Archive for December, 2008.
One of the joys about writing a historical novel is doing the research and learning a lot of neat stuff. Often, however, I pick up information I can’t use in a novel.
We used to live in Buchanan Dam, TX, a town of three hundred about ninety miles 
northwest of Austin in Llano County. About twenty miles further west of our house on Hwy 29 is a bald eagles’ nest in a large tree about fifty yards from the road. This used to be the furthest west nest (sorry about that rhyme) in the United States. The site became so popular, the county had to put in an off-road parking area.
What I learned both from that nest and reading is that eagles mate for life (although for three years three adults would show up and no one could explain that)and that they return to the same nest every year to lay eggs. The most interesting fact was that every year they add to the nest—branches, straw, anything they find. After a few years, the nest is so big that an observer can no longer see the baby eagles and it may weigh one-hundred pounds or 
more.
In my January historical Second Chance Bride, I really wanted to work this in. I had the hero and heroine walking in a field, noticing the trees and the birds, but I couldn’t figure out how the hero could mention casually, in this flirtatious conversation, the huge eagles’ nest that weighed one-hundred pounds. So I’m sharing that fact with you.
What I particularly like about Texas is that there are historical sites and re-enactments and restored villages all over the state. Fredericksburg is an old German community. When it was settled, the language was German which makes reading some of the early documents impossible, at least for me. My husband’s favorite place is the German restaurant; mine, the historical pioneer museum (http://www.pioneermuseum.com/) where seven early buildings from the town have been placed. Because the heroine of Second Chance Bride teaches in a one-room schoolhouse, I learned a great deal visiting the one here.
But what really fascinated me was the Sunday house. Farms and ranches in the area were a 
good distance from town so a trip to church in the morning and to services at night as well as an afternoon spent with friends involved a long drive. For this reason, the practical German farmers and ranchers had tiny little houses in town: one room with benches around the wall to sleep on. This meant that at very little expense and with no frills and little comfort, they could arrive in town Saturday evening and leave Monday morning without having to drive the carriage or wagon at night.
And I couldn’t figure out how to use that either.
There are so many interesting places in Texas that I’ve visited and would love to write about. Here are some links you might enjoy:
Log Cabin Village in Fort Worth: http://www.fortworth.com/01visitors/0101westernher
/010111logcabin/010111logcabin.shtml
The National Ranching Heritage Center in Lubbock. http://interoz.com/lubbock/ranch.htm
Fort Concho National Historical Landmark in San Angelo http://www.fortconcho.com/
Fort Davis National Historical site in the Davis Mountains. We saw a terrific reenactment here one Fourth of July.
http://www.nps.gov/foda/
The Heritage Society in Sam Houston Park in Houston http://www.heritagesociety.org/index.html
Finally, a tour of the Texas Forts http://www.texasfortstrail.com/home/index.asp
Please tell us your favorite historical site anywhere in the world and why you love it. I’ll draw one name and send you a copy of Second Chance Bride,
Order from Amazon!
The Fillies are delighted to have Jane Myers Perrine come calling.
Miss Jane is a wonderfully talented lady with an eye for some of the best storytelling I’ve seen in a coon’s age. She’ll share some of the fascinating things she’s found while researching. And she’ll talk about her new book. She’ll even give you a chance to win an autographed copy of it. You’d have to look hard to find a better deal than that.
Now that you’ve finished up with Christmas you have no excuse for missing Miss Jane so hitch up your buggy and ride on over.
We’ll be expectin’ you!
Our neighbors say it isn’t Christmas until our Snowmen go up! My father-in-law made this family of snowmen years ago, when my hubby was a boy. My mother-in-law painted them and we inhertited them when they moved. The only problem is that the snowman family had another family member, a girl. Which would have depicted our family perfectly, one boy, one girl and their parents, but in the move, that little girl was somehow left behind. How sad. My husband had gone in search of girl but we couldn’t find her!
At night, the snowman famiy are lit and can be seen as soon as you turn the corner on our street. They always put a smile on my face and have become somewhat of a tradition in our neighborhood!
Here’s our Apple-Cheeked Santa given to me years ago. He is always our centerpiece on the dining room table. He’s holding his list of good little boys and girls. And below are some ornaments from my collection. Every time we go someplace special we get a Christmas ornament. My daughter gave me the Sienna Villa from Italy (from her honeymoon) and the one from Wrightsville Beach in North Carolina. The trolley is from San Francisco and the cactus from Phoenix, Arizona. They have come to mean so much to us, reminding us of fun trips we’ve taken.
And Last but not least, here’s a ornament my hubby surprised me with a few years ago with my mother and father’s wedding picture. They are always with us. 
Happy New Year Everyone!
SHOWDOWN
Copyright © Patricia Potter. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER FIVE
4:04 p.m.
Pay day had arrived.
Was it fate: Coincidence? Or justice?
He had been in the saloon, talking to Bill Dale, the banker when a stranger stopped in for a drink. Jared hadn’t recognized the man, but it seemed the man knew his face – and he was one of Billy Joe Carter’s many cousins. He must have one straight to Billy Joe with the news that his longtime quarry wasn’t dead after all but alive and well and living in New Hope.
Not for long, Jared thought as he faced Billy Joe. Any second now, he’d either be heading out to his ranch to pack a saddlebag and leave – or he’d be dead.
The sound of a wagon rumbling down the dusty street behind him broke the silence of the afternoon. Jared heard the creaking wheels, the hoofbeats against dirt, the first sound of movement on the street since the good citizens of New Hope had skittered inside their stores and houses like frantic ants whose hill had been kicked over.
His neighbors. His friends. Bile settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. He should have known that a gunman had no friends, could never have them. Nor could he have love.
Carter moved again, still trying to find a place where he wasn’t blinded by the sun, probably also trying to gain some kind of mental advantage by dragging this out. Jared figured the young gunman knew by now that he was not going to draw first. Hell, Carter knew damned well he didn’t want to draw at all, that he had done his best to avoid this.
Jared took a step. . . two steps . . . to the right, careful to keep the sun at his back. Careful, too, not to look toward the general store. Mary Beth’s store. She lived in the rooms above it, and he envisioned her there, huddling behind the curtain of her parlor window with Jonny, her son. Almost his son, too.
Every word she had said to Jared last night still burned his heart, live coals embedded in his soul. Given a choice, he’d rather have taken a bullet. But then, he hadn’t been given a choice.
Mary Beth, however didn’t see it that way. . .
###
He was attracted to Mary Beth the instant he saw her.
He’d been living at his new, if decrepit, ranch house for three days, scraping by with what food he’d packed in his saddlebags, making plans and lists of things he’d need. Lists in hand, he’d ridden into town and gone directly to the general store.
A woman in a blue dress with the most startling blue eyes he’d ever seen looked up from a ledger book lying on the counter. A curl fell from her mass of auburn hair that was pulled back and wound into a knot. Her face was both delicate and strong, and she had a dash of flour on her cheek that drew his gaze.
When she smiled at him, her cheeks dimpling and the skin around her vivid blue eyes crinkling, Jared felt as if the skies had opened and the sun was shining straight into his heart. He realized with a sudden start of amazement that he was smiling, too. God only knew when last he’d smiled.
“You’re Jared Walker,” she said.
He just stared at her, feeling like a besotted eight- year-old boy.
“News travels fast in New Hope,” she said in a husky voice full of warmth. “That’s just too little of it.”
He’d never felt tongue-tied with a woman, but he’d been struck stone silent simply by looking at her. His gaze fell to her fingers, seeking out a ring. To his great disappointment, she was wearing one.
“Do you have any boys?”
The question didn’t come from the woman but from a pint-size boy whose face appeared above the edge of the counter. He, too , had a head full of auburn hair, but it was far less tidy than the woman he stood beside. She had to be the boy’s mother.
“No,” Jared replied.
“Girls?” It was obviously his second choice.
Jared shook his head.
“A dog?,” the boy kept trying.
Jared’s smile broadened into a grin. The boy had such a hopeful look on his face.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I have some puppies.”
The woman laughed. “He’s been trying to find homes for those pups for the past three weeks. This is my son, Jonny. Jonny, this is Mr. Walker.”
“Hi, Mr. Walker,” the boy said. “What about the puppy?”
And that was the beginning . . .
www.patriciapotter.com
As I reflect on Christmas, I am drawn to remember simply the small moments over the years. Moments that in themselves aren’t particularly fascinating or newsworthy, but that when reflected upon were the moments that defined the spirit of love that permeates the season. Christmas by its very definition is love. 
Recently I was reminded to watch the faces of the givers as they were watching others open their gifts, rather than watching the reactions of those receiving. The person who selects or makes a gift has thought long and hard and spent time planning, buying and wrapping, and is anticipating the moment when their gift is received. Christmas is all about anticipation—for children, of course, but for us perhaps even more.
We’re excited to see our friends at gatherings and our family members at dinners. Children and teachers anticipate the moment they perform songs and plays for parents. Those who spend hours laboring over menus and grocery shopping and food preparation are anticipating the moment when their loved ones enjoy that meal or that cookie.
If you’ve ever sung in a Christmas cantata (yes, I’m in this photo), you know the thrill of rehearsing until it’s perfect and then singing your heart out for the enjoyment of the listeners. I imagine you’ve had dozens of pictures taken and printed over the years and probably even sent at least one photo greeting card; we’ve all addressed and stamped cards, and all in the anticipation of sending it off to be enjoyed.
The presents and the hams soon become part of the hazy past, but the times we cherish are those when the gift of love was shared.
Looking back through photographs to find something that exemplifies me, I chose not to show my beautiful Victorian tree or my mantle swagged with garland and beads—which are lovely—but rather a few precious intangible moments that will be with me forever: My kids and grandkids spotting the sweet potatoes with marshmallows melted golden brown on top; those few minutes of stillness when only one voice is heard asking God’s blessing on our food and our lives; the clatter of folding chairs and discordant fifth grade orchestras; thirty tiny high sopranos singing Away in a Manger, and at least one little person who invariably falls asleep on my bed by the end of an eventful day. Those moments are Christmas.
The Fillies would like to wish each and every one of you a Merry Christmas. We appreciate you and your contribution to Petticoats and Pistols. Here’s hoping your holiday is all that you hope for and more, and that you take the time to savor the special moments.
SHOWDOWN
Copyright © Patricia Potter. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER FOUR
4:03 p.m.
His chance to escape the gunfighter’s life came almost ten years after his family’s death. He was caught in an ambush in Montana, where he had gone searching for peace only to wind up enveloped in a range war.
He was working as a horse wrangler for a big rancher when fighting broke out. An imported gunfighter, hired by his boss’s competition, recognized him and jumped to all the wrong conclusions, assuming Tom Garrett was also a hired gun.
The ambush occurred as he was taking horses to an army post. The impact of a rifle bullet hitting his shoulder knocked him from his horse, and when he fell, he hit his head and lost consciousness. He woke well after dark, alone; his mount was gone, as were the horses the army had purchased. His gun was gone, too, and so were his boots. He reached inside his shirt and felt a small measure of relief upon discovering that his money, a modest sum saved over the years, was still there.
His shoulder hurt like all the furies in hell, but he managed to get to his feet and start walking. Dawn came, then noon. He couldn’t go on. It felt like iron had been welded to his feet, and taking even another step seemed an impossible effort. Blood trickled from his shoulder, and he knew he’d lost too much of it. He sank to the ground, his head bowed, his eyes unable to focus.
He remained there, unaware of time passing, fading in and out of consciousness, until the indignant braying of a mule brought him partly out of his stupor. He felt a weathered hand on his face and warm water running down his throat.
The prospector who found him took him to his cabin alongside a stream and, over the course of the next several weeks, nursed him back to health. The old man did him an even greater service , though, inexplicably and for no apparent reason. With a combination of bafflement and wonder, Tom listened to his benefactor relate – with considerable glee – how he’d gone into town and told everyone he had found a dead man on the plain. Buried him, he had, but not before he’d realized the dead man fit the description of that gunfighter, Tom Garrett.
Tom Garrett died that day. And, in that prospector’s little shack, Jared Walker was born. With deep gratitude, he gave half his money to the old prospector, then headed south where no one knew him. Where he could start a new life.
Eventually, he wandered into New Hope, a tiny town in southwest Texas. The name alone attracted him. He approached the small bank – the only bank in town – and found William Dale, the owner. Dale answered his questions and asked some of his own. Seemingly satisfied with the answers, Dale gave him a long, searching look, then told him of a property, a neglected ranch available for the cost of taxes. The owner was dead, and no one had the money or cowhands to take it on.
Money, Dale explained, was tight in New Hope, which was well off the route of the great cattle drives. Its one saloon was small, and friendly poker games were the main gaming. The hotel was nothing more than a boarding house, the blacksmith was idle more often than not, and the bank was barely surviving. There was little to attract strangers.
That suited Jared just fine. He paid the taxes on the property, bought a few head of cattle, and moved into the neglected ranch house. For months, he worked from sunrise often until well after the moon had risen. The leaking cabin was cleaned and expanded, the fences repaired. The constant work started to heal him. When neighbors realized he was in New Hope to stay, they held a barn raising for him, and every family within fifty miles attended.
Astounded by the effort everyone made on his behalf, Jared looked for a way to repay his new neighbors. The chance came when he heard three women talking at the general store about how hard it was for the town to hire a school teacher when there was no schoolhouse. After all, they said, no teacher worth his salt would want to come live in a town that couldn’t be bothered to build a school. That night, he visited Bill Dale and several other men, getting them to agree to the construction. His father had been a fine carpenter, and Jared had learned many of the skills. He organized a school raising and he was the first there with hammer and saw.
Jared basked in the respect of his neighbors and in working his own small ranch. He reveled in the hard work. He actually slept through a night without being awakened by the nightmares that had plagued him for years : haunting images of dead men’s faces.
In addition to rebuilding his own ranch, he worked for other ranchers in return for heifers, increasing his herd little by little until he felt legitimate enough to join the Cattlemen’s Association. It wasn’t much, the association, but it gave him a sense of belonging he had not felt since a boy.
His dreams had finally come true. All the dreams he’d once thought lost forever. Suddenly, for the first time in years, he had hope. And as time passed, that hope grew. It grew to overshadow the nagging feeling that all was going too well and that it couldn’t last. The feeling that, someday, he would have to pay for his bloody past . . .
www.patriciapotter.com
Hello Darlings,
We have a special guest returning to Wildflower Junction come Saturday.
Miss Jane Myers Perrine will be back for another stint as guest blogger. We’re right proud to have the dear lady again. She’ll be giving us the low-down on research and the interesting tidbits she’s stumbled across. We’ll all be enthralled at her tales of the bald eagle nest near where she resides and learn about Fredericksburg, a German town in the Texas Hill Country.
Miss Jane will also be talking about her new book, Second Chance Bride. It looks like a wonderful story. She’ll also give away an autographed copy of it to one lucky person. <hint, hint>
So hop on the train and get off in Wildflower Junction. We’ll meet you at the station.
Nothing quite means Christmas like a warm fire in the fireplace and family gathered round. And for children, a fireplace symbolizes St. Nick since that’s his mode for sneaking into people’s houses.
For me though, a lit fireplace means safety and security. The warmth floods my soul and wraps around my heart. There’s nothing more relaxing or pleasurable than sitting in front of a fire with my feet propped up, a book in my hands, and the nice fragrance of hot coffee wafting in the air.
Ahhhhh, pure heaven!
This is a photo of the fireplace in my home and I’m happy to share this glimpse of me. Now imagine I’m sitting in front of it in my pajamas, sipping on a cup of hot mulled cider or hot chocolate, listening to Elvis singing Blue Christmas in the background. This is one of the ways I celebrate the holidays.
When I was growing up in a very small town in New Mexico, I didn’t know the enjoyment of a fireplace. We were poor as church mice and were lucky to have a roof over us. In fact, I lived in a tent for the first part of my life without running water or heat. Those were bad times but they taught me to be grateful for the things I had and not to waste time dreaming of foolish things. My most treasured possession was love for my family. My parents, my brother, and my sisters knew that wealth didn’t pertain solely to money. Our love sustained us during those trying times, through the deaths of my parents, and now when we’re so lucky to have each other.
And so, I give you my fireplace, all decorated and with a fire lit to dispel the cold that nips at my toes like a frisky puppy while I wait for jolly St. Nick to arrive in a few hours. I hope he visits your home too and leaves lots of goodies under the tree.
I wish each of you Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!
SHOWDOWN
Copyright © Patricia Potter. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER THREE
4:02 p.m.
Jared was in Missouri when he made his mistake. It was late. He’d had a good night at poker, and his pockets were full of money for once. He was walking back to the hotel, thinking about what he would buy. He needed a new saddle, and he’d seen a hat he liked that day in a shop window. He was thinking about Molly, the pretty saloon girl who had caught his eye that night, and whether or not to ask her to have dinner with him the following evening, when a man stepped in front of him out of a dark alley.
Startled, Tom cursed himself for letting his mind wander. And in that instant, he let his gaze fall from the man’s eyes to his hand, hovering over his gun. He didn’t think anyone was faster on the draw than he was, but when he saw the man’s hand move, he realized with vivid clarity that he was wrong. Though he went for his own gun at the very instant the stranger went for his, Tom pulled the trigger of his Colt a fraction too late – at the same moment he felt a burning fire rip through his chest.
He fell to the boardwalk along with the man he’d still managed to kill, blinding pain wiping away all thoughts but one from his mind: he was dying.
He didn’t die, though the town doc told him several days later that he had come damn close, as close as any man could and still live. He must have an angel on his shoulder, the doc continued – or the devil, the sheriff retorted.
Jared agreed with the sheriff.
He’d learned a lesson, though, from that night in Missouri. Never — ever – take your eyes off your opponent’s eyes. Not if you wanted to live. The eyes revealed the soul, and something indefinable always flickered through them just before a man reached for his gun.
In the years that followed, he learned other lessons, too, all of them about survival. He wanted to stop learning them. He wanted to lead a normal life. To settle down, buy a farm, or maybe a ranch, and become a respected member of some nice community.
He tried his damndest to leave his reputation behind, moved constantly in search of a place where no one knew him, accepting any job, no matter how menial. But someone always found him; someone always forced him into a showdown.
Then he would have to move on . . .
###
How long had he been standing here. Two minutes. Maybe three? It seemed like a lifetime. The sun had not moved, nor had his shadow. The door fronts were still closed, the windows still curtained or shuttered.
Regret, deep and heavy, washed over him. He had never felt so alone, even in a life that was, by necessity, a solitary one. He knew the magnitude of his loneliness came from having known what it felt like to belong. Before New Hope, he’d not had that since childhood, so he hadn’t realized how lonely he was. But for the past two years, he’d been given a glimpse of heaven. Having it snatched away was more than he could stand.
Though he was alone, Jared felt a hundred pairs of eyes on him; the townsfolk of New Hope, watching the drama taking place on their main street. Were they curious to see the notorious Tom Garrett in action? They all knew who he really was now. They all knew he was a gunslinger with a price on his head.
Were they hoping he’d finally get his just rewards? Was Mary Beth among them?
A sharp crack split the tense silence, but Jared’s gaze never left his opponent’s face. Carter’s gaze darted toward the direction of the sound – a window slamming somewhere to the left. Jared knew he could take advantage of Carter’s distraction. He could draw. He could kill. Again.
His hand stayed at his side. Carter’s gaze darted back to meet his, then dropped for an instant to his Colt, and Jared figured Carter was wondering why he had not taken advantage of his opponent’s inattention. The answer was simple: his hand would not be the first to move. It never was. The only time he’d made the first move had been that day in Kansas. . .
www.patriciapotter.com
Anyone out there remember your favorite Christmas tree ornaments from your childhood? The ones you couldn’t wait to get out of the box? Growing up my mom often had two trees, her fancy tree in the den with white lights and perfectly spaced matching bulbs, garland and bows; and OUR tree, the one in the living room full of color, tinsil, popcorn, popcicle stick stars and clumsily painted ornaments globbed here and there.
My favorite ornaments was a box of homemade angels, snowmen and gingerbread men. I don’t have a clear memory of making them–my mom was a wonder of fun and patience *g*–but those glazed smiling faces of puffed up dough, paint and glitter were always a highlight of my Christmas. Whenever I see a gingerbread man I think of those glazed dough ornaments, which always makes me smile.
Making gingerbread cookies and ornaments during the Christmas holiday season is a time honored tradition, celebrated by many countries, races, religions, and families. My mother-in-laws bakes her fancy dressed gingerbread men every year. I found this adorable gingerbread couple and a simple recipe for these yummy creatures at Simply Recipes.
Some Gingerbread History 
The first gingerbread man is credited to the court of Queen Elizabeth I, who favored important visitors…with charming gingerbread likenesses of themselves. After the Grimm Brothers’ tale of Hansel and Gretel described a house “made of bread,” with a roof of cake and windows of barley, German bakeries began offering elaborate gingerbread houses with icing snow on the roofs, along with edible gingerbread Christmas cards and finely detailed molded cookies. Tinsmiths fashioned cookie cutters into all imaginable forms, and every woman wanted one shape that was different from anybody else’s…Most of the cookies that hung on nineteenth-century Christmas trees were at least half an inch thick and cut into animal shapes or gingerbread men.
According to the some researchers, the first gingerbread houses may have appeared as a result of the popular Grimm’s fairy tales. Other food historians postulate that the brothers Grimm were writing about something that already existed, German bakers baking houses of lebkuchen –spicy cakes often containing ginger — and employing artists and craftsmen to decorate them. The houses became particularly popular during Christmas, a tradition that crossed the ocean with German immigrants.
The preservative qualities of ginger were discovered in medieval English times, when ginger was applied to cakes, pastries and breads to make them last longer during extended journeys. By 1614, English villages were making specialty cakes of ginger to celebrate religious holidays. Dough was cut into shapes of hearts, animals, and flowers and could only be baked and served during the religious festivities of Easter and Christmas.
Today, ginger is used as a homeopathic treatment for nausea, motion sickness, and morning sickness. I’m thinking I need a box of gingerbread cookies for the next road trip 
The making of gingerbread men remains one of the most popular uses for ginger.
I’ve also made these cute little guys out of jello Gingerbread Man Jigglers!
Wishing you and yours a very Merry Christmas!
northwest of Austin in Llano County. About twenty miles further west of our house on Hwy 29 is a bald eagles’ nest in a large tree about fifty yards from the road. This used to be the furthest west nest (sorry about that rhyme) in the United States. The site became so popular, the county had to put in an off-road parking area.
more. 
