Prophet Annie

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Overview

Annie Pinkerton Boone Newcastle's wedding night is, well, memorable. One minute she's arrived from Iowa to the practically barbarian Arizona Territory for a pre-arranged marriage, the next her newly acquired—and much older—husband expires just after the honeymoon has begun, leaving Annie without funds, and the sole support of his two elderly relatives. To make matters worse, the dead geezer has the unmitigated gall to take up residence inside Annie's body.

However, the ghost of ...

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Overview

Annie Pinkerton Boone Newcastle's wedding night is, well, memorable. One minute she's arrived from Iowa to the practically barbarian Arizona Territory for a pre-arranged marriage, the next her newly acquired—and much older—husband expires just after the honeymoon has begun, leaving Annie without funds, and the sole support of his two elderly relatives. To make matters worse, the dead geezer has the unmitigated gall to take up residence inside Annie's body.

However, the ghost of Jonas Newcastle makes himself useful by channeling vital information from the great beyond through Annie. The somewhat bewildered widow quickly earns a reputation as a seer, and soon she's sharing Jona's psychic "hints" with the public. The once impoverished widown becomes a celebrated figure, but even "Prophet Annie" cannot foresee all the raucous adventures and passionate fulfillment the future holds for her.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Spur Award-winner Recknor (Leaving Missouri) offers a daffy, highly original western told in the voice of a sassy and bewildered heroine whose unlikely and hilarious adventures skewer the conventions of the traditional Wild West tale. In 1881, at age 22, Annie Pinkerton Boone Newcastle is already twice a widow. Born in Sycamore, Iowa, which she fled only briefly at 17 to marry a gandy dancer who was promptly kicked in the head by a mule, she is promised in marriage by her dying mother to Jonas Newcastle, a prosperous "old geezer" 54 years her senior. Jonas dies in bed on their wedding night (shouting, "Freedom!"), and that's the good news for Annie. The bad news is that Jonas's ghost inhabits Annie's body, talking to her, demanding conjugal visits and giving speeches through her to audiences eager to hear Jonas's visions of the future. As a circus oddity, she becomes Prophet Annie, sort of a Psychic Network of the 1880s. Traveling with P.T. Barnum and her gourmet chef Navajo pal, Sam Two Trees, Annie feeds shortcake to her pet African cheetah in the Arizona desert while dead birds fall on her head and Jonas spouts predictions about baseball, automobiles, electricity, WWI and Jack Benny. Annie's notoriety brings her fame, fortune and the unwelcome attentions of an inept gang of outlaws whose meanness is only outmatched by their odor. Here Recknor's tale bogs down in sappy predictability as Annie falls in love with the outlaw leader in a typical good-girl-loves-bad-boy scenario. The earlier charm of Annie's blunt-spoken narrative eventually loses its magic, skidding into a too-cute conclusion. When Jonas's ghost departs, the reader will wish for an encore by the "dirty-minded old coot." (Mar.)
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780380811229
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 1/5/2000
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Pages: 352

Meet the Author

ELLEN RECKNOR is the author of numerous award-winning novels, including the Spur award winner, Leaving Missouri

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Read an Excerpt



Chapter One

I want to say right off the bat that up until August of 1881, there was nothing special whatsoever about me.

    I am not the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, as has been said. I had never been pestered by premonitions or eerie feelings, and neither, so far as I know, had been anybody in my family. I had never been struck by lightning. I had no peculiar birthmarks, as has been claimed; neither was I born with a veil, or with a star in my palm.

    And, up until that August, I had never heard any voices nor been hit by diving birds.

    I was just turned twenty-two and had not exactly been living under a rock, so of course things had happened to me before. Just nothing of real excitement. I grew up normal—well, as normal as anyone could, living around Mama. I did my chores, looked after the boarders, went to church regular on Sundays and the ball games after.

    I ran away and married a gandy dancer when I was seventeen; this was mostly to get away from Mama, although it didn't do much good. It turned out I was no more crazy about Mr. Tommy Boone than I was about Mama. When he got kicked in the head by a mule a few months later and died on the spot, I was more relieved than anything else.

    Aside from a pocket watch and nine dollars cash, Mr. Boone didn't leave me squat, so I had no choice but to move back to the boardinghouse, and to Mama. I took care of the lodgers, and of her. She was ailing then, and just lay in bed rereading all those letters from Mr. Jonas Newcastle. Mr. Newcastle was an old friend of the family. Isort of remembered his mother living with us—she was our first boarder—and she was older than God when she passed.

    Mama would never let me see those letters, but sometimes she'd read a passage aloud. She read them like they had been brought down off the mountain on stone tablets, and Mr. Newcastle was Moses himself. Maybe even God.

    Mama railed on and on about how I had ruined myself by running off with Mr. Boone, and made me promise not to mention it if and when I should ever run into Mr. Newcastle.

    I thought this was queer. I also thought the possibility highly unlikely, since Jonas Newcastle was all the way down to Arizona Territory, and I had no intention of leaving Sycamore, Iowa. But when your mama is near twisting your ear off (and Mama was overfond of ear-twisting), I guess you'll promise anything, no matter how silly it seems.

    Thereafter, if I'd forget and mention Mr. Tommy Boone in her presence, she'd holler, "No Tommy Boone in this house, Annie, no Tommy Boone, not now, not never!" Then she'd throw something, by way of punctuation.

    Anyway, I did my work and put up with Mama and kept my own business. But I guess none of that means squat when the hand of Fate decides to grab hold of a body's strings and yank.

    I got yanked good three times that August.

    First off, there was Mama dying. I loved her, of course, but it was kind of a relief, what with her being sick for so long, and ornery as a sack of weasels even when she was in the best of health. I don't mean that disparaging. Mama was proud of her obstreperous nature. She worked at it like other women work at their needlepoint, always going for a more artistic pattern, a finer stitch.

    I'd always figured that after she was gone, I'd go on running our family boardinghouse and have a nice quiet life as a widow woman. After all, Mama would be gone. What would she care if I mentioned Tommy Boone? I'd just go on cooking up breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and making beds, and collecting board money. Folks would say to strangers, "Take yourself to the Widow Boone's, for you'll get a square meal there, and a bed with no bugs."

    But like always, Mama got in the last word.

    We didn't own the boardinghouse at all, the lawyer told me while I hid behind my black veil. Mama had sold it a long time ago, right after Papa got killed on the CB&Q, to Mr. Jonas Newcastle. That was sure a big surprise. But the biggest one was yet to come: In return for sending us money all the years since Papa died (not to mention warm affection and family feeling), Mama had promised my hand in holy matrimony to the self-same Jonas Newcastle.

    You may think it odd that my own mother would the same as sell me off to some geezer I'd met only once when I was just little and didn't remember, who was old enough to be my grandfather and lived fifteen hundred miles away to boot, and not even tell me about it until after she was dead. But that was what she did.

    I couldn't refuse. Who could refuse a dying wish? Who could refuse Mama?

    But I'm getting ahead of myself. Or behind, maybe. I wanted to tell you the second important thing that happened that August, which was my wedding day.

    I did not come to it in a real optimistic mood—being opposed to it in the first place, but having no other recourse—and having spent ten days in travel.

    Normally, I would have liked a good train ride. Sycamore, where I come from, was and is a railroad town. Carl Pinkerton was my daddy, God rest him, and he worked the night shift for the CB&Q. That's the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy, for those who don't know. He was a hard worker and made good money, but Mama was always after him because he wasn't rich like Jonas Newcastle, who had made something out of himself. Daddy would pretend he didn't hear. He'd just stare at his newspaper, or sometimes go sit on the porch swing by himself. If Mama followed him to the porch, he'd get up and take a long walk.

    He died when I was twelve. It was a coupling accident. I always thought he'd probably had enough of Mama and the Newcastles, and when he saw that car rolling toward him he thought, "I can either jump clear and go on home and hear about Mr. Jonas Newcastle all through breakfast again, or I can just stay put."

    He stayed put, and was crushed, dying instantly.

    I grew up hanging around the train yards and breathing in their smoky, oily, burnt-metal smell; watching the engines come and go from the roundhouse; and making up stories about all the far-off places they had been and the folks, plain and exotic, they had towed. Once I got the bad news from Mama's lawyer that I didn't have a pot to piddle in nor a window to throw it out of—not to mention the betrothal—practically the only good thing I had to look forward to was that I'd finally get to take a long trip on a train.

    Mr. Newcastle arranged for me to ride first class, so I had a berth. The dining-car food was pretty good and the scenery was real interesting, but I did not care for being on my own with so many strangers.

    Plus, traveling was sure a lot more dirty than I'd been led to believe. The cars were so hot and stuffy that the only relief was to go stand outside on the little decks between cars or open a window, either one of which would have you caked with dust and smoke-grime in about four seconds flat.

    And then there was the convenience. It was just this little place at the end of the car. You had to snap the curtains closed around you while you were fighting with your skirts, and with passing bodies all the time bumping you from the other side of the curtain. Why, people could see your feet while you were in there! I did not care for strangers staring at my shoes while I was tending to private business.

    Anyway, while I was on the train I started reading Mr. Newcastle's letters to Mama. Not to snoop, mind you. I just thought they might help me understand who the Sam Hill I was marrying, since even after she died, all the arrangements had been made between Mama's lawyer and Mr. Newcastle, like I was some piece of property and they were deciding how to dispose of me.

    Mama had saved every scrap that Jonas Newcastle had ever sent her, all in a hatbox, in packets tied real careful with black cord and sorted by year. I started with the first ones, written back in the 1860s, and they were pretty interesting. Jonas had volunteered for active duty when war broke out, but they slapped the rank of colonel on him and sent him north to Fort Defiance, up Minnesota way, to quell he Sioux uprising.

    He was in his fifties by then—and I was barely walking—and I guessed he sure missed home because he wrote a lot and did a lot of reminiscing.

    It seemed like my mama's relationship with Jonas Newcastle went back practically to before she was born. The Newcastles, Jonas included, were pioneers with my Grandma Frieda and Grampa Rudy. Jonas brought them—along with his own mama and sisters—out from Maryland back in the 1830s.

    Well, I suppose Mama had told me something about that, too, but I didn't listen very good. Kids never do. But every once in a while the letter would make a reference back to those long-ago times.

    Actually, Jonas talked about my grandma quite a bit. In one letter in particular, he recalled the pilgrimage and how they had just got as far as Illinois, then were stopped by the Black Hawk War. He went off and fought in that, leaving Grampa Rudy to look after the females in the party. But after he got back it took three years to convince the women it was safe to move on. Once they had pried the women loose, they crossed over the Mississippi and the Half-breed Tract; and then, one morning, Grandma Frieda—who was eight months pregnant with my Uncle Tad—just refused to climb back up in the wagon.

    "No furder, Rudy," she said to Grandpa, although everybody heard her plain. "No furder am I goin'."

    They stayed right there in the Michigan Territory, which later got turned into the great State of Iowa.

    I had read up through about all the Fort Defiance letters by the time the train ended at Flagstaff, in the northern mountains of the Arizona Territory. I had to switch to the Butterfield stage line for the rest of the trip.

    I spent four whole days being bounced practically bloody by that coach by day—up and down mountain trails that you held your breath on, they were so precarious—and waited out sleepless nights sweating and swatting bugs in the miserly shacks that passed for stage stops. About all they fed you in those places was salt pork and beans. Those kind of got your innards in an uproar, if you know what I mean, and did not help matters.

    To top things off, my trunks had been sent on ahead—my hand luggage, Jonas's letters included, having gone along with them by mistake—and I had been wearing the same dress since Flagstaff.

    So by the time we rolled into the town of Rock Bottom, I was ripe and grimy and mean. I could have bit the head off a live badger, had there been one handy to bite.


    Before Mama died, she was always bragging on how her friend, Jonas Newcastle, was the second-richest man in Maricopa County. But from what I'd seen of Arizona in general—and now Rock Bottom in particular—that didn't sound so impressive. A possum with a little pocket change could probably have qualified for first richest.

    There wasn't even a real stage stop. The coach just pulled up in the middle of the street, across from what might once have been a mercantile. The driver was in such a big toot to find civilization that he stopped barely long enough for me to get my foot off the step-down, and left me sitting on my backside in the middle of the road.

    Not one soul came to my assistance. I found out later that nobody lived in town anymore, but right then I just thought they were all hiding away and awful rude.

    Rock Bottom was hardly a town at all. I counted only a dozen buildings, none of them in anything close to good repair, and nothing all around but hard, gravelly desert and cactus and more desert.

    There were no signs of life other than a spotted bitch, all matted and full of burrs, asleep on her back in an open doorway—probably to keep clear of the tumbleweeds blowing lazy across the road. Somewhere a shutter banged in the wind, and what glass windows there were had been mostly busted out. The whole place smelled of dust and heat and something else. Creosote, maybe.

    I would have just sat there and cried if I hadn't been so numb from everything else.

    It's hard to explain the way I felt, on the inside. So much had happened to me so fast, and all of it strange and foreign, that about half the time I felt like I was having the worst dream of my life and that none of it mattered, not being real; that I'd be fine again if I could just stand it long enough to get to the waking-up part.

    The other half of the time I was just sad.

    Anyway, I was up on my feet again, having grabbed hold of a hitching rail, and was pounding the last of the road dust out of my bustle and cussing Mama, when all of a sudden something went thump right on the top of my head.

    That just about did it, I turned around quick, thinking to apprehend the culprit, but nobody was there. I called out, "Who threw that? Come out, coward!"

    But nobody did. The spotted bitch didn't even bother to more than slant open an eye and close it again. There was not a sound except the wind weeping through the holes in the buildings and rattling loose boards, and the dry brushy thumps of tumbleweeds bouncing across the road.

    Just as I raised my hand to feel for a knot on my noggin, I saw what had hit me. It was a little wren, fluttering its last in the dust beside the rail post. It was dead before I could reach down to it.

    I don't know what the odds are for a bird falling right out of the sky and smack onto a person's bonnet, but I suspect I would have been wise to take it for a portent.

    There was no time to dwell on it, though, for right then the whole Newcastle clan showed up. I recognized Jonas from an old picture Mama had—the white hair and spare frame gave him away from a distance—and the ladies with him could be none other than his two old-maid sisters, Miss Jonquil and Miss Jessie.

    With a lump in my throat, I watched them clatter toward me up the road in a spit-shined black buggy drawn by matched chestnuts. I cannot begin to tell you how strange that Sunday-go-to-meeting buggy looked dodging tumbleweeds and trailing dust all the way up the main street.

    Of course, once they pulled up and climbed down, the Newcastles didn't exactly appear to have sprouted out of the landscape, either.

    First off, while most everybody else I had met in the Territory was brown as a nut, the Newcastles were all real pale, like they never went out in the sun. They were dressed real fancy, but the three of them appeared so dried-up and brittle that a good brisk wind would have snapped them apart. The sisters shared a big, lacy, ice-blue parasol and prattled nonstop, finishing each other's sentences.

    "Aren't you—" said Miss Jonquil.

    "—sweet?" said Miss Jessie.

    "We're so—"

    "—happy for—"

    "—you and Brother."

    "Oh, yes."

    "Indeed. And you look so much like—"

    "—your dear, dear—"

    "Grandmother."

    "Oh, yes."

    "Blonde."

    "Like new corn."

    "Your grandmother to a T," said Miss Jonquil.

    "It's almost eerie," said Miss Jessie.

Their words were real proper, but they were both jittery and nervous and maybe kind of embarrassed. They reminded me of a couple of old porcelain teacups Mama used to have when I was a kid. They were cracked with age, and so thin you could see the light right through them. Real fragile and kind of pretty if you like that sort of thing, but useless and just for show, probably even when they were brand new.

    Me, I favor things—and people—who'll stand up to their purpose. Leastwise, that was what I told Mama when I accidentally broke those cups playing stickball in the house.

    Anyway, both Miss Jonquil and Miss Jessie, smelling faintly of lilac water, had these little lace hankies they kept fluttering over their noses and daubing at their throats. They flicked their birdy old eyes at each other or down to their shoes or off into the distance, but hardly ever toward me, even though they chirped nonstop. I guess they didn't like the idea of their brother getting married after so many years, even to somebody they'd known years ago, when she was just a tyke.

    Neither did I, but then, I didn't have much say in it, did I?

    Jonas Newcastle, my intended, was not much help. He did no more than tip his hat, flush red over his long turkey neck, and say, "An honor," before he set to loading us all up in the buggy.

    It was just as well, because my first sight of him had nigh on turned my insides upside down, and not in a good way.

    He wore a black suit and tie—real formal and serious, like a German banker—and he appeared washed and just-shaved. His mustache was silver and waxed to a perfect curl, and he fairly reeked of bay rum, like he had doused himself a couple of extra times for the occasion. He leaned all the time on a fancy walking stick with a solid gold, ruby-eyed horse's head on the top.

    But he was so much older than the gilt-framed picture Mama kept on the mantel, and he was none too young or handsome in that. In person, he was terrible thin, and so old and vulture-ugly that if there'd been another stage out of town I would have been on it, Mama's last wish or no.

    But there wasn't another stage, and I had made that promise, so I gritted my teeth and tried to smile. I told myself that even though he looked like Ichabod Crane's great-granddaddy he was probably a nice enough man, once a person got used to him.

    If they ever could.

    So we all loaded up in the buggy, me up front with Mr. Newcastle and the sisters behind, and we set out. I watched the landscape as we drove, as much to keep from looking at Mr. Newcastle as anything. It wasn't nearly so pretty as the scenery up north had been.

    Big hills jutted up in ridges—what I would have called mountains if I had not just ridden down on the stage through some real corkers—and the valleys in between them were rolling and lumpy and gravelly and sere. Every once in a while there was a raggedy sandstone outcrop that looked like about a hundred rattlesnakes were lying up there just waiting to fang me to death should I bolt and run, which, believe me, was on the tip of my mind.

    The hills, through which passes had been blasted for the road, had some big stone ledges and upthrusts: dull black, patched with rusty-looking places. Mr. Newcastle, wafting bay rum when the breeze was right, remarked that it was volcanic rock, spewed up millions of years ago and molten hot from the center of the earth.

    I believed him. It was the devil's own country.

    Coming from Iowa, where everything is forty shades of green and grows so fast it's practically a nuisance, Arizona Territory—the part I was going to have to live in, anyway—seemed to me about the ugliest, most godforsaken place in the world. Not a blade of real grass, just brown, stickery, sun-beat bushes in clumps here and there, and every once in a while a mean-looking cactus. And everywhere in between and around, gravel and rock and rock and gravel, and all of it black or rusty, like the land had bled on itself. I got to seeing it different after a while, of course, but on that day I felt like I had been banished to Satan's back sixty.

    We wove through the desert hills for near an hour, though it seemed longer, what with the sisters chattering in the backseat about my mama and hadn't I grown up tall and wasn't I just like my grandmother, the spitting image.

    Me, I nodded like a fool, every once in a while rubbing through my bonnet at the bump that bird had raised on my skull and thinking I had just made the biggest mistake of my whole life. I could have stayed home and worked in Miss Enid's Tasty Eats Café or the Widow Siddens's Ornament Emporium or Aunt Tot's Fine Foods. I could have been a wash maid, married another gandy dancer, scrubbed floors, slept in the street, anything but this.

    Just as we emerged from another one of those passes blasted down through rusty-black rock, old Jonas reined the team to a halt, which got my attention again. He sat up as straight and proud as a man with time-bent bones is able.

    Pointing ahead to the top of the next big hill, he announced, real grand, "I built it for you, Annie Pinkerton. Welcome to Newcastle's Castle."

    I guess that after all the yammering my mama had done about his house over the last years—how the china came from Germany and the carpets from Persia and tapestries from England and France, and how it had taken seven years to build—I should have been prepared, but I was not. I don't think anybody could have been.

    My jaw dropped practically down on my chest. What he was pointing at was a big, black, cut-stone, turreted mansion with stained glass eyes.

    Three stories tall, it straddled the top of a black-rock hill with nothing but that ugly, heat-shimmered, scrub desert all around. A dozen or so buzzards, black as the castle itself, black as the hill it grew out of—and probably almost as black as my heart was toward Jonas Newcastle and Mama and life in general at that moment—circled overhead against a baked-white sky.

    I had never seen anything so flat-out stupid in all my life.

    I guessed Mama had spoken true, after all, about Mr. Newcastle being rich, although right at that moment I did not draw much comfort from it. Also, I could not think of a blessed thing to say. Nothing polite, anyhow.

    Miss Jonquil said, "The vultures will go away. Sam Two Trees—"

    "Butchered a hog," broke in Miss Jessie.

    "For the festivities," added Miss Jonquil. She had her lips pressed tight together and her eyes narrowed to slits while she watched those birds.

    Jonas Newcastle gave me a big, yellow, long-toothed smile, just a quick one, before he clucked to the team and we started toward the castle.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2001

    You have to read this one!!

    'PROPHET ANNIE' is a fun and crazy journey, with characters that become as familiar as your own neighbors (the good and bad ones)! Annie has a hard time dealing with Jonas inside her body, but after reading this book Annie is still in mine, and i don't mind a bit! I've gotta read more of Ellen Recknors work!

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