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.
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