ANN STEPHENS: Hitting on Readers: The First Line

In some ways, going to a bookstore reminds me of going to a bar hoping to meet someone. You figure you’ll indulge in something you enjoy, and will hopefully meet somebody you’d like to get to know better. Or you might rediscover an old flame. I scope out all the most attractive guys…um, covers…and approach the one I like best.  Good looks aren’t everything, though. If the pickup line is lame, I’ll find somebody else with more originality.  I want a book to hook me from the first sentence.

The first line of a book is its pickup line.  It has been my experience that authors have little say in what’s on the front or back of their books, so that opening sentence is the first chance our own words have to impress the reader. It has to count, to intrigue the reader enough to keep reading.  It should set the tone of a book, or at least make the reader want to know more about hero or heroine.  Cause as a writer, I am totally hoping some nice person will want to pick me up and take me home.

Even before a book hits the shelves, the first line must catch the attention of an agent or editor.  If that publishing professional got a good night’s sleep, lost a pound the day before and is having a good hair day, and thus feels up to adding yet another manuscript to an already enormous list waiting to be read, a writer has maybe five pages to convince him or her that this book should be printed or digitized. 

An opening sentence that is just words on a page will not induce a pro to read on.  One that is poorly phrased or grammatically incorrect (unless it’s dialogue that fits a character) raises the fear that other sentences in the manuscript will be just as bad.

It’s said that J.R.R. Tolkien simply jotted down the first line of The Hobbit while grading essays:  “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”  While the passive construction might be criticized today, it was acceptable in the 1930s.  And if you read it aloud, there is an irresistible rhythm to those words, compared an active version like “A hobbit lived in a hole in the ground.”  Lucky JRRT.  It takes me several tries to come up with a decent opening line.

There are a lot of common mistakes writers make with opening lines. Weather reports, geography lessons, “Hi, my name is ______”, and cameo scenes are some of the errors we all make.  In my case, it’s because I usually struggle to find exactly were my backstory ends and the book starts.  Or which character should start the story.

In a Weather Report, the opening line is something like “It was a warm spring day in Gopher Gulch, with just enough wind to cool the brow of Bob Manlyman as he trudged along the dirt road.”  This is just me, but I prefer an active opening:  “A spaceship swooped down from the bright April sky and disgorged a furious alien that pointed a disintegration gun straight at Bob’s heart.”  Now there’s something at stake.

The Geography Lesson is similar to the Weather Report, except it describes the surrounding area instead: “Brill Court, the estate of Lord Manlyman, nestled into the rolling  landscape.”  Pretty, but how does this matter to the rest of story? Does Lord M. love his estate? Does he hate it? Has he just gambled it away?  “Lord Manlyman swallowed the lump in his throat as his gaze swept over his home one last time.”  Aha, emotion!  Now the reader wonders why Lord M. has a lump in his throat  and why he’s leaving his home.

And the introductory opening, which one of the writers in my crit group refers to as the Call Me Ahab approach.  I make this error a lot.  “Lady Sophronia Girlygirl lifted her head at the sound of approaching footsteps.”  Aside from the boring approaching footsteps, we don’t (as I have been reminded often) need to know Sophronia’s entire name and title in the first few words.  There’s an entire book after the first line in which I can provide that information.

The original opening scene of my current WIP took place in the dress shop where the heroine works and she interacted with two secondary characters I was never going to use again.  What was I thinking? I replaced it with “Alix fingered her reticule as she inhaled the savory aroma of fresh-baked meat pies.”  The character is now on her way home to her daughter, a location and character that will play a big part in the story.

A good first line presents the hero or heroine’s immediate quandary and their response to it.  It gives a sense of immediacy and action, even if the character is only thinking about a problem.  It must make the reader want to read more. The hook in my first book, To be Seduced, starts with “He had picked a prodigious cold day to abduct someone.”  

The opening to my second proved a greater challenge, as I wanted to open it in the heroine’s perspective.  Her Scottish Groom (March 2011) takes place in the late Victorian era, when upper-class females were often kept in a state of submission and ignorance.  I had to keep my heroine true to her time and upbringing even as she acted against them. So I came up with this: “Tonight called for some act of rebellion, no matter how insignificant.”

Here are some of my favorite examples from different genres. I like them because they are brief and vivid:

The small boys came early to the hanging. - Ken Follett, Pillars of the Earth (Prologue)

Matrimony. The very word was menacing.  - Nicole Jordan, To Pleasure a Lady

For seven days we had been tempest-tossed.  - Johann Wyss, Swiss Family Robinson

It is possible for a long sentence with involved clauses to start a book, of course. Consider one of the best hooks that ever opened a romance novel:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a good wife  - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
 

Meg Mims: Unusual Settings – with the Usual Suspects

When I started writing Double Crossing, I had no idea I’d created a big problem. I wanted to use the premise of True Grit – which has had two movies based on the Charles Portis’ novel – but planned my inciting incident to take place in Evanston, Illinois. After  my heroine’s father is murdered, she vows to track down the killer. But the similarity to Mattie Ross ends there. Lily Granville realizes she must take the newly opened transcontinental railroad, the Iron Horse, to California. And what begins as an adventure soon turns perilous.

The problem didn’t pop up until halfway through writing the book. I was happily tapping away at the keyboard, content in following my revised outline, as Lily met new friends on the first leg of her journey to Omaha, Nebraska. I had no problem coming up with dialogue between the characters who discussed their background history—what they shared with Lily anyway. And I wove in plenty of historical details of the train when they boarded the Union Pacific. Then I realized things just might get stale.

How was I going to keep my characters, and readers, from getting bored in such a confining space? The characters could only exchange so much information. The suspense in my outline had high points, of course, but a writer can’t just jump from point C to point J. Something has to happen in between.

In order to avoid losing readers, I added a minor subplot but that only stretched so far. I turned to some handy tricks I’d learned while writing in the mystery/suspense genre. And that’s where “the usual suspects” came in. Building tension between characters, minor as well as main ones, seemed to come easier when I ratcheted up the stakes and manipulated the circumstances a bit. And one thing I learned from a good friend came in handy—when all else fails, throw in another dead body.

 From DOUBLE CROSSING, Meg Mims, Astraea Press, August 2011:

I clamped a handkerchief over my mouth but Omaha’s black dirt still choked me. My hard sneeze left a ringing in my ears. There had to be a general store somewhere with needles and thread. Stray sparks from the Chicago and Western’s smokestack had burned tiny holes in my split skirt and jacket, and I was desperate to repair them both.

At last I found a shop. A bell jangled above my head when I entered. The bulky proprietor laughed and joked with several customers while he filled orders at the polished walnut counter. I meandered down each crowded aisle. Scents of dill, chives and cinnamon tickled my nose. Potatoes with earthy skins and papery onions filled open barrels. Small jars of pickled beets and corn relish, tins of fruit and baked beans lined the shelves. Huge burlap sacks of flour, sugar, salt, coffee and beans lay near the door, and wheels of cheese had been stacked above crates of smoked fish and salt pork.

Seeing the flatirons, hoes, plows and other tools all around brought a sense of normalcy back to my life. I realized I’d been wandering in a haze since Father’s funeral.

I soon found the rack of notions. “Closing in half an hour, miss,” Mr. Porter said with a friendly smile. “Like to see my bolts of silk? I got pattern paper too.”

“I need a travel sewing kit, if you have one.”

Armed with a clever box crammed with thread, needles and a tiny pair of silver folding scissors, I wandered the back aisles. A leather money belt caught my eye, with firm stitching and eight compartments. Dodging a row of sturdy butter churns and stacked washboards, I placed the belt on the counter along with an oilcloth cape and several green apples.

“Two dozen peppermints also, please.”

“Certainly, miss.”

Once I paid the bill, I scurried to a quiet corner away from the few remaining shoppers. Shiny snaps on the wide belt secured each compartment. I adjusted it around my waist and tugged my suit jacket to hide its bulk. Perfect!

I glanced around for a mirror and then froze, staring at my feet and then behind me. My pocketbook was nowhere in sight. I thought I’d wedged the leather two-handled bag between the crates of saltines at my elbow. Frantic, I searched the entire corner and each aisle of the shop in vain. Fear gripped me in a stranglehold. My expensive Pullman ticket, stolen! My hands shook and I had trouble thinking straight for a full minute.

I raced back to the counter. I waited until Mr. Porter finished a customer’s transaction. “Sir, did I leave my pocketbook here? I paid my bill not five minutes ago. The money belt, sewing kit, peppermints—”

“Sure I remember, miss.” Mr. Porter reached beneath the polished wood and planted my bag on top. “A gent brought this to me. Said he found it on a barrel.”

I stared at him. “What did he look like?”

The storekeeper shrugged. “Wore a suit and derby hat, like every other man passing through town.”

I opened the pocketbook’s clasp and glanced inside. Everything was intact, even my precious Pullman ticket and all my money. I murmured a prayer of thanks until realizing that my sketchbook was wedged upside down, on the wrong side. My black-edged handkerchiefs were crumpled on the bottom as well. Someone had searched the contents.

Someone who followed me from the hotel. Some stranger from the train, or Emil Todaro himself? A shiver raced up my spine. It couldn’t be possible. Or could it? Had I underestimated him again? Instead of being the hunter, was I now the prey?

 That thought infuriated me.

Meg Mims is an author, artist and amateur photographer. She writes historical mysteries and romantic suspense, and is a staff writer for RE/MAX Platinum in Michigan – writing articles about the real estate market, community events and Realtors – and for Lake Effect Living, a West Coast of Michigan tourist on-line magazine. Meg’s article about the one-legged Civil War veteran and lighthouse keeper of South Haven, James S. Donahue, appeared in Vol. 34, No. 2 Summer 2011 issue of The Chronicle, the Historical Society of Michigan magazine.

Go See: The Help

In between books can be a very good place. I had a knee surgery, physical therapy and wrote two books all in a few months time. I admit I was stressed. I'm decompressing now and taking some much-needed time to fill the well. Today, with my office partially cleaned, I dropped a Dove Bar (thank you Sherri) into my purse and headed for the movies.

I can't even tell you how much I loved this movie. I'm so glad this was my choice.

What it's about:

Based on one of the most talked about books in years and a #1 New York Times best-selling phenomenon,  “The Help” stars Emma Stone (“Easy A”) as Skeeter, Academy Award®–nominated Viola Davis (“Doubt”) as Aibileen and Octavia Spencer as Minny—three very different, extraordinary women in Mississippi during the 1960s,  who build an unlikely friendship around a secret writing project that breaks societal rules and puts them all at risk.

From their improbable alliance a remarkable sisterhood emerges, instilling all of them with the courage to transcend the lines that define them, and the realization that sometimes those lines are made to be crossed —even if it means bringing everyone in town face-to-face with the changing times.

Deeply moving, filled with poignancy, humor and hope, “The Help” is a timeless and universal story about the ability to create change.

At two hours and seventeen minutes, this film is long as far as today's movies go. I cried at least five times. I loved everything about it: The setting, the clothing, the soundtrack (Mary J Blige) the choice of actors...but most especially the honesty and deep emotional investment the writer, or author in this case, had in telling this story. You've probably read how Kathryn Stockett was rejected sixty times before someone made an offer on her book. I can't imagine why.

This is a film every young person should see. I was alive during the sixties, but growing up in the Midwest, I learned only a blurry concept of racial discrimination. The Help is as eye opening as the mini-series Roots was in the late seventies. Making our country's history real by assigning lives and emotions and faces to facts will help young people understand where we've been and how far we've come.

Speaking of Roots, the beautiful Cicely Tyson plays an old woman in The Help. When did that happen? The entertainment value is high on the awesome scale, as well. Movie-goers will cheer for the underdogs and root for the main characters, in all their diversity. Seeing Sissy Spacek in this role was a little unsettling too, because I sure don't think of her as a doddering old woman, but she was great, as expected.

Two thumbs up from this movie goer. Go see The Help. And take a hankie.

 

How Much Research is Too Much?

There are definitely plenty of things a writer needs to know before she starts to write her book. Characters don’t exist in a vacuum; they have occupations and homes and families and histories and nationalities and all number of things we need to know to make them three-dimensional and bring realism to the story.

I often set books in the same state and even same geographical area. I own shelves of picture books, reference books and maps as well as books on plants and animals and it's just wise to get the most out of study and resources. Besides the convenience, a location can to chosen to support an important part of the story, like railroads, natural resources, weather and any number of things you might want to feature.

I once wrote a book about a German family who owned a brewery. (Her Colorado Man) I had no idea how much work I was in for. I had to select a setting conducive to cold water streams. I had to know enough about brewing beer to decide which method they used and why, and which year would be workable. I chose a year when bottling was first being introduced and also a year that there was a huge Exposition in Denver. So my actual location and the brewery were fabricated, but everything about the people and production and operation and the time period were factual. Keeping facts as close to real as possible makes the reader believe.

I also had to know something about my hero who came to this Colorado town from Alaska, where he’d been delivering mail between tent towns and postal stations. That research was probably the most difficult, because all the facts easily found about Juneau and the Yukon pertain to the gold rush, which didn’t happen until after my time period. So that part of my education took more searching. So besides looking up breweries, their operation and types of brewing methods before I started, I searched for information on sled dogs, Alaskan temperatures, modes of travel and traditional Bavarian foods. I ended up with a binder full of facts and pictures. 

Sometimes I have to make an additional folder on one subject, like say liveries or beer making. In my opinion, you can’t ever know too much about your location or your topic or the cultures of your people.

Confession: I’m a paper person. I’ve learned to use PBWiki, personal online storage, but even though I have that ability and I’ve bookmarker the online information, I still want to be able to flip through my binder and put my finger on that list of names I was going to use. I need to see the paragraph about the competitive advantages of lager brewing over ale. That’s just me. If you are a writer, maybe you’ve got a smarter way to store your research, and if so, I applaud you. The important thing is that your method works for you, and you’re not losing writing time searching for something you’ve lost.

Now just because I have all that info doesn’t mean I will ever need to or that I ever should use it all. A writer knows far more about her subjects than she should ever use in a story. But she needs to know it, because if she didn’t, she’d make mistakes. I have many writer friends who love the research part so much that it takes on a life of its own. Once they start, they can’t stop.

Here’s how to know when to quit researching: If your study is cutting into your production, you’re researching too much. If you get caught up in the fact-finding and aren’t tallying a page count, you’re doing too much research. If you’re not putting words on pages, you’re avoiding writing. Give your study a rest and write the story. You can learn the rest of the details as you need them. I learn enough to get started and then I begin. When I get to something I don’t know, I simply google the subject. If I’m on a roll and need to know something, I leave an asterisk and come back to it after the muse is burned out for the day.

So, yes there is a lot a writer needs to know, but the wise writer knows when to call a halt get down to business.

I have three books out this year:

Marrying the Preacher's Daughter, LIH 6/11
Her Wyoming Man, HH 7/11
Snowflakes and Stetsons, HH 10/11

Visit my website: http://www.cherylstjohn.net/

Free Kindle Western Romances

Who doesn't like a free book? These are all great reads by popular authors. If you don't have a Kindle, you can read them on your PC. Just download as Kindle for PC.

The Frontiersman's Daughter

The Vigilante's Bride

Ransome's Honor

Sixteen Brides

Daughter of Joy

Homespun Bride

Swiss Steak on the Menu

I made this for supper last night and it was incredibly good. Tender and flavorful. Just right.

Prepare ingredients and preheat oven to 325 degrees. Give yourself about a half hour to 45 minutes of prep time

2 or more pounds of beef steak - I used top sirloin, but even a bottom round will tenderize.
Celtic sea salt and coarse ground pepper
1/2 - 3/4 cup of flour
stick of butter or margarine and olive oil

thinly sliced or coarsely chopped onion
2 cloves of garlic, chopped or minced
2 cups chopped celery
2 Tbsp tomato paste
2 cups diced tomatoes, fresh or canned
1 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp oregano
1 Tbsp Worchestershire sauce
1 can beef broth

At med-high heat melt enough butter and oil to completely cover the bottom of a dutch oven
Cut steak into serving size pieces and trim off all the fat
Sprinkle meat with salt and pepper and pound with tenderizing mallet until the steak flattens
Place flour is a flat dish and coat steak with flour, then brown on both sides, a couple minutes each side
Remove meat to a plate
Add celery, garlic and onions to the pan and saute until they change color
Grab a handful of paper towels; soak up and discard the excess oil
Add the tomato paste the the veggies and blend
Add tomatoes, spices, Worcestershire and beef broth. Stir.
Return the steak to the Dutch oven; make sure it's covered with liquid.
Make sure the lid fits tightly or reinforce with aluminum foil. Bake for 1 & 1/2 hours.

I served the Swiss steak with steamed broccoli and mashed potatoes.
Rice is an excellent side choice as well.
Serves six people.

I wish I'd taken a photo because it was pretty as well. I was a slacker.

Diana Nyad: I want to inspire the boomers

BE ENGAGED IN YOUR LIFE ARTICLE
Diana Nyad set off on a 103 mile swim from Cuba to Florida, something that has never been done before. This is her second attempt. Last time she was in her twenties. No shark cage, no touching a boat. She listens to Bob Dillon and Janis Joplin to alleviate boredom.

The trip will take her days. Days, people.

I went to the gym this morning, and did my one-hour workout.

"Be engaged in your life," was her quote I heard on the Today Show.

I am inspired, Diana. Thank you.

Pam Andrews Hanson: Writing from the Heart

I'm delighted to feature long time friends, Pam Hanson and Barbara Andrews today. When I was a fledgling writer many years ago, I joined my local RWA chapter and met Barb. My first experiences with reading my manuscript and critiquing took place in her home. She heard my very first attempts at writing and encouraged me.

I will always remember the warm open environment Barb provided as well as the support and friendship an insecure new writer so desperately seeks. I can easily say I learned a lot from her, not only about technique, but about the importance of an atmosphere of support. It was on several of those occasions when I met Pam and became friends with her as well. And so it is with great pleasure I introduce my good friend, Pam:

My mother/writing partner, Barbara Andrews, and I have been writing together for nearly 20 years.  And after publishing more than 30 books with traditional publishers, we are thrilled to be launching our first ’indie’ published e-book,  Faith, Fireworks and Fir. Written as Pam Andrews Hanson, it’s an original inspirational romance available for Kindle on Amazon and Nook on Barnes and Noble. 

This book, set in the small town of Evergreen, Michigan, tells the story of Faith and David, who each wonder whether they can find a partner in life, love, and belief.  Although they’ve known each other since childhood, their paths haven’t crossed in years. Faith runs her parents’ year-round Christmas store in Michigan, and accountant David owns his own firm in Phoenix, Arizona.  When David returns to Evergreen to persuade his two beloved aging aunts to retire, the women enlist Faith in their plan to thwart their well-meaning nephew. Both Faith and David have reason to doubt their own judgments in matters of the heart. Physical and emotional distances stand in their way. Yet they share strong feelings for each other rooted in love of family and the Lord,

Although Barbara and I are delighted to continue writing inspirational women’s fiction for Guideposts, we view writing e-books as another great way of connecting directly with our readers and telling romantic stories about people of faith from the heart of America.  Between the two of us, Barbara and I have lived in Michigan, Iowa, Arizona, Wisconsin, West Virginia, and – most recently – Nebraska.

One of the things we like best about the books we are writing now is they are stories about real people facing real challenges.  One of the highest compliments we’ve ever received came from a reader in West Virginia who said, “I love your books.  I feel like I really know these people.  Your books are the first ones I’ve read where they are about people like me.”

So why write e-books now? Everywhere we look we see people reading books on their Kindles, Nooks, or iPads.  We’re excited to reach readers this way.

This is not the first entrepreneurial venture my mom and I have tried. The summer after my junior year of high school, she and I went into the ‘junk’ business. My Aunt Marge (who gave my mom a paper bag of Harlequin romances which in turn spurred  her novel writing career) owned a flea market in a small southwestern Michigan town not far from the city where we lived. She offered us a booth to set up and sell our wares. We haunted garage sales for antiques and collectibles and books to resell. I started collecting cookbooks that summer. After expenses, I earned enough to buy myself contact lenses. It was the best summer job I ever had, and my mom and I had a lot of fun.

Just like we are now.

   
        ORDER YOUR COPY FROM AMAZON TODAY!

Pam Hillman: Stealing Jake - FREE!

With ebook sales rocketing skyward, established publishers, authors and readers alike are taking a second look at electronic publishing. Tyndale House Publishers answer is the Digital First Program.

Tyndale launched the program in July 2011 with four fiction titles and one non-fiction title. Digital First's initial ebooks include Delivery by Diana Prusik, Cash Burn by Michael Berrier, Stealing Jake by Pam Hillman, The Reinvention of Leona Harper by Lynne Gentry and a non-fiction title, 40 Days without Food: Divine Goodness to a Starving Soul by Russ Masterson.

Right after the announcements came out, someone asked me this burning question, "Why did you through Tyndale to do an ebook, when you could have gone directly to Amazon?"

Seriously? First reason, because Tyndale launched a Digital First Initiative, and I was blessed enough to be one of the 5 debut authors chosen to launch the program.

Next, are you ready for this? My publisher is Tyndale House Publishers! Oh. My. Lucky.Stars!

I could stop right there, because that's reason enough in and of itself, but if you want more, here you go:

My book was edited by Tyndale editors. They were awesome! The entire process was as smooth as silk. My cover was designed by Tyndale cover designers. And I love it! My book is backed by Tyndale's good name. Whoa! Tyndale has marketing and publicity power. That I don't have... Tyndale did all the work to get my book listed on Amazon, CBD, B&N, and Mobipocket.

And finally, I am a Tyndale author, not just another name on Amazon. How much is that worth to me? I can't even begin to measure that. I have no clout or pull with readers. Sure, some of my friends and family would have bought my book if I put it up on my own, but then that would have been the end of it, unless I got lucky as a few do. (And more power to them!)

And if this Digital First Initiative is as successful as it's shaping up to be, I might even see Stealing Jake in print next. This is a win-win situation for the Digital First authors and for Tyndale, and I'm over-the-moon excited to be partnering with one of the most respected publishing houses in the industry on this new venture.

Here are three wonderful articles that shed more light on Tyndale's Digital First Initiative:

http://www.christianpost.com/news/tyndale-house-launches-ebook-publishing-initiative-50771/

http://writerinterrupted.com/2011/07/05/whats-direct-to-ebook-publishing/

http://writerinterrupted.com/2011/07/07/direct-to-ebook-author-pam-hillman/

When Livy O'Brien spies a young boy jostling a man walking along the boardwalk, she recognizes the act for what it is. After all, she used to be known as Light-fingered Livy. But that was before she put her past behind her and moved to the growing town of Chestnut, Illinois, where she's helping to run an orphanage. Now she'll do almost anything to protect the street kids like herself.

Sheriff's deputy Jake Russell had no idea what he was in for when he ran into Livy--literally--while chasing down a pickpocket. With a rash of robberies and a growing number of street kids in town--as well as a loan on the family farm that needs to be paid off--Jake doesn't have time to pursue a girl. Still, he can't seem to get Livy out of his mind. He wants to get to know her better . . . but Livy isn't willing to trust any man, especially not a lawman.

Interwoven throughout is a group of street kids arrested in Chicago and sold as child labor. Leading this band of ragamuffins is young Luke, a scared, determined orphan intent on rescuing his little brother at any cost.

Stealing Jake is free for a limited time on Amazon, B&N & CBD. It was #1 on the top 100 Free Kindle list at Amazon for 7 days! Mind boggling and a testament to Tyndale’s clout as a publisher of quality fiction. 


To celebrate the release of Stealing Jake, I’m giving away a Kindle. Deadline to enter the contest is September 30^th.  CLICK HERE TO ENTER

Award-winning author Pam Hillman writes inspirational fiction set in the turbulent times of the American West and the Gilded Age. Her debut book, Stealing Jake, won the American Christian Fiction Writer’s Genesis contest and was a finalist in Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart contest. She lives in Mississippi with her husband and family.

 www.pamhillman.com,

 www.calicotrails.blogspot.com,

www.seekerville.blogspot.com

writing tip of the day

Be willing to write badly.  Be willing to make mistakes. Get words on the page and then fix them--or do it better the next time.

A Vision of Lucy: Margaret Brownley

Trouble follows Lucy wherever she goes. So does a vision of second chances . . . and love.

Lucy Fairbanks dreams of working as a photographer at the Rocky Creek newspaper. Her deepest hope is that her father will see her as an artist, the way he thought of her deceased mother, whose paintings still hang on their walls.

But disaster follows Lucy on every photo assignment: a mess of petticoats and ribbons, an accidental shooting, even a fire.

When Lucy meets David Wolf-a rugged, reclusive man who lives on the outskirts of town-she thinks she can catch the attention of the town with his photograph. She doesn't count on her feelings stirring whenever she's near him.

Two things happen next that forever change the course of Lucy's life. But will these events draw her closer to God or push her further away? And how will David accept this new vision of Lucy?

I had this book lying on my nightstand, looking forward to reading it as soon as I finished my own book. Since I've been a Margaret Brownley fan since the beginning of time, it was torture waiting. But Ms. Brownley never disappoints, and the story was as fun and captivating as I've come to expect.

A Vision of Lucy starts off with a bang and never lets up. I especially like a character with a secret, and David fulfilled that theme for me. Rocky Creek took on a personality of its own and became a character in its own right. Forgiveness is always a theme that draws emotion, and I especially appreciated that aspect of the plot.

 I'll be looking for a story about Lucy's brother Caleb in the future!

READ CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Aspen Grove, Colorado, 1865

I'm tellin' ya the same thing I told ya last week an' the week before: there ain't no job for ya here." Uncomfortably, Emery Parks glanced past Tye Hatcher as if he wished he'd disappear before any respectable customers discovered the town pariah in his store.

Even though Emery'd had a help wanted sign in his front window since the first time he'd inquired, Tye didn't argue. It wouldn't do any good to challenge the mercantile owner. It had been the same everywhere he'd gone in the five months since he'd been back in Aspen Grove.

The only one willing to give him work had been Jed Wheeler, and Tye had taken the position of part-time bartender, part-time piano player with the intention of getting out of the Pair-A-Dice Saloon as soon as he found something else. Round up was growing near; one of the ranchers would need him, even though they couldn't afford an extra hand right now. "I'll take some papers."

Emery reached behind him and impatiently tossed the packet of cigarette papers on the counter.

Tye plunked a coin on the counter. "Thanks."

Sometimes he wondered why he'd come back here after the war. He could have ridden anywhere in the country and started his life over where no one knew him, where he didn't have a past. . . or a reputation hanging over his head. Sometimes he wondered why he'd chosen instead to return to the town he'd grown up in, the place where he'd never been accepted. His mother was dead now, and there was nothing physical binding him.

More than once he'd lain on his lumpy bed at the boarding house and wondered what had drawn him here. Something more than sentiment or lack of? Something less tangible probably. Something like pride.

The bell over the door clanged, and Emery glared at Tye. Tye leaned insolently back against the counter, crossed his ankles and watched three women enter the store and pass through a dusty patch of sunlight streaming in the window.

Edwina Telford, hair as steely gray as iron, her stiff black skirts rustling up dust motes, led her two daughters-in-law into the mercantile. Tye had rarely seen Edwina in any color but black. She'd worn it after the death of her parents and after the death of her husband. And now she wore black following the death of her eldest son, Joe.

Joe's widow, Meg Telford, and her blond sister-in-law, Gwynn, trailed behind the stalwart woman like ducklings on their way to a morning swim.

"Good morning, Mr. Parks," Edwina called.

"Morning, Telford Missus," the shop owner called, addressing the trio. "What can I do for you today?"

"We're shopping for Forrest's birthday celebration," Edwina said with pride.

"How old is the little fellow?"

The woman had reached the front counter, and Edwina skirted Tye as though he were a barrel of rat poison. Her powdery verbena scent made him want to sneeze. "My grandson will be four tomorrow. His father is surprising him with the pony he's been asking for. Harley went to great pains to find a well-trained Shetland."

"The little guy will like that, won't he? He must be glad to finally have his daddy home from the war." Emery spoke conversationally, as though Tye weren't standing there.

Gwynn, too, stepped deliberately past Tye and replied, "We're all grateful to have Harley home safe."

Meg reached the spot where Tye stood, but instead of pretending he didn't exist, she nodded and gave him a hesitant smile. "Morning, Tye."

Her use of his first name caught him by surprise, but he held securely to his nonchalant expression. A knot of humiliation burned in his gut, and he resented feeling it. No reason why this woman seeing him spurned should make any difference. "Morning," he returned.

Meg received a scathing look from her mother-in-law, and hurried to join her.

Tye studied her straight back in the plain black dress, and remembered her in vivid colors, remembered her dancing with Joe at socials, remembered her as a young and smiling girl. She still had the curviest figure in town. And though her hair was bound in a knot shaped like a figure eight, he recalled the rich tresses the color of dark honey that had flowed down her back in her school days.

The women gave their list to Emery and chattered among themselves.

Tye replaced his hat after tipping it to the ladies. "Nice chattin' with ya."

Meg smiled apologetically, embarrassed for him and for her rude in-laws who didn't acknowledge he'd spoken.

Emery looked up from the list with a scowl.

With a discernible limp, Tye sauntered from the store.

"Of all the impertinent men," Edwina huffed, pressing her hankie to her nose as if she could keep Tye Hatcher's taint from entering her bloodstream through her nostrils.

"Been in here ever' week askin' for a job," Emery said. "Think he'd take the hint by now that nobody wants him in town and head out."

Meg studied their disapproving faces, then glanced at the door Tye's tall form had disappeared through. Why had he come back? Surely, the rude treatment he received had discouraged him long before now. Even in school the kids had snubbed him because of their folks' attitudes toward his illegitimacy and his mother's questionable vocation.

He was regarded a trouble maker; whenever there'd been a brawl in one of the saloons, he'd reportedly been present. In Meg's company he'd always been reserved and mannerly, so she had a difficult time relating the solemn-faced young man with the haunted eyes to those tales of carousing and drinking.

Edwina was going over the list of things they'd need for baking that afternoon. Meg's attention wavered to the jars of hard candy lined across the counter, and an acute ache stabbed through her chest. She would never come in here without remembering her Joe's fondness for peppermint sticks.

It had been nearly a year since she'd received news of his death at the battle of the Potomac. But the reality of him never coming home hit her afresh at every turn. Why him? Why her Joe?

She steadied herself against a rough barrel exuding the sharp smell of salted meat and tried not to wonder what was going to become of her without him. It was the same quandary she faced every day. Even her well-meaning in-laws and her own family added to her dilemma with their constant insistence that she sell the ranch and move in with them.

"Meg? Are you all right, dear?"

At Gwynn's gentle touch on her sleeve, Meg blinked away her oppressive thoughts and conjured up a smile. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." She busied herself with looking at skeins of colorful yarn in a nearby bin. I'm fine. Just fine. I've never been so fine. A tear fell on the back of her hand, and she brushed it away quickly. "I just need some air. I'll be outside."

Not caring what her in-laws might think, she hurried out the door, the bell clanging behind her.

The rustle of clothing and a scrape on the wooden floorboards alerted her to someone's presence. She turned, just as Tye Hatcher flicked a cigarette butt end over end into the dusty street. The mellow smell of tobacco drifted to her.

His dark gaze met hers. "Ma'am," he said, politely, thumbing his slate gray hat back on his head. He took an awkward step forward. "I never had a chance to tell you how sorry I was to hear about Joe. He was a good man."

Silence stretched between them. A buggy clattered past on the deeply-rutted street.

"I'm sure you saw a lot of good men die," she said softly.

His dark gaze revealed no emotion. "Yes, I did Ma'am. On both sides."

For some reason it sounded odd to hear him call her Ma'am. She'd known him since she could remember. She hadn't known him well, but he'd always been there, always been a part of Aspen Grove. "We had to send for his body after the war, you know."

"I know." He looked out across the expanse of the street, offering her the opportunity to study his face, his smoothly shaven square jaw. His brows and sideburns were as black as the waves that curled over his collar. He was a man now; a handsome one, regardless of the unsmiling slash of his full lips. The sadness she sensed had always been there. But now it was more, more than just the disillusionment of a young boy.

Would Joe have looked that much older, too? Would the war have etched similar years on his face?

"I've always wondered if we really got the right one," she blurted. "If the man we buried was Joe." She hadn't expressed that doubt to anyone before, and she wondered why she'd revealed it now. She looked away, but she felt him swing his gaze back to her face.

She realized then she had no reason to feel embarrassed in front of this man. Somehow she knew he understood her apprehension. She raised her chin and met his eyes. She could have sworn she recognized a measure of vicarious emotion this time.

"They tagged 'em the best they could," he said. "Long as the body was identifiable, and someone knew him, they should have been certain. Did you get his things, too? I mean the things he had on him. His saddle bags?"

She nodded.

"You can be certain, then."

Meg closed her eyelids briefly, a considerable flame of comfort warming her at his words. "Thank you." Even if it was a lie, thank you.

The bell clanged a warning and Edwina plowed her way across the boardwalk, Gwynn behind her. "Meg! What are you doing out here?"

"I needed a little air, Mother Telford. I feel much better now." She glanced up at Tye. His deep blue gaze held their secret, and a touch of appreciation. "Much better."

"You shouldn't stand out here alone. The rif-raf is lurking along the streets, even in broad daylight." She handed Meg a paper-wrapped package and towed her away.

Tye tugged his hat brim back over his eyes and watched them cross the street. Meg lifted her hem and delicately traversed the riveted road. She followed her in-laws into the post office.

No doubt, she'd marry again. Damned shame Joe Telford had died and left her a widow. A woman like that deserved happiness. A husband. Children. She was too young and pretty to spend her life grieving. Some lucky fellow would snap her up before much longer.

He tried to think of any young unmarried men in town or on the surrounding ranches, but he couldn't come up with any who'd make a suitable husband for Meg Telford. The war had pared the possibilities down to nothing.

He discarded the thoughts and headed to the livery for his horse. A good ride would clear his head and prepare him for a long night in the smoke- and perfume-filled saloon. He needed a lot more money than he made there in order to carry out his plans.

The land office had nothing he could afford until he multiplied his meager savings. And Aspen Grove was makin' that possibility difficult.

#

The birthday boy, Forrest and his older sister, Lilly, had eaten their fill of cake, and now led the Shetland pony around the newly green rosebushes in the door yard. Harley Telford and his younger sister, Wilsie had spent hours supervising rides on the pony Forrest had named Cinnamon, and now engaged in a bickering game of checkers. After washing and drying the Sunday china, Meg, Edwina, and Gwynn joined them on the shaded porch Edwina called a veranda.

Meg studied the tree-lined street and neighboring houses, feeling sorry for the pony who would have to spend all but Saturday and Sunday afternoon at the livery stable. Children and animals needed wide open spaces.

She'd been so glad to move to the ranch with Joe. From the very beginning, the hills and fields, the wide sky in all directions had appealed to her dreams of escaping town life. After growing up in a house full of siblings, and helping her father in his accounting business, she'd been eager to have the space and the freedom.

"Meg, I've prepared a room for you," Edwina said. "You'll be quite comfortable in the front bedroom that overlooks the street. There are two windows, and it stays quite comfortable even in summer."

"Mother, that's your room," Wilsie said in surprise.

"It was our room when your father was alive," Edwina corrected. "Meg will need the space to keep some of her things she doesn't want to part with."

"That's generous of you, Mother Telford, but I can't impose on you."

"Nonsense. It's just Wilsie and I now, since Harley and Gwynn have their own home, and we ramble around in this big old house. Before long Wilsie will marry and leave me, too."

"Not unless some prospective husbands show up," Wilsie said with a petulant pout.

"I am afraid the war has left us short of eligible young men, my dear," Edwina sympathized. "In any case, Meg, the house has plenty of room, and it's high time you gave up your silly notion of staying out there on that patch of dirt in that rustic house and moved in with us."

"Mother's right," Harley said. "It's highly improper for you to be living out there with only a couple of ranch hands who should have been put out to pasture long ago. They can't keep up the work, and neither can you."

Meg drew a steadying breath and lifted her chin a notch. "I have Hunt and Aldo, too."

"They're boys," he scoffed.

"We've done all right so far."

"All right? Talk around town is you've had to sell Joe's guns and your silver to pay the help, make the mortgage payments and buy feed. What will you sell next?"

Meg resented the question because it was time to buy garden seed and another bank note was due, and she'd been pondering the dilemma herself for weeks. She'd learned how to run a business from her father; keeping the books and managing was no problem, but she couldn't handle the physical work alone.

Thirty years ago Gus and Purdy had traveled the Chisolm trail. They knew cattle and they knew horses. They worked hard and were as loyal friends as she'd ever had. But they were old men. The bank notes came due regular as clockwork, and the stock had to eat. Since Joe'd been gone, she hadn't been able to cut and rake hay.

Meg pursed her lips and refused to get angry at Joe for leaving her in this predicament. It wasn't his fault that the war had broken out and he'd gone and lost his life honorably. It wasn't anybody's fault. And that's what made accepting her situation all the harder. She had no one to blame. No one to get angry at.

And no one who understood her desire to keep the ranch and hang onto something she knew and loved.

The ranch had been Joe's dream. It had become hers, too, and she wasn't about to let another dream die. She'd sell the furniture if she had to. She'd sell her bed and sleep on the floor. As a last resort she'd sell some stock. But she wouldn't sell their dream.

"I've started asking around at the bank and the land office, seeing if anyone's in the market," Harley said. "Niles can get you a good price for the place."

Niles Kestler, junior owner of Aspen Loan and Trust, had been Joe's best friend since childhood.

"You can do your own dealings on the stock," Harley went on. "You'll get enough money to live on for a good many years."

Meg closed her eyes against the Telfords' manipulations. A good many years. Years of sleeping in the room upstairs, taking her meals with her widowed mother-in-law, and passing the days doing needlepoint and volunteer work? The stifling idea horrified her. She'd feel like that Shetland would cooped up in a confining stall.

Meg's widowed mother had remarried and moved to Denver several years ago, and her brothers and sisters were married and scattered from Colorado to Illinois. There wasn't a one of them she'd want to live with or impose upon.

The whole worry was so unfair. This wasn't supposed to be happening. She and Joe should have been stocking the Circle T by now, having children, seeing all their plans come to pass.

"Meg," Harley said. "You can't keep the ranch going with no man."

"Harley," Gwynn cautioned her husband, gently.

His words were not a revelation. They were simply a fact Meg had been unwilling to face.

"Well, it's the truth," he said. "And a truth she'd better take to heart before she has nothing left to sell. A woman can't run a cow ranch alone."

Meg strengthened her resolve. Harley was only looking out for her interests. He thought he knew what was best for her. The life he had planned for her would have been best for Gwynn if he hadn't returned. It would have been best for a good many women.

But it wasn't for her, and she knew it. "I appreciate your concern, Harley. Yours too, Mother Telford. But I can't sell our ranch."

They exchanged a look she couldn't quite decipher. Out of breath and giggling, Forrest and Lilly scrambled onto the veranda. "Papa, come gives us rides again! Watch us, Nana!"

Edwina turned her attention to her grandchildren.

The subject was not forgotten. Meg would hear about it each time they were together. Nothing short of a miracle would keep them from chipping away at her until she conceded. And she wasn't willing to do that.

But Harley was right. She thought about it as she drove her wagon and team home before dark. She couldn't keep the ranch going without a man.

Someone to shoulder the work load. Someone strong and capable and willing to put in the long hours and back-breaking work required. Someone she didn't have to pay.

Meg almost smiled at that one. Where would she ever get an able-bodied man willing to work without pay? She could barely keep Gus and Purdy and two young hands fed and she paid them only a meager salary.

The man she was imagining sounded like a husband. A man to take on responsibilities and have a stake in the ranch's success.

A year hadn't passed since Joe's death. Since the war, many widows had already married again to provide for themselves and their children. Meg didn't have children, which she saw as a mixed blessing. It would have been comforting to have something of Joe left behind. But she wouldn't have wanted the added burden of raising and feeding them alone.

Ranch was a glamorous word for ten thousand acres of grass, several holding pens and barns, and the modest house she glimpsed as she topped a rise, but the sight gave her the same warm sense of accomplishment and belonging it always did.

Joe's mother had always been chagrined over the fact that Joe had concentrated on the stock and the outbuildings before building an acceptable home.

But Joe'd convinced her that all they'd needed was a place to cook and sleep while they got the ranch on its feet. A more stately house was something they could build in the future. With affection, Meg studied the corrals, the barn, and efficient house where she lived. She and Joe had spent their wedding night in the tiny bedroom. They'd eaten their first meals as man and wife in the long kitchen. They'd planned and dreamed as they walked the land, and lastly they had prayed beside the back door before he'd gone off to fight.

So much of Joe was in this ranch. They would have to drag Meg off this land. If finding another man was what it took to keep it, she'd do it. Nothing would stand in the way of her keeping the Circle T. Nothing.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LEAVE YOUR CAMERA LYING IN PLAIN SIGHT