History – General

New Story, IF SHE WERE MINE, is on Pre-Order

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Howdy!  And welcome to another terrific Tuesday!

Well, while we are getting the e-book ready to publish (all the editing and proofing is now done) we’ve put the new book up for a Pre-Order.  Here is the link:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GWY3P5KS?tag=pettpist-20

It’s on sale at 40% off what the price will be once all the promotion is done for its release — that is to say, it’s regular price is $5.99.

And I’ve tweaked the blurb a little for Amazon.  Here is the new blurb:

 

AI-FREE! 100% organic author-created content. No artificial intelligence was used in the writing of this book.

If you enjoy stories about how love can win, despite terrible wrongs and extreme prejudice, this story is for you.

A star-crossed love, treachery, and a desire that will not be denied.

Briella Feher is in love, but not with her fiancé. Her father has exiled her from the sweeping plains of Montana to New York City “for her own safety,” commanding her to marry within her heritage and class. Raised in Indian Territory, Briella was shaped as much by the Pikuni—Blackfeet—people as by her aristocratic Hungarian family. Viewed as a cowgirl, Briella doesn’t fit in with society. Perhaps it’s the guns she wears strapped to her evening gowns. Her heart has always belonged to Red Fox, the Pikuni medicine man who taught her to survive on the prairie, the man who was her teacher, her first love. When James Maximillian III proposes—with the condition that he keep his mistress—Briella accepts, seeing his proposal as her only path back to Montana and to Red Fox.

Two years apart have not cooled the fire between Briella and Red Fox, yet his honor won’t allow him to claim this woman who is promised to another. With the escalation of the Indian/Cavalry wars, Red Fox believes distance is the only way to protect the woman he loves. Then a vision reveals a devastating truth: Briella’s fiancé is hiding a lie that could shatter every vow. It’s now up to Red Fox to find the truth.

But, time is running out and forces are aligned against them. Can Red Fox find the proof and expose the treachery in time to alter the ending of their Romeo and Juliet romance, or will he lose Briella forever in a romance destined for tragedy?

Warning: This is a forbidden love story—forbidden by both sets of parents–which begs the question: will the hero and heroine get a second chance at love? Set in the 1870’s, this sensual love story is sprinkled with paranormal, Native American style. But, if you love the old west as it was lived and loved by the First Americans, you’re going to love this story.

And I should tell you I will be giving away a free e-book from this series — winner’s choice.

So let me share another except from the new book.  In this story both the heroine’s and the hero’s parents are against these two marrying.  Both have “good” reasons, so they think.  But, when all is said and done, love will win out.

IF SHE WERE MINE

By

Karen Kay

Excerpt #2

Grasping hold of the parfleche tube he had tied onto his pony, Red Fox took out his white buckskin clothing and shook out the garments. These were his best, his fanciest, buckskin clothing. They had been given to him by his grandfather upon the first event of Red Fox having publicly healed a rich man’s pony, it having become lame because of a disease upon its leg.

His grandfather had been a bigger man than he, and several snows ago, Red Fox had cut, sewn and tailored the clothing to fit his own frame. Red Fox shook out the stunningly white buckskin clothing and inspected the regalia to ensure every feather in the headdress was neatly in place. He then looked over the beadwork to ensure each bead was still firmly sewn into the leather and was not likely to fall off.

Standing upon a shady patch of ground within an outgrowth of pines growing atop one of the numerous buttes overlooking the Féher ranch, Red Fox inspected the white buckskin leather shirt with blue-and-white-beaded “V” shapes falling down over the shoulder straps. All were intact.

He then put his attention on the cloth breechcloth, the white leggings and moccasins, all beaded in the same design as the shoulder straps. Leather fringe about eight inches in length, as well as long locks of black hair scattered in amongst the buckskin fringe, fell from each sleeve. The same fringe lined each seam of the leggings of the regalia.

A looping white-beaded necklace which would fall from his neck was unbroken, while the headdress of eagle tail feathers stood straight up, then fell all the way to the ground. Two long ermine furs were attached to the bonnet in front; these would fall over the shoulders. The strip of beadwork in front of the headdress was in the same style as the shoulder straps.

Niitá’p, this regalia was the best clothing he possessed, and what an honor it had been when his grandfather had passed these clothes down to him.

As Red Fox donned the clothing, he listened to the strains of what he knew to be the white man’s music. It was quite pretty. The sound was floating up to where he was standing, up high upon a ledge of a cliff overlooking the Fehér ranch.

Picking up his rifle, which he kept in a beautifully beaded parfleche case—a present from his sister—he turned around and climbed to the top of the cliff. The prairie stretched out from behind him, requiring him to step up a little before he could stride out upon the flat plains toward the spot where he had left his pony. Ensuring his pony was not hungry and had plenty of grass to eat here within a growth of pines, he satisfied himself that his pony would be well hidden, this especially so because Hunts-with-the-wind would keep watch over the animal. Breathing in deeply, Red Fox then retraced his steps and set off on foot down toward the party.

****

Watching the dancers from the patio outside the ballroom, Red Fox felt definitely the outsider. He, alone, was outfitted in Pikuni garb. And, the others? They were beautifully dressed, yes, exactly as Eagle Heart’s woman had said they would be. But, all here wore white man’s clothing, since his relatives, all but George and his wife, had left earlier in the day to rejoin the Pikuni encampment. Even the “hang around the fort” Indians were clothed in white-man’s garb.

Where is she?

Although Red Fox had a long acquaintance with the white man’s fashion sense, as well as his dances, he had never seen this kind of smooth gliding where it looked as if the men and women were floating in each other’s arms around and around in a circle upon the dance floor. Silently, he thanked the wife of Eagle Heart for instructing him in the steps of the waltz.

He had witnessed, of course, the jig, the polka and even several Indian dances from other tribes that included both men and women dancing, but never had he borne witness to such graceful movements nor had he observed the intimate way in which the men and women held one another.

Watching the couples’ movements as they whirled around the dance floor, he was captivated for several moments until he realized he still could not find Poka’aki.

Where is she?

Catching a glimpse of George waltzing with his wife, Red Fox felt himself relax. Here was something familiar; people he knew and loved.

Stepping proudly inside this place of music and dancing, he became unusually aware that he at once garnered a great deal of attention. People even gasped. Then he saw these same people turn inward to make groups where they talked amongst themselves and pointed toward him.

Perhaps this was done to cause him to feel uncomfortable, but it had the opposite effect over him. It empowered him, knowing how rude and crude were these people who could not even hide their curiosity, if this were what it was.

It wasn’t as if the Indian people weren’t also curious about these newcomers into their country, but they did not stare, nor so openly would they point at a person and then turn to gossip amongst themselves.

Was this aloofness and rumor mongering the sort of thing Poka’aki had been forced to endure in her exile from her home? If so, was there any wonder why she had agreed to a proposition that would enable her to leave there?

Ah, there she is.

So beautiful was she, he caught his breath as he recalled his youthful fear of her because of her beauty. She was wearing a dress in a light shade of pink that accented her figure in front, but was puffed out in back with what must have been yards and yards of material. It was trimmed in a deep color of red, and it seemed to shimmer in a cascade of waves as it fell to the floor. The shoulders of her dress fell down her arms, leaving the top of her breasts, her neck and her upper arms bare. A ribbon in the same color of deep red was tied around her neck, and the length of it fell down the dress in back. And, as she swirled around the floor in the arms of a man, the dark-red ribbon which fell down in back of her, swayed to and fro.

Her hair was caught up on top of her head, while curls of her dark, auburn hair fell over her shoulders. A tiny pink hat covered the top of her tresses.

He couldn’t remember seeing her so beautifully dressed. And, for a moment, an odd feeling come over him: would he ever be able to give her such riches? Worse, having now tasted this kind of life, would she require them?

He shrugged off the thought and studied the man who held her in his arms, and, as Red Fox witnessed the man’s possessive grip on her, Red Fox realized this had to be the man she was being required to marry. The gentleman was not an unhandsome fellow, though he possessed facial hair above his lips, a feature both Indian men and women abhorred.

He stepped farther into the room and took in the measure of this fellow holding Poka’aki. Although Red Fox longed to fade into the scenery in this place, he could not. Realizing his countenance and dress were too different and too exotic for those around him to act politely, he ignored their whispering and pointed glances.

Indeed, he concentrated on studying this man, Maximillian. If he were to envision a way to release his woman from this person‘s grip, Red Fox needed to understand Maximillian as well as he knew himself. The man was slender, tall, although perhaps a little shorter than he, Red Fox. The fellow, however, kept glancing to the east side of the dance floor instead of giving his beautiful partner all of the attention she deserved.

Looking to the eastern side of the dance floor, Red Fox saw the reason for it: a pretty young woman with the pale color of hair that was so rare upon these plains stood there, the object of this man’s attention. Remembering what Poka’aki had said about the man possessing a mistress, Red Fox surmised this woman had to be Maximillian’s undeclared sits-beside-him-woman.

And, though she was stunningly pretty with her blonde curls and blue eyes, there was a catch in her eye and a quality about her countenance that was not pretty. And, worse, she stared at Poka’aki with a look that was hardly likeable. Watching the interplay between this woman and the man who was dancing with Poka’aki, Red Fox knew it was only a matter of a few moments before he, Red Fox, would intercede.

As soon as the music of the dance ended, Red Fox paced forward and into the crowd of dancers, his steps taking him directly to Poka’aki and the gentleman, who, at this very moment, had laid his hand upon the small of Poka’aki’s back.

Inserting himself directly into the path of Maximillian and Poka’aki, Red Fox waited as the people around him cleared away until, at last, the gentleman beheld an Indian warrior, complete with rifle—although it was encased within its beaded case and was strapped around Red Fox’s shoulder—was standing directly in his path.

Red Fox watched the man physically jump, and had it been gentleman-like to scream, the fellow might have done so. As it was, he gasped and stopped walking completely.

“Red Fox! I was wondering when I might see you here! Welcome!” Dragging her escort with her, Poka’aki stepped up before Red Fox and proceeded with the introductions, saying, “Red Fox, this gentleman here is Maximillian the Third. Max, this is Red Fox, my friend, as well as my tutor into the ways of the Plains and how one can easily survive on them.”

Maximillian bent over at the waist and inclined his head, but he said nothing.

Red Fox simply nodded. Then, looking directly at Poka’aki, he said, “I would like to dance with you, Poka’aki.”

“Of course. They are playing another waltz, this one a little slower than the last. Do you know the dance?”

“I do, although I have only learned these steps this very day,” Red Fox answered. He then watched as Maximillian bent slightly forward again, clicked his heels together, and turning, he walked away, although Red Fox saw the man’s knees were shaky and bowed slightly outward as he walked.

Returning his attention to Poka’aki, Red Fox asked, “Will you show me how I should hold you like these other men are doing?”

“Of course I will. Now, you put your right arm around my waist, like so.” She placed his arm in the correct place on the small of her back. “Then you hold my right hand with your left, and listen to the music and the beat. One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three. Do you hear the beat?”

“I do.” He placed his rifle, complete with its carrying case, a little more fully onto his back and out of the way, noticing at the same time that, true to her Pikuni teaching, a gun in a holster was wound around her waist.

“Good,” she said. “Now, starting with your left foot, we step up and back; up, two, three; back, two, three; up, two, three. Now, with your right and left foot, on steps two and three, you twirl around slightly, taking me with you as you twirl. Are you ready?”

“I am,” he answered. And, then he began to dance up and back; up, two, three; back, two, three; up, two, three; back, two, three; as he had earlier learned. Then, he commenced to twirl around. Gazing down at her, he witnessed her beautiful smile.

“You are a quick learner.”

“It is because I dance and sing every day to my ponies, and sometimes I dance while we are in camp. And, I often drum and sing as I dance.

“I know,” she said. “I have seen you do this, although only on occasion, and I have always thought you are most graceful.”

He smiled down at her. “Also, the wife of Eagle Heart showed me these steps today, though I did not hold her as I do you. She waltzed instead with her man, Eagle Heart.” When Poka’aki remained silent, he commented, “This dance is as it looks. It feels as if one is floating.”

She grinned up at him. “It feels, indeed, exactly as you say. How lovely it is to be in your arms. I have never seen this regalia before. Is it new to you?”

“Saa, it is not new. Never have I had the occasion to wear it before this night. It belonged to my grandfather.”

“And, was it passed down to you?”

He nodded.

She commented, “Perhaps our son shall inherit it.”

Red Fox missed a step while at the same time someone behind him tapped him on the shoulder. He came to a halt and gazed over his shoulder, there to see Frederic Fehér behind him, Frederic’s lips were set into a frown and his eyes filled with censure.

“I am cutting in to this dance,” Frederic said.

Red Fox glanced at the brother of Poka’aki questioningly.

“It means,” said Frederic in a voice dripping with sarcasm and disapproval, “that I am now going to dance with my sister while you step aside.”

“You are?”

“Yes. Now.” And, with no more instruction nor so much as a kind word, Frederic placed his arms around Poka’aki and danced away with her, although Red Fox observed she was frowning as she spoke to her brother.

Puzzled, Red Fox looked toward Poka’aki, who took her arm from around Frederic to say to Red Fox in sign, “Do not be upset. This is sometimes done.”

What was he supposed to do? Stand here while the dancers twirled around him or bumped into him?

At last, Red Fox began to understand. And, waiting for Frederic and Poka’aki to twirl in close to him, he stepped up to Frederic and tapped him on the shoulder, only to experience the shame of Frederic ignoring him completely as he stepped quickly away and whirled around the dance floor, Frederic presenting a façade as if nothing had even happened.

Knowing Frederic had intended to create the sensation of wrongdoing within him, Red Fox determinedly refused to give the matter any of his energy. Instead, with a steady gait, Red Fox turned around and walked off the dance floor and out of the ballroom completely, leaving the lovely sounding music behind him.

And, lovely it was, indeed. He couldn’t remember hearing anything quite like it in his past.

For a moment, he paused on the wooden flooring outside the actual dance hall, doing little more than listening to the enchanting music. He would remember it. It was so very beautiful.

And, when the music for a jig began, Red Fox set off on foot over the plains, making his way back up to the ledge of the butte, where his wolf would be awaiting him.

****\

Well, that’s all for today.  Remember I’ll be giving away a free e-book from this series to one of you bloggers today, your choice.  So come on in and share your thoughts with me.

 

 

Spring Cleaning – 19th Century Style

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Hello – Winnie Griggs here. With spring settling in across my corner of Louisiana, I’ve started noticing that familiar urge to open the windows, let in some fresh air, and maybe tackle a few long-postponed chores around the house. It’s something many of us think of as “spring cleaning”.

It got me wondering what that looked like for folks living back in the late 1800s, so of course I had to do a little research. And as it turns out, spring cleaning back then wasn’t just a good idea – it was practically a necessity.

Why Spring Cleaning Mattered

During the winter months, homes were kept tightly closed up against the cold. Wood stoves and fireplaces burned day and night, leaving behind soot and ash that settled on just about every surface. Fresh air was in short supply, and by the time spring arrived, things could feel a bit…stale.

So when the weather finally warmed, it wasn’t just about tidying up – it was about restoring a home to something fresh and livable again.

Not Just on the Surface

And when I say cleaning, I don’t mean a quick once-over.

Rugs were hauled outside and beaten to remove months of dust. Bedding and mattresses were carried into the sunshine to air out. Curtains were taken down and washed, which was no small task when every bit of it had to be done by hand.

Floors were scrubbed, often on hands and knees. Walls might be wiped down, especially in areas where soot had built up. Windows were thrown open and cleaned to let in as much light and fresh air as possible.

It was hard, time-consuming work – the kind that could take days to complete.

There were no shelves of cleaning products to choose from, of course. Most families relied on homemade solutions.

Lye soap was a common staple – effective, but harsh. Scrub brushes, rags, buckets, and a good bit of elbow grease did the rest. And spring cleaning often doubled as a time to take stock – deciding what needed mending, what needed replacing, and what had simply worn out over the winter.

A Town-Wide Effort

In a small town, this wasn’t something happening in isolation.

Chances are, your neighbors were doing the same thing at the same time. Doors and windows would be open, rugs draped over fences, voices carrying from one yard to the next. There may have even been a bit of neighborly helping going on – especially when it came to heavier tasks.

It created a kind of shared rhythm – a sense that the whole town was shaking off winter together and stepping into something new.

Not Just Inside the Home

Of course, it wasn’t just the inside of the house that got attention this time of year.

Barns and stables needed clearing after a long winter, with fresh bedding laid down and repairs made where weather and wear had taken their toll. In a small town, the livery stable would have been especially busy – stalls mucked out, doors and hinges checked, and everything set back in good working order.

Harnesses and saddles were cleaned and oiled, wagon wheels inspected, and tools sharpened in preparation for the months ahead. Fences might be repaired, sheds cleared, and yards straightened up after winter storms.

Spring was also a common time to whitewash fences, outbuildings, or even parts of a home’s exterior.

And for many families, attention also turned to the kitchen garden. Beds were cleared of winter debris, the soil turned and worked, and early plantings set in as soon as the ground allowed. It was another sign of the season shifting – not just putting things back in order, but preparing for what would grow in the months ahead.

All of it was part of the same seasonal shift – a quiet but steady effort to move from the stillness of winter into the activity of spring.

More Than Just Cleaning

And maybe that’s the part I find most interesting.

Spring cleaning wasn’t only about dust and dirt. It marked a turning point. A chance to put winter behind you and look ahead to planting, travel, gatherings, and all the activity that came with warmer days.

In a way, it was as much about clearing out the old as it was about making room for what was to come.

 

 We may have more conveniences today, but that pull toward a fresh start each spring hasn’t really changed. There’s still something satisfying about opening the windows, letting in the breeze, and putting things back in order after a long season.

Maybe that’s why the idea of spring cleaning has lasted this long – because deep down, it’s never really been just about cleaning. It’s about fresh starts, open windows, and the quiet hope that a new season might bring something better with it.

What about you – do you have a spring cleaning routine you follow each year, do you change things up from time to time, or is it something you tend to put off as long as possible? Leave aa comment about this or any aspect of this post to be entered in a drawing for a signed copy of one of my books.

Heather Blanton – the Vaquero Who Shaped the Cowboy & a Giveaway

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Telling the West Right: Honoring the Vaquero Who Shaped the Cowboy

By Heather Blanton

Long before the American cowboy was immortalized in dime novels and Hollywood, his story had already begun—written in the dust and discipline of the Hispanic vaquero. These skilled horsemen, shaped by Spanish tradition and forged in the rugged lands of Mexico and California, laid the groundwork for what would become one of America’s most enduring icons.

Even the word cowboy finds its roots in vaquero, from vaca, meaning cow. But this influence runs far deeper than language. Vaqueros were masters of horsemanship, introducing the techniques of roping, branding, and cattle handling that became essential to ranch life. Their gear—wide-brimmed hats, leather chaps, spurs, and expertly crafted saddles—was born of necessity and refined through experience. Anglo settlers moving west didn’t invent the cowboy’s way of life—they learned it.

And they learned more than skill. The vaquero lived by a code: quiet competence, resilience, respect for the land, and pride in honest work. This wasn’t the reckless gunfighter of legend, but a man whose survival depended on patience, discipline, and grit.

Yet somewhere along the way, that truth was overshadowed. The myth of the American cowboy grew larger than life, often leaving behind the very culture that shaped it. What we celebrate today is only part of the story.

That truth is exactly why I wrote Fernando’s Fortune. I’ve spent my career telling stories of the American West, but the deeper I went, the clearer it became—some of its strongest roots were being left out of the telling. The vaquero wasn’t a side note. He was the beginning.

Don Fernando Diego Garcia de la Vega begins as a man who seems to have everything—a family fortune, a storied California hacienda, and a life marked by charm and privilege. But one reckless, passionate mistake with the governor’s daughter costs him everything. Stripped of his inheritance and cast out from the only home he’s ever known, Fernando is forced into exile in the untamed American West.

He arrives determined to reclaim his fortune within a year, convinced he can conquer the frontier as easily as he once won admiration in Monterey. But the West has no patience for pride. It is a hard land, filled with danger, hardship, and people who cannot be swayed by charm alone—especially a strong-willed frontier woman who refuses to be bought, bullied, or wooed.

 

What follows is not just a fight for survival, but a reckoning. Fernando came chasing wealth. Instead, he is forced to confront who he truly is when everything else is stripped away. In the end, he may gain far more than he ever lost—or risk losing everything that truly matters.

Because the West is more than myth. It is a story shaped by many hands, many cultures, and many truths. And if we’re going to keep telling it, we ought to tell it right.

~~~

Comment, and you are entered to win a paperback of Fernando’s Fortune! Do you think the vaquero is a forgotten hero of the West?

 

He was a prince of California. One scandal made him an outcast.

Don Fernando Diego Garcia de la Vega had it all: a family fortune, a legendary hacienda, and a life of effortless charm. But a single, passionate mistake with the governor’s daughter leaves him stripped of his inheritance and banished from the only home he’s ever known.

Exiled to the untamed American West, Fernando vows to regain his fortune within a year. He expects to conquer the frontier as easily as he once charmed the ladies of Monterey. But the Wild West is a brutal teacher, filled with ruthless scoundrels, unforgiving land, and a feisty frontier woman who refuses to be bought, bullied, or wooed.

He came to find his fortune. He might just lose his heart—or his life—in the process.

 

 

 

 

Iconic Arizona Landmark’s Civil War Connection

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A few weekends ago, I was traveling from Phoenix to Tucson – something I do perhaps once a year. There’s a prominent landmark called Picacho Peak that, despite having lived in Arizona most of my life, I pay little attention to other than to note that I’m about two-thirds of the way through my trip. This time, however, perhaps because I was driving alone, I started thinking a little about this historic site and decided to research it a bit when I got home.

Most of us in these parts know that Picacho Peak is where the only battle between the North and the South took place in Arizona during the civil war. Seems the then western territory mostly stayed out of the conflict until February of 1862 when Captain Sherod Hunter and a troupe of rangers rode into Tucson, officially creating the Confederate Territory of Arizona. They effectively wreaked havoc on the Union forces with their hit and run style of attack, destroying the Union Army’s food and hay supplies and capturing their men.

After two months of skirmishes and raids, the warring sides met at Picacho Peak on April 15th for their infamous battle, which lasted all of ninety minutes. Despite being greatly outnumbered, the Confederates triumphed. Their victory didn’t last long, however. The Union eventually took control of the region, ending the Confederates’ hope for a southwestern pathway to the Westcoast.

Now, every year in (usually) March, the battle at Picacho Peak is reenacted in the state park by living history enthusiasts who wear authentically reproduced uniforms and clothing and use replica weapons­—no real bullets are used. Tours and informational talks are given, along with camps, and battle demonstrations that are set up to entertain and educate the hundreds of people who arrive and to thrill to the sound of rifles exploding and canons firing (again, not real). I’ve never been, but my son attended some years ago with my mother-in-law and his cousins and had a great time.

If you’re not a history buff, that’s no reason to miss stopping at Picacho Peak. There are great hiking trails for the fit and adventurous and the Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch for fun seekers looking for something different. Yes, you can feed the ostriches. No, you can ride them. And, yes, you can purchase ostrich eggs to eat. To be honest, I’d have to think long and hard on that before making a purchase.

Maybe I should convince hubby, and the two of us could check it out next year. Sounds like a great day trip.

 

The Convict’s Courtship–Kylee Woodley–and a giveaway

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Smuggled in a Miner’s Pocket: The Cornish Roots of the Tommy Knocker

“What a tall tale… Tommy Knockers are Cornish, not French.”

“Maybe the Cornish miners smuggled them in.”

— From The Convict’s Courtship by KyLee Woodley

With St. Patrick’s Day just behind us and this “outlaw-ish” clean romance now available, it seems appropriate to share a bit about the Leprechaun’s cousin: the Tommy Knocker. These creatures are a fascinating part of the history and setting of my latest book.

The Migration of the “Cousin Jacks”


(Underground in the Gould and Curry Mine 1867. Timothy O’Sullivan photo)

In the 19th century, highly skilled hard-rock miners emigrated from Cornwall, England, to mining towns across the globe. Many settled in the American West, including the famous Comstock Lode in Nevada—the very setting of The Convict’s Courtship—where work was plentiful for those who knew the earth.

These men were known as “Cousin Jacks,” a term coined because they always seemed to have a cousin back home in need of work. The migration of these Europeans was so vast that between the 1860s and 1870s, the Cornish population in Nevada went from nearly none to over 1,000 in the 1870 census.

But they brought more than just their expertise in drilling; they brought their superstitions. Tucked away in their pockets (metaphorically, of course) were stories of mystical little creatures, much like an elf or a gnome, that haunted the deep places of the world. In the West, these spirits became known as Tommy Knockers.

The Ritual of the Pasty


(The Cornish Pasty, Cornwall Vintage History & Recipe Postcard C56 | eBay UK)

Life underground was dangerous, and the Tommy Knockers were said to be the ones in control of a miner’s fate. To keep these “little minions” happy, miners practiced specific rituals, like leaving behind a portion of their lunch—usually a piece of a Cornish Pasty.

These meat pies were folded in half with the edges pinched together into a thick crust. This “miner’s handle” allowed them to eat with dirty hands and discard the soiled crust afterward. While Cornish immigrants were almost entirely men—unlike many other groups who arrived in family units—this ritual connected the lonely miner to his homeland and his ancestors.

Protectors or Pests?

What exactly were these creatures? While some modern theorists believe the “knocking” sounds were simply the results of rock crumbling or timbers cracking under the weight of a pending cave-in, the miners saw it differently.

According to the Exeter Institute of Cornish Studies, “initial phases of belief [show] knockers led worthy miners to valuable ore, warned of danger, and punished those who angered them.” Many believed they provided a life-saving service by knocking on the tunnel walls just before a collapse. Because of this, some viewed them as good luck, while others feared their power to cause the very cave-ins they warned against.

The Folklore Connection


(In the evening, the seven Dwarfs came back.

These illustrations came from: Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm. The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. Mrs. Edgar Lucas, translator. Arthur Rackham, illustrator. London: Constable & Company Ltd, 1909.)

There is even a link to the classic fairy tales we know today. While the Grimm tales are German and Tommy Knockers are Cornish, they share the same “Old World” root: the belief that the earth is alive and inhabited by subterranean spirits. In the 19th century, miners from across Europe (German, Welsh, and Cornish) shared stories in the bunkhouses, likely blending the “Knocker” with the German “Kobold” or “Dwarf.”

A Legacy in the Dark

Whether they were seen as dwarves—perhaps even distant relatives to the legendary Seven Dwarfs—or restless spirits lurking in the shadows, the Tommy Knocker became a staple of the immigrant West. For the man working a mile underground, the Tommy Knocker wasn’t just a story; it was a companion in the dark, a reminder of the roots he left behind, and a way to make sense of the dangers of the deep.

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE FAIRY TALE GROWING UP?

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THE CONVICTS COURTSHIP

Outlaw Hearts book 3

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A remote mining town, an aspiring journalist, and the reformed convict who saves her life.

When Clara Alexander returned from finishing school to Virginia City she had two goals: to become a reporter and make peace with the father who betrayed her mother. But even in the West, there is no room for her in the newsroom or in the family her father made when he married his mistress. Clara is forced to take desperate measures to prove her worth to an editor—including a reckless venture into a dangerous mine shaft.

Reformed convict Beau Vulpe lives a quiet life of obscurity in a remote mining town in Nevada. When he rescues a beautiful woman from a sweltering mine shaft, he’s welcomed into her home as a hero, only to discover that they are the same family he deeply wronged the summer before. Now, with winter’s grip choking the mountain town and rumors of mines going bust, he is forced to stay, praying Clara won’t discover the truth before the spring thaw.

As Clara pursues her dreams of writing for the renowned Territorial Enterprise, she continually crosses paths with the mysterious Frenchman who saved her life and is drawn to him a little more with each interaction. Beau finds himself not only falling for the lovely lady but befriending her family as well. Can he protect his freedom and atone for his wrongs without losing his heart in the process? And what about Clara—will her attraction toward Beau Vulpe lead to the disappointment her mother warned her about?

Author Bio: KyLee Woodley is a cheery romantic who loves to write about bygone days and heartwarming romance with a pinch of adventure. She teaches preschool at a lab school in Texas, where she lives with her husband of eighteen years and their three teenage children. On weekends, KyLee cohosts and produces the Historical Bookworm Show, a steadily growing author interview podcast for history lovers and readers of historical fiction.

In her spare time, she cares for a rescue dog named Lucky, a feisty feline named Hazel, and two adorable Boston Terrier puppies. She listens to contemporary Christian, country, and early?2000s rock, visits bookstores and coffee shops with her teens, and watches adventure movies with her husband, who might resemble Superman.

Author Links:

 https://www.facebook.com/WoodleyWrites 

https://twitter.com/KyLeeWoodley  

https://www.instagram.com/kylee.woodley.writes/ 

https://www.pinterest.com/kypins13/  

Podcast: https://historicalbookworm.com/?page_id=41  

Personal Website:  https://kyleewoodley.com/ 

Petticoat Ranch–where it all began–and a giveaway

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Petticoat Ranch

Kicks off a flurry of renewals. done with the help of Wild Heart Books.

This publisher specializes in historical fiction so there is a LOT to love over there.

I’ve got six books and, I think, eight novellas coming out in the next ? six? months. Re-releases of old favorites. And none I loved more than my very first released book, Petticoat Ranch.

My gosh, when that book came in the mail, a box full of books back then, I hugged them and danced with them and told My Cowboy we were gonna need a bigger bed because I was going to sleep cuddled up to them FOREVER!!

The books never made it as sleep-over friends but otherwise it’s all true.

This month, that beloved book, out of print, is now available again on all the standard outlets.

Seriously getting those books is one of the best experiences of my life. Total Top Ten Experience

Leave a comment to get your name in a drawing for an ebook copy of Petticoat Ranch. There are paperback copies, too, but I don’t get any of those are part of my contract. So I’m going with an ebook.

Leave a comment if you are SICK of this stupid, cold weather. It’s like spring is TAUNTING ME!!!

I’m looking out the window at a snowstorm right now…the self-pity is embarrassing but I can’t stop it!

Petticoat Ranch

Book #1 of the Petticoats and Cowboys Series

From beloved author Mary Connealy comes a delightful Western adventure brimming with danger, laughter, and unexpected romance—a tale of a resourceful widow, a rugged cowboy, and the ready-made family that will steal his heart. Perfect for fans of Tracie Peterson and Karen Witemeyer.

Sophie Edwards has survived two years in the Texas wilderness with four daughters and her wits. When a stranger falls injured near her hidden cabin during a thunderstorm, she discovers he’s the spitting image of her late husband—because Clay McClellen is her husband’s twin brother, a man who never knew his brother existed.

Clay came to Texas seeking justice for his brother’s murder. What he finds instead is a ready-made family, a rundown ranch, and a fiercely independent woman who doesn’t need rescuing—even when danger comes calling. Sophie may have pulled him from a flooded creek, but Clay is determined to be the protector she deserves, whether she wants one or not.

As vigilantes close in and old enemies resurface, Clay and Sophie must learn to trust each other and God’s plan. But can a mountain man used to solitude embrace life with four talkative daughters? And can Sophie open her guarded heart to love again—especially when the man looks exactly like the husband who broke it?

A heartwarming tale of second chances, faith, and finding love in the untamed West.

 

Wearing of the Green

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Linda Broday here. Hey, are you wearing green? Do you know why you’re supposed to? I grew up totally ignorant of the reason. I just knew I didn’t want to be pinched by the boys at school. I did know the holiday originated in Ireland and the Irish immigrants brought it to America but little else.

How about you?

Here’s the scoop. We celebrate to honor Ireland’s patron saint, St. Patrick who brought Christianity to Ireland in the 5th century.

But back up a minute. Patrick was abducted at the age of sixteen and brought to the Emerald Isle as a slave. He escaped and later returned to convert the Irish to Christianity. He used the three leaves of a shamrock, which grows wild in Ireland, to represent the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost with the stem uniting all three.

That’s something I did not know.

But the Irish got on board with him and turned from paganism, which was a good thing.

Still, why is green worn?

Seems the custom is due to political origins that go back to the Great Irish Rebellion in 1641.This uprising was due to the Catholic leaders opposing the English crown and they adopted a green flag with a harp on it. Green also reappeared during the Irish Rebellion of 1798.

Yet, I wondered why it’s customary to pinch someone failing to wear green. The answer is folklore. Green is supposed to make you invisible to leprechauns. They can see those wearing different colors so the mischievous little things pinch them. It’s a lighthearted belief to inspire us to wear green. Boys especially love to pinch.

Today, St. Patrick’s Day has evolved into a global celebration. There are parades and other festivities meant to highlight Irish culture and nurture community spirit and pride. And to eliminate discrimination, which is always a good thing.

We celebrate with green beer, various clothing and hats, and the Chicago River is dyed green, among other ways we celebrate.

But in Ireland, it’s still a religious holiday and continue to pay tribute to St. Patrick. By the way, he established many, many monasteries, churches, and schools before he died on March 17, 461.

In all my 50+ published books, I’ve never written any around St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe I should remedy that. Who knows what will inspire me?

Do you do anything to celebrate? Maybe eat the traditional meal of corned beef and cabbage or wear green? I’ll give away a $10 Amazon gift card in a drawing from the commenters.

Babies, Babies, & More Babies ~ By Pam Crooks

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It’s Women’s History Month!

Every year, by presidential proclamation, March is designated Women’s History Month in which the entire month is set aside to honor women’s contributions in American history.

Here on this blog, we’ve featured many women throughout the west who have made a name for themselves in some way. Calamity Jane, Belle Starr, Annie Oakley, Stagecoach Mary… the list goes on and on.

But I recently came across a different woman who wasn’t from the west. In fact, she was from the south–Georgia, to be exact–but she certainly made plenty of contributions in her life to make her worthy of honor and notoriety during Women’s History Month.

Mary Francis Hill Coley was an African-American woman born in 1900 in rural Baker County, Georgia. She learned midwifery at a young age through an apprenticeship instead of attending formal medical school. By her early adulthood, she’d gained enough hands-on experience to achieve the reputation of being one of the most trusted and compassionate midwives serving the communities around Albany, earning the loving name of “Miss Mary.”

“Every baby is a little bit of heaven sent down to earth.”

As most of us with children probably already know, babies don’t decide to be born conveniently during the daytime. Many a husband came knocking on Mary’s door in the middle of the night, frantic that his wife had gone into labor and needed help. Mary kept her medical bag ready on her nightstand. With bag in hand, she’d put on her coat and head out, oftentimes walking long distances down dark country roads if transportation wasn’t available.

“The baby is not the only patient.”

But she did more than just deliver babies. She also:

• provided prenatal guidance, including strongly advising regular doctor visits for crucial examinations at her clinic
• helped families prepare for delivery by offering them a box of linens, baby clothes, and reading materials
• assisted mothers during long home labors, checking them carefully under sanitary conditions
• cared for both mother and newborn for several hours afterward, giving advice, aiding in breastfeeding, and after care.

You’re probably wondering if she had children of her own. She sure did. In 1930, she married Ashley Coley, a carpenter, and they went on to have ten children together. Then, for reasons not revealed, he up and left her to raise those ten kids by herself.

Can you imagine?

But she endured, thanks to her successful midwifery and practical nursing career. While serving her community, she was still able to support her large family as well as buy her own home, a car, a telephone, supplies for emergencies, and even hire an assistant to help with births and visits.

In the early 1950s, the Georgia Department of Public Health wanted to create a documentary film about safe childbirth practices to educate midwives. The result was “All My Babies: A Midwife’s Own Story” (1953), directed by George C. Stoney. Mary Coley was chosen as the central figure – not actors – and the film was used for years to train midwives across the United States and internationally. It was the first time the general public was able to view a real birth on screen, and today the film is considered one of the most important public-health documentaries ever made.

I watched the black-and-white film on YouTube. Mary is very loving, soft-spoken, and efficient as she cares for two separate mothers ready to give birth as well as postpartum. Her knowledge of the importance of sanitation was clear in her work, whether it was washing her hands, boiling her instruments, using freshly-laundered linens or sanitized cloths to clean both mother and baby.

By the time she died in 1966, according to her grandson, she had raised eleven children and delivered 3,700 babies, many of them documented on a large bulletin board in her clinic.

She’s certainly deserving to be honored during Women’s History Month, don’t you think?

If you’ve ever given birth, did you use a midwife at home? A doula? Or did you prefer a hospital setting?  Was there someone with you that you couldn’t have done without?

To stay up on our latest releases and have some fun, too, join our Facebook Reader Group HERE!

 

IF SHE WERE MINE — New Historical Coming Soon

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Howdy!

Happy Tuesday!  And welcome to another terrific Tuesday!

Yes, I have a new historical romance coming soon.  This is book #6 in the Medicine Man Series.  It’s still in editing at the moment, but I heard from my editor today and she says she is almost done with the edits.  When this happens, it means about 2-3 weeks for me to do the edits and to get them thoroughly proofed and then getting it published, which can take a few days as well.  And, so I thought I’d put out a call for anyone who would like an ARC (Advance Reading Copy) of the book,  These ARC’s are sent out most usually to readers would like to do reviews.  It’s not necessary to do a review, of course, but this is most usually the reason an ARC is sent.

If you would like to have an Advanced Copy of the new Historical when it is released (or perhaps a little before), please let me know in the comments.

So, that said, I thought I’d give you an except of the new book.  We’ll start with the blurb and then an excerpt from the very beginning of the story (the Prologue).

If She Were Mine

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Karen Kay

 

A star-crossed love, treachery, and desire that will not be denied.

Briella Feher is in love, but not with her fiancé. Her father has exiled her from the sweeping plains of Montana to New York City “for her own safety,” commanding her to marry within her heritage and class. Raised in Indian Territory, Briella was shaped as much by the Pikuni—Blackfeet—people as by her aristocratic Hungarian family. Viewed as a cowgirl, Briella doesn’t fit in with society. Perhaps it’s the guns she wears strapped to her evening gowns. Her heart has always belonged to Red Fox, the Pikuni medicine man who taught her to survive on the prairie, the man who was her teacher, her first love. When James Maximillian III proposes—with the condition that he keep his mistress—Briella accepts, seeing his proposal as her only path back to Montana and to Red Fox.

Two years apart have not cooled the fire between Briella and Red Fox, yet his honor won’t allow him to claim this woman who is promised to another. With the escalation of the Indian/Cavalry wars, Red Fox believes distance is the only way to protect the woman he loves. Then a vision reveals a devastating truth: Briella’s fiancé is hiding a lie that could shatter every vow. It’s now up to Red Fox to find the truth.

Time is running out, however, and forces are aligned against them. Can Red Fox find the proof and expose the treachery in time to alter the ending of their Romeo and Juliet romance, or will he lose Briella forever in a romance destined for tragedy?

PROLOGUE

Northwest Indian Country

Territory of the Blackfeet

The Month When Geese Come (May) 1871

Máóhkataatoyi, Red Fox watched as Pokaa’aakíí (Poka’aki), Child Woman, or as the white’s called her, Briella Fehér, raised her hand and shouted, “Watch me take down this buffalo calf with one shot!”

“Saa! Wait! Do not shoot! There are—”

BLAST!

It was too late! The damage was done. Hadn’t Poka’aki seen the buffalo herd hidden in the shallow, plain-like valley below?

And now the buffalo, having heard the shot, would assume hunters were close-by; it would cause them to stampede. But, perhaps their direction might be to run along the valley rather than to climb the hill and…

As Red Fox heard the unmistakable thunder of hundreds or perhaps thousands of the buffalo’s hooves coming closer and closer to him, he knew the stark reality of what this was: a stampede on its way—toward him and Poka’aki.

There is, perhaps, nothing more terrifying to the heart of a man than the sound of snapping wood, the whooshing of shrubs and bushes, as well as the quaking and ratting of the ground beneath one as the tremendous force and speed of a stampeding herd of buffalo was on the run.

Even now the air carried the dirt and rocks kicked high into the air by those buffalos’ hooves. With a sinking heart, Red Fox knew the herd would be here before Poka’aki had time to get out of the way, and, if she didn’t move fast enough, they would trample her to death.

“Get out of here!” he shouted and waved at her. “Quick! Leave here! Go! Fast!”

But he knew his words were useless. All sound was blocked except the thunder of the stampede.

In a time quicker than it takes to think it, Red Fox knew that George, who was Poka’aki’s brother as well as his own almost-brother, was too far away to come to Briella’s rescue. George had left their hunting party early in the morning, his intention being to return to the tribe and report this enormous herd of buffalo to the chiefs, letting them decide if they would call a tribal hunt of the buffalo or secure a buffalo caller to send the herd, one and all, over the cliff of the pisskan, the buffalo jump.

Inwardly, he cringed. Because of his and Poki’aki’s actions here today, the stampede would interfere with the tribe’s ability to obtain enough food for winter storage, if only because a stampeding herd of buffalo could run through the day and into the night, taking the vast supply of food completely out of Blackfoot territory.

This was why, when a large mass of buffalo had been spotted, the chiefs banned all hunting until the tribe’s men could, as a single body, hunt the game.

On this very day, the chiefs had sent both himself and George—two scouts—out from the camp to look for buffalo. No one in the tribe yet knew this large herd was even here. And yet, it would soon be gone.

The thunderous, ground shaking roar of the stampede caused all further thought to cease. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Red Fox caught sight of the black, horned creatures coming into sight and directly at him. Just then, his horse reared as a wave of the black, hairy beasts encompassed him and his mount, and pushed him and his pony in alongside of them.

With a quick action, Red Fox brought his pony under control. There was no running from them now, and, within the batting of an eye, Red Fox and his mount were caught up in the stampede…but he was on the other side of the herd from Poka’aki.

Because the sharp-horned cows enveloped him and crowded in on every side him, his pony was forced to keep time with the stampede; Red Fox spared a glance behind him to see blackened masses of the animals to the rear of him, seeming as though they were without end. There was to be no retreat from them.

Once more, he looked toward Poka’aki, seeing she was caught up within the herd, as was he. He had to save her—but how?

He was on the complete opposite side of the solid mass of charging buffalo. He knew well that even the best of horses could not last for long within a fleeing herd of these animals; the buffalo’s lungs were large and strong and the muscles in their legs were sturdy, allowing them to run both day and night without ever stopping.

But, not so a horse. Even the best buffalo horse could not long keep up with a running buffalo herd; instead, a good pony was trained to take his master toward a buffalo, allowing the man to grab quick shot and then to retreat, carrying himself and his rider to the side of the terrorized animals.

Glancing at Poka’aki on his left and across a field of the terror-stricken and plunging buffalo, he took stock of her horse…a three-year-old mare not trained to a buffalo run. Her horse wouldn’t last longer than a breath. Worse, Red Fox could see she had lost control of the reins, causing her to cling to the pony’s mane, the reins being dragged behind, which could be stepped on by a buffalo…

All Indian hunters know that the only way to remain alive in a buffalo stampede is to gradually guide one’s horse to the edge of the stampede and then leave the massive push of the herd. But without reins? How was she to guide her horse?

With a sinking heart, Red Fox knew Poka’aki ‘s chances of surviving the stampede were all but impossible.

But, she must survive! She must! She, the girl he had loved for so many years!

He had to get to her! Her horse would soon become tired and would be overrun by the sharp hooves of the buffalo pushing in on her from behind, trampling them both into the ground.

His one chance to save her was to guide his horse toward hers and then lead them both to the side. And, this he would do; this he must do.

In a moment out of time, he devised a plan. He knew that the buffalo do not see well; they follow the leading cow in front of them, creating little paths within the stampede.

Poka’aki was slightly ahead of him, and he counted three rows of the buffalo between himself and Poka’aki. All he had to do was to kill the buffalo on his left and take its place in the path behind the cow ahead. Over and over he would do this until her pony was on his left. Reaching down to pull his rifle from its case, he found the container empty.

Empty? Without a gun to clear each pathway to his left, how was he to get to her? Quickly, he reached behind him, his hand lingering for a moment over his bow and arrows. With the gun having taken the place of the bow and arrow for most Pikuni men, the quiver with bow and arrows was seldom worn anymore. However, today he had placed both upon his back, thinking to kill an animal quietly with the bow and arrow rather than announce where he was by the boom of a gun.

Pulling the bow from its quiver, as well as many arrows, he placed all but one arrow into his mouth, and, holding them with his teeth, he fitted the first arrow to his bow. He took aim.

Whish! The arrow went down well below the ribs, straight to the heart of the buffalo. The animal made only one more jump before it went down. With his knees, Rex Fox guided his pony into the downed buffalo’s place. He did the same with the next buffalo, taking its place.

Only one more row of the bulls and cows and he would be next to her. But, her horse was now plunging about madly, making it difficult for Poka’aki to stay her seat.

But, what was this? What was wrong with her saddle?

How could it have come loose? And yet, with another plunge, her saddle flew back onto the rear of her pony. Worse, she had lost her grip on the animal’s mane and was desperately holding onto the horses neck. All it would take was one more jump, and Poka’aki would fall from her horse and be trampled.

His heart stopped for a moment. But, he was only one pathway and a jump away from her horse. Quickly taking aim with another arrow, he shot at the buffalo closest to him right behind the ribs to the heart of the beast, and, as the buffalo went down, Red Fox and his pony took its place. Then, by whacking his bow on his horse’s flanks, he came to be even with Poka’aki. She was falling off her horse!

Reaching out to his left, he caught her by the waist and pulled her up onto his own mount, laying her crosswise in front of him.

Because the sharp horns of the buffalo were closing in around him again, he didn’t have a moment to set her up straight. Indeed, he knew his horse, with its double load could not long keep pace with the frightened buffalo, especially since Red Fox sensed his pony was winded. However, using his bow, he kept the animal in step with the buffalo, despite his pony fighting for breath. Then, taking up his bow again, he positioned another arrow to his bow, took aim and felled the buffalo to his left.

He did the same with his remaining arrow, and then all his arrows were gone. All he could do now was to force his horse into the remaining two rows of buffalo to his left, one at a time. Saying a prayer beneath his breath, he forced his pony into the next pathway of buffalo.

Only one more row of the stampeding herd remained, but his pony was clever and worked his way to the side again and into the pathway to the left. And then Red Fox steered his pony to the left again.

Free! At last, we are free!

Red Fox turned his mount again to the left, putting some distance between Poka’aki, himself and his pony from the stampeding buffalo. He reined his horse to a stop beneath a quivering pine. Jumping to the ground, Red Fox pulled Poka’aki off the pony, and when she would have collapsed in his arms, he held onto her tightly, pulling her closely against him.

He could feel her sobs at his shoulder, and he tightened his grip on her, saying in a low voice, “It is over. We are alive. We survive.”

She was crying and in between gasps, she whispered, “I would be dead now if not for you.”

He didn’t know what to answer in response, and so he said only, “Come, you can sit beneath this tree and recover your breath while I go to find your bother. We must report what we have found to our chiefs.”

“No! Do not let me go! I beg you, do not let me go!”

With her face against his shoulder and she standing so closely in his arms, all of his energy suddenly focused on her instead of their narrow escape from death. Indeed, all of his bent-up emotions and the joy of his success was centered upon her and only upon her. And for a moment, he thought he had not only escaped death this day, but he might have found the white man’s heaven, as well.

How long was it now that he had loved Poka’aki? All those years ago, when her brother, George, had asked him to tutor her in the ways of the plains, who could have predicted he would fall in love with the girl? Certainly, he hadn’t foreseen it.

But, he had, indeed, surrendered his heart to her. However, she was younger than he by seven winters. And so, he had waited for her to grow up before turning his mind toward the idea of approaching her father with many horses and asking for her hand in marriage.

And so, in all these years, he had held himself back from declaring himself to her. He knew she liked him well enough, but so beautiful was she, he was a little afraid of her: fearful, he was, of her possible rejection of him. Or worse, she might agree to marry him simply because they were friends.

Even now, breathing in the sweet, yet fragrant scent of her, he remained silent, doing little more than savoring the moment.

Leaning her head back a little, she looked up into his eyes and, in a whisper, declared, “I am to blame for this. I almost killed you and me, too. And I…and I… I love you, Red Fox. I do not wish to leave this world without you knowing how I feel about you. Indeed, I think I have loved you since the day you first came here to tutor me, although I didn’t know it then. Since I have known you, I have been of the opinion of you being the handsomest of men; you, with your black hair, always so neatly braided and your dark, mysterious eyes. Always, you have appeared before me dressed in your best buckskin clothing and, when there have been times you have had to take off your shirt, I…I…have wondered what it might feel like if you were to hold me, to press your lips against mine.

“But, you are older than I and much taller, too, and I have had to wait to grow up a little. But, I have always looked upon you with the idea in mind that one day you will come to love me. And, if I were to have been the cause of your death here today, I do not believe I would ever be able to forgive myself, not even in the hereafter.”

She loves me? All this time she has loved me? She has even desired my embrace?

This couldn’t be real. He swallowed hard, gulping.

“Do you not feel it, too?” Poka’aki asked, her voice breathless. “I have seen the looks you have given me sometimes in the evenings when we sit around the fire. Please tell me. I am not making this up, am I? It is not all one-sided, is it? Do you love me, too?”

Red Fox shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. Then, slowly he bent his head to hers and touched his lips to hers. At their touch, every sense within him awoke to the splendor of her and his heart began beating as fast as it had been only moments ago when they had been swallowed up within the buffalo stampede.

Raising his head only slightly and inhaling deeply, he looked up into the heavens before bringing his lips down to hers yet again, and he kissed her once more, but deeply this time. His tongue opened her mouth to his persuasion, and thereupon, he proceeded to love her with his kisses, one after another, as though he were a hungry man and she were the only sweet thing that could satisfy him.

She kissed him back and as she did so, the world around him seemed to come alive. Indeed, the sun, shining down upon his shoulders, felt warmer. The wind seemed to join in with the sun in a kindlier fashion as it whirled around them, sharing its cooler temperature with them. Truly, it felt to him as though the life force of the earth and all of His creatures were as happy as he.

Bringing his head down toward hers, he touched his lips to hers yet again.

Áa! Magic! It was as though they had been waiting longer than mere years for this one, precious moment to declare themselves to one another.

How splendid it would be to make her his wife this day.  If he were to do so, it would put to rest the very real possibility of her father denying her to him.

After all, it was her brother, George, who had included him as a tutor for her all those years ago…not her parents. In truth, it was with a critical eye her parents, József and Mária Fehér, had watched him teach her to shoot, to ride, to track and hunt game as well as any man. Added to this, for the past month, Poka’aki’s elder brother, Frederic,—who lived in a faraway, eastern part of the Americas—was now temporarily in residence here in Pikuni country. And, though Frederic had brought with him his wife and their child for the visit, Frederic held himself and his immediate family aloof from all things Pikuni.

Niitá’p, indeed, since Frederic’s arrival, Red Fox had noted a change within her father’s behavior toward all things Pikuni, too.

Needing to breathe, Red Fox broke off the kiss, listening to his…and her strained breath. Then, a little huskily, and with a silent air of doubt in her voice, she asked, “You do love me, don’t you?”

So enamored was he with her, his voice was shaking when he answered, “Of course I do. For many years I have loved you. And, if I loved you a little less than I do, I would make you my wife now under the eye of the Creator, thus letting the world around us be joyful along with us or condemn us.”

“Oh, yes. Please.  I am ready to become your woman, your wife,” she whispered.

Once again, he shut his eyes as the throes of passion came over him. He was more than ready to cause them to marry. Did he dare?

Saa, no, he silently answered his own question; a good man would approach her father and ask for her hand in marriage. Besides, he did not wish to disrupt her family and his. After all, her other brother, George, was married to Red Fox’s sister.

Inwardly sighing, he realized it was true.

He swallowed, hard, bringing control over his impulses. No, this had to be done in the right way; it was his place to approach her father, bringing with him as many horses as he could gather together from his herd, since this was the traditional Pikuni way of asking for a woman to be his.

Moving his forehead down to hers, he said, “We will go to your father’s house tonight with many horses and I will ask your father to give you to me as my woman for all my life.”

She swooned in toward him, and said, “I will help you herd your horses my darling, handsome tutor. I am certain my father will say yes. After all, he speaks very highly of you and how you have patiently taught me how to survive on these plains.”

Red Fox, however, had his doubts about this. All he said, though, was, “Come with me as I go to the chiefs and report what has happened here. Then, together we will take all I can quickly find of my pony herd, excepting this animal who carried me to you this day. We will then ride to your father’s home and I will ask him to accept the horses I give him as he, likewise, gives you to me.”

“Yes,” she said, placing her arms around his neck and bringing his head down to hers once more. “Imagine. Soon I will be your wife.”

Laughing, she brought her lips up to his in a sweet, yet stirring kiss.

Ending the caress, Red Fox said, “Come, let us find your brother quickly and tell him our happy news. Then, we can all go to the chiefs and report what we have found concerning the buffalo herd. And, after we have made our report to our chiefs, we will seek out your father.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes. Let us hurry!”

IF SHE WERE MINE, coming soon!

 

 

The Cattleman’s Sweetheart by Sherry Shindelar–and a giveaway

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Mary Ann (Molly) Dyer met Charles Goodnight in 1864 at Fort Belknap, Texas. The Civil War, in its last year, had taken a toll on the Texas frontier. Charles, a former scout and ex-Texas Ranger, was part of the Frontier Regiment, a Texas militia assigned to protecting the frontier from Indian attacks. On his way to becoming one of the founders of the Texas cattle drives, Charles kept a herd of cattle on the side within riding distance of the fort.

The petite school teacher caught the eye of the rough and tumble soldier/scout/cattleman.

Molly wasn’t born to the hard life of the frontier. However, in 1854, a pledge her father made to Sam Houston led to her leaving the tranquil, civilized life of a prominent lawyer’s daughter in Tennessee and immigrating to Texas with her family. Settlers were just beginning to trickle into the lands surrounding Fort Belknap in the mid 1850’s, and Comanche raids were a constant threat.

Molly’s parents died a few years later, and she was left to support her three youngest brothers. She could have packed up and headed home to Tennessee. Instead, she stuck to the frontier and became a school teacher. As the Civil War ripped the nation apart, the Texas frontier rolled back a hundred miles in some places due to Indian raids. Fort Belknap hovered at the edge of what remained.

Molly was a smart, gutsy woman with a heart for others. Her strength and courage were as enduring as the prairie sun. Charles was a fighter, and a natural born frontiersman, who didn’t know the word “quit.” The spark of attraction between them that sprang to life in 1864 flourished into an acquaintance and courtship that endured Charles’s months or even year-long cattle drives as he mapped out the Goodnight-Loving Trail and started making a name for himself and worked to build an empire.

By 1868 and 1869, Molly was teaching in Weatherford, Texas, the supply hub for Charles’s cattle drives. She’d had enough of the extended courtship. This was the man she wanted to spend her life with, and he needed to make a decision. Eventually, she told him he needed to propose or be done courting. He married the love of his life in July 1870.

The refined school teacher traveled west with the rancher to the rough country near Pueblo, Colorado. They settled down on Charles’s ranch, but eventually, they found their true home in the Palo Duro Canyon, a 800 foot deep, ten to twenty mile wide canyon that stretched for one hundred and twenty miles. Together, they eventually managed over a million acres and more than a 100,000 cattle.

Molly and Charles’s love endured long stretches of time apart, with cattle drives keeping him away for several seasons at a time. With only one female neighbor in the vast area of the canyon, Molly befriended the cowboys at the ranch and the occasional Indian that traveled through.

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She would often go six months or a year without seeing anyone while the men were away on cattle drives. The beautiful walls of Palo Duro, colored like red Spanish skirts, must have felt like the end of the earth at times. But Molly thrived. She ran the ranch in her husband’s absence and was a friend to all in need, including the buffalo.

 

 

 

 

 

Her heart ached for the baby bison orphaned by the wholesale slaughter of the herds from the late 1860’s through the 1880’s. She rescued and cared for the calves, bottle-feeding them when needed. Her efforts helped save the southern buffalo from extinction.

 

Throughout the Goodnight’s fifty-six year marriage, Charles was a man who enjoyed the thrill of adventure and the unknown, willing to take great risks, gaining and losing land and wealth in the process. Molly was his foundation, the North Star of his compass.1 For his sake, she endured the loneliness of an entire canyon, but instead of being defeated, she thrived in his world and made a name for herself alongside his. She was described as a bubbly person, full of energy and heart. The spark of attraction ignited in 1864 between the school teacher and the cattleman blazed into an enduring flame that neither distance, time, hardship, or differences could snuff out. After her death, Charles “lost himself,” because he’d lost the keeper of his heart.

The epitaph inscribed on Molly’s gravestone reads, “One who spent her life in the service of others.”

Charles Goodnight makes a cameo appearance in the third book of my Lone Star Redemption series, Texas Reclaimed. Goodnight’s wild bronc ride in the story is a real event, but the real love in my story sparks between Ben McKenzie and Cora Scott.

To win a copy of Texas Reclaimed, leave an answer to this question in the comments below: If you were Molly Goodnight, would you have stayed behind on the ranch all of those months alone, or you would you have insisted on going with your husband on the cattle drives? Why?

 

  1. Botkin, Jane Little. “I Accepted a Challenge: Researching and Writing Mary Ann Goodnight’s Story.” com/2024/03/i-accepted-a-challenge-researching-and-writing-mary-ann-goodnights-story/. 11 March 202

 Originally from Tennessee, Sherry loves to take her readers into the past. A romantic at heart, she is an avid student of the Civil War and the Old West. When she isn’t busy writing, she is an English professor, working to pass on her love of writing to her students. Sherry is a multi-award-winning writer. She currently resides in Minnesota with her husband of forty-one years. She has three grown children and three grandchildren. Sherry is currently writing the fourth book in her Lone Star Redemption series. The series is set on the Texas frontier in the 1860’s and features some of her favorite tropes: enemies to lovers, captive narrative, Native Americans, scarred heroes, and feisty heroines.

Texas Reclaimed

Can love blossom between a woman haunted by her family’s past and a man with a war-scarred heart?

Cora Scott is determined to hold onto her family’s Texas ranch and provide a stable home for her young half brother, Charlie, despite the mounting challenges of post-Civil War frontier life. But when a scheming creditor threatens to seize their land, she must accept help from Ben McKenzie, a former Yankee soldier sent by her late brother. Though Ben’s generosity and strength draw her, the man’s private struggle she stumbles upon—too reminiscent of her father’s alcoholism—makes her question whether she can trust her heart to him.

Ben McKenzie arrives in Texas intent on fulfilling his promise to his dying friend to protect Cora and Charlie. While using his inheritance to save their ranch, he battles not only the loss of their cattle but also his dependency on laudanum—a medicine that turned into a curse after his imprisonment at Andersonville. As his feelings for Cora deepen, he must choose between his promise to his father to take over their Philadelphia newspaper and his growing dream of a life with Cora in Texas.

Come in and let’s chat.