Excerpt from American Princess by Stephanie Marie Thornton, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Chapter 1

Adirondack Mountains, New York

September 1901

I peered through the rain coursing down the cabin's front window and frowned at the frantic Adirondacks park ranger who rapped hard on our door, water dripping from his hat onto his drab uniform that was already drenched. "Mr. Roosevelt!" he hollered, his bushy brows drawn together like late-season caterpillars. "Mr. Theodore Roosevelt!"

Edith, my stepmother, hadn't finished unpacking her bags from an overnight campout and swung open the door mid-bang, stopping the ranger with his meaty fist still raised. "I'm afraid the vice president isn't here," Mother informed him in her most mollifying voice, smoothing back her damp hair even as I shoved deep my jealousy at the mud that stained her skirt's hem and the fragrance of a jolly campfire that still clung to her.

Mother doesn't even like camping. Whereas I...

I made a face behind her back before resuming the task of adjusting my hairpins in the hall's tiny mirror, expertly stabbing them into the coiled plait of brown hair twisted atop my head while imagining the party I planned to attend tonight, where I might happily forget there were such things as parents, presidents, or politics. I'd turn eighteen this February and had been experimenting with various hairstyles for my debut ball, none of which met my approval considering that Mother refused to buy me the pearl combs I craved for my pompadour. Too expensive, she claimed, forgetting that a girl comes out only once, and thus deserves the most lavish accessories that money can buy.

As always, I tried not to let it bother me that all my younger half siblings were granted whatever pets and toys they set their hearts on, further evidence that I would forever be other when it came to our family. I supposed I could always use my inheritance from my mother if I couldn't live without the hair combs.

"Mr. Roosevelt isn't here?" the ranger parroted back to Mother, sweeping off his unfortunate hat to wring it in his hands, so I doubted whether the waterlogged leather would ever recover. "Where is he?"

Archie and Quentin's cowboy rodeo down the hallway involved much whooping and hollering, interspersed with an angry crowing; my brothers had recently adopted a foul-tempered, one-legged rooster that enjoyed chasing the younger children. "Alice?" Mother asked suggestively, inclining her head toward the children's rooms, but I pretended not to notice.

"My father is hiking Mount Marcy today," I answered for her, tossing myself into a leather-slung chair and plucking a red apple from the bowl on the sideboard. Its crisp taste exploded in my mouth in a burst of autumn as I idly kicked the flounced hem of my dress, much to my stepmother's horror. I'd watched Father depart at yesterday's sunrise with her, Archie, and my little sister Ethel for an overnight trip to Lake Colden and had hoped to join them, even though they'd planned to turn around early to allow Father to hike Mount Marcy in peace today.