Please welcome Tina Wheeler to the Petticoats and Pistols Corral today.
I watched way too much television growing up. Okay, I still watch more than I should, but in my defense, I’m a visual learner and seeing characters in settings helps me build my fictional world.
I come from a military/law enforcement family, so I already had a solid grasp of alpha males who own guns. Watching mysteries with my mother influenced my desire to include a puzzle in my novels. But why cowboys?
When writing my debut, Love Inspired Suspense, I created the Walker family and their ranch outside Sedona. Jackson, Cole and Zach are brothers who are the fictional embodiment of all the heart-stopping cowboys I’ve seen on television and their finer qualities. I’m an Arizona girl, born and raised. Every time we hosted out-of-state visitors, we headed to Old Tucson Studios to watch cowboy gunfights with stuntmen falling off buildings. Five hundred movies had scenes filmed there, including four John Wayne Westerns. Feeding my love for cowboys were TV shows like Bonanza, The Big Valley, Gunsmoke, The Virginian, The Wild Wild West, The Rifleman, and The High Chaparral which was filmed at Old Tucson.
Man in coat on the wind
My absolute favorite movie scene of all time is in Tombstone. Kurt Russell, Bill Paxton, Sam Elliott, and Val Kilmer (playing the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday) are walking down the dusty town road toward the O.K. Corral to reenact the famous thirty-second shootout. They’re wearing mostly black with their cowboy hats and boots, but it’s the black duster coats that complete the image. My heart skips a beat every time I watch that scene. I could replay it a hundred times. The Earps were close brothers, cowboys, and lawmen. Together, they bravely protected the town. Yes, they had their flaws, but in that moment, they were four strong, good-hearted men about to prove that good conquers evil. Yesterday, we had the Earps. Today, we have the Walker brothers.
Ranch Under Fire, a Publishers Weekly Bestseller
A witness on the run.
A mission to survive.
Fleeing after witnessing a shooting in her office, Bailey Scott must rely on cowboy Jackson Walker for protection when the gunman turns his sights on her. With a drug ring determined to silence her, Jackson promises to protect her at his ranch. But he’s an undercover DEA agent with secrets he can’t reveal. Can he take down the criminals before their pursuers lead them straight into an inescapable trap?
More About Tina:
Tina Wheeler is an inspirational romantic suspense author and retired teacher. Although she grew up near a desert in Arizona, her favorite place to plot a new story is on a balcony overlooking the ocean. She enjoys spending time with her large extended family, brainstorming with writing friends, discovering new restaurants, and traveling with her husband. Visit authortinawheeler.com to read more.
Naming characters, fictionalized towns, ranches, and businesses is a daunting task for me with every story I write. In my current project, Aiming for His Heart, Book 10 in the Pink Pistol Sisterhood Series, (I’m so excited to finally be able to say that!!!) my hero Dalton walks into the town’s main restaurant after an incident makes him become the town’s latest gossip victim. Frustrated, he calls for everyone’s attention to set the record straight. Goodness, I’m still working on naming all the folks in that scene! (Because of course, even the cooks come out to hear this juicy news!) Since he’s grown up in the town, when he enters the restaurant, I can’t refer to someone as the waitress or the bartender because he knows everyone from the owner to the cooks and thinks of them by name. (How on earth do authors of 50 plus books name new characters after creating thousands of characters?!)
Often, I asked for help. Once when my youngest son, Nathan and I were driving from Dallas to Clovis, New Mexico, to visit my oldest son, to stay sane and awake on the long stretch of nothingness road through west Texas, we brainstormed names for businesses for my Wishing Texas Series. That task proved extra daunting because Wishing was known for its wishing well, and all the business chose names that had dreams, wishing, or fit in with that theme.
Because of this and that I write at a certain well known chain coffee shop, Nathan sent me a post he’d seen. It’s from @byalexcrespo and reads, “writing at coffee shops is great bc every time I need to add in a minor side character I just steal the name and essence of whoever is picking up their order from the barista in that moment. Enjoy your cappuccino Isaac you are about to die to advance the plot.” My son then asked if I did that. While I have killed off people before the story opens, like Cassie’s sister and brother-in-law in To Love a Texas Cowboy, I don’t do that in the stories. However, I told my son I would definitely use that technique to name characters from now on.
I’ve also discovered another strategy. Yesterday when I needed a last name for my hero’s best friend’s first love, I scrolled through my contacts on my phone for one. Oooh, my FB friends could also be a good source. Yippee, another strategy! And then I realized yet another one. You wonderful readers! But don’t panic. Since you’re all so sweet and wonderful, I’d never give a grumpy character part of your name. ? But you’re warned. Don’t be surprised if your first or last name shows up in one of my books.
Giveaway: To be entered in my two random giveaways this month, tell me what’s the craziest, funniest, or most confusing business or town name you’ve heard of. If you haven’t heard of anything with a crazy name, what’s the wildest one you can think of for a town or business? And don’t forget to tell me what the business is or does.
Welcome to a marvelous Monday! Yes, that’s right, Winnie is usually here on this day, but she has some deadlines coming up and so … here I am!
Okay, NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE. This is the third book in the Blackfoot Warrior series and it was wonderful to revisit the story. It reacquainted me with many Blackfoot traditions I’d forgotten — including a bird’s eye look at an old time Sun Dance.
Oh, and before I go any farther, let me tell you I’ll be giving away a free e-book of NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE. A person enters into the drawing simply by responding to the blog with a comment. We do have a few rules you can read over to the right here, so it might be a good idea to read over them — they aren’t too terribly long-winded.
Okay, so I will leave you here with a short blurb for the book and then an excerpt. I’ll also try to include all three covers of the book. The newest cover, the cover done by Samhain Publishing and the original cover done by AVON/HarperCollins Books.
This is the most recent cover for the book. And, I do love this cover.
NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE
Short blurb:
Night Thunder has vowed to protect Rebecca. When she is stolen by an enemy, he goes after her. But he can’t simply ride into the enemy camp and kill the guilty. The thieves are malcontents from his own tribe. There is only one way to save her.
He must claim her as his bride.
Hope you’ll enjoy this excerpt!
Night Thunder’s Bride by Karen Kay
Montana Territory
July 1834
During the moon when the flowers blossom, Strikes The Bear’s wife had been raped, abused and killed by the white men. Soon after, his sister had been taken to a white man’s sleeping robes, supposedly in marriage, only to be discarded shortly thereafter.
It had to be these events, and these events alone, which accounted for Strikes The Bear’s present behavior. No true warrior would treat a woman so badly. Not without direct provocation.
Night Thunder, hidden by many trees and bushes, sat considering, with the age-old logic which had been passed down to him since “time before mind,” that Strikes The Bear had some cause for his anger. Still, this particular white woman had not caused the tragedy to Strikes The Bear’s family. And Night Thunder had pledged to protect her; she was his responsibility. His to defend.
Night Thunder inspected the warriors’ temporary camp, knowing with a sickening sensation what was to come.
The men stood in a circle around the fire, which burned ominously, its crackle and smoky, pine-scented odor offensive rather than pleasant. A drum beat steadily, slowly—a throbbing portent of what was to come. The woman had been placed in the center of the circle—fire to her back, Strikes The Bear in front. And in his hand, Strikes The Bear wielded a knife.
Voices were raised in song and in quiet murmurings, occasionally interrupted with a bellow from Strikes The Bear and a whimper from the woman.
Night Thunder observed an oddity: there were no guards posted to watch over the encampment. Either Strikes The Bear was overly certain of his safety, or the warriors, too aroused over the spectacle taking place before them, no longer cared.
Night Thunder suspected the latter and despaired.
How could he save her?
If these men had been of an enemy tribe, Night Thunder wouldn’t have hesitated to act, despite the fact that they were fifteen and he was one. He would have already seized the opportunity for glory, rushing into the enemy camp and killing or being killed.
But such was not to be. These warriors were his own people, many of them his friends. True, they were Kainah, of the Blood tribe, while he was Pikuni—or as the white man called his people, the Piegan. Still, this made no difference. These warriors were Blackfeet, his relatives, his brothers. He could not fight them. Not and remain honorable to himself.
Yet he must save the woman.
How?
As custom dictated, the man who had stolen a woman held all rights to her. At present this particular man was Strikes The Bear. It was not a law Night Thunder was willing or prepared to break.
Still, he had to do something.
He glanced at the woman now, noting in a single look that her golden-brown hair, usually as bright and shiny as a full autumn moon, lay lackluster and disheveled around her face. Her eyes, which he knew to be as amber as those of a panther, mirrored her fear, though pride and perhaps resignation kept her silent. Her hands shook where they were tied together in front of her; her knees trembled, making her flimsy dress flutter as though it waved in a breeze.
Yet she had jutted her chin forward, had thrown back her head and had a look upon her face which could only be called defiant. And if those were tears which fell over her cheeks, she at least pretended to have no knowledge of them.
She had courage, this one. She might be young, perhaps no more than twenty winters, but Night Thunder knew very few women who would remain so stouthearted in similar circumstances. He added one more quality to his long, growing list of her attributes: her courageous spirit. Someday, he thought, she would make a man a fine wife.
Night Thunder drew his brows together in silent realization.
Wife? Was this a possible solution? If Night Thunder claimed her as his bride…?
No, he couldn’t.
But if he could make the others believe he had married this woman, it would give him first rights to her. He could then save her without raising his hand against his brothers.
Could he do it? To do so would be the height of dishonesty. Surely Sun and the Winds would carry the tale of his treachery into the Sand Hills, reaching the ears of his ancestors, bringing those who had gone before him great shame.
Yet the consequences if he did not act…
Strikes The Bear suddenly let out a growl and, gripping his knife as though prepared to use it, approached the woman.
Her scream split the air with a terrifying intensity as the knife tore through her dress, and in that instant Night Thunder ceased to wonder if and when he should act.
He would rescue her.
Now.
****
The Indian growled at her, striking out at her with his knife, the action plummeting Rebecca instantly and horribly into the present. As though in a dream, she’d been lost in the past. She wished she could have remained there; the present held too much pain, too much fear.
She wasn’t certain how she had lived through the first few hours after her capture by these Indians, so strong had been her fear. Still, live she had.
She stared into her enemy’s black-painted face, trying to remember if she had ever seen a human being look more frightening. Nothing came to her. Nor did she register much else about the man, not even his nearly nude body. All she could focus on was his face and the knife he waved in front of her. Her stomach dropped and the scent of her own fear engulfed her. She needed no wise man to tell her what her future held.
Was this all she had left, then? Was she to join, at last, her dearly departed fiancé? Would she never see the shores of her parents’ beloved homeland, Ireland? Would she die here never to have realized her dream? Would she never dance? This last thought, strangely enough, was more depressing than all the rest, even the idea of dying.
Odd, she considered, that here, before her imminent demise, she found herself bemoaning a ball she would never have, a party she would never attend. How her parents would have moaned her loss, had they been living—that their American-born daughter would not come to know her Irish heritage.
Her heart sank.
Perhaps in the hereafter, please God.
Well, if this were all she had of her life, then let the Indian get on with it. Taking what she speculated might be her last breath, she threw back her head, raised her chin, and voiced, “Is that the best you can do to frighten me, now?”
She knew her words were hollow, however, her bravery for naught. She would break down soon enough, more’s the pity. But perhaps the Lord would let her keep her dignity, at least for a little while longer.
Propelling himself forward out of the shadows, Night Thunder leapt into the Kainah encampment, making as much noise as he could, in order to draw attention to himself.
“Night Thunder!”
He heard the woman scream out his name in the white man’s tongue. Odd, he thought fleetingly, that her voice would sound so pleasant, even under such duress.
“Go back,” she shouted at him. “There’s naught you can do for me here. There are too many of them.”
Night Thunder paid her little attention. He took note of Strikes The Bear, saw the man turn his head slightly. Night Thunder drew his arms together over his chest, preparing to meet the other Indian in silent battle. But all the other Indian did by way of greeting was grunt before he turned back toward the woman. He shouted, “Omaopii! Be quiet!” and at the same time, reached out toward her as though he might strike her.
“The devil bless you,” she spat out, defiance coloring her voice, her composure, her bearing. And Night Thunder realized that though the white woman might not have understood Strikes The Bear’s words, she had clearly grasped his actions.
Strikes The Bear shrieked all at once and sprang forward, slashing out at her again with his knife. Another piece of her dress fell to the ground. But the white woman held onto her pride, this time not uttering even a sound.
Night Thunder congratulated her silently for her fortitude. He cautioned himself, however, to show nothing: not admiration, not pride, not even his anger. “Oki, nitakkaawa, hello, my friends,” he said at last to the warriors at large. Then, with what he hoped was a tinge of humor, he added, “Do we intend to start treating the white women as these new Americans do to ours?”
“Miistapoot, go away, my cousin.” It was Strikes The Bear who spoke. “We do not wish to hear your talk if it is to say bad words about what we do.”
“You think that I would say bad words about this?”
Strikes The Bear groaned slightly before he continued, “We all know how you cater to the white man, spending so much time in his forts and lodges. Many are the times when we have likened you to a dog seeking the white man’s scraps. But you are alone in your regard for this woman. Most of us hate the white man for what he has done to us, to those dear to us. Look around you. Do you not see this for yourself? Has not each warrior here suffered from the white man’s crimes? We do not wish to hear your honeyed words about him.”
Night Thunder listened patiently, as was the way of his people, and he paused only slightly before responding, “I come here before you with no pleasant talk for the white man on my tongue. But this woman, she is different.”
“Go away. I will do as duty requires me. Can you deny that I have the right and the obligation to do to this white woman those acts of violence which were done to my wife? Is it not true that only in this way can my spirit, and my woman’s, at last find peace?”
Night Thunder again paused, long enough to show respect for what Strikes The Bear had said. But after a few moments, Night Thunder began, “Aa, yes, my cousin has cause to speak and to do as he does, I think, and all our people weep with him in his grief.” Night Thunder shifted his weight, the action giving emphasis to his next words. “But even as he scolds the white man for his ways and scorns his path, I see my cousin also adopting his customs. For, is it not the sweet scent of the trader’s nectar that I smell here in your camp? Is it not the stench of whisky on your breath that I inhale as you speak to me? I cannot help but wonder how a man can curse one part of a society while holding another dear.”
Strikes The Bear howled and turned away from the woman. He took a few menacing steps toward Night Thunder before, motioning with his arms, he snarled, “Miistapoot! Go away!”
Night Thunder didn’t flinch, nor did he raise an arm against his cousin. “I think you have had too much of the whisky, my cousin,” he said. “It would be best if you slept through the night before you decided what to do with this woman.”
“Miistapoot! I will hear none of what you say. No man can tell another man what to do.”
Night Thunder nodded. “So the old men of our tribe tell us. But if you value your life and your few possessions, you will take great heed of my words.”
Strikes The Bear hesitated. “You speak in riddles. Say what you mean.”
“I mean this: you must leave this woman alone.”
These words seemed to cause Strikes The Bear great humor, for he began to laugh, though there was little amusement in the sound of it. At last, though, Strikes The Bear said, “My cousin has taken leave of his senses, I think.”
Night Thunder grinned. “Perhaps I have,” he said, “or perhaps you should ensure you learn all you can about a woman before you decide to use her for your own purposes.”
“A white woman? What value is a white woman to me? There seem to be so few of them that maybe if we kill them all, the white man will go away, since he will have no one in which to plant his seed.”
This statement appeared to amuse the crowd, and Night Thunder smiled along with them. Shortly, however, he held up a hand, silencing all present as he said, “You speak with the foresight of a child, my cousin. Must I remind you of the teachings of the elders in the value of life?”
“Not a white man’s life.”
“Who said I speak of a white man’s life?”
Strikes The Bear smirked. “Are your eyes so weak, my cousin, that you cannot see the color of this captive’s skin?”
“Is your mind so cluttered,” Night Thunder countered, “that you have failed to discover who she really belongs to. I say this to you: she is not only white, she is Siksika. She is Blackfeet.”
Well that’s all for today. Here’s hoping you enjoyed the excerpt. Be sure to leave a message — oh, also, let me know what you think of the three different covers for this book
Here’s a link to the book and the book is also on KU.
Welcome, Welcome to another terrific Tuesday. Please excuse this late post. I’m very sorry.
Truth is, I just finished editing an anniversary book, NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE, and the edits were a little hard and so once finished, I went into veg mode. Oh, also, about 1 1/2 weeks ago, I put the finishing touches on a new book soon (in a couple of months or less) to be released. It’s the 2nd book in the new Medicine Man Series, and the title is SHE CAPTURES MY HEART. It’s in editing right now.
But, before that book is released, I’ll be re-releasing an Anniversary book of NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE, the 3rd and final book in THE BLACKFOOT WARRIOR series. And so, I thought I’d leave you with an excerpt from book #2 in the series and tell you a little back story of the book, WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH, book #2 in the series. And, I’ll be giving away an e-book of WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH, also. But before I talk about the 2nd book, WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH, let me give you a sneak peek at NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE’s new cover. Again, this is the 3rd and final book in The Blackfoot Warrior series and we’ll be releasing the 25th year anniversary edition of the book in about a week.
So, onto Book #2, WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH. It was originally written for AVON books in 1996-97 and published in 1998 (I think that’s right.) My husband and I were married in 1996 and so in the end of 1996 and the beginning of 1997, I was falling deeper and deeper in love with my husband. We had married in a whirlwind and so it was after we were married that we really started to get to know each other.
Below and left is the new Anniversary cover for the book. The male model, by the way, is Lakota Indian. And, he models under the name of “Lakota.”
In these anniversary books, we are correcting errors made when the book was converted to e-book from the original mass market. There is no plot change or anything like that. It’s just correcting computer errors made in the conversion. Also, I might give the book a few better word choices here and there.
But, it was in the editing of this book that I began to see how much I was (at that time) falling deeper and deeper in love with this man I had married. It’s there in the conversations between White Eagle and the heroine, Katrina. Both of them are changing in regards to each other. More love. More understanding. And, at that time, I guess I couldn’t help but write about how deeply I was in love with this man.
Our courtship (my husband and me) is pretty well illustrated in the first book in this series, GRAY HAWK’S LADY. But this book goes one step further.
So, in ending, I’ll leave the blurb for the book and an excerpt. Hope you’ll enjoy!
WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH
by
Karen Kay
Two worlds. Forbidden love.
Blackfoot Warrior, Book 2
Katrina Wellington is vexed. She must marry to obtain the rest of her inheritance. But her uncle, who left her in New York with a governess to make his fortune out West, has suddenly decided he must approve of her fiancé before he will loosen the purse strings to her dowry.
Swallowing her outrage, the socialite treks to the same wilderness that claimed her parents’ lives years ago. Some small part of her is crestfallen that her uncle is not waiting with open arms. Only three guides, Indian guides, await her, and one of them is far too handsome for his own good.
At first, White Eagle does not like the spoiled, willful niece of the white trader. When he catches a glimpse of the vulnerability behind her prickly exterior, he can’t resist challenging the dazzling beauty to rediscover her true inheritance—the inner strength bequeathed to her by her parents.
Close contact on the trail soon arouses a soul-stirring passion and in its turn, love. But love may not be enough to sustain a relationship that is forbidden in both their worlds.
This book has been previously published.
Warning: Sensuous Romance that contains a captivating passion that could lead to a romantic evening spent in the company of one’s own love.
This is the original cover done for AVON Books. The excerpt is the first meeting between White Eagle and Katrina in the book (and after many years of being apart).
Chapter Four
June 25, 1833
Midmorning
“I say, what vision of loveliness descends upon us now? Is she a princess, a queen? Do you think I should bow? Or is she a mere fleeting whiff of my fancy? Oh, dear, I don’t think I can rhyme fancy…can you see?” The Marquess of Leicester chuckled before he put a finger over one nostril, taking a sniff of the powder which he held in a box in his hand. “What do you say, my friends? Am I poetic?”
The marquess’s two friends murmured polite words of agreement at all the appropriate places, while the marquess, pocketing his snuffbox, paced forward to take hold of Katrina’s hand. “Ah, my dear, you look stunning, simply ravishing, rather.”
“Thank you, Lord Leicester.” Katrina suffered her hand to be kissed by lips which looked as though they bore more rouge than her own. She pulled her hand back as quickly as possible, but failed to loosen his grip. “Are we prepared to meet the new guides?”
“Yes, I say,” the marquess replied, setting her hand onto one of his lacy cuffs.
Katrina smiled at him.
“Am I to understand, my dear, that the guides of which you speak are to escort me to yet another fort?”
“Yes, that is correct. My uncle has been delayed, and he asks that you join him at a place called Fort McKenzie. The scouts are to take you safely to him.”
“Quite unusual, wouldn’t you say? But I must ask you: The hunting, is there good hunting at this fort? After all, mustn’t disappoint the dogs, don’t you know? Brought the hounds all this way to hunt, and hunt we shall. Why, do you know that I have met the most interesting fellow, a Mr. Hamilton, although I don’t believe that Hamilton is his real name. A right good sort of chap. English, I say. Says he has been here at this fort for several years. Seems to like it here, though he does appear to hate Indians.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, rather. Well, now, come along, my dear. Mr. McKenzie informs me that his clerk is awaiting us outside the house here to escort us to the guides on the other side of the gate. A monstrous proposal, I must say. That is why I have asked Mr. Hamilton to make the introductions. I can’t say that I am overwhelmed by Mr. McKenzie’s manners. A clerk to see to us, indeed. Ah, here is Mr. Hamilton now. Come along, my dear. Let us get these introductions over with.”
“Yes,” said Katrina, “let us.”
And with little more said, she allowed Mr. Hamilton and the marquess to lead her out into the sunshine of a new day. That the marquess’s friends followed the three of them wherever they went, that the marquess’s men kept murmuring always agreeable tidbits concerning Lord Leicester’s undoubtedly brilliant humor, did little more than annoy her.
At least for now.
McKenzie’s clerk, Thomas, was waiting for their entire party just outside the gate. And what a party they made. Not only were the marquess, his two friends and Hamilton in their group, somehow the marquess’s dogs, barking loudly, had joined them.
“Come this way, Gov’nor, the men ’ee seek are by the wall over thyar,” Thomas said.
“Where?”
“Over thyar, do ’ee not see?”
“They’re…”
Conversation ceased, replaced with silence. Dead silence.
Their entire entourage, even the dogs, stopped completely still. No one said a word; no one moved. Then the dogs started to whine, and the shuffle of feet could be heard—moving away.
It was he, the Indian she had glimpsed from the boat, along with a few companions.
“Why, Thomas,” said one of the men, “they are—”
“Yep, Injuns.”
Now, it wasn’t as though their party had never seen an Indian until this moment, nor was it possible that anyone in this party had thought never to encounter an Indian in this country. After all, they had glimpsed enough of the native population from the steamboat as it had made its way up the Missouri.
But never had the people in this group seen primitives such as these—at least not so close to their own person. Warriors, all, were these savages and, by the looks of the heathens, dangerous.
But Katrina stared at none other than him.
She opened her mouth as though to utter something…some scathing comment, perhaps. But when no words issued forth, she closed her lips.
“This one hyar’s name’s White Eagle.” Only Thomas seemed able to speak. “Them three behind him are Night Thunder and Good Dancer. The woman is married to Good Dancer, near as this ole coot can tell. Blackfeet, they are. Gov’nor?”
“Indians?” This from Katrina, at last, her glance never wavering from him.
“Yes, ma’am. But they’ll get ’ee through Blackfoot country all safe. They knows the way.”
“He goes too far!” She glanced toward the clerk.
“Ma’am?”
“My uncle goes too far this time.”
“You tell the man,” the marquess spoke up from behind her. “Yes, my dear, tell the man.”
Katrina gazed over her shoulder. The marquess had positioned himself to her rear, his own men standing, as though in a line, behind him.
“Does your uncle not think favorably of you, Miss Wellington?” This from Hamilton, who seemed as dumbfounded as the rest.
She ignored the Englishman, glancing instead at him, the Indian, the same one who had so disturbed her thoughts, the one called… “What is this man’s name again, Thomas?”
“This one hyar, ma’am? He’s White Eagle. He’s their leader, near as I can tell, a chief maybe.”
White Eagle. So, that was his name. Katrina stared at the Indian. He, back at her. The man looked dangerous—foreign, frightening…handsome. Handsome?
He still wore no shirt, exposing to her view that muscular chest she had glimpsed the previous day. And she would have looked at it, at him, had she been of the mind. But she wasn’t.
She swallowed with difficulty and, allowing her gaze to drop no farther than the bridge of the Indian’s nose, asked of him, “Does my uncle bring word to me?”
The Indian just stared at her. No grin, no recognition of her, no intimation that he had seen her, too, the previous day—nothing, not even an acknowledgment that she had spoken.
She raised her chin. “Do these Indians not speak English, Thomas?”
“Guess they do well enough, ma’am. They been tradin’ with us long enough now to have learnt it. But ’ee is a woman. No Blackfeet is goin’ to speak to ’ee b’cause of that, beg pardon.”
Katrina looked at the Indian from down the end of her nose. She said, “Then ask him for me if he brings me word of my uncle.”
Thomas stepped up to her side. “Very well, ma’am. ’Ee heard her, Injun. Does the lady’s uncle send word?”
The Indian didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even shift his weight. He just stared, his glance never wavering from her.
“Speak up there, you primitive animal,” Hamilton demanded.
None of the three Indians, and especially not White Eagle, paid the Englishman the least attention.
“Are ’ee sent here from the woman’s uncle?”
Nothing. No response at all, until, at last, piercing Katrina with his glance, the Indian said, “I have news for the woman alone.” Oddly enough, the man spoke in unbroken English and, Katrina noted, his voice, low and baritone, was peculiarly pleasant, almost melodic.
“Alone?” Hamilton again spoke up from a safe distance away. “Is the Indian mad? Does he presume to think we would leave the lady unaccompanied with him, so filthy a creature as he is?”
The Indian didn’t move a muscle, nor did he indicate in any way that he’d even heard Hamilton’s comments.
Katrina stepped forward, away from the crowd. Glancing around behind her, she ordered, “Leave us.”
“What?” This from all five men.
“Leave us, but take this man’s Indian friends with you. I will do as he asks and speak with him, but only with him. Here, Mr. Hamilton, give me your pistol that I may defend myself, if I must.”
“But milady,” Hamilton protested, “surely you can’t mean to—”
“Mr. Hamilton, your pistol, please.”
The Englishman looked as though he might protest further, though he nevertheless pulled the weapon from his coat and handed it to Katrina.
“Leave us.” Again she addressed the men who remained behind her without turning toward them. “I warn you, Indian,” she said confidently, “I can use this firearm Mr. Hamilton has given me as skillfully as any man. So do not think me defenseless that you might take advantage of me.”
The Indian said nothing, nor did he give her any sort of acknowledgment, not even by the bend of his head or a flicker of emotion across his features.
Katrina listened to the fading footsteps of the men behind her. After a nod from White Eagle, the Indian’s two companions followed.
The deference shown to this man did not escape her notice, but when she spoke, she made no mention of it, saying only, “What you ask is highly irregular and impolite. Hear me now, Indian, I am humoring you only because I wish to know what my uncle has to say. That is all.”
Glancing directly at her, he replied, “I will speak to the white woman only within the walls of the fort.”
“You will not,” Katrina countered. “You asked for an audience with me alone. You have it now.”
The Indian didn’t utter another word, just gave her a peculiar look and made to move away from her.
She reached out, grabbing at his arm, effectively staying him. He glanced down at her hand as it lay upon his arm, then back up at her. Something…some little excitement passed between them as they stared at one another, the intensity causing Katrina’s knees to buckle. Several moments passed as they stood there, sizing one another up.
At last, Katrina stuck out her chin and asked, “Who do you think you are, Indian, that you gape at me? Do you not know it is impolite to do so? Now, you will tell me what it is you have to say to me, right here and now…or not at all. Do I make myself clear to you?”
The Indian had become perfectly still as she spoke; his gaze roamed from the top of her bonnet to the very bottom of her skirts. Katrina watched him, ignoring the tingling sensation which spread throughout her nervous system. Fear, she supposed.
Odd, too, but she noticed he smelled good: of wood and smoke, of grass and mint—she had heard that the Indians chewed the leaves of the mint plant to stave off hunger, as well as to scent their breath.
His skin felt warm, too, moist and…strange, there was no hair upon the flesh of his arm where she touched him.
He was close to her, too close. The wind suddenly blew a lock of his long raven hair over her hand where she still touched him. The feel of those strands against her skin was fleeting, sensual, its effect sending shivers through her body.
She glanced up, startled, and wondered if the Indian had felt it, too, this strange sensation, but his expression revealed nothing.
She didn’t know how it was possible, yet she considered this man, this Indian, handsome almost beyond belief, in a primitive sort of way, of course. Not a man she would ever admit to being attracted to, particularly since he was nothing more than one of the savages that this country produced. And yet, she couldn’t help but admire the straight, imposing figure he cut as she looked up to where he stood over her. With his shoulders back, displaying his sculptured form, he looked as though he were a work of art, not a person of substance.
Something within her reached out to him, and she felt as though she knew him, his thoughts, his passions. It was as though there were a part of him that matched her perfectly…
She gave herself a shake. What was wrong with her? This was not the first time she’d felt as if there were something between them. It had happened the first time she’d glimpsed him, there from the boat…
She stared up at him then, in silent challenge, if only to purge this sensation from her consciousness. Yet, all the while, her touch upon his arm never relinquished its hold. His eyes were black, she noted, the darkest eyes she had ever seen, and they revealed nothing.
Suddenly, his look turned sardonic, and he broke eye contact with her, pulling his arm back, out and away from her grasp.
He turned from her then, suddenly and without warning. He began walking away from her at a steady gait, following on the footfalls of the other men. The Indian was treading, it would appear, toward the main entrance of the fort.
Katrina stood still for several moments, watching him, until she suddenly realized what he was doing. This man—this mere Indian—was defying her. She had made demands of him; he had told her nothing. Nothing!
Somehow this fact disturbed her more than any other detail she had observed about him. Blast!
She had to try to detain him. She took one step forward, and called out, “It was you who demanded to speak to me alone, Indian.”
No response, not even a catch in his stride.
“If you wish to talk to me, do it now, for I will not see you once we are in the fort.”
The man didn’t turn around, nor did he say or do anything further, except to present her with the view of his backside as he continued to walk away. She should have been appalled by the man’s bad manners and by his dress, or rather, its lack thereof. In truth, she was…almost.
She watched him, his lean, sculpted figure an unusually strange and exciting sight. And then she saw it, the man’s breechcloth fell apart from the outline of his leggings now and again, presenting her with an occasional view of a portion of hard, muscular buttocks.
Katrina was almost struck dumb with the observation. Never, not once in her life, had she ever witnessed so much of a man’s anatomy.
How utterly heathen. How primitive.
She didn’t, however, glance away. “I won’t meet with you,” she announced again. “And that’s my final word on the subject.”
Her challenge had no effect on the Indian’s actions.
Katrina was fuming. She felt like shouting at the man; she felt like pummeling him, but she refused to reduce herself to a show of temper.
She did, however, stamp her foot. The insolent barbarian. And to think she had been admiring his looks.
Humph!
She picked up the front of her skirt, her white petticoats contrasting oddly with the brown of the earth beneath her feet. She would follow that Indian back into the fort. Not because she had to, she reminded herself. After all, she was residing within the walls of the fort. She had a right to be there. This Indian did not.
Oh, but she didn’t like this. It was she who should be the person putting forth demands. It was she, not this man, White Eagle, who was the civilized one here, the more intelligent one.
So why was she the one left staring after him?
Well, it made no difference. There was at least one action she would take as soon as she met with this man: She would ensure he would hear her opinions of him and his insolence—that is, if she met with him.
She wasn’t certain at this moment that she would even permit the man an interview. There must be some other way of soliciting news of her uncle.
The Indian turned around at that exact moment, catching her staring at him, and goodness, but it looked as though he smiled at her. Did he know her thoughts? Could he see her frustration? Worse yet, had he felt her gaze upon that more intimate portion of his anatomy?
How dare he! Oh, what a wicked, wicked man!
She threw back her head and thrust out her chin. Ah, but it would please her to tell this Indian what she thought of him…and soon!
Make no mistake.
White Eagle turned his back on the woman and walked away from her, a grin tugging up the corners of his mouth.
In truth, he had enjoyed the confrontation with Shines Like Moonlight…but he would never let her know it. Not when she had dared to try to command him, a Blackfoot warrior. Such was the height of bad manners.
Yet, he could appreciate her spirit, her courage in confronting him when even the men who had surrounded her had shied away from him. Too, he acknowledged her unusual beauty; in truth, she had overwhelmed him with the allure of her feminine charm, more pleasing in close proximity than from a distance. He could still smell the sweet fragrance of her, hear the silvery timbre of her voice, and if it hadn’t been for her lack of manners…
Certainly, she was fairer than he’d anticipated she would be, but this wasn’t what bothered him about her. No, it was her touch, the simple graze of her hand upon his arm. With that touch…
He grimaced. And he wondered if she knew she had stirred something to life within him, something sweet, something carnal, something completely sexual. It was one of the reasons he had turned his back on her—that, and her insolence.
Hánnia! He should have more control. He was not some young boy, unable to control the physical urges of his body; and yet, even now he could feel the result of her effect on him down there in the junction between his legs. It was good that he had left her before his physical reaction to her became more pronounced.
Did she remember him?
A picture flashed in his mind, an image of a child, frightened and crying, clinging to him as he had hung onto the crest of a hill, both he and the child watching the gushing floodwaters rush past them, its danger only a short distance away. He had almost lost her in those waters.
He remembered again that he had clasped her to him then, whispering to her, giving her as much comfort as he was able, until long after the danger had passed. But that had been much too long ago. They had both been different people then, children.
That the child in her had grown up was evident. That she had reached adulthood without the guidance of a mother or a father to point out the necessity of courtesy and good manners was even more conspicuous.
Would she remember him given more time?
White Eagle thought back to the world he had known so long ago, to the people he had befriended, to a little white girl he had admired—a girl with yellowish-gold hair—to the child’s father and her mother.
They had perished, her parents. The girl had barely survived, and her father’s brother had sent her away long ago.
So, her uncle had been right about her. The woman he had met today was spoiled, a person completely devoid of maidenly gentleness. She spoke when not asked, demanded when a man’s mind was already settled; in truth, her spirit towered over the white men who had accompanied her.
Did she rise above these men because she had bullied them into submission with the same womanly harping and angry tongue she had shown to him? Or was she merely stronger-willed than they?
Whatever the reason, White Eagle despaired of the intervening years since he had last seen her.
If he reminded her of it, would she remember?
It was doubtful. She had been before the age when a child comes into its senses, and he had been no more than a young boy. He’d kept a lonely girl company during those times when her father and uncle had journeyed to his tribe on trading excursions. If he told her what he knew of her, of her family, would any good come from it?
He did not think so. This person he had observed today had been as someone alien to him—certainly not the girl he had remembered…had once known.
In truth, he had caught her looking upon him with not only a womanly sort of attention, but with contempt, the same sort of foreign attitude that White Eagle had witnessed upon the countenance of the white man.
He didn’t like it.
No, it was better that he keep what he knew of her to himself. It was apparent she did not recall her life before the white man’s world, and he was certain she would not care to hear what he had to say to her.
So be it.
He entered the fort, taking his place amongst his friends. Good Dancer’s wife had already started setting up their camping lodges in the area surrounding the fort’s flagpole. One for himself and Night Thunder, the other for herself and her husband, Good Dancer. That Good Dancer’s new wife had demanded to accompany them on their journey did not bother White Eagle, nor did it seem strange to him.
The young couple had just been married, after an unusually long courtship. Of course they would want to be together now. Such was to be understood. Such were the ways of married people.
Besides, he’d wanted a woman along to keep Shines Like Moonlight company and to provide her with a chaperone. White Eagle grimaced as he adjusted his breechcloth, certain Shines Like Moonlight would need that chaperone.
He glanced around him, at his place within the fort. He had noticed, when he had first come here, that several half-breed hunters resided within the tepees around the flagpole. This seemed only right to White Eagle; that these half-white, half-Indian men chose to live not in the square, wooden houses of the white man, but rather in the more comfortable lodges of his own people.
At least this is how it appeared to White Eagle.
He could not know, nor would he understand that to some within the fort, the mixed-bloods were not on an equal footing with the more European breed of men, that such would not be allowed the right to live in the square, wooden houses.
And so, not knowing, White Eagle settled down, content for the moment, to initiate the necessary chores needed for the return journey to Fort McKenzie. Indeed, the time consumed in fashioning arrowheads, making a new shield and manufacturing a new spear was time well spent.
He was certain that Shines Like Moonlight would delay a meeting with him for as long as she was able. This didn’t bother him. Why should it? Time was not an enemy to him, and White Eagle was full-blooded Indian; he was a patient man.
He smiled. Perhaps here was something else he could admire about this woman: She had a stubborn strength of character. And this was good.
She would not be one to come a cropper in an emergency. Such people were few. Such people were valuable.
He shrugged. Whatever the case, his next few days within this fort promised to be far from dull.
Well, that’s all for now. Look for the book in a few days. At present, it’s undergoing the final proof reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Oh, and this is the cover to the left is the cover of the book currently up at Amazon. This cover was done when I was writing for Samhain Publishing.
Indeed, all of these covers have a special place in my heart. I am, however, extremely drawn to the new cover. Hope you’ll like it, too.
The Fillies give a big welcome to Regina Walker. Regina crafts interesting characters facing some of life’s hardest challenges. Her heart’s desire is to always point toward Jesus through the way her characters face challenges, relationships, and adversity.
Regina is an Oklahoma import, although she was born and raised in the beautiful state of Colorado. She likes to curl up on the couch and binge-watch crime shows with her hard-working husband. When she’s not wrestling with a writing project, she can be found wrangling their children, riding their horses, or working around their small hobby farm.
Before I get started, I want to take a moment and thank Karen Witemeyer for so graciously inviting me to write a post for Petticoats and Pistols. I appreciate all of the ladies that run this fun site, and I’m thankful you are here to read this post and the others!
For as long as I can recall, my mother has traced our family history. Sometimes she makes slow progress, occasionally great leaps, but it’s something she has built for years. While her dedication and commitment have always inspired me, I must admit that I thought it was such a boring pursuit.
I listened with half-hearted attention, my mind always wandering to something else. When I decided to take my writing seriously, I swore I would never write historical anything.
See, not only did genealogy bore me endlessly, but history, in general, made my eyes bug out of my head. I know it is important to understand certain aspects of history, but it was never my thing.
When I received a message asking me to join the Mail-Order Mama series, I wrinkled my nose. Historicals and I don’t mix! But I read the premise, and immediately, Mary Ann came to life and started whispering her story to me.
The way she respected and loved her father, the way he cared for their family, and the struggles with her mama all blossomed in my mind.
How could I say no to a story that was writing itself with no help from me?
I did end up helping sort out a few things in this story. I started my research on my mom’s website, reading about real-life people in our family. I selected Wyoming because my great-great-grandfather homesteaded there. The old house, although in terrible disrepair, still stands near Lake De Smet.
I chose to give Mason the last name Barkey to honor my heritage. Although my great-great-grandfather did not order a bride via the mail, it was my way of honoring where I came from to include the last name in this story.
Now, don’t let me fool you. I didn’t become a history buff and I’m not going to take up genealogy the way my sweet mom has. I did gain an appreciation for both history and genealogy that I did not have before.
Now that you know a little bit about how I came to write Mary Ann’s story – A Maid for Mason – how about a chance to win an e-book copy of my book? Three lucky winners will be drawn at random for this giveaway. To be entered, leave a comment on whether you’ve ever developed an appreciation for something because of a book you’ve read.
Have a wonderful weekend and thank you for spending a little time with me today.
While researching a book, I came across several accounts of hidden money sewn into clothing, hat brims, or fake compartments in luggage. I didn’t end up using everything I’d discovered in my novel, but it did send my mind racing and ideas spinning. We are so used to electronic funds, checks, and secured shipping that we don’t often worry about traveling with the family’s heirloom jewels or your life savings, but times used to be different.
During the prime stagecoach and railroad days people often traveled with money or valuables. Robbers knew this, which is why we have so many accounts of stagecoach robberies and trains stopped by bandits and looted. Some passengers took to hiding money in their clothing, sewing it into the hem of their pants or skirt, or stitching it into lining of a jacket.
There have been other times in history when hiding money and valuables became the norm. During and after the Great Depression there was a general mistrust of the banking system. Our grandparents and great-grandparents (depending on your age) may have been some of those that weren’t quite ready to trust their hard-earned savings to an institution.
Rather than sew their money into their clothing (though, some of them might have), they could have buried it in the backyard, under floorboards, behind the mantle, in the piano, and even in the outhouse (gross).
There are fantastic stories of people buying old homes and finding “treasure” hidden in the floorboards or in the rafters of the attic. I can’t help but wonder how many homes have been torn down with their treasure never found, or items of clothing discarded that held a secret. The author in me wonders the circumstances that led to someone hiding away their money—were they saving so they could reach for a dream? Preparing for a rainy day? Hoping to give their children a better life?
When my husband and I moved to Buffalo, New York so he could attend dental school there, we bought a small, OLD home. I asked the neighbors about it and learned as much history as I could about the charming little place. It had once housed a large family. (Where they all slept, I will never know.) I tried to visualize them and often thought about those that had lived inside the walls of my beloved first house. At one point we decided to add more insulation. (Those Buffalo winters are brutal!) While working we discovered a small box tucked way back in the eaves.
I was not an author at the time, but I still had a vivid imagination and can still remember my heart beating a little faster when I reached for the box. It didn’t contain any gold, no rare coins, or fine jewels. But it did contain handmade Christmas ornaments from decades ago. As a lover of history and stories, I found my discovery fascinating. Holding those ornaments in my hand made it easier to picture the big loving family that I had only heard a few scattered details about. I confess, I still think it would be fun to prowl through an abandoned house and discover treasure, a journal, or any other fascinating piece of history. Wouldn’t it be so fun to sneak around a ghost town…sigh, someday!
Whether hidden to avoid bandits, or fear of a depression, or simply an accident, the pieces of the past we discover tell us a little about those that came before. I wonder what the next person to live in my beloved Buffalo house learned about me. We were students and had no money to hide, but there is a bird house my son made with his grandpa and nailed to the back fence, scratches in the floor from a baby walker, and probably a few missing socks behind the washing machine. (It’s been a decade, so maybe those are gone by now.)
And now after writing this and thinking about hidden treasure and stories, I am convinced that all writing retreats should take place in very old houses or near other prime locations for treasure hunting. Maybe we would all find a story worth telling!
Rachel Fordham is giving away a copy of her latest novel Where the Road Bends. To be entered in the random drawing, leave a comment for Rachel telling her if you’ve ever stumbled across a treasure or family heirloom.
The past six weeks or so I’ve been working on a big project.
Oddly enough, it doesn’t involve writing, at least not directly.
Like clothes that get worn out or a house that needs painted, sometimes book covers need a makeover.
Then multiply that times ten because instead of giving one book a makeover, I gave a whole 10-book series a brand new look.
I’m excited to share these new Pendleton Petticoats covers with you today. In fact, you are the first to get to see them!
Before I share them though, I thought I’d walk you through some of the changes one or two of the covers have gone through since I first published the books.
When I originally released Aundy, the first book in the series, I had zero budget for hiring someone to design covers or buying high quality images.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? This desperate measure was for me to pull on a blue calico wrapper my mom had made eons ago, pin eyelet lace inside it so it looked like a petticoat hanging out, and lace up a pair of reproduction Edwardian era boots (talk about pinched toes!) I’d had since high school days. I enlisted Captain Cavedweller to take the photo, then I added in the sheep and the wheat field in the background. I try not to cringe when I see it now. At the time, it filled a need!
Fast forward to 2017 when I had a subscription to a stock image website. By then, I’d picked up a few design skills (not nearly enough, but a few!).
This was the original graphic I used for the new Aundy cover. It had some great elements.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite gotten the hang of “dressing” models in photos. It’s a lot harder than it might seem when the model is in a reclined position like this. Again, it filled a need when I wanted an upgrade.
What do you think of the new and improved Aundy?
I love this so much, mostly because this is exactly how I picture Aundy, from the braided hair to the peach-hued gown, to her sheep grazing in the distance. I really did have a lot of fun designing this cover.
Here’s another makeover example.
It was impossible when I was working on Millie’s story to find any appropriate artwork for the cover. You see, Millie is strongly against alcohol being sold in town and becomes one of the leaders of the local temperance union. How to convey that in a cover shot?
Well, yours truly may or may not have ordered a corset, cinched it so tight I could barely breathe, and assembled a costume from things I had buried in the back of the closet (minus the axe, that was CC’s contribution to the photo). I photoshopped in the house in the background and the whiskey barrel.
When I changed the cover in 2017, I decided to ditch the whole temperance idea for the cover and focus on Millie’s job as a telephone operator.
This cover was better, but still not quite right.
The new and improved Millie makes my heart so happy. I adore the colors and the fact she’s sitting on a bench reading. It makes me want to sit with her and peek over her shoulder to see what story has her so enthralled.
Here they are! All 10 books with shiny new covers!
Set in the western town of Pendleton, Oregon, at the turn of the 20th century, each book in this series bears the name of the heroine, all brave yet very different.
Aundy(Book 1) — Aundy Thorsen, a stubborn mail-order bride, finds the courage to carry on when she’s widowed before ever truly becoming a wife, but opening her heart to love again may be more than she can bear.
Caterina(Book 2) — Running from a man intent on marrying her, Caterina Campanelli starts a new life in Pendleton, completely unprepared for the passionate feelings stirred in her by the town’s incredibly handsome deputy sheriff.
Ilsa(Book 3) — Desperate to escape her wicked aunt and an unthinkable future, Ilsa Thorsen finds herself on her sister’s ranch in Pendleton. Not only are the dust and smells more than she can bear, but Tony Campanelli seems bent on making her his special project.
Marnie(Book 4) — Beyond all hope for a happy future, Marnie Jones struggles to deal with her roiling emotions when U.S. Marshal Lars Thorsen rides into town, tearing down the walls she’s erected around her heart.
Lacy(Book 5) — Bound by tradition and responsibilities, Lacy has to choose between the ties that bind her to the past and the unexpected love that will carry her into the future.
Bertie(Book 6) — Haunted by the trauma of her past, Bertie Hawkins must open her heart to love if she has any hope for the future.
Millie (Book 7) — Determined to bring prohibition to town, the last thing Millie Matlock expects is to fall for the charming owner of the Second Chance Saloon.
Dally (Book 8) — Eager to return home and begin his career, Doctor Nik Nash is caught by surprise when the spirited Dally Douglas captures his heart.
Quinn (Book 9) — Full of opinions and plans to help women, Quinn Fairfield has no time for such nonsense as falling in love.
Evie (Book 10) — Will a man focused on his work notice the love of a lifetime in his client’s effervescent nanny?
It’s hard for me to pick a favorite, but I think it might just be Aundy. Or maybe Evie. Or Quinn. Or…
Which one is your favorite?
Post your answer for a chance to win the Pendleton Petticoats boxed set which includes three Pendleton stories!
Welcome! Welcome to a terrifically beautiful Tuesday!
Recently, I was interviewed by Tory Richards at Coffee Time Romance concerning the book, SHE STEALS MY BREATH. She asked me some interesting questions and so I thought I’d share the interview with you. Tory is the author of many erotica romances. So, without further ado, here is the interview:
Interview for Coffee Time Romance and More
Welcome, today we are talking with Karen Kay! I would like to thank you for taking time out of your busy writing schedule to answer a few questions. First, let’s delve into who you are. Some of the questions may be untraditional but you’d be surprised at what readers connect to, and sometimes the simplest ‘I can relate to that’ grabs their interest where nothing else can.
**Can you share a little something about Karen Kay that’s not mentioned in your bio on your website?
This question got me to thinking a bit, because, on my website, I really do tend to share my life with my readers. But, here’s something I don’t usually share: I’m pretty much a food purist, so to speak. I don’t eat anything that comes in a box and nothing processed by another. I make all my own catsup, mustard, sauces, sweets, etc. Takes a bit more kitchen time and tends to make my life constantly busy. It has taken me a bit of time, a lot of research and a couple of illnesses to reach this point, because I have loved fast food as much as anyone else. But, not any more.
**How long have you been writing?
Twenty-six years round about.
**What have you found most challenging about it?
Golly, what don’t I find challenging about it? I’m not a slow writer, but I’m also not a fast writer. I ache and struggle over sentences and descriptions that really matter. Promotion also tends to make me a little high strung when a new release comes out.
But, the things I do love, which keeps me going, is the research about the American Indian long-ago way of life — I’m always learning…taking on new things, i.e. recently I’ve become very interested in really learning to “speak” the gesture/sign language in common use all over America before English came in and replaced it. And, love. I truly believe that the love and love-making between a man and a woman who are truly committed to each other are probably one of the most beautiful creations on earth, their love, of course, creating a whole new generation.
There are factions at work, in my opinion, who work to make us think that this (love-making) is filthy or dirty and they go out of their way to make it appear this is true.
But, love and love-making between two people committed to one another is God’s plan, and, being God’s plan, is naturally one of the most beautiful things still found on this earth. I do believe this to be true, and so in my stories, I try my best to make the love scenes as beautiful as I possibly can.
**What does writing do for you? Is it fun, cathartic, do you get emotional?
Great question — I had to go and look up the word, cathartic, to make sure I understood it…and it means using some sort of medium to purge or cleanse some emotional aspect about something. Okay, so I admit that sometimes when it comes to the bad guys in my story, I sometimes am writing real dialogue and real happenings — not always — but I’ve noticed when it comes to the bad guys in the story, I generally am working from real life, unfortunately.
A story where I specifically remember doing this is PROUD WOLF’S WOMAN — and even then, I went back and edited out much of the bad parts because I thought no one would ever belief a man could say such things to a woman.
Actually, I get very emotional about the stories and try to make them as light-hearted as possible, given the subject and the fact that one is writing a novel which must contain conflict. In Native America, there is so much real trauma from the past, and even today, that I like to make my stories somewhat light-hearted, even when dealing with subjects that are not light-hearted.
And, of course, they must always end well.
**Describe what your writing routine looks like. Are you disciplined with a strict schedule or do you have to be in the mood?
I’m pretty disciplined. I’d had to be when I wrote for two major publishing houses in New York.
No, I don’t have to be in the mood. But, I do like to look at pictures of what I’m writing about or pictures of a possible hero before I sit down to write. I’ve tried to get rid of that habit, but I still do it, nonetheless.
**Did you go into writing thinking that it would be a hobby or a job?
Actually, no to both. When I was growing up, my life was filled with music — I play piano and clarinet. I practiced everyday and I loved it. It filled a creative need. When I had young children and my ex-husband was often gone (out-of-town), I began to feel the need to bring a creative influence back into my life.
I began to read love stories to fill that gap, but even this wasn’t enough. I began to yearn for a piano or clarinet to play. We were mighty poor and the thought of getting a piano was out of the question. But, I discovered that it didn’t take much cash to buy paper and pen. That’s when I started to write.
**What inspires you?
Golly, a lot. My husband is number one inspiration. Native America and doing my best to “set the record straight” on what happened here in America also inspires me. It makes me hunger for doing the research and so I have my nose in some sort of book almost constantly — history books or another Indian book. And, I love to tell stories. When I pick my grand kids up at school, I often tell them stories I’ve heard, but sometimes I make them up.
**Let’s move on and give readers some insight into your personal life.
** What are your pet peeves?
Many of the old movies tend to irritate me. They tell bad history, tell lies about Native Americans, usually have non-Indian people playing the major roles and don’t show the facts as they were. Rarely, do they present the truth of the people who were first here. And, almost always those old movies end in a bad way for the Indians.
The truth is that the Native American of old was honest almost to a fault, deeply spiritual and religious, trained his body so that he could run miles in order to save his people if the need ever arose. He respected (as a rule) women and their voices and their roles in the Indian culture. He was often wise, could track better than anything we’ve ever known, and if he were a true medicine man, his ethics had to be without fault. He did not deal in magic, as the movies depict — this is the true medicine man I’m talking about — he healed by being completely ethical in his life so that God could work through him to heal others.
Yes, some men pretending to be medicine men who were yet not true medicine men, went astray and often, when they let hate fill their spirit, ended up on the black side of magic and sometimes were cruel or used their “medicine” against others. But, these were not the men whom God chose to work through. History tells us that the God of Creation abandoned them.
I’m only learning this now because of the series I’m writing about the medicine man.
** Who is your hero?
My husband.
**Give us one thing on your bucket list.
Okay, back to the dictionary…I didn’t know what a bucket list is. Am I showing my age? I’d say the one thing on my bucket list is what I try to do in my writing is to depict the American Indian of the past in as true a picture as I can paint him, given that I am writing some 150 years after the fact. I try to do this by reading and learning the writings of George Catlin, James Willard Schultz and others, who lived with the Indians and saw them with a contemporary view.
**What would readers find surprising about you?
Perhaps that I love reading and learning about law and common law, as well as our Founding Fathers. Often, I search for and read their own documents, not what others say about them. There’s a book entitled, the Politically Incorrect Guide to the Founding Fathers. Although I haven’t read it cover to cover, it certainly is interesting.
**If you could go to heaven, who would you visit?
Many people. My parents, my sister, many of my friends, and people I admire, including but not inclusive of: John Trudell, Russell Means, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Thomas Jefferson and L. Ron Hubbard. The first five I didn’t know personally in this life, but the last I did, and he was always one of my best friends.
**Just for fun. What is your least favorite:
Least favorite Hero type – Probably men who murder for a living.
Body part – Hmmmm. Not sure on this one.
Overused word in a title – Hmmmm. Again, not sure.
Least favorite Genre – I tend to read in many different genres, but I’d say any genre that makes fun of being human and/or being humane.
Least favorite Dirty word – I’d say it would be any word that takes the name of the Lord in vain.
**Now that our readers know who Karen Kay is let’s get down to the business of your book, She Steals My Breath, The Medicine Man Book 1, which just came out in March of this year.
Please tell us a little bit about, She Steals My Breath.
This book was inspired by being in a point in my life when I truly desired to have a tough, rugged hero who was also very kind. The story was one I began to tell to my grandchildren, but was also inspired by several different things, one of them being that in Montana there is a lot of snow and many blizzards that can kill a man in minutes. I’d never written a story set in the snow. While visiting on the Blackfeet reservation a few years ago, I became aware that they’d had 8 feet of snow that winter. Eight feet! Wow! This added to wanting to write a story set in the snow.
At this time period in history, there were supposed to be no white women in the West, but this wasn’t quite true…although almost true. There were women married to traders and those women and their daughters sometimes made the journey upriver. While they may not have gone completely up to Fort Union, why not? They often traveled on the steamships and went north and this was considered acceptable at this time.
So the heroine is the daughter of a trader and the hero is a Blackfoot medicine man, who has come to the fort to find his missing brother. When the hero first sees the white woman, she is so beautiful that she takes his breath away, thus the title of the book.
She is caught out in a roaring blizzard, and, when the hero discovers this and that she is out there alone, he leaves the fort to go and find her and save her if he can.
**What was your hardest challenge writing this book?
The ending of the story. All the while I was writing the book, I had no idea how to end the story. Yes, I knew how things had to be at the end, but how to get there. I brainstormed with some of my readers and a good friend, as well as my husband and it was their imput — especially my husband’s– that showed me how I might get from where I was to where I needed to be to end the story. Those readers who were corresponding with me at the time often heard me mention that I had no idea how to end the story. Finally, I had to sit down, and, using the ideas from my husband, I just wrote it and then went back through it several — many, many times — to get it “right.” I hope I accomplished it.
**What kind of research did you have to do?
Lots of research on the medicine man including a book on an Apache medicine man, two medicine men of the Lakota, Fools Crow and Black Elk. Also, the writings of James Willard Schultz and his observations of the medicine men and women. Also, I had to research snow storms and blizzards and shelters and gullies and Fort Union and the surrounding landscape, as well as a little about steamboats.
**What in your opinion makes good chemistry between your leading characters?
For me, I think they have to really be in love with each other, though it’s not acknowledged, and they each one have to have solid, hard and firm reasons or beliefs why a union between them is not possible now or ever. Their beliefs can be completely 180 degrees different. The American Indian culture makes this a little easier than other sub-genres in romance, I think.
**How many books do you plan in the series?
Right now I plan four books in this series.
**Any other works in progress?
The book I’m writing now is about half done and is the next book in The Medicine Man series and right now is called, SHE CAPTURES MY HEART.
**Any advice for aspiring authors?
It’s my belief that storytelling is the most important thing in writing a fictionalized novel. I would say to forget about grammar, spelling, punctuation and other things if you don’t think them helpful or if knowing about them keep you from writing what is in your heart. You can go in later and fix them.
Set a time each day and write. Don’t worry about page count, just write as much as you can and don’t beat yourself up if you sit for 4-5 hours staring at a blank screen. Get in there the next day, same time, and write. Tell your story.
This is what I would suggest.
**Final words?
Although my heritage is mostly European, I figure I am about 1/8 or thereabouts, Choctaw Indian. My grandmother used to talk to her best friend about her Indian heritage and I learned that she was proud of it. When I was growing up, I was sure that I must have had some kind of Indian heritage. One has only to look at my features to see it is there. But, my mother insisted there was none in our family tree and I know she did this to protect me because we lived in a small, southern town. But, when I finally discovered the history passed down verbally from my grandmother, I, at last, knew why I had always felt I had so much in common with the American Indian. And, so I did.
NOTE: To enter into the drawing for the free e-book giveaway, please look at the give-away rules over to the right here and just leave a comment. Be sure to check back in a couple of days to see if you are the winner.
The final installment in the Hanger’s Horsemen trilogy is coming June 7. Just around the corner! Last month I shared a glimpse into how the title came to be (here), so I thought this month, I would give you some insight about how the cover evolved. Authors working with a traditional publisher have much less say in the cover design process than authors who indie publish. The publisher’s marketing, sales, and editorial teams work together with the design team to craft a cover that will entice readers, convey the novel’s mood, and highlight details of the story itself. No easy task. I’m more than grateful to have the help. At the beginning of the process, my project manager asks me for story details, physical descriptions of the characters and setting, and any ideas I have for cover design. Yet that is where my input ends until the very last stages of the design process. Here is the final product we arrived at for Luke Davenport’s story.
I love the end result. However, this cover (like the title) went through several revisions during its journey to perfection. Below on the left is the original cover my publisher sent me. I liked the model and the background was gorgeous, but it didn’t really tell a story. It was a little too static. And having the hero’s back turned didn’t feel terribly inviting. So I asked if there was a way to create more of a sense of movement and story. They came back with Version 2. Seeing more of the hunky model was a plus, but what really got my attention was the addition of the three cowboys in the distance. Such a small thing, but it was genius. Exactly what this cover needed. Are they the other three Horsemen racing to join Preach in his fight for justice? Or are they the gang of rustlers causing havoc in Madisonville, TX? Could be either one. You decide!
The last change I asked for was in the color of his vest and hat. In the current version, the brown vest and light tan hat are nearly identical to the ones worn by the model for the first book in the series. I wanted the men to feel distinct and carry their own personalities. So in the final version, you will see that the vest is blue and the hat is a darker shade of brown. Just the type of change I was looking for! They also added a bit more vegetation in the foreground for an extra pop of color. I’m so pleased with the final product!
My inspiration for Preach’s physical appearance was a cross between two football players—one from my generation and one who is actively playing. Howie Long and JJ Watt. I think the model they found pairs well with the image I was envisioning.
Pre-orders are available now!
If you prefer print books, check out the pre-order deal from Baker Book House. Forty percent off with free shipping is hard to beat!
Well, today I’m going to do something that is considered a no-no in the promotional world of books. I’m going to tell you a bit about an older title of mine, WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH, which will be coming out in the next few days as a 25th Anniversary book.
Let me explain: This book was originally written for AVON books in 1996-97 and published in 1998 (I think that’s right.) My husband and I were married in 1996 and so in the end of 1996 and the beginning of 1997, I was falling deeper and deeper in love with my husband. We had married in a whirlwind and so it was after we were married that we really started to get to know each other.
This is the new cover for the book. The male model, by the way, is Lakota Indian. And, he models under the name of “Lakota.”
In these anniversary books, we are correcting errors made when the book was converted to e-book from the original mass market. There is no plot change or anything like that. It’s just correcting computer errors made in the conversion. Also, I might give the book a few better word choices here and there.
But, it was in the editing of this book that I began to see how much I was (at that time) falling deeper and deeper in love with this man I had married. It’s there in the conversations between White Eagle and the heroine, Katrina. Both of them are changing in regards to each other. More love. More understanding. And, at that time, I guess I couldn’t help but write about how deeply I was in love with this man.
Our courtship (my husband and me) is pretty well illustrated in the first book in this series, GRAY HAWK’S LADY. But this book goes one step further.
So, in ending, I’ll leave the blurb for the book and an excerpt. Hope you’ll enjoy!
WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH
by
Karen Kay
Two worlds. Forbidden love.
Blackfoot Warrior, Book 2
Katrina Wellington is vexed. She must marry to obtain the rest of her inheritance. But her uncle, who left her in New York with a governess to make his fortune out West, has suddenly decided he must approve of her fiancé before he will loosen the purse strings to her dowry.
Swallowing her outrage, the socialite treks to the same wilderness that claimed her parents’ lives years ago. Some small part of her is crestfallen that her uncle is not waiting with open arms. Only three guides, Indian guides, await her, and one of them is far too handsome for his own good.
At first, White Eagle does not like the spoiled, willful niece of the white trader. When he catches a glimpse of the vulnerability behind her prickly exterior, he can’t resist challenging the dazzling beauty to rediscover her true inheritance—the inner strength bequeathed to her by her parents.
Close contact on the trail soon arouses a soul-stirring passion and in its turn, love. But love may not be enough to sustain a relationship that is forbidden in both their worlds.
This book has been previously published.
Warning: Sensuous Romance that contains a captivating passion that could lead to a romantic evening spent in the company of one’s own love.
This is the original cover done for AVON Books. The excerpt is the first meeting between White Eagle and Katrina in the book (and after many years of being apart).
Chapter Four
June 25, 1833
Midmorning
“I say, what vision of loveliness descends upon us now? Is she a princess, a queen? Do you think I should bow? Or is she a mere fleeting whiff of my fancy? Oh, dear, I don’t think I can rhyme fancy…can you see?” The Marquess of Leicester chuckled before he put a finger over one nostril, taking a sniff of the powder which he held in a box in his hand. “What do you say, my friends? Am I poetic?”
The marquess’s two friends murmured polite words of agreement at all the appropriate places, while the marquess, pocketing his snuffbox, paced forward to take hold of Katrina’s hand. “Ah, my dear, you look stunning, simply ravishing, rather.”
“Thank you, Lord Leicester.” Katrina suffered her hand to be kissed by lips which looked as though they bore more rouge than her own. She pulled her hand back as quickly as possible, but failed to loosen his grip. “Are we prepared to meet the new guides?”
“Yes, I say,” the marquess replied, setting her hand onto one of his lacy cuffs.
Katrina smiled at him.
“Am I to understand, my dear, that the guides of which you speak are to escort me to yet another fort?”
“Yes, that is correct. My uncle has been delayed, and he asks that you join him at a place called Fort McKenzie. The scouts are to take you safely to him.”
“Quite unusual, wouldn’t you say? But I must ask you: The hunting, is there good hunting at this fort? After all, mustn’t disappoint the dogs, don’t you know? Brought the hounds all this way to hunt, and hunt we shall. Why, do you know that I have met the most interesting fellow, a Mr. Hamilton, although I don’t believe that Hamilton is his real name. A right good sort of chap. English, I say. Says he has been here at this fort for several years. Seems to like it here, though he does appear to hate Indians.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, rather. Well, now, come along, my dear. Mr. McKenzie informs me that his clerk is awaiting us outside the house here to escort us to the guides on the other side of the gate. A monstrous proposal, I must say. That is why I have asked Mr. Hamilton to make the introductions. I can’t say that I am overwhelmed by Mr. McKenzie’s manners. A clerk to see to us, indeed. Ah, here is Mr. Hamilton now. Come along, my dear. Let us get these introductions over with.”
“Yes,” said Katrina, “let us.”
And with little more said, she allowed Mr. Hamilton and the marquess to lead her out into the sunshine of a new day. That the marquess’s friends followed the three of them wherever they went, that the marquess’s men kept murmuring always agreeable tidbits concerning Lord Leicester’s undoubtedly brilliant humor, did little more than annoy her.
At least for now.
McKenzie’s clerk, Thomas, was waiting for their entire party just outside the gate. And what a party they made. Not only were the marquess, his two friends and Hamilton in their group, somehow the marquess’s dogs, barking loudly, had joined them.
“Come this way, Gov’nor, the men ’ee seek are by the wall over thyar,” Thomas said.
“Where?”
“Over thyar, do ’ee not see?”
“They’re…”
Conversation ceased, replaced with silence. Dead silence.
Their entire entourage, even the dogs, stopped completely still. No one said a word; no one moved. Then the dogs started to whine, and the shuffle of feet could be heard—moving away.
It was he, the Indian she had glimpsed from the boat, along with a few companions.
“Why, Thomas,” said one of the men, “they are—”
“Yep, Injuns.”
Now, it wasn’t as though their party had never seen an Indian until this moment, nor was it possible that anyone in this party had thought never to encounter an Indian in this country. After all, they had glimpsed enough of the native population from the steamboat as it had made its way up the Missouri.
But never had the people in this group seen primitives such as these—at least not so close to their own person. Warriors, all, were these savages and, by the looks of the heathens, dangerous.
But Katrina stared at none other than him.
She opened her mouth as though to utter something…some scathing comment, perhaps. But when no words issued forth, she closed her lips.
“This one hyar’s name’s White Eagle.” Only Thomas seemed able to speak. “Them three behind him are Night Thunder and Good Dancer. The woman is married to Good Dancer, near as this ole coot can tell. Blackfeet, they are. Gov’nor?”
“Indians?” This from Katrina, at last, her glance never wavering from him.
“Yes, ma’am. But they’ll get ’ee through Blackfoot country all safe. They knows the way.”
“He goes too far!” She glanced toward the clerk.
“Ma’am?”
“My uncle goes too far this time.”
“You tell the man,” the marquess spoke up from behind her. “Yes, my dear, tell the man.”
Katrina gazed over her shoulder. The marquess had positioned himself to her rear, his own men standing, as though in a line, behind him.
“Does your uncle not think favorably of you, Miss Wellington?” This from Hamilton, who seemed as dumbfounded as the rest.
She ignored the Englishman, glancing instead at him, the Indian, the same one who had so disturbed her thoughts, the one called… “What is this man’s name again, Thomas?”
“This one hyar, ma’am? He’s White Eagle. He’s their leader, near as I can tell, a chief maybe.”
White Eagle. So, that was his name. Katrina stared at the Indian. He, back at her. The man looked dangerous—foreign, frightening…handsome. Handsome?
He still wore no shirt, exposing to her view that muscular chest she had glimpsed the previous day. And she would have looked at it, at him, had she been of the mind. But she wasn’t.
She swallowed with difficulty and, allowing her gaze to drop no farther than the bridge of the Indian’s nose, asked of him, “Does my uncle bring word to me?”
The Indian just stared at her. No grin, no recognition of her, no intimation that he had seen her, too, the previous day—nothing, not even an acknowledgment that she had spoken.
She raised her chin. “Do these Indians not speak English, Thomas?”
“Guess they do well enough, ma’am. They been tradin’ with us long enough now to have learnt it. But ’ee is a woman. No Blackfeet is goin’ to speak to ’ee b’cause of that, beg pardon.”
Katrina looked at the Indian from down the end of her nose. She said, “Then ask him for me if he brings me word of my uncle.”
Thomas stepped up to her side. “Very well, ma’am. ’Ee heard her, Injun. Does the lady’s uncle send word?”
The Indian didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even shift his weight. He just stared, his glance never wavering from her.
“Speak up there, you primitive animal,” Hamilton demanded.
None of the three Indians, and especially not White Eagle, paid the Englishman the least attention.
“Are ’ee sent here from the woman’s uncle?”
Nothing. No response at all, until, at last, piercing Katrina with his glance, the Indian said, “I have news for the woman alone.” Oddly enough, the man spoke in unbroken English and, Katrina noted, his voice, low and baritone, was peculiarly pleasant, almost melodic.
“Alone?” Hamilton again spoke up from a safe distance away. “Is the Indian mad? Does he presume to think we would leave the lady unaccompanied with him, so filthy a creature as he is?”
The Indian didn’t move a muscle, nor did he indicate in any way that he’d even heard Hamilton’s comments.
Katrina stepped forward, away from the crowd. Glancing around behind her, she ordered, “Leave us.”
“What?” This from all five men.
“Leave us, but take this man’s Indian friends with you. I will do as he asks and speak with him, but only with him. Here, Mr. Hamilton, give me your pistol that I may defend myself, if I must.”
“But milady,” Hamilton protested, “surely you can’t mean to—”
“Mr. Hamilton, your pistol, please.”
The Englishman looked as though he might protest further, though he nevertheless pulled the weapon from his coat and handed it to Katrina.
“Leave us.” Again she addressed the men who remained behind her without turning toward them. “I warn you, Indian,” she said confidently, “I can use this firearm Mr. Hamilton has given me as skillfully as any man. So do not think me defenseless that you might take advantage of me.”
The Indian said nothing, nor did he give her any sort of acknowledgment, not even by the bend of his head or a flicker of emotion across his features.
Katrina listened to the fading footsteps of the men behind her. After a nod from White Eagle, the Indian’s two companions followed.
The deference shown to this man did not escape her notice, but when she spoke, she made no mention of it, saying only, “What you ask is highly irregular and impolite. Hear me now, Indian, I am humoring you only because I wish to know what my uncle has to say. That is all.”
Glancing directly at her, he replied, “I will speak to the white woman only within the walls of the fort.”
“You will not,” Katrina countered. “You asked for an audience with me alone. You have it now.”
The Indian didn’t utter another word, just gave her a peculiar look and made to move away from her.
She reached out, grabbing at his arm, effectively staying him. He glanced down at her hand as it lay upon his arm, then back up at her. Something…some little excitement passed between them as they stared at one another, the intensity causing Katrina’s knees to buckle. Several moments passed as they stood there, sizing one another up.
At last, Katrina stuck out her chin and asked, “Who do you think you are, Indian, that you gape at me? Do you not know it is impolite to do so? Now, you will tell me what it is you have to say to me, right here and now…or not at all. Do I make myself clear to you?”
The Indian had become perfectly still as she spoke; his gaze roamed from the top of her bonnet to the very bottom of her skirts. Katrina watched him, ignoring the tingling sensation which spread throughout her nervous system. Fear, she supposed.
Odd, too, but she noticed he smelled good: of wood and smoke, of grass and mint—she had heard that the Indians chewed the leaves of the mint plant to stave off hunger, as well as to scent their breath.
His skin felt warm, too, moist and…strange, there was no hair upon the flesh of his arm where she touched him.
He was close to her, too close. The wind suddenly blew a lock of his long raven hair over her hand where she still touched him. The feel of those strands against her skin was fleeting, sensual, its effect sending shivers through her body.
She glanced up, startled, and wondered if the Indian had felt it, too, this strange sensation, but his expression revealed nothing.
She didn’t know how it was possible, yet she considered this man, this Indian, handsome almost beyond belief, in a primitive sort of way, of course. Not a man she would ever admit to being attracted to, particularly since he was nothing more than one of the savages that this country produced. And yet, she couldn’t help but admire the straight, imposing figure he cut as she looked up to where he stood over her. With his shoulders back, displaying his sculptured form, he looked as though he were a work of art, not a person of substance.
Something within her reached out to him, and she felt as though she knew him, his thoughts, his passions. It was as though there were a part of him that matched her perfectly…
She gave herself a shake. What was wrong with her? This was not the first time she’d felt as if there were something between them. It had happened the first time she’d glimpsed him, there from the boat…
She stared up at him then, in silent challenge, if only to purge this sensation from her consciousness. Yet, all the while, her touch upon his arm never relinquished its hold. His eyes were black, she noted, the darkest eyes she had ever seen, and they revealed nothing.
Suddenly, his look turned sardonic, and he broke eye contact with her, pulling his arm back, out and away from her grasp.
He turned from her then, suddenly and without warning. He began walking away from her at a steady gait, following on the footfalls of the other men. The Indian was treading, it would appear, toward the main entrance of the fort.
Katrina stood still for several moments, watching him, until she suddenly realized what he was doing. This man—this mere Indian—was defying her. She had made demands of him; he had told her nothing. Nothing!
Somehow this fact disturbed her more than any other detail she had observed about him. Blast!
She had to try to detain him. She took one step forward, and called out, “It was you who demanded to speak to me alone, Indian.”
No response, not even a catch in his stride.
“If you wish to talk to me, do it now, for I will not see you once we are in the fort.”
The man didn’t turn around, nor did he say or do anything further, except to present her with the view of his backside as he continued to walk away. She should have been appalled by the man’s bad manners and by his dress, or rather, its lack thereof. In truth, she was…almost.
She watched him, his lean, sculpted figure an unusually strange and exciting sight. And then she saw it, the man’s breechcloth fell apart from the outline of his leggings now and again, presenting her with an occasional view of a portion of hard, muscular buttocks.
Katrina was almost struck dumb with the observation. Never, not once in her life, had she ever witnessed so much of a man’s anatomy.
How utterly heathen. How primitive.
She didn’t, however, glance away. “I won’t meet with you,” she announced again. “And that’s my final word on the subject.”
Her challenge had no effect on the Indian’s actions.
Katrina was fuming. She felt like shouting at the man; she felt like pummeling him, but she refused to reduce herself to a show of temper.
She did, however, stamp her foot. The insolent barbarian. And to think she had been admiring his looks.
Humph!
She picked up the front of her skirt, her white petticoats contrasting oddly with the brown of the earth beneath her feet. She would follow that Indian back into the fort. Not because she had to, she reminded herself. After all, she was residing within the walls of the fort. She had a right to be there. This Indian did not.
Oh, but she didn’t like this. It was she who should be the person putting forth demands. It was she, not this man, White Eagle, who was the civilized one here, the more intelligent one.
So why was she the one left staring after him?
Well, it made no difference. There was at least one action she would take as soon as she met with this man: She would ensure he would hear her opinions of him and his insolence—that is, if she met with him.
She wasn’t certain at this moment that she would even permit the man an interview. There must be some other way of soliciting news of her uncle.
The Indian turned around at that exact moment, catching her staring at him, and goodness, but it looked as though he smiled at her. Did he know her thoughts? Could he see her frustration? Worse yet, had he felt her gaze upon that more intimate portion of his anatomy?
How dare he! Oh, what a wicked, wicked man!
She threw back her head and thrust out her chin. Ah, but it would please her to tell this Indian what she thought of him…and soon!
Make no mistake.
White Eagle turned his back on the woman and walked away from her, a grin tugging up the corners of his mouth.
In truth, he had enjoyed the confrontation with Shines Like Moonlight…but he would never let her know it. Not when she had dared to try to command him, a Blackfoot warrior. Such was the height of bad manners.
Yet, he could appreciate her spirit, her courage in confronting him when even the men who had surrounded her had shied away from him. Too, he acknowledged her unusual beauty; in truth, she had overwhelmed him with the allure of her feminine charm, more pleasing in close proximity than from a distance. He could still smell the sweet fragrance of her, hear the silvery timbre of her voice, and if it hadn’t been for her lack of manners…
Certainly, she was fairer than he’d anticipated she would be, but this wasn’t what bothered him about her. No, it was her touch, the simple graze of her hand upon his arm. With that touch…
He grimaced. And he wondered if she knew she had stirred something to life within him, something sweet, something carnal, something completely sexual. It was one of the reasons he had turned his back on her—that, and her insolence.
Hánnia! He should have more control. He was not some young boy, unable to control the physical urges of his body; and yet, even now he could feel the result of her effect on him down there in the junction between his legs. It was good that he had left her before his physical reaction to her became more pronounced.
Did she remember him?
A picture flashed in his mind, an image of a child, frightened and crying, clinging to him as he had hung onto the crest of a hill, both he and the child watching the gushing floodwaters rush past them, its danger only a short distance away. He had almost lost her in those waters.
He remembered again that he had clasped her to him then, whispering to her, giving her as much comfort as he was able, until long after the danger had passed. But that had been much too long ago. They had both been different people then, children.
That the child in her had grown up was evident. That she had reached adulthood without the guidance of a mother or a father to point out the necessity of courtesy and good manners was even more conspicuous.
Would she remember him given more time?
White Eagle thought back to the world he had known so long ago, to the people he had befriended, to a little white girl he had admired—a girl with yellowish-gold hair—to the child’s father and her mother.
They had perished, her parents. The girl had barely survived, and her father’s brother had sent her away long ago.
So, her uncle had been right about her. The woman he had met today was spoiled, a person completely devoid of maidenly gentleness. She spoke when not asked, demanded when a man’s mind was already settled; in truth, her spirit towered over the white men who had accompanied her.
Did she rise above these men because she had bullied them into submission with the same womanly harping and angry tongue she had shown to him? Or was she merely stronger-willed than they?
Whatever the reason, White Eagle despaired of the intervening years since he had last seen her.
If he reminded her of it, would she remember?
It was doubtful. She had been before the age when a child comes into its senses, and he had been no more than a young boy. He’d kept a lonely girl company during those times when her father and uncle had journeyed to his tribe on trading excursions. If he told her what he knew of her, of her family, would any good come from it?
He did not think so. This person he had observed today had been as someone alien to him—certainly not the girl he had remembered…had once known.
In truth, he had caught her looking upon him with not only a womanly sort of attention, but with contempt, the same sort of foreign attitude that White Eagle had witnessed upon the countenance of the white man.
He didn’t like it.
No, it was better that he keep what he knew of her to himself. It was apparent she did not recall her life before the white man’s world, and he was certain she would not care to hear what he had to say to her.
So be it.
He entered the fort, taking his place amongst his friends. Good Dancer’s wife had already started setting up their camping lodges in the area surrounding the fort’s flagpole. One for himself and Night Thunder, the other for herself and her husband, Good Dancer. That Good Dancer’s new wife had demanded to accompany them on their journey did not bother White Eagle, nor did it seem strange to him.
The young couple had just been married, after an unusually long courtship. Of course they would want to be together now. Such was to be understood. Such were the ways of married people.
Besides, he’d wanted a woman along to keep Shines Like Moonlight company and to provide her with a chaperone. White Eagle grimaced as he adjusted his breechcloth, certain Shines Like Moonlight would need that chaperone.
He glanced around him, at his place within the fort. He had noticed, when he had first come here, that several half-breed hunters resided within the tepees around the flagpole. This seemed only right to White Eagle; that these half-white, half-Indian men chose to live not in the square, wooden houses of the white man, but rather in the more comfortable lodges of his own people.
At least this is how it appeared to White Eagle.
He could not know, nor would he understand that to some within the fort, the mixed-bloods were not on an equal footing with the more European breed of men, that such would not be allowed the right to live in the square, wooden houses.
And so, not knowing, White Eagle settled down, content for the moment, to initiate the necessary chores needed for the return journey to Fort McKenzie. Indeed, the time consumed in fashioning arrowheads, making a new shield and manufacturing a new spear was time well spent.
He was certain that Shines Like Moonlight would delay a meeting with him for as long as she was able. This didn’t bother him. Why should it? Time was not an enemy to him, and White Eagle was full-blooded Indian; he was a patient man.
He smiled. Perhaps here was something else he could admire about this woman: She had a stubborn strength of character. And this was good.
She would not be one to come a cropper in an emergency. Such people were few. Such people were valuable.
He shrugged. Whatever the case, his next few days within this fort promised to be far from dull.
Well, that’s all for now. Look for the book in a few days. At present, it’s undergoing the final proof reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Oh, and this is the cover to the left is the cover of the book currently up at Amazon. This cover was done when I was writing for Samhain Publishing.
Indeed, all of these covers have a special place in my heart. I am, however, extremely drawn to the new cover. Hope you’ll like it, too.
Please welcome Tina Wheeler to the Petticoats and Pistols Corral today.
Because of this and that I write at a certain well known chain coffee shop, Nathan sent me a post he’d seen. It’s from @byalexcrespo and reads, “writing at coffee shops is great bc every time I need to add in a minor side character I just steal the name and essence of whoever is picking up their order from the barista in that moment. Enjoy your cappuccino Isaac you are about to die to advance the plot.” My son then asked if I did that. While I have killed off people before the story opens, like Cassie’s sister and brother-in-law in To Love a Texas Cowboy, I don’t do that in the stories. However, I told my son I would definitely use that technique to name characters from now on.
Howdy!
This is the most recent cover for the book. And, I do love this cover.
Night Thunder observed an oddity: there were no guards posted to watch over the encampment. Either Strikes The Bear was overly certain of his safety, or the warriors, too aroused over the spectacle taking place before them, no longer cared.
Night Thunder drew his brows together in silent realization.
Well that’s all for today. Here’s hoping you enjoyed the excerpt. Be sure to leave a message — oh, also, let me know what you think of the three different covers for this book
But, before that book is released, I’ll be re-releasing an Anniversary book of NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE, the 3rd and final book in THE BLACKFOOT WARRIOR series. And so, I thought I’d leave you with an excerpt from book #2 in the series and tell you a little back story of the book, WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH, book #2 in the series. And, I’ll be giving away an e-book of WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH, also. But before I talk about the 2nd book, WHITE EAGLE’S TOUCH, let me give you a sneak peek at NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE’s new cover. Again, this is the 3rd and final book in The Blackfoot Warrior series and we’ll be releasing the 25th year anniversary edition of the book in about a week.
Below and left is the new Anniversary cover for the book. The male model, by the way, is Lakota Indian. And, he models under the name of “Lakota.”
This is the original cover done for AVON Books. The excerpt is the first meeting between White Eagle and Katrina in the book (and after many years of being apart).
Well, that’s all for now. Look for the book in a few days. At present, it’s undergoing the final proof reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Oh, and this is the cover to the left is the cover of the book currently up at Amazon. This cover was done when I was writing for Samhain Publishing.
For as long as I can recall, my mother has traced our family history. Sometimes she makes slow progress, occasionally great leaps, but it’s something she has built for years. While her dedication and commitment have always inspired me, I must admit that I thought it was such a boring pursuit.
When I received a message asking me to join the 
I chose to give Mason the last name Barkey to honor my heritage. Although my great-great-grandfather did not order a bride via the mail, it was my way of honoring where I came from to include the last name in this story.
While researching a book, I came across several accounts of hidden money sewn into clothing, hat brims, or fake compartments in luggage. I didn’t end up using everything I’d discovered in my novel, but it did send my mind racing and ideas spinning. We are so used to electronic funds, checks, and secured shipping that we don’t often worry about traveling with the family’s heirloom jewels or your life savings, but times used to be different.
Golly, what don’t I find challenging about it? I’m not a slow writer, but I’m also not a fast writer. I ache and struggle over sentences and descriptions that really matter. Promotion also tends to make me a little high strung when a new release comes out. 
Great question — I had to go and look up the word, cathartic, to make sure I understood it…and it means using some sort of medium to purge or cleanse some emotional aspect about something. Okay, so I admit that sometimes when it comes to the bad guys in my story, I sometimes am writing real dialogue and real happenings — not always — but I’ve noticed when it comes to the bad guys in the story, I generally am working from real life, unfortunately.
No, I don’t have to be in the mood. But, I do like to look at pictures of what I’m writing about or pictures of a possible hero before I sit down to write. I’ve tried to get rid of that habit, but I still do it, nonetheless.
Golly, a lot. My husband is number one inspiration. Native America and doing my best to “set the record straight” on what happened here in America also inspires me. It makes me hunger for doing the research and so I have my nose in some sort of book almost constantly — history books or another Indian book. And, I love to tell stories. When I pick my grand kids up at school, I often tell them stories I’ve heard, but sometimes I make them up.
The truth is that the Native American of old was honest almost to a fault, deeply spiritual and religious, trained his body so that he could run miles in order to save his people if the need ever arose. He respected (as a rule) women and their voices and their roles in the Indian culture. He was often wise, could track better than anything we’ve ever known, and if he were a true medicine man, his ethics had to be without fault. He did not deal in magic, as the movies depict — this is the true medicine man I’m talking about — he healed by being completely ethical in his life so that God could work through him to heal others.
Now that the series is complete, I thought you would enjoy seeing all the covers side-by-side.
