Back in 1969, I went on a road trip with my Nebraska friends to most of the northwest. We saw some gorgeous scenery and met some very fine and friendly folks along the way. Of all the states we visited, the one I fell in love with at first sight was Wyoming. The wide-open skies, rolling hills and majestic mountains spoke to my heart. The people were friendly but they were also people who knew how to keep a secret if asked to and would come to the aid of a friend in trouble, no questions asked. At least that was my impression of them. The state motto is “Equality”—and they mean it. Much to my surprise, Wyoming was the first state in the union to give its women the right to vote. The spirit of freedom and self-reliance is at the heart of the people who reside in this beautiful state.
|WYOMING RANCH IN WINTER|
Joe’s Reluctant Bride
Available at Western Trail Blazer Novels
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~*~*~Also available in print~*~*~
A haunted house, a trunk and a date with destiny.
Excerpt:Lola sensed there was a mystery to Joe Wilding, something he was not willing to share with anyone, especially someone he barely knew like her. Curiosity crept into her veins and spread like wildfire. Nothing enticed her more than a good mystery.
Studying his stony features for a moment,
“It’s the same tune. I only know the one.”“It sounds like pots clanging together.” There, she got a good lick in for the insult back in the barn. His face was unmoved and somehow she felt just a little guilty for saying the smart remark since he seemed in a pensive mood.
“Maybe so,”“Why do you carry the harmonica with you all the time if you only know one tune? You don’t even play that one very well.” A little stab of conscience needled at her chest, but
He wiped the harmonica on his shirt before he put it back in his pocket. With a narrow glance toward
Lola, he took a deep breath and answered. “It’s not my harmonica. It belonged to my brother. He died. I killed him. Now will you just let me have some silence for a while?” The words seemed to grind up from the bottom of his throat as if he were choking on a bale of tumbleweed.
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