Coming Soon... THIS MOMENT IN TIME by Nicole McCaffery

I hope no one will mind if I change course from our usual topic of the Old West to share another of my favorite era’s with you today.  The following is an excerpt from my upcoming release, a Civil War era time travel coming in early 2012 from The Wild Rose Press.

Not even captivity can sway Southern widow  Josette Beaumont from spying for the Confederacy.

Under the nose of the Union army, she willingly risks her life to pass information to her sources.

Until a stranger appears in her bedroom one day with a cryptic message: stop spying or you’ll die. She

has no reason to believe his warnings about the future, but his company is the only solace in her long

days of imprisonment, and his friendship quickly comes to mean so much more. If only she could make

the sacrifice he asks of her…

To hell with history, real estate mogul Jamie D’Alessandro has no intention of saving the historic

mansion he’s purchased, even if it is the home of a famous Confederate spy. But when he steps into an

upstairs bedroom of the old house, time suddenly shifts, bringing him face to face with a very beautiful

and irate Southern lady. Against his will he’s drawn into her cause—to save the Confederacy. But Jamie

has a cause of his own. According to his research the lady spy has only days to live.

Should he change history to save the woman he loves—or sacrifice life in his own century to be with her for This Moment in Time?

 “TV producer and star of The House Flipper, Jamie D’Alessandro was indicted this week in Los Angeles on charges of fraud and grand larceny.

“An appraiser there claims D’Alessandro owes her more than forty-thousand dollars for work she did on some of the homes he flipped. If convicted, D’Alessandro could face up to two years in jail.  This comes just weeks after controversy began swirling around D’Alessandro’s plans to demolish an historic home in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.  The two-hundred year old house, used as a headquarters by Union General Stillwell during the Civil War, was the home of famous confederate spy Josette Beaumont, once known as the Virginia Rose. 

“D’Alessandro, son of the late real estate mogul James D’Alessandro, maintains the home is too badly damaged from decades of neglect to safely renovate. He plans to replace it with an upscale hotel.

In other news…”

“This doesn’t look good.”

Jamie muted the television and quirked a brow at his chief financial officer.  “I’ve been in worse messes.”

“Ashley—sorry, the plaintiff.  She’s making your life hell.” Len Goldman kicked off her low-heeled shoes and settled into a leather wing back chair. “Why don’t you just pay her off?”

“Because it’s bullshit. We were engaged at the time.  She wasn’t interested in collecting payment as long as there was a half million-dollar rock on her hand.  Now that I’ve called things off she wants compensation.”

“Jame, you could go to jail.”

He pulled a face.  Rising from the leather sofa in his office, he strolled across the room to gaze out at the night sky.  Even at eighty stories up, there were no stars to be seen, just the New York skyline and the artificial lights of the other Manhattan high rises. 

“That doesn’t concern you?”

“Nope.” He swirled the contents of his glass, then tossed it back with one gulp.  “What good is my father’s money and his team of New York attorneys if they can’t keep me out of jail for something I didn’t do?  Hell, they kept me out enough when I was younger for things I did do.”

A shadow of a smile crossed Len’s face. “I suppose they did.  Now what about this place in Virginia? The other board members and I are concerned about the image of D’Alessandro Development.”

He turned and faced his mentor, the woman who had held the company together after his parents’ unexpected deaths and been a surrogate parent to him over the years.  “Lenora. You’re not serious.”

“It doesn’t look good, Jamie.  When you acquired the property, you assured the Daughters of the Confederacy and the local historical society you wouldn’t tear it down.”

“It was a mistake. I should have listened to the appraiser, but I thought it would be great for the show.  It would take millions to restore that thing.” He strode across the room to refill his glass.  “And I never said I wouldn’t demolish the house. I said I didn’t intend to demolish it. Intentions change.” He lifted the brandy decanter toward her in silent question. 

Len shook her head, indicating her half-full glass.  “You know damn well people don’t see it that way.  They just see some hot-shot kid from New York with more arrogance than brains—”

“I’m thirty-three, hardly a kid.”

“Have you even seen the house?”

Jamie settled back onto the leather sofa, resting an ankle on one knee.  “I’ve seen pictures.”

“It’s just… I know you hate to hear this hon, but your father—”

“I’m not—”

“I know.  You’re not your father and no one expects you to be.  But Jimmy was a self-made man.  He didn’t earn his millions overnight like you did; he had to work for it.  And he believed to his dying day that a personal touch made all the difference.  He was never too big, too busy or too important to do things for himself.”

Jamie absorbed her words and the sting of her underlying message.  Unspoken words like spoiled brat and too big for your britches hung in the air between them. He studied the contents of his glass, swirling the amber liquid, listening to the ice clink against the sides.  “I have nothing to gain by going to Virginia.”

“First hand knowledge.  You know this business as well as any appraiser. Hell you’re probably the only heir in New York who has actually done manual labor.  I know what you can do with an old house, Jame.  If you haven’t seen it for yourself, how do you know it’s not worth renovating?”

“Because I don’t care.  I don’t know what it is, Len, but lately… nothing interests me.  I know you think I’m a spoiled brat, but I feel like there’s nothing left.  Like it’s all done.  My father spent his life building his fortune—building all of this,” he gestured to the ceiling.  “When he died, I became a billionaire. At twenty-three.”

“No one could blame you for feeling that way.  You never had the chance to find out what you wanted to be when you grew up. It was thrust on you as Jimmy and Regina’s only child. You’ve spent the last ten years learning the business from the ground up, you’ve proven to the world that you are your father’s son, you are a chip off the old block.  Maybe it’s time to take a breather.”

“I don’t need another vacation; there’s no place I haven’t already been.”

“Then don’t take one.  When the pressures of it all got to your father, he used to say the best medicine was to get your hands dirty.”

He reached to set the glass on a side table. “Are you suggesting I take up gardening?”

She chuckled.  “No. Do what you’re really good at.  Go fix up a house somewhere. Disconnect completely. Forget about New York, forget about real estate. Forget about Ashley and the lawsuit.”

Jamie considered her words for a few moments.  Disconnect? No cell phone, no computers. Nothing? As unreasonable as the idea sounded, it held a certain appeal.  He released a sigh of defeat “Fine. Call off the bulldozers.  I’ll go to Virginia.”

****

Spring, 1862

Shenandoah Valley, Virginia

“I want to know how Stonewall Jackson knew where my men were going to be.”

Josette Beaumont resisted the urge to flinch. She’d not show a hint of weakness, even as General Stillwater’s foul breath bathed her face.

He grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger, squeezing.  “You’ve been locked in this house for a month, yet somehow you still managed to get information to the rebs.  I want to know how.”

She jerked away from his touch, but he didn’t release her.  “Has it not occurred to you, General, that perhaps the Union army isn’t as clever as you think?  You were the ones who intended to win this war in a matter of days, as I recall.  Yet the North hasn’t won a single battle.”

He shoved her against the wall with a thud that rattled her teeth.  “Time spent in a Federal prison would do you good.”

She held her tongue.  Until he could prove she was a spy, he couldn’t truly send her to prison.  At least she hoped not.  Right now he had no proof of anything.

“Fortunately for you, my dear, I’m a man who appreciates beauty.”

A cold knot of fear coiled in her midsection.  She stepped away from the wall, all too aware of the bed in the center of the room and the lusty gleam in his eyes.

He closed the distance between them in one long stride.  “We could work out an arrangement that benefits us both.”

“I’d die before becoming mistress to the likes of you.”

“The time may come when you change your mind.  Until then, if I were you, I’d be very cautious about what you choose to share with your sources.  You never know when the information you have access to is false.  You could unintentionally send those filthy rebels you care so much about directly into harm’s path.”

A lump rose in her throat.  “If I were a spy, as you claim, then that might concern me.  But since I am nothing but a poor widow—”

“A poor widow?”

“You know perfectly well my husband’s passing left me with nothing. What little I had was taken by you and your men.”

“There is one thing I haven’t taken from you, Mrs. Beaumont.”  His cold gaze raked her from head to toe, leaving her as chilled as if he’d stripped her naked.  “I prefer to wait until you offer it freely—“

“Then you’ve a long wait ahead.”

“My patience is wearing thin,” he said, storming toward the door. “One of these nights I may decide I’ve been patient enough.” 

The door slammed. She waited a half breath until she heard the key turn in the lock and the General’s boots retreating down the hallway.

She quickly pulled the pins from her hair, allowing the waist length strands to fall free, combing her fingers through the tangles until the silk-wrapped sachet fell to the floor.  She scooped  it up and hurriedly pulled the contents from inside to review the notes she would slip to her contact later tonight. 

****

By the dim glow of propane lanterns, Jamie unrolled the sleeping bag and spread it on the floor.  His flight had arrived late, and he’d gotten lost on the way to the house.  It was dusk by the time he arrived.  He’d have to wait until morning to fully explore Beaumont House and the grounds around it. 

He rubbed his arms against the chill of the spring night.  Fortunately, he’d never minded roughing it.  In fact, sitting here in this abandoned house, with only the sound of his own breathing for company, he was more content than he’d ever been in his multi-level New York penthouse.  No servants tiptoeing about, no cell phone buzzing, no financial advisors dropping by for hours-long discussions.

Maybe he’d have a look around before night fully took over the house.  He hadn’t actually stepped foot inside before, had merely relied on the findings of his reconstruction team.  But now, flashlight in hand, the narrow beam of light lit upon yellowed paint, peeling wallpaper and architectural detail the likes of which were rarely seen these days.  He stepped closer, studying the intricate molding on the fireplace and ran his fingers along the smooth, cold surface.  It would need more than stripping and refinishing to restore it, but the wood felt solid beneath his fingertips. 

Stepping back, he drew the light up to reveal the crown molding along the ceiling.  He’d need a ladder and full daylight to get a good look at it, but the idea of working with his hands again—getting them dirty, as Len said—filled him with an excitement that renewed his spirit in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. 

The light glinted off the top of a framed painting.  He lowered the beam, illuminating the portrait.  A woman with dark hair and smoldering dark eyes.  A modest hint—downright puritan by today’s standards—of pale bosom peeked over the ruffled bodice of a white dress.  Somehow that hint of creamy flesh seemed more forbidden—sexier-- than any modern woman he’d ever seen.  There was something prim and ladylike about her that made it feel wrong to stare at her like that.  Was this the famous spy?  Her name escaped him, but he made a mental note to learn more about her.

A loud thump from the second floor caught his attention.  His heart leaped to his throat, and for a moment, he felt like a scared kid in a haunted house.  He shook his head, chuckling at himself.  The house had been locked up tight since the renovation team had come through to inspect it, there was no one around.  Probably a rodent or critter had gotten inside.  Still, he had no intention of spending the night listening to the scratching and thumping of a wild animal.

He shone the flashlight ahead of him until he found the winding, elegant staircase that led to the second floor.  Common sense warned him not to trust the stairs; the old house was full of wood rot.  But curiosity got the better of him and he tested the first step before putting his full weight on it, and the next, and the next.  Fully expecting to go through the boards and land on his ass, he continued the same tenuous journey until he reached the second floor. 

Amazed he’d actually made it, he gave a quick glance behind him, then began to move around the second story.  Shining the light upward, he saw the staircase continued to a third floor, but wasn’t about to push his luck any further. 

He paused, waiting until he heard the scratching again.  With the beam of light at his feet to illuminate the floor, he took slow, cautious steps, following the sound.  As he drew closer to the sound he paused, wondering if he should have brought something for protection. What if the creature was rabid? 

Stepping fully into the room where he’d heard the noises, he paused to appreciate the huge windows that overlooked the valley.  They didn’t make houses like this anymore, and while he had nothing but the utmost appreciation for the trappings of modern society, he had to admit, there was something about the way they built things a couple of centuries ago. They didn’t need high tech gadgets and expensive fabrics to scream wealth and elegance.  It was right here in the architecture. 

Forgetting himself for a moment, he stepped across the room. The loud groan of a floorboard caused him to freeze, wondering if the floor could support him.  The banging now came from behind him.  Heart suddenly pounding, he whirled.  A door—to a closet, perhaps?— rattled insistently.  He swallowed.  He’d never believed in ghosts, had laughed off any notion that they existed.  So what the hell was this? 

As he stood there, a cold draft of air swirled about his feet.  Wasn’t it supposed to get really cold when a ghost appeared?  No, no, he wouldn’t allow his imagination to take him there.  Dammit, he was James D’Alessandro III; he’d never allowed anyone or anything to intimidate him. It would take more than an abandoned old house to spook him.

On silent feet, he crossed the room to the door, mentally counting—one, two… three. He yanked it open.  His breath left him in a relieved exhale.  Nothing stood behind it.  The cold breeze continued, whistling through a broken window.  The branch of a tree had long since grown inside and as the wind blew, it scratched against the wall.  A gust must have blown the door shut; that was probably the bang he’d heard from downstairs. 

He took another deep breath to help slow his heart rate. While he was out gathering tools tomorrow, he’d have to get something to put over the window.  He’d never get any rest with that door thumping all night long, and the air blowing inside would only make the house colder. 

Chuckling at his own ridiculous fear, he started to turn. A voice—not the howling of the wind this time— and the sudden sensation of warmth at his back stilled him.

“Honestly, Sebastian, he can’t keep me locked up here much longer.  I’ll go mad.”

A woman?  She sounded calm, perhaps a little angry.

“Drat it, now I’ve lost count.”  A heavy sigh followed.  “The last I remember was twenty strokes, I’ll have to start over from there.”

Heart back in his throat, he turned just enough to glance over his shoulder.  The first thing to greet him were the windows—the very same windows he’d admired moments ago.  Only they were now adorned with white lace.  To the left, a warm fire crackled in the fireplace, casting a golden glow across the gleaming hardwood floor.  And directly in front of him, a dark gray cat lay sprawled across an ornate four poster bed, calmly grooming itself. It paused, tongue in mid stroke and stared up at him with curious green eyes.

“Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty…”

Swallowing, he forced his gaze from the cat to the source of the voice.  A woman sat at a vanity, tugging a brush through long, dark hair.  In the mirror, he watched as her gaze moved from her reflection.  To him.  She let out a gasp.  The brush fell from her hand. She whirled on her seat to face him.

“Wh—who are you?”

She could see him!

4.5 Stars from RT for Wild Texas Wind

I hope you'll forgive me if it sounds like I'm bragging, but I can't help wanting to shout this from the rooftops.

My historical western Wild Texas Wind is reviewed in the October issue of RT.  Here is the review:

****1/2

An excellent story with a spitfire heroine, a great hero and a wonderful, slightly humorous climax.  Readers who enjoy a more traditional western with a strong romantic element will enjoy this.

Summary: Hired gun Raz Colt wants to live quietly on his own ranch so he sets out to rescue kidnapped heiress Arden O'Hara and earn the reward. But Arden set up the kidnapping herself, hoping her fiance would ride to her rescue. She is not happy when Raz shows up, even when he kills a man she doesn't beleive was trying to kill her.

While Raz drags her toward home it's clear that someone is sending hired guns after her. He struggles with his attraction to her, knowing they can't have a future. But Arden is slowly discovering that Raz is someone worth waiting for.

(My only quibble is that they mis-rated the book as "mild".  I worry some poor, unsuspecting reader who prefers their romance on the sweet side will pick it up and get the shock of their life, LOL.)

Thanks for letting me share that news today.  Like so many authors I know, I remember reading RT when I was a young, wannabe author and dreaming of the day my book would be reviewed by them. Wow.  Somebody pinch me....

Getting to know Nicole McCaffrey

Have you ever walked through a forest and looked up to see tall pine trees stretching toward Heaven, or paused to admire an impossibly wide maple tree? Beneath that dense shade squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits scurry about, deer munch lazily on nearby shrubs and song birds tweet from branches above... Well, welcome to my neighborhood.

Unlike most of the Sweethearts, I don’t live out west.  I make my home in the northeast, in a town nestled against  the shores of Lake Ontario in Rochester, New York.  Also unlike most of the Sweethearts, I’m a born and bred city girl.  I grew up in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Rochester, NY, in an area called Maplewood where old Victorian and post Victorian style houses and even older trees made up our  neighborhood.  I spent long summer days lounging on our porch swing reading—lucky for me our local library was just a short walk to the end of our street.  Most weeks during summer found my mother, sister and I making that trek and returning with bags of books.  

Which is not to say I was idle—swimming, biking, tennis and soccer were part of the daily neighborhood routine, but my favorite games were when we’d splash around in our pool and pretend to be mermaids, or jump around on our wide, open front porch and pretend to be pirates sailing the wide open seas—we’d stand on the railings and use an old cardboard paper towel tube as a telescope and look for any sign of land (at least until the streetlights came on, when we had to go inside.)  Other times, we’d play in the cool shade of the carriage house behind our house and pretend to be “outlaws”; we’d borrow my dad’s handkerchiefs, tie them about the lower part of our face and guard our buried treasure (some rocks my dad spray painted gold for us).  There’s no doubt in my mind all this pretending sparked this budding author’s imagination.  

Jump forward about twenty years and just a handful of miles from where I grew up.  I live in a town called Irondequoit, which is Iroquois for “where the land and waters meet”—and that’s a pretty accurate description of my neighborhood.  My backyard backs up to a park, and Lake Ontario is just a quick walk from here.  I live on less than an acre of land, yet I have eleven trees in my front yard and twenty in the back.  My husband and I have lived here for nearly eleven years now.  Our town is surrounded on three sides by water—a river, the aforementioned lake and a bay, so chances are if I’m going somewhere other than the local grocery store or to pick up my boys from school, I have to travel over water to get there.

These swans live near the lake just a short walk from my front door.

I’m not sure when my passion for writing first began, it’s something that’s always been with me.  My dad read to us constantly, and shared stories of his life during the depression and growing up a farmer.  When I was six, my older sister brought home a homework assignment to write a short story.  I don’t remember the details exactly but I do recall that was the exact moment it occurred to me that, rather than just read my favorite stories over and over, or feel dissatisfied that the books in my collection weren’t quite the adventure I was yearning for….I could write my own.  Suddenly a world full of possibilities opened up to me. I began writing stories to entertain myself right then and there.

It was several years before it ever occurred to me to share my stories with anyone else—for the most part, I wrote for my own pleasure.  In high school I began writing stories for friends—their own adventure starrting them and whatever teen heartthrob they wanted to be stranded on a desert island with.  Life moved on in a way that a friend of mine refers to as “lifus interruptus” and while somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I’d return to writing, for a long time I ignored “the voices”—the characters begging me to tell their stories-- and got on with the business of living. But I never stopped reading.  Somewhere along the way I set aside Nancy Drew mysteries and began reading Harlequin Romances—after reading my first romance novel, Nancy and Ned’s chaste relationship seemed far too boring.  So I read romance almost exclusively. But  something was still missing.  I was drawn to the big displays of books in the grocery store featuring covers with beautiful men and women in historical costumes –and that’s where I found my true passion.  Before long I was devouring historical romances and soon the writer in me became restless.  I didn’t just want to just read historical romances.  I wanted to write them.

Small Town Christmas - the story that started it all

Though I joined RWA and a local writing chapter in my early twenties, it really wasn’t until my early thirties that I began to seriously consider writing for something other than my own amusement again.  By now I ‘d met and married Peter, my best friend and the love of my life.  He encouraged me to follow my heart and write.  I wrote in my spare time, critiqued with small groups here and there but nothing clicked.  Then I lost my job in a major layoff at the hospital where I worked as a medical secretary.  Suddenly I had time to write.  Never one to be idle, and worried about money, I began my own business as a medical transcriptionist.  Since I was expecting our first child it was important to me to work from home—being self employed would allow me to set my own hours.

The Model Man - research I did for this story helped me during my dad's illness

I continued pursuing both careers—writing and transcription—over the next six years.  My oldest son was born in March of 2000 and was quite honestly the happiest baby I’ve ever met. He was content to sleep in my arms as I worked or wrote; new moms are supposed to be exhausted but he was a good sleeper, seldom fussed and I couldn’t wait to have more.  My youngest son came along in November 2002 (on my birthday, no less!) and quickly proved the opposite of his brother.  He fussed a great deal, seldom slept and never slept through the night until he was fourteen months old (we’re fond of joking that he was determined to stay the youngest by keeping mom and dad too exhausted to even think about adding to our family again, let alone doing anything about it).  Drained and frazzled, I cut back on my transcription gradually until I finally let the business go altogether.  I still wrote when I could, but for the next couple of years I didn’t actively pursue it.

My first historical western--so fun it practically wrote itself!

August 2006 is forever etched in my mind as “the best of times and the worst of times”.  My oldest was about to begin first grade and for the first time would be in school a full day.  My youngest would be starting preschool.  For the first time in nearly a decade I would have “me” time.  I was supposed to be excited about this, and friends and relatives teased constantly about what I’d do with all my free time.  I joked that I would sleep or catch up on reading, but inside I was heartsick.  I’d once overheard a mom on the playground lament that once your kids begin school there’s a whole part of their day that no longer includes you. I’ve wished many, many times I’d never overheard that, because it stuck in my mind and made it hard to be completely happy about this new transition—about my babies not needing me as much, and the parts of their day that I would know nothing about.  I was living my own version of empty nest syndrome --and my babies were barely out of diapers!

.

With my boys, Wyatt and Colton,  aboard the Maid of the Mist in Niagara Falls last week.

In the midst of all this, my dad—my rock, my hero, my everything—had become ill.   I knew exactly what he had, even if it took the doctors a bit longer to figure it out.  Research for a story I was working on (The Model Man, a contemporary story with an over 40 heroine and a younger hero), had led me to TIA’s or trans ischemic attacks .  Years of medical transcription for an investigator who worked primarily on cases of nursing home neglect had taught me more than I ever thought I’d need to know about senile dementia and  Alzheimer’s disease.  With the brutal clarity that hindsight offers, things began adding up and I realized my dad had probably been suffering TIA’s,or mini strokes,  for a long time, we just never connected all the dots.  Now the trans ischemic attacks had led to a bigger stroke that left him with a form of dementia and forever changed our lives.  

My Dad in the rose garden outside his nursing home.

All of this was on my mind those early September mornings after I walked my oldest son to school, then drove the youngest to preschool.  The silence of the house drove me crazy—I jumped every time the cuckoo clock chimed, or the ice maker in the fridge switched on.  I’d begun to take Tanner, our dog, for long walks just to get out of the house. It was on one of those walks that I realized that for the rest of the world, when life gets hard, there’s therapy.  But for a writer…there’s no better therapy than writing.

I’d had an idea for a holiday story in my head for a while but hadn’t done anything with it.  I recalled hearing that The Wild Rose Press, a brand new e-publisher I’d heard wonderful things about, was looking for short stories for the holidays.  Id’ never written a short story before, but suddenly, I wanted to try. I cut Tanner’s walk short and headed back home.  Over the next few days I poured all the emotions I’d been feeling—the sadness, the worry, the fear, the little moments of joy—into that story. It took less than a week to finish it and by the time it was complete, I felt more like myself again.  The silence in my house had been replaced with the clickety-clack of my fingers on the keyboard, my youngest was adjusting to preschool and had made lots of friends, and my oldest loved the routine of  first grade.  The doctors had prescribed a new medication for my dad that kept him from being quite so confused and my mom had found a senior day care center to care for my dad while she worked.  Things were looking up.

Tanner—our daily walks still keep me focused and allow me time to brainstorm.

To make a long story short, I sold Small Town Christmas to The Wild Rose Press that October and it was released the week before my birthday in November 2006.  I turned 40 that year and while some would find that depressing, I felt as though I’d embarked on a brand new chapter of my life.  I’ve since sold several more stories to TWRP, including The Model Man, which has also been released on audio book (it’s an August special this month at TWRP—on sale for .99!); Wild Texas Wind, my first historical western, which was released last summer and  a short Civil War time travel due out early next year. I also have my first short erotica story under consideration with them.  

Coming Soon to The Wild Rose Press

My fingers and imagination are never idle, so there are plenty more stories in the works. These days I write full time these and do freelance editing.  My oldest son is about to enter sixth grade and my youngest third; both boys love school and while they aren’t allowed to read my books, they love to tell anyone who will listen that their mom is an author.  My dad is in a nursing home now but he still knows who we are when he sees us. In many ways he’s still the same person, his personality hasn’t changed much, even if he’s confused as to time and place more often than not.  My mom has retired so she can spend more time with my dad and her grandchildren. And even after thirteen years of marriage, Peter is still the love of my life, my best friend and my biggest supporter.  

Aboard the Maid of the Mist –still crazy (about each other) after all these years.

I begin most mornings with some gentle yoga stretches (I’m a lifelong migraine sufferer; yoga helps reduce the number of migraines I suffer each month) and as I stretch and breathe, I gaze out the family room windows that overlook the backyard and marvel at the impossibly wide maple trees and the pine trees that seem to be stretching toward Heaven …and count my blessings.  

Peter and the boys on a recent fishing expedition in the park

No blog about me would be complete without mentioning the Lord of the Manor himself, Gilbert. He's pretty sure I work from home solely to give him a warm lap to sleep on.

Social Etiquette in the 1800s

As a writer, I’m usually leery of challenging myself, but there are times when it turns out to be fun. And I don’t merely mean making the leap from historical writing to contemporary and back again.  I’m talking about moving outside of my comfort zone.  To put it quite simply: my heroes have always been cowboys. *G*  Well, cowboys, gunfighters, lawmen, bounty hunters—in other words, men who don’t have “purty” manners and are basically take-me-as-I-am kind of guys.  And pairing them with a heroine who will at least pretend to be offended when he cusses, spits or smokes is a lot of fun.  But lately my heroes have been moving in another direction, and I find myself writing about men who either need to fit in with polite society, or who already belong to it. 

And that’s what has led me (kicking and screaming!) out of my comfort zone into the cold, frightening land of the unknown, LOL.  Sure I knew the basic customs of the era, but I’ve never written a character that had to—or wanted to-- adhere to them.  Some I already knew and have had fun deliberately ignoring in past stories. Others were no-brainers (ex: it’s bad manners to pick one’s teeth at the table. LOL. I’ll bet even my most trail-weary cowboy knows that one!) But they were all fun and chock full of "what if's" for having one character or another break the rules.  

Here are some of the more interesting tid bits my research has turned up:

It was not considered appropriate for a young man to approach a young lady. Even if they had already met, he must still be introduced by a mutual friend a second time before he can speak to her freely.

In any stage of courtship, the couple always walked apart - the only contact allowed was for him to offer her his hand over rough spots while walking.

Women never rode alone in a closed carriage with a man who was not a relative. (oooh isn't that what made Rhett Butler so scandalous?)

Women did not call on an unmarried gentleman at his home.

Men could not be received into the home if a woman was there alone, a family member must be present at all times.

A true gentleman always tips his hat when greeting a lady, opens doors and always walks on the outside.  (Sigh.)

When introduced to a man, a lady should never offer her hand, merely bow politely and say “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

A gentleman may delicately kiss a lady’s hand, forehead or at most, her cheek. (I suspect even my most noble heroes’ have broken this rule a time or two. *G*)

A lady should never be neglected.  A gentlemen should help her with her cloak, shawl or any other outer garment she may wish to remove. (A safe bet to say my heroes are quite capable in this area.)

When ascending a staircase with a lady, a gentleman is to go at her side or before her. 

Happy Writing! 

Talkin' the Talk

I don’t normally appreciate the vast collection of books and magazines my husband stores in the powder room (commonly referred to in our house as “the library”). But every once in a while I stumble across something of note while decluttering the stacks.

Here’s a gem I discovered recently. I have books on Old West slang and have several websites bookmarked devoted to the topic, but finding these in an old Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader was a surprise; many of these were new to me. Hope you find a smile or two among them, I know I did!

He's crooked enough to sleep on a corkscrew (dishonest)

Raised on prunes and proverbs (a religious person)

Coffee varnish (whiskey)

Fat as a well-fed needle (poor)

Deceitful beans (meaning they'll talk behind your back,or give you gas)

Got a pill in his stomach that he can't digest (shot dead)

Like a turkey gobbler in a hen pen (proud)

Like a breedin' jackass in a tin barn (noisy)

Fryin' size but plumb salty (an old person)

Quicker'n you can spit and holler howdy (fast)

Studyin' to be a half wit (stupid)

Built like a snake on stilts (tall)

Right on melody but strong on noise (a bad singer)

Weasel smart (crafty)

Scarce as bird dung in a cuckoo clock (hard to find)

Dry as the dust in a mummy's pocket (very dry)

In the lead when tongues was handed out (talks too much)

If he closed one eye, he'd look like a needle (very skinny)

Lives in a house so small he can't cuss his cat without gettin' fur in his mouth (a tightwad)

Died of throat trouble (hung)


Happy Trails!

Nic

www.nicolemccaffrey.com

Wells Fargo Stagecoach Rules for Passengers

In the old west, the only means of public transportation was the stagecoach.  Stage stops were as common on the western plains as bus stops are today. 

Journeys by stage were long, dusty and uncomfortable.  Coaches were cramped, loaded down with heavy merchandise and luggage and passengers jammed in like sardines—as many as twelve to fifteen at a time.  Crowded conditions such as these required rules. 

Here, taken directly from the 1877 Omaha Herald, are Wells Fargo’s Rules for Riding the Stagecoach. 

Abstinence from liquor is requested, but if you must drink, share the bottle.  To do otherwise makes you appear selfish and unneighborly.

If lades are present, gentlemen are urged to forego smoking cigars and pipes as the odor of same is repugnant to the Gentle Sex.  Chewing tobacco is permitted, but spit with the wind, not against it.

Gentlemen must refrain from the use of rough language in the presence of ladies and children.

Buffalo robes are provided for your comfort during cold weather.  Hogging robes will not be tolerated and the offender will be made to ride with the driver.

Don’t snore loudly while sleeping or use your fellow passenger’s shoulder for a pillow; he or she may not understand and friction may result.

Firearms may be kept on your person for use in emergencies.  Do not fire them for pleasure or shoot at wild animals as the sound riles the horses.

In the event of a runaway horse, remain calm.  Leaping from the coach in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, hostile Indians and hungry wolves.

Forbidden topics of discussion are stagecoach robberies and Indian uprisings.

Gents guilty of unchivalrous behavior toward lady passengers will be put off the stage.  It’s a long walk back.  A word to the wise is sufficient.

Don’t ask how far to the next station until you get there. (LOL you just know that one was for the kids!)

The Cowboy Code of Ethics

The American cowboy’s code of ethics was pretty straightforward—but each “rule” was backed up by plain ol’ common sense.  Here are some "laws of the plains” that the cowboy strictly adhered to.

v It is bad manners to ask a man his name.  He may have a reason why he can’t afford to share his name or bring attention to himself.

v Stealing a man’s horse is a crime punishable by death.  To leave a man stranded on the plains, miles from food, water or shelter is as good as killing him.

v Cheating at cards is an unpardonable offense.  The victim or one of his friends is entitled to retaliate with a six-shooter.

v Drawing on an unarmed man is strictly prohibited.  Offenders may be gunned down on the spot by the victim, if he’s able, or his kin or friends.

v Encountering a stranger on the trail, a man must approach him and speak a few words before moving off in another direction.  Greeting him establishes good intentions.

v hen two men meet, speak, and pass on, neither must look back over his shoulder.  To do so is an indication of distrust, implying that the man looking behind him expects a shot in the back.

v When a stranger dismounts to cool his horse it is not polite to remain in the saddle while carrying on a conversation with him.  The proper thing to do is dismount and speak to him face to face, so he can see what you’re up to.

v  To ride another man’s horse without asking permission is a grave insult.  A horse is private property and borrowing one without permission is equivalent to a slap in the face.

v Only in a dire emergency is it permissible to borrow a horse.  Every man has his own style of riding and a horse can easily be spoiled by the wrong rider.

v A smart rider always puts his horse’s comfort before his own.  If the horse becomes lame or disabled, the rider may find himself stranded in the middle of the desert. 

Courtesy of Cowboys Then & Now museum, Portland, OR.

The Model Man

I love a good western --but every once in a while a non-western story comes to me that I just can't ignore.  That's what happened a few years back with The Model Man.  It was my first full length publication  and was released from The Wild Rose Press in March of 2008.  Last month it was released on Audiobook. I can't describe what a thrill it was to hear my characters speak through someone else and to hear their interpretation of the story!

Whether you prefer print or audio books, I thought I'd share a snippet of it here today.

Single mom and romance novelist Kelly Michaels has no time for a man in her life. But when mega-famous cover model Derek Calavicci puts the moves on her at a romance writers’ conference, she succumbs to temptation. Common sense prevails, however, and after a few passionate kisses she turns him down; she has impressionable teenagers at home, after all, she doesn’t need a one-night-stand with a much younger man, no matter how hot he is. When photos of their passionate moonlight kiss hit the tabloids, her agent has to do some fast footwork to save her reputation. Will the notorious bad boy go along with her scheme?

Derek rarely hears a woman say “no” – it’s been that way his entire life. If Kelly isn’t interested, he’s not going to push her-- even if she does melt like ice cream on a hot sidewalk every time he touches her. But when an unexpected opportunity falls into his lap by way of Kelly’s scheming agent, he jumps at the chance. Pretend he’s in love with Kelly Michaels for two weeks? No problem. After all, the lady may say she’s never going to sleep with him... but he's got two weeks to convince her otherwise.

~*~

Derek Calavicci opened the door to his penthouse apartment and stepped inside. Home, although it never really felt that way. At one time the navy and pewter color scheme, so carefully chosen by the designer, the expensive but tasteful furniture and state-of-the-art gadgets had soothed him. But not lately. He set his keys on the kitchen counter and picked up a stack of personal mail waiting there.

Gabrielle, his younger sister and personal assistant, strolled into the room. Dressed in her robe and fuzzy pink slippers, she had a toothbrush sticking out of one side of her mouth and a towel wrapped around her head. She often stayed at his place when he was gone, and judging from the clothes, shoes and magazines strewn about, she had done so this past week.

“So, how was Tokyo?” she asked around the toothbrush.

“Fine.” He put his hands to his hips and glanced around the apartment. “It’s a good thing I pay the cleaning lady so well.”

She moved to the kitchen sink to spit out a mouthful of toothpaste. “How did the bourbon commercial go?”

“It was fine.”

“Did you get lucky?”

He didn’t answer her, merely shook his head in wonder.

“Okay, for other guys it’s getting lucky. For you it’s par for the course. So… did you?”

“Would I tell you if I did?”

“You’re always so grumpy when you get home from these things.”

He headed for the sofa and flopped down, finally allowing the exhaustion of the long flight and the time change to overtake him. “There’s a fourteen-hour time difference between here and Tokyo. I’m beat.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, grateful that he was no longer in motion. Not in a plane, not in a limo, just sitting still.

“Hope you aren’t too jet lagged, you’ve got an early flight in the morning.”

He raised his head just enough to look at her. “Where the hell to now?”

She laughed and headed toward his desk. “You really are out of it. The Romantic Moments conference starts this weekend.”

“Christ.” He dropped his head back down. “Little wonder I’m more comfortable in hotels than in my own home.”

“You’re never here,” she agreed, holding out a note pad for his inspection.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“It’s your messages. Your voice mail filled up twice so I had to write everything down.”

“I’m too tired to read them. Anything important?”

“Mmm, depends on what you call important. Or who.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Let’s see… Megan called. She’ll be at the conference in Florida; she’s really looking forward to ‘hooking up’. She’ll be in room eight-twelve. Amber, also going to the conference, is in five-seventeen. Oh, and Shannon is going to be in New York next weekend and she’d like to … well, I’m not about to repeat it. Is she double jointed or something?”

“Damned if I can remember.”

“Anyway, there’s another page and a half of these.”

“I’ll look at them later.”

“Good idea. Oh, and Frankie called. About nine times.”

“What the hell did she want?”

“You. Under her tiny, little thumb. When are you going to fire her and get a new manager? One who doesn’t want to run your life.”

“Why bother when I can just avoid this one as much as possible?”

“She wants to make sure you two are on the same flight tomorrow so she can go over a few things with you on the way down,” Gabby spoke over her shoulder as she headed to the kitchen. “Something about the ‘Flawless’ campaign. You know, that new line of men’s cologne and skin care products you’re promoting.”

He raised his head again. “And?”

She returned, holding out a bottle of water and gave him a triumphant smile. “And I made sure to book you on a different flight.”

“Good girl.” He unscrewed the cap and took a long drag. “What do I have going on today?”

“I canceled everything when I realized you were getting back so late. Thought you might want a little break.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t forget Anthony’s engagement party is tonight.”

“I can’t believe my kid brother is getting married. Did I buy them something nice?”

“Besides paying for the wedding? Crystal. Expensive and impractical, just your style.”

“I’m such a nice guy.”

“Well, you’d better be prepared to answer the inevitable from the relatives tonight.”

“You mean the ‘and when are you going to settle down’ stuff?” Now that he’d turned thirty, that was all anyone wanted to know. His younger brother’s engagement had only made it worse.

“Exactly. At this point, I’m beginning to think you’re commitment-phobic myself.”

“I’ve got nothing against commitment.” He raised his feet to set them on the coffee table. “But whenever the urge strikes, I lie down until it passes.”

“Yeah, I know. Preferably with a blonde or a redhead.”

“Gabby, I’m hurt you think I’m so shallow. I’d never turn down a hot brunette.”

The Model Man is available in print and digital format from The Wild Rose Press, and on audio book by Auidolark, where it’s a new release special!

Funny, compassionate, heart wrenching, and down right sexy – Simply Romance Reviews

The Cowboy's Christmas Prayer

I was so excited to find this poem! It's something I enjoyed listening to on my mom's old Jimmy Dean Christmas album. I can still hear the scratchy sound of that record as I read the poem even now. As you may have begun to notice (*VBG*) I love all things cowboy and this is the perfect Christmas wish! I hope you enjoy it!

A COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS PRAYER 
By S. Omar Barker (1894-1985) 

I ain't much good at prayin', and You may not know me, Lord- 
I ain't much seen in churches where they preach Thy Holy Word, 
But you may have observed me out here on the lonely plains, 
A-lookin' after cattle, feelin' thankful when it rains, 
Admirin' Thy great handiwork, the miracle of grass, 
Aware of Thy kind spirit in the way it comes to pass 
That hired men on horseback and the livestock we tend 
Can look up at the stars at night and know we've got a friend. 

So here's ol' Christmas comin' on, remindin' us again 
Of Him whose coming brought good will into the hearts of men. 
A cowboy ain't no preacher, Lord, but if You'll hear my prayer, 
I'll ask as good as we have got for all men everywhere. 
Don't let no hearts be bitter, Lord. 
Don't let no child be cold. 
Make easy beds for them that's sick and them that's weak and old. 
Let kindness bless the trail we ride, no matter what we're after, 
And sorter keep us on Your side, in tears as well as laughter. 

I've seen ol' cows a-starvin, and it ain't no happy sight: 
Please don't leave no one hungry, Lord, on thy good Christmas night- 
No man, no child, no woman, and no critter on four feet- 
I'll aim to do my best to help You find 'em chuck to eat. 

I'm just an ol’ cowpoke, Lord-I ain't got no business prayin'- 
But still I hope You'll ketch a word or two of what I'm sayin': 
We speak of Merry Christmas, Lord-I reckon you'll agree 
There ain't no Merry Christmas for a man if he ain't free. 
So one thing more I'll ask You, Lord: Just help us what you can 
To save some seeds of freedom for the future sons of man.!

Merry Christmas, Sweethearts and western lovers everywhere

When We All Wanted To Be Cowboys

Gone are the days when little boys and girls everywhere wanted to grow up to be cowboys. But a recent web search turned up some fun things from a time when such a simple wish was common.

And since today is a special day for one of my little cowboys, (Happy Birthday, Colton!) I thought it was rather fitting to share it.

GENE AUTRY’S COWBOY CODE OF HONOR

The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.
He must never go back on his word, or a trust confided in him.
He must always tell the truth.
He must be gentle with children, the elderly, and animals.
He must not advocate or possess racially or religiously intolerant ideas.
He must help people in distress.
He must be a good worker.
He must keep himself clean in thought, speech, action, and personal habits.
He must respect women, parents, and his nation's laws.
The Cowboy is a patriot.

HOPALONG CASSIDY’S CREED FOR AMERICAN BOYS AND GIRLS

The highest badge of honor a person can wear is honesty. Be truthful at all times.
Your parents are the best friends you have. Listen to them and obey their instructions.
If you want to be respected, you must respect others. Show good manners in every way.
Only through hard work and study can you succeed. Don't be lazy. Your good deeds always come to light. So don't boast or be a show-off.
If you waste time or money today, you will regret it tomorrow. Practice thrift in all ways.
Many animals are good and loyal companions. Be friendly and kind to them.
A strong, healthy body is a precious gift. Be neat and clean.
Our country's laws are made for your protection. Observe them carefully.
Children in many foreign lands are less fortunate than you. Be glad and proud you are an American.

WILD BILL HICKOCK DEPUTY MARSHAL’S CODE OF CONDUCT
I will be brave, but never careless.
I will obey my parents. They DO know best.
I will be neat and clean at all times.
I will be polite and courteous.
I will protect the weak and help them.
I will study hard.
I will be kind to animals and care for them.
I will respect my flag and my country.
I will attend my place of worship regularly.

THE LONE RANGER CREED
I believe that to have a friend, a man must be one.
That all men are created equal and that everyone has within himself the power to make this a better world.
That God put the firewood there, but that every man must gather and light it himself.
In being prepared physically, mentally, and morally to fight when necessary for that which is right.
That a man should make the most of what equipment he has.
That "this government, of the people, by the people, and for the people," shall live always.
That men should live by the rule of what is best for the greatest number.
That sooner or later...somewhere...somehow...we must settle with the world and make payment for what we have taken.
That all things change, but the truth, and the truth alone lives on forever.
I believe in my Creator, my country, my fellow man.

ROY ROGERS RIDERS CLUB RULES
Be neat and clean.
Be courteous and polite.
Always obey your parents.
Protect the weak and help them.
Be brave, but never take chances.
Study hard, and learn all you can.
Be kind to animals and care for them.
Eat all your food and never waste any.
Love God and go to Sunday School regularly.
Always respect our flag and country.

TEXAS RANGERS DEPUTY RANGER OATH
Be alert.
Be obedient.
Defend the weak.
Never desert a friend.
Never take unfair advantage.
Be neat.
Be truthful.
Uphold justice.
Live cleanly.
Have faith in God.

Happy trails and wishing you and yours a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Oh, Those Cowboy Hats!

In 1865, with $100 John B. Stetson rented a small room, purchased a few tools and ten dollars worth of fur –and the John B. Stetson Hat Company was born.  One year later the “boss of the plains” or hat of the west was born. 

Back in Mr. Stetson’s day, most everyone knew and practiced better manners than what we do today. But since hats fell out of fashion many years back, entire generations have come of age with no clue whatsoever as to the proper “hat protocol.” 

In Wild Texas Wind, my June 2010 historical release from The Wild Rose Press, my hero, Raz Colt seldom removes or tips his hat.  This is deliberate; he makes it clear from page one he’s no ordinary gentleman—in fact, he’s no gentleman at all.  So he doesn’t bother with the usual formalities.  Much to the irritation of heroine Arden O’Hara.   

But as I work on the sequel to that story, inspired by the character of Confidence Man and gambler—and Raz’s side kick in Wild Texas Wind—Kip Cooper, I find myself paying closer attention to a gentleman’s manners—specifically those “hat manners” mentioned above.  Kip is a man who likes to charm, likes to blend in and doesn’t shun societal customs.  (In other words, he’s the complete opposite of Raz!) But since there are few things as romantic –or flirtatious!—as a gentleman sweeping his hat from his head in the presence of a lady, I wanted to know more.

According to the John B. Stetson Hat Company there are very specific rules to dictate when a gentleman should tip his hat, and when he should remove it. 

Tip your hat:

If a woman thanks you

After receiving directions from a stranger

If you excuse yourself to a woman

When walking with a companion and he greets a woman not of your acquaintance

Remove your hat:

During the playing on the National anthem

Upon entering a building

During an introduction

When attention a funeral

When initiating a conversation

An excerpt from Wild Texas Wind is below. 

All Raz Colt wants is land, a quiet peaceable existence and to put his life as a hired gun in the past. When the chance to earn a sizable fortune by rescuing a kidnapped heiress comes his way, he seizes the opportunity. Trouble is, the heiress doesn’t want to be rescued. Offsetting Arden O’Hara’s beauty is a rattlesnake personality and shrewish temper. Despite her claim that she faked the kidnapping so her fiancé would ride to her rescue, Raz knows someone is out to kill her. And if anyone gets the pleasure of wringing her lovely neck, it’s going to be him.

Arden O’Hara is desperate to go home. Her fiancé was supposed to ride to her rescue, proving it’s her–and not her father’s money– he loves. Instead an arrogant stranger, with weapons strapped gun-fighter low and a decided lack of sympathy for her situation, shows up spouting a ridiculous tale about someone trying to kill her. It’s infuriating when Raz Colt’s claims prove true after not one but several attempts are made on her life. She has no idea who this fast gun with the deadly aim is, or why he makes her feel as wild and untamed as the Texas wind. But like it or not, if anyone is capable of getting her home alive, it’s Raz Colt.

~~

Arden couldn’t be certain the exact moment she realized the approaching rider was watching her. But the chill crawling up her spine was the doing of the man lying unconscious beneath her. He’d deliberately tried to frighten her.

And for the moment, she was stuck. Her chin hovered mere inches from his chest. No matter how she struggled she couldn’t free her hair from beneath his dead weight.

“Wake up.” She tried to squirm free, to kick him—anything. She reached awkwardly around to slap at his cheek, but to no avail. He didn’t stir. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest assured her she hadn’t killed him.

The rider moved closer, slowing his pace to take in the scene before him. It was too late to play dead. She had a funny feeling it wouldn’t have done much good anyway.

The metal of the .44 grew warm against her palm, but her hand, pinned awkwardly between her body and the man she lie upon, was numb and tingly from lack of circulation. The rider stopped a few feet away and dismounted. He walked closer, then stopped, studying her with a smug expression. When the corners of his mouth turned up, she had the oddest feeling he considered himself the cat to her mouse. Every instinct screamed the truth. This was the killer.

In one grand attempt to remain alive, she rolled to one side, ignoring the sting of her scalp, and freed her arm. Cocking the hammer with her thumb, she trained the gun on him. “Don’t come any cl—”

A hand on the back of her neck slammed her face down on the ground. Her finger was squeezed tight against the trigger as he—the arrogant ass she’d been unable to rouse a moment ago—closed his hand over hers. Three shots rang out almost simultaneously, the kick from the gun lurching her arm as it fired. Something warm buzzed past her ear, like the hum of a bumble bee but much too fast and much too hot. She opened her mouth to scream but inhaled a mouthful of dust and dirt instead.

Silence reigned for only a second before he rolled off her, one hand pressed to his head where she’d struck him. “Son of a bitch.”

Sputtering, Arden sat up and wiped an arm across her mouth. The rider lay slumped at an odd angle in the dirt. She turned to the suddenly-conscious stranger “You killed him.”

He stood, hand still on his head. “You’re welcome.” With a motion of his finger, he wordlessly told her to stay put. Gun in hand, he approached the dead man, then nudged him with the toe of his boot. He bent to press two fingers to the side of the man’s neck. “He’s dead.”

“So I gathered.” She noted the precision of the two holes, one square in the chest, the other right between the eyes. Either would have been a lethal shot. Another chill slithered down her spine despite the sun’s merciless heat. Who was this man with such deadly aim?

“Do you know him?”

The sight of the corpse, already taking on a chalky hue, began to sour her empty stomach. She drew her knees up to her chin, shaking her head in answer to his question. “Do you?”

He glanced down at the man’s face, cocked his head as if considering. “By reputation only. At least I think it’s him.” He rose, reloaded, and holstered the .44. with a smooth motion that told her he did it often and without thought.

“Why did you kill him?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you just shoot him in the hand or the leg or something?”

“Are you out of your goddamned mind?”

“Anyone who can shoot as accurately as you could have disarmed him without killing him.”

“Hell, yeah. I could have invited him to tea, too.” He stepped a few feet away to retrieve the other man’s revolver from where it had landed. “But I have a bad habit, sweetheart. It’s called breathing. And I’m kinda partial to doing it.”

As he approached her, she reached for the extra gun he carried. “I’ll take that.”

“The hell you will.”

“I feel the need to protect myself.”

“And you’re doing a half-assed job of it, from the looks of things.” He knelt down in front of her. “Are you all right?”

She had to admit, his concern was somewhat touching. The memory of him throwing himself over her, shielding her with his body, caused a warm flush of gratitude. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Good. I got ten grand riding on your well being.” He glanced back at the other man. “Who wants you dead, Miss O’Hara?”

“No one.”

Raz shifted his gaze back toward her. Something in her voice wasn’t quite right. “You sure about that?”

“Who would want to kill me?”

“Anyone who has known you more than five minutes.”

Hurt flashed in those big green eyes before she pushed to her feet. “I’m leaving.”

“That’s a good idea,” he agreed. “Whoever wants to kill you will try again when he doesn’t come back.”

“I assure you, no one wants me dead.”

“That remains to be seen.” He left her to rummage through the dead man’s pockets, looking for anything that might identify him. But he didn’t need a name to know what Arden O’Hara would have suffered before he killed her. Finding nothing of use, he hoisted the body over his shoulder and draped it across the back of the extra horse.

“We’d better head to the nearest town and find the sheriff.” He didn’t bother to add there would probably be a reward.

“We?”

“Yes, we.” he repeated. “Don’t you want to know the identity of the one person in the whole world who wanted to kill you?”

She stared at the corpse as if it would bite her. “I told you, I don’t know him.”

“Whoever hired him knows you.”

She briskly rubbed her arms as though to ward off a chill. “Look, Mister—”

“Colt. Raz Colt.”

“Fine. Colt,” she repeated. “I think a terrible mistake has been made here. I’m quite certain this man never meant to harm me. I think he was probably trying to scare me.”

“Men like this don’t play games, darlin’. They kill.”

“You speak as though you have personal experience.”

He shrugged. “I don’t make apologies for what I am.”

“What are you?”

“A law-abiding citizen.”

She raised a brow in his direction before dropping her gaze pointedly to his guns. He wasn’t about to explain his lifestyle to her. He was a hired gun; it wasn’t something he was proud of but it was what he knew, what he was good at. And he liked to think he provided a service to the local law enforcement. Any low-life he took off the streets was one less gun the sheriff would have to face down.

Still, her decided lack of fear in all of this nagged at him. Sure she was a little green around the gills from staring at the dead guy, but not once had she come close to panicking; not before he’d entered the little shack, not when he approached her and not now, when she’d damn near met her maker.

He removed tobacco and paper from his shirt pocket and calmly rolled a cigarillo. “Mind telling me why you’re ‘quite certain’ this man wouldn’t harm you?”

She sighed dramatically. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time before he starts to rot.”

“I’m sorry you were dragged into this, but I was not kidnapped, at least not really.” She began to pace, moving away from him.

The cigarillo complete, he scraped a match on the heel of his boot. “I’m listening.”

She walked toward a nearby rock and took a seat, resting her elbows on her knees, chin in her palms. Another sigh. “I wanted Geoffrey to rescue me.”

He inhaled, held the smoke in his lungs, and willed himself to stay calm. A million different responses came to mind, most of them more colorful than what she’d spouted earlier. At last he allowed a stream of smoke to slowly leave his nostrils. “Why?”

She sprang to her feet and resumed pacing. “I needed to know if he cared about me or if it was the money. I didn’t want Daddy involved, I knew he’d worry.”

“That doesn’t explain our friend over there attracting flies.”

“The men I hired would never have sent a man like that, not even to scare me.”

“The men you hired?”

“Yes. I think we need to assume this man was after you rather than me. A man like you most certainly has enemies.”

“Not alive.” He threw the cigarillo aside and stalked toward her, thoughts of killing her himself running wild. “Are you saying I damn near took a bullet for someone who staged her own kidnapping?”

She shrugged, almost childlike. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes. I’m sure Daddy will still pay—”

“You’re sorry?”

“Mister Colt, you’re doing that repeating thing again.”

For the second time that morning, Raz hoisted her over his shoulder, this time taking care to remove his guns. He pressed one against her ribs, partly for effect, partly from anger. “Not half as sorry as you’re gonna be.”