Aleigha Siron's Blog

First, a quick update on why I’ve posted so few blogs in the past year. Aside from not wanting to bore everyone to death. 

I love wolves – and Labradors, of course. As you may already be aware, I’m weaving a small amount of wolf lore into my present book, My Colonial Highlander. A recent research foray on You Tube reminded me of an experience I had about 30 years ago while camping deep in Yellowstone National Park’s wilderness.

Morning had arrived. Mist slowly lifted in long tendrils through the trees and off the distant meadow. I took my then Labrador retriever, Patience, for a walk. We followed the stream near our camp for several hundred yards. On one side, the woods encroached on the water’s edge. On our side of the stream, a wide expanse of grassland edged with gnarly clumps of shrubbery gave way to towering pine forest spreading to the horizon and up the mountainside. Suddenly, an animal jumped out of yellowing grass that rose two to three feet high. He was perhaps fifteen feet away. At first, I thought it was a coyote. But then he stopped his hunt to observe the intruders, stepping closer to the path, parallel to us.

It only took a moment to realize this bulkier magnificent canine stood too tall and exhibited far more self-assurance than any coyote I’d ever encountered. And I’ve encountered a lot of coyote over the years. They are everywhere in California and despite a wariness of humans, they live in close proximity to us.

Wolves on the other hand, are extremely wary of humans. They weigh 65 to 120 pounds, while coyotes weigh 20 to 50 pounds. Also, wolves have somewhat rounded ears while coyotes have taller, pointed ears. Wolves have a broader, shorter snout and coyotes have a narrow more pointed nose. All these features might be hard to discern from a distance, but up close I easily recognized the differences.

I’ve seen wolves before, although never this close in the wild. Patience (my Labrador, so appropriately named,) accepted my stilling hand signal and didn’t move a muscle other than a tentative lift of her nose to catch the animal’s scent and the raised hackles at her neck and down her back. I should mention that raised hackles in a dog doesn’t necessarily indicate aggression. It often signifies excitement, fear, anxiety, or anger. I’m not sure which emotions Patience displayed then but I imagined it was some combination of the first three.

After what seemed a long standoff, that possibly amounted to one or two minutes while my beating heart probably made more noise than the gurgling stream, the wolf turned away as though we were of no consequence and resumed his hunt. Bounding through the grass, disappearing then leaping high to pounce, mesmerizing in his movement. After another three or four minutes the wolf snared his prey. A plump, juicy vole (I think.) He turned toward us once again his kill clenched between enormous bright teeth then moved into the wilderness taking a somewhat sideways tack, surreptitiously monitoring any movement we might make.

Bold, assured of his place and unwilling to consider us a threat, he didn’t dash or gallop or run. He merely sauntered in a dismissing manner as though to say; “this is my kingdom.” Other than the grizzly bear, the wolf felt so right, so necessary to that place, while I had never felt more alien in my life.

Patience and I remained rooted to the spot. Two foreigners visiting a wild world, slowly taking root in the quiet morning light. We waited perhaps another 5 minutes. Amazingly, Patience stayed still, as willing an observer as her human guide. When no movement disturbed the trees or brush where our wolf had disappeared, we returned to camp, my heart thudding loudly in my ears, Patience glancing behind nervously as we wove are way back along the stream.

I wish I had photos but didn’t take a camera with me that morning. This was long before the ubiquitous cellphone/camera that records every moment of our daily lives.

I suspect my attempt to capture the extraordinary emotions of that singular moment fail in all regards. It was by far one of my more memorable wilderness experiences and I hope you’ve enjoyed the story.

This YouTube video, although far different from my story, reminded me of that long-ago adventure.

Most wolf lure we know is either inaccurate at best, or intentionally misleading. At any rate, I hope you enjoy the video and the story of Romeo. I’d love to hear your comments about this blog or your own wilderness experiences.

I started thinking about this blog as the result of a recent experience. One I’m still a little dazed over. Following early morning appointments, I stopped at a local Olive Garden restaurant for lunch. The waiter showed me to a booth off in a little alcove where four other booths were situated. Across from me sat a couple, perhaps in their sixties with two young women in their early twenties.

I had dressed casually for the day, but not slovenly. I’d washed and styled my hair, applied light makeup, looked reasonably decent in slacks and blouse. Some months ago, I stopped coloring my hair, and the white streak that had first appeared at eighteen had now grown to cover my head. When had that happen? Premature whiting? Perhaps not all that premature as most people start graying (or in my case, whiting,) in their forties (much earlier for me.). I wonder if the lack of coloring my hair has added years/eons to my appearance? But then, I’m not that young anymore despite my efforts to ignore the march of time.

At any rate, I enjoyed a leisurely lunch, a real and seldom taken treat, read on my kindle, and ordered a decaf latte at the end of the meal. I seldom take these leisurely breaks without fretting about the long lists of things I’m supposed to accomplish every day, and usually fail at. No self-deprecation intended. I’m a habitually over-scheduler.

When it came time to pay the bill the waiter had only included a slip for the latte. Naturally, I assumed he’d made an error. When he returned at the wave of my hand, he explained there was no mistake. The people who had sat in the booth across from mine had paid for my lunch, before I’d ordered the latte. He could not offer any reason for their generosity as they had not given one, saying only that they wished to pay for my lunch.

I’ve done this myself on occasion: paid for someone’s coffee who was behind me in line or paid for sundaes ordered by two young men dressed in their Marine fatigues or covered someone’s shortage in the grocery line. I’ve even surreptitiously slipped a few bucks into the bag of a friend or a stranger’s bag in a bookstore. You knew I had to do some kind act relating to books, right?

But I’ve never had a stranger pay for my lunch, or anything else that I can recall. Oh, I’ve had friends or family pay for meals, and other entertainments, but never a stranger. I’d never given much thought to the feelings generated when one is on the receiving end of such random generosity. I only knew I walked a bit lighter on those occasions I extended myself.

I won’t deny that the incident shocked me, and I kept asking the waiter if he was certain the people who had paid my bill hadn’t given a reason for their generosity. But he repeatedly assured they’d offered no explanation.

This incident got me thinking about what it means to be the recipient of or to be the one extending an unexpected kindness or generosity, offered with no expectation of a thank you or reciprocation. Not only offered with no expectation but with no possibility of reciprocity.

It’s funny this incident occurred this year as the year began with a head-tilt toward gratitude. It has been my intention to write notes of gratitude to people in my life. I had the grand idea of completing at least one note or letter a week. Me and my exalted plans! ha-ha

I’ve completed some notes but have often ended up writing notes of condolences and encouragement instead. It’s been a year of losses, not just for me personally, but losses I’ve watched many friends endure. Thus, I’ve written more notes of encouragement or condolence than gratitude. In the process I’ve learned that condolence notes are often an expression of gratitude for how another person, whether close or loosely connected, has impacted my life and how appreciative I’ve been to have known that experience.

Also, at the beginning of the year, my publisher suggested her authors begin a “gratitude jar.” Each day, we’re encouraged to write a few words on a slip of paper and drop it in the jar. On the days we don’t complete the task or feel less than grateful, or if we’re too lazy, or too exhausted (a more likely scenario in today’s hectic world,) we drop our loose coins into a money jar. The money jar will go to a charity of choice at the end of the year. So, it’s a win even when we fail to acknowledge all the reasons we might be grateful. I’ll admit to being either too lazy, too exhausted, or too focused on other writing tasks on many days, so my money jar grows heavy with coins! Yay for a future charity pick!

However, with every note of appreciation written, every piece of paper slipped into the gratitude jar, or coins dropped in the money jar, I’ve grown more grateful for my life. Each effort has been an expression of kindness and each effort a gift of awakening in myself. Gratitude and kindness go hand in hand. Every act of kindness is also an expression of gratitude and every genuine word of thanks is a kindness.

I’ve even learned that acts of unkindness also hold the opportunity to examine my gratitude and kindness toward others (and myself.) Those hurtful moments remind me that I too have failed to be kind at times, and occasionally less than grateful for the abundance of tenderness and generosity I’ve known in my life. When I honestly examine an unkindness, I learn more about my own failings than those of the person who has offended or hurt me.

Therefore, I offer this blog and the concurrently running Rafflecopter as a small effort to “pay it forward.” My thanks to all of you who’ve taken time from your too busy schedules to read these words. Be someone’s angel today or tomorrow. And be sure to check out the Rafflecopter:

Namaste.



a Rafflecopter giveaway

A few links if you want to read about other health benefits experienced when living a more grateful life.

https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/how_gratitude_changes_you_and_your_brain

https://positivepsychologyprogram.com/benefits-gratitude-research-questions/#research

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/what-mentally-strong-people-dont-do/201504/7-scientifically-proven-benefits-gratitude

Hi Readers,

Thanks for visiting my blog. The following short story came about because when I originally finished Finding My Highlander, it was entirely too long. I deleted many chapters and rewrote the ending as a result. But I saved those chapters because they provided an important bridge to both sequels. Most specifically for book three, My Colonial Highlander, which will be released later this year.

SPOILER ALERT!!!!! If you haven’t read Finding My Highlander already, this short fiction may spoil the ending. Reader beware!

The following story is Part I of the lost material and will set up a lot of what you will find in book three.

Thank you for all your support of the Finding My Highlander Series. The only reason writers work so hard at their craft is because of their readers.

Weddings and an Escape for Kendrick & Andra ~ Part 1

By ~ Aleigha Siron

Copyright, 2018

Beatrice swirled into Andra’s room, Edana on her arm with Isabel following close behind. “Ladies, we must get busy planning weddings. Lorne and Edana have already deferred their joining too long. Besides, Andra, the clan wishes to celebrate the marriage of their laird, as well. It is time to celebrate the living with no further delays.”

Edana dropped her eyes shyly then turned to Andra, “We were thinking that mayhap ye and Kendrick would be willing to share our wedding day? We could stand up together. Of course, I’d understand completely if you wish to wed first, as Kendrick is laird.”

Andra took hold of her hands. “That’s a grand idea. I’m certain Kendrick would have no objection. Then we will finally be family.”

“Ye are already family, dear.” Beatrice chided good-naturedly. “Kendrick told me ye are handfasted, but the clan could use a celebration and what better occasion than weddings and perhaps soon a few new bairns underfoot.” Her eyes sparkled with joy over the possibility of grandchildren.

Two days before the weddings, several members of the family gathered around the large hearth discussing whether the recent snow might further delay Edana’s father, Laird Keith’s arrival. Suddenly, a blast of cold air followed one of the guards into the hall. “M’Laird,” he called to Kendrick, “a large party approaches under the Keith’s banner.”

Kendrick rose from his seat, “Ah, good. Lorne let us greet yer future father-in-law and his men.”

Beatrice, Andra, and Edana rose to join them. When they arrived at the top of the steps, Andra saw Lucas, the Sassenach dragoon who had helped her and the girls escape from their captors nearly two months ago. He appeared unconscious and slumped over his horse beside The Keith. “Oh Lord, what has happened to bring him back to us?” she gasped.

Kendrick, Lorne, and Andra all stepped down the stairs at the same moment. Kendrick turned to Andra, “Mayhap ’tis best ye wait here.”

“The suspense will eat me alive, but of course, I will wait. Should I have a fire set in your library?”

Kendrick chucked under her chin. “You’re always a thought ahead of me. ‘Tis unlikely Lucas is here in this weather unless something is amiss.”

Beatrice touched Kendrick’s arm, “I will tend to the task. Andra should stay with Edana to greet her father.”

Keith dismounted his destrier along with a bevy of warriors, servants, and a priest.

“Welcome, Laird Keith. We were concerned the heavy snow might delay ye. And I see ye have brought an unexpected guest.” Kendrick swept his hand toward Lucas.

“This snow is nae so bad tae prevent me from attending me own daughter’s wedding. As for the lad, we found him near frozen to his horse, struggling through the pass. He begged us to bring him to ye insisting he has grave news to report, but wouldna’ tell me more. He’s been unconscious for the past hour, ’tis why he’s tied to his mount to prevent him from falling off.”

One of Keith’s men pulled the lad from his horse, waking him in the process. “Laird Kendrick?” he squeaked, “I must speak with ye immediately, ’tis urgent news I bring.” When he tried to stand, he passed out.

Keith’s man picked him up, grunting under the dead weight, and asked where he should take him.

“Follow me to my library; I’ll have refreshments brought to us there.”

Kendrick, Lorne, Laird Keith, Lucas, Rabbie, and Struan assembled in the library. A fire roared in the hearth while Andra busily directed kitchen help in setting a long table with refreshments. Lucas, conscious again, sat near the fire bundled in plaids with a cup of uisge beatha in his hand.

When the servants departed, Laird Keith turned, looking down his long nose at Andra. Was he suggesting she should leave?

She turned to Kendrick, her eyes wide and pleading, “I beg your indulgence M’Laird,” using his title to show respect in front of the Keith, “but I wish to stay and hear what news he brings.”

Before he could answer, Lucas coughed and said, “What I have to tell involves Lady Andra, sir.”

“First, drink up and have a bite to eat. Ye need to regain yer strength.” Lucas sat in the chair next to Kendrick while Andra handed him a mug of broth.

Turning to the other men, Kendrick suggested they take their repast as well. The snap of a crackling fire, quiet conversation, and tension so thick it nearly sucked the air from her lungs hummed through the room.

Andra sat opposite the two men. “Are you well, Lucas, other than near freezing to death on your trip to us?”

“Yes, My Lady, I am well enough, but will require time to regain my full strength. Due to my injuries I can no longer handle my sword, so the dragoons have released me from duty. But do not worry for it, I am improving steadily.” Lucas offered a weak smile.

After a few sips of broth and a large chug of whiskey, Lucas cautiously assessed the other men in the room as he leaned toward Kendrick.

“No offense Laird but are you confident of their loyalty?” he asked, tipping his head toward the other men. “What I have to tell you is sensitive information that should be restricted to as few ears as possible.”

“Aye, these are all loyal men. Laird Keith will soon be my brother’s father-in-law and has long been a trusted clan ally. Of course, yer already acquainted with Struan and Rabbie.”

“Yes, I remember them. The information I bring involves Struan as well. He should definitely stay. I believe I am sufficiently recovered for our discussion now.”

“Then let us hear what ye have to say.” The men moved forward, bringing chairs or stools, or leaned against the mantle creating a tight circle, as if their closeness could contain any trouble the messenger carried.

Lucas stared into the fire for a few moments. “If it is ever revealed that I have told you this information I would be hanged for treason. Can I trust that each of you will keep my name out of any further discussions concerning this matter?”

Kendrick appeared relaxed, but Andra could see the muscle in his jaw flex ever so slightly, indicating coiled tension beneath his calm demeanor.

“Aye, Lad, these men are completely trustworthy.”

“As you may recall…” Lucas folded his hands and dropped his head for a moment. “That night…after the battle, several men escaped and returned to England. At the time, they thought I had died on the battlefield.

“Wait. First, let me thank you again for the assistance you gave during my recovery and for the assistance of your man who transported me to my mother’s widowed sister. When we arrived in England, I told everyone the story we’d discussed and stuck to it.”

A cold finger of trepidation snaked across Andra’s neck. “What story would that be?” There had been no mention of any special discussions between Kendrick and the lad.

“Oh, forgive me; you may not know the details. When I returned to my aunt’s home, I told everyone that I’d been left for dead after the skirmish. I said a tinker found me, Kendrick’s man, and offered to return me to England as he was going in that direction.” Lucas paused and sipped his broth before continuing.

“I sent word to my commander, on my return. Eventually, he came to my aunt’s home and grilled me extensively. My aunt easily supported my story because of your man’s appearance as a tinker. It was a stroke of genius to fill his cart with wares to sell in the southlands. The extent of my wounds and lingering health problems provided sufficient credibility to my tale.

“I told them that the battle in which I received my injuries occurred between our troop and Cormag Cameron’s men. Of course, the men who escaped that day gave a different accounting and blamed my confusion on my injuries.”

“Following my commander’s interrogation, I received my discharge. Shortly thereafter, a friend of mine from another troop came to visit. He told me that the army, under either the Queen’s or her council’s orders, had posted a bounty for the capture of specific Highlanders from that skirmish.”

Kendrick’s brow creased. “Who was named?”

“You, M’Laird, Struan, and Lady Andra. It seems the men who escaped fabricated a lie about the skirmish and say you murdered the Colonel and the dragoons without provocation and abducted an English woman in their care.”

“What!” Struan yelled, threw back his chair, and blustered around the room.

“Did ye not tell them aboot the kidnapping and abuse of our women? Aboot the despicable doings of Colonel Richardson and Cormag Cameron? Did ye not tell them of the havoc they had wreaked in the Highlands, raping, pillaging, and murdering of innocents? Not that the Sassenach would care,” he continued, throwing up his hands. “They ha’ been doing such for hundreds of years.” His face was beet red and veins throbbed prominently at his temples.

“I did sir; I told them every vile act I witnessed. Of course, but they chose to dismiss my comments concerning the event. I’m ashamed to say you have the right of it; they do not care how many innocents they ruin or destroy, as I have witnessed first-hand.

“The matter grows even worse. One of Cormag’s cousins is hoping to establish a connection with the English and take over as Laird of Cormag’s clan. He seems to have acquainted himself with the new Captain of the troop, the few men who escaped, and their new recruits. I fear that nothing will change in your favor once this alliance is forged, and things could certainly get a lot worse for those of you who have been specifically singled out for capture and retribution.”

Kendrick studied the young man while keeping his expression blank. The tension in the room had ratcheted up several notches. “I thank ye for the risk ye have taken to bring us this news. Do ye ken whether messengers have been sent north yet?”

“I can’t say for certain. There have been very heavy snows in the lowlands. That may delay information making it to the north for many weeks. I barely made it through alive.”

“Why have ye endangered yerself to bring this news to us, Lad?” Laird Keith asked.

Glancing at Kendrick, he continued. “I owe the Laird and Lady Andra my life. As you recall, he brought me from the battlefield and permitted your healers to tend me. He allowed me to return to my aunt, the last family I have in England. He trusted me to tell the truth—that is, the truth as we determined prior to my leaving that I would report to my superior officers. He trusted my oath that I would never betray him or your clan in any manner.”

Lucas covered a hacking cough. “Since then, my aging auntie, who cared for me during my recovery, went to join a distant cousin of her husband’s family where she intends to stay for the remainder of her days. No family remains in England, and I have seen enough treachery from those quarters to last a lifetime. As I explained to Laird Kendrick before my departure, my beloved half-sister and stepmother were Scottish, and we spent a great deal of time in the Highlands when I was a child. They had family near Inverness. I thought I might see if any remained there. I hope they will accept my fealty and allow me to join their clan.”

“Ye ken that may be quite difficult. ‘Tis more likely they’ll think ye are a spy,” said Struan.

“Perhaps, but if I had the confidence and recommendation of Laird MacLean, I thought it might be possible.” He looked hopefully at Kendrick.

“Who were yer stepmother and sister’s clan?” Andra asked.

“My stepmother was a Dunbar. I have not seen any of her clan since I was a lad, but I remember them quite fondly. When she died, my father did not return to the Highlands. My sister had already returned and married a Highlander by then, but she died a year later, leaving a wee girl-child behind, and I have yet to greet my niece. I have no ties to England, and I do not wish to return there. Ever!”

Andra’s eyebrow rose precipitously. Was it possible that this young man was distantly related to Alith and therefore to her as well? That would certainly add another astounding twist to the confounding circumstances of her time travel to her father’s family.

Kendrick responded, before Andra could inquire further. “Mayhap we ken members of the Dunbar clan to introduce ye to, but not today, Lucas.” Kendrick didn’t indicate he’d even noticed her concern, but she was certain his precipitous interruption was intentional.

Perhaps he was already aware of familial connections between Lucas, Alith and her clan, but he’d not discussed it with her. No doubt, Kendrick did not regularly discuss such matters with his female relations. This was something they would need to address; she and her father had always discussed everything. On second thought that was not true either for he’d never revealed his travel through time. Nonetheless, she would not stand for Kendrick excluding her, now or in the future, from matters that affected her welfare. However, that discussion would have to wait for a more appropriate time.

Kendrick placed his large hand on Lucas’s shoulder and gave a firm but gentle shake. “I think ye have told us enough and should take yer rest. Ye are welcome to stay with my clan. We’ll talk again tomorrow but, in the meantime, we’ll restrict yer information to those present.

Before ye retire, permit me to invite ye to join the clan in celebration of my marriage to Lady Andra, and Lorne’s marriage to Lady Edana Keith, Laird Keith’s daughter. The weddings will take place day after tomorrow.”

Lucas’s face bloomed in a great smile. He turned to Andra, “I knew you and the Laird were meant to be together, Lady Andra. Did I not tell you so when you thought all was lost? Please accept my heartfelt congratulations.”

A heated blush washed over Andra’s face. “Thank you, Lucas. We would be most pleased to have you join the celebration. I owe you much for your assistance against Cormag and Col. Richardson. For now, though, Kendrick is right, you must get some rest.” She escorted him to the door and upon opening it, discovered Isabel scurrying to move away.

Busted. Andra raised an eyebrow at the young woman, “Why, Lady Isabel, did you need something?”

She flashed a sheepish smile, “Nae, Lady Andra, I was just coming to see if ye required additional refreshments.” She squared her shoulders and dipped a quick curtsey, “‘Tis good to see ye again, Lucas. I had heard a rumor that ye were here. Did ye come to celebrate the wedding?” The thinly veiled excuse offered to cover her presence outside the door didn’t fool Andra. The lad could not have known about the wedding plans.

“He needs to rest, Isabel.” It took considerable effort for Andra to suppress her laughter. “He’s endured a difficult journey and is not well.”

“Och, if he is nae well, I’m certain mother can find a room in the castle for his recovery. I’ll see that Jane attends him immediately. Shall I show him to the hall and seek mother’s advice?”

Andra smiled conspiratorially and released Lucas to Isabel’s care. When she returned to the room, the men were engaged in hushed conversation. All except Struan, who continued to rant and rail against the English.

“What exactly does this price on our heads mean?” She suspected she knew the answer.

Everyone started speculating at once, their voices rising steadily. Struan, cursing a blue streak, kept begging her pardon for his foul language, and finally, exasperated, suggested Andra leave his presence.

“I’ll not leave, Struan, so carry on. Curse all you wish. Perhaps I should join you. I’m sure I could offer a few choice curses you’ve never heard. This information directly concerns me, and I’ll not be kept uninformed.”

She noticed Laird Keith raise his brows. Okay, maybe she should withhold those expletives and assertions for now.

Kendrick intervened before an uncomfortable confrontation could develop. “Laird Keith, mayhap ye would like to see to your men and visit with your daughter while we discuss this matter further.”

“Aye, I would at that, but let me speak plainly, Kendrick. Our clans have remained allies for many generations. The marriage between Lorne and Edana will only strengthen our ties. Any decisions ye make regarding this news will affect my clan and possibly others. Therefore, I’ll ken what ye decide on this matter and trust ye to leave no detail out. I am ready to stand with ye, regardless of yer decision.

“Still, ye ken that the three of ye must go into hiding. The Sassenachs are not going to be lenient. Any retaliation will spill over to our clan and those who stand with us on your behalf.”

Kendrick shook his head in agreement. “Aye, ye ken my concerns, then. I appreciate your offer of assistance, Laird Keith. We will gladly reconvene after we break our fast on the morrow. I’ll discuss any decisions with ye then. Meanwhile, mayhap ye can give the matter some reflection tonight. We must consider all options before we act. Besides, we have two weddings to celebrate. I’d prefer this not dampen the festivities.”

Andra slumped back into her chair after Keith left. “Well, here we are, ‘the hapless five’ once again. Please tell me I’m wrong in assuming that the English will hang us. After all, we only fought to defend ourselves.”

Kendrick placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Even with witnesses testifying that we battled only in self-defense, the Queen and her council wouldna issue rewards for our capture unless they plan to use us as examples to quell other clan rebellions.”

Struan was rumbling like a volcano. “We dinna bow to the cursed Sassenachs and their allies. We will stand against their tyranny and fight as we have always done. Ye ken our allies will stand with us.” Lorne seconded this assessment, though Andra felt he sounded less enthusiastic.

Rabbie moved away from the fire. “After years of crop failures, the constant harassment and pillaging of the Sassenachs and other disasters, many clans are near financial ruin. A war will be exceedingly hard on the clans, even if many chose to rally to our cause.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“More importantly, ye ken our rivals will use this situation to their advantage as soon as they learn of it. ‘Tis a grave matter in any regard. Hiding you will not be easy, Kendrick. The clans ken ye well and any number of people would take the coin in exchange for yer lives. Times are hard and food shortages are rampant. That bounty might be the one thing between survival and starvation for some.”

“Och, I’ve heard enough!” Struan yelled, “We have always given arms in aid of our allies. They are honorable Highlanders. They hate the Sassenach, as do we. They will stand and fight with us.”

“Aye,” Lorne agreed. “But as we so recently learned, we may still have spies in our castle, and ye ken we place spies elsewhere for the advantage of gaining information. ‘Tis the way of things.”

He shrugged at Andra’s astounded gasp and continued. “Keeping ye hidden will be verra difficult, and Lady Andra, braw as she is, canna survive an indefinite trek living on the run in the harsh Northern Highlands.”

Kendrick poured each man a drink and handed one to Andra as well. She sniffed and curled her lip at the whiskey’s astringent odor.

The men raised their glasses, “Slainte mhath!”

“I’m not sure it’s ‘our good health’ we should be toasting. Oh, what the hell,” she lifted her cup, “to finding reasonable solutions.”

A fit of coughing followed the slow burn that coursed down her throat to settle like fire in her stomach. Everyone sat quietly for a few moments before Andra jumped out of her chair.

“Of course! That’s our solution, don’t you see. That’s what my father tried to tell me before his death. It solves many problems for both now and with the calamities to come.”

Her sudden catapult out of the chair startled all four men. She ignored them and paced about the room, hands flailing, skirts swishing, her speech clipped as she ticked off her ideas in rapid succession.

“We could assume disguises and take passage to the U.S.” She looked at their confused faces then was off on her tirade again, “America…I mean the Colonies. Once there, we could establish a stronghold and some form of commerce where other Scotsmen might later take refuge and establish homesteads. Of course, we need to plan carefully. I know passages to the Colonies are terrible ordeals and rife with disease. But I’m certain that the primary problems of scurvy and dysentery can be managed with careful planning.”

* * *

“Enough! Stop!” Kendrick rose to take her hand. “Slow down, Andra. You ken, as Laird, I would never consider deserting my clan ‘Tis absolutely not an option.”

Andra straightened her spine and stood toe to toe with him, “Of course, it’s an option. It’s probably our best option. We just need to fabricate a story that would protect those left behind. What good does your being Laird serve the clan if your presence brings a rain of retribution and possibly war, with its inevitable death and destruction? If your first concern is your clan, then we must leave and not endanger them by our presence here.”

“‘Tis a fine idea to consider all options mo gradh, but not that. Desertion of my kith and kin ‘twould be the greatest shame. Ye canna expect that of me.”

Struan stood beside Kendrick. “Aye, Lass, Highlanders dinnae run from their enemies. We stand and fight. We protect what is ours.”

“You are both too damn proud and stubborn to listen to common sense. What I propose would protect the clan, and you know it’s true.”

Struan interrupted in an obvious attempt to divert the impending explosion. “What did ye mean before aboot calamities tae come, Lass? Dae ye ken things from the fu…from…” he sputtered unable to find the words without reference to Andra’s secret. “Dae ye ken information aboot…aboot… Bloody hell, ye ken somethin’ aboot our future? Somethin’ ye should tell us that we might protect the clans?”

Kendrick might have cajoled his friend out of his flustered state if things weren’t so serious. When he turned Andra seemed to deflate before their very eyes. All the air whooshed from her lungs as she slumped back into her chair. She dropped her head and slapped her hands against her forehead as if in pain.

Struan continued, far more gently than normal, “Andra, ye ken information we need to hear, aye.” It wasn’t a question.

She would not look into their faces and that reluctance set Kendrick’s nerves on edge. “Speak plainly, lass, we will not refute what ye tell us.”

Her eyes were pools of terror. “I don’t remember all the details, but the Highlands and its people will face great strife and hardship in the future. More terrible than anything you can possibly imagine. I was never a great history scholar, but what’s to come will decimate the clans, especially after the uprisings. I remember those dates, 1715, and the last is 1745 or ’46 at Culloden. That date, the last, will be a great calamity for the clans and will alter the Highlands forever.”

Stunned silence blanketed the room. Unwilling to believe such a thing could happen, yet unable to dismiss that she assuredly believed these events would happen, the men looked to their laird for direction.

“Mayhap ye are here to help the clans avoid such devastation. Mayhap what ye ken will make a significant difference,” suggested Lorne. “You speak of years in the future…a decade and many more, who can say what might change between now and then.”

Rabbie’s attention riveted on Andra, “Surely yer father discussed the history he learned about his homeland—after he came to your time? That is the time being our future history.” he swiped his brow. “Phew, just forming a question about what ye may ken is a wee bit confusing, isn’t it?”

Kendrick had informed the men about Andra’s revelation that her father had been Alith’s long lost son. Although pleased to learn of Andra’s relationship to Alith, it only confounded the entire time travel issue further when she explained that her father had not perished but traveled to the future. Still, somehow her familial connection made the whole time travel situation slightly less disturbing, though it would challenge any one of them to explain why.

Jiggling her foot in agitation, Andra answered Rabbie’s question. “Oh, my father never tired of spinning tall tales of battles and knights; of honorable Highlanders and their fairer and equally spirited lasses. Nevertheless, he didn’t indulge in specifics about his family and always drifted into silence anytime I asked him for more than general details. I could see it pained him, so I simply accepted his yarns as exciting stories. Now, I understand they were more truth than not.” She sighed wistfully, her gaze searching the embers of the fire as though the answers might rise from the ashes.

“Still, Andra,” Kendrick knelt before her on one knee searching her face for…what? Solutions she couldn’t possibly possess. “Ye may be more help than ye ken, if ye could just remember more details.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t believe it’s possible for one person, especially a time traveler, to alter the course of history. As I’ve explained to you, I’m afraid of the consequences should I try. Besides, I highly doubt that the little bit of Knowledge I possess could prove sufficient to change the course of history. It might make everything far worse. It is all too confusing, really. I wish it were possible, I do. But I have long wondered about my father’s last words to me: ‘Bring them home, lass,’ he said, ‘ye are the one.'”

Pointing her finger at the men, she jumped out of the chair as if someone had thrown her. “Wait. Wait just a minute. Sit down and listen.” No one bothered to sit, and she began pacing again.

“What if my travel here is to accomplish exactly what I’m suggesting? What if that’s my exact purpose for being here? Perhaps it’s our destiny to travel to the colonies. What if we’re meant to claim a homestead, establish a place for future generations of Highlanders, or at least for the MacLean clan? In my time, there are hundreds of thousands of Scottish descendants in my country.”

Struan interrupted again. He was stomping around running his hands through his thick reddish locks, when suddenly he stopped and slammed his fists on the table. “Ye burn my ears and my mind with your portents, Andra. I canna bear to listen to another word. Do ye nae see ye curse my kith and kin with such divinations? ‘Tis surely blasphemous.”

Things were spirally out of control, and that would not help the situation. Kendrick interrupted, “Enough, Struan! Andra, enough! Even if all ye say is true, and we canna change future events with this knowledge, I couldna’ spend the last financial reserves of the clan to book passage for us to the colonies.”

Storming around the room, Struan spun on her again. “Mayhap I was right in the beginning and ye really are a witch, spewing all these blasted tales of doom and destruction.”

Kendrick rose to his full height, fury thrumming over every muscle. At this point, they were all spoiling for a fight. Before he could act, Andra stepped between the men her back to Kendrick.

“Struan, we’re not going to start this again, are we?” She stepped closer and Kendrick moved in step behind her. Struan stepped back until he stood flush against the table, burly arms crossed over his chest. His eyes remained on his Laird.

Andra reached out, took his big beefy hand in hers, and squeezed tightly. “I believe ye ken me better now, Struan. Enough to ken I would not tell these tales if I did not feel it necessary. We must plan to secure our survival as well as the survival of all those we love dearly. Ye have become like a brother to me, Struan.” Kendrick noted she’d adopted a slight burr and slipped into their vernacular in an attempt to calm everyone.

She looked over her shoulder at the other men and up at Kendrick. He bent and kissed the top of her head but allowed her to continue uninterrupted. “We have shared much. I know the things I’ve told ye are hard to believe, but we must stick together, mustn’t we? Now especially. The sword doesn’t solve every situation. None of us can know what providence intends. Yet I am here, against all probability, against all the known laws of heaven and earth. Together we must face these difficult truths. I don’t know how or why, but I believe I am part of a solution not the cause of problems. Can ye not consider that a possibility?”

Kendrick’s pride in his bride, this time-traveling lass who had completely stolen his heart and soul, swelled to preposterous proportions, enough for him to allow her continued plea to Struan without intervention. Even if he would not accept her suggestion to abandon his clan, they might be able to come up with other viable plans.

The air in the room seemed electrified, full of foreboding but also, possibly, a glimmer of hope. They sat and talked for many hours discussing all manner of options, none without difficulty, and most with limited probability of success.

Andra continued to assert that she could not have traveled through time only to be the harbinger of doom. She believed with her whole heart that she must be part of the solution.

* * *

When they finally retired for the night, they fell into bed in a state of complete exhaustion. Andra needled him one last time. She climbed on top of him, pressing kisses over his face, neck, and torso. “I think you should reconsider my original option about the colonies. I don’t know why, but I feel that is the right decision to make.”

Just as she was about to continue, he flipped her under him and entered her swiftly. Stilling for a moment he said, “No more, my love. Let it rest for a while. I will consider everything we discussed, but now I want to make love to my wife.”

She cupped his face. “You are my life now, Kendrick. Your family and clan are mine as well. I don’t suggest this lightly.”

He stopped her words with passionate kisses and a fierce coupling that rendered all other thoughts or discussion impossible until they both fell into an exhausted sleep.

NOTE TO READERS

I hope you’ve enjoyed this short story addendum to Finding My Highlander, the first book from the Finding My Highlander Series. I’m busily working on Weddings and an Escape for Kendrick & Andra ~ Part II.

At this point, I plan to issue Part II as a short story prior to the release of book three, My Colonial Highlander, coming later this year.

“Where do you get your characters?” is one of the most often asked questions of authors.

But the emergence of a character comes about not from those long lists of attributes and characteristics, though I do write them. For me, however, I need a picture of a person and usually a place setting before they start to form. I love searching for images that click. Favorite places to find those images include: magazines, people watching at the mall, photographs and paintings at museums (my favorite character-search location.) Generally, I do not base characters on anyone I know. The unknown aspects are much too delicious to develop.

In Finding My Highlander, the lead roles of Kendrick and Andra had been floating in my head for a couple of years. They first emerged from a dream. That’s true! Once their names came to me everything else fell into place. And in Andra’s case I found a photograph in a magazine while sitting in a doctor’s waiting room and Voila! Andra came out of the dark. I’d like to share that photo, but I don’t have any reference that I can quote so worry I’d be infringing on some copyright restriction. However, some months after I published the book, I came across a photo on Pixabay.com that perfectly fit Andra.

You can see more of my images of characters on my Pinterest Boards: https://www.pinterest.com/aleighasiron/

In book two, My San Francisco Highlander (MSFH,) the characters form Angel and Brian came to me before I’d even finished book one. But I still didn’t know their story-line until later because I hadn’t intended to write their story next.

The emergence of the secondary character for MSFH – Charlotte Rutland (aka, Char), that snarky, flirty, sharp-tongued best friend (though some questioned why,) to our protagonist/heroine, Gillian Angelina Adair (aka, Angel) was a different story.

I knew I needed someone who represented the polar opposite to Angel, who like her name, was sweet but strong, open yet shy, etc. Charlotte, on the other hand, needed to be full of fire and spit, quick to flirt and just as quick to smack down any man who annoyed her. She embodied the peak of the women’s movement in the early to mid-1970’s and dragged her unwitting friend, Angel, along always urging her to lighten up and get with the new woman’s image.

Charlotte fully embraced feminism and the more open sexual freedoms explored in the ’70’s and quickly became a strong second character in the story. Early on she demanded her own story. But where did her story fit after she’d suffered so much in book two? When I wrote first introduced her in MSFH, I had no idea how significant she would become or that she would infiltrate my ideas for the third book so thoroughly. But it was this image that I found in my many searches that synced that character both physically and emotionally in my head.

Charlotte is an enigma to herself. Free but trapped. A modern woman secretly longing for something far more traditional. As she disappeared into the unknown in book two it was logical she would trek her way onto pages of another story. I did not intend for her to be in the third book until I’d reached the last quarter of book two, then her future role cemented in my brain.

Charlotte’s character is still developing as I pen pages for My Colonial Highlander. Much has changed in her surroundings and in her character. Yes, I thoroughly believe that although our core personality may drive a person’s life, the events that touch them, both directly and indirectly, and the efforts they make to grow also changes them. No one more so than Charlotte as she learns the secrets of her own heart.

I’ve had many interruptions in developing book three, but it’s moving forward at a steady clip, and I hope to make great strides in the next few months.

Meanwhile, I recently received a painting which hangs in my office. This image has inspired a character and place setting for a new series set in the Regency period. Here’s a sneak peek of the inspiration for my new character, Periwinkle Blue (called Peri,) in this upcoming series.

But first, I’ll work hard on book 3, My Colonial Highlander, and the collection of love poems. Type, type, type!

Send me good thoughts and send me any questions you have about the characters.

What does one say…

to the comment: “I don’t read.”

When I hear those words spoken I’m struck mute. Dumbfounded incredulity quashes my brain and my tongue.

How does one respond to that comment, or even comprehend the mind that has never thrilled to the travails, adventures, and beautiful mystery found in stories, novels, essays, and poetry?

The statement, “I don’t read novels or literature,” must be a misstatement. Surely, no one escaped even a rudimentary education without exposure to novels. Have our schools failed so completely? Have they battered the allure of literature with the heavy hand of rote memorization and unthinking repetition until students emerge to adulthood no longer possessing a hunger for the lush depths of exploration found in reading novels?

These reader cynics must read something. Or is it possible we’ve reduced all reading to brief quips and acronyms found on social media? That can’t be right since most of those acronyms stand for several hundred different terms or phrases. Who would want their reading or writing reduced to such vagueness and possible misinterpretation?

No! Reading should always fall in the same realm as all other pleasurable and engaging life pursuits. It must absorb our whole focus. Name a topic or activity that engages your enthusiasm, and then find a novel that spotlights that subject. You’ll be amazed how quickly the text absorbs your attention, exposes your mind to new levels of exhilaration, and widens your perspective of something you already profess to enjoy.

Better yet, pick a novel in a field or genre you’ve never considered, and marvel at the thrill of imagining yourself in that environment, walking or running in those characters’ shoes as your imagination explodes.

Read, read, read! The words, locations, and characters found in novels will take you out of your mundane existence into both extraordinary other worlds, and even more importantly, into the internal world we so often avoid in our life.

What are your thoughts on reading?

Any recommendations of great books or authors I should be reading?

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to write this blog. Wanting to keep it brief yet still lend appropriate relevance to the idea of Totems as Symbols in our lives. The vastness of the subject will require many more postings.

For now, I will refrain from in-depth technical explanations of philosophical and religious analogies except to explain that the word ‘totem or totemism” comes for the word “ototeman” in the Ojibwe language, which means “brother-sister kin.” Thus, the animal, plant, or other object we select as totem(s), or that selects us, share a brother-sister kinship of spirit. They are known as our spirit guides.

Even people claiming to have no spiritual affiliations often have totems in their lives, though they may call them something else. It might be something as simple as a lucky coin, a flower that recalls special memories (such as a pot of African Violets,) or a type of animal to whom we feel a special connection (especially wild creatures.) Perhaps a certain animal or other item appears repeatedly in your life and becomes the symbol/totem messenger.

Often, we do not understand their relevance or the message their presence brings. The significance may emerge over time to reveal a deeper meaning or may simply remain a thing that brings peacefulness when encountered.

Personally, I have several totems. Their presence and relevance might change based on any number of circumstances. One of my totems is the butterfly. Anyone who knows me well, knows I have an affinity with these creatures. Butterflies are powerful symbols representing life, change, endurance, resurrection or transformation. Some old-world symbolism references considered butterflies spirits of the dead delivering messages to the living.

In my life, they’ve been known to birth in my apartment, land on me while standing still, and in other situations, and even die in mass on the outside wall of my home. That event was transformative in that I moved shortly thereafter. Yes, there was a scientific reason for that event, but no less significantly spooky and one I decided not to ignore.

Their mythological significance in my life is still being revealed to me, but I believe they always carry the transformative message of hope. So, I’m calling on my butterfly totems to aid in the transformation of my current story. Only partially joking!

As I write this blog, I realize I haven’t incorporated a butterfly in any of my stories…yet. That will change in the future, probably in my next series.

Symbolism adds depth, mystery, and always some elemental truth to the story, plot, characters, and foreshadowing of a story. Every writer relies on symbolism, myth, and totems that, when viewed under the story’s structure, reveals something about the characters or the setting. They are the symbol that might bind a group together. As a writer, they speak to you, they speak to your characters, and when really working, they speak to the reader. In each incident, the message will be specific to the observer, and will always reveal a hidden truth. They represent the act of taking something from shadows into light.

I’d love to hear your views on this topic. What are the totems in your life?

Spoiler Alert *** Spoiler Alert *** If you haven’t yet read My San Francisco Highlander, you might want to read that book first.

“Damn!” Angel kicked at the flat tire. “Is there some unwritten law that states all things must run amok when one plans the perfect day?”

She looked at the long line of cars building up behind her. Irritated drivers pulled into the first and third lanes to pass. One silver Michael Jackson glove flipped her the finger and cursed out of his downed window. She wanted to flip him back, but what would that accomplish? Nothing. That didn’t stop her from uttering a few harsh curses of her own. Not that anyone could hear her mutterings.

The dark clouds that had ridden the horizon all afternoon now swirled overhead and a steady drip, drip, drip pinged against the roof of her car. Below her feet, a thick blanket of fog obliterated the cold, choppy waves of San Francisco Bay.

Angel stomped to the rear of the car while her radio belted out Mick Jagger’s and David Bowie’s newest hit, Dancing in the Streets. “Surely, I can change a stupid flat tire!”

In truth, she never had. Where did she insert the jack? The chances of her removing a flat and installing the spare spiraled down to a big fat zero. A flat tire occurring smack in the middle of the second lane in the center of Golden Gate Bridge at—she shoved her jacket back from her wrist to expose her Minnie Mouse watch—at 3:55 on a Saturday afternoon, with not an inch of space to maneuver around the car, offered no hope of success. There may even be a law prohibiting such an attempt.

“Why did I decide I had to go to my favorite bakery on Sausalito Island today of all days? I could have found everything I needed much closer to home.” But Angel had wanted a few hours to herself and a bit of pampering at her favorite salon while Brian worked at the Pharmacy.

The minute he’d left that morning she’d cleaned every inch of their apartment, run to the local florist stand down the street and bought bundles of pink and red roses. She’d set the table with their best linens, china, crystal glasses and placed a bottle of Martinelli’s non-alcoholic sparkling cider beside a split of champagne to chill in the fridge. Even though the evidence of fetal alcohol syndrome had only entered the medical literature a few years ago, she would take no chances with their child.

This was their third pregnancy and she’d waited to tell Brian until she passed that three-month mark. Two previous pregnancies had ended in disappointment in those first precarious months. She’d even gone as far as to fake her monthly menses to keep him from discovering her secret and witnessing his concern and regret. Although, his hungry familiarity with her body made her wonder if he already suspected. But he’d never asked or made a comment. Only in the past two weeks had a tiny bulge begun to show below her belt.

“May I help you, Ma’am?”

Angel jumped so quickly she thwacked the back of her head on the uplifted trunk lid. “Jeez, you startled me,” she said, rubbing at a quickly rising knot. Her barely suppressed irritation exploded. “Do I look like a ma’am to you? Why not a Miss or a Mrs.? Of all the…”

“My apologies, Miss. I’ve called a tow truck.”

She gave a curt, affirmative nod. “It’s Mrs.” And right on cue the drip, drip became a torrential downpour.

He ignored her correction. “In the meantime, you need to get in your car and pull it over to the far-right lane. I’ll halt traffic for the maneuver.” His initially congenial tone had turned to sharp command.

“Of course, Officer, I apologize, it’s just…” a helpless wave of her hand said it all. Angel sloshed through the puddles while her newly coiffed big-hair blew around her face in a sloppy tangle of sticky hair product. The box of fresh profiteroles in the back seat would be soggy and unpalatable by the time she finally arrived home.

It took a mortifying thirty minutes for the tow truck to arrive. The surly officer’s vehicle with its whirling, flashing lights sat behind her car during the wait. “Couldn’t he have changed the damn tire? That certainly would have sped up the process and reduced the traffic. Whatever happened to the slogan ‘protect and serve’?”

When the tow truck arrived, she had to go into the wind and rain again while the driver hitched up her car. The not helpful police officer whizzed by when the truck driver took over, splashing her with water as he departed.

“Damn, him, he did that on purpose,” she hissed. Suddenly, a gush of tears coursed down her cheeks and her breast hitched with wretched sobs.

“Now miss, it’s nothing to distress yourself over, just a bit of water. I’ll have the tire replaced in a jiffy once we’re off the bridge.” He hustled her into the truck with a string of assurances and awkward pats on her arm.

Two hours late, she pulled into the garage beneath their apartment. A typical brownstone, three stories high, with front lattice work painted a soft sky blue. A quick glance over her shoulder took her eyes to the beckoning greenery of Lands End Park and the dark choppy waves beyond. The place where she and Brian had first met, first touched, first fell in love, and where they still enjoyed at least one jog a day together.

She climbed the stairs, resolved to keep her tears at bay. This was a happy occasion. But the minute the door swung open at her approach and Brian pulled her into his warm, muscled embrace, all determined calm exploded into wracking sobs as her tears soaked his shirt.

“Ah, my bonnie lass, what has ye upset?” He relieved her of the sodden packages, removed her soaked coat while she kicked off her shoes, and brushed at the unrelenting stream of tears with the pads of his thumbs.

Around the room, Brian had lit the dozens of candles she’d arranged. Along the floor she noted a trail of rose petals leading to the bedroom and burst into another rousing round of blubbering.

He noted the direction of her eyes. “Now, dinna fash, my love. ‘Tis not your roses I scattered. I thought you had in mind a romantic evening, so I went around the corner and picked up another bunch.”

Brian pulled her into a tight embrace then lifted her off the floor and carried her to the bedroom. He quickly divested them of their clothing, and vigorously rubbed warmth into her limbs with a soft towel and heated kisses. In minutes, her husband’s hard body stretched alongside hers as he continued to croon and kiss her hair and face.

Once she finally had her emotions under control, damn these pregnant hormones, Brian asked for the dozenth time, “What has my beautiful love so distraught. What dragons must I slay to make her happy again.?”

Oh, how she loved this man. Passion had not waned between them over the years, no matter what difficulties or tragedies came their way. She still craved his mouth over hers, his hands flashing every nerve to heated desire. He dragged his lips along her collar bone, down to suckle her newly swollen breasts. With the first lap of his tongue, wet heat surged between her legs. She rolled them over and slid down his burgeoning shaft, her hands braced on either side of his face.

“I love you, my wild Highlander. More with each breath, each beat of my heart. You are my treasure, my reason, my madness.” With each word she dragged her breasts over his chest then plunged down until he filled her completely.

An hour later, sated in tousled sheets strewn with crushed rose petals, Brian’s hand sliding languidly up and down her spine, he held his lips to her forehead then asked, “What do ye need to tell me, my heart?”

Angel pushed away so she could see the deep green of his eyes. She took his hand into hers and slid it over the tiny bump on her abdomen. “Meet your bairn, my love.”

Brian half sat up running his hands all over her tingling skin. “Are ye certain? Did I hurt you? Was I too rough? Why didn’t ye warn me? How far along are you?” The last question carrying the weight of their previous loses.

It took a minute for her to interject a word over his concerns. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I saw the doctor yesterday. I’m healthy as a horse and the babe is doing fine.”

Angel cupped his face and pulled his lips to hers, smiling against his sputtering until he ceased. “I’m about three and a half months along.”

He sat up scowling, running his hands through his tousled hair. “Why…how could ye keep this from me?” He stopped abruptly. “You’re certain you and the bairn are well?”

Angel scooted up against the headboard tucking the sheet around her breasts. “I wanted to wait until I passed three months. I couldn’t bear to disappoint you again.”

Brian pulled her forward into a fierce embrace. “My bonnie lass, ye could never, never disappoint me. No secrets between us, remember? Your worries are my worries, your pain, my pain, your joy, my joy. We are a family.”

Then he held her at arm’s length, a broad smile blooming across his face. “We are a family,” his hand settling on her stomach, he leaned forward caressing her mouth with the sweetest, most reverent kiss they’d ever shared. “I am the luckiest man alive. What shall we name our bonnie lass or laddie?”

Angel laughed and reached into the night stand extracting a journal. “Do you remember our honeymoon?”

“Aye, every blessed minute.” Brian tilted his head toward the journal she held.

“Well, I wrote down the list of names we might consider for our children.”

Brian pulled her against his hard chest. “Have I told you how much I love ye, my sweet Angel?”

He didn’t need to tell her, he showed her every day and soon he’d become the best father in all the world.

~ The End ~

I’m Back at the Keyboard!!! Yay!

I’m diving back into my work in progress, book three of the Finding My Highlander Series. The heroine in book three embodies the untamed Wild Woman of the 20th century. That is, a young woman allowed to experience and express her deepest sexual and emotional elements, as the 1970’s women’s movement encouraged. Now, she finds herself tossed into the wilds of early 18th century. And that transition comes on the heels of a deeply scarring event.

The story line of My Colonial Highlander challenges our heroine to find her center, her soul, and a heart she has locked tightly away. Incredible challenges and shocking revelations expose her in ways she couldn’t have imagined in her former life.

The mythological wild woman or wolf woman came to mind as I delved deeper into the emotional aspects of my heroine. While contemplating this element of my story, I revisited a book some of you may be acquainted with, Women Who Run with the Wolves. This seminal work by Jungian analyst and cantadora storyteller, Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D., is a must read for anyone interested in mythology and how myth reveals the psyche. Especially the psyche of women. Here’s the Amazon link for those interested in further perusing this book: https://www.amazon.com/Women-Who-Run-Wolves-Archetype/dp/0345409876 Or check it out at your local library.

Since I feature wolves as minor characters in this story, (yes, animals are often characters in stories,) it became essential that I learn as much as possible about wolves, especially cubs. Here are a few facts that might surprise you.

Wolf pups are usually born with murky blue eyes that transition to bright blue then turn yellow or golden at about six to eight weeks.

The modern wolf and modern pet dog are separate branches on an evolutional line that split from a common ancestor between 15,000 and 30,000 years ago (depending on source searched.)

The primary difference between wolves and dogs is that domesticated dogs are always dependent on their humans, whereas wolves are always independent creatures. For this reason, wolves never make good pets.

For those interested in learning more about the differences between wolves and our furry household companions, here’s a good link: https://stories.barkpost.com/discover/wolf-and-dog-facts/

Happy Thanksgiving!

To celebrate, My San Franciso Highlander is on sale for .99 this week! Grab your copy quick…

A love three hundred years in the making —

After being knocked out in battle, Angus Cameron wakes in a terrifying new world with flying beasts, horseless carriages, crazy music, and strangely dressed people. Has he gone mad? When Angel Adair discovers a man in 1975’s San Francisco Lands End park dressed in little more than a Scottish kilt, is he just a confused drifter or her dream-lover come to life?

(Last chance to enter the giveaway at the end of the blog)

I’m also grateful for my returning eye-sight! Hallelujah!

I am delivered from 24-hour head-down position and the torturous

devices used to maintain said position. The doctor announced me as his “miracle patient of the week.” Meaning, I am further along with the healing than expected, which is a big deal considering my history with medical procedures. This is also due to the surgeon deciding on a less radical form of the surgery, which I also favored. Take the conservative route whenever possible.

Although, success is a relative term. My left eye vision has improved from

cubism images, something akin to images like this, with the added distortion of scattered blots of gel throughout:

Image taken from this website:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cubism#...

_with_a_Mandolin_(Fanny_Tellier),_oil_on_canvas,_100.3_x_73.6_cm,_Museum_of_M

odern_Art_New_York..jpg

Now, I have advanced to Impressionist images. But not images as seen from a

short distance, where the paintings form pleasing images with defined edges. It’s more like an impressionist image when you stand too close or enlarge it until the image, still identifiable, takes on blurred edges with odd blots and splashes of color standing out.

And in my case, I still have a few added blobs of gel scattered over the surface. Still, it is an improvement.

https://i.pinimg.com/736x/c9/90/90/c9...–

blue-kimono- silk-kimono.jpg

This image appeals on many fronts, not the least of which is the periwinkle

kimono. But it clearly represents the level of change in my vision.

I adore the following modern impressionist painting. The form, the color, and

the fact that her skirt resembles the unfurling of a butterfly in flight. Though the image,

when viewed up close, is more representative of my vision somewhere between pre-and

post-surgery, and is what happens when the eye grows tired.

Here’s the link to the website for the following picture:

https://afremov.com/DANCE-OF- ANGELS-Original- Oil-Painting- On-Canvas- By-

Leonid-Afremov- 30-X40- SKU19530.html

I wonder if any of the earliest impressionists had vision problems like mine.

Did their skewed vision lead to the emergence of a new and fascinating form of art? If  only I could replicate their genius.

But I’m encouraged, and the doctor advises it may take up to a year before the

full extent of vision improvement is known. Now we wait and consider when we might need to perform the same surgery on the right.

I must rest the surgical eye for another week with an additional few weeks

after that where I do not bend, lift, or strain. No flying, no long drives into the mountains, and limited hours on a computer or reading. All in all, good news worthy of giving thanks.

It’s been fun finding paintings that convey my changing levels of eyesight.

You may have to go to the original websites to enlarge or zoom to see detail that matches

my explanations.

May all of you share many blessings with family and friends this Thanksgiving Holiday.

REFLECTIONS ON AUDIOBOOKS

As you know, I’ve been recovering from eye surgery. Therefore, I’ve not been

“reading,” but I have enjoyed listening to the following audio books. I couldn’t have

survived the first week of confinement without audio books and plan to enjoy many

more. Since I’m not really supposed to be at the computer yet, and am writing this with

my eyes glued to the keyboard, I will not delve deeply into detailed reviews that you can

easily find on-line, but will give my honest opinion of the stories.

In romance: Wilde in Love: The Wildes of Lindow Castle, by Eloisa James

I will undoubtedly re-read this story in the near future. A great beginning

novel for a new series. Why will I re-read the story? Because although I really did like

the slow-burn romance and the characters, the narration came across with a heavy,

breathy tone that bored me to tears. However, if left running at night, when I had trouble

sleeping, the drone of the narration managed to put me to sleep rather quickly.

Considering my circumstances, that was a very good thing. Now I want to read it on the

page when I’m able to. Excluding the narration, I rate this a solid 4-star in romance.

Contemporary: All the Light We Cannot See, by Anthony Doerr

I’m going to borrow the quote from The Seattle Times: “Stupendous…A

beautiful daring, heartbreaking, joyous novel.” I couldn’t say it any better. The language knifes into your soul and swirls you along a river of turbulent chaos during World War II, while narrowed in the intricacies of individual characters. I’ve read countless novels set in this time frame but nothing that grabbed me quite like

this. The characters are flawed, some as damaged as the unraveling landscape, some capable of transcending their limits, all exquisitely written.

The book has over 27,000 reviews and maintains a well-deserved 4.6 star

rating. And, Zach Appelman, delivers a perfectly nuanced narration. No sleeping through

this one. I have a few more chapters to complete, but already rate this a solid 5-star must

read. You won’t be disappointed.

Small Great Things, by Jodi Picoult

I’ll honestly admit that I love some of Ms. Picoult’s novels, but not all. This

one, however, is gripping. An important novel that refuses to shy away from the difficult

realities of racial prejudices and the roots of hatred. At the beginning of the novel, I

feared I might not be able to stick with it as some aspects were truly abhorrent. But the

author dives so deeply into her characters and writes so beautifully that you cannot stop

reading (or listening, in my case.)

A compelling, well-paced novel from beginning to end. I’m sure this will become required reading in Social Science classes everywhere. Definitely one not to be missed. The primary narration by Audra McDonald is exquisite. There are two other narrators, but Audra’s voice resonates in my head.

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