Cathy MacRae's Blog, page 44
June 28, 2014
The Other Monster of Loch Ness
Water Kelpie statue in Glasgow. Image courtesy The Helix Just for fun, I thought I'd post about a different monster that haunts the depths of Loch Ness. While most of us immediately think of the Loch Ness Monster, or Nessie as she is affectionately known the world over, when asked to recount the legends of the loch, there is another told that is perhaps less well known:The Tale of the Water Kelpie's Wife.
A water kelpie is a dangerous, shape-shifting spirit thought to inhabit the rivers and streams of Scotland. Taking on the shape of a beautiful horse, it lures anyone incautious enough to try to ride it to their death. One in particular is said to have been banished from the River Ness by St. Columba, and became associated with the loch. This kelpie is the river horse of our story.
The water kelpie's wife hated living in the dank, dark, dismal depths of Loch Ness.. In an attempt to devise a plan to ease her plight, her husband went to the surface and took the form of a beautiful black stallion with a long, flowing mane and tail. A stone mason saw the stallion and, unable to resist, leapt onto its back, and found himself stuck fast. With a crack like thunder, the horse dove to the bottom of the loch, taking the stone mason with him. There, the water kelpie struck a deal with the terrified man. The stone mason agreed to build a fireplace and chimney that reached to the surface of the loch in exchange for fish for the rest of his life. To this day a patch of water on Loch Ness never freezes- it's where the chimney comes out.
June 26, 2014
Thursday's Threads with Rachel Sharpe
This week's Thursday's Threads features another glimpse at Rachel Sharpe's new book, Cold Ambition.(Jordan James, PI series) Genre: Mystery/Suspense
Heat Level: Sweet
Buy Link: http://www.amzn.com/B00L2OLQPG/
Blurb:
"It was my life-long dream to become a private eye. Little did I know that with my very first case, that dream would become a life-threatening nightmare..."
When Jordan James decided to embark on a career as a private investigator, she never could have imagined that a chance encounter would lead to her staring down the barrel of a gun on the roof’s edge of a high-rise building. As she begins to investigate her first case, the puzzling murder of a prominent businessman that has left Boston’s finest mystified for more than two decades, she finds herself suddenly immersed in a treacherous underworld brimming with betrayal, raw greed, and political subterfuge of international proportions. In the midst of this, she discovers she is falling for her mysterious client despite the hints of his dark past. Can this feisty Southern girl with a penchant for trouble solve this baffling case or is she doomed to become another tragic chapter in an international conspiracy?
Excerpt:
We sat there in silence and heard Ace stumble towards the door and fumble with the lock.
“Yeah?”
“Is Jordan James here?” a muffled voice inquired. I strained to hear, but the distance between the rooms and the closed door made it nearly impossible.
“Who?” Ace laughed. Suddenly, there was a strange sound. It sounded like a firecracker had gone off. This sound was followed by a loud thud which echoed through the apartment. In an instant, Rick and I were on our feet. Rick turned off the light and grabbed the tape from the VCR. I searched the room vainly for a place to hide. Outside the room, I heard shoes echoing on the floor and the sound of doors being opened. Before I had another moment to think, Rick grabbed me and practically carried me to the far corner of the room by the soundboard. Next to the soundboard was a thin wall covered in soundproof foam. Three of the walls had this soundproof foam but the wall contiguous with the door did not. It appeared Ace was still installing it. He pulled it back to reveal a small closet- sized room.
He brought me inside and replaced the wall, closing us in. We huddled together in the corner. Looking around I realized that this was the room in which Ace occasionally recorded. Suddenly, faintly, I heard the door to the media room open. I heard footsteps making their way around the room. After what seemed like an eternity, the intruder spoke.
“She’s not here,” the muffled voice stated. “Yes, she came into the building with Michaels’ kid. No, they can’t be far. Don’t worry. We know where their car is parked.
If not before, we’ll get them when they go back for it.”
Links:
www.rachelsharpe.com
www.facebook.com/authorrachelsharpe
www.twitter.com/RachelCSharpe
June 24, 2014
Urquart Castle, Inverness, Scotland
I am fascinated with the history of Scotland, and, in particular, the ancient castles whose origins reach far back into time. On the banks of Loch Ness rests the impressive ruins of Urquart Castle.. Built over 1400 years ago, records tell us St. Columba visited in an elderly Pictish nobleman at Urquart in 580 AD, baptizing the nobleman on his deathbed. ButUrquart did not fare so well in the years to come. In 1296, it was seized by the English King Edward I, known as the Hammer of the Scots. In the following years, until 1332, Urquart was pulled back and forth between Scottish and English control. In the troubling days after King Robert Bruce's death, Urquart Castle remained the only Highland castle to hold out against the English.
After the English threat subsided, The MacDonalds invaded Urquart and the Great Glen many times. Their last, and most devastating raid was in 1545.
In 1644, a Covenator force captured the castle. The Covenators were those in Scotland who signed the National Covenant, confirming their opposition to the interference by the Stuart kings in the affairs of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland.
To prevent the castle from falling into the hands of Jacobites, supporters of King James (Stuart), soldiers loyal to William of Orange and Mary (King James' daughter) blew the castle up.
The castle was never repaired and deteriorated further as its stones were used in other buildings. It was given to the National Trust for Scotland in 2003 and remains a tourist site today.
June 23, 2014
Interview with guest author, Samanthya Wyatt
Good morning, Samantha! I'm so glad you stopped by today. I'm looking forward to hearing about you and your debut novel, The Right One. Available from Amazon:
www.amzn.com/B00L2MQJX2
Hello Cathy. Thank you for inviting me on your blog today. I’m excited to be here.
Tell us a little about your writing journey.
Ever since I can remember, I have loved curling up with a book. When I was young I wrote poems and short stories. I signed everything UNKNOWN AUTHOR. I guess even then I feared rejection. When I graduated, my life changed. I married a military man, traveled across the US and abroad, then settled in the Shenandoah Valley and had a family. My children were in high school before I started writing again. About fifteen years ago, I wrote to Catherine Coulter and was amazed that she wrote back. I couldn’t believe it. She was very encouraging and told me to join RWA. She said to write everyday even if it was only one sentence. Many years later, I’m in a book store looking at the covers wanting to try a new author. I see the face of a hunk on a book cover and immediately bought that book. Yep, ladies. A book cover can make a difference. I’m reading Anna Campbell and – I was hooked! I went back and bought her other two books (which was all she’d written at that time). I contacted her. She’s so nice, and again I was advised to join RWA. I did it via Internet and now I am a RWA member, joined several chapters including Hearts Through History Chapter, and I’m a member of Savvy Authors.
I started writing again. I entered a lot of contests, workshops, and made some good friends via e-mails. I finally finished my historical romance, The Right One, the first of a trilogy. I contacted more publishers, sent my MS to editors, and continued to hope. A pitch opportunity with Savvy Authors resulted in my book being published. I’m over the moon.
Why did you choose to write in this genre? Have you ever written any other genre? Do you plan on doing so in the future?
My main love is historical. I would have liked to live in the Regency time period. Dashing Lords and pirates seem so romantic. So historical genre is the one I chose. One day I was playing around to get my mind off edits and I wrote a scene with two women bantering back and forth. The words seemed to flow. So I ended up writing my first contemporary Something More. Which is due for release June 25, 2014. Even though historical romance is my first love, the regency requires a lot of research and effort with language of the time period. I worry about making a mistake with British slang.
Where do you get the ideas for your stories?
Would you believe I get most of them lying in bed at night? The only chance I have to unwind and the day’s activities race through my mind. Then ideas pop into my head. The problem is, when I wake up the next morning, I don’t remember half of them. I read once, an author keeps pen and paper by her bed. So sometimes I turn on the light, grab my pen and jot down a thought. My hubby thinks I’m nuts, so I only do it when he works night shift. LOL
What inspired you to write this book? Do you research before you write?
I love history. Research is the pits, as far as the internet. I google everything – but when you click on websites, they usually give you something other than what you’re looking for. It takes a lot of hours to find things. But I learn a lot of history while I’m looking. So many amazing details which makes a good foundation for any MS. I also read, lots of historical romance books. I’ve taken workshops and Eliza Knight is one of the best for historical facts and castles.
I find the more I research, the more I write down, the deeper my thoughts and the more my characters come alive.
Tell us about your process. Do you plot/make outlines for your WIPS, or are you a total pantser?
I find that I get a lot more accomplished if I just sit at the computer and write. But if I want my story to go somewhere and be a good MS, there has to be GMC. I learned this from many workshops. I learned how to do character sketches, GMC charts, plots—everything one needs to bring a story together. As I write, I make notations on names, color of hair, anything I may need for reference later in my story. It pays off.
Are you a full time writer or do you have a “day job”?
I have a full time J O B. But I’m retiring this year and can not wait. I don’t have to tell any writer how difficult it is to find time to put words to paper, let alone create them in your mind. I’m so proud I finally managed to finish a novel and now it is being published. Looking forward to the day I may spend more time on my writing. I have so many ideas for books and this historical is the first of three in the “One and Only Series”.
What is your favorite part of writing?
Coming up with the characters and their traits. Everyone wants a strong – tall dark and handsome – hero. The trick is not making them all look the same. I do character sheets on my hero and heroines. Then I have to refer back to those sheets throughout the MS so I don’t goof.
What is your least favorite part of writing?
Getting started. Seems like I procrastinate a bit. Takes me forever to get settled in.
What advice would you give an aspiring writer?
No# 1. Join RWA. From there you learn to do a number of things. You can join chapter groups, critique groups, you’ll find friends and receive a lot of help. Take every workshop offered—GMC, POV, character interviews, etc. Believe me, you’ll be glad you did. Enter contests and keep your mind open. Take criticism as constructive. Make your writing better. Don’t expect success overnight. It is a long, hard process. If you are determined, keep trying. Don’t give up.
Tell us a little about your current or upcoming release: your inspiration, main characters, setting, etc.
Dark lords are sexy. Every girl dreams of a strong hero and every man wants a sexy woman. The idea of mistaken identity intrigued me and I needed a hook. As I put my story to paper I created conflicts. This is the result.
Morgan Bartholomew Langston, Earl of Whetherford, has finally decided to accept his fate. Tired of dangerous assignments and putting his neck on the line, he has returned to his ancestral home to accept the title of his birthright and produce the required heir. But, when he arrives, he finds his home has been invaded and a female has taken off with his mother’s jewels. Morgan decides the traitorous jade will not get away, so he sets into motion a plan to bring her back. When he abducts the wrong woman, his reaction to her brings him dangerously close to breaking his vow of forbidden emotions.
Katherine Elizabeth Radbourn is a strong, independent woman, and at the age of twenty three is still unwed. In a desperate attempt to find her brother, she is abducted which leads her on a journey to love and mistaken identity. Once she meets her captor, fear and indignation dissipates to an overwhelming awareness. Even though he tells her she is the wrong one, Kat realizes she has finally met a man that—not only she is attracted to—but has awakened her woman’s body. Does he really care for her or does he secretly yearn for the woman she is supposed to be? Uncertainty makes her risk the very man she has given her soul.
* * *
If you stepped into your hero/heroine’s shoes, would you react the same way they did to adversity?
Oh yes. Don’t we always try to warn the hero/heroine, say we would do things differently? I’d love to live in the Regency or Southern Bell time period. In my stories I try to do the unexpected, make my heroine stronger. And I think to myself—how would I react? So I play the scene out and that’s what my character does.
Any final thoughts you’d like your readers to know about you or your books?
I enjoy penning a story with strong characters, a bit of humor, and active scenes. I invite you to lay the worries of the world off your shoulders and get lost in the pages of a romance, where you embark on a journey with the hero and heroine, become involved in a dream, plunge into a world of fantasy, live an adventure your heart can share.
Please visit my webpage: samanthyawyatt.com
You can also find me on facebook, Goodreads, Amazon, and SMP Authors.
Thank you for your interest. Tell your friends.
The Right One
He abducts the wrong woman . . . she proves she is the right one.
Enjoy an excerpt: Kat had been summoned. He had requested her presence, not demanded. Beckoned, as if she were an invited guest. The irony of it all.
Her stomach was tied in knots—had been ever since she received his invitation. She tried to slow her breathing. She swallowed, but the lump that lodged from her throat to the center of her chest never moved. Her head throbbed. The pulse in her temples pounded with every beat of her heart. So loud in volume, she feared surely someone could hear it. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the blond man’s smirk, which was becoming all too familiar. He waited for her to enter the lion’s den. She faced the huge solid oak door, the only thing between her and her impending fate.
The vein in her neck throbbed. If she didn’t calm down, she would be at his mercy. And that would never do. She could not allow him to know how defenseless she believed herself to be.
Lord Whetherford should have absolved her by now. If he was any kind of a gentleman, he would have set her free. She hesitated another moment outside the door. He was at fault—not her. She would demand to be released at once. Her body as taut as a tightly-drawn corset, she knocked on the wooden door.
Hearing his utterance, Kat smoothed her hands down the sides of her gown and squared her shoulders. Knowing Hathridge studied her, she summoned the courage to enter with a confident determination she did not feel.
She opened the study door.
He stood by the window, facing the sunlight, his back to her. A large, dark, muscular man, in all his finery, with broad shoulders and a commanding stance. Inky black waves hung thick and unruly. Tresses just long enough to curl over the neck of a white shirt peaking from the collar of his black suit coat. This man stood as tall as her brother, and Stephen loomed well over six feet. Even from the back, his broadness showed plenty of muscle. Remembering his fight with the ruffians made her sigh, marveling at the instant craving that pierced her torso.
The latch of the closing door generated a spike in her already rapid pulse. No chance to flee since Hathridge, quite possibly, barred the door. She lifted her chin and forced her arms by her side. Not knowing what to say, or if he expected her to say anything at all, she waited. He remained motionless, taking his darn sweet time to acknowledge her presence. Why didn’t he turn around? Why did he ignore her? The silence drew out so long she thought her unsteady legs would not hold her much longer.
Finally, he spoke. “Would you like a drink, my dear?
She had forgotten the low deep timbre of his voice. The rich baritone sent surges of awareness down her spine. An unexpected, distinct wakefulness. She resisted the urge to clasp her hands and entwine her worrisome fingers. Kat answered in a voice she hoped would not crack. “No, thank you.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin when he whirled around like the lash of a whip. He didn’t speak. He stood like stone, the same as she. Smoldering dark eyes seized hers in a heated, locked gaze, drowning her in their penetrating force. She had not been prepared for the dark threatening expression—threatening in the way that she felt something move within her.
Time stood still.
Nothing else in the room existed but the two of them. His hypnotic pull seared her, sending a tingling sensation beginning in her stomach, then flowing down the back of her knees and extending through her limbs making it impossible to move.
Her throat tightened.
If those eyes could shoot fire, they would sear holes right through her. But the expression on his face . . . he looked like he’d just had a good kick in the teeth.
Morgan felt as though someone had just punched him in the gut—hard. His breath caught at the sight of the stunning creature before him. Lost in amazing green eyes—adrift in their sparkling jade and mystique sensuality. He scanned her high cheekbones with soft creamy skin, and let his gaze slide down to fasten on luscious lips. Suddenly his mouth was dry
A cloud of vibrant red hair floated around her shoulders—like the brightest sunset at the end of a day, resting on the shimmering ocean. Luxuriant masses of thick curls inviting a man’s hands. He flexed his to keep from reaching for her. The movement reminded him of the snifter in his palm, which brought him some sense of stability.
He took in her exquisite form, stared at the more-than-generous swell of bosom, letting his heated gaze linger there. A notion popped in the back of his mind telling him to breathe. He tightened his jaw to make sure his mouth did not hang open. His hungry eyes moved lower, perceiving a slim waist before the folds of her gown hid the rest. He swore under his breath. She is exquisite.
She stood straight and tall with her chin at an angle in challenge. Even with that rod in her backbone, he sensed her vulnerability. A pang of concern struck his chest.
“You,” he whispered. What the hell is she doing here?
An explosion went off in his brain. Holy Mother of God! Those fools. They must have brought her here thinking she was Juliana.
Blood and the devil!
Morgan’s heart kicked and landed somewhere in the bottom of his gut. Choking on the words for this unsettling circumstance, he compelled himself to speak hoping his voice would not betray him. “I owe you my profound apology. There has been a horrendous mistake, madam. And I fear that I have made it.”
Those beautiful eyes blinked. She stared at him as though someone had taken over her senses. Was this woman a simpleton?
He hurried to the sideboard. Even though she could quite possibly be in shock, he ignored the stronger spirits and poured a generous amount of sherry. He didn’t want to knock her on her bum, just bring some color back in her face. He strode back to the unknown beauty and placed the flute in her hand.
Changes came over her face. Stupor—awe—surprise—and . . . anger. Although Morgan was not a patient man, he waited.
Her eyes flamed with fire. “Did I hear you correctly? Mistake?”
Morgan stopped the oath before it left his mouth. “Yes. I believe your being here is a mistake.”
“A mistake.” She echoed with a stupefied look, unseeing the crystal she held in her hand. “That’s what I thought you said.”
She raised the glass and downed the liquid in one swift movement. Tears came to her eyes as she tried not to cough. She marched to the side table and he feared she planned to get more. Instead she set the glass on the table top. When she faced him, her hands were fisted and the fire in her eyes burned brighter than the flames in the hearth.
“Mistake?” she snapped. “I was kidnapped! I have been a prisoner in your home. Forced to come here and forced to remain. I’ve been scared out of my mind. Every day I worried if you still lived. I agonized over what would become of me if you died. Then I walk in here and you have the audacious daring to tell me it was a mistake?”
Buy links: http://www.amzn.com/B00L2MQJX2
Thank you so much for joining us today, Samantha! I wish you great success with this book! I hope you will visit with us again soon!
June 21, 2014
Back Online!! A curious tale of computer woes
Two weeks ago, I was happily working with my website, adding blogs, tweaking it here and there. Then suddenly, nothing. A white page that led nowhere.Possibilities? Well, I am clinging to my trusty laptop even though it is woefully outdated, but another PC and a Mac gave me the same results. Nada. At this point I need to point out we'd had a hard rain the day before and the internet was out or at least intermittent for a couple of days, resulting in a call to the internet provider and a service truck in the neighborhood.
Still, no web page.
But I could pull up any other site on my computer. Seriously. I could pull up any research site, my facebook page, Amazon- quite literally any website except my webpage.. A glitch with my web host? It sounded likely.
One week later, the incredibly nice and helpful support people at Weebly had exhausted their suggestions, and quite possibly a few they hadn't thought of before. Here's where it gets even more curious.
Anyone else could access my webpage. And so could I- from any other internet source.. Using my computer.
Ah, now it sounded like an issue with the internet at my house.
So I spent an hour and a half with a technician with my internet provider delving into the mysterious workings of my modem, computer and website host. He consulted his superiors- three times. The next day a technician came to my house in an attempt to locate the problem. No luck.
In the end, they replaced my modem- instant success!. No one seems to know why three computers at my house could not access my web page, but could bring up any other site.. But the problem has been solved and everything is peachy, now. Any ideas?
Oh, that reminds me to head to the farmers' market for peaches...
Let me know what you think!
June 19, 2014
I have Scottish historical author, Meggan Connors with me today on Thursday's Threads. Let's find out a bit about her book, Highland DeceptionJune 18, 2014
Guest author Rachel Sharpe!
With me today is author Rachel Sharpe, giving us a bit about her new contemporary romantic suspense, Cold Ambition, that released from Amazon today!http://www.amnz.com/B00L2OLQPG
Congratulations, Rachel! Let’s hear about your book!
“COLD AMBITION” Blurb
“It was my life-long dream to become a private eye. Little did I know that with my very first case, that dream would become a life-threatening nightmare...”
When Jordan James decided to embark on a career as a private investigator, she never could have imagined that a chance encounter would lead to her staring down the barrel of a gun on the roof’s edge of a high-rise building. As she begins to investigate her first case, the puzzling murder of a prominent businessman that has left Boston’s finest mystified for more than two decades, she finds herself suddenly immersed in a treacherous underworld brimming with betrayal, raw greed, and political subterfuge of international proportions. In the midst of this, she discovers she is falling for her mysterious client despite the hints of his dark past. Can this feisty Southern girl with a penchant for trouble solve this baffling case or is she doomed to become another tragic chapter in an international conspiracy?
"COLD AMBITION" available now from Soul Mate Publishing!
Excerpt
Perilously perched on the edge of a high-rise that offered a spectacular view of Faneuil Hall is most certainly not how I pictured my untimely demise. Call me old-fashioned, but I was kind of hoping to go out in a more peaceful manner. Unfortunately, things don’t happen exactly how you plan them, especially when your chosen profession has the uncanny ability to thrust you into the icy hands of Death. I stood there, inching toward the edge, wondering how it came to this point. But forgive me; I have a tendency to digress. Let me start at the beginning.
* * *
Wow! What a cliffhanger! I believe I’ll mosey on over to Amazon and check this out J
Thanks for being on the blog today, Rachel! And best wishes for your book!
RACHEL SHARPE BIORachel Sharpe is the author of Cold Ambition, the first novel in the Jordan James, PI series. Although born and raised in the South, “Yankee” relatives first led Rachel to historic New England, which she has come to consider her second home and is the setting for the series.
After obtaining a Bachelor of Arts in English, Rachel began dedicating her free time to her childhood passion, writing, and in the fall of 2013, she signed her first book deal with Soul Mate Publishing. An active member of Sisters in Crime, Rachel currently resides with her husband in the Greater New Orleans area.
LINKS:
Website: www.rachelsharpe.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorrachelsharpe
Twitter: www.twitter.com/RachelCSharpe
Buy Link: http://www.amzn.com/B00L2OLQPG
June 10, 2014
Interview with author Karen Lopp
Good morning! Today’s visiting author is Karen Lopp. Her novel, Splintered Lies, debuted on Amazon May 21! Let’s start with the cover blurb for this contemporary romantic suspense, and then we’ll have a chat!Buy Link:
http://tinyurl.com/SplinteredLies
BLURB:
Detective Rissa Marten sacrificed her only chance for a normal life to put a drug lord behind bars. Now, her life in the shadows has to be brought to life to save the man she has secretly loved for years. With a price on her head can she risk letting him know?
Detective Jerah Qassem has built his career as an undercover agent in the dangerous world of drug cartels. But when a ghost from his past is resurrected can he overcome his bitterness in time to save her life?
CMR: Hi, Karen! It’s great to have you here today. How long have you been writing?
Karen: About 6 years
CMR: What do you enjoy most about writing?
Karen: I love bringing characters to life and giving readers an adventure.
CMR: I see you write both Western Historical Romance and Contemporary Romantic Suspense. What draws you to those genres?
Karen: My first love is history, particularly the old west since I have lots of roots in its history and live out here. But some of the things I want to write about just don’t fit into a historical novel. With action and suspense second on my list of favorites, it was a natural fit to delve into Romantic Suspense. CMR: What, if any, differences between these two genres do you write into your heroes?
Karen: There isn’t much difference because I strive to make the hero worthy and those traits work in any genre or time period. The main difference would be the morals of the day and what is and isn’t accepted.
CMR: How about your heroines?
Karen: There is more of a difference here because of the laws and perceptions of women in historical times so I must be careful to not make my historical heroines too modern in their thinking and I try to avoid any preachiness about those issues. It was what it was so I work within those parameters.
CMR: Tell us a bit about your newest book, Splintered Lies.
Karen: It is a story about a woman who has had to live under the threat of assignation from a drug cartel she gave witness against. She must learn that not everyone is out to get her and not everyone will betray her. With some intense action and a man who refuses to give her up it is fast paced and a little steamy.
CMR: Sounds intriguing! What was your inspiration for this story?
Karen: Living only four hours from the boarder of Mexico we are very aware of the drug smuggling issues and the violence that accompanies it. But my main inspiration hit me with the hero’s name (Jerah). He just fit the profile of what I wanted and the rest came easily.
CMR: What kind of research did you have to do for this contemporary romantic suspense?
Karen: I had to learn about drugs, the smuggling of drugs, and looked into drug cartels. I did some research into police procedures and some medical situations. I also did research into some towns in Mexico and the weather patterns for the seasons.
CMR: How did you decide on the setting? Have you ever been there?
Karen: I decided on San Diego for two reasons, the proximity to Mexico and a seaside city. Both were integral to my story.Yes I have been to San Diego a few times.
CMR: Which character was the easiest to write? Why?
Karen: Jerah. I always seem to find it easier to write the hero.
CMR: What surprises did you uncover as these characters and story developed?
Karen: I don’t really have surprises, because I get to know my characters quite well before I start a story and generally I know which direction the story will go in.
CMR: In Splintered Lies, we have a hero who believes the woman he once loved is dead, and a heroine who must expose her hidden life to save the man she secretly fell in love with years ago. It sounds like they may have a hard time working together. Let’s read an excerpt:
Feet aching and jaw cramped from the effort to keep her teeth from chattering, Rissa shuffled down the dark street on the outskirts of Ensenada. Rain pummeled the ground and debris bumped into her ankles as the water rushed along the road. Afraid to look down at what swirled at their feet, she sloshed beside Jerah.
“See a bridge yet?”
“No. But one of these streets has to have one.”
The next street did have one and they hurried across as the normally dry creek bed swelled with roiling, muddy water, various sizes of tree limbs, and a good amount of trash. Shivers shook her. Not even the little warmth of Jerah’s arm around her shoulders helped. It was probably a good thing she could no longer feel how sore and raw her feet were.
A few blocks over, they came to the tourist section of town and jogged the last bit to the closest hotel. Rissa shoved drenched tresses from her face and shook water from her shaking hands. A puddle pooled at her feet and made the tile floor slick as she struggled to unwind the tattered remains of material from her feet.
Jerah trotted over with a key. “Come on, let’s get warmed up.” Mischief gleamed in his eyes in spite of his blue lips.
“Then we find some food.” She hurried down the hall as water dribbled down her legs and shivers rattled her bones.
“Already done. I bribed the desk clerk to send up some food.” He pushed the door open and waved her inside.
Rissa dashed to the bathroom and turned the hot water on full force. With a sigh, she stepped in the tub and let the warm water flow over her. Jerah followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Hey, I’m just as frozen as you.” He stripped his soaked shirt off and tossed it over the rod. Next came his slacks and shoes. “This feels good.”
Not much imagination needed now. Dark hair clung to his chest as water coursed over him. His maroon briefs hugged his hips. She jerked her gaze up and turned to face the white tiled wall. The old rejection he delivered all those years ago slammed into her and Rissa shivered.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to hog the water.” He stepped to the side.
The steamy water didn’t come close to warming her soul.
“Want me to help you out of that dress?”
“No.” Fingers fisted, she glared at her toes. Keep it together girl. She blew out a breath and straightened her shoulders. All she had to do was get back to San Diego, finger the perp, and disappear. Shove her rekindled desire for Jerah aside. Rissa slapped the wall.
“It’ll be okay, babe.” Feather light kisses caressed her shoulder as Jerah ran his hands up and down her arms.
A groan worked its way up her throat. His touch electrified her. Teased her. Tormented her.
She shrugged his hands off. “I agreed to play in public, not private.”
“Yeah, I know.” Weariness loaded his tone. “You did a great job. I only meant to comfort you.”
Uncurling her fingers, Rissa knew she had to push Jerah away or she’d succumb to his seductive touch. Everyone she had ever dared to love was dead. She only had to express interest in a man and he’d soon be residing in a coffin. Watching Jerah die was not an option. “Just keep your hands to yourself. Carl isn’t here.”
“You can have the damn shower to yourself.” With a jerk on the curtain and a waft of cool air, Jerah exited the tub.
* * *
CMR: Karen, is there anything you’d like to add?
Karen: I want to thank you for hosting me today on your wonderful blog.
CMR: It was wonderful having you here, today. Thanks so much for the chat! It has been a lot of fun getting to know you. Best of luck with your books!
FIND KAREN:
http://karenlopp.com
https://twitter.com/karen_lopp
https://www.facebook.com/authorkarenlopp
http://www.pinterest.com/karenlopp
June 5, 2014
Thursday's Threads with Linda Bennett Pennell
I'm a bit late due to internet problems. But here is this week's Thursday's Thread, a Women's Historical Fiction novel due to be released in July, 2014.Title: Confederado do Norte by Linda Bennett Pennell
Back Cover blurb:
October, 1866.
Mary Catherine is devastated when her family immigrates from Georgia to Brazil because her father and maternal uncle refuse to accept the terms of Reconstruction following the Confederacy’s defeat. Shortly after arrival in their new country, she is orphaned, leaving her in Uncle Nathan’s care. He hates Mary Catherine, blaming her for his sister’s death. She despises him because she believes Nathan murdered her father. When Mary Catherine discovers Nathan’s plan to be rid of her as well, she flees into the wilderness filled with jaguars and equally dangerous men. Finding refuge among kind peasants, she grows into a beauty, ultimately marrying the scion of a wealthy Portuguese family. Happiness and security seem assured until civil unrest brings armed marauders who have an inexplicable connection to Mary Catherine. Recreating herself has protected Mary Catherine in the past, but the latest crisis will demand all of the courage, intelligence, and creativity she posseses simply to survive.
Excerpt from Confederado do Norte
Chapter 1
I dreamt the dream again last night. In the small hours, I awoke in a tumble of bedclothes and bathed in perspiration despite the howling snowstorm blanketing the city. I rearranged quilts and plumped pillows, but sleep remained elusive. My mind refused to be quiet.
As often happens after such a night, I felt unable to rise at my usual hour and remained abed long after the maids cleared breakfast from the morning room. My daughter-in-law, bless her heart, meant well. I told her it was ridiculous to bring the doctor out on such a frigid day, but apparently the very old, like the very young, are not to be trusted in matters of judgment. After the doctor listened to my chest, a studied sympathy filled his eyes and he gently suggested that perhaps I should get my affairs in order. No doubt he wondered at my smile for he couldn’t have known I have no affairs other than my memories and the emotions they engender.
Unlike most elderly persons, I don’t revel in slogging through the past. It isn’t wrapped in pretty ribbons or surrounded by a golden aura. Instead, its voices haunt my dreams, demanding and accusatory. Until recently, I’ve resisted their intrusion into my waking life, but I now believe the past can no longer remain buried in nocturnal visions. It must be brought out into the light of day. From its earliest moments onward, the past’s substance must be gouged out, pulled apart, and examined bit by bit until its truth is exposed. While total objectivity may not be possible, I have concluded that committing the past to paper is my best hope for sorting facts from imaginings. Perhaps then I will achieve the peace that has so long hidden its face from me.
You see, when I was quite young—only a girl really—I killed four people. Two were dearly beloved, one was a hated enemy, and the last was a dangerous criminal.
Chapter 2
My story begins at the end of a terrible war, one that destroyed many lives and much property. But for that war and a handful of newspaper editorials and advertisements, my life would have turned out quite differently. Sometimes it seems no time at all has passed since I was a nine-year-old child standing on the deck of a ship watching home disappear over the horizon.
Warm Gulf breezes tugged at the brim of my bonnet, setting its ribbons dancing. Leaning over the Alyssa Jane’s railing, I stared back in the direction of Mobile Bay and pretended I could see the dock where my beloved Bess stood, probably still waving. Mama, her pretty features marred by a furrowed brow and down turned mouth, paced beside me.
“Mary Catherine MacDonald! Get down before you fall overboard. All we need right now is another crisis. And stop wiping your nose on your sleeve.”
Mama didn’t seem to understand anything anymore. Before we left home, she was calm and kind. Afterward, she snapped at the least little thing. I threw her a hateful glance, but she had already turned away, so I stubbornly leaned a little farther out over the railing. The wake trailing behind the Alyssa Jane looked like a blue-green path lined on either side by mounds of ginned cotton, a path pushing me away from the only life I had ever known. Only my sniveling broke the silence of that October morning.
A swish of crinolines brought Mama beside me. She grabbed my arm and whispered through clenched teeth, “Mary C., I told you to get off that railing. Go below and stay there until you can do as you’re told!”
I stomped across the deck, pausing once beside the mainmast to scowl over my shoulder. It was all so unfair. I hadn’t asked to be dragged along on this blasted trip. I wanted Bess. I wanted to go home, no matter how damaged it was, no matter who ran the stupid government. I wanted to be anywhere but here. But Mama turned away from me. She wasn’t even going to watch to see that I did what she said. Her indifference was like a slap in the face.
As I jumped through the open hatch leading below deck, the pungent odor of pine tar mixed with burning kerosene assailed my senses. I hated the smell. Besides making me slightly queasy, it reminded me of how final my losses were. Nothing at home smelled like the interior of that old tub. I hit the steps at a near run with plans to fling myself into my hammock and stay there forever. It would serve them right if I just upped and died. I bowled along toward the sleeping area blinded by tears and the sudden gloom of the narrow passageway.
Without warning, I crashed headlong into a pair of wool-encased legs. The trousers’ owner and I struggled momentarily in an awkward dance. With a standoff in the making, he harrumphed once, picked me up by my arms, deposited me on the other side of him, and stepped toward the hatch.
Tears forgotten, I tugged on his retreating coattails, ready to let him see my displeasure. Hooded eyes with ink black irises stared down in return. He didn’t look particularly angry, but authority hung about him like a mantle.
I swallowed, choked back what I intended to say, and instead muttered, “I’m sorry for running into you.”
He gazed at me for a moment and then simply nodded before turning away. The Reverend Jonas Williams might be a man of God, but his unsmiling countenance raised the hair at the nape of my neck as though someone stepped on my grave. Mama often fussed that Bess planted too many of her superstitions in my fertile imagination. I was now old enough to understand that some of what Mama said was true. But the Reverend Brother Williams still affected me like a haint. A slight shudder slithered down my spine, as though my body was trying to rid itself of his effect. I turned and fled down the hallway toward our sleeping quarters. Many months later, I would come to see this encounter as an omen, a foreshadowing of all that came afterward.
We passengers, immigrants one and all fleeing the defeated South, slept in a large open area that most likely was used as a cargo hold in the Alyssa Jane’s younger, more prosperous days. Most of the canvas partitions separating the fifteen or so families from one another had been drawn back in hope of allowing fresh sea breezes from the few portholes to circulate. Unfortunately, the plan wasn’t meeting with much success for the air remained stale and fetid with the odors of sweat and bodily functions.
I slumped on the edge of my hammock and kicked at the floorboards, allowing tears to drip from my chin unabated. Life wasn’t at all how it was supposed to be. It hadn’t been since the day Papa rode away to war. He looked so handsome in his gray captain’s uniform. He sat on his favorite stallion at the head of his unit and rode toward a conflict that everybody said would be over by Christmas. Everybody had been terribly wrong.
My ruminations, while sad and haunted, didn’t last long, for my mind turned to more immediate indignities and irritations. I hated staying below deck. I hated the stench. I hated the isolation. I hated the boredom. When I figured enough time had elapsed that it was safe to go above again, I bolted back into the fresh air. Mama now leaned on the stern railing, her gaze fixed on the faint line where the sky’s lighter blue met the Gulf of Mexico’s deep azure. She sniffed once as I approached and turned unusually bright eyes on me.
“Are you feeling better, child?”
When I nodded, she gripped the railing and resumed her observation of the horizon slipping away behind the Alyssa Jane. I eyed her for a moment, before sidling up beside her.
“Mama, why couldn’t Bess come with us?”
Her arm slipped around my shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Why, darlin’, you’ve been told at least a thousand times. Bess has got to stay in Georgia.”
I jerked away from Mama’s grasp. “That’s not fair! She’s part of our family.”
A pained expression filled her eyes and her lips parted, but no words escaped. Her head lifted slightly and her gaze locked onto the space behind me.
“Mary Catherine MacDonald, you will not raise your voice to your mother.” Mama drew a quick breath as Papa strode to her and took her hand. His attention then returned to me. “No slave has ever been part of our family. It’s unthinkable! Furthermore, Brazil doesn’t allow slaves to be imported anymore. ” The more he spoke, the harder his voice sounded and the more clouded his face became. He concluded with sharper words than I had ever heard him use before. “So stop whining about that nigger mammy of yours and learn to live without her.”
Surprise made me momentarily mute, but my heart pounded and the sun was suddenly much hotter on my upturned face. I drew a couple of rapid breaths so hard that my cheeks puffed in and out. “Bess is too part of our family. I love her and she loves me. You love her too, don’t you Mama?”
A rosy flush crept over Mama’s face and her gaze darted around at the other people on deck. I ignored the warning in her eyes. “Bess took care of me all my life. That makes her part of our family.” Heady with righteous indignation, my eyes narrowed and I delivered my coup de grace. Jabbing an index finger in Papa’s direction, I yelled, “And besides, Bess isn’t a slave anymore and you damn well know it.”
My words rang across a suddenly silent deck. People turned from their own conversations, shook their heads and stared at us. The only sound I could hear was the blood thumping against my eardrums.
Papa’s face blanched. He stooped down until his eyes were level with mine and gripped my upper arms, nearly lifting me from the deck. My head snapped back and forth while he hissed, “You will not speak to anyone, most especially your mother or me, in that manner. Do you understand?” My hands went numb as his grasp tightened. “Now, stop your crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Only when he stopped speaking did I notice tears streamed down my cheeks.
As we swayed in silence on the Alyssa Jane’s deck, Papa’s grip slackened and the fire in his eyes burned less brightly. “Besides, your aunts need Bess to cook and clean their house in town. At least that’s one thing that escaped Sherman’s destruction.”
Papa got a far off look in his eyes. His hands released me and dropped to his side as he straightened to his full height.
I knew better than to speak again. Spying a cargo box lashed to a railing on the main deck, I slunk down the steps and made my way to it. I wanted to stay up top rather than breathe the stale air below decks, but I also couldn’t bear being near my parents at that moment.
Papa’s present personality still caught me off guard. Before the war, he rarely raised his voice or hand to me. In truth, I was rather spoiled and cossetted. I begged for pretty dresses and china faced dolls by the dozens. Sometimes, I actually got them too. Now, we were on a ship bound for a place where they didn’t even speak English just because some stupid newspaper advertisements promised defeated Southerners free land. All I wanted was to go home, to have life the way it used to be.
Home. The way it used to be before Papa and Nathan decided they would not endure Yankees and carpetbaggers, our former enemies, being in charge of everything.
I was only five when the War Between the States began. Our old way of life now seemed like a gauzy dream—pleasant upon waking, but dissipating when you reached out to grasp it. Afraid of losing the last tenuous hold on that dream, I invented a little ritual, hoping it would glue fading images to the pages of my memory. Now that Papa and my mother’s only surviving brother were dragging us away from Georgia never to return, the ritual’s importance had taken on the stature of an obsession. I closed my eyes and once again conjured up my earliest memories.
In my mind’s eye, I looked down on the Oconee River from the deep porch of an unpainted dogtrot farmhouse. Cotton fields that came right up to the house stretched out as far as I could see in every direction on our side of the river. The house and the farm wouldn’t have been terribly grand by most people’s lights, but it was home and, therefore, my whole world. The clapboard house and outbuildings existed only in shadowy visions after the war. While I retained only a few hazy memories of the farm, one stands out clearly. It is of Mama’s favorite rose bush to which I did some considerable damage one spring by picking off all the buds before they even broke color and for which I received the first spanking of my life.
A few other people lived on the farm in tiny houses out back of the barn. They were the colored slaves, most of whom worked in the fields, but of their faces, it was only Bess’s that mattered to me. My Bess, who lived in the house, and who took care of me, and whom I loved as much as I did my mother.
My clearest memories of my parents before the war were that Papa spent his days with the field hands and that Mama loved music. Beautiful music filled the house when she played her pianoforte. Sometimes when Bess brought me into the parlor to say goodnight, Papa would be sitting beside Mama, kissing her neck as she played and she would be smiling at him in the special way she reserved only for him. I think they must have been very happy. They laughed a lot back then. Then, the war came. Nobody and nothing was ever the same again.
Papa had come back from the war haunted by what he had seen and the losses he had endured. For a time, we thought he had permanently lost his mind. These days, it didn’t take much to rile him. Mama said not to mind, that he just had so many worries it made him harder to live with than before. Even so, I still couldn’t understand why he spoke so cruelly about Bess of whom he’d always been so fond. My papa’s sunny nature was the most important thing destroyed by the war.
As the days under sail passed into weeks and America became nothing but a memory, Papa’s disposition evolved. To everyone’s relief he seemed more like his old prewar self. The farther we traveled, the more his mood lifted so by the time we docked in Jamaica to take on supplies, his good days outnumbered the bad. I even saw him and Mama kissing under the stars one night when they thought no one else was on deck.
The Alyssa Jane was an old clipper fallen on hard times, reduced to ferrying passengers and commodities along the trade routes extending from ports in the southern United States to destinations in the other Americas. Its confined space provided limited opportunities for me to get into trouble, so I was allowed unaccustomed freedom. The morning we sailed toward Kingston Harbor, I hung over the portside railing from the moment the city’s outline came into view.
Footsteps running up behind caused me to turn and I lost my balance. Papa grabbed a handful of my skirts. “Mary Catherine, you’re going to topple into the water if you keep this up. Get off that railing and put your feet squarely on the deck or you can go below and stay there.”
Instant compliance and a sweet smile seemed to go a long way these days, so I did as I was told. I didn’t want this new/old version of my papa to disappear again.
We passed through Kingston Harbor’s narrow mouth with sails snapping, pushed along by Caribbean breezes. In the distance, I could make out the familiar marks of human habitation trailing along the waterfront, but nothing in my experience had prepared me for Jamaica. Low emerald mountains surrounded an oval bowl of aquamarine water that rolled gently forward to kiss sand the color of cotton just breaking from the bole. Within minutes of entering the harbor, the city’s buildings became distinct and grew in size. A little thrill swept through me as the old clipper bumped against the dock and the sights and smells of Kingston spread out before us like a feast awaiting revelers.
“Papa, please, why cain’t I go with y’all?”
His mouth became a thin line. “Because Kingston isn’t particularly safe.” Then he placed his arm around my shoulders and pointed to the opposite side of the harbor. “Did you know that a wicked pirate city used to be right over there? An earthquake destroyed Port Royal. The whole city simply fell into the sea.” Papa grinned and his eyes grew big. “Why, I’ve heard you can see pirate ghosts rising from the water when the moonlight is just right.”
This was my old Papa, the one I hadn’t seen since war was declared. I slipped my arms around his waist. “Oh, Papa, you’re just so silly sometimes. Everybody knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
Papa smiled and picked me up, swinging me around like he used to when I was little. When he placed me on the deck again, I pressed my advantage.
“Please cain’t I go? Please?”
“You’re cutting me in half.” Papa pulled my arms away from his middle and smiled. “If it means that much to you, I guess it won’t hurt for you to go into town. But you absolutely must stay by your mama’s side. When she says it’s time to return to the boat, there will be no arguments. Understand?”
As I stretched up to plant a kiss on his cheek, angry shouts and the percussive report of a pistol rang across the harbor.
* * *
Other Books by Linda Pennell:
Al Capone at the Blanche Hotel now available from Soul Mate Publishing
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorLindaBennettPennell
Website: http://www.lindapennell.com/
Twitter: @LindaPennell
May 30, 2014
Guest author, Lauren Linwood
Please help me welcome Lauren Linwood as we take a peek at her newest Western romance novel, Written in the Cards.Blurb:
Maggie Rutherford jilts her too-perfect society groom at the altar and flees New York for the American West, where she turns her travels into dime novels that she writes and illustrates under the pen name Lud Madison.
After the Civil War, veteran Ben Morgan marries his childhood sweetheart and takes her to homestead on the Great Plains. Losing her and their unborn child in an Indian attack, Ben detaches from emotion and becomes a roaming gambler. When he kills a cheating opponent in self-defense, the man’s gunslinger brother swears revenge upon Ben.
Ben hides on a cattle drive and brings in a herd to Abilene, where a waiting Maggie wants to find a rough and tumble cowboy to interview for her next story idea. Sparks fly as the dangerous drover and popular novelist wind up living in the same household, running a general store east of Abilene. But with Black Tex Lonnegan hot on his trail, will Ben run from his growing attraction to Maggie and the gunfighter’s promise of death–or will he make a stand for his life–and love?
Excerpt:
Maggie squealed with delight. “I saw this contraption demonstrated when I was in Denver this past spring. The man’s fingers flew over . . . oh, what is it called? A keyboard, I think. He punched keys marked with letters of the alphabet, and they struck a piece of paper. The words formed along a line almost by magic. It was amazing!”
“Then let’s open the parcel and see it for ourselves.” Ben used his pocketknife to open the box. He extracted the typewriter, a small pamphlet that accompanied it, some black ribbons in cases, and a ream of paper.
“It’s heavy,” he told her. “It would be bulky for a woman to carry, much less travel with.”
She struck a pose with her good left arm, flexing a muscle. “I am stronger than I look, Mr. Morgan. I’ve had actual boxing lessons from an Irish brawler. I could probably take you on and knock you down before you knew what hit you.”
Ben’s lazy smile warmed her inside, all the way down to her toes. “You are a constant surprise to me, Maggie Rutherford.”
They unfolded the instructions, and she read them aloud while he affixed the ribbon in the prescribed manner. He then loaded the typewriter with a piece of white paper that sat upon a roll. They took turns striking the keys, marveling at the words that appeared upon the page. The pamphlet illustrated how certain fingers were designated to strike individual keys.
“Once the pattern is learned, this will be a remarkable way for me to write my novels. I’ll have to come up with stories at a faster rate, but that won’t be a problem at all. I have so many ideas that run through my brain now, I sometimes have trouble getting them all down on paper.”
“You can type out your ideas, Maggie, as well as your novels. That way you won’t lose any of them.”
She beamed at him, elated at the idea he proposed. She wished her wrist would be healed immediately. She couldn’t wait to teach her fingers to dance across the keyboard. Nothing would make her happier than quickly setting down all the storylines that skittered through her head. Nothing.
Until Ben leaned over and kissed her.
Then her idea of happiness took a seismic shift.
* * *
Author Bio:
Lauren Linwood became a teacher who wrote on the side to maintain her sanity in a sea of teenage hormones. Her romances use history as a backdrop to place her characters in extraordinary circumstances, where their intense desire and yearning for one another grow into the deep, tender, treasured gift of love.
Lauren, a native Texan, lives in a Dallas suburb with her family. An avid reader, moviegoer, and sports fan, she manages stress by alternating yoga with five mile walks. She is thinking about starting a support group for Pinterest and House Hunters addicts.
Social Media Links:
Website Facebook Twitter Blog Amazon Author Page Goodreads Author Page About Me
Book Buy Links:
Written in the Cards Music For My Soul Outlaw Muse A Game of Chance
