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(Oy vey, I am falling WAY behind in making blog posts!) But anyhow, today is Release Day for Book 11 (wow, can you believe there are 11 books already???) in The Brides of Paradise Ranch series, His Innocent Bride (spicy version) and Julia: The Innocent Bride (sweet version). This one is particularly funny, since the heroine, Julia, kind of just wanted to write herself in all her mad-capped glory. Here, you’ll see�.

(From Chapter One)

“Where is she?� he muttered.

Athos and Hubert were stacking baggage from the car directly behind the passenger car on the platform, but Athos glanced up, looked from the passenger car to Sam, and shrugged.

“You’re not anxious, are you?� Travis ribbed Sam, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Not afraid she’s changed her mind?� Trey joined in.

“No,� Sam growled at them. “It’s just that I have a responsibility to the woman.�

“Ah, responsibility.� Travis nodded sagely to Trey. “That’s a little like domesticity, isn’t it?�

The two of them laughed as Josephine rolled her eyes and clucked.

Sam wasn’t able to tell them off, though. As he opened his mouth to say something, a loud crash came from the direction of the train. He twisted to look just in time to see a very young woman stumble off the last step down from the train and crash into the pile of baggage Athos and Hubert had made.

“Oh!� she squeaked. “I’m so sorry.�

She reached to set the smallest trunk on the top of the pile to rights, but ended up knocking over the hat box stacked next to it. The hat box bumped into a carpetbag on the way down, spilling that as well.

“Oh, dear.� The young woman lunged forward, bending to grab at either the hat box or the carpetbag. Instead, she stepped on Hubert’s hand as he did the same.

“Ow!� Hubert yelped and jerked back. When he did, he slammed into Athos, who dropped the trunk he was carrying. That fell to the ground with a sickening crunch.

At the same time, the young woman leapt backwards. Without looking where she was going. She bashed into the middle-aged man who had just stepped off the train, sending him careening toward the tall, blonde woman, who was still talking to the man who’d met her on the platform. The blonde shrieked in surprise as the middle-aged man grabbed her sleeve to stop himself from falling.

“Here, let me help you,� the young woman said. She reached for the falling man, but in the process, the large reticule she carried slipped off her arm, plopping to the platform. The falling man chose just that spot to place his foot in an attempt to get his balance. He tumbled hopelessly forward, grabbing and ripping the blonde’s skirt as he did. She went down with him, knocking into her gentleman friend and sending him sprawling too.

“Oh, no.� The young woman took half a step back from the scene before changing her mind and reaching for her purse on the platform. She picked it up, putting a little too much swing into the movement. As she stood, her purse flew back and hit the porter—who was helping an older woman down from the train—in the side of the head. He flinched, the older woman started and dropped the reticule she was carrying, and the faint tinkle of glass shattering was heard as her bag hit the platform.

As fast as the storm started, it was over. Hubert cradled his hand, the porter clutched his face, the older woman wailed, and the three people on the ground gasped and muttered. The young woman stood above them all, completely unharmed. She blinked around her with wide, brown eyes, her apple-round cheeks pink.

“Excuse me,� she said, then smiled.

Something funny bubbled up in Sam’s chest. He gaped at the woman. No. It couldn’t be. Absolutely not. Warmth began to spread from his neck up to his face. She was young. Very young. Much too young. And pretty as a button in her lavender traveling dress.

“Are you Mr. Sam Standish?� she asked, confirming his worst fears. Her voice was a fraction louder than it would have been in polite society.

“Uh, yeah?� Sam took a half-step forward, doing his best to avoid the groaning people who were struggling to their feet.

The young woman put on a beaming smile and extended her hand to him. “I’m Julia Frost. I’m going to marry you.� Her voice pitched high with excitement, and her eyes glittered.

And as she stepped forward to greet him, she somehow managed to hook the toe of her boot through the handle of the carpetbag she’d knocked off the pile of luggage. It threw her off-balance, and with an almighty shriek, she plunged forward into Sam’s arms.

Somehow, he caught her. She was a tiny thing, slender to the point of being bony under her traveling clothes. He instantly wondered if she got enough to eat. That thought was quickly replaced by a deep, buzzing feeling in his soul as he lifted her to stand. He didn’t move his hands away from her waist, partly because he was afraid she’d cause another disaster if he let her go.

And here’s where you can buy it!

His Innocent Bride

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Julia: The Innocent Bride –ÌýAvailable exclusively at Amazon and for KU for the first 90 days, then it’ll be everywhere.

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You guys! You have no idea how happy I am that Carbon Dating is finally out there! I worked SO hard on this book, and I’m thrilled to bring it to you at last. But don’t take my word for it, get started reading now! Buy links are at the bottom of the excerpt:

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“So if you would raise a glass with me, let’s all wish Scott and Casey every kind of happiness as they start their new life together. To the happy couple.�

Ted Flint raised his glass, saluting his sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law as the rest of the room echoed, “To the happy couple.� A clink of glasses and swell of applause followed. Ted turned to smile at Casey and Scott, who blushed and beamed at the well-wishes. A warm knot formed in his chest. It was such a relief to see Casey happy after everything they’d been through in the past few years.

As the toasting crowd dispersed, returning to their conversation and sipping champagne, Ted stepped over to give his sister a hug and said, “Mom would be so proud of you.�

Casey squeezed him tight before stepping back, teary-eyed, and saying, “I know.�

“Thanks, man.� Scott thumped Ted on the shoulder, filled with emotion himself, but holding it in.

“It’s the least I could do.� Ted grinned at both of them. “It’s not every day your favorite sister gets engaged.�

“Ha! I’m your only sister.� Casey cuffed him on the arm. “And when are you going to find a girl and settle down anyhow?�

Ted rolled his eyes. He would have preferred the tears brought on by thoughts of their mother to the teasing glint in Casey’s eyes. Almost. He shrugged. “I haven’t found the right girl.�

“That’s what I used to say,� Scott laughed.

“There are plenty of girls here,� Casey added, nodding to the crowded ballroom of the Cattleman Hotel. They’d booked one of the smaller ballrooms for the engagement party, figuring only friends and family would come, but the event was so well-attended that guests spilled out into the hallways. The Cattleman’s staff had even opened the Haskell history gallery across the hall and moved some of the refreshments in there.

As much as Ted felt like he should make some sort of flippant comment about meeting someone, for a change, what came out of his mouth was, “Yeah, I’ll look around and see if the future Mrs. Ted Flint is in the room.�

Casey giggled. But then, everything seemed to make her giggle these days. Ted wasn’t going to complain about that. Casey and Scott were sidetracked by a couple of their friends coming up to give their congratulations, but Ted’s Dad, Roscoe, who had been standing silently to the side of the action, as usual, walked a few paces across the room by Ted’s side.

“Your sister is right, you know,� Roscoe said, adding a fond smile. “I’d love to see you find someone and settle down like she has. So would Mom. She’d nag you something fierce, if she were here.�

“I know, Dad.� Ted looped an arm around his dad’s shoulders and gave him a man-hug. “To tell you the truth, now that things have started to settle down with the ranch and with Casey, the idea of dating has crossed my mind.�

“Good boy.� Roscoe nodded.

“Don’t start planning a second wedding yet or anything.� Ted went on as they reached the door leading to the hallway. “All I want to do is date for now.�

“I didn’t say anything about another wedding.� Roscoe winked. “But now that the ranch’s mortgage is paid off, thanks to Scott, and we own the place outright, I’d love to see what a good woman could bring to the table.�

“Dad.� Ted rolled his eyes and chuckled. “This isn’t the nineteenth century, you know. We don’t marry women for their dowries anymore.�

“Just joshing.� Roscoe snorted. He pointed down the hall toward the restrooms, then sauntered off.

Ted hadn’t seen his dad so happy in…well, since his mom died a year and a half ago. He stood where he was in the hall, watching his dad walk away with a rare spring in his step. The whole world felt as though it were in the right place. Maybe it was time for him to think seriously about women. Heaven knew he’d thought not-seriously about them since he was in high school. He’d dated plenty of girls, even got halfway serious with a few. But he hadn’t met the one. And damned if he didn’t suddenly want to.

He headed across the hall into the Haskell history gallery. He’d visited the long room with its display cases of photographs, artifacts, and newspaper clippings dozens of times before, starting when he was a kid on a class trip. What interested him now were the tables of food laid out along one wall. Standish Catering had outdone themselves yet again. He grabbed a plate and started piling it high with fresh homemade salsa, chips, cocktail shrimp and sauce, and a single broccoli floret in tribute to all the times his mom told him to eat his veggies. He avoided the fancier puff pastries and pates. Who knew what they contained. He’d stick to the things he knew.

He reached the end of the table and was about to go back to the main room when he spotted a woman with long, dark hair staring intently at one of the cases. Laura Kincade. He knew her by sight, but that was about it. She worked on Scott’s team at Paradise Space Flight, and had become friends with his sister in the past few months. They’d gotten close enough that Casey had asked Laura to be a bridesmaid. But that was where his knowledge of her ended.

Laura Kincade. Hmm. Why not?

Plate in one hand, flute of champagne from the toast still in the other, he ambled over to Laura, doing his best to exude cool.

“You know, the first manager of this hotel was a spy in two different wars,� he began.

Laura blinked at the card she’d been reading inside the display—one about the area’s prehistoric origins—then slowly straightened. She took one look at Ted and blinked even more. “What?�

Ted put on his most charming smile. “Yeah. Theophilus Gunn. He worked as a valet for an English gentleman in the 1850s. The two went off to fight in the Crimean War, where the gentleman was killed. They were both spies. And then, when he came back to America, he was a spy for the Union in the Civil War.�

“Oh.� Laura continued to blink. “That’s interesting.�

“I’ve always thought so.� Ted’s suave smile started to slip. He wasn’t sure he was playing this right. Usually girls went giddy over the story of Theophilus Gunn, international spy and man of mystery. “Someone wrote a book about him a couple years back, The Secret Life of Theophilus Gunn.�

“Neat.� She stood there, bristling with awkwardness.

Yep, Ted had definitely lost his mojo. Or else Laura wasn’t the kind of girl those sorts of stories worked on. Which was interesting. She was different. He shifted his weight and studied her.

“I was just reading about the Lower Paleolithic Era in this area.� She gestured to the case with her thumb. “Trying to figure out if there’ve been any big fossil finds nearby, like there have been up in Montana. I’m sort of a dinosaur nut.� She spoke fast, ending by clamping her mouth shut.

Ted caught himself grinning even before he was aware of how fun her comment was. “Really? I haven’t met a lot of women who like dinosaurs.�

“Oh, I love them.� She was still nervous, but her eyes lit up with excitement. Blue eyes. They were a pretty contrast to her dark hair. “Last year, before coming to Haskell to take the job at PSF, I traveled to South Africa to help with an excavation being led by Dr. Heinrich Heller. We managed to find the hindquarters and skull of a Massospondylus too, although it may or may not be some other species. A lot of times fossils end up reclassified after analysis and…and I’m boring you. Sorry.� She laughed. An attractive pink blush came to her cheeks.

“You’re not boring me at all,� Ted said, in spite of the fact that he only had half a clue what she’d said. She was pretty. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed before. Granted, there was nothing special in the way she dressed. She wore a simple green knit dress that came to her knees and boots with it. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wasn’t wearing makeup. The only word Ted could think of to describe the impact she made on him was “charming.�

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Whew! It feels like I’ve been waiting forever for you all to read Heat Wave! This fun little novella is book 18 in the Magnolias & Moonshine project and book 3 or 4 (depending on how you look at it) in my Nerds of Paradise series! I’ve been bristling with anticipation, waiting for you all to read this, so why not get started now?

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Atlanta, Georgia. Home. It didn’t matter that Dennis Long hadn’t lived in the burgeoning, busy city since he’d left for college when he was seventeen, or that Haskell, Wyoming was home now. Atlanta never really left a person’s blood. The sound of cicadas on hot nights, sleeping on the porch when his mom couldn’t afford to keep the air conditioning on, sweet tea after roaming around Grant Park with his buddies all afternoon, winters that teased without ever quite delivering…it was part of who he was. Those steamy streets and the humidity that turned his normally docile, brown hair curly, would always remind him of a happy childhood.

Well, an almost happy childhood. There were a few things that made his heart speed up when he thought about them. The way the kids on his block would tease him because of his height, pick him for the basketball team, then laugh at him when he tripped over his feet for one. Always being fawned over by teachers for being gifted, then called “brainiac� by the other kids as soon as those teachers� backs were turned for another. Not to mention his complete inability to understand most people’s humor.

Oh, and her.

Angelica Jones.

“Dennis, man, where are you going?� Dennis’s old friend Leon called to him as he veered down a side aisle in the massive Georgia Tech auditorium. “Friends and Family seating is down this way.�

Dennis snorted, but scooted back out of the row of seats he had started to slide down. “I’m not family, and I don’t know if I exactly qualify as a friend.�

Leon laughed and slapped him on the back as he came close. “Come on, man. If you’re not a friend, then I don’t know who is.�

Dennis sent Leon a sideways look, but followed him down the aisle to a section near the front of the auditorium, nearest the stage where the doctoral program graduates would be receiving their diplomas. He and Leon had been thick as thieves from the ages of ten to when Dennis left to take UC Berkeley up on their early admissions offer. Leon had been the only other kid in their Ormewood Park neighborhood who was tall enough not to make Dennis feel like the Jolly Green Giant. A fact which didn’t make Dennis feel at all easy about sitting together near the front of the audience. They were bound to block someone’s view.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Angie’s face when she spots you sitting with the rest of us,� Leon said as they edged their way down a row of seats with a “Reserved� sign on the end. “She’s going to straight-up trip when she sees you.�

That’s what I’m afraid of, Dennis worried. He had a plan, though. Angelica hadn’t seen him in more than a decade. Since then, he’d earned his masters and PhD in record time, worked on a government rocket program where he’d had top secret clearance, and had secured an important position at Paradise Space Flight, a company that was going to turn heads in the next few years. He’d grown up, worked out, lost his boyish chub, and aside from the fact that interacting with most people was a thousand times more complex than the equations he solved every day, he was well aware of the image he now presented. And if using the charm he’d learned how to fake to convince Angelica to come work for Paradise Space Flight would help, then he would turn it on as high as he could. Rubbing in how well he’d done would be icing on the cake.

At least, that was the plan.

“She knows I’m coming,� he told Leon, testing out his newfound confidence—and hoping it didn’t come off as too cocky. Although cocky might work if he was going to play up how much he’d changed. “Paradise Space Flight has been trying to recruit her for their propulsion development team for almost a year now. Nobody can figure out why she doesn’t have a job lined up already. I’ve been sent to help seal the deal.�

“You don’t say.� Leon grinned at him over his shoulder, not buying the suave act at all, as they reached the middle of the long row of seats. “You and Angie always were the two biggest brains on the block.�

Dennis laughed, but he couldn’t keep his smile in place. They were the smartest on the block, no question about it. But that hadn’t put them on equal footing. Not by a long shot. At least not until today. Today was the day he would show Angelica Jones that it was time she showed him the respect he had always deserved.

“Land sakes, is that Dennis Long I see?� A dark-skinned woman with grey hair and a fashionable, flowered dress stood from her seat in the row in front of them, joy in her eyes.

“Hi, Mrs. Jones.� Dennis raised a hand to wave at her, but Angelica’s mom twisted to wrap him in the biggest hug she could manage with a chair between them. A thousand memories of sunshine days, home-baked cookies, and all the love his mom hadn’t had time to shower him with swooped back on Dennis, and he smiled, blowing his cool guy image to pieces.

“Look at you.� She held him at arm’s length, raking him from head to toe. “Mmm! That California sunshine sure did do you good. Angie’s going to pop a gut when she sees what a tall drink of water you’ve become.�

Dennis felt his face go hot as slithers of embarrassment zipped through him. His smile turned sheepish. “Thanks, Mrs. Jones, but I’m not in California anymore. I moved to Wyoming last year.�

“Oh, that’s right.� Angelica’s mom squeezed his arms one last time, making a sound at the muscle she found there, then rocked back to study him with a smile. “That company of yours was smart to send you, of all people, to woo my Angelica.� Dennis blushed even harder at the word “woo,� his gut tightening. “But you’d better watch out for that NASA guy who keeps calling. He’s determined.� She added an expression that said she was being polite.

“Dennis can take him,� Leon said, nudging Dennis’s shoulder with a sly grin. “He’s got all sorts of advantages no one else has.�

“Such as?� Dennis sent him a doubtful look.

“History.� Leon nodded. “No one else in the world has the kind of history you’ve got with Angie.�

“You can say that again,� Mrs. Jones laughed. “You remember the time you followed Angie home from that picnic when the two of you were, what, eight?�

“Was that the time Angie decided she was a princess and Dennis here was her squire?� Leon asked.

“It was part of that,� Mrs. Jones laughed on. “You picked a whole mess of dandelions along the way, and when the two of you reached our porch and you handed them to her, why, Angie took those flowers with a smile and shut the door in your poor face.�

Mrs. Jones and Leon laughed. Dennis tried to laugh along with them, but his chest ached at the memory, making him feel eight years old and two feet tall again. “I don’t know if I remembered to thank you for the cookies you handed me out the window,� he told Mrs. Jones.

“Cookies were more than Angie got for those antics,� Mrs. Jones replied, shaking her finger. “That little princess got sent to bed without her supper for being so mean to you.�

“Probably not for the last time,� Leon added as an aside.

“That’s the truth,� Mrs. Jones laughed.

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Hey everybody! Well, the is well underway now, and pretty soon it’ll be my turn! My novella, Heat Wave, is also part of the Nerds of Paradise series, even though it takes place in Atlanta instead of Haskell, Wyoming. And since it’s the weekend, how about a peek?

There were few emotions in life that couldn’t be resolved by breaking out a crowbar and tearing up a floor. Angelica jammed the tool into the old, crumbling kitchen floor in Mrs. Brown’s house, focusing on the heat and pull of her muscles as she tore out the old to make way for the new.

If only it was as easy to do the same with life. Weeks ago, when she’d first gotten the letter from Paradise Space Flight letting her know Dennis would be coming to discuss the job they’d offered her, she’d shrugged it off. She knew Dennis worked for PSF. That was the whole reason she’d applied for the job in the first place. Although it was nothing personal. Not at all. Dennis had always had good taste. Any company he worked for had to be solid.

She jammed the crowbar into the boards again and tugged with all her might.

“Careful, Angie,� her friend and the project’s manager, Latoya called to her from the other side of the room. “You’re gonna go straight through the sub-floor to the basement if you keep at it like that.�

“Right.� Angelica nodded and straightened. She tossed the rotting boards into the pile of debris near the door, adjusted her work goggles, then bent to tear up the next board.

It was nothing personal. She hadn’t been intrigued by PSF because it could be a chance to right a thousand past wrongs. The possibility of living close to Dennis again was the furthest thing from her mind.

And if she kept telling herself that, maybe a unicorn would swoop out of the sky and whisk her off to fairyland.

She sighed and set the crowbar aside to pry up the stubborn board with two hands. She was a PhD now, an astrophysicist. The top aerospace industries in the country were courting her. She’d proved every nay-sayer in her life wrong, proved that a woman of color could excel in a field dominated by white men. So why did she feel like the same confused thirteen-year-old girl who cried herself to sleep at night over having to choose popular girls she didn’t like over a dorky boy she really liked?

“Whoa, whoa, hold on, girl.� Latoya straightened from the pile of new boards she was nailing into the floor. The fine sheen of perspiration on her bare arms and wetting the neck of her tank-top made her friend look good, tough, while Angelica was sure it only made her look nasty. “You sure you’re up to this today? You’re tossing that mess around like it insulted your mama.�

Angelica managed a tired smile as she rocked back to sit on the floor. “Yeah, I’m okay. I guess I’ve just got post-graduation let-down or something.�

It didn’t feel right lying to Latoya. Latoya was the only friend from the neighborhood who had stuck by her when she decided to break all the molds and study science instead of boys. She was the only one willing to hang out with a pop-turned-geek when the mean girls turned their noses up at her. And she was the only one that would have been missed if she’d ditched her too.

Latoya crossed her arms. With her hammer still in hand, goggles still in place, and her close-cut, natural hair glistening with sweat, Angelica felt like Latoya was some kind of avenging angel come to call her out on everything she’d ever done wrong.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with a certain old friend coming back to town, does it?�

Angelica looked away. It wasn’t enough to avoid the swoopy feeling in her gut. She picked up her crowbar and went back to work on the floor.

Latoya stayed where she was. “Leon told me all about it,� she said, returning to work at her end of the room.

Of course he would. Angelica should have figured he’d give her the full report of graduation.

“It doesn’t bother me,� she insisted. “In fact, I was really happy to see Dennis again.�

“Mmm hmm.� Latoya arched a brow as much as she could with the thick goggles on and started hammering.

“No, really, I am happy,� Angelica insisted.

“I don’t doubt that.� Latoya raised her voice to be heard over her hammering. “I’m just curious about how happy you are.�

“Very happy.� Angelica tried to shrug casually.

“Mmmm hmmm.� Latoya drew the two syllables out even longer this time.

Angelica shrugged. “What, was I supposed to be angry at him for coming back? Sad? You got some other emotion you’d rather I felt?�

“Girl, don’t get defensive with me.� Latoya rocked back on her heels and pointed her hammer at Angelica. “You forget, I was there that year after he left. I saw how listless you were. You, my friend, pined.�

“I did not pine.� Angelica sent her a frown. “I was sorry to have lost a friend is all.�

“Friend? Is that what you call it?�

Angelica’s face flooded with heat. “Yes. Dennis and I were friends.�

Latoya shook her head. “You led that poor boy around by the nose and you know it.�

“I was just a kid, Tee. I didn’t know what I was doing.� Angelica’s face burned even hotter.

“Even kids know when they’re being nasty.� Latoya went back to hammering. “What always surprised me was why he kept sniffing around after you, year after year.�

“Because we shared common interests,� Angelica said, straining as she pried up another board. “He was the only one who would do experiments with me.�

“Oh, experiments? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?� Latoya laughed.

Angelica huffed out a breath. “See, that’s exactly my point. All the princessy girls ever wanted to do was paint their nails and straighten their hair and make eyes at the boys. Dennis actually talked about things, did things. Interesting things.�

“Like making out in the science lab after chemistry club?�

Angelica tossed a rotting board aside, smirking at her friend and trying to play it cool. “Once.� Or maybe twice. And it had been nice. At least, it had been nice until Jane Peterson had caught them in a clinch and spread the rumor all through the school that Angelica was a nerd slut. Damn, she’d hated high school.

Ìý

Poor Angelica has a lot more coming her way!

Heat Wave is now available for preorder at:

Okay, so here’s the other story from Windsor Castle that I promised I’d tell, but got way distracted from.

Charles I was a devoted family man, which is one of the reasons I love him.
(c) Astley Hall Museum and Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

So other than Victoria and Albert, my favorite English monarch is Charles I. Now, this is highly controversial, because the reign of Charles I and the Civil War that resulted (you know, Cromwell and all) is a pivotal moment in British history. A lot of people utterly vilify Charles and adore Cromwell. They say Charles was a tyrant and Cromwell was for the people. Personally, I think Charles was a good man but a terrible king, and Cromwell was an ass who attempted to destroy his country without a plan. But I’ll get to that later. Anyhow, as I said to the tour guide at St. George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle, you’re pretty much either Team Charles or Team Cromwell, and I happen to be Team Charles.

For those who don’t know, Charles I believed in the divine right of kings. Which, for Team Charles, means he was just trying to do his job the way he believed God wanted him to. This led him to do a lot of not-so-great things—like dissolving Parliament and taxing people—because those pesky populists and their new, right-wing extreme Protestantism were getting in his way. Oliver Cromwell believed all men were and should be equal in the eyes of God and the law, and so whipped up a revolution in order to oust the old rule and usher in his ideal society. Ergo, the English Civil War. This all happened in the 1640s. (Note: America was barely a glimmer in the milkman’s eyes at this point in history. A few, experimental colonies, yes, but that’s about all)

Long (LONG) story short, Charles lost the war, was captured and imprisoned, and ended up having his head chopped off. Here’s where the fascinating story of Charles I’s remains begins!

Oliver Cromwell. I don’t like him much.

Because Cromwell was firmly in charge as soon as Charles’s head was separated from the rest of him, he forbid the ex-king from being buried with any sort of ceremony whatsoever. ANY ceremony. At all. But Charles had many loyal supporters who wanted to do right by him. So they sewed his head back on his body, and with a high degree of secrecy, they took his remains to St. George’s Chapel inside of Windsor Castle to be interred. And the entire ceremony happened in utter silence, since they were forbidden to even so much as read from the Book of Common Prayer.

So much silence, in fact, that in short order, everyone forgot where they’d buried him. Or rather, it was such a secret that when the people immediately involved were gone, no one knew where the remains were. They knew Charles had been buried in St. George’s Chapel, but not where. They also knew that he was probably buried in the same crypt as Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, but again, the exact location was a little fuzzy. Particularly as St. George’s Chapel was ransacked a couple of times by those pesky Cromwell supporters.

Incidentally, Cromwell was an absolutely terrible leader. He didn’t have a plan. Not one clue. He made a big stink about equality and new ways of doing things and abolishing the monarchy, but he didn’t go into leadership with a clear vision for what should replace monarchy. He tried several forms of government through his tenure as leader, and none of them worked. He pissed people off so much, that after he died, they invited Charles I’s son, Charles II, to come back and restore the monarchy. You can like Cromwell and make excuses for him all you want, but after a country spend years engaged in a bloody civil war, murdered their monarch, and set up a new form of government, you have to admit that you’d have to fail hardcore to say “Nevermind! We want that whole monarchy things back.� Not just any monarchy either. They asked for Charles’s heir, the same royal family as before the war, instead of creating a whole new king. Take that, Team Cromwell!

St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. The crypt with Charles I and Henry VIII is under that black slab of marble.

Incidentally again, Oliver Cromwell’s body was dug up again two years after he died, hung from the ramparts in the traditional place criminals who had been executed were displayed, and then destroyed.

Meanwhile, Charles slumbered on, lost and unknown. � Until 1813. At that point, after renovations to St. George’s Chapel, they discovered a crypt that, lo and behold, had three, old coffins in it. One was wrapped in a black velvet shroud with an iron band around it that read “King Charles, 1649.� Excited about finding the martyred king at last, but wanting to make sure they had really found him, they decided to open the coffin and take a look.

The coffin was opened by Sir Henry Halford, president of the Royal College of Physicians. He left a complete record of the proceedings. Inside the coffin, they found a well-preserved body, wrapped in linen and embalming fluids. They peeled back the linens, revealing Charles’s face. Not only was it in good shape (although the skin was dark, as happens, you know), everyone remarked that he looked exactly like all of the famous portraits that had been painted of him. But more than that, his left eye was open, and the eyeball was still intact. It stared right up at them for a few seconds before oxidation disintegrated it!

To complete the visual ID, they checked around the back of the head to make sure it had been severed and sewn back on. The leather stitches were long gone, but the head had clearly been chopped off at some point. Also, Charles had luxuriant, thick, brown hair, which was still in very good condition. To prove the head was Charles’s, Halford picked up the head and showed it around to people. Bleh! After that, he put it back. BUT before sealing up the coffin again, Halford nabbed one of Charles’s teeth, a clipping of his beard, and one of his cervical vertebrae.

An artist’s rendering of what’s inside the crypt. Charles is on the left. Notice Henry VIII’s squashed coffin in the center.

That wasn’t the end of things. Halford took his souvenirs home. He had the vertebrae covered in silver, and he used it as a salt cellar. It was a popular conversation piece at his dinner table. Ahem* That is, until his grandson inherited the relics. In 1888, Halford’s grandson approached the crown, explaining the relics, and returning them to the royal family. At that point, the future King Edward VII, secured permission from his mother, Queen Victoria, to reopen the crypt so that the pieces of Charles could be reunited with the rest of him. Victoria agreed. The crypt was opened by workers, but Edward went in by himself to replace the relics, now housed in a small, ebony casket. That done, the crypt was resealed, and it hasn’t been disturbed since.

One other interesting side note for you Henry VIII fans. When the crypt was opened in 1813, it was noted that Henry VIII’s coffin had been smashed. Bones were visible inside, but it was clear the body had disintegrated. It is speculated that the destruction happened when Charles was interred. The theory is that the burial happened in such haste that the men placing Charles in the crypt crunched into Henry VIII’s coffin, cracking the top. Jane Seymour’s coffin is completely intact and has never been disturbed, though. And there is also another coffin in that crypt, an infant child of Queen Anne. Although I don’t know the story of how and when that ended up there.

The castle itself is so huge that there really isn’t a way to get a single pic of the whole thing.

So for those who don’t know, I’m adventuring in London for a week, looking for story ideas, researching a few things I already know I’m going to write about, and generally enjoying being in my happy place. I would absolutely live in London—or anywhere in the UK, for that matter—if I could. But seeing as they don’t have a visa category that fits me, I’ll have to make due with visit.

And yesterday I visited Windsor Castle! For those who don’t know, Windsor Castle has been a continuous residence of the Royal Family for the past 900 years! It was actually started by William the Conqueror shortly after he took over. And when I say “started,� I mean that various parts of the complex have been built, destroyed, rebuilt, added to, refurbished, and expanded over hundreds of years. In fact, the latest edition to the castle was done in the 1990s. But I’m getting slightly ahead of myself.

These are the old (old, old, old) Norman towers.

Or maybe not. Because I could talk about the magnificence of the design and decoration of the State Apartments or the incredibly art collection (I always get excited when I see very famous paintings in person, and there were very famous paintings that I knew on practically every wall of the place). I could talk about the Royal Family or the fact that Victoria and Albert lived there most of the time in their lives. But what I found most fascinating and what I really want to talk about is the fire of 1992.

I remember vividly when the castle burnt down. November 20, 1992. I have vivid images of aerial shots of one whole section of the castle in flames. But walking around inside of it, I was both curious about where the fire had been and what potentially was destroyed and how it could be that I wouldn’t obviously see all the damage.

Her Majesty’s personal entrance to the castle.

And that’s the cool story.

First of all, I learned how the fire started. It started in what was formerly a private chapel built for Queen Victoria. But the chapel was in an awkward location, and it got in the way of anyone trying to cross from the private apartments to the state apartments. What actually happened is that an ancient velvet curtain was standing too close to an old fashioned spotlight. It got too hot and WHOOMP! The whole thing went up. But not just that, because of the former structure of the roof, not only did the chapel ignite like kindling, it quickly spread all the way through the parts of the castle that were connected by the roof structure.

I think I remember stories of Prince Charles himself rushing to the scene and helping to rescue art and artifacts from the walls and rooms, but I can’t remember if that’s true. Anyhow, several of the larger rooms were massively damaged, including two large halls that adjoin what was the chapel. It’s a shame that I couldn’t take pictures of these rooms myself due to photography restrictions, because they would be really useful to illustrate the following stories�

So one of the rooms that sustained serious damage was the Grand Reception Hall. I took a picture of the picture of it in the Windsor Castle guide book that I bought. (Actually, all of these interior pics are from that guidebook). What you’re seeing is the restored room. The cool stories from this room are, first, the floor. That’s still the original floor, but with a twist. The floorboards were badly charred in the fire. So what did they do? Like a stain on a sofa, they flipped each board individually and put it back down in place. I thought that was awesome. The other story is that giant urn at the far end. It’s two tons and over six feet tall, so they couldn’t exactly haul it out of the room in the middle of the fire. The thing is, it’s made of malachite. And if you know anything about rocks (which I didn’t until the tour explained it), malachite doesn’t come in enormous slabs. So really, the urn is marble covered with a fine layer of malachite fit together like jigsaw pieces. Well, during the fire, the urn filled and doused with boiling water. So the adhesive holding the malachite to its base melted. All of the pieces flaked off in the days following the fire. They had to be reassembled piece by piece in the years of restoration that followed.

The other cool fire story is about St. George’s Hall, which is massive and beautiful. But for a historian, the story behind it is such an exciting insight into history that I was almost jumping up and down. See all that marvelous ceiling beamwork? Looks medieval, right? Nope. The entire ceiling was destroyed in the fire. There was a scary-sad picture of it looking like a burned out skeleton on the tour. So they reconstructed it. BUT, they did all the work in the medieval style with historical tools and erected it completely the way the original ceiling would have been made. And you may or may not be able to tell from this picture, but the texture and color of the wood is very, very different from the hundreds of years old ceilings you see in medieval buildings now. So for me, it totally informed on what these magnificent structures would have felt like when they were new…which is not the same as they feel now. I think places like Westminster Abbey (which I visited yesterday) and Winchester Cathedral (which I visited in 2010) would have felt much warmer and more vibrant than they do now.

But the coolest of the cool parts of the reconstructed castle is the brand new Lantern Lobby. This is where the fire started. Like I said, it was formerly Queen Victoria’s private chapel. But when it came time to rebuilt, they brought in architects to take a look and totally rethink what the space should be. This room is what they came up with. And the ceiling is incredible. But unlike St. George’s Hall, which was reconstructed in the medieval fashion, this ceiling and it’s vaulting was designed by computer! All of the angles and placement and calculations were designed specifically to draw the eye upward and to bring it together into an amazing, aesthetic harmony. And really, this pic doesn’t do justice to how perfectly that mission was accomplished. It’s so cool.

So those are just some of my observations about the castle. I have another really awesome story about St. George’s Chapel (which is bigger than the Cathedral in my hometown), where my man, Charles I, is buried. But I’ll tell that story in another blog post.

image courtesy of goXunuReviews via flickr commons

I don’t know why, but writers seem to be meaner to other writers sometimes than non-writers are. Specifically when it comes to decisions about which course to take with their writing and the results of those decisions. Nothing seems to bring out the claws than someone who chose to follow a different path than someone else.

Case in point� I was privy to a discussion recently about how an as-yet unpublished writer who aspires to be traditionally published said something nasty to a formerly trad, now indie author. The comment was along the lines of “self-publishing is dying� and “only one author is still making 7 figures a year self-publishing.� These snarky comments were incredibly hurtful to the author on the receiving end of the comment.

They’re hurtful to me, in a way, too. First of all, the snarky author in question is wrong on several accounts. There are still MANY indie authors making 7 figures. And while the golden days of being able to self-publish and make a mint without working hard and treating it as a business have indeed passed, there are legions of indie authors—yours truly included—who are still making a comfortable living by writing, even if it isn’t 7 figures. Un-factual “facts� always bother me, whether in business or in history. So I call shenanigans on Snarky Author’s comments.

But what really ticks me off about this comment is what Snarky Author considers “success� as a writer. Evidently, she defines it as having the stamp of approval of the publishing establishment in New York and making 7 figures. Well, if that’s her standard, then only a small handful of authors are actually successful. Because let me tell you, those books that you see at your supermarket check-out are a teensy fraction of the books that have been published. Only the tippy-top of authors get that kind of recognition and placement. The vast majority of traditionally published authors are midlist authors who barely make a living wage. So does that mean they’re not successful? Or could it mean that the midlisters are more successful, even though they make less money than many indies?

(Writing is) Berry Hard Work, by JD Hancock, courtesy of Flickr

Okay, but let’s take it back a step further, because I, for one, absolutely, unequivocally do NOT think that success as a writer has a price tag attached to it. I consider myself a wildly successful writer because writing is my full-time job (which is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream), I support myself comfortably, I pay a friend to be my assistant, thus enabling her to launch her career, and I have enough left over to donate to my church now and then. And I manage to pay my (completely eye-popping and sob-worthy) taxes. Oh, plus I get to travel to places like London, Paris, Cardiff, Sweden, and Australia and call it work.

And I neither make 7 figures nor have any interest in being published by NYC.

So where does this attitude of dismissiveness come from? Why is there still, after all this time, a prejudice against self-publishing? And, to throw an issue that might not seem related at first but is into the mix, why are some people who attempt to go indie crashing and burning and becoming jaded?

Frankly, I think at the heart of it, nothing has changed from the time before self-publishing, when aspiring authors who couldn’t get an agent or a deal poo-pooed their fellows� manuscripts in critique groups or turned up their nose when someone got a deal with a small press. The simple fact is that not everyone who wants to be an author has what it takes to actually be an author. And by that I mean they don’t have the talent or they don’t have the ambition and drive.

It takes an incredible amount of dedication and hard work to sell any books as an indie author, let alone to reach a point where you can self-support on your writing. For the first four years of my publishing career, I worked a full-time, soul-sucking, corporate day job. I woke up at 5:30am and wrote until I had to get ready for work. I ate a quick dinner and sat down to write for hours in the evening before bed. I wrote for hours on the weekend to get stuff done. No TV, no hanging out with friends, no extracurricular activities. (No husband, no kids, and no house to take care of either). For four years. Every day, every week. When I finally did leave the day job to just write, I had to reacquaint myself with the concept of “free time.�

If you’re not willing to do that, you might want to reconsider whether you have the ambition and drive part of what it takes to succeed as an author, indie or otherwise.

But more than that, I figured out pretty quickly that there were things I needed to know that I didn’t. I had to learn about marketing and promotion, not to mention how to format books and network with other authors. Those things don’t just magically happen without effort. Even deeper than that, I knew that I needed to be a better writer. And that’s an ongoing thing. You might be surprised to know how much I study the craft, how much I reexamine my methods and analyze the quality of my output. I attend workshops at conferences and read craft books. All the time. Even now. Always.

Behold! The first book I ever published! And while I like the characters and storyline, I’m embarrassed to go back and read it. I’ve gotten so much better as I writer!

Maybe I’m dead wrong about this and letting my biases show, but I think perhaps the authors who report more disastrous than normal declines in their sales and income are the ones who aren’t bothering to work on their skills. Now, I’m not talking about those of us who are buffeted by the changing market. Sales have gone down across the board for just about everyone. But I am angrily mystified by those authors who insist they have nothing to learn, that their writing is awesome the way it is (in spite of reviews and declining sales), and who make no efforts to improve and grow. No one has anything that they want to hear about changing up their writing methods, improving the tension in their plots, or making their characters more vibrant and three-dimensional.

Because the simple fact is that the market is saturated in every genre. The only way to stand out and attract sticky readers (not the ones with lollipops, but the ones who will join your newsletter and buy everything you write) is to write well. We can’t squeak by on the novelty of eBooks anymore. Quality is king. Furthermore, as readers have said to me personally, we have to be original these days. With so many authors writing so many books, the same plots and characters are being recycled over and over. Each of us needs to focus hard on whether we’re writing the same story as everyone else. Different is king, and in my humble opinion, the authors who are going to make it through the storm are the ones who turn out unique, intriguing stories that readers haven’t seen before on a consistent basis.

So there you go. This probably should have been two posts, but it all needed to be said. The indie world is definitely alive and well, and will continue to be so in a successful and fulfilling way, if we all stay vigilant and put in the work.

I intend to read all of the historicals, starting with these guys

Yay! The finalists for the 2017 RITA Awards were announced on Tuesday! And for those who don’t know that that is, it’s the industry award for romance novels…like the Oscars of Romance. Also FYI, the finalists are chosen by romance-writing peers who read a selection of novels in multiple genres and score them based on a series of guidelines. And to take it back one step further, those novels are submitted by traditionally published and indie authors, with a contest cap of, I think it was 2000 books this year. So after everyone reading and judging all of those 2000 books in a variety of categories, we now have finalists!

But today I want to talk about the finalists in the two Historical Romance categories, because when it comes to Historical Romance, I think the industry/category has some serious problems.

First, though, let’s celebrate these magnificent authors who made the finals!!!!

Historical Romance: Long

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Historical Romance: Short

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A round of applause for all of these authors!

Bonus points to whoever came up with Tessa Dare’s title, because every time I see it, I get that song stuck in my head.

And now, let’s talk about what’s wrong with this picture. First of all, I hope you clicked on that link to the RT blog to see all of the finalists in all categories. See how many of them some of those categories have? Up to 10 per category! But notice how many there are for both historical categories combined? Only 10. And notice something else? Of those ten finalists, five of them have made the finals many, many times, year after year. That’s half of the finalists in the category popping up perennially.

So why do I feel like that’s just dead wrong? As my friend Caroline Lee said when we were discussing this, doesn’t that just mean that those authors are the best in the field, especially if they’re finalists almost every year?

Yes. Absolutely.

And that’s the problem.

As I said to Caroline, where is the new blood? Where are the hot young authors in the genre? If the same excellent authors are reaching the finals every year with relatively few first-time finalists in either of the historical categories, what does that say about the health of the genre as a whole?

Personally, I think it means two things. First, it’s just a fact that Historical Romance has been on a downward trend for a while. It doesn’t sell as well as it used to. Even my historical novels—which make up about 70% of my total catalog—don’t sell as well as the contemporary novels I have out there. And I think that becomes a problem when people are judging the books. Overall, they’re scoring them lower, because they’re just not that in to historical romance.

Okay, that’s fair enough. You can’t expect someone to get super excited over books that aren’t their cup of tea. But the other problem I have—and it’s not just this year, it’s every year—is that the number of non-Regency novels that make the finals are…well, there are two this year—one Scottish and one Western. And this is not just a problem with contests, it’s a problem with the industry.

Let me explain� Regency Romance takes up a gigantic percentage of the historical romance market right now. HUGE. But there are so many more eras and locations of history with rich, fabulous stories to be told. So with all of the vibrant history out there, why so much Regency and so little of everything else? Because traditional publishing claims that any historicals other than Regency don’t sell. But the vast majority of what they publish is Regency. So how can they sell something that they don’t publish or claim that volumes of ignored history won’t sell when there are so few case studies of non-Regency books out there?

Okay, I’ll admit that Elizabeth Hoyt is one of my very favorite novelists!

This is why Indie Historical Romance writers have become so valuable to the industry. We write the stories that no one else will publish. And guess what? They sell. Not as well as contemporary romance, mind you, but they put kibble in my cats� dishes. So if we have proof that other historical eras do, in fact, sell, why isn’t the traditional publishing industry putting more effort into publishing them (and I won’t say they don’t publish anything non-Regency at all—they do, just not very much). Furthermore, and this is more of a question based on reality, have readers been trained to only consider Regency and to block out any other historical eras? (Except maybe Scottish, which is also mildly popular, but honestly, I’m not a fan)

This brings me around to my other question/concern/problem with the industry and readers and awards these days. Is it possible that Historical Romance is seeing such a huge downswing because readers are dead tired of dukes? Is the genre as a whole failing to attract new readers because those readers are SO over Regency, but that’s the bulk of the entire category these days? Is it not possible that the category as a whole could get a huge boost if publishers and contests alike pushed more Western, Medieval, later Victorian, 20th Century, Non-European titles? I’d give my eye teeth to read a romance novel set around the founding of Australia, for example. I’ve ALWAYS wanted to read a series like that. Or what about a romance or two set during WWI? Hasn’t Downton Abbey proven that the material there is rich and crowd-pleasing? What about romances that explore the history of People of Color? I definitely want to read those!

Why don’t we see more variety in Historical Romance?

� That’s basically what it’s all about.

It’s release day for Book 10 in The Brides of Paradise Ranch series, His Magical Bride (or Talia: The Magical Bride, if you like the sweet version). I could sit here all day telling you about it, but why not get started reading Chapter One instead?

Haskell, Wyoming � 1877

Sheriff Trey Knighton had entertained some bad ideas in his day. Running away from the orphanage where he’d landed after cholera wiped out his family was one. Taking up with the Skunk Boys of Missouri was another. There were days when he felt like accepting the post of sheriff of Haskell, Wyoming was a bad idea too, but only when his jail cell was filled to bursting with men who’d drunk too much over at Sam’s saloon, The Silver Dollar.

On second thought, turning straight, coming clean, and taking the job in Haskell was the best decision he’d ever made, drunks harassing him on Saturday nights or not. But letting Howard Haskell twist his arm and convince him to send away for a mail-order bride? Definitely not one of his brighter ideas.

“I’m so excited,� Eden Chance told her friends, bouncing as much as her toddler, Winslow. At that moment, he and Wendy and Travis Montrose’s baby, Emanuel, were sitting in a buggy together, laughing and clapping over something that had the two little critters in hysterics.

“Lord knows how happy I am to have my friend Talia nearby again,� Wendy agreed.

“She always was such a sweet little thing,� Corva Haskell added, rocking a buggy of her own. Corva had two babies now, not just one, Howard Franklin Haskell and now a girl, Elizabeth, or Bitsy as people had started to call the poor thing.

Rounding out their group was Elspeth Strong, who hadn’t had any children of her own since coming out last year to marry Athos, the stationmaster. That hardly mattered, seeing as Athos already had eight of the little boogers. Five-year-old Thomas held Elspeth’s hand as he watched Winslow and Emanuel, giggling along with them.

Heck, Trey was surprised the ladies hadn’t decorated the train station with bunting and rosettes. They were treating the whole thing like a big party. True, all four of them had known his bride-to-be during their time at Hurst Home. Trey kicked the boards of the train platform and winced. He should probably take their involvement in welcoming Talia Lambert as an endorsement of her character. It should reassure him, help him to feel confident in his decision to be a husband. But land sakes, domesticity sure did make a man shake in his boots when he came face to face with it.

“No, no, Howard.� Corva jerked forward as her boy—nearly two now—stood in the buggy and tried to lean over the side.

“Down!� he declared, pointing at the ground.

“Don’t step on your sister,� Corva told him in turn. Bitsy let out an almighty wail, and kept screaming. Trey blanched.

“Let him run around a little,� Virginia Piedmont, baby Howard’s great-aunt, told Corva. “We’ll all keep an eye on him.�

“Well, if you think it’s safe,� Corva said, lifting the boy out of the buggy and setting him on his feet on the train platform.

“Of course, it’s safe.� Virginia dismissed her concerns with a wave.

To prove her wrong, little Howard tore straight for the tracks. Corva was too busy picking up and settling her girl to chase after Howard. Trey was closest, so he swept in and lifted the boy into the air before he could tumble off the platform and onto the tracks.

Of course, Trey didn’t know the first thing about how to hold a baby. He clamped the squirmy thing around his middle and held him at arm’s length. The boy kicked and screamed, whether in shock at being picked up by a stranger or in rage over being stopped on his way to certain death, Trey had no idea.

“Here, I’ll take him,� Virginia said.

“Please do.� Trey handed the boy over.

Little Howard continued to squirm in Virginia’s arms, but Virginia hardly blinked. She carried the boy to the back of the platform, set him down, and interested him in a pile of rocks right beside the stairs. The other two toddler boys sure as heck noticed their buddy’s freedom and began to fuss and wail to be let down too. Wendy and Eden were still chattering away in a tone of voice that rendered everything they said as incomprehensible background noise in Trey’s ears. They didn’t seem to miss a beat as they lifted their babies from the buggy and set them down on the platform.

The two toddlers proceeded to chase each other around the buggy, tripping a few times and occasionally hiding in their mothers� skirts.

“I can’t wait to introduce Talia to Emma and Dean Meyers,� Eden said, managing to catch and steer her boy away from a nail sticking out of the platform without missing a beat in the conversation.

“Of course,� Wendy gasped. “With all her nursing experience, I’m sure Dr. Meyers could use Talia’s help in his clinic.�

“She might even be willing to travel out to the Indian camps with him,� Elspeth suggested.

“Can I go to the Indian camps, Mama?� Thomas asked her.

Elspeth laughed and ruffled his hair. “No, dear.�

“Why not?� Thomas frowned.

“It’s far too dangerous for a little boy.�

“I’m not little, I’m five now.� Thomas stomped his foot.

“But it’s still too dangerous.�

“But I’m brave.�

“And young.�

“It’s not fair,� Thomas shouted.

Trey flinched. Yep, this was definitely a terrible, terrible idea. Why hadn’t he considered it all before? A bride meant a wife, and a wife meant a family. And the only thing more terrifying than having a family, in his experience, was losing one.

A chuckle at Trey’s side drew his attention away from the whirlwind of children. “That right there is why I’ve avoided this whole mail-order bride craze,� Sam Standish, one of Trey’s closest friends, said.

The women weren’t the only ones who had come to meet Talia Lambert at the station. Trey’s friends had come to show their support too, although he didn’t know how supportive it was for Sam and George Pickering to stand there snickering behind their hands.

“Come on,� George argued. “It’s a wonderful thing for a man to have a family.�

“Says the man who only just got married,� Sam argued.

“That only means I’m a new convert to the beauty and wonder of marriage,� George said.

“Yeah, see if you’re still saying that in six months when your baby gets here,� Sam tossed back.

George shrugged. “I welcome my and Holly’s child. Because I, for one, am ready for the challenge of fatherhood.�

Trey swallowed. “Well, I’m not,� he muttered. “Why did I ever let myself get talked into this?�

His friends stared at him in surprise.

“You can’t be having second thoughts now,� George said.

“Second thoughts?� Virginia straightened from where she was playing with Howard at the other end of the platform. “Don’t you tell me you’re having second thoughts about sending for a wife, Trey Knighton.�

“How on earth did she hear me all the way over there?� Trey murmured, even quieter.

“Women are like that,� Sam said with a snigger. “You say something they don’t like and they’ll hear it from two territories away.�

Sam was right. All five of the women on the other side of the platform glared at him as though he’d declared he was done with not only their friend Talia, but the entire female of the species.

“So help me God, Sheriff Knighton,� Eden launched into him. “If you turn Talia away when she gets off that train, I will personally make sure whoever does your laundry washes your sheets with nettles from here on out.�

“How could you even think of not marrying her?� Wendy questioned, hands on her hips. Her stance only emphasized the bump of her and Travis’s next baby, which didn’t help the argument, in Trey’s eyes, at all.

Elspeth only shook her head, and Corva was too busy settling her wailing infant to add to the admonishment.

Trey held up his hands. “I’m not backing out of anything,� he said, though a large part of him wished he could.

“Good,� Eden, Wendy, and Elspeth answered at the same time.

“He couldn’t back out of it if he wanted to,� Virginia added. “Talia’s already on her way, and Trey knows as well as anyone what kind of life you girls from Hurst Home have known. He wouldn’t be snake enough to turn away a woman who has already had a hard time of it.�

The others nodded. Guilt gnawed at Trey’s gut. They were right, of course. He wasn’t low enough to send any woman back to an unfortunate life. But that didn’t mean he had to dive into marriage whole hog once Miss Lambert got there. Men and women had all sorts of marriages, ones that ended up with a parcel of kids and ones that involved separate rooms and separate lives.

“You would never catch me sending away for a bride,� Sam said.

At last, something Trey could latch onto that wouldn’t end with him getting in trouble. He turned to Sam. “You would too, and you know it.�

“Nuh-uh,� Sam protested. “I run a saloon. That’s no place for a good woman.�

“He never said you would marry a ‘good� woman,� George chortled.

Sam sent a mock frown George’s way. “You sayin� I should get hitched to one of Bonnie’s girls?�

George lost his smirk. Any mention of Bonnie’s girls inevitably touched a nerve with him, seeing as he and Bonnie were friends from way back. He’d unknowingly given Bonnie the money she’d used to start her cat-house too, although Trey knew as well as anyone in town—probably better—how Bonnie used her place to rescue the unrescuable, educate them, and send them on to new and better lives.

“Sam—� Trey thumped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “—the day will come when you’ll find yourself wanting the comforts of a wife.�

Sam raised a brow. “What, like you do?�

Trey let his hand drop to his side. Sam had a point.

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And where can you buy this awesome book, you ask? Why, right here:

His Magical Bride (Spicy Version)

Amazon �

B&N � Coming Soon

iBooks �

Kobo �

Google Play �

(Spicy version is not and, alas, will not be available in KU, because it’s available everywhere else)

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Talia: The Magical Bride (Sweet Version)

Amazon �

(Only the sweet version is available in KU)

Woo hoo!

This one partially goes out to my fellow writers, but I hope a lot of what I’m about to share can help everyone in navigating the sometimes choppy waters of life. Because I had a REALLY good day yesterday, personally and professionally, and I owe it all to one thing: Persistence.

So career-wise, I had my very first 99 cent promo on one of the books from my Brides of Paradise Ranch series, . I wrote this book back in June of last year, but I have to say, it’s one of my favorite things that I’ve written. I had a lot of fun writing a portly hero with a heart of gold, his eight children, and the Englishwoman and former governess who travels west as a mail-order bride to marry him, mostly so she can wrangle his children. Hilarity and heartbreak ensue. Who would have thought that a non-traditionally handsome, non-alpha male hero would capture so many hearts?

But let’s go back and focus on the BookBub part of this whole equation. Readers, if you haven’t signed up for BookBub’s daily deals emails, you’re missing out. Because they send out a LOT of great stuff! And authors, yeah, I know. One reason those BookBub emails are so great is because they have a VERY stringent process for choosing which books to promote. They only accept a tiny fraction of books that are submitted. And it drives authors to despair. Because some of us submit over and over and over and get rejection after rejection.

Believe it or not, I was one of those rejected authors. True, I haven’t had trouble getting freebie BookBub promos, and I have a theory about that which I’ll share some other time. But up until yesterday, after about five years of trying, I’d never had a 99 cent deal. Okay, granted, I didn’t try super hard to get one up until the last year or so because my marketing strategy relied more on freebies. But I was turned down plenty of times before being accepted.

And when I was, it wasn’t for the category I applied for. They wanted to put me in a new category. I had to take a chance…and it paid off! I was on most retailer’s Top 100 charts, including #34 on Amazon, when I woke up this morning! But it didn’t just happen easy-peasy, lickety-split. Not only did getting to that spot involve a lot of persistence when it came to submitting for the BookBub deal, dude, His Remarkable Bride is, like, the 35th book I’ve published or something.

It’s easy to get down in the mouth when we see other people in our same field or with our same life circumstances succeeding in ways we want to but haven’t, whether that’s getting a BookBub promo, getting a promotion, or getting pregnant after dealing with infertility. I know that I am particularly susceptible to jealousy, and it’s something I’ve had to work on HARD for most of my life. But this is a story not just of persisting in applying for one particular promo. I feel like my entire career so far, my entire life, has been about persisting in improving my writing and making it as technically good, original, and emotional as possible. It’s been about persisting when I felt trapped in a corporate job with no way of getting out. It’s been persisting when I didn’t think I was going to have enough money to pay bills. And I’m sure I’ll have to continue to persist. My heart tells me that I might have to persist enough to fight to keep this life I love so much as external forces (like that money thing) try to chip away at it.

This is what really matters

Persistence is key! If you give up on your dreams at any point, not only is that a sadness, it becomes that much harder to jump back onto the tack of pursuing them once you feel inspired again. In a way, persistence is the antithesis of inspiration. Inspiration is a glorious high, but persistence is a plodding, sometimes miserable and unrewarding, daily task that you have to do, whether you feel like it or not. But I have an image that always comes to mind when I don’t feel like writing or marketing or doing anything besides lying on my couch covered in cats, playing games on my iPad. And of all things, it’s a football analogy. You have to move the ball forward. Every day, even if it’s just a single yard, you have to move the ball forward.

And as far as my personal life goes, it was an awesome day yesterday because I got to hang out with this guy all morning! It’s an even more awesome day when I get to hang out with him and his sister, but oh, my heart! My career could have fallen apart yesterday and I still would have counted it a great day because of him (and his mommy). Because that’s what’s really important in life.