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Tiny homes. It’s the latest craze to hit the housing industry--though families have been kiting around the country in “mobile homes” since the pioneer days. 

A recent family discussion about the need for growing boys to have their own bedroom reminded me of a recent trip with my dh to explore and photograph an ancestral cabin in northern Arkansas.

James Garfield Finis & Phoebe Trimble built their first cabin on their farmland in Izard County, near Dolph, Arkansas, in 1815-1816. The exterior of the cabin measure 20x20’—so the inside would be 19x19’--and they raised ten (yes, TEN) children in the space.

The cabin is built without nails, the boards dovetailed to stay put and the cracks stuffed full of chinking. The cabin in these pictures is actually the second one built, though they made it exactly the same size. Don’t ask me why. 

The main floor had the single fireplace, a table used for dining, repairs, school work, cooking, sewing…  A spinning wheel probably held a permanent place near a window, too, as might a desk, a piano or a rocking chair. 

Mr. & Mrs. Trimble probably had their bed in a corner of the room, too, away from the fireplace and windows. And up those stairs in the back of the room was the loft, where all of the children would sleep. No kid had their own room in this cabin! In fact, looking at it, I had to wonder how on earth they managed to find the privacy to conceive ten kids in there.

In my novel, TEXAS GOLD, my heroine lives in a cabin about the size of the Trimble cabin. When the hero literally trips over it, the cabin is inhabited by Rachel, her brother Nathan, and a goat and a few chickens are sheltering inside against a freak snow storm.

EXCERPT

Where am I? Jake lay still and took stock of his surroundings. He was definitely inside a structure. Though the air was ripe with the scent of animals, he didn’t think he was in a barn.

Something lay across his body, holding him in place. He listened for the sounds of people, footsteps, whispered words. Nothing. The silence was broken only by the shifting of a log in the fire. If anyone stood watch, he couldn’t hear them.

Taking care not to give away the fact he was awake, he opened his eyes a slit. He could see out of the right one, but the left eye was blurry and swollen nearly shut, thanks to a lucky punch from that murdering pack of thieves that jumped him.

How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was dragging himself through a raging blizzard after Harrison and his men had beaten the holy hell out of him. Now the scents of animals, wood smoke, and lavender surrounded him.

Glancing down, he found the source of the lavender. A woman lay stretched out on top of him. Silky blond hair the color of the summer sun ran in a river across her shoulder and onto his bare chest. Her forehead was smooth and she had a small nose that turned up a little at the end. Long lashes a little darker than her hair fanned across the milky skin of her cheeks. In spite of his battered body, he had a sudden strong desire to taste that skin.

He shook his head to clear it and bit back a curse as the movement shot pain through his skull. In a rush, the memories of the previous day returned. And so did the agony. Besides his head and face, they must have landed a few boots to his ribs. His side burned like hell-on-fire.

Taking shallow breaths to ease the pain, he looked around. The rising sun glowed around the edges of the window shutters. He couldn’t see a guard, but he hadn’t really expected to find one. If Harrison was around, a half-dozen guns would have finished the job they’d started last night.

He turned his head a little to one side and located the source of the smoke. A poorly built red-stone chimney staggered in drunken lines all the way to the whitewashed ceiling. Whoever had built it must have been working his way through a jug of moonshine at the same time. The floor was probably plank since he didn’t smell dust, but all he felt beneath his fingers was wool and the give of a straw mattress.

He rolled his head to the other side, stretching aching muscles. The room wasn’t large, but it was well kept. There was a curtained doorway behind him and stairs in the far corner led to an attic or second floor. Plenty of places for someone to hide. He’d check them out, as soon as he could coax his battered body to move.

A sturdy rocker was pulled up close to the warmth of the fire. There weren’t any fancy things lying around. A small plank table with benches down both sides separated the kitchen from this side of the room, but the table was bare except for a couple of books and a guttered candle. Nothing to give a hint of where he was or who’d taken him in.

He looked to the other side of the room and blinked his good eye to clear his vision. It didn’t help. In the far corner, he thought he saw two goats, four chickens in dilapidated cages, and his horse. There were animals inside the house.

Where was he? If Harrison or his men had found him, he’d be toes down in the snow. He must have stumbled on this place and whoever lived here had taken him in. By the feel of it, he’d been stripped down to what God gave him. His gaze returned to the woman lying across him.

A smile curved one corner of his mouth. Wherever here was, he liked the company. He reached for her, but his left arm wouldn’t move. Concerned, he tried again. If he could only draw one weapon, he needed to know. Of course, since he was stark naked on the floor, it didn’t matter a whole hell of a lot at the moment.

Giving up, he used only his right hand. Careful not to wake her, Jake searched for more of her softness and found cotton. She had a sweetly feminine shape buried under layers of cloth. Running his hand down the silken hair, he found her rounded bottom exactly where he’d hoped. He pressed her center to his rapidly hardening one, and couldn’t resist shifting his hips a little.

The groan of pain slipped out before he could stop it. Everything hurt, even his skin. A tiny sound brought his gaze back to the woman. Brilliant blue, the color of a clear mountain lake reflecting the sky, stared back at him.

TEXAS GOLD ~ Available now from Amazon

ON THIS DAY - CARRIE NATION by Meg Mims

On December 27^th, 1900, a dour-faced woman stood before the saloon doors in the Carey Hotel in Wichita, Kansas. Intimidating at almost six feet tall and 185 pounds, Carrie Nation marched in with a hatchet and began smashing the place—the tables and chairs, the bottles and the mirror behind the bar, until the law arrived and arrested her.

Born Carrie Amelia Moore in November of 1846, to parents George and Mary Campbell Moore of Kentucky—slaveowners—she had little education due to the family’s financial troubles that brought about several moves until settling in Missouri. During the War of Rebellion, she nursed soldiers to health and then married a physician, Dr. Charles Gloyd, who had served with the Union Army. Her husband was also an alcoholic—not unusual, given the culture of the day when babies were given whiskey to quiet them, or worse. Carrie and Charles decided the marriage wasn’t working before they had a daughter, Charlien, on September 27, 1868. Carrie had no need for a divorce, since her husband died the following year.

Carrie married for the second time in 1874. David Nation was an attorney, newspaperman and a minister and almost twenty years older. Together they moved to a cotton plantation in Texas but failed to proper. David began to practice law, and in 1880 Carrie ran a hotel in Columbia owned by the Park family. She attended the Methodist Church and lived at the hotel with her daughter Charlien, her first mother-in-law and her husband’s daughter. David also owned a saddle shop near the hotel, but the family chose to move to Richmond, Texas, to run another hotel. Due to her husband’s involvement in a political feud, they moved to Kansas. David began preaching and Carrie took on another hotel to run. But Kansas also had enacted a ban on liquor—with plenty of trouble enforcing the law.

Although Carrie started a chapter of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, the group seemed to have little effect on the problem. So Carrie took a personal interest, first using rocks to smash bottles in saloons to protest the lack of enforcement, or singing hymns to patrons going in and out of places serving liquor. She often greeted saloon keepers as “destroyers of men’s souls,” or as “swill-faced, beak-nosed bed mates of Satan.” By 1899 Carrie felt God had called her to step up the work – taking her husband’s advice to use a hatchet for better effect.

Carrie divorced David in 1901, having never had children with him, and continued her campaign either accompanied by other WCTU members or alone. She was often arrested, and her fame grew through her “hatchetations.” She undertook lecture tours and sold small souvenir hatchets for another ten years until her death on June 9, 1911. The WCTU erected a stone to honor her near the unmarked grave in Missouri, with her name spelled as “Carry A. Nation” and “Faithful to the Cause of Prohibition, She Hath Done What She Could.”

Meg Mims is an award-winning author with two western mysteries under her Eastern belt. She lives in Michigan, where the hills are like driveway slopes and trees block any type of prairie winds. LIKE her on Facebook, follow her on Twitter or check out her books on her website. Double Crossing won the 2012 Spur Award for Best First Novel and Double or Nothing is the exciting sequel. Her story, "A Savior Is Born," is included in A Wolf Creek Christmas published by Western Fictioneers.