So here we are. The last Saturday of 2012. No end of the world. No alien life forms spotted, unless you count the strange lady at the local 7/11. So we sit here and ponder what the coming year will be like.
Reflection on last year shows there have been lots of changes. A growing swell of traditional writers have gone Indie with back list and shorts to promote new series. One thing I have noticed, the rise of self publishing has empowered authors. We understand a bit more the return from places like B and N, as well as Amazon. Because of it, many are demanding a bit more in terms of accounting. In many ways, the veil has been removed.
Likewise, publishers are demanding a bit more effort on the writers part to sell their merchandize. Shelf space has become limited with the near extinction of local bookstores. Which, I might add, is a shame for many people do not have the electrical devices to download stories. Local bookstores made us a nation of readers. But, alas, I digress.
As writers, we must embrace publishers and likewise, publishers must embrace writers. We are no longer distant spheres separated by agents. We must work in tandem to bring forth a polished project. Those who self publish. Must put forth the expense of a good cover and everyone must edit with a second pair of eyes.
Authors read, analyze, discover other writers and see what they are doing. Publishers truly read submissions, look at things with a blind eye, do they merit moving on, is there a gem that could be polished to become the next big thing. Don't just pull from what is trending on Amazon or Nook. That's too easy.
With that said, I want to wish everyone a happy and prosperous 2013. May this brand new year bring each and everyone of you happiness, love, and pleasure.
Nan
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
On writing,
I'm getting ready to begin work on my next series. These three books will require some plotting. Which scares the bejesus out of me. I'm one of these writers who might see the opening of a story in a dream. I write down what the scene was and begin from there. So the idea of plotting out exactly what will happen before I get there is a daunting task. How do you plot what you don't know?
The late, great Judi McCoy always came to our RWA chapter and led a meeting in which we used posty notes to plot. It was a great session. I'll miss that help in January. Judi will be missed. But her ideas play on. So once I figure out the trope ( thank you Keri-Leigh Grady for that workshop ) I can write down ideas and place them in one of three acts then remember to give it a twist.
I'm actually looking forward to this series in hopes that I'm finally going to get this down to a better art. So here's to the hard work during the winter months that will produce something awesome for Spring submissions.
Nan
Fall in love, country style
The late, great Judi McCoy always came to our RWA chapter and led a meeting in which we used posty notes to plot. It was a great session. I'll miss that help in January. Judi will be missed. But her ideas play on. So once I figure out the trope ( thank you Keri-Leigh Grady for that workshop ) I can write down ideas and place them in one of three acts then remember to give it a twist.
I'm actually looking forward to this series in hopes that I'm finally going to get this down to a better art. So here's to the hard work during the winter months that will produce something awesome for Spring submissions.
Nan
Fall in love, country style
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Just Saying...
Just saying... in the 50's and 60's Lucy and Desi slept in twin beds separated by a nightstand.
90's Viagra has separate bath tubs separated by an arm with.
Today, I noticed recent teasers for comedy shows involve sex. They break away breathless, the woman is wearing a bra.
REALLY?
I don't know about you ladies, but I'm not about to try that with my husband.
Let me know how that's working for the rest of you.
Go Figure...
90's Viagra has separate bath tubs separated by an arm with.
Today, I noticed recent teasers for comedy shows involve sex. They break away breathless, the woman is wearing a bra.
REALLY?
I don't know about you ladies, but I'm not about to try that with my husband.
Let me know how that's working for the rest of you.
Go Figure...
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
What do you, the reader, want when it comes to romance?
Okay, I admit, I write or try to. Hear lately I see lots of people tweeting about that they want, but what do READERS want? We are writing for our public right? As readers, what made us turn to writing? What made us say, I want a story that has this, that, and the other in it? So Readers, what satisfies you??? I'm looking to hear.
I'm looking at best sellers and what I am seeing is sex. Sex is the act, don't we need romance before? Have books evolved to wham, bam, thank you ma'am and hero walks away??? I hope not. I write sex in my stories when I think the hero/heroine have come to the point that there is no return. I struggle with this internal/external conflict because I try to avoid conflict in my real life. Yes, I suppose I am that Pollyanna type person that likes their rose colored glasses. I know that live is like running an obstacle course. Yo need those bumps in the road for introspective thoughts and yet, I'd sure like it to run a bit smoother.
What do you as readers want? I'd like to know. I need to know if my fiction is going to be real. Won't you leave me a comment? Thanks.
Tessa
I'm looking at best sellers and what I am seeing is sex. Sex is the act, don't we need romance before? Have books evolved to wham, bam, thank you ma'am and hero walks away??? I hope not. I write sex in my stories when I think the hero/heroine have come to the point that there is no return. I struggle with this internal/external conflict because I try to avoid conflict in my real life. Yes, I suppose I am that Pollyanna type person that likes their rose colored glasses. I know that live is like running an obstacle course. Yo need those bumps in the road for introspective thoughts and yet, I'd sure like it to run a bit smoother.
What do you as readers want? I'd like to know. I need to know if my fiction is going to be real. Won't you leave me a comment? Thanks.
Tessa
Monday, October 1, 2012
October is for Pink.
October is for Pink. We wear pink to honor those women who are going through, who survived, or who have given their all in the fight against Breast Cancer. Breast Cancer is a disease that takes from women all the dignity they can muster. It terrifies us. It destroys the last bit of humanity. For these reasons, I let my heroine in this short novella be a survivor of breast cancer. I wanted all women to know they are still desirable, they are still loved and they are worth placing upon that pedestal as a woman.
As a woman, Lauren Phelps has suffered the worst life can throw at her. The loss of her breast, the rejection of her husband, a divorce can she pick up the shattered threads of her life and continue? Cole McGuire met Lauren Phelps through a mutual friend, his mother. When Lauren took a medical leave of absence, he wondered if he would ever see her again. When she returned to Teague and Marshalls, he made sure she was transferred to his office. Now divorced, he wondered if he stood a chance to woo her. Can Lauren learn to love again after the storm?
Little by little the gauze fell away to reveal a breast complete with areola and nipple. Her immediate reaction was to run her hands to the fullness and touch the flesh that appeared pink and rosy. Her breath rushed from her lungs as she traced the swell. It had no feeling. Her hands touched the skin, but she didn’t feel the uniqueness of her left bosom in comparison to her right.
“It should look the same,” a voice from the door whispered.
She didn’t know if it was modesty or fear someone would see her like this, but Lauren pulled the paper gown up over her shoulder, the burn of heat trapping in her cheeks.
“I-I couldn’t wait,” she mumbled, trying to scrambling to retrieve the bandages that a few moments before covered the rebuilding of her left side.
A hand touched her shoulder. Instead of restricting her movement, it offered sympathy as only another woman could. “It’s ok, Lauren. You are not the first woman to feel the need to know.”
Only when tissues were shoved into her empty hands did she realize she was crying.
“Please, look if you want. I want to check the progress of our surgery.”
Lauren dabbed her eyes. The mascara she had so carefully applied now coated the tissue.
“Hold out your arms, please,” the physician said.
Raising her arms, Lauren listened to the rustle of paper as the doctor slid the drape around to the side so that she could see her handiwork. In the mirror across from the examining table, she watched with detached emotion while Dr. Barbara Felton lifted Lauren’s right breast to measure the weight against the reconstructed one on the left. Goose pimples rose on her right side. The doctor’s hands were cold.
“You should be well pleased. The surgery seems to be quite a success.”
“Yes, I am,” she replied in a soft voice with a twinge of hesitance. “Pleased, that is.”
“I hear a but.” The good doctor stepped back.
Lauren readjusted the paper covering her body, lending her some measure of modesty in spite of all she’d lost due to her illness. Her uncertainty was brief, yet it seemed to acknowledge the doctors astute insight into what she was feeling.
“But?” Dr. Felton asked again, this time allowing her eyebrow to arch toward the spiked bangs of her stylish short bob.
“But,” Lauren began with a sigh, “it’s hard to feel. I mean, it seems like it’s just a pound of flesh there.”
“Yes, that’s true.” The doctor pulled up a chair. “But to anyone else they would never know just how tough this year has been on you.” Reaching out, she touched her patient’s hand. “Lauren, you had cancer. You’ve been through a mastectomy and three rounds of chemotherapy. You are a survivor.”
As the doctor spoke, Lauren looked at the reflection before her and felt she didn’t know the woman she saw there. Gone was the dark blonde hair that had graced her head and swung to the middle of her back. Her crown and glory, long since fallen out when she’d spent hours hugging the commode in the hospital after the bags of drugs were empty. Instead, a fine mound of baby tuff glistened across her scalp. She ran her hand across the new locks.
“It will come back,” the doctor’s hushed voice comforted her, “as lovely as before.”
This book is available at AMAZON and BARNES and NOBLE. The forward is a riveting account from my then editor, Emmy Ellis who experienced a scare of her own. This book is dedicated to my mother, her sisters and all who have been touched by this dreaded disease. Please, make that appointment today.
As a woman, Lauren Phelps has suffered the worst life can throw at her. The loss of her breast, the rejection of her husband, a divorce can she pick up the shattered threads of her life and continue? Cole McGuire met Lauren Phelps through a mutual friend, his mother. When Lauren took a medical leave of absence, he wondered if he would ever see her again. When she returned to Teague and Marshalls, he made sure she was transferred to his office. Now divorced, he wondered if he stood a chance to woo her. Can Lauren learn to love again after the storm?
Little by little the gauze fell away to reveal a breast complete with areola and nipple. Her immediate reaction was to run her hands to the fullness and touch the flesh that appeared pink and rosy. Her breath rushed from her lungs as she traced the swell. It had no feeling. Her hands touched the skin, but she didn’t feel the uniqueness of her left bosom in comparison to her right.
“It should look the same,” a voice from the door whispered.
She didn’t know if it was modesty or fear someone would see her like this, but Lauren pulled the paper gown up over her shoulder, the burn of heat trapping in her cheeks.
“I-I couldn’t wait,” she mumbled, trying to scrambling to retrieve the bandages that a few moments before covered the rebuilding of her left side.
A hand touched her shoulder. Instead of restricting her movement, it offered sympathy as only another woman could. “It’s ok, Lauren. You are not the first woman to feel the need to know.”
Only when tissues were shoved into her empty hands did she realize she was crying.
“Please, look if you want. I want to check the progress of our surgery.”
Lauren dabbed her eyes. The mascara she had so carefully applied now coated the tissue.
“Hold out your arms, please,” the physician said.
Raising her arms, Lauren listened to the rustle of paper as the doctor slid the drape around to the side so that she could see her handiwork. In the mirror across from the examining table, she watched with detached emotion while Dr. Barbara Felton lifted Lauren’s right breast to measure the weight against the reconstructed one on the left. Goose pimples rose on her right side. The doctor’s hands were cold.
“You should be well pleased. The surgery seems to be quite a success.”
“Yes, I am,” she replied in a soft voice with a twinge of hesitance. “Pleased, that is.”
“I hear a but.” The good doctor stepped back.
Lauren readjusted the paper covering her body, lending her some measure of modesty in spite of all she’d lost due to her illness. Her uncertainty was brief, yet it seemed to acknowledge the doctors astute insight into what she was feeling.
“But?” Dr. Felton asked again, this time allowing her eyebrow to arch toward the spiked bangs of her stylish short bob.
“But,” Lauren began with a sigh, “it’s hard to feel. I mean, it seems like it’s just a pound of flesh there.”
“Yes, that’s true.” The doctor pulled up a chair. “But to anyone else they would never know just how tough this year has been on you.” Reaching out, she touched her patient’s hand. “Lauren, you had cancer. You’ve been through a mastectomy and three rounds of chemotherapy. You are a survivor.”
As the doctor spoke, Lauren looked at the reflection before her and felt she didn’t know the woman she saw there. Gone was the dark blonde hair that had graced her head and swung to the middle of her back. Her crown and glory, long since fallen out when she’d spent hours hugging the commode in the hospital after the bags of drugs were empty. Instead, a fine mound of baby tuff glistened across her scalp. She ran her hand across the new locks.
“It will come back,” the doctor’s hushed voice comforted her, “as lovely as before.”
This book is available at AMAZON and BARNES and NOBLE. The forward is a riveting account from my then editor, Emmy Ellis who experienced a scare of her own. This book is dedicated to my mother, her sisters and all who have been touched by this dreaded disease. Please, make that appointment today.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Hot time Summer in the city...
Remember that old song?
Yeah, as our heat index climbs, it sure comes to mind. It is hot in the city and in the country too! I don't know about other writers but I find myself struggling to pay attention to the written page when it gets above 90 with humidity. So in order to beat the heat, I rise about 5 a.m. and work on stories until the house stirs at 7. Then, after breakfast, I do a bit more. When the sun gets to the back of the house, I move to a notebook and work away from the desk in a cooler room. Another thing that helps is working on those winter stories. Now, is the time to finish those Christmas tales and submit. Check publishers for deadlines on those holiday themed stories.
Just remember in January we'll be cussing at the cold weather, snow and ice that are keeping us indoors.
Here's a picture to help us remember those bad times...
Yeah, as our heat index climbs, it sure comes to mind. It is hot in the city and in the country too! I don't know about other writers but I find myself struggling to pay attention to the written page when it gets above 90 with humidity. So in order to beat the heat, I rise about 5 a.m. and work on stories until the house stirs at 7. Then, after breakfast, I do a bit more. When the sun gets to the back of the house, I move to a notebook and work away from the desk in a cooler room. Another thing that helps is working on those winter stories. Now, is the time to finish those Christmas tales and submit. Check publishers for deadlines on those holiday themed stories.
Just remember in January we'll be cussing at the cold weather, snow and ice that are keeping us indoors.
Here's a picture to help us remember those bad times...
Friday, July 13, 2012
Looking for a weekend read
July finds us at the pools, our minds blank, and the humidity making it too hot to move. Why not pick up a good book and enjoy that e-reader beneath the shade of an umbrella? Here are a list of great novels by known and unknowns sure to delight.
Small-town love vs. big-city dreams. LOVE DELIVERED http://amzn. to/HuYcc7 @joyafields
The Wronged Princess-Cinderella with a twist by @kathylwheeler AMZ: http://amzn. to/H98m09 B&N: http://bit.ly/ GDTfcF #AmazonLikes
Eloping With Emmy - latest eBook from @lizfielding http://tinyurl.com/czqrear
There are worse things than natural disasters #Apocalyptic #thriller http://amzn.to/ILk91D
Is Tessa’s doll cursed or is ex-husband stalking her? Tessa’s Teasures http://youtu.be/Gfb-5lbn-R4 @calliehutton #romanticsuspense #kindle
Romance with intrigue, suspense and sinful secrets www.lyndakayefrazie r.com @lynda_kaye #romantic suspense #suspense
#romanticcomedy #suspense Sew Happy Together by Nora Snowdon avail now amazon. http://amzn. com/B008C1RWNM. Laugh, love, get kidnapped.
Can a mother, her daughter, and an angel save our world from evil? Trinity, by Deena Remiel http://tinyurl.com/74ydykg
HER SANCTUARY “Suspenseful, riveting and explosive, this reader absolutely loved this story.” @toniannanderson http://amzn. to/HERSAN
Happy weekend reading! Let me know what you think of these books.
Small-town love vs. big-city dreams. LOVE DELIVERED http://amzn. to/HuYcc7 @joyafields
The Wronged Princess-Cinderella with a twist by @kathylwheeler AMZ: http://amzn. to/H98m09 B&N: http://bit.ly/ GDTfcF #AmazonLikes
Eloping With Emmy - latest eBook from @lizfielding http://tinyurl.com/czqrear
There are worse things than natural disasters #Apocalyptic #thriller http://amzn.to/ILk91D
Is Tessa’s doll cursed or is ex-husband stalking her? Tessa’s Teasures http://youtu.be/Gfb-5lbn-R4 @calliehutton #romanticsuspense #kindle
Romance with intrigue, suspense and sinful secrets www.lyndakayefrazie r.com @lynda_kaye #romantic suspense #suspense
#romanticcomedy #suspense Sew Happy Together by Nora Snowdon avail now amazon. http://amzn. com/B008C1RWNM. Laugh, love, get kidnapped.
Can a mother, her daughter, and an angel save our world from evil? Trinity, by Deena Remiel http://tinyurl.com/74ydykg
HER SANCTUARY “Suspenseful, riveting and explosive, this reader absolutely loved this story.” @toniannanderson http://amzn. to/HERSAN
Happy weekend reading! Let me know what you think of these books.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Happy Fourth of July....
There are a few songs and dances that bring a smile to your face. Here's one just for today....
James Cagney as George M. Cohan...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StDpLge_ITM&feature=related
James Cagney as George M. Cohan...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StDpLge_ITM&feature=related
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Heaven is full today.
I just heard the news of the passing of Andy Griffin.
My mother had this thing for Madlock. I don't think she ever missed an episode. In his mythical world, he was always eating a hotdog after winning his case. Every time we fixed them mom affectionately called them "Mad" dogs in his honor.
So, I'm sure that today, once St. Peter get's him processed through those pearly gates, my mother will be there in her navy blue and poke-a-dot dress with the white lace collar. She'll greet him with a smile and her southern charm, pat the empty place on the bench and when he sits, she'll offer him a hotdog, with mustard, wrapped in the paper. He'll unwrap and as he goes to take a bite, she'll pipe up and say, "Now, Andy, about that case...."
Thank you, Mr. Griffin, for hours of entertainment you gave us from Mayberry to Atlanta. You made us laugh in No Time for Sergeants, you cracked us up with your country boy take on Romeo and Juliet, and "It's Football". You were one of a kind and you blessed us with your presence.
Nan
My mother had this thing for Madlock. I don't think she ever missed an episode. In his mythical world, he was always eating a hotdog after winning his case. Every time we fixed them mom affectionately called them "Mad" dogs in his honor.
So, I'm sure that today, once St. Peter get's him processed through those pearly gates, my mother will be there in her navy blue and poke-a-dot dress with the white lace collar. She'll greet him with a smile and her southern charm, pat the empty place on the bench and when he sits, she'll offer him a hotdog, with mustard, wrapped in the paper. He'll unwrap and as he goes to take a bite, she'll pipe up and say, "Now, Andy, about that case...."
Thank you, Mr. Griffin, for hours of entertainment you gave us from Mayberry to Atlanta. You made us laugh in No Time for Sergeants, you cracked us up with your country boy take on Romeo and Juliet, and "It's Football". You were one of a kind and you blessed us with your presence.
Nan
Friday, June 29, 2012
It's just hot.
I know its hot, so I'm hoping this will help you think cool. Sometimes a good story can be read anytime not just at the holidays. Welcome to Cordial, Texas, 1880. A town that supposed to be known for its friendliness. But, when a man thinks he has nothing to live for, life has a way of coming full circle.
Dobson Winters is a miserable man. After his wife's death, he shut himself off from the rest of the world, but a deathbed ultimatum changes that. Now, he must find Holly Watson and marry her to save his soul. Redemption comes in an unexpected package and it takes the gift of a child's unconditional love to change a man heart.
Read an excerpt here...
Dobson Winters was not the kind of man that celebrated things. He didn't celebrate his birthday, the Fourth of July, or Thanksgiving and he wasn't about to lend his blessing or his money to the town of Cordial, Texas to decorate the square for nothing. Christmas was a holiday best left alone.
"Just a few decorations, Mr. Winters," the banker began. His eyes nervously darted to the bowler hat sitting quietly on his lap.
"The answer is still, no."
"But, Mr. Winters, sir, the children will be most disappointed. They look so forward to the holiday. The decorations are old and faded." the preacher in black, sitting next to the banker spoke.
"Look here, Reverend," he began. "Christmas is a holiday created for the likes of Sam Russell at the General Store and those self centered pious folks, who step inside your walls to pray for the fortune when they should be hard at work bringing it in. I got over ten thousand head of beef to answer to. I got no time or extra wealth to pay for decorations used one day out of a year."
The thin little minister sitting beside the banker blanched and tugged at the white collar around his neck as if his words suddenly made it grow too tight.
"Really, Mr. Winters, have you no heart?" the banker scolded. "Think of your wife she loved the holiday. Why not a day goes by that we aren't reminded-"
The banker's words proved the last straw. "Gentleman, our meeting is over." As he spoke, he rose to his feet. Stepping back, his hand closed around his father's double barrel shotgun he'd cleaned just that morning. The two men who sat before him scrambled to their feet.
"Now, Mr. Winters." The Reverend's eyes grew wide.
"Dobson," the banker cautioned. "Be reasonable."
His eyes narrowed. He flipped the breech latch and broke the gun open. The men began to sweat as he glided two cardboard shells home. "You know, my daddy once told me a seat full of buckshot deters most highway men from pickin' a man's pocket." The click of the barrel as it closed sent the two men into action. Tripping over their feet, Reverend Thomas of Cordial's First Presbyterian Church hurried toward the front door, followed closely behind by Thomas Carter.
The banker slammed his bowler onto this head and cut Dobson a hard glare. "The town council will hear of this - about how you treat your guests. Just because you founded the town, don't give you a right to be rude."
"It gives me every right," he snapped, his upper lip curling back, so the men might see the white of his teeth. "I didn't tell you to set up your tents or build homes around my stockyards. But, you did it. Nor did I request any sheriff to monitor the saloon you all invited in to town. Yet, I put up with it." He shoved the barrel against the banker's backsides. The man let out a yelp as he and the preacher wrestled with the front door. "Oh, I pay my fair share of taxes and usually keep my mouth closed. In fact, until today, I've lived up to the town's motto, never a discouraging word. Well, not today boys, I will be damn if I pay another dime."
In their hurry to leave, both men collided, their shoulders wedged as they tried to press through the door in unison. Squeezing out the entrance, they lengthened their strides as they moved toward the buggy.
"But your wife," the minister called over his shoulder. "She wouldn't want the town to go without a Christmas."
His heart constricted. How dare they. How dare they bring her up! "Don't you ever go there, you two bit Bible thumper." He could feel his face grow red from the heat of anger as his eyes bore into the Reverend. The little man's Adam's apple bobbled as if it were a boulder being tossed downstream through a rapid. "Now, git!" he bellowed. Moving to the edge of the porch, he turned the gun barrel skyward curled his index finger over the trigger, and let loose one shot.
The percussion of the gun echoed in the still air. Both men let out a yelp like a wounded dog. The speed of their retreat increased. They fumbled, their feet slipped, yet somehow they managed to scramble aboard and turn the horse around. "You haven't heard the last of this," Thomas Carter shouted as the Reverend brought the lines down upon the horse's back. The iron rims hissed against the ground as they left at a fast trot.
"Damned fools," he snarled. In the quiet of the ranch grounds, he watched them pass the barn and caught one last look as they tossed him a glare mixed with fear and pure hatred. He broke open the barrel and pulled the empty shell from the smoking gun. By golly, they got the message that time. Tossing the spent shell onto the ground, he pulled the unused ammunition out and returned it to his vest pocket. He turned and stared at the empty doorway of the two-story log home he'd built. A momentary expression of hurt rolled across his face deepening the lines next to the grim turn of his lips. She should be here. By all rights, Miranda should be there, standing in the doorway, waiting for him.
To purchase your copy of A Cordial Christmas for $0.99 please follow the links below,
http://www.amazon.com/A-Cordial-Christmas-ebook/dp/B005POOES0/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91873
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Dobson Winters is a miserable man. After his wife's death, he shut himself off from the rest of the world, but a deathbed ultimatum changes that. Now, he must find Holly Watson and marry her to save his soul. Redemption comes in an unexpected package and it takes the gift of a child's unconditional love to change a man heart.
Read an excerpt here...
Dobson Winters was not the kind of man that celebrated things. He didn't celebrate his birthday, the Fourth of July, or Thanksgiving and he wasn't about to lend his blessing or his money to the town of Cordial, Texas to decorate the square for nothing. Christmas was a holiday best left alone.
"Just a few decorations, Mr. Winters," the banker began. His eyes nervously darted to the bowler hat sitting quietly on his lap.
"The answer is still, no."
"But, Mr. Winters, sir, the children will be most disappointed. They look so forward to the holiday. The decorations are old and faded." the preacher in black, sitting next to the banker spoke.
"Look here, Reverend," he began. "Christmas is a holiday created for the likes of Sam Russell at the General Store and those self centered pious folks, who step inside your walls to pray for the fortune when they should be hard at work bringing it in. I got over ten thousand head of beef to answer to. I got no time or extra wealth to pay for decorations used one day out of a year."
The thin little minister sitting beside the banker blanched and tugged at the white collar around his neck as if his words suddenly made it grow too tight.
"Really, Mr. Winters, have you no heart?" the banker scolded. "Think of your wife she loved the holiday. Why not a day goes by that we aren't reminded-"
The banker's words proved the last straw. "Gentleman, our meeting is over." As he spoke, he rose to his feet. Stepping back, his hand closed around his father's double barrel shotgun he'd cleaned just that morning. The two men who sat before him scrambled to their feet.
"Now, Mr. Winters." The Reverend's eyes grew wide.
"Dobson," the banker cautioned. "Be reasonable."
His eyes narrowed. He flipped the breech latch and broke the gun open. The men began to sweat as he glided two cardboard shells home. "You know, my daddy once told me a seat full of buckshot deters most highway men from pickin' a man's pocket." The click of the barrel as it closed sent the two men into action. Tripping over their feet, Reverend Thomas of Cordial's First Presbyterian Church hurried toward the front door, followed closely behind by Thomas Carter.
The banker slammed his bowler onto this head and cut Dobson a hard glare. "The town council will hear of this - about how you treat your guests. Just because you founded the town, don't give you a right to be rude."
"It gives me every right," he snapped, his upper lip curling back, so the men might see the white of his teeth. "I didn't tell you to set up your tents or build homes around my stockyards. But, you did it. Nor did I request any sheriff to monitor the saloon you all invited in to town. Yet, I put up with it." He shoved the barrel against the banker's backsides. The man let out a yelp as he and the preacher wrestled with the front door. "Oh, I pay my fair share of taxes and usually keep my mouth closed. In fact, until today, I've lived up to the town's motto, never a discouraging word. Well, not today boys, I will be damn if I pay another dime."
In their hurry to leave, both men collided, their shoulders wedged as they tried to press through the door in unison. Squeezing out the entrance, they lengthened their strides as they moved toward the buggy.
"But your wife," the minister called over his shoulder. "She wouldn't want the town to go without a Christmas."
His heart constricted. How dare they. How dare they bring her up! "Don't you ever go there, you two bit Bible thumper." He could feel his face grow red from the heat of anger as his eyes bore into the Reverend. The little man's Adam's apple bobbled as if it were a boulder being tossed downstream through a rapid. "Now, git!" he bellowed. Moving to the edge of the porch, he turned the gun barrel skyward curled his index finger over the trigger, and let loose one shot.
The percussion of the gun echoed in the still air. Both men let out a yelp like a wounded dog. The speed of their retreat increased. They fumbled, their feet slipped, yet somehow they managed to scramble aboard and turn the horse around. "You haven't heard the last of this," Thomas Carter shouted as the Reverend brought the lines down upon the horse's back. The iron rims hissed against the ground as they left at a fast trot.
"Damned fools," he snarled. In the quiet of the ranch grounds, he watched them pass the barn and caught one last look as they tossed him a glare mixed with fear and pure hatred. He broke open the barrel and pulled the empty shell from the smoking gun. By golly, they got the message that time. Tossing the spent shell onto the ground, he pulled the unused ammunition out and returned it to his vest pocket. He turned and stared at the empty doorway of the two-story log home he'd built. A momentary expression of hurt rolled across his face deepening the lines next to the grim turn of his lips. She should be here. By all rights, Miranda should be there, standing in the doorway, waiting for him.
To purchase your copy of A Cordial Christmas for $0.99 please follow the links below,
http://www.amazon.com/A-Cordial-Christmas-ebook/dp/B005POOES0/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91873
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Saturday Matinee Segment
Growing up it used to be the thing to take in a western at the movie theater on Saturday afternoons.. So here's a bit of my indie book The Rancher's Irish Bride for your viewing pleasure...
The roar of the flames filled his ears as Clay waded into battle. Left hand up over his brow for protection, he tried to smoother the greedy tongues of fire with the burlap sack only to have it smolder to pieces in front of his eyes. He should have doused it in the creek, but the water level was so low it would have taken more time. He needed something, anything to deprive the flames the oxygen they needed.
Pulling his jacket from his back, he latched on to one sleeve and began to beat back the ever-advancing fire. The hot breath of the blaze spread across the dry grass consuming an ever bigger portion of the range. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her rushing dangerously close to the burning grasses only to be beaten back by the scorching heat.
"Stay back. My men will be here soon," he ordered. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew she would not heed them. Together they danced, dodging the hot ash and orange cinders.
Soon shouts of other men and the roll of wagons filled the air as his wranglers joined in the fight. The men of the Rocking R converged on the growing fire. "Throw me a wet sack," Clay shouted to the man standing behind the barrels, tossing the burlap to the others. He dropped his smoldering jacket as a sack flew into the air sending a shower of cool water to douse his heated skin.
Rushing forward, he joined his men in a line of defense. Moving together, slinging water, and beating out the flames they began to turn the tide of the orange sea. Advancing, retreating, they continued the macabre dance, uttering a hailstorm of oaths strong enough to make a minister blush. Concentrating on saving his grazing land, Clay forgot all about Maeve Campbell until he heard the night air pierced by her frightened screams.
Clay paused. The scream came again from the right. He turned his head and his heart dropped to his boots. Her arms flailing, Maeve rushed away from the smoke and flames, the hem of her skirt consumed by orange. The more she ran, the faster the fire grew.
"Stand still!" he yelled. Turning to the man next to him, he snatched the wet bag from the wrangler's hand and rushed toward her.
"Stop running," he ordered.
Grabbing her closest hand, she turned, clawing at him, trying desperately to get away from the heat. With a jerk, she stumbled. He took the pause in her fight to open the wet rough cloth. His arms held out wide, he captured her body. They fell to the ground, his body covering hers to smother the flames. In order to silence her, Clay pressed his mouth to hers. As the heat melted away from his legs, suffocated by the wet burlap, another type of heat, one more consuming settled in his groin.
For a mad woman, Maeve McKenna tasted just short of heavenly. Her cries lessened, turning into soft moans. Instead of beating his chest, her fist gathered the loose cloth of his shirt and she clung to him. Unconsciously, his lips moved over the fullness of her bottom lip, capturing it for the merest of seconds before he let it go. His chest heaving, Clay broke the kiss and pulled away.
The light from the flames danced across her face as she stared at him in wonder, her lips full from his kisses. His body hard from want, he drew his brow together and knew he should not be there, should not be doing this. Steeling his mind from desire, he turned his attention to her skirts.
Slowly, he eased his body away and sat back. He lifted the wet burlap away from her, revealing the burnt edges of her skirt and petticoat. As his heart ceased to hammer against his chest, he could hear Maeve's own rapid breaths. His eyes rolled up her frame. The sodden blanket not only smothered the flames but it transferred its dampness to her clothing, making the muslin blouse nearly transparent.
Clay closed his eyes to count to ten and swore under his breath. "Are you hurt," he asked, looking at her again.
She shook her head. A soft breeze whisked away the remaining body heat and he watched her nipples pebble. The sight sent a molten finger of desire spiraling through his body to make itself at home in his stones.
Clay glanced away and spied the blackened shawl on the ground. Leaning to the left, he snatched it up and tossed it over her upper body. "Cover yourself," he growled. Scrambling to stand, Clay helped her to sit up and draw the blackened material around her shoulders. He moved to the side and slid his arm beneath her knees. "Hold on to my neck," he commanded and drew her to his chest, then stood.
Maeve's arms held tight around him as they moved toward the wagon. He could feel the weight of her cheek against his shoulder. Even though the scent of smoke was strong, a whiff of something clean, something almost flowery washed over him. Using utmost care, Clay placed her on the back of the wagon, next to the barrels of water. Loosening his kerchief, he held it up to the wrangler staring at them. "Soak it, "he snapped.
While he waited, he looked down at the angry red mark on her ankle. "You're burned." He glanced up, their eyes met.
To purchase your copy for $1.99 please use the following links...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-ranchers-irish-bride-nancy-oberry/1038310448?ean=2940014083218&itm=1&usri=the+rancher%27s+irish+bride
http://www.amazon.com/The-Ranchers-Irish-Bride-ebook/dp/B007567YRO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328318096&sr=8-2
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/129195
The roar of the flames filled his ears as Clay waded into battle. Left hand up over his brow for protection, he tried to smoother the greedy tongues of fire with the burlap sack only to have it smolder to pieces in front of his eyes. He should have doused it in the creek, but the water level was so low it would have taken more time. He needed something, anything to deprive the flames the oxygen they needed.
Pulling his jacket from his back, he latched on to one sleeve and began to beat back the ever-advancing fire. The hot breath of the blaze spread across the dry grass consuming an ever bigger portion of the range. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her rushing dangerously close to the burning grasses only to be beaten back by the scorching heat.
"Stay back. My men will be here soon," he ordered. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew she would not heed them. Together they danced, dodging the hot ash and orange cinders.
Soon shouts of other men and the roll of wagons filled the air as his wranglers joined in the fight. The men of the Rocking R converged on the growing fire. "Throw me a wet sack," Clay shouted to the man standing behind the barrels, tossing the burlap to the others. He dropped his smoldering jacket as a sack flew into the air sending a shower of cool water to douse his heated skin.
Rushing forward, he joined his men in a line of defense. Moving together, slinging water, and beating out the flames they began to turn the tide of the orange sea. Advancing, retreating, they continued the macabre dance, uttering a hailstorm of oaths strong enough to make a minister blush. Concentrating on saving his grazing land, Clay forgot all about Maeve Campbell until he heard the night air pierced by her frightened screams.
Clay paused. The scream came again from the right. He turned his head and his heart dropped to his boots. Her arms flailing, Maeve rushed away from the smoke and flames, the hem of her skirt consumed by orange. The more she ran, the faster the fire grew.
"Stand still!" he yelled. Turning to the man next to him, he snatched the wet bag from the wrangler's hand and rushed toward her.
"Stop running," he ordered.
Grabbing her closest hand, she turned, clawing at him, trying desperately to get away from the heat. With a jerk, she stumbled. He took the pause in her fight to open the wet rough cloth. His arms held out wide, he captured her body. They fell to the ground, his body covering hers to smother the flames. In order to silence her, Clay pressed his mouth to hers. As the heat melted away from his legs, suffocated by the wet burlap, another type of heat, one more consuming settled in his groin.
For a mad woman, Maeve McKenna tasted just short of heavenly. Her cries lessened, turning into soft moans. Instead of beating his chest, her fist gathered the loose cloth of his shirt and she clung to him. Unconsciously, his lips moved over the fullness of her bottom lip, capturing it for the merest of seconds before he let it go. His chest heaving, Clay broke the kiss and pulled away.
The light from the flames danced across her face as she stared at him in wonder, her lips full from his kisses. His body hard from want, he drew his brow together and knew he should not be there, should not be doing this. Steeling his mind from desire, he turned his attention to her skirts.
Slowly, he eased his body away and sat back. He lifted the wet burlap away from her, revealing the burnt edges of her skirt and petticoat. As his heart ceased to hammer against his chest, he could hear Maeve's own rapid breaths. His eyes rolled up her frame. The sodden blanket not only smothered the flames but it transferred its dampness to her clothing, making the muslin blouse nearly transparent.
Clay closed his eyes to count to ten and swore under his breath. "Are you hurt," he asked, looking at her again.
She shook her head. A soft breeze whisked away the remaining body heat and he watched her nipples pebble. The sight sent a molten finger of desire spiraling through his body to make itself at home in his stones.
Clay glanced away and spied the blackened shawl on the ground. Leaning to the left, he snatched it up and tossed it over her upper body. "Cover yourself," he growled. Scrambling to stand, Clay helped her to sit up and draw the blackened material around her shoulders. He moved to the side and slid his arm beneath her knees. "Hold on to my neck," he commanded and drew her to his chest, then stood.
Maeve's arms held tight around him as they moved toward the wagon. He could feel the weight of her cheek against his shoulder. Even though the scent of smoke was strong, a whiff of something clean, something almost flowery washed over him. Using utmost care, Clay placed her on the back of the wagon, next to the barrels of water. Loosening his kerchief, he held it up to the wrangler staring at them. "Soak it, "he snapped.
While he waited, he looked down at the angry red mark on her ankle. "You're burned." He glanced up, their eyes met.
To purchase your copy for $1.99 please use the following links...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-ranchers-irish-bride-nancy-oberry/1038310448?ean=2940014083218&itm=1&usri=the+rancher%27s+irish+bride
http://www.amazon.com/The-Ranchers-Irish-Bride-ebook/dp/B007567YRO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328318096&sr=8-2
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/129195
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Sunday Snippet
When a man thinks he has nothing to live for, life has a way of coming full circle.
Her eyes made contact with the narrowing shafts of yellow from the grey wolf. One of his companions howled. The large animal's noses wrinkled as they drank in her smell. Only then did Holly understand, out here in the wild, she was no more than a meal for this pack to consume. Don't show fear. Now that command might seem simple. Yet, how impossible it would be to carry out? Her knees shook with each sliding step she took away from the wagon.
The wolf sensed her hesitation and moved forward. She watched his dark lips pull away from the long white teeth as a trail of slobber dripped toward the ground. Deep in his chest the threat to charge rumbled. With a gnash of his teeth, he made a half leap forward. Unable to help herself, she screamed and drew her arm up for protection. He growled again. With a shake of his head, white foam from his teeth flew over his body. His actions sent the others in the pack circling and snarling, urging him to strike. She froze. Her gaze focused on the jagged pieces of white in his mouth. She wondered if it would hurt when the closed upon her throat. Silently, Holly began to pray.
To purchase your copy follow the link below.
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Her eyes made contact with the narrowing shafts of yellow from the grey wolf. One of his companions howled. The large animal's noses wrinkled as they drank in her smell. Only then did Holly understand, out here in the wild, she was no more than a meal for this pack to consume. Don't show fear. Now that command might seem simple. Yet, how impossible it would be to carry out? Her knees shook with each sliding step she took away from the wagon.
The wolf sensed her hesitation and moved forward. She watched his dark lips pull away from the long white teeth as a trail of slobber dripped toward the ground. Deep in his chest the threat to charge rumbled. With a gnash of his teeth, he made a half leap forward. Unable to help herself, she screamed and drew her arm up for protection. He growled again. With a shake of his head, white foam from his teeth flew over his body. His actions sent the others in the pack circling and snarling, urging him to strike. She froze. Her gaze focused on the jagged pieces of white in his mouth. She wondered if it would hurt when the closed upon her throat. Silently, Holly began to pray.
To purchase your copy follow the link below.
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Saturday Sensual Scenes...
Saturday morning. Its time to take that cup of coffee back to your favorite easy chair and fire up that computer in search of your next great read... If you are looking for western adventure filled with romance, try The Rancher's Irish Bride.
One hard neck rancher - one Irish beauty. Sparks fly when their worlds collide.
When rancher Clay Roberts finds his prime grazing land in flames, he doesn't expect to see a woman battling the flames. Maeve McKenna will do anything to get Clay Roberts to see that she's the woman for him, even if it means using a bit of Irish magic to win his heart. When Clay stumbles onto a secret that involves local ranchers missing cattle, will it turn their budding romance into ashes?
Clay paused. The scream came again from the right. He turned his head and his heart dropped to his boots. Her arms flailing, Maeve rushed away from the smoke and flames, the hem of her skirt consumed by orange. The more she ran, the faster the fire grew.
"Stand still!" he yelled. Turning to the man next to him, he snatched the wet bag from the wrangler's hand and rushed toward her.
"Stop running," he ordered.
Grabbing her closest hand, she turned, clawing at him, trying desperately to get away from the heat. With a jerk, she stumbled. He took the pause in her fight to open the wet rough cloth. His arms held out wide, he captured her body. They fell to the ground, his body covering hers to smother the flames. In order to silence her, Clay pressed his mouth to hers. As the heat melted away from his legs, suffocated by the wet burlap, another type of heat, one more consuming settled in his groin.
For a mad woman, Maeve McKenna tasted just short of heavenly. Her cries lessened, turning into soft moans. Instead of beating his chest, her fist gathered the loose cloth of his shirt and she clung to him. Unconsciously, his lips moved over the fullness of her bottom lip, capturing it for the merest of seconds before he let it go. His chest heaving, Clay broke the kiss and pulled away.
The light from the flames danced across her face as she stared at him in wonder, her lips full from his kisses. His body hard from want, he drew his brow together and knew he should not be there, should not be doing this. Steeling his mind from desire, he turned his attention to her skirts.
Slowly, he eased his body away and sat back. He lifted the wet burlap away from her, revealing the burnt edges of her skirt and petticoat. As his heart ceased to hammer against his chest, he could hear Maeve's own rapid breaths. His eyes rolled up her frame. The sodden blanket not only smothered the flames but it transferred its dampness to her clothing, making the muslin blouse nearly transparent.
Clay closed his eyes to count to ten and swore under his breath. "Are you hurt," he asked, looking at her again.
She shook her head. A soft breeze whisked away the remaining body heat and he watched her nipples pebble. The sight sent a molten finger of desire spiraling through his body to make itself at home in his stones.
Clay glanced away and spied the blackened shawl on the ground. Leaning to the left, he snatched it up and tossed it over her upper body. "Cover yourself," he growled.
To purchase your copy for $1.99 please use the following links...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-ranchers-irish-bride-nancy-oberry/1038310448?ean=2940014083218&itm=1&usri=the+rancher%27s+irish+bride
http://www.amazon.com/The-Ranchers-Irish-Bride-ebook/dp/B007567YRO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328318096&sr=8-2
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/129195
One hard neck rancher - one Irish beauty. Sparks fly when their worlds collide.
When rancher Clay Roberts finds his prime grazing land in flames, he doesn't expect to see a woman battling the flames. Maeve McKenna will do anything to get Clay Roberts to see that she's the woman for him, even if it means using a bit of Irish magic to win his heart. When Clay stumbles onto a secret that involves local ranchers missing cattle, will it turn their budding romance into ashes?
Clay paused. The scream came again from the right. He turned his head and his heart dropped to his boots. Her arms flailing, Maeve rushed away from the smoke and flames, the hem of her skirt consumed by orange. The more she ran, the faster the fire grew.
"Stand still!" he yelled. Turning to the man next to him, he snatched the wet bag from the wrangler's hand and rushed toward her.
"Stop running," he ordered.
Grabbing her closest hand, she turned, clawing at him, trying desperately to get away from the heat. With a jerk, she stumbled. He took the pause in her fight to open the wet rough cloth. His arms held out wide, he captured her body. They fell to the ground, his body covering hers to smother the flames. In order to silence her, Clay pressed his mouth to hers. As the heat melted away from his legs, suffocated by the wet burlap, another type of heat, one more consuming settled in his groin.
For a mad woman, Maeve McKenna tasted just short of heavenly. Her cries lessened, turning into soft moans. Instead of beating his chest, her fist gathered the loose cloth of his shirt and she clung to him. Unconsciously, his lips moved over the fullness of her bottom lip, capturing it for the merest of seconds before he let it go. His chest heaving, Clay broke the kiss and pulled away.
The light from the flames danced across her face as she stared at him in wonder, her lips full from his kisses. His body hard from want, he drew his brow together and knew he should not be there, should not be doing this. Steeling his mind from desire, he turned his attention to her skirts.
Slowly, he eased his body away and sat back. He lifted the wet burlap away from her, revealing the burnt edges of her skirt and petticoat. As his heart ceased to hammer against his chest, he could hear Maeve's own rapid breaths. His eyes rolled up her frame. The sodden blanket not only smothered the flames but it transferred its dampness to her clothing, making the muslin blouse nearly transparent.
Clay closed his eyes to count to ten and swore under his breath. "Are you hurt," he asked, looking at her again.
She shook her head. A soft breeze whisked away the remaining body heat and he watched her nipples pebble. The sight sent a molten finger of desire spiraling through his body to make itself at home in his stones.
Clay glanced away and spied the blackened shawl on the ground. Leaning to the left, he snatched it up and tossed it over her upper body. "Cover yourself," he growled.
To purchase your copy for $1.99 please use the following links...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-ranchers-irish-bride-nancy-oberry/1038310448?ean=2940014083218&itm=1&usri=the+rancher%27s+irish+bride
http://www.amazon.com/The-Ranchers-Irish-Bride-ebook/dp/B007567YRO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328318096&sr=8-2
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/129195
Sunday, May 6, 2012
God bless little boys and frogs.
Yes, I know it's an odd topic for a writer, but let me explain. My grandson, who is five going on six is infatuated with nature. He enjoys going fishing whether its in the dog bowl or with his daddy on the boat. If its sunny, he's outside playing, observing, cataloging information about life because at five the world is his oyster.
So when my daughter heard him talking the other evening her own curiosity drew her to the door that opened onto their back patio. There crouched close to the ground, his head bent with a look of deep concentration on his little face. Her gaze drifted, following his line of vision, to the ground where a big green frog sat staring back.
I know she had to have smiled. Perhaps even stifled a giggle that threatened to emerge as he urged the creature to follow him. Rising, he tugged on the end of the string that he somehow managed to tie around the frogs slender leg. "Come on, follow me." and according to her, he gave a little tug. The animal had no choice but the follow. She said she watched for a few moments enjoying the sheer determination of the child to get his 'new pet' to follow and the determination of said 'pet' to not.
Finally, she announced her presence and came outside to sit on the steps. The conversation that followed, were deep ones explaining the fact that all wild creatures must be free to follow the plan, the call of life. If he would let the frog go, then he would be doing nature a deep service because frogs help keep the mosquitoes down. I can imagine the look of surprise that turned to disappointment as she got him to agree and he knelt down and untied his 'leash'. Now free, the amphibian disappeared into the green of the grass and my little one went in to wash his hands.
Later that night, after bath and a story, he was tucked into bed ready to dream what wonderful dreams come to the young of flying ships, western plains, and horizons we can not see because our eyes have been limited by life. As my daughter cut out the light, she heard a sound just outside his window. A deep vibrating ribbit that was answered by another. Sleepily, the little head turned. "Good night, froggie," he whispered.
Now, every night before sleep, he calls out to his new found friend, who lies beneath his open window and sings him to sleep blessed by the wisdom of my daughter and the imagination of a little boy going on six.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Tuesdays Taste of Romance
Okay, we made it through Monday. Now, comes the long stretch between Tuesday and Thursday. Why not take a moment and savor a bit of romance in the afternoon. Here's a bit from my latest work in progress.
Enjoy your Tuesday and see you soon,
Nancy
The dim light coupled with the dark sunglasses made reading the menu nearly impossible. She pulled the glasses down the end of her nose and did a quick scan. Pot roast, chicken fried steak, burgers; didn’t these people know about eating healthy?
“You know, if you took those sunglasses off you’d blend in better with the crowd.”
His nonchalant words made her look up. He seemed to be intently studying the menu, yet she was fully aware he knew every move she made. Her heart tripped over itself, as he looked up then reached over, and pulled the plastic from her face. Without a word, he folded the earpieces over one another and laid them beside her paper coaster. Then he returned to the menu and began reading. When she didn't speak, he glanced at her. “Your ball cap is pulled low enough that in this lighting, not even your own grandmother will recognize you.”
If only he knew, that was the whole point. A sinking feeling of uneasiness washed over her. She dampened her dry lips and looked down at the words and pictures of the meals served. Across the way, someone placed a coin in the jukebox and soon Kenny Chesney's newest single blared. A glass of tea with a lemon wedge materialized before her. She glanced up and watched Sandy poise a pencil above a pad.
“What will it be?”
Delaney looked to Logan to begin.
“Ladies first.”
She swallowed and pointed to the friend chicken salad. “I’d like this please.”
Sandy’s hand flew across the pad. “Ranch, Italian, or French dressing?”
“Um, Italian dressing,” she mumbled and folded the edges of the plastic over one another, pushing the menu toward the end of the table.
“I’ll have the All American,” Logan replied.
“Be ready in about ten minutes.” Sandy said as she walked off.
Another awkward silence enfolded around them. Delaney fiddled with the paper band around her napkin. She should say something nice, but what? Her eyes moved around the room. “This is a nice place.”Her comment made Logan look over at her. A bit of tension left the lines in his face. He leaned against the booth back and lifted the edges of his lips. “Locals love it.”
He wasn’t a bad looking man, she decided. Tall, tanned, he had the feel of the outdoors about him. His dark blonde curls made him look like the hero typed that belong on a book cover. She noticed he was staring back at her. Delaney was glad the lighting didn’t allow him to see how her cheeks. If the heat she was experiencing was any indication, they were flaming red. “Have you lived out here all your life?”
“For the most part, I spent some time in Colorado but when my dad wanted to start raising horses, I came back to help him.”
She nodded and looked away. The small bowl of artificial sweeteners suddenly seemed of great importance. Moving the packages around, she began to line them up according to color. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lean forward and fold his arms, one on top the other, across the table.
“You sure you don’t have other questions?”
She offered him a shy glance, then shrugged. “Everyone has questions.”
“I’ve got one.”
She stopped what she was doing and looked across the table at him.
“What are you hiding from?”
Enjoy your Tuesday and see you soon,
Nancy
Monday, April 2, 2012
Looking for Love? Check out the Greenhorn Heart by Sherri Thomas
GREENHORN HEART
Sherri Thomas
ISBN 978-1-59578-882-5
At her dying mother’s bedside, Jolene Norris promised that she would keep her baby sister safe from her money hungry aunt and uncle. Unfortunately, keeping that promise is proving a lot more difficult than Jolene thought, and she needs help. Her aunt is out to prove Jolene is unfit or at the very least unstable to take care of her sister, forcing Jolene to seek Seth Morgan’s help. She needs his home, his land, and his name. Too bad he’s as welcoming as the bulls he raises. Scared that she’ll lose her sister, Jolene makes Seth a deal he can’t refuse.
Seth doesn't have time to take care of a petite woman who is as green as her eyes or the small drooling complication on her hip. He doesn't do babies or marriage, not after his ex-wife killed herself and their three-year-old son. But he desperately needs the money Jolene offers him.
Together they arrange a marriage of convenience, which quickly becomes so much more.
http://www.king-cart.com/cgi-bin/cart.cgi?store=linda018&cart_id=25108.63230&product_name=Greenhorn+Heart&return_page=&user-id=&password=&exchange=&exact_match=exact
Congratulations, Sherri, on your newest release!
Check out her other books with these links to Liquid Silver Books
Mad About Maddie - Liquidsilverbooks.com
Holding On -- Liquidsilverbooks.com
Greenhorn Heart - Liquidsilverbooks.com
You can find Sherri at these locations.
http://www.sherrithomas.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/sherlynromance
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Wednesday's Western Heroes...
Do you like your heroes tall, dark, and handsome? Are they always topped with a Stetson hat?
Check out Wednesday's Western Hero... Dobson Winters from A Cordial Christmas now out at Amazon, Barnes and Nobles, and Smashwords.
With a half turn, he slammed the wood at the entranceway so, the windows along the front of the great room rattled. His left hand reached out and swiped the weapon off the table surface. He took one-step toward his desk and spied his Chinese cook peering around the edge of the dining room. His eyes rounded, a meat cleaver raised in his right hand. Dobson leveled him a hard glance.
"Ain't you got some meat that needs fixing?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the little man disappeared. He rushed toward the kitchen, his queue waving madly down his back, with a stream of gibberish echoing in his wake.
"Good." he huffed.
Stomping to the gun cabinet, the cattleman removed the loose lock and stowed the firearm away. He put the unspent shell beside the weapon in case any other do-gooder ventured into his path. The door closed, he turned the key in the lock and secured the guns from prying hands. Staring at the silver key, the edges of his mouth turned down.
Who was he kidding? There weren't any prying hands. That dream ended ten years ago like so many others. His fingers closed around the key so tight, he could feel the cold metal cut into his skin of his palm. Damn them all for reminding him of the season.
A log in the hearth split. The sound echoed across the room and sent sparks leaping up the chimney. He heard the wood break apart with a heave; then give something akin to a human gasp of despair. A sudden chill filled the air. He shook it off and walked to the fireplace to stare. One hand on the mantle, without thinking, he placed a boot upon the stone edge, and reached for the wrought iron poker to shove the timber further back.
Ten years ago, next week, he sighed and it seemed like yesterday.
Not wanting to dwell on the memory, he placed the poker back, and moved across the room to his desk. Issuing a grunt, Dobson sat down and picked up his pencil, intent on resuming his work. There were only two pages to put in his ledger. Concentrating on the figures, he could push all the other thoughts from his mind.
Two hundred cattle marked to make their way down to the winter pastures. From that, he and his men would cut out the heifers due to calf and move them closer to the barn. He wanted the accounts up to date so they could order supplies against the first snows of winter that were bound to fall soon. Tomorrow, he'd make the journey into town and lay in the basics. His thoughts drifted to the conversation with the men from town. On second thought, he'd make sure to double it. That way, he wouldn't be bothered to go into town and have his ear bent about their foolish notions of celebrating a holiday meant to line a merchant's pockets until long after the first of the year.
He counted the tallies again and as he worked, the pale sunlight moved at a steady pace across the desk. A twinkle flashed and caught his eye. He brought his gaze up and found the golden light centered on the woman pictured in the framed tin-type. He paused. His heart tightened as he remembered the luminescence of her blue eyes, similar to smoke. Her dark hair, as she always wore it, in one long braid and coiled at the nape of her neck. His mouth softened. In the picture, he could see the two hairpins, which held that thick braid in place.
Another memory surfaced making him wince. He'd ridden a loco horse at the county fair that summer in order to earn enough money to buy the jade combs she'd seen in the window down in Austin. They were building this home back then. Most days, he hardly had enough money to make ends meet let alone give 'em extras. But, oh, how her eyes had lit up when she saw those pretties. She'd never asked, just given a soft sigh that turned his heart over as they walked away.
It was something a man couldn't forget. Scrimping and saving added enough to the winnings. In the middle of a blinding snowstorm, he'd ridden down and shown up at the door by daybreak. Curled up in an old thin coat, he sat and waited, till they opened. The wrapping was worse than any kid's. Still, when he'd given them to her, she'd cried. Unable to stand her crying, he'd kissed her and kept right on kissing until all traces of her tears were gone. Forgotten were the chores and the cattle. Alone in this cabin, they did what a man and woman did best - made love.
How his heart ached. The memory of lying in her sweet arms made his heart ache. He placed his pencil down to rub the sear from his chest as he reached out and picked up the frame. She might be gone, but the hurt was never far from the surface. That day, in that cold creek, the rushing water took her laughter, took everything that made living so easy. Worse, it took the innocent bundle she held close to her heart and for that, he'd never forgive.
To purchase your copy of A Cordial Christmas for $0.99 please follow the links below,
http://www.amazon.com/A-Cordial-Christmas-ebook/dp/B005POOES0/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91873
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Check out Wednesday's Western Hero... Dobson Winters from A Cordial Christmas now out at Amazon, Barnes and Nobles, and Smashwords.
With a half turn, he slammed the wood at the entranceway so, the windows along the front of the great room rattled. His left hand reached out and swiped the weapon off the table surface. He took one-step toward his desk and spied his Chinese cook peering around the edge of the dining room. His eyes rounded, a meat cleaver raised in his right hand. Dobson leveled him a hard glance.
"Ain't you got some meat that needs fixing?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth, than the little man disappeared. He rushed toward the kitchen, his queue waving madly down his back, with a stream of gibberish echoing in his wake.
"Good." he huffed.
Stomping to the gun cabinet, the cattleman removed the loose lock and stowed the firearm away. He put the unspent shell beside the weapon in case any other do-gooder ventured into his path. The door closed, he turned the key in the lock and secured the guns from prying hands. Staring at the silver key, the edges of his mouth turned down.
Who was he kidding? There weren't any prying hands. That dream ended ten years ago like so many others. His fingers closed around the key so tight, he could feel the cold metal cut into his skin of his palm. Damn them all for reminding him of the season.
A log in the hearth split. The sound echoed across the room and sent sparks leaping up the chimney. He heard the wood break apart with a heave; then give something akin to a human gasp of despair. A sudden chill filled the air. He shook it off and walked to the fireplace to stare. One hand on the mantle, without thinking, he placed a boot upon the stone edge, and reached for the wrought iron poker to shove the timber further back.
Ten years ago, next week, he sighed and it seemed like yesterday.
Not wanting to dwell on the memory, he placed the poker back, and moved across the room to his desk. Issuing a grunt, Dobson sat down and picked up his pencil, intent on resuming his work. There were only two pages to put in his ledger. Concentrating on the figures, he could push all the other thoughts from his mind.
Two hundred cattle marked to make their way down to the winter pastures. From that, he and his men would cut out the heifers due to calf and move them closer to the barn. He wanted the accounts up to date so they could order supplies against the first snows of winter that were bound to fall soon. Tomorrow, he'd make the journey into town and lay in the basics. His thoughts drifted to the conversation with the men from town. On second thought, he'd make sure to double it. That way, he wouldn't be bothered to go into town and have his ear bent about their foolish notions of celebrating a holiday meant to line a merchant's pockets until long after the first of the year.
He counted the tallies again and as he worked, the pale sunlight moved at a steady pace across the desk. A twinkle flashed and caught his eye. He brought his gaze up and found the golden light centered on the woman pictured in the framed tin-type. He paused. His heart tightened as he remembered the luminescence of her blue eyes, similar to smoke. Her dark hair, as she always wore it, in one long braid and coiled at the nape of her neck. His mouth softened. In the picture, he could see the two hairpins, which held that thick braid in place.
Another memory surfaced making him wince. He'd ridden a loco horse at the county fair that summer in order to earn enough money to buy the jade combs she'd seen in the window down in Austin. They were building this home back then. Most days, he hardly had enough money to make ends meet let alone give 'em extras. But, oh, how her eyes had lit up when she saw those pretties. She'd never asked, just given a soft sigh that turned his heart over as they walked away.
It was something a man couldn't forget. Scrimping and saving added enough to the winnings. In the middle of a blinding snowstorm, he'd ridden down and shown up at the door by daybreak. Curled up in an old thin coat, he sat and waited, till they opened. The wrapping was worse than any kid's. Still, when he'd given them to her, she'd cried. Unable to stand her crying, he'd kissed her and kept right on kissing until all traces of her tears were gone. Forgotten were the chores and the cattle. Alone in this cabin, they did what a man and woman did best - made love.
How his heart ached. The memory of lying in her sweet arms made his heart ache. He placed his pencil down to rub the sear from his chest as he reached out and picked up the frame. She might be gone, but the hurt was never far from the surface. That day, in that cold creek, the rushing water took her laughter, took everything that made living so easy. Worse, it took the innocent bundle she held close to her heart and for that, he'd never forgive.
To purchase your copy of A Cordial Christmas for $0.99 please follow the links below,
http://www.amazon.com/A-Cordial-Christmas-ebook/dp/B005POOES0/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91873
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Amy Atwell talks about social media and the writer.
Good Morning to all this fine Monday. I'm bringing in a friend to discuss the writer and social media. Its true that writing is a verb. Writers - write, but it's also true in this day of limited attention spans that we must labor to not only write but get our "name", our "brand" out in the public eye. So I brought in the big guns, Amy Atwell a fellow RWA member, a mover and shaker in the world or writing. Here's a bit of back ground on Amy. You'll quickly see that Amy doesn't flirt around. She's on a mission and when you best step up to the plate when you hang in her circle.
Amy Atwell worked in professional theater management for 15 years before turning from the stage to the page to write fiction. She now gives her imagination free rein in both contemporary and historical stories that combine adventure and romance. Her historical romance AMBERSLEY hit the Top 100 on both Kindle and Nook and has sold over 30,000 copies. When not writing, Amy runs the WritingGIAM online community for goal-oriented writers and has recently launched Author E.M.S., the online business resource library for authors. An Ohio native, Amy now resides on a barrier island in Florida with her husband, two Russian Blues and a demon kitten. Visit her online at her website, Magical Musings, Facebook, Twitter and/or GoodReads.
Amy has agreed to give her expertise and answer questions today, so don't hesitate to ask. If any one knows.. its Amy.
Thank you, Nancy, for inviting me to meet your readers today. I’m a bit of an extrovert, so I love meeting new people!
Social Media: Balm or Bane for Authors?
How many of you use some form of social media? Facebook and Twitter seem to be the bastions most popular with authors today. But there’s also LinkedIn, Google+, Pinterest, StumbleUpon and more. Social networking is what drives GoodReads, Shelfari and LibraryThing. Even Pandora radio lets you create a profile page and encourages a community of listeners.
Many authors find it all overwhelming. It’s a challenge to find enough time to write fiction, much less post and pin and tweet. So where is the sweet spot? Just how important is social media to authors?
If you’re serious about a long-term writing career, social media will continue to be an important and viable source of promotion and audience building. But, and here’s the key, it’s only going to work for you if—
1. You find at least one of social network that you enjoy.
2. You strike a balance between your online social networking and your writing.
3. You approach social networking with the same imagination and commitment you bring to your writing.
Doesn’t sound too scary, does it?
Here’s why I think it’s important—the Internet isn’t likely to disappear. Millions of people are on it, and millions more are buying smart phones and tablets because they can’t get enough of it. In some ways, our society is growing more fragmented, with less person to person interaction in real life. At the same time, people seek out and savor their interactions on social media.
This is where social media works so well for authors. Most stories have some element of human connection at the core of the story. A hero learning to trust. A heroine returning to confront her hometown memories. A family on the brink of disaster brought whole again.
The readers who love those kinds of stories are out there in social media as squawking and hungry as birds. Keep tossing out birdseed on a regular basis, and those birds will find their way to you. Readers who connect with you and your stories will become loyal fans. They will spread the word for you. Remember the old shampoo commercial? “And they’ll tell two friends, and they’ll tell two friends…” and so on and so on.
That’s the magic of social networking.
You may be a pantser when you write but plotting or, rather, planning ahead will save you a lot of headaches with social media. Make a game plan for yourself so you can make the most of your social networking. And if you’re not published yet, it’s not too early to get a jump start on this. By all means, start to build your tribe now.
1. Study the different social networks and decide which one(s) best match how you want to communicate with potential fans and fellow authors.
2. Secure your profiles on any (frankly, I would do all just in case) social network you plan to use. Ideally, use your writing name.
3. Find an image and write a short bio so your profiles are consistent.
4. Make a list of the topics you will discuss—and not discuss—on social networking. You want to be personable and friendly in your interactions, but remember anything you say can come back to bite you and your career.
5. Start slowly and blend in. Join in other conversations, repeat items of interest, help your fellow authors. Don’t just pop in and shout about your book.
6. Ask questions! Experienced users love to help newbies.
7. Set aside some time weekly, 30-60 minutes to seek out people to follow and friend.
8. Be gracious. Send thank yous to people who repeat your messages.
9. Tend your social network account(s) daily, whenever possible. Each day you miss, you will lose a bit of momentum. 15 minutes is all it takes, really!
10. Be prepared to adapt as the social networks grow and change.
I’ll mention that Facebook is in the midst of rolling out its new Timeline design. Both personal profiles and business (author) pages are changing. You can read a full article on it on Author E.M.S., the online business resource library for authors.
I hope some of that was helpful. I’m happy to field any other questions you might have about social media—so, tell me, what’s your biggest fear or frustration with social networks?
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
What are you doing to jump start your career
We all know that writing is a verb. Writers duh write. But in this day and age, with the opportunities that abound, writers need to do more than just huddle in our cold dark cave and labor over a raw manuscript. Shaping and reshaping until the clay becomes the mold of a great story. Writers need to not only converse with other writers, but to take charge of their careers.
With the explosion of ebooks, writers have been in some ways given their emancipation from agents, which, in itself, is a double edged sword. Agents are needed to submit work to New York publishers and in some cases e pubs, but in order to attract agents, writers need to have published work. So how do we handle this seemingly double standards?
First and foremost, writers need to be aware of opportunities. Yes, they do only knock once. While on the trail of a good agent, writers need to show they can produce work. So, it is important to know what publishers are looking for. A writer must gleam the slush pile quotes and needs from editors by keeping abreast of what the market is looking for.
How many of you make list for the grocery store? We know that going into the store without one means we often spend more money by picking up unwanted items. The same can be said for our writing. Yes, its important to write the story of your heart. But, it can also help your career to pick two to three targeted publishers both standard and E then read what their editors are searching for. Does it fall into your interest? Can you craft a synopsis or outline of a story by looking at their new lines. If so, do it, write it, send it. Choose to have your work in your hands. It is always so much better to be proactive than reactive.
Once you have submitted your idea, get on with your other writings. Yes, you'll obsess by checking your emails, wondering, marking the days to come, but who knows after 6 to 12 weeks you might get the go ahead on the project and propel your writing into new markets. Isn't that just what you wanted?
So get started by perusing epubs, making a target list, reading some of their books and throwing caution to the wind, take your pen and write. The world is your oyster, cave and all.
Happy March writing,
Nan
With the explosion of ebooks, writers have been in some ways given their emancipation from agents, which, in itself, is a double edged sword. Agents are needed to submit work to New York publishers and in some cases e pubs, but in order to attract agents, writers need to have published work. So how do we handle this seemingly double standards?
First and foremost, writers need to be aware of opportunities. Yes, they do only knock once. While on the trail of a good agent, writers need to show they can produce work. So, it is important to know what publishers are looking for. A writer must gleam the slush pile quotes and needs from editors by keeping abreast of what the market is looking for.
How many of you make list for the grocery store? We know that going into the store without one means we often spend more money by picking up unwanted items. The same can be said for our writing. Yes, its important to write the story of your heart. But, it can also help your career to pick two to three targeted publishers both standard and E then read what their editors are searching for. Does it fall into your interest? Can you craft a synopsis or outline of a story by looking at their new lines. If so, do it, write it, send it. Choose to have your work in your hands. It is always so much better to be proactive than reactive.
Once you have submitted your idea, get on with your other writings. Yes, you'll obsess by checking your emails, wondering, marking the days to come, but who knows after 6 to 12 weeks you might get the go ahead on the project and propel your writing into new markets. Isn't that just what you wanted?
So get started by perusing epubs, making a target list, reading some of their books and throwing caution to the wind, take your pen and write. The world is your oyster, cave and all.
Happy March writing,
Nan
Friday, February 24, 2012
Its speed week at Daytona.
Don't you ever wish... you could be part of the crowd. So does Janet Duplain...
Chapter One
“Ticket, please.”
Arm extended, Janet Duplain held out the glossy, heavy paper and waited for the young man to rip off the end and hand the stub back to her.
“Thank you,” she spoke softly, placing her wallet back into the large shoulder bag before moving through the gate.
Florida was everything they said it would be, if you understood “they” to mean her husband‟s friends who gathered around the TV set out in the den on Sunday afternoons beginning the first of January. She pushed her white-framed sunglasses onto her face and stepped out of the line of human traffic flowing into the main gates of the superspeedway. This trip was to have been the greatest gift a wife could give her husband. Only now, Janet was making it alone.
Janet turned over her palm to glance at the stub. Section X, seat thirty-three in the Lockhart Tower. This shouldn’t be too hard to find. Raising her glance to look at the signs, she merged back into the throng intent on making her way toward the elevator.
A sudden shove to the side caught her off guard. Janet tried to take a short step in order to catch her equilibrium. However, her sandals tangled in the hem of her white cotton trousers. With a frightened cry, she held out her hands and braced for a very painful fall.
***
Steven Brock was amazed at the speed in which he had gotten through the line. Perhaps it was a good thing his company had purchased those suite seats in the Sprint Tower. He hurried toward the elevator, slowing his gait so as not to step upon the person in front of him. A group of teenagers went rushing past. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly one youth knocked into a woman a few feet off to his right. She tottered on her feet only to tilt to the left. He stepped around the person in front of him, who paused. Steven rushed forward and caught the willowy auburn before her knees banged onto the rough pavement.
“Are you all right, Miss?” Steve asked.
Large green eyes flashed uncertainly at him. He offered her his winning car salesman smile and allowed her to catch her breath. “Come on. Let‟s step over here to the bench.”
She nodded, and her body trembled. He led her to the park bench out of the line of traffic. He knelt before her, placed his hands on either side of her and spoke, “Okay, take a big deep breath and hold it for ten seconds then blow it out.”
Her trembling fingers raked the russet curls from her face as she looked back at him. Whatever she was thinking, the young woman could at least follow through with directions.
“M-my sunglasses,” she stated, looking back in the direction of the accident.
“Sit tight,” Steve told her and moved back to the spot, turning until he found the glasses. He bent down, picked up the now twisted frames and brought them back to her. “I‟m afraid they‟re a bit worse for wear.”
He held them out to her, the frames bent, one glass missing, the other cracked.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Check your pocketbook to make sure nothing is missing,” Steve suggested, knowing that security was good and incidents were rare at NASCAR events.
She pulled her large bag toward her and, opening it, she began to put the contents on her lap. The bag contained the usual—brush, comb, a compact—but Steve did admit he was intrigued when she picked up a keyring with a business card instead of a photograph.
“Nope, it‟s all there.” She looked up at him, a genuine smile lighting her face.
Warmth spiraled up and spread through Steve‟s body, shocking him. He felt…hell, he felt like a teenager asking some girl out for the first time. “I‟m glad.”
He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “I‟m Steven Brock, but my friends call me Steve.”
She dumped her things back into the oversized bag, then grasped his hand with a firm grip and shook back. “Hi, Steve, I‟m Janet.”
An electric current seemed to pass from his hand to hers then back again. Her lips dipped for a second, but she quickly regained her composure as she withdrew her hand.
“I want to thank you for your kindness.”
“Not a problem.” Steve nodded. “Is this your first event?”
Janet turned toward the crowd, paused and looked back at him. Pink crept to her cheeks. “How could you tell?”
He looked down. “Few women wear three-inch heel sandals,” he pointed out.
She laughed. His skin tingled with the melodious sound.
“Next time wear tennis shoes,” he told her. “It‟s much more practical.”
“Yes, I can see that now.”
A gust of wind blew by, and she turned away, keeping the fine gravel from flying into her eyes. The mass of curls shifted, and Steve had to hook his thumbs in the pocket of his jeans to resist the urge to help draw it back from her face. He wondered if those luscious locks were as soft and silky as they appeared.
Destination Daytona is for sale at Amazon follow the links to purchase your copy at Amazon for $1.99 http://www.amazon.com/Destination-Daytona-Forever-Yours-ebook/dp/B003VTZWEQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1330107983&sr=8-1
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Backlist Tuesday
As a woman, Lauren Phelps has suffered the worst life can throw at her. The loss of her breast, the rejection of her husband, a divorce can she pick up the shattered threads of her life and continue?
Cole McGuire met Lauren Phelps through a mutual friend, his mother. When Lauren took a medical leave of absence, he wondered if he would ever see her again. When she returned to Teague and Marshalls, he made sure she was transferred to his office. Now divorced, he wondered if he stood a chance to woo her.
Can Lauren learn to love again after the storm?
Read an Excerpt here
This can’t be happening, she kept telling her heart. A man like Cole McGuire didn’t stray toward women like her. Yet, as she twisted the handle of her bag in her hand, he appeared around the corner, and his eyes warmed. Lauren’s nerves frayed. She moved her large bag to her right hand and lifted it to her shoulder.
“Here, none of that.” He hurried, reaching out, taking hold of the straps.
His fingers brushed the sleeves of her blouse, and the skin beneath shimmered with heat. Embarrassed, she stepped back, allowing the bag to slide with a little more force than intended. The pens at the bottom clattered against each other.
“Sorry,” they spoke together.
Lauren lowered her gaze to the carpet. It was like being in sixth grade again with Joey Balboa.
“Ms. Phelps,” he began. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know if, I mean…the weight of the bag.”
Lauren stepped back and eyed him, amused by his stammer.
When the exhausted the search for the words left him blank, Cole cleared his throat and ran his hand across his hair. “I guess I didn’t handle that well at all, did I?”
Lauren smiled and shook her head. “Mr. McGuire, it is very nice of you to do this, however—”
“I always hated however as a child,” he murmured.
She was tempted to ask why. Instead, she plunged on in case her courage left her. “However, I can carry my own bag and walk myself back to my car, which is parked just off the elevator doors at the parking garage.”
“I understand. But humor me, if you will,” he said. “You are a great employee, Ms. Phelps. I would be honored to walk you over to your car on your first day back. I hope you will come back tomorrow and many days after that.”
“Sure.” She nodded.
“Your bag?” He smiled at her and held out his hand.
With a sigh, Lauren handed it over. As their fingers touched a tingle of electricity skittered across her arms. Looking up, she wondered what it would be like to be held by those hands, to have them caress the tender places that lay out of his reach. That’s when she noticed his glance; Cole McGuire expressed surprised. His gaze lowered to his hand at her arm. His jaw twitched, and he placed his hand secure against her elbow. They moved toward the exit.
To purchase an ebook or a print go to my webpage at www.nancyoberry.com and books then follow the links.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Designing your manuscript.
Whether pantzer or plotter, in order to keep your story running smoothly you must have some sort of plan in place to keep the center focus of your story running smoothly. For the first time authors , this might be a bit overwhelming. You're saying to yourself, "I want to write. Why don't I just sit down and do it."
Well, no one is saying you can't. But after years and years of chasing this magical pony. I've come to the conclusion, I have to have something even if its just a blurb type statement about the story itself. Something that when I am grasping for words, I can go back, re read, digest, and suddenly let myself know that the information was there all along and I can move forward.
So, what do I use? I'm a pen and paper sort of girl. Yep Use that original computer complete with the delete eraser on the end. I will get a notebook and write down what the story is about in blurb fashion.
example.
Joe loves Marsha, but when it comes to her meddling mother and her get rich schemes he draws the line. When Marsha invest their savings in her mother's latest scheme, Joe moves out. Crushed, Marsha thinks she can never love again. Burying herself in her work, she tries to forget her teetering marriage. But when Mom's scheme finally works and Marsha becomes an overnight millionaire, things go a bit haywire.
Men come out of the closet to wine and dine her in hopes of getting her to marry and get their hands on her er- "assets". One conman gets to close. Joe decides to step in to save Marsha from herself... or it is that he can't forget the love they shared. Will Marsha take him back? Will her new lover steal her fortune? Does money matter when love is all he cares about?
Okay so there's my "working blurb". I'll let this peculate, stew, mull over adding plot ideas in one sentence bullet points beneath or on sticky notes till I get what I want. Can it change? Sure. Can I rearrange? Anytime. As long as I build a world that people can believe and I am comfortable with.
So, let's write!
Nan
Well, no one is saying you can't. But after years and years of chasing this magical pony. I've come to the conclusion, I have to have something even if its just a blurb type statement about the story itself. Something that when I am grasping for words, I can go back, re read, digest, and suddenly let myself know that the information was there all along and I can move forward.
So, what do I use? I'm a pen and paper sort of girl. Yep Use that original computer complete with the delete eraser on the end. I will get a notebook and write down what the story is about in blurb fashion.
example.
Joe loves Marsha, but when it comes to her meddling mother and her get rich schemes he draws the line. When Marsha invest their savings in her mother's latest scheme, Joe moves out. Crushed, Marsha thinks she can never love again. Burying herself in her work, she tries to forget her teetering marriage. But when Mom's scheme finally works and Marsha becomes an overnight millionaire, things go a bit haywire.
Men come out of the closet to wine and dine her in hopes of getting her to marry and get their hands on her er- "assets". One conman gets to close. Joe decides to step in to save Marsha from herself... or it is that he can't forget the love they shared. Will Marsha take him back? Will her new lover steal her fortune? Does money matter when love is all he cares about?
Okay so there's my "working blurb". I'll let this peculate, stew, mull over adding plot ideas in one sentence bullet points beneath or on sticky notes till I get what I want. Can it change? Sure. Can I rearrange? Anytime. As long as I build a world that people can believe and I am comfortable with.
So, let's write!
Nan
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Tuesday's Teaser....
From The Rancher's Irish Bride
"Look into my eyes, Clay Roberts. Are these the eyes of a woman bent on revenge? Or, are these the eyes of a woman who would do everything in her power to protect you?"
He felt the warmth of her breath caress his face. His need for air struggled with his want to breathe in her presence. By all that was Holy, he couldn't look away. She drew even closer. Without touching, his skin warmed along the shadow of her frame and places best left unexplored came to life. Her face lifted up and he stilled at his own reflection in the deep green of her eyes.
"Yes, look at me for the first time in your life and see me without the prejudicial words others have cast against me. There is no dim light. What you see is truth and nothing but the truth."
Her hand touched his. Her fingers leaving scorched marks upon his skin as they pulled his hand to her chest, only to flatten his palm against her heart. Clay's eyes widened. Beneath the cotton of her nightdress, he felt it's gentle thump.
"Ask me again," she demanded. "As me again if I planned to set your meadow ablaze and see what my heart tells you."
His mouth went dry. His lips twitched, and then he heard his voice croak. "Did you mean to set my field on fire?"
Beneath his hand, her heart continued its steady beat. No skip. No half beat of doubt, just a steady, thump, thump, thump. To his amazement, his own heart began to do the same, almost - no, it couldn't be. Where they beating as one? His eyes widened.
"Yes, now you see," she whispered in triumph and her eyes released him.
Clay stumbled back. His knees hit from behind by an armchair and he tumbled down into its seat as Maeve walked past him, back straight, head held high, and disappeared from the room. Minutes passed before his breathing swung again into its regular pattern. He brought his hand up and ran his fingers through his hair. "What the hell was that?"
To purchase your copy for $1.99 please use the following links...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-ranchers-irish-bride-nancy-oberry/1038310448?ean=2940014083218&itm=1&usri=the+rancher%27s+irish+bride
http://www.amazon.com/The-Ranchers-Irish-Bride-ebook/dp/B007567YRO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328318096&sr=8-2
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/129195
"Look into my eyes, Clay Roberts. Are these the eyes of a woman bent on revenge? Or, are these the eyes of a woman who would do everything in her power to protect you?"
He felt the warmth of her breath caress his face. His need for air struggled with his want to breathe in her presence. By all that was Holy, he couldn't look away. She drew even closer. Without touching, his skin warmed along the shadow of her frame and places best left unexplored came to life. Her face lifted up and he stilled at his own reflection in the deep green of her eyes.
"Yes, look at me for the first time in your life and see me without the prejudicial words others have cast against me. There is no dim light. What you see is truth and nothing but the truth."
Her hand touched his. Her fingers leaving scorched marks upon his skin as they pulled his hand to her chest, only to flatten his palm against her heart. Clay's eyes widened. Beneath the cotton of her nightdress, he felt it's gentle thump.
"Ask me again," she demanded. "As me again if I planned to set your meadow ablaze and see what my heart tells you."
His mouth went dry. His lips twitched, and then he heard his voice croak. "Did you mean to set my field on fire?"
Beneath his hand, her heart continued its steady beat. No skip. No half beat of doubt, just a steady, thump, thump, thump. To his amazement, his own heart began to do the same, almost - no, it couldn't be. Where they beating as one? His eyes widened.
"Yes, now you see," she whispered in triumph and her eyes released him.
Clay stumbled back. His knees hit from behind by an armchair and he tumbled down into its seat as Maeve walked past him, back straight, head held high, and disappeared from the room. Minutes passed before his breathing swung again into its regular pattern. He brought his hand up and ran his fingers through his hair. "What the hell was that?"
To purchase your copy for $1.99 please use the following links...
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-ranchers-irish-bride-nancy-oberry/1038310448?ean=2940014083218&itm=1&usri=the+rancher%27s+irish+bride
http://www.amazon.com/The-Ranchers-Irish-Bride-ebook/dp/B007567YRO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1328318096&sr=8-2
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/129195
Friday, February 3, 2012
Yipee! Marin Thomas
Come and meet a dear friend, Marin Thomas, who writes for Harlequin American series.
Marin Thomas grew up in Janesville, Wisconsin. She left the Midwest to attend college in Tucson, Arizona where she earned a B.A. in Radio-TV. Following graduation she married her college sweetheart in a five-minute ceremony at the historical Little Chapel of the West in Las Vegas, Nevada. Over the years she and her family have lived in seven different states but have now come full circle and returned to Arizona where the rugged desert and breathtaking sunsets provide plenty of inspiration for Marin's cowboy books.
I recently had the chance to have a cyber chat with Marin Thomas. Of course our conversation turned to cowboys. She graciously provided a few answer to some questions about her writing and up coming works. I hope you'll enjoy.
Marin has offered a copy of her latest release to one lucky guest. Be sure and leave her a comment so you'll be entered in a chance to win. So, please welcome my dear guest, Marin Thomas.
Hi, Marin, what is it about cowboys that make them an easy focus as your heroes?
I can't say it any better than cowboycrew. com (http://www.cowboycrew.com/cowboy_crew_com_080.htm)
"America needs the Cowboy both to remind us of how far we have come and to bring us back to the simplicity of the values he represents. He is also needed because he is a piece of who we are as a country. He represents a lifestyle and a time period that is a cherished part of our History. Little boys want to grow up to be him and the little girls want to grow up to marry him."
Characteristics that make the "Cowboy" appealing
Stubborn
Determined
Hardworking
Honest
Independent
Old-fashioned manners
Loyal
Helps the underdog
Patriotic
Brave
Self-sacrificing
So, how did you come up with your storyline for Arizona Cowboy?
My first three books for my Rodeo Rebels series for Harlequin American Romance did very well so my editor gave me the "thumbs up" to write more rodeo books, but she wanted a different "hook" or "angle" for the next three books. I remembered a vacation our family took in Colorado when I was 15. I met a distant uncle who was quite a storyteller. He'd been a rodeo cowboy in his younger days and he claimed to have competed in a rodeo where a cowgirl had dressed up as a man and tried to enter the bull riding competition. Of course she'd gotten caught and was subsequently booed by the crowd and sent packing. So that was it! One vacation memory…one distant uncle's story…and voila! I had my angle—women's bull riding! Hopefully readers will enjoy reading about these incredibly brave women.
I read your blog on women bull riders. Fantastic! What can we look forward to seeing from you in the coming year?
Another Rodeo Rebel book and a return to the fictitious town of Stagecoach, Arizona.
In A Cowboy's Duty (August 2012) you'll meet Dixie Cash and her six brothers—each named after a country western singer. (my quirky sense of humor) You'll get a kick out of the wild & crazy Cash brothers. But…the cowboy who will steal your heart is Gavin Tucker. He's a soldier cowboy—who's paid a high price for defending his country.
Many soldiers return from war suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as does the hero of my book. Gavin's an adrenaline junkie and rodeo feeds his addiction. The high he gets from busting broncs gives him the strength to keep on the run from his past. As long as the past never catches him, Gavin is able to keep his PTSD under control. A chance encounter with a female bull rider named Dixie Cash threatens to undermine his efforts. When Dixie turns up pregnant, Gavin must face his past before he can seek the future he'd always believed to be out of reach for him.
Then November 2012, Beau: Cowboy Protector Harts of the Rodeo—Born to Ride! This is the 5th book in a 6-book multi-author continuity for the Harlequin American Romance line. A family's ranch has hit upon hard times and in order to keep the ranch they shift away from cattle to raising bucking stock for rodeos. They acquire a prime stud horse—Midnight, who was a former rodeo champion in hopes of using stud fees to get the ranch back on solid financial ground. Of course lots of things go on throughout the six books…Midnight disappears…there's a rash of local thefts….the family is split down the middle on whether or not Midnight should be allowed to rodeo again.
Lots of family drama in each book!
Aidan: Loyal Cowboy July
Cathy McDavid
Colton: Rodeo Cowboy August
C.J. Carmichael
Duke: Deputy Cowboy September
Roz Denny Fox
Austin: Second Chance Cowboy October
Shelley Galloway
Beau: Cowboy Protector November
Marin Thomas
Tomas: Cowboy Homecoming December
Linda Warren
I know readers are very excited about your work after reading that. Where can readers find you?
May I put a plug in for the contests promoting Arizona Cowboy?
Of Course!!
At the end of each month I draw a name from the list of people who Follow My Blog by Email. (To follow my blog by email visit All My Heroes are Cowboys and put your email address in the Follow by Email box. I also run a Wild West Trivia contest in my monthly newsletter. I pose a question and chose a name from all those who submit the correct answer. Subscribe to my newsletter by clicking on the NEWSLETTER link on my website. During the month of February I'm hosting a Goodreads Giveaway and offering 5 copies of Arizona Cowboy. And finally…for all those who "LIKE" my Marin Thomas—Harlequin Romance Author facebook page during the month of February…your name will be entered into a drawing for a free book!
Back to where you can find me….
Website
All My Heroes are Cowboys (Blog)
goodreads
Harlequin American Romance Authors
Harlequin Books
Amazon
Wow Marin, so many ways to get in touch with your hero's. I hope everyone takes advantage of following your blog and joining your newsletter. I so enjoy it. Please make a comment and enter in Marin's Contest here today for a copy of her latest work.
Marin makes several appearances each year for book signings. Be sure to check her blog to see if she'll be near your home town. Thanks for dropping by my blog as well. I hope you'll come back soon.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Giving a Hint????
I'm having a guest come over this weekend. Won't you come and meet one of my favorite all time western romance authors, Marin Thomas.
So all you buckle bunnies, grab your Stetsons and climb on to the top rail for a grand view some fun and laughs as we learn what it's like to write western romances. While you wait be sure and check out Marin's Website, blog, and books.
http://www.marinthomas.com/home.html
http://www.marinthomas.blogspot.com/
So all you buckle bunnies, grab your Stetsons and climb on to the top rail for a grand view some fun and laughs as we learn what it's like to write western romances. While you wait be sure and check out Marin's Website, blog, and books.
http://www.marinthomas.com/home.html
http://www.marinthomas.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Thursdays Tempest
Sometimes life doesn't go as planned.
Poor Dobson Winters, lost his wife in a horrible accident. Now, the father of the man who caused it makes a dire prediction about his soul....
"Hush," came the command followed by a wheeze. "I don't have much time." The old man's eyes narrowed on him. "Maybe you don't either. Hate is something' that eats at a man. It leaves his soul blacker than the darkest night. A soul like that is damned forever. Now, my life ain't been no bed of roses, but I did my best. My boy went wrong and you were in your right to send him away, even though it killed my Mary. I might have forgiven you, however, she lost her heart and no amount of coaxing brought her back.
I watched you and your Miranda. Every day I prayed the good Lord would hurt you just like you hurt me. Then when they died, I watched you suffer. I thought, good, an eye for an eye, since you took my boy, my wife," he swallowed. "But there twernt no satisfaction in it only thing it did was make the hole bigger."
As he listened to the words, Dobson felt the wash of cold water washed over him. Anger made his body tremble with rage. He should get up and leave. He should let the door slam as he walked out. Yet, he couldn't.
"I watched you, a strong man, curl and wither like a crop with blight. Now, the only thing I got for you is pity. You've become a bitter excuse for a man, Dobson Winters and I thought more of you than that."
He tried to find words to say, yet what Curtis said was closer to the truth than any man wanted to admit.
"Now, I'm dying. There won't be no more tomorrows, no spring sunshine, or marvels of first snow. I ain't got much to leave, but I got me a pearl of great worth. Somethin' few men have and I'm gonna leave it to you."
"I don't need your parting gifts," he snapped.
Curtis Watson had the audacity to chuckle. "No damn you, you don't, but I'm gonna give you a choice." In a flash, his hand snaked out. Cold fingers akin to the grim reaper grabbed his. For a dying man, Watson's grip proved firm. "Holly's coming home. She's driving a wagon across the switchback from the Fort Worth trail."
Dobson's eyes grew wide. "That trail's full of danger. Your daughter's got no damn business-"
"You'll find her and she'll make it. This winter's gonna be a rough one. You're gonna need my hundred fifty acres of grass. We both know it's some of the best land in the valley."
His mouth watered. The old man was right. His land would lead to conflict with his male heir in prison. "What do you want me to do? Buy it? I can set your daughter up in a good house." He stared as the old man shook his head.
"No, I told you- eye for an eye."
A tingle ran up his spine, he could almost feel that second foot falling, crushing his heart in the process. Confused he stared at the man on the bed and waited.
"I won't go to my death condemning a man to eternal damnation."
"I'm not understanding."
"To get my land, you gotta woo my daughter. Marry her, Winters."
"Marry her!"
"I'm gonna save your soul, damn you. Whether you like it or not. You got till the New Year. I've filled the papers all legal with the judge."
"You- you can't." He struggled to remove his hand. But, the old man seemed to want to pull him into the grave with him. The more he struggled, the tighter his grip became. Dobson rose to his feet. "I won't do it!" he bellowed. "I swore I'd never marry again."
"You will," Watson glared back. "I won't have your soul on my conscience. You'll marry my Holly and come back to the living or be forced to walk this earth for eternity searching for love."
Will Dobson be condemned to this horrid fate? Will he marry Holly our of want or out of greed? Sometimes Christmas last forever when you find true love... A Cordial Christmas to purchase yours for $.99 check out these fine retailers.
http://www.amazon.com/A-Cordial-Christmas-ebook/dp/B005POOES0/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91873
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Poor Dobson Winters, lost his wife in a horrible accident. Now, the father of the man who caused it makes a dire prediction about his soul....
"Hush," came the command followed by a wheeze. "I don't have much time." The old man's eyes narrowed on him. "Maybe you don't either. Hate is something' that eats at a man. It leaves his soul blacker than the darkest night. A soul like that is damned forever. Now, my life ain't been no bed of roses, but I did my best. My boy went wrong and you were in your right to send him away, even though it killed my Mary. I might have forgiven you, however, she lost her heart and no amount of coaxing brought her back.
I watched you and your Miranda. Every day I prayed the good Lord would hurt you just like you hurt me. Then when they died, I watched you suffer. I thought, good, an eye for an eye, since you took my boy, my wife," he swallowed. "But there twernt no satisfaction in it only thing it did was make the hole bigger."
As he listened to the words, Dobson felt the wash of cold water washed over him. Anger made his body tremble with rage. He should get up and leave. He should let the door slam as he walked out. Yet, he couldn't.
"I watched you, a strong man, curl and wither like a crop with blight. Now, the only thing I got for you is pity. You've become a bitter excuse for a man, Dobson Winters and I thought more of you than that."
He tried to find words to say, yet what Curtis said was closer to the truth than any man wanted to admit.
"Now, I'm dying. There won't be no more tomorrows, no spring sunshine, or marvels of first snow. I ain't got much to leave, but I got me a pearl of great worth. Somethin' few men have and I'm gonna leave it to you."
"I don't need your parting gifts," he snapped.
Curtis Watson had the audacity to chuckle. "No damn you, you don't, but I'm gonna give you a choice." In a flash, his hand snaked out. Cold fingers akin to the grim reaper grabbed his. For a dying man, Watson's grip proved firm. "Holly's coming home. She's driving a wagon across the switchback from the Fort Worth trail."
Dobson's eyes grew wide. "That trail's full of danger. Your daughter's got no damn business-"
"You'll find her and she'll make it. This winter's gonna be a rough one. You're gonna need my hundred fifty acres of grass. We both know it's some of the best land in the valley."
His mouth watered. The old man was right. His land would lead to conflict with his male heir in prison. "What do you want me to do? Buy it? I can set your daughter up in a good house." He stared as the old man shook his head.
"No, I told you- eye for an eye."
A tingle ran up his spine, he could almost feel that second foot falling, crushing his heart in the process. Confused he stared at the man on the bed and waited.
"I won't go to my death condemning a man to eternal damnation."
"I'm not understanding."
"To get my land, you gotta woo my daughter. Marry her, Winters."
"Marry her!"
"I'm gonna save your soul, damn you. Whether you like it or not. You got till the New Year. I've filled the papers all legal with the judge."
"You- you can't." He struggled to remove his hand. But, the old man seemed to want to pull him into the grave with him. The more he struggled, the tighter his grip became. Dobson rose to his feet. "I won't do it!" he bellowed. "I swore I'd never marry again."
"You will," Watson glared back. "I won't have your soul on my conscience. You'll marry my Holly and come back to the living or be forced to walk this earth for eternity searching for love."
Will Dobson be condemned to this horrid fate? Will he marry Holly our of want or out of greed? Sometimes Christmas last forever when you find true love... A Cordial Christmas to purchase yours for $.99 check out these fine retailers.
http://www.amazon.com/A-Cordial-Christmas-ebook/dp/B005POOES0/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91873
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/A-Cordial-Christmas?keyword=A+Cordial+Christmas&store=ebook
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Come Meet Sherri Thomas and her new book Greenhorn Heart
If you are in the mood to be swept away by a talented new author, then come meet Sherri Thomas. Sherri's books bring western heroes to life. Greenhorn heart is her newest release out with Liquid Silver Books. Her other books are Mad About Maggie and Holding On. This newest tale is sure to pull at the heart strings.
Greenhorn Heart
By Sherri Thomas
ISBN 978-1-59578-882-5
Blurb:
At her dying mother’s bedside, Jolene Norris promised that she would keep her baby sister safe from her money hungry aunt and uncle. Unfortunately, keeping that promise is proving a lot more difficult than Jolene thought, and she needs help. Her aunt is out to prove Jolene is unfit or at the very least unstable to take care of her sister, forcing Jolene to seek Seth Morgan’s help. She needs his home, his land, and his name. Too bad he’s as welcoming as the bulls he raises. Scared that she’ll lose her sister, Jolene makes Seth a deal he can’t refuse.
Seth doesn't have time to take care of a petite woman who is as green as her eyes or the small drooling complication on her hip. He doesn't do babies or marriage, not after his ex-wife killed herself and their three-year-old son. But he desperately needs the money Jolene offers him.
Together they arrange a marriage of convenience, which quickly becomes so much more.
To purchase this book follow the links below.
http://www.king-cart.com/cgi-bin/cart.cgi?store=linda018&cart_id=25109.27398&product_name=Greenhorn+Heart&return_page=&user-id=&password=&exchange=&exact_match=exact
Greenhorn Heart
By Sherri Thomas
ISBN 978-1-59578-882-5
Blurb:
At her dying mother’s bedside, Jolene Norris promised that she would keep her baby sister safe from her money hungry aunt and uncle. Unfortunately, keeping that promise is proving a lot more difficult than Jolene thought, and she needs help. Her aunt is out to prove Jolene is unfit or at the very least unstable to take care of her sister, forcing Jolene to seek Seth Morgan’s help. She needs his home, his land, and his name. Too bad he’s as welcoming as the bulls he raises. Scared that she’ll lose her sister, Jolene makes Seth a deal he can’t refuse.
Seth doesn't have time to take care of a petite woman who is as green as her eyes or the small drooling complication on her hip. He doesn't do babies or marriage, not after his ex-wife killed herself and their three-year-old son. But he desperately needs the money Jolene offers him.
Together they arrange a marriage of convenience, which quickly becomes so much more.
To purchase this book follow the links below.
http://www.king-cart.com/cgi-bin/cart.cgi?store=linda018&cart_id=25109.27398&product_name=Greenhorn+Heart&return_page=&user-id=&password=&exchange=&exact_match=exact
Monday, January 9, 2012
What are you currently reading?????
I am into Marin Thomas novels as of late. What a wonderful author to talk to! She's been fantastic. She gave me a quick peek at her February release... I think she's got another winner here folks.
Arizona Cowboy
February 2012
Last Cowboy—Or Cowgirl!— Standing...
Rachel Lewis is a bona fide city slicker. Still, when her estranged father asks for her help, she ends up in dusty Stagecoach, Arizona, to manage his rodeo company for the summer. Being clueless about rough stock is nothing, though, compared to the confused feelings Rachel has for sexy ranch foreman Clint McGraw... because he's also her main competitor for her father's affections.
Clint can hardly believe it when his boss hands over the reins to his long-gone daughter. What the heck does a spoiled city girl like Rachel know about rodeo? Why, she's crazy enough to offer a competition event to women bull riders! And for sure she's going to nudge her way back into her father's heart—leaving Clint high and dry. Even so, he can't help falling hard for Rachel.
But only one of them can be the head honcho of this round-up!
check your local bookstores or use the link below.
Link to purchase http://www.amazon.com/Arizona-Cowboy-Harlequin-American-Romance/dp/0373753934/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1320078287&sr=1-1
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Come and meet a dear friend, Marin Thomas, who writes for Harlequin American series. Marin Thomas grew up in Janesville, Wisconsin. She lef... -
Good Morning to all this fine Monday. I'm bringing in a friend to discuss the writer and social media. Its true that writing is a verb. ... -
How I Tackle Writing by Celia Yeary Did you know you can find numerous articles on the internet about how to write a novel? Most of them beg...