Merry Farmer's Blog, page 15

Excerpt Wednesday – One Night with a Star – First Look

It’s Wednesday, and even though I’m down in Dallas for the RT Booklovers Conference, here’s a sneak peek at the next book in the Second Chances series, coming May 22nd!

“Take a deep breath, mate,” Simon murmured to himself as he followed Jenny’s car along winding coastal roads to her parent’s house. “Don’t screw this up.”

For a minute there, it had looked as though he and Jenny might actually be getting somewhere. Seeing her so upset, and for no reason that he could figure, had been harder than he would have thought. It had made him realize that he hated seeing Jenny in a fit. She was a goddess, and goddesses should never have to feel bad. But getting to the bottom of what had upset her was trickier than it looked, especially since he probably had more than a little to do with it. Telling her about Newfoundland and his journey over the last year was just the beginning of things he could think of to make it all better.

When Jenny pulled into the long driveway in front of her parent’s house, Simon involuntarily caught his breath. The verbal castration that he’d gotten from her dad was still fresh in his mind, enough so that he was tempted to cup his hands over his balls as he approached the house. He took another deep breath, cut his car’s engine, and got out.

Jenny looked much better than she had at the house as she climbed out of her car. The drive wasn’t a long one, but it had been enough for the frustrated flush to leave her face, and for her eyes to lose their redness.

“Everything okay?” he asked, approaching her with his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah.” She smiled. A valiant smile, but one that tried to mask obviously frazzled nerves. She didn’t look at him directly. “Thanks for keeping an eye on me. I’m fine now. You can go home.”

Simon shrugged. “Let me walk you to the door at least.”

She bit her lip and raised a hand to her neck in uncertainty. The combination of gestures sent a bolt of heat straight to Simon’s groin. On second thought, maybe this vulnerable Jenny was just as hot as the bold and brave one. His heart pumped faster, sending blood to places that probably weren’t in his best interest right then.

He walked up to her side, then the two of them continued along the flagstone path to the covered entryway by the front door.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me more about what had you so upset earlier?” he asked, working to keep his voice as gentle and approachable as he could.

“I’m sure,” she said, though she stared at her feet as she did.

He hated seeing her so distressed. Hated it, and he wasn’t going to stand for it. It was a gamble, but he slid his fingers along Jenny’s jaw and under her chin to tip it up so she would look at him.

“I may have been an utter waste of space in the past,” he began, “and I make have completely cocked things up between us last year, but I swear to you, I will not do anything to hurt you going forward if I can possibly help it.”

“Simon.” She sucked in a breath as her brow furrowed with a rush of emotions.

“I mean it,” he stopped her from saying anything else. “And I won’t try to push in or bully you into any sort of a relationship that you’re not ready for this time.” Well, it was a tiny lie, but one he figured would be forgiven. “I’m here for you if you need me. I’m here for Daniel if he needs me. End of story.”

She stared at him. He couldn’t read what was going on behind those beautiful blue eyes of hers, but whatever it was, it was intense. The early autumn breeze swirled in the leaves around them, and the twilight hues of gold through those leaves gave Jenny a luminescence that took his breath away. A man could stake his life on a woman like Jenny, rush off to war, and die happy knowing he was fighting for her.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind when Jenny swayed toward him. She grabbed hold of his arms, and without giving him the chance to think, she surged into him, slanting her mouth over his in a kiss that left him stunned. The petal-softness of her lips short-circuited every part of his brain, the sweep of her tongue across the line of his lips floored him. He couldn’t even kiss her back or respond with more than an avalanche of lust that sent his body into primal need.

Sense began to return to him, but only barely, when she slipped her arms further around his neck, pressing herself into him to deepen their kiss. Something clicked inside of him, and he responded with powerful longing, closing his arms around her and drawing her in. He kissed her back from the bottom of his soul, sliding his tongue against hers and nipping at her bottom lip. Memories of the way they’d been together last summer, how hot and intense and perfect they had been, slammed into him. He was hard before he knew what hit him and ground that hardness against her hip. She hummed in the back of her throat, a heady, desperate cry that made him want to take her to the backseat of his car and put them both out of their misery. Nothing had ever been as right as kissing Jenny like this.

The light came on in the entryway, giving them a two second warning before the front door cracked. It was barely enough time for the two of them to jump apart before Jenny’s dad yanked the door fully open and stood glaring at Simon.

“What the hell is going on here?” her dad barked.

“Sir,” Simon yelped, sounding and feeling like he was about fourteen. Talk about putting an instant damper on some truly delicious, carnal feelings.

“Dad,” Jenny groaned, breathless. “What are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing, young lady.”

Jenny sighed, covering the embarrassment and heat behind her flushed cheeks with frustration. “Come on. It’s not like I’m a kid anymore. You can’t threaten my dates anymore.”

“So this is a date?” Her dad’s eyebrows flew up. He turned his fury on Simon for a second before switching it to sharp disapproval for Jenny.

“It’s not a date.” Jenny crossed her arms.

“You’re damned right, I’s not a date,” her dad said. “Because you’re dating Neil. And I’m not having this slimy celebrity seducing you again.”

 

Boy, did I have fun writing Jenny’s dad! Keep your eyes peeled for One Night with a Star!

B is for Branding

© Albund | Dreamstime.com – My Metal Brand Glowing Red Hot Front Photo

I’m not too proud to say that when it comes to the whole business of writing, there are things I absolutely understand and other things that leave me scratching my head. Branding is one of those head-scratchers. It’s not that I don’t know what it is or why it’s important, it’s just that sometimes I struggle with how to effectively brand myself and then stick to that brand.

I’ll start by telling you what I know.

Branding is how you package yourself. It’s everything from the look of your book covers and website to the photo you choose to be your author pic. I had a lot of people point out way in the early days of my writing career that I have a great name. Merry Farmer is my actual name too. (Pen names confuse me, but that’s a whole other blog post!) So I took my cue for branding myself from my name. Merry is a nice, happy name full of positive energy. Okay, I can do this. So my brand is positivity and all things happy. Easy enough, right?

Well, it’s easy when it comes to interacting with people online and in the real world. I’m a pretty upbeat person to begin with, so I’ve got that covered. How do I then carry that over to the more visual aspects of my brand? For me, the answer is in light, vibrant colors and rich saturation in the images I use for books.

I have a ton of other friends who employ the same thought process in their visuals. A couple of friends who write more kick-ass sort of books have very kick-ass covers. The ones who focus on traditional romance with strong alpha heroes have lush visuals with strong men on their covers and websites. Once you figure out how you’re going to brand yourself and your writing, it’s easy to come up with visual material that supports that.

Ah, but there’s the rub and one of the things I struggled with for a long time at the beginning of my writing career. How do you know what your brand should be, and how do you go about solidifying that into something that can be tangibly represented in the first place?

It’s an important question and one that bears a lot of thinking about in the early days of a writer’s career. How do you want to be known? What do you want readers to pick up on about you and your writing. Or perhaps the more important question should be, what promises are you making to your readers before they ever pick up one of your books?

I love so many things about the covers Erin Dameron-Hill has designed for me. She really gets my brand!

The best place to start this self-discovery process is with what you write. Different genres carry with them different promises to the reader. Contemporary Romance makes very different promises than Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Sci-Fi. Readers of those genres want to go on a different sort of journey. The basics of genre expectation are a good place to start when figuring out your own brand. If you write those zombie novels, you probably don’t want to include a lot of flowers and recipes for cupcakes in your branding.

In the early days, I spent a lot of time thinking about historical romance (my primary genre) and all of the reasons people read it. Hot guys was an unexpected buzzword that came into my thinking and stayed there. Cool. Easy. I can put hot guys on my covers and post pics of celebs we all love on my Facebook page. But all from a historical angle. So less of the bodybuilding guys and more of the sort who appear in costume dramas for the BBC. Already I’m able to narrow down where my image, my branding, should be headed.

That’s just one example of so many I could talk about. Instead of rehashing everything I’ve done, though, I turn it over to you. What general things define the genre you’re writing in? What specific things set your books apart from that genre? How do you want to present yourself in public, and how can you tie that into what you’re writing?

Once you answer those questions, it all comes down to finding a great designer who can put together visuals that suit your image. Trust me, they’re very good at knowing how to execute a specific style or mood that you’re going for! I personally believe in hiring other people to do this kind of stuff, but you can also do it yourself.

So what are some other branding ideas that you’ve come up with to set yourself apart?

A is for Accountability

Yeah, I know. I’ve been terrible at keeping up with my blog this year. It’s been an incredibly busy year for me so far, full of unexpected changes and other wonderful and amazing things. But I can’t let the important things go, so when I saw that some of my writer friends were doing an A to Z blog challenge, I thought that this might just be the way for me to get back into the swing of things.

“A” is also for Alligator
© Canaris | Dreamstime.com – Set Of Alphabet Letters, A-B Photo

So here we are at the letter A. A right now makes me think of accountability. Writing is a solitary profession, so sometimes it can be hard to keep on task. There’s no boss looking over our shoulder on a day to day basis, no clock we have to punch or external coal we have to meet. Everything is what we put on ourselves. So it’s important if you’re going to take this whole writing gig seriously to find some sort of method of accountability that will keep your eyes on the prize.

Of course, the ultimate accountability is food, clothing, and shelter. I’m a full-time, stay-at-home writer now, so if I don’t write, if I don’t publish and make decent sales, I don’t eat. Or as I told someone the other day, I have to keep working so that I can keep working. Within 20 minutes of leaving the office of my former day job, I told myself that I would never work in a corporate cube again. Never. Nada. End of story. Yes, folks, hating corporate America is the ultimate accountability.

But what if you’re not there yet? What if you’re still struggling to get to the point where you can wave goodbye to your day job and set out into the scary world of being a career writer? Sometimes it’s even more important to be accountable for the work you do in those circumstances.

For me, setting a daily word count goal has always been a neat and tidy means of accountability. That number has changed over time as my life and writing circumstances have changed, but it’s always been there. It’s good if you’re the kind of person in whom numbers strike the fear of God. Knowing that I need to get a certain, concrete amount of work done in a day has been incredibly helpful for me.

So how about if you’re the kind of person who can let goals and numbers slide on by like a snail on a stick of butter?

We keep each other in line
© Navarone | Dreamstime.com – Lemurs On Branch Photo

Recently, I’ve been trying something new in the realm of accountability, and I recommend you give it a try if you can. I am now part of an accountability writer’s group. It’s not a critique group—we don’t actually look at or comment on each other’s stuff. It’s not a promo group either, although we are all friends and naturally pimp each other’s work. Nope, this group is solely for the purpose of keeping us all on track.

Here’s how it works. In the morning, one of the group members goes to our (private) Facebook group and posts the morning “Hi, how are ya, what are your goals for today?” post. Then, we each post under that what we hope to get done for the day. It’s simple. Throughout the day, working or otherwise, we check in and talk about our progress or any issues that have come up as we write. Then, at the end of the day (whether that’s 4pm when you just can’t take it anymore or 4am when you’ve finally gotten through your tasks for the day) you check in stating what you’ve done. Encouragement blossoms in this system. Questions are answered, tasks are accomplished (or not) and camaraderie is had by all.

I never expected this to work, but it really does for me, and it’s a great way to keep close to your fellow writers in a healthy and supportive way.

So what methods of accountability do you use? I’ve love to hear about them.

More Precious Than Gold – Release Day!

It’s release day at last for More Precious Than Gold, my inaugural Inspirational Romance! This book really was a labor of love. I’ve been wanting to tell this story for a while, both because it’s a lovely, sweet romance, and because it touches on some of the issues in the history of the church I was raised in that have always been points to ponder for me. I did a lot of research on the historical facts, but at the end of the day, I wanted to tell the story of two young people becoming adults and falling in love. Love is the heart of the matter, after all. So here’s a taste from Chapter One to get you started!

Cape Ann, Massachusetts – 1889

June had always been Louisa White’s favorite month. June was filled with long days of freedom once school let out. It was awash in sunshine, roses, and salt air that rolled off of the ocean and across the green lawns of Cliff House—home of Louisa’s friends, the McBrides. It was a time for weddings and the Swedenborgian Church’s birthday, picnics and celebrations. Everything should have been glorious. But this June was different.

Wren McBride handed Louisa a slender racquet and a shuttlecock as they headed for the badminton net that had been set up on a flat stretch of the lawn.

“I know we’re too old for games like this now that we’ve graduated,” Wren lamented, spinning her racquet in her hands, “but it would break my heart to give it up entirely to be a proper lady.”

“Who says proper ladies don’t play badminton?” Gayle Tague, Louisa and Wren’s best friend, laughed.

“Only every etiquette book we own,” Wren answered. She glanced to her brother, Rowan, four years older than her, for confirmation.

Rowan merely smiled, saying nothing.

“I so want to be a proper lady and a good example of everything a New Church woman should be,” Wren went on.

“You are,” Louisa assured her. “We all want to be good examples.” She only wished she could be certain she was one herself.

“Of course we are,” Gayle agreed, skipping a few steps as she and Louisa took up their positions on one side of the net. “At least, we try.”

Wren and Rowan formed a pair on the other side, and the game began.

It was easy for Louisa to think that all was right with the world while volleying a shuttlecock across a net with her friends at a church picnic, easy to forget the cares that weighed on her. Cheerful sunshine bathed the sloping lawn of Cliff House as the members of the young Cape Ann society shared food and company. Children in their sharpest suits and prettiest gowns ran and played on the grass, or skipped down the stairs leading to the beach to play in the sand as their guardians watched. All day, Louisa had been catching snippets of rumors that a new chapel was about to be built. But she’d also heard whispers of the widening split between conflicting factions of the Swedenborgian Church.

Louisa stretched to bat at the shuttlecock, sending it over the net to Rowan. She should be giggling and smiling at the game, like Gayle and Wren, but as her muscles loosened, worry squeezed tight around her heart. Her itching sense of unrest was stronger than the laughter and smiles of her close-knit group of friends. There was more to fear than missing the shuttlecock in a game now that their school days were over.

“Mine,” Gayle called as she rushed to smack the shuttlecock that Rowan sent sailing over the net. Gayle was an undeniable beauty, with dark hair and spritely blue eyes, her white lace gown cut just above the ankles. Her gown would have made the finest ladies in Boston drip with envy, yet Gayle dove after the shuttlecock with as much effort as a boy. She groaned when she missed it.

“That’s okay, you’ll get the next one,” Wren called across to her.

Gayle smiled and clucked, “Wren, you’re on the opposite side. You shouldn’t be encouraging me.”

“Well you can’t very well expect me to break that habit after all these years, can you?” Wren laughed in return.

Gayle shook her head and tossed the shuttlecock over the net to Rowan with a grin. In contrast to her friends, Louisa swung at the shuttlecock with a conservative stroke and precise aim when Rowan served to her. She was a passable athlete, but she was anxious about playing in her church dress. Simple as it was, it was the only nice dress she owned. She’d already let down the hem twice to bring it to a length suitable for a young woman starting out in life.

The shuttlecock hit her racquet with a sharp thunk and soared back over the net. Wren whooped like a girl far younger than her eighteen years and jumped to return the expert volley, arms strong and aim true.

“Nice shot,” Rowan complimented her as the shuttlecock flew back over the net.

Louisa raised her eyebrows. Even two words were a lot to hear from Rowan.

Gayle lunged to hit Wren’s shot, yelping as a dark brown tendril escaped from her carelessly piled hair. She swung with all her might, losing her balance as the bundle of feathers darted across the net. It hit Rowan square in the chest, and Gayle tumbled to the grass in a cloud of white lace.

Louisa gasped and pushed her glasses farther up her long nose before rushing to Gayle.

“Are you alright?”

Gayle answered by giggling and rolling to her back. She sat up, brushing hair out of her face. Her fine dress was streaked with grass stains. As soon as Gayle saw the damage, she slapped a hand to her mouth and giggled harder.

Wren and Rowan ducked under the net as Gayle said, “I don’t suppose green tea dresses are going to come into fashion any time soon.”

“I don’t suppose….” Louisa was too shocked to finish the sentence. Her eyes were fixed on the stains marring the once perfect lace. The dress had been new and lace was precious. It must have cost a fortune. Now it was ruined. If Louisa had half the money that Gayle spent ruining dresses….

Once more, the aching sense of unease closed in around Louisa’s heart.

“Oh Gayle, you didn’t.”

Wren crossed her arms, still holding her racquet, one eyebrow arched in motherly scolding. Wren had the McBride height and blue eyes, but her hair was a distinctive strawberry-blonde instead of sandy. Louisa had always thought that her friend looked like some sort of Celtic warrior goddess—an effect that was heightened as she shook her head at Gayle.

Rowan tucked his racket under his arm and reached out a hand to help Gayle to her feet.

“That’s the third dress you’ve ruined this month,” Wren went on.

If Gayle heard her friend’s scolding, it didn’t show. “Nonsense,” she said as she took Rowan’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. Rowan circled his arm around Gayle with infinite care to steady her, lingering longer than he should have. Gayle brushed her skirts, shaking her head at herself, oblivious to the tenderness in Rowan’s eyes. “I’ve never ruined a dress in my life. These stains will come out. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.”

Louisa shot a quick glance to Wren, who rolled her eyes over the ruined dress. Maybe Louisa was imagining things. Maybe everything truly would be all right. She forced herself to take a deep breath and put on a smiling face to match her friends’.

“And what about your blue dress?” Wren continued, tapping her badminton racquet on her arm. She was having a hard time keeping her good-natured smile from shining through her mother hen act.

“I didn’t ruin the blue one,” Gayle insisted. She stepped away from Rowan without a backward glance or a word of thanks, and skipped to retrieve her racquet.

“You ripped a hole in the skirt so big at graduation that your hat couldn’t cover it.” Louisa crossed her arms in imitation of Wren, standing firmly by her friend’s side. When things were at their worst it always helped to imitate Wren and her unflappable McBride strength.

“What, that?” Gayle shrugged as she twirled the racquet in her hand. “Louisa could sew it up good as new and no one would know the difference. With Louisa’s sewing skill, I’m sure she could fix anything.”

A hot blush painted Louisa’s cheeks. She hoped her friends would think it was the sun or the exertion of the game. Yes, she was good with a needle and thread. But while her friends thought it was a skill to be proud of, she couldn’t bring herself to share their opinion. In a world where her friends enjoyed plenty and financial security, needlework was a diversion. Louisa’s skills weren’t a frivolous hobby, they were the difference between pride and humility, the difference between someone who belonged and a goose amongst swans.

“I’m not a miracle worker.” She raised an eyebrow at Gayle, hoping her words held the same joking tone as her friends’ and not the bitterness of her fate.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Gayle teased, swaying closer to her with all the grace of a society debutante. “Your secret is out, Lou.”

Louisa’s heart leapt to her throat. She swallowed as Gayle grinned like a cat with cream. It couldn’t be out. She’d worked so hard to keep her reversal of fortune to herself.

Gayle went on. “Emma Wick told me that you did the needlework on her graduation dress.”

“Well, I….” Louisa could feel the sweat trickling down her back and it had nothing to do with badminton. Emma’s dress had paid for their groceries for two weeks.

“You did all those tiny roses?” Wren’s brow shot up. She dropped her arms and gaped at her friend. “They were gorgeous.”

“But what I want to know,” Gayle pursued the issue, planting her hands on her hips, “is how, when you made such a beautiful graduation present for Emma, you possibly had time to embroider those wonderful handkerchiefs as gifts for us?”

Relief and guilt swirled together in Louisa’s stomach. Her friend thought Emma’s decadent gown had been a gift.

“I had time on the weekends,” Louisa answered, dropping her head and hiding her eyes behind her glasses.

Wren and Gayle exchanged looks that told Louisa they knew she being too modest. Rowan stood, polite and quiet, glancing across the lawn.

It stung to lie to her friends, but the truth was too sad and too horrible. Gayle had been born to wealth, and before he became a minister, Wren’s father was a successful businessman. Young ladies of standing, like Wren and Gayle, did not keep company with working-class seamstresses once they became adults. With graduation, their childhoods were over, and if the White family secrets got out, right or wrong, their friendships would be over too. It was simply the way things worked.

“You know what I think?” Gayle drove on, smiling to Wren, who eyed her warily.

“Do I want to know what you think?” Louisa replied, voice small.

Gayle lowered her voice, eyes alight with mischief. “I think she did the needlework on Emma’s dress to impress C.J. Wick.”

“Gayle,” Louisa yelped in protest, all shame at her working-class status forgotten. Emma’s brother was kind and very handsome, but she would rather die than throw herself at a boy. They had only been out of school for a few weeks, but the time for childish flirting was most definitely behind them. Even Wren chewed her lip in shock at the bold accusation and opened her mouth to defend Louisa.

 

More Precious Than Gold is available now, exclusively from Amazon. The paperback will be coming very soon. You can check it out here!

Excerpt Wednesday – More Precious Than Gold

It’s Wednesday, so of course I have a little snippet of my upcoming work, More Precious Than Gold, my first foray into Inspirational Romance, for you! Come see how Louisa and her friends are handling their lives and loves as they blossom into adulthood in a difficult time….

“You’re right.” Louisa nodded and sidestepped around the group to the boulder where she’d parked her bicycle. She took three steps, then stopped dead. She’d thought things couldn’t get any worse, but the back tire of her beloved bicycle had gone completely flat. “No!”

The others turned at her exclamation and saw what she saw. Andrew headed straight for the wounded bicycle, Louisa and Jamie following. When he reached it, Andrew squatted and checked the tire. He turned the wheel only a few inches before revealing a shard of glass wedged in the rubber.

“We should have put up signs warning people about the broken glass.” Andrew shook his head as he stood. “I’ll get Rowan to post something.”

“What are you going to do, Louisa?” Gayle asked as she stepped close, Wren flanking her other side.

Louisa had no idea how much bicycle tires cost, but it was certainly more than she could afford. Her heart sank as she realized everything this meant. Wren and Gayle would ride around all summer without her, and she would be trapped at home. The only relief she had from her work had been snatched away from her. She wanted to cry right there, even if Andrew and Jamie were watching. Worse still, Andrew noticed her distress right away and moved closer to her.

“That’s easy to fix.” Jamie’s off-hand comment cut through the dread of crying so close to Andrew. Jamie bent closer to study the tire. “I’ve got a repair kit at home. I can patch that in no time.” He straightened and glanced briefly to Wren—so briefly Louisa wondered if anyone noticed—before looking to her. “Would you mind if I took it home and fixed it?”

“Mind?” Louisa sputtered. She looked to Andrew. He smiled at Jamie as though confirming he had chosen his new friend wisely.

“Well,” Jamie shrugged, “it would be good practice for me to work on this. It’s the kind of thing I should know how to do at a moment’s notice in case I need to … repair something.”

“I … well, if you think you can fix it.” She wanted to ask if he expected payment. She wanted to ask but she knew she couldn’t. She knew he wouldn’t. “Thank you, Jamie. That’s very kind of you.”

“That is very kind of you,” Gayle echoed in a dreamy voice, smile growing as if she were in on whatever the men had planned.

“Yes.” Wren crossed her arms, watching Jamie with a confused frown. “Very kind. We should get going.” She started away from the group to retrieve her own bicycle.

“How is Louisa going to get back?” Gayle dashed after her.

“I’ll give her a ride,” Andrew offered, glancing from his sister to Louisa. “If that’s all right with you.”

For some reason it was.

“I really ought to go home, though,” Louisa sighed.

“But you barely got here,” Wren protested. “I thought we could go into town this afternoon and look at the new hats that just came in at McGivney’s.”

All the more reason for her to go home.

“Without a bicycle, I’d just slow you down.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Besides, I have to get to work on the pillowcases I’m embroidering for the Fourth of July booth.”

Wren opened her mouth to reply, but one quick glance from Andrew stopped her. She let out a breath and stepped forward to hug Louisa.

“Well, all right. I’ll let you go this time. But I’m beginning to think you work too hard, Miss Louisa White.”

When she stepped back Gayle quickly took her place and squeezed Louisa tightly. Louisa was red with embarrassment by the time her friends finally let her go.

“I’m sorry to be such trouble,” she apologized to Andrew as they walked away from the construction site to a spot where several bicycles were parked.

“It’s no trouble at all.” He shrugged, hair tousled in the sea breeze. “I have a meeting in town this afternoon that I have to clean up for anyhow.”

Louisa followed half a step behind him, walking parallel to her friends as they made for their own bikes.

“Have you ever ridden on handlebars before?” Andrew asked.

Louisa froze in her tracks, a grin spreading across her flushed face. “No.”

“It’s the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is balance. I’ve got the hard job.”

He picked his bicycle out of the mass and rolled it around to where she had stopped.

“Why, because I’m a lumpy load?”

He laughed. “You look like you weigh as much as a feather.”

He was being generous. Or blind. She sent him a sideways look as she took hold of the handlebar of his bike and tried to figure out how to climb on.

“Catch me if I fall?”

“Always,” he answered without pause. The sound of his voice filled her with confidence and she turned and hoisted herself to sit on the handlebars while he held the bicycle still.

“Watch your skirt,” he cautioned her, readying to push off. “Make sure it doesn’t get caught in the wheel. You can put your feet up on the bumper covering the wheel if you need to.”

Louisa waved quickly to her friends as she tried to figure out how to hold onto the handlebar and her skirt and her hat all at the same time. Wren and Gayle waved back and proceeded to squeal along with her when Andrew stepped on the pedals and the bicycle shot forward.

“Hold on,” he laughed as he picked up speed. “We’re going for a ride.”

 

More Precious Than Gold is coming May 6th. Stay tuned!

And if you’d like to learn more about Swedenborg and the New Church, please visit the Swedenborg Foundation! They’re packed full of great info.

Excerpt Wednesday – More Precious Than Gold – First Look

You know I love Wednesdays! Today I’m bringing you an excerpt from a new project that is very close to my heart. I’ve started writing an Inspirational Historical Romance series based on the actual history of the church I was raised in. This first book, More Precious Than Gold, begins the trilogy with the story of Louisa White and Andrew McBride. They’ve been friends since childhood, but as they blossom into adults, they are each startled to find their feelings changing. But how can they navigate these new, complicated feelings when the world and the church they have known their whole life is in such trouble? Here’s a peek….

Louisa left the June Nineteenth picnic with hope in her heart, buoyed by the love of her friends and the society. The next morning she awoke to a pile of work that had doubled after being ignored for a day. She thought of her friends, thought of all of the blessings in her life, and tried not to complain. Instead she sat in the back room of their little house, working diligently and cheering herself with the thought that she was serving a very important for her family.

At least, she tried to. Within minutes, her hopes fell and her heart was heavy. She wasn’t sure which struck harder, the hours of sewing that left her eyes stinging and her head pounding or the endless dialog of frustration that swirled through her head.

“I didn’t study hard and excel in school all those years only to end up working in a shop or a factory, harried and lonely,” her thoughts grumbled. “My friends are still enjoying their last taste of childhood while I have to work to have a roof over my head and food on my table. I don’t even care about nice things, like Gayle, or big families, like Wren. I just want to be normal. Andrew would understand.”

The last thought took Louisa by surprise. She paused halfway through embroidering the hem of a christening gown.

Why should Andrew McBride come straight to her thoughts?

Then again, she considered as she returned to sewing, Andrew knew what it was like to have a job, to work hard for a living. Still, his family was wealthy. Hers was not.

By the time Saturday rolled around, Louisa was bursting with desperation to get out of the house and into the balmy summer sunlight. She hadn’t seen Wren or Gayle all week. As she mounted her bicycle and pedaled off along the main road leading up the coast to Cliff House, she wanted to spread her arms and embrace the morning. Instead she settled for gripping the handlebar of her bicycle with a fondness that made her laugh and roll her eyes at herself.

Her bright red bicycle was far and away her favorite possession. Like everything else of any worth that she owned, it had been a gift from the McBrides. They had presented it to her, along with bicycles for Wren and Gayle, when they finished grammar school years ago. The fact that Gayle had been given the same gift was the only thing that had stopped Louisa from refusing such an elaborate present, and now both of her friends had newer, fancier bicycles. But Louisa still loved her old, clunky, red one.

She pedaled up the long, sloping drive to Cliff House, ringing the bell on her handlebars and waving at Wren’s youngest brothers and sisters. They played with their friends and the family dog where the lawn met the beach. The McBrides were a large family, eight children in all, and Louisa was never sure if she felt comfortable with them or just overwhelmed. At home there had only been Father, Mother, Henry and her. Now it was just the three of them, and Henry was gone most of the time.

She found herself praying for a large family of her own one day, lots of children to love and care for, as she skidded to a stop at the top of the drive beside the back door. As quickly as the thought came into her mind she brushed it aside. Marriage was the last thing she should be thinking about. Someday, yes, but at the moment it was the least of her problems.

“Hello!” she called out as she leaned her bicycle against the side of the house and brushed her skirts straight.

Gayle’s bicycle also rested against the house, so Louisa walked through the kitchen door as if she too were a McBride. Sure enough, inside the warm, fragrant kitchen, Gayle and Wren were hard at work. Gayle wore yet another new dress, light pink with the puffy sleeves that were becoming so popular. One sleeve already had a smudge on it. Wren was dressed in far more practical clothing, her long strawberry-blonde hair hanging in a braid down her back.

“I knew I’d find you in here.” Louisa smiled as she greeted them. She could have laughed out loud with joy at seeing her friends. It was ridiculous that just a few days apart could make her miss them so much. “What’s all this?”

“Provisions,” Gayle answered with a mischievous tweak of her dark eyebrows.

The kitchen table was spread with cookies and miniature cakes and the raspberry tarts that Wren was famous for. Wren and Gayle were busy packing them into baskets and tins and even a large napkin or two as they ran out of containers. Louisa closed her eyes and breathed in the warm, sweet smells of baking.

“I wish I’d gotten here sooner,” she sighed, mouth watering.

“Me too!” Gayle said with a giggle.

“Where were you?” Wren asked without looking up from her task.

“I—”

“We’re going to take refreshments to the men working at the lighthouse,” Gayle interrupted, sparing Louisa the embarrassment of yet another excuse.

Wren sent a wary glance in Gayle’s direction before adding, “Mama thought it would be a good idea to take the workers a snack. They’ve been out there since sunrise.”

“We’ve got all this and some jugs of lemonade,” Gayle added, nodding to the counter by the sink. Two large brown jugs with corks stood waiting for attention. “Of course we don’t really have room for glasses,” Gayle shrugged, “but my guess is they’ll be so thirsty they won’t mind drinking straight from the jug.”

“You’ve come just in time,” Wren continued with her businesslike voice, wiping her hands on her apron before untying it and pulling it off over her head. “We’ll put the lemonade in the basket on one of our bicycles and split the goodies between the other two.”

Louisa jumped into action as soon as the suggestion was made. Action made everything feel better. “I’ll take the jugs,” she said, crossing to the counter to retrieve them.

The girls had long since dropped the habit of being polite with each other and asking for help. It was understood that they would all help each other without being asked whenever help was needed. Gayle set about hanging baskets of treats from her arm while Wren hung her apron on a peg beside the back door and returned to gather an armful of treats. With a grin, Louisa found herself considering that if Wren ever found herself in the same predicament that Louisa was in now, she would probably open a bakery and become wealthy and famous all over again. Money stuck to some people like burrs on a cat.

“You’ve made an awful lot,” Louisa said as they fixed their hats on their heads and carried their loads out to their bicycles. “Do we really need this much?”

“Everyone is over there, everyone.” Gayle smiled, eyes glittering with mirth. “Even C.J. Wick.”

It was all Louisa could do not to roll her eyes. She didn’t know what she would do if her friend tried to play matchmaker.

 

More Precious Than Gold is coming the first week of May. I’m thinking the 6th right now. Stay tuned!

And if you’d like to learn more about Swedenborg and the New Church, please visit the Swedenborg Foundation! They’re packed full of great info.

Excerpt Wednesday – Trail of Destiny – An Unlikely Friend

Well, I was a little out of it and didn’t post an excerpt last Wednesday, but Trail of Destiny is almost here! So let’s take a look at one of the best, and perhaps most unlikely, friendships of the story…..

When they were out of earshot of the workers, Howard said, “I saw the way you were looking at that young man just now.”

“I wasn’t—” With a sigh, Alice decided that there was no point in denying it. “He’s a handsome man with a fine physique.”

Howard chuckled. “It’s been ages since a woman has been able to say that about me. You should have seen me when Elizabeth and I first met, though. I was just as much of a young, strapping lad as your Jarvis.”

“He’s not my Jarvis,” Alice admitted.

“No? You could have fooled me?”

Howard was in such good spirits, his smile so wide, that Alice couldn’t help but smile along with him.

“We only met a very short time ago, at Ft. Bridger,” she explained. “I don’t think that’s enough time for anyone to claim ownership of someone else, body or soul.”

“So you’d think,” Howard said, steering the wagon around the edge of his herd of cattle. “The funny thing about love is that it doesn’t listen to reason.”

“Who said anything about love?” Alice lowered her voice and worried at a spot on her skirt.

“Hmm.” Evidently, Howard didn’t agree with her.

“I’ve loved once,” she went on. “It was beautiful and wonderful. This doesn’t feel like that.”

“Of course not,” Howard snorted. “Love is like clouds. They’re never the same and they change constantly.”

“Yes, but clouds don’t hurt when they die,” she replied before she could think better of it. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I shouldn’t bring up these sorts of things.” And yet, Howard was as easy and comforting to talk to as her father.

“Of course you should, my dear,” he said with a father’s compassion. “What are old folks like us good for if not giving advice to the young and brash?”

They exchanged a warm smile. Alice relaxed against her seat.

“Clouds do hurt from time to time,” Howard went on. “Ever heard of lightning?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, it comes from the clouds. But that doesn’t mean you should stay indoors day and night, denying yourself the pleasures of a sunny day for fear that the clouds will roll in.” He paused, shifted in his seat, then said, “I think I mixed my metaphors there, but I hope the point made it across in one piece.”

“Oh, it did,” Alice assured him. “I’m just not sure it’s worth the risk to go out in the rain.”

Howard chuckled at her attempt to stick with his metaphors. Then he sighed.

“I love my dear Elizabeth more than the sun and moon and stars combined,” he confessed in a subdued voice. “My Lucy too. Not a day goes by when I don’t miss them terribly. But Elizabeth doesn’t like the frontier, and I’m not willing to live cooped up in a city back East. It doesn’t mean I don’t wrack my brains on a daily basis to think of ways to win her back.”

“Do you write to her?”

He didn’t answer right away. In fact, he huffed and sat straighter. “I used to. She was slow to reply.”

Alice arched an eyebrow. “So you’re advising me to love again while refusing to listen to the voice of love in your own heart?”

She meant to be teasing, but Howard sagged. “That’s none of your business,” he blustered, but then added. “I should write, shouldn’t I?”

“I think you should.”

His smile returned and he glanced to her as he drove the wagon on. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll write to Elizabeth if you let yourself consider the idea of a certain handsome militiaman. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like a trick,” Alice said. Even so, her heart longed to accept the challenge. Once again, the image of Jarvis shirtless and the temptation of falling into his arms swept through her.

“Trick or not, it will bring both of us happiness,” Howard said. “At least, we’ll each be happy for each other.”

Alice smiled. “I suppose that’s something.”

She wasn’t willing to make any promises. She still couldn’t shake the idea that to open herself to Jarvis meant turning her back on Harry. But at least when it came to Howard, she’d found a friend.

 

Guess what? You can pre-order Trail of Destiny already! It’s on Amazon here or for your Nook reader here or on iBooks here.

Excerpt…Um, Thursday? – Trail Blaze

Okay, okay, I had this grand plan to release this lovely little surprise novella that I’ve been sitting on for April Fool’s Day, and to post a bit of the first chapter to tease you. But Amazon had other plans (a really high volume of books submitted on the 31st, they tell me), so it’s a day late. Yep. But don’t despair! In honor of Thursday, here’s your first look at my gift to you, Trail Blaze:

Along the Oregon Trail, 1858

It didn’t matter how many times her fellow passengers marveled over the relative speed and convenience of stagecoach travel, Darcy Howsam was done with it. For weeks she’d been rattling on over the prairie, racing toward the frontier and the future that she had pinned all of her hopes on. Stagecoach was the fastest way to travel—why, an intrepid adventurer could make it from St. Louis to San Francisco by stagecoach in a month—but it was far from the most comfortable.

“No need to fidget, dearie,” the older woman squashed against Darcy, Mrs. Folsom, told her with a long-suffering smile. “We’re almost there.”

“Are we?”

Darcy heaved a sigh and looked around the woman to see out the stagecoach window. The prairie had barely changed for the past two weeks. Everything around them was flat grassland, dotted by the occasional military outpost or new farm. The West was the land of opportunity. Anyone who wanted to pull up their roots and make a name and a life for themselves in the vast, fertile land had done exactly what Darcy herself was doing for more than a decade now. West was the direction of hope, the direction of promise.

Darcy pressed the letter she’d been carrying every step of her journey tighter between her sweating hands. West was her last hope. Mr. Conrad Huber was her last hope.

“If you don’t stop wringing that poor letter, you’re bound to destroy it,” Mrs. Folsom sighed. “You’ve been fiddling with it since we left St. Louis.” The older woman’s voice betrayed just how irksome she found Darcy’s fiddling.

“Sorry,” Darcy said, pressing the letter flat to her lap.

It was a challenge to resist reading the letter over and over. It contained the words that had changed her life. Ever since her parents and siblings had died in an epidemic, leaving her completely on her own, Darcy’s fortunes had sunk. She’d done her best to seek employment in a shop at home in Maryland, and when that failed, as a servant in a grand house. But something always seemed to go wrong. The shop-owner had gone out of business, and the lady of the house where she had become a maid didn’t like the way her husband looked at Darcy. Darcy didn’t like it either.

It was the leering looks of Mr. Tavener that had instilled in her the need to flee and given her an idea of how she could go. For more than a decade, men had been going west to seek their fortunes. Men. Not women. Wives were in demand on the furthest edges of the frontier. Darcy had sought out newspaper advertisements of men seeking wives to join them in places like California, the Oregon Territory, or the Nebraska Territory. She’d answered an advertisement from Mr. Huber, who said he needed a woman who could cook and clean for him in California. He’d replied to her inquiry, telling her to come and sending her the money for passage as far as Ft. Laramie.

That letter and the money it had contained was the different between a life of disgrace and moral danger for Darcy and the chance to build something new. Of course she would hold and read and press it to her heart as frequently as she could.

“Ft. Laramie,” the stagecoach driver called from his perch on the driver’s seat. “Ft. Laramie ahead.”

His voice was muffled through the stagecoach walls, but the weary travelers hummed and sighed with relief nonetheless.

“Saints be praised,” Mrs. Folsom groaned.

Darcy felt every bit of the woman’s impatience and thankfulness that the journey was finally over—although some of their fellow travelers would, no doubt, continue on by stagecoach. Not Darcy. She leaned over Mrs. Folsom as politely as she could to glance out the window. All she could see was prairie and more prairie. She wouldn’t be able to see straight forward or glance more than a tight patch of land out the window until the coach had stopped and she could get out.

“How do you expect to find your gentleman at a busy fort?” Mrs. Folsom asked.

Her uncomfortable grimace was enough to scold Darcy into sitting back in her seat, mashed against the man on the other side who had ignored her all week.

“He says here in his letter that he’ll be wearing a blue bandana around his neck,” Darcy told her.

“Oh?” Mrs. Folsom sniffed and stretched her back, then glanced out the window. She could likely see more than Darcy, but not much. “There appear to be quite a few wagons around the fort and even more people,” she reported. “Plenty of blue.”

“I’m sure Mr. Huber will be looking for me too,” Darcy said, as much to ease her own nerves as anything.

What if she couldn’t find him? What if he had changed his mind and didn’t come to meet her after all? What could a woman on her own with no money do in an empty land like this? She suspected she knew the answer, but even though the West was packed with saloons and saloon girls, she could never, ever see herself going down that desperate path. No, it was a respectable marriage or nothing.

“Ft. Laramie,” the stagecoach driver repeated his call as the coach slowed and gradually came to a stop. “Ft. Laramie. End of the line for some of you. For the rest, we’ll be heading out again in one hour.”

The driver’s voice moved from the front of the stagecoach to the side as he spoke. He hopped down from his seat and came around to the door. As one of Darcy’s fellow travelers threw the door open and began the exodus into the fresh air and sunshine, the coach rocked and pitched on its springs. Darcy tried to stand and make her way out, but a man who had been sitting behind her pushed her over, sending her sprawling against the bench in front of her. She dropped Mr. Huber’s letter and had to fish for it, being careful not to have her hand stepped on by exiting travelers.

By the time she snatched the letter and muscled herself to stand, the carriage had emptied. She scrambled out the door, landing with unsteady legs on a patch of packed dirt. Dust swirled around the hem of her skirt. One of the stagecoach hands knocked into her from the side as he received baggage being handed down to him from the coach’s roof. He didn’t bother to apologize. He might not even have seen her, small as she was.

Brushing away the insult, Darcy walked wide of the stagecoach, eager to get her first view of Ft. Laramie. It was similar to the other military outposts they’d passed through on the journey. There were forts every day’s ride or so. The military kept a strong presence along all routes west to discourage raids and attacks by Indians and bandits. They’d made it this far without being molested, for which Darcy was grateful. The difference between Ft. Laramie and many of the other forts was the mass of covered wagons that clustered around the fort’s east side. Darcy hadn’t seen so many wagons together since the stop they’d made at Independence, Missouri. Along with the sea of canvas and oxen were more people than she had seen in a week.

Too many people. She bit her lip and raised a hand to shield her eyes as she scanned them all, looking for a hint of a blue bandana.

“Miss. Miss, is this yours?”

The stagecoach hand finally noticed her. He thrust a worn old bag out to Darcy. It looked pathetic against the number of fancy bags and small trunks that the stagecoach also held. It was as thin and poor as her.

“Yes, thank you,” she told the gruff man with a smile.

He returned that smile with a half-hearted one as Darcy took her bag, then he ignored her and went back to work.

Darcy took a few more steps away from the stagecoach, clutching her bag in one hand and her letter in the other. A few people out of the crowd of wagons stared at the stagecoach, but none of them wore a blue bandana. Worry gnawed at Darcy’s gut. She couldn’t be abandoned. It simply wasn’t acceptable. Mr. Huber had to be—

A flash of blue caught her eye and she let out a breath of relief. A young man stood to the side of a wagon nearby, watching her with a smile. He was handsome too, with sandy-blond hair and a tanned face. He looked to be the kind of man who worked hard and had the physique to prove it. Best of all, he wore a blue shirt. That was even better than a bandana. Why, Darcy couldn’t have missed this man if she had arrived at night after being blinded by a wild animal attack. At last. At last she could rest easy, knowing that everything would be all right.

“Hey you,” a man shouted at the stagecoach driver behind her. “You were supposed to bring me a woman. A Darcy Howsam woman. Where the hell is she?”

Darcy’s throat constricted and her smile wilted on her lips. She pivoted toward the stagecoach and the voice. There, standing with his fists on his hips and a scowl as dark as midnight on his face, stood a paunchy, unshaven man who looked well over forty. He wore a bright blue bandana around his neck. Darcy’s heart sank to her toes.

“Right there,” the stagecoach driver said, pointing to Darcy with only a quick sideways glance.

The paunchy man turned to her and narrowed his eyes. A second, taller man—unkempt and unshaven—stood beside him. He leaned over and whispered something to the man with the blue bandana. The man with the bandana snorted and spit. He muttered a curse, then stomped toward Darcy. His eyes stayed narrowed as he stopped in front of her, raking her up and down with a gaze as though assessing a horse he wanted to buy.

“You Darcy Howsam?” he asked.

“I am.” Darcy’s voice cracked. She swallowed, then asked, “Are you Mr. Conrad Huber?”

“Yep,” he said.

The last bit of Darcy’s hope crumbled. She peeked sideways to see if the handsome man in the blue shirt was still watching her, hoping he wasn’t. She didn’t want him to see the disappointment in her eyes as a result of her own rash decisions. Unlucky for her, the handsome man was still watching, although his smile had gone and his arms were crossed over his broad chest.

No, Darcy thought to herself, focusing on the man in front of her—her Mr. Huber. This was a good thing. Appearances could be deceiving. Whatever might happen, life as the wife of this frontiersman would be better than life as a drudge back East or as a saloon girl. She forced herself to smile and take as sunny a view of the situation as she could.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Huber. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks and weeks now,” she said, extending her hand to him.

Conrad Huber did not take her hand. He didn’t say a word. He scrunched up his nose and paced in a circle around her. Darcy stood perfectly still, holding her breath, smile plastered in place… dread itching its way down her back.

When Conrad came to a stop in front of her, he sniffed and said, “Nope. Too small. I don’t want you. Give me my money back.”

“What?” Darcy blinked, jaw dropping.

“The twenty dollars I sent you to get your sorry self out here,” Conrad went on. “I want it back.”

“But… but I don’t have it. I used it to pay for the stagecoach. That’s why you sent it to me.” Panic bubbled through her.

“Too bad,” he said. “You owe me. I want my money. You find it somehow and bring it to me.” He turned his back on her and started to walk over to his friend, who now wore a mean grin.

“Wait, Mr. Huber,” Darcy called after him, her heart beating in her throat.

Conrad stopped and twisted back to her with a grimace.

“I’m not too small,” Darcy insisted, a little more breathless than she wanted to be. “I might be short and slight, but I’m a hard worker and I’m strong. I’ve been working as a maid this past year and at a shop before that. I can do whatever you need me to do.”

“I doubt that,” he said, snorting then spitting.

The action turned Darcy’s stomach, but she had no choice but to press her case. “I can cook too. I cooked for my family before they died.”

“They die because of your cooking?” the other man asked, adding a vicious grin to his question.

“No, there was an epidemic of influenza.” Darcy choked back the grief of her memories and rushed on. “I can mend and sew too. And knit socks if you need them. That’s what your advertisement said you wanted.”

Conrad huffed. “I want someone who can cook and clean in a mining camp. It’s tough work. You don’t look like you got the mettle for it.”

“I do, I—”

“’sides, what if I decide I want sons? You look like birthing them would split you in two. Makin’ ’em too.”

Darcy recoiled. She’d assumed she’d end up fulfilling all of the duties of a wife, all of them, but the sudden thought of doing that with this man was almost as bad as the looks Mr. Tavener had given her.

No, she reminded herself again. It would be different if she was Conrad’s wife. It would be respectable, even if it was unpleasant. Respect outweighed the alternative, even if Conrad was… Conrad.

“I would be a good wife to you,” Darcy said, out of arguments. “I will be a good wife to you.”

Conrad gave her one more sweeping look, then shook his head and said, “Nope. All I want from you is my money.”

“But—”

“Don’t you think of goin’ nowhere ’til you get it to me neither.”

“I don’t have your money,” she called after him. “I don’t have any money.”

“Come on,” the other man said. “Let’s go get a drink.”

It was too late. Darcy could do nothing as Conrad walked away.

 

And yep, you can zip on over to Amazon to purchase Trail Blaze right now! Better still, if you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, it’s free. *wiggles eyebrows*

Excerpt Wednesday – Trail of Destiny – Father & Daughter

It’s Excerpt Wednesday! And since I just love scenes between fathers and daughters, why not one of those?

He took it as his coughing fit subsided and drank as if no one had given him water for days. At least she knew that wasn’t the case. Why, Jarvis had brought the jug of water to him just a few hours—

She sighed and sat heavily in her chair. Jarvis again. She needed to be more careful about where her thoughts went when she wasn’t paying attention.

“Hmm,” her father hummed, setting aside the glass. “My dear, I’ve heard you sigh many times since we left New York and before. That sigh was different.” He arched one eyebrow, a signal for her to confess.

“I suppose it’s because I’m tired from work,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. Her hands fussed with the black of her skirt.

“Hmm.” The way he hummed this time made Alice certain she’d been caught doing something wrong. “This passel of young men we’ve found ourselves stuck with haven’t been rude to you, have they?”

“Oh no, they’ve been very kinds,” she answered, a little too quickly, if her father’s knowing grin was any indication. “I mean, they haven’t been any more or less kind than they should be.”

“I see.” Her father nodded, his smile growing wider.

She was in trouble, all right. Her father was the most brilliant man she knew. Nothing escaped his observation. Unfortunately.

“Where is that nice Mr. Flint who has been instrumental in taking care of me?” he asked.

“Jarvis is outside, training with the rest of his outfit,” she answered, again too fast. She cursed herself inwardly. Whatever this was, it was happening far too soon.

“He and I had an interesting conversation this morning when you were out there helping in the fort’s kitchen,” her father went on.

“Oh?” she asked, too shaky to look at him.

“Yes. He’s a bright young man with a variety of prospects. And he seems to like you.”

She forced a laugh and risked meeting her father’s eyes. “I like him. I like all of the militiamen. They’re so different from the men I knew back in New York. They’re not as sophisticated or educated, but they’re brave and strong and helpful.”

“Some more than others?”

Alice huffed out a breath. She couldn’t let this war of hints go on any longer.

“Papa. Harry gave his life for what he believed in. He was brave and strong and helpful too. I married him. I love him. He hasn’t been gone for more than a year.” She swallowed the well of grief that pushed up through her chest.

“I know, my dear, I know.” Her father’s tone changed to sad and full of regret. He patted her hand, but was prevented from doing or saying more as another round of coughing seized him.

Alice refilled his glass of water and handed him a handkerchief, glad that her troubles could be ignored for a moment. Her father seemed so tired when he was through coughing that she stood and reached for her broom.

“I should let you rest,” she told him.

Her father hummed in response and rested his head against the pillows behind him. Alice turned to go.

“Don’t be so quick to hold onto grief, my dear,” he said before she could get away.

She turned back to him with a frown. “I’m not holding onto grief, Papa. It’s holding on to me.”

“Yes, well, maybe there’s someone else for you to hold onto out there,” he said.

A burst of frustration squeezed her gut. “Don’t get any ideas, Papa. Love is something that only happens once. I’ve had my chance, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world.”

“Good girl,” her father said, more than a little drowsy. “But just because you’ve loved once, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t at least try something new to see what happens.”

His words left prickles on her skin. “Try something new?” The image of strong arms and fast legs and long hair let loose instead of restrained in a ponytail flashed to her mind.

“We are in a new land, after all,” her father reasoned. “Who knows what’s waiting for us out here? Just keep yourself open to finding it.”

Guess what? You can pre-order Trail of Destiny already! It’s on Amazon here or for your Nook reader here or on iBooks here.

Excerpt Wednesday – Trail of Destiny – First Look

It’s about time we had a good Excerpt Wednesday, right? It’s been a while. So how about a first look at the next book in the Hot on the Trail series, Trail of Destiny? Come read as young widow, Alice Porter (Emma Sutton’s sister) goes on the adventure of a lifetime while stopped and waiting for Emma and her mother to catch up along the trail….

“How long has it been?” he asked. There was an even chance that his prying would earn him an earful, but maybe that’s what Alice needed to get some of herself back.

She was silent for so long as she worked her way through the basket of laundry that Jarvis didn’t think she would answer.

At last she said, “Harry was killed at Antietam, September of last year.” Her voice shook, but she went on. “It seems like it was a thousand years ago, and it seems like it was last week.”

“Yeah.” He pushed out a breath of relief and brushed his hand back across his hair. “It’s like that when folks die, isn’t it.”

She peeked at him through her pale lashes as she took the last of the shirts from the laundry basket.

“Sometimes I wish that I’d never met him,” she confessed, lowering her eyes. “And sometimes I wish I’d met him much sooner. Either way, we were meant to be together. At least….” She didn’t finish.

Jarvis’s heart thumped in his chest. He shifted his weight, thrusting his hands in his pockets, then walking with her down the line of laundry to the end. When she got there, she finished hanging the last shirt.

“Seems like you and I have a few things in common,” he said.

“Do we?”

He nodded. “It might be nice for the two of us to sit together sometime, talk about things. Strange though it sounds, sometimes it helps to talk about things in order to let them go.”

She lowered her basket and stared at him. He knew what would come next. She would shout at him and accuse him of being callous, and tell him she didn’t want to let her dead husband go.

Instead, she sighed and shook her head, then pushed past him.

“You’re very kind, Jarvis. No one has asked me to talk about Harry, not at all. Not even when we were married.”

“Well that doesn’t sound right.” He followed her toward the fort’s main gate.

“My parents didn’t approved of our marriage, so they didn’t want to hear about it.”

That was a surprise.

“I want to hear about it,” he said.

Alice stopped abruptly inside the gate, spinning to face him. “I appreciate that, but why on earth would any man want to hear a woman go on about another man?”

“Maybe I can help?”

She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut, as though he’d given her a headache. Then she shook her head and put on a smile that felt forced.

“No one has been as kind to me as you’ve been, Jarvis. I’m not used to it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it.”

“Flint!”

The sound of his name being called yanked Jarvis’s attention toward the target range. Col. Connor stood with his fists on his hips while his brothers-in-arms lined up in a tight, sniggering row behind him.

“Oh dear,” Alice said, the barest, tiniest hint of humor in her tone.

“Flint, get back over here,” Col. Connor shouted. “You did not receive orders to pester our guests.”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis called back and turned to go. Before he started off, he said to Alice, “Could we talk sometime? I’d like to.”

“I,” Alice stumbled, flushing as he sidestepped away. “I’m in mourning,” she finished.

“Mourning doesn’t last forever,” Jarvis told her, delaying as long as he could without getting his head chewed off by the colonel. “And after mourning, we could go for a nice, afternoon walk.”

He grinned at his own joke, then left her to think about it as he ran back to target practice. His father could grouse at him all he wanted for what he saw as making a mess of his life, but Jarvis knew that with a little patience, he could make Alice’s life better.

 

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