Hi, everyone
Yes, TGIO -- Thank God It's Over! I refer of course to NaNoWriMo. As usual, I did not reach 50,000 words. In fact, I probably didn't make 10,000 words. That's the bad news. The good news is that: (1) I wrote more than I have every other year I have signed up for NaNo; and (2) it got me back into my WIP. It also helped me identify a LOT of problems with the story that I have to go back and correct. But that's a good thing, too. At least now I know (or, hope) I can get the story to work. I am excited about fixing the plot problems and getting to the end.
So, I won't hang my head too low when I go to the TGIO party tomorrow. Anybody else out there do NaNo? How did you do?
There is another significance to this day. To all my fellow Scots and descendents of Scots -- Happy St. Andrew's Day. As you know, St. Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland. There are a couple of stories about how he acquired that honor -- his relics being brought from Constantinople and given to the Pictish king, Oengus mac Fergusa, or that Oengus or Oengus II seeing an "X" in the clouds that predicted he'd win in battle. Whichever story is true, we know that the "X", the saltire, is the cross on the flag of Scotland. St. Andrew was crucified, but he felt he was unworthy to be crucified on the same type of cross Jesus was, so he requested the X-shaped cross.
Well, that's all I have for today. My website is still not up -- my web designer and his wife recently had a baby, so he is VERY sleep deprived -- but hopefully soon. I know -- I've been saying that since the summer.
Till next month, Happy Holidays -- whichever one(s) you celebrate.
Kate Poole
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Welcome Sheila Roberts on her Virtual Book Tour
Welcome Sheila Roberts on her Virtual Book Tour
I'd like to welcome Sheila Roberts, author of On Strike for Christmas.
I'd like to welcome Sheila Roberts, author of On Strike for Christmas.
Thanks for dropping by. We learned a little about your book and about you yesterday. Today, you have agreed to answer some questions for us. Well, here we go.
1) If you could start over with your writing career, what if anything would you change? I would have started writing contemporary stories right from the get go. I got my beginnings writing Regency Romances - not surprising since I love them, but they have a limited readership. Plus although I tried hard, I really was terrible at research and it seemed I was always getting some historical detail wrong. Very embarrassing. I really think I would have done better writing about my own time period right from the get go. But, writing is a learning process, and I don't know any writers who ever got it all right at the beginning.
2) What was the best piece of advice you received regarding the life of a writer? Never give up.
3) If you could meet anyone, living or dead, who would it be? Actually, that list is rather long. But, to name a few: Stephen King, Dr. Phil and his wife, Steve Martin, Dustin Hoffman, and Cliff Richard, the British singing star
4) If you could meet any fictional character, who would it be? Jane Austen's Elizabeth Darcy, Heathcliff from "Wuthering Heights" and Dickens's Mr. Fezziwigg
5) In the next century, what do you hope people will remember you for? That would be remarkable to be remembered in the next century. Down the road, I'd like to be remembered as a writer who inspired people to be their best.
6) How do you balance your personal and writing time? I write during the day, just like a job, but unless I'm under deadline, I don't write more than a couple hours at a stretch. Then I go do something else. Fitting in time to be with friends and get other work done is important.
7) How do you write? Do your characters come to you first or the plot or the world of the story? What usually comes to me first is a story idea - something following the words, "What if?"
8) What genre(s) do you write? Why do you write the stories that you write? I've been published under different names in Romance, but I've also written for gift books and written non-fiction. I love to write about things that are important to women. And I like to write humor. Everyone needs to laugh.
9) Out of all the characters that you've written, who is your favorite and why? Some of my favorite characters have never seen the light of day. They all made guest appearances in manuscripts that never sold. Right now my favorite character is in a book that will be coming out next summer. She's a ditz and I love her.
10) If you were writing a script for the big screen, who would you want to act in your movie? Hmmm. Maybe some of the angry housewife chicks.
11) What would you want readers to take away from your books? A smile.
12) Do you have any advice for beginning writers in regards to writing a book? Finish the book. Many writers spend more time talking about writing than they do actually writing. Being able to type "the end" on something you've created is hugely satisfying.
13) Where can readers buy a copy of your book? At their nearby Barnes and Noble or Borders. And, of course, there's always Amazon. It's a fun book and I hope readers will give it a try.
14) What other projects are you working on right now? I just turned in Bikini Season, my second book for St. Martin's Press. It's about diets, true love, cheating, and friendship. I should have an excerpt posted on my website (http://www.sheilasplace.com/) in the new year.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Introduce Sheila Roberts Author of On Strike for Christmas
Tomorrow Sheila Roberts is dropping by on a leg of her virtual book tour to talk about her book
On Strike for Christmas
So today I would like to introduce her to you.
Sheila Roberts lives in the Pacific Northwest. She's happily married and has three children. She's been writing since 1989, but she did lots of things before settling in to her writing career, including owning a singing telegram company and playing in a band. When she's not speaking to women's groups or at conferences or playing with her friends, she can be found writing about those things near and dear to women's hearts: family, friends, and chocolate.
Romantic Times Magazine Reviewed On Strike for Christmas and said:
ON STRIKE FOR CHRISTMASby Sheila Roberts
RT Rating: 4½ Stars
Category: MAINSTREAM FICTION
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
Published: November 2007
Type: Mainstream Fiction
Roberts' witty and effervescently funny holiday novel will warm hearts. Realistic characters populate the pages of this captivating story, which is a great escape from holiday hustle and bustle.
Summary: In the town of Holly, some of the members of the Stitch 'n Bitch knitting club have decided to teach their husbands a lesson. Led by Joy, one of the club's older members, the women have collectively decided to go on strike, forcing their husbands to provide all of the holiday preparations.As the men get together to complain, the women remain steadfast in their strike efforts. But Carol, a knitting club member whose husband and son are both deceased, thinks the women should be thankful for their husbands and hectic lives. And when Jerri, another knitting club member, suffers from the ill effects of chemotherapy, the women unite to support their friend. (St. Martin's griffin, Nov., 352 pp., $13.95)—Sheri Melnick
Summary: In the town of Holly, some of the members of the Stitch 'n Bitch knitting club have decided to teach their husbands a lesson. Led by Joy, one of the club's older members, the women have collectively decided to go on strike, forcing their husbands to provide all of the holiday preparations.As the men get together to complain, the women remain steadfast in their strike efforts. But Carol, a knitting club member whose husband and son are both deceased, thinks the women should be thankful for their husbands and hectic lives. And when Jerri, another knitting club member, suffers from the ill effects of chemotherapy, the women unite to support their friend. (St. Martin's griffin, Nov., 352 pp., $13.95)—Sheri Melnick
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Why write Romance? Why read Romance?
Pretend the date is November 24th, last Saturday, when I was scheduled to blog and FORGOT!
I see an empty space on our Goddess blog to-day so here I am with head still slightly bowed from shame but recovering.
Why write Romance? Why read Romance? My quick answer - to keep us from falling into the techie trap. To keep us involved with others. To keep us warm hearted human souls. Because I came late to the technical upheaval sweeping our world I wonder what's next?
David Levy, author of Love + Sex with Robots: The Evolution of Human-Robot Relationships, thinks he has the answer. There was an extensive question and answer interview with him in The Globe and Mail, November 15. "A robot that contains all knowledge of sexual technique will clearly be a very proficient lover." I can't picture it. I don't want to. I blogged about robots on my own blog. Since then I've been wondering if David Levy has a better sense of the future than someone like me or you.
When I'm out for my daily walk around the neighbourhood I pass young men and women, and some older men, with dazed looks on their faces as they listen to music on their Ipods, etc. Their eyes are unfocussed. It's almost as if they are walking in a bubble. Out of touch with the birds twittering over their heads, fallen leaves scuffing under their shoes, me walking towards them.
Cell phones. Text messaging. No one is ever out of touch - or are they?
Writing romance is about honest to God human relationships where paying attention to verbal, emotional and physical signals builds trust with another. We make mistakes, we repair the damage, we laugh at ourselves - especially the laughting. Developing a sense of humour is a key building block in becoming a social animal. Share a funny story with a robot?
Did I ever tell you about the drunk man who staggered close to a river where a pastor was baptizing members of his flock in the river. "Come, my good man, and be saved." He grabbed the drunk and shoved him under the water. Gasping for air the drunk surfaced. "Have you found Jesus?" The pastor asked. The man shook his head. Down he went under the water a second and then a third time. "Have you found Jesus?" The pastor asked again to which the drunk replied. "Are you sure this is where you lost him?" (I hope no one is offended. My parish priest cracked this joke during Mass last Sunday!)
Writing romance is non-tech. A pencil and paper will do. Think of Jane Austen writing with a quill pen by candle light. We're lucky to have computers but some authors prefer the pen and paper route to get the story down before transferring it to a computer.
Why read Romance? It's so cool. Nothing between the author and the reader but words on a page. It's an invitation to sit back and live the story with the characters. You'll tell your friends to buy the book or borrow it. There's something warm and fuzzy about a good read and wanting to share.
And since it's so close to Christmas, bear with me while I read aloud - only you can't hear. So I'll write down the first paragraph.
"Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change or anything he chose to put his hand to." A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.
www.anitabirt.com
I see an empty space on our Goddess blog to-day so here I am with head still slightly bowed from shame but recovering.
Why write Romance? Why read Romance? My quick answer - to keep us from falling into the techie trap. To keep us involved with others. To keep us warm hearted human souls. Because I came late to the technical upheaval sweeping our world I wonder what's next?
David Levy, author of Love + Sex with Robots: The Evolution of Human-Robot Relationships, thinks he has the answer. There was an extensive question and answer interview with him in The Globe and Mail, November 15. "A robot that contains all knowledge of sexual technique will clearly be a very proficient lover." I can't picture it. I don't want to. I blogged about robots on my own blog. Since then I've been wondering if David Levy has a better sense of the future than someone like me or you.
When I'm out for my daily walk around the neighbourhood I pass young men and women, and some older men, with dazed looks on their faces as they listen to music on their Ipods, etc. Their eyes are unfocussed. It's almost as if they are walking in a bubble. Out of touch with the birds twittering over their heads, fallen leaves scuffing under their shoes, me walking towards them.
Cell phones. Text messaging. No one is ever out of touch - or are they?
Writing romance is about honest to God human relationships where paying attention to verbal, emotional and physical signals builds trust with another. We make mistakes, we repair the damage, we laugh at ourselves - especially the laughting. Developing a sense of humour is a key building block in becoming a social animal. Share a funny story with a robot?
Did I ever tell you about the drunk man who staggered close to a river where a pastor was baptizing members of his flock in the river. "Come, my good man, and be saved." He grabbed the drunk and shoved him under the water. Gasping for air the drunk surfaced. "Have you found Jesus?" The pastor asked. The man shook his head. Down he went under the water a second and then a third time. "Have you found Jesus?" The pastor asked again to which the drunk replied. "Are you sure this is where you lost him?" (I hope no one is offended. My parish priest cracked this joke during Mass last Sunday!)
Writing romance is non-tech. A pencil and paper will do. Think of Jane Austen writing with a quill pen by candle light. We're lucky to have computers but some authors prefer the pen and paper route to get the story down before transferring it to a computer.
Why read Romance? It's so cool. Nothing between the author and the reader but words on a page. It's an invitation to sit back and live the story with the characters. You'll tell your friends to buy the book or borrow it. There's something warm and fuzzy about a good read and wanting to share.
And since it's so close to Christmas, bear with me while I read aloud - only you can't hear. So I'll write down the first paragraph.
"Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change or anything he chose to put his hand to." A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.
www.anitabirt.com
Friday, November 23, 2007
One Good Man: Thanksgiving
Here's a never-before-posted Thanksgiving excerpt from One Good Man by Lacey Thorn and Cindy Spencer Pape, available NOW at http://www.ellorascave.com/ In this excerpt, Grant is still struggling to deal with witnessing the death of his younger brother in Iraq. Casey is fleeing a murderer, and has been led to Grant's remote cabin by a hitchiker who then vanished.
excerpt:
When she returned a few minutes later, she was dressed in jeans and a tight little sweater that made Grant’s mouth water and his jeans uncomfortably tight. Her long damp hair hung in thick glossy strands down her back.
“Something smells wonderful.”
“Turkey.” It came out as little more than a grunt, so he tried again. “I put some potatoes in to bake too.”
“Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, huh?” She gave him a lopsided grin. “Anything I can do to help? I’ll warn you I’m not much use in the kitchen.”
Oh Grant could think of plenty of things to do with her in the kitchen but none of them involved getting dinner on the table. He pointed at the big cardboard box from his mother.
“There are probably more goodies in that, if you want to check.” Yesterday he’d been too depressed about the whole holiday to even open the care package.
“You want me to open your mail?”
Grant shrugged and handed her a small paring knife. “It’s from my mom, so it’s not like there are going to be any dirty pictures or anything. But she usually sends cookies and we could use dessert.”
“Ooookay.” She took the knife and slit the tape on the box. While Grant pulled the potatoes out of the oven and put them on a plate, he watched her remove a layer of newspaper, then the rest of the contents, cans first.
“Cranberry sauce. A can of turkey gravy. Green beans. A bottle of white wine. A loaf of some kind of bread.” She pulled out a small foil-wrapped package.
“Oh yum, that will be her homemade banana bread. Seriously good stuff. Anything else?”
“A can of mixed nuts, a big tub of cookies and something else. Looks like a framed picture.”
Grant watched as she dug into the bottom of the box. She pulled the flat rectangular object out and handed it to Grant. He could tell it had bothered her. She was trying not to look at it. He noticed when he took it that her fingers were shaking almost as much as his were.
“Mom, what did you do this time?” He recognized the frame, though, didn’t need to see the photo to know every line and shadow. It was a blown-up snapshot of his first Thanksgiving after his ranger training. He was home, in his dress greens, with his arm around his nine-year old brother, who wore Grant’s beret and a mile-wide grin.
“You have a non-electric can opener?” Casey turned away, the can of beans in her hand. “I can manage to heat up a can of veggies, I think.” He heard the quaver in her voice and wanted to believe that the emotion was real, that she wasn’t here out of some ulterior motive.
“Yeah. Second drawer.” His own voice came out as a croak. He put the photo back in the box and turned to the cupboard to dig out a saucepan and another for the gravy. Trust his mom to remember that Grant had never mastered the art of making gravy.
He finished up the meal while Casey set the table, awkward silence stretching between them. The cracking fire and the oil lamps cast a glow that was almost too intimate and romantic for the talk they needed to have. When Grant finally took his place Casey raised her wineglass to him.
“Well, here’s to Thanksgiving. At least we’re inside with food and a fireplace.”
Grant nodded and clinked his glass to hers. He still wasn’t sure today was anything to be thankful for but at least it was a whole lot more interesting than he’d had any right to expect.
excerpt:
When she returned a few minutes later, she was dressed in jeans and a tight little sweater that made Grant’s mouth water and his jeans uncomfortably tight. Her long damp hair hung in thick glossy strands down her back.
“Something smells wonderful.”
“Turkey.” It came out as little more than a grunt, so he tried again. “I put some potatoes in to bake too.”
“Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, huh?” She gave him a lopsided grin. “Anything I can do to help? I’ll warn you I’m not much use in the kitchen.”
Oh Grant could think of plenty of things to do with her in the kitchen but none of them involved getting dinner on the table. He pointed at the big cardboard box from his mother.
“There are probably more goodies in that, if you want to check.” Yesterday he’d been too depressed about the whole holiday to even open the care package.
“You want me to open your mail?”
Grant shrugged and handed her a small paring knife. “It’s from my mom, so it’s not like there are going to be any dirty pictures or anything. But she usually sends cookies and we could use dessert.”
“Ooookay.” She took the knife and slit the tape on the box. While Grant pulled the potatoes out of the oven and put them on a plate, he watched her remove a layer of newspaper, then the rest of the contents, cans first.
“Cranberry sauce. A can of turkey gravy. Green beans. A bottle of white wine. A loaf of some kind of bread.” She pulled out a small foil-wrapped package.
“Oh yum, that will be her homemade banana bread. Seriously good stuff. Anything else?”
“A can of mixed nuts, a big tub of cookies and something else. Looks like a framed picture.”
Grant watched as she dug into the bottom of the box. She pulled the flat rectangular object out and handed it to Grant. He could tell it had bothered her. She was trying not to look at it. He noticed when he took it that her fingers were shaking almost as much as his were.
“Mom, what did you do this time?” He recognized the frame, though, didn’t need to see the photo to know every line and shadow. It was a blown-up snapshot of his first Thanksgiving after his ranger training. He was home, in his dress greens, with his arm around his nine-year old brother, who wore Grant’s beret and a mile-wide grin.
“You have a non-electric can opener?” Casey turned away, the can of beans in her hand. “I can manage to heat up a can of veggies, I think.” He heard the quaver in her voice and wanted to believe that the emotion was real, that she wasn’t here out of some ulterior motive.
“Yeah. Second drawer.” His own voice came out as a croak. He put the photo back in the box and turned to the cupboard to dig out a saucepan and another for the gravy. Trust his mom to remember that Grant had never mastered the art of making gravy.
He finished up the meal while Casey set the table, awkward silence stretching between them. The cracking fire and the oil lamps cast a glow that was almost too intimate and romantic for the talk they needed to have. When Grant finally took his place Casey raised her wineglass to him.
“Well, here’s to Thanksgiving. At least we’re inside with food and a fireplace.”
Grant nodded and clinked his glass to hers. He still wasn’t sure today was anything to be thankful for but at least it was a whole lot more interesting than he’d had any right to expect.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving!
For all our friends in the US, have a joyful and safe Thanksgiving. For those of you elsewhere in the world. have a lovely weekend knowing we're giving thanks for having you touch our lives, however lightly.
Thanksgiving MySpace Comments
Thanksgiving MySpace Comments
One Good Man!
One Good Man, by Lacey Thorn and Cindy Spencer Pape, is available today! Check out this Thanksgiving treat at http://www.ellorascave.com/
Blurb:
One of the most enduring of all urban legends is the story of the phantom hitchhiker. Young or old, male or female, in need of help or just needing a ride, the legends vary. A helpful driver offers a ride and the passenger gives directions. When they arrive at the destination however, the driver discovers the passenger has vanished, sometimes leaving behind a piece of clothing or some other memento to mark his or her passing. A stormy night, a deserted country road, a blown tire, and a woman on the run from a killer. Is the handsome young Marine here to save her? Or is he just a figment of her imagination?
One of the most enduring of all urban legends is the story of the phantom hitchhiker. Young or old, male or female, in need of help or just needing a ride, the legends vary. A helpful driver offers a ride and the passenger gives directions. When they arrive at the destination however, the driver discovers the passenger has vanished, sometimes leaving behind a piece of clothing or some other memento to mark his or her passing. A stormy night, a deserted country road, a blown tire, and a woman on the run from a killer. Is the handsome young Marine here to save her? Or is he just a figment of her imagination?
Casey is caught between a murderer, a ghost and the wounded soldier who could either save her life or break her heart. Grant can deal with Thanksgiving snowstorms and determined killers but not his brother’s ghost, and not a woman who makes him start thinking about the future. Can Grant let go of the past to embrace the explosive passion he finds with Casey? He’s willing to risk his life for hers, but what about his heart?
Excerpt:
“Miss, can you tell me how badly you’re hurt?”
“Not bad.” She started to shake her head but winced and gave a little moan instead. “Was going pretty slow by the time we hit the tree.”
“We? Was there someone else in the car?” He shined the flashlight around the back seat, found no signs of another occupant.
“Umm-hmm.” She straightened slowly as if testing each movement. The dome light and his flashlight provided enough illumination to tell she was fairly young, with a cascade of long brown curls, a heart shaped face and big green eyes. “I picked him up a few miles back after he helped me change a tire. Said the bus dropped him off at the highway and he was trying to get home for Thanksgiving.”
“Well, once we get you inside, I’ll come back out and look.” He wasn’t sure if she was delusional or if her hitchhiker had fled before the cops could be called, but either way he didn’t figure he’d find any tracks. With no working phone lines he couldn’t call an ambulance or the cops anyway, but if there had been a rider, he was gone now.
“Do you think you can stand?” God he hoped so. He didn’t think his body was up to carrying her all the way up the hill.
…
“Let’s get you up to the cabin then.”
“Okay.” She leaned into the Jeep and pulled out a big leather shoulder bag. She staggered a little as she straightened but caught herself on the door. “One ankle’s a little sore, but it will hold.”
“Good.” He leaned past her and swung the door shut. “Cause the phone’s out, so it would be kind of tough to call an ambulance.”
“I’ll make it. And I’d sell my left arm for a cup of coffee.”
“That I can manage.” He’d dug out the old metal percolator before the power went out. He took her arm again, helped her climb over the tree, and started guiding her slowly up the hill. “The cabin’s a good ways up the road. Let me know if you need to stop and catch your breath for a second.”
“I’m good. I’m going to have a nice collection of bruises, a puffy ankle and a knot on my forehead, but nothing major.”
“If you say so.” The head injury would be the one to watch. She kept up pretty well, so he wasn’t too concerned. Of course with his leg and the ice that wasn’t necessarily saying much. The rain had started up again by the time they made it up the hill, making the trip even tougher. When they reached the cabin she stopped on the porch and kicked the snow off her sneakers before following him inside.
“Power’s out,” he told her as he unzipped his coat and stuffed his gloves in the pockets. “But there’s plenty of firewood and the stove’s propane, so we should be all right.”
She looked around and gave him a smile that went straight to his gut—and lower. Jesus—in the firelight she was even prettier than he’d realized—all long hair, long legs and the most kissable damned mouth he’d ever seen.
“Nice place.”
“I like it.” He shrugged and turned away to hang his coat on a peg beside the door. He held out a hand for her coat carefully avoiding any contact with her skin when he took it, then hung it beside his own.
She followed him over to the fire, held out her bare hands to warm in front of the flames.
“Thanks for the rescue.” He dragged a couple chairs over to the fireside, and with a sigh she sank down into one. As soon as he sat down beside her, she stuck out her hand. “I’m Casey, Casey Shields.”
He shook her hand then leaned his elbows on his thighs to hide his body’s instant reaction to even that most casual touch. He hadn’t had a waking erection in months. Why the hell had the equipment picked today to go back into working order? He managed to nod an acknowledgement and return her introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Casey Shields. My name’s Grant Kincaid.”
Her forest-green eyes widened and sparkled, “Oh you are Grant. Good! Now where is Lee? I assumed he’d come up to the cabin to get help.”
Every hair on Grant’s body stood on end and his guts clenched in a knot. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“Lee. Your brother.” She tilted her head to the side in a damn good imitation of confusion. “Oh that’s right—he said it was a surprise—you didn’t know he was coming. But you have to go out and look for him. He could be hurt!”
“Lady, I don’t know what kind of scam you think you’re running, but unless you want to walk back to town it ends right now.”
She blinked up at him with those big green eyes—those big green lying eyes. “What’s wrong with you? Your brother could be lost out there somewhere, or hurt. Don’t you even care?”
Rage burned in his belly. He wouldn’t have been nearly this pissed if she’d shoved a gun in Grant’s face. There wasn’t much left that he gave a damn about, but Lee’s name, Lee’s memory—those were still sacred. Maybe the only things left that were. “You’ve got about two seconds to tell me what the hell is going on before I open that door and throw you out into the ice.”
“I have no idea.” She threw up her hands. “All I did was offer a ride to a nice young Marine who helped me out when I got a flat tire. And in return I got a smashed up Jeep, a sore ankle and a bitch of a headache.”
He started to speak but she shook her head and kept on going. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, and frankly I don’t much care. All I really wanted to do was to get to my own cabin and get some sleep since I’ve been driving all night. You on the other hand, might want to go find your baby brother—who seems for some reason to idolize you even though you are obviously a freaking lunatic.”
Grant stood and leaned over her, pinning her into her chair by leaning one hand on each armrest.
“Listen, lady. I don’t know what your game is, but mention my brother one more time and I will toss you out into the freezing rain. But just in case you hit your head harder than I thought and you’ve got amnesia, I’m going to say this nice and clear. My little brother Lee is dead. I watched him get blown to pieces right in front of my face, so there’s no mistaking it. Lee Sherman Kincaid died January fourteenth at five thirty six pm in a fucking tent in Iraq.”
Excerpt:
“Miss, can you tell me how badly you’re hurt?”
“Not bad.” She started to shake her head but winced and gave a little moan instead. “Was going pretty slow by the time we hit the tree.”
“We? Was there someone else in the car?” He shined the flashlight around the back seat, found no signs of another occupant.
“Umm-hmm.” She straightened slowly as if testing each movement. The dome light and his flashlight provided enough illumination to tell she was fairly young, with a cascade of long brown curls, a heart shaped face and big green eyes. “I picked him up a few miles back after he helped me change a tire. Said the bus dropped him off at the highway and he was trying to get home for Thanksgiving.”
“Well, once we get you inside, I’ll come back out and look.” He wasn’t sure if she was delusional or if her hitchhiker had fled before the cops could be called, but either way he didn’t figure he’d find any tracks. With no working phone lines he couldn’t call an ambulance or the cops anyway, but if there had been a rider, he was gone now.
“Do you think you can stand?” God he hoped so. He didn’t think his body was up to carrying her all the way up the hill.
…
“Let’s get you up to the cabin then.”
“Okay.” She leaned into the Jeep and pulled out a big leather shoulder bag. She staggered a little as she straightened but caught herself on the door. “One ankle’s a little sore, but it will hold.”
“Good.” He leaned past her and swung the door shut. “Cause the phone’s out, so it would be kind of tough to call an ambulance.”
“I’ll make it. And I’d sell my left arm for a cup of coffee.”
“That I can manage.” He’d dug out the old metal percolator before the power went out. He took her arm again, helped her climb over the tree, and started guiding her slowly up the hill. “The cabin’s a good ways up the road. Let me know if you need to stop and catch your breath for a second.”
“I’m good. I’m going to have a nice collection of bruises, a puffy ankle and a knot on my forehead, but nothing major.”
“If you say so.” The head injury would be the one to watch. She kept up pretty well, so he wasn’t too concerned. Of course with his leg and the ice that wasn’t necessarily saying much. The rain had started up again by the time they made it up the hill, making the trip even tougher. When they reached the cabin she stopped on the porch and kicked the snow off her sneakers before following him inside.
“Power’s out,” he told her as he unzipped his coat and stuffed his gloves in the pockets. “But there’s plenty of firewood and the stove’s propane, so we should be all right.”
She looked around and gave him a smile that went straight to his gut—and lower. Jesus—in the firelight she was even prettier than he’d realized—all long hair, long legs and the most kissable damned mouth he’d ever seen.
“Nice place.”
“I like it.” He shrugged and turned away to hang his coat on a peg beside the door. He held out a hand for her coat carefully avoiding any contact with her skin when he took it, then hung it beside his own.
She followed him over to the fire, held out her bare hands to warm in front of the flames.
“Thanks for the rescue.” He dragged a couple chairs over to the fireside, and with a sigh she sank down into one. As soon as he sat down beside her, she stuck out her hand. “I’m Casey, Casey Shields.”
He shook her hand then leaned his elbows on his thighs to hide his body’s instant reaction to even that most casual touch. He hadn’t had a waking erection in months. Why the hell had the equipment picked today to go back into working order? He managed to nod an acknowledgement and return her introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Casey Shields. My name’s Grant Kincaid.”
Her forest-green eyes widened and sparkled, “Oh you are Grant. Good! Now where is Lee? I assumed he’d come up to the cabin to get help.”
Every hair on Grant’s body stood on end and his guts clenched in a knot. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“Lee. Your brother.” She tilted her head to the side in a damn good imitation of confusion. “Oh that’s right—he said it was a surprise—you didn’t know he was coming. But you have to go out and look for him. He could be hurt!”
“Lady, I don’t know what kind of scam you think you’re running, but unless you want to walk back to town it ends right now.”
She blinked up at him with those big green eyes—those big green lying eyes. “What’s wrong with you? Your brother could be lost out there somewhere, or hurt. Don’t you even care?”
Rage burned in his belly. He wouldn’t have been nearly this pissed if she’d shoved a gun in Grant’s face. There wasn’t much left that he gave a damn about, but Lee’s name, Lee’s memory—those were still sacred. Maybe the only things left that were. “You’ve got about two seconds to tell me what the hell is going on before I open that door and throw you out into the ice.”
“I have no idea.” She threw up her hands. “All I did was offer a ride to a nice young Marine who helped me out when I got a flat tire. And in return I got a smashed up Jeep, a sore ankle and a bitch of a headache.”
He started to speak but she shook her head and kept on going. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, and frankly I don’t much care. All I really wanted to do was to get to my own cabin and get some sleep since I’ve been driving all night. You on the other hand, might want to go find your baby brother—who seems for some reason to idolize you even though you are obviously a freaking lunatic.”
Grant stood and leaned over her, pinning her into her chair by leaning one hand on each armrest.
“Listen, lady. I don’t know what your game is, but mention my brother one more time and I will toss you out into the freezing rain. But just in case you hit your head harder than I thought and you’ve got amnesia, I’m going to say this nice and clear. My little brother Lee is dead. I watched him get blown to pieces right in front of my face, so there’s no mistaking it. Lee Sherman Kincaid died January fourteenth at five thirty six pm in a fucking tent in Iraq.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)