Book Review-Author Janet Tronstad & A Hero For Dry Creek

A Hero For Dry Creek



FUN! FUN! FUN! This is the first Janet Tronstad "Dry Creek" series book I've read. It won't be my last! Who couldn't love a romance that starts with the heroine awakening to find Prince Charming standing outside her window in a tuxedo. And her window is on her family's Redfern Ranch in a tiny town of Dry Creek, Montana. I loved the heroine Nicki and the hero Garrett (who is a trucker when he's not Prince Charming). So many delightful touches, such as the old men sitting around the stove at the general store reading Women's World! FUN! FUN! FUN!

A Hero for Dry Creek is a 2003 Love Inspired. To find a current Janet Tronstad's delightful romantic Dry Creek comedies, try

Sugar Plums for Dry Creek and At Home in Dry Creek. To purchase, go to

http://www.eharlequin.com/storeitem.html?iid=22744

Last Chance to Win in 2010!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Her Healing Ways (Love Inspired Historical)

by Lyn Cote

Giveaway ends January 01, 2011.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Merry Christmas! A Little Light-Hearted You Tube for You!

Here's a fun video, my Merry Christmas to you. I hope you all have a warm and cozy Christmas. Enjoy the old Christmas movies and sing a carol or three. Scroll down the right column to the blog list and see that I'm posting a part of the Christmas story at www.CraftieLadiesofRomance today.

I'm not going to blog the last week of December. We're having company and I have a book to turn in on Monday January 4th, 2011! See you in the New Year!

Author Patricia Hickman & A Hurricane Mom

This is the final guest post from my friend best-selling author Patricia Hickman (At least, the last for this year!). Read her story and see if you have experienced what she did. I'll share some too at the end.

The Legacy of Hurricane Mom

By Patricia Hickman

www.PatriciaHickman.com

My caboose, my teenage son, and I experienced an emotional toxicity his last two years of high school. I was justifying the friction between us by saying that his testosterone was getting the best of him—and that was true. But God tapped me one day when I was grumbling about my son in prayer. He asked me to consider why I was so troubled. I knew why. First of all, I was afraid he’d make a poor choice at the precipice of adulthood that would take years to undo.

But secondly, and even more troubling to me, was my fear of turning into the raging mom that my sister and I had endured. My mother harbored a rage that simmered out of the sight of polite company. Her rage would waylay my sister and me verbally and physically. This unhealthy practice pumps adrenaline into the body, even providing a temporary high. It can cause a false sense of power. Living with my mother’s rage was like living with a hurricane. It swallowed up our relationship and any hope for mutual respect. I feared turning into her. The keyword, God showed me, was “afraid.” I knew that faith in Christ had taught me many things, but all of them were gained through my surrendering each of my behaviors to God who could reshape them. Parenting out of fear causes me to communicate fear-birthed harassment, or nagging. That plan had to be as foundational as my faith in Christ. It had to be based on biblical beliefs. The principle that came to me was my need for the patient endurance taught from the book of James. Next, this change in my response required planning.

The next morning on the way to school instead of nagging my son and then both of us losing our temper, I reworded what I wanted to say to him out of my beliefs instead of my fears. To do that, I had to know in advance what I believed. It changed the entire mood during the drive to school--and my tone. We were laughing and conversing rationally like two adults when he got out of the car and went into his school. By refocusing my platform and dousing a negative agenda, I killed the hurricane.

The hard part is doing that every day with my child, my husband, or the people I work alongside. That requires purposeful and specific prayer in conjunction with surrendering what I feel is right for what God expects—and that takes me back to reconciling myself to mutuality with God.

Mutuality with God is surrendering my inherited brand of storm trooper peacemaking for Christ’s desire that I follow his commands. When I do, then true peace reigns in me and over those for whom God has given me responsibility. More than training up my children to be great successes, I want my loved ones to look back on me with both respect and a fondness for the lessons we learned together. By embracing Christ’s transformational legacy for my family, I leave behind a legacy passed down generation-to-generation. That is the power of Christ working in me and my heirs.

“For you were called to freedom, brethren; only do not turn your freedom into an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another.” Gal. 5:13

Lyn here--My mother didn't harbor rage, but she married two men who were both alcoholics. I often say that living with an alcoholic is like living in a pressure cooker. The pressure and tension would build till the next explosion. But nothing was ever dealt with or resolves or confronted so there was never an end to it.

I have a calm life with a husband who wakes up in the morning telling jokes and singing silly songs. I LOVE THAT. And I thank God that He has enabled me not to pass that legacy onto the next generation.

Patricia, thanks again for sharing these four Thursdays. Your posts have blessed me. Do the rest of you agree???

If you'd like to read a Christmas story....

here's the link. It's a touching story of an expectant mother emailing her husband overseas in the Mideast during Christmas. The 12 Days of Christmas in today's world.

http://craftieladiesofromance.blogspot.com/2010/12/twelve-days-of-christmas-part-one.html

This link takes you to the first part and then you can read from there. I'll be posting Christmas Eve on Friday!

Preview of LaBelle Christiane-part two

LaBelle Christiane, preview, part two

"What is going on here?" a cool English voice sliced through the room. The clamor evaporated.

All eyes, including hers turned to the red-and-white uniformed captain. He was tall, slender, yet solidly built. His straight brown hair was pulled into a neat club at the back of his neck. Clear blue eyes shone against his tanned face. Christiane guessed that he was in his thirties about double her age. His regular features were set sternly toward the company. He didn't appear to be a man she'd like to cross.

From her Irish father, Christiane had learned much about English rule in Canada. Although the European population of Canada was still mostly French, the government had been British since the French and Indian War, a decade earlier. She surmised that here the British monitored the flow of furs down the river and watched Indian activity.

This man was the authority here and the men acknowledged it. At the captain's arrival, the tension in the room seeped away. The men around her parted, giving way to the officer. Would this work in her favor or no?

"Mademoiselle, Captain John Eastham of His Majesty's Army, at your service," he said in precise French and removed his tri-corn hat and performed a formal bow.

Stunned by this sudden forgotten courtesy, Christiane managed to incline her head in his direction. She studied this stranger more. Why do you treat me like a lady, sir? Is it mockery? Yet his concerned expression showed no obvious scorn.

With all the aplomb she could muster, she replied to his courtesy with a deep curtsey with her hand gracefully holding her worn-out skirt. "I am Christiane . . . Marchon," she improvised in French, the language the captain had used. She was no Marchon.

The barman stepped forward, answering the captain in careful French, "This Indian has brought his daughter to find a husband for her, mon capitaine."

The Englishman studied her and then the gray-haired Indian, his aloof expression hiding all thought. "Mademoiselle Marchon, how do you come to have an Indian for a father?"

The simplicity and the incisiveness of the question gave Christiane pause. How much to tell? Straightening, she sensed that the captain's question had struck all the Frenchmen in the room similarly by their sudden intense concentration on her. Yes, why did a white girl belong to an Algonquin--the disgruntled faces of the men appeared to demand now.

Tension still choking her, she cleared her throat. "He found me alone in the forest and took me in." That is all you need to know. And what would you think if I answered you in English, sir?

"Why were you alone in the wilderness?" the captain continued.

"I was with my father, but he. . .died," she replied, omitting all the incriminating details about her treasonous father's flight from the British crown and his murder in Canada. The captain after all was English, not likely to view an Irishman with favor.

"Then this Indian did not kill your father?" The captain rested his hand on the sword hilt on his belt, a silent sign of his authority, a silent gesture of his readiness to defend…her?

The room stiffened with alert attention again. Christiane wondered why he'd asked this question. Then she realized that he was establishing her foster-father's right to seek a husband for her. "No, sir."

"I see," the Englishman said. "And he has provided for you as his daughter?"

She nodded and the men around her relaxed. That much had been done for her. And since she didn't speak any Algonquin, she had no clear idea of why he'd decided she must come here and be married to a white man.

The captain studied her further. "Mademoiselle, do you agree to this then? Do you wish to find a husband here?"

At this, the crowd's tension spiked again. How odd that she could feel their emotions swirling around her as if they were natural forces. It has been a long time, Captain, since I've been asked for my opinion about even the meanest matter.

Christiane repressed an instinctive denial. Of course, she did not want to marry a stranger. But did she have a choice? Could she face the wilderness alone with Canadian winter coming in mere months? Shaw-nee-awk-kee's declaration of her virginity had established her as a decent woman, but she would need a husband to keep this distinction. Otherwise, she'd be easy prey for any unprincipled man.

Christiane sighed. "I have no other choice. Shaw-nee-awk-kee no longer will take responsibility for me and I have no family to turn to. Yes, sir, I need to find a husband here." At her calm acceptance, the men relaxed their tense positions.

The captain scanned the men. "A show of hands please. Which of you, as yet unmarried, would be seriously interested and able to marry this young woman?" There was a slight hesitation and then a forest of hands sprang up. "That is what I feared. The question is how to decide fairly who will pay the bride price that I assume this Indian will require."

"We could bid for her," someone offered.

"I find that a distasteful solution," the Englishman replied crisply. "She is not an African slave." Again, he looked over the intense, but silent men. "Very well then," he spoke to her, "This will take thought. Mademoiselle, tonight you will sleep in the guardhouse under the King's protection. Tomorrow at noon I will make the announcement of how this interesting dilemma will be handled. All men interested, be in front of my door then. Mademoiselle, if you please, come with me." He offered her his arm.

Again, his formal courtesy prompted manners from her past. Christiane rested her hand but lightly on his sleeve, feeling the strength of his arm under her palm. As if at a garden party, she strolled beside the captain out of the dim and crowded room into the cooling night breeze. She let out her breath bit by bit. She'd won a reprieve, just a night long, but still a reprieve.

Walking beside him over the rough turf, she looked sideways at him. The tail of his dark hair swung back and forth over his broad shoulders. His back was ramrod straight and his eyes never glanced her way, the picture of the rigid, correct Englishman. But for once she was glad to have an Englishman in charge, especially one so efficient. Her nerves jittered as they reached the one-room guardhouse. Had it all been a ruse? Would the captain leave her here alone?

After exchanging salutes with the guard who stepped a few paces away, the captain paused in front of her. "I wish I had better accommodations for you."

The breeze brought his scent to her, some clean soap. She drew it in, savoring the remembered fragrance of spring flowers and heavy perfume. Being so close to this man, the first gentleman she'd encountered in a very long time made her hold herself tightly together. "Merci."

She kept her chin level. She had no cause to bow her head to this man. But he had been kind. "You have been more than gracious." She waited for his next move.

He bowed and turned to leave. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, alone and uncertain. Was she relieved or disappointed?

This is the end of the first half of Chapter One. I hope you'll drop by Thursday, January 6, 2011 for the rest of the chapter! Remember to let your friends know!

Book Monday Review-Author Susan Meissner & Lady in Waiting

Lady in Waiting by Susan Meissner

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I had never read a Susan Meissner book but that was a mistake. This is a fantastic double story, intertwining the story of Lady Jane Grey and a modern woman in her middle years. The characterizations burst fresh and complex; the history sparkled with the shimmer of authenticity. I loved A Lady in Waiting!



View all my reviews

Author Patricia Hickman & Patience in God

Here's another devotional by best-selling Author Patricia Hickman. I don't know about you but I have drawn comfort and strength from these. I'm grateful that Patricia has shared her wisdom and experiences with us.

Resting in Christ

By Patricia Hickman

Hebrews 3 has as its keyword, rest. Before we get a picture of a Sealy mattress, we first have to get a grasp of the meaning of Christ’s rest. To do that, we have to realize what Christ has done for us in advance.

When my father was very ill, my mother having already passed on, Dad asked me to step in acting as his power of attorney. He suffered his whole life with pulmonary disease and then acquired Alzheimer’s Disease in his final years. In the meantime, he had a relative who had designs on the money he had saved over the years. This person was mentally ill, a violent person who had gone to blows even with her own children. When I arrived in town, I found her selling off my mother’s belongings to neighbors to raise money. I had to work very wisely to get her out of my father’s house and to get him into assisted living care. Then Dad asked me to take him to his attorney where he finalized a will that would leave his estate to my sister and me. Until he signed on the dotted line, there was a great deal of tension and pressure on me. I knew this relative would return to try and gain access to my mother’s belongings and my father’s assets once I left town if I did not put in place safeguards. Because my father’s mental condition would soon deteriorate, he was vulnerable.

But once the will was in place and signed by Dad, I could relax. No amount of scheming or threatening would do this poor individual any good. Finally, I could rest. When he died, I could execute his last will and testament knowing that my sister and I were protected.

When Christ signed my redemption with his own blood, I accepted that new covenant and became God’s newly adopted daughter. My rest is now knowing that my covenant with God is irrevocable, when the testator, Christ, exercises my rights as heir in eternity.

What does that have to do with patience? Everything. All of the work I do, because of Him, for Him, to point others to Him is a long road of work. I have to be patient with myself, knowing that God is finishing a work in me. I have to be patient with His Body because people tend to grow slowly. I have to trust that God is working to finish His work, not to my satisfaction, but to His perfection. Here’s a good verse:

“Let patience have her perfect work, that you may be

perfect and complete lacking nothing.” James 1:4

As God works my imperfect life through the tapestry of His plan, I can rest knowing that I’m secure while abiding in it. That is a true source of patience. It is the ultimate rest for every believer.
www.patriciahickman.com

What do you think of the sentences I highlighted with green? Have you ever stopped to recall God's perspective in the midst of a problem or painful time?

Patricia, thanks for sharing your thoughts. And may God bless your words with power!


The Pirate Queen by Patricia Hickman




The Pirate Queen surprised me. The first few pages made me think I had stumbled into a Southern-style Danielle Steel novel. But then Patricia Hickman waved her author wand and swept me away into a story with layer upon layer of meaning, emotion and tension, a one-of-a-kind family drama. Tender, compelling, outstanding. A keeper."




View all my reviews

First Page-Her Healing Ways by Author Lyn Cote

Here's the first page of my December Love Inspired Historical, Her Healing Ways, the final book in the "Gabriel Sisters" series.

Chapter One

Idaho Territory, Late September 1868

High on the board seat, Mercy Gabriel sat beside the wagon master on the lead Conestoga. The line of the supply train slowed, pulling into the mining town, Idaho Bend. Panicky-looking people raced toward it, with bags and valises in hand. What was happening here? Like a cold wet finger, alarm slid up Mercy's spine.

She reached down and urged her adopted daughter Indigo up onto the seat beside her away from the onrushing people. Though sixteen now, Indigo shrank against Mercy, her darker face tight with concern. “Don’t worry,” Mercy whispered as confidently as she could.

She looked down at a forceful man who had pushed his way to the front. He was without a coat, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his colorfully embroidered vest buttoned askew. From the flamboyant vest, she guessed he must be a gambler. What would he want with her?

Indeed, what would he want with her??? To read a longer excerpt, click here. To purchase, see right column. Just click and it's on its way!

Preview of LaBelle Christiane-part one

The preview of LaBelle Christiane, my very first manuscript which has never been read publicly before. Let me know if it snares your interest.

Chapter One

British Canada, July 1774

In a birch bark canoe, Christiane, the Algonquin Shaw-nee-awk-kee who'd adopted her and his son glided down the Ottawa River. She was taking another journey that would change her life. In front and behind her came only the rhythmic dip and swish of paddles. In the cramped space between, she hugged her knees to herself and pressed her forehead against her tattered skirt.

She glanced sideways into the remorseless current, wishing for time, for control. But instead, the river, shimmering with molten sunlight, gave her glimmers of the past--candlelight on silver, soft lace against skin, frosting on the tip of the tongue. But she'd fled France with her father, here to Canada and then. . . . She thrust all thoughts of the past year aside. She had to face today. Tonight, I'll be some stranger's wife.

The thought brought fear, a rush of sensation—-as if the bottom of the canoe, her protection, parted and she was plunged into the cool water. She fought her way to the surface of this feeling, gasping for air, pushing down panic. She pressed her face harder against her knees. I will not shame myself. Never.

#

When they reached the trading post on the western shore, the bronze summer sun gleamed low through black tree trunks. The two Indians beached the canoe and without a glance backward, headed toward the crude fort.

Christiane took a deep breath, reciting a half-remembered prayer the nuns had taught her. She climbed out of the canoe and heard the squish of the wet sand under her worn-thin soles. Staring at the flimsy stockade of slender tree-trunks bound together, she staggered inside, stiff from hours of sitting.

After living a few months among the Indians, she was startled that--with their beards, knit caps, buckskin breeches and colorful plaid cotton shirts--white men now looked strange to her. As she passed by, the men stopped. Their heads turned and they nudged each other in the ribs. She heard soft appreciative exclamations in French, "La belle, la jeune fille." Many of them followed her, murmuring to each other. She ignored them, averting her eyes. That much her mother had taught her. But she hurried to close the gap between her and Shaw-nee-awk-kee.

The rough tavern door stood open to the muggy night air. "Stay here," Shaw-nee-awk-kee muttered to her at the doorway. Her heart thudding against her breastbone, she leaned back against the open door, only then noticing the cluster of men who'd followed her. Some of them passed on inside, their eyes averted. The bolder ones formed a semi-circle in front of her. A warm blush crept up to the roots of her hair.

She would never have willingly shown herself like this— unkempt and with stained and worn attire--to her own countrymen. She tried to conceal herself in the dusky shadows, pressing herself back against the rough-hewn logs. Avoiding their stares, she gazed inside the tavern.

Holding up two fingers, Shaw-nee-awk-kee ordered ale. The barman thumped two mugs of beer onto a raw oak slab. Both Indians took the draughts in one long swallow. After belching politely, Shaw-nee-awk-kee passed the bartender a coin and then announced in a patois of French and English, "I look for white homme. Man who want wife."

The barkeep looked puzzled. Catching the direction of the other men's glances, he stepped around the bar and gawked at her. "Blanc," he said.

"Oui, white daughter." Shaw-nee-awk-kee motioned for another round.

"Your daughter?" The barman asked, tapping the keg again.

"Oui, I find. I keep." Shaw-nee-awk-kee lifted his mug and paused. "You know man who want wife?"

"I don't know," the barman stammered. There was a heavy silence. Outside, one of the men standing around her took a step forward and lifted his hand toward her cheek. She jerked her head aside, warning him away with a look. He stepped back.

Then a spirited voice issued from the crowd inside, "What do you want for her?"

"You already have a wife, Jacques," the barkeep answered.

"Only a squaw. I could use another." There was laughter over this.

Christiane radiated white hot shame. Going to the highest bidder? Wasn't that what she'd tried to escape?

Then another man spoke up, "But this girl's white, Jacques, a Christian. It's all right to have two Indian wives, but…" He was stopped by a chorus of agreement.

There was another lull. Finally, a man of medium height came forward into the failing day light. "Let's see the girl. I have no wife," he said.

Christiane tried to see what he looked like but the fading daylight deepened the gloom moment by moment.

Shaw-nee-awk-kee called her. She looked up, wishing desperately that she could turn and run. Instead, she lifted her chin and forced herself to walk into the tavern. Inside, the odor of stale beer and warm bodies struck her, almost making her sick. But she bit her lower lip and walked to Shaw-nee-awk-kee.

Reaching out an arm's length, the Frenchman turned her chin toward the daylight to see her face better. He then placed his hands on her shoulders and rotated her in a slow circle. The concentration of the crowd was intense as intense as her embarrassment. Christiane wanted to scratch a maddening itch in the middle of her back. But gritting her teeth, she kept her hands at her sides.

"Is she a virgin, Indian?" the Frenchman asked.

Still flaming, Christiane took refuge in lowering her eyes.

The old Indian nodded, then asked, "What you offer?"

Before the first Frenchman could respond, another spoke up, "One moment, Paul. You're not the only one without a woman to winter with." This second man rose from an up-ended log he was sitting on and strode forward to face the first.

Soon three more suitors swarmed around Christiane. She shivered at the change around her. The sleepy atmosphere of the tavern had come alive with loud antagonism, rivalry. She cast around for a way to escape.

"What is going on here?" a cool English voice sliced through the room. The clamor evaporated.

All eyes, including hers turned to the red-and-white uniformed captain."

Next Tuesday drop by and read the rest of the scene. Remember to invite your friends. I'll begin posting this scene by scene the first week of January 2011!