Tag Archive | western

SATURDAY SPOTLIGHT: The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson by Laine Ferndale

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Jo Wilson has seen her share of tragedy, but she’s determined to keep her late husband’s bathhouse afloat, even if her all-female staff raises eyebrows. She’s holding her own against the Fraser Springs society ladies’ public scorn, but a handsome new customer poses a different threat.

Bored with writing adventure novels, author Owen Sterling arrives in the tiny Canadian town hoping to launch a serious journalism career with an exposé on the titillating rumors swirling around Wilson’s Bathhouse. But the beguiling Jo is honest and upright and her respectable business is not at all what he expected.

When the town’s small-mindedness lights a literal fire under their feet, Jo and Owen must choose what’s most important: tending to their careers or surrendering to their bubbling emotions.

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EXCERPT

If Fraser Springs held a dirty looks contest, Mrs. McSheen would be the reigning champion. Josephine Wilson swept the wooden planks of the bathhouse’s porch as she considered the list of other likely entrants. Mrs. McSheen would face stiff competition from the ladies of the First Presbyterian congregation, the Ladies’ Charitable Club, and the Society for the Advancement of Moral Temperance. World-class scowlers, every one. There were probably more societies in this tiny town than there were ladies to fill them. Heavens knew how they found the time to play bridge in between all of the meetings.

It was a beautiful morning. The sharp, mineral tang of the springs felt invigorating in the breeze, not oppressive as it could on a hotter day. The rhododendrons in front of the bathhouse were fat and rosy. There was no reason for scowls. But Mrs. McSheen was intent on showing little Emma McSheen, dressed in a starched white pinafore with a pink sash, how a true lady treats a woman like Josephine.

“Can … may I have a flower?” little Emma asked.

“Any flower grown from this soil is not fit for good little girls such as yourself, dearest,” Mrs. McSheen said, proffering Josephine another of her world-famous sneers as she clomped down the wooden boardwalk towards the general store. “And at any rate, those gaudy red things smell like cheap perfume.”

In the years since her husband died and she took over the bathhouse, Josephine had received more dirty looks than she could count. Scowls, muttered curses, raised eyebrows; someone had even gone so far as to throw a rock through one of her windows. Mostly, however, the townspeople’s outrage took the form of anonymous letters slipped under her door or left in her mailbox. She was a whore, apparently. A harlot. A murderess. A temptress. A jezebel. A “shrew sent from the environs of hell to cast ruin and immorality upon the weak.” (It was clear Fraser Springs had at least one aspiring poet among its citizens.) She called them her love letters and kept them all tied with a red ribbon in the top corner of her husband’s old desk as a daily reminder of how important it was to maintain a thick skin.

But the hot springs looked lovely today. The surface roiled in shades of silver, purple, and blue. Mist swirled in tendrils towards the rocky shore of the lake, and somehow its color made her think of opals. Josephine had never actually seen an opal, but with the hot springs reflecting the sun into pools of light on the boardwalk, it wasn’t hard to imagine. After each day’s work ended, there wasn’t much to do in Fraser Springs besides imagine.

The town was little more than a cluster of wood-framed houses huddled around its namesake hot spring, the rickety structures leaning towards the water like old hens huddling together for warmth. In recent years, a few lucky mining operations and health-seeking tourists had provided the money for a fancy brick bank and the St. Alice Hotel with its marble floors and formal dining room. It was a town at a crossroads, and it was clear which way Mrs. McSheen and her cronies wanted it to go. The improvements had drawn a whole class of respectable women intent on scrubbing out the traces of the Canadian wilderness. Never mind that the town was a seven-hour steamboat ride from Vancouver or that their closest neighbours were bears or that the main patrons of the springs’ bathhouses were still loggers and miners hoping to soothe a year’s worth of aches and injuries.

“Miz Jo, customer!” Ilsa’s call drew Josephine out of her daydreaming. She’d poached Ilsa from a dance hall in Gastown, but though she was no longer earning her living by charming men into buying overpriced drinks, no amount of training could rid her of her sultry voice. She could make an advertisement for dentures sound like a provocation.

When Josephine’s husband had passed away suddenly, the staff he’d spent a lifetime cultivating had taken the next boat back to Vancouver. She had been faced with a choice: close the bathhouse or find new staff as quickly as possible. She’d chosen the latter and assembled a cadre of equally desperate women who she’d trained in the healing art of massage—and massage only. The women were quick learners and keen to start new lives, and the lure of an all-female staff had paid off. Soon, Wilson’s Bathhouse had become so successful that the husbands of the Society Ladies started becoming patrons. Now, however, business was down, and nasty letters were the order of the day.

Jo propped the broom against the wall, pulled off her apron, and tucked a stray curl back into her chignon. Whatever the McSheens of this town might think, her customers would meet a polished and respectable proprietress when they arrived.

She took a breath and straightened her posture. There, that was better. In a business like this, you never knew who was going to be on the other side of the door: maybe an old miner, maybe a local businessman who’d snuck in through the side entrance to avoid suspicion. Either way, Jo was ready.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Laine Ferndale teaches literature and writing to pay for a fairly serious chai latte habit. She lives with her husband and her adorably needy cat. Find Laine Ferndale on Facebook and on Twitter @laineferndale.

SATURDAY SPOTLIGHT: West of Forgotten by Lynda J. Cox

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Banished from civilization to the Wyoming Territory, U.S. Marshal Harrison Taylor holds a deed to half the Lazy L. He isn’t sure why his beautiful new partner, Rachel Leonard, doesn’t trust him. He has to convince her he is nothing like the man who abused her and he must earn her trust before the escalating attacks at the Lazy L turn deadly.

For six years, Rachel has worked to repair a shattered life. Caring for her son and invalid father leaves little time to keep the Lazy L profitable. She doesn’t want a business partner simply because her father gambled away half of her beloved ranch, and most certainly doesn’t desire a husband. Unfortunately, she’s stuck with the former and can’t trust Harrison as the latter.

But unless she can learn to trust him, everything and everyone Rachel loves will be lost.

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EXCERPT

Rachel continued to watch the play of light in the depths of the clouds. She tried to puzzle out why Harrison was engaging in trivial small talk. Perhaps he was on the same uncertain footing she was about their marriage, about Sam’s sudden death, even what it was married couples talked about. “I don’t think so. I think that one is going to miss us. We might get a few drops, but it will rain out before it gets here.”

“Joshua asleep?”

She nodded. “I suppose we should discuss sleeping arrangements.” Just saying those words twisted her stomach with painful knots. “My father’s old room on the second floor hasn’t been used since his accident.” She had to stop thinking of that room as her father’s. It hadn’t been Sam’s room since the day she had found him nearly crushed under the rubble of the mine collapse. There had been no manner to navigate him up and down the stairs.

“We don’t have to discuss anything permanent tonight.” The chair creaked with his shifting weight. He rose from the chair and set his coffee cup on the porch railing, then crossed the distance to her. Without a word, he took her hand and pulled her closer to him. He looked down into her face. “I can continue to sleep on the chesterfield for a few more nights. Not that it would be my first choice…” His voice trailed off.

“I will need to air the room out, change the bed linens, and dust in there, but it would be senseless for you to continue to sleep in the parlor.” She freed her hand and walked a few paces away. She was talking nonsense, hoping to quell her unease. Even the most hastily arranged marriage had a wedding night. Yet he had agreed that for now, they would have a marriage in name only.

Harrison’s boot heels echoed on the porch floor. She startled when his hands came to rest on her shoulders.

“You’re terrified,” he said.

“What makes you think that?” She couldn’t make herself look at him. The knots in her stomach drew tighter, making breathing naturally more difficult, and forcing her heart to race.

He drew his hands down her arms and back to her shoulders. “Let’s start with how stiff your spine is. Or that your voice is shaking. Every time I’ve touched you, you’ve either frozen or you panic.” His breath whispered across the nape of her neck and ruffled the tendrils escaping her severe chignon. He turned her to him and caught her chin on the back of his hand, tilting her head up. “I made a promise, Rachel, and I will not break my word. You have to change the terms of our marriage.”

She forced herself to draw a deep breath when his arms wrapped around her waist and he exerted gentle pressure to bring her against his chest. He enveloped her within his embrace and this time there wasn’t panic or the desperate need to break free hammering in her. Rachel allowed herself to relax.

His cheek pressed into her crown. A self-deprecating laugh broke from him, and she admitted she liked how that sound rumbled in the depths of his chest.

“I really should have my head examined for agreeing to all of that.”

His arms tightened around her. She forced herself to remain within the circle of his arms, the side of her face against him. He must have sensed her sudden unease as he loosened his hold.

“You are an interesting woman. Beautiful, fascinating, and so full of contradictions.” He levered back from her and lifted his hand to cradle the side of her face, the pad of his thumb feathering along the slope of her cheek. “A seemingly very strong woman and yet terrified of a kiss.”

Rachel’s lips went dry and she couldn’t pry her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Her limbs trembled. Surely he had to hear how fiercely her heart was pounding, so loudly she heard it echoing in her ears.

His voice deepened, grew quieter until it was almost a whisper and she fought the urge to close her eyes and let the warmth in his voice wash fully over her. “A woman with a child but so frightened of intimacy.” He leaned even closer to her, his mouth almost on hers, yet not touching her except where his warm palm held her face.

In the darkness, she could just make out his features. Her hands slid up his chest and she didn’t know if it was to push him away or pull him closer. She was aware her breathing was shallow and she held her breath when he brushed the pad of his thumb against her lower lip.

“You have a mouth made for kissing, my beautiful wife, but I’m not going to kiss you. Not until you ask me. And, I promise, when that time comes, you’ll be asking me to do a whole lot more than just kiss you.”

He straightened and released her, moving away in the same fluid motion. His long strides carried him to the house, up the steps, and then through the door. Rachel sagged, pulling in a ragged, deep breath. A strange ache filled her lower belly, not painful but entirely confusing for its origin. She ran her tongue over her dry lips, staring into the night.

She twisted her head to the house. Part of her wanted to know if this time would be different. Fear of discovering that it wouldn’t be kept her feet frozen, unable to move forward.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Once upon a time there was little girl who fell in love with the wide open spaces of the American West, cowboys, horses, and collies. She blames a steady diet of syndicated Western programs and John Wayne movies as well as Lassie for these loves. That girl grew up but never outgrew her first loves. Lynda J Cox writes predominantly western historical romance. When she isn’t writing, she can be found on the road, travelling to the next dog show to exhibit her award winning collies. She loves to talk about books, writing, the allure of the vastness of the American West landscape, the mythos of the cowboy, and the insanity which is the sport of showing dogs. She can be reached at www.facebook.com/LyndaJCox or through her website at http://www.lyndajcox.com

SATURDAY SPOTLIGHT: A Kiss in the Morning Mist by Marie Patrick

A Kiss in the Morning Mist

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Former U.S. Marshal Eamon MacDermott failed to prevent the death of his brother, sister-in-law, and young nephew at the hands of the Logan gang. Wracked by guilt, he’s hung up his guns and turned his back on life altogether. That is, until he meets Theodosia “Theo” Danforth.

Widowed and running Morning Mist horse farm with the help of her extended family and friends, Theo harbors an unshakable belief that everyone needs kindness—even the town’s founder who is determined to claim her lands. But how can she convince Eamon he is worthy of happiness?

When the outlaw gang resurfaces and join forces to destroy Morning Mist, Eamon must choose between picking up his guns again to extract vengeance or letting the past remain in the past and forging a new future with Theo.

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EXCERPT

Eamon removed his hat from his head and approached the old woman. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

She didn’t jump or stop pulling weeds from between rows of sprouting greenery. In fact, she didn’t seem to be alarmed by his sudden appearance at all. Instead, she peered at him from beneath the wide brim of her hat. Her sharp brown eyes boldly assessed him as her scrutiny went from the top of his hatless head to the boots on his feet and back. She smiled, the wrinkles on her face deepening, as she nodded. “Well, now, you certainly took your time gettin’ here, son, but you’ll do.”

Somewhat taken aback by the comment, Eamon peered at the woman and frowned. She spoke as if she’d expected him, but how could she have known? He hadn’t known until a short time ago he’d be here.

She continued her frank appraisal, then stuck out her hand. “Lavinia Stark, but you can call me Granny. Everyone does.”

Despite her misshapen hands, her grip was strong and solid.

“A plea—”

He never had a chance to finish his sentence or introduce himself. He heard the back door open, then the distinct double click of a shotgun being cocked.

Eamon released the woman’s hand and dropped his hat to the ground. Without another thought, he reached for the pistols slung low around his hips but found . . . nothing. No holster, no guns. He’d forgotten he no longer wore them—they weren’t part of him anymore and hadn’t been for a long time. He took a deep breath, turned slowly to face the direction of the noise, and blinked several times. A woman stood before him, the shotgun steady in her hands. Dressed in a white blouse, a split skirt made of fine, soft suede, and tooled leather boots, she stunned him with her perfection. A hank of whiskey-colored hair slipped from the ponytail at the back of her head and fell forward. She swung it out of her face with a practiced jerk of her head.

She spoke, her voice low and gravelly, but exuding confidence. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but if I were you, I’d get off my land. I’ve never killed anyone, but there’s always a first time.” She didn’t raise the shotgun and point it at him, but she didn’t have to. The threat couldn’t have been more clear. She would if he forced her hand.

She stood not ten feet away and looked . . . angry and unapologetic. Determined to make him leave. Green eyes, as green as spring grass, sparkled with indignation, and the firm set of her mouth left no doubt . . . she wanted nothing more than to have him gone, and he didn’t think she would hesitate to pull the trigger.

“And you can tell Mr. Pearce I haven’t changed my mind.” Her voice dropped an octave, becoming more hoarse, sounding like she gargled three times a day with rocks, but still strong and commanding and oddly, very pleasant. “I’m not selling. I’ll never sell. I don’t care how many men he sends to bully me. He’s messing with the wrong woman.”

“I don’t mean no harm, ma’am.” Eamon took a step back . . . a slow careful step, and just as carefully, picked up his hat. “I don’t know any Mr. Pearce. I’m just lookin’ for work. Or maybe a hot meal.”

She didn’t seem convinced as she stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face.

“Theo Danforth! Put down that shotgun!” The woman beside him finally spoke and moved with a swiftness that belied her age, advancing on the woman named Theo.

A heated, whispered conversation, which Eamon couldn’t hear, ensued while he watched both women warily, his hat still in his hands, his feet planted firmly to the ground. Their conversation became more animated, though he still couldn’t hear their words. The fact Theo still held the weapon tightly in her hands was enough to let him know he wasn’t welcome.

“Look, lady, I’ll just leave. No harm done.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his discomfort growing by the second. No one liked being on the wrong side of a gun, no matter which side of the law one stood on, even if the bore of the shotgun was pointed at the ground. Accidents could happen. “I ain’t that hungry.”

Despite his words, his empty stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly. Much to his embarrassment, the noise carried to where to the two women argued. The younger one snapped her mouth shut in midsentence, while the older one, Granny, grinned with smug satisfaction.

Theo relaxed her grip on the gun, but she still didn’t smile. “The least I can do is feed you,” she said, though her expression made it clear she wasn’t happy about it. She turned and marched through the back porch into the house, slamming the door behind her.

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A WORD ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Marie Patrick has always had a love affair with words and books, but it wasn’t until a trip to Arizona, where she now makes her home with her husband and furry, four-legged “girl,” that she became inspired to write about the sometimes desolate, yet beautiful landscape. Her inspiration doesn’t just come from the Wild West, though. It comes from history itself. She is fascinated with pirates and men in uniform and lawmen with shiny badges. When not writing or researching her favorite topics, she can usually be found curled up with a good book. Marie loves to hear from her readers. Drop her a note at Akamariep@aol.com, or visit her website at www.mariepatrick.com.

http://www.simonandschuster.com/books/A-Kiss-in-the-Morning-Mist/Marie-Patrick/9781507204443

http://www.crimsonromance.com/historical-romance-novels/kiss-morning-mist/

Sawyer’s Rose (The McCades of Cheyenne #1) by Kim Turner

sawyer's rose

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As if he doesn’t have enough to handle between running outlaws out of Cheyenne, keeping his brothers out of trouble, and avenging his father’s death, Sheriff Sawyer McCade’s meddling mother just dumped a mysterious mail-order bride on his doorstep. One woman can be more trouble than a band of renegades, and while this one has him all stirred up, he’d rather get to the bottom of the story she isn’t telling.

Rose Parker had it all—until a web of danger and deceit sends her running to Cheyenne posing as a mail-order bride. Escaping the evils of New York seems sensible until she meets the unsuspecting sheriff who didn’t ask for her, has no intention of marrying her, and won’t rest until he uncovers her secret and sends her back home.

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Publisher and Release Date: The Wild Rose Press, 18 March, 2016

RHR Classifications:
Time and Setting: Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, 1878
Genre: Western Historical Romance
Heat Level: 2
Reviewer Rating: 4 stars

Review by Jill

When Sawyer McCade was seventeen years-old, his father was killed by an unknown assailant. As the eldest son, he was riding with his father – a lawyer and entrepreneur – and a small group of surveyors and investors, to interest them in the development of cities and railroads on the Great Plains. His father’s last words instructed him to look after his three younger brothers, and keep the family together. Sawyer vowed to avenge his father.

Fifteen years later, Sawyer is sheriff in Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. It’s 1878 and the era of the Wild West; and Sawyer is busy maintaining law and order in the town. He also has his hands full as head of the family keeping his brothers in line: Wyatt, the bounty hunter, Dawson, who helps as translator and negotiator with the government for the Cheyenne, and Evan, the ranch manager. When his mother decides that he’s too busy to find himself a wife, she sends for a mail-order bride without his knowledge, only adding to Sawyer’s headaches.

When attractive and well-educated Rose Parker arrives from New York City, alarm bells start to ring for Sawyer. This lady could easily snare a husband; she did not need to become a mail-order bride and Sawyer figures out pretty quickly she must be running from something or someone. Despite how attracted he might be to Rose, he still doesn’t want a wife. When Rose refuses to return to New York, she takes a job with the local newspaper. Sawyer is soon to realise that Rose isn’t the only one with a past that’s going to catch up with them.

Overall this is an impressive début. At more than 300 pages the author has allowed the story to develop and the romance to blossom. The writing is solid and suits the western story with its pragmatic prose. What carries this story though, is the terrific action scenes, the historical western setting, and the brothers – their love for each other, their rivalry, their interactions and dialogue.

The story is fast-paced, with a lot happening: a brewing feud with a neighbouring rancher, Sawyer’s duties as sheriff keeping the peace and bringing down outlaws, hunting his father’s killer, the brothers’ different personalities rubbing against each other, the family’s interactions, and of course, the developing romance between Sawyer and Rose. It’s pretty much non-stop action from start to finish.

This is the first book in The McCades of Cheyenne series. With four brothers, I suspect there will be more stories, with possibly second brother, Wyatt and Cheyenne’s doctor getting their story next. Altogether, Sawyer’s Rose is an exciting and enjoyable read, and recommended to readers of western historical romances.