Fifth pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart -- Mamie says thank you

 Hello again, and welcome back to my week of pre-release excerpts from What Shows the Heart (Cowbird Creek 3)! Today's excerpt is from Chapter 7.

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Jake started out by strolling around the town square, seeing places people were working hard and half envying them, half glad he didn’t have to do any heavy work just that minute. He cast an eye at Madam Mamie’s as he approached, glad to see that no one was causing any obvious ruckus. Mamie was out on the small front porch, seemingly at ease in a well-made rocking chair, fanning herself with something black and lacy and foreign-looking. She used it to beckon him closer. “Good afternoon! Are you enjoying your walk in our balmy summer weather?”

He laughed. “It’s this or sit somewhere letting my dinner weigh me down like a prize pig.”

Mamie stood up. “Would you like company, or would you rather not remind the local citizens that your visit to town started with your setting foot in a parlor house?”

“Ma’am, the day I let people’s opinions worry me, I hope someone kicks me in the rear hard enough to straighten my head out. If you don’t mind leaving that shade behind, I’d be happy for you and your fan to come along.”

She stepped down, light on her feet for a woman carrying those generous curves, and handed him the fan, saying, “You’re taller, so you can do a better job. Where are we headed?”

“Hmm. I’ve already been down by the creek. What’s the opposite direction?”

Mamie gave him a wry smile. “Not a whole lot. But it’s pretty enough. And ‘not a lot’ suits me, as it happens.”

Which sounded worrisome, but he could hardly say so. “I’m with you. Lead on.”

That had come out a little more serious-sounding than he’d intended. He didn’t look at her for a minute or two, in case she was staring at him. Finally he glanced over, to see her evidently lost in thought. He said nothing, waiting for her to get through whatever was on her mind, as they reached the edge of town and the street became a footpath running across prairie grass.

Bird calls and their own footfalls kept it from being altogether quiet. When Mamie spoke, her voice was quiet too. “I’ve been wanting to say something. Something I never said before I ran away.”

He stopped and pivoted to look straight at her. “Ran away? I didn’t see it like that, not really. You had a right to go when you wanted to. And not a whole lot to stick around for.”

She looked down at her feet and then back at him. “I don’t suppose you know whether my family saw it that way.”

He chewed his lip a moment before saying slowly, “I can’t say as I ever noticed your family paying much attention to what all happened to you. And once you were gone, I had less reason to care.”

The sound she made was too bitter to call a laugh. “Can’t say as I disagree with that observation. . . . Anyway, thank you. For standing up for me when no one else did. For trying to help me.”

He turned away and started walking again. “Me trying didn’t do you much good, did it. Just gave people more to snicker at.”

She caught up and put her hand on his arm to slow him down. “It did me good that someone thought enough of me to take a chance, defending my reputation. You knew well enough you might suffer for it. You didn’t have to do that, and as bad as I felt at you getting punched and knocked down, I was still grateful. I didn’t even stay and make sure you were all right. Were you?”

He shrugged. “They broke my wrist.” She winced, and he added quickly, “The doc set it, and it healed up fine. It was all better by the time I left town myself.”

They walked a few more steps, breeze sighing in the tall grass, before she said softly, “I’ve wondered about that. About when you left, and about why. Did you just get tired of being pushed around?”

If only. “No, I knew it wouldn’t make much difference where I was until I got strong enough to defend myself, and learned how.”

She didn’t ask, but he could hear the question as clear as if she’d hollered it. He’d better say something, if as little as he could manage. “It was a family thing. With my brother and my father. One of those fights there’s no way back from.”

Mamie made a little noise as if she’d started to say something and thought better of it. He almost asked what, but the odds were he wouldn’t want to know. 

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The sixth of seven excerpts posts tomorrow. Here's a teaser: someone's playing a crooked game . . . .

Fourth pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart (Cowbird Creek 3)

 Hello again! as we count down to the July 15th release of What Shows the Heart. Today's short pre-release excerpt comes from Chapter 6.

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Mamie’s breakfast next morning came accompanied by the weekly newspaper. She could hardly help but notice the headline, “Bold Newcomer Prevents Invasion of Departing Marshal’s Farewell Festivities.” A reporter had come by the next day and pestered her into giving a short interview with few specifics. The reporter, or perhaps the editor, had filled in the gaps with colorful fiction. The drunken cowboy had transformed into three fearsome ruffians, over whom Jake prevailed due to his unusual strength and admirable courage. Mamie swallowed her mouthful of coffee before she could snort it out her nose. Would people actually believe such stuff, when there were plenty of eyewitnesses to gainsay it? Though they might not want to remind the townspeople that they had been part of a gathering at her scandalous establishment.

She was somewhat surprised to see Rena come into the kitchen with the Omaha Daily Bee. Mamie kept it in the parlor for the occasional customer to look at while waiting. What was Rena doing with it?

Rena had folded the paper to show the personals ads, and she was too excited to apologize for disturbing Mamie’s breakfast. “Look, ma’am! There’s a rich gentleman looking for ladies with what he calls worldly experience, because he wants a wife as knows what’s what, and —”

Mamie snatched the paper out of her hand. “Oh, of all the nonsense! Girl, if you want to work at another house, probably a place with a row of huts and a line of unwashed men waiting their ten-minute turn before the next man shoves in, and get charged so much for your cot and the slop they feed you that you just get deeper into debt and can’t run off without some corrupt local lawman dragging you back, then by all means write to the gentleman and see how you like it. You think it over and let me know — after I’ve had breakfast. Scoot!”

Rena stood there with her lip quivering, then turned on her heel and ran out sniffling. Mamie blew out an exasperated breath and took another sip of her coffee — lukewarm. She started to thrust it toward Cook, then got ahold of herself and stood up to bring it to her. “Could you throw this away, please, and bring me hotter?”

Waiting for her coffee and scooping up some eggs, which had also got less than agreeably hot, she read the offending ad and put the paper down. She was about to look for any news of interest when another ad caught her eye.

E. in Deliverance seeks news of his brother J., not seen in many years. Please send word to . . . .

Mamie dropped the paper on the table just as Cook brought her fresh coffee. She forced a smile and thanked her, hoping she’d managed to act normal. She sipped the coffee, too hot this time, and gulped it down even though it burned her mouth.

Of course it could be anyone from Deliverance, maybe someone who’d arrived there in recent years, whose name started with E and had a brother — anywhere — whose name started with J. Why would Ethan be spending the money to put ads in who knows how many papers? How could he even afford it? It probably had nothing to do with Jake.

But . . . why had Jake left home?

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Tomorrow: Mamie thanks Jake for his courage on a fateful day in their adolescence.

P.S. I just found out yesterday that Barnes & Noble has the paperback available for preorder!

Third pre-release excerpt from What Shows the Heart -- a picnic

 Welcome back to pre-release week for the third Cowbird Creek historical romance, What Shows the Heart! I'll be posting the seventh excerpt the day before the book comes out on July 15th. Here's the third.

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Chapter 4

Mamie had been wondering when she’d be seeing Jake again. If she’d placed a bet, she’d have lost — it was only one day after the marshal left town that Trudi knocked on the office door. “That good-looking stranger who threw the cowboy out, he’s back and asking if you have time to see him.”

Jake had got good-looking, she had to admit. He’d shown signs of it even as a shy, weedy youngster, under his pa’s and grandpa’s thumb, tagging along after his big brother when his brother would let him. She’d given the brother, Ethan, a nickname too — Esau, because the Biblical Jacob had a brother by that name, and because he was supposed to be awfully hairy, and Ethan was a little on the hairy side. But he probably never knew about it, unless Jake had mentioned it.

Anyway, if Jake wasn’t a stranger to her, there was no need to mention it to Trudi or anyone else.

“Send him up, and I’ll find out how much time he wants. How would you feel about taking care of things around here for an hour or two, if it comes to that? It’d be instead of seeing customers.”

It could be that Trudi might have the makings of a second in command. She’d thought Amanda Jane would — if she’d lived, if she’d been as strong as Mamie had always thought her. Trudi might be tougher.

Trudi hustled down the stairs and came back leading Jake by the hand. Of course she would. Jake was looking at their hands and away again as if he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Mamie met them at the office door. “Thank you, Trudi. I’ll let you know whether I need you to help out as we discussed. Why don’t you go and see if there’s a customer for you in the meantime.”

Trudi let go of Jake and flounced away. Mamie sat back down at her desk. “Still here, I see?”

Jake didn’t quite snort. “Still here. For now. That’s part of what I was hoping to talk to you about. How busy are you? I could come back.”

It was morning yet, but getting on for midday. She had dinner at her desk most days — too damn often, actually — but she could allow herself a treat for once. “Tell you what — we could talk over some dinner.” In fact . . . . She laughed outright. “When was the last time you went on a picnic?”

Half an hour later, she’d passed the word around to tell Trudi — who she’d put in the small parlor, not her office — if anything needed handling, or to send someone to look for her down by the creek, near the big trees, if bad trouble blew up or blew in. She gathered the basket Cook had put together and then gathered up Jake, waiting in the kitchen and licking his lips at all of what Cook was packing. “Follow me.”

Jake bowed and whisked the basket out of her hand. “Yes, m’lady. Lead the way, m’lady.” She was mightily tempted to swat him, the way she once would have. But she’d need to get to know this older and different Jake before taking such liberties.

They walked down to a spot by the creek where the grass was thick and the rocks sparse. It was another scorcher, but a buckeye tree spread out its leaves to give them some shade. She waved toward a spot, and Jake obligingly set the basket down and opened it. Mamie pulled out the blanket at the top, unfolded it partway, and tossed one end to Jake. “Help me put this down.” After about a second, she added, “Please.”

Jake looked surprised when she pulled out plates. She stopped in the act of handing him one. “Of course, if you’ve got used to the crunch and flavor of ants in your dinner, I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

He chuckled and reached for the plate. “I may as well try this fancified lifestyle you’ve got used to. And maybe a few ants will manage to join us after all.”

She emptied the basket, to give them the widest choice, and helped herself to a big wedge of cheese, a corn muffin, and a bottle of beer. She left the roast chicken to Jake, who seemed ready to appreciate it. She also left it to him to start on whatever he needed to talk about, though she could guess at the gist of it.

He was in no hurry to come to the point, for all that. He made it through two drumsticks and three corn muffins, washed down with water from his canteen, before he said through a mouthful of muffin, “I went to the station to see the marshal leave town. Quite a crowd there. Was he that popular, or are people here that bored?”

“Oh, folks liked him well enough. He did his job, and he never pushed people around for the fun of it.”

Jake rubbed his chin, the beard stiff enough that it barely budged. “I was wondering about that. About his job. What did he do all day? Sit on his behind with his feet on his desk? Walk around town looking up and down for anyone acting shifty? Nap?”

Mamie dabbed her lips with her napkin and lay back on the blanket, watching a breeze shove the leaves around and change the patterns of the shade. “I never troubled much about how he spent his time, so long as he wasn’t giving me and my girls any trouble. Some lawmen do, you know — treat whores as if they’re all thieves, out to cheat customers or pick their pockets, or to lure husbands away from wives. The marshal wasn’t bad, that way. He expected free service now and then, and I’m not fool enough to have said no.”

Jake frowned and muttered something under his breath, then looked her in the eye. “I wouldn’t. If they offered me the job and I took it. I’ve no interest in cheating a businesswoman. And whatever they’d plan on paying me, my needs are few enough, so I wouldn’t be needing any favors.”

Mamie sat back up and rolled her eyes. “Favors, is it? That’s a highfalutin’ name for it.”

He broke off a piece of muffin and tossed it at her. “You know that’s not what I was meaning.”

She caught the tidbit and popped it in her mouth, chewed it, gulped it down, and patted her stomach. “Thank you, sir. That was just what I needed to finish up.”

Jake stood up with a little groan and stretched. “And after that meal, I need something else. To get moving, I’m thinking.” He turned slowly around in a circle, as if looking for something to race or wrestle with, and stopped, looking at the tree.

 “That’ll do just fine!” He grabbed a big branch and swung himself up into the tree, climbing up hand over hand like some sort of monkey until he was halfway up. Then he leaned out and grinned at her.

She chose to take it as a dare. Grinning back as if the pair of them were nine years old again, she grabbed her skirts and and tied them in a knot. Then she walked quickly around the tree to the lowest sturdy limb, grabbed it, hoisted herself up enough to lay across it, and clasped it with her legs like a lover. That let her haul herself up to a sitting position, scoot to where the branches forked, lean back, and finally look up to see what he made of it. He was bent over laughing ‘til she thought he’d fall out of the tree. She could have joined in, but instead she settled herself as sedately as if she were sipping tea, and asked, “Now what were you saying about the marshal job?”

[. . .]

“What sort of other work might you want, if you agreed to be marshal but it wasn’t enough for you?”

He whacked the trunk with the branch he’d been holding and threw it to the ground. “That’s the trouble. I don’t see any coal or copper mines hereabouts, even if I wanted to go back to that work, and you’ve already got a blacksmith.” A crooked smile, more bitter than any smile should be, came and went on his face. “And I assume you’ve got a town preacher.”

When she’d mentioned what she would’ve guessed he’d become, she hadn’t had that notion in mind. He read her expression and gave a snort of laughter no more cheerful than the smile had been. “Of course, I’ve got no religion, and haven’t for some years. But I don’t reckon a preacher really needs it. Might be better if they knew they didn’t, instead of telling themselves they believed all that guff and not living up to it when it counts.”

The picture of young Jake, skinny and earnest and believing everything his daddy did, floated up like she was seeing double. “So you’ve left it all behind? Jesus, and heaven waiting, and the flames of hell licking at us, and Bible stories?” His name, and how serious he used to take it?

He actually spat, away from her and into the tree. “All the pretty stories. And the ugly ones. Plenty of those, there were. No, I decided long since that life isn’t about trying to make God love you more than your daddy could. Or reward you for letting people knock you down and trample you for the fun of it.”

There’d been a time when part of her wished he could make her believe life was something better than a cheap swindle. “So now you know that life is . . . .”

He shut his eyes like something was paining him. He wasn’t so far from his old self that he didn’t care. “Now I know life is getting through. Not letting people hurt you when they’ve no right to. Not letting bullies have their own way without paying for it. Leaving a mark, even if it fades as quick as a bruise on the bully’s face. And finding pleasure if you can’t find joy.”

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What Shows the Heart can be read perfectly well on its own, but if you'd like to get to know Mamie and the other returning characters first, and you have some time to read over the next few days, you can find the first two books -- What Heals the Heart and What Frees the Heart -- at this series link.

Tomorrow's excerpt: Mamie sees a (significant) personals ad. Until then!

Pre-release Excerpt 2 from What Shows the Heart

 I'm back, as promised, with the second pre-release excerpt from the third Cowbird Creek book, What Shows the Heart, coming out on July 15th. This one immediately follows the excerpt I posted yesterday.

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Jake reached the outskirts of the town — Cowbird Creek, that farmer had told him, not that it mattered much — and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It’d been a hot one, and not cooling down fast enough to suit him. He would cut the trail dust at the saloon with the tallest beer they had. And find Wrangler a whole trough-full of water.

Maybe the town would have a bed-house. He hadn’t had a woman in a month or more. Maybe that’s why he was so quick to fly off the handle these days, spoiling for a fight. A good brawl had its own satisfaction. And just like a willing woman, it reminded him how far he’d come from his younger days. Not so easy to push around now, and women not so hard to come by — when there were some around, and no husbands or fathers to get in the way.

Hmmm. The town wasn’t big, but it was bigger than he’d guessed. It might have two saloons or more.

But while he was looking and listening for signs of one, he caught a glimpse of red. A red lamp? He rode toward it. And once he could see the building plain, he kicked Wrangler into a trot. That was no ordinary hookshop. That, unless he’d fallen asleep on horseback and dreamed it, was a parlor house! It was almost a shame to walk into a place like that covered in caked-on dirt and baked-on sweat. He probably smelled worse than Wrangler.

A place that fancy would have its own bar, like as not, and maybe even a piano player.

But as he got close, what he heard was a far cry from piano music. Someone was cussing a blue streak, and another fellow was shouting back. By the time Jake jumped off Wrangler’s back and threw the reins around a post, he could see which was what. A cowboy almost as grimy as Jake was trying to push his way in, and for some reason a fellow in a fancy jacket was trying to stop him. And not doing too great a job of it.

Did this parlor house make its customers clean up first? That could annoy a man — it’d annoy Jake, with how he was feeling at present — but he didn’t much care for how the cowboy was handling it. And while the doorman, or whatever he was, might not appreciate a stranger horning in, it looked like he could use the help.

In the meantime, just the other side of the doorman, a crowd of gents had turned up inside, all dressed to the nines, and none of them offering to get their hands dirty. And they sounded like they’d been drinking pretty deep. Was every son of a bitch in this goddamn town drunk except for him? And him riding with a throat as dry as desert for the last five miles?

Jake grabbed the cowboy by the shoulder, yanked him out of the door, mostly ducked the man’s wild punch, and threw him halfway across the street. The cowboy landed hard, the wind knocked out of him, but after half a minute or so he managed to get up and limp back toward the door. Jake waited for him to get close and gave him one good shove.

The cowboy collapsed in a heap, and seemed inclined to stay there. Jake turned around to see the doorman slinking away. A crowd of ladies had appeared behind and around the gentlemen, and one of them squirmed on through, grabbed Jake’s hand, and pulled him inside. There he stood, surrounded by the smells of beer and whiskey from the men and perfume and face powder from the women, and it looked like he was minutes from being the middle of a tug of war between the men wanting to congratulate him and the women wanting him for other things.

And then a voice cut through the noise, feminine and commanding. “Girls, get back! And gentlemen, if you would, give the poor man room to breathe.”

Had the cowboy got in a punch Jake hadn’t noticed? Why was he feeling like Wrangler had thrown him, disoriented and confused? How could that voice sound so familiar?

The crowd had backed away, just like the woman had told them to. He could see her now, standing on a big polished staircase, a few steps up so she could see better. She had a grand shape to her, and blonde hair up in some sort of do, and a handsome face that had him as mazed as her voice. He stared, and then he gasped.

Jesus God, it was Mamie. Mamie from home.

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Tomorrow's excerpt comes a little further into the story. I hope to see you then!

It's time for pre-release excerpts from What Shows the Heart

 Hello, all, and happy July!

As has become my custom, I'm heralding the July 15th release of the latest Cowbird Creek historical romance, What Shows the Heart, with a week of pre-release excerpts. (Here's the cover again, which I promise not to include every time . . . .)

And here's the first excerpt, from the beginning of Chapter 1.

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Mamie inspected the bottle of blonde hair dye, almost empty, and set it on her overcrowded dressing table, where it barely fit between the silver-backed brush and the flask of perfume. There should be time for the next bottle to arrive before she needed to touch up her hair again. She’d just managed to stay on schedule and get the job done before the party guests had started showing up. Most of them, anyhow — just one more, and she could lock the front door. Ten men altogether, enough to fill the special dining room, and one of them the marshal — for three more days.

Here Cowbird Creek had finally got big enough to have their own marshal, and he’d gone and got himself engaged to a woman too fainthearted for the West, and smart enough to do something about it. Men always underestimated the power of a timid and clever woman. First she started on about how the only decent dressmaker had run off with a medicine show, and she just had to get her wedding clothes back East. And then, how important it was to have everything fitted in person, but she couldn’t possibly make the trip without her strong brave protector by her side, and it was all right because they were engaged already. And then, oh, she’d gotten the most wonderful letter from her daddy, who knew about a grand opportunity for a man like her husband-to-be, an office job where he wouldn’t be risking his life and leaving her lying awake at night, and he wouldn’t want her to risk her health with all that worrying, especially once she was in a delicate condition . . . . And now it would be a wedding in New York, and the city council would have to find another marshal or do without, and hardly enough time for them to give him a good sendoff.

Good thing for all those men that she knew how to throw a party, and had better booze than most any of the saloons. And good for her that they were willing to pay her prices for the booze and the space, so long as she let them make all the noise and mess they wanted — up to a point — until morning if they didn’t drink themselves unconscious first. (One of the younger council members had told her they’d talked about having the party at the church. She’d laughed out loud at the thought of it, and the council member, after a moment’s self-consciousness, had laughed along.) She’d made them pay enough that she could close down for the night, and not have to keep the usual customers from busting in on the mayor and council members and banker in their fancy suits.

Right on time, there went the first broken bottle, the crash and the laughter loud enough for her to hear it up in her office. 

She’d need to make an appearance soon, just to remind them not to start breaking the furniture. She checked her hair in the gilt frame mirror, making sure she’d covered the red roots (darker than they used to be) and put the color on even. No gray hairs yet, at least. No telling how much longer she had before they turned up, what with her less than a year from turning forty. Her mother had died with no gray showing, and Mamie hadn’t seen her sister — gone now too — since she was newly grown and Mamie far from it. They’d had an aunt who went silver quite young, before she got to Mamie’s age, and it had looked fine enough, but Mamie couldn’t let her own hair go that direction. Can’t have customers look at her and start thinking about their mamas.

The sound of shouting, now — but not the sort of shouting she should be hearing. Mamie hustled out of her room to the stairs and leaned from the top of the banister to see what sort of trouble she’d have to deal with next. Girls were spilling out of the small parlor — they must have been having their own little party to celebrate the night off — and out of bedrooms. She started down the stairs as fast as she could without running. “All of you go back to your rooms! I’ll handle this.”

This being a cowboy, dirty and scruffy and belligerent, and big and drunk enough to be giving her latest bouncer some trouble. The cowboy was slurring his words, naturally, but she could more or less make out what he was hollering as the two men shoved and wrestled just inside the doorway. “I been on a drive, and I’ve got my pay, and what do you mean you’re closed, you’ve got all these women and I hear men inside, and I’m comin’ in, and you’d better get out of my way before I lay you out and walk over you!”

Well, whatever happened, and however she got rid of this fellow, she’d be hauling her bouncer over the coals. What was she paying him for, if some cowboy could push him around?

And just what was she going to do now? Pry the marshal away from his party, she supposed, and wouldn’t that just make the guests happy. They’d be demanding their money back next. Mamie gritted her teeth and headed for the party room. The fellow was still marshal, though he might be too drunk by now to walk straight, let alone do his job.

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The book isn't available for preorder, but you can mark your calendars for July 15th and then check the Cowbird Creek series page, or just search for the book by title and my last name.

Until tomorrow!

Alternative to subscribing on Feedburner, if I even have Feedburner

 I gather that blogs on Blogger yaw a subscription feature called Feedburner, and that this will shortly change. Current subscribers will still get their notices, but no one new can use Feedburner to subscribe.

I'm not sure whether this blog uses Feedburner, and have too much on my plate right now (see my previous post re three upcoming book releases) to wander into that maze before the change is supposed to occur. If you would like to hear about my new posts and aren't already getting notifications, I suggest that for now, you follow me on Goodreads, where I believe my blog posts show up. And if you do, or already have -- thanks!

Picture book, latest Cowbird Creek historical romance, AND nonfiction book update all close to going live . . .

 . . . Well, fairly close. What Shows the Heart (Cowbird Creek 3) comes out July 15, 2021. Here's the cover, once again designed by the talented and tolerant Kelly Martin of KAM Design. (I am, I confess, enough of a control freak that I'm not always the easiest client. But I've learned a lot about compromise, listening, and letting go.)(And I love the cover!)

I'm not altogether sure which of my other two upcoming releases will come next, as both face certain logistical challenges. The picture book, You Can't Kiss A Bubble, is complete! and awaits only the conquering of one more formatting hurdle and some decisions about printing options. Specifically, while I'll be publishing both softcover (aka paperback) and hardcover editions through my usual POD (Print On Demand) distributors, I may also order copies from one of a few U.S.-based offset printers. I'm inclined to do some in-person selling of this one -- at libraries, schools, obliging bookstores, book fairs, and who knows where else -- and if I'm willing to buy larger quantities, I may be able to get better hardcover copies more cheaply from such a printer.

Here's that cover, with art by the illustrator Siski Kalla and cover design by Jacob Dunaway.

Also complete, and also awaiting the solution of one more formatting issue, is the update of my nonfiction book, now partially retitled Closest to the Fire: A Guide to American Law and Lawyers. It still includes all sorts of advice and goodies for my fellow authors, but the new subtitle reflects the broader audience to whom it's addressed.

And in case I should otherwise have some free time, I'm seeking reviews for all three. Sing out if you're interested!

Phew. I need a cup of tea.

Picture Books! and A Novel in the Works

 Once upon a time, there was a woman in her early thirties who had given up on being a writer. And on ambition -- because her ambition, when she'd had one, was all about writing.

As a child, she'd known she was born to be a writer, and specifically a novelist. At the age of ten, she wrote a novel, in two hundred penciled pages, called The Biography of My Dragon (plus a little about me). The protagonist was named after her brother (using his middle name), and the manuscript would have provided fertile ground for years of psychoanalysis. After that came another, abandoned novel; years of free verse poetry; and a few unimaginative short stories. Sometime in college, she gave up on creative writing -- or so she thought. She became a lawyer, but not an ambitious one, ignoring the brass rings others might grab for.

In her thirties, she met a very interesting fellow, dated him, broke up with him, dated him some more, moved in with him, said goodbye as he went looking for a job elsewhere, followed him elsewhere, and married him. They wanted a family, and after some months succeeded in beginning that project.

So there she was, on a porch in a semirural patch of south central Indiana, pregnant and contemplative. She looked around at her yard full of oak trees, and thought about the tiny being taking shape inside her. And she wrote a short manuscript, something like a poem but not quite a poem, and called it Mommy Calls Me Acorn. She decided it could be the text of a picture book.

Over the next several years, she wrote other picture books. She even found an agent to handle them, though the agent didn't usually represent picture book authors. The agent never found a publisher -- and that, the woman thought, was that.

The daughter she was carrying was born, and grew from baby to child to teenager. In her junior year of high school, that daughter took part in something called National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo). The daughter did so again the next year, and this time the woman followed her daughter's lead. The woman finished a rough draft of a science fiction novel in thirty days, and spent the next year revising it, editing it, and researching agents and publishers. But by the time she'd done that research, she had learned about self-publishing and decided it made more sense for her than the traditional route.

Over the next few years, the woman, now an author, remembered her picture book manuscripts from time to time. But from what she could tell, it wasn't yet feasible to self-publish a picture book, using the same methods she used for her novels, and have the quality a picture book and its audience deserved.

Fast-forward to the beginning of 2021. Self-publishing has matured. Self-publishing a picture book has become feasible. And I'm finally publishing those picture books. Finally!

I'm not good, at least not good enough, at drawing or painting, so I've been having great fun looking through illustrator portfolios. I've found two illustrators I want to use for two different books, books that require different styles. One of those illustrators is already working on the first book, and the other is waiting for me to finish tweaking the manuscript for the second.

That doesn't mean I'm done writing novels. I'm currently revising and editing the third book in my Cowbird Creek historical romance series. But I'm not sure whether I'll take part in NaNoWriMo again this November. After all, I've published one or more novels a year since 2011, as well as two short stories. I've come back to where I always felt, deep down, I was meant to be. I'm a writer. I don't have to prove it on any sort of schedule.

I'll start another novel when I have an idea I'm excited to write -- and I expect that to happen. In the meantime, I'll make sure Mamie and Jake get their Cowbird Creek love story. And I'll happily and eagerly await the illustrations for my picture books.

Whether to abandon a book

Once in my career as a writer, a span of eleven years so far, I pulled a book I'd already published (The Link). I decided, belatedly, that I'd let too much slide -- that I'd put out a book beneath my own standards, silencing my doubts about several key elements. All those elements arose from the same fundamental problem: I'd based my plot on a question without having an adequate answer. As I look back, that wasn't the first time I faced that problem -- but it was the most egregious example.

A while after I made that decision, a science fiction book group of which I'm a member took advantage of my leaving a meeting early by picking my own near-future novel Who as an upcoming selection. The resulting discussion was revelatory. The other members zeroed in on areas where I'd tried to patch weaknesses in the narrative, and made clear those patches had been less than fully effective. (I also learned that if a substantial part of a book involves courtroom drama, I had better make that fact clear in the book's descriptions and other publicity.)

Also part of my learning process: venturing away from science fiction to write historical romance. While there's plenty of plotting to do in a romance novel, the essential plot line -- a couple finds love and a HEA (Happy Ever After) -- is prescribed. I'm not sure how, but working within this limit and then returning to a near-future SF draft (Donation) has made it easier for me to confront the inadequacies of the latter's plot line. Serendipity has also played a role. Because I've had Donation on the back burner, returning to it between other projects, I've been working on it for three years. During that time, societal developments have revealed that a key component of my protagonists' eventual victory might not actually have that effect. (Yes, I'm being coy, largely because getting specific would mean stepping onto treacherous political ground.) At least as important is the fact that the book probably has an anti-technology message I don't intend, and with which I don't agree -- and any attempt to redirect the reader toward a message I do mean is likely, once again, to look like inadequate patchwork.

Add it all up, and I'm wondering whether to put the book aside for a while and hope for the multiple inspirations it'd take to make it worth publishing, or to just move on. The characters have a reality for me, but I've realized that they'll retain that reality whether I publish or no -- and I don't owe it to them to share their story if the story isn't worthy of them. 

The upshot? I'm still not sure. As the master of my own publishing schedule, I'm answerable to no one as to whether the book comes out in six months, in two years, or never. (In fact, I haven't entirely given up hope of finding the plot that The Link should have had, and publishing a revised edition.) But I'm more at peace now that I've accepted the possibility that Donation may never reach the public, and would no longer consider that possibility as a failure in any important sense.

Turning my focus away from that book does, however, mean less time before I have to confront the question of what to write next. Will I continue the Cowbird Creek historical romance series after I revise and publish Book 3, What Shows the Heart? If I return to science fiction, what idea sufficiently captivates me? Or should I tackle historical fiction head on, outside the comfort of the romance subgenre?

Time will tell. And when it does, I'll sooner or later tell those who read this blog.

For the first time in more than fifty years of reading . . .

 I have been an avid, indeed compulsive, reader for most of my life, and for all my adult life. I read and reread books. I read new books, found on lists of bargain book I get by email, and on lists of new books at the library, and in the excited recommendations of family and friends.

I have no way to come close to guesstimating how many books I've read, nor how many times.

I am almost done, very close to done, with V.E. Schwab's The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue. And for the first time in all those years and all those books, I am holding a paper towel under each line, to keep from skipping my eyes ahead, to savor every word before I finish. I know I will read this book again, and more than once, but I'm not ready for it to be over this first time, and I don't want to read any word before its place in the story.

I'm also sniffling and wiping my nose with whatever I find to hand.

I'm not saying it's flawless. I believe no book is. But I am so thrilled and grateful for this book.

It's finally Release Day for WHAT FREES THE HEART

I decided I couldn't do all those posts leading up to Release Day and not post when it finally arrives . . . .

I'm not going to take up anyone's time by repeating what I said in recent posts (especially yesterday's) about What Frees the Heart or about the series. I'll just express my hope that anyone who read and enjoyed What Heals the Heart (Cowbird Creek 1), and anyone who finds this book's characters or premise intriguing, will give it a look-see.

And if you do read either book and like it, please consider leaving a review somewhere! It can be as short as a couple of sentences. Amazon is always a good place, if you use the site enough to meet their threshold requirements. Goodreads reviews are also very helpful. Goodreads ratings are even easier to leave.

Here are the no-longer-pre-order-but-actual-order! links: Kindle edition, paperback on Amazon, paperback on Barnes & Noble.

Thanks for reading these posts, and happy reading!

Release day tomorrow! for WHAT FREES THE HEART -- here's one more excerpt

The wait is almost over! What Frees the Heart comes out tomorrow, July 15th. Or if you want the paperback, Amazon brought it out a day early, and you can get it here (though it will still take 1-2 days to ship). You can still pre-order the Kindle edition here, or the paperback edition from Barnes & Noble here .

This book is not a sequel to What Heals the Heart. (BTW, that book is available on Kindle Unlimited, for those who have access to it.) Rather, as with many romance series, it returns to the same locale -- Cowbird Creek, in this case -- and shifts the focus to other characters. Tom and Jenny both appear in the first book, but now take center stage. Those who've read the first book will see the reappearance of its main characters, Joshua and Clara, as well as important secondary characters like Freida, Jedidiah, and Madam Mamie. And you'll get to know some other characters, like Silas Finch, rather better.

Without further ado, here's the final excerpt, in which Jenny asks Madam Mamie about whether she's seen any girls "in the life" who got married, and Mamie tells her what happened to some who did.

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Mamie stood up from her desk and snapped her fingers in Jenny’s face. “Come back here, girl! Where’d you drift off to? I was telling you about that gentleman I’ll likely be sending your way, next time he comes in.”

Jenny hadn’t heard a word of it. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Could you tell me the most important part over again?”

Mamie studied her face and said, in a tone close to a warning, “I hope you’re not still fretting about that harpy in town. You’ve had plenty of time to get over her.”

It probably wasn’t the time to ask Mamie what a harpy was. “No, ma’am. I mean — I’m not, and yes’m, I’ve had time enough.”

Mamie shook her head, closed the door, and pointed to a chair. As Jenny lowered herself into it, Mamie leaned back against the desk instead of going back behind it. “Set yourself down. Whatever’s cluttering up your mind, you’d best spill it so there’s room for what I tell you.”

She’d been trying to get up the nerve to ask Mamie a question, and here Mamie was ordering her to. “Ma’am, I was just wondering, that is . . . have any of your girls got married? To a customer, or someone in town, or anyone?”

Mamie looked a little smug, like she’d guessed what she was going to hear. “You were just wondering. Curiosity out of nowhere. Not because you’ve grown fond of a particular customer.”

Jenny usually knew better than to answer back to Mamie, but Mamie was poking her in a tender spot. “I don’t see how my reason changes the answer none.”

Mamie’s hand twitched like it might want to give Jenny a slap. Jenny held her breath, trying not to scoot her chair any farther from the desk. But Mamie put her hand back on the desk and even chuckled. “I’d rather a girl have spirit than bore the life out of me. All right, then, we’ll start with my answering your question. I’ve seen it three times in the years I’ve run this place, and once before then. And now, before you get all starry-eyed, you should ask me how it worked out.”

Jenny slumped back in the chair. “Yes, ma’am, please.”

“The one who got married when I worked elsewhere, I never did find out about, being as I left not long after. The first one of my girls who married was back here inside of three months. The man’d gone back East and left her. Later she heard he’d gone and got married again, no doubt not bothering to tell his new bride she was the second of two — or maybe more.”

Jenny gasped, and right away felt a fool. Mamie kept going. “The second one stayed married, ‘til she died in childbed. The third, well, they left town, heading farther west. I got a letter from her a while back. She was still married, but he didn’t treat her too well. Kept throwing what she’d been up to her, and spending his evenings at a dirty little hookshop in their dirty little town. She daren’t complain, naturally, and he knew as much.”

Jenny put her chin down, knowing it probably made her look like a sulky child. “But it doesn’t have to turn out that way. The one who died, she might’ve been happy if she’d lived. Not every man would treat a woman like that last fellow.”

Mamie slumped a little, which hardly ever happened, and sighed, which happened even less. “Not every man, it may be, but if you were betting — such as betting your heart and your future — that’s the way to bet. A man might think he can handle his woman having been a soiled dove, but after a while it eats at him. It’d be a rare kind of man who can live with it. Maybe one who actually thinks that men and women aren’t so different deep down, and that if a man can lie with a passel of women and then love and be true to just one, a woman can do the same with a man.” Now it was Mamie who had a faraway sort of look. “Don’t know as I’ve ever met a man like that, at least to know he was.”

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I hope you've enjoyed these excerpts -- and I hope you enjoy the book!

Two more days until Release Day, two more excerpts

My Western historical romance What Frees the Heart comes out on Wednesday (!!), so here is the sixth of seven pre-release excerpts.

Context for this one: Jenny broke one of Madam Mamie's rules and as a result, is not allowed in town without someone to keep an eye on her.

Preorder links are at the end.

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Today it was Sophie who got the job of going to town along with Jenny. It was Jenny’s good luck, or maybe Mamie doing a little favor along with still insisting on a chaperone, that Sophie was so easygoing and didn’t fuss about it. What’s more, she let Jenny pick where they went first and next. And when Jenny asked her opinion on what fabric would look best for Jenny’s next new dress, she read Jenny’s face and picked the one Jenny was lingering at already.

Then, when they passed the ice cream shop on their way back to Mamie’s, Sophie even let Jenny go inside on her own. “Bessie’d be less’n pleased if I ate ice cream without her. You go on, and I’ll wait for you on a bench in the square. I can work on my bird calls. Bessie likes it when I do bird calls.”

That suited Jenny more’n fine. She liked Sophie’s company, usually, but by now, doing something by herself would be as much of a treat as ice cream.

The owner undressed her with his eyes the way most men did, but he didn’t say nothing rude and handed over her ice cream without making her wait longer’n anyone else. And it was a pretty day, still warm enough that the owner’d propped the door open for breezes, but not humid like a couple of weeks before.

To put the cherry on the sundae, so to speak, a lady just a little older’n Jenny came in with a baby, a cute little boy with a sweet round face, his plump arms and legs all waving around. Jenny loved babies. She’d tended neighbor babies often enough as a girl, all the way up until she left home.

Bringing her plate of chocolate ice cream with fudge syrup, she came toward mother and baby, smiling. “He’s so precious! How old —”

The woman snatched the baby out of his basket and clutched him to her breast, starting him howling. Over the noise, she said, voice colder’n any ice cream, “How dare you approach us, a hussy like you!” Turning her shoulder to Jenny, she crooned to the crying baby, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t let the nasty lady hurt you.”

The woman stood up as if to hurry her baby out of reach of whatever poison it might breathe in, just from being near Jenny. But Jenny ran out first. Only outside did she realize she was still holding her plate and spoon. She crouched to leave them at the door, took a deep if shaky breath, and walked as quick as she could to find Sophie. It wasn’t until Sophie looked at her with big eyes and wrinkled forehead that she realized she was crying.

Mamie saw them come in and marched downstairs to stand at the bottom with hands on hips, looking like a hanging judge. Jenny still hadn’t managed to stop crying, so Sophie had to do the talking, as much as she could from whatever Jenny had blurted out on the way. Then, for a wonder, Mamie made things better, opening her arms for a hug. Jenny couldn’t remember Mamie giving her a real hug before, nor her wanting such, but now she rushed into Mamie’s arms and fair snuggled up against Mamie’s big bosom. Mamie stroked her hair. “There, there, girl. Bitches will be bitches, and we can’t hardly stop ‘em.”

Jenny had to laugh, which stopped her crying. She pulled back enough to wipe her face on her arm — or would’ve, if Mamie hadn’t pulled a handkerchief from somewhere like a magician with a hat. By now Sophie had gone off somewhere, probably to tell Bessie all about it.

Jenny wiped her face and followed Mamie to the empty small lounge. Mamie gave her a little push toward an easy chair, one usually reserved for the men, and went behind the bar, pulling out a bottle and pouring two glasses. She handed one to Jenny and sat down next to her. “Join me, why don’t you, in a little sherry. It’ll relax you and maybe help you get some perspective on this afternoon’s events.”

Relax her, sure. Perspective, not likely, but getting to drink sherry instead of colored water, the customers paying liquor prices for it, was treat enough. That word in her head made her think of her ice cream, not finished and melting by the door, and she burst into tears again. Mamie looked vexed. “What am I going to do about you, girl? You’re over your monthlies, aren’t you?”

Jenny tried to stop and finally did. She didn’t want to waste the easy chair and the sherry on sniffing and blowing. Mamie, reassured, sat back and sipped her drink. “That’s better. Young or old, we’ve got to be tough in this business.”

Jenny poured half her sherry down her throat in two big gulps. Mamie sat up and plucked Jenny’s glass out of her fingers with half an inch left in it. “That’s enough lazing around. You go on up and wash your face. Plenty of customers’ll be here before you know it.”

Jenny handed Mamie back the handkerchief. “Thanks for the borrow. Oh, you want I should wash it?”

Mamie’s face had gone all business, but now it went softer. “Never you mind, child. I’ll give it to the laundry. Run along.”

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If you pre-order now, you won't have long to wait! :-) You can pre-order the Kindle edition here, or the paperback here (Amazon) or here (Barnes & Noble).

Tomorrow, the last excerpt: Jenny talks to Madam Mamie about girls in the life getting married.

Fifth excerpt from WHAT FREES THE HEART -- Jenny tries to write home

The release of What Frees the Heart grows ever closer, and the excerpts keep coming! We've got a short one today, from the beginning of Chapter 12.

If you'd like to pre-order, which I'd be delighted for you to do, you can get the Kindle edition here, or the paperback here (Amazon) or here (Barnes & Noble).

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It wasn’t nothing but some fruit. Nothing special, really. And nothing Mamie’s cook hadn’t served before. Just stewed plums.

Jenny must be feeling specially tender-hearted this morning, was all she could figure. Else she wouldn’t be eating the plums with tears trickling down her face. Or maybe she was getting her monthly, which’d make her get worked up easier. It was just about time.

It would’ve been worth crying over nothing, if only her monthly meant a vacation. But Mamie always said, “Every single girl in this place has her bleeding time every single month, and I don’t plan to go broke over it. There’s plenty the gentlemen’ll like without needing to spread your legs.” So if someone asked for a girl during that time, Mamie would offer the choice of that girl using just her mouth or her hands and showing off whatever part of her body they’d like to see, or some other girl ready for more. . . .

It wasn’t as if Mama’s stewed plums would’ve won prizes. The cook’s were as good or better.

But when they didn’t have much of it, Mama always used to share it with Jenny, who liked it best of all the children, even though she figured out as she got older that Mama liked it even better.

Jenny finished her breakfast as fast as she could and hurried upstairs. It was time to get herself dressed and prettied up. But maybe she could squeeze out a few minutes to do something she hardly ever tried to do.

She closed her door, wishing it had a lock on it, and tried to remember where she’d put pen and paper. In the little drawer in her dressing table? Nope. How about under her unmentionables? Not there, neither. Finally she found them on the closet shelf. But all that looking had left her even less time to spare.

She sat at the dressing table with the paper in front of her, chewing on her pen, for a precious half a minute before writing out, slow and careful, Dear Mama and —

Which of her sibs would still be at home, and which would’ve married and set up housekeeping somewhere else? No way of knowing.

Would Papa even let Mama have the letter? She could hope so. And if he didn’t like it, she was way away out of his reach.

Dear Mama and all of you —

I hope you are well. I am fine.

I hope the grasshoppers didn’t eat up everything on the farm, like happened some places, though not here.

Should she tell where here was?

I am in Nebraska, in a town some bigger’n any near you. I get to meet lots of folks.

And she’d be trampled by horses before she said how. Not that Mama wouldn’t have written her off as a tramp long since, most like.

There she went crying again. And leaving teardrops on the paper. Maybe they’d tell her tale more than she could ever stand to do.

I’m sorry I left so sudden.

She shoved herself back from the chair before the tears, coming fast now, could smudge what she’d worked so hard to put on the paper.

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Next time: a trip to get ice cream goes awry.

And the excerpts keep coming -- #4, Tom rediscovers an art form

What Frees the Heart (Cowbird Creek 2 -- which can be read as a stand-alone) comes out in five days! Here's a fourth excerpt, from the beginning of Chapter 5. For the immediate context, see the previous excerpt.

I'll post the pre-order links afterward.

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Tom might just as well have floated home on a cloud, fine as he was feeling. It did bring him some way back down, just for a minute, when he went to bounce on his toes and almost fell over, but he shook it off. That sort of thing happened often enough, and an evening like this one surely didn’t. And the stars were shining bright above, like they were celebrating along with him.

Jenny had managed things so well that his stump didn’t hurt more’n usual. And what pain he was used to didn’t seem to matter tonight.

Only thing was, he could’ve turned right around and laid with Jenny one more time and been that much the happier.

How soon could he manage another visit? He’d a deal of thinking to do about what he was going to do with his wages from now on. How often they’d go into Madam Mamie’s pocket rather’n Pa’s, and whether he should be saving up for something, though he’d no clue for what.

Remembering and wanting kept him restless overnight, but he still couldn’t help grinning now and again over his breakfast. Ma and Pa kept sneaking looks at each other when they thought he wasn’t watching. Pa, at least, must have known something was up when Tom didn’t turn in his wages. He’d just as soon not know if Pa guessed why.

Walking to town went easier when he had more to think of than his leg and his day of work to come. First he pictured Jenny’s pretty face, and then her hair laying on her shoulders, and then her round squeezable bosom and even rounder backside, and every minute he could remember of what they’d done together. It seemed to take considerable shorter’n usual before he made it to the door of the shop.

Finch, now, after everything that cowboy had said, would be sure to figure things out if Tom came in all cheerful. He could act extra glum, but then Finch might think he’d gone to Mamie’s and made a mess of it. So he kept things businesslike, not chatting but not sulking neither, and Finch didn’t make any show of drawing conclusions.

Speaking of drawing. That’s just what Tom would’ve liked to do, draw a picture of Jenny, head and shoulders and just a little of what came below. It’d been a while since he got a hankering to draw. He used to do a lot of it, with a stick in the dirt or on his slate at school. Got a licking one of those times, drawing when he was supposed to do arithmetic. And then when he was maybe ten, he’d used his pocket knife to draw on a bit of leather he didn’t think anyone cared about. Turned out he was wrong, and he got a licking from Pa that time.

Wasn’t the lickings that stopped him, so much as not having the time once he got big enough to do more farm work. And since that plowshare took some of his leg and more of his use on the farm, he hadn’t thought about it, or about much else that he might do just from wanting to.

Today, though . . . when Finch finished cutting out a pair of boots, Tom asked, as casual as he could, “You have any use for what’s left of that piece? Because I might if you don’t.”

Finch looked at him kind of sideways, but he shrugged and tossed it Tom’s way. Mrs. Finch came in not long after, and that gave Tom his chance. Finch cared a deal about his dinner and never paid attention to much else while he was eating it. As soon as Mrs. Finch left and Finch dug in, Tom moved off to the farthest corner of the shop and laid the scrap of leather on the edge of a table Finch used for storage of this and that.

The biggest piece was about a foot by eight inches. Tom trimmed away the rest and looked at his knife, considering. It was just fine for cutting through leather, but not so good for just scraping away one thin line at a time. What he needed for that was . . . Where was that tool Finch had used for the cowboy’s initials on the saddle, the one Finch called a swivel knife?

But Finch had gobbled his dinner already, and Tom hadn’t taken but a bite or two. He quickly tore away at the chicken leg and wiped his hands on his trousers.

He’d hardly be able to get at that tool without Finch knowing, even if it were right to do it. He’d have to fess up.

“Mr. Finch, when you close up for the day, could I borrow what you used to carve that cowboy’s initials? I’d treat it real careful and have it back in the morning. And I wouldn’t touch nothing but leather with it, the leather you let me have earlier.”

Finch wrinkled his forehead to make his eyebrows stick out even more than they did by nature. “What’ve you got to be carving? You wouldn’t be making one of them pictures that make fun of folks, carry-whatsits, of me, would you?” Clearly, that’d be as much as Tom’s job was worth.

“Oh, no, sir, I’ve no such intention. Just — just a drawing I’ve been wanting to do, on something that won’t wash away or rub out.”

Finch stroked his scraggly beard. “Well, all right then. You take good care of it, and if you lose it, you’ll be working to pay it back and not for whatever else you use your pay on. And you clean it like I showed you.” He fetched the tool and handed it over.

Finch might be grumpy and suspicious, and he watched his coin, but he wasn’t that bad. Not altogether. Or at least, not always.

By the time Tom made the walk home, ate supper, and did what chores he still could, it was full dark and he’d have been about ready for bed, but for the scrap of leather calling to him. He filled a lamp, lit it, and laid the leather out on the kitchen table. Pa, wandering out in his nightshirt and cap, saw what Tom was doing and hoisted an eyebrow. “Hope you came by that leather some way that won’t get you in trouble.”

“Mr. Finch gave it to me when I asked for it.” What a memory Pa had! He’d hardly’ve thought being on the other end of that strap would stick in the memory as well as Tom’s end of it. Was that part of what being a father meant? He’d have to ponder that some time.

Seeing as he’d never used the swivel knife before, he should’ve kept another scrap to practice on. Thinking ahead maybe wasn’t his strong suit. With a sigh, he cut a long thin strip off his piece of leather and started teaching himself. At first even his straight lines wouldn’t stay straight, let alone an even thickness, but it didn’t take too long for him to get that right. Next came curves — he’d need plenty of curvy lines for Jenny! That thought got him remembering, which heated him up to where it got distracting. He went out to the pump and splashed cool water on his face, then got back to work.

When he’d used up most of the strip and figured he was as good at this as he’d be getting, he smoothed out his main piece of leather again. He maybe shouldn’t draw lower’n her shoulders after all, seeing as her dress had showed more than a regular girl’s would. Or he could draw the dress different, but that’d be a sort of lying.

He drew her face first, heart-shaped even to the bit of a point to her chin, with the dimple he’d noticed every time she smiled. He puzzled over how to show her nose with its tilted-up end, all too aware that once he set tool to leather for it, there’d be no rubbing out any wrong moves. But it was getting late, and him getting tired, so he finally made a few thin lines suggesting it and moved on to her eyes. There was no chance of drawing them pretty enough, but he showed them big and wide open, with the long lashes that might get help from some sort of paint. He tried to use a light touch on the eyebrows — better to have them a little thinner’n life than to make them too thick and frowny.

Jenny’s smile was another tricky task. Better to give her upper lip more of a Cupid’s bow than make it too flat. Then shape the lower lip to match, kind of plump, like she was ready to kiss someone.

He had the most fun drawing her hair, which didn’t have to be exactly the way she wore it so long as it was long and full and wavy. That left only her neck and the top line of her shoulders. And then, finally, he was done and could fall into bed.

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If I've managed to intrigue you, or even get you hooked on this story, you can pre-order the Kindle edition here, or the paperback here (Amazon) or here (Barnes & Noble).

Next time: Jenny tries to write a letter to her family.