Adrienne deWolfe's Blog

Do you stop to recognize the miracles in your life?

So many of us have been brainwashed to believe that the term, “miraculous,” can only be applied to giant earth-shaking events, like winning the lottery or discovering a cure for cancer. 

But I’m talking about everyday miracles:  the hopes and dreams that quietly reappear when you least expect them.  These miracles remind you that you’re connected to something much bigger than yourself. 

These miracles remind you that you and your work have a purpose.

Such a  miracle happened in my writer’s life. It came in the aftermath of my greatest professional tragedy – a tragedy that nearly crushed my writing dream. I never thought I’d recover from the emotional pain when my computer got stolen from the repair shop, and I lost a 400-page work-in-progress. But two amazing events occurred because of that “tragedy.”  Less than a week later, my ebook editor asked me to write a novella, one that was eventually published in the #1 bestselling anthology, Pistols & Petticoats. 

The second miracle came in the form of a discovery. While rooting around in some dusty old file drawers, I found the hardcopy of an original prologue. It had been written for the second book in my Velvet Lies series, His Wicked Dream.  I introduced the entire Jones family, including 6-year-old Gabriel and his coon hound, in Book 1 (Scoundrel for Hire.)  My original vision for the series was to turn Gabriel into an Angel-in-Training. He and his “Ghost Dog,” Goober, were supposed to help the eldest Jones sibling (Michael) find true love in Book 2.

Unfortunately, my editor at Avon Books believed that a Romance with ghosts and angels would not interest readers. During the year that I was writing His Wicked Dream, the term “Paranormal Romance” had not yet been coined. The subgenre did not exist. Only a few visionary Romance authors – rising stars, like Dara Joy – got books published with fantasy themes.

I was heart-broken when my Avon editor directed me to revision my entire Velvet Lies series, stripping out all paranormal elements. (For this reason, I went to a small, Indie publisher to release Book 3, Seduced By An Angel.)

However, I was contractually obligated to write Book 2 for Avon. That meant I had to invent a new subplot – fast.  I eventually replaced the gaping hole in my series with a secret animal orphanage, operated by “Townie children,” who were rescuing live critters from a taxidermist. (Thus was born Vanderbilt “Vandy” Varmint, the wildly popular, rascally raccoon who co-stars in my Lady Law and The Gunslinger series.)

His Wicked Dream went on to win awards and become a Doubleday Book of the Month. But I never forgot about 12-year-old Gabriel and his ghost dog.  Despite two computer meltdowns (and the loss of many, MANY documents,) the original prologue from His Wicked Dream has survived – miraculously.

I’m posting this excerpt today, because I believe that the story of Gabriel and Goober deserves to be told. And apparently, so do the Angels.

Enjoy!

DELETED SCENE:

ORIGINAL PROLOGUE

His Wicked Dream

Book 2, Velvet Lies Series

© By Adrienne deWolfe

 

 

"Drat it all, I must've died."

Twelve year‑old Gabriel Jones gazed down at the alabaster cloud on which he'd somehow been stranded.  He didn't know what was worse:  being plucked off the earth on All Hallow's Eve before he could rattle any chains or spook a single person, or proving his Aunt Claudia right after all her  many years of fussing:  never, under any circumstances, wear underwear with holes.

Tugging discreetly on the moth‑nibbled backside of his longjohns ‑‑ which had mysteriously changed from a fiery red to an ethereal pink ‑‑ Gabriel bemoaned his fate.   Rather than getting snuffed out in a blaze of gunfire, like Confederate General Jeb Stuart, he'd had to die in his sleep.  What self‑respecting ghost did that?  And how was he supposed to make a lady's hair stand on end or start a man quaking in his boots if he had to go a‑haunting in pink underwear?  He'd be laughed out of Spookdom for sure ‑‑ once he figured out how to get there, of course.

Craning his neck in all directions, he tried to see past the winking, opalescent glow that seemed to be everywhere, and yet came from nowhere, making him think of fireflies caught in a snow storm.   Although it hardly seemed possible, God must have made a mistake. The Lord had brought him here, after all, and that meant Gabriel was as lost as a ghost could be.  For one thing, this place was only lukewarm – in fact, it was suspiciously comfortable.  For another thing, it had clouds. Although he couldn't see any gates with pearls on them, and he didn't hear any folks playing harps, Gabriel had heard his pa rant and rave about this place so often to his "congregation of sinners" that he knew he'd landed smack dab in the middle of paradise.

Sheesh.  Paradise sure is dull.

Gabriel blew out his breath ‑‑ or rather, he tried.  Breathing was a lot different in heaven.  So was standing.  He glared down at the gauzy, drifting wisps that had buried his legs up to his knees.  No wonder angels have wings.  Clouds are too mushy to stand on.

Thinking he'd had enough of this sparkly, intangible nothingness (as a ghost, he had responsibilities below,) Gabriel dropped his fists to his hips and shouted up at the stars. "Hey, God!  I'm not supposed to be here!"  

He waited, but no haloed, feathery people appeared to kick him off his cloud.

Just my luck, he grumbled to himself.  Everybody must've gone to hell, just like Pa always warned. 

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Gabriel hollered louder into the firmament this time. "Hullo?  Mr. God?  Are You home?"

At his use of the word, "mister," tinkling, chimelike laughter rippled through the ether, making him feel warm, tingly, and kind of nervous all at the same time.  Gabriel grimaced, rubbing his ear.  Thunderation.  The only thing worse than being stranded on some lousy piece of fluff up in the middle of  the sky was to find out that God, the Creator of the Universe, might actually be a girl.  To a twelve‑year‑old boy, this was the equivalent of hell.

"Look, God," he tried in more reasonable tones, "I'm kind of in a hurry.  There are people waiting to be haunted, you know.  Could you send somebody to help me get back to Kentucky?"

All the stars started blinking again.  Above the bell‑like harmonies of a fresh wave of giggles, he heard a whispering rush, kind of like the sound the wind makes when it dances through the pines. 

A pinpoint of light appeared, hovering over his cloud.  Growing, brightening, it elongated itself until its radiance touched down near his feet.  Gabriel held his breath.  A female form began to materialize in the kaleidoscopic display, and for a moment -- one shivery, hopeful moment -- he thought God had answered an earlier prayer:  that he be reunited with his sainted mama, who'd died six long years ago of the same lung plague that had robbed him of his life. 

To his disappointment, Gabriel learned that God had sent him some glowing golden angel instead.

"Hello, Gabriel," the angel said in musical tones, her smile out‑warming the sunshine of her Being.  

"Hello," he said, pouting.  

He gazed up at the celestial female, standing a good foot taller than he. When her loving radiance washed gently over him, he suffered a pang of homesickness. Something about her was vaguely familiar, even though it was hard to see her face and hair clearly through all that shifting, sparkling stuff that seemed to be the greater part of her being. 

Still, he didn't want to stay in heaven, chatting with angels, if God hadn't let his mama through the Pearly Gates.  Mama had been the kindest, most wonderful person in his whole world, and as far as he was concerned, she deserved to be an angel.

Of course, his pa, who had a tongue like a green willow switch, had claimed Ma made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and her soul could never fully repent.  Gabriel had never completely understood why ‑‑ folks only whispered about such things, and rarely in front of children – but the gist of the message had been clear:  Sinners like his mama never made it to heaven. 

This knowledge had bothered Gabriel deeply.  He'd never questioned his father's wisdom, since Jedidiah Jones, the shepherd of God's own flock, was the town authority on such matters.  Instead, Gabriel had decided, on the day his mother had died, that he'd rather be a ghost than spend Eternity in some elite place like heaven. 

Reminding himself of that vow now, he raised his chin and squarely faced the angel. 

"I'm lost," he told her.

Her eyes softened, growing even more loving, if that was possible.  "Lost?"

"Yeah.  And I need you to help me get back to Blue Thunder.  That's where I live.  Or rather, that's where I used to live."  He frowned.  "Say, where are your wings?" 

He rose on tiptoe, trying to peer behind her, then suddenly remembered his bottom, shining like a moon through the hole in his dropflap.  He hastily retreated two steps. 

"Never mind,” he said hastily.  “Stay over there. I think I need to talk to a ... a boy angel."

More laughter rippled through the cosmos.  The angel looked amused, but sympathetic too.  "You needn't be concerned, Gabriel.  I've known you longer than you've known yourself. And I've always watched over you."

"You have?"  He narrowed his eyes.  Did she mean that all his life, he'd had some girl angel hovering around, watching him get dressed and undressed and ... and do other private stuff as well?  Criminy! 

Unfortunately, since he was dead and all, Gabriel figured there was no helping such matters now, although he did decide, right then and there, that he was going to have a nice long chat with God about snooping female angels.

He fixed her with his most dignifed, twelve‑year‑old stare. "Okay, if you've always been watching over me, then you'll know I don't belong here.  You need to take me back to Blue Thunder."

"Heaven's not so bad.  You might come to like it."

Gabriel snorted, glancing around the cosmos once more.  No cherry tree?  No fishing hole?  No hunting hounds?  Why on earth would any angel think he'd like heaven?   

"Thanks, ma'am, but I'm a sinner."

"Because of what happened between you and Michael?"

Gabriel winced.  He hadn't thought anyone but God knew about that little brawl, and his resulting vow to hate his bossy, grown‑up brother forever. 

"Yeah, that too," he admitted sullenly. "I reckon I'm running late.  I should be burning in hell right now."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Well, I don't want to, of course."  Gabriel's bottom lip jutted.  "But Pa said I was bad when I punched Michael, and screamed dirty names at him, and kicked him in the shin. 'Course, Michael deserved it for going and shooting my hound," he added, the tremor in his voice belying his belligerence. "Poor Goober was too old and sick to bark in self‑defense.  I reckon he was half dead anyway.  Michael said it was kinder to send him back to God, but I didn't think so.  I don't think Michael had any right to take my hound away from me."  Gabriel gave a watery sniff.

"You're still angry with Michael," the angel said softly.

"You're right about that."

"Why do you think Michael shot Goober?" she prompted in that same soothing voice.

"'Cause he doesn't love me one bit.  He always used to order me around, saying `wear your coat' and `don't forget your scarf.'  And when I got really sick with consumption, he wouldn't even let me get out of bed."  Gabriel scowled.  "Yeah, he was mean to me, all right. I'm gonna go back to Blue Thunder and haunt Michael.  That'll fix him."

The angel hid another smile.  "Do you know where Michael is right now?"

"No."  Gabriel sulked.  "And I don't care."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to find out?"

"Well..."  He pursed his lips and reconsidered.  He supposed he couldn't haunt Michael if he didn't  know where Michael was.  "All right.  But he's not allowed to know I got lost and came here.  I'll never be able to spook anybody if word gets out that God let me into heaven."

The angel's eyes twinkled as she nodded in consent. 

She raised her hand.  In the next instant, Gabriel expected thunder to roll and lightning to crash; he thought the clouds would part, kind of like the Red Sea had done when Moses stood on its shores.  

Instead, the angel passed her palm over his eyes.  The simplicity of this magic might have disappointed him if he hadn't been so powerfully struck by its outcome.  Suddenly, he could see -- really see -- as if a veil had lifted.  To his amazement, he was standing in the cemetery of Blue Thunder. 

For a moment, his mind was so boggled, he could only blink.  He stared at the fiery reds of the maple trees, the golden oranges of the elms, the smoky sapphire of the Pine Mountains as they ringed the sleepy valley.  

 

Next he gazed up at the gleaming white spire of his father's church, as it pierced the morning sky.  Behind this house of the Lord sprawled the weathered picket fence and the hundred odd tombstones of the small Appalachian community where he’d grown up.  The town of Blue Thunder knew few outsiders and even fewer urban conveniences, even in this modern year of 1876. 

But the sight that captured Gabriel’s full attention was the lone mourner by a newly turned grave.  Upon closer inspection, he realized that the man kneeling in the dirt was his strapping, twenty‑two‑year‑old brother.  Michael's black head was bowed, and his powerful shoulders were quaking.  With only the wind and the brittle brown leaves to bear witness, Michael buried his face in his hands and wept.

Gabriel squirmed.  If he'd still owned a heart, it would have twisted. 

"Why's he crying?" he whispered to the angel.

"Can you not guess?"

Gabriel tore his gaze away.  It was too much to bear, this pain his brother was feeling.  "Michael never cries."

"He cried when your mother died.  And Goober, too."

Gabriel started.  Michael had grieved?  Over Goober?  That was pretty hard to believe.  "Well, he never let anyone see," Gabriel insisted stubbornly.

"Michael holds his pain deep inside and uses anger to drive people away.  I see a time when..."

Her voice trailed off, and Gabriel shifted uncomfortably.  He suspected he really didn't want to hear the rest.  Still, some irresistible force moved inside his chest, a force so powerful that his tongue lost all common sense. 

"What do you see?" he blurted out.

"I see a time when Michael's inner pain leads to outer sickness," she murmured sadly.  "A sickness no doctor can cure.  And the one thing that would save him from suffering is the one thing he refuses to let himself have."

Gabriel frowned.  "Why would Michael refuse something that made him feel better?"

"Because Michael hasn't learned to accept the healing power of love."

Aw, nuts. 

Gabriel made a face and kicked up a piece of cloud.  Now the angel had gone and done it.  She'd made him feel bad for Michael.  And Gabriel didn't want to feel bad for Michael.  If he started liking his brother again, he'd have to forgive him, and if he forgave Michael, how was he supposed to haunt him?

Gabriel blew out his breath.  Michael was a bossy, old pain‑in‑the‑trousers.  Even so, Gabriel had to admit he didn't want Michael to suffer.  He, himself, had suffered back on earth because he hadn't been able to breathe or shout or play the way the healthy kids had.  Even Michael didn't deserve that.

"Maybe when I'm haunting Michael, I can whisper something in his ear about all that love stuff you said," he conceded grudgingly.

"You would do that?  For Michael?"

Gabriel scowled.  She wasn't going to get all sappy on him, was she?

"Yeah, I reckon."

"Gabriel, if you were to act as Michael's spirit guardian, and help him learn to love, God would be most pleased."

He eyed her warily.  "You mean I wouldn't be punished for calling him names?"

"God doesn't punish.  God forgives."   

Gabriel snorted.  He knew better than that.  In fact, all of Blue Thunder knew better, thanks to his pa. 

"Look, ma'am, I don't mean any disrespect or anything, but I read my Bible lessons.  I mean, I read most of them," he added, hastily correcting the old lie.  "God can be very wrathful."

At this declaration, all of heaven began winking and trilling, as if he'd just made a great joke.

"Gabriel," the angel said gently, "I assure you, you will not be punished.  An angel's home is in heaven.  You'll be staying here with me."

"What?"  For a moment, he was so stunned he could only gape.  "You mean I have to sit around on a cloud and play a harp until Judgment Day?"  And yet she'd said he wouldn't be punished!

"Angels only play harps when they're not helping God.  And believe me, God has a lot for us to do.  When we're not busy making stars, or seeding wildflowers, or painting sunsets, God often sends us into the past or the future so a wrong can be righted.  Sometimes we even fly to other worlds, like the people from the future ‑‑ called astronauts ‑‑ who visit the moon."

"The moon?"  Gabriel's eyes bugged out.  "Jeepers!" 

"But mostly, " the angel continued, "God asks us to stay close to the earth so we can help people. Animals, too."

Gabriel brightened.  If animals were involved, maybe this angel business wouldn't be so bad.  The way he understood it, ghosts were stuck on earth, in the same place, for all eternity.   That meant they didn't get to go time‑hopping. Angels, apparently, could visit Camelot, Egypt, or ancient Rome. And they didn't have to wait for the future to come to them.  They could go meet gladiators one day and pay a call on some astronaut-folks the next!

"Okay."  Gabriel grinned, his mind made up.  "Send me back.  I'll talk some sense into Michael, get that over with, and then I'll fly to the moon."

Something suspiciously like mirth glimmered in the angel's eyes. "Michael is well‑known here in heaven for his stubborn nature."

"I'll bet," Gabriel commiserated.  "He can be a real stinker, that’s for sure.  But I'm an angel, right?  And angels can do anything."

"Not exactly.  You're an angel in training."

Gabriel pressed his lips together.  He should have known there'd be a catch.

"Also, angels must work within strict guidelines.  We are forbidden to interfere with human free will.   That means if Michael ignores your advice, you are not permitted to overrule his choice or stop him from experiencing the effect it will have on his life, no matter how painful that might be.  All you can do is remind him there's a better way, a loving way, and keep encouraging him to take it."

Gabriel sniffed.  "Well, my brother's not stupid, you know."

"No.  Michael is very wise ‑‑ when he chooses to listen."  

The angel tilted her head, and Gabriel had the distinct impression she was listening to something, even though he couldn't hear anything unusual above all that clinky, plinky chiming noises. 

"Gabriel, to reward you for your willingness to help your brother, God has a surprise for you."

"She does?"  Gabriel looked around eagerly, wondering where God could be.  "What kind of surprise?"

A joyous bark answered his question.

Gabriel caught his breath.  A ball of light materialized above a neighboring cloud.   Four points of brightness touched down, anchoring the sphere like legs, and then a long, lean body began to take form, culminating in an exuberant hind end. 

At last, Gabriel could recognize his long‑lost best friend.  Standing splay‑legged in all his otherworldly glory, Goober looked as spry as a pup.  His blind eye, jutting bones, crooked legs ‑‑ all the infirmities he'd ever suffered – were completely gone, healed by the grace of God.  Even the graying fur Gabriel remembered so well had become white and lustrous again --  although God had turned Goober's black spots into silvery spangles. 

Gabriel blinked back tears.  "I never thought I'd ever see you again, Goob.  Leastways, not in heaven."

The hound loosed another happy bark and launched himself into Gabriel's arms.  Nearly bowled off his cloud, Gabriel shrieked with laughter, unused to the shivery sensation of a ghost dog's tongue, licking his cheek.

The angel chuckled.  "Goober has been most impatient for your reunion, Gabriel.  It is customary for an Angel‑in‑Training to have a helpmate, someone who has been in heaven long enough to know the Do's and Don'ts, especially on earth. Besides, Goober has a mission of his own down below, and his time to complete it is fast running out."

"It is?"  Gabriel gazed in some concern at his friend. 

Goober snorted. 

"Goober has been chosen by God for a very high honor," the angel said solemnly.  "It will become Goober's job to help lost pets find their human companions again."

"Bully for you, Goober!"

The hound beamed.

"However," the angel continued, "Goober isn't quite ready to fill such big shoes ‑‑ er, paws ‑‑ yet.  That is why he must return with you to the earth plane.  He has a lesson to learn."

Gabriel's brows furrowed.  He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.  It smacked of schooling, like the three R’s.  "What kind of lesson?" he demanded suspiciously.

"He must learn to love all of God's creatures."

Goober growled ominously. 

Gabriel was appalled. "You mean cats?"

"Most especially cats."

Gabriel exchanged a sympathetic look with his dog.

"If Goober cannot learn to love all of God's creatures," the angel continued, directing her warning at the hound, "he will then have to return to earth to experience the nine lives of cathood."

Goober yiked.

"Sheesh."  Gabriel couldn't think of a fate worse than that.  Even playing a harp until the end of time paled by comparison.  "Don't you worry, Goob.”  He draped an arm around his friend's shoulders.  "You're not going to become some smelly, old cat.  I'll help you."

A pair of dimples betrayed the angel's humor.  "That is most gracious of you, Gabriel."

He nodded, but his mind was already streaking ahead, conceiving of all the possibilities of angelhood.  "Just think, Goob.  You and me can go visit King Arthur, or climb a pyramid, or ride the Trojan horse!  It'll be just like old times, only better, 'cause we won't be pretending outta books any more.  We'll be doing the real thing!"

Goober pranced, ready to bound off the cloud and get started.  Unfortunately, a more sobering notion detained Gabriel.  He turned back to the angel.

"Uh...ma'am?  Do I have to meet kings, gladiators, astronauts, and such in my … uh ..."  He fidgeted.  If Angels-in-Training could blush, he was pretty sure he was doing it.  "In my underwear?" he whispered in a raspy rush.

Unlike the rest of the eavesdropping cosmos, the angel had the good grace not to giggle.

"An angel can change its appearance at will, Gabriel. Thus, you'll be ready to handle any circumstance.  That's just one of many advantages angels have over ghosts."

He sighed with relief.  "I’m sure glad I'm not a ghost then, ma'am."

"As am I, child."

Gabriel stilled.  Something about the way she'd said "child" brought back a vague memory, something from his earliest years, when his mama would tuck him in and hum a dreamy lullaby.  A fresh wave of homesickness washed over him, and he swallowed a fresh wave of tears. 

"I don't want to cause any trouble or anything, ma'am, but ... um ... I was wondering if you could take me to see my mama.  She died about six years ago, and I sure do miss her."

"My dearest child," she murmured.  "It would cause me no trouble at all."

She held out her hand, and he swallowed.  For a moment, he hesitated, uncertain what to expect when he touched the pulsing rays of light that served as her fingers.  

But Goober nudged him closer, so Gabriel gathered his courage. He stepped boldly into the radiance that emanated from her being.  In that split second, when their hands met, his soul was joined with hers.  The love that he'd lost flowed through him, and he became bigger, greater, and more joyful than he could have been in the narrow confines of a physical body.  Suddenly, everything he'd ever wondered, doubted, questioned, or feared, was made crystalline clear.

"Mama?" he whispered in awe.

Her smile was the most beautiful thing in all of heaven.

"Yes, Gabriel, my own sweet son.  Welcome home." 

To learn more about His Wicked Dream, click here.

The post Miracles: They Really Do Happen! first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

When your job is to save the world, you can’t outwit evil masterminds without hiding a few spy gadgets in your Victorian underwear.

In the immortal words of my kick-butt Lady Pinkerton, Sadie Michelson, “A garter is only good for one thing: holding my derringer.”

Features deadly blood pacts, sizzling seductions, cunning gadgets, a spooky Halloween shootout, and a shocking secret from Sadie’s past. Plus, a furry mischief-maker returns from the bestselling / award- winning Velvet Lies Series! (Purchase on Amazon and wherever ebooks are sold. Also available in paperback.)

Sadie is the sassy, street-wise star of my new Romantic Suspense series of Historical Western Whodunits, Lady Law & The Gunslinger. In Book 1, Devil in Texas, Sadie must team up with her long-lost lover, Cass, the outlaw who’s working as her enemy’s hired gun.

When I first envisioned Sadie as an undercover detective, my Muse dreamed up all kinds of wild gadgets, ala James Bond, for Devil in Texas. For instance, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be cool if the villain carried a bullwhip that doubles as a gun?”

But my ever-practical, 21st Century brain scolded my Muse: “Modern-day readers would scoff! You’re not writing Steampunk!”

Imagine my shock when I learned that some crazy weapons maker from the 19th Century actually did construct a whip with a bullet-firing handle! (The contraption gives a whole new meaning to the term, “pistol-whipped.”)

The pistol whip wasn’t the strangest thing I discovered when I researched real-world spy gadgets. As far back as the 1500s, weapon smiths were creating ingenious mini-guns out of virtually any material. For instance:

Door Keys (So you could eliminate eavesdropping chambermaids?) Fish Hooks (Inspired by the trout who refused to die?) Signet Finger Rings (So you could sign your name in blood?)Shoulder Suspenders (For the killer whose big belly blocks the “buckle gun?”) Pocket watches (For the nuisance whose time has come!)

But my favorite lethal gizmo is the one I saw in a TV Western, where an assassin was disguised as a padre. In my innocence, I thought that some crazy screenwriter, who’d sniffed one too many inkwells, had imagined the “Crucifix Gun” on the padre’s rosary.

Nope.

In Devil in Texas, Sadie makes great use of smoke bombs, disguised as buttons. She also wears a bullet proof vest. (In the 1880s, Luke Short, a famous gambler-turned-gunfighter, inspired the bullet-proof vest when a silk handkerchief, wadded in his breast pocket, stopped a bullet.)

Not to be outdone, Cass carries his own brand of cunning gadgetry. Dubbed “Coyote Cass” for his skill at eluding capture, Cass hides 3 lock picks in his clothing and enough fire power to “blast his way out of Hades.” He also conceals a pop-out knife in his boot toe and a buckle-blade that can be “unsheathed” from his belt.

But writing Sadie-and-Cass scenes is even more fun than inventing gadgets. Their dialogue is hilarious. When I write, I hear them sparring in my head. Sometimes I feel like I’m taking rapid-fire dictation! For a sneak peek of their battle of wits, check out the excerpt below from Devil in Texas.

To see pictures of the cool spy gadgets from my research, visit my Pinterest page. 

Romance Writing Courses Online: Learn the Secret Romance Plot Formula from a #1 Bestselling, Award-Winning Author!The post Victorian Spy Gadgets for a Kick-Butt Pinkerton Heroine first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

Researching Old West lawmen for my Wild Texas Nights series was a real hoot. I learned that Texas Rangers adhere to a VERY strict dress code:

They can only wear white or gray cowboy hats. (That’s right. No black Stetsons for the good guys.)They MUST pin their badges over their hearts. (Many a Ranger’s noble tin star has stopped a bullet and saved a lawman.) And -- get this – modern-day Rangers still track and collar livestock rustlers! (Apparently, emu thefts have been on the rise in the Austin area.)

Now I know that rustling isn’t funny to modern-day Texas cowboys (emu boys?), who lose hundreds of thousands of U.S. dollars in livestock every year. But the idea of emu-rustling makes me snicker: can you picture a big, brawny, pistol-packing Ranger, rounding up a giant bird that looks like an ostrich with orange eyes? (Bigfoot Wallace – a famous Texas Ranger from the Old West – is probably rolling in his grave.)

I get lots of email from folks about my characters from Wild Texas Nights. The biggest debate appears to be which of the heroes is more lovable: Cord Rawlins (U.S. Deputy Marshal from Texas Outlaw); Wes Rawlins (Texas Ranger from Texas Lover); or Zack Rawlins (Cowboy from Texas Wildcat.)

I probably shouldn’t confess that I have a favorite Rawlins brother. (I mean, they’re ALL children whom I slaved to give birth to, know what I mean?) But one of them sings. AND cooks. AND has red hair.

So I’m a goner for that one, natch.

Here’s an excerpt, featuring my favorite Rawlins brother in all his rascally charm.  

Excerpt

Texas Lover

Book 2, Wild Texas Nights

© By Adrienne deWolfe

After a resigned inspection of her patched-up calico skirt, Rorie blew out her lamp and headed down the stairs. She avoided the creaking floorboard in the dining room, more out of habit than necessity, but the sound of voices stopped her near the kitchen door.

"You got that batter stirred up, Topher?"

"Yeah, but..." The nine-year-old sounded mutinous. "I don't see why we got to do it. Men don't cook. That's women's work."

Wes's chuckle floated out to her. "And just who do you think cooks for the cattlemen, Rangers, and buffalo hunters when there aren't any womenfolk on the trail?"

A traitorous smile stole across Rorie’s face.

She edged forward, her footsteps muffled by the rattle of pans, and furtively poked her head around the corner. What she saw left her choking on amusement.

The kitchen was in shambles. A bucket had been overturned beneath the sink, and one of the window curtains was twisted and wrinkled as if a small hand had grabbed it, probably to haul Topher up onto the sideboard to steal cookies. That hypothesis would explain why a cookie tin lay beneath a bench.

The picture grew more comical. On the table, nestled between little mountains of flour, were several discarded egg shells, each dripping the last of their remains into the powdery residue sprinkled across the floor. In fact, flour seemed to be everywhere. It decorated the milk pitcher in the imprint of a large masculine hand; it made Topher look like a ghost—or rather a raccoon, since his big blue eyes stared out from a pasty mask. The flour storm had also blown into the crevices of Wes's rolled-up sleeves and rained down on his hair, giving him a sort of confectioner's halo.

Rorie clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle when he brushed a rakish curl off his forehead, leaving a smear of white in its place. Then he began sweeping the flour mounds off the table with his forearm into a bowl.

Topher's brows furrowed, dribbling a few flakes of flour into the batter he was stirring. "Just what are slabberdabs, anyway?"

With a deft flick of his wrist, Wes broke an egg into his bowl. "Why, they're my pa's prized trail flapjacks. Pa passed the secret on to my brother, Cord, and Cord passed it on to Zack and me. Now I'm letting you in on the recipe. It's a time-honored tradition, son, and no women can ever know about it."

He fixed Topher with a stern stare. "You're going to have to take a pinky oath."

Topher's eyes nearly bugged out. "Gee, that's serious!"

This time, Rorie clapped both hands to her mouth as Wes nodded gravely.

"Do you hereby swear to take to your grave the Rawlins brothers' secret slabberdab recipe?"

Topher linked his smallest finger with Wes's. "Ain't no woman going to pry it out of me until the worms eat out my eyeballs."

Rorie's mirth lodged in her throat when she heard a footstep behind her. She turned guiltily, blushing to think that one of the other orphans had caught her eavesdropping. Instead she recognized the squat, round form of Ginevee. Rorie hastily pressed a finger to her lips, grinning as she beckoned her friend closer.

Meanwhile, Topher was standing on a chair, straining to get a better view of Wes's bowl. "Whatcha got in there? Another secret recipe?"

"Naw. Just some biscuits. I could be making huckydummy, though, if I had raisins."

"We got raisins," Topher said brightly. Jumping back down to the floor, he blazed a trail through the flour drifts and stood on tiptoe to haul a tin container down from the shelves. "How many raisins you need?" he called as the metal lid clattered onto the floor.

"Well," Wes said thoughtfully, raising his spoon and watching the batter plop back into the bowl. "We got eight hungry people coming to breakfast, and I reckon they'll want at least two biscuits each. I figure we'll need about ten raisins per person; so how many does that make, Topher?"

The enthusiasm on Topher's face dwindled to confusion. "I don't know." He scowled. "Sixteen?"

Ginevee nudged Rorie as if to say, "That boy hasn't been doing his multiplication tables." Rorie shrugged helplessly. Topher had known the answer to eight-times-ten two weeks ago.

"No," Wes said gently. "Try again. Eight tens are how many?"

Topher's chin jutted. "I ain't any good at numbers."

"You want to know a secret?" Wes winked. "I'm not either."

The tenseness eased from Topher's shoulders. "You're not?"

"Nope. That's why I made up a song to help me. Want to hear it?"

Topher nodded eagerly. Grinning, Wes sang:

Grisly's in the honeycomb,

Queen bee, she's a bawlin',

Hound dog treed a cougar cat,

and kitty's up there squallin'.

In spite of Wes's total disregard for pitch, Rorie recognized the tune because it belonged to a childhood game she had played in Cincinnati. Wes had taken liberty with the lyrics, though. Either that or he was yodeling the Texas version, because she couldn't remember singing about grizzly bears or cougars in Ohio.

Grinning from ear to ear, Topher threw back his head and helped Wes finish the refrain:

Ten times 5 is 50, ten times 6 is 60;

Ten times 7 is 70, ten times 8 is 80.

The combination of squeaky soprano and rusty baritone was so awful, so wonderfully blessed awful, that Rorie couldn't help herself. She snickered.

Ginevee, who was the county's uncontested fiddle-playing champion, covered her ears and did the same.

The next thing Rorie knew, the two of them were howling with mirth, clutching their sides, and staggering against the wall for support.

"Uh oh," Topher warned in a mortified whisper. "Women!"

Romance Writing Courses: 50 Ways to Give Your Romance Hero Sex Appeal. Learn how to write sexual tension and love scenes from a #1 Bestselling, Award-Winning Author!

Book Description

Texas Lover

Book 2, Wild Texas Nights

Texas Ranger Wes Rawlins has a heap of trouble on his hands. The county sheriff has been murdered, squatters are entrenched on the dead man's land, and no one can tell Wes why the sheriff wired for help in the first place.

So Wes rides out to the sheriff's farm—and finds himself looking down a gun barrel aimed by Aurora Sinclair, a spirited, young divorcée with a house full of orphans to protect.

Is Aurora an innocent schoolmarm battling an illegal land grab? Or is she a cunning temptress who plugged her lawman-lover to seize his sprawling homestead?

In this high-stakes game of cat and mouse, Wes dare not lose his head. The trouble is, he may have already lost his heart...

Amazon

BN

 

The post Sexy Texas Ranger Hides a Secret first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

So you want to play poker, eh?  Well, you’d best check your pocket watch, pard.  Playing cards on a Friday night, before 6 pm, is bad luck in these parts!

‘Course, if you encounter a hunchback on the way to the casino, Lady Luck might overlook your faux pas – unless the hunchback is female.  Crossing paths with a woman on the way to a game is akin to poker suicide.

Yep, these were some of the gambling superstitions, running rampant through the sporting houses of the Old West.  High-stakes card games figure prominently in two of my novels (Texas Outlaw and Devil in Texas) so I had a ball researching poker traditions. 

Some of these superstitions make a modicum of sense.  For instance, “Cards should never be played on a polished surface – or in the company of a dog.”  (Like I said, a modicum of sense.)

But for the most part, gambling superstitions are just as crazy as you might expect. 

Here are some of my favorites:

1. Be sure to play with a spider in your pocket. That way, you’ll rake in big wins. 

2. If a black card falls on the floor, you’re doomed to a run of black spades. (Note: That doesn’t sound so bad...)

3. Dealt the Four of Clubs?  Say your prayers, pard. That card symbolizes Old Scratch (the Devil) and his four-poster bed.  (Okay. Maybe black cards are bad!)

4. If you draw Jacks Full on Red Sevens, you won’t leave the game alive.

5. And everyone knows about Aces and Eights, the Dead Man’s Hand, right? (Wild Bill Hickok held this hand when he was shot in the back.)

6. If you’re planning to be a thief, never steal a deck of cards, or else, you’ll get caught.  (I guess they squeal like pigs, maybe?)

7. Throwing away a deck of pasteboards will incur the wrath of the Poker Gods.  The only safe way to  destroy playing cards is by fire (assuming you’ve already purchased the replacement deck, of course.)  Be sure to wave the new deck three times in the smoke of the old, burning cards. 

8.  Never scatter your chips; whistle;  sing; or cross your legs while you play.  And while we’re on the subject of NEVERS:

~ Never pick up your cards before the dealer finishes shuffling

~ Never grab your cards with your left hand (the Devil’s hand! )

~ Never let anyone look over your shoulder. (That actually makes sense.)

~ Never tell anyone’s fortune with your poker cards.

~ Never loan money to a rival. (Borrowed money can’t lose!)

~ Never let a woman touch your shoulder before you play.  (You know what my heroines, Fancy and Sadie, say to that?  “Bwa-ha-ha!”)

9.  Best way to scare off a rival?  Squint or cross your eyes.  Superstitious tinhorns will run for the hills.

10.  Want a sure-fire way to improve your luck?  Walk around your chair three times before you play.  And wear polka dots.

Sadly, Lady Luck is a fickle dame.  That’s why cardsharps developed all kinds of sneaky gadgets to improve their odds of winning. In Texas Outlaw, Fancy uses a ring shiner (a ring with a tiny mirror) to cheat her way to infamy. (The hero was such a spoil-sport. He ratted her out!)

Then again, Cord was a Deputy U.S. Marshal. He felt obligated to keep Fancy on the straight and narrow, since his kid brothers were learning how to scam decent folks, by watching her deal cards.  

 

The post Money Superstitions: Gambling in the Old West first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

Note:  Still pining for a date for Valentine's Day?  No problem.  Sheep rancher Bailey McShane, the (aptly named) TEXAS WILDCAT from my Wild Texas Nights series of Historical Western Romances, is here to share her secrets for catching a mate!  

Howdy, gals!  Bailey here. Now don’t you be moping around the homestead ‘cause some clueless male didn’t ask you to a fandango for Valentine's Day. The week's not over yet!  I got plenty of experience roping stud ponies – ‘specially the two-legged kind.  So listen up.

First off, don’t pay any mind to the prissy Missies, like that Amaryllis Larabee, who set her cap for my Zack. Prissies would have you believe that a real lady puts on lacy pink frou-frou, and totters around on stilts, and bats her eyelashes hard enough to set a prairie schooner sailing.

Hogwash.  No man worth having wants his woman trussed up in a corset. Men like a gal who WIGGLES when she walks.  You ever see a ewe in a brassiere? I rest my case! 

Now once you get the ram's . . . er, I mean, the man's attention, don’t gush and giggle every time the fool opens his mouth.  Teach that randy rascal some respect! 

When Hank Rotterdam and his twin sons were after my ranch, here’s how I set those cusses straight:

Hank: 

“Aw, c’mon, Bailey.  Why don’t you forget about Nick and marry Nate?  Hell, they look just the same.  And they got the same equipment, if you know what I mean.”

Me: 

“I’ll keep that in mind, when I’m ready to raise hogs.”

You see that?  The old skirt-chaser was so floored, he didn’t even know which way was up!

Now here’s a sparkin’ tip for ya'll.  Girly punch and cucumber sandwiches ain’t gonna fire up your man’s blood!  You want some bull pawing the sod to give your skirts a whirl?  Then I got one word for you, amigas: MOONSHINE. Serve it up by the barrel.

Here’s how my 100 percent all-beef male likes to tattle on me:

Little Miss Bo Peep was so damned sure of herself, sitting over there with that mischievous smirk and that curl coiling so jauntily on her forehead. Besides, how powerful could the moonshine be?  Bailey had tossed back a belt without batting an eye.

She raised her cup a second time. "To your health, neighbor," she said solemnly.

"To your health."

Zack tossed back the shot and choked. Fire burned a path from his gullet to his gut.  His ears probably spewed smoke. It was all he could do not to cough and sputter as the busthead went down.

Bailey thumped him helpfully between his shoulder blades. "Good stuff, eh?"

He wheezed.

"There, there. You feel better now, don't you?"

He had to squint to glare through his watering eyes. "You sure there's no rat poison in this?"

Yee-haw!  Take it from me, gals. Tarantula juice gets the job done!  After a coupla swigs, Zack started stamping and pawing so hard, he scooped me up in his arms, hauled me up a flight of stairs and . . . 

Oops!  Look at the time!  Gotta mozy on down to the barn to get those merino sheep sheared.

But before I go, I’ll leave you with one final tip.  And this one’s worth its weight in chocolate, if you know what I mean.

Do you want a man to kiss you tonight?

I’m not talking about some namby-pamby buss on the cheek.  I’m talking about a REAL man, grabbing a REAL woman, and kissing the livin’ daylights outta her. (Yeah,  I figured you’d like that.)

Well, pay attention now.  ‘Cause here’s how it’s done...

First Kiss Excerpt

TEXAS WILDCAT

(Book 3, Wild Texas Nights)

© By Adrienne deWolfe

[Note: This scene takes place after Zack and Bailey compete in a rodeo competition. They are standing in the judges' ring, in front of all the people in the grandstands.]

"You know what your problem is?" Zack ground out, lowering his face within inches of hers. "Your daddy spoiled you rotten."

"He did not!"

"He spoiled you and coddled you. What he should have done was turned you over his knee."

"My daddy knew how to treat a woman, Rawlins!  Which is more than I can say for you!"

That was it. The final straw. Zack had borne Bailey's public insults to his manhood too many times. In a surge of primal instinct, he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her hard against him. He heard her gasp as her heels left the ground; he saw the shock widen her eyes. Then his mouth swooped to cover hers.

For an instant, the barest of moments, she swayed on tiptoe. Her hands clutched his shirtsleeves as their chests collided. His anger was snuffed out in a flare of desire. He slanted his mouth, demanding an entry to the enticing wetness that lured him deeper.

The din ebbed; and the rodeo crowd receded. In that moment, there was only Bailey.  Her lips trembled open, and her rigid spine softened, arching, letting him mold her length to his. Her nipples were taut, rubbing against him with each shuddering breath. When she pulled him closer, his heart tripped; when his tongue thrust, she parried. He barely stifled a moan.

She was kissing him eagerly now, hungrily, demanding a response that every sizzling part of him ached to provide. But not here. Not now. God have mercy on his soul.

Abruptly he pushed her back, setting her on her feet. She blinked up at him, her eyes brimming with wonder. He heard a buzz. Growing, crescendoing, it thundered to a roar. Boots were stomping, hands were clapping, spectators in the grandstands were howling with mirth.

Dumbfounded, he stared at the lips that were so moist and swollen from his kiss.  He swallowed hard, thinking he should apologize.

He should have thought less and paid more attention. A fist like a miniature locomotive slammed into his gut.

"Dammit, McShane," he wheezed, clutching his searing midsection.

Without a word, she turned on her heel, red-faced and tight-lipped as the snickering judges parted before her.

Wes shook his head. "You sure handled her, son." Stepping closer, he gave Zack a commiserating slap on the shoulder. "You handled her real good."

Texas Wildcat

By Adrienne deWolfe

Book Description

When the beautiful, hot-tempered Bailey McShane bursts into the cattlemen's saloon, waving her shotgun and accusing the cowboys of theft, simmering tempers start to boil.

Bailey wants restitution for the fence posts that some low-down cowpokes burned to steal precious water from her land.

No self-respecting cattleman would be caught dead siding with a sheep rancher, like Bailey—and yet Zack Rawlins, the youngest, elected president of the Cattlemen's Association, can't resist this pint-sized wildcat with the big blue eyes.

With drought-stricken Bandera County on the brink of range war, Zack faces political suicide if he can’t find a way to mend fences between Bailey and his cattle-ranching neighbors. But what's a cowboy to do with an unpredictable woman who refuses to be tamed?

Texas Wildcat was voted

the Best Historical Romance of the Year

by the readers of Calico Trails Magazine.

Read More

Romance Writing Courses: 50 Ways to Give Your Romance Hero Sex Appeal. Learn to write sexual tension and love scenes from a #1 bestselling, award-winning author.The post TEXAS WILDCAT: Dating Advice from a Spitfire first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

Scribe’s Note:  Sadie Michelson is deep undercover, sending this transmission from her latest top-secret location. Per Agent Michelson’s instructions,  I have faithfully transcribed her 10 most memorable moments from her secret files – in the event that she fails to survive.  Be forewarned:  this transcript will self-destruct in 7 minutes . . .

My childhood was what you might call . . . eventful.  It made me an orphan.  But believe me, I’m not complaining.  My twin sister wound up as a little, freckle-faced  ghost with red hair.  At least, I think the chubby-cheeked cherub, who watches over me at night, is Maisy.  (Can 5-year-old ghosts sprout wings?) I’m not an expert on ancestral spooks, like my Pinkerton compatriot, Wilma LeBeau, the Cajun Mambo.  To ward off evil spirits, Wilma makes me wear a gris-gris in her house.   She kind of freaks me out . . .

Around the age of 21, I wrote my first bawdy song, Pansy Primrose, while I was headlining at Dodge City’s infamous Long Branch Saloon.  The ballad is about a virtuous lass, who . . . uh . . . loses her underwear.  Pansy’s tale (tail?) received lots of whoops and hollers from the roostered cowboys when it debuted.  They like to bellow the refrain while I sang:  “Purdy Pansy Primrose, now that she’s full-grown, will jump a randy cowboy like a dog jumps on a bone . . . ” 

About four years later, the notorious gunslinger, Coyote Cass (aka “Lucifire”) blazed back into my life.  My wily ex-lover wanted to hook up again.  Little did I know, the scalawag was being chased by Texas Rangers!  I should have told Cass to turn around and ride back to Hades; instead, I did something stupid.  I fell in love.  A girl like me knows better than to mix business with pleasure, but there’s just something about Cass ...  Anyway, I set out to lure the law from his trail, and the hothead thought I betrayed him!  He left me choking on his dust!  That’s the thanks I got, for risking my neck . . .

By the way, Cass isn’t the only one with bragging rights around guns.  My daddy left me his Henry Repeater.  Around about midnight, when things were just heating up  in Dodge, a mob of masked Ku Klux Klansmen tried to lynch Cass’s Cherokee friend.  I never much liked that half-breed (he convinced Cass that I ratted him out to the Rangers.)  However, I have even bigger reasons to hate the Klan.  I threw back my shutter and opened fire on the pigs.  That’s right:  I was the one who got that shootout going to save the half-breed’s life!  Too bad Wyatt Earp had to show up with his tin-star and spoil all my fun . . .

Around about ‘79, I got wind that Daddy was owed back wages.  So I stormed into Allan Pinkerton’s Chicago office and demanded that he fork over my rightful inheritance. Who would have thought that the world’s most famous detective would see something greater in me than a cowtown whore?  Pinkerton offered to hire me on the spot!  (That moment was a real rip-snorter, let me tell you!)  But since I was already a crack shot, and I had no compunction against decking randy cowboys, I figured, what the heck?  I was half-trained to be a detective anyway . . .

Then came the reality check.  Ugh.  Was God just bored the day he gave me golden cat’s eyes?  Try disguising those when you’re slinking through a sodbuster convention, praying you won’t get recognized!  Once, I did get caught. I was pawing through a scumbag’s underwear drawer for evidence.  “That’s right!” I wanted to shout, “I’m the waiter, who served you turtle soup last night!”  Fortunately, my Irish temper doesn’t always get the best of me.  And I discovered that railroad spectacles can be  tinted blue . . .

Speaking of losing my temper: I tend to throw things. Cass has gotten really good at dodging perfume bottles. Once, when I was on a strict no-dessert diet (so I could fit into my stage costume) the rotter brought me a strawberry shortcake.  Needless to say, I pitched a diva fit and threw the shortcake at his head!  Undaunted, the rascal coaxed me into a novel way to enjoy cake. We spent the next 90 minutes scraping whipping cream off the wall and smearing it all over each other’s private parts. BEST BIRTHDAY EVER!

At last count, my winsome lover has racked up six nicknames (including “The Rebel Rutter”) for his Wanted posters.  I only have one alias worth mentioning, but I’m pretty proud of it:   The Devil’s Daughter.  I bet you’re wondering how I earned such an enviable title. I’d dish the details, but  then the Propriety Police would censor Adrienne's blog, and Adrienne would rat me out to Wilma, and Wilma would put a Voodoo curse on me . . .  So suffice it to say, Cass gave me the name after spending 10 hours in my bed.  Afterward, the Rebel Rutter couldn’t sit astride his saddle for a week! (::snicker::)

A couple of months ago, while working undercover in Galveston, I had to jump out of a burning brothel.  That feat definitely ranks among my most memorable moments.  Cass had just blown my cover.  Or at least, that’s what I thought, because a container of Greek Fire crashed through my window.  I escaped – barely – by disguising myself as a tramp and fleeing for the docks.  I let Cass go on thinking I was dead.  It served him right!

It’s really hard to end this transmission now, when I have a whole Pinkerton caseload worth reporting!  How many Victorian ladies do you know, who’ve ended the career of a corrupt state senator?  Or outwitted a criminal mastermind, who uses music to  turn innocents into killers?  But to tell the truth, an even bigger mystery is looming on my horizon.  I’m worried that it might be personal.  I started getting suspicious when I caught Cass and Wilma, whispering behind my back.  Then my boss started changing the subject whenever I walked into the room. I hate to sound paranoid, but my instincts never fail me.  I need to find out what my allies are covering up, and I need to find out fast.  Otherwise, I might not make it out of this border town alive …

(End of Pinkerton Transmission)

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Sadie and Cass star in:

Devil in Texas

© By Adrienne deWolfe

Book 1, Lady Law & The Gunslinger

Book Description

Pinkerton Agent Sadie Michelson poses as a casino singer to investigate a Texas Senator. Before she can cozy up to her quarry, she must get past his bodyguard, William Cassidy, her long-lost lover.

An outlaw seeking redemption, Cass was lured to Texas by the promise of a Ranger badge. But he hasn't forgotten the sassy siren, who toyed with his heart. When Sadie proposes a truce, Cass suspects she's hiding something.

With assassins dogging their heels, Cass and Sadie uncover a murder conspiracy in the senate. To stay alive, they must do the one thing they're dead set against: trust each other.

Purchase on Amazon or wherever ebooks are sold. 

Also available in paperback.

 

 

 

The post Diva to Detective: Secret Files of a Lady Pinkerton first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

My Texas romance-writing friends congregate in packs: we’re kind of like Lone Star(buck) Wolves.

One Saturday morning, while sucking down enough caffeine and sugar to make my eyes float, a Writer Pal asked, “So where are you going to set your next historical western?”

I mumbled something about throwing a dart at a map and hoping it missed the cat.

So another Writer Pal piped up, “Ever hear of Lampasas?”

I blinked blankly at her. “Lam what?”

“The Saratoga of the South! The Railroad Boomtown! The home of the notorious gunfighter, Pink Higgins! It’s 90 miles north of your house, for crying out loud!”

Lost in my sugar fog, I was still trying to figure out why any parents would name their son Pink. (Could be the reason the kid became a killer -- just sayin’.)

Suddenly, somebody shouted, “Road trip!” The next thing I knew, my Yankee derriere was being dragged out the door by two caffeine-crazed Texans, who thought nothing of driving 100 mph on a Toll Road with nachos in their laps. Splattered with queso, we finally arrived in a sleepy, Hill Country town that boasts some of the wildest history in Texas. (How could I not have heard of Lampasas?!)

With their gift for yarn-spinning, my Writer Pals brought to life a fascinating past. I could almost hear the Comanche war cries at the famed mineral springs and the Rebel Yells of masked vigilantes, hunting down horse thieves. I imagined I smelled gunpowder where the Texas Rangers tried to stop Pink Higgins from annihilating the Horrell brothers.

However, if we’re talking true confessions, the notion of setting a love scene in a bathhouse was what really sold me on the idea of Lampasas as the backdrop for Devil in Texas, (Book 1, Lady Law & The Gunslinger.) In drought-stricken Texas, in 1883, the town was a tourist and convalescent mecca, thanks to its mineral springs.

Needless to say, I was chomping at the bit to drive to Hancock Park and view the last surviving building from Lampasas’s legendary health resort. I was anticipating a Victorian palace, complete with puffs of mineral-scented air, steam cabinets, and massage chambers -- in short, a structure reminiscent of Bathhouse Row in Hot Springs, Arkansas (where the oldest bathhouse dates to 1892.)

Boy, was I surprised! The sulfur springs in Lampasas aren’t thermal. In fact, they’re cold enough to give a polar bear brain freeze -- in mid-summer. My next surprise was that Lampasas’s historic, bathhouse looked like a limestone longhouse. It was far more rustic than romantic.

Faced with the reality of my research, I couldn’t envision Cass and Sadie having their midnight rendezvous at the famous pool in Hancock Park. So I did what any self-respecting author would do: I got creative! I invented “Aquacia Bathhouse,” which I describe like a Spanish mission, complete with a red mansard roof and white stucco walls. The indoor pool is a cross between a Polynesian lagoon and a Mexican grotto. (What can I say? When I imagine scenery, I go whole hog!)

Of course, the great fun of writing Cass and Sadie -- in any scene -- is their dialogue. Here’s a sneak peek of their rendezvous at Aquacia Bathhouse.

 

Sneak Peek:

DEVIL IN TEXAS

Book 1, Lady Law & The Gunslinger

© By Adrienne deWolfe

 

"I don't suppose you paid to enter this bathhouse after hours," Sadie accused.

"Why rent a pool when you own a lock pick?" Cass quipped.

"Is that a confession, hooligan?"

"Are you going to arrest me?" he countered hopefully.

"Not if you're going to like it."

"Then I confess. I hate to swim. Especially when I'm butt-naked and all alone."

Now he was knifing through the water, heading on a collision course with her. She glimpsed taut buttocks, gleaming like snow-capped hillocks in the lunar light. She was almost sorry when the show ended. He surfaced before her, a cascade of liquid emerald rolling off moon-chiseled shoulders and an abdomen that might have been cut from white granite. A little growl of admiration rumbled in her throat.

"Where's my pendant, felon?" she rallied.

"Reckon you'll have to search me for it, detective."

His head lowered, and his tongue slid along her bottom lip.

That's when she remembered, to her utter mortification, she was still wearing the whiskers from her disguise.

But Cass, being Cass, was thoroughly amused by the sheer wrongness of kissing a bearded woman. He rubbed his chin against her chin. He nibbled the bristly end of her mustache. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his dimples. Darling. Devilish. Dangerous to any female with a functioning brain.

So what did that say about her?

 

Features deadly blood pacts, sizzling seductions, cunning gadgets, a spooky Halloween shootout, and a shocking secret from Sadie’s past. Plus, a furry mischief-maker returns from the bestselling / award- winning VELVET LIES Series!

Book Description

DEVIL IN TEXAS

Book 1, Lady Law & the Gunslinger

By Adrienne deWolfe

 

Pinkerton Agent Sadie Michelson poses as a casino singer to investigate a Texas Senator. Before she can cozy up to her quarry, she must get past his bodyguard, William Cassidy, her long-lost lover.

An outlaw seeking redemption, Cass was lured to Texas by the promise of a Ranger badge. But he hasn’t forgotten the sassy siren, who toyed with his heart. When Sadie proposes a truce, Cass suspects she’s hiding something.

With assassins dogging their heels, Cass and Sadie uncover a murder conspiracy in the senate. To stay alive, they must do the one thing they’re dead set against: trust each other.

 

Purchase Devil in Texas on Amazon

 

The post Riding with the Devil in Texas: Crazy Road Trip first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

I’ve had some REALLY freaky experiences writing my Lady Law & The Gunslinger series, so I’ve decided to come out of the closet and “dish.”

First, I should probably confess that I am wholly open to the idea of Reincarnation.  You may not be.  And that’s okay.  My experiences were still weird – like, Twilight Zone weird.

Let’s start with Shady Lady, the prequel novella to Devil in Texas.  Shady Lady  (from the anthology, Pistols & Petticoats) is set in 1879, in Dodge City, and the hero is Cass, who’s the gunslinging star of the Lady Law series. 

For a wager scene, I needed to invent a “prize” that would coax Wyatt Earp (one of the Deputy Marshals of Dodge) to compete with Cass. This prize needed to be significant because Cass wanted Earp to place an outrageous bet.

Suddenly, this little voice pipes up in my brain: “Make the prize an ivory-inlaid Colt.”

And I think, “Where the heck did THAT idea come from?  A Colt?  Why a Colt?”

Then I think, “Hmm. Well, MAYBE a gun could work. But this Colt would have to be a FAMOUS Colt. A one-of-a-kind Colt. It would have to carry enough sentimental value to make readers believe that an American gun-fighting legend, like Wyatt Earp, might actually covet it” (even though technically, Earp was relatively unknown as a lawman in 1879.)

Painting of Wild Bill and his famous Colts. Courtesy of Dr.DudsDicta.com

“Pearl” was born in that moment. However, the idea of Pearl raised other questions:  What kind of Colt was Pearl? (Colt manufactured dozens of revolvers.) What caliber was Pearl? And where did the brothel madam (who was staking Pearl in the contest) get such a unique and potentially infamous revolver?

Next, the voice whispers in my brain, “Navy Colt.  .36 Caliber.  Wild Bill.”

And I think, “Uh . . . Okay.   Weird.  But . . . whatever.”

So I set off on my fact-finding mission. It never occurred to me that my “idea” wasn’t just a random idea, until I started my research on the Internet.

In order for you to understand how weird my “innate expertise” on guns and Wild Bill is, let me confess:

a) I know next to nothing about revolvers, and even less about their calibers.

b) I know next to nothing about Wild Bill Hickok.

Well, GUESS WHAT!!

James Butler Hickok (“Wild Bill”) did, in fact, own two (count ‘em, TWO), ivory-inlaid .36 caliber Navy Colt Revolvers, which he kept in a sash that he wore around his waist. (See photo.)

I also learned that he served as a Pony Express rider, a gunfighter, and the City Marshal of Abilene, KS (a cowtown.) However, he was assassinated three years before my novella opens. He died in Deadwood, S.D. – NOT in Kansas.

When I learned that the “little whispers” in my brain could actually be verified by Internet research, I officially freaked out!  I mean, how could I have POSSIBLY known that Wild Bill carried two, ivory-inlaid Navy Colts?  (Insert Twilight Zone theme here.)

But there's MORE...

Freaky Incident #2:

Dance to the Devil’s Tune

Book 2, Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series

DENVER 1883 -- Maestro's music turns innocents into killers. While Sadie tries to trap the sinister mastermind, Cass hatches his own plot. Now every tin-star in the region wants Cass’s neck in a noose. And that includes Sadie’s boss, whose grudge is personal. Features a deadly music box, a rival diva, a traveling "Spook Show," and a comical octogenarian who talks to ghosts. Learn more.

I had the bright idea to make the villain steal an opera diva’s jewels.  But I didn’t want the jewels to be some random necklace; I wanted them to tie in with the diva's show-stopping performance.

To appreciate my Freak-Out in this incident, you need to understand that I know next to nothing about opera. (Translation: If it isn’t Carmen, I’m clueless.) That’s why I groaned at the prospect of researching hundreds, if not thousands, of operas throughout history to find a libretto that was written before 1883 and that mentioned jewelry.

Just as I was gritting my teeth and turning to Google, my trusty Muse whispered in my ear, “Faust.”

And I thought, “Huh?  Are you serious? Someone turned that novel into an OPERA?”

I'm embarrassed to admit that I have never read Goethe or Christopher Marlowe. I didn't know the storyline of Faust / Dr. Faustus, and I had only a vague idea that the Devil appears in the tale to trick the protagonists.

Deciding to humor my Muse, I surfed the internet. Sure enough, Wikipedia reported:  “Faust, an opera by French composer Charles Gounod, premiered in Paris on March 19, 1859.”

“Well, DANG,” I thought as every hair on my neck stood on end. But I’m ornery, so I challenged my Muse again.  “Okay.  Let’s see  if Faust features a song about a necklace.” 

Yeah. It does. One of Act III’s most memorable arias, apparently, is titled, The Jewel Song, and is performed by the opera's main female character, Marguerite. OMG!!!

Okay.  So maybe, JUST MAYBE, I read about Faust and Wild Bill years ago, and my incredibly malleable brain filed these facts deep in my subconscious.

And maybe, JUST MAYBE, I was able to access these random memories exactly at the right moment, when I needed them. However, this explanation feels like a stretch, since I NEVER remember arbitrary numbers – like old Master Lock combinations. So how the heck would I remember that Wild Bill owned a pair of .36-caliber Colts (as opposed to .45-caliber Colts?)

And out of all the thousands of operas in creation, how did Faust pop into my brain at exactly the right moment?

(We can argue that I'm psychic, I guess . . . )

I have often considered that historical eras appeal to me as a reader and a writer because they feel “comfortable” in some way.  Did I patrol the Old West as a gun-slinging crime fighter? Was I a Parisian opera diva, who thrilled 19th Century audiences as Marguerite?

No one will ever know for sure.  But the idea sure makes an interesting post!

The post Reincarnation: Did I REALLY Live in the Old West? first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

Schlock.  That’s what my high school English teacher called my best attempts at poetry when I was enrolled in his Creative Writing class.

But the joke’s on Mr. Snooty, ‘cause nowadays, I’m a bestselling author, who writes bawdy rhymes for her latest heroine:  a wise-cracking, pistol-packing Pinkerton, who works undercover as a saloon singer.

I have to admit, I’m having a ball writing schlock.  (So go suck a lemon, Mr. Snooty.)

I’m not exactly sure where the inspiration for Sadie Michelson’s songs came from.  For decades, I’ve been terrified to write anything even remotely like poetry for public consumption, thanks to a certain harrowing writing class. 

To make matters worse, I get knee-knocking scared whenever I have to sing.  In another of my high-school era tragedies, I stood in an auditorium, packed with students and parents, and forgot the lyrics to my Christmas solo. 

(Did I mention I HATED high school?)

Needless to say, Sadie is nothing like me.  A red-headed siren with a rapid-fire wit, my lusty heroine isn’t intimidated by corrupt lawmen, drunken hecklers, raunchy gamblers, or sniveling high school teachers.  

Sadie gave me the courage to write poetry again – even if some of it might raise a stodgy eyebrow. My first attempts to "ghostwrite" bawdy songs for Sadie show up in Shady Lady (from the anthology, Pistols & Petticoats.) Shady Lady is the novella that launched the Lady Law & The Gunslinger series. Here's a snippet of Sadie's cowboy song:

"Then came a Texas cowboy,

A downright orn'ry guy.

Bulgin' at the chaps, he was,

With notches on his fly ...”

Features deadly blood pacts, sizzling seductions, cunning gadgets, a spooky Halloween shootout, and a shocking secret from Sadie’s past. Plus, a furry mischief-maker returns from the bestselling / award-winning Velvet Lies Series! (Purchase on Amazon and wherever ebooks are sold. Also available in paperback.)

Sadie sings the previous verse about her hot-headed, gun-slinging lover, whom rival bawds dubbed the Rebel Rutter.  (I’ll leave the reason to your imagination.)  William “Cass” Cassidy also sings bawdy songs, as you’ll see in the excerpted scene, below, from Shady Lady.

But not all of my lyrics are bawdy. (Darn, huh?)  To tell new readers -- fast -- about the star-crossed lovers' tumultuous affair in Dodge, I penned my favorite ballad (Lucifire) for Chapter 2 of my Historical Western Romance, Devil in Texas, (Book 1 of the series.)  I also wrote a sort of anthem -- or theme song -- for their love. An especially ironic version of that song, Destiny, will be published in Book 2, Dance to the Devil's Tune, this autumn.

Here’s a sneak preview of Destiny from Devil in Texas:

Suns may rise, stars may fail.

Worlds collide; love prevails.

Through all time, you and me,

Heart to heart, destiny.

So now you’re probably wondering:  Did I ever muster the courage to sing solos again?  Yes, I did!  Years and years later (in another state, under another name,) I appeared in a variety show.  Nobody booed.  (And I’m pretty sure none of them were comatose!)

Excerpt from

SHADY LADY

© By Adrienne deWolfe

A Novella from the #1 Bestselling Anthology,

PISTOLS AND PETTICOATS

 

“Cass, I’m busy. Can’t you see I’m writing a song?”

He recalled that Sadie turned into a fire-breathing dragon if someone dared to interrupt her creative frenzies. He cocked his head, plotting his strategy to whisk her off to the river.

His ornery lover was sitting with her spine propped up by pillows against the headboard of her unmade bed. Her glorious red-gold curls tumbled in every conceivable direction over the sagging, ebony lace of her night wrapper. A sea of yellowed papers surrounded her exquisitely long legs, bared up to the thighs. Those papers had lots of black lines, little bitty symbols, and tea-cup stains.

In fact, the whole room smelled like mint and rosehips, Sadie’s favorite brew. The teapot – and a pair of greasy, sunny-side-up eggs – sat forgotten where she’d left them: on a chipped china platter atop the traveling trunk at the foot of her bed.

“The sun is shining!” he cajoled.

“Yes, well, it’s daylight, isn’t it?” she retorted absently, her bare toes wiggling to some inner rhythm as she scribbled a few more symbols on the paper in her lap.

She’d barely glanced his way. He steeled himself against a flare of temper. He was Coyote Cass, after all. He could charm the rattle off of rattlers.

Strolling to the side of the bed, he was careful to keep his expression enthusiastic rather than provocative. There would be plenty of time for romping in the daisies and buttercups, where he planned to spread a blanket, pop a bottle of champagne, and practice all the creative ways that he'd learned how to use whipped cream and berries since their first wild, adolescent ride so many years ago.

“What’s that chubby, black dot with the flagpole rising out of it?” he asked, knowing full well that it was a musical symbol.

“Music.”

“What kind of music?” he persisted, undaunted by her growl.

She blew a curl off her forehead. “The usual kind.”

“A love ballad?”

Her stylus paused as those tawny Tiger eyes glared up at him. He just loved when Sadie glared. He didn’t mind arguing with the hellcat one bit. Not when her make-up sex was so divine.

“When have you ever heard me sing about love?” she snapped.

“Maybe it’s time.”

She muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “Dreamer.”

Smirking, he thought fast. The only person in the world who thrived on competition more than he did was Sadie. Calling upon a credible baritone – one that she had once described as “lyrical” – he belted out an improvised rhyme:

“With looks that drive the gals insane,

He rides them like a hurricane . . .”

His musical lampoon succeeded. Her lips twitched. Her stylus actually lowered.

“Not bad,” she conceded grudgingly. “Where did you hear that? From Wilma’s piano player?”

“Hell, no. I made it up.”

“You did not.”

“I did too!”

She hiked a challenging eyebrow. “Right here? On the spot?”

“Damn straight! Wanna hear another?”

Hooking his thumbs over his gun belt, he swaggered around the room, acting adorable.

“He rides like greased lightning atop his black steed,

The handsome young Ranger, renowned for good deeds,

To rescue the damsel, alone in her bed

From cold eggs and boredom and songs in her head.

Away to the river, he carries the lass

To woo her and feed her and kiss her bare . . . ”

“Cass!” she shrieked, her laughter ringing through the room in merry peals.

He chuckled, enjoying her earthy humor.  “I reckon Cass rhymes, too.”

"You are a pest. And pests should be spanked."

"Never argue with a lady. That's my motto."

"Is it, now?" She tossed aside her stylus and swung her naked feet to the floor. "Since when?"

"Since I was... uh... " He gulped. "Sun-up?"

He'd lost the use of his brain the moment she'd started shrugging off that scanty black waterfall of lace. Nothing but freckles adorned her alabaster flesh now.

"Maybe you've confused me with someone else, lover," she drawled.

She was prowling closer, all sizzle and sin. By the time she halted before him, his loins were hot, and his mouth was watering. Those wicked, feline eyes laughed up at him. 

"Do I look like a damsel in distress to you?"

"Uh... " Trick question, some lucid part of his brain warned. "You look like my heaven," he rallied gamely.

“Aw.  Isn’t that sweet?”  A dimple flirted with her cherry-red lips. "Who taught you how to lie so prettily? That Injun half-breed?"

"Lynx doesn't like to be called -—"

"I'm more interested in what I like," she purred. "And what I like is naked cowboys . . . "

Pistols & Petticoats:

Historical Western Romance Anthology

Sadly, this novella is no longer available for sale.

We miss your shining light, Sharon!

 

The post Bawdy Songs for a Sassy Siren first appeared on WritingNovelsThatSell.com.

Why do book editors reject manuscripts? As a fiction writing coach, I'm asked that question a lot, especially if my new client is reeling from a rejection letter. Most authors are baffled by the...



Read this Fab Post on Adrienne deWolfe's website, WritingNovelsThatSell.com