Marrying Mattie just came out at The Wild Rose Press, the second book in “The Paradise Brides” series, so I thought I’d babble a bit about it/her today. And anybody wanting to babble back in the comment section today gets in the Stetson for a signed copy! (It’s also available on Kindle. Yay. My kindle is my new favorite thing.)

Here’s how the story came about, which means I gotta go back to the first book for a little bit.  In Marrying Minda, Minda Becker, who raised her three little sisters by herself,  finally marries off the last of them and realizes it’s time for her. Signing on as a wealthy farmer’s mail order bride sounds like just the thing…so she ventures to Nebraska only to marry the wrong guy. Oh, Brixton Haynes is a hottie all right. But the cowboy isn’t a homebody and  misses his life on the Goodnight Loving. He just wants  to get back to Texas. Of course he starting to Fall In Love With Minda, but until he Knows For Sure,  she  gets wooed by the town schoolmaster who is eager to give her a nice life and help her raise the “stepkids”  left behind by the original bridegroom. After all, Caldwell Hackett has taught a couple of them.

So….as soon as my editor contracted this book, she wanted me to write a short  2,500 word Christmas story to kind of introduce myself. So I did…reckoning the poor schoolmaster needed a  love  story all his own. His Christmas Angel,  which came in at 2,499 words , was released six months before Marrying Minda, so  I decided to give readers a quick tale about Minda’s sister Mattie falling for the hapless schoolmaster Caldwell Hackett. (It’s a free download and will take about four minutes to read. C’mon!)

Since y’all know by the 2,499th word they’ll get together, I had to find a Good Reason to keep them apart—while not separating them—when I decided that Mattie and Call deserved their own novel.  Therefore, Mattie’s nasty ex-husband shows up at the wedding in Marrying Mattie to halt the vows,  smash the cake, throw a hymnal through a church window. break hearts and cause just a glut of problems..

To top it off, Call –who has given up the classroom to doctor sick horses around Paradise—has to face a strange epidemic  striking the horses in Paradise, even his own beautiful medicine hat mustang, Lakota. Poor guy ‘s got so much on his plate.

Speaking of guy,  I modeled him after Guy Pearce who wore wire-rim glasses in a movie I can’t remember the name of. So imagine Call looking something like this with a Stetson and hair a bit longer and lighter. (I reckoned a schoolmaster needed spectacles. Doesn’t mean he couldn’t still be sexy, which if you’re looking at Guy, you get it.)

Since Mattie’s ex, Woodrow  casts doubts on the legitimacy of their  divorce back in Pennsylvania,  she’s advised to act like a married woman until things get sorted out…meaning her “private time” with Call is somewhat limited. Fortunately, they take shelter in an abandoned soddy  during an impending  tornado and take full advantage of getting stranded. I couldn’t’ resist the tornado scene after my Nebraska friend Nancy told me about seeing clouds that look like boobs. They are indeed called mammatus clouds and here are some pictures. So imagine them when you read the excerpt.

Just past a stand of  ash trees, a brown little mound rested against a knoll, and she reckoned it was the old soddy, built rather in the dug-out style she’d learned about. Around the old place, the trees writhed in the wind, sending their shadows scurrying around the remnants of the disused farmyard.

The workhorse ran like the devil was after him. Up above, before her eyes, in the snap of a finger, the sky turned a savage brown, hung with hundreds of white clouds in the shape—she gulped embarrassed—of women’s breasts.

Hastily, Call parked the wagon near the trees and helped her down. “Go on.”

“Go where?” she asked, panic on fire in her chest.

“The house. If we’re lucky, there’s a root cellar.” Quickly he unhitched the horse and ground-tethered him against the bluff.

Around them, in the space of a single heartbeat, the air turned still as death, quiet as the grave, and too hard to breathe into her lungs. The bosom of clouds began to undulate in and out as if unseen fingers caressed them.

Call ran around the ragged old structure, and Churnhead neighed.

“No cellar. Get inside. The southwest corner.”

“What about the horse?”

Call shoved her inside a rickety door attached with old shoe leather. “Here.” He dragged her to a corner, and then met her eyes. “He’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. The funnel may not drop.”

“Funnel? You saw a funnel cloud?”

Call said nothing, but he didn’t need to. He had. She knew it.

“Oh Lord have mercy. Call!” She thrust herself into his arms. The funnel might not drop. But it just well might. And they could be killed. Their lives could be over before they truly had begun. What shelter did a tiny pile of sod bricks give them?

Also, the little hook for this one is, well, Mattie has been married before but Call is a virgin. Of course y’all know she eases his nerves in just the right way.

 Please sign the guestbook at my website as well for a chance to win a signed copy. www.tanyahanson.com

Hope you like your day in Paradise. Oh, I named Mattie after my son Matt and grandbaby Carter.

(P.S. Click on any cover to obtain…thanks.)

Wow, I’m guest blogging at Petticoats and Pistols! When Tracy first mentioned it I actually had to ask her what to talk about! I’ve never guest blogged before. My own blog has been neglected this summer, but previous posts were about exciting things like noises in the night and runaway mules. If I’m going to guest blog, I’m sure I need something a little better than that, something a little more exciting.

Ummm, yeah, I got nothing. My life is about runaway mules, crazy kids, and chasing the Chihuahua down the road. In my spare time, I write for Steeple Hill Love Inspired. Most importantly, I write about cowboys. When I was searching for my niche, cowboys just made sense to me. It wasn’t about what was hot (not that cowboys aren’t) or what the publisher was looking for (although it’s always good to know). No, I picked cowboys because to me, they define HERO.

As an avid fan of the PBR (pro bull riding, for those who might be thinking Pabst Blue Ribbon) I love the sport because it is exciting, dramatic, and dangerous. But I also love it because cowboys are heroes. These men are competing against one another, and yet they are always there to help each other. They cheer for each other. They defend one another. They’re willing to jump into the arena with an angry, one ton bull if it means saving a friend’s life. And they pray for each other..

When I think of cowboys, I think of Cord McCoy, the professional bull rider who also competed on Amazing Race. Cord is a true cowboy. He’s a man of faith who smiles, even when the bulls are against him. Even when he’s losing, he’s smiling. He’s cheering for the guy who is beating him. He’s praying for them to do a great job and stay safe.

But these cowboys are also tough as nails. They can get stomped on by a two thousand pound bull, get back up and say ‘yes’ to a reride. They’ll ride with broken ribs, punctured lungs and torn ACLs.

Tough is the bull rider who jumps in the arena with bull fighters to grab hold of the rope that his unconscious buddy is tangled up in.

When we think of cowboys we think tough, gentle, heroic and chivalrous. A cowboy hero is the whole package–a man sent to rescue his woman. A man in faded jeans, five o’clock shadow and rip hard muscles sent to rescue his woman, and get rescued by her in the process.

John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, George Strait. What could be better than a hero in the mold of one of those men?

So, you ask, why do I write cowboy stories? Well, it should be obvious—the research is a wonderful way to pass a weekend. What better job than a job that takes a girl to the rodeo to watch men in wranglers!

In my August release, THE COWBOY’S SWEETHEART, the reader gets the combination of a tough-as-nails cowboy and the cowgirl who is having his baby. I’m so excited about this book that I’m giving away a copy to one of you who leaves a comment today. I hope you enjoy the story.

Hi everyone!  I have kind of an odd  topic today about “strange things happening for a reason.”   Okay, maybe I should have saved this for closer to Halloween, but it’s a story that happened in the summer, and summer is coming to an end, so I wanted to tell you all about it now.

Because everything I write takes place in Oklahoma or Texas, and because I was born and raised in Oklahoma, most of my research tools are right at my fingertips.  Talking to older people in the area, going to the actual places where my stories are set, and visiting museums and landmarks are all part of my research practices for just about all my novels. 

Louis L’Amour said that if he wrote about a creek or a particular landmark, it was authentic; that it was actually where he said it was, and looked the way he described it.  I don’t quite go that far, but I try to keep the setting and every other component of my writing as true to life as possible.  In order to do that, sometimes you just have to “be there.”
 
Tamaha, Oklahoma, was an unlikely candidate to be included in my story, FIRE EYES, until I visited there.  But how its inclusion came about is a story in itself—and proves that sometimes our research, as that other saying goes, “happens.”
 
Though there’s very little to say about the actual town of Tamaha as it exists today, I couldn’t help but use it in my story, FIRE EYES, released last year.  In those long ago days of more than a century past when my story takes place, it was a thriving community.
 
There’s an odd thing that happened that made me include Tamaha in my book.  I’d been working on it, and had come to the part where the villain and his gang needed to reference a landmark.  But which one? And what was the significance? As I said, I try to stay as historically accurate in my writing as possible, and this story takes place in the eastern part of the state, toward the Arkansas/Oklahoma border.  I must admit, I’m not as familiar with that part of the state as I am with the central part, since that’s where I was born and raised.  A lot of these smaller towns don’t even dot the map, and I had never heard of Tamaha, until one day in May, 2005.
 
I’d just spoken with a lifelong friend, DaNel Jennings, who now lives in a town in that eastern area of the state.  In the course of the conversation, she mentioned that she and her husband, Jeff, were doing some genealogical research and she had learned she had some relatives buried in a small cemetery in Tamaha.  Now, the intriguing part of this was that her relatives bore the same last name as my maiden name, “Moss.” 
 
“Wouldn’t it be funny if we really were related?” she asked.  We’d always secretly hoped we were, and pretended that we were, when we were kids.
 
“Yes,” I responded with a laugh, “but where in the heck is Tamaha?” (As if I would know.)  She began trying to tell me where it was, and I said, “Never mind.  It’s a good thing Jeff knows where he’s going.  Let me know what you find.”
 
I hung up, wistfully wishing that I could go with her—but that was a three-hour drive and they were leaving the next day.  No way I could take off and drive down there on the spur of the moment, with family obligations.
 
A couple of hours later, my sister Karen called.  “Cheryl, I need you to come down this weekend,” she said.  I was really intrigued, because she is my “much older” sister—10 years older—and never much “needed” me for anything before.
 
“What’s going on?”
 
“I promised Mr. Borin I would take him to visit the graves of his parents and siblings for Memorial Day, and two of his brothers are buried in a cemetery in Tamaha—”
 
I never heard the rest of her sentence.  I was sure I had misunderstood.  “Where?”
 
“Tamaha.  And the others—”
 
Stunned, I interrupted her. “Wait, I have to tell you something.”  I couldn’t believe it.  I’d never heard of this place before, and now, within the space of 2 hours, two people who were very close to me had told me they were going to be going to the cemetery there! 
  
This was no mere “coincidence.” 

I promised her I would be there—no matter what—Friday afternoon.  We would be going on Saturday morning.
 
I would never have found the place on my own.  I doubt that Mapquest even has it on their site.  But Mr. Borin, an older gentleman my sister had befriended in years past, knew exactly where to go.  Once we got there, I stepped out and found the headstones for the “Moss” family.  It was amazing to think that my best friend, DaNel, whom I had not seen in over a year, had been standing where I was just a few days earlier—a place neither of us had been before. Again, I wondered what our research through family ancestry would yield. Were we related, as we’d always hoped?  There was an incredible sense of connection, for me, not only for what we were doing that day for Mr. Borin and his long dead relatives, but for what DaNel and I might discover about our own. (BTW, cemeteries are also one of my passions–great for research, just by reading the headstones and figuring out what happened.)
 
As the three of us, Karen, Mr. Borin, and I stood in the quiet peacefulness of the old cemetery, a man made his way toward us.  “Can I help you?” he asked, introducing himself.  We explained why we were there. “Let me show you the historical side of Tamaha while you’re here,” he said cheerfully.  He had lived there all his life, and there was no detail about the once-thriving community and surrounding area that he didn’t know.  He was glad to share his knowledge, and believe me, I was writing in my little notebook as fast as I could while he talked.
 
The cemetery is on a bluff overlooking the Arkansas River.  “Right down there is where the J.R. Williams was sunk.  She was a Confederate ship, but the Union seized her and changed the name to the J.R. Williams.  But Stand Watie and his men seized her back.”(June 15, 1864)  Our guide chuckled at the thought. 
 
NOTE:  (Stand Watie was one of only two Native American brigadier generals in the War Between the States.  He was the last Confederate officer to lay down his arms, and was also Chief of the Cherokee Nation at the time.) 
 
“Come on, I’ll show you the largest black oak tree in Oklahoma—and the oldest.”  Sure enough, it stood towering over one of the first buildings of the settlement of Tamaha, dating back to the 1800’s. 
 
Next, we visited the town jail, the oldest jail in Oklahoma, built in 1886.  We were able to walk right into it and take pictures.  “We’re trying to get money up to preserve it,” he said.  It stood in the middle of an overgrown field.  “Watch out for snakes, hon,” he told me. Yep, he didn’t have to tell me twice.  My eyes were peeled.
 
When we left, I knew I had my landmarks that I needed for my book.  I had seen it, and my imagination took over.  It was the “jog” I needed to get on with the writing, but I will never believe for one minute that it was coincidence. 
 
I use many research resources, but because of the nature of what I love to write—western romance—and because I have been so blessed to actually grow up in the area that I’m writing about, I feel like the most invaluable resource available to me are the people and places I meet and visit.  It’s all around me.
 
One of the best “hands on” research places I’ve ever been is The National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum.  I worked there for two years, and I loved every minute of it. The best advantage of working there was the fact that every morning when the doors opened, there was a whole new crowd of people to visit with, and yes, I carried a piece of paper and a pen in my pocket at all times. As for research books, I swallowed very hard and bought the complete set of Time/Life books about the West.  I use it constantly.  Another set of books that I have that really have been a great research tool have been Shelby Foote’s three-book series on the War Between the States.  Very easy to read and full of rich detail that you wouldn’t find in a “regular history book.”
 
But my day of research at Tamaha is one that I will never forget, and that I’m so glad to have been able to take part in.  Have any of you ever experienced anything like this?  Some kind of remarkable occurrence that has affected your writing  in some way?  Do you classify that as “research”?  Share it, if you have—I know I can’t be the only one!
 
Below is an excerpt from FIRE EYES. I hope you enjoy it! 
  
    
 
THE SET UP:  A stranger has shown up at Jessica’s door in the evening.  She is reluctant to let him inside, even though good manners would dictate that she find him a meal and a place to bed down.  There is something about him she doesn’t like—and with good reason, as we find out.
 
 
“Evenin’, ma’am.”

The stranger looked down the business end of Jessica’s Henry repeater. It was cocked and ready for action.

She drew a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She stood just inside the cabin door, the muzzle of the rifle gleaming in the lamplight that spilled around her from the interior.

He raised his hands and gave her a sheepish grin. “Don’t mean to startle you. Just hopin’ for a meal. Settlers are few and far between in these here parts.”

“Where’s your horse?” She didn’t lower the gun.

“Well, funny thing. I kinda hate to admit it.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “I, uh, lost him. Playin’ poker.”

“Where?”

“Over to Tamaha.”

“You’re quite a ways from Tamaha,” she said. “Even farther from where I expect you call home.”

He gave a slow, white grin. “More recently, I hail from the Republic of Texas.”

Jessica raised her chin a notch. It was almost as if this man invited dissension. She disliked the cool, unperturbed way he said it. The Republic of Texas. “Texas is a state, Mister. Has been for over twenty years.”

“Well, now,” he said, placing his booted foot on the bottom porch step. “I guess that all depends on who you’re talkin’ to.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped back to shut the door. “I think you better—”

“Ma’am, I’m awful hungry. I’d be glad for any crumb you could spare.”

“What did you say your name was?” Her voice shook, and she cleared her throat to cover her nervousness. Most people had better manners than to show up right at dark.

“I didn’t. But, it’s Freeman. Andy Freeman.”

“Are you related to Dave Freeman?”

“He’s my brother.” He gave her a sincere look. “Look, ma’am, I’d sure feel a heap better talkin’ to you if I wasn’t lookin’ at you through that repeater. I been lookin’ for Dave.” There was an excited hopefulness in his tone. “You seen him? Ma, she sent me up here after him. She’s just a-hankerin’ for news of him. He ain’t real good about letter-writin’.”

Jessica sighed and lowered the rifle. “Come on in, Mr. Freeman. I’ll see what I can find for you to eat, and give you what news I have of your brother.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. I sure do appreciate your hospitality.”

FIRE EYES  is available at www.thewildrosepress.com

My time travel romance, My Heart Will Find Yours, is set in 1880s Waco, Texas. Located on the Brazos River, in its early history, Waco was known as Six-Shooter Junction. Trail drives herded their cattle across the Brazos in Waco and the cowboys usually spent time in the bawdy houses of the Reservation or Two Street as the red-light district was known. Drinking in the multitude of saloons and card games sometimes led to fights, often involving the use of firearms.

When the suspension bridge opened in 1870, and the railroad arrived in 1871, business in Waco thrived. Trail drives repeatedly lost cattle when herding their livestock across the Brazos. It wasn’t uncommon for a man to be caught in the undertow and drown. Cattle bosses were willing to pay the 50 cents per animal to get their cattle across safely.

In her book, A Spirit So Rare, Patricia Ward Wallace broaches the topic of how women forged a path in the early history of Waco. Her chapter on prostitutes is titled Women of Controversy. Since prostitution plays a minor role in my western time travel romance, I’d like to borrow her title and share some of what I learned.

The first noted record of prostitution in Waco is documented in an 1876 city directory. Matilda Davis of 76 N. Fourth St. is listed as a madam with 10 occupants in her house. The women listed their occupation as actress. Waco had no playhouse at the time. In 1879, the city issued the first license for a bawdy house for an annual fee of $200 and a good behavior bond of $500.

Waco officials legalized prostitution within the Reservation in 1889 making Waco the first town in Texas and the second in the United States to condone a controlled red-light district. Madams paid a yearly fee of $12.50 for each bedroom and $10.00 for each bawd. Prostitutes paid an additional $10.00 license fee and paid the city physician $2.00 twice a month for a medical exam. This guaranteed they didn’t ply their trade outside their designated territory and were disease free. The city prohibited drinking within the area. Fines for violators ranged between $50 and $100. With the large number of prostitutes it’s easy to see the city benefited from trade within the Reservation.

Prostitutes were prohibited from being seen on the streets outside the Reservation yet they were allowed to trade with local businesses. No more than two at a time could travel via a city hack to the stores. Usually tradesmen sent clerks to the curb with merchandise. Some store owners required the prostitutes to stop at the back door.

Life was hard for these working girls. Violence abounded in the bordellos as did drug and alcohol use and abuse. Though licensed, the police had little to do with the establishments. The madams disciplined the women in their houses and maintained order among their clientele. On occasion the police were called when robberies or assaults occurred.

Waco’s most famous madam was Mollie Adams. She had worked in another house but in 1890 opened her own three-room operation. By 1893 she had a seven-room establishment. In 1910 she’d obtained enough wealth to commission a house to be built by the same firm that built the First Baptist Church of Waco and the building now the Dr. Pepper Museum. Her home at 408 N. Second St., had indoor plumbing, electric fixtures, two parlors, a dance hall, and a bell system wired to every room. Her portrait, included here, hung over the fireplace. Though wealthy at this point in her life, she died in an indigent home in 1944. Lorna Lane, the madam in Madison Cooper’s epic novel, Sironia, is supposedly modeled after Mollie Adams.

In 1917, the US Government ordered cities with military bases to shut down red light districts to protect the health of America’s soldiers. Not wanting to lose Camp MacArthur and its 36,000 troops, the city shut down the Reservation in August of 1917. It is rumored some bawdy houses managed to continue business through the 1920s.

References: Wallace, P. W., A Spirit So Rare, pp. 148-156. http://wacohistoryproject.org/Places/reservation.htm

Photo: Courtesy of Texas Collection, Baylor University, Waco, Texas

Thank you the Petticoat and Pistols ladies for having me as your guest today. Readers, I love comments. Leave me one and “Felicia Filly” will draw a winner for an e-copy of My Heart Will Find Yours. Visit my website at www.lindalaroque.com to read the first chapters of my books. I give away an ebook every month on my blog at http://www.lindalaroqueauthor.blogspot/

Happy Reading and Writing!

Linda 

I know.   I’m not supposed to be here today. Margaret Brownley is. But we traded days this month, and I’m ever so happy that we did.

I can shamelessly promote my new book which hits the stands and the e-world at the end of the August. In ten days or so.

“The Lawman” has a special place in my heart. It will be my first western in nearly fifteen years. And it was westerns that started me writing.   I was a perfectly happy public relations practitioner when strangers started haunting my every thought.   I sat down and started writing.   It was a tale of the Civil War in Texas.   I’ve always been fascinated with the influence of the war on the west, the emotional wounds that so many men carried with them.   This story’s roots is also based on that conflict.

Westerns have always been my first love. But when the western genre started to fade (my personal opinion is that they were so popular, publishers started to flood the market and flooding the market has never been good) I turned to Scotland. There were similarities between the two. Strong women. Strong, rugged men, usually wronged in some way and fighting for justice.

I went from Scotland to World War II to early America and finally  to contemporary suspense, but all that time, western tales nagged at me, one character in particular.  She’s been waiting for this story for a decade.

Her name is Samantha, and she was raised in a mining town in Colorado during the height of the gold craze. Her father was killed for his claim, and her mother cooked and washed clothes to support Samantha and herself. She eventually ran a boarding house, but then she died of pneumonia and, at eleven, Samantha was orphaned.

She appeared to me when I visited an old ghost mining town in Colorado. Most of it had burned down, but there were still a few ramshackle buildings. I could picture the thousands of hopeful men who risked everything for a nugget of gold.   A dozen languages were spoken. Men came from every continent with great hopes and little else.  Each camp had two or three or even five newspapers, not to mention the always present soiled doves. Vigilante justice ruled.  I loved prowling though books about the mining towns and the people who lived there.

These towns grew and most then died as their hopeful populations went to the next find.   A few developed into towns that exist today but not many. 

But what was to happen to Samantha? She had no family left, not even distant ones. There was no respectable woman to take her. But three men — an outlaw, a gambler and a mule skinner – had all loved Samantha’s mother and swore to her that  they would care for her daughter.

And they did. The outlaw taught her to shoot and take care of herself, the gambler taught her to win, and the mule skinner taught her about animals and doctoring. But no one, other than books, taught her anything about love.

The gold ran out. A fire consumed most of the town. Everyone left. Or almost everyone. Samantha and her three “godfathers” stayed. It was a safe place for the outlaw. The gambler could travel easily to other mining towns, and the irascible mule skinner loved the mountains, and the isolation.

 Samantha was happy. She loved the mountains, the animals, the books the gambler brought. And yet an ache was beginning to grow, a yearning she didn’t really understand.

Until a marshal, intent on hanging one of godfathers, rode into town and Sam was all that stood between him and a badly wounded man who’d been like a father to her.  Worse, he wasn’t there entirely out of duty. Convinced the outlaw had killed someone very important to him, he’d been hunting the outlaw relentlessly for ten years.   He was, in fact, the reason they’d stayed in the abandoned town.

I don’t think there’s any conflict as powerful as that of conflicting loyalties. Deep down gut-wrenching loyalties. How does one choose between two children? Or between a lover and father? How do you choose which will live and which will die?

The book is a Harlequin Blaze, a little more sensual than I usually write but not as sexy as most Blazes. It’s also shorter, but it still has a rather large cast of characters I hope you come to love as I did.

And did I mention I was nervous?

That I, a normally well adjusted, easy-going Pollyanna, become a raving maniac when one of my books is published.

“The Lawman” is book number 65, or close to it, and I still become a trembling wreck whenever a new one comes out.  So please make allowances for unusual behavior during the next four weeks.

                                                          ___

And my winner for my last contest is Cindy Woolard.  Cindy, please email me at papotter@aol.com

I’m often asked where I get my story ideas and was recently asked if I got them from watching soap operas—which drew immediate laughter from me, because frankly (aside from the fact that I write westerns), I couldn’t watch a soap to save my life. Nothing against those who enjoy them, I simply don’t possess enough patience to enjoy a never-ending story. I need closure. In fact, I’m rather obsessed with the guarantee I’ll get closure even with my own stories and tend to write my last chapter early on…often times long before I finish the first chapter. I actually wrote the last chapter first for THE GUNSLINGER’S UNTAMED BRIDE. I knew the story would take place in a logging camp, and though I knew next to nothing about the characters as individuals, I knew exactly how their story would end in reference to the setting.

For me, setting tends to dictate my stories. I always start with a location first. BRIDE OF SHADOW CANYON was my first completed manuscript, a story that I built around a journey. My mind already envisioned all the locations I wanted to share with readers, I just had to come up with reasons to get my characters there and incorporate them into the scenes. So, as one might guess, most my stories start with me staring at maps, deciding where I want to go, where I want to take my readers, and how I can work a love story into the trip. I still have the maps for BRIDE and MUSTANG WILD, pinpointing each leg of their journey, as well as collages I made with a clockwise placement of snippets showing the changing landscapes as their story progressed.

I’m currently at work on a new series, but for months after finishing my last WILD book a new storyline refused to surface in my mind. I bought a ton of reference books on characters, pioneers, orphan train children, school teachers, doctors, miners, hoping to plant a seed and characters would take root and blossom into a story. I should have known better—it took stumbling across a book of Civil War maps to make the first strike in fertile ground. While pouring over the maps and reading about cartographers, I unearthed the era of the first book…whoever my heroes were, they were going to emerge into the chaos of Post Civil War. The maps reminded me that location was key in growing my books (It had been a while since starting a new series, I had forgotten!), and since I already had a vague notion that I wanted to explore Montana I found the textbook used to teach Montana history at the UC, dove into all the social and political turmoil happening in my chosen era, of which there was an abundance, and BAM! My heroes started taking shape and talking to me

My heroes are always the first to stomp an impression into my mind, their temperaments defining the type of heroine they’ll require to get them under control Once I have a course set and a solid hero, everything else tends to spiral from there and fall into place. The first hero to arrive ended up being the hero of the second book for this series. I’m working on four books at present—they always come in a lot, and I tend to fall for the whole cast, and there’s always that secondary character that tries to steal the spotlight, ensuring he’ll get his own book. The loudest in this bunch has become my favorite, though he doesn’t get his own story until book three. He’s the rowdiest and most rotten, so of course his name is Gabriel. Here’s a little snippet from book two, the first time he wrangled me into his head, ensuring he’d get his own story. He’s tormenting Lake, the hero in book two, which is one of his favorite pastimes:

Gabriel Quaid crouched beside the entwined couple sleeping soundly beneath the low shelter. He hated to wake them, and wished to hell he had one of them picture cameras. He’d sell his right boot for a still frame of Lake holding the fair-haired woman, wrapped in each others arms, her pretty pink lips pressed against his neck, Lake’s fingers tangled in her hair. Hell, he’d ride barefoot and bare-assed to possess such torment. Laughter escaped his throat at the mere thought.

Eyes dark as demon coal sprang open, Lake pinning him without moving another muscle. Quaid grinned so wide it hurt.

“Easy, pardner,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t make any sudden moves if I were you. Then again, if I’s holding that bit of softness, I’d be doing my damnedest to slide my hands across those smooth curves and warm valleys while I had the chance.”

Lake stiffened, the slight move stirring Miss Fairchild. She shifted against him, her sleepy moan sounding like a contented purr. Watching sweat bead on Lake’s brow was the most fun Quaid had had since the brawl back at Fort Smith. In the five years he’d ridden with Lake, the stiff-necked half-breed didn’t cotton to white women, not one bit. The unfamiliar trace of fear etched across his friend’s expression told him this little woman had put a chink in that particular prejudice.

“Perty, ain’t she?” he taunted, his voice no more than a low rumble.

Oh hell, look at the murder in those eyes.

*Sigh* I do love the bad boys. I think mostly because they require the strongest breed of feisty heroines, and Quaid’s Lady Love is about as headstrong as they come.

Sadly, my new crop of westerns is still a ways off from being harvested and packaged up for the masses—but after an unintended detour from writing over the past year I’m downright giddy to be back in the fields!

Paty will be offering a PDF copy of Doctor in Petticoats  to one lucky commenter whose name is drawn at the end of the day.

In my June release, Doctor in Petticoats, the hero is sent to a blind school to learn how to navigate in the world as a blind person. While there he meets a young man who is the instructor for the broom making class. In order to understand how the blind were taught to make brooms, I had to learn the process as it would have been done in the 1800’s.

Broomcorn is actually a species of sorghum. The broom bristles are the stiff tasseled branches of the plant. The plants grow 2-8 feet tall and grows best in hot arid climates. The plane is harvested, dried and the seeds removed. The seed are edible, starchy and high in carbohydrates. They are used in cereals and animal feed. 

When humans first started using broomcorn as a broom, they just harvested the plant, dried it, and started sweeping. By the 1800’s they started lashing the broomcorn together to make a better sweeping surface and even using just the branches lashed to wooden handles. 

The Shakers evolved the broom making process and were the first to use wire to secure the broomcorn to the handle rather than tying or weaving it with string. They also developed a treadle machine to wind the broomcorn around the handle and secure it tightly. 

For my story, I have blind students learning to make brooms by hand. I used Foxfire #3 book to learn the process that was passed down for generations in North Carolina.

 The seeds are combed out of the tassel. The tassels are placed in water to soak and make them pliable. Two nails or wooden pegs are placed in one end of the handle to prevent the stalks from slipping off after they are tied in place. A rope is tossed over a rafter. It needs to be long enough for a loop at the bottom for the broom maker’s foot and that is 4-6 inches from the ground. The rope is wrapped once around the broom near the point where it will be tied. When the person steps down with their foot, it tightens the string on the broomcorn. When it seems tight, they take a five to six foot length of heavy-duty cotton string threaded through a carpet needle and weave it through and around the broomcorn, securing it to the handle. 

I enjoyed learning about this process for my book, and I hope you enjoy this excerpt from Doctor in Petticoats. 

Blurb for Doctor in Petticoats

After a life-altering accident and a failed relationship, Dr. Rachel Tarkiel gave up on love and settled for a life healing others as the physician at a School for the Blind.  She’s happy in her vocation–until handsome Clay Halsey shows up and inspires her to want more. 

Blinded by a person he considered a friend, Clay curses his circumstances and his limitations.  Intriguing Dr. Tarkiel shows him no pity, though.  To her, he’s as much a man as he ever was. 

Can these two wounded souls conquer outside obstacles, as well as their own internal fears, and find love? 

Excerpt

“I’m going to look in your other eye now.” She, again, placed a hand on his face and opened the eyelids, stilling her fluttering heart as she pressed close. His clean-shaven face had a couple small nicks on the edges of his angular cheeks. The spice of his shave soap lingered on his skin. 

She resisted the urge to run her cheek against his. The heat of his face under her palm and his breath moving wisps of wayward hair caused her to close her eyes and pretend for a few seconds he could be her husband. A man who loved her and wouldn’t be threatened by her occupation or sickened by her hideous scar. 

His breathing quickened. A hand settled on her waist, slid around to her back, and drew her forward. Her hand, holding the lens, dropped to his shoulder, and she opened her eyes. This behavior on both their parts was unconscionable, but her constricted throat wouldn’t allow her to utter the rebuke.

 Clay sensed the moment the doctor slid from professional to aroused woman. The hand on his cheek caressed rather than held, her breathing quickened, and her scent invaded his senses like a warm summer rain. 

Available in Print and e-book at most retail outlets. Or you can use this link: http://www.thewildrosepress.com/doctor-in-petticoats-paperback-p-4105.html 

Paty Jager                                                                                                     

http://www.patyjager.net                                                                  

http://www.patyjager.blogspot.com

Howdy, gals! It’s great to see y’all again! Everyone remember to tell Margaret happy birthday!      

 Here’s a quick bit about me: With Cherokee heritage and such ancestors as James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau, I pretty much inherited the writing bug, as well as my need to write about the Wild West. I’ve ridden horseback over western mountains on journeys up to ten days long.   

  My first book in The Sierra Chronicles, Love’s Rescue, won second place in the Golden Rose Contest, inspirational romance category, went into its second printing only five weeks after it was released, and landed on ChristianBook.com’s best-selling historical fiction list, at number eleven. Book two, Hope’s Promise, the continuing romance of Jake Bennett and Jessica Hale (now Bennett), is already receiving rave reader comments and five-star reviews—yahoo!      

I also judge a number of top writing contests and work as an editor. I’m mom to three teens whom I homeschool. So far, I’ve lived in twenty-eight towns in eight different states, but right now I take off my boots in northeastern Illinois.     

So that’s me. By now, you might be wondering about the title of this here article, Passion, Troubles, and a Whole Lot of Fun. Here’s why I chose it. In a recent radio interview, the interviewer asked this question: “In many famous plays that William Shakespeare wrote, he combined love and tragedy, and also humor, and that made those plays unforgettable. You also include humor in Hope’s Promise (it officially releases tomorrow, August 1st!), a lot of it through a character, a ranch hand, named Taggart. Explain how the addition of humor helps to make a story so memorable, especially as it applies to Hope’s Promise.”     

So that nifty fiction concept has been on my mind—Passion, Troubles, and a Whole Lot of Fun? Here’s how I answered the question:     

“William Shakespeare clearly saw the human condition, all the elements that make up who we are, and what compels us to do what we do.     

“Love, tragedy, and humor are three of the main forces that drive us, and that pull us. Love pulls us through tragedy—God’s love, and each other’s—and humor us what drives us to a fresh level of coping and overcoming. That’s why those three forces work so perfectly together in fiction, because they work so perfectly together in life.      

“Jake and Jess have terrible challenges in Hope’s Promise—they stand to lose everything they hold dear—just as many of us face terrible challenges in situations during our lives. Taggart is more than the comic relief; he’s exactly the person most of us would want with us during our tough times.      

“His is the personality that inspires people to reach past surviving, and to shoot straight for overcoming, to the point where we can laugh and enjoy knowing that the trouble is behind us, or that it will be.      

“Taggart is an absolute hoot. Several times, Taggart made me laugh until I was wiping my eyes and holding my knees together (yep, I actually said that on the radio). All three elements—tragedy, romance, and humor—combine to make a powerful and unforgettable story.”      

So that’s what I said. If you all remember me from Petticoats and Pistols last year when Love’s Rescue came out, you might remember that I love a good guessing game, so much so, that we’ll do a game of three questions here, and see how well you fillies do. Keep in mind that the focus is on Passion, Troubles, and a Whole Lot of Fun. Those who take a stab at answering one, two, or all three will be entered into a drawing to win a copy of Hope’s Promise!      

Here’s the first question, based on Passion. Hold on to your saddles—Jake is a tough, hunky rancher who looks like Hugh Jackman. (No drooling. All right, go ahead and drool.) Jake passionately loves his wife, Jessica. Here’s a scene from The Sierra Chronicles book two, Hope’s Promise:      

Beyond the bed, Jake removed his shirt and tossed it to the floor beside the tall chest of drawers. Atop the wooden surface, the oil lamp sat, casting warm, golden light over his skin.      

He set his hands on his hips, a casual stance which rather nicely emphasized his chest and the arm muscles fully capable of lifting a yearling calf.      

Jess wanted to touch him, to feel him against her. She could hardly breathe. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”      

He gave her his slow, crooked grin as he rounded the bed and approached. “My throwing my shirt on the floor? Apparently it makes you sway on your feet in appreciation. I’ll have to do that more often.”      

Jess lifted her face. . . .      

Here’s the Passion question: What do you think Jess said in response? (What would you say?) Here’s a hint: Jess is a spitfire. It’ll be fun to see your answers. (I’ll answer all three questions at the time of the book drawing.)      

Here’s the second question, based on Troubles. And here’s another scene.      

“We’re going home,” Jess said, a pleasant tightness in her chest. “I feel . . .” She lifted a hand, uncertain how to describe it. “I feel like a young falcon, about to leap into the wind for the first time.”      

Jake smiled his understanding, then suddenly turned tense, alert. He drew his Remington. An instant later, Taggart and Diaz did the same.      

“What—?”      

A rock burst on the ground beside Jess. The sharp report of rifle fire echoed across the desert. All at once shots exploded, pelting the road around them with shattered stones and dust plumes. Drawing her own revolver, Jess whipped her mare around and looked past Jake to an outcropping of rocks where rifles barked and gun smoke curled away.      

The mare abruptly jerked then reared high, spilling Jess’s hat and tumbling her long braid free. The horse teetered on its hind legs then went over backward.      

Pain exploded through Jess’s back and lungs.      

Then, darkness.      

An image flashed through her mind. . . .      

Here’s the Troubles question: What do you suppose Jess might have experienced when she blacked out? Stars running around her head? Horseshoes, perhaps? Something else?   

Here’s the third question, based on a Whole Lot of Fun. And here’s the third scene. 

Diaz let the straight end trail on the ground beside him and gripped the braided rawhide near his left hip. With his right hand he swung the loop over his head, adding slack, expanding the loop, as he took careful aim at Taggart. “Don’t move none, amigo,” Diaz instructed.      

Young Mattie and Grace both giggled, and Jess pressed her knuckles over her mouth.      

Taggart propped  a fist on  his knee.  “Ye think I’ll sit by while  I’m  roped by the likes  of ye?  You’d sooner find me riding  Broom over a pitted  roach with a  horseshoe in my britches—”      

The rope fell neatly around him, not even brushing his hat.      

Grace climbed over the corral fence and hurried to Diaz.      

Here’s the Whole Lot of Fun question: What do you think young Grace asks Diaz? (Hint: It makes Taggart roll his eyes even more than getting roped!)      

You see? Shakespeare had it right— Passion, Troubles, and a Whole Lot of Fun. It’s a great combination.      

If you’d like to see the book trailer videos for The Sierra Chronicles books one and two, Love’s Rescue and Hope’s Promise, lope over to:

http://www.tammybarley.com/Bookshelf.html.

There you’ll also get to read the blurb for The Sierra Chronicles book three, Faith’s Reward, which will be available in January 2011.    

Also, visit http://www.tammybarley.com/index.html to view an extensive list of Western and Prairie Romance Authors and their recent and upcoming releases, complete with links to their log homes on the Web!

Thank you for whiling a bit of time with me! I look forward to seeing what you all dream up as possible answers to today’s questions!    

If you’ve noticed I haven’t been on the blog schedule lately, you’re right.  I’ve taken a back seat at Petticoats & Pistols to let my Filly sisters run the show so that I can concentrate on another project, but rest assured I haven’t left Wildflower Junction.  Nosirree!  I’ve been right here, keeping a close eye on the corral to make sure the other Fillies behave themselves.  And by golly, they’ve been doing great!

With Tracy Garrett taking the day off while she’s in Orlando at the RWA Conference, I’ve jumped into her slot to let you all know THE LAWMAN’S REDEMPTION is finally on the shelves.  Yee-haw!

Here’s a quick blurb:

Jack Hollister had always wanted to be a lawman, but the night he’s forced to kill his outlaw father in self-defense, he tosses aside his badge and turns cowboy.  He seeks refuge at the Wells Cattle Company, but he’s haunted by his father’s dying wish – to find the man who betrayed him and his gang.

Grace Reilly nurtures a simmering hate for the lawman she believes killed her lawless mother.  She vows revenge, but her respectable life in the east is shattered by scandal.  First, she must travel west to find the answers she needs to save her best friend and all they’d worked for, never dreaming she’d find Jack, too . . ..

Together, Jack and Grace learn love and forgiveness as they encounter the man who’s determined to destroy them—unless they can destroy him first.

Now, we’ve talked about trilogies before and how popular they tend to be with readers.  Well, THE LAWMAN’S REDEMPTION wraps up my Wells Cattle Company trilogy by giving Jack Hollister his own story.   You might recall Trey Wells, owner of the prestigious WCC, started things rolling last May in THE CATTLEMAN’S UNSUITABLE WIFE.  Mick Vasco picked up the reins in THE CATTLEMAN’S CHRISTMAS BRIDE, released in October in a Christmas anthology I shared with Elizabeth Lane, entitled COWBOY CHRISTMAS.  Jack came on stage in that story, and I’m hoping you’ll love him as much as I do in this latest one when he’s forced to do something he’s not sure he wants to do.  Of course, he needs the help of a certain Lady in Blue to succeed.

As with pretty much all of the books I’ve written, these stories involve real-life historical characters.  In the first book of the trilogy, I introduced the astute businessman, Paris Gibson, who is credited with being the driving force behind the growth and establishment of Great Falls, Montana.  (Anyone from Great Falls out there?)  In THE LAWMAN’S REDEMPTION, I bring Louis David Riel on stage.

Without giving anything away, Riel was born Metis—an ethnic mix of French-Canadian, Scottish, English, and various Indian descent.  As a young man, he fought the Canadian government to protect Metis rights and eventually considered himself a divinely chosen prophet for his people. He was exiled and suffered a mental breakdown, eventually being confined to an asylum.  After a slow recovery and promising to lead a quiet life, he was released, only to become involved in more political strife.   The Canadian government considered him an insane traitor and eventually executed him.  Today, after much reconsideration of his deeds, he is now a folk hero in that country, a freedom fighter who devoted his life to protecting his people and their land.

Do you enjoy reading about true historical figures and events in fiction?  Do you approve of an author’s poetic license to construe history to fit her story?  What is your favorite thing about trilogies?

Jump into the discussion, and you’ll be eligible to receive one of two copies of THE LAWMAN’S REDEMPTION!

–“The romance captures the imagination and had me furiously turning those pages.  A keeper.”

**5 Spurs – Love Western Romances

   Buy from Amazon!

Hi folks.  Kaki Warner here, come to chat with you about SEX—more or less.

Is it just me, or is there less explicit sex in western historical romances than in other genres?

Maybe it’s just the ones I pick up, but it seems more and more western romances dwell on the romance of the thing, rather than the mechanics of the thing.  Is this a pattern?  Or has it always been that way?  Look at some of the great western romance writers—Jodi Thomas, Mary Connealy, Debbie Macomber, Linda Lael Miller, and others I can’t remember right now, in addition to the fabulous authors on this website.  Seems most of their stories are more character-driven than sex-driven.   I wonder why?

Perhaps because the archetype of the western hero is so firmly ingrained in our minds that to reduce him to just a roll in the hay (even though he might be the world’s best at it), diminishes the myth of the cowboy somehow.   

Or, perhaps because the Old West and the people who inhabited it—in real life and in fiction—are part of our shared history and have become almost like extended family.  And if so, do you truly want to watch from behind the curtain when family members are bucking the bronc, so to speak?

I don’t.  The minute I started writing Book I of the Blood Rose Trilogy, PIECES OF SKY, the characters became my family.  And even though the mismatched romance between a hard-bitten rancher caught in a blood feud (Brady) and a pregnant English hat maker (Jessica) is central to the story, I wanted to put equal emphasis on other aspects of their characters—past mistakes, regrets, fears as well as desires, not to mention the hardships of living in a harsh place (New Mexico Territory) during hard times (1868).  They had a lot to overcome to earn their HEA, and sex was only part of it.

 The same with Book 2, OPEN COUNTRY, when Brady’s brother, Hank, awakens after a train derailment to find himself married to a stranger (Molly), the father of two children he’s never met, and embroiled in a post Civil War conspiracy.  Dropping a rope on his reluctant wife was only half of his problem.  It wasn’t always a tiptoe through the sagebrush back then.  Those were tough times, and there was more going on than wardrobe choices and getting the heroine in bed.  (OK.  I could be wrong there.  Men haven’t changed that much.)  Even so, how many times do we need detailed instructions on how to fit tab B into slot A?

Relax.  There’s plenty of killing and cussing in my books, so I’m not a complete prude.  A realist, perhaps.  And maybe too visual, because the thought of watching two people I care about roll around in the hay makes me itch.  And seriously…how many of you could write a graphic sex scene without bursting into raucous laughter?  There’s something about a man’s bare bouncing butt—well, never mind. 

So.  How necessary are graphic sex scenes in western historical romance?  Do you prefer closed doors or open doors?  Do you find yourself skimming TO, or THROUGH the sex scenes?  Leave a comment and your name will be entered into a drawing for a sensual-but-non-sexually graphic copy of PIECES OF SKY and/or OPEN COUNTRY.  Thanks for dropping by, and especially thanks to PETTICOATS & PISTOLS for inviting a nearly almost semi-famous western romance author to stop in today.