ROMANTIC SUSPENSE OR HISTORICAL ROMANCE? by Kat Martin

Please welcome NYT best selling author KAT MARTIN to the WF blog today as our very first guest. Please give her a warm welcome!

For most of my writing career, I wrote historical romance, more than forty novels. Being a history buff and particularly loving the old West, I started out writing western romance. MAGNIFICENT PASSAGE was my first--a true bodice ripper and a far different book than I would write today. The old West was a natural fit since my relatives were western people--covered wagons across the plains, rodeo cowboys, ranchers, the whole bit. I loved packing horseback into the high Sierras, loved just about anything western, and still do.

But changing what you write keeps a writer fresh, and little by little I was drawn to the Regency time period, lords and ladies, members of the British aristocracy, books set in England. GYPSY LORD was my first, and it changed my writing forever. For years after that, I wrote Regency, then slid into the Victorian period. The Brides’ Trilogy was my last foray into that realm.

But almost from the start, I had been dabbling in romantic suspense, starting with THE SILENT ROSE, a ghost story based on a true experience. Mostly I just wanted to challenge myself, see if I could actually write a novel in a contemporary setting. Could I get the voice right? Would my audience approve?

By the time I had written the first ten, I realized contemporary fiction was my strong suit.

An idea for a series about three brothers started niggling at the back of my mind. Jackson Raines, AGAINST THE WIND, was the first. His brothers, Gabe and Devlin, appeared in the book then got their own stories, AGAINST THE FIRE and AGAINST THE LAW. All of the books hit the New York Times Bestseller List, a exciting accomplishment for me.

From there I wrote friends of the brothers, AGAINST THE STORM, AGAINST THE NIGHT, and AGAINST THE SUN. Again, the books hit the N.Y.T.

I was loving the change of pace and I couldn’t seem to stop. In my latest effort, AGAINST THE ODDS, book #7 in the series, just released this month, Sabrina Eckhart receives an inheritance from her uncle--an abandoned silver mine in the West Texas desert. Running out of money, Rina is determined to find the mine and make it productive, even if it means putting up with the cocky jet jockey she is determined to dislike but finds irresistibly attractive.

G.Q. handsome and obscenely rich, Alex Justice is a private investigator and an ex-Navy pilot, just the man Sabrina needs to fly her safely into the desert in search of her late uncle’s property. It’s a sexy tale of survival, murder, betrayal, and intrigue that kept me writing long after I should have been done for the day.
So my thinking is that a writer should write whatever stories the muse whispers. My only advice is to try those new ideas on your own time. Keep writing what you’re known for until you see if you can handle the change. See if that’s really what you want to do.

And see if your audience is ready to go along with you when you do it.
If you haven’t tried my AGAINST books, I hope you will. Very best wishes and happy reading, Kat

WHAT YOU SEE IS WHAT YOU GET

             At its core, good storytelling is about observation. And, as you may observe, you’ve never heard of me. 

             So, I have a confession to make right from the get-go.  I write Thrillers. There, I said it. Got it out in the open right here in front of the children, horses, and this esteemed cadre of Western writers. I did, however, cut my writing teeth on Westerns, and I’m certain I’ll pen some more in the future. But time and the people writing the checks have conspired against me in that regard—so, I’ll write what they want, for the near term at least.

            That said, writing is writing and characters are characters, no matter the genre.

I believe all good storytelling springs from our ability to observe and remember the things that happen around us—the funny, almost poetic way the waitress reads back your order, a particular turn of a phrase the farrier makes when he’s bent double under the weight of your spoiled, persnickety horse, or that minuscule twitch your wife does with her eyebrow when she catches you bringing home the second new gun in a week. Good writers latch onto those precious bits of life, seeing them for the gold they are—and put them to good use later.

            Years ago, as a young deputy marshal in east Texas, I stopped by a friend’s ranch while I was out serving papers. He was an older gentleman, half crippled, and needed help with his tractor, so it wasn’t long before I was flat on my back in the dirt, pulling at a piece of cheater pipe on the end of a wrench, trying to loosen the oil plug.  Who knows how long it had been since he’d changed the oil and the drain plug felt welded into place. As crippled as he was, my old friend was still spry enough to stoop down and pour on plenty of advice. Of course he asked me if I was turning it the right direction. Then, as I grunted away without so much as budging the blasted thing, he said these magic words:

            “Son, you’re strainin’ like a puppy passin’ a peach pit.”

            The drain plug stayed put, but I scuttled out from beneath the tractor and dug out my little black notebook to write down this precious phrase before it slipped away—and later found the perfect spot for it in one of my Mark Henry Westerns. I think we only sold a few thousand copies. I remember because the royalties were enough to buy a new refrigerator and my child bride thought that I’d “arrived” as an honest to goodness writer.  Good times….

           

I am fortunate to have had the observation and research opportunity of spending a career in law enforcement, first as a city police officer and the last twenty-two as a deputy US marshal. I’ve seen bloody murders, been in hellacious fights, and met some fascinating characters on both sides of the law. It has given me the opportunity to hunt, capture, and later, haul some mighty mean outlaws across the lower 48 states and Alaska.  All of this has made it easier for me to see firsthand the conflict that I believe makes a compelling story. Through it all, I’ve tried to keep good notes.

           

            So, without committing myself to any one particular thing, I’ll be writing a thought or two here each month about those experiences—tracking outlaws and whatnot—and how I’ve applied them to my stories, Western and otherwise.  Now that I’m writing full-time I’ll be updating the blog on my website as well, once in a while at least—so head on over there for a visit too.

Marc Cameron is a retired Chief Deputy US Marshal and 29-year law enforcement veteran. His short stories have appeared in BOYS’ LIFE Magazine and the Saturday Evening Post. He has published nine novels, six of them Westerns (several as a ghost writer and two under his pen name, Mark Henry).  His present Jericho Quinn series—NATIONAL SECURITY, ACT OF TERROR and STATE OF EMERGENCY (available in April 2013)— features an adventure motorcyclist, Air Force OSI agent and renaissance man who spends his days sorting out his life and kicking terrorist butt.   Marc lives in Alaska with his beautiful bride and BMW motorcycle.
Visit him at:

www.marccameronbooks.com

http://www.facebook.com/MarcCameronAuthor

Telegrams, Manners, and Roller Skating by @JacquieRogers #western

January in the Old West
by Jacquie Rogers

I'll be writing a column about various goings-on each month in the Old West--might be about the most popular dentist office in Boulder, Colorado, or maybe about base ball wagering in Clackamas, Oregon. Might even be about cattle rustling or a round-up of the sporting girls.

To introduce myself, I'm originally from Owyhee County, Idaho, and many of my stories are set there. I grew up on a dairy farm and don't even remember learning to ride a horse any more than I remember learning to walk. By the time I was in first grade, my neighbor and I earned bounty money by shooting starlings off the ensilage pit, or trapping gophers. This was nothing unusual--all the kids out there did such things.

My fondest desire was to be a television baseball announcer. That didn't work out so I ended up designing and programming software, which wasn't a whole lot less frustrating than milking cows. Computers and cows both are the cause of considerable bad language. I'm actually not sure whatever possessed me to write a book. Must have been one of those blindly insane moments when it seemed like the thing to do. So, I'm a writer now.

Everything about the Old West fascinates me, but I admit that my interests are extremely varied--the daily life, the cost of things, how they did stuff, how they made do, what they ate for dinner, what clothes they wore and why.

Any topic is fair game. I'm especially interested in what we call vice (they didn't, necessarily), their marriage customs (differs from area to area), and what they did for entertainment. And of course the weapons. You can learn a lot about a person's attitude by the weapons he or she carried. So this column will be a mélange of whatever I happen to find that intrigues me at the moment. I hope it you find these things interesting, too.

I have permission (verbal, but in Owyhee County that still means something) to reprint sections of The Owyhee Avalanche on the Western Fictioneers blog. This newspaper was started in 1865 (Ruby City, Idaho Territory, then moved to Silver City, I.T., a year later) and is still in business, now in Homedale, Idaho. No, I don't expect any of you have ever heard of those places, but this area was a lively mining and cattle district. Now, down to business.

Personal Behavior in the Old West

Who said boomtowns were uncouth places in the height of silver and gold fever? At least they remembered that there was such a thing as manners. Silver City was (still is) snowbound from December to April, so I imagine that by January, the residents, including the newspaper editor, suffered a bit from cabin fever. From The Owyhee Avalanche, January 4, 1873:

MANNERS. If men could purchase manners as they do their clothing, it would be a great benefit to the human race. We are sadly deficient in that respect. We are gruff and morose, and act for the most part as if the world was made for our special benefit, and we were the only one in it. We crowd and jostle along the walk, occupy the largest possible space in the cars, tread on our neighbor's corns, and generally pay no attention to either the person or the needs of others. And we born of being a people of good manners heaven save the mark! A company of trained monkeys have as much. We act very much like the "mildest man that ever scuttled a ship or cut a throat," and yet flatter ourselves that we are gentlemen! A man of truly polite manners and all other things will follow in due time, and society run far more smoothly in its grooves than it does now.

I'm not real sure the editor's predictions (probably written by W.J. Hill) about society becoming better mannered has ever come true, but at least they were thinking about it. I hope we are, too.

Buried Alive?

Death and rebirth are recurring themes in the dark of winter, which is more than likely what brought this next article to print. The editor must have taken it from an Indiana paper. He had to store up news items from papers he received in the good weather because no outside newspapers could be delivered during the winter months. This is also from the January 4, 1873 issue.

ARE PERSONS OFTEN BURIED ALIVE? A little girl at Fort Wayne, Ind., whose funeral services were lately being conducted, woke up very much surprised at the crowd assembled in her honor, and soon recovered. A young lady in Quebec, who was supposed to have died, regained consciousness while the undertaker was measuring her for a coffin. She called for something to eat, ate a hearty supper and got well. A young lady named Parks seemly died, to all appearances, it is said at Pine Creek, Ind., and was dressed for the grave, but in answer to the passionate manifestations of her relatives, she sat up and conversed with them, and then was taken home. At Sandsom, Ind., a young lady was taken sick and from all appearances was perfectly dead, the family physician pronounced her dead, and sure enough, she was dead. 

Artifacts from the Silver City, I.T., telegraph office

Let's Communicate

Are you curious about how long it took to send and receive a telegram? December, 1872, brought an upgrade in lines and technology, to the awe of them all. Even so, Silver City didn't get the news for five weeks (probably also by wire). This article is taken from the issue of January 11, 1873.

A TELEGRAPHIC FEAT. The Troy Press of December 3d, mentions the fact which it considers remarkable, that the President's message was telegraphed from Washington to that city over four of the Western Union Telegraph Co.'s wires, in the short time of 5 hours and 25 minutes. The distance is about 300 miles. At this rate it would have required 21 hours and 40 minutes to send the same message on a single wire. On the route between Chicago and San Francisco, a far greater feat was performed. The same message, which counted up 11,335 words, was sent on a single wire from Corinne to San Francisco, a distance of 900 miles, in 5 hours and 35 minutes, and came through in first-rate shape.

A Night on the Town

If you lived in 1873 and wanted to have a little fun, what would you do? If you were adventuresome and progressive, you'd go rollerskating! Silver City proudly sported a new rink, and here's a snippet of the article that's part announcement but is also educating the public on this new sport. The Owyhee Avalanche has this to say about it (January 11, 1873):

ROLLER SKATING. Jones & Bonney's Skating Rink is now open and is a splendid place for exercise and amusement. Roller skating not only most consummately occupies the mind in its performance, but it brings the whole muscular system into active play in the most enticing and beautiful manner. A good skater sails over the floor as airily as a bird upon the wing, in a perfect revelry of enjoyment, and a carnival of fun.

And of course there's the small town gossip.

• The new dress color with the golden tinge is called "Aurifero."
• Frank Blackinger is confined to his room with a severe attack of erysipelas.
• The present deep snow has caused Silver City girls to knit additions to the upper sections of their stockings.
• A friend of ours who has tried it, says that from five to ten days' application of fir gum will effectually cure corns and bunions. Try it.

January Events

• The Homestead Act of 1863 went into effect January 1.
• The Carson City Mint opened January 8, 1870.
• The Denver Horse Railway opened January 12, 1872. Fare would set you back a dime.
• On January 16, 1878, the silver dollar became legal tender.
• Bat Masterson took a slug in his leg January 24, 1876, while breaking up a fight over a woman named Molly Brennan. She was killed, and Masterson killed one of the fighters, Sergeant King.
• The US government established the Crow Reservation in Montana on January 31, 1887.

May your saddle never slip.

Jacquie Rogers
Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Romancing The West
Hearts of Owyhee series
#1: Much Ado About Marshals
#2: Much Ado About Madams
#3: Much Ado About Mavericks

COWBOY DREAMS--THE ADVENTURES OF THE ABERNATHY BROTHERS by CHERYL PIERSON

In the summer of 1909, two young brothers under the age of ten set out to make their own “cowboy dreams” come true. They rode across two states on horseback. Alone.

It’s a story that sounds too unbelievable to be true, but it is.

Oklahoma had been a state not quite two years when these young long riders undertook the adventure of a lifetime. The brothers, Bud (Louis), and Temple Abernathy rode from their Tillman County ranch in the southwest corner of the state to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Bud was nine years old, and Temple was five.

They were the sons of a U.S. Marshal, Jack Abernathy, who had the particular talent of catching wolves and coyotes alive, earning him the nickname “Catch ’Em Alive Jack.”

Odd as it seems to us today, Jack Abernathy had unwavering faith in his two young sons’ survival skills. Their mother had died the year before, and, as young boys will, they had developed a wanderlust listening to their father’s stories.

Jack agreed to let them undertake the journey, Bud riding Sam Bass (Jack’s own Arabian that he used to chase wolves down with) and Temple riding Geronimo, a half-Shetland pony. There were four rules the boys had to agree to: Never to ride more than fifty miles a day unless seeking food or shelter; never to cross a creek unless they could see the bottom of it or have a guide with them; never to carry more than five dollars at a time; and no riding on Sunday.

The jaunt into New Mexico to visit their father’s friend, governor George Curry, took them six weeks. Along the way, they were escorted by a band of outlaws for many miles to ensure their safe passage. The boys didn’t realize they were outlaws until later, when the men wrote to Abernathy telling him they didn’t respect him because he was a marshal. But, in the letter, they wrote they “liked what those boys were made of.”

One year later, they set out on the trip that made them famous. At ten and six, the boys rode from their Cross Roads Ranch in Frederick, Oklahoma, to New York City to meet their friend, former president Theodore Roosevelt, on his return from an African safari. They set out on April 5, 1910, riding for two months.

Along the way, they were greeted in every major city, being feted at dinners and amusement parks, given automobile rides, and even an aeroplane ride by Wilbur Wright in Dayton, Ohio.

Their trip to New York City went as planned, but they had to buy a new horse to replace Geronimo. While they were there, he had gotten loose in a field of clover and nearly foundered, and had to be shipped home by train.

They traveled on to Washington, D.C., and met with President Taft and other politicians.

It was on this trip that the brothers decided they needed an automobile of their own. They had fallen in love with the new mode of transportation, and they convinced their father to buy a Brush runabout. After practicing for a few hours in New York, they headed for Oklahoma—Bud drove, and Temple was the mechanic.

They arrived safe and sound back in Oklahoma in only 23 days.

But their adventures weren’t over. The next year, they were challenged to ride from New York City to San Francisco. If they could make it in 60 days, they would win $10,000. Due to some bad weather along the 3,619-mile-long trip, they missed the deadline by only two days. Still, they broke a record—and that record of 62 days still stands, nearly one hundred years later.

The boys’ last cross country trip was made in 1913 driving a custom designed, two-seat motorcycle from their Cross Roads Ranch to New York City. They returned to Oklahoma by train.

As adults, Temple became an oilman, and Bud became a lawyer. There is a statue that commemorates the youngest long riders ever in their hometown of Frederick, Oklahoma, on the lawn of the Tillman County Courthouse.

What's the most daring thing you ever did as a child? Come on, everyone--'fess up!

MARATHON MAN BY TOM RIZZO

Storytelling is part of our social fabric, a natural extension of the communication process. Most people love to tell stories. It's a way of connecting with each. I've written stories for most of my life. But they've been the non-fiction variety—news, sports, articles, and marketing materials. Once, however, I wrote an article that I thought might serve as the core for a novel.

Since I did have a wealth of other kinds of writing experience, I figured maybe it wouldn't be all that difficult. I think anyone who writes dreams of producing the so-called Great American Novel. The temptation hangs out there like a big curveball waiting for you to take a swing. But, it's the part before the swing that counts:

• Preparation.
• PERSISTENCE
• Realization of how vast the creative canvas
• PERSISTENCE
• Organization
• PERSISTENCE
• Mental Toughness
• PERSISTENCE
• Implementing the idea
• PERSISTENCE

My novel, Last Stand At Bitter Creek, was the first attempt at fiction. I learned a lot of lessons along the way. The creative process differs for everyone, and sometimes in amusing ways. For example, my idea for the novel came about based on a single paragraph I had written about the main character. Yep –one paragraph.

And I really fell in love with this paragraph – about six-lines long – and had planned to use it as the opening to the story. Try as I might, I was never able to shoehorn those six lines into the lead of the novel, no matter how hard I tried. It just didn’t work. One of those lessons I learned was that word's can't be forced. They have to flow in a natural progression so they reveal, and illuminate, the internal struggles, and external influences, of the characters we're writing about.

Writing a novel can be intimidating because there are so many elements involved—

• Character
• Setting
• Scene
• Sequel
• Viewpoint
• Motivation
• Core story idea

There are other components at play, too, depending on the complexity of the story. A novelist, in my opinion, has to be one-part jigsaw puzzle solver, and one-part orchestra leader.

Someone once asked why I didn't start by writing short stories, rather than tackle a novel. The question always brings to mind a story about when I decided to run my first marathon, many years ago. Among the world-class runners participating was Bill Rogers, who had won the Boston and New York City marathons four times each. I had arranged to interview him at the airport. On our walk too baggage claim, he asked me if I was running in Sunday's marathon.

"Yes, I am. It'll be my first marathon."
"First one, huh. How many 10ks have you run?"
"A 10k? What's a 10k?"
Rogers turned to me, a slight smile on his face.
"What's your goal? What do you hope to accomplish?"
"All I wanna do is finish, man. Just finish."

Writing a novel is a little like a marathon. But you gotta finish.


I'm giving away a digital copy of LAST STAND AT BITTER CREEK to one commenter today. Yep, all you have to do to be entered to win is leave a comment, and your contact information. If you just can't wait to see if you won, then go here to grab your copy:
http://www.amazon.com/Last-Stand-at-Bitter-Creek/dp/1475284446/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1358208218&sr=1-1&keywords=Last+Stand+at+Bitter#_


Thanks for joining me today!

Of Bloody Trails and One-armed Men

Welcome to the first in a series of book reviews, a new feature on the Western Fictioneers blog. Every other Monday, I'll be chiming in with my thoughts about western novels, novellas, and short stories by authors across the spectrum, from well-known to yet-to-be-discovered. Some are members of Western Fictioneers, and some aren't.

Saddle up!

Wolf Creek: Book 1
Bloody Trail
By Ford Fargo
Western Fictioneers, August 2012
$10.99 paperback, ISBN 1475243197
$2.99 Kindle, ASIN B00916VX5A
210 pages

When an outlaw gang swoops into the unassuming town of Wolf Creek, Kansas, in 1871, residents are horrified by the death and destruction the former Confederate border ruffians leave in their wake. A posse composed of disparate, often antagonistic, volunteers sets out to avenge the slaughter of innocents. Before they can settle the score with the outlaws, however, posse members must settle distrust, personal rivalries, and lingering Civil War-related animosity among themselves. Oh—and fight off hostile Indians.

Not everybody survives. In true western-fiction tradition, some likable characters die in bloody, senseless ways. For those left scarred but alive, the journey offers unanticipated rewards.

Bloody Trail gets off to something of a slow start by today’s standards, due in large part to in-depth descriptions of the town and several important characters within the first chapter. Much of the first chapter is backstory: interesting but seemingly overkill until the reader trudges on. Though readers may be tempted to skip ahead, I’d advise resisting temptation. Chapter 1’s significance can be evaluated only in hindsight. The novel’s opening is much like the town of Wolf Creek itself: unremarkable on the surface, but much deeper than it appears at first glance.

There is much to recommend about the first book in the Wolf Creek series. The breadth and depth of characters is commendable. Not a one of the posse members—a county sheriff, a Scottish doctor, a hostler, a young cowboy, a blacksmith, a store clerk, a farmer, and an enigmatic half-black, half-Seminole scout—is a western actor from Central Casting. Readers will wonder how, and whether, these men can put aside their sometimes-vitriolic interpersonal squabbles long enough to pursue a common goal. For a while, it seems they’re much more likely to kill each other than the bad guys. Even as the posse’s determination to complete its mission increases and the men start to work together, hostility seethes below the surface.

Wolf Creek is a remarkable undertaking: a true collaborative novel, not an anthology. I don’t know how Ford Fargo’s component personalities pulled off the feat, but (in order of chapter contribution) Clay More, James J. Griffin, Troy D. Smith, James Reasoner, L.J. Martin, and Cheryl Pierson created a world and a population that work, and work well. Though the overall “voice” of the novel stumbles in spots (particularly between the first two chapters and the rest of the book), for the most part there’s no clear demarcation between where one author bows out and another picks up the story. The effect is nearly seamless—the literary equivalent of a relay race in which runners pass the baton without breaking stride.

Despite a touch of repetition (near the end, one of the characters relates his backstory twice) Bloody Trail whet my appetite for more. Fortunately, three sequels already exist: Kiowa Vengeance, Murder in Dogleg City, and The Taylor County War. I look forward to following established characters and meeting new ones in future volumes. Ford Fargo's personality splits into even more components in the sequels, as additional authors join the fray.

Savage Blood
By James Reasoner
The Book Place, October 2012
$0.99 Kindle, ASIN B009NIMVT8
60 pages

Tom Brodie lost an arm and his wife during the Civil War. The arm he left on a battlefield. Who the heck knows where his wife went, but she ran off with another man before Brodie returned home. Brodie retreats from the world—and himself—into a lackluster existence as a barkeep, disaffectedly watching life continue around him, determined not to care. When a dying man staggers into the saloon with a cryptic plea for help from Brodie’s faithless wife, the former military commander can’t explain, even to himself, why he drops everything and sets out to investigate.

Described as a “hard-boiled western novella,” this short, fast-paced read, told by a master storyteller, will haunt readers long after they reach the end. Reasoner pulls no authorly tricks; he simply disappears and lets the characters do the heavy lifting. There's no “pretty” language here—in fact, the style is reminiscent of Elmore Leonard’s best bare-bones storytelling—and perhaps that’s part of the story’s charm. Harsh, often brutal, always unflinching, the poetry of Savage Blood is in the way uncomplicated words serve the characters and their tale.

That does not mean the characters lack complexity. Each player is extraordinarily drawn: a complete being with his or her own frailties, strengths, and idiosyncrasies. The interaction between them is fascinating and wholly entertaining. Life hasn’t been fair to Brodie, yet he never slips into self-pity. Though he’s lost everything that ever mattered to him, somewhere along the twisting path to the story’s conclusion, he finds the two things he needs most: a new sense of self and redemption.

A highly recommended read.


Kathleen Rice Adams is a Texan, a voracious reader, a professional journalist, and a novelist in training. She purchased both books reviewed in this post. Her opinions are her own and are neither endorsed nor necessarily supported by Western Fictioneers or individual members of the organization.

BREAKING ALL THE RULES--KANE'S REDEMPTION by CHERYL PIERSON

If you’re like me, you have a few rules for writing–and for reading. In my writing there are some things I would “never” do. Here’s a list of the top three:

Rule #1 – I never write in first person.

Rule #2 – I never write from a child’s point of view.

Rule #3 – I always have romance somewhere in my stories.

Well…one out of three ain’t bad.

I threw Rule #1 out the window when I picked up my pen and started Kane’s Redemption. I wrote it in first person. It’s the first work of fiction I’ve ever written from this perspective, and after I wrote it, I knew there would be two more of these novellas to follow. There was no better way to tell this story of young Will Green and Jacobi Kane – and the secret that stands between them.

Will is a child when the story begins, but a young man by the conclusion. So, I guess you could say I broke my own “Rule #2” as well. But there are some stories that have to be told by the child, to take hold of the innocence that only a child possesses and manages to hold on to in the face of reality. Who could have told Scout’s story better than Scout, in To Kill a Mockingbird? No one. She was the perfect character to tell us what was happening and the perfect filter for us to see for ourselves those things she couldn’t put into words. Through her eyes, we saw everything. I knew that Will had to tell the story of what happened to him and how Jacobi Kane rescued him…and what happened afterward.

Growing up in the 1800’s on the prairie of the southwest would make an adult of you quickly; even quicker if you watched your entire family murdered in the space of five minutes. This story is not just about Will, though – it’s also about Jacobi Kane, who has some secrets of his own. Although he rescues Will, he wrestles with demons that can’t be fought alone – but how can Will help? In the end, who is the true rescuer – Will, or Jacobi Kane?

Romance? Well, there’s a bit of that. But it’s the romance that comes with new beginnings and the kiss of forgiveness–sweet, touching and straight from the heart. Come to think of it, the romance in Kane’s Redemption is a bit different from anything else I’ve ever written, too.

This story came from somewhere deep; a place I didn’t know existed. It’s a gift I hope you will take as much pleasure in reading as I did in writing.

Book 2 in the Kane trilogy is KANE'S PROMISE, released in the summer of 2012. And the third and final book, KANE'S DESTINY, will be out in a few weeks through WESTERN TRAIL BLAZER.

I will be giving away a copy of KANE’S REDEMPTION today! All you have to do is leave a comment, and please leave your e-mail address so I can contact you! I will leave you with the blurb and an excerpt. Hope you enjoy!

BLURB:
A ten-year-old boy fights for his life when he is taken prisoner by a band of raiding Apache. Steeling himself for death, Will Green is shocked when a lone man walks into the Apache camp to rescue him several days later.

Driven by the secret he carries, Jacobi Kane has followed the Indians for days and needs to make his move to save the boy. With the odds stacked eight against one, his chances for success look pretty slim. But even if he’s able to rescue the boy and they get out alive, what then?

EXCERPT FROM KANE’S REDEMPTION:

Red Eagle moved back just as fast as before and I felt my cheek burning. Blood dripped off his blade and that was it. I went after that red devil like I had lost my wits. I guess, truthfully, I had – because I don’t remember anything about it, except how good the first smash of my fist in his face felt.

Blood ran from Red Eagle’s nose and he cried out in a snarl of anger and pain and surprise.

I felt a pulse of energy rush through me, and I wrapped my fingers around his throat like he’d done to Mama. I tightened them and his blood streamed warm and slick over my grip. His eyes began to bulge, and I thought in another minute, maybe I could have the vengeance I had wanted so badly for the past week.

Papa always said a man’s quick wits are sometimes his only defense. I was exultant. I may have been foolish for what I did, and I felt sure Papa and I would disagree sharply on the use of my wits. But I did what I had to do.

Suddenly, rough hands were upon me, pulling at me. But I was like a mad dog, snarling, and foaming at the mouth in my pent up anger and hatred that was finally spilling out. What a glorious opportunity! Even if I died for it, I knew I couldn’t have passed it up – whether Papa might have approved, or not.

The Indians were all speaking at once, yelling, calling out, laughing. The moon was full, providing even more light than what the fire gave, making the night seem even hotter, as if the sun still shone on us. From somewhere in the distance of the woods beyond, I heard the call of the owls, and I knew enough Injun to know what that meant to them.

Someone was going to die. It might be me, but I was doing my damnedest to take Red Eagle with me.

A gunshot split the night air. “Dammit, stop it!” Hands like steel bands wrapped around my shoulders and jerked me off of Red Eagle. “Stop it!”

I couldn’t answer. I was breathing too hard, panting like the mad dog I had become. My hands balled into fists and flexed open again and again, and my fingers were sticky with Red Eagle’s blood. My own pulse sang through my veins in a triumph I had never experienced before.

“Boy, straighten up or you’re gonna get us both killed.” The voice was calm. I stopped struggling and looked up into the face of a white man. A white man had walked right into Red Eagle’s camp. I figured, now, those owls would have plenty more to tell – at least one more death.

But he didn’t seem worried. He held his rifle at the ready, pointed in the general direction of the group of eight Indians that rode in Red Eagle’s band. I glanced around the half-circle of painted faces, and I couldn’t help gloating. They all looked as if they’d met up with some kind of spirit or demon more wicked than they were. And that was going some.

“Can you ride bareback?”

I nodded. I guessed I could, I wanted to tell him. Been doin’ it for a damn week.

“Need help getting on?”

I shook my head and he let me go real slow. “Pick the one you can manage best and get settled on him. Take Red Eagle’s rifle and bullets.”

“Wait!” Red Eagle challenged. He rolled onto his side, wiping the blood from his nose. It pleased me greatly to hear that he wheezed when he spoke. “You take our horses, our weapons—”

“I ain’t takin’ your lives, you bastard. And I ain’t takin’ all your weapons,” the big man answered in a slow drawl. “Only yours. Pitch that knife over this way, and do it easy. My trigger finger is mighty nervous tonight.”

For KANE’S REDEMPTION, KANE'S PROMISE and all my other work, click here:
https://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson

THE BLACKWELL SAGA by TROY D. SMITH

In the last two years, almost 90% of my ebook sales have come from just three short stories: “The Blackwell Claim,” “Blackwell’s Stand,” and “Blackwell’s Run.” Perhaps you notice a theme there.

About fifteen years ago, not long after I started getting fiction published, I plotted out a series of stories centered around four brothers from Tennessee who headed west during the California gold strike, then dispersed- the plan was to follow them, and eventually their descendants, and thereby get an overview of the history of the American West through the experiences of one family. If this seems similar to Louis L’Amour’s Sackett saga, well, that was a huge influence on me as a writer. My thought was to make my effort an homage- and it was only natural for me to choose Tennessee as a starting-off point, as that is where I am from and have spent most of my life (in fact, L’Amour set the origin of his Sackett family in Crab Orchard, Tennessee, which is the next county over from me.)

But there are some differences in my approach. The Blackwells are not always stalwart (though usually well-meaning), nor are they invincible. Sometimes they make very bad decisions, and sometimes (in stories to come) it gets some of them killed. The original set of brothers are introduced in “The Blackwell Claim” –they are very young in that tale, ranging from late teens to early twenties. Max is the eldest- he is very staid and responsible, and eventually joins the army as a dragoon (a title which, by the Civil War, will become cavalryman.) Next is Duke –full name Duke Cumberland Blackwell, named after a figure in early Tennessee history. Duke has their mother’s red hair, as well as her passions, temper, and gift of gab. He is a lot less inclined than the other brothers to care what the law says, and eventually becomes an outlaw –though a very likeable one. Next is Caleb- who is very much the silent type. Caleb continues his pursuit of gold long after his brothers move on to other pursuits, and in the mid-1850s travels to Australia for the Victorian gold strike. He eventually becomes a lawman in Colorado. Finally there is Jake, who has a strong sense of duty –he spends decades as a Texas Ranger, training under the famous Bigfoot Wallace. The Blackwells also had a sister, who died in childbirth- her daughter will play a part in future stories.

I wrote five Blackwell stories in the 1990s, and got three of them published. Well, I wrote four-and-a-half –the fifth one I got halfway through then shelved, finishing it over a decade later. “The Blackwell Claim” appeared in Western Digest in 1999, and “The Divided Prey” was published in The Shootist a year later. “The Windigo” –a horror story set during the Klondike Gold Rush and featuring Max Blackwell’s son Billy as the hero –also appeared in The Shootist. A fourth story, “Blackwell’s Stand,” went unpublished –it was very short, under two thousand words, and was intended as an exercise in “heroic action.” I wanted to catch the same feel as some of those old Robert E. Howard and Edgar Rice Burroughs tales, and related stories, in which the hero performs absolutely herculean (and unbelievable) feats as a matter of course –in this case, Caleb Blackwell fights not one, but two, grizzlies. I plan to make a running joke in future tales of the fact that none of his brothers believe his story.

I had mapped out a large number of Blackwell tales, but wrote no more for a long time, being distracted by other things (like a decade of secondary education.) I wrote other things instead, although I sometimes had Texas Ranger Jake Blackwell pop up as a supporting character in my westerns.

Then, in 2010, the Blackwells got a new lease on life.

A friend of mine (and fellow WF member), Kit Prate, told me that there was a new player in the digital publishing world, WESTERN TRAIL BLAZER. I contacted the publisher, Rebecca J. Vickery, and told her I had a lot of old short stories that might work as digital shorts –she offered to give them a look, and accepted several, including all four Blackwell stories.

And “The Blackwell Claim” and “Blackwell’s Stand” took off like crazy. Both stories spent about a year on amazon’s top 100 western list, with “Blackwell’s Stand” peaking at #3. I noticed that the two stories that didn’t have “Blackwell” in the title did not sell nearly as well, so when I dusted off that unfinished story from the 90s and wrote the second half of it, I changed the title from “The Vision Man” to “Blackwell’s Run.” I was deeply honored when that one not only sold well, but was a finalist for the 2011 Peacemaker Awards.

When I realized how popular the brothers B were with readers, I decided to write all those other stories I had once intended to produce. In the last few months I’ve added five more, with another due soon. Rebecca Vickery at WTB will be releasing Blackwell collections, with six or so collected stories in each book, while I continue to release new ones as individual shorts. I plan to look at the next Blackwell generations as well (the stories are not written in chronological order), including a multi-part saga at some point that will feature two cousins in opposition to one another- one a Texas Ranger and the other a Depression-era bank robber. I’m looking forward to seeing where it goes.

I hope you’ll take the ride with me.

Meanwhile, here is your opportunity to visit with the Blackwells... one person who comments on this post in the next week, and leaves their contact info, will be randomly selected to receive a free pdf copy of the stories "Blackwell the Highwayman" and "The Blackwell Gang."

Here is a list of the Blackwell stories so far:

The Blackwell Claim               All four brothers

Blackwell's Stand                   Caleb Blackwell

The Divided Prey                   Jake Blackwell

The Windigo                           Billy Blackwell

Blackwell's Run                      Max Blackwell

The Blackwell Raid                Max and Jake Blackwell

Blackwell Unchained              Jake Blackwell

Blackwell the Highwayman     Duke Blackwell

Blackwell's Star                      Caleb Blackwell

The Blackwell Gang                Duke Blackwell

Blackwell Down Under           Caleb Blackwell (coming soon)

FRIDAY FIVE--CHERYL PIERSON

These are the burning five questions we must know about Cheryl Pierson. Are you ready?

What’s weird about your name?

I have two weird things about my name that I’ve had to explain all my life. My first name is not pronounced SHARE-yl, like 99% of the rest of the world with that name. My parents must have sat around for ages figuring how to pick a name that would be just enough “off” to require a double take every time I introduce myself. It’s CHAIR-yl, with a “hard” CH—like chicken, church, or CHAIR.

The second weird thing is my middle name. (Yes my parents were on a roll here!) It’s Kathlyn. I have met a total of two other people in my life with that name. This is why my daughter is named JESSICA.

What was the car you learned to drive in?

My parents bought a ’63 Impala that I shared with my sister who had moved back home after her divorce. It was white and one of those fantastic old cars that I wish I still had. Even though it was old when I got it, I loved that thing. (I was 16 in 1973.) The car I learned to drive stick shift on was a mid-year special edition Capri. Racing red and NO air conditioning. Still the “car of my heart.”

How many states have you lived in?

Only two. I was born in Oklahoma and lived here until I was 17. My dad worked for Baroid, an oil company, and was transferred to Charleston, West Virginia, the summer before I started my senior year of high school. I met my husband there, and Fate stepped in. He worked for the FAA, whose training facility is in Oklahoma City. So we moved back out here and have been in Oklahoma for the past 29 years.

Favorite food?

Fresh home grown tomatoes. With or without salt. They even beat chocolate out!

One book you couldn’t live without?

To Kill a Mockingbird. The great American novel has already been written.

Got a question you want to ask? A comment you want to make? Let's hear it! I'm giving away a pdf copy of my short story, "EVERY GIRL'S DREAM" to one commenter today! Be sure you "follow" this blog--just click the follow button on the home page--there will be a drawing once a month from the followers list for a giveaway.

Contact Cheryl at fabkat_edit@yahoo.com
Cheryl's Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson

Jim Griffin: Horses, Dogs, and Texas Rangers

 Howdy,

My name’s Jim Griffin, and I’ll be the regular 2^nd Thursday of the month contributor on the Western Fictioneers blog.

As a brief introduction, my main loves, not in any particular order, are horses, dogs, (especially small dogs), the Texas Rangers, and New Hampshire, particularly the southwest corner, otherwise known as the Monadnock region. Now, some of you are no doubt scratching your heads and saying, “horses, dogs, Texas Rangers, all right. But what in the world does New Hampshire have to do with anything Western?” The answer is, not much, except for this. The first use of branding to identify livestock, which just about everyone assumes started with the large free-roaming longhorn cattle herds in Texas and then spread throughout the West, actually was in New Hampshire. And the livestock branded weren’t cattle, but those critters anathema to the old time cattleranchers, sheep. Yes, sheep… woolies…mutton. Branding sheep in New Hampshire and later other parts of New England started back in Colonial times, even before the United States existed as a country. Just like western cattlemen grazed their herds on common land, identifying ownership by brands, in colonial New England animals, mostly sheep and swine, were pastured on common land, usually called the town common. Unlike the typical image of a nice patch of green land surrounded by neat white houses and a white-steepled church, the common or green was usually either dusty or muddy (depending on the weather and time of year) from grazing and rooting livestock, and trash-strewn besides. But we can still thank the farmers of New Hampshire for introducing branding to the New World. And of course some New Hampshire folk headed West to help settle the frontier. Several fought at the Alamo, and many in the Civil War. As people from New England’s land, never very fertile to begin with and extremely rocky, played out, plenty of New Englanders headed West to start again.

Now on to things more Western. I’ve had horses most of my life, and can’t imagine having to live without one. I still think the infernal combustion engine is the creation of the devil, and the world would be better off with fewer cars and more horses. Maybe we’d all learn to relax a bit more and get along with each other better, too, if more of us rode horses. It’s hard to stay angry when you’re on the back of a good horse.

As far as the Texas Rangers, I’ve been fascinated by the organization since I was a kid. Have a friend who just retired from the Rangers, and got to know enough about them that I’m considered an amateur and unofficial historian of the outfit, although I sure don’t claim to be an expert. I’ve collected a whole passel of Texas Ranger artifacts over the years, which are now in the permanent collections of the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum in Waco, Texas. It’s a great museum to learn about the Rangers. If any of you are down Waco way be sure to stop it, and see some of my stuff. Most is in the Texas Rangers in Popular Culture Gallery, and the items get rotated in and out.

And that’s the lead-in for the chance to mention my books. I’ve got two series of Texas Rangers novels in print, plus one stand alone book, and some more in the works. Not to mention a whole bunch of stuff all over the web.  And of course stories in both Western Fictioneers anthologies, and am one of the contributors to the WF Wolf Creek series. My novels completely traditional Westerns, no avant-garde edgy stuff or western mixed with science fiction ala The Wild Wild West. You’ll find straight-shootin’ good guys, nasty bad guys, brave women, smart horses, and plenty of fist-fighting action and shooting in my stories. You won’t need to be afraid to let your kids (or your mama) read most of ‘em.

One other passion of mine is traveling all over the West, although I don’t have the chance to do that as much as I used to. My first trip west I was headed to a job in San Diego, and at an overnight stop in Midland, Texas my hosts offered to take me on a trail ride to let my horse stretch his legs, since he’d been riding in a horse trailer behind my ‘65 Impala for three days, and the previous stops only had small corrals for him. Started the ride, and after a couple of miles of sand and more sand I finally had to ask where was the beach? Here, where there’s sand, there’s usually a beach. Not in west Texas.

Other big surprise was when I first saw the Rocky Mountains. Kept wondering why they didn’t look all that high, not much higher than a lot of the mountains here in northern New England. Then it hit me that when you first see the Rockies you’re already a mile or more above sea level. So, a 12,000 foot mountain seen from 6,000 feet altitude on the plains doesn’t look much higher than one of our 6,000 footers seen from 700 feet above sea level.

So, enough of this introductory stuff. Next time around I’ll promise to talk Rangers, horses, books, and maybe even a dog or two. Not all at the same time, of course. And if any of you have any questions on the above subjects, I’d love to hear ‘em.

Jim

Wicked Wednesday (villains redux)

The Cahill Gang

The title came first—Town Tamer—though that’s not what the novel is now known by.

I saw a group of five riders coming into a town, and I knew they planned to take it over. Here’s a paragraph that tells the reader what kind of man Nate Cahill is.

The mist dripped off Cahill’s slicker and from the brim of his black Stetson. His sharp gaze picked up a comely woman in blue calico coming from a small building with Examiner painted on its window. Maybe she’d still be around when he owned the town. He’d see how she tasted then. Their eyes met – his cold and calculating, hers bold and forthright. Cahill raised a finger to his hat brim in salute. She looked away. He grinned.

The girl, a reporter for the Examiner, plays an important part, too.

Cahill is a hard man, and he knows how to run his gang well. He’s got a brother, though, who’s a sadist. Here’s what Cahill says about him:

An angry voice came through the thin walls. “He’s what? You’re jerking my leg. I’m the goldam owner of this goldam saloon.” Angry stomps marked Sims’s progress down the stairs. He burst into the room, a big man in gartered sleeves and suspenders. His belly hung over his waistband and jowls flapped at his neck. He held a Smith and Wesson in his right hand.

“Who the hell are you?” he shouted. The revolver pointed more or less at Cahill.

“I’m Nate Cahill, and this here’s my brother Wynn. Now before you get sudden, let me tell you about Wynn. He’s not like other people. You see, Wynn likes to hurt things. Cats. Dogs. Women. Men. Don’t matter much to him, long as they yowl.”

Then you get another look at what kind of person Wynn Cahill is a little farther into the first chapter.

Webber took a deep breath. “I’m the one with the badge, Cahill. This may be Bogtown, but it’s still part of Ponderosa, and I’m the law.”

Cahill smirked. “That so? You figure there’s some way to make me open that safe for you?”

“There is.” Webber eared back the hammers of the sawed-off shotgun, but the moment the marshal’s hand moved to the hammers, Wynn Cahill palmed his Colt and shot Webber just below the breastbone. Webber stumbled backwards. His dying fingers triggered the shotgun into the ceiling. He fell on his back, his head crashing on the hardwood floor.

The Cahills watched as the marshal tried to suck air into his punctured lungs while his dying heart pumped blood out his ruptured pulmonary artery into his chest cavity. His heels beat a weak tattoo on the floor; then he went limp.

“Damn,” Wynn said. “Why’d he have to die so quick?”

Isn’t he the kind of guy you love to hate? While Jake Cahill is coldblooded and calculating, younger brother Wynn gets his jiggers from hurting things. Still, these are tough men, so there’s not doubt in the reader’s mind (I hope) that it will take tough men to clean these vipers from Bogtown, Ponderosa’s underbelly.

The Cahills are villains people love to hate. Next month, I’ll talk about antagonists who think they are in the right.

OK. Now give me some comments about villains, and I’ll give one of the commenters a PDF of Guns of Ponderosa, the novel these scenes were taken from (I’d give you a signed copy, but I don’t want to send it all the way from Japan, cheap rascal that I am).

COOKING WILD AND WONDERFUL--LARRY J. MARTIN

I'm looking forward to talking cooking with y'all and hope you'll shoot me some of your favorite recipes from time to time.

I've been a cook all my life, starting, believe it or not when I was the ripe old age of eight, if you can call mixing up a box cake cooking, which was my first chore. My mom, a single parent, worked hard and had a thirty-mile drive, a long ways in 1947, and came home dog tired. My older brother, at twelve, decided we were going to have supper awaiting her, and we did from then on. I cooked my way through college, the only fry cook for 1,600 at lunch, and owned and cooked in a couple of restaurants. I've camp cooked since I packed and wrangled for a boy's camp at seventeen, and for lots of hunting camps since…including this year, fifty-five years later, with nine hunters in two sidewall tents.

And I've loved most of it, and here's why:
Somewhere close behind air and water is the need for food.

It’s a basic requirement of life, and when that requirement is met, then and only then, does art enter the equation.

A gruel of oats can satiate hunger, while a delicately wrought oatmeal cookie laced with walnuts and elusive chocolate chips can not only accomplish the same but also please the palate, the eye, the nose, the finger tips…and human curiosity. Sometimes, even an emotional need.

So great cooking, unlike all other art forms, fulfills not only the most basic needs and requirements, but also becomes art when it tantalizes and teases with smell, sight, taste, touch, and yes, sound that entices, entertains, even exhilarates.

And unlike all other art forms, it accomplishes all those things—but unlike most other arts, it’s transitory, and needs to be repeated over and over, in short order. Consequently the very repetition of the effort lends itself to becoming mundane. A menu repeating itself over and over, no matter how delightful at first, is soon boring. The trick is to tease and titillate and entice with new and exciting combinations and discoveries. There’s no need to bore yourself or friends and family…after all, there are hundreds if not thousands of ways to prepare even the humble potato.

There are many masters of the art of fine cooking all over the world, from every culture and country, from every race and religion, from every economic level. Great cooking is not a result of exotic and expensive ingredients, but more of sometimes delicate, sometimes rough, sometimes intricate, sometimes simple, combinations of flavors, textures, colors, and bouquets. The French have become internationally renowned for their cuisine, and it’s not because of expensive ingredients or elaborate preparation. It’s because of a respect for some basics.

There’s a time for all things, and all things in their time is probably the number one basic of good cooking. Spring is the time of awakening, the time for fresh asparagus, for fish fresh from streams and lakes newly reborn from winters ice, of lamb so tender it makes you want to weep and shout for joy simultaneously; Summer is rich, ripe tomato time, it’s earthy mushrooms from meadows recently kissed by warm rain, of seeds and nuts of hundreds of varieties; Fall is a celebration of stone fruit, of grapes, and sweet corn on the cob, and game from the hills and high mountains; and Winter is the time of the root and other late developing healthy, hardy vegetables—cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower—of meat from the smoker, and of warming stews and pot roasts.

Yes, even here in Montana we can get a tomato in January, probably with a sticker extolling its birth in Peru or Mexico, but its been picked green as the proverbial gourd and will never develop that wonderful mesmerizing flavor of the vine ripened fruit. The fruit from Peru, like you after a many thousand mile journey, will be tired. Not like the one you’ve watched mature on a vine in your garden while guarding against horn worms which value it almost as much as you, or even one from your local farmers market picked ripe that morning.

Thoughtful and respectful menu planning is probably number two in the roster of basics of good cooking. A meal composed of sharp tastes from beginning to end is not particularly pleasing to the palate. A spicy soup, salad, entré, and desert does not give the palate time to recover, to relax, to prepare for the next gastronomic pleasure. Rather a mild soup, a sharp flavored Caesar salad tickled by crushed anchovy, a slice of medium rare roast beef smothered in brown gravy accompanied by asparagus lightly poached in butter and wine and a crusty bread lathered with creamery butter on the side, all followed by a rich cream brulee with a beautifully browned, tenderly torched, cinnamon kissed top, is the pace of a great yet relatively simple menu—and a pace respected by the wonderful cooks of Provence, of much of Italy, and of many other places across this fascinating world of ours.

Looking forward to our next visit. Here's a great little recipe for you if you love a GREAT steak. This is a marinade, applied to the meat just before you take it off the BBQ. Lather it on one side, flip it and lather it on the other, flip it so the fire hits it for twenty seconds, and take it off. You'll love the flavor, and your guests will have no idea why that fillet tastes so damn good.

Simple Sauce (the best for red meat)

Note: I originally got this simple recipe from a place I frequented for steaks when I was just a pup. Oft times the very best is the simplest, and this is one of those times.

• 1 cube butter
• ½ cup soy sauce
• 2 beef bullion cubes

Heat until cubes are dissolved. I use this on steaks and chops, basting them just before I take them off the fire, and if the fire flames up, all the better. I occasionally add garlic powder, lemon pepper, or other spices, depending upon my mood.

See you soon for more from The Kitchen at Wolfpack Ranch and Cooking Wild & Wonderful.