TO MAKE THE MAGIC LAST

Today I have something kind of “unwestern-y” to blog about–it’s a short story of mine called TO MAKE THE MAGIC LAST. It first appeared in an anthology put out by VICTORY TALES PRESS last summer called A SUMMER COLLECTION. All the stories in the collection took place in the summer, but they could have been during any time period. Mine, I decided, would take place in a contemporary setting.

In Oklahoma where I live is part of the area known as “tornado alley.” The story opens with a newly divorced police officer starting down the stairs of his apartment building with the tornado sirens wailing in the distance. All in a day’s work for a police officer in Oklahoma City, but the excitement is only just beginning on this very unusual day. Who would ever expect to find love in the middle of Latino gang warfare and a tornado?

I was so pleased that my story was included in one of the very first anthologies that VICTORY TALES PRESS put out, and I can’t say enough good things about Rebecca Vickery and her up-and-coming publishing company. TO MAKE THE MAGIC LAST also appears now as a “stand alone” short story in one of the VTP imprint companies.

One thing that is very exciting to me about this story is that my daughter created the cover for the e-book stand alone version. I have several new releases heading your way over this summer, and wanted to start by showcasing this short story, the only non-western one of the bunch!

I will be giving away 2 copies of TO MAKE THE MAGIC LAST–all you have to do is leave a comment. Please check back tomorrow evening to see who the winners are! I hope you enjoy!

The set up:

To Make the Magic Last

Police officer, Steve Cooper, heads out for work one morning just as the city’s tornado sirens blast a warning. In the stairwell he runs into a different situation—a gang war in his apartment building. Shots ring out and Steve catches a bullet. Seriously injured, he pushes the beautiful woman who has come through the door behind him back toward safety.

Christy Reed, his enchanting new neighbor, pulls him into her apartment and attempts to stop the bleeding. Recently arrived from Mississippi, Christy has no idea what the sirens and gunfire mean, but she knows enough to be terrified.

The phone lines aren’t working and the storm is bearing down. They take refuge in the bathroom as the sound of a freight train roars over the building. Through the pain, Steve finds himself drawn to Christy. There’s some sort of magic about her. Christy feels the same about Steve. He’s the man she’s always dreamed of meeting.
When the building collapses around them and they meet the gunmen once more, will Steve and Christy have what it takes to help each other through this? Can they make the magic last?

EXCERPT FROM “TO MAKE THE MAGIC LAST”:

The wind was roaring outside, deafening even in the small bathroom. They were practically yelling to be heard above the storm.

Hesitantly, Christy crawled over the side of the tub, careful of where she placed her hands. Finally, his good arm came around her in a strong embrace, pulling her down flush with his body until she lay on top of him. She tried to hold herself away from his shoulder, but he drew her down, tucking her head beneath his chin, and she reached to pull the comforter around them.

Steve could feel her shaking as she lay down. She was more afraid of the storm than the gunmen, it seemed. But as soon as he thought it, she asked, “Do you think they were after you, or just anyone who came down the stairwell?”

Her breath was warm against his neck, the comforter enveloping them in a cocoon of false security. The wind roared outside, deafening in the small bathroom. There was a high-pitched sound of rending metal, the heavy clunking noise of tearing wood, and Steve knew the roof of the building was gone.

Christy gasped, pressing closer into his chest. He patted her awkwardly, his arm at an odd angle. After a moment, he answered her question. “Neither. They were after each other.” They’d been yelling at each other in Spanish, he remembered. He had just happened to walk into the middle of rival Latino gang warfare, ongoing in this neighborhood, day and night. What was a girl like Christy doing in this area? “Right now, this storm is more of a threat.”

She had stopped shaking despite the fact the storm still blew with wild strength outside. She seemed to have forgotten it, lying so close to him. But he knew they were still in terrible danger, and he might not get the chance to tell her what he needed to say if he waited.

A long moment of silence hung between them, the only sound the worsening storm outside. “Christy.” He touched her arm again, and she glanced up. “Thanks for trying to . . . help me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Her voice sounded muffled, he thought. Like she was crying, and trying to hide it. “Sure you did.” The comforter was soft. The bleeding was stopped. And, Steve decided, he loved the feel of Christy Reed’s body on his, warm and curvy, and more comforting than that damn piece of down-filled material ever could be.
Her fingers slowly curled into the folds of his once-starched uniform, then settled against the soft cotton tee shirt.

“You’re doing it . . . even now, sweetheart.”

Slowly, she lifted her head and met his eyes in the dark haven they’d made. “Steve—” she broke off, raking her teeth over her bottom lip quickly, nervously.

He smiled at that habit of hers, thinking how he’d like to kiss her; how he wished he knew her better; how it would seem to her if he even . . .

Hell with it. He pulled her to him slowly, her lips coming across his, warm and sweet and soft as the brush of butterfly wings. Uncertainly, she tasted his mouth, and he opened for her, letting her explore him. Her right hand moved to his jawline, her thumb skimming his cheekbone before her fingers found their way to thread through his hair.

“What’s happening to us?” she murmured, drawing back slowly to look at him.
Her voice was quiet and low, and Steve realized that they must be in the eye of the storm. There was no sound but the rain now, and far away in the distance, the wail of a siren somewhere. “Magic,” he whispered, believing it himself. He’d never felt so protective of any other woman—even Lacey. Christy needed him, but she was a giver, too.

She shook her head and lay back down against his chest. “Magic always fades away.”
Not this time, he wanted to say. But he was too exhausted to form the words. Instead, his hand drifted to her short curls, tangling gently there, finding comfort in the clean softness. She’d been hurt before, he knew; he could hear it in her voice. He wanted to know who…and why. But he couldn’t ask—not right now. He couldn’t keep himself awake. “Christy, I’m . . . so tired.”

There was a long pause. He knew she was afraid, not only of the storm and the predators, but also of what was happening—the magic they’d made so suddenly, the fire that had kindled so unexpectedly between them. He wouldn’t let it disappear, he thought fiercely. She was something special—he could feel that already. Something worth holding onto.“I know, darling,” she whispered finally. “Just rest, okay? I’ll be here when you wake up.”

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LAURI ROBINSON LOVES THE WEST AND COWBOYS!

Don’t you just love the name of this blog—Sweethearts of the West?

Lauri Robinson

I do, and I’m so honored to be a guest blogger today. I have several historical western romances on the market with The Wild Rose Press and a few with Harlequin in their Undone line, and I’m often asked why I write westerns. To me it’s simple, I love the old west. I didn’t watch Bonanza and Gunsmoke because that’s what was on. I watched them because that’s what I wanted to watch. I credit John Wayne for making the western movie an American classic, and still get excited when I hear of a new western movie in the making.

Other countries had their illustrious times, their famed heroes, and rough and wild eras, but only America can claim the ‘Old West.’ Where men were bold and women tough. The land west of the Mississippi promised change, wonder, beauty and riches, and men and women flocked to catch a piece of those promises. Gold Rushes. Land Runs. Cattle Drives. The Railroad Boom. Wagon Trains.

These were times of great changes, massive fortunes, and catastrophes. People thrived, set down roots and created communities that went well beyond kindred souls. Dreams came true and new professions were created.


Cattle Drive

 The most iconic of those is probably the American Cowboy, which came about after the Civil War, when the shortage of beef in the northern states gave some enterprising southerners, mainly Texans, the idea of moving their cattle north. Their plan was to drive their cattle to the closest railroads, namely Kansas, and from there ship beef across the nation. The plan worked. (Texas cattle drives had started before the war, but on a smaller scale and stopped completely during the war since there was no profit in it.)

The cowboy is often portrayed as a lanky, handsome, rugged, a little risky, but sexy and loveable man who didn’t need the law to tell him right from wrong. Instinct told him. He had a heart of gold, and wouldn’t allow anyone or thing to be mistreated. The six-shooter hanging off his hip was his best friend, right next to his horse, and the woman he loved was the luckiest lady around.

I, for one, am in awe of all the men and women who journeyed west. Those strong, fiery souls, full of pioneer spirit and dreams, who believed. Believed in themselves.

Can you imagine leaving everything behind to forge your way through unknown and uncivilized territory? I honestly don’t know that I have it in me. I like knowing where my next meal will come from and that I’ll have a roof over my head each night, but I love reading about these people, and writing about them. To create new characters, tell the tales of them embarking on fascinating journeys, and finding their happily-ever-after is my dream come true.

Now Available


On April 1^st, the fifth book in my Quinter Brides series, WILDCAT BRIDE was released by The Wild Rose Press. Mixed Book Bag had this to say about the series: "Lauri Robinson writes wonderful romantic stories and WILDCAT BRIDE is no exception. Her well-drawn characters are people you would invite into your homes and your hearts. They face challenges with grace and humor, are loyal to a fault, admit their mistakes and act out of love. The villains get their just desserts and the good guys come out on top."



Coming May 2011

 My next release will be Nights with the Outlaw on May 1^st, a Harlequin Undone. Here’s the blurb:

Nebraska, 1885Outlaw Clint Turnquist is on a mission—one that doesn’t involve falling in love. His freedom hinges on tracking down his former gang, but he can’t resist Doreena Buckman’s plea to help protect her ranch from the strangers watching her property. Bold and beautiful, she tempts Clint with both her body and her promise of a fresh start. But even with his past standing between them, denying the urge to kiss her may take more discipline than he has...

For additional information on my books and releases, feel free to stop by www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com

Thanks so much to the wonderful Sweethearts of the West for inviting me over today. They are great gals, and I’ve enjoyed many of their books.

Cheers, Ladies.

Thanks to the very gracious and writer extraordinairre, Lauri Robinson, for stepping in as guest on short notice. Lauri, we hope you'll be back soon!

Easter on the Kansas Prairie late 1800s by Sandra Crowley

HAPPY EASTER TO ALL

I hope you and your family are enjoying this day of rebirth.

Easter on the Kansas prairie was sparse in the late 1800s. At least it was for those members of my family who left Germany and settled on the wind swept grasslands. Like the majority of pioneers, they worked long hard hours to establish farms they hoped would shelter and feed their families. They had little time for frivolities. However, Christmas and Easter warranted trips to Bloom or Delhi, the nearest Osborne County towns, to attend church and socialize, maybe join in an Easter Egg Hunt.



Ernest, Edo, Elsie Sunday-go-to-meeting duds

 I suppose the kids back then asked the same question I asked my mom decades ago, “Why does the Easter bunny bring eggs?” Two possible answers appeal to me. The first: Rabbits symbolize fertility. Fertility is the basis of spring. And, spring coincides with Easter, the time of rebirth. The second: German legend tells of an egg-laying hare named Osterhase that youngsters made nests for, leaving them outside for the rabbit to lay her eggs in. Osterhase might have evolved from the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring and fertility, Eostre (or Ostara in German), who was said to have changed her pet bird into a rabbit to entertain children. The rabbit laid brightly colored eggs to the delight of the kids.

But, why eggs? Rabbits don’t lay eggs; they give live birth to bunnies. The answer could be that ancient romans believed all life came from eggs. Lent played its part, too, in Medieval Europe. The christian time of penance and fasting forbade consumption of eggs. Instead of letting the protein rich food spoil, Christians boiled their eggs or preserved them in some other manner until fasting ended on Easter. They were then the mainstay of that first meal. They were even given as presents to children or servants because many believed two yolks in an Easter egg meant the finder would soon grow rich. Christians of the time period also believed that if one kept an egg laid on Good Friday for one hundred years, its yolk would turn into a diamond. Considering how many things my family passed down through the years, I’m surprised we don’t have an egg or two among our treasures.

What we saved are adorable construction paper Easter Baskets we made as children in grade school. Do you remember those? Do you have one that your mother treasured and passed to you? Maybe you have one of your child’s tucked away in a baby book? They are the modern equivalent of the nests German children made for Osterhase centuries ago. Life continues, always changing, yet remaining the same.

Wishing you all the very best,
Sandra Crowley

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 NECESSARY

Bath or bed?

 Embarrassing subject, but....yes, necessary to the health and well being of our ancestors. Western authors usually rely on the windmill, cistern, or hand-dug well for their stories. I cringe when I read a story in which the pioneer heroine, exhausted from a hard day's work, makes herself a deep tub of steaming water and bathes. Honestly, if you were so tired you could hardly struggle to bed, would you carry that much water, heat it, and bathe before bed. I doubt you would, no matter how much you longed to for a bath. My grandmother said she used a pan of warm, soapy water and washed thoroughly, face to feet. She was a fastidious lady and never went to bed without washing even the bottoms of her feet and between her toes. <g> Baths were only once a week. But I got ahead of myself.


Garderobe, Peveril Castle, Derbyshire

 Probably everyone is aware that early Romans and Greeks had ingenious indoor plumbing and heating based on water flow. Many of the early sewers built by Romans in England are still utilized. King Minos of Crete had the first recorded flushing water closet. A toilet was discovered in the tomb of a Han Dynasty Chinese king dating to 200 BC. Garderobes in medieval castles were a step down [even though they were upstairs] from the Romans. They emptied into the moat, lake, or stream, which sometimes seeped back into the drinking water’s source and caused cholera and other diseases. The dark ages swept advances in plumbing under the rug, so to speak, along with cleanliness. What about more recent history for writers whose books are set in the Regency period through the early Twentieth Century?

Chamber pot and lid

The first sewers in America were built in the early nineteenth century in New York and Boston. These were to rid the streets of refuse. At this time, no one addressed getting fresh water safely to individual homes and apartments or eliminating the smelly outhouse. Chamber pots varied from open buckets to decorative ceramic containers with tight fitting lids. The pots were emptied daily into an outhouse or, heaven forbid, into the street.

Chamber box

Offal carts made the rounds of city streets, sometimes called "the nightman" because in some cities the offal removal people came at night. The drivers used buckets and shovels to empty outhouses and cesspits and sprinkle the recesses liberally with lime. What a horrid job that must have been!

Thomas Crapper [yes, that really was the man’s name] was erroneously credited with inventing the first flushing toilet. However, he was a plumber and holds many patents for plumbing products, and had several plumbing shops. Actually, the earliest known flushing toilet in Western history is credited to Sir John Harington, godson of Queen Elizabeth I. It was crude and the Queen reportedly refused to use it.

Flushing toilet

The earliest patent for a flush toilet was issued to Alexander Cumming in 1775. The problem with early toilets was that people did not understand how germs spread or the need for venting fumes away from the toilet. There was also difficulty perfecting a system that would take away all of the refuse when flushed. In addition to smell, germs accumulated and spread disease. People became afraid to install the toilets inside their homes.

Bathing rooms were exactly that—rooms in which people could bathe. Using a cistern or a pump from the kitchen range’s water reservoir, water was piped to the bathtub. It was never more than tepid, and bathing was in only a couple inches of water. The alternative was having servants carry buckets of water to the bathing room. Usually, the tub emptied into a pipe that dumped water into the yard, street or a cesspit. These tubs were often set into elaborate wooden cabinets that matched the bathing room wainscoting—not at all suitable for long term exposure to bath water.


Bathing room with wood paneling tub enclosure


Although it was not until the 1880’s and 1890’s that American plumbing flourished, early inventors were moderately successful. In 1829, the Tremont Hotel of Boston became the first hotel to have indoor plumbing and featured eight water closets. Until 1840, indoor plumbing could be found only in the homes of the rich and in better hotels. In 1852, J. G. Jennings invented an improved flushing system, and popularized public lavatories by installing them in the Crystal Palace for the Great Exhibition of 1851. Over 800,000 people paid to use them. 



Outhouse

In 1910, toilet designs began changing to resemble those of today. However, in rural areas as in the poorer section of cities, the outhouse was used well into the twentieth century. In a recent television interview, actor Michael Caine remarked that—as a child in England—his four-story tenement had only one outhouse for use by all the building’s residents.

Authors of Georgian through modern times may determine how plumbing was utilized in their time period by seeking publications on home restoration. Books on restoring homes of various time periods detail the plumbing plans with useful illustrations. Information on earlier time periods is available on the web and in history books.

Old Manuscripts

I'm thrilled to announce that the first book in my all-new series for Harlequin American Romance, Rodeo Rebels, hits bookstores this month. Rodeo Daddy is a book dear to my heart and has seen many, many re-writes through the years. The book was written well before I sold my first manuscript to Harlequin in 2003. Unable to find a home for the book, I tossed it into a desk drawer and forgot about it.

Not long ago I was asked to write book 2, Dexter: Honorable Cowboy (July 2010), for the first ever Harlequin American Romance continuity--The Codys: First Family of Rodeo. Writing a book about a Wyoming family of rodeo stars was great fun and I was hooked on the rodeo plotline. There's something so romantic and sigh-worthy about cowboys who live to tame wild broncs and crazed bulls and the women who live to tame those cowboys. I pulled out the old manuscript, blew off the dust and went to work re-writing the story once more. This time I got lucky and my editors bought the book.

The first two books in the series, Rodeo Daddy (April 2011) and The Bull Rider's Secret (July 2011) take place in Texas while the third "untitled" book (Dec 2011) is set in New Mexico and Las Vegas. Following these three books is another group of Rodeo Rebel stories set in Arizona with plots revolving around ladies bull riding.




He's Nothing But Eight Seconds Of Heartache...

The day Hallie Sutton dreaded has finally come. Drew Rawlins has found out the secret she’s been keeping--and he’s spitting mad! But the rodeo is Drew’s whole world and Hallie needs a full-time dad for their boy. Still, how can she deny the injured bronc rider the chance to get to know his son? All Drew wants is to carve out a place in his son’s life. Sorting out his feelings for Hallie isn’t as simple. The emotion simmering between them is just as strong—so’s the red-hot desire that got them into trouble five years ago. Winning the world championship is still number-one on Drew’s list. But he figures he can have it all. The title and the chance to prove he’s the man Hallie and Nick need.

Excerpt

"The Bastrop Homecoming Rodeo must be a hell of an event. You're the third cowboy today who's fallen off his horse."

Drew Rawlins glared at the ER doctor as he sucked in a lung full of sterilized air. Not smart. A burning band of pain squeezed his injured ribs, and the words escaped his mouth in a long wheeze. "I was bucked off."

"I'm Doctor Feller." The doctor flipped on the light box mounted against the wall and studied Drew's x-ray.

Drew prayed he wouldn't draw another crazed bronc like Demon the day after tomorrow when he competed in the final round of the saddle bronc competition. He'd been lucky today to escape with a kick to the chest.

"Your ribs are badly bruised. I recommend taking a few weeks off before you ride again." In order to make the National Finals Rodeo in December, Drew needed to be among the top fifteen saddle bronc riders in the country. Today was August sixth—he was running out of time. His body broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with pain.

"You've got callus new bone formations on five of your ribs." The doctor pointed to several spots on the x-ray.

So he'd fractured a few ribs over the years—Drew had fared better than most cowboys who'd competed at the sport as long as he had."You're lucky you didn't break a rib."

"I don't need luck, doc." Drew chuckled, then winced as a flash of fiery pain snaked around his middle.

"Rib injuries are nothing to joke about." Feller leaned against the wall. "A fractured rib can puncture a lung, liver, spleen or worse."

Worse. The word sent a shiver down Drew's spine. He'd been ten years old when the famous bull rider Lane Frost had died at the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo. After Frost had ridden Taking Care of Business and dismounted, the bull had turned and hit him in the side with his horn, breaking the cowboy's ribs. Frost had gotten up and headed toward the chutes, but had stumbled. When he'd hit the ground, a broken rib had severed his pulmonary artery, ending his life.

"Keep testing fate, cowboy, and you'll die with a mouthful of dirt or end up connected to a ventilator the rest of your life." The doctor waved his hand in the air. "Either way, the horse comes out the winner."

The solemn warning spawned a flashback… Drew struggled to block out today's eight-second ride, but the image of the crazed gelding's hoof coming at him while he lay unprotected in the dirt had been branded on his brain. "No worries. I don't plan to let another bronc stand on my chest." Drew was thirty-two. No longer in the prime of his life—physically. He'd been bustin' broncs for fourteen years and time was running out. If he ever had a chance at becoming a world champion, this was the year.

He needed the damned title to prove his dead father wrong—that Drew Rawlins hadn't wasted half his life chasing a crazy dream. His father had been a rising star in bareback riding when he'd gotten Drew's mother pregnant. In order to support Drew and his mother, his father had given up rodeo and helped manage his father-in-law's small-town grocery store. To this day Drew believed his father had resented him because having a family had kept the old man from achieving his dream of making it to the National Finals Rodeo. When Drew had graduated from high school and announced he intended to ride the circuit his father had scoffed, insisting Drew didn't have what it took to be a champion. Drew ignored the old man, his focus solely on winning the grand daddy of 'em all. But the big one had eluded him. Drew had made it to the NFR the year his father had died—a decade ago—but he'd placed last. Last wasn't good enough. Most cowboys with half a brain would have retired by now, but Drew had never forgotten his father's dying words before the cancer had taken him. "You ain't never gonna be as good as I was."

Angry at himself for allowing the memory to resurface, Drew inched closer to the edge of the examining table. He had plenty of experience with injured ribs. As long as he moved carefully and took shallow breaths, he could tolerate the pain.

"No rodeos for three weeks." Dr. Feller scribbled on a pad of paper.

Drew kept his mouth shut. Bruised ribs would not prevent him from competing in the final go-round on Sunday. He needed the thousand dollar jackpot to boost his earnings. The doctor handed him a prescription. "For pain."

Pain was good. If he focused on the pain, there would be no room in his head for his father's taunts. "My boots are missing," he said, after spotting his shirt thrown across the chair in the corner.

Ignoring Drew, the doctor rambled on. "You have a chance of developing pneumonia after a rib trauma. Take deep breaths and cough every hour to keep your lungs clear. An ice pack will help you feel more comfortable." He handed Drew his shirt.

"Does a nurse by the name of Hallie Sutton work here?" Drew clenched his teeth against the heat searing his side when he slipped his arm into the shirtsleeve.

"How do you know Ms. Sutton?"

Ms. Hallie hadn't married? "She put a dozen stitches in my head five years ago."

Every year Drew competed in the Bastrop Homecoming Rodeo. And each time he searched for Hallie in the stands. Once, he'd driven to the hospital to look her up but had chickened out at the last minute and left town.

Just because you never forget your one night with her doesn't mean she hasn't. He remembered walking into Cozie's bar and spotting Hallie sitting at a table with her co-workers. When their gazes met, he'd been struck by the sadness in her brown eyes and had wondered what had happened to the cheerful, talkative nurse who'd stitched his head earlier in the afternoon. The abject misery reflected in Hallie's expression had drawn him to her. Before he'd realized his actions, he'd asked her to dance. At first, she'd refused, then at the prodding of her freinds she'd allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. Drew closed his eyes as the memory swept him away…

"Want to talk about it?" he'd whispered in Hallie's ear.

"No." She'd burrowed into him as if seeking protection from whatever had tormented her.

He'd held her close and they'd danced forever—at least eight songs. Then the band had taken a break and so had Hallie's friends—they'd left the bar. Hallie's forlorn expression had yanked Drew's heartstrings. "Need a lift home?"

"I don't want to go home." Her brown eyes had shimmered with tears.

"We could keep dancing," he'd offered.

"No."

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Wanna talk?"

"Not here."

"C'mon." He'd grabbed her hand and led her outside. The August night had been warm and muggy. "There's a coffee shop down the road." When she hadn't taken him up on the suggestion he'd thrown caution to the wind. "My camper's parked a few blocks away. We could talk there."

Hallie had stared at him for the longest time before she'd slipped her arm through his. "Okay."

The one word had sent Drew's blood thundering through his veins. They'd walked in silence—Drew preparing for anything once they reached the camper—anything except Hallie jumping his bones as soon as they'd stepped inside.

Twice, he'd attempted to take the high road and put a stop to her advances. Hallie might not have been drunk, but she hadn't been herself, either. He'd been no match for her persistence. Her touches and kisses had been edged with desperation, and her urgency fueled his desire for her. Their union had been as combustible as a four-alarm fire.

"These will hold you over until you fill the prescription." The doctor held out two pain pills and a Dixie cup of water.

"Thanks." Drew tossed back the medicine.

"If you suffer nausea, dizziness or have trouble breathing—"

"I know the routine."

The noise out of Feller's mouth sounded like the snort a bull gives when a cowboy settles onto its back. Shaking his head, the doctor left the cubicle, white coat tails flapping in his wake.

Drew closed his eyes and focused on the pain. Pain, he could handle.
Giving up rodeo, he could not.


To help kick off my Rodeo rebels series, I've written a *FREE* online read at www.eharlequin.com called The Bull Rider's Surrender. Join the discussion at the end of each chapter and your name will automatically be entered into a drawing for an autographed copy of Rodeo Daddy.

Happy Reading!



www.marinthomas.com

The Education of Daughters

by Anna Kathryn Lanier

I spent last weekend in Cajun Country, Louisiana.  It was a wonderful weekend, full of fun, friendship and food. There was also a lot of sightseeing and gift shop shopping. In one shop I found a reproduction of The American Frugal Housewife by Mrs. Lydia Maria Child, first printed in 1832. The book is full of essays and ideas on how to be frugal. One chapter is “Education of Daughters.”

“There is no subject so much connected with individual happiness and national prosperity as the education of daughters. It is a true, and therefore an old remark, that the situation and prospects of a country may be justly estimated by the character of its women….” (Well said, Mrs. Child!)

Mrs. Child, however, has strict ideas on what that education should entail. She is for the ordinary education of daughters, reading writing and arithmetic. However, she also believes, “The greatest and most universal error is, teaching girls to exaggerate the importance of getting married; and of course to place an undue importance upon the polite attention of gentlemen.” Especially when mama has not properly taught her daughter how to run a household.

Mrs. Child believes that there has been a recent absence of domestic education. And by domestic education, she does not refer to the sending of daughters into the kitchen for a day or two to be underfoot of the cook, only to brag of the experience in parlors for weeks on end. No, Mrs. Childs believes that domestic education should take place under the watchful eye of mama, over a course of years! The young girl should assist in her mother’s duties, care for younger siblings, and care for her own clothing.

Unfortunately, the childhood years are taken up by school, and when the young lady should be learning the domestic side of life, she is instead caught up in dress and flattery, balls and parties.

“What time,” asks Mrs. Child, “have they to cultivate the still and gentle affections, which must, in every situation of life, have such an important affect on a woman’s character and happiness?” It is the parents’ duty to teach their daughters not only “how to spend riches,” but how to bear poverty.

While it is nice for a daughter to know how to be accomplished in music and drawing, what good does either do a wife in the running of a household? Unless the daughter is exceptional in either, time and money would be better spent on learning duties and gaining a “solid foundation in mind and heart.” She goes on to say, “No one should be taught to consider them (music and drawing) valuable for mere parade and attraction. Making the education of girls such a series of ‘man-traps,’ makes the whole system unhealthy, by poisoning the motive.”

Mrs. Child’s expresses concerns that mamas are teaching their daughters to enjoy themselves while young, and single. They are teaching them not that “domestic life as a gathering of deepest and purest affections; as the sphere of woman’s enjoyments as well as her duties.” Instead they are projecting marriage “as a necessary sacrifice of her freedom and gaiety.”

Doing this is a disservice to daughters. They will not find domestic bliss, nor will their husbands. The wives will not know how run the home, how to manage money, nor how to cook. Her husband will become frustrated with her inabilities and, worse, her debts. Domestic bliss will be fleeting or an illusion. Marital unhappiness will ensue.

It is therefore, very important for mamas to take daughters under their wings and teach them how to run a household and how to be frugal. To teach them that life is not all gaiety and balls. Doing so will be a proper education for a young lady.

Anna Kathryn Lanier
www.aklanier.com
www.annakathrynlanier.blogspot.com