Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Review: Melissa Lemon's Blue Sky

Earlier this month, author Melissa Lemon released her new book, Blue Sky. As part of her Blog Tour, I agreed to read and review the romance. She sent me a pdf ARC in exchange for my honest assessment.

Here is a bit about the author:

Melissa Lemon has had many imaginary friends (and enemies) since she was a child. Her vivid imagination had her writing stories and jotting down book ideas for years until she finally sat down and finished a novel. She is married to an awesome man and is the proud mother of three children. Music is also an important part of her life. She shares time with music students, teaching them piano, cello or guitar. Melissa is a graduate of the University of Utah and currently resides in the Salt Lake area.

Here's information about the plot and characters in Blue Sky:

Sunny is grieving the sudden death of her parents. Lewis is a homeless runaway seeking shelter in Sunny's basement from an early winter storm. In her unstable emotional condition, Sunny wants nothing more than to kill the unexpected intruder in her home. After a bizarre hostage situation and a poker game, Sunny realizes that Lewis isn't out to hurt her. Their initial distaste turns to friendship and love, but Sunny isn't keen on starting a relationship with a man she knows so little about. Lewis is loyal, and his patience paramount. Sunny is hesitant but her love runs deep and true. They are separated unwillingly, and must struggle and face overwhelming odds to find each other again.

My Review:

A richly embroidered tale of change, loss, relationships, trust, obstacles, and love, Blue Sky was not an easy read for me. That is probably because of all the losses (some violent) that I've undergone in my own life: parents, in-laws, sibling, husband, child. However, Ms. Lemon does a credible job in this novel that is such a departure from the fairy tales she has published previously. Showing how Sunny turns a risky proposition into a romance takes a good amount of skill, and Ms. Lemon pulls it off.

I liked Lewis better than I liked Sunny. He had already gone through a great deal of turmoil in his life--which is what drove him onto the streets in the first place--but seeing him so patiently putting up with the mood changes of the mercurial girl with whom he had fallen in love, was heart-rending.

Romantics will love this novel. It is available here for Kindle or here in paperback.

Follow Melissa: Website ~ Goodreads ~ Facebook ~ Twitter

Find tadditional Blog Tour Stops here

Monday, February 25, 2013

A Little Respite - Then Diving into Writing

Having promised the protagonist of my next novel that I'll start writing his book within the next month, I have my work cut out for me in the weeks ahead. However, having presented two--yes, that's TWO--classes at the ANWA Writers Conference over the weekend, I need a little respite before I dive into the deep waters of the writing experience.

Besides my own need for physical rejuvenation, my house could use a little attention. Er, make that a LOT of attention. Papers are piled up on every flat surface, including the floor. I've managed--just barely--to keep my bills paid, but that's mostly due to the miracle of auto payments, for which I am very grateful. A question asked in a church meeting the week before chilled me to the bone: "What if the Internet went away?"

I think we all have become very accustomed to that miracle, but I suppose it's a big possibility that it could disappear someday. Certainly it could if people without scruples decided it would suit their agenda for that to happen.

But I'm wandering off track. The question above needs my attention in another venue, not this one.

I need more sleep to catch up on the deprivation under which I've been coasting along. I need a few good meals. I also need to locate a good local dentist who happens to be on my dental plan. Good luck to me in that!

I hate going to see the dentist, any dentist, and I hate even more that I haven't secured one who wouldn't make me feel guilty about the stretch of years during which I haven't had dental coverage and/or the money/desire to see one.

Alas and alack! The time has come. I'm paying in pain. Even with my high tolerance for pain, I've reached my limit. This weekend was almost unendurable due to the pain in my mouth. I hope my face didn't reflect that fact. I tried as much as I could to mask it. Now I have to spend my respite time finding someone to put me into more pain. When that wears off, I can begin to write in peace.

Do any dentist suggestions come to your mind?

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Sweet Saturday Sample - February 23, 2013

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples. Due to the nice comments I had last week on the scene I posted from Trail of Storms with secondary characters featured, I thought I'd post the  scene that followed. Enjoy!
~~~

After the ceremony, the townsfolk gave the newlyweds energetic congratulations and several bits of advice. Heppie smiled, nodded, and wished they were on the road again, away from well-meaning strangers. She wanted to wash, to get at least her hands and face clean before nighttime came and George— What was George going to do? After they’d set up camp, Ma had taken Heppie aside for a moment and said that after the wedding Heppie would give herself to her husband. Tales she’d heard and things she’d seen crowded into her mind, but surely that wasn’t what people did?

They finally arrived at their camping place with the other members of their party. George patted her hand and said, “I’m going to wash up a bit, but I’ll be back soon.” Heppie smiled in relief and took herself into the woods with a pan of water to do the same.

Later, the last supper dish had been dried and put away and everyone had gone off into the darkness, leaving the newlyweds alone at the campfire. Heppie sat beside the fire, stirring it back to life whenever the flames weakened.

After a time, she got up and leaned over the fire with her stick, and George asked, “Heppie, what are you doing?”

She jumped backward, righted herself, and looked at her husband. “Keeping the fire going.”

“Why, my girl?”

“I like the light.” She sat back down, fidgeting with the stick and wishing Hannah or Jessie would step into the firelight.

“Let it go out. It’s time for bed.”

“Allow me a few more minutes.”

George got to his feet, moved behind her, and squatted down. He put his lips to her ear. “I’d rather you came to bed, my love,” he whispered.

“It’s dark away from the fire,” she whispered back.

“That’s fine with me. The darker the better.” He slipped his arms around her waist.

“George!” she whispered. “What a thing to say!”

“Come on, honey. We have to get up early.”

“I don’t like the dark.” She thought of animals in the darkness of the forest beyond their camp. Animals that lumbered through the trees, making noise.

“You’ll be safe with me.” He nuzzled her neck. “So safe and warm.” He drew out the words, tantalizingly slow.

“Will I?” she asked, moving her neck slightly. “I’m fearful.”

“Of me?”

She remembered seeing a tom cat mount a female at a friend’s farm. The tom had been rough. “No, of things I don’t know much about.”

George kissed her throat. She thought her skin would melt.

Heppie swallowed hard. “The things I feel.”

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.” His drawl made the single syllable go on forever. His breath stirred the hairs below the coils of her tresses.

Heppie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Yes, her skin was melting, and if he kept kissing her, she would want to flee into the darkness with him. I’ll be safe from these feelings beside the fire.

George stood up and stepped to one side. Heppie also stood, bending toward the embers to stir them again. I’m a married lady. I can have these feelings. She put down her stick. She paused, thinking, What if this is lust? Lust is sinful! She picked up the stick again and stirred the fire. Sparks flew up, and she stepped back to avoid them. George moved in, took the stick from her hand, and led her away from the fire.

Those cats made a fearful racket.
Heppie felt a bit of panic rise in her stomach. Do married folk make noise? Will all the camp hear us?

George drew her closer into the circle of his arm as they walked toward the bed she knew he had prepared for them. He is strong, she thought. He is brave and warm and safe. I love him. I want to be with him. An idea dawned on her. This is what Ma meant. Her panic diminished.

He chuckled. “You’re so deep in thought, my dear. Where are you wandering?”

“Hold me close,” she begged, suddenly clutching him around the neck.

“That’s what I had in mind,” he said, enclosing her in his embrace.

“No. Hold me for a minute or two right now.” She let out a gust of air as he complied.

He bent his head and kissed her under the ear. “There’s nothing to fear.”

“Wolves?”

He shook his head against her.

“Bears?”

Again she felt the negative movement.

“Making noise?”

He was still for a moment, then whispered, “I can’t guarantee that.”

“George!”

“I can guarantee I’ll take good care of you.” His hug tightened.

The last of the panic left Heppie, and she let him lead her through the darkness toward their marriage bed.



~~~
Thank you for visiting. Refer to the Buy Links Page above for locations to purchase Trails of Storms, or any of my work.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Now, use this list to go to other blogs for more Sweet Saturday Samples. I know the authors enjoy comments as much as I do, so don't be shy.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

Sweet Saturday Sample - February 16, 2013

Welcome back to Sweet Saturday Samples. I know it's past Valentine's Day, but I couldn't resist putting in a tidbit from one of my novels that has to do with some of the emotions we humans feel toward those we love in a most particular way. No, it's not going all graphic sex on you. I don't need to go there.

This piece is from Trail of Storms, and features two secondary characters at their "pick-up" wedding as they flee the oppression of Reconstruction following the American Civil War.
~~~~

Several days later, Heppie stood at the altar in a strange church and gave a nervous giggle. At last! Her face felt warm, and she wondered if she was blushing. She took a deep breath to suppress another giggle. George stood, ramrod straight, clothes brushed free of dust, sandy hair combed carefully into place over his half ear, looking like he’d keel over if he didn’t wiggle something soon. Heppie looked at the minister, who was thumbing through his prayer book. She couldn’t read his expression and wondered if he objected to marrying two strangers. Two shabby strangers.

She wore the same dress as every day. It was all she had to wear. Ma had brushed at it with her hand, trying to get the worst of the dust off, before they stepped through the church door. Heppie wished she’d been able to wash her dress or at least take a bath, but time had run out when the bustling little minister arrived, shepherded by Robert Fletcher. Several curious townsfolk came in their wake—drawn by gossip that a traveling couple had asked the minister to marry them—and accompanied the wedding party into the church.

Fortunately, my hair looks nice. Hannah had brushed it, braided it, and coiled it intricately at the back of Heppie’s head. I’ll make a good appearance from the back.

The minister looked from his prayer book to them and opened his mouth to begin the wedding ceremony. At first Heppie didn’t hear a word he said. She knew he was talking, because his mouth moved, and she could hear a droning sound like a thousand bees circling her head, but nothing made sense because George was looking down at her, and she was drowning in the depths of his blue eyes.

When George finally broke eye contact to look at the minister, Heppie got her ears working again. George stuttered, “I … ah … do,” and the minister looked at Heppie.

“Do you, Hepzibah Bingham, take George Heizer for your husband, to love, obey, and cherish him so long as life lasts?”

Heppie stared at the little man in the frock coat. Did she want to marry George? She swallowed, panicked. Will I love him until I die? Do I have to obey everything he says? She looked at George, her eyes drawn to his right ear. Can I cherish that little half-shot-off ear as long as I live? George squeezed Heppie’s hand and smiled down at her. His touch steadied her, and she knew he loved her. Settle down, Heppie, she thought. You can do this. Just be quick about it before you change your mind again!

She turned to the minister and said in a rush, “Yes, I do. What’s next?” As soon as the question left her lips, she gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified at her audacity.

The minister looked surprised and slapped his prayer book closed with his hand still inside. After a moment, he opened it again, moved his finger down the page, and found his place.

“By the power given to me by God Almighty, this county, and the state of West Virginia, I proclaim you husband and wife, duly and legally married according to the rite of the church. Two dollars, please.”

As Robert took up a collection for the money, George wrapped his arms around Heppie. “The preacher forgot to mention this,” he whispered, and lightly kissed her on the lips. “I’ll never put cows ahead of you again,” he vowed, then kissed Heppie with a thoroughness that dizzied her brain.

She clung to him, warmth spreading from her lips to the core of her being, a tingling wave that awakened an overwhelming need to somehow knit her body together with his. Frightened by the intensity of her feelings, Heppie broke away, her breathing short and quick. George winked at her, and she looked at her hands, still gripping his shirt. She dropped them to her sides, wondering, Did Hannah feel like this on her wedding day?

~~~~


Thank you for visiting. Refer to the Buy Links Page above for locations to purchase Trails of Storms, or any of my work.

Please come back next Saturday for another sample. Now, use this list to go to other blogs for more Sweet Saturday Samples. I know the authors enjoy comments as much as I do, so don't be shy.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Rulon Owen is Not a Patient Man

I'm outside, slogging through the snow to the garbage can I've stashed on the other side of the road for the winter so I don't have to move it back and forth during periods when the half-dollar size granite rocks are covered ankle-deep with snow. Truth be told, I don't like to trundle the bin over the granite rocks, either. Good thing the cross-road neighbors don't visit very often, I think, hauling my plastic bags by their pull ties to the black monstrosity.

"Looks like you could use a hand," someone behind me says in a deep voice, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

I whirl around the best I can with two heavy bags impeding my pirouette. My heart pounds as hard as it did the last time someone told me Sean Connery had fallen to his death from a crag in New Zealand.

A grey-hatted man sits astride a reddish horse that nickers softly, its breath streaming from its nostrils like steam escaping from a broken pipe. I back up as the man swings down from the saddle and drops the reins to ground-tie the animal.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice quavering ever so slightly. I don't tote a firearm with me when I take out the garbage. Maybe that should change.

"Mom," he says, relieving me of first one bag, then the other. "You've met me. You should know me by now."

I'm a bit rattled by his choice of words. My sons call me "Mom" in just that impatient tone of voice, making more than one syllable out of the word.

My mind is jumping from one compartment of my brain to another, rattling the filing cabinet drawers I jerk open as I search for clues to help me remember this man.

"I'm younger," he says, turning away from me to study the garbage bin.

Cole? Bob? John? Jim? No. He doesn't resemble the outlaw Younger brothers. My gosh, who is he? I'm beginning to slip into fear.

He sets the bags on the ground and bends his head sideways to examine the lip of the black lid. He raises an arm to test it. Discovering that it moves, he thrusts it upward, and the lid flies back. He chuckles. I'm moving backward, puzzled by his actions. He picks up the bags, chucks them in the bin, closes the lid, and turns to me, dusting his hands together.

"Them parcels have a slippery feel, but the keg is harder. What do you call that material?"

When he raises his hand to tilt back his hat, I finally know him.

"Rulon," I exhale. Rod Owen's oldest boy, and he's much more boyish looking than the man I'd met a couple of years ago. "Plastic. They are both made of plastic, but different types."

"Humph," he snorts. "Plastic."

"You'd best come inside," I tell him, glancing at the horse, and wondering if it's better to tie it to the rail of the back-door deck or the ramp's railing. The back door is locked, but I don't want the horse destroying my Heat Trak electric mat, so I settle for a third choice, the railing on the covered deck closest to the shed. That will hide the animal sufficiently that someone won't come along and elect to take a joy-ride.

Rulon ties the horse where I tell him to, then wipes off his boots before entering my living room.

"Sit down and take your ease," I say, lapsing into a genteel Civil War-era-matron persona. "May I get you a refreshment?" I mentally go over the contents of my refrigerator and cupboards. "I can offer you water, mint tea, pineapple juice...." I stop as his brow contorts in confusion. "Never mind the pineapple juice. How about hot chocolate?" I shiver. "That seems a good choice. I also have a loaf cake."

Rulon sits, perched uneasily on the edge of my chair. "I believe I've tasted that 'hot chocolate' somewhere. Don't it take quite a time to brew it?"

I think of the luxury we have in our time. Instant beverages from a foil package. "No, this is special," I say. "It won't take very long. Will you take cake, as well?"

"I reckon," he says. "Thank you, Mom."

I leave him alone, knowing he's not even going to offer to assist me in preparing the repast. That is a woman's work, and Rulon is decidedly not a woman.

He's more handsome than I had remembered, full of face and not worn down by privation. He wasn't cautious in moving his body. "He hasn't been hit by shrapnel yet," I whisper, the truth dawning on me. This is the pre-war Rulon.

When I enter the room again, carrying a tray with cups of hot chocolate and plates of cake, I notice he's fidgeting, flicking one thumbnail with the other and biting his lower lip. I set down the tray and serve him. 

He samples the chocolate, but it's hot and he blows on it.

"Tell me about the family," I say. I want to know the timeline I'm dealing with.

"Ma and Pa are well. Brother Ben's got himself a job at the mill." He grinned. "He's sparkin' Ella Ruth Meems. Figures to marry her right soon." He sips at the beverage.

My heart contracts, squeezing hard. I don't know Ella Ruth. I imagine I'll get to know her this year, probably too intimately for comfort.

"And you?" I manage to ask, forcing my lips into a smile. "You're getting long in the tooth and not wed yet."

"I am not," he sputters. "I mean, I aim to marry, just as soon..." His voice fades as his head drops. He tries to mask his chagrin by chugging the chocolate, but it's still hot, and he sputters anew, then coughs.

I hand him a tissue. He looks at it coldly, then sets his drink down on the table and wipes his mouth. He nibbles at the cake.

"Rulon, are you seeing someone?"

"Yes!" He barks the word. "Yes," he repeats, and breathes heavily. "I come to ask you to get on with writin' my tale." 

He's rushing his words now, spilling them out so fast I feel obliged to stop him, but I can't, not yet.

"I'm forbidden to wed her until you write out the words and make it real. I can scarcely stand this waiting, waiting, everlasting waiting. She won't let me--"

"Rulon!" I cut him off. "You can't do that."

He's breathing hard now, nearly gasping with pain. His yearning is almost palpable, his drive to possess filling my room with the musk of desire, and I won't tolerate the dark aspect of his need.

"Get yourself in hand! Of course she won't permit you taking liberties. She's only a bit of a girl, and doesn't realize how she's pushing you to your limit."

"You know that?" he groans and narrows his brows as he gazes at me. "You know her?" He moves one leg awkwardly.

I acknowledge his distress. "I think you'd best stay the night here. I'll call my neighbor about sheltering your horse."

He slumps forward, nerveless, and I am glad he has set down the chocolate. "I'm a cur," he whispers, then groans again.

"No, you're a young man full of yourself. It will do you good to be removed from Mary for a while."

He shuts his eyes and compresses his lips, then nods slowly. "I'll stop here for the night, on one condition." He looks up at me, his eyes full of challenge. "You have to start writin' down the words."

Now it's my turn to nod. "I'll begin inside of a month."

Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward


*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they pass under the rainbow from time to time to visit me in my own time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.

Thursday, February 07, 2013

As Phil Robertson would say, "Happy, Happy, Happy!"

Okay, so one of my Guilty Pleasures is watching "Duck Dynasty" on A&E. The patriarch of the Robertson clan, Phil Robertson, is wont to make the comment I allude to in the title above, on the state of well-being of his fellowmen who follow the simple life.

I'm pretty simple, but I do have certain aspirations and desires. One is to be recognized, if my writing has any worth at all.

Today I received an email from a friend. It had a link in it. Before I deleted it as spam, I glanced at the link, and recognized it. It was to the Announcement of the Finalists for the Whitney Awards.

I didn't delete it. I clicked it. And there, in the second row, was the book cover for Spinster's Folly!


Okay, so it really shows this one, the cover for the ebook version:


At any rate, besides being overwhelmed, flummoxed, and having a tight throat from emotional response, I'm

Happy, Happy, Happy!
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