A couple excerpts of my new novel "Mustang Lang" to give you a little look at the man:
When they give you that name, you’ve got to dress the part, cowboy or not. My six-foot-four hefty build was augmented by the two-inch heels of my six-hundred-dollar Tony Lama ostrich boots. They are round-toed and color of peanut brittle. My Levi’s were held up by an alligator belt. My turquoise long-sleeved shirt was layered with a nifty brown, lambskin vest. A lot of animals gave their lives for me to look this good, including the beaver for my black cowboy hat. Undoing Noah’s good work on the arc seemed to be my calling.
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I’d always sensed a little disdain from my father that he needed a hired hand while having a perfectly able-bodied son living fifty yards away. Anna tells me I read too much into the thoughts of my Pops, since he’s never voiced any disappointment in me. But sons do that. I could solve the mystery of who really killed JFK and probably feel like I’d still let him down because I hadn’t helped him vaccinate calves that morning instead.
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