Hello folks.  Thanks for all the wonderful comments on my Honey Bee post.  I used my handy-dandy random number generator to select a winner of the giveaway and came up with Laney4. 

Laney4, if you will contact me via my website with your mailing address, I’ll get a copy of my book right out to you.

Thanks again to everyone who stopped by today.

Winnie

I want to thank Tracy for inviting me to blog.  My latest book, Second Chance Ranch, is about equine therapy and how it changed the lives of both the hero and heroine.  I read in our local paper a human interest story about an Iraqi veteran who lost his leg in a road side bomb and how equine therapy is used to help veterans.  The instant I read that article, it called to me.  I knew I had to do a story about it and thus was born my book.

I normally write suspense (12 books), but this time the story turned into a romance.  Well, I didn’t that stop me, so I started on my journey.  I read everything I could get my hands on concerning veterans and equine therapy. I ran across several articles in NARAH Strides about how horses are used to help people who’ve lost their limbs regain their balance and rebuild the muscles used in walking.  http://narha.org/resources-education/resources/narha-horses-for-heroes  I discovered a new world of the benefits of horses and what wonders they work.  Children with physical problems can use this therapy, emotionally troubled youths benefit from the responsibility of caring for a horse.  I went out to my local equine therapy ranch and spent the day with them, seeing how the therapist works with smaller children.

I also went down to Shiner’s hospital and talked to the head of the prosthetics department.   We spent time going through the department and he explained how to fit an artificial limb and the process the patient goes through.

Now, I have the background, but who are my hero and heroine?  That’s the exciting part of writing.  Finding your hero and heroine and discovering who they are.  I am a westerner and any story I do is set in the mountain west—Colorado, New Mexico, Wyoming, Texas and Louisiana (it sneaked in).  My hero, Zach, was raised on a ranch in New Mexico and rodeo all his life.  When he loses his right leg below the knee, he doesn’t know how to deal with his life.  And my heroine is an army medic, but also a horse person and ridden all of her life.

As I was researching this story, I talked to a friend who grew up in West Texas and always had horses.  She tells me of her mare who when she sees my friend trots across the pasture and follows my friend around like a big puppy.  Who knew?   When I got to know my horses, Prince Charming, a big black gelding, and Brownie, a little mare who the children ride, they were full blown characters.  I could say that Charming is a wonderful counselor and helped both my hero and heroine work out some thorny problems.  My characters blogged this last month and will probably continue to blog for probably another month.  Kind of the story behind the story.  It’s the characters view of what happened.  I’m tempted to do the horses’ view. I hope if you’re interested you visit my websites, www.leannharris.com and www.barbharrison.com

I also just got good news.  Zach McClure has a brother and sister.  I’m going to get to do those stories, too.  Thanks for having me.

Readers, in honor of her visit, Leann is giving away one copy of SECOND CHANCE RANCH. Just join the conversation with Leann to be entered in the drawing–and be sure we have your email address with your comment.

The Outlaw’s Return is special to me for a couple reasons. J.T. Quinn is doing the hardest thing a person can do. In spite of instincts to the contrary, he’s trying to be a better man. It’s not easy when you have a past like his. The other reason I love this book is Fancy Girl. She’s J.T.’s dog, and she’s got a way with children. The pub date is February 8th, so today I’m giving away three advance copies.  To be entered in the drawing,  just leave a comment. For fun, tell us about your favorite dog or cat or any other critter that’s made you smile.

Here’s an excerpt . . . 

The Outlaw’s Return

 Chapter One

Denver, Colorado
July 1876

When J.T. Quinn vowed to find Mary Larue, he never once imagined they’d meet on a perfect Sunday morning in Denver. On those long nights when he’d lain alone in his bedroll, he’d imagined seeing her on a stage in some high class opera house. He’d pictured himself in a black suit and a white shirt leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed as he listened to her hit the high note only she could hit. Their eyes would meet and she’d recognize him. She’d miss a beat, but she’d pick up the song with even more power than before and he’d know . . . she still loved him.

That wasn’t going to happen today.

It wasn’t Saturday night, and J.T. wasn’t wearing a suit.

It was Sunday morning, and he had trail dust in every pore. He also smelled like the inside of a saloon. He hadn’t visited such an establishment for six months, but last night he’d walked past a gaming hall with a head full of memories. A drunken cowhand had stumbled out to the boardwalk with an open bottle of whiskey, and the contents had sloshed on J.T.’s trousers. The smell had sickened him in one breath and tempted him in the next. He’d have changed clothes, but the garments in his saddlebag were filthy. They stank, but not with whiskey. He’d resisted that temptation, and he’d done it because of his love for Mary Larue.

Heaving a sigh, he looked down at his dog. “What should we do, Fancy Girl?”

She whapped her tail against the boardwalk and looked up at him with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. J.T. didn’t know what kind of dog she was, but they’d been best friends since he’d walked out on Griff Lassen at the Dudley place. They’d been running off Ambrose Dudley and his brother, squatters up in Wyoming, when the dog had charged at them and started barking. Griff had ordered J.T. to shoot her dead.

J.T. had done a lot of mean things in his life, but not even he could shoot a dog. On the other hand, he’d come close to shooting Griff. When the man aimed his Sharps at the mutt, J.T. had shoved the barrel downward. The bullet had ricocheted off a rock and creased Fancy Girl’s head. J.T. had mopped her blood with his bandanna and fed her jerky from his pocket. When she’d followed him to his horse, he’d poured water from his canteen into a pot. She’d lapped every drop, and he’d filled it again.

He’d left the Dudley place with the job undone and Griff promising to get even, but the dog had followed him. That night he’d named her Fancy Girl because her fur reminded him of Mary’s blond hair, and he’d made a decision. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who hunted squatters and shot at dogs.

For the past ten years, J.T. had sold his gun for money. He’d been nineteen when he’d sold his gun for the first time, and next month he’d turn thirty. For a gunslinger, he had a lot of years on him. Today, standing outside a saloon and listening to Mary sing, he thought back on those years. He’d drunk oceans of whiskey and been with too many women. The whiskey had never failed to work its magic. The women, though, had lost that power and it was because of Mary.

She’d been in his head for two years now, ever since Kansas where they’d been a pair and she’d made him smile. Really smile. Not the sneer he usually wore. And not because she was generous with her affections. Mary made him smile because she believed he was a good man. He wasn’t, but after the mess at the Dudley place, he wanted to try. Leaving that day with Fancy Girl, he’d decided to find Mary and make a new life. He had some money saved, enough to open a saloon, a place where she could sing and live the life she’d always wanted. He didn’t plan to marry her. He’d changed, but not that much. Picking up where they’d left off seemed noble enough.

He and Fancy Girl had been searching for six months, and he’d finally caught a break. He hadn’t touched a woman or a drop of whiskey since the mess in Wyoming, but he still had to eat. Last night he’d taken supper at the boardinghouse where he was staying with his dog. One of the boarders, an old man with bad eyes, had told him about a woman named Mary who sang like a nightingale.

You’ll find her tomorrow morning at Brick’s Saloon.

Not once had it occurred to J.T. that Mary would be singing a hymn in a makeshift church. His mind had gone in the opposite direction. He’d imagined her finishing up a night’s work that involved more than singing. He’d been sick to think she’d fallen so low, but in the next breath he’d been relieved. No matter what Mary had done to survive, he still loved her. He wouldn’t wish her the suffering of selling herself, but he rather enjoyed the thought of riding to her rescue . . . 

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I hope you enjoy J.T.’s story.  The book will be available February 8, 2011.   Good luck in the drawing!

Sharpshooter in Petticoats released January 1st.

It’s in bookstores NOW!

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Sharpshooter in Petticoats is my favorite one of the three, not because the others aren’t good, but because I’ve been building to a wild, chaotic, runaway, mayhem soaked conclusion for three books, and in a way…for NINE books. characters from Lassoed in Texas Trilogy and the Montana Marriages Series are in this final book.

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If you’ve read books #1 and #2 in the series, Doctor in Petticoats and Wrangler in Petticoats, then you’ll know I’ve been getting the oldest sister in the McClellen clan into deeper and deeper trouble in those earlier books. Finally it’s time for Mandy to have her happy ending.

And if there wasn’t a feuding family of backshooting murderers gunning for her, it’d be no problem because her no-account husband is dead and the hero has been around the edges of her life for years. Her being married to another man is quite an avalanche blocking the trail to true love, though.

But I won’t even beat around the bush here, Mandy’s husband, Sidney Grey,  is dead and gone. Shot by the men who are now harassing Mandy.

I know a lot of people wanted to WATCH Sidney die. And they wanted to watch him die slowly, maybe stake him to a fire ant hill or have him be nibbled to death by small predators. Better yet, have Mandy beat him to death for insulting her for the LAST TIME.

But nope. I needed him dead to start with so I just shot him between the end of book #2 and the beginning of book #3.  Being a writer is kind of fun. You get to solve all the world’s problems in your books. Of course I created the problems. And in real life, the people who are messing up your world usually just stay right there and keep making things hard.

But for a writer, it’s so clean, even though you have to abuse people you love to begin with to make everyone loathe the villain.

But I digress.

Here’s a little bit about Sharpshooter in Petticoats:

Mandy McClellen Grey, has become the focus of a feud thanks to her husband, who made this mess and then died. Far from home, Mandy, the best little rifle woman in the west, has resigned herself to a lonely life under siege rather than call for help and endanger her family.

Tom Linscott is fed up with waiting for Mandy who should have had the sense to come to him as soon as she finished burying her worthless husband. In fact he’d've come fast enough to dig the hole if she’d've sent for him. He goes to round up his little woman and buys into a heap of trouble from a whole clan of outlaws.

Between Mandy’s deadly skill with her rifle, her determination to not bring trouble down on someone she loves, and an ever growing crowd of varmints who want to bury everyone named Grey—and anyone who sides with them, Tom may not survive getting himself hitched.

And here is an excerpt from Sharpshooter in Petticoats:
 

“She stole my horse?” Tom’s voice rose to such a high pitch it hurt his ears

“I think she took out after the men who were shooting at us.” Wade stepped in front of Red. It was his brother-in-law’s way to draw a fist to his own face to protect someone else. He might even have thoughts of Tom’s soul, not wanting Tom to slug a parson.

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“You oughtta sign it, too.” Red handed Tom a piece of paper with a neatly written record of the marriage, signed by Red, Abby, and Mandy, all three. “But even if you don’t, you’re still married.”

Red said that as if he expected Tom to argue, but being married to Mandy, the little horse thief, suited him right down to the ground. Tom grabbed the paper and scrawled his name with a pen that barely scratched a line in nearly-dried ink. He thrust it toward Red.“It’s yours.” Red refused to take it.

Tom folded it roughly and jammed it into one pocket.

“Abby, tell me what went on around here. Sawyer, pack me some grub.”

Abby talked while Tom led his stallion to the barn.

When his sister paused to take a breath, Tom jerked his chin at the stallion. “Will you take care of him? Everyone else on this ranch is scared to get near him.”

Abby agreed and kept talking, letting him know all that had unfolded. She made a point of talking about the way Mandy handled her rifle. Tom had heard a similar story years ago from Belle Harden, who had met Mandy when she was a new bride.He’d asked too much of the black. He strode toward the corral where Tom’s second favorite horse was held. The most perfect colt to ever come out of his stallion, and that was saying something because his stallion bred true.

Tom stumbled to a halt when he reached the corral. A dozen horses grazed in the pen, none of them the one he wanted. “She stole my best horse?” Though it was no time for such a thing, Tom laughed. He had married himself one beauty of a woman.

“Borrowed, Tom. Not stole.” Red had tagged along to the corral.
Tom remembered well his plan to beat Red within an inch of his life. Right now time was too tight. “Which way did she go?”

Red pointed to a trail in the distance Tom could only see because he knew his land so well. “She asked me where I saw the men riding, the ones who shot up your house.”

“And you told her? Why would you do a stupid thing like that?”
Red shoved his face right up into Tom’s, which reminded Tom that Red wasn’t just a sky pilot—he was also a rancher who’d come out here and tamed a mighty mean stretch of a land. “I told her because it never occurred to me that a woman would abandon three children and a man she’d just married to go hunting a pack of killers. What kind of woman did you marry anyway? She’s acting crazy.”

Tom shrugged. He couldn’t really argue Red’s point, though arguing came real easy. “I married me the sharpest shooting woman in the West, I reckon.”

“That you did, Tom. I saw her in action.” Abby bridled Tom’s second choice for a horse while he saddled.

“I saw her, too.” Red shook his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that. Why do you want a woman who appears to have a taste for killing? What are you thinking to pick a woman like that?” Tom looked past Red and saw Red’s wife, sweet little Cassie Dawson, quietly tending all six children, both the Dawsons’ and Mandy’s—Tom caught that thought. They were his children now, too.

Tom’s temper would have crushed Cassie like a bug the first week of their marriage. Shrugging, Tom felt a little sheepish, but this was a man of God. It’d be wrong to lie.

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“Honest, Red, that’s what I like most about her.”

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http://www.maryconnealy.com/

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Leave a comment to get your name in the drawing for a signed copy of Sharpshooter in Petticoats.

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Or click on the tiny cover above to buy from Amazon.

Unconventional. Unafraid. Unwelcome.

A female physician with an adopted black daughter? The townsfolk of Idaho Bend will never accept Dr. Mercy Gabriel—even when faced with a deadly cholera epidemic. But all Mercy needs is one man willing to listen…and to trust.

Four years of war command turned Lon Mackey into a footloose gambler who can’t abide attachments. Yet he can’t help getting riled by the threats Mercy keeps receiving. Her trailblazing courage could reignite his faith and humanity. And his loyalty could make her dream—for the first time—of a family of her own….

Her Healing Ways is the final book in my Love Inspired Historical “Gabriel Sisters” series about three Quaker sisters who are trying to help others in the aftermath of the Civil War.

This final story is Mercy Gabriel’s. She worked alongside Clara Barton as a fellow nurse throughout the Civil War. Now she’s graduated from the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania, which was the first US medical college exclusively for women.

Mercy and her adopted daughter Indigo, an orphaned former slave, head west to find a place where Mercy hopes she will be accepted as a physician.

I think this hope demonstrates one of the most interesting facts about the West. The West was a place where the “unconventional” had more freedom, had a chance to prove themselves and be accepted for what they could do, not their differences.

Mercy rightly assumes a frontier community with both logging and mining will need a doctor and they will accept her when the need arises.

Can you think of any other examples of unconventional people who found a home in the West?

Mark Twain and Theodore Roosevelt come to my mind. Mark Twain developed his writing while out West (The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County). And after his first wife’s untimely death, Theodore Roosevelt carved his future from his escape to the West

Any more examples? Comment to get your name in the drawing for one copy of HER HEALING WAYS.

Have you ever given a surprise party?  Have you been the guest of honor at one?  Several months ago my sister-in-law called me about a surprise party for my brother’s 50th birthday. They live in Denver, so it’s been awhile since we’ve all gotten together.  No way would I miss it! But oh my goodness!  Keeping the trip to Denver a secret for that long nearly did me in.  I had visions of talking on the phone and blurting, “See you in September!”

Well, I managed to keep quiet and I’m so glad I did.  My sister-in-law planned the best-ever surprise. She sent my brother on a scavenger hunt with a series of clues. Instead of finding trinkets, he found people.  I was Clue #5. The clue directed him to the  place were he works and told him to look for a loved one.  He saw his wife first and said, “Where’s my clue?”

“I don’t have it,” she answered. “Keep looking.” 

My brother works at a western supply store. Among other things, they sell cowboy boots. I was seated on a bench with boots in hand. To anyone else, I looked like a customer trying on a pair of Tony Lamas.  They were cool boots but not nearly as cool as the moment my brother spotted me.  It’s not often you get a chance to completely shock someone, but that’s what happened.  I’ll never forget that moment…It was the highlight of my trip to Denver.

The good times just kept coming.  After the big birthday bash, we did a mini-tour of the mountains around Castle Rock.  Some of you will remember Bounty Hunter’s Bride and the final scene with Beau Morgan and outlaw Clay Johnson in a canyon. The book is set in Castle Rock, Colorado, so a lot of my research consisted of calling my brother for info on the terrain. A cowboy at heart, he’s ridden all over the area and he told me about a particular place on the Platte River.

On Sunday we piled into his big truck and and drove to the place he described.  What a glorious feeling to kick off my sandals, wade into the river and feel the reality of my characters from the book!  I could picture Beau riding up the river and then into a side canyon. The dirt was as red as I’d imagined, the walls of the canyon as steep.  Rocks jutted just like my brother had described.  Fiction came alive for me in those moments.

It also came alive in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Wyoming Lawman is on the shelves now.  The first chapter takes place in a fictional place called the Dryer Hotel.  Before the surprise party, my husband and I detoured to Cheyenne where we spent a night at the Plains Hotel.  The lobby has been maintained in the style fitting the year it was built.  I could practically see my hero and heroine sitting on the chairs while the heroine made braids for the hero’s five-year-old daughter.

The last stop on the Wyoming journey was the Wyoming Territorial Prison. My all time favorite hero, the Reverend John Leaf from Abbie’s Outlaw, spent time in this place. Online research provided the facts, but walking through the prison yard, seeing the monstrous walls and the dying grass, brought the place to life in a new way.  The cells were what I’d imagined, and I got to see where the women were housed.  Did you know the first chaplain for the prison was a woman?  She’s definitely blog-worthy, if not a heroine worthy of her own book.

So that’s my trip to Cheyenne and Denver . . . I had a great time combining research with a family celebration. About the boots I was trying on when I met my brother . . . I wear them all the time and I love them!

Available now at Amazon: Wyoming Lawman 

“Wanted: A girl who will love, honest, true not sour; a nice little cooing dove and willing to work in flour.”

“I am 33 years of age, and as regards looks can average with most men. I am looking for a lady to make her my wife, as I am heartily tired of bachelor life. I desire a lady not over 28 or 30 years of age, not ugly, well educated and musical. Nationality makes no difference, only I prefer not to have a lady of Irish birth. She must have at least $20,000.” (Yeah, good luck with that, Mister)

Mail order brides have been a part of American history since 1619, when the first white women arrived in Jamestown. The Virginia Company of London sent several shipments of mail-order brides to America, in exchange for tobacco, so it’s no surprise these ladies became known as tobacco brides.

With the westward expansion of the U.S. frontier, the popularity of mail-order brides exploded. Men traveled west for adventure, to get free land, and to find gold, but once they settled and the lust for adventure wore off, they realized something vital was missing—decent women—the kind a man wanted to raise his children.

At the same time war, disease, and the lack of quality medicine, left many woman widowed, fatherless, or spinsters. With little means of support and few jobs available for women, these desperate gals often became mail-order brides. Marrying a stranger and having a home and children to tend seemed a far better alternative to working twelve hours a day in a sweat shop, or even worse, being forced to become a kept woman or a prostitute.

Even though readers love mail-order bride stories, which usually have a happy ending, in truth, many of these marriages failed. But it wasn’t always the woman who was disappointed, sometimes the man was the unhappy one. Here’s an eye-opening advertisement warning men to be cautious and women to be truthful:

NOTICE: Due to the influx of Eastern “mail-order brides” into our community & the hasty marriages that follow, several complaints have been lodged by no longer happy grooms.

Therefore:
Let it be known that any marriage into which a man is seduced by the use of:
False hair
Cosmetic paints
Artificial bosoms (they actually had those back then?)
Bolstered hips (and why would you want these?)
Padded limbs (uh…no thanks)
without the man’s knowledge, shall stand null & void if he so desires.

-Judge John H. Arbuckle
Dated April 3, 1873

DO NOT BE DECEIVED

(Note: This warning first appeared in several issues of Matrimonial News. It was reprinted in Hearts West: True Stories of Mail-order Brides by Chris Enss, as were the two advertisements at the beginning of this article)

Hmm…I’m guessing that men must have liked fuller women back then. Can’t you imagine the surprise of some farmer as his new wife undressed on their wedding night and removed her big dress, false hair, fake bosoms, and hip and limb pads. She went from stout to scrawny. J

Needless to say, we still have mail-order brides today, but you hear about few happy endings. For a romance though, a happy ending is crucial. This was my year of writing mail-order brides stories, and I guaranteed you a HEA.

Second Chance Brides is book two in my Texas Boardinghouse Brides series. Here’s a short blurb: Shannon O’Neil and Leah Bennett, are stranded in Lookout, Texas, without husbands or future plans. Thankfully, the marshal has ordered the rascally Corbett brothers to pay for the women’s lodging at the boardinghouse, but will the brothers’ idea of hosting Saturday socials really bring these women the kind of loves they long for? Will Shannon choose to marry just for security? Will Leah reject love when the challenges mount?

Ride the transcontinental railroad as marriage arrives by mail-order—and just in time for Christmas. Annika arrives in Wyoming to discover her intended is missing. Jolie’s journey to Nevada is derailed by disaster. Elizabeth carries a load of secrets to Nebraska. And Amelia travels to California to wrap up her final attempts at matchmaking. Will the holiday season be the ticket to spark love in unexpected ways?

So, do you have a favorite mail-order bride book that you’ve read—or do you have an interesting mail-order bride story in your family heritage? Leave a comment to get your name in the drawing for a copy of Christmas Mail Order Brides.
Thanks for inviting me to be a guest again on Petticoats & Pistols. I love this website and always enjoy my time here.

Click covers to buy on Amazon
Vickie McDonough
www.vickiemcdonough.com

It’s been a long time coming, but Wyoming Lawman, the second book in “The Women of Swan’s Nest” series, will be released on Tuesday, October 12th.  Some of you will remember Pearl Oliver from The Maverick Preacher.  She gave birth to a son out of wedlock and had plans to move to Cheyenne. This is her story and it’s got vigilantes, a little girl who needs a mother, and a deputy sheriff with a secret. 

To celebrate the coming release, let’s do a drawing. And to make the drawing more fun, let’s each include our home state or country.  That’s optional, but I thought it would be cool is see how far P&P reaches.  Three copies are up for grabs, so here we go . . .

Wyoming Lawman . . .

Matrimony? Never again for deputy sheriff Matt Wiley. The only good thing from his first marriage is his daughter. His little girl might want a mother, but Matt knows that no woman should have to deal with his guilty secret, or his anger at God. He’ll do his duty, serve the town of Cheyenne and keep his distance.

Yet when courageous single mother Pearl Oliver comes to town, watching from the sidelines isn’t an option—especially when Pearl lands herself in danger. His heart, Pearl’s life and the safety of their town are all at risk. Only the love and faith he thought he’d left behind can help him win his way to happily ever after.

Here’s an excerpt from the middle of Chapter One. It’s the moment Matt and Pearl meet. 

             “Get back!” Pearl shouted at the mob.

            The crowd parted but not because of her. Every head had turned to a man shouting orders as he shoved men out of his way. As he shouldered past the cowboy who’d whistled, Pearl saw a broad-brimmed hat pulled low to hide his eyes, a clean-shaven jaw and a badge on a leather vest. She judged him to be six feet tall, lanky in build but muscular enough to command respect. He also had a pistol on his hip, a sure sign of authority. The city of Cheyenne, fighting both outlaws and vigilantes, had enacted a law prohibiting men from wearing guns inside the city limits. Foolishly Pearl had taken it as a sign of civility. Now she knew otherwise.

            When the deputy reached the street, his eyes went straight to Pearl. They flared with recognition and she thought of Sarah calling her mama. Just as quickly, his gaze narrowed to a scowl and she knew this man and his wife had parted with ugly words. Loathing snarled in his pale irises, but Pearl didn’t take his knee-jerk reaction personally. She had them all the time . . . to crowds and stuffy rooms, black carriages and the smell of a certain male cologne.

            The deputy’s gaze slid to Sarah and he strode forward. When he reached the child’s side, he dropped to one knee, muddying his trousers as he touched the back of her head. “Sarah, honey,” he said with a hush. “Look at me, darlin’”

            Pearl heard Texas in his voice . . . and love.

            The child peeked from the folds of her skirt. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I was bad.”

            “Are you hurt?”

            She shook her head, but her father wasn’t convinced. He ran his hand down the child’s back, looked at her muddy knees and inspected her elbows. Apart from the scare, Sarah and her doll were both fine. Pearl watched as he blew out a breath, then wiped the girl’s tears with his thumb. When Sarah turned to him, he cupped her chin. “You shouldn’t have left the store.”

            He’d put iron in his voice, but Pearl knew bravado when she heard it. He’d been scared to death.

            Sarah hid her face in Pearl’s skirt. “I know, Daddy. But I saw a puppy.”

            The man frowned. “Sarah–”

            “Then I saw her.” She raised her chin and stared at Pearl.

            Instinctively Pearl cupped the back of Sarah’s head. She’d been close to grown when her own mother died, but she missed her every day, even more since Toby’s birth. If she’d caught a glimpse of Virginia Oliver in a crowd, she’d have acted just like Sarah.

            The deputy pushed to his full height, giving her a closer look at his clean-shaven jaw. Most men in Cheyenne wore facial hair, but the deputy didn’t even sport a moustache. He had a straight nose, brown hair streaked with the sun and the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. If her life had been simpler, she’d have smiled at him, even flirted a bit. Instead she pulled her lips into an icy line. Until she secured the job at Miss Marlowe’s School, she didn’t want to speak with anyone.

            He took off his hat, a sign of respect that made her belly quake because she longed to feel worthy of it. The intensity in his eyes had the same effect but for different reasons. He frightened her.

            “I can’t thank you enough, Miss.” His drawl rolled like a river, slow and unstoppable. “I was in the store. I had an eye on her, and then . . .” He sealed his lips. “The next thing I knew, someone said a child was down in the street.”

            Pearl knew how he felt. Toby had suffered a bout of croup and she’d been worried to death. Her heart swelled with compassion, but she blocked it. “As you can see, your daughter’s fine. If you’ll excuse me–”

            “But I owe you.”

            “No, you don’t.” She tried to step back, but Sarah tightened her grip.

            The man skimmed her dress the way he’d inspected his daughter for injuries. “Your dress is ruined. I’ll buy you a new one.”

            “No!” She could only imagine what kind of talk that would cause.

            Instead of backing off, the lawman thrust out his hand. “Forgive my lack of manners. I’m Matt Wiley, Deputy Sheriff.”

            If she accepted the handshake, she’d have to give her name. She’d be trapped in a conversation she couldn’t have until she spoke with Carrie and the school board. The less she said to this man, the safer she’d be. She indicated her muddy glove. “I don’t want to dirty your hand. I have to go now.” Before he could argue, she pivoted and headed for the hotel.

            “Wait!”

            The cry came from Sarah. Every instinct told Pearl to hug the child goodbye, but she couldn’t risk a conversation with the girl’s father. Walking faster, she skirted a puddle and stepped on to the boardwalk. Thinking of Toby, her father and the new life she wanted for them all, she hurried to the hotel.

Hope you all enjoy the book! Be sure to leave a comment with your name and home state or country. Winners will be announced later tonight.

 I remember when women wore aprons over their dresses as they did their daily work. Nowadays, I don’t think our kids even know what an apron is.

The following essay was on this site but also on a number of other sites: http://theopenpantry.blogspot.com/2009/01/history-of-aprons.html

“The principal use of Grandma’s apron was to protect the dress underneath, because she only had a few, it was easier to wash aprons than dresses and they used less material, but along with that, it served as a potholder for  removing hot pans from the oven. It was wonderful for drying children’s tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears. From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven. (A warming oven was a narrow cabinet above a wood-burning stove, next to the stovepipe.)

“When company came, those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids. And when the weather was cold grandma wrapped it around her arms.

“Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove. Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.

“From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls. In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

“When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.

“When dinner was ready, Grandma walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the menfolk knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

“It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that old-time apron that served so many purposes. “

Aprons have been used for hundreds of year by men and women for a variety of tasks. Perhaps the first mention of the use of an apron is in the Bible when Adam and Eve sewed together fig leaves to make aprons to cover themselves. We traditionally think of aprons being used for cooking, and while that is true, they have served as a cover-up for other tasks that tend to be messy. Occupations such as butchers, welders and bakers have always used aprons to protect both their clothing and bodies from their work.  In fact, men probably wore aprons before women did.

Some interesting facts about aprons.

The word comes from a French word for napkin or small tablecloth.

During earlier times, like maybe the 16^th and 17^th centuries, colors indicated the trade of the wearer. For instance, English barbers wore a checked pattern, butchers and porters wore green.

A pinafore apron was “pinned” to clothing.

Cooks turned their aprons to hide the stains but only once or the stains weren’t hidden.

I remember the first thing I learned to sew was a half apron that tied around my waist. I also remember when servers at wedding receptions all wore matching aprons. Often the color and style had been chosen by the bride or bride’s mother. I also remember accidently going to school in grade one without removing the apron I wore. I was so embarrassed. Looking back I can’t imagine why it bothered me so but it did.

Here is a site with free patterns for making aprons. http://tipnut.com/56-free-apron-patterns-you-can-make/

We’ve almost forgotten about aprons although my grandson designed an apron for me that I’m very proud of. (That’s it on the right.) In writing historical fiction, I need to remember how they were always worn and how they were used. In my August release, Dakota Cowboy, I used aprons a couple of times but not in my Christmas novella, Christmas Under Western Skies, due out later this year.

Website www.lindaford.org Blog www.lindaford.org/blog

I’ll give away a copy of Dakota Cowboy to one person who comments.

By Stephen Bly

Copyright©2010

The Matador Hotel died on July 5^th, 1965, but they didn’t bother burying it until last fall. 

Cowboy For A Rainy Afternoon, Stephen Bly

The plot for Cowboy For A Rainy Afternoon developed like homemade stew in a crockpot. A slow simmer. Then, the image of the 1950s kitchen filled with sweet aromas and sights and sounds. Hours later all the parts seemed ready.

The story grew out of fond memories from my childhood. What makes it real personal is that I was 10-years-old in 1954, just like the narrator. And I did hear numerous accounts about the “old days.” At that time, Johnny Appleseed was a legendary hero. I learned about him at the knee of my Indiana grandma. She figured anyone who dedicated himself to planting apple trees must be a good guy.

I often get asked where I grew up. Readers of my westerns suppose I was born and raised in some rough and tumble part of the west amid gunfights and wild adventures. Well, they’re somewhat right. Home for me was a ranch north of Visalia, California, in the great San Joaquin Valley.

“That doesn’t sound like the wild west,” they say.

They’re wrong. From Joaquin Murietta to the Dalton Brothers, Visalia Saddles to the Miller and Lux Ranch. . .that valley’s filled with western history. One of my favorite tales involved the gunfight and capture of Sontag and Evans at Stone Corral, a few miles down the road from our home.

    Cribbage and cowboys. . .I figured I fit right in.

Cowboy For A Rainy Afternoon, Stephen Bly

It seems quite natural for me to write about a grandpa and the game of cribbage. My grandpa taught me to play when I was 4-years-old. I played him once or twice a week until he died when I turned 15. In the book Pop’s name is Theodore and his wife is Katie, same as my grandparents.

Talk slow and think deep. It’s part of the Code of the West. Some scoff at the notion of an unwritten set of rules that honest men lived by. Politically correct history books deny the Code’s existence. Those authors and professors didn’t grow up in the West. I remember in the mid-1980s standing at the graveside of my uncle. At the time, his place encompassed around 14,000 acres. As I looked down at the coffin of my Uncle Buster, an old-timer slid up beside me. “He was a good man, son. He lived by the Code.”

There’s a quiet buzz from antique ceiling fans, like six thousand crickets, all out of tune. You don’t even notice, until there’s silence.

                   Cowboy For A Rainy Afternoon, Stephen Bly

 Woolworth’s department stores provided lots of pleasure for kids like me. Like a Dollar Store, they included a soda fountain lunch counter, better merchandise, and a friendly clerk behind every counter. By 2001 the company focused on sporting goods and changed its name to Foot Locker Inc. A classic example of a company that adapted to the market needs.

In today’s consumer shopping mall world, it’s hard for some to envision the incredible thrill of merchandise-packed Five & Dimes. I couldn’t believe so many products existed. I’m not sure kids today can experience anything near that excitement. A $.49 badge? That’s what Little Brother, the 10-year-old narrator, gets. A little spendy for 1954. I remember getting a 25-cent a week allowance, provided I did all my chores, in a time when $1.00 per hour provided a decent wage.

My bedroom teemed with White Owl cigar boxes, my granddad’s favorite cigar. He didn’t smoke them much; mainly he chewed them. And because I lived across the road from him, I got many of his boxes. Lots of childhood treasures can be stored in a cigar box.

 Folks today think that 1954 existed in some other galaxy, on some other planet. Maybe they’re right.

It’s hard to believe that world and this one are made of the same stuff.

 Cowboy For A Rainy Afternoon, Stephen Bly

I can’t tell you about television in 1954. We didn’t have one yet. Didn’t matter. Didn’t need one. When I came home from school, I did chores or played outside until dark and Mom made me come indoors. Now, that does sound like a century ago.

I did not know cowboys named Quirt, Bronc, Thad, Shorty, Coosie or Pop. But I knew men much like them. In fact, most folks called my Grandpa Wilson “Pop.” I once met an old-timer in Magdalena, New Mexico, who had been a sheriff in the 1930s. He still packed a pistol and watched the door, just in case someone he sent to prison got out and scouted him for revenge. I based my character, Quirt Payton, on him.

All the aged cowboys I ever met wore long-sleeved shirts, usually some faded  shade of white, with the collar buttoned. This kept the dirt out when he rode down the trail or behind a herd of slow moving cows. Also, an old beat-up Stetson and yellowed cigarettes stained their fingers.

I don’t suppose the current generation has ever ridden in the open trunk of a car, nor let the air down in the tires to drive down a railroad track (and they call skateboarding an extreme sport). At one point, the six cowboys in the novel, plus Miss Diane Anderson, and the boy narrator, pile into a ’49 Plymouth, without seatbelts. I could have been the poster child for the need of such safety devices. I fell out of my parents’ car, going about 55 miles per hour, in 1949. I spent 10 days in the hospital nursing a major concussion.

At least one of the stories happened to me. In 1994, in Telluride, I was told by the hotel clerk I couldn’t get a room. He intimated I wasn’t their kind. My gruffy appearance after a week’s research in the wilds didn’t impress them. So, I drove all the way to Cortez for a room, arriving about midnight. To say I was ticked is an understatement.

It’s like I’m right there in the room with these old-timers. Some of these scenes I do recall first-hand. I remember going to see a friend of my grandfather’s at a 4-story hotel in central California in the mid-1950s. His room was carpeted with out-dated newspapers that he hadn’t got around to reading yet. Such images last forever.

My favorite things to do when the weather threatens and I can’t play golf: oil the saddles, clean the Winchesters, or write a novel about the Old West.

In Cowboy For A Rainy Afternoon I discover that maybe I wasn’t born 100 years too late.

Leave a comment to get your name in a drawing for a copy of Cowboy for a Rainy Afternoon.

Cowboy For A Rainy Afternoon (hardback, Center Point) will be released: June 2010.

Available through http://www.amazon.com/ or www.BlyBooks.com