Happy Mother's Day

_{Happy Mother’s Day to all moms out there! So glad you could join me. Today, I have a gift just for you, faithful readers. Excerpts. Yep, you heard me. Free excerpts of my books, all of them focusing on moms and mothering.}

_{The three ladies you are about to meet are as different as night and day, yet they have one thing in common; all of them take on the care of someone in need of a mother. Maggie Scott is a mom and an aunt. Dr. Faith Valentine takes on the responsibility of ten orphaned children who live next door. Lady Ann MacQueen Davidson is a widow living in her brother’s home with her teenager son. Now that I think of it, these ladies have something else in common; all are believers. Oh, and one more thing, all are fictional. They weren’t created with anyone special in mind, but as I read over these excerpts, I can’t help but remember what my life was like while I wrote about them and see characteristics of folks I either know or once knew.}

_{Living several miles away from her 18-year-old daughter, Maggie Scott from "Wild Heart"} is a seamstress. In the scene you are about to read, her nephew and former neighbor have just arrived unexpectedly in the night. Maggie first came West on the California trail back in 1850. In the 1860’s, she moved with her husband and daughter to Wyoming to ranch. Now, she is living in New Mexico near her ailing brother. She loves to feed people, and she makes no secret about being a matchmaker. She rather puts me in mind of my Papaw’s sister who insisted on feeding you every time you came to her house. Come with me to Maggie’s cozy kitchen.

Maggie reached into her cupboard and retrieved three mugs.  After pouring the coffee, she placed the hot mugs before her guests, and then began to slice the cinnamon cake.  When everyone was served, including herself, she sat down and asked, "So, what brings the two of you to Silver City?”

She watched with curiosity as the young people at her table looked at one another.  Shewana opened her mouth to reply, but Gage beat her to it.

"We were just passing through on our way to Cheyenne," he said.

Maggie gave him a look that said more plainly than words, "Sure you are.”

Gage met her gaze and tried to tell her with his eyes to let it alone, but apparently she either didn't understand, or she didn't care.

"Going to Cheyenne?" she asked.  "Well, that's nice.  Shewana, your brother's up there, isn't he?  Well, so if you're going to Cheyenne, where are you coming from?”

"Coming from?" Gage asked, not sure he understood her question.

"Yes, coming from," Maggie reiterated.  "Where did you two meet up?  In Texas?"  Then, as a thought struck her, she asked, incredulously, "You two aren't married, are you?”

Shewana choked on her bite of cake, and Gage's eyes grew wide.  Maggie enjoyed watching them, even though she knew it wasn't really all that funny.

After a silence that seemed to go on forever, Shewana managed, "Married?  Uh, no, Maggie, we are most definitely not married.  Whatever gave you that idea?”

"Well," Maggie said, "I've never seen the two of you together.  In fact, I didn't even know the two of you knew one another.  I just…”

"It’s ok, Maggie," said Gage, rising to his feet.  "Shewana's right.  We're not married; we're just traveling together.  I'm going to carry our bags upstairs.  I'll be back in a minute.”

Hurriedly standing to her feet, Shewana said, embarrassed, "I think I'll go up with you.  I'm sort of tired.  Thanks for the coffee and cake, Maggie.  I hope you will excuse me turning in so early.”

Knowing that there was more here than what met the eye, Maggie decided to wait until she had Gage alone to press further.  Aloud, she said, "No problem, Honey.  You sleep as long as you like.”

Faith Valentine from "To Tame A Heart" is a physician in a town where no one has ever heard of a woman doctor. The orphans who are her neighbors keep her hopping, but she wouldn’t trade them for a moment. If she could, she’d take them all in as her own. While I am eternally grateful the Lord only blessed me with two children, Faith’s busyness of always cleaning up after sick folks puts me in mind of myself when my girls were small. LOL Seems like I was always wiping up messes on the floor, changing diapers and walking the floors at night. Let’s go see what Faith and the children are into now.

When the door was opened, she stared in puzzlement at the four smallest children from the orphanage: Megan, Blake, Tracey and Kierstin.

"Good morning," she greeted.  "Is there something wrong?"

Why are they looking so serious?

Pulling her thumb out of her mouth with an audible pop, little Kierstin said, "There's a big fight down by the jail and Candace says you need to come."

"At this hour?" she asked, incredulous.  "But, who…  Why me?"

"Cause somebody beat Colbey up," the child answered before replacing her thumb in its customary place.

"Oh for pity sake!" Faith exclaimed, before slamming her door, lifting her skirts and running with the children toward the jail.

What kind of trouble has that boy caused this time?

Reaching the middle of town, all Faith could see was a crowd of people.  They were standing around something or someone, but she could not see over them, not at first.

"Let me through," she commanded, shoving shoulders aside.

The people moved apart, allowing her amidst them.

There was indeed a big fight, or rather, there had been.  Now all she saw were bloody faces and a motley group of boys and girls standing around a single figure who lay silent in the mud.

Kneeling at his side, Faith touched a finger to Colbey's neck and was glad to feel a strong, if rapid, heartbeat.  He looked awful, blood and bruises all over his face and his clothes all torn and muddy. But, he was alive.

Glancing up, she met Ruby's green eyes and commanded, "Go get me some water, Ruby.  Candace," she said to the teenager whose face was tear-streaked, go get my bag for me."

The children were not long in obeying; they knew her well and knew she meant for them to hurry.

"Colbey!" Faith called kindly, wiping away the dirt and blood from his face, "Colbey, wake up.  Come on, Son, open your eyes and talk to me."

Then, as Candace handed her the bag, she grabbed up a bottle of ammonia.  She uncorked it, passed it beneath her patient's nose and called out, "Colbey!  Come on, Colbey!"

Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he tried to sit up.

"Careful, there," she said, steadying him with a hand to his shoulder.

He turned his head and tried to meet her gaze, but his eyes were swelling shut fast.

Colbey," she began, gently, taking his hand, "Colbey, do you think you can stand up?"

He nodded, so she and Candace helping, he managed to get to his feet.  They steadied him and, glancing around at the staring faces, Faith asked, "Is anyone else injured?"

No one answered.  They just stood there like knot heads and stared wide-eyed at her.

"What?" she asked in exasperation.

"Ain't you even going to go in and check on your husband?" a male voice asked from somewhere in the crowd.

Her husband?

Glancing around, she looked for Deric, but did not see him.  Then, her eyes were drawn to the barred window near the corner of the jailhouse.  And there, looking out upon the scene in the street with troubled eyes was Deric Christy.  He was unshaven and still wearing the clothes he had worn the day before.  When their eyes met, she felt her face burn with shame and not a little anger.

"Uh, Miss…  Uh, Doctor, if you'd like, I'll help you get this young man home.  We can talk then.”

Lady Ann from "A Moment in Time" has lost her husband, and now her son is critically injured. The woman she is trusting to care for her only son has strange ways about her, but since her brother trusts this new person in their midst, Lady Ann must trust as well. I tried to think of someone who reminds me of her, but she is original, unlike anyone I know.  Come with me back to 15th century Scotland where Lady Ann’s son is being cared for by a 21st century American.

Even before my fingers touched the young man’s brow, I knew we were in trouble. I bit down on my bottom lip and ordered my face not to show any emotion.

"Mayhap he is in need of more of your wee rocks?”

The trembling voice of Lady Ann from somewhere behind me penetrated through the fear choking me and I turned to her.

She looked like she was about to cry. Twisting a handkerchief between shaking hands, her blue eyes implored me to do something.

"My lady," I said, having no idea how I managed to sound so calm and respectful, "If you could reach my hand bag over here, I’ll have your son resting quietly in no time.”

"Aye, Annie, get Mistress Bronwen her things.”

I flashed Himself a grateful glance, then turned back to the bed.

When Lady Ann handed me my bag, I tried to talk her and her brother in to leaving me to my work, but the expression in the laird’s eyes told me he knew there was reason for concern. Geordy’s mother and uncle were going nowhere.

I knew what I would find when I unwrapped the bandages, and I was right; the wounds were swollen, warm to the touch and reddened. One of the gashes was beginning to ooze yellow pus. Not taking my eyes from the affected area, I reached a hand toward my bag. This young man was going to need that codeine in order to make it through the coming ordeal.

Instead of the well-worn denim of my shoulder strap, however, my hand was grasped and a bottle placed in my palm. I glanced up only to see Colin’s somber face. He wrapped my fingers around the plastic bottle of pills and pushed it toward me.

"Nephew," he said, voice full of tenderness, "ye need to swallow more rocks, and Mistress Bronwen needs to fix up your wounds.”

"Aye, uncle, I know," came the whispered reply from the bed.

"It’s going to hurt, laddy.”

"Aye, well, she better get to it before I lose my courage.”

The difficulty was not the task of washing the wounds with whisky. No, that was the easy part. The difficult part was seeing Geordy’s pain. The codeine hadn’t had time to start working on his system, and, braw lad that he was, he had still needed his uncle to hold him down during the worst parts. Honestly, I don’t know who cried more, Lady Ann or me. By the time I had spread a thick layer of antibiotic cream on the wounds and wrapped clean bandages around them, all four of us were damp with perspiration and dragging with fatigue.

I slumped on to a stool and leaned my back against the stone wall, closing my eyes.

"Will... Will Geordy be all right?”

Clutching the shoulder strap of my bag, I wanted so much to lie to Lady Ann, but I couldn’t.

Opening my eyes, I met her gaze head on.

"Only time will tell," I said, then shut my eyes against her pain.

The sound of pouring liquid came to my ears and then Colin’s voice.

"Take a drink, Annie.”

"I dinna want it," she said.

"I dinna care what ye want. Drink it. Ye are no help to anyone if ye dinna take care of yourself.”

She must have obeyed, because the next time I heard him speak, his tone was more gentle.

I looked, and the MacQueen was lowering his sister to the pallet I had slept in the night before. He touched her cheek, told her to rest, then stepped away and faced me.

Any woman can be a mother, but it takes a real woman to be a real mom. I think it’s rather funny, sometimes when I look back at my own childhood. As a youngster, I thought my mom had it figured out. Then, I became a teenager and Mom didn’t know a thing. Now that I have girls of my own, I realize, we all have one thing in common; we are all just trying to do our best and figure it out as we go. A newborn will teach you that you don’t know anything. A busy toddler will teach you what it means to be alert. A preteen will teach you that only God can convict your child and know what and who they are talking to when you aren’t around. My oldest will be twelve in August, so I’m sure there’s more learning up around the bend, but for now, I gotta go on what I know. Only way I know to do that with any peace is to put my trust in the one who created us. He is ever faithful, and it is His will that my girls trust in Him.

I hope you have enjoyed this post, and i pray you’ll make Jesus the Lord of your life. Be sure and join me each Tuesday. I don’t always know what I’m going to say, but I post something each week. Take care, be blessed and hug your mama, if she is still living. If she isn’t, here’s a big ole hug from me. XX

On Reading

Last week we talked about a cure for writer's block. Writing. Practice was my theme. This week, I’m talking about reading. Reading for pleasure, reading to study the craft of writing, reading to find out what works and what doesn’t.

I have another blog that I haven’t been on since 2013. On that blog, which is a lot of venting my joys and frustrations of being a new homeschool mom, I used to interview new authors. One of the questions I used to ask them was “What’s your favorite kinds of books to read?” I was shocked when most of them replied, “I don’t like to read very much.”

What? Seriously? You don’t like books, but you think you’re a good writer? You don’t like to read, but you desperately want others to read what you’ve written?

Faithful readers, just for the record, I love books. I love to be read to, I love to read braille books, and if I could see, I’d love to read print books. I love to tell stories, write stories, hear stories; I love books.

A doctor doesn’t go to school for several years just because there is nothing else to do; they go to learn. A musician doesn’t listen to music because they are bored; they listen to learn. A writer must read in order to learn.

I used to read solely for pleasure. Now, I often can’t finish a book because they are too predictable. I used to love romances, but now I like several genres. For a time, all I read were Westerns. Now, I’d rather watch Westerns on TV. My favorite authors have changed over the years, my favorite styles of writing have changed, but if there is one thing that has stayed the same, it is characters make the story. If I love your characters, I could care less if you are a terrible writer. :) 

Some favorite characters of mine include: Jamie and Clair from Diana Gabaldon’s “Outlander” series, Conner and Reese from Lori Wick’s “Just Above a Whisper”, Lavinia and Belle from Kathleen Grissom’s “The Kitchen House”, Julia and Phoebe from Lynn Austin’s “Fire by Night”, Cameron and Jade from Kristin Heitzmann’s “Free Fall”, Sam and Amy from Peggy Hoy’s “Classified”, Huck Finn from Mark Twain’s “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”, Laura Ingalls Wilder from the “Little House” books, Tarzan, who needs no further explanation, Clark and Marty from Janette Oke’s “Love Comes Softly” series and many, many more that will not come to mind just now.

As you can see, the characters are as different as night and day, but there is something about each one of them that leaps off the page. I don’t reread books because I forgot the ending. I reread to spend time with the characters once more. Sometimes, I just get in the mood to be with a particular character, and so I download the audio book and listen away. I have even been known to fast forward through parts of the book just to get to the parts where my characters are the most active.

The books that stick with me are the ones I cannot predict. Recently, I read “her One and Only” by Becky Wade, in which a big football player’s body guard happens to be a woman. It was unpredictable, and I finished it. Another unpredictable book that I would have never read if I had known what it was about before listening was “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe”. But, I didn’t know anything about it before listening, and I found myself laughing and crying to the extent that I thought I was going to wake up my husband snoring beside me in bed. That book talks about lesbians, women’s issues, love, abuse, aging, crime, and it’s seemingly higgledy-piggledy way of jumping from one character’s head to another and one time period to another was what kept me reading. Heads up, faithful readers, you don’t have to agree with a character’s lifestyle in order to enjoy a story.

My point with all this is that the more one reads, the better one will write. Study your favorites. Don’t mimic them, but take from them what you can use. I try to tell how my characters are feeling through the world around them. Here is an example. This is from one of my current works in progress.

[ After saddling the horse, Cam mounted him and led him out into the fresh, morning air. He was leaning down to close the gate behind him, when he heard a voice from the shadows.

"Mr. Delaney? Uh…Cam?"

He paused and scanned the path to the house.

"Miss Rachel, is that you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry for disturbing you, but I was hoping to have a moment to speak with you in private."

Dismounting, he rested a hand on the top rail of the gate and waited as she approached.

Did Rob know she was out here?

"Where's Rob?"

"He hasn't awakened, yet, but I couldn't sleep, and like I said, I wanted a moment with you."

"What can I do for you?"

She reached the fence and gripped the wood, her hand not far from his. Her blue gaze was direct, but her fingers on the fence rail fidgeted.

"I was wondering if… Well, I hoped there might be a way you could…could talk Rob out of…going. You've known him longer than I, and perhaps he would listen to you if…"

Cam forced his eyes from her face…her oh so expressive face and concentrated on the strands of crimson and violet at the edge of the horizon. The tendrils of color would disappear when the sun rose, but for now they stretched between night and day, linking them, yet holding them back from ever touching.

When he looked back she was biting her lip and clasping her hands together at her waist.]

I am curious what you think I’m trying to say. Feel free to comment.

Another key factor in whether a book is good or not is if the reader can identify with the character. An author might have an excellent book, but if I don’t connect with the characters, I won’t read it. This is the reason there are many different authors in many different genres; people are different and so are characters. You have a voice, and I have a voice, and while those voices might be similar, they will never be the same. They weren’t meant to be the same. If you want to find your voice, read, read read, then pray, pray pray. After that, go write, write, write. :)

Do you want to be a good romance author? Read Romances. Do you want to be a good blogger? Read blogs. Journalist? Read news articles. Suspense? Read suspense. Then, take your own experiences, and use them in your next book.

When all else fails, trust in the Master Storyteller. His book is a bestseller, in case you didn’t know. Go read what He has to say. It will change your life.

Excerpt of "A Moment in Time"

ONE

"Is this the one?"

"Maybe," I breathed.

Surrounded on three sides by steep, unforgiving land, the castle perched atop a cliff overlooking the sea. It was breath taking, and I couldn’t wait to go sit at the outdoor cafe that faced the blue-green water. But, the inside of the castle was what interested me now.

Running my thumb along the tiny key in my  pocket, I silently prayed this castle was the one.

We purchased a ticket and joined a group of tourists as they entered the great hall. There was a rack near the door filled with brochures, and I grabbed one, slipping it in to my bag.

"How many does that make?"

Morgan’s question was low, only I heard it, but still I dipped my head to hide my flaming cheeks.

"Uh…today makes five?"

All collected  in three days, but thankfully she didn’t mention that part.

Instead, she nodded toward the head of the line where a man began pointing out the glass cases filled with tapestries, needle work, old dishes, swords, plaids and other sundry antiques one might find in a Scottish, Medieval castle in the highlands.

The tour guide droned on in a thick Scottish accent I was sure he was not used to speaking in, and like school children my sister and I along with several other Yanks, followed behind, oohing and aahing at everything we saw. But, when we reached the middle of the great hall my heart sank; the stairs were all wrong.

Ahead of me in line two little boys began fighting over a balloon, and as you’d expect, the helium-filled latex could not withstand the argument. With a bang that startled everyone, the carefree toy burst, causing both boys to howl in protest.

Know how you feel, lads, I thought.

A nudge on my back made me glance over my shoulder. Somehow Morgan had ended up behind me, and now she was giving me that look, the look that said, "I know, I know, you’re ready to go because this castle isn’t like the one in your dreams."

Guilt made me ashamed of the way I had been acting; dragging her around, feverishly searching for something that probably didn’t exist in real life. This trip to Scotland was a dream come true for us both, and I needed to get my act together.

Straightening my shoulders, I motioned toward the other folks in our tour group and smiled.

"Look," I said, "he’s going to tell more about that tapestry hanging on the wall. It looks interesting. Go check it out."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, go. I’m going over here to have a closer look at the fireplace."

It was a huge affair, and I had no trouble picturing a roaring fire in it, the laird and his family sitting in chairs or on stools before it, hoping to catch some of its warmth. Maybe, nearby, a bard would have been playing a harp and singing.

Without thinking, I reached out a hand and touched the stones. They were cool and smooth from the passing of years, and they were also silent. No humming to warn of impending doom, no distant shouts of battle suggesting a passageway through time. Even so, when a cool draft of air wafted around me, I shivered.

I had heard the tales, just like everyone else. Ghosts and time travelers, Scottish stones and fairies, and like most of the population in the twenty-first century, I didn’t believe any of it.

But, if things like time travel and destiny were not possible, then why the dreams? Why was I searching for a place that, to this point, only existed in my head? Why was just being in the "old country" as my grandparents had called it, not enough?

Frustrated, I dropped my hand and stepped away.

"Bonnie," my sister hissed, "quit that and come on!"

I managed to squeeze back into my spot in line but was given the evil eye by our tour guide. I shrugged and gave him a weak smile, but he huffed at me before turning away.

Well, excuse me; I was only interested in the fireplace. Not like I’m going to come back at night and haul it away.

That was the thing about scheduled guided tours; you had to be on your best behavior, like a kid in school. Sure, they showed you all the neat stuff, and they always told you about the local folklore, any battles the family may have fought in, how loyal or not the castle’s owners had been to one king or another, and it was interesting. But, they really frowned when you asked what was beyond the solid oak doors with signs above them that read "Keep Out!" "Staff only!" "Fire Exit!". The other thing that made tour guides lower their bushy brows at you, was when you slipped beneath one of those rope things they use to corden off an area. I mean, those darkened hallways and black pits in the floor just begged to be explored. Besides, even though this castle wasn’t "the one" I might still learn something interesting.

This particular hole in the floor was square and big enough to lower a person down into. I lagged behind, pretending to study a silver platter on display. No one took notice, and I figure that was because the guide was telling a rousing tale about the time Sir Walter Scott had been a guest here.

When the last person in line made the turn in to another part of the castle, I ducked beneath the cord and got down on my knees at the edge of the opening. Someone had nailed wooden boards around it, probably hoping to keep curious folk like me from falling headlong to their death. I laid a hand on one of these boards and leaned down to try and get a better look. It was so black, I couldn’t see anything, so I took out my flashlight from the depths of my bag and shined its beam down in to the hole.

Empty! Now, how do you like that? The least they could do is leave a skeleton or two chained up down there so I could be properly horrified.

I sighed and put my flashlight away, but I wasn’t fast enough at getting free of the area before ole bushy brows found me.

"Perhaps, Madam," he said, dropping quite a bit of his Scottish accent in favor of a cultured, English one, "you would be more comfortable outside, where you will not be in danger of causing serious injury to your person."

My mouth fell open. Was he throwing me out?

Turns out my hesitation was a mistake. He took it for resistance, and I was escorted out very properly by security, who upon hearing that I planned to have tea at the outdoor caffe, left me to my own devices.

Trying to regain my dignity, I placed an order for tea and scones in Gaelic. It backfired, though, because the teenager behind the counter said, "Sorry, Miss, I dinna have the Gaelic. My granny did, but I never had an ear for it. What would ye be wantin’ today?"

I chose a table off to the side and sat down, turning my back on the castle. From here I had an uninterrupted view of the sea to my right and an open lawn just ahead. Except for the conversations, slide of flip-flops and the scraping of chair legs behind me, I was alone.

The raspberry jam and clotted cream were good, but the scones were dry and hard on the bottom. Disappointed, I scooped the toppings off, ate them and longed to be in Grandma’s kitchen, where no one thought I was crazy and where the scones were always perfect. Slumping in my chair, I picked up the paper cup, took a mouthful of hot tea and allowed it to work its magic.

I grew up on tea and scones, learning to prepare them as well as enjoy them. Scots Gaelic had been the language of our grandparents, and even though we had never been forced to learn the language, we had. Orphaned when we were small, Morgan and I had been taken in by our father’s parents who had come to America after World War II.

Pulling my keys out of my pocket, I laid them on the table and separated them until i found the one Grandma had given me just before she died two years ago. It was tiny and silver and reminded me of the diary I had kept under my pillow when I was a little girl.

"When ye go to Scotland to look for the castle in your dream, take this with ye," Grandma had whispered.

"But, what does it go to?" I had asked.

"Ye will ken it, when ye see it."

"Does it have something to do with the dream?"

"Promise me, Bronwen Catherine."

I had promised, and after Grandma's passing, Morgan and I began saving our money for a trip to Scotland. Now here we were, Morgan still grieving the loss of her husband and I had the key and my imaginary castle and no earthly idea what to do next. The strangest part was even in her pain, Morgan was the one connecting, the one who was keeping it together. I, on the other hand, felt as if the threads that held my life together were unraveling.

"What was that all about?"

At the sound of my sister’s sharp tone, I jumped and sat up straight. Dropping my keys into my bag, I tried to look as if I weren't having a pity party for myself.

"I’m sorry, Gan, I just..."

"You just what, Bonnie?"

"Still dealing with jet lag, I guess. Go get yourself a cup of tea. It’s really good, but don’t order any scones. I think there’s going to be a performance of some type."

I nodded toward the grassy lawn where a group of men were gathering, all of them dressed in full highland regalia.

Morgan gave me a long look, then went to stand in line.

While she was gone, I watched the men. They appeared to be comrades, their expressions care-free, their smiles genuine. Using one of the tables to set their gear on, one man pulled out a folder with papers sticking out of it and  unsheathed a long sword, while another man pulled out a small set of bagpipes. Interested, I leaned forward in my seat. A reenactment, I was sure.

"Have ye seen him?" I heard one of them ask.

"No," another answered.

They scanned the crowd, squinting and shading their eyes, until I too turned to see if I could spot...whoever they were looking for. The odd thing was, when I did see him, I knew he was the one the men were searching for. Of course, if I had glanced down at his attire, it would have been obvious he was one of them, but it wasn’t his clothing that grabbed my attention, it was his eyes. Gray and...filled with...something I couldn’t read. He was wading through the busy crowd, creating a path as he passed.

Rather like Moses parting the Red Sea, I thought.

When he saw me, he stopped, did a double take, gave me a most curious stare, raised a black brow then looked me straight in the eye. Altering his course, he came toward me and made as if to speak, but just then, someone shouted, and it caught his attention. He took a step, waved a hand at me as if to say, "stay there" then joined his friends. Only when he walked away did I notice he was carrying a broad sword.

"Wow, would you look at that!"

I glanced over at where Morgan was pulling out a chair and realized she was staring at my guy, too.

"Nice choice, Bonnie,and that Claymore looks authentic. After the demonstration, you should go introduce yourself."

Okay, so it wasn’t a broadsword but a Claymore. I never said Scottish history was my strong point. Gannie, on the other hand was an authority on all things Scottish; A master’s degree’s worth of knowledge lay hidden behind her sad eyes.

"Yeah, right."

"I’m serious!" she said, flashing me a conspiratorial grin. "I’ll keep watch so you don’t do something you’d regret."

"Gan, I don’t just walk up to strange men and introduce myself."

"Well, why not? He almost stopped to talk to you. After all, how do you think Brian and I met?"

"That was different," I said, heart aching at the sorrow in her expression.

"No it wasn’t. He was working behind the counter in the student center, and I walked right up to him and introduced myself. Then, I asked him what his name was. We talked about how gross the cafeteria’s burgers were and the nice weather, and then he asked me out."

The thing is, things like that just seemed to happen to Morgan. They do not happen to me. I’m not as pretty as my sister, I’m not as up-to-date on social graces as she is and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that when God handed out luck with guys, He somehow forgot I was in line.

Well," I stalled, "you and Brian were meant to be."

I didn’t miss the way she swallowed hard; grief was something that never seemed to go away. After a minute, though, she nodded.

"Yes, Brian and I were meant to be, and I believe God has somebody out there for you."

I managed to keep from snorting, but barely.

"Gan, let’s just sit back, finish our tea and enjoy the performance. Then, we’ll go back to the B and B and go to bed. I’m worn out, I feel too grungy to talk to any men, and besides, I’m not in the market for someone new. Remember what happened the last time?"

"Yeah," she said, a pinched look around her mouth, "I remember Drake, more’s the pity. But, Bonnie, that was last year, and not all men are like that...that idiot. You need to start looking at men like any one of them could be God’s match for you."

"Now you sound like an advertisement for one of those Christian dating sites online. Give it up, Gan. I’m on vacation. Remember?"

Her sigh was so loud, I could hear it over the sound of the piper getting his pipes ready, but she said no more about my nonexistent love life and what I should do about it. With a sigh of my own, I sat back and made an effort to pay attention to all the performers, but it was hard. My eyes kept straying to my gray-eyed stranger.

The performance was impromptu, if the expression on the locals’ faces was any indication, but it was superb. One man read aloud from a paper in Gaelic and then translated in to English. It was a poem written by some long dead Scottish author. Then, the man put aside his papers, grabbed a sword and he and my guy went at each other, as if they truly intended on killing one another. But, as vicious as it looked, I knew it was staged. Still, my mouth watered in spite of my vow to give up on men. After the sword play, a third man began to play a small set of bagpipes, and something inside me came to life. I can’t explain it, really, but when I closed my eyes, I could almost see a regiment of highland clansmen, running toward the battle, Claymores at the ready.

Then, into my revery, someone began to sing. Opening my eyes, I stared at my guy in awe.

"O the summer time is coming and the trees are sweetly bloomin’ and the wild mountain thyme grows around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go?"

A song Grandma had often sang to Morgan and me at bedtime, and I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat, my whole being focused on the man and his voice.

"I’ll build my love a bower by yon cool crystal fountain and round it I will pile all the flowers o’ the mountain. Will ye go lassie go?"

Before the last notes of the song could fade, I was on my feet, my breath caught somewhere in my throat.

There was the sound of applause in the distance, and then our eyes met across the way. A question lingered in his gaze, a question I wanted to answer. I don’t know what he saw in my own expression, but the corner of his mouth tipped up, and he actually bowed. He straightened and then winked. I opened my mouth, but speech was impossible. Then, the crowd surged forward hiding him from view, and I could have cried at the feeling of bereavement I felt.

"Bonnie? Bronwen? Hello, earth to Bronwen!"

I blinked, and time began again. I turned, and the expression on my sister’s face made me feel about two inches tall.

"Hello!" she said. "Not in the market for someone new? Bonnie, that man was flirting with you!"

Flirting? What planet was she on.

"He wasn’t flirting, Gan. He was just singing."

"To you. Bonnie, everyone could see it. He was looking right at you and singing, and you stood up with this look on your face like...well, like you were ready to go lassie go!"

There was a sudden stinging in the corners of my eyes, and I turned away so she couldn’t see.

"Gan, let’s go."

"You’re not going to wait for him?"

Wait for him? So I could make a fool out of myself all over again? Not hardly.

"No."

"Bronwen!"

But, I ignored her and took off toward where we had parked the car.

Hurry! Find her!

But, she was nowhere in sight. By the time he found somewhere private to exchange his kilt for jeans and put his sword back in his car, the table where she and another woman had been sitting was empty. He ran back to the car park, searching each face for those familiar blue green eyes, but she was gone, and he didn’t even know what kind of vehicle he was looking for.

Of course, it would help if he knew for certain who he was looking for. He had his suspicions, but...

With a prayer in his heart he slid in to his own car and drove away.

Lord, that I might find her!

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Excerpt of "To Tame A Heart"

PROLOGUE

April, 1882

A storm was coming.  Deric could see it.  Even if he had not been able to see the dark clouds moving toward him, he would have known by the way the cattle were acting.  In preparation for spring round up, he and the men who worked for him were attempting to move a portion of the herd down to the southern pasture, where it would be easier to work.  The cattle, nervous at the approaching storm, however, were having none of it.

Deric was not afraid, he had lived out here all his life, after all and knew what to expect from a Wyoming storm. The uneasy lowing of the animals, the darkening sky and the tension in the air were, however,  putting him on edge.  He was glad he had told his wife to stay with Cookie and the chuck wagon.  They would have already found shelter.  He was also thankful for his sure-footed mount, a big, ornery stallion who wasn't afraid of anything, including the spooked cattle. That horse wasn't letting any thing or anyone bother him.

Cracking his whip over a straying cow, Deric shouted and herded the animal back among the others.  The men around him were doing the same, hoping against hope they could get to lower ground before the storm hit.

Glancing up, he tried to guess how long they had and was dismayed to see that the roiling mass of clouds had developed a greenish brown look.  Tornadoes did not usually come in April, although it was possible.  He studied the clouds and just as a streak of lightning lit up the underside of the boiling mass, he saw something that chilled his blood.

Riding toward them, her back to the storm was his wife.

Now, what was she doing out here?  Had she lost her mind?

He wanted to shout to her, to tell her to get off that horse and head for the lowest piece of ground she could.  He knew it was futal, though, because she would not be able to hear him.

Trying to remain calm, he made his way through the mass of bodies and clashing horns, praying he could get to her in time.

She turned then and saw him.  Waving frantically, she pointed to the storm and said something, but he could not hear her and was not close enough to read her lips.  He shook his head and motioned for her to ride.  She just sat there, tall as ever, outlined against the ever-increasing bolts of lightning.

Crazy female!  Why did she have to get all independent now?

Although Deric had never been one to order a woman about as if he owned her,  there were times when he expected to be obeyed.  And, right now, in the midst of a coming tornado and at the outside of a full out stampede, was one of them.

Leaning low over the saddle, he pushed his mount, aptly named Lightning, toward the place where his Pamela waited.  Thunder boomed, drawing his attention to the steer at his right that was mooing in his ear.  Deric jerked back, only to stare in horror at the beast's horns.  They had little bluish bits of light on them. Seeing them, he shied away and pressed himself even lower, grabbing a handful of the horse's mane.  Then, the wind, which had kicked up a few moments before, died down. Left in its wake was what would have been an ominous silence, if the cattle had not been bawling.

Then, without warning, a horn caught Deric from his other side. With a grimace of pain, he pressed his arm to his side.  He didn't think the wound was serious, but it warned him to get moving.  He had to get away from the cattle and get to his wife.

He looked up then, searching for her.  Ah, there she was.  Now, if he just had a clear path…

Just as he was thinking this, however, a flash so bright it blinded him split the gloom and at the same time, there was an awful bang that he felt in his chest.  There was no time to react, no time to scream, no time for anything.  One minute, he was headed for his wife, and the next, he was deaf, blind and being hurled along. It was impossible to know where he was going.

It felt like forever to him, but in just a couple of minutes, he realized that he and the horse were heading in a different direction than the stampeding herd.   He chanced a cautious glance up and froze.  There on top of the knoll where his wife had been on her own mount, was nothing.

"Pammy!"

Her name was a cry on his lips, as he threw himself out of the saddle.  After catching himself, Deric ran to where she had been just a minute ago.  He would have fallen over her, if he had not been watching the ground.  As it was, he only stumbled over her horse, as he made his way to where she lay.

Ignoring the pain in his side, he knelt by her and touched her face.  He kept calling her name in hopes of a response, but there was none.  He checked her pulse; then her breathing, but with thunder shaking the ground and rain pelting down, he could not feel or hear a thing.  He tried blowing in to her mouth, as Dr. Wilson had taught him. He sealed his lips over hers and forced air down in to her lungs, but his efforts, frantic as they were,  did not seem to matter.

With a dawning horror, he realized she was gone. His Pammy, the love of his life, was gone.

Throwing back his head, he stared with unseeing eyes up in to the writhing heavens and cried out with all the emotion inside him.

"NO!"

CHAPTER 1

Montana, May, 1882

Dr. Faith Valentine closed the door to her medicine cabinet with a sigh of satisfaction.  It had taken nearly all day to restock her supplies, but now the chore was over.  Being the only woman doctor around was not the easiest job but she loved the people out here, just as her late husband had.

She and Richard had met during her last year of medical school at the Women's Medical College in New York.  He had been practicing medicine for a few years already, and they just seemed to hit it off.  He began courting her and soon they were married, much to their parents' delight.  He never treated her as if she was beneath him or inferior.  In fact,  he consulted her on many a case.  She had learned a lot under his instruction while he had grown more sympathetic by watching her bedside manner.  She had taught him how to listen to what the patient was not saying and he had taught her most of what he knew about surgery.

Then, after they had practiced medicine alongside one another for two full years, he had told her he felt called to take his medical knowledge out West.  They had prayed a great deal about it, and believing in her husband, Faith had packed their belongings and followed him to the frontier.  At first, she had not been accepted as a physician, and, even now, folks were still a bit leery of her. Nevertheless,  her husband's obvious confidence in her abilities and the fact that there was more doctoring than one man could do alone, caused the folks of this town to start calling on her nearly as often as they had called on her husband.

Things had sort of smoothed out in to a comfortable rhythm and Faith had begun thinking things would only get better.  Then one sunny afternoon, her world came crashing down.  She still had nightmares about that day a year ago, feeling that if she had only listened or had only been a better doctor, her husband would have lived.  She had almost gone out of her mind with grief.  While it was so hard doing it all alone, God had been her stay.  Also, her friends had been there to help cushion some of the hardest blows.  What would have happened to her without the sheriff and his wife, Bill and Shirley Tucker, and Pastor Marks and his wonderful wife, she could not say.  All she knew was the townsfolk needing her services, added with the friendship of those wise souls, had been just the medicine needed to bring her back to the land of the living.

It had been almost a year, now since Richard's death and it was she that they called on when they needed medical care.  From a child's tummy ache, to a man dying of cancer, she treated them all, and was glad to do it.

Smoothing a hand over the crisp, white sheet that lay over the examination table, she took one more look around the office and smiled.  It was now as neat as a pin.

All she needed now was a sick person to dirty it up.

At that thought, she laughed out loud and left the office in search of the children who had grown way too quiet for her peace of mind.  Knowing their favorite place was outside, she headed toward her front door first. She found she had no need to look further. There they were, all sprawled out in different directions on her porch.

Colbey and Candace Lockhart were the oldest at fourteen and, as such, they had claimed the only swing on the porch.  Faith thought it was amazing how that even though they were growing up and growing apart, when sitting next to one another, they always seemed to be touching in some way.  Like just now, for instance, both had their heads bent over separate books, but Candace was leaning a bit to the left so that her shoulder brushed her brother's.

Sprawled at their feet was eleven-year-old Ruby with her flaming red hair and snappy green eyes.  That one, Faith knew, gave Miss Ellis, the head of the orphanage, more trouble by herself than all ten of them combined.  And, even now, while the rest of the children were reading, Ruby was drawing with the set of pencils and paper Faith had bought her for her birthday last week.

Twelve-year-old Zachary sat on the other end of the porch with his ten-year-old brother, Cody sitting next to him, reading aloud.  Zach's vision was poor, but Cody's eyes more than made up for it.  Faith felt her own eyes burn at the sight of Cody reading to his brother.  Cody read so well, and sometimes, all the children would stop what they were doing and ask him to read aloud to them.  He made stories come alive, as he tried to act out the parts.

The remaining five children lay on their backs or stomachs between the older ones, and all had books in their hands.  They were all Faith's books that she had allowed them to use for the afternoon.  She never had to worry about them tearing them up. Somehow, being without the luxury of books had taught these children to be extremely careful.  Allowing her gaze to caress each one, she smiled. The little ones always seemed to sit or lie down according to their ages.  At one end, closest to Ruby, was her eight-year-old brother Tommy.  Next to him was seven-year-old Megan, whose white blond hair could always be seen in sunshine or in rain.  Next to her lay seven-year-old Blake, who could outrun anybody.  Next to Blake was six-year-old Tracy, whose parents had been killed in a train robbery only two years before.  Faith knew he still had bad dreams about it.  Lastly, lying on her back with  a picture book held gently in her small hands was four-year-old Kierstin, whose Swedish parents had not been able to endure the climate out here.  Faith could still remember how she and Richard tried to treat them.  Despite the two doctor's best efforts, they had died, leaving their little daughter alone to live with the older children in an orphanage.

The ten of them were all special in their own unique way and Faith, even though she had no reason to, felt responsible for them.  They spent as much time at her place as Miss Ellis would allow, which was quite a sizeable amount, as the older woman could not handle them on her own.

Faith did not mind.  In fact, she enjoyed the company they brought her.  Why, they could be good little helpers, if you could get them all to agree on something.  Besides, if it had not been for these children, she might have gone out of her mind with grief.  Unknown to them, their love and their neediness had brought her through the hardest year of her life.

Clearing her throat to get their attention, she asked, "Would anyone like to help me?"

Ten pairs of eyes looked up in question.

"Help you with what?" Candace asked.

Ticking the chores off on her fingers, she said, "I need someone to go for some ice, someone else to go down to the spring for the cream, I need someone to fetch the rock salt and…"

"Someone to go for the ice cream maker!" the littlest ones shouted in glee.

Grinning from ear to ear, Faith only nodded and let them put away the books and head in all different directions to help with the ice cream making.

"There's that jar of cherries you canned last summer, Dr. V.," Ruby said.  "May we put some in it?"

"That would be wonderful," Faith smiled.  ""Why don't you go to the pantry to fetch it."

With so many hands, the cherries were soon chopped up small enough to put in to the ice cream. It wasn't long until everyone  had a bowl and spoon, enjoying the fruits of their labor.

"Didn't you say you received a letter from your folks, Dr. V.?"

Faith swallowed a mouthful and answered, "I did, Candace."

These children, having no folks of their own, delighted in Faith's correspondence with hers.  Often, she would share some, if not all, of her parents' letters with them.

"Mama wrote to say that Papa is finally starting to feel like his old self, again."

"And his sore knee is getting better?" Cody asked.

"Yes," Faith smiled, reaching out with a napkin and wiping the boy's upper lip clean of ice cream.  "They are planning on attending church this Sunday."

The exclamation of gladness from each one of them was as infectious as she knew it would be. It was so good to share her own excitement with this bunch, who really did care.

Several weeks ago, her father had fell down the basement steps in his house in New York.  He had been in a hurry, looking for something, and he had lost his balance, falling down to the bottom and landing in a heap.  Nothing had been broken, but he had been bruised and sore enough that he had found that staying home to mend was his preferred way to spend the time.  The good news from her mother was like a breath of fresh air.

"I sure would like to meet them," said Blake.

The others nodded in agreement and Faith's heart went out to them all.  The eager looks in their eyes and faces made her want to drag them back east and give them all their young hearts could desire.  But, she knew she could not, even if they were hers.  She purposed in her heart to put their case before her parents and see what could be done.

Later that evening, when all ten children were back at the orphanage, Faith opened another envelope.  This one she had not told the children about.  It was from her father's brother who was practicing medicine in Wyoming.

"My dear niece," it began.  "I know I have asked you before and I know you have turned me down before, but I do wish you would come to Cheyenne and stay with me for a time.  I'm getting on in years, you know, and not as able as I once was in keeping up with all the sick folks around, especially the ones who live out on these ranches so far from town.  I know you are attached to folks there in Montana, and I know your Richard is buried there, but dear, you need to think about moving on.  I really could use an extra pair of hands.  Who knows, the folks down here could take to you right away, leaving me to retire.  Of course, I don't want you to make a hasty decision.  So, take your time and pray about it before giving me an answer.  In the meantime, I'll be praying for you and ask you to pray for me that God will give me strength to hang on.  Maybe, if you can't come to stay, you could come for a short visit.  I haven't seen you since you graduated from medical school, you know, and I do miss you.  Well, my dear, I hear someone calling for me, so I will end for now.  Take care and write as soon as you are able.  I remain your favorite uncle, George Wilson."

Refolding the letter, Faith smiled.  Uncle George, her father's only brother was her only uncle, so of course, he was her favorite.  His offer sounded nice, but the thought of leaving everyone here made her miss them already.  Sure enough, it was a matter to pray about in earnest.

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