A few western writers have come together to create a short story anthology due out the middle of March. I am pleased today to have one of the authors. Lyn Horner, here to discuss her story for this anthology as well as her novel, Dearest Irish, which recently was honored with an important award.
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Rain, thank you for inviting me back. I’m delighted to be
here and to have you on my blog site today. I hope your followers will stop by
and say hi. http://lynhorner.com/posts
Being a contributor to our Western Romance Anthology, Rawhide ’N Roses, is both a joy and a
challenge. I don’t often write short stories. It requires a whole different way
of plotting and forces one to cut out any “fluff”. I ended up cutting at least
a third of my first draft, a painful process as you know. We authors don’t
enjoy dumping sentences, paragraphs, even whole scenes for the sake of brevity.
However, tightening our prose usually improves a story in the end.
The first book I wrote was 150,000 words long, way too much!
After several edits I got the story down to a manageable level, even after
adding a paranormal element -- psychic siblings. There are no psychics in my
short story, just a case of opposites attract.
The Lawman’s Lady
by Lyn Horner
Blurb:
Marshal Trace Balfour doesn’t care for schoolmarm Matilda
Schoenbrun’s straight-laced attitude. However, a few moments alone with the
spinster lady makes him realize she isn’t quite what he expected. It also makes
him curious. Why doesn’t she like to be called Mattie? Most of all, what would
she look like without her specs and with her hair down?
Excerpt:
“Move
aside,” Marshal Trace Balfour ordered, pushing through the noisy throng
gathered in the street outside the Golden Slipper Saloon. Their shouts and
laughter had drawn him from his office up the block. Among the crowd, he saw
the local Methodist preacher, the undertaker and the owner of the mercantile
across the dusty street. Several ranch hands, in town on their day off, made
most of the racket.
Trace
also noticed the schoolmarm, Matilda Schoenbrun. With her brown hair wound in a
tight bun at her nape and wearing a drab calico gown of the same color, she
brought to mind a brown jay such as he’d seen as a boy in south Texas. When she spotted him, she threw her shoulders back and
narrowed her lips, looking down her bespectacled little nose, setting his teeth
on edge.
“Marshal, please put a stop to
this!” she demanded in a haughty voice.
“Ma’am, that’s what I aim to do.”
Touching his hat to her, he shouldered aside a pair of cowboys whose laughter
and catcalls almost drowned out the shrieks coming from a pair of females
rolling in the dirt. Trace recognized them as saloon girls form the Golden
Slipper. With red and purple skirts bunched around their knees, they fought
viciously, scratching, biting and pulling each other’s hair.
He’d rather face a gang of bank
robbers than deal with these snarling wildcats, he thought grimly.
* * * **********
Dearest Irish, book
three in Lyn Horner’s Texas Devlins trilogy, is the recipient of a 2013
Reviewers Choice Award from the Paranormal Romance Guild (historical category.)
Book blurb:
Set in1876, Dearest Irish stars Rose Devlin, the youngest of three psychic siblings who hide their rare talents for fear of persecution. Gifted with the extraordinary ability to heal with her mind, Rose inadvertently reveals her secret to Choctaw Jack, a half-breed cowboy she finds fascinating. Unfortunately, she harbors another, darker secret that threatens her chances of ever knowing love.
Choctaw Jack straddles two worlds, dividing his loyalties between his mother’s people and the family of a friend who died in the Civil War. Like Rose, he keeps shocking secrets that could cost him his job, even his life. Yet, he will risk everything to save his dying mother, even if it means kidnapping Rose.
Excerpt:
Rose regained her senses slowly. Feeling herself rock to and fro, she
groggily recognized the loping gait of a horse beneath her. But how could that
be?
She forced her eyes open, taking in the starlit sky and the dark
landscape passing by. Blinking at the sight, she realized she was seated
crosswise on the horse – in a man’s lap. Just like that, the scene in her
bedroom with Jack came back to her, and she knew whose chest she leaned upon
and whose arm was locked around her.
Panicking, she cried out in fright. Pain lanced through her jaw,
reminding her of the blow her teacher-turned-abductor had delivered just before
she’d sunk into oblivion.
“Easy now,” the brute murmured. “You’re all right. Nobody’s gonna hurt
you.”
She threw her head back to see his shadowed features. “I’m not all right,
ye . . . ye kidnapper!” Cupping her painful jaw, she demanded, “Take me back
this instant!”
“Can’t do that, Toppah.”
“But ye must! Tye and Lil will be looking for me.” Catching the odd word
he’d spoken, she repeated it. “Toppah? What’s that?”
“It’s you. It means yellow-hair.”
“Oh. Well, don’t be calling me that again. Now turn this horse around and
take me back,” she again demanded.
“Nope. We’re heading for the Nations. You might as well relax and enjoy
the ride.”
“Enjoy the ride, is it? You’re daft!” She pushed at his steely arm and
attempted to twist free, but, although his hold caused no pain, it was
unbreakable. Feeling smothered and panicky, she shoved at his chest, managing
to create a small space between them.
“Be still,” he ordered sharply. “Do you want to fall off and break your
neck?”
Before she could reply, another man’s voice sounded nearby, speaking in
an unfamiliar tongue. Unaware of his presence until that moment, Rose uttered a
frightened cry and instinctively shrank against Jack. His arm tightened around
her for a moment. He said something to the other man then spoke softly to her.
“Don’t be afraid, Poe-lah-yee.
That’s only Tsoia. He is my friend, my blood brother. He won’t touch you as
long as he thinks you’re mine.”
“Yours! I’m not yours!” she shrilled, once more stiffening against him.
“You might not want to let him know that.”
Twisting her upper body and craning her neck, Rose caught a glimpse of
the other Indian’s shadowy form. He rode near them and, unless she was
mistaken, he led another horse.
“What did he say?” she warily asked.
“He said you screech like an owl,” Jack replied, a grin in his voice.
Rose huffed in annoyance, not liking the comparison. After a moment’s
silence, she asked in a softer voice, “And what did ye call me a minute ago?”
“Poe-lah-yee. It means rabbit.”
“Rabbit! I told ye before I’m no scared rabbit.” Although she did feel
like one just now, she privately admitted. “Oh, and my hair’s not yellow, ’tis
strawberry-blonde. That’s what they’re calling the color back in Chicago
these days.”
“That right? Well, I guess I could call you Poe-aye-gaw. That means strawberries.”
“For goodness sake, can’t ye call me by my proper name?”
“I dunno,” he drawled. “Poe-aye-gaw
is kinda nice, or maybe P’ayn-nah.
That means sugar. Yeah, I like that one.”
Sugar? Did he think her sweet? And what if he did? It made no nevermind
to her. Snorting in disdain, Rose squirmed uncomfortably in his lap.
Lyn Horner resides in Fort
Worth, Texas – “Where
the West Begins” – with her husband and several very spoiled cats. Trained in
the visual arts, Lyn worked as a fashion illustrator and art instructor before
she took up writing. This hobby grew into a love of research and the crafting
of passionate love stories based on that research.
Buy Dearest Irish here:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CK9LGA2
(Kindle & print)
http://tinyurl.com/l64ctss
(Nook)
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Lyn’s Texas Devlins trilogy blends authentic Old West
settings, steamy romance and a glimmer of the mysterious. This series has
earned Lyn several awards, including two Reviewers Choice Awards from the
Paranormal Romance Guild, the most recent for her 2013 release, Dearest Irish. She is now at work on
her next book.
Find Lyn At:
