Hens Lay Eggs
food for thought
Mail Order Bride #MFRWhooks
Satin Boots: Six Short Western Romances
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nEnjoy these sweet, clean romances set in the American Old West: n |
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The Mail Order Bride’s Choice
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Excerpt
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nMoira headed to the small attic room she shared with the Swinburnes’ other maid. Caroline, who had the next Sunday afternoon off, likely toiled in the kitchen at that moment helping the cook prepare a lavish feast for that night’s supper party. Moira collected her meager belongings, stuffing them into a worn satchel purchased secondhand and given to her by her mother five years prior. Mama had also given parting words of wisdom: “Stay true to yourself, Moira. Your virtue is all you truly possess. Give it to no man without the security of wedding vows.”
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nHaving grown up the bastard daughter of a tavern wench, Moira knew her mother spoke from harsh experience. A butler’s daughter who had learned to read and write and expected to rise to respectable employment as some nobleman’s housekeeper, Edith Saccarrigan had fallen for a nobleman’s blandishments and false promises with the obvious consequences. Poor decisions and ruin followed her from Ireland to America. She gave her daughter the only gifts she could: advice and the skills to read and write.
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nMoira could still hear her mother’s soft Irish brogue as she sang the sad, lilting songs of her homeland.
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nThe Swinburne’s butler met her at the back door—the servants entrance—with the salary owed her. He gave her a melancholy look and said, “You’re a good worker, an honest girl. Should anyone inquire of me, I’ll recommend your employment. I’m sorry, girl.”
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n“I’m sorry, too,” she replied. “You’ve been good to me, Mr. Conley.”
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nHe nodded and stepped back to allow her to pass through the doorway. Neither acknowledged that no one would ask the butler for his recommendation of a potential employee. Moira carried her belongings to the post office where she greeted the clerk and picked up the single letter waiting for her. Stepping aside and taking a seat on a public bench, she opened it. What good fortune! Her expression brightened as she picked up a ticket for the stagecoach from within the folds of paper.
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nDear Miss Saccariggan,
nOur amiable correspondence has convinced me that we will make a good life together. Please use the enclosed ticket to meet me in Redstone Falls in the Colorado Territory. I will greet you at the stagecoach depot and we’ll marry.
nVery truly yours,
nBlake Garrison
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nTucking the letter and ticket securely into her satchel, Moira left the post office and walked to the nearest stagecoach depot.
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n“When does the next stagecoach depart?” she inquired.
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nThe clerk looked at the schedule posted on the wall beside the ticket window and replied, “Tomorrow morning, promptly at six o’clock.”
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nMoira pursed her lips as she considered what to do next. She had little money to spend.
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nRaking his gaze over plain clothing, the clerk frowned and said, “You can’t spend the night here, miss. The company don’t allow passengers to loiter.”
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nShe sighed. The clerk obviously had experience with passengers like her.
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n“Do you know of an inexpensive place—someplace respectable—where I could stay for the night?” she asked.n
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His eyes glittering dangerously #MFRWhooks
Willow: Branch 3 of the Tree of Life
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nBe care what you wish for, because you just might get it. n |
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Excerpt
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n“Two rooms,” she blurted.
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nThe clerk hesitated. Dane bent down and murmured in Willow’s ear, “One room. I need to protect you.”
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nShe turned wide eyes up at him and shivered and wondered who would protect her from him. Oh, no, she did not believe for a moment that he’d hurt her—at least not beat her up, stab her, or attempt to kill her. (Attempt? Hah.) No, what she feared was a different kind of assault that would dissolve her resistance and bind her to him irrevocably.
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nAt that point, the evening shift manager rushed through an office door and said, “Are you victims of the hotel collapse?”
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n“We are,” Dane confirmed.
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nHe turned to the clerk, who looked confused, and explained, “The Palm Springs Palazzo Hotel has collapsed! Police are sending those victims who are ambulatory to other facilities. Make sure they get a room. We can’t be seen turning away customers who need us in this time of difficulty unless every single room is full.”
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nWillow suppressed a snort. Of course the hotel wouldn’t be turning away the rush of customers. The problem would be in collecting payment for the room nights and food, since she was sure many people wouldn’t have their money or belongings with them.
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n“One room,” Dane said. “Others are coming in even as we speak.”
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nAnd it was true, Willow realized. People whose bank accounts could withstand The Palms’ room rates were filling the lobby.
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nThe clerk swiped two key cards and handed them to Dane. Efficiently, she gave him the room information and directed him to the elevator bank.
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n“Come, Willow,” he commanded softly and started walking. Once again, Willow was nearly jerked off her feet and she scrambled to keep up. The elevator doors opened almost immediately and in moments they were in their hotel room, a spacious junior suite. Only when the door had closed behind them did Dane release Willow’s hand. She determinedly stepped beyond his immediate reach and glared at him.
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n“What the hell is going on?” Willow demanded hotly.
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nDane bolted the deadbolt and latched the safety to prevent unwanted entry, then unwrapped a glass from its protective paper and filled it at the bathroom tap for a drink. He drained the glass and set it down carefully before answering her.
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n“Sit.”
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n“I’ll stand, thank you.”
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n“Sit,” he repeated, eyes glittering dangerously.n
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Thankful for #MFRWauthor
MFRW author 52-week blog challenge
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n This week’s writing prompt asks authors to express their gratitude.
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nLiving where I do, I have much for which to be grateful. Watching the news or reading the newspaper brings home that dismissive expression of “First World problems” when I gripe about something that annoys or inconveniences me. Because my list of gratitude would be exhaustive (and exhausting), I’ll restrict it to a few key entries.
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nI’m grateful for:n
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- My husband. It’s got to be said, right? I’ll admit that he wasn’t supportive when I expressed a desire to go freelance; however, after losing my job three years ago, he’s been extremely supportive. I truly appreciate him for that. I’m also grateful for being able to justify not going back to being a corporate wage slave. I’m a (much) happier person and he sees that. (So does everyone else.) David may not really understand what I do or why I like doing it–and that includes the menagerie of four-footed critters–but he’s there for me.
- My publicist. Dee really goes above and beyond the job description of social media marketing guru. She serves as a sounding board, sometimes as an editor or critic, and often as a friend.
- Cindra and Jeanette. We met less than a decade ago, but they’ve become my best buddies, my riding companions, my readers, my fans.
- My editor. Every writer should have an editor who fits his or her writing style as Cindy does mine. I rely on Cindy to correct my typos and other errors, to give me virtual dope slaps when my story goes off-course, and to help me make those manuscripts shine.
- The Mastermind Group. This mere handful of fellow “solopreneurs” share my pain. They commiserate and offer intelligent and empathetic insight, suggest solutions, and generally provide the like-minded support we all need.
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nOf course, I’m thankful for the readers who enjoy my stories and even plunk down their hard-earned money to buy the books. I’m even thankful for the readers who leave less than flatter reviews: I learn from them what works and what doesn’t work. Writing and publishing stories is an evolving process.n
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Author
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
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Karen (Holly)
Blog Swaps
Looking for a place to swap blogs? Holly Bargo at Hen House Publishing is happy to reciprocate Blog Swaps in 2019.
For more information: