Ruth Ann Nordin's Blog, page 83

Updates on What I’m Working On

In case you haven’t seen it, I do have release dates now for His Abducted Bride and His Reluctant Lady.

His Abducted Bride is due out July 30.  If you’d like to pre-order it, you can do so at Apple iBookstore or Smashwords using the links below:

Apple iBookstore

Smashwords

His Reluctant Lady is due out August 6.  If you’d like to pre-order it, you can do so at Apple iBookstore or Smashwords using the links below:

Apple iBookstore

Smashwords

Book Stephannie Beman and I are working on.

At the moment, Stephannie and I are on the last chapter of this book.  It’s been a hectic and busy summer for both of us.  Summers are harder to write during since the kids are home and since we both have them, we end up doing family activities more often than writing, which is as it should be since children are only young for a short time.  Got to enjoy the moments while you can.  :-)

I’m not sure when this one will be out.  Since this is a co-authored book, both of our schedules have to be clear to work on it.  I’ll update on this book when I have more information on it.

The Anthology Janet Syas Nitsick and I Are Working On

I was talking to Jan today, and we might end up splitting this up so it’s not an anthology but in the same series.  What I mean by that is her novella, “She Came By Train”, would be book 1 in the series.  Then mine (which I’m thinking of retitling) will be book 2.  I know this is confusing.  We’re still trying to figure out what we want to do and the best way to proceed.  The anthology idea is a neat one, but it might be more complicated than it’s worth.  If we do split the books up so they are separate stories (instead of part of one book), then she’ll keep the cover with the name change “She Came By Train” and I will get a new cover with (probably) something like “Pete’s Mail-Order Bride”.  I’ll keep you posted as we iron out the details.

We are both hoping to have our stories done by Christmas.  *fingers crossed*  That might change, of course, depending on unforeseen circumstances.

This novella keeps getting longer and longer, but I am beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  This was supposed to be 10,000 words when I started it.  It’s now past 28,000 words long.  I should be posting up more scenes soon.  The thing is, I had to jump ahead to the scenes recorded in Falling In Love With Her Husband so I could figure out what Kent’s point of view really was.

That made it easier to go back and connect all the dots on how he got to the point where he was chasing Ann to the barn and why she felt threatened.  All I can say is that it was not easy, but it was worth it because it’s helped me figure out where I need to go to continue with Catching Kent since the two books are connected.  Kent’s past plays into his resistance to being with Rose Larson.

I’m finally over the halfway point of this book.  I suspect Kent’s father is going to play a part to how this book ends.  There was a scene I wrote today where Kent pretty much promised his father that he’d reap what he’d sown (you’ll see what I mean when I get to posting more scenes from that novella again).  The one thing I’ll say about Rose Larson is that she’s not as gullible and frightened as Rebecca was in Kent Ashton’s Backstory.  I’m not sure where Catching Kent is going, though.  The characters are guiding me along chapter by chapter.  It’s both scary and exciting at the same time.  LOL

If all goes according to plan, I am estimated to finish the first drafts for Kent Ashton’s Backstory and Catching Kent in mid-September.  This puts me down for a late October release for both.

I finally got the scandal established so I was able to get past chapter 1 in this book.  I’m in chapter 2.  LOL  Yeah, not a huge distance, but at least I’m at the point where Perry has is being scandalized, much to his shock.  Christopher Robinson (his lovable but wayward ward) has a hand in the scandal and will probably be an ally to the heroine, Paula, as the book continues.  I really enjoy Christopher.  He’s one of my favorite Regency characters because he loves to irk Perry just to get a reaction out of him.  I also loved how he was with Agatha in His Reluctant Lady.  He’s just a fun guy to be around.

I’m hoping to have the first draft to this done in December which puts me in line for publishing it around January, probably late January.

Finally, the last current story is Boaz’s Wager.  I’m going to go light on this one until I finish up a couple of the others.  I was anxious to get started so I did.  But I’ll be writing only a little bit here and there in it.  The above stories are a priority.

***

As a side note, Eva Connealy (heroine in Boaz’s Wager) does not travel to Montana alone. She is with Rachel Larson (Dave and Mary Larson’s oldest daughter) when their stagecoach is taken over by outlaws who then take them to Lewistown where they’ll be sold to men to marry.  Rachel was on her way to be a mail-order bride to a rancher in Jordan, but she’ll end up being someone else’s wife in Lewistown instead.  So this means the Montana Romance Collection will have 4 books in it instead of the 3 I originally planned.  More information will be coming on Rachel’s story as I figure out more to the plot.

This is why I continue to self-publish my books.  I can do whatever I want with my characters.  I am enjoying putting characters from one series into another series.   The flexibility is what makes writing a lot of fun.

Dave Larson, Gavin (King Blackheart) and Christopher Robinson Debate Again

Gavin

Gavin (King Blackheart): Wow, Christopher.  I just read the sample from your book where you and Agatha bet each other on who can hold off on sex the longest, and all I have to say is “pathetic”.  Never in a million years would Sandy suggest that it’s her “duty” to be in my bed.

Christopher Robinson: Agatha doesn’t really think it’s a “duty”.

Dave Larson: Really?  Then why did she call it that?

Christopher: Because she is too proud to admit she wants to be with me.

Gavin: *smirks* Sure.

Christopher: It’s true.  And I’m going to win the bet.  Before the story is done, she’s going to coming to my bed with the intent of having her way with me.

Dave: I think it’s sad that you even have to make such a bet.  If you were truly a hero, you wouldn’t have to resort to a bet to get her to admit it.

Christopher: I am a hero.  A fun one, too, if I say so myself, unlike you who ended up being so serious all the time.  The problem doesn’t lie with me.  It’s her deceased husband, Lord Richfield.  I don’t know the details of their brief marriage, but apparently, he wasn’t a good husband.

Dave: I think you’re stretching.

Christopher: No, I’m not.  If her first husband was alive, I’d challenge him to a duel.

Gavin: For goodness’ sakes.  Think with your head.  A duel would get someone weak like you killed.

Christopher: Weak?

Gavin: Yes, weak.  You haven’t fought a day in your life, have you?

Christopher: I have so.  I got into a fist fight when I was seventeen.

Dave: And lost?

Christopher: Hey, if I hadn’t been drinking, I would have won.

Gavin: So you’re not only weak and inexperienced, but you’re stupid.  I bet you didn’t even get into a fight over something worth fighting about.

Christopher: The gentleman in question happened to be cheating at a card game and I called him on it.

Gavin: Let me guess.  You just spouted this off without taking the time to form a strategy first.

Dave: He said he was drinking.  Of course, he didn’t form a strategy.

Christopher

Christopher: What does it matter?  That’s all in the past.  I don’t do that anymore.  And it has nothing to do with my book.  I don’t know why you two are even here.  Does it annoy you to no end that my book was featured yesterday?  Did I make a big stink and make fun of Gavin after reading his sample last Sunday when we all saw he used magic to force Sandy into marrying him?  No.  I was very mature about it and didn’t stoop to his level.  Oh sure, I could have said something like, “Gavin is such a great warrior that he needs a magician’s help to get him a wife.” But I didn’t do that.  And you know why?

Dave: Because you weren’t smart enough?

Christopher: No.

Gavin: Because Dave was too fast and challenged our books against his before you could?

Christopher:  No.  It’s because I am a gentleman.  A real gentleman.  I am the cousin of an earl–

Gavin: Big whoop.  I’m a king.

Dave: I don’t care what either of you thinks.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, is sexier than a cowboy.  I don’t need some lame title or an association to someone with a title to prove that.

Christopher: Yeah, well, we’re not running the poll yet so I wouldn’t get so smug if I were you.

Dave: I don’t need a poll.  Men who work hard and know the value of a good woman will always be sexy.

Gavin: You think being a warrior isn’t hard work?

Christopher: I work hard, too.  You think it’s easy to be as charming as I am while fending off a stuffy guardian who is trying to make me as boring as he is?

Gavin: Oh brother.  You wouldn’t last one day on the battlefield.

Dave

Dave: Or one day doing hard labor.

Christopher: That just shows how much you know.  I’ve had to clean out stalls and empty chamber pots.

Dave: Stuff we do out west in the late 1800s, and we don’t whine about it.

Christopher: Seriously?

Dave: Yes.

Christopher: Well, it sucks to be you then, doesn’t it?

Dave: I guess it depends on your wimp factor.   I’ve helped my family build houses and barns, and some of those were made of sod.  At times, we’ve had to keep warm by burning cow pies.  That’s cow poop, Christopher.  We didn’t always have a well nearby and have had to go down a stream to retrieve enough to put in buckets or barrels.  Sometimes we bathed in cold water–

Christopher: Like I said, it sucks to be you.

Gavin: Yeah, it does.  Thank goodness I didn’t get stuck in a historical western.

Dave: Ruth leaves out the nitty gritty of the time period.

Christopher: Even so, I bet you all go around stinking, especially burning all those cow pies in your house.

Dave: We didn’t always use cow pies.  They were used as a last resort.  Living out west was about survival, not prancing about at balls or playing with swords in a courtyard.

Gavin: Hey, I don’t play with swords.  I practice fighting so I can defend my kingdom.  You think it’s so easy to be me, you should try it sometime.

Christopher: And you should try putting up with my overbearing cousin.

Dave: Gavin, I do know how to use a gun and a knife.  I doubt the sword thing would be that difficult.  As for you Christopher, I don’t see how dealing with a concerned guardian is a big deal.  If you weren’t going around drinking and accusing people of cheating, you probably wouldn’t need to be coddled so much.

Christopher: Fine.  If you think it’s so easy, take a day to be in my shoes.

Gavin: And mine.

Dave: Fine, I will.  But there’s one condition.

Christopher: Oh?

Dave: You two have to take a day in my shoes, too.  Except, I get to bring Mary with me.  There’s no way I’ll let you two be in the role of her husband, even if it’s fiction.

Gavin: So we take our wives with us.

Christopher: Without their approval first?

Gavin: If we asked for their approval, they would never give it.  They’re far too sensible to do this because we all know we’re going to discover that we’re better off in the stories we were created in.

Christopher: I know I’m better off in the Regency time period.  I just want Dave to get an appreciation for how demanding my life is.

Gavin: Then it’s agreed.  We all swap stories for one day and see what we learn.

***

Christopher picture credit: © Vanessa Van Rensburg | Dreamstime.com

Gavin picture credit: © Vladimirs Poplavskis | Dreamstime.com

Dave picture credit: © Yuri Arcurs | Dreamstime.com

Sunday Story Sample: The Bet (A Brief Scene from His Reluctant Lady)

Last week, I went to the 1880s Town which is just west of Murdo, South Dakota, and I took some awesome pictures which I’ll be posting on this blog in the month or two to come.  Ever wonder what it was really like back in the late 1800s in western America? They say a picture is worth 1,000 words, and there’s nothing like seeing it to get an appreciation for the time period.  I figure I’ll do at least one post a week (maybe around Wednesday or Thursday) until I’m done showing them all.

***

In the meantime, I have today’s sample from His Reluctant Lady.  :-)

“As your wife,” Agatha said.  ”I have to make sure you get your pleasure.  Apparently, that means wherever you want to receive it.”

Christopher caressed her bottom.  “Be honest, my love.  Weren’t you a bit anxious to be with me as well?”

“Ladies aren’t like gentlemen.  They can do very well without it.”

“Oh?”

“It’s true.  You don’t see me groping you, do you?”

He chuckled.  “You might be hiding your desire for me, but I recall the way you responded to me just now.  You were very willing to do this.” Grinning, he added, “And in the drawing room during the day.  Even though we made love four times last night and then again this morning.  I don’t think you can get enough of me.”

“Before you get smug, may I remind you that the more we do it, the better your chances are of getting a child?”

“That’s not why you were moaning in pleasure.”

Sensing the challenge in his statement, she countered, “Well, I thought I’d be polite.  A male’s sensibility is a delicate thing.”

He threw back his head and laughed.  “My dear Agatha, I’m afraid you are the one who has delicate sensibilities if you can’t admit how much you enjoy making love to me.”

“You wish it was so but it’s not.  A lady could do very well without it.  All she really requires is for her husband to talk to her as he would a friend and grace her with hugs and kisses.  If he did that and nothing else, she’d be content.”

“If it’s a challenge you want, then it’s a challenge you shall get.” He kissed her, his tongue briefly touching hers, and shot her a triumphant grin, something she thought rather foolish since he hadn’t won the challenge yet.  “I’m going to prove you wrong.  You will end up coming to my bed to satisfy your carnal cravings.”

Appalled he’d even suggest such a thing, she gasped.  “Never.”

He gave her a chaste kiss.  “It’ll be my pleasure to prove you wrong.”

She didn’t hide her amusement.  “Considering how you can’t control yourself whether we’re in this room or the bedchamber, I wouldn’t boast too much if I were you.”

He winked.  “You’ll see.”

She made sure he saw her shake her head before she headed out of the room.

Dave Larson States His Case With Interruptions from Christopher Robinson and Gavin Blackheart

Since it’s Monday, I thought I’d discuss the inspiration behind His Abducted Bride–

Dave Larson

Dave Larson: Hold on there, Ruth.  I reserved Monday to give a rebuttal to Christopher Robinson’s claim that he’s better than me.  This is in response to what he wrote in May 26, 2013′s post when he said “….His Reluctant Lady which happens to be the very best book Ruth has ever written…and I’m not just saying that because I’m the main character.  Well, all right, I am, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.  This is way better than anything else she’s ever done.  Dave Larson, eat your heart out.  *smirks* His Reluctant Lady is going to be better than Eye of the Beholder.”

Christopher Robinson: It took you this long to make a rebuttal?

Ruth: To be fair, this did have to travel back to the late 1800s.

Dave: That’s not what made me take so long to form a rebuttal.  I happened to be planting at the time.

Christopher: Planting.

Dave: Yeah, crops.  Perhaps you’ve heard of them.  They end up being food you eat.

Christopher: I know what crops are.  I just can’t understand why you couldn’t take an hour of your day to come on this blog to argue with me.

Dave: Well, unlike you, I work from sunrise to sunset.  I’m not frolicking about on a ballroom floor or taking a leisurely ride on Rotten Row while listening to gossip.  I actually have a purpose in life.

Christopher: *gasps* I have a purpose.  You think all I do is goof off?  I’ll have you know that Ruth is currently at the beginning of The Earl’s Scandalous Wife, and it’s up to me to find a wife for my cousin, Lord Clement.  If you think that’s easy, then maybe we should trade roles because no one turns ladies off faster than Lord Clement, especially when he whines about that blasted cane of his.

Dave: If it takes you a long time to figure out how to fix him up, then you aren’t doing it right.

Christopher: I’ll have you know my cousin has a very telling nickname.  Want to hear it?

Dave: Not really.

Christopher: It’s “The Earl Who Can’t Get a Wife”.  He’s been engaged but she ran off with someone else.  That was the closest he ever got.  I just know I’m going to have to help create a scandal to make it happen because there’s no other way he’ll get married.

Dave:  You can’t be serious.  Playing matchmaker isn’t the same as growing food and taking care of animals. You’re still playing around.  I’m actually working.  That in itself proves my book, Eye of the Beholder is better than yours, His Reluctant Lady.  It’s about a hard working farmer who meets the most wonderful young woman who came as someone else’s mail-order bride at a train station.

Christopher: Sounds like a winner already.  So you stole someone else’s intended bride.  Just the kind of thing heroes are made of.  *rolls eyes*

Dave: You didn’t let me finish.  The man she was supposed to marry rejects her.  It was his loss.  She ended up with me instead, making me the luckiest man who ever lived.

Christopher Robinson

Christopher: Doesn’t sound like much of a plot.  It sounds like the happy little village with the happy little people.  Next thing I know, you’re going to be sitting around a campfire singing songs about love and harmony.

Dave: Not quite.  As it turns out, the man who rejected her gets married to another woman whose beauty is only on the surface.  My book is about what truly makes a woman beautiful.

Christopher: *yawns*  I can do better than that.  My book is about making a beautiful woman embrace the passion she’s been suppressing for years.  Mine has excitement and witty banter.  I’ll have Ruth post a sample of such witty banter this upcoming Sunday.  Then you can just how much more interesting my story is than a weak “it’s what’s inside that counts” thing that’s been overdone.

Dave: It’s not the theme of a story that counts so much as in how it’s told.  Even an interesting plot can become boring if the storyteller doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Christopher: Ah, so you admit my book is better than yours!

Dave: I did not.

Christopher: Sounds like you did to me.  You just said my book has an interesting plot.

Dave: No, I was saying that since I have a good storyteller, my story was a memorable and exciting book.

Christopher: I don’t recall you saying those exact words.

Dave: It was my meaning.

Christopher: Dave, you are a sad, sad, sad little person.   Your glory days are over.  It’s time to move on and fade into obscurity where no one will remember your book.

Dave: My book will not fade into obscurity because it delves deeper than the shallow back and forth talking you claim is so good in yours.

Christopher: You can have deep and meaningful while providing humor in witty banter.

Gavin

Gavin: Thank you both for hijacking what was supposed to be a post about my book, His Abducted Bride.

Christopher: You’re welcome.

Gavin: I was being sarcastic.  And both of you have plots that are done way too much.  Dave Larson has the rejected bride who becomes well loved by all.  Christopher Robinson has the reluctant bride who ends up being glad she got married.  Big whoop.  Those books are a dime a dozen.  But when is the last time you read a book where the character of a story pulled the author into it?  I don’t recall seeing a bunch of those all over the place.

Christopher: Because no one wants to read that kind of book.  If they did, others like it would be written.

Gavin: That’s not true.

Christopher: Yes, it is.

Dave: It doesn’t matter what you two think.  Mine is the book will always be the best one Ruth ever wrote.  Sure, you two might have somewhat amusing plots.  Maybe you’ll even entertain some people.  But when it all comes down to it, mine will be the one that is the favorite.

Christopher: That’s big talk from someone who already has the book out while the rest of us are still waiting for August so we can finally see our books published.

Gavin: No kidding.  It feels like August will never get here, though technically mine comes out July 30.

Christopher: Close enough.

Dave: Fine.  Then after your books come out, we’ll come back to this blog and put it to a vote.

Ruth: There you have it.  In August, we’ll have a vote on this blog so you can settle this debate among three characters who all think their book is better than the others’.

Sunday Story Sample: His Abducted Bride (A Forced Marriage)

Today’s sample is taken from Gavin making sure Sandy has no choice to marry him.  It starts off with her watching him during sword practice while she’s walking along the wall that surrounds the courtyard.

King Blackheart gestured to the guard beside her.

The guard nodded and turned to her.  “Your presence is required in the throne room.”

“Required?” she asked, thinking that was an odd way of saying she was wanted in the throne room.

“Yes.  You have to go.”

“I have to?”

“Yes.  The king won’t let you refuse.”

“Oh really?  And what is he going to do if I refuse?”

He stared at her, unblinking.  “Are you refusing?”

She almost asked him, What do you think? but resisted the urge.  Instead, she said, “I have to tend to some personal matters.”

“That can wait.”

“I’m afraid it can’t.  Not unless you want me to make an unpleasant mess.”

“I don’t believe you need to go to the privy.”

Before she could respond, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.  Stunned, she didn’t fight to get away from him as he carried her down the stairs.  The men around her chuckled, and her face flushed in embarrassment.  If King Blackheart thought her guard could treat her like a wayward child in front of his men and get her to agree to whatever he wanted, he had another thing coming.

The guard strode across the courtyard, and as they passed the king, she noticed a slight smirk on his face.  Aggravated, she yelled out, “I won’t do it!  Whatever it is you have planned, I won’t do it!”

“We’ll see,” he called out.

She grunted.  She hated how certain he was that he could get her to do anything he wanted.  It only made her more determined to resist him.

The guard carried her into the castle and to the throne room, bouncing her on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  When he set her down, she realized he had placed her in front of a man with a long blue satin robe and matching hat.

Her eyes grew wide.  “The magician?” He looked exactly the way she’d pictured him while she wrote the book, but…  “Didn’t King Blackheart kill you for betraying him to one of my knights?”

“In your version of the story, that was true, but we’re not in your version anymore,” the guard told her.  Turning to the magician, he added, “You know what to do.”

“What?  What does he have to…”

A blue haze surrounded her, and she forgot the rest of her question.  She knew he was putting a spell on her.  She felt the magic reach out and penetrate her mind, dispelling all protests from her.  In its place was a very pleasant sensation.  Though a part of her realized she should be alarmed, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

The door to the throne room opened, and she turned in time to see King Blackheart stride across the room with a priest, that knowing smirk still on his face.  As much as she wanted to narrow her eyes at him, her body wouldn’t obey.  She felt a smile form on her lips.

“You see, Father Augustine,” King Blackheart began, motioning to her, “she’s quite agreeable to the marriage.”

“Yes, I am.” She blinked in shock.  Good heavens but did that phrase just come out of her mouth?  And was she really smiling as if this was the best thing that ever happened to her?  She looked at the magician.  She had no idea she made him that powerful.

Father Augustine’s shoulders relaxed.  “I’m relieved.  While I understand much is at stake, my own life included, I can’t bring myself to marry a man or woman against their will.” With a smile, he stepped between the two thrones, one for Blackheart and the other for her.  “Please, come.”

To Sandy’s horror, she hurried over to him, still smiling as if this was the best thing that ever happened to her.  She glanced at the magician and mentally grumbled.  Who knew magic could be so powerful?  Blackheart walked toward her at an annoyingly slow pace.  She wished she could groan or roll her eyes, but the magic only permitted her to give him a ridiculous grin.  The whole thing made her want to puke.

“Please, join hands,” Father Augustine said.

Blackheart reached out and took her hands in his, and as much as she wanted to pull them away, she clasped her hands around his.

“The uniting of two lives is a splendid thing,” the priest began.  “You are joining more than two kingdoms.  You are joining your hearts, your lives, your hopes, your dreams.  From this moment forward, you will no longer be two, but you will be one.  It is a blessing.”

It was a curse, Sandy thought, but she couldn’t say it.  All she could do was smile like an idiot.  She tuned out the rest of Father Augustine’s spiel about the beauty of marriage.  Granted, she used to dream of being a bride.  She was almost one, long ago.  She shoved the memories back into the recesses of her mind.  Josh was in the past, and that’s where he’d always be.  The jerk didn’t deserve to be remembered.

Her gaze focused on Blackheart, and she wished she could slap that stupid smirk right off his face.  The thought crossed her mind that she could give him the same news she gave to Josh shortly after he proposed to her.  That would be the easiest way out of the marriage, but what was the point?  Blackheart was a character in her story.  He wasn’t real.  None of this was actually happening.

As real as it felt, this world and the people in it stemmed from her imagination.  This was all fake, and when she found her way back to reality, everything that happened here would be null and void.  So it didn’t matter if she was married.  She was only married in the story, and any story could be rewritten.  Even so, it irked her that he dared to force her into something she specifically said she didn’t want.

Father Augustine finally finished talking and clasped his hands over theirs.  “From day to day may your love flourish and grow stronger, regardless of what happens, good or bad.  You have my blessing and are now husband and wife.” He let go of their hands and motioned to the magician.  “You may hand the king the bride’s crown.”

The magician stepped forward with a delicate gold crown with a few rubies embedded in it.  Blackheart let go of her hands and accepted the crown.  She wanted to run off and get out of this wretched castle, but the magic held her in place.  He put the crown on her head.

“Let your kingdoms prosper and your subjects know peace,” Father Augustine said before he bowed.

“Thank you for coming,” Blackheart told him.

“It was an honor to be here for this blessed event.”

Sandy inwardly groaned and averted her gaze from the jovial men.  Blessed event, indeed!  It was something alright, but blessed wasn’t the word she’d use to describe it.

Once Father Augustine left, Blackheart instructed the magician to undo his magic spell.  The instant he did, she was able to scowl at Blackheart.

“It’s good to have you back to your normal self,” Blackheart dryly commented before turning to the magician and guard.  “I have it from here.  You may leave.”

The two men bowed and hastened out of the room.

She crossed her arms and glared at him.  “Don’t think you’ve won.  This was but one battle.”

“I did what was necessary,” Blackheart replied, placing his hands behind his back.  “As we speak, word is being sent to your kingdom that Crystaline and Havenshire are united.”

“I hate to admit it, but even with all the things you’ve done to keep me prisoner, I never thought you’d use magic to force me to marry you.”

“Now you know what it feels like.”

“Now I know what it feels like?”

“You had me slaughter innocent people and destroy villages against my will.  I protested it each and every step of the way,” he pointed to her, “but you made me do it.  So yes, now you know what it feels like to be forced to do something against your will.  It’s not very pleasant, is it?”

Changing the Title and Cover for Lassoing Her Groom

I have gone back and forth on this for the past two months, but I’m just not happy with the cover.  There’s nothing “wrong” with it, but I just wan’t satisfied.  So I combed through all the stock photo sites I frequent.  Finally, I found images that worked for my vision of the book.  The heroine had to be blonde and fun looking (and historical western looking) and I wanted a suitable background and guy.

What I found has required me to change the title of the book since there is no lasso on it. I might use the title in the future but make it Lassoing His Bride because I can find a ton of cowboys with lassos.  I can’t find any suitable historical western women with lassos.  All of the women I found with lassos were either comedic in nature or contemporary.

So after some brainstorming with a writer friend, we decided on Catching Kent for the title.  I decided to put Kent in the title to help people know it complements Kent Ashton’s Backstory.  Since the heroine, Rose Larson, does a ton of pursuing and eventually wins Kent, we decided on Catching for the first part of the title.

Without further ado, here’s the change:

Old Cover and Title

New Cover and Title

Complaints From My Characters

Little did I know that when I posted the sample for Rose Gordon’s The Officer and the Bostoner, that my characters (one in particular) would feel the need to send me this email:

Subject: Remove Offensive Post At Once

I am appalled–appalled, I say!–to open up my inbox and find a promotion for another author’s characters.  Ruth, seriously, you have your own books and those characters to post about, not some other characters out there in another author’s book.  I have given you the best years of my life (at least the best three months), and this is how you treat me?  I patiently waited until you got done with those samples from The Stagecoach Bride and Bride by Arrangement because they were your books.  Okay.  They really aren’t completely yours.  You are co-authoring them.

But as I was saying, this post last Sunday was too much.  I tried in vain to get it removed, but WordPress said I didn’t have any rights since I was a fictional character.  Can you believe that?  As if being a fictional character lowers me to the status of a non-real entity or something.  So I am coming to you directly to demand you remove the offensive post at once.

If you refuse my request, I’ll be forced to go on your blog with this:

Disgruntled,

Mister Christopher Robinson (hero in His Reluctant Lady)

Needless to say, I deleted the email.

Christopher: You deleted my email?

Ruth: Yes, I did.  And I deleted that horribly cropped picture you included as an attachment.

Christopher: I’ll have you know it took me over an hour to dig up the picture of Dave Larson holding a poster asking people to ban your books.

Ruth: Well, you could have spent another ten minutes making it look like you were actually the one holding the poster.  Dave isn’t going to like knowing you’re going through his folder where he keeps all his pictures and documents.

The original picture with Dave Larson.

Christopher: You’re going off topic.  I demand you take down the post at once.

Ruth:  Nope.

Christopher: Why not?

Ruth: Because you’re just a character, Christopher.  You’re a figment of my imagination that I put on paper.  Well, in a Word document on my computer anyway.

Christopher: I’m not “just a character”.  As soon as your wrote me, I took on a life of my own.

Gavin: Don’t waste your breath.  This is what authors do.  They create us and refuse to acknowledge we have any rights.  I’m going through the same thing with my author, Sandy Davis.

Ruth: Sandy is my character, Gavin, and both of you are in His Abducted Bride.  So if you think about it, you are a character of my character.

Christopher: That reasoning is more complicated than a soap opera.

Ruth: It’s easier to understand when you read the book.

Gavin in battle attire.

Gavin: Well, whatever the case, I’m not going to let Sandy kill me off like she wants to.

Christopher: Kill you off?

Gavin: Yes.  Sandy’s plan is to kill me off in the final scene of her fantasy novel.  I have to find a way to stop her.

Christopher: Is that why you’re wearing a knight costume?

Gavin: It’s not a costume.  This is battle gear.  I’m the king and warrior of Havenshire.

Christopher: I don’t see how your book is a romance novel.  This is what a romance novel is supposed to look like:

Christopher continues: You have a gorgeous lady on the cover, preferably one who’s showing a little extra on top, if you know what I mean.  Then you have a passionate color like red and use font that is feminine looking.  That’s what a romance novel is supposed to look like.

Gavin: You can have a man on the cover, too.  See, there’s a bride and a warrior/king on the front.

Christopher: With non-romancy colors like yellow.

Gavin:  It’s supposed to be gold, like the color of a wedding band.

Christopher: That reasoning might work if there wasn’t that stupid looking thing in the background.

Gavin: It’s a castle.

Christopher: If you say so…   But you’re missing the point.   You are aware that Ruth gave up writing fantasy years ago once she realized romance is a lot more fun, right?

Gavin: Sandy is writing the fantasy, not Ruth.  Ruth is writing the romance that includes an author who is writing a fantasy.

Christopher: Like I said, that is more confusing than a soap opera.  I can tell you right now that more people will want to read my book than yours.

Gavin: Just because your cover has a woman showing cleavage?

Christopher: No, because my book is clearly defined.  Not to mention, I’m an awesome, witty, and good looking guy.  I mean, really.  What lady in her right mind could resist a face like this?

Christopher

Agatha (heroine in His Reluctant Lady): Any lady can resist a face like that, Christopher.

Christopher: You know you want me.

Agatha: I want you like I want the plague.

Gavin: Christopher, speak to me when you have muscles and looks.  I work out every day to make sure I’m in top physical shape.

Gavin

Agatha: Wow!  I’m in the wrong book.

Gavin: *snickers at Christopher*

Christopher: You know what they say.  Better to work out your mind than your body.

Agatha: Nobody says that.

Christopher: They do at White’s.

Gavin: White’s?

Christopher: It’s a gentleman’s club.  You wouldn’t be interested.  We don’t play with barbels there.  We engage in higher pursuits like thinking strategically in a chess game, things that would only confuse you.

Agatha: And they also gamble, gossip, and make childish bets.

Christopher: I seem to recall you aren’t immune to gossip, my dear Agatha.  Do the Tittletattle and Gerard Addison ring a bell?

Agatha: This conversation is boring me now that there are no new pictures of Gavin being posted.  I’ll be on my way.  Don’t follow me out, Christopher.  *hurries off*

Christopher: When she says that, she’s hoping I will follow her.

Gavin: *rolls eyes* Sure, she does.

Dave Larson

Dave Larson:  I’ve been getting some messages on my cell about someone named Christopher Robinson who was insinuating that he’s the best hero Ruth ever wrote.  Who is this twerp?

Gavin: The twerp is over there.

Ruth: Dave, this post is getting too long.  You can’t barge in here at the last minute and take over.

Dave: I have a title to defend here.  We ran a legitimate poll on this blog and I won.  I am the best hero of all time.

Christopher: That was before I came along.

Dave: I don’t think so.

Ruth: Debate this another day, guys.  I’m closing this particular post.

Dave: I am coming back.

Ruth: I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Dave.

*ends post*

Photo Credits

Christopher: © Vanessa Van Rensburg | Dreamstime.com

Gavin: © Alexei Tacu | Dreamstime.com

Dave Larson: © Yuri Arcurs | Dreamstime.com

Story Sample Sunday: The Officer and the Bostoner by Rose Gordon

For today’s Story Sample Sunday, I asked Rose Gordon if I could post a sample of her newest release, The Officer and the Bostoner.  Since she said yes, I’m excited to pass along this really funny historical western romance with a surprising twist toward the end.  From time to time, I get asked if there’s a historical western romance I’d recommend.  So I thought I’d pass along this book that I had the pleasure of beta reading.

What it’s about:

Basically, Allison Pierson is on her way her meet her intended when her stagecoach leaves her stranded at a military fort.  Captain Wes Tucker happens to see the whole thing and decides to do what he can to keep her safe until she can get safely to her intended.  And the way he’s going to do that is to temporarily marry her.

I love marriage of convenience plots and know some of you do, too.  :D

Below is part of the scene where Wes proposes:

Wes ran a hand over the gristle that covered his chin, racking his brain for just how to put this so she’d understand the situation, but not panic. He blew out a breath. “Miss Pierson, I do believe you’ll make a beautiful bride.”

She jumped out of her chair. “Mr. Tucker, has the heat gotten to you?”

“No. But if you don’t do as I say, something will be getting to you—and it won’t be as kind as a bit too much sun.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, moving toward the door.

Wes took to his feet and reached for her arm to stay her. “I know. But that doesn’t make it any less true.” He raked a hand through his brown hair. “Miss Pierson, the way I see it, there are three ways out of here.”

She cocked her head to the side. “I’m listening.”

“The first one is the stagecoach.”

Miss Pierson heaved a sigh. “Well, it’s quite apparent I’ve already missed that option.”

“I know, I just wanted to remind you it was an option.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” He flashed her a quick grin. “The second option is not advisable.”

She glared at him.

“You could steal a horse and ride away.”

She pursed her lips and stared at him as if he were addled for suggesting such a thing.

“But I wouldn’t recommend that method, either. People ‘round here take horse thievery seriously.  It’s a hanging offense, wouldn’t you know? Just last summer—”

“And what is my third option, Mr. Tucker?”

“You could walk.” He dropped his gaze down to her shoes. They weren’t heeled or bejeweled as he half-expected them to be, but being white leather half boots that couldn’t possibly have more than a quarter-of-an-inch thick sole, they were still unsuitable. “You’ll either wear a hole in the bottom of those or have a nasty blister before you reach the Indians.”

She started. “Indians?”

“Indians,” he confirmed with a quick nod. “I don’t know what that drunkard who was driving your stagecoach told you, but you’re in Indian Territory.”

Her eyes doubled in size. “Indian Territory as in where the government has moved hundreds of thousands of Indians?”

“Very good. You must enjoy reading the newspaper with your morning meal.”

She frowned. “How did we get here? I thought we were in Kansas.”

Wes shook his head. “Your stagecoach driver took a wrong turn somewhere around Freedom, Missouri, and got off of the Santa Fe Trail and onto the Texas Trail. Huge difference.”

“Freedom?” She cast him a dubious expression. “We were in Freedom three days ago. How did he not know he’d taken a wrong turn until now?”

“Don’t ask me, I wasn’t the one driving.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sir, do you have a serious bone in your body?”

“Don’t rightly know. But what I do know is, unless you want to be captured by the Indians, you’re staying right here in Fort Gibson until the next armed stagecoach comes through.”

“Stay in this outlandish place a month? Absolutely not.”

“Oh? Do you think you’ll take your chances against a tribe of Indians, then?”

“No. We’ll take our chances against a tribe of Indians,” she said with a dazzling smile.

“Pardon? Who exactly are you including in this ‘we’?”

“You and me,” she said easily. She adjusted her frilly, pink shawl, still smiling in a way he was certain turned many heads in Boston. But they weren’t in Boston.

“And why should I do that?”

“Because I need to get to Santa Fe.”

“Then you can wait for the stagecoach to take you.”

“What am I supposed to do until then?”

“Marry me.”

***

If you’d like to read more, you can buy The Officer and the Bostoner from any of the links below:

Amazon

Barnes &Noble

Kobo

Smashwords

Those are the stores at the moment.  I know this book will be at the Apple iBookstore and Sony soon.

***

I saw somewhere that someone thought I might be Rose Gordon.  I wish that was true because she’s got excellent books out there!  But the truth is, we are two different people and to prove it, I have a picture of the two of us taken at the RT Convention.  :D

Ruth Ann Nordin and Rose Gordon
(I’m on the left; Rose is on the right.)

I don’t use pen names anymore.  It’s too much work.

Winners Announced for the Garden Variety Giveaway

The winners of the Garden Variety Giveaway are listed below.  We already emailed the winners, so look at your inbox or spam folder.  :-)

Marie Davis won the books and the wheelbarrow with artificial flowers

Mary A. Pitzer won the books and the beach bag

Betsy Thomas won the books and the earrings

*Winners were picked using random.org.

Another Sample from Pete’s Wife (A Scene from Pete’s Point of View)

I got a request to give a sample from the hero’s point of view, so I decided to do that instead of make a post on what inspired this book.  The reason it took so long for me to post was because I was only halfway through with chapter 3 and wanted to finish it before I posted it here.

The Anthology Janet Syas Nitsick and I Are Working On

This is in Chapter 3 and I introduce him here:

Pete had no idea what his brother was up to.  He stood in the parlor, his gaze going from his brother to the preacher who held a book in his hands.  With a glance out the window, he scanned his brother’s wagon.  His brother always came out with some items, be they food staples, clothes, paints, or something else Pete needed.  But it didn’t look like he brought anything with him today except the preacher.  And the last time the preacher came out to the house, it was to bury their mother.  He couldn’t think of why the preacher should be here now.

His brother patted him on the shoulder, so he turned his attention back to him.  While his brother opened his mouth in a way that told Pete he was trying to communicate with him, Pete focused on the wide smile on his face and way he clasped his hands.  Assured that the preacher was here for a good reason, Pete relaxed.

Pete’s brother turned toward the doorway in the parlor and Pete followed his gaze.  Two women entered the room, one he recognized as the woman who often came out here with him, along with their boy.  That boy was currently playing outside with a frog.  But he didn’t recognize the dark-haired beauty standing next to his brother’s woman.  Interest piqued, he took a moment to inspect the stranger whose face flushed a pleasing shade of pink as she made eye contact with him.  He liked the way she looked.  Her eyes were a lovely shade of green, complimenting the dress she wore.  Her rosy lips were turned slightly into a smile, indicating that she was nervous about something.  Her skin was fair and smooth, not at all like his skin which was tan from all his time working outdoors.  Then there was the rest of her, and a man had to be blind not to appreciate the curve of her breasts and hips.

He tried to memorize her in hopes he’d be able to paint her in the future.  Often, he liked to paint the land, but he could painting her for hours and losing himself to the simply joy of it.  None of the trees, lakes, rivers, or prairie lands he’d painted came even close to her.

His brother waved her forward and she stepped toward him, his brother’s woman close behind.  Feeling self-conscious, he ran his fingers through his light blond hair and straightened the collar of his plaid shirt.  If he’d known she was coming by, he would have paid more attention to how he looked.

His brother took his hand and placed it in the dark-haired beauty’s.  Eyebrows furrowed, he studied his brother’s face to figure out what was going on.  His brother moved his mouth as he pointed to the woman holding his hand.  Ignoring his brother’s mouth, his gaze went to the woman and then to their hands, wondering what it meant.  Usually, he could figure out what people wanted, but in this case, he couldn’t.

His brother gestured to the preacher so he looked at the older man who proceeded to open his book.  Pete glanced at the woman.  Did she know what was going on?  She seemed focused on what the preacher was doing.  He knew that when people moved their mouths, other people understood something he didn’t.  So she probably knew what was happening.

His brother nudged him in the side and nodded.  It took Pete a moment to realize that his brother wanted him to nod to the preacher so he did.  The preacher and his brother seemed satisfied.  That was good.

The preacher turned to her and after a minute of watching him move his mouth, she nodded and moved her mouth, too.  Pete wondered what this whole thing was about.  The hand holding, the nodding…  Then his brother separated his hand from hers, something he didn’t particularly care for since he had enjoyed the physical contact.  It seemed that besides his brother and his parents, no one had touched him.

He’d seen his brother, his woman and their boy touch each other and often thought it’d nice to have that kind of familiarity with someone.  And there was no denying that when his brother and his woman touched, there was something special about it.  They belonged together.  For the past year, Pete struggled with the uncomfortable feeling of jealousy whenever he saw them together.  He had wanted something like what they had.

As his brother and his woman turned their attention to the dark-haired beauty, he wondered if she was for him, if maybe his brother had noticed that all the paintings in the world hadn’t eased the loneliness that had become his companion.  He hoped so.  He’d like to have his own woman, and this one pleased him immensely.

His brother turned back to him then pointed to the woman and him.  The woman moved her mouth and smiled in a way that indicated she was happy.  He returned her smile, feeling both hesitant but thrilled at that same time.  He was sure this woman was his woman, his dark-haired beauty.

His brother’s woman hugged his dark-haired beauty then moved her mouth before she turned to him and moved her mouth as well.  He nodded because he knew it would tell her that he agreed with her, even though he didn’t know exactly what she was trying to tell him but knew it was something good by the way she was relaxed and smiling.

When his brother, his woman, and the preacher began heading for the door, he watched his dark-haired beauty to make sure she’d remain with him and breathed a sigh of relief when she did.  Good.  So she did realize she was his brother’s gift to him.  Since he knew she wasn’t going to leave, he felt safe in taking her hand and leading her to the door.

He let go of her hand and ran across the yard to meet up with his brother who was halfway to the wagon.  His brother stopped, a question in his eyes, but then Pete hugged him to express his gratitude.  His brother hugged him back.  When he let go of his brother, he stepped away from him and noticed the boy. He ruffled the boy’s hair, a gesture he often used to say hello and good-bye.  The boy moved his mouth and pointed to the spot he’d been playing, so Pete surmised the boy was telling him something about the frog he’d been playing with.

Without enough gestures, Pete never could tell what someone wanted him to know and since his brother’s woman waved for the boy to get into the wagon, Pete figured it didn’t matter.  He waved to them and waited until they were on the wagon before he headed back to the house.  The dark-haired beauty’s gaze went to the wagon, so he glanced over his shoulder and saw his brother’s woman moving her mouth.  He paused, his gaze going between the two, wondering what the exchange meant.

Disappointed since there was no way he was going to find out, he continued on his way to the house.  Though it sometimes frustrated him that he couldn’t understand some things that others said or get them to understand him, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.  It’d been that way ever since he could remember and would likely continue to be that way for the rest of his life.  But he’d really like to know what his dark-haired beauty was thinking.

He walked up the porch steps and studied her.  She stood in the doorway of the house, an apprehensive expression on her pretty face, and she twirled a stray strand of her hair around two fingers.  She was nervous.  Well, that was silly.  She had no need to be nervous around him.  Deciding she might feel better if he helped her get more acquainted to her new home, he stepped toward her and offered her his hand.

She glanced from his hand to his eyes, her eyebrows furrowed, as if she was trying to figure something out.  He gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile and motioned for her to join him.  After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded and took his hand.  She moved her mouth, but it was the curious expression on her face that got his attention.

She wanted to know something.  He shrugged, wondering if she’d give him more information to discern what she had a question about.  She paused, shook her head, and then moved her mouth again.  When she stopped and looked at him expectantly, he settled for squeezing her hand to let her know everything would be alright.  She had to be scared.  He knew he’d be scared if he settled into an unfamiliar place.

Though he couldn’t figure out why, she seemed intent on staring at him, as if she was trying to figure him out.  Well, there was only one way she was going to learn more about him and that was to see what he did.  Since he couldn’t tell her, he’d show her.  He led her down the porch steps and across the yard.

They reached the barn and showed her everything that was in it, including the stray two cats and the milking cow he had in a stall.  Feeling inspired, he decided to show her how he milked the cow.  When he was done, he held the pail out to her, and he was pleased to see that she seemed delighted to see fresh milk.

Since he’d already shown her everything in the barn, he held the pail with one hand and used his other to guide her to the chicken coop.  After that he took her to his garden.  In addition to a few fruit trees he had, he was proud of the rows of food that were doing well.  Potatoes, cucumbers, carrots, celery, lettuce, broccoli, and tomatoes were each divided up in their respective rows.  They wouldn’t be ready for a while yet and he had no way of telling her what they were but in time, they’d grow out of the ground and she’d know.

Letting go of her hand, he pulled out a weed by one of the potato plants and scanned the rest of the gardens to make sure no other weeds were coming through.  So far, so good.  Everything was as it should be.

He took her hand again so he could lead her to the fenced pasture where his cattle were grazing the grass.  Then in another fenced area, he showed her his sheep and in another was a horse.  With nothing else to show her for the outside of his house, he took her back inside.  She might like to sample some milk, so they went to the kitchen where he strained the milk, noting the way she carefully watched the process.

When he was done, he dipped a cup into the pail and held it out to her.  She accepted it from him and took a tentative sip.  Her eyes lit up and a wide smile crossed her face before she drank the rest of it.  Pleased, he offered to fill the cup again.  She bit her lower lip and glanced at the cup then nodded and held it out to him.  More than happy to oblige her, he gave her another cup.  Then time she didn’t drink it so fast.

He wondered how long she’d been thirsty.  He then wondered if she was hungry.  Without knowing where she came from or how long it’d been since she ate or drank, he had to guess.  He glanced at the clock on the wall and saw the long and short hands at the location they usually were when it was two hours away from supper.  But if she was hungry, he couldn’t show her the house until she ate.

Pulling a chair out from the table, he motioned for her to sit.  Still holding the cup, she went to the chair and sat down, looking surprised.  He gathered a skillet and some eggs he’d gathered that morning.  Eggs were a good, quick meal, and he’d only make two so they wouldn’t spoil her appetite for supper.  He had the eggs ready in short time and placed them on a plate.  Digging out a fork from the utensil drawer, he gave her the meal.

He wasn’t sure what the expression was on her face but knew she was struggling to figure something out.  If only he knew what she needed to know, he’d tell her.  But all he could do was sit across from her and watch as she ate her eggs.

When she was done, she finished her milk and rose to her feet, ready to carry the dishes to the sink, but he stopped her so he could do it for her.  He’d never had anyone in his house that he could do something for.  In the past, everyone had done it all for him.  He was glad his dark-haired beauty was willing to let him take care of her for a change.

After he took care of the dishes, he held his hand out to her.  She accepted it.  Holding her hand was already becoming familiar to him and he liked that.  Now he knew why his brother liked holding his woman’s hand so much.  He stood at the bottom of the stairs.  She’d already been in the parlor and kitchen.  While he was sure she hadn’t seen the mudroom, it wasn’t the most interesting room in the house.

But he figured he better do it now so she could be assured he wouldn’t be making their home a mess.  His mother had seemed happier when the house was clean, so his father had learned to do what he could to make sure he got all the dirt and grime off of him in the mudroom before entering the house.  From that, he learned that women preferred things clean and did what he could to make the house presentable in case he ever got a woman of his own, and as luck had it, he finally got her today.

Decision made, he led her to the back of the house where the mudroom separated the main house from the outside.  He showed her the sink and bucket of water, the mat for his work boots, and everything else he thought she might be interested in.  At one point, he glanced at her to see if she was pleased, and she smiled at him so he knew she was as happy as his mother had been about the mudroom.

Done with the mudroom, he led her back into the house and up the stairs.  He led her into the room where he hung some of his paintings.  He had more but had saved them in some trunks which were in the attic, and he had a feeling that she wouldn’t care to go up there.  Ever since he was twelve, he made it a habit of painting every day when he got the chance.  Painting was his way of recording what he saw, and those that were his favorites, he made frames for.

His dark-haired beauty tapped him on the arm, and when he looked at her, she laughed despite the uncertain expression on her face then moved her mouth and gestured the paintings along the wall.  She continued moving her mouth, but it was the way her face lit up with excitement and she pointed to his work that drew his attention.

He wished he knew what she was saying because whatever it was, it had to be good.  He had a suspicion that she liked his paintings, and that made him feel like he was ten feet tall.  He continued watching her, wishing more than ever that he knew what she was trying to tell him.  But at least she was smiling and, better yet, she was smiling at him.

When she was at the portraits he’d done of everyone he knew, he reached for her arm to get her attention.  She stopped moving her mouth and focused on him.  He touched her cheek, admiring how soft her skin was.  Her hands weren’t so soft, telling him that she’d been used to working with her hands.  But he guessed it was mostly work around the house where she used to live since they were similar to his mother’s.

Suddenly feeling shy about touching her, he stepped back, his face warm.  Her eyebrows were furrowed once again, her eyes searching something in his, once again trying to figure something out, something that hadn’t been answered while they’d been in the kitchen.

Despite his curiosity, he turned from her so he could retrieve a blank canvas made from an off-white linen material and showed it to her.  He touched her cheek again, allowing his fingers the pleasure of feeling her soft skin for a couple seconds before he touched the canvas.  Then he pointed to the portraits he had lining the wall and retrieved his paint set from his brother’s old dresser.  He waited for her response, wondering if she’d let him paint her.

Her eyes grew wide as she gestured between the canvas and her face.  A flattering shade of pink rose in her cheeks and she pressed her hand to her chest, a questioning look on her face.

Figuring she was making sure he intended to paint her, he nodded.  Then, to get her to fully understand what he wanted, he set the canvas and paints on the dresser, got a chair from his bedroom and set the chair next to her.  He sat her down and placed his canvas on the easel he kept in the corner of the room.  After he took the paints and paintbrush, he pretended to paint on the canvas and pointed the brush at her.

Her smile widened and shook her head, moving her mouth.  The shaking of a person’s head usually meant no, but in this case, he picked up on the pleased expression on her face and the way she tucked a stray piece of dark hair behind her ear.  So while she might be shaking her head, she was also very happy he wanted to paint her.  Since he had some time before he had to make supper then check on the animals, he decided he’d start the portrait right away.  This was going to be the most pleasant thing he’d ever get to paint.  He motioned for her to wait for him to return before he hurried to get water.