Three years ago this month, my debut western historical romance, FIRE EYES, was published by The Wild Rose Press. I was thrilled! Finally, my dream had come true, with the help of a wonderful editor and publishing company. When I got my first box of books, I sat and gazed at the covers—just like any first time author would. My husband teased me about “rubbing off the paint”—but I was so proud of them, and justifiably so. A lot of very hard work had gone into that story, not just from my perspective, but also from many other people. My editor at The Wild Rose Press, Helen Andrew, was wonderful. She really explained in detail why certain things couldn’t stand and had to go or be changed. But part of what ‘had to go’ was important to the story, in my mind. Still, there were company guidelines to be followed, and neither of us could do anything about that. So we worked together to find a way to take out the parts that made it more “western” than “romance” and still came out with a fine story. However, this spring, I asked for my rights back for FIRE EYES and got them, and submitted the story to another small publisher who has an imprint for westerns and western romances.  I was able to re-edit the book and add in much of what I’d had to take out or rewrite in the first version, and it was released yesterday with a brand new Jimmy Thomas cowboy cover and lots of renewed interest. The e-book version is available now at Amazon, Lulu, Monkeybars and many other e-book retailers, and will become available soon at Barnes and Noble, Sony and Apple. Here are the links for Smashwords and Amazon: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/162817  http://www.amazon.com/Fire-Eyes-ebook/dp/B0083JYET8 The print version will become available within the week, and again, I’m very happy about breathing new life into this wonderful story. Once I am able to order my print copies, I’m sure I’ll sit on the floor and ‘rub the paint off’ again. And I’ll be grateful that I’ve had two chances to get my story out there—another thrill, a second time around! I'LL BE GIVING AWAY A COPY OF FIRE EYES TODAY! JUST LEAVE A COMMENT TO BE ENTERED IN THE DRAWING, ALONG WITH YOUR CONTACT INFO. EXCERPT FROM FIRE EYES: “You waitin’ on a…invitation?” A faint smile touched his battered mouth. “I’m fresh out.” Jessica reached for the tin star. Her fingers closed around the uneven edges of it. No. She couldn’t wait any longer. “What’s your name?” Her voice came out jagged, like the metal she touched. His bruised eyes slitted as he studied her a moment. “Turner. Kaedon Turner.” Jessica sighed. “Well, Kaedon Turner, you’ve probably been a lot better places in your life than this. Take a deep breath, and try not to move.” He gave a wry chuckle, letting his eyes drift completely closed. “Do it fast. I’ll be okay.” She nodded, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “Ready?” “Go ahead.” Even knowing what was coming, his voice sounded smoother than hers, she thought. She wrapped her hand tightly around the metal and pulled up fast, as he’d asked. As the metal slid through his flesh, Kaed’s left hand moved convulsively, his fingers gripping the quilt. He was unable to hold back the soft hint of an agonized groan as he turned away from her. He swore as the thick steel pin cleared his skin, freeing the chambray shirt and cotton undershirt beneath it, blood spraying as his teeth closed solidly over his bottom lip. Jessica lifted the material away, biting back her own curse as she surveyed the damage they’d done to him. His chest was a mass of purple bruises, uneven gashes, and burns. Her stomach turned over. She was not squeamish. But this— It was just like what they’d done to Billy, before they’d killed him. Billy, the last man the Choctaws had dumped on her porch. Billy Monroe, the man she’d come to loathe during their one brief year of marriage. She took a washrag from the nightstand and wet it in the nearby basin. Wordlessly, she placed her cool palm against Kaedon Turner’s stubbled, bruised cheek, turning his head toward her so she could clean his face and neck. She knew instinctively he was the kind of man who would never stand for this if it wasn’t necessary. The kind of man who was unaccustomed to a woman’s comforting caress. The kind of man who would never complain, no matter how badly wounded he was. “Fallon.” His voice was rough. Jessica stopped her movements and watched him. “What about him?” His brows drew together, as if he were trying to formulate what he wanted to say. “Is he…dead?” What should she tell him? The truth. “I—don’t know.” “Damn it.” “You were losing a lot of blood out there,” Jessica said, determined to turn his thoughts from Fallon to the present. She ran the wet cloth lightly across the long split in his right cheek. His breathing was controlled, even. “I took a bullet.” He said it quietly, almost conversationally. Jessica stopped moving. “Where?”

Although I normally blog about writing, marketing or books, today I’ve been wondering about something that I can’t get out of my mind. It crept up on me in its own sneaky fashion, until I finally realized that there’s no escaping it, and no turning back. It’s an obsession that is fast rivaling my daily writing “fix”.  Have you ever gone to Facebook and clicked on one of these pages set up by animal rescue organizations? I did. Now, it has taken hold of me and won’t let go.  All it takes is one look at a face like this one. You'll be hooked, too. The pleas for these animals are desperate. In many states, the organizations work to pull animals from shelters that are known as “kill” shelters. Dogs and cats that come in sick or hurt, or the ones that are aggressive—even if they are just afraid—are the first to be put down. Yes, I realize that not all stray animals can be saved. But did you know that many animals that are brought to the shelters are “owner surrendered” pets? Why would someone do this? For many reasons—I think one of the main ones being that owners believe that taking an animal to the shelter and ‘dropping it off’ will result in the shelter finding it a good home.  The hard truth is that most shelters are running over. Dropping off your animal is probably not going to result in a preferable outcome of adoption. Most likely, the animal is going to be euthanized within the week. One story that really tore at me when it was posted was the picture of a sweet golden retriever mix, that was taken in her cell at the shelter. Her eyes were kind. She didn’t understand what had happened to her world. After living with her master for 12 years, she had been “dropped off” at the shelter when her human had to go into a nursing home. I guess no one in the family was able to take her in to finish out her last years. And I can only imagine what anguish her master must have gone through, knowing that his family had surrendered his loving pet to a shelter. “Please help Sadie,” the post began. “She is alone and scared, and doesn’t understand why she’s at the shelter.” Sadie’s story haunted me all day. But it wasn’t the only one. A few hours later, I saw that Middle Mutts, one of these wonderful organizations, had posted the story of yet another sweet little dog whose family had “surrendered” him as well. Only, they had moved off and left him to fend for himself rather than try to find a home for him. How could a family do this? I pictured them driving away from their home in their mini-van, the dog sitting in the front yard watching them leave, the husband and wife comforting themselves with the hope that “maybe one of the neighbors will take him in…” Nope. Animal control got him first and he went to the shelter, where he awaits certain death if no one adopts him or sponsors him. The picture above is of Zina & Mimi. Mimi is a gorgeous Great Dane/Lab mix around 1.5 years old. She was an owner surrender along with her best friend, Zena, a deaf Boxer. Zena depends on Mimi, and if possible, they'd like to find a home for them together. Please check out a new video of them! http://youtu.be/QyIRUjGmCYI There are too many stories like this to describe in this short post. What I hope to do is to let you know how you can help these animals. First: Click on the pages for these animal rescue organizations on FB and LIKE them—Here are three wonderful, very worthy animal rescue activist groups that are in the business of working tirelessly to get these sweet fur babies pulled and transported (with help from some guardian angels across this great country of ours!) to their new owners. Pet Pardons http://www.facebook.com/#!/petpardons Middle Mutts http://www.facebook.com/#!/middlemutts The Bella Foundation http://www.facebook.com/#!/BellaFoundation Second: When these notices begin to come in on your FB page about the animals that are going to be put to sleep (PTS), the ones who are injured and in need of treatment, the pleas for fostering or transportation funding, RESHARE them on your wall. You never know who might see these pictures and stories and want to adopt that dog/cat, or maybe knows of someone else who will. This doesn’t cost a thing and is a wonderful tool to “get the word out” about these animals, especially if you ask your friends to reshare, too! Third: Most of these animals have a special “CHIP-IN FUND” that has been set up just for their needs. When you donate to it, the money goes to THAT ANIMAL for their shots, medical care (many of them have been abused or neglected terribly) and transportation if necessary. Most people think their contributions won’t matter. I have seen time and again where the contributions inched upward each day and finally reached the amount needed to pay for the “vetting” for these animals. Even $1 is important. It all matters. Some of the animals require surgery or medical treatment for other conditions. These are the ones that desperately need funding to help them get that treatment and get to a new home. If you have a Paypal account, it takes less than a minute to click on the link for the Chip-In and transfer a few bucks over. Fourth: Talk about it. Blog about it. Get the word out. Not all support has to be financial! We all have to do what we are able to do, and some can do more than others, but many of these people in these organizations are volunteers. Is there something you could do at your local shelter? Could you start a group like this on your own? Fostering dogs until a home can be found for them is a wonderful service to provide if you are able to do this. There’s no monetary gain, but the reward you get from these loving animals will more than make up for it. Many have never had a kind word or loving touch. The picture above is of Pet Pardons' co-founder Chris Hoar's dog. Here's what he has to say about his work: "You know sometimes even I find it very hard to look at the pictures people post on my own wall, sometimes it seems like this horrific cruelty will never end, sometimes I want to just give up and go hide in a hole. Then I look at my little rescue Jimmy 2 Shoes, and he reminds me that I can never give up, for any reason, because as hard as this is for me sometimes, it is nothing compared to how hard it is for all of them."  Chris has devoted his life to saving these animals. He's my hero. Have you been inspired yet? I hope so. Many of these stories have wonderfully happy endings thanks to regular people like you and me. Sadie, the 12-year-old golden retriever, was rescued within a couple of days of being posted and reshared again and again. Another remarkable story is that of Vex, a dog who had been hit by a car in Romania and was paralyzed in his back legs. He had been dragging himself around, wearing his hide off for months. But the money was raised to fly him to America to a new loving home. Someone donated the money for him to have a little cart for his back legs so he could get around on his wheels. What a happy ending! Want to be part of something wonderful? Get involved. You’ll be ‘heart happy’ as soon as you do. Our own "happy ending"--my daughter, Jessica, with her dog, Embry. This was taken about 2 years ago after Embry had to be treated for menengitis. She adopted him as a puppy from a shelter. He has brought us all so much love and joy I can't imagine NOT having him around! If you have questions, please e-mail me at fabkat_edit@yahoo.com  If we all work together, we can at least make a dent in animal cruelty, abuse and neglect and find loving homes for some wonderful sweet fur babies.

  Have you ever tried to write a dream sequence or a flashback in your novels?  What did you think of it when you were finished?  Were you happy with the end result, or did it leave you feeling a little flat when you read back over it?  The school of thought on dreams and flashbacks is divided.  Some believe that the use of these devices exhibit the writer's immature efforts at crafting backstory and plugging it in, resulting in an amateurish debut into the literary world.  If not done well, this could prove true.  But why pick on flashbacks and dreams?  Even plain storytelling without the use of these literary devices can sometimes result in what dissolves into, at best, a "freshman effort."  It's not necessarily due to using these tools, though some critics may call upon this as their "rule of thumb" to judge by.  Another argument against flashbacks and dreams is that they lead the reader out of the actual moment of the story, and may somehow "confuse the reader."   Oh, come on.  The only bit of confusion that might occur is not the result of the dream or flashback itself; rather, the inability of the writer to make his meaning clear--again, resulting in an immature presentation.  Yes, flashbacks and dreams are sometimes tough to transition to and from, and make that transition "work."  But they can be invaluable tools in creating your backstory.  What are the advantages of dream sequences?  They can foreshadow events to come, or provide information about events that the dreamer witnessed.  In my book, Fire Eyes, U.S. Marshal Kaed Turner is being tortured by a band of renegades, so he isn't paying attention to some of the details of events and conversation that is taking place around him at the time.  But later, when he's safely recovering, he dreams about what happened to him.  This dream does two things for the reader: 1.)  It lets us know what, exactly, was being done to Kaed through the conversation and actions of the participants.  We see and hear what is happening, as if we are there, in the moment, without Kaed having to re-tell it to someone. 2.)  It allows Kaed (and the reader) to seize upon a very important piece of information that's pertinent to the plot. He was not aware of it consciously, but his subconscious thoughts had picked it up, and it was revealed in the dream. If you are writing a story with psychic or paranormal happenings, dreams could be a shared link between characters.  This device is used often in novels that include time travel, as well.  One thing to consider when writing a dream sequence is the way your character sees life, and what his or her culture is.  Make your dreams and flashbacks reflect this appropriately.  In Native American culture, an owl is a symbol of impending death--not wisdom.  It might mean different things to people from other cultures.  Yet, a raven will probably hold much the same symbolism for everyone.  Your characters can solve problems in their dreams.  This happens in reality--it can happen in fiction.  Remember, like the presentation of a gourmet meal, a seamless story is in the telling, or the writing.  Backstory is sometimes essential, as are clues to the story that might not be able to be presented any other way.  Make your transitions to the past, or in and out of the dream state, as flawless as possible.  If you do this, your readers won't be confused, and you'll hold them spellbound as they see the story unfold along with your characters.  Do you use dreams and flashbacks in your writing?  I'd love to hear your comments and thoughts on this. I personally love both dreams and flashbacks, and use both quite frequently in my writing.  Let me hear from you! FIRE EYES will be re-released through WESTERN TRAIL BLAZER publishing this summer with a brand new cover and some changes to the story that were left out of the original version.  

Every so often, I teach a class called “Writing Your Life Story.” Most of the people who are there for classes are senior citizens, who, for the most part, have been urged by family members to come. As they introduce themselves, it goes something like this:  “I’m Jane Doe, and I’m here because my children keep telling me I need to write this all down—but I don’t know where to begin.” My first assurance to them all is that they don’t need to write like Laura Ingalls Wilder—their families will be thrilled with anything they put down on paper.  It’s amazing to me how many people don’t feel they have anything of interest to tell their descendants! I want to tell you about my parents, because they were the epitome of opposites when it came to this. My mother told stories from the time I can remember about her family, about her friends, the small town she grew up in. These were details of an ordinary life that gave me insight into the way times were during the Dustbowl days in Oklahoma. It told me about her life in particular and life in general, and it also brought people I never knew to reality for me through her memories. Mom had a dear friend, just her age, named Mary. They were both the eldest of their respective families, each with many younger siblings that they were responsible for. Mom mentioned how she and Mary both longed for an d cherished the few times when they could be alone to talk “girl talk” without each having two or three little ones they had to look after. One of their favorite places to go was the cemetery. They’d both been born in Albany, so they knew the stories of everyone buried there in the small cemetery: The Taylor family, whose six children went berry picking, only to take shelter under an oak tree when a storm blew up suddenly. Lightning struck the tree and killed all by tow of them. The oldest boy crawled to a nearby farmhouse for help, but died later. Out of the six, only one survived. There were no markers on their graves, but Mom showed me where each was buried. Another grave she showed me was that of a young child who, at eighteen months, crawled under the porch and drank tree poison his father had believed was well-hidden. Mom told me how his lips were stained purple She and Mary had gone to the funeral and it was imprinted in her mind forever. Christmases were sparse in that time. It was a good Christmas if they each received and apple, and orange, and some hard candy in their stockings, and maybe a doll, in addition, in the better-then-most years. I wrote a story called SILVER MAGIC for an Adams Media Christmas anthology about something she told me. They'd brought home a Christmas tree that particular year, and one of her younger brothers had suggested maybe then could have some tinsel...My grandfather went into the shed and hand-cut tinsel and a star from the foil covering of an old battery. What a thrill that was for them! Yet, who would ever dream that was something that could be done, now, in our world of buy-it-already made? From Mom I learned about our family ancestors—where they’d come from and who they were. As a child, I thought of them as a story she told, but as I grew older, they became real people to me. I learned about her, too—how, as a teen, she’d pool her hard-earned money with her younger sister, Joyce, to buy the newest Hit Parade Magazine with all the lyrics to the latest songs. They had sung together from the time they knew how, adding more harmonies as more sisters came along. My dad never talked about his adolescence much. Even though he and Mom grew up together in the same small community, he never had much to add to the conversations. What I know of his family, I learned mostly from my aunt, his younger sister. Why write it all down now? Because most people never believe they’ll run out of time. “Someday” never comes. My mom had such fascinating stories, filled with tenderness, charged with emotion—stories that made it seem as if I was there along with her as she spoke. She was a painter, an artist, and she could paint pictures with her words, as well. Mom always had good intentions, but like so many, never found the time before it was too late, and Altzheimer’s took away that ability. I will write it all down…all that I can remember of it. But I can’t help thinking how I wish she had written her story, with all the vivid details and description she used in telling about it. There is so much I won’t know. So much will be lost, simply because this was her life. The memories are hers: the hard times, as well as the good—the days in an everyday life…and, the nights, when entertainment was nothing more than the beautiful harmonies of the four little girls, floating in the summer stillness for miles as they sang on the front porch…in a much simpler, slower time. If you are interested in getting started on writing your life story, or know someone who is, I will be glad to e-mail you some questions that I use in my classes to help you get started. Just contact me at fabkat_edit@yahoo.com

Our generation has lost so many important talents and skills. Technology makes it easier for us, but in some ways, it takes away our independence. Maybe that’s one reason we love to read (and write!) historical romance. We can go back in time vicariously without having to live through all the hardships and trials of everyday life, experiencing only the top layer of what must have been difficult, by our standards, every moment.  Does anyone know how to cut up a chicken anymore? My mother did. I remember her getting out the wickedest looking knife I’d ever seen every Sunday and cutting up a chicken to fry. They had started to sell cut-up chickens in the store, but they were more expensive. Mom wouldn’t have dreamed of paying extra for that. By the time I began to cook for my family, I didn’t mind paying that extra money—I couldn’t bear to think of cutting a chicken up and then frying it.  It’s all relative. My mom, born in 1922, grew up in a time when the chickens had to be beheaded, then plucked, then cut up—so skipping those first two steps seemed like a luxury, I’m sure. I wouldn’t know how to begin to cut up a chicken. I never learned how.  Hog killing day was another festive occasion. Because my husband was raised on a farm, he and my mother had a lot of similar experiences to compare (this endeared him to her in later years.) Neighbors and family would gather early in the day. The hog would be butchered, and the rest of the day would be spent cutting and packing the meat. When my husband used to talk about the “wonderful sausage” his mother made, I was quite content to say, “Good for her. I’m glad you got to eat that when you were young.” (There’s no way I would ever make sausage.)  Medical issues? I was the world’s most nervous mother when I had my daughter. But being the youngest in the family, I had a world of experience to draw on. I also had a telephone and I knew how to use it! I called my mom or one of my sisters about the smallest thing. I can’t imagine living in one of the historical scenarios that, as writers, we create with those issues. The uncertainty of having a sick child and being unable to do anything to help cure him/her would have made me lose it. I know this happened so often and was just accepted as part of life, but to me, that would have been the very worst part of living in a historical time. I had a great aunt who lost all three of her children within one week to the flu. She lost her mind and had to be institutionalized off and on the rest of her life.   My mother was the eldest of eleven children. She often said with great pride that her mother had had eleven children and none of them had died in childhood. I didn’t realize, when I was younger, how important and odd that really was for those times. My father’s mother had five children, two of whom died as children, and two more that almost died, my father being one of them.  It was a case of my grandmother thinking he was with my granddad, and him thinking three-year-old Freddie was with her. By the time they realized he was missing, the worst had happened. He had wandered to the pond and fallen in. It was a cold early spring day. Granddad had planted the fields already, between the pond and the house. A little knit cap that belonged to little Freddie was the only evidence of where he’d gone. It was floating on top of the water. By some miracle, my granddad found him and pulled him up out of the water. He was not breathing. Granddad ran with him back to the house, jumping the rows of vegetables he’d planted. The doctor later told him that was probably what saved Dad’s life—a very crude form of CPR.  Could you have survived in the old west? What do you think would have been your greatest worry? What would you hate to give up the most from our modern way of life? I’m curious to know, what skills or talents to you think we have lost generationally over the last 100 years? I've written two time travel stories where the heroine found herself living in the old west, 1800s Indian Territory. They both faced issues that were daunting, simply because of the time period...would they stay if given a choice, or go back to their present-day living? Does love REALLY 'conquer all'?  In my time travel novel, TIME PLAINS DRIFTER, the heroine must go back in time, but in the sequel, I'm turning the tables. The hero of that book is going to go forward. Once he gets there, will he ever want to go BACK to his time?  I’m not sure I would have lived very long, or very pleasantly. I know one thing—my family would never have eaten sausage, unless they had breakfast at the neighbor's house. Here's the blurb and an excerpt from my time travel short story, MEANT TO BE, available in the 2011 Christmas Collection from Victory Tales Press. BLURB: Robin Mallory is facing another Christmas all alone when she decides to surprise her aunt and uncle several hours away. She becomes stranded near a desolate section of interstate. With a snowstorm on the way, Robin has no choice but to walk, looking for a house to provide shelter. Jake Devlin is shocked when the "spy" he jumps turns out to be a girl. She's dressed oddly, and talks like a Yank. Where did she come from, and what is he going to do with her? The set up: Jake, a Confederate soldier, has been seriously wounded by a Cheyenne arrow as he tries to protect Robin from the attack. His only hope is for her to be able to go back through the "portal" in the woods to her old truck, parked along the interstate, and get the medicine from another time that he so badly needs. With Cheyenne in the woods along with a platoon of Yankee soldiers, what chance will she have of survival? Can she even find the rift in time again...twice? EXCERPT: Robin turned her back on the pickup and started down the gravel road. Doubt assailed her. Was she crazy to go back to a time she didn’t belong in? But she did belong. She’d been…alive. More so in that time than here, in her own. And could she possibly hope for a future with Jake? It was too soon for commitments…but wasn’t she making the biggest one of all? Her steps slowed. If she took the medicine back to him, what guarantee was there that, should she want to come back to her time, she’d be able? She may be stuck in Indian Territory of 1864 with no way back, ever. She couldn’t let Jake die. How could she live with herself in either time if that happened? What if she was misreading his intentions? He seemed—interested—in her. Her heart shrank at the thought of another rejection. She wouldn’t be able to handle that. But…that fear might also be keeping her from letting herself fall in love with the kindest, most decent man she’d ever met—in any time. Trusting was so hard. Yet, he’d trusted her, hadn’t he, with much more to lose than she had. He could very well die if she didn’t take the antibiotics back to him. And…another thought, too awful to bear, rose up, refusing to be ignored. What if he died in spite of the antibiotics? She might be trapped in a time that wasn’t hers, without the man she’d fallen in love with. Oh, dear God. She stopped walking as the reality hit her full force. She was in love with Jake already. How could this have happened? The damn magical doorway through time had to have some other influence. There was no other explanation. But…it felt real. And if she lost Jake, the heartache would be very real, she already knew. She’d sworn, after her last romantic fiasco, that she wouldn’t jump into anything again. Yet, here she was, in love with Jake Devlin after only twenty-four hours. And worried sick. She began to run. What if she couldn’t get back through the portal? What if the medicine doesn’t work? What if Jake doesn’t love me? Her mind seized on the question, mocking her, taunting her, throwing it back to her again and again. He loves me, her heart answered, remembering the way he’d reached to pull the blanket over her, and the gentle touch of his hand on her cheek in the night when he thought she was asleep. Remember, her heart reminded her, as she thought of the way he’d put himself between her and their attackers. He would have died for her. He still might. She stopped running, trying to catch her breath. Her side hurt, and she noticed the sky seemed to be darkening more than normal, which probably meant they were in for more snow. Nothing else had changed, though. Panic gripped her. The road remained graveled and wide, never narrowing in the least as it had before. The trees weren’t nearly as thick as they had been a scant half-hour earlier when she’d come this way. With her heart pounding from fear as much as exertion, Robin looked behind her. She could still barely see the top of the rise that hid her truck. Maybe she hadn’t come quite far enough! She couldn’t remember. It had all been so gradual before. But now, everything looked the same, unchanged. She held her breath listening for the far-away sounds of the interstate traffic. She couldn’t hear anything, but maybe it was just because there weren’t many cars. It was Christmas Eve. Everyone would most likely be at their destinations by now, so late in the afternoon, the day before Christmas. “Oh, please,” she whispered, starting down the road again. “Please.” The wind whipped up, and the first flakes of snow began to fall. She was so close—so close to getting the medicine back to Jake—how could everything go so completely wrong? She fought back angry tears of frustration, her throat raw from the cold. It would never do for her to really get sick now—now that Jake was in such need of her medication. She lifted her chin determinedly. She was going to get it to him. Somehow, someway. And she prayed it would be strong enough to heal him. Christmas was a time for miracles. She needed one right now.  The 2011 Christmas Collection anthology containing MEANT TO BE, my novel TIME PLAINS DRIFTER,  and all my other work can be found here:  https://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson  or at Barnes and Noble.    

Today, I’m blogging about my two most recent releases, JASON’S ANGEL and EVERY GIRL’S DREAM. In case these titles sound familiar to you, they are historical short stories that were both previously released in anthologies with Victory Tales Press. JASON’S ANGEL appeared last year in A HISTORICAL COLLECTION, and EVERY GIRL’S DREAM appeared in A WESTERN SAGA. I’m excited about both of these being released as “stand alone” stories, selling at only .99 each! And since this is “read an e-book” week…I’m giving away two copies of JASON’S ANGEL today! Please leave a comment along with your contact info and you will be entered—it’s that simple. Jason’s Angel takes on several issues with the society of that time. The story takes place just as the War Between the States is winding down. Jason McCain wears Union blue, but speaks with a Georgia accent. To make things even more difficult, he’s half Cherokee, half Scottish! When he’s wounded and winds up at a Confederate hospital, there’s only one thing kind-hearted Sabrina Patrick can do… Jason 's Angel by Cheryl Pierson Two wounded Union soldiers will die without proper treatment. Sabrina Patrick realizes they won't get it at the Confederate army hospital where she helps nurse wounded men. She does the unthinkable and takes them to her home. Jason McCain’s pain is eased by the feel of clean sheets, a soft bed, and a touch that surely must belong to an angel. But what reason could an angel have for bringing him and his brother here? EXCERPT FROM JASON'S ANGEL:   It was only a brief touch of their lips, Sabrina told herself, and should not have caused the waves of trembling heat to rush over her.  His lips were firm and strong.  And she kissed him back.   He’d reached up and gently pulled her to him.  As if he’d sensed her concern over Desi being in the room, he’d glanced to where she sat talking to Eli, once more engrossed in conversation, and when Sabrina had started to protest, he’d squeezed her shoulder in silent reassurance.  And she had kissed him back.    He’d been so gentle and—oh Lord, had Eli seen that kiss?  She had responded heartily to his brother.  She had not pushed Jason away or protested in the least.  She had welcomed it.  There was no doubt for either of them.  She had definitely kissed him back.  As she pulled away, she opened her lids to find him watching her.  His dark eyes smoldered with desire.  But it didn’t scare her.  It excited her.   Good Lord.  She stood quickly, her head spinning so that she almost missed her first step toward the door.  When had she last eaten?  That had to be the cause of her unsteadiness.  But why was her heart pounding so frantically?  It was only a kiss.  One kiss.   But she had kissed him back.  

EVERY GIRL’S DREAM

Do you believe in love at first sight?  Can it happen?  More importantly, can it last over the long haul of the ups and downs of a relationship? Throw in a few obstacles from the very first meeting of the hero/heroine, and the relationship becomes even more intriguing. In my novella, EVERY GIRL’S DREAM, that’s just what happens. Sheena McTavish, a young Irish girl, has been raped by the son of her father’s employer. Now, with a baby on the way, Sheena is given an unthinkable choice:  give her baby to the father’s wealthy family to raise, or travel to New Mexico Territory by stagecoach to live with her aunt and uncle until her child is born.  At that point, she will have to place it in a nearby orphanage. Desperate to buy some time and protect her baby from its father, she chooses to travel west.  Alone and afraid, she starts on the journey that will change her life forever.  Before Sheena’s stage leaves, she meets handsome Army scout Callen Chandler.  The attraction is there, even under difficult conditions. As the story progresses, Sheena must learn to trust again, and Cal begins to realize he doesn’t have to live the solitary existence he’s endured up to now.  Being half Comanche has left him with no place in either world—white or Indian.  When Sheena comes along, everything changes…for both of them. TO SET THE SCENE: Cal is a half-breed U.S. Army scout, who has just rescued Sheena, the heroine, from a Kiowa attack on the stagecoach she was in. They had met briefly the morning before, and as luck would have it, Cal comes upon the stage after the Kiowas have attacked and are getting ready to ride away with Sheena. He tells them he and Sheena are married and the Kiowas reluctantly let him take Sheena, but then…  Cal felt…something.  His back tingled as he waited for the stinging burn of a shale arrowhead.  He risked a glance backward, and saw the Kiowa leader’s stare heavy upon him. “Sheena, hold on tight.” “The baby—” “I know, sweetheart.  We won’t ride hard any longer’n we have to.   Lowell’s Ridge is only about four miles away.” A very long four miles. She nodded in understanding.  “I’m sorry, Callen.” “No call for that.” “You came for me.” He smiled at that.  There was a small amount of disbelief in her tone, overshadowed by a huge amount of wonder.  Who wouldn’t come for her? “You could be killed because of me,” she said softly, as if she had only just realized it.  She laid her hand over his, and in that moment, he wondered if dying for her would be worth the twenty-seven years he’d lived so far. His heart jumped at her touch, then steadied.  But as he risked another glance back, he saw exactly what he’d feared.  Two of the braves were mounting up, and they weren’t riding the opposite way.  “That still might happen,” he murmured. He leaned forward, trying to protect Sheena with his body as he slapped the reins against the horse’s side, urging him into a lope, then a full-out run. The Kiowas were close behind them.  There must have been dissension among them. The leader had seemed content to let him take Sheena and ride away.  One of the others must have disagreed with that decision. Cal reached to pull his revolver from his holster. They were strangely quiet, he thought.  The first bullet cracked from behind them, and Cal reflexively bent lower.  The bullet whined past his ear like an angry bee. Sheena gasped.  He fired off a shot and got lucky.  One of the warriors screamed in agony and fell from his saddle.  But the other rode low, hanging onto the side of his mount. And he kept right on coming. The next bullet sang over Cal’s head.  He concentrated on eating up the miles to Lowell’s Ridge.  Riding double was slowing them down considerably.  Sheena’s body was tense beneath the shelter of his own.  Fragile, but strong.  Delicate, but determined.  His hand splayed over her stomach, holding her close, cradling her from the jarring of their wild ride. A whoop from behind them accompanied the crack of a rifle, and this time, the Kiowa warrior’s bullet found its mark.  A bolt of fire seared through Cal’s right shoulder, and for a minute, the pain was so strong he almost sawed back on the reins. But at his harsh curse, Sheena glanced up at him, her hand instantly clamping tightly over his. The reins were still wrapped in his fingers, but Sheena kept her hand on his, reminding him to let the horse have his head and continue their flight for freedom. “Hang on, Cal!” The pain was so breathtaking he could do nothing but nod his understanding. “Dammit!” she cursed.  That almost made him smile, but the agony in his shoulder surged up and stole his breath again as the horse’s hooves pounded the ground below. The road was not much more than a trail, and where it narrowed, branches reached out to scrape and snarl in hair and clothing, scratching their faces as they blindly rode toward safety. As they broke through the brambles and low limbs into the clearing on the other side of the wooded section of road, Cal glimpsed the steeple of the church, then in a moment, the rooftops of houses. He glanced behind him to see the Kiowa had stopped.  He was taking careful, deadly aim with the Winchester he held. “Christ,” Cal muttered.  “Keep down, Sheena.”              JASON’S ANGEL is available now at Amazon and other e-book retailers. http://www.amazon.com/Jasons-Angel-ebook/dp/B007H14KGU/  DON’T FORGET TO LEAVE YOU CONTACT INFO ALONG WITH A COMMENT TO BE ENTERED TO WIN JASON’S ANGEL!  EVERY GIRL’S DREAM WILL BE AVAILABLE BY THE END OF THE WEEK, AS WELL! If you enjoy anthologies, you might be interested in these:

Hi everyone, I wanted to let you all know that I have a new release coming up in a few days with Chicken Soup for the Soul. This book is sub-titled “Messages From Heaven”, and the description reads like this: “The 101 true and miraculous stories in this book of signs and messages from beyond show that death may take away the physical presence of our loved ones, but not their spirit. This book is for everyone, religious or secular, as regular people share their amazing experiences with the other side.” It’s available now for pre-order and will be on sale on February 28. My story in this collection is called “A TOUCH FROM HEAVEN” and is about something that happened after my mother passed away in 2008, just three weeks after my dad passed in December that let me know she was still there with me, still watching over me. On three separate occasions, I knew she was beside me by something that happened. Many months later, my sister asked me if I had experienced “anything” since Mom had passed. “Like what?” I asked her.  “She called my name,” my sister said, “and it was so clear that I … I answered her!” I could tell it was hard for her to talk to me about it, because it sounded so odd. But when I told her about my experiences, we knew there was no doubt that Mom had been with us each time.  This book has lots of varied stories about comforting, uplifting occurrences that have happened after a loved one has passed on. This experience gave me an idea for another fictional western story that I started on not long after I wrote this story for the Chicken Soup collection, and I know that is another bit of encouragement from my mom. Do you have a story to share about something similar that might have happened to you? I’d love to hear it if you do! I also have two other stories in another Chicken Soup collection, CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE EMPTY NESTERS SOUL, an insightfull anthology of stories about those of us who are going through the period of learning to live without our kids, and not just necessarily when it's time to go to college. CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL: MESSAGES FROM HEAVEN may be ordered at: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_27?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=chicken+soup+messages+from+heaven&sprefix=chicken+soup+messages+from+%2Caps%2C257

If you're like me, you have a few rules for writing--and for reading.  In my writing there are some things I would "never" do. Here's a list of a the top three: Rule #1 – I never write in first person. Rule #2 – I never write from a child’s point of view. Rule #3 – I always have romance somewhere in my stories.  Well…one out of three ain’t bad.  I threw Rule #1 out the window when I picked up my pen and started my latest release, Kane's Redemption. I wrote Kane’s Redemption in first person. It’s the first work of fiction I’ve ever written from this perspective, and after I wrote it, I knew there would be two more of these novellas to follow. There was no better way to tell this story of young Will Green and Jacobi Kane – and the secret that stands between them.  Will is a child when the story begins, but a young man by the conclusion. So, I guess you could say I broke my own “Rule #2” as well. But there are some stories that have to be told by the child, to take hold of the innocence that only a child possesses and manages to hold on to in the face of reality. Who could have told Scout's story better than Scout, in To Kill a Mockingbird? No one. She was the perfect character to tell us what was happening and the perfect filter for us to see for ourselves those things she couldn't put into words. Through her eyes, we saw everything. I knew that Will had to tell the story of what happened to him and how Jacobi Kane rescued him...and what happened afterward. Growing up in the 1800’s on the prairie of the southwest would make an adult of you quickly; even quicker if you watched your entire family murdered in the space of five minutes. This story is not just about Will, though – it’s also about Jacobi Kane, who has some secrets of his own. Although he rescues Will, he wrestles with demons that can’t be fought alone – but how can Will help? In the end, who is the true rescuer – Will, or Jacobi Kane?  Romance? Well, there’s a bit of that. But it’s the romance that comes with new beginnings and the kiss of forgiveness--sweet, touching and straight from the heart. Come to think of it, the romance in Kane’s Redemption is  a bit different from anything else I’ve ever written, too.  This story came from somewhere deep; a place I didn’t know existed. It’s a gift I hope you will take as much pleasure in reading as I did in writing.  Look for Book 2 in the Kane trilogy, Kane’s Promise, in the fall of 2012. I will be giving away a copy of KANE'S REDEMPTION today! All you have to do is leave a comment, and please leave your e-mail address so I can contact you! I will leave you with the blurb and an excerpt. Hope you enjoy! BLURB:  A ten-year-old boy fights for his life when he is taken prisoner by a band of raiding Apache. Steeling himself for death, Will Green is shocked when a lone man walks into the Apache camp to rescue him several days later. Driven by the secret he carries, Jacobi Kane has followed the Indians for days and needs to make his move to save the boy. With the odds stacked eight against one, his chances for success look pretty slim. But even if he's able to rescue the boy and they get out alive, what then? EXCERPT FROM KANE'S REDEMPTION:  Red Eagle moved back just as fast as before and I felt my cheek burning. Blood dripped off his blade and that was it. I went after that red devil like I had lost my wits. I guess, truthfully, I had – because I don't remember anything about it, except how good the first smash of my fist in his face felt.  Blood ran from Red Eagle's nose and he cried out in a snarl of anger and pain and surprise.  I felt a pulse of energy rush through me, and I wrapped my fingers around his throat like he'd done to Mama. I tightened them and his blood streamed warm and slick over my grip. His eyes began to bulge, and I thought in another minute, maybe I could have the vengeance I had wanted so badly for the past week.  Papa always said a man's quick wits are sometimes his only defense. I was exultant. I may have been foolish for what I did, and I felt sure Papa and I would disagree sharply on the use of my wits. But I did what I had to do. Suddenly, rough hands were upon me, pulling at me. But I was like a mad dog, snarling, and foaming at the mouth in my pent up anger and hatred that was finally spilling out. What a glorious opportunity! Even if I died for it, I knew I couldn't have passed it up – whether Papa might have approved, or not.  The Indians were all speaking at once, yelling, calling out, laughing. The moon was full, providing even more light than what the fire gave, making the night seem even hotter, as if the sun still shone on us. From somewhere in the distance of the woods beyond, I heard the call of the owls, and I knew enough Injun to know what that meant to them.  Someone was going to die. It might be me, but I was doing my damnedest to take Red Eagle with me.  A gunshot split the night air. "Dammit, stop it!" Hands like steel bands wrapped around my shoulders and jerked me off of Red Eagle. "Stop it!"  I couldn't answer. I was breathing too hard, panting like the mad dog I had become. My hands balled into fists and flexed open again and again, and my fingers were sticky with Red Eagle's blood. My own pulse sang through my veins in a triumph I had never experienced before.  "Boy, straighten up or you're gonna get us both killed." The voice was calm. I stopped struggling and looked up into the face of a white man. A white man had walked right into Red Eagle's camp. I figured, now, those owls would have plenty more to tell – at least one more death.  But he didn't seem worried. He held his rifle at the ready, pointed in the general direction of the group of eight Indians that rode in Red Eagle's band. I glanced around the half-circle of painted faces, and I couldn't help gloating. They all looked as if they'd met up with some kind of spirit or demon more wicked than they were. And that was going some.  "Can you ride bareback?"  I nodded. I guessed I could, I wanted to tell him. Been doin' it for a damn week.  "Need help getting on?"  I shook my head and he let me go real slow. "Pick the one you can manage best and get settled on him. Take Red Eagle's rifle and bullets."  "Wait!" Red Eagle challenged. He rolled onto his side, wiping the blood from his nose. It pleased me greatly to hear that he wheezed when he spoke. "You take our horses, our weapons—"  "I ain't takin' your lives, you bastard. And I ain't takin' all your weapons," the big man answered in a slow drawl. "Only yours. Pitch that knife over this way, and do it easy. My trigger finger is mighty nervous tonight." For KANE'S REDEMPTION and all my other work, click here:

Do you have a “collection” of special people in your life? People that helped you in ways maybe you hadn’t really given much thought to, but that turned out to be extremely important? One of the first milestones in my writing career—becoming a finalist in the EPIC Awards with my first novel, FIRE EYES—brought this realization home to me. I got curious. I know there are incidents in people’s lives that are pivotal to their entire careers, dreams, and goals, that, perhaps at the time, don’t seem that important. Later, looking back on it, it becomes an “aha” moment—you understand that THIS was the moment when you made the decision to do something you might not have done otherwise, or because of a word of encouragement you continued on when you’d been ready to stop.   Most people that I’ve met in the last half of my adulthood would never describe me as “shy,” but as a youngster, I was—horribly.  That’s one reason I turned to writing.  It was a great way for me to get my feelings out without actually having to say them.  I could have someone else say it all for me.  I imagine that’s how many of my fellow writers started, too.  I sometimes wonder what might have happened had we all known each other when we were younger.  Would we have developed into the writers we are today, or would we have found our “niche” with one another and NOT turned so much to writing?  If you can relate to the “shy” part, then maybe you felt this way, too:  I was never competitive.  Not like so many sports contenders might be.  The things I enjoyed, writing and music, were open to everyone, I felt.  I am not a “joiner” and I am not one to enter a lot of contests.  I entered FIRE EYES in the 2010 EPIC Awards competition, and something odd happened when I did.  From the moment I entered, my attitude about myself changed.  BEFORE I entered, I thought, “I probably don’t have a chance.”  But my mom always used to say, “If you don’t enter, you certainly are NOT going to win!”  I remembered those words, and sent in my entry that very day.  Once it was sent, I began to feel some confidence growing.  As I analyzed WHY, here’s what I came up with.  FIRE EYES was a joint project.  I wrote it, but I couldn’t have if I hadn’t had the cooperation and support of my family—my kids and my husband.  While I was writing it, my oldest sister, Annette, was constantly asking about “how it’s coming” and she was the one I could bounce ideas off of.  Once written, my business partner read it for glaring mistakes, and my best friend of 45 years read it for moral support. The Wild Rose Press accepted it, and my editor, Helen Andrew, was so phenomenal in helping me mold it and shape it into the story that was released last May.  My cover artist, Nicola Martinez, did a superb job on the beautiful cover. My family and friends were all pulling for me, and constantly offering encouragement. With all these people behind me and my story, my confidence rose.  Whatever would be, would be—and entering the competition was a win/win situation.  Even if I didn’t make it to the finals, I would still have taken the chance and had the experience.  When I received the news that my book was, indeed, a finalist, I thought immediately of all the people who had helped me get to this point; people in my life who had faith in me, and in my ability, and in the story itself.  I thought of that saying, “It takes a village to raise a child.”  It’s true, even in the broader sense of our lives as writers.  The experiences we had growing up, people who encouraged us even then, our spouses, our children, mentors and teachers we’ve had along the way, and peers that have helped and encouraged us.  Editors, artists, publishers and organizations such as EPIC that give us a chance to compete and strive to be better and better, along with our readers, are all part of the completed circle of a successful writer’s endeavors.  Though FIRE EYES didn’t win that year, the experience of entering the competition and finaling in it was more important that I could have realized when I sent my entry in. It was the thing that made me understand just how many people had been involved in the entire process of writing that book. And it gave me the impetus and encouragement to move forward with the rest of my writing projects since that time. That realization was far more important than winning the contest, and has been with me every day, like a component of myself that I didn’t have before; another part of my make-up.  Does anyone have a “special person” that helped them along the way? Not just in writing, but in your life’s goals and dreams?  What about a “collection” of special people? My “collection” of special people in my life is the thing that I am most thankful for above all else.  Without them, my dreams could have never happened.  I could never have done it alone.  Cheryl's Amazon Author Page:    https://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson  

I love the music of Christmas. I could play it all year long if I weren’t married to Scrooge. Those songs are so uplifting and beautiful that they make me feel good just to hear them, and you can’t help but sing along with them.   My dad always loved Christmas, and was a great practical jokester. He delighted in making phone calls to his grandchildren, pretending to be Santa. He’d call back later on for a rundown about what happened on our end—the looks, the comments, and the joy of getting a real live phone call from Santa! One of the traditions in our house was the box of chocolate covered cherries that was always under the tree for him from my mom, a reminder of hard Christmases in years past when that might have been the only gift she could afford. Another was that our house was always filled with Christmas music.   I was a classically trained pianist from the time I turned seven years old. My father’s favorite Christmas carol was What Child Is This? Once I mastered it, I delighted in playing it for him because he took such pleasure in it, and since it was also the tune to another song, Greensleeves, I played it all year round for him.   The tune known as Greensleeves was a British drinking song for many years, a popular folk song that was not religious. In ancient Britain, there have been more than twenty different known lyrics associated with the tune throughout history. It was first published in 1652.   Shakespeare mentions it by name in “The Merry Wives of Windsor” in which it is played while traitors are hanged. It has been attributed to King Henry VIII, and said that he wrote it for Anne Boleyn. How did this song become one of the best-loved Christmas carols of all time?   In 1865, Englishman William Chatterton Dix wrote “The Manger Throne,” three verses of which became “What Child Is This?” During that particular era, Christmas was not as openly celebrated as it is today. Many conservative Puritan churches forbade gift-giving, decorating or even acknowledging the day as a special day for fear that Christmas would become a day of pagan rituals more than a serious time of worship. Although Dix wrote other hymns, in the context of the times, it was unusual for him to write about Christ’s birth, since many hymn writers and religious factions ignored Christmas completely.   The words represent a unique view of Christ’s birth. While the baby was the focal point of the song, the point of view of the writer seemed to be that of a confused observer. Dix imagined the visitors to the manger bed wondering about the child who had just been born.  In each verse, he described the child’s birth, life, death and resurrection, answering the question with a triumphant declaration of the infant’s divinity.   “The Manger Throne” was published in England just as the U.S. Civil War was ending.  The song quickly made its way from Britain to the United States. Dix died in 1898, living long enough to see “The Manger Throne” become the Christmas carol “What Child Is This?”  I'm posting some of my Christmas covers for anyone who might be needing some historical Christmas story reading over the holidays! The link appears below.    http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002JV8GUE  Hope everyone has a very MERRY CHRISTMAS!