Blog Tour Tuesday: Double Down on Love with Two Sweet Romances

When it was announced that the Winter release for Montana Sky Kindle World was going to be 'pairs of stories' released week after week, I was happy to have Nan O'Berry release on the same day with me. Nan & I write the "Three Rivers Express Series" set during the time of the Pony Express in Wyoming Territory 1860-1861.

We thought it might be fun to link out stories up from the opening scene. Both books start during a long night of gambling where my hero, Perceval "Hill" Hillard and her antagonist, Mr. Gaines are on their last hand of poker.

If you read both books, you'll see the opening scene told from their different perspectives. From there, the two stories diverge like paths in the woods.

See who wins a Gamble on Love!

Hold Her Close - by: Reina Torres - Amazon Link - http://a.co/gRd2Q2B

He was tired of gambling his life away, one lonely night after another. She was struggling to keep her family together. Maybe they could take a chance on love… together.

Perceval Hillard isn’t anything like his namesake from Arthurian Legend, but the men who sit down to a poker table with him, call him “Hill.” They knew they’d likely leave with their pockets empty and a sour look on their face. He’s made a fortune over his life and lost enough to know he’s nearly done. He wants a life away from the table. That didn’t mean marriage. What woman would want a man who’d made his living shuffling a deck of cards and that he’d wasted years of his life. 

Faith Carver could barely remember what it was like to be happy and carefree. All her younger brothers could remember were long days and cold nights. They lost their father first and their mother to illness after that. Selling off their mother’s precious collection of books has gotten them so far, but when their travels puts a strain on her brother’s health, they stop in Sweetwater Springs, and Faith needs to find a job to cover their expenses. 

Hill is sure he’s seeing things when he finds an angel wiping down the table at the Saloon. She was made for quiet days in a home full of things as beautiful as she is, not working until her hands are raw and red. When he finds out that Faith isn’t traveling alone, he’s surprised that he finds himself warming up to the Carver family instead of running in the opposite direction. Falling in love with an innocent like Faith might be the biggest gamble he’s ever made. 

When Faith decides it’s time for her and her brothers to move on, will Hill fold, or will he decide that this ready-made family is in the cards for him?

Ill Gotten Gaines - by: Nan O'Berry - Amazon Link - http://a.co/eu5gPeY

When a con man comes to town, no one is safe.

Penelope Clarke has had a tough go of it since her father died. She'd like nothing more than to marry the handsome rancher, Simon LeBlue, but the money for her dowry went to cover the cost of her father's funeral. Pride runs strong and she won't think about taking his name until she has the money back. Working at the saloon cleaning glasses and spittoons is not for the faint of heart, but its good honest work. If only something more respectable would turn up. Could Rupert Gaines hold the answer to her pressing needs?

Simon LeBlue wants to marry Penelope Clarke more than anything in the world. In fact, he has asked her on several occasions. If only he could get her to see he doesn't care about her dowry, he just wants her. He longs to take her away from that job at the saloon. When a mysterious man comes to town, Simon's doubts begin. Those doubts turn into heartache when his younger sister and half the town invest in Gaines’ so-called bank, before the man disappears. To make matters worse, Penelope has been left to take the blame. Can he find this ill-gotten Gaines and bring him back to restore Penelope's reputation?

Housekeeping in the 1800s - Not Quite the Pied Piper

Even in the Victorian Era an the American Old West, poison was an item that was a little disconcerting. It's not hard to imagine that housekeepers were interested in finding a way to control pests without possibly poisoning the rest of the household...

**The information below comes from a Ladies Magazine of the period, but I have NO IDEA if it's either viable to use for the purpose, and I do NOT know if the methods are safe to use**


DRIVING RATS AWAY WITHOUT POISON. -

First, the old French plan. This is followed, chiefly in Paris, by men who make it a special business. They take a deep tub, with water on the bottom, and a little elevation in the middle like an island, on which is only a place for just one rat to sit on. This trap is covered and has a large balance-valve opening downward. On the middle of this valve a piece of fried pork or cheese is placed, and when the rat walks on it to get the cheese the valve goes down, drops the rat into the water, and moves back in position. A road is made from the rat-hole to the top of the tub by means of pieces of board rubbed with cheese, so as to make the walk more attractive for the rats. In the course of the night, some ten, twenty, or even more rats may go down, and if the island was not there, they would be found most all alive in the morning, quietly swimming around; but the provision of the little island saves the trouble of killing them, because their egotistic instinct of preservation causes them to fight for the exclusive possession of the island on which, in the morning, the strongest rat is found in solitary possession, all others being killed and drowned, all around him.

Second, the New York plan, invented by one of the Friends. The floor, near the rat hole is covered with a thin layer of a most caustic potassa. When the rats walk on this it makes their feet sore; these they lick with their tongues, which makes their mouth sore, and the result is that they shun the locality, not alone, but appear to tell all the rats in the neighborhood about it, and eventually the house is entirely abandoned by them, notwithstanding the houses around are full of rats.

VOCABULARY -
Potassa is an older name for Potassium Hydroxide
Friends, I believe, is a reference to Quakers

Which method would you prefer to use?

Please visit me and see what books I have to offer... 

*Practical* Knowledge of the 1800s

(necessary disclaimer... because I need you to know 1) I have NOT tested this receipts/recipes/helpful hints so if you want to try them out I can't say how they'll turn out or even if they are safe to try (these were from the late 1800s where things like asbestos were 'amazing' things and 2) receipts is an antiquated form of the word recipe and what it's called in these period books, so that's why I use that word to describe them)

Along with the instructions on starch for clothing and jams, or a stew, you might find such practical information as to how to revive a drowned person... or aid someone suffering with Cholera. In the 1800s they didn't have the corner 24 hour drug store, or urgent care. EMTs? Nope. Sometimes the only people they could count on to 'save' those they loved... were themselves.

These two gems were included in one of my bound editions of a Ladies Magazine from the late 1800s...

What would you think of these instructions?

THE DROWNED

To Recover Drowned Persons. – First empty the stomach, etc., of water. To do this, place the patient face downward, put a roll of something hard under the pit of the stomach, so that it is above the level of the mouth, and then press with force on the back. Afterward, to set up artificial breathing, instead of the partial rolling of the body, or the pumping action of the arms, now practiced, lay the body upon the back, with the clothes stripped down to the waist. The pit of the stomach is now raised to the highest point by something under the back. A bundle of clothing, or the body of another man will do for this. The head is thrown back, and the tongue must be drawn forward by an assistant, so as to keep open the entrance to the air tubes. The hands are passed above the head, the wrists crossed, and the arms kept firmly extended. In this position the chest is fully expanded. The operator then kneels astride the body, places his hands on the lower part of the ribs, and steadily and gradually makes compression. Balancing on his knees, he inclines himself forward till his face nearly touches that of the patient, and so lets fall the whole weight of his body upon the chest. When this had yielded as much as it will, he throws himself back by a sudden push to his first erect position of kneeling, and the elastic ribs, by their expanding bellows action, draw air into the lungs. These maneuvers must be repeated regularly, twelve of fifteen times in the minute.

FOR INVALIDS

Dysentery Cholera Cordial. – Two ounces tincture cayenne, one ounce spirits camphor, one ounce tincture rhubarb, two ounces essence peppermint, two ounces best brandy, two drachms laudanum. Dose for an adult, one teaspoonful every hour until relief is obtained.

Interesting, yes ?  Misguided? I wouldn't know... but keep in mind that I have NOT tried either remedy.

Next month... I'm going to give you the option... What would you like to learn about Receipts/Recipes for Meat? Vegetables? Or... do you want to know how readers of this ladies magazine learned how to remove RATS from their homes?

If I select your 'request' for the next post, you'll win an ebook from my list -

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Back in the Day with Berries - Jelly Receipts from 1870s

When I was a little girl our yard had a strawberry guava tree and in the summer months I would pick baskets and baskets of the tiny fruits that were between the size of a nickel and quarter. After I had a box full of the little things, we'd drive into town and take them to one of my great grandmother's friends, Mrs. Sato. And I'd sit in the kitchen with Mrs. Sato for hours while she made Strawberry Guava Jam or jelly. For the life of me, I can't remember how, but I remember the perfect head of silvery gray curls that crowned her head and the way the breeze would blow in through the glass slats from the direction of the mountains. 

Today, as I sit in the stifling heat of my room, I came across some Jelly receipts in my Peterson's Ladies Magazine from 1878. 

Perfect timing I think... 

(necessary disclaimer... because I need you to know 1) I have NOT tested this receipts/recipes so if you want to try them out I can't say how they'll turn out or even if they are safe to try (these were from the late 1800s where things like asbestos were 'amazing' things and 2) receipts is an antiquated form of the word recipe and what it's called in these period books, so that's why I use that word to describe them)

Gooseberry (Green). - Boil some carefully picked green gooseberries in water, three-quarters of a pint to each pound of fruit, reduce them to a pulp - it will take about half an hour - strain through a jelly bag, weigh the juice, and to every pound allow one pound of pounded sugar; boil up the juice quickly, add the sugar, boil till reduced to a jelly (about twenty minutes), skim and stir well; pour into pots. 

Gooseberry (Red). - Make it in the same way as the green, but three-quarters of a pound of sugar will be sufficient for each pound of juice. In straining the juice, be careful not to press the fruit. The surplus fruit, with the addition of some currant juice, can be made into common jam for children and servant's pudding, etc.

Barberry. - Take ripe barberries, carefully reject any spotted or decays ones, wash, drain them, and strip off the stalks. Boil with a very little water till quite tender, press out and strain the juice, weigh it, and allow three-quarters pound of pounded sugar to every pound of juice; boil up the juice, add the sugar, and boil for ten minutes, skimming and stirring as above.

Currant (Red). - Pick the fruit and simmer it in water for about one hour, or until the juice flows freely; strain, weight and allow three-quarters of a pound of sugar to the pound of juice; boil up the juice, add the sugar, and boil again, skimming and stirring well for fifteen minutes. Put into small pots, and when cold and firm cover it.

Currant (Black). - Make it in the same way, but use rather a larger proportion of sugar.

Currant (White). - Pick the fruit carefully, weigh it, and put into the preserving pan equal quantities of fruit and sugar. Boil quickly for ten minutes, and strain the juice into the pots; when cold and stiff cover them.

I think receipts like this in Peterson's or Godey's magazines were valuable to ladies who lived in cities, but I can imagine how much the ladies in the west who were sometimes more isolated than others would use these to add to their own knowledge in preparing foods for their families.

In my latest release, "Home to Roost," Brigid may need some of these helpful receipts in the near future after she meets and marries her husband...

HOME TO ROOST -

She didn’t have a place to belong. He thought he was happy by his lonesome. When she stumbled into his life, everything changed.

Brigid Belham had always done what was expected. She worked for her father in his accounting office and managed his home. When he married, she knew it was her time to move on, and traveled to Bower, Colorado to meet a prospective husband. Her ‘best laid plan’ goes horribly awry, leaving her stranded. Caught in a storm of both rain and tumultuous emotions she ends up lost in the woods, until she’s found by a mountain man grumpier than a bear. All he wants to do is send her away. What if she wants to stay?

Most people in Bower know him as a hermit, a mountain man who hardly talks and likes company even less. His parents named him Livingstone Quinn, but unlike his namesake, he doesn’t want to explore. He doesn’t want to discover. He just wants his peace and quiet, all by his lonesome with his animals on his homestead. When Brigid literally falls at his feet, he keeps telling her she needs to leave, but shocks himself when he keeps finding reasons for her to stay. What will he do when he runs out of excuses?

In the whole wide world they managed to find each other. Would they walk away from their happiness, or would they bring their love home to roost?

It's All about the Feathers...

Part of the fun of writing "Home to Roost" was that I could include a bunch of 'extra characters' in my story... they were representing something I was missing in my daily life. Don't laugh... my chickens. 

Chickens, plural.

Four of them.

Yes, we used to have chickens at home. Four fluffy, brown mixed 'blood' chickens.
We started our familial love of the feathered beings when my son had his first summer as a Boy Scout Camp Counselor. Assigned to the nature lodge, he wanted to raised some chicks by hand. There were wild chickens in the woods, but catching them without hurting them was going to be an issue. So I found a hatchery, which by good fortune was only about twenty minutes from where we were living.
Two chickens went to Camp Pupukea and came home nearly ready to start laying eggs. They easily became part of our family, but a few months after they came home a neighbor reported a man who ran into our backyard and stuffed both chickens into his backpack and ran away.
My son was devastated.. those were his babies.. Thing 1 and Thing 2 were gone...

Left with a coop and saddened hearts, we didn't stay lonely for long. The hatchery had four extra chicks from a hatching and we took them home.

Things to know.
Keep those little ones warm. Using a desk lamp and the box they came in, we keep our little babies warm on the back porch until they were big enough to keep themselves warm.

When they start laying eggs. Don't leave the eggs in there for long before you remove them from the coop/hutch. If for some odd reason the eggs crack and they eat the insides, they'll develop a taste for it... yick. We found one of those long 'reach' helpers from the store and used those to retriever the eggs from the nesting area. Using your hand can open yourself up to a lot of pain.

Chickens give and receive. We gave them our kitchen scraps (make sure you check before you feed, not all scraps are good for your feathered friends) and in return our garden had free fertilizer. The pesky bugs were extra food for the ladies. And the shells from the eggs can be broken up (read pulverized) and mixed in with soil to add to the health of your yard.

It's a win win all the way around.

But what's the best part of it.. the chickens. Those crazy little cluckers. Two were fun, but four? Holy Cow! Those ladies were a hoot! A stray cat made the mistake of trying to attack one of them and got the receiving end of a whole bunch of angry beaks and a ruckus the likes of which I had never heard before! We never saw another stray cat in the backyard. Apparently, the frisky felines learned which yard to stay away from.

Don't get me wrong.. .those ladies were vicious! But they were also cuddly! They sounded differently when they saw me coming, or when it was my son or my mom. They sounded like they had completely different 'languages' for each of us. Two of them liked hugs. One couldn't be bothered for human contact unless you had a scoop of food in your hand. The last was a crazy little thing who probably had half a brain cell in her head.. but she was a hoot.

They were a ton of fun. They were part of the family, but when we had to move to an area that wasn't rural/animal friendly, we had to give them up. The hatchery found a farmer who had a big coop and a huge yard and wanted more chickens... we all cried the day they went to their new home, but a few days later, we got a call from the farmer. He'd never seen such odd little chickens... well, I guess when you're a part of my family you absorb the crazy.

When I joined in to write a story for the 'Sweethearts of Jubilee Springs' I knew I had to write about chickens, so Quinn ended up having a big ol' flock of feathered friends. The big difference with my life was that we didn't have a rooster at home. We didn't want chicks... just the eggs.

Writing "Home to Roost" gave me the ability to visit with my little feathered friends, if only in my memories and my imagination. I enjoyed my little foray into the world of Livingstone Quinn and his little mud-covered 'Birdie,' Brigid Belham.

I hope you'll get to know my couple and their dozens and dozens of feathered family members!

Click on this image to go to Amazon.com
AMAZON LINK  -  http://a.co/cPJdMCJ

Love - Romance - Books

Aren't they all the same thing?

Oh, I sure hope so! 

I've been reading romance books for what seems like forever. When I was a teen, the days that I wasn't in dance class after school I'd go to the mall to wait for my mom to finish work for the day and my haunt of choice... Waldenbooks. (I think I just showed my age there.)

Whether it was Scottish Lairds, Medieval Knights, Regency Gents, Rough and Tumble Cowboys, or handsome modern Heroes, I loved them all! There was always another hero and heroine to follow through page after page of breathless love!

I really hope that my readers will enjoy some of the same thrills as discover characters to love between the pages of my books.

Connect with Reina Torres:

Newsletter ~ Amazon Author Page ~ Facebook 

Blog Tour Tuesday - HOME TO ROOST by: Reina Torres

Today Blog Tour Tuesday features 

Home to Roost - 
From the Bower, Colorado Series 

by Reina Torres

About Home to Roost:

She didn’t have a place to belong. He thought he was happy by his lonesome. When she stumbled into his life, everything changed. 

 Brigid Belham had always done what was expected. She worked for her father in his accounting office and managed his home. When he married, she knew it was her time to move on, and traveled to Bower, Colorado to meet a prospective husband. Her ‘best laid plan’ goes horribly awry, leaving her stranded. Caught in a storm of both rain and tumultuous emotions she ends up lost in the woods, until she’s found by a mountain man grumpier than a bear. All he wants to do is send her away. What if she wants to stay?

Most people in Bower know him as a hermit, a mountain man who hardly talks and likes company even less. His parents named him Livingstone Quinn, but unlike his namesake, he doesn’t want to explore. He doesn’t want to discover. He just wants his peace and quiet, all by his lonesome with his animals on his homestead. When Brigid literally falls at his feet, he keeps telling her she needs to leave, but shocks himself when he keeps finding reasons for her to stay. What will he do when he runs out of excuses?

In the whole wide world they managed to find each other. Would they walk away from their happiness, or would they bring their love home to roost?

You may purchase Home to Roost by CLICKING HERE.

Chapter One

Turning onto the path behind the sawmill, Livingstone Quinn tucked his chin down toward his chest. It was early enough in the day that no one was outside. He had just enough time to make his delivery and get back to the homestead before the sun hit with its full strength and the mill would start up work for the day. 

There was a light burning in an upper window of the Chinese Society house, and when he drew closer he could see a dark form move across the window, winking the light. Perhaps they were up early, preparing for a community event or just an early riser. He hadn’t met many of the Chinese for himself, but they seemed a quiet industrious lot that kept to themselves and he felt a connection to them because of that.

Further down the row, between the small row of homes, he could see a resolute puff of smoke from the flue at the Bath House. The boiler must be piping hot, even at this early hour. He did well enough at the homestead, warming water when the weather made the pond too cold, even for his weathered skin. But as he approached Hampton Road he got a whiff of something that smelled like a good strong soap. The clean scent followed him as he walked across the street.

He slowed his steps for a moment as he approached the back gate of Hampton House. The Hamptons had become his friends over time. They were friendly and warm, but they didn’t press him to be social. They understood that he didn’t want to stand around wasting time when he came to town. He rarely even saw the Hamptons this early in the morning. With the original boarding house and the annex they’d added within the last year, the early morning hours were usually the busiest time of the day for the couple. Still, he was happy just to make his delivery and head home with his payment in his pocket.  

The scent of coffee tickling his nose only got stronger when he reached the porch.

Someone cleared their throat in the near darkness. “It’s just me.” Recognizing Miles Hampton’s voice, the tension eased from his shoulders. “Having a cup of coffee before I finish my chores.”

Reaching up to his shoulder, Livingstone tugged at the leather strap and pulled it over the rise and down his upper arm. “I wasn’t expecting you to be out this early.”

He heard the creak of a chair before he saw Miles lean into the meager light of the lantern by the back door. “Normally, I’d just leave you alone, but I have some business to discuss.”

Crossing his arm over his opposite shoulder, he held the top of his pack while he slid the contraption off his other arm. He’d brought the whole pack safely to town from his homestead and having his morning solitude interrupted wasn’t going to play havoc on his nerves. He set the pack down on the edge of the porch and unbuckled the straps. “Sounds all right to me,” he grudgingly admitted. “It is your porch, so you could stand out here whether you wanted to talk or not, but before we talk about anything else, I’ve got three dozen eggs here.”

The sky was lightening, taking on a yellowish tint, enabling him to see Miles’s smile as he leaned forward and braced his hands on his knees. “That's good. We can certainly use them.”

“Got a full house?” Livingstone winced in the shadows. It helped to keep his distance when he didn't ask questions.

But rather than uncomfortable, Miles’s voice was warm, as if he was pleased at the inquiry. “Very nearly. We’re expecting more on the train, spaced over the next few days. So we could use more eggs. Maybe another dozen at least for the next few weeks. That is,” he gave a little self-conscious cough, “if you've enough to spare.”

Livingstone had plenty of eggs, thanks to a good-sized flock and a rooster that seemingly appeared out of the blue sky.

He'd already made his decision, but it took a bit to squeeze out the words. “Same price for each dozen?”

“Sounds fair to me,” Miles agreed.

“I can bring another dozen when I come. Monday and Friday?”

“Just like clockwork,” Miles added.

Livingstone looked at the tree at the corner of the building, behind the windowless back wall of the bank. “You left the money in the tree already?”

Miles followed his gaze. “Yep, tucked into the knot like before.” His tone was cautious, like he didn't want to startle him and Livingstone both appreciated it and regretted it. He didn't want to be treated with kid gloves.

“All right, then.” He finished stacking the full half-crates of eggs on the porch and took the empties from the last deliver and stacked them up onto the base of his pack, setting the last full half-crate on the top. “I’ll bring you the extra dozen with each delivery.”

“Thank you, Carolina will be happy to heard it,” Miles added. “I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference to you, but we’ve heard talk about a bunch of mail order brides set to arrive in Bower. Don't be surprised if your quiet morning walks into town take on a bit of disquiet in about a year.”

Livingstone narrowed his gaze at his friend. “Women sure can talk,” he agreed, “but how much noise can they make in the mornings?”

While he couldn't see Miles’s exact expression, he could feel his good humor like a strong wind. “Babies cry, my friend. They make a fair amount of noise throughout the day, but mornings will likely be the worst.”

“I have a rooster,” he reminded Miles. “I've learned to get up and on the trail before he gets up.”

A door inside opened and shut with a soft click, pulling Miles from his chair. “That would be my cue,” he explained. “I've got some work waiting for me inside.” Livingstone didn't move while Miles made his way to the door.

Miles pulled the screen door open and closed it again, turning back to his friend. “If the mood ever strikes you, we’d like to have you stay one of these mornings and have a meal with us.”

Livingstone’s instinct was to hesitate. “I-”

“We've a good group of folks staying with us. Most just keep to themselves,” he added, trying to keep his tone light. Livingstone heard the effort in his tone. “And we have a young woman coming in on the train today.”

Livingstone narrowed his eyes. “Traveling alone?”

The businessman nodded and then shook his head, seemingly confused. “She's coming in on the train, one of those mail order brides. Appleton Winslet arranged to have a room for her for the week.”

Livingstone’s mouth pinched at the corners. “The lawyer?” He cringed at the thought. “Huh, leave it to him to have a fancy degree and order in for a woman.” He heard the sharp tone in his own voice and huffed out a sigh, shaking his head. He felt the long lengths of his hair sweep back and forth over his shoulders. “I'm sorry, Miles.” Livingstone felt a knot in his middle. “That wasn't a polite thing to say. While I don't know Mr. Winslet more than just a few words in passing, he’s never done anything to me personally.”

It took a moment for Miles to answer back. “I know what you mean, but from what I've seen, he's a real particular person and I just hope that the woman he has coming finds him… amiable.”

Livingstone smiled and felt the coming warmth of the sun starting to play on his skin. “That sounds like a good way to say it. Amiable. Well,” he grunted, hefting the pack on one shoulder, “I'd better get going. Got to drop off some eggs for the Pastor and get on home ‘fore too many folks find their way on the street.”

Miles gave him a half wave and disappeared inside.

Livingstone shook his head and let out a puff of air. “Looks like I’ll have to steer real clear of Bower if it's going to fill up with women and children.”

#

When Brigid Belham stepped onto the platform at Bower, she willed her hands to stop shaking, but she had no chance of that particular dream becoming a reality. Her nerves had a hold on her that was even stronger than her grip on her valise. The handle, clutched in her grip, pinched her palms and while she struggled to ease the pain in her hands, she was all too aware of the pain in her ribs and waist. Her fashionable corset, the garment sworn to be the height of fashion by the modiste back in Omaha had started out to be such a great idea. But after more than a day locked in that tortuous garment, rattling about in a smoky train car, she was regretting her desire to appear fashionable and fulfill the wishes of her prospective spouse.

The hustle and bustle of the train station quickly died down as she stood waiting. There was over a score of men milling about, carrying or moving boxes, and transacting their business. Hardly a one met her eyes for more than a second, and if they did, it appeared to be a mistake or a curiosity and even then, no one seemed to recognize her.

She could blame that on the fact that her photo had been taken before her fine wardrobe had been delivered. She’d settled for loosening her bun that day, and wrestling a smile onto her lips that the photographer said looked quite ‘serene.’ It wasn’t anywhere near pretty or appealing, but it was enough to give prospective matches a clear image of her.

The platform cleared quickly, leaving the clerk and a handful of men who seemed to be sweeping up. Brigid was ready to flag one of the men down to ask for directions.

“Miss Belham?”

With a relieved sigh, she turned in the direction of the voice and stopped short. The man approaching her didn’t bear any resemblance to the man in the photo she had received. Before she could release the handle of her bag and fish out the studio image, the man whisked off his hat and held out his hand.

“So sorry to be late, Miss. I’m Miles Hampton from Hampton House.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. He was from the boarding house where she would be staying while she had the opportunity to become acquainted with Appleton. It wasn’t necessarily how these pairings worked, but she was glad of the time to acclimate herself with her husband before the ceremony. It showed a certain amount of consideration for their unique relationship. “Hello, Mr. Hampton. I wasn’t expecting you.”

He bobbed his head in response. “Mr. Winslet asked me to meet you and see you settled in the boarding house. I believe he plans to be over at the end of his work day.”

She held back her disappointment, settling a quiet expression on her face. “I understand. Thank you.”

Responding with a ready smile of his own, the gentleman set his hat back on his head, covering the balding pate. “It’s been quite a change in Bower, balancing out the numbers of men will take some doing, but it seems like we’ve made a good start.” With a quick signal to one of the men and a coin tossed in his direction, Mr. Hampton paid for the men to hold her trunk. “George will keep an eye on your trunk until I can come back for it.” He held out a hand to Brigid to take her valise.

She gave it up gladly and noticed that he didn’t seem shocked by the weight. Still, she apologized. “I can carry the bag, Mr. Hampton.”

He shook his head and adjusted his hold on the bag. “Not a problem, Miss. I’m used to carrying quite a bit around the house.”

She smiled and stepped off the platform beside him. “It must be interesting as well, meeting people who come from different places.”

Mr. Hampton turned slightly to give her a smile. “That is part of what we enjoy about running a boarding house.”

Brigid lifted the hem of her skirt and stepped over a curious looking puddle that made her shudder. When she looked back up she saw the boarding house owner giving her a curious look, looking from her eyes to the top of her hat, which due to her uncommon height was a few good inches over his head.

When he saw her look back he coughed, uncomfortable. “Excuse me, Miss.”

She waved off his concern. “No need to apologize, most people just stare openly when they meet me.”

His face went ruddy with color. “I am sorry,” he explained, “I’m not used to seeing a woman of your height.”

Brigid lifted her hand and placed it against her neck, an unconscious gesture that always puzzled her. “One of my teachers showed me a drawn image of an animal in Africa,” she explained, “he called it a giraffe. The children agreed with him and the name stuck. The day before I left Omaha,” she let out a shaking breath, “I saw one of my former classmates. She felt it was so very humorous to remind me of the name. Everyone within earshot heard her, and the rest of the people in the street heard her laughter after that.”

Beside her, Mr. Hampton paled and lowered his eyes. “I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention.”

Brigid touched him on the arm to draw his attention.

“Mr. Hampton, please, don’t worry about me. It’s been a long time since that moment, and I hope that I’ve developed a thicker skin. You weren’t mean, just stating facts. I appreciate your straight-forward manner.”

His smile broadened as he adjusted his hold on her bag. “You’re going to fit right in at Hampton House, Miss Belham. You remind me quite a bit of my wife, Carolina. I believe the two of you will get along quite well.”

Brigid crossed her hands over her heart, ignoring the slight twinge of pain from her ribs under her corset. “I hope so, Mr. Hampton. I truly hope so.”

#

From the corner, they walked along Front Street, keeping to the side to avoid the street traffic. It wasn’t nearly the normal hustle and bustle that she was used to at home, but things here moved at their own pace. A rider trotted down the street and Brigid took an unconscious step closer to the side. Mr. Hampton reached out a hand and took hold of her arm above her elbow.

“Is something amiss?”

She heard the concern in his voice and felt her cheeks flare with color. Straightening herself away from him, she swallowed and lifted her hand in a wan gesture. “Animals,” she explained, “I don't really feel all that comfortable around animals.” She continued down the street beside him taking quick looks at him sideways. “That must sound horribly silly to you.”

Swinging open the side gate of the property, Mr. Hampton tried to hide his grin with the position of his head. “Well, Bower does have its share of animals.”

Brigid tripped slightly, making a little skip in her step as she tried to find her footing. The pinch in her side grew as she followed after her host. “Even here in town?”

They made their way around the smaller annex and stopped before the front door of the residence, a friendly smile on his face. “Well, the town is likely to grow quickly now that we have more women and soon more children. But,” he paused for a moment as if he was considering his words, “we’re still bordered by the wilderness and animals are a part of that. Don't worry too much.” He shifted her bag to one hand. Reaching and for the doorknob and easily swung the door open. He gestured for her to proceed him inside. “The wild animals we tend to see in town are smaller than your bag.”

Brigid froze just inside the door, shock written across her features. “They’re that big?”

A soft laugh turned Brigid’s head.

“And that,” Mr. Hampton announced in a warm tone, “would be my lovely wife, Carolina.”

The woman that emerged from the hall finished wiping her hands on her apron. Turning the fabric loose she moved closer. Giving Brigid a bright smile, she held her hand out in a warm greeting. “You must be Miss Belham.” Brigid gladly took the woman’s hand and was pleased to find her hand held in a firm grip. “Pleased that you're here.” She gave her husband a thoughtful look. “I finished cleaning the room at the top of the stairs. Go ahead and put Miss Belham’s things in there.”

Mr. Hampton gave his wife a mischievous smile. “And what pray tell, will you and Miss Belham be doing while I'm breaking my back with her things?”

Brigid froze for a moment, her eyes focusing on his face, struggling for something to say, an apology of sorts.

Carolina touched Brigid's arm with one hand and waved the other at her husband. “Don't listen to him,” Carolina sighed, “he's just hinting at all the work I make him do because he thinks I’ll let him have a piece of cake after supper.” She drew in a breath. “Which he may still get if he stops grumping around and gets your things up to your room.” She turned back to Brigid with a soft conspirational tone. “I will show you where you can freshen up a bit. Then we’ll get in trouble before he returns with your trunk.”

Giving his wife an indulgent smile, Mr. Hampton started up the stairs.

“Now, you'll come along with me, my dear. By supper I’ll know everything there is to know about you and we’ll be fast friends.”

Brigid followed along, swept up with the other woman’s gentle enthusiasm. She felt some of the knots in her stomach begin to unravel and she felt her own hopeful nature rising amidst the uncertainty that had held her in its grips since her father’s surprise engagement.

**Tomorrow is my regular Blogging Day... you'll learn more about my love of chickens.. :D And my book Home to Roost will have changed to its 'Regular Price' of $1.99 - See you tomorrow!!**

Love - Romance - Books

Aren't they all the same thing?

Oh, I sure hope so! 

I've been reading romance books for what seems like forever. When I was a teen, the days that I wasn't in dance class after school I'd go to the mall to wait for my mom to finish work for the day and my haunt of choice... Waldenbooks. (I think I just showed my age there.)

Whether it was Scottish Lairds, Medieval Knights, Regency Gents, Rough and Tumble Cowboys, or handsome modern Heroes, I loved them all! There was always another hero and heroine to follow through page after page of breathless love!

I really hope that my readers will enjoy some of the same thrills as discover characters to love between the pages of my books.

Connect with Reina Torres:

Newsletter ~ Amazon Author Page ~ Facebook 

Receipts of the 1800s - Part 2

I'm a bit of a book pack rat. The annual Friends of the Library sale in Honolulu, Hawaii, is my crack... errr laudanum. I have more books than I could possibly read in  my lifetime and perhaps a few more besides. Part of my excessive collection is comprised of Civil War Era Ladies Magazines bound by year.

I thought I'd share some of the 'gems' I found in these editions, as it fits the Old West/Historical books that I write and I think it informs the world around my characters.

The first thing to note is that Recipes were called RECEIPTS. When I mentioned Receipts on another blog, people always wanted to correct me. I completely understand why, since we don't use Receipts in that manner in our modern world.

**Please Keep in Mind that I have NOT tested any of these recipes, so try them at your own risk**

Today, I have a trio of soups!!

Vegetable Soup. – Four quarts of cold water, a half-pint of small barley, and two tablespoonsful of beef dripping, or a lump of fat from cold roast beef, or any fat from meat which is not otherwise needed; a teaspoonful of salt; of pepper, half a teaspoonful.  Let this boil gently for two hours, the four quarts will then be reduced to two. Shred up two large well-cleaned carrots in slices not too thick, also four large onions finely shred or chopped, two heads of celery, and three or four turnips cut up in very small pieces; put all these in when the soup is boiling. Let it boil gently for an hour and a half. Mix in a basin, a piled tablespoonful of flour with a little cold water till it is like cream; burn in an iron spoon, a teaspoonful of moist sugar till it resembles treacle.  Pour on this a little boiling water, and mix it with the flour, then pour the whole into the soup, stir it well, let it simmer once, and the soup is ready.

Godey’s Lady’s Magazine 1864

Carrot Soup. – Take six or eight full-grown carrots, scrape them clean, and rasp only the outer rind, or soft red part, and if you have a ripe tomato, add it, sliced, to the raspings, but use no other vegetable except onions.  While this is being done, the brother of any kind of fresh meat which has been got ready should be heated and seasoned with a couple of onions fried in butter, but without pepper, or any other kind of seasoning, except a small quantity of mace and a little salt; put the raspings into two quarts of the skimmed broth, cover the stewpan close, and let it simmer by the side of the fire for two or three hours, by which time the raspings will have become soft enough to be pulped through a fine sieve; after which the soup should be boiled until it is as smooth as jelly, for any curdy appearance will spoil it.

Godey’s Lady’s Magazine 1864

LOBSTER SOUP (French). – This soup is certainly most excellent, and worth all the care which must be bestowed upon it.  Take three young lobsters, boiled, or four small ones; take out the meat and cut it in small square pieces; take out the coral, not the berries, pound it so as to separate it, and sift it through a coarse strainer; take two quarts of good veal stock, quite a jelly, and cold; add to it the berries bruised, a tablespoonful of anchovy sauce, two ounces of butter, melted before the fire, into which rub two tablespoonfuls of flour; put it into the stock with a blade of mace, let it boil for ten minutes, then strain it:  add to it the meat of the lobsters and the whole of the coral, stir it up so as to make all thoroughly warm, but  if it now boils the color will be lost; put half a teaspoonful of anchovy sauce into it and sent it very hot to table.  Forcemeat ball, of minced meat out of the head of the lobster, with the soft part, the tips of the tails, and other scraps, some bread crums, a teaspoonful of flour, a few minced shrimps, and a very little grated nutmeg, mixed together with the yelk only of an egg, made into balls the size of marbles, and fried, should be thrown on the top of the soup directly it goes to table.

Godey’s Lady’s Magazine 1864

NOTE: you may see some words that 'look' like I didn't know how to spell, but I have typed the entries here as they are printed in the book itself.

Thanks for getting hungry with me today!

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Pony Express - From St. Joseph to Sacramento

I've always had a fascination with the mail service. I have three generations of my family in the US Postal Service, and spent my afternoons after school at one station or another waiting for my mom or dad to finish work.And one day I sat in the ladies locker room and typed out a story on the typewriter on a discarded desk. So, I guess you could say that I started my path to publication in the backroom of a post office.

The Pony Express was a valiant idea, one that came out the amazing period of growth in America. The time it took for mail and packages to traverse from the Mississippi River to the West Coast was time consuming and could be unreliable. So when Russell, Majors, and Waddell created the Express, it was a step between freight wagons and the train which hadn't quite reached across the states and territories.

From St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California - Home stations and Swing stations popped up, linking towns of all sizes with mail and news from loved ones and businesses back east. And when it started the Pony Express could deliver mail in ten days!

The stations were located from 5 to 20 miles apart, keeping the wear and tear on their horses to a minimum. There were a few breeds and types of horses used along the trail. From East to West, you'd see Morgan ponies, and then in the middle of the trail there would be Pinto ponies, and finally on the Western part of the trail Mustangs. And like the varieties of horses, the express hired a number of men to ride the trails. Men who came from all walks of life, but they needed to be young, thin, and good riders.

The route would change from time to time over the length of the express and not all of the original stations continued in operation throughout the length of the express.

But they knew it wasn't going to be easy, not when they advertised for riders "Orphans Preferred." These men made history! And when the telegraph stretched across the land, the Express riders knew that their jobs were coming to an end. Communication continued on, and the West and East of North America came that much closer and would continue to come closer as time, transportation, and technology continually changed daily life for people in the mid to late 1800s.

(the picture on the right is of a Pony Express saddle and the saddle cover made of leather with pockets for the mail, called a mochila. The wooden saddles were light, made to spare the horses from additional weight, it was the leather covers that were laid over the saddles that would be taken from one horse to another at the different stations.)

Blog Tour Tuesday - ALWAYS, RANSOM by: Reina Torres

Today Blog Tour Tuesday features 

Always, Ransom - 
Book 1 of Three Rivers Express Series 

by Reina Torres

About Always, Ransom:

The Express took men and rode them hard across the West. That adventuring spirit belonged to men full of life, ready for whatever met them on the trail, everything, except for love. 

Ransom McCain was the last man hired to ride for the Three Rivers station, but he was chosen to take the first ride west because he could think on his feet. Tensions are high because there are people determined to make the express fail, and little does Ransom know that he would fall for a woman caught in the crossfire.

Delia Burroughs is a young woman with plenty of heart and the strength of spirit to help her family survive in the West. But one by one they’ve left until it’s just Delia and her father. His grief and struggles may make it impossible for her to leave and make a family of her own. When she met Ransom, she knew she’d found a man she could love, but forces are determined to take her new home from her and perhaps her chance at real love.

Ransom and Delia will have to decide if what’s happening between them is something they want to fight for, or will they let themselves be pulled apart by the danger they’re both facing.

The Three Rivers Express Series is a set of Sweet Western Historical Romance which will be written alternately by Reina Torres and Nan O’Berry 

Starting with the Spring of 1860 when the Pony Express began their service of mail delivery between St. Joseph, Missouri and Sacramento, California, each of the Three Rivers Express books will take on a new season and a different rider. 

Spring 1860 - “Always, Ransom” by: Reina Torres
Summer 1860 - “Always, Clay” by: Nan O'Berry
Fall 1860 - “Always, Wyeth” by: Reina Torres
Winter 1860 - “Always, Stone” by: Nan O'Berry

Ride the trails with our intrepid heroes and heartwarming heroines of the town of Three Rivers, Wyoming

You may purchase Always, Ransom 
by CLICKING HERE.

Chapter One:

It was the first day of spring and the riders had been up from an hour before dawn seeing to preparations for the meeting. Levi Hawkins, the Station Master for Three Rivers had been on the porch of the bunkhouse waiting for them to stumble out into the darkness with a list of the final chores in his hands. He gave the first set of marching orders to Ransom as he was always the first to step up, and beside him was Clay Adams, an inch thinner than Ransom but an inch taller in height.

That meeting had been a few hours earlier and now, Ransom gladly set the last of the chairs in place in the first row of the church. The long wooden benches that always occupied the tidy building were enough for the normal crowd of residents, but today it would be site of a meeting that involved nearly fifty people,  who were coming in from miles around the town and they needed every available inch of the building to fit them all, including borrowing some chairs from the General Store and Levi’s own, leaving his dining room and living area nearly bare.

Stretching to ease the dull ache in his back, Ransom McCain lifted his head and rubbed the back of his hand over his brow. Even in the early morning chill, it was easy enough to work up a sweat given all the work they’d had to do. He caught Clay’s eye and gave him a nod. “Almost done?”

Clay shook his head and turned around, heading outside into the warm dawn, and coming back a moment later with a chair that looked like the legs had been cobbled together from several different chairs, each turned leg had its own unique pattern. “Just this one left and we’re done.” Setting the chair into place with a satisfied nod of his head, Clayton looked up and nodded. “Now I’m done.”

Ransom dug the paper list out of his vest pocket and ran his eyes over the penciled marks before he folded it back up and tucked it away. “And we’ve finished the list.”

He made his way through the sea of chairs to his friend’s side and together they made their way back outside. The church sat at the end of town, almost like a sign marker that proclaimed civilization in the middle of the vast expanse of land that was Wyoming. From the front steps of the church, you could see all the way down the main street, all the way down past the General Store, the bath house, and both saloons that called Three Rivers home. And even now, with the sun’s rays warming the ground and rousing the normal residents, there were a number of wagons and riders on horseback entering the town.

Beside him, Clay blew out a long whistle. “There’s still one thing we need to do.”

Ransom looked at his friend and shook his head. “The list is done, remember?”

Clay’s smile was just a shade under a grin. “Levi’s not the only one in charge.”

“Oh,” the truth of his words hit Ransom square in the chest, “that’s right. Mrs. Hawkins.”

The two shared a look and dashed off across the street between a pair of riders who were entering town on an easy lope. With a wave from Ransom, they made their way through the maze of corrals and fences and into the bunkhouse with laughter shaking at their shoulders. Both men snatched up the bundles of clothes that they’d left out on their bunks that morning and took off again across the dusty street.

Standing just inside the door of the bath house was Jeb Miller, an older man with an easy manner and a sharp razor. He was currently at work on Levi himself, laid out in the barber’s chair with a froth of white across one cheek.

“Nice to see you boys again.”

Ransom smiled at the sight before him and tread carefully into the room. “Good to see you, Mr. Miller. Sorry to rush in like that.”

Clay set his bundle down on a counter. “We wanted to beat the rush and a get a head start on Mrs. Hawkins’ rolls for breakfast.”

Levi chuckled in the chair and Jeb had to lift his razor away from the man’s cheek. “Well, I’m sure my wife will be happy to know she inspired your behavior even if it took her baking to do it.”

Jeb clucked like a mother hen. “Now hold still, Levi, I’ve got work to do.” He tossed some words over his shoulder as he cleaned his razor. “Go ahead into the other room. I’ve two baths drawn up and ready. You’ll get first dibs on the hot water.”

Well that’s all it took to get the boys moving. Even though they were full grown men, the prospect of a tub full of hot steaming water all to themselves was enough to prod them into action.

#

Delia Burroughs sat beside her father on the front seat of the wagon and tried to ignore the pinched expression in his face as she gathered her shawl about her shoulders. “I’m sure they kept room for us at the Livery, Pa.”

The only answer was a swift crack of the reins and grumble from the man beside her.

Earlier that morning, her father had been full of excitement for the day ahead. He was old friends with Levi Hawkins, the Station Master at Three Rivers, and if truth be told, the reason why her father was manning the swing station just a few miles outside of town. But when her father had gone outside he’d found that not only had his son hitched the wagon for the trip into town, but he’d also saddled his own horse and had packed his saddle bags to the hilt.

Delia hadn’t heard the beginning of the conversation, but she had heard the end of it. James had made his feelings quite clear and while her father had stood there, glaring at his son, his hands fisted at his sides, she knew the confrontation had hurt him deeply.

She could hear it in the shuffle of his steps on the kitchen floor as he’d rummaged through the cabinets and she’d heard it in the hollow thud of the empty bottle as it had fallen from his fingers before he’d emerged again from the house.

But she had no way of fixing it then, for James had already ridden off down the road, leaving the both of them behind.

Even though that had been several hours before she knew her father was still struggling to deal with the loss.

“I’ll help you, Pa.” She sat on the seat, grimacing as the wagon hit a rut and continued on. “I can saddle the horses. I can brush them down and feed them.” She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “You taught me how.”

“I taught you to saddle a pony,” he scoffed at her words, leaning further over the reins as if it would make the horse move faster, “you can feed them, and muck out stalls, but these are Morgans, Delia. They’re strong and most of them half broke. They want them for speed. You’re not used to that. You’ll get caught up in the reins and break your neck.”

She heard the venom in his words and shrank back from the cold cut of his voice, but she refused to cower. She kept her back ramrod straight as they continued on, but she closed her mouth and kept it closed for the rest of the trip. There was no reason to utter a word. She smelled the stiff crawl of alcohol on his breath and knew that if she pushed him anymore, he’d likely seek out more in town. She’d done her level best to hide the stuff and dispose of it when her father was gone from home. But she always seemed to find another bottle when he’d return.

At least on this trip into town, she knew her father would be there with Levi at the meeting and then they would have supper with the Hawkins family. With luck, they’d return early from the meeting, now that James was gone. There would be more work to do and two less hands to do it.

A stiff wind blew sideways across the trail and her father’s shoulders rose to block the wind from his neck where the sliver of skin was exposed above his collar. Beside him on the bench, Delia felt the wind go straight through her like a knife. She had her mother’s old woolen jacket that she’d managed to cut down to size, but even with that added layer, the wind was vicious and felt like needles prickling against her skin.

When they were within sight of the town, Delia let out an audible sound of relief and she saw her father turn toward her. She flinched, her hand grasping at her skirts, not because she was afraid of him, but because she didn’t want to hurt him any more than he’d already been hurt.

“I’m sorry, Del.” Hearing him call her the childhood nickname he’d given her was another pang of pain in her heart. “I’m sorry for this morning.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Pa.” She struggled to give him a smile and ease the tension between them. “You weren’t expecting James to leave.”

The wagon rumbled on, slowing when a horse rode in from the south and pushed in front of their path. “He didn’t say anything ahead of time, but I suppose I should have seen it coming.”

Delia wanted to nod and agree, but she kept still and quiet. James and her father had been growing apart since her mother passed on a few years before.

“He didn’t want to live there. He didn’t want to be so far away from everything.”

“We’re not so far away,” she added in, eager to make things better for him, “it didn’t take us long to come into town, even with the wagon.”

Her father nodded and he whistled, turning the horse’s ears back. With a tug on the reins, the gelding ambled toward the livery barn on the left. “Still, it wasn’t what he wanted, so I guess letting him go was for the best.”

There was so much more that Delia would have wanted to say, but none of it would have made a difference to her father. “You’ll not breathe a word of this, Del.” He didn’t sound angry. Her father sounded desperate. “If they ask where James is, you tell them he stayed behind.”

She nodded. And when he narrowed his gaze at her, his eyes glittering with intense pain, she opened her mouth and told him what he wanted to hear. “He stayed behind.”

Her father’s expression eased like a cramp, a rush of a grin across his lips caught her off guard and when he brought the gelding to a stop at the door of the barn, she wasn’t ready for the sudden stop and nearly pitched forward off the seat.

“Whoa there.” A soft voice caught her attention and her hand as she reached out to steady herself. “Careful now.”

Turning to see her rescuer, she was taken aback. The man at her side was a stranger to her. “Thank you,” she felt her chest constrict beneath her corset, the bite of the stays eased up as she drew in a breath.

“You don’t want to fall from there.”

She looked down from his face to the ground and nodded, feeling like a silly goose. She knew precisely how high she was from the ground. She’d been climbing in and out of the wagon for years. But sitting there, her hand in his, gazing down into the face of the man who’d sprung into action to keep her from pitching forward from the bench, she was suddenly unsure of herself.

She tried to draw her hand away, but he held on. His hold wasn’t painful, but she questioned his touch with her eyes and a curious curve to her brow.

He answered with a soft chuckle and slight bow of his head. “I might as well help you down if you were planning to get out of the wagon. Since I already have your hand.”

She blushed and felt the heat tickle her skin from her cheeks to her ears. And that’s when she wanted to take her hand back, only to bury her face in both of them and hide until the awkward moment was over. She turned to her side, hoping that her father would help, but he was already climbing down from the wagon, deep into conversation with Levi Hawkins.

“I can assure you,” he turned her head with his humor-laced tone, “that you can trust me to help you down.”

“I trust you,” she began and her mind took a moment to catch up to the words she’d sputtered at him, “I’m just not sure I trust myself.”

Picking up her reticule from where she’d tucked it under her skirts, she stood, keeping a hold of his hand as she stepped down onto a runner. Her second foot followed the first and with an indrawn breath she felt herself lifted down to the ground. She felt her skirts swirl around their legs, coming to a stop in one direction and roll back in the other as she covered his hands with her own.

“Thank you,” she repeated the words she’d spoken earlier and found that she meant them in more ways than one. She felt safe with his hands upon her waist. And when she looked up into his eyes she felt a subtle confusion sweep through her. He was pleasant enough to look at, but that wasn’t anything new to her. Working at a stage depot brought her into contact with a number of men, from all walks of life, but this man, the way he looked at her made her feel as if the ground beneath her feet moved, as if the ground beneath them was alive. “Goodness.”

He smiled at the sound of her voice. “I-”

“Delia!”

“Olivia?” Turning toward the much beloved voice, Delia felt herself cast adrift again, reaching out with her hands to find purchase. And stepped into the embrace of Olivia Hawkins.

The two women laughed and pulled the other closer into each other’s arms. With their eyes squeezed shut they turned around in a whirling circle. “Oh, thank goodness you came.”

Delia heard the joy in Olivia’s voice and found herself clutching the other woman closer, missing the maternal affection that Mrs. Hawkins always seemed to have in excess. “I wanted to see you again, so very much.”

“Well, we shall have all day together, Delia, but-” Olivia stopped short, releasing one arm from her embrace and turning Delia back toward the wagon, “I should introduce you to one of our riders.”

Delia saw the same young man standing there and smiled at him. Of course he was one of the riders. Nearly every man in town that she didn’t recognize was likely to be employed by Russell, Majors, & Waddell, either was a rider or a livestock tender or like her father, tasked with maintaining one of the swing stations.

Olivia waved him closer and stepped between the two. “Delia Burroughs, I would like to introduce, Ransom McCain.”

Delia watched as the man bent slightly at the waist, lowering his head for a moment before standing to meet her gaze again . It was a gesture that told her he had manners. And it was the ease of his movement that told her his manners had been ingrained in him for quite some time. But it was the soft look in his eyes that had her near breathless.

He had quite simply stolen her heart.

“Miss Burroughs,” his voice was deep, deeper than she had expected. He was smaller in stature than her brother. Even from his place a few feet away, she knew that he was only a few inches taller than her, and that was just fine. “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Mister McCain, was it?” She heard her tone and knew she'd put in a little lilt at the end just for his benefit.

And when he nodded, she ignored the pointed look from Olivia at her side.

“Pleased to meet you as well. Have you been in Wyoming long?”

His smile broadened and he twisted his neck slightly as if his collar had tightened about his neck. “No, miss. I haven't been here more than a month or two. And in Three Rivers no more than half that.”

“Well,” she lifted her chin and gave him her best smile, “you are welcome. I’m sure you’ll do well here.” She turned and nodded at Olivia as she struggled to ease the hitch in her breathing. “The Hawkins family is the best in these parts. They’ll take good care of you if you do the same for them.”

She could see Olivia’s face flush with healthy color as she took her hand.

“If it wasn't for them,” Delia felt a knot form in her throat, “we wouldn't be here today.” And with that unexpected admission, Delia felt her lungs gasp for air. She turned away from the look of concern in Ransom’s eyes, and even the thought of his name made the sensation worse. What had made her say such things in front of him. How silly or needy must he see her now?

The worry rolled over her like a rush of heat and she gave Olivia’s hand a squeeze as her stomach threatened to rebel. “I'm sorry, Olivia dear, I am not feeling quite well.”

Delia saw Ransom step closer to her and she sighed with relief when Olivia took hold of her arm and pulled her closer and into her own side.

“You must be freezing. It can't have been that warm when you left the station. Come,” she drew Delia along with her toward the house, “Ransom will care for the horses. We’ll get you inside and before the stove to warm you up.”

Delia gave her a grateful smile and walked beside her to the gate. It was only when they paused for Olivia to lift the latch that Delia spared a look back toward the barn and found Ransom hard at work, removing the harness on their horse, his hands moving in a careful methodical manner, and she could tell by the way he bent over the horse, his head turned toward the old gelding’s ear, that he was talking to him.

The gentle gesture was one that she knew she wouldn't soon forget, nor was her heart likely to make it easy for her as it seemed to swell deep within her chest.

“He's a good man, Delia.”

She heard the soft laughter in Olivia’s voice and turned to look at the kind woman beside her. “Of course. I doubt Levi would hire anyone who wasn’t.” She followed Olivia through the gate and paused while Olivia set the latch again. “And I owe you both for helping Pa with the job at the station.”

Olivia took her by the arm and gave her hand a pat. “Levi recommended your father for the job because he has faith in him. We both have faith in him. You’ve all had your struggles since your mother passed, and we were happy to give your father a chance to continue doing what he was meant to do.”

They climbed the steps to the porch together and Olivia held the door open for her younger friend.

“And perhaps you were meant to be here as well. With friends who consider you as one of the family.”

Delia found herself wrapped in the embrace of Olivia’s daughter, Anna. “Oh, goodness!”

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen you!”

Delia marveled at the change in the young girl who was less than a year younger than her brother. In just the last few months, little Anna had sprouted up like a wildflower. Her long hair, which, like her delicate features, marked her as Olivia’s daughter, was dressed in long braids that trailed down her back. With a soft sigh, Delia brushed the wisps of hair back from Anna’s temples. “Too long, my friend, but we are together again.”

The ache in Delia’s middle eased as she was drawn easily into the rush of gentle emotions that surrounded her and thanked her lucky stars that she still had such wonderful friends who loved her as much as she loved them.

About Reina Torres:

Love - Romance - Books

Aren't they all the same thing?

Oh, I sure hope so! 

I've been reading romance books for what seems like forever. When I was a teen, the days that I wasn't in dance class after school I'd go to the mall to wait for my mom to finish work for the day and my haunt of choice... Waldenbooks. (I think I just showed my age there.)

Whether it was Scottish Lairds, Medieval Knights, Regency Gents, Rough and Tumble Cowboys, or handsome modern Heroes, I loved them all! There was always another hero and heroine to follow through page after page of breathless love!

I really hope that my readers will enjoy some of the same thrills as discover characters to love between the pages of my books.

Connect with Reina Torres:

Newsletter ~ Amazon Author Page ~ Facebook