he spent any free moments he had flirting with the other girls.
Theresa and her daughters moved out of the front room to the entryway, just in front of the door, waiting for me to open it. "Isn't that a little ridiculous?" I asked. "Each of you is perfectly capable of opening it yourself."
Theresa's finger shot out, nearly jabbing me in the eye. "Don't get sassy with me. It's not about whether or not we can do it. It's about respect." I knew very well that it was about respect and that respect was a one-way street in my house. Or, what used to be my house. I pulled at the large bronze doorknob set in our solid mahogany front door.
"Please give Colonel Wyatt my regards," I said, opening the heavy door for them. My late-father would have wanted me to be friendly to his battle buddy, Austin. Even though I never heard from him anymore. Maybe I resented the Wyatts for it. As if it was their fault that I still lived with Theresa. In my heart, I knew it had nothing to do with the Wyatts, but my father had asked him to look after me if anything happened. And then something did happen. But Austin never came for me. I don’t know what I expected him to do. Swoop in a scoop me up? Give me a room in his house? It wasn’t as though I was a child who needed him to hold my hand. He had endured his own series of losses, so it wasn’t really reasonable for me to have any expectations of him anyway.
I walked my step-mother and two sisters out to the car, a red Camry, still in pretty good condition all things considered.
"If he asks, I’ll tell him you said hi," Cheyenne said, adjusting her onion-smelling dress before climbing into the old car. She basically whispered it, so Savannah and Theresa wouldn’t hear. 
I’d removed everything that wasn't essential for the car’s structural integrity, making a mental note of how to put it all back, if the occasion came that we could return to using cars as our primary mode of transportation. I went for the horses and hitched them to the front of the car as quickly as I could. Gasoline was rare and expensive, and since Theresa and her daughters’ feelings of superiority forbade them from walking across town like most people, my stepmother and sisters rode in a horse-drawn car with four new tires to the gala at Austin Wyatt's mansion.
They were just out of sight when Johnny limped out from behind the rose bushes that grew like crazy on the side of the house. "You’re still not ready," he said, propping himself up on a baseball bat as a cane. His dad had it custom-made so it was a little bit longer with a slightly larger handle for him to hold on to while he hobbled around. “We going or not?” He twitched his head, brushing some of his hair away from his face. It was nearly as long as mine now, on top anyway. He’d buzzed the sides and kept only the length on top, spiking it with cheap hair gel. His worn-out jeans covered the top part of his dirty sneakers. The laces frayed at the ends. The soles threatened to peel off from the top. I’d offered him my dad’s shoes, but Johnny’s feet were too small. No surprise since my father had towered over me, and Johnny and I frequently had debates on who was taller, he or I.  “You gonna make me wait here all night or what?” He playfully slapped my arm.
"Five minutes," I said, smiling. I raced back inside.
Three minutes later, I emerged in my lucky, blue baseball jersey. While it was far too big for me when my dad first bought it, it now fit me like a glove. Actually, it fit me a lot better than my glove. Wearing it, I felt like the best player in Texas.
Johnny and I walked slowly across the wide stretch of dirt and brush toward the stadium. Fortunately for him, the stadium wasn't very far. And if I'm being completely honest, it’s a bit unfair to call it a stadium. Certainly nothing like Fenway or Yankee Stadium used to be. Had it been any bigger, it would have been a target for the enemies. Instead it was mostly intact, except the seats behind left field which had been nearly leveled. Johnny hobbled on his left foot, using his baseball bat cane while I listened to him tell me about his day. I didn’t know what happened to his crutch. I’d asked only to have him start on some bull-crap story. I could always tell when he was lying to me. The truth was, his pride forbade him from using it. Not that the bat was much better, but at least it didn’t scream “I’m a cripple.”
I didn’t know what the big deal was. Everyone already knew. I’d give him the same rote speech about how being a cripple wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but it was pointless. Nothing I said would be enough to undo the looks, whispers, and accusations he’d faced in the last seven months since the final group of able-bodied men were drafted and deployed.
Johnny started talking as we walked. "Mayor Wyatt’s hiring again. I was outside his house today while he gave a little speech to the applicants. He said he hires so many employees because he doesn't believe in something for nothing and won't give handouts. Says people have to learn to work or humankind will die off. He blames the earlier generations for getting too dependent on technology." Johnny nudged an empty can out of his way before turning back to me. I kicked the can back to him, aiming for his chest, and he ducked behind a wide telephone pole. The wires hung like Christmas lights that had been in the box for too long. Tangled. Twisted. Useless. "You think he's right?" Johnny asked.
"Probably," I said. "Austin’s a smart man. He knows more about this world than I ever will."
Johnny nodded. "Seen more of it, too."
When he said that, I clenched my jaw. I hate it. Johnny always brought up the draft in subtle ways like that, as if it's his fault he didn't go to war—like it's a bad thing. Not that I can't understand him; I wanted to go to war, too. Sitting home wondering when we were all going to get invaded, blown up, or catch the plague-du-jour couldn't have been easier than fighting for something. But since the war and the aftermath brought us all back in time, women couldn’t go to war for the same reason you couldn't hunt female deer. I mean, now that everyone was starving, you could shoot and eat whatever you want. No one would stop you. Basic reason being that men can't get pregnant or nurse babies.  
But I wasn't in any position to get married and have kids, not then anyway, and I think it would have been a pretty irresponsible start to motherhood, given the state of things.  Now everyone who isn’t in their “fertile years” preaches their opinions to all of those who are in them. Most of the women warn me to “be safe” because there aren’t enough resources to go around. They said it like I don’t know that hunger pangs nudge me in time with my heartbeat. 
The phrase that has been circulating lately is, “Once the lights come back on, you’ll know it’s safe to turn them off.” A lot of people are optimistic that when the effects of the NEMP wear off, there will be a surplus of food and a lack of people. All the older women have made it very clear that it will be my duty to re-populate America.  I say it like I hate the idea, but I don’t. I simply hate the idea of doing it for the sake of society. I’ll be a mom and a wife someday, but it’ll be when I’m ready. Not because the women in the Widows Club keep reminding me of the state of my reproductive wellness.
I stepped over a few more piles of mangled metal. Parts of cars and computers and farm equipment. Some people used this area between town and the stadium as a junkyard, especially for electronics.
“You’re not going to wish you were at some fancy gala, are you?” Johnny asked.
“I’d already forgotten about it,” I said, shrugging. Besides, without makeup, maybe I would look sort of boyish in a dress. Pixie cut and all. Thinking about the draft and the war brought me back to that day in July when I cut it.
The announcement came in on cell phones and posters, and flew by word of mouth nearly as fast as the messages could be sent through the internet and phone lines. The war was turning south. Things were getting bad. They needed more men. More boots on the ground. More trigger fingers.
By this point, my dad had been fighting overseas for seventeen months. It had been five months since he married Theresa and it had been five months of hell trying to live with her.
I wanted to get away and I missed my dad, but I also envied the chance that he had to fight for what he believed in. Freedom. Kindness. Liberty. Safety. War for him was never about death and blood and tears. It was always about individuals. Little kids having a place to sleep without fear of artillery waking them. Pregnant moms with enough to eat to grow strong and healthy children. War, to him, was about those who had, giving to those who didn’t have. But I knew, and everyone else knew, that Rock Ridge was basically bled of all its men.
The responsibility to live up to my name as a Hudson weighed on my shoulders and fueled me forward to take action. I wanted to fight for my country. The plan was ridiculous and destined to fail. My father probably would have told me it was futile, or maybe he could have made an exception to policy and let me join, but he wasn’t here anyway. Johnny had come by to say goodbye just as I’d lopped off the first handful of my long, blonde hair.
“It won’t work,” he said sympathetically, but he helped me cut the rest off anyway. The memory was bittersweet really. Johnny hobbled his way into the town center, utterly failing to conceal his limp, and I marched beside him, equally unlikely to be accepted to the draft. Being only 17 was the least of our concerns. We looked at each other, both deciding not to state the obvious: we had no chance. We never did. But we shared something that moment. I knew that if I didn't at least try to fight, I'd never be able to forgive myself. I’m sure the same goes for Johnny. 
But it seems he can’t forgive himself anyway.
I’ve never regretted cutting my hair and have kept it short ever since. It's easier to do the work around the former-ranch this way. Besides, long, blonde hair doesn't really suit my personality.
A few minutes later we reached the stadium. As we stepped through the broken doors and onto the field, a sense of peace came over me. We'd managed to clear the smaller pieces of cement and metal off the field, but some blocks of cement couldn't be moved by me and Johnny alone. A patch of persistent weeds kept trying to hide third base, but I was winning that battle.
I’d bring my horses down and let them draw the cement off the field, but I'm used to how it looks now. And I wouldn't want Theresa coming to look for the horses and tarnishing this place with her presence. Everywhere else in this world had issues. But here I lose myself in the game, forget all the troubles.
I sprinted to home plate while Johnny hobbled to the pitcher's mound. Doing this at least three times a week kept me sane. Though Theresa didn't bring me a brother, which probably ended up being a good thing based on how terrible her daughters were, fate brought me one; Johnny. He and baseball were some of the few things keeping me from abandoning Rock Ridge all together.
We couldn't play baseball on a team–there were no teams. Besides, the stadium wasn't really in good shape and now most people spent their time ensuring survival, not seeking entertainment or having fun. There was no major league baseball. No crowds of cheering fans, armed with hot dogs and peanuts, beers at their sides, ready to watch their team compete on the field of battle.
No. The American pastime was dead—killed in the war. But here in the dead stadium with Johnny, I could resurrect the memory of it, if only for a little bit.
First pitch was a ball, thrown completely too far to the side for me to hit—Johnny admitted it himself. Second was foul. Even though I’d made contact with the ball, it flew off at a bad angle, hitting our imaginary fans.
On the third swing, I felt the hit clear through my shoulders. "It's outta here!" Johnny shouted, as we watched the ball soar out of the stadium. It was only that feeling right there, the home run, that made fetching the balls later worth it. I dropped the bat and took to the bases.
There’s a thing I do, when I hit home runs, where I look down at my feet. I watch them come—left, right, left, right—and I watch them stir up the dust. I plant my foot deliberately in the center of first base, then do the same as I run to second and stomp second base. On third, I’m winded, even though I could walk the bases and get home just fine. I get progressively faster and hit the plates harder until I sprint, full out, for home.
Home base isn’t just a piece of rubber or plastic placed in the dirt of an abandoned field. It’s the home for all my memories with my father. The home for all my hopes in the future. The home for my worry and doubt and anger.
Home base isn’t a base at all; it’s just home. My home.
The muscles all through my right leg tensed as I stomped on home base with all my strength.
In that moment, all that mattered was baseball, and I believed the simplicity of that joy is part of what used to make America great.