I remember the cold and blustery day when I closed my eyes and said a little prayer that He would give me the strength to get through the task at hand.

It was extremely hard to sort through my Aunt Bobbie’s possessions following her death, particularly since it was more like sorting through two generation’s keepsakes. My family has never been very good at throwing out our “stuff,” so there was a mixture of both Aunt Bobbie’s precious memories mingled with those of my grandmother. Thank goodness we are packrats, or I wouldn’t have this story to share with you.

I found “the letter” in the family Bible. You know the one that everyone has … gold leaf nearly worn off and the binding so fragile that it’s held together with masking tape. Ours has silver duct tape, too. The book protects an assortment of obituaries, wedding and birth announcements, and other newspaper clippings wedged between the pages. I picked up Granny’s handwritten recipe for Louisiana Pecan Pie. It sounds like a strange place to keep a recipe but not if you had known my Aunt Bobbie.

Although I’d thumbed through the family Bible many times as I grew up, I’d never noticed “the letter.” After keeping it secure for all those years, did my aunt move it to the one place she was sure I’d find it? I don’t know. But, I do know with Aunt Bobbie, everything had a reason.

The three pages are as yellowed with age as the memories inked on them. It’s written in a precise yet manly flourish with a black fountain pen scripted on light weight “air mail” stationery.

As I slowly unfolded the fragile pages, an odd sensation of calmness and serenity settle around me. I demanded that my emotions take a back seat and allow me privacy to read the letter, thus getting to know my Uncle Vick, Aunt Bobbie’s brother.

July 29, 1944

Dearest Bobbie,

I wish it were possible to talk to you and tell you what I have to say.

I’m telling you so you can tell Mom. I don’t know how she will take it and I don’t want her to be alone when she gets the news. I want you to see that she doesn’t worry about me because there is no cause for it. I am in good condition now but I was wounded worse than I let you know.

I am perfectly content and quite happy. The only thing I regret is having to leave the Marine Corps. My days in the service are few but I am happy that my discharge is honorable.

I landed on the Island of Saipan with the assault wave. I made it almost through the campaign but my luck ran out and I got in front of a Jap Machine gun. I took four bullets in my left leg and one in my left arm. My arm is completely healed but I wasn’t so lucky with the leg. This is what I’ve been trying to say. To save my life they had to remove my left leg. In other words I only have one leg. Don’t feel sorry for me and don’t worry.

Today thanks to science a man doesn’t have to worry because they have artificial legs that a man can walk on just as normal as ever. He can dance, work, walk, run and do most anything else any other man can do. I don’t feel badly at all. I take it as just something that had to happen and I thank God I am alive.

I’ll be in the states soon. I will be in California for some time. After the leg is healed it takes a long time to get the stump tough enough for the leg to be attached. But I think I will get to come home for a while. Possibly in about three months. It won’t be the home coming I wanted but we are going to have lots of fun aren’t we? We can paint any town just as red as anyone else.

I haven’t told Naomi (his wife) yet and I don’t want Mom to tell her. That is my job. How I do it is something I haven’t figured out as yet.

Don’t write anymore until you hear from me again. Tell Mom the same thing. I expect to have a new address and it takes mail too long to catch up with me.

Keep Mom from worrying about me. Keep your chin up and we’ll all be happy.

I have to close now. I’ll be thinking of you and loving you,

Always, your Bud,
Vick

PS: Tell Dad first. Maybe he can help. I’ll tell more next time. Love always, Vick

Through blurry eyes and swallowing a lump in my throat much too big to go down, I read the letter twice before returning the yellowed pages to its resting place. The most appropriate place I knew to stow the treasure … our family Bible.

The letter had been written sixty years ago, in a faraway country, by a Marine fighting for our democracy.

Today I forced myself to reread the letter, as I prepared to share his story. I thought about the hundred of thousands of other servicemen that sent home similar letters.

In reflection, I didn’t get to know Uncle Vick while he was alive. His pictures show a handsome man, full of life and laughter. The family storytellers told of how he survived that horrid day lying amongst a pile of fallen American heroes and praying to God. I wonder if he prayed for survival or for a quick death? Only God knows.

I’m sorry that I missed the opportunity to really get to know him, but in 1952 God called him home earlier than the family planned. Uncle Vick was laid to rest at the age of 33 in the National Cemetery in Fresno, California.

In the six decades since Uncle Vick poured out his heart and soul and his fears and love to his sister, my aunt, we’ve seen the end to World War II, the Korean conflict,Vietnam, Desert Storm, September 11th, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

For centuries our servicemen have given their limbs and their lives so fellow countryman can enjoy democracy and have the opportunity to “… paint any town just as red as anyone else.”

I’m thankful, Aunt Bobbie, for leaving your brother’s letter in a place where you knew I’d find it.

Because God answered the prayers of Victor C. Johnson, U.S.M.C., on that dreadful day on the Island of Saipan, I now know my uncle – a man of courage and convictions, a heroic, honorable Marine who did not look back in regret for an instant after losing a limb for his country, a husband, brother, and son with compassion and tremendous love for his family and country.

Prologue

On a special spring day in San Antonio while watching my grandchildren play, my cell phone rang.  On the other end of the line a woman asked if I was Phyliss Pannier Miranda, and I said yes.  She asked if I had an aunt named Bobbie and if my mother’s name was Ruth.  I confirmed.  Then she asked if I had an Uncle Vick… I paused and slowly answered, “Yes”.  She then said, “Hello, I’m your cousin Vicky.” … my Uncle Vick’s daughter.

Vicki and I hadn’t seen one another since we were small and her family moved to California. While doing family genealogy she had come across my information.  To my surprise, she had not seen the above story on my web-site and I talked her through finding it.  I listened as she said over and over,  “That’s my daddy!”   I’m thrilled to say we’ve forged a bond and are real family now … all because of her daddy’s letter saved in the family Bible.

With Veterans’ Day approaching, I wanted to share these thoughts with you today. No one gives more than our military servicemen and women do.  So today, I digress from our customary discussion of books and cowboys to honor these special people by telling the story of one, 2nd Lieutenant Joe Cunningham, who would say he’s no hero…but we know better.

People say all small towns look the same.  The old brick buildings guarding the streets silently speak of the past, when they were new and full of life. The traffic light on Main Street measures the slow pace of life in increments of green, yellow and red.  Most times, the Christmas decorations go up on the streetlights after Halloween and don’t come down until the first warm day of spring.

The flag at the courthouse is no odd sight; flags in small towns are common and patriotism runs high along with societal values. The speed limit is no more than 35, and everyone knows that.  There’s no reason to rush, anyway.

My first clue that something was different about Madill that August day was the sign.  On the very far northern edge of the “city” limits someone had placed a huge banner by the side of the two-lane highway.  It stood unfurled between two wooden poles. 

“A TRUE AMERICAN HERO,” the lettering read, and below that, “2ND LT. JOE CUNNINGHAM.”  Red and blue magic marker starbursts filled the white void of the background around the letters, leaving no doubt that the banner had taken hours of loving, painstaking precision to create.

And the rockets’ red glare,

The bombs bursting in air…

The banner stood as the beginning of what was to be a somber twenty miles of driving for me that day.  Only a few feet from where the banner had been placed, small roadside flags were planted in the parched Oklahoma soil. There had been no rain for weeks, and with our record-breaking number of triple-digit days, I could only imagine how hard it must have been to push those small, fragile twelve-inch sticks into the rock-hard ground at such measured intervals.

If you’ve ever lived in a small town, you know Saturday mornings are the liveliest, busiest times of the week.  Not so on this Saturday morning.  As I topped the hill and the main part of town came into view, my heart skipped a beat. I had never seen such a profusion of color.  Red, white and blue—everywhere.  Flags flew from every porch, every small business, every conceivable place visible…and that could only mean one very tragic thing.

Gave proof through the night

That our flag was still there…

I slowed down to twenty-five as tears blurred my eyes.  A car pulled out in front of me a little further down the road, and I looked to my right.  The side road had been blocked off.  There were at least two hundred motorcycles parked beside the First Baptist Church.  The Patriot Guard Riders had come to pay their respects—and to be certain that everyone else did, too, should a certain crazy group of fanatics from Kansas decide to make an appearance.

Across from the motorcycles, a huge, beautiful American flag was unfurled, the field of blue lending its stars to heaven, the stripes perpendicular to the ground.  In front of that flag stood perhaps fifty lawmen of every type, a mix from both sides of the Red River, Texans and Oklahomans.

The parking lots for the businesses in the immediate area were full to overflowing, even though none of those businesses were open.  Signs filled the windows under where the flags flew: “CLOSED.  BACK AT 1:00 P.M.  REST IN PEACE, JOE.”

I stopped at the light on Main Street.  The courthouse flag was, of course, flying at half-mast.  There were no other cars on the road.  The one that had pulled out in front of me earlier had turned off a block back, at the first available parking place, a long, half-mile hike away from the church.  I was driving through a ghost town.

The signboard at the Grab & Go read, “OBAMA MAY BE PRESIDENT, BUT GOD IS STILL IN CHARGE.” Any other time, I might have smiled, but not with that small picket of flags that still sporadically lined the road, reminding me of the terrible loss this town was reeling from.

Another hand-lettered sign by the road:  “WE’LL MISS YOU, JOE.  GO WITH GOD.”

And yet, another:  “REST IN PEACE, JOE.  WE WILL NEVER FORGET.”

I drove out of Madill, headed for Kingston, another small town, a few short miles away.

Small towns, close together, are usually rivals on the high school football field and in most other things, but when all is said and done, we remember that we are, all of us, citizens of the same wonderful country, and that’s what matters—more than who wins the game on Friday night, more than which town has the best point guard on the basketball court, and more than which quarterback has better chances with the big college scouts.  As Americans, we all have equal ‘bragging rights’—we are Americans, and no other country pulls together as we do when the going gets tough.

I couldn’t think of anything, anywhere, any time being tougher than losing even one of our young men to war.  A bright smile that would never be seen again, coming through his parents’ door; two arms that could never open to hug his best girl again; the echoing sound of emptiness forever where once his steps fell—an aching, empty hole in the lives of every person he ever knew that could never, never be filled.

My thoughts rolled over one another as I drove.  I wondered about him, about his family—about what he’d left behind, and how the people he’d known would ever manage to survive without him in their lives forevermore.

I was on the fringes of Kingston when the roadside flags started up in earnest again—though they’d never completely stopped.  But now, it looked as if someone had planted a beautiful garden of red, white, and blue flowers in the cracked, dry Oklahoma soil.

As Kingston came into view ahead, flags fluttered in the wind at every business.  Some buildings had bunting on their storefronts.

It doesn’t take long to cover the few miles from one end of Kingston to the other.  But with every inch of ground I traveled, there was no doubt that 2^nd Lieutenant Joe Cunningham was remembered, respected, and revered.

As I drove out of town, yellow ribbons tied around several branches of a tree in someone’s yard caught my eye.

“HE IS HOME.  REST IN PEACE.”

No small town rivalry, now.  As Americans all, we share only a unified, joint loss of a shining star; the precious, irreplaceable light of someone’s life.

He was 27.  He loved to hunt and fish.  He had dreams of becoming a highway patrol officer and finishing his degree.  He always wore a smile. 

I will never drive that sad stretch of road again without remembering a man I never met.  A hometown hero is gone forever, but he will never, never be forgotten.

My parents moved to Southern California when I was 3. I grew up in the shadows of Hollywood at a time when westerns were popular on TV and in the movies. My idea of a cowboy was based on their fictionalized portrayal. I saw the hero as larger than life, a man who overcame the odds and sticky situations even though he was wounded both physically and emotionally. But what about the reality of the Old West?

It was no surprise that the first historical romances I’d written were all westerns. My heroes had all of the above qualities—good and bad. Their physical scars told a grim story; their emotional  scars were deep-rooted. After all the research, I realized that in my books, reality and fiction met in the middle. Life wasn’t easy for the real-life cowboy in the 19^th century. While not a pretty picture, I planted my cowboy hero in the middle of the era, hardships and all. I drifted toward the dark, brooding hero, a reflection of my state of mind. The combination came across as a strong, conflicted hero who fought against change but overcame the odds because of the love of his woman (heroine).

More than that, I love horses. I see an undeniable bond between a man and his horse, both powerful animals. There’s something majestic in watching a horse in motion and the rough-cut man who rode him as if they were one. Like the heroes in my stories, their horses have quirks, too. Sometimes, they seem human.

The American West has always appealed to my senses. “Modern” conveniences began to play a part at this time in history, yet there weren’t so many that their lives were made easier than the 20^th century cowboy. And it isn’t far-fetched to create a heroine who is strong-willed or ahead of her time. In order to keep up and maintain my hero, she can’t back down, but she knows when to back off while standing her ground.

To date, I’ve had 2 westerns published. (The other 10 are gathering dust on a shelf in my office.) I set the first one, Rebel Heart, in Santa Fe. I didn’t pick the location; it picked me. I had felt a strange attraction to the town. When I wrote the story, I found myself writing about aspects of Santa Fe as if I’d been there before, even though I hadn’t. What I knew—or sensed—I had  yet to research. The La Fonda hotel was very familiar to me. Oddly, I instinctively knew things about it that I didn’t come across until later on in my research. In this book, the hero, Beau Hamilton, is as flawed as they come, maybe even more so. The chip on his shoulder seems impossible to knock off. That’s the reason I wrote the heroine, Courtney Danning, as willful yet not against becoming emotional—enough to melt the hero’s heart and break through his sense of aloneness.

My second western romance, Love’s Sweet Wager, (released in July 2011) takes the reader on a journey along the California Trail. Although my hero, Reno Hunter, isn’t a cowboy, he’s a force to be reckoned with as well as a die-hard gambler accused of murder. Disguising him as a priest and making him blend in with the folks on the wagon train was completely against his character. When he sees Rachel Garrett with one of the families, he cannot contain his animal instinct and begins doing things priests are not supposed to do. Little does he know she’s hiding a huge secret herself.

Are my heroes typical of the western male? Probably not. Seeing their “macho” side give way to their compassionate one does something to my heart. And that’s the reason I fall in love with them time and again.

Leave a comment today for a chance to win an electronic copy of Love’s Sweet Wager.

It isn’t often I’m at a loss for something to blog about–but this month finds me in just that predicament. So, I thought we’d start a conversation about something close to all our hearts: BOOKS.

What are you reading right now?

I just finished Linda Lael Miller’s A Lawman’s Christmas. It’s her newest McKettrick story and Clay McKettrick is very nearly a perfect hero.

Before that I read Victoria Bylin’s Marrying the Major. I won’t spoil it if you haven’t read the book yet, but suffice it to say that Major Tristan Smith won me over on the first page. And Miss Caroline is a perfect match for him.

I also read Christine Feehan’s Dark Predator this week. While I will always pick up a western first, Ms. Feehan’s Dark series books are an auto-buy for me.

Up next is Noelle Marchand’s Unlawfully Wedded Wife and Jane Graves’ Heartstrings and Diamond Rings.

And Filly Margaret Brownley’s NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING A Log Cabin Christmas Anthology. Congratulations, Margaret!

How about you? What are you enjoying right now? Did you just finish a book that you can recommend to all of us? I can’t wait to hear all about it. 

Tanya’s  picks:  I got to spend some righteous time with a whole corral-full of real-life cowboys on our wagon train trip around the Tetons a summer ago. Meeting Garrett Snow, I was so enthralled with his hero/book cover potential that hubby advised me to tell him WHY I was taking his picture so often, to assure him I wasn’t a stalker. He was downright flattered. Indeedy, I can see him some day starring in a book of mine entitled Snow in Summer…sigh.

As for Sam Elliott, he’s the quintessential cowboy of every Western woman’s dreams. Y’all out there will have to agree. That voice of Rocky-Mountain gravel, that sly,  shy and sexy all at once smile peeking forth from the depths of that glorious mustache. ..Sigh.

Hero #13

Hero #14

Mary’s picks:   When I need a hero tall, dark and handsome are so easy that I have to fight it. I usually lose.

Here’s one where I let a blonde rule the day. I see this guy as Tom Linscott. My hero from Sharpshooter in Petticoats and one of my favorite heroes ever.

And the other hero is Lee Horseley. Remember him from Guns of Paradise? I loved that show. I remember Lee being quoted as saying he’d sworn to never do another TV show. And then they offered him a cowboy and he couldn’t say no.

He’s the perfect tall, dark and handsome cowboy.

Hero No. 15

Hero No. 16

Grab your silk fans, ladies, and start them flapping. It’s about to get very warm here at the Junction. We’re giving away prizes all this week and all you have to do to enter is cast your vote on some very fine specimens of western manhood. What could be better than free books and cowboy eye candy? Donna and I have the honor of kicking off this shindig, and we’ll be giving away four books, so get those eyes peeled and those voting fingers ready.

Karen’s entries:

When I need a hero for one of my books, there are certain qualities I look for. He must be rugged, strong, and capable of handling any challenge that comes his way. Much like  Hero #1. On the other hand, he must also be warm, tender, and a man who laughs. See Hero #2.

Hero #2

Hero #1

                                    

Donna’s entries:

I’m entering a pair of lovely gents. Blake Shelton (Hero #3), who I think is going to be cast as the hero in my upcoming Christmas book. This is a guy who needs to be big as a barn door with a heart of gold.  And second up is Hugh Jackman (Hero #4). I swear he’s the sexiest drover on the planet.

Hero #4

Hero #3

So what do you think ladies? Which man would you like to ride the range with?

To vote, simply leave a comment with the hero’s number that you prefer. And if you want, tell us what drew you to him. By voting, you will also be entered to win one of the four books we are giving away today.  Have fun!  

What makes a slightly dangerous man so darn irresistible? Is it the confident swagger, the boldness in his eyes, the fact that he’s in control of his world?  Or is it the challenge of conquering his hardened heart?  I for one favor these strong, mysterious types. My shelves are full of books that feature bad boys and the courageous women who dare to love them.  That’s why I just had to write a bad boy hero in my debut novel.  Evan Harrison is tough, but he’s also loyal.  He feels deeply and is set on protecting the woman he was forced to kidnap-Juliana O’Malley.

The Reluctant Outlaw is the first book in my Smoky Mountain Matches series set in 1880′s East Tennessee.  A September Love Inspired Historical release, it’s available now.

Here’s a preview:

A Kidnapper—and a Gentleman?
The ruthless criminal who took Juliana O’Malley hostage was a thief and an outlaw-or so she thinks. But on a perilous journey through the Smoky Mountains, he becomes her unlikely protector. And when he pledges to return her home safely, she somehow finds herself believing him.

Evan Harrison has risked everything to find the men who killed his brother. Saving spirited, strong-willed Juliana could blow his cover with a deadly gang. Yet her courage and unwavering faith make him dream of the home and family he thought he could never have. And suddenly, that future is incomplete—without Juliana in it.

Smoky Mountain Matches: Dreams of home and family come true in the Smoky Mountains
Copyright [2011] by [Karen Kirst]
Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books S.A.

What do you think?  What makes bad boys irresistible?

Karen has offered to give one lucky commenter a copy of The Reluctant Outlaw. Leave a comment and we’ll put your name in the hat.
 

I haven’t run out of story ideas, but naming characters has gotten to be a challenge. After fourteen books, I’ve used up all my favorites. My husband and sons are Mike, Joe and David, so those names are out. For heroes, I’ve used Jake, Ethan, John, Rafe, William, Dylan, Beau, Gabe, Josh, Matt and J.T. aka Jonah Taylor. There’s also a Zebulun in there for the book I wrote for the “After the Storm” series. I didn’t think that one up. He came as Zeb and I picked Zebulun over Zebediah because it’s a little easier to say.

When I started Marrying the Major, I was blank when it came to the hero.  This book is the fourth in the “Women of Swan’s Nest” series, so I had the heroine firmly in mind. Caroline Bradley was already a real person to me. But the hero?  Where to start? Because of the three prior books, my favorite hero occupations were already crossed off the list.  He couldn’t be a preacher, a lawman or an outlaw. 

So what were the choices?  School teacher? No, not for Caroline. She needed someone with an edge. A newspaper man with a cause? Maybe, but the idea didn’t catch fire. A railroad detective? That was in the lead until  things came together I ended up with a hero unlike any of I’ve written before. Why not go with a man who’s a stranger to the Wild West? Given the history of Wyoming, it made perfect sense to give Caroline an English aristocrat.

That’s how the hero for Marrying the Major became a retired British Army officer. He’s also the third son of a duke, a widower with two children, and a man coping with malaria.

Okay, so what to name him?

I needed something English and adventurous. Something romantic. The “ding-ding-ding” moment came when I rewatched Legends of the Fall. Anyone else see it? It’s an awesome movie about three brothers with very unique personalities. Brad Pitt’s character is named Tristan, and he’s definitely adventurous and romantic. 

“Tristan . . . “ I said it out loud a few times. “Tristan Willoughby Smith . . .” It stuck.

So that’s how I found the name for the hero of Marrying the Major. Apart from being “Tristan,” he isn’t at all like the wild and carefree brother in Legends of the Fall. My Tristan is done seeing the world. With two kids to worry about it, he’s become cautious. He wants only to stay in Wyoming and raise his family, but he’s got some problems. For one thing, malaria is threatening his life.  He also has family ties to England that are threatening his son. Things get even more complicated when he meets Caroline and falls in love with her.   

Here’s the back cover blurb . . .

He hired a governess, but what retired officer Tristan Willoughby Smith needs is a wife. Not on his behalf, but to protect little Dora and Freddie.  When Caroline Bradley arrives at his Wyoming ranch, she seems perfectly suited–capable, efficient, intelligent . . . if a trifle too appealing.

Caroline knows what a real union of heart should be, and the major’s polite, non-nonsense offer hardly qualifies. Still, she accepts for the children’s sake, little knowing the complications the marriage will bring to test her confidence and her faith. Yet in this unusual match, Caroline starts to see a glimmer of something strong and true–the makings of the family she never thought she’d find…

 Hope you all enjoy the story!  It comes out October 1^st and is available for preorder at Amazon.

Why do I write western romances? Even more telling—why do I read western romances? There are many reasons, but the most compelling one is simple. I do it for the cowboys.

Those rugged, hard-working men, so capable, so honorable, so devoted to the women who capture their hearts. I can see the silhouette of a man on horseback, sitting straight in the saddle, and my heart starts fluttering before I even see his face. Crazy, huh? But the image stirs the romantic in me like nothing else. After all, if you’re going to ride off into the sunset with a hunky hero, he needs to have a horse.

It probably started back in my early teen years. I’d outgrown Saturday morning cartoons, so I turned instead to the Saturday westerns. It was the 80′s, the decade that introduced MTV and video games. Westerns were the last thing on anyone’s mind. Well, except for me. I found channels that aired re-runs of wonderful shows like Bonanza, Wagon Train, and The Big Valley. I couldn’t get enough. I started daydreaming my own episodes, writing myself into the script so that I could win the heart of the cowboys I fancied. I had desperate crushes on Adam Cartwright (Pernell Roberts, at left) from Bonanza and Cooper Smith (Robert Fuller, at right) from Wagon Train. I guess I have a thing for dark-haired men in black hats.

That theme continued into the 90′s when the western made a slight comeback in the television world with shows like Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, The Young Riders, and The Magnificent Seven. I’ve been re-watching The Young Riders on Netflix with my 13 year-old daughter. We both agree that Josh Brolin makes a very dreamy Jimmy Hickok. Although I think the beautiful Palomino he rode played a role in the attraction, too. I haven’t introduced her to Eric Close in The Magnificent Seven yet, but he was another cowboy who made my heart pitter-patter.

Then we could talk about those cowboys from down under. Tom Selleck is now a western icon, but I first discovered him in chaps and hat in Quigley Down Under. I had never been that impressed with him when he was driving around Hawaii in a red sports car, but give him a western makeover and stick him atop a horse, and I couldn’t resist. A man that impresses me in any setting is Hugh Jackman. And he made me sigh mightily when he donned western garb for the movie Australia. Hugh proved to me that you’re never too old for a new cowboy crush.                  

And of course, with the release of Cowboys and Aliens, I would be remiss if I failed to mention my latest crush. Daniel Craig makes a fabulous James Bond, but there’s no comparing 007 to Jake Lonergan to my way of thinking. The cowboy’s gonna win every time.

So what about you?

Who are some of your cowboy crushes?