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.

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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.
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