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

DELIA LATHAM: Romance, Grandma? Really?

Don’tcha just love love?

I do. I hope I always will. And that, my friends—just in case you’re wondering—is why a 50-something grandmother would write an entire series of books based around a Christian dating agency.

(To be perfectly honest, when I got the first little mustard seed of an idea, I was eleven years younger, had only one grandchild, and hadn’t yet written a novel at all, much less a series of them.)

Here’s what happened:
Some years ago, I read a series written by an author I’d never heard of at the time. Her name is Shari MacDonald, and she has an amazing knack for humor. One of the books in that series grabbed me by the imagination and would not let go. That book, A Match Made in Heaven, struck some kind of chord in me. It made me want to write the novel I’d been promising myself for years.

Now, let’s be reasonable here. That was well over a decade ago. Don’t ask me what that pivotal novel was actually about—I don’t have a clue, other than there was a dating agency involved. It made an impression on me, and got me thinking about the matchmaking profession. Wouldn’t it be fun, I thought, to write about a place where Christian singles could go to find—in King Solomon’s words—“he (or she) whom their soul loveth?”

I stored the idea away in my brain, and every once in awhile, I took it out and played with it (not my brain—the idea). I wrote two inspirational romances, neither of which had anything to do with a dating agency, and got them published. I started a couple of other manuscripts, which I still haven’t finished.

Then I woke up one day and it was as though something clicked in my heart—like God was saying, “It’s time. Let’s do it!”

In a perfect world, I disappeared into my office and emerged three days later with a completed manuscript, painstakingly edited and ready to send to a publisher.

Uh-huh. Whoever said this was a perfect world?

No. I still wasn’t completely there. I thought about the idea while I was doing dishes; I mulled it over while driving down the road all by myself; I worked out a fun little scenario or two as I lay in bed at night, instead of counting sheep; I created and discarded a number of storylines and subplots. Weeks, months, and more months went into mentally laying the groundwork.

By the time I actually did go into my office and start writing, I had several nice little scenes all cozied up in my head, just waiting to be put on paper. And…I was no longer just writing a book based around a dating agency. Now it was a series. Three books, maybe more (depending on how well you like them). Plus, God threw in a real surprise for me.

My dating agency would be no ordinary, run-of-the-mill love connection. Sometime during all of those mental writing sessions, it received a touch of the divine. Now it had an extraordinary connection to Heaven.

I’d love to tell you all about it, but then there’d be no need to read the book(s). And I really want you to read the Solomon’s Gate Series.

Destiny’s Dream released in December 2010, and Kylie’s Kiss followed four months later, in April 2011. (Come on, admit it. You’re a little bit curious about this series!) It’s available through White Rose Publishing and Amazon. I’m eager to hear what you find between its covers, because I’m thinking different people might find different things. Divine experiences often happen that way, you know.

The third book, Gypsy’s Game, should release later this year.
Come on in. I’ll leave the Gate open for you.

On a dare, Kylie Matthews lands smack in the middle of Solomon’s Gate—Castle Creek’s new Christian dating agency—and she finds herself revealing exactly what she’s waiting for in a relationship: “The kiss that steals my breath away.”

What she doesn’t reveal is her lack of self-esteem or her irrational reaction to facial disfigurement. Neither is applicable to her quest to find the perfect match. But that seemingly superficial malady becomes all-important when her first agency-arranged date is Rick Dale—a man who is everything Kylie is searching for. He’s handsome, smart, fun. Rick has it all…including an angelic six-year-old daughter with severe scarring on one side of her face.

Hard at work founding a therapy camp for young female victims of deformity or disfigurement, Rick wants Kylie to be a part of those plans. She’d love to say yes…but how can she, when every contact with the facility’s guests—and Rick’s own daughter—will make her violently ill?

Kylie is ready to admit their relationship doesn’t stand a chance, but she’s forgotten that God makes a way where there seems no way.

Delia Latham is a born-and-bred California gal, recently transplanted to Oklahoma where she lives with her husband Johnny. She’s a Christian wife, mother, grandmother, sister, and friend—but above all, she treasures her role as child of the King and heir to the throne of God. Delia enjoys big, loud, happy family gatherings. When she’s not writing, she loves to play piano and sing, read, enjoy nature’s beauty, and design marketing products for authors.

A former newspaper Staff Writer and frequent contributor to her hometown’s regional publication, Bakersfield Magazine, she has also freelanced projects to a public relations firm and various magazines; has compiled, edited, and designed cover art for several book projects for Kindness Incorporated and Chuck Wall, the president/founder of that organization; and has sold greeting card verse. Many of her short stories, articles, and devotions can be found online.

Latham’s backlist of published novels includes: Goldeneyes (2008, Vintage Romance Publishing); Yesterday’s Promise (2010, White Rose Publishing); Destiny’s Dream (2010, White Rose Publishing, Solomon’s Gate Series, Book 1); and Mine! (children’s picture book, 2011, Vinspire Imaginations). Kylie’s Kiss (Solomon’s Gate, Book 2) released in April 2011. Book 3 in the Solomon’s Gate Series will also be available in 2011, with release date pending.

Find out more about Deliah Latham:
Website: www.delialatham.net
Blog: www.my-book-bag.blogspot.com
Newsletter: www.bookshelfnewsletter.blogspot.com

Thursday Morning in My Garden

The sights outside my windows were too pretty to ignore this morning. It's finally not too hot or raining, so I slipped on my flippies and grabbed my camera.

Two Naughty Words: Note Cards

I have friends who plot out every chapter and know everything that's going to happen in their story before they ever get started. How do they do that? I've read books and sat in workshops where methods are outlined. One year I actually made it a goal to plot a book chapter by chapter on note cards.

You know what I did? I sat for days and days, LOOKING at those blank cards -- well, not completely blank, they had chapter numbers -- and wondering what the heck to write on them. Hero and heroine meet, that's pretty easy. At the end everything is rosy --that's a given. But in between? Holy cow! As hard as I tried I couldn't get words on those cards. The cards actually CRIPPLED me.

I do a synopsis first. That's how I sell the book. But my synopsis is about the characters and about their motivations, but not about the details of the story, except for main plot points. Once I know in my head who the people are, what drives them and what they want, THEY tell me what they're going to do and say next. I don't know the middle of the book. Often I don't know the end. I just know the characters and I keep them together to see what happens next.

My method makes the plotters crazy. Their story wouldn't go anywhere if they didn't have it planned. Are they right? Am I? Yes. Whatever works for the writer is the right way.

Now, some would think that after hearing me say how I write that I just fly by the seat of my pants. Not so. I know my story people's backstories. I know the incidents that shaped them into the people they are. This way I can challenge them in the most significant ways with the things that happen to them. I know what they want. I know what's holding them back. I know their long range and short range goals, their character flaws, their character traits, their fears, their internal motivation, their personality and ten or more descriptors/adjectives about the person. I usually know the black moment.

I know a couple of scenes that I want to touch on - and I know how the story should FEEL. Sometimes I know the theme and I always need a working title.

Just don't talk note cards. My eye will start twitching.

Writers Write - but when and how? Are you a professional writer?

"Writers write everyday." A statement we writers often hear, made by other well-meaning writers.

Recently a writer friend told me how upset she was by that statement, because it didn't allow for life to happen. The insinuation is that "professionals" write every day, through every situation and storm in life. Nice if it works for you.

If you're a writer, aspiring or published, you have to learn a pace and a rhythm that works for you.

I agree, writing means you have to write. Duh. There are people who call themselves writers, who do a lot of talking. Talk about writing, talk about what they've learned, talk about the book they're plotting. But writing is hard work. And the cut between the writer and the talker is clearly defined by pages. Pages, manuscripts, queries and submissions. SHOW ME THE PAGES!

That said, you can accumulate pages without writing everyday. What!? Sacrilege, you say? I used to beat myself up because I didn't have the same schedule that the "professionals" have. I've sat through workshops and author interviews where the eager newbies in the crowd are asking, "How many hours a day do you write?" And the typical interviewer inevitably asks, "Describe a typical day in your life."

Some days I write a little. Some days I think and plot. Some days I go to garage sales. Some days I sweat bullets over a scene. Some days I sit with a friend who needs me. Some WEEKS I tally pages like there's no tomorrow. On deadline, I sometimes write all day and half the night. This week I am working 15 hour days. I started at seven yesterday and stopped for the Bachelorette (we all have our limits) at seven pm and then went back to the story for a couple more hours before dropping into bed.

However, some days I watch movies or read a book. Does that mean I'm not working? Does it mean I'm not a professional?

Okay, I'm not Nora Doesn't-Need-A-Last-Name (sort of like Cher) but neither is anyone except Nora. And I've heard her talk about her days - she exercises and has a family and a life. Honestly, I don't know how she does it. I have a friend who admits she has no life other than her writing. Does she produce a lot of books? Yes. Do I want that for myself? No.

WRITING ON BOTH SIDES OF THE BRAIN by Henriette Klauser.

This book helped me realize that I'm creating all the time. Even if I'm painting a room or arranging flowers or shopping at a flea market, my brain is processing ideas. I may not write for a couple of days, but when I sit down and open the file and put my fingers on the keyboard, the story flows out.

I'm not one of those people who plan the story all out head of time. More about that another time.

Occasionally I receive a commemorative pin from my publisher, acknowledging and celebrating the publication of milestone books. The accompanying letters say, "This is a significant achievement." I think so, too. I consider myself a professional. I've written thirty-eight books since 1993. Sometimes two, three or four in one year. Did I write every day? No.

My husband once spent a couple of weeks in the hospital. I took line edits along with me while I sat with him all day. One summer my daughter, with her family of six, lived with us for five weeks while their new home was being finished. Do YOU think I wrote everyday? We moved to a new home and the next week I went to RWA national conference. I got a new knee last December and did a whole lot of recuperating and physical therapy. (Not to mention the drugs.)

I have a life, with a husband, family and church.

I don't always write everyday. But I'm a writer. The pages are the proof.

Tina Gayle: Goals, Motivation and Conflict

Some of you might be thinking I’m going to talk about Debra Dixon’s book, but the same words can apply to developing the plan for your career.

Goals:  At the start of the New Year, we plan what we want to achieve.  It might be easy to come up with the goals but hard to achieve them.  After all, we only have twenty-four hours in a day, no more, no less. Yet, we all know people who seem to get it all done.

How you might ask?

Planning ahead and breaking things down into bite size pieces are the two best ways to achieve your goals.  Okay, your goal is to write four books this year. Impossible you might say.  But let’s break it down with a few questions:

           

How many pages can you write a day?
How long are the books?
How much time do you need to edit the book once it’s done?

Let’s say you want to write a 240 page book. You can squeeze out three pages a day with everything else you have to do.

Simple math 240/3 = 80 days.

You want to write 4 books x 80 days = 320

365 days in a year  - 320 = 45 days to do edits.

If you can edit each book in 11 days, you’ve made your goal with one day to spare.

Is this feasible for everything else you have to do?

What about other commitments?

Other objectives?

Family
Friends?

Will this fit in your over all scheme? What about promotion and blogging?

Can you make it happen by editing at odd times, like at your child’s soccer game?

How about writing more pages on weekends and take off time during the week.

           

If you plan ahead, set deadlines and make your objectives clear to your family and friends, you can make it happen.

Motivation and Conflict

These two things can kill a well laid out plan. If you are unmotivated to write or have some type of conflict, your writing can suffer. This is where you need to work some flexibility into your plan. 

Work in time for potential conflicts that might arise, if they don’t it’ll only give you more time to write.  We all have life outside of writing and things happen. Like our characters, conflict tests our resolve and the best way to work our way through it is by revising our goals and forgiving us for our shifts in priorities.

Finding motivation can also derail a plan. If you are worn out or struggling with other issues in your life; it can be difficult to sit your butt down in the chair and write. Again, give yourself a break and schedule a special treat for yourself like an hour in the tub with a glass of wine and scented candle. Remember to celebrate each victory that comes along and give yourself time to enjoy your accomplishments.

Hope all your dreams come true. 

With a little planning, they will.

After working twenty years in the business world, Tina Gayle decided to follow her passion and became a romance novelist. Now, she spends her days in front of a computer—crying, laughing, living in the world of her characters. Always working on perfecting her craft, Tina regularly studies writing through online courses and RWA conferences.

Kathleen Eagle: Cowboy, Take Me Away

Cowboy, Take Me Away by Kathleen Eagle
Harlequin Special Edition
May 2011
Heart & Home
ISBN: 9780373655953 (#2113)

When photographer Skyler Quinn first fixed her lens on gorgeous cowboy Trace Wolf Track, she liked what she saw but didn't give it much thought. Until everywhere she went—the rodeo, the Double D Wild Horse Sanctuary—there he was, and the heat between them built to the boiling point.

As a widow struggling with debts and loyalties from a former life, Skyler needed to stay focused, especially if she wanted to achieve her dream of becoming a mother. Was Trace a fatal distraction, a mere summer fling? Or did this younger man—so deep, so passionate—hold the key to a future that would make all her dreams come true?

WINNERS ANNOUNCED: Guess who?

Most of your guesses were identical! So many of you thought this pretty face was Renee Zelwegger. But alas, it's not. Only two of you guessed correctly, with the name of Aileen Quinn. Good job, ladies! I'm sending each of you an autographed copy of Marrying the Preacher's Daughter.

I hope you enjoy this peek at what it was like for Aileen Quinn to be the star of Annie and see what she's doing now.





And the winners are:

MEGAN D from Lansing Illinois

and

JULIE G from Alhambra, California

Thanks to all who participated!

350 sq ft home houses family of three

GUESS WHO AND ENTER TO WIN BOTH OF MY NEW BOOKS!

Gaze closely into those eyes....

Guess who this famous face belongs to by sending me a PRIVATE email with your address and the name of the person you believe this to be.

If you're correct, I'll add your name to my fishbowl and hold a drawing for a set of my two new books, Marrying the Preacher's Daughter and Her Wyoming Man.



My email: SaintJohn@aol.com

DO NOT post the answer here.

Amanda Cabot: Simplifying Historical Fiction Research

 PHILOSOPHICAL FRIDAY

Have you ever become bogged down in research?  I have.  One book leads to another, or if you’re on the Internet, one site leads to another.  Before you know it, you’ve spent days – maybe weeks – reading, but your book still isn’t started.  How can you avoid getting caught in that sinkhole?  One answer is the KISS principle (keep it simple, sweetheart).  For me, that means working with five different research tools.

The children’s section of the library.  When I wrote for the secular market, one of my publishers asked me to write a trilogy set during World War One.  At the time, what I knew about that time period could be described in two words: not much.  The adult section of the library had huge tomes, detailing each day of the war.  I could have spent weeks reading them, but instead I went to the children’s section.  The books I found there were considerably shorter.  Even more importantly, they gave me the basic information that I needed to plan the trilogy, namely the causes of the war and the major battles.  Later, when I knew exactly when each book would take place, I consulted the ten-pound tomes to see what was happening on specific key dates.  I didn’t have to read the whole book.  Instead, I was doing what I call ‘targeted research,’ looking only for key information.  What a time-saver!

Historic diaries and letters.  What I like about diaries is that they tell you how real people lived, and as such, they’re a valuable source of details.  For example, when I was researching my 2012 release set at Wyoming’s Fort Laramie, I read excerpts from an officer’s wife’s letters.  In them I learned that the dried potatoes the post store sold were considered virtually inedible.  An interesting fact, and one you can be sure made its way to the manuscript.

Costume books.  Readers want to know what people wore.  Oh, they don’t need to have a gown described down to the last furbelow, but knowing that women wore bustles in the 1880s and that there were five to seven petticoats under those bustles helps you add authentic details to your story.  To get those details, I find costume books, particularly those with extensive illustrations, valuable.  There is also a growing number of web sites with pictures of clothing from various eras.

Recipe books.  Like diaries, these help you understand what people ate during your chosen time period.  Just as importantly, they provide clues to what people did not eat.  If you don’t find a recipe for ragout, it’s probably because the term wasn’t used then.  To be true to the period, simply call it stew.  And that leads me to what I consider one of the most important research tools.

Dictionary with date of first usage.  I hate anachronisms.  For me there’s nothing so jarring as to be reading a book set in the Middle Ages and see, “The sword slid off his shield as if it were covered with Teflon.”  Admittedly, that was an extreme example, but my trusty dictionary saved me from the error of using ‘camouflage’ in a book set in the 1850s by pointing out that the word came into usage during World War One.  

Why worry about anachronisms?  They brand you as a sloppy writer.  Consider this: checking a word’s first usage is simply another form of research.  That’s why, although I may use the other tools only once when I’m writing, my dictionary is always open.

So, there you have it: Amanda’s hints for simplifying historical research.  I hope they help.

As the seed awaits the spring sunshine, so one young woman hopes for a brighter tomorrow

Harriet Kirk is certain that becoming the new schoolteacher in Ladreville, Texas is just what she needs—a chance to put the past behind her and give her younger siblings a brighter tomorrow. What she didn’t count on was the presence of handsome former Texas Ranger Lawrence Wood—or the way he affects her fragile heart. But can Harriet and Lawrence ever truly conquer the past in order to find happiness?

Book 3 in the Texas Dreams series, Tomorrow’s Garden is a powerful story of overcoming the odds and grabbing hold of happiness.

Amanda Cabot has always been a dreamer, and so it’s no coincidence that her first books for the CBA market are called Texas Dreams.  Set in the Hill Country beginning in 1856, these deeply emotional historical romances showcase God’s love as well as that between a man and a woman.  The first in the trilogy, Paper Roses, was a finalist for the Carol Award.  Scattered Petals received critical acclaim, and the final Texas Dreams book, Tomorrow’s Garden, has just been released.  A former director of Information Technology, Amanda has written everything from technical books and articles for IT professionals to mysteries for teenagers and romances for all ages.  She’s delighted to now be a full time writer living in Cheyenne, WY with her high school sweetheart/ husband of many years.

American Idol Finale Recap

If you're an Idol fan, here are my comments about last night's finale.


I am clueless, because I didn't know Jack Black sang! He was perfect to pair with Casey.

The "They still have Similac on their breath" comment slayed me.

Scotty sang Tim McGraw's song better than Tim McGraw. (Sorry TMG fans.)

Gaga was bizarre as expected, and a tad inappropriate at the end. Fun to see Mark NeverRemeberHisLast Name from SYTYCD paired with her. What a boon to his career! She has replaced Oprah as the most influential woman in business. Say what you will about her freakiness, but everyone thought Elton John was a freak in garish costumes, too, and he's written some of the best music of our time, and scores for movies. That's genius. I think she has it too. Remember when we thought Madonna was as tacky as it got?

I like a lot of Beyonce's music - Single Ladies rocks. But that one she sang last night, the slow one? When it started I said to Kristin, "Is this going to get better?" thinking the tempo would pick up and it would actually have a melody. And that's her favorite song. hmmm  Just because she gets to say make love to me a hundred times maybe?

Gladys Knight is always cool! And still so pretty.

LOVED watching Stephen and hearing him sing a fave. I need an Aerosmith album. 
Jenn was fun, and of course we were all waiting for her to show up since she wasn't in her judges' chair. 

Good thing I was sitting down when Tom Jones came out. Almost as shocking as seeing Neil Sedaka the week before. We knew Tony Bennett was old.

You know, I realized last night that I really got tired of Haley. She could have stayed out of the performances and I'd have been happy. Saw on E that she was waiting in the wings to replace Lauren the night Lauren had vocal chord strain. So glad that didn't happen. Haley's face when she was eliminated was to die for. Like, "What? It's not me staying? How can that be? She's staying? Are you sure? I want a recount."


I'm happy for Scotty, and Lauren will have a great career. As will James, my season favorite. 

what's happening at our house...

ANN STEPHENS: EVERYBODY’S A CRITIC!

My mother, bless her heart, is under the impression that writers just scribble or type out the words and poof! We’re all done.  I wish! I’ve never, ever heard of a book being accepted as is by a reputable publisher, and that is a very good thing.  As a writer, I am too close to the work to judge it objectively, never mind the spelling and grammar errors that my eyes skip over when I proofread.  One of the best pieces of advice I can give to new writers is to seek out supportive, respectful criticism from other writers.

The key words there are supportive and respectful. I have heard a number of horror stories about critique groups.  My own weekly group is a huge blessing.  It includes writers at all levels of experience and in a range of genres from romance to science fiction to thrillers to horror.  Some of us write books, some write poetry and some write plays or screenplays.  The main thing is that we all demand well-written stories with vivid characters that draw us in and keep us begging for more.  Without this group’s encouragement, I would never have had the nerve to enter the contest that led to my first sale.

Equally important are rules of conduct that limit criticism to the writing.  Our primary goal as a group is to help each other become better writers.  If you join a critique group that praises or dismisses anyone’s writing based on how well or poorly they conform to a set of religious or political views, move on!  The same goes if they treat you differently based on your genre.  Or if they think there is something wrong with you because you want to write a book that people can buy in grocery stores.  (This is one of my goals as a writer, so I will admit to some bias here.)
I’ve also heard stories where new writers are condescended to by those who have been in a group longer.  This is not okay.  

Most published authors I have been in contact with, either personally or through correspondence, have answered questions and provided advice when I asked, and even when I didn’t.  Those who were unable to help still took the time out of their schedules to offer encouragement and good wishes.  If these women (and men) can treat strangers nicely, so can Madame Poobah of the Local Community Writers Circle.

One of the best things about critique groups is that analyzing someone else’s work teaches you to avoid mistakes in your own work.  Your writing gets better every day! 

Of course, supportive and respectful apply to the ‘critique-ee’ as well.  If you are submitting your work to other people so they can exclaim that it is the most innovative piece of fiction since Western Civilization crawled out of the Dark Ages, probably you’re not going to have a positive experience.  (Yeah, we have folks show up with that attitude from time to time.  They don’t last long.)  ‘Critique’ and ‘criticize’ are related.  You are asking people to tell you where the weak spots are in your WIP.  Don’t be surprised or offended when they actually do that.  If you get comments from five different people complaining about the same paragraph, that’s a pretty good indication that you should reconsider it, but it’s unlikely that they want to drive you away.

Be patient if someone suggests you take your story in a direction that you don’t want to go.  There is no law that says you have to follow every piece of criticism you get.  Ultimately, you are responsible for what you write.  Smile, say thank you and move on.

And yes, you should thank someone who has taken time to listen to or read your work and given you their advice.  Even if you don’t agree with them.  Even if someone has given all negative comments, or you think they’re being nit-picky over teeny tiny details.  I’ve slept on criticism I’ve disagreed with and found it valid the next day.  When something isn’t working my weekly group lets me know.  They’re not brutal, but once you’ve been there long enough for your skin to thicken, they’re blunt.  I love it when people nit-pick — it means there are no major problems that week!

Ann blogs at Authors by Moonlight

Pizza Night

  Raise your hand if you regularly take photos of supper.

Made the best scratch pizza on Kristin's pizza stone for supper last night. I accidentally thawed out a gigantic package of ground sirloin instead of a roast. Duh. So I added pepperoni, cheese and black olives and we had pizza night. Roast this evening, then I'll have to get creative about the remainder of the cooked ground sirloin. 

Forensic Blog to Check Out

Tom Adair is a retired, internationally recognized, forensic scientist/CSI from Colorado who has launched an informative blog at http://forensics4fiction.wordpress.com. He is open and willing to explain the basics of forensics for crime writers. He will soon be adding some fun categories for the science fiction and fantasy/paranormal writers and would love to answer questions about forensics and law enforcement in general. Tom has just completed his first novel, so he has a good idea of the challenges facing writers.

Read an Excerpt from My June Book

READ CHAPTER ONE

Marrying the Preacher's Daughter
by Cheryl St.John

Colorado June, 1876

"Toss your guns down now!" a male voice shouted. "Hands in the air."

Elisabeth Hart couldn't see past the layers of netting on a woman's hat in front of her, but sounds of alarm rippled through the passengers who sat in the forward rows. The interior of the railcar was sweltering beneath the midday sun, and she blotted her eyes and forehead with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. What should have been a routine stop along the tracks to take on water had become life-threatening.

Thuds sounded as firearms hit the aisle. A man in a battered hat and wearing a faded bandanna over the lower half of his face came into view. Eyes darting from person to person, he snatched up the guns.

Another masked bandit appeared in the wake of the first. Sweat drenched the front of his dusty shirt. "Turn over all your cash and jewelry. Ladies' bags, too, and none of you gets shot."

Two more thieves held open gunnysacks and gathered the looted items.

Fear prickled at Elisabeth, but a maelstrom of rebellious anger made her tremble. How dreadful of these men to point guns and make demands. Every fiber of her being objected to their lack of concern for the safety of the passengers and the downright thievery.

She turned to the tall, quiet man who'd been sitting beside her on the aisle side of the bench seat since they'd left Morning Creek, noting the way his hat brim shaded piercing green eyes. He watched the gunman with intense concentration, but made no move to stop what was happening. "Aren't you going to do something?" she whispered.

The man cast her a glare that would have scorched a lesser woman. One eyebrow rose and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"They're going to rob us," she insisted. "You still have your gun. I saw it inside your jacket when you leaned to lower the window earlier."

He focused on the man wielding the revolver, but spoke to her. "Can you count, lady? Just give 'em what they want so nobody gets hurt."

"But—"

Pausing beside them, the masked robber pointed his gun directly at her seat partner's chest. The man gave Elisabeth a pointed glare and calmly raised his hands in the air before looking up.

"Right in here," the robber said.

The seated man handed him a coin purse and tossed several silver dollars and his pocket watch into the bag.

The barrel of the gun swung to Elisabeth. "Lady?"

Elisabeth's temper and sensibilities flared, but fear kept her silent. Her heart beat so frantically, she thought her chest might burst. She wanted to refuse, but didn't want anyone to get hurt. Begrudgingly, she forfeited her black velvet chatelaine pocket with the silver handle and removed the gold bracelet she'd received for her last birthday, dropping both into the burlap sack.

The robber pointed at her neck. "You got a chain under there."

She clapped her hand protectively over the plain gold ring that rested on a chain beneath her damp and wrinkled cotton shirtwaist. "This was my mother's!"

"Just give it to him," the green-eyed stranger cajoled in his maddeningly calm manner.

"Now just wait," Elisabeth argued with a glare. "You don't understand. This was my mother's wedding ring."

The stranger gave her a quelling look that singed her eyelashes. Passengers called out their displeasure and shouted for her to give up her jewelry same as they had.

The ring was all she had of her mother. Since she'd drowned, Elisabeth had worn it every day…and tried to fill the woman's shoes. The wedding band symbolized Elisabeth's childhood and her sacrifices. Parting with it would break her heart…but she didn't want to be the cause of anyone getting shot. What would her father have to say in this situation?

She closed her eyes. Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. Her true treasures were in heaven. The ring wasn't as important as the lives at stake.

The robber leaned down close as if he meant to take the ring from her neck. She raised her hand to her throat to prevent him from touching her. She could do this on her own. He grabbed Elisabeth's collar and yanked so hard that she jerked forward and the top button popped off.

In that same second, a grim click sounded. The bandit paused dead still.

Elisabeth stared into his shining dark eyes, and the moment stretched into infinity. She could hear her blood pulsing through her veins, her breath panting from between her dry lips. Was this the day she was going to die and meet her Maker?

"Take your hands off the lady, or you're dead." From beside her, the stranger's low-timbered voice was calm, but laced with lethal intent. The hair on Elisabeth's neck stood up.

No one else was privy to the robber's predicament. The green-eyed man's gun was still concealed between the two men, the business end jammed up against the robber's belly. Elisabeth dared a glance and saw the stranger's other hand clamped over the man's wrist, keeping that revolver pointed toward the floor and protectively away from her.

What could only have been seconds, but seemed like an hour, passed with their ragged breaths loud and the tick of a pocket watch encroaching on her consciousness.

"We ain't got all day, Hank!" one of the other thieves shouted.

The robber leaning over her attempted to move, and pandemonium broke loose. A shot rang out and Elisabeth's rescuer grunted in pain. The robber tugged at Elisabeth's collar, and the man beside her fired his gun.

The stench of gunpowder stung her nose. Men shouted. Women screamed. Elisabeth watched the events unfold in a haze of fear and disbelief.

The man who'd threatened Elisabeth crumpled, slumping sideways over the back of a seat. A horrifying crimson blotch spread across his shirtfront. She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from crying out.

The stranger leaped from his seat with his arm outstretched. "Get down!" he bellowed. A rapid succession of shots nearly deafened her. She cupped her hands over her ears, belatedly realizing he'd been ordering her to get down. Praying for safety for the other passengers, she folded herself onto the floor and knelt with her heart pounding. The shock of seeing that man shot and bleeding stole her breath.

Minutes passed with her thoughts in chaos. Would she see her family again? If the stranger protecting her had been shot, maybe other people were being killed or injured, and all because she'd delayed. She'd been going to give him the ring.

An eerie silence followed in the wake of the previous pandemonium, and it took a few minutes to comprehend what that could mean.

The sound of hesitant footsteps and voices told her the battle was over. She opened eyes she hadn't realized were squeezed shut, unfolded her body and peered over the seat in front of her.

One of the male passengers had picked up the gunny-sacks and now doled possessions back to their owners. In numb silence, she accepted her monogrammed velvet pocket and gold bracelet from his outstretched hand while her mind struggled to comprehend what was going on around her. A conductor and several other railroad men stepped over prone bodies on the floor. The sight made her stomach lurch. Elisabeth could only stare in numb disbelief.

One of the uniformed men made his way to the stranger who was seated on a bench with his back against the side of the railcar, his hand pressed to his ribs. "Find something for bandages!"

Spurred out of her frozen state of shock, Elisabeth straightened and stepped into the aisle. She raised her hem and, holding it in her teeth, tore a wide strip from her petticoat. "Here."

Others provided handkerchiefs and scarves, and the conductor handed over the wad of material for the fellow to press against the wound. "Sit tight," he said. "We'll get you to the doctor in Jackson Springs quick as we can."

Several men dragged the robbers' bodies to the back of the car, the dead men's boot heels painting shiny streaks of blood on the wooden floor. Her stomach roiled and she thought she might be sick.

"Are you all right?"

She swung her gaze to those green eyes, now dark with pain. "Y-yes, I'm fine."

Had he killed all of those men? He made a halfhearted attempt to sit a little straighter, but grimaced and stayed where he was.

He'd probably saved her life. Without a doubt he'd saved her from losing her precious ring. She perched on the edge of the seat beside his leg, and reached to replace his hand with hers, pressing the cloth against his cream-colored shirt, where it was soaked with blood that flowed from his side. "I'm Elisabeth Hart."

"Gabe Taggart," he replied.

"That was a very brave thing you did."

His expression slid into a scowl. "Didn't have much choice after the stupid thing you did."

Taken aback, she was at a loss for words. Before that horrible man had reached for her, she'd been prepared to hand over the ring. Now she felt foolish for ever hesitating.

Steam hissed and the train jerked into motion, picking up speed along the tracks. The stranger winced at the jerking movement. The woman who'd been sitting behind them made her way along the aisle in the rocking car. "Thank you for rescuing us," she said to Gabe.

Casting a disapproving scowl at Elisabeth, she returned to her seat. Elisabeth glanced at a few of the other occupants of the railcar and noted an assortment of scathing looks directed toward her. None of them understood the value she placed on the ring or the reason for her delay. She hadn't meant to endanger anyone.

Silently, she prayed for his life, asking God to forgive her for putting him at risk because of her selfish attachment to an earthly treasure. Out of habit, she reached into the jacket pocket of her traveling suit and rubbed a smooth flat stone between her fingers. The keepsake was one of several she'd picked up during her family's perilous journey to Colorado. The stones reminded her of the sacrifice and dedication that had brought them to a new state and a new life.

The train rocked and turned a bend. Several other passengers expressed their thanks to Gabe as the train neared its destination. When at last they reached Jackson Springs, the tale spread to the baggage men and the families waiting on the platform. Several men carefully loaded Gabe Taggart into the bed of a wagon and drove him away.

Grateful this particular chapter of her life was over and that Taggart would be getting medical attention now, Elisabeth released a pent-up breath and joined the others disembarking.

"Thank the Lord, you're safe."

Elisabeth turned with relief and embraced her stepmother, their bodies separated by the girth of Josie's growing belly beneath her pretty green day dress.

"What happened to that man?" her six-year-old half brother Phillip asked. He had shiny black hair like their father's and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

"He prevented robbers from stealing our things," Elisabeth answered, trying to keep panic and guilt from her voice.

"Lis-bet, Lis-bet!" Peter and John, the three-year-old twins, jumped up and down waiting for her to greet them.

She picked up Peter first, kissing his cheek and ruffling his curly reddish hair. After setting him down, she reached for John. He kissed her cheek, leaving a suspiciously peppermint stickiness on her skin.

Josie turned and motioned forward a slender dark-haired young woman that Elisabeth had assumed was waiting for another passenger. "This is Kalli Tyler. She's my new helper. Your father thought I needed someone full-time, and I didn't argue. She's a godsend, truly. You two are going to get along well."

"I've heard all about you," Kalli said with a friendly dimpled smile. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She kept her voice steady, but her in-sides quivered in the aftermath of that drama. She collected herself to study the other young woman.

As her father's assistant, the notary public and a tutor, Elisabeth did have her hands full. It was wise of Father and Josie to hire additional help. At seventeen and sixteen, her sisters, Abigail and Anna, were busy with school, studies and social activities, and their bustling household did need extra assistance to keep things running smoothly.

"I brought a wagon and Gilbert," Josie told her. "You had bags, and I'm not up to the walk."

"Of course," Elisabeth answered. "Phillip, help me find my bags, please."

She turned toward the pile where luggage was being stacked just as two men carried one of the robbers from the train on a stretcher. He'd been shot in the chest and his vest was drenched with dark glistening blood. The man was quite plainly dead.