Please Welcome My Guest...

Please welcome my guest, Historical Romance Author, Alison Henderson. She's written a great post about writing novellas, or as we writers call it, writing short. 

Short, Sweet, and Unexpected

Hi, Katherine and friends! Thank you for inviting me to visit today to talk about my new novella, The Treasure of Como Bluff. After three full-length novels, this was my first attempt at writing something shorter, and I have to admit the structure gave me fits almost until the last chapter.

The Treasure of Como Bluff is a part of the new Love Letters line from The Wild Rose Press. I’d never considered attempting to write a novella until I read the editor’s call for 20-25K word historical stories in which the action is precipitated by a letter—a love letter, a Dear John letter, a letter about an inheritance—any kind of letter. The premise intrigued me, and the kernel of an idea began to germinate in my imagination.

I’d had the image of a female paleontologist finding an unconscious man at her dig site in my mind for a long time; I just didn’t have a story to go with it. This premise made me wonder, what if she found a letter in his pocket? It was the perfect jump start for what turned out to be a lighthearted, funny story set during the Bone Wars in Wyoming in 1879. How’s that for unexpected?

My two previous published novels were essentially serious stories set in a serious time—America right after the Civil War. Like the rest of the country, my heroes and heroines had suffered deprivation and heartache and struggled to create new lives out of the ashes of their old ones. The Treasure of Como Bluff gave me an opportunity to do something completely different.

When I originally wrote my post-Civil War novels twenty years ago, I must have been a much more serious person. They are both poignant stories about overcoming hardship. The Treasure of Como Bluff is just plain fun. I had a great time writing the snappy banter between Caroline and Nick and thinking up outrageous situations to amplify the conflict. One reviewer likened them to western versions of Hepburn and Tracy or Lombard and Gable. (I don’t think it would be giving too much away to note that Nick spends an inordinate amount of time in a pink sunbonnet.)

Here’s a blurb about the story:

In her race against rival bone hunters, the last complication paleontologist Caroline Hubbard needs is an unconscious stranger cluttering up her dig site. Nicholas Bancroft might have the chiseled features and sculpted physique of a classical statue, but she's not about to let him hamper her quest to unearth a new species of dinosaur and make her mark on the scientific world.

Nick has come to Wyoming in search of silver but, after a blow to the head, finds himself at the mercy of a feisty, determined female scientist. Despite his insistence that he's just passing through, he agrees to masquerade as Caroline's husband to help save her job. Once their deception plays out, they face a crucial decision. Will they be able to see beyond their separate goals and recognize the treasure right in front of them?

And here’s an excerpt:

            Nick laughed. “Are you always this grumpy when you’re working?”

          “I’m about to face the biggest challenge of my life, one that will affect my entire future, and you refuse to take it seriously.” She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “I have every right to be grumpy.”

“Perhaps, but remember, you asked for my help. You need me to pull off this deception.”

He was right. She did need him, and if she wasn’t careful he’d get back on his horse and ride out of her life forever. The thought pushed her near the edge of panic. “I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just that this is so important to me.”

Nick slid his arm around her shoulders. “I know. Don’t worry; I won’t abandon you. I owe you. You saved my life, remember?”

When he didn’t release her immediately, Caroline breathed a tiny sigh and allowed herself the luxury of leaning against him, wrapped in the safety and comfort of his arm. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the warm solidity of his chest, absorbing the reassuring rhythmic thump of his heartbeat. She’d always been alone in her quest; it would be a relief to have someone to share it with, even if only for a few days.

She thought she felt something whisper-soft touch the top of her head, almost like a kiss of breeze, but the air was still. It couldn’t have been Nick...could it? She lifted her head and turned until she could see his face. The devil twinkled in those sea-blue eyes, and a lazy smile played across his lips.

“Flip you for the bed.”

Thanks again for allowing me to share my new story with you, and here’s hoping you like a little humor with your romance.

Alison

www.alisonhenderson.com

http://alisonhenderson.blogspot.com

 

Please Welcome My Guest...

Please welcome my guest, Vonnie Davis.  Vonnie is an award winning romance author and a fellow author in the Love Letters series published by The Wild Rose Press.

Katherine, thanks for having me here as a guest and allowing me to talk about my part in The Wild Rose Press’s Love Letters series—TUMBLEWEED LETTERS. Within the first three pages, a letter must arrive that changes one of the character’s life forever, bringing love and the happy-ever-ever ending we all love.

I’d read the first couple stories from the series and loved the history included in each one. To add to the appeal of writing and submitting something for the series were all the romantic possibilities. Where would one find a letter? If it arrived by normal mail delivery, who could it be from? Would the letter initially bring happiness or sadness? And, if I were to write something for this series, what era would I chose?

After a lot of research, my focus settled on Deadwood, Dakota Territory in 1879. Now my grown sons would smirk and tell you I chose this era because it’s when I grew up. How those two wisenheimers lived to adulthood, I’ll never know. I chose it because I love cowboys, plain and simple.

Slowly, facts coalesced into a storyline. The Molly McGuires. A smallpox epidemic. Whites encroaching onto Indian Reservations to build towns. Calamity Jane’s friendship with a brothel madam. All the while I was doing research, a little boy came to me at night to throw temper tantrums in my sleep. In telling Sophie and Cam’s story, I also gave Eli his. I hope you’ll give TUMBLEWEED LETTERS a try.

BLURB:

When rancher and single father Cam McBride finds a letter tucked in a strip of cloth tied to a tumbleweed, he is captivated by the mysterious author. Finding a second tumbleweed letter further pulls him under the lonely writer's spell. He needs a mother for his little boy and a wife to warm his bed. Could this mysterious woman fill his needs?

Sophie Flannigan is alone, scared, and on the run from a rogue Pinkerton agent. She spends her days as a scrub lady at Madame Dora's brothel and her nights writing notes to the four winds. Her life holds little hope until a small boy lays claim to her and his handsome father proposes an advantageous arrangement.

Can these three benefit from a marriage of convenience, or will a determined Pinkerton agent destroy their fragile, newly formed bond?

EXCERPT:

Cam McBride fought to keep his horse under control. “Steady, now. Steady, Samson.” He reined the chestnut to the left away from the rolling tumbleweed. “Just another wind witch.” Leaning forward, he patted his mount’s neck. Leather creaked, and Samson snorted. “I know those tumbleweeds spook you.”

Eli turned slightly in front of him, and Cam’s palm automatically went to the child’s waist for support. “Drink, Daddy.” His son pointed to the roaring creek beyond the golden, swaying Aspens.

“Okay. Drink.” He dismounted and lifted his two-year old from his perch behind the saddlehorn.  “Stay, now. Don’t go running off.”

“Stay,” Eli repeated with a nod, his wheat-colored hair fluttering in the breeze.

Cam led his horse to the creek. He removed his canteen and pulled a metal cup from his saddlebags.

“No, Daddy, drink.” Eli pointed to the creek and did his I-want-what-I-want jig, kicking up a little dust in the process. “Cold drink.” He crossed his little arms and stuck out his lower lip.

They’d been riding the range since sun-up, slowly herding his small drove of cattle to lower ground in preparation for winter. No doubt the cranky boy needed a nap. “Okay, you get your way. I’m too tired to argue.” He stepped into the high grass along the bank, squatted and leaned forward, extending the tin cup to catch fresh water gurgling over a mound of rocks in the stream. Cam leaned back on his hunkers. “Here’s your drink.”

Eli trotted over and grabbed the offered cup. “Dank-you,” he chirped in a sing-song voice.

“You’re welcome, Son.” He ruffled the boy’s curls and listened to the child’s gulping and breathing echo within the metal cup. His Amanda would be pleased he was teaching her son manners. She’d always set great store by them, growing up in the South the way she had. No doubt his beloved was smiling from heaven at his awkward attempts to raise their boy alone.

The offending tumbleweed that spooked Samson moments earlier snagged his attention. A sliver of color dangled within it. He took his son’s hand and walked him away from the stream toward the tumbleweed caught between a couple scrub pines.

He stooped to untangle a piece of blue calico. Maybe Eli would enjoy playing with it. As he untied the knotted material, paper crackled. What’s this?

Cam unfolded the remnant of calico. A piece of newspaper was tucked inside. Wasn’t that odd? As he turned the torn paper over, slanted writing along the margins caught his eye. Before he began reading, he gave Eli the scrap of calico.

“To the four winds, I hate it here. I miss Pennsylvania. I miss my home with my things about me. I miss my students and my husband, hooligan that he was. My friends told me nothing good would come from marrying him, but love only sees what it wants. Now I am alone, on the run and without funds. I barely earn my keep. I have no hope of happiness and no one to talk to, except you—the four winds.”

 “Mine.” Eli held out the blue strip of fabric so it fluttered in the breeze.

“That’s right, son.” Cam turned the scrap of newspaper over in hopes of reading more. Nothing, but an ad for winter coats at Munter and Lillanthal’s in Deadwood. The paper’s name, Black Hills Pioneer, was printed in the corner. No more handwriting and no signature. So a lonely, unhappy woman wrote a note to nobody and secreted it within the folds of fabric and tied it to a tumbleweed? He ran a hand across the back of his neck. If that wasn’t the strangest thing.

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLetters

AMAZON -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLettersDavis

 You can find me online at http://www.vonniedavis.com