Whiskey when we're dry

Review by Booklist Review

Teenage Jessilyn, motherless since birth and suddenly fatherless, too, abandons her family's ranch in 1885 to find her outlaw older brother, Noah. So limited are Jessilyn's possibilities as a girl that she disguises herself as a man for the journey west, a transition made smoother by her ace shooting skills. Larison gifts Jess with a strong voice to narrate her own story: I ain't never been the kind to pity myself, ain't no profit in it. Jess' treacherous mission brings out survival instincts that are barely stronger than her horror over the brutality it requires. When she, as Jesse Straight, is hired as a guardsman for a powerful governor with a personal vendetta against Noah, Jess' identities could collide in a dangerous way; and if she finds him, will Noah even see his little sister in her anymore? Larison (Holding Lies, 2011) writes the novel's many action scenes with restraint, and adds considerations of race, class, and religion to Jess' realizations about gender. Larison's western epic has wide appeal and is already in development for film.--Annie Bostrom Copyright 2018 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

---

Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

True Grit meets Yentl in Larison's evocative debut. In the post-Civil War West, 17-year-old Jessilyn Harney's father dies, leaving their financially strapped homestead in her hands. She decides that the only way of saving it is to track down her errant older brother, Noah-who left several years back and has since become a notorious outlaw-and convince him to return home. Since it's dangerous to be a woman traveling alone, she chooses to masquerade as a boy. Using her talent as a sharpshooter to catch the eye of the state governor, Jessilyn joins his militia on the hunt for her brother, who is regarded as a folk hero by many. Passing herself off as a boy causes all sorts of problems for Jessilyn, who has to negotiate relationships with brothel girls, a closeted militiaman, the governor's daughter, and, later, a female outlaw. Finally reunited with her brother, Jessilyn holes up with his wild bunch only to be hunted down by the militiamen she once served with. Larison has developed a pitch-perfect voice for his intrepid heroine and populated the story with a lively crew of frontier types. Although overlong and sluggish in places, this is a winning tale of sexual identity in the Old West. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

---

Review by Library Journal Review

Jessilyn and Noah Harney are raised by their father, Pa, on their small ranch. The short-tempered Pa, a renowned sharpshooter and Civil War veteran, is frequently at odds with Noah. The father-son relationship turns sour, and Noah leaves the family ranch. Pa dies shortly after, leaving 17-year-old -Jessilyn to manage the ranch herself. -Jessilyn is weighing her options for an early marriage when she discovers that Noah is the Robin Hood-like leader of a band of outlaws, and a wanted man. Having learned how to shoot from Pa, Jessilyn believes she can join Noah's "Wild Bunch." She disguises herself as a man, packs her guns, and sets off to find Noah. Under the freedom of her disguise, Jessilyn embraces the gritty life of a gunman. VERDICT Told in -Jessilyn's hard-hitting voice, this latest from Larison (Northwest of Normal; Holding Lies) has the resonance of a high lonesome ballad. The characters echo legends of the American West, and the scenes of frontier violence are immediate and vivid. For readers of Amanda Coplin's The Orchardist and Courtney Collin's The Untold.-Emily Hamstra, Seattle © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

---

Review by Kirkus Book Review

A young woman with a knack for trick shooting heads west in the late 1800s to track down her outlaw brother.Jessilyn Harney, the folksy narrator of Larison's third novel (Holding Lies, 2011, etc.), has grown up watching her family lose its grip on its prairie homestead: Her mother died young, and her father is an alcoholic scraping by with small cattle herds. He's also persistently at loggerheads with Jess' brother, Noah, who eventually runs off to, if the wanted posters are to be believed, lead a Jesse James-style criminal posse. So when dad dies as well, there's nothing for teenage Jess to do but head west to find her brother, which she does disguised as a man. ("A man can be invisible when he wants to be.") Her skill with a gun gets her in the good graces of a territorial governor (Larison is stingy with place names, but we're near the Rockies), which ultimately leads to Noah and a series of revelations about the false tales of accomplishment that men cloak themselves with. Indeed, Jess' success depends on repeatedly exploiting false masculine bravado: "I found no shortage of men with a predilection for gambling and an unfounded confidence in their own abilities with a sidearm," she writes. The novel's plot is a familiar Western, with duels, raids, and betrayals, brought thematically up to date with a few scenes involving closeted sexuality and mixed-race relationships. But its main distinction is Jess' narrative voice: flinty, compassionate, unschooled, but observant about a violent world where men "eat bullets and walk among ghosts." The dialogue sometimes lapses into saloon-talk truisms ("Men is all the time hiding behind words"; "Being a boss is always knowing your true size"). But Jess herself is a remarkable hero.Like a pair of distressed designer jeans, the narrative's scruffiness can feel a little too engineered, but the narrator's voice is engaging and down-to-earth. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

---

I heard it said God moves on the water. Well, I have looked for Him there. My thirst grows with his flood. Our kin homesteaded where desert met lake. The hills in the near distance wore blankets of pine. Patterns of aspen marked the water. Beyond them the mountains stood blue on clear days and devoured the sun long before it left this world. From the home Pa built us we couldn't see the lake but we could see the willows along its edge and we could hear the wingbeats of doves. Bison calves still wandered in with the heifers and arrowheads clung to their shafts. This autumn air delivers me there still. They arrived in 1864 by the deed I once held in my hand. Pa was fresh from the war and on a horse he took off a Johnny Reb. Pa told us he was a Yankee sharpshooter through the first two years of that war. He come home after to his family and found his own father's grave and his mother under the watch of a new man and his kid brother dying of infection. He stayed until the brother passed and then rode west. Pa killed many men. I know that for certain. But he wasn't the kind to talk of it. The stories he told of that war was his histories. If Pa ran the schools pupils would memorize the names of each man killed on both sides. Ma was dark skinned and Spanish speaking. Her kin was at some point subjects of Spain, France, Mexico, and the United States by the time they was forced from their home by Sam Houston and Santa Anna and the thousands of American settlers coming for what had been theirs. They fled the only direction without guns and come to settle in Kansas, peaceful land-rich Kansas. By the time Ma was of marrying age the war was kicking and the raiders come from Missouri and John Brown come from within and soon it was bloody torn-to-bits Kansas. Her intended was shot one night for no good reason at all and her brother who had joined the fighting returned ill of mind. Kansas wasn't Kansas no more. They rode on. She was twenty-two and walking with a load on her shoulders somewhere in the plains when she heard a horse gaining and turned to see Pa slowing on her. Course he wasn't Pa yet. He was a stranger who introduced himself as Milt Harney. She said folks called her Rosa, her mother's name. I don't know what she thought of him but I know he memorized her details. There was sweat through her dress and flies so thick from the oxen she give up waving them off. A rare sight, a shapely girl without child or man. To hear Pa tell it there wasn't no west after he saw her, just the direction she was walking. He took up with the uncle and the leader of the clan. Traveling poor as they done was slow work. No riding for those with legs. Folks now talk like everybody rode west but not many could afford a riding horse. So it was footwork and loads and dust so thick it turn your lungs to chalk. Pa had that horse and her uncle must've been looking to slip out from under his burden. A week on they was married by the book of a revivalist in a circle of wagons as a church. After crossing the divide they broke off on their own for the valley that would become our home. "A barrel of sugar by autumn," he promised her. Pa would be a cattleman and to him that occupation promised wealth and maybe a mountain to name as his own. To start he got homestead acres and unspoken grazing access to the nearby Indian lands. There was a lake and the valley held its green long after the hills went to brown. When they arrived she was already growing with child. Ma wept when she saw the valley. Cranes danced at sunrise and wildflowers shone like embers in the grass. Here no view reminded her of someone she had lost. Noah come along that autumn. Noah. My brother's name. Even now I turn and expect to see him riding hard for supper. How many times did I push back the cowhide flap and see him leading a string of dust down the valley? Never late for grub and never one to show up on a dry horse, that brother of mine. You knew him best but you didn't know him then, before. Sure you've heard the stories folks tell. They make him a killer and hellion. Little children hear his name, Noah Harney, and they see men falling from stagecoaches and smoke rising from a barrel and they think a man is made real by the violence he wields. Noah was a killer, that is certain. I ain't never been sure if he was right. Ma didnÕt live past my entrance to this world on account I wasnÕt no good at getting born. I set Ma to bleeding. Pa knew right off there was trouble. She was twenty-seven and her color was slipping and her lips was going purple-her life was draining from her and there wasn't nothing Pa knew to do. He wanted to ride for help but she held him back. She asked him to build up the fire. He did as she asked. Under the rest Pa was a good soul, full of respect for the women in his life, which might be the straightest measure of a man. Ma pulled little Noah close. He was five then. He put his head on her shoulder and touched his fingers to my dewy head. "Ma, how come you so cold?" She pulled up the quilt around them, us. "Don't worry, my child." "Milt?" she asked of Pa. These was her final words on this earth: "Play me our song." As Pa put bow to string, Ma put her nipple to my lips. She gave me my mother. Some things in this world you don't never forget even if you ain't got no memories of them. The one time he spoke of her passing, Pa talked most of the storm that night and how the snow climbed the door. It blew in through the slats and flakes drifted toward the fire and turned to rain halfway. The water and her blood turned the dirt floor to mud. After a time with her gone I got to shivering. It was my brother who wrapped me in a blanket and sat with me before the fire and gave his finger to my gums so I might stop crying for her. I asked Pa what he done with her remains. What choice did he have but to put her to rest in the snow outside until spring might allow a shovel to crack the earth. He must've carried her there. I imagine he took a final moment together. Come inside and stood a piece looking on us. A cattleman alone now with a too young boy and a baby girl. I suspect he looked on me a long time trying to feel something different. I never did know what Pa felt, not even when I knew him best. When he come inside from leaving his young wife in the snow and saw the thing that put her there, what did he feel? How could it have been love? Pa hired a wet nurse whoÕd been a whore over in Clayville. She had her own baby boy. Pa wasnÕt in no state to judge character. I donÕt remember her none, she was with us just one season, till she located his savings and rode off with it. After that it was just us. He grew me on chewed venison, bone marrow, and pulped tubers, as was the method in them days. Pa did right considering. Most men would've turned to stone and been a mountain between the table and stove. Nothing to do but overcome a father like that. No, Pa was tender for us. His hands was leather and his eyes was gray and he might've been short on words but he wasn't short on feeling. Music turned him to butter. He must've sought a new woman. He must've considered putting us to another family. The Mormons down the valley already had a couple of their own. Handing us off would've been easy enough, and expected in that time. But he kept us and did right by us, right as he could. He had nearly two hundred head that spring. Most he'd ever have. Tending to us kids was the reason. Most what I know about Ma come from Noah. He was five when she passed but might as well have spent a lifetime in her lee from all the stories he told. They come from him with no more thought than a belch. It was my brother too who taught me to dress, to squat over the night pot, to grow my hair long and braid it before sleep. These things he learned from watching her be a woman. I ain't got no recollections of her voice but I'd know the sound. As a child I went about my chores in silence so as not to miss her when she come. I was certain she would come. Each time I think of our family place I feel her. She is the water brought inside by the camas, you don't see her none but without her there ain't no flower. I did the woman work while Pa and Noah labored the spread. I longed to be with them, in truth. I dreaded my lonely washings and stewings and mendings and tendings. But need better breed enthusiasm or you in for a tough go in this life. By six I was doing a half-decent show of laundry. By eight I could skin down a buck so long as there was a stool I could stand on for reaching. Little me had to hang on the hide to get it to peel. My cooking wasnÕt much seeing as I learned from Pa but it was hot and it kept. He only complained if I skimped on the meat, and in that age the hills was still flush with meat. I kept on Ma's pattern of things. Mondays was churning, Tuesdays baking, Wednesdays canning, Thursdays jerking, Fridays mending, Saturdays baths and laundry, Sundays cleaning. Most times when alone I pretended I was Ma. She wouldn't stand for a misplaced stitch or a stain left to dry. In every task my burden was the perfection she would've delivered had I not took her. I slept under the near-finished birth quilt on my side of the bed Noah and me shared. This is how we'd slept since the beginning and so we kept on sleeping like a mother and child, me curled into him and his warm breath in my hair all those cold desert nights. In my slumber I dreamed her with us and understand those breaths to be hers and so lived what never was. If Pa and Noah was working a long way off and I missed her painful I might pull out her things. Pa kept them in a trunk under the bed. There was a dress, a calico. There was shoes polished black. The left one had a scrape that cut into the leather near the toe. I never put them on or let them touch the floor. They was hers and I had taken enough. But I did allow myself to touch them. That's how I come to find a chain and a locket made of silver folded inside that calico. The locket held the image of a young girl. I assumed for years the girl was Ma. That girl is still the mother I see. But the picture wasn't Ma at all. Pa told me years on that it might've been her younger sister who died of fever, but it wasn't Ma. In the bottom corner of the trunk was her Good Book. She knew how to read and she taught Pa. Pa told me, "A woman's best chance in this world is to know the Good Book better than the men in her life." He said as much but he wasn't spending no time teaching me to read. Under the bed beside the trunk was a box long as an arm. Pa's fiddle. He drew it out only on Ma's birthday, in April, when the camas pushed up from the green meadows. He would set it upon the bed and then sit back from it and put his fist to thigh as he was wont to do when he thought of her. One year he caught me staring on him, and he drew me between him and that box, maybe so I couldn't see his wet eyes. His fingers passed over the wood. "Pa?" "Your mother couldn't get her fill of music. She wanted me to play any chance. She kept time with her heel. She never forgot the time." Inside was a vivid red cloth. It was an age when men and women in town wore browns and olives and dusty white. Colors belonged to the hills in autumn, to the sunset and wildflowers and trout that rolled in the lake, the Indian paint we saw less and less of. I felt Pa quit his breathing at the sight of that red. He had learned during the war and brought the fiddle west. It was his music that won Ma over those nights among the wagons. Noah remembered him playing. Noah said in them days every dark was warded off by Pa's song. The lament he played on Ma's birthday I never heard outside our family. I do believe he made it up. Or maybe he and Ma together made it up. Either way it was theirs. The song leaned on mournful drawn-out notes and two steep climbs into high emotion. It was in no hurry to conclude, and neither was its audience. I am haunted by that song. I remember staring up at his great shape with the fiddle to his chin and the bow cutting back and forth and his song slicing me open. I can't forget the word "Rowhine" burned into the body of that fiddle. It was branded like a beast, and so I come to think of the instrument as its own animal and Pa as its handler. For all his tenderness Pa was quick to anger and it was the little things that set him loose. Regular enough I caught the back of his hand. Noah took whuppings too. I think thatÕs how he got so quick with the stories. He knew his best luck was in talking Pa cool. He bent the manÕs mind. Pa wasnÕt slow but I donÕt reckon he was ever as keen as his boy. Excerpted from Whiskey When We're Dry by John Larison All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

---