Introducing Heather Gray

This week I''d like to introduce Heather Gray, a fellow Astraea Press author. If you don't know about Astraea Press, they are a "non-erotic e-publisher that offers wholesome reads but still maintains the quality of mainstream romance."

Heather is the author of the Ladies of Larkspur inspirational western romance series, including Mail Order Man, Just Dessert, and Redemption.  She also writes the Regency Refuge series with titles His Saving Grace, Jackal, and the soon-to-be-released Queen.  But that's not all!  Interested in contemporary Christian romance?  Take a look at Ten Million Reasons and Nowhere for Christmas.

Heather loves coffee, God, her family, and laughter – not necessarily in that order!  She writes approachable and flawed characters who, through the highs and lows of life, find a way to love God, embrace each day, and laugh out loud right along with her.  And, yeah, her books almost always have someone who's a coffee addict.  Some things just can't be helped.


Hiding in the shadows just got harder.

When tragedy strikes, Juliana and her family must flee their home. Can they persuade a virtual stranger to help them? Juliana isn't so sure, especially after their chaperone threatens to cane him. Even as Juliana struggles to trust him, she finds herself drawn to this mysterious man. Surely all she wants from him is refuge…

Rupert is a man whose life depends on his ability to remain unnoticed. What, then, is he supposed to do with this family he's inherited?  His life is overrun with an ancient chaperone who would terrify a lesser man, two spirited girls, and the secretive Juliana – someone he comes to think of as his own precious jewel.

With this new responsibility thrust upon him, Rupert will have to make sacrifices – but will God ask him to sacrifice everything?


Excerpt:

1810

A duke had been cut down in the prime of his life. According to the War Department, The Hunter was to blame.

Jackal had been put onto The Hunter's scent and told to ferret him out at all cost. It was his job, his duty to the crown, and he treated it with the seriousness it demanded. Evil could not be allowed to go unpunished, and people who took pleasure in destroying the lives of others would not walk away with impunity, not on his watch.

Jackal met with his contacts in the Austrian government and found no gratification in revealing they had a traitor in their midst. It had been a necessary move, and now the problem would be dealt with. The Austrians would put The Hunter down, and England's hands would remain clean of the mess, exactly as the minister wanted.

Grim foreboding furrowed his brow as he left the meeting with the Austrians. His lack of evidence mocked him. He'd done as ordered, and they'd believed him, but had it been his choice, he'd have gathered more proof first.

Jackal climbed into his carriage and slapped his hand against the roof, signaling the driver with his readiness to depart. A lengthy ride awaited him. He would leave the carriage and his current identity behind in Munich once he arrived there. New papers and fresh horses were waiting for him. The same would happen again when he crossed over into Stuttgart, and then again in Brussels. His task was clear: remain alive long enough to claim each of the new identities and return safely to his homeland.

Sitting back on the roughly cushioned seat, he accepted what he'd begun to suspect. This would be his last assignment for the crown. He was getting too old for the job. The time to retire was upon him. The younger bucks were willing – if not entirely ready – to take their place among the ranks of the unseen, unknown, and unnamed heroes of war. Jackal shook his head. Not too long ago, he'd been one of those young bucks. Ready for retirement at age thirty-two? The thought would be laughable in any other career. In his line of work, though, only those who retired young lived to be old and grey.

Lost in melancholy, Jackal barely noted the change from the raucous noise of a bustling merchant district to the quiet pastoral sounds that would accompany him on most of this journey. Europe was a large land with rich cities interspersed with vast emptiness dotted with small hamlets. Traveling by carriage would take weeks, but as long as he could report back that he'd done as ordered, it would be worth the time.

He settled into his seat. They were still days from their first sanctioned stop. As always, the best defense was to keep moving.

****

A change in the carriage's soothing methodical movement woke Jackal from his doze and alerted him that something was amiss. Awareness coursed through his veins, pushing away the remnant of sleep. A quick glance at the curtained window told him it was late morning. They'd ridden through the night to put as much distance as possible between them and Vienna – the current hub of Austrian government.

The carriage was moving with a wildness he'd felt only one other time in his life. Dread snaked through his middle as he accepted the truth. There was no longer a driver in control of his conveyance. Jackal crouched low on the floor for balance as he prepared to throw open the door and jump. Perhaps he should have sought retirement one assignment sooner.

Before his hand could touch the door, a jarring force threw Jackal against the seat to his left, shooting pain up his arm. They'd been boarded, then, and his driver – an agent he'd worked with for years – had likely not been alive to sound the alarm. Emotion would come later. For now, Jackal needed to focus on one thing: Survival.

The carriage gained speed under the skillful hand of whoever now sat in the driver's seat. I should have jumped when I had the chance. Jackal shook his head as he calculated the odds of survival.

Palming his gun, he pounded on the roof of the carriage, commanding the driver to stop. Surprise flared to life as his conveyance did indeed come to a standstill. Rather than slow to a gentle stop, the carriage halted its forward momentum in a skidding bone-shaking fashion. It was the kind of stop that guaranteed no beast would be able to walk away from it afterward.

Jackal jumped before the dust could settle. His best chance would be to go on the offence and catch the driver off-guard. Though he'd assumed the driver had a partner, nothing could have prepared him for the vicious attack awaiting him on the other side of the door.

Jackal no sooner touched the ground than he was trampled under the anxious feet of a high-stepping horse. He'd not even had a chance to gain his footing. As he lay on the ground, Jackal both heard and felt the breaking of bone in his left leg. A couple of his ribs surrendered to the heavy hooves as well. Rolling onto his side, he took aim at the perpetrator. The sun blinded him, and he could distinguish no features on the man whose gun dared him to move. In the split second it took for him to reassure himself he was not aiming at an innocent bystander – for they were indeed in one of the numerous modest hamlets that dotted the continent's countryside – the rider pulled the trigger, and pain seared through Jackal's already throbbing leg. It felt as if the lead had burrowed its way into his very bone.

He pulled the trigger of his flintlock pistol, and the man on the horse recoiled. Even as Jackal reached for the gun concealed at the ankle of his wounded leg, he knew it was futile. The rider had a second gun in-hand before his own fingers even brushed against the grip of his hidden weapon. Pain tore through his shoulder, immobilizing his shooting arm. Another ball of lead ripped into his middle. He felt his blood seeping out onto the street.

Accepting his fate, he asked only one thing. "At whose hand am I to die this day?"

Laughter vile enough to sour port met his question. "Today the Jackal shall meet his end at the hands of The Hunter."

The Hunter? The Austrians were supposed to have him by now.

"Your plan failed, and I am free. Prepare to die."

Blackness closing in around him, Jackal released the last thought held captive in his mind.

Why God?

Cold claimed his body as he slipped into darkness. He neither heard nor felt the next shot.

*****

Sound s interesting, doesn't it! You can get her books at
Amazon US     Amazon UK    Barnes & Noble     Smashwords    iTunes

You can find Heather at:
Website – http://www.heathergraywriting.com
Blog – http://www.heathergraywriting.com/blog
Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/heathergraywriting
Google+ – https://plus.google.com/+Heathergraywritingnow
Twitter – http://twitter.com/LaughDreamWrite
Pinterest – http://www.pinterest.com/LaughDreamWrite

Time spent or time wasted?

The question was, "How many hours a day do you spend writing?"

I wish I could have answered, "Oh, eight or ten..."

But my mama taught me not to lie. She didn't wash my mouth out with soap, but she did give me a pretty good snap on the ear with her thumb and forefinger.

So I said, "Two, on a good day."

The problem is, I am finding it increasingly harder to concentrate these days. I hate to attribute it to age, so let's just say there are a lot of distractions.

I got to thinking about what I actually do do all day.

If I wake early, I read until it's time for the newspaper to be delivered, around 6 a.m. Then I fix my coffee and read the paper, ending with the crossword. I have to make sure my brain is in full function mode.

These past few weeks I've been going outside while it's cool (comparatively) and whacking off some shrubs and pulling up ivy that seem determined to turn our lawn into a habitat for wild animals. I've seen deer and would not be surprised to see a bear some fine day.

By the time I come back inside, Jim is up and most days he wants to "go get a biscuit" which takes a half hour or so, followed by a leisurely trip through the grocery store. Jim likes to go up and down every aisle in case he see something we need.  We go in for one item and come out with several bags, unless I remember to carry in my own reusable shopping bags. This entails catching the clerk before she starts loading up. "Miss! Miss! I have my own bags..." Waving them around in case she doesn't understand what I mean. Then it's one bag or two at the most. If the clerk packs our stuff, it could be a dozen, due to a store rule of packing no more than two items per bag. I think it must be a rule as they all follow it.

Then it might be the pharmacy, the post office, the library, or it might be the day we pay our utility bills. We get home close to noon and I do a few household chores before settling down in front of my keyboard.

Even then, I might not begin writing. There is email to check, better  look at Facebook and see what's happening...

Then I settle down and write until my mind rebels. If I've had a good day and accomplished my word count goal, I might reward myself with a few games of Spider Solitaire or Eggs, with the sound turned off because every time I make a hit in the Eggs game it sounds like glass shattering.

Then at five, time for the evening news and a glass of wine. Jim fixes dinner which we eat while watching Jeopardy! Then I clean the kitchen (believe me, this is more work than cooking) and grab my book. Evening is my time to read and I do until bedtime unless there is a program I want to watch, which is getting less and less likely.

And that is my day. It could be more productive, but hey! Life is short. Keep on doing what you enjoy doing. And if it's writing eight or ten hours a day, go for it. And if it's "wasting time" with your fella or reading the latest best seller, go for that, too.

Last I checked, the only person grading you is you.

A snippet from "A Question of Boundaries."

I've finished my second round of edits on "A Question of Boundaries" and today I am sharing another excerpt. Comments and/or opinions welcome!


Caroline had brought no jewels with her, but the feathers plucked from the hat Nathan had given her were tucked into her hair, which Tabby had drawn up into an elaborate arrangement of curls and waves. Amelia judged her ready and complimented Tabby on her handiwork. To Caroline’s relief, her companion managed to answer politely enough and the three descended the stairs.

Nathan was waiting, dressed in evening clothes that had been brushed and pressed. Although trousers had been popular for years, formal wear still included knee breeches and stockings. Caroline noted Nathan had splendid calves.

His eyes lit up as he saw her. “You are beautiful,” he said and then reached into his pocket and took out an oblong box. “Just one thing more.” He opened the box and removed a necklace. “I thought you might wear this, but I don’t think you need any more adornment.” He held up a chain of gold links holding deep blue sapphires and sparkling diamonds.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” Caroline began, but she was overruled by Tabby and Amelia. Tabby seemed startled to find herself agreeing with her supposed enemy.

“Of course you can,” Nathan decreed. “Think of it as advertising my business. My cousin Evan designed it, if anyone asks. The sapphires are from North Carolina and the diamonds from our mine in Arkansas.”

Tabby took the necklace and fastened it around her mistress’ neck. “Lovely,” she declared, and no one disagreed.

Ready at last, Nathan and Caroline walked out to the carriage where a faithful Jim was waiting. As they approached the Rasmussen mansion, for the overly-ornate, three-story brick building could not be described without using superlatives, Caroline began to doubt her wisdom in insisting on coming. Every window shone with light and the carriages lined up along the drive reflected the glow from polished wood and metal trim. Alluring as the scene was, she couldn’t help feeling she was walking into a beautiful trap.

Nathan told Jim to be back at midnight. “We won’t stay a second longer,” he said as he took Caroline’s elbow and they followed the crowd of elegantly-garbed men and women to the steps leading to the double front door.

Caroline shivered as much from the chill night air as fear, for her shoulders were bare and the décolletage exposed more of her bosom than she was accustomed to.

Too soon they had climbed the stairway and were in the front hall, where Mr. and Mrs. Rasmussen stood greeting their guests.

“Mister Llewellen! I’m so glad you came, and your lovely cousin.” Her eyes expertly appraised Caroline’s gown and jewelry, and her smile became warmer. “Miss Llewellen. Mister Rasmussen, may I present—”

“I know who he is,” Rasmussen interrupted her. “Evening, Nate. Miss Llewellen.” His eyes swept over her body, lingered at her bosom, then looked beyond her, his eyes already on the next guest.

Caroline breathed a sigh. The first hurdle had been passed; he had not recognized her.

Coming soon from Astraea Press.

Time warped

It occurred to me  the other day that I have no concept of time.

I don't mean that I am constantly late to events or appointments. I pride myself on being on time and often am early. I blame this on growing up in a family that was consistently late for everything. We just couldn't get it together. I learned to take a book with me if I went to anywhere so  I'd have something to read while waiting for my mom to pick me up.

What I lack is a sense of when things happened.

I told a friend Sunday that I had recently seen a mutual acquaintance.

"Oh, no, dear, you couldn't have," she said, looking worried. "He re-married and moved  away over a year ago."

Okay, then, not so recently.

Some people can tell you the exact hour and day and year of any event in their life. They are not just gifted, they are a little eerie. But most people can tell  you at least the year in which something of importance happened.

Not me.

I discovered when going through our wedding photos some 10 years after the ceremony that Jim and I had been celebrating our anniversary a week late.

I do remember my boys' birthdays. I remember the grandchildren's birthdays, although for eight years I remembered the wrong day for the youngest. 

I remember the day of the Big Snowfall, but only because it coincided with the first day of the 21st century.

You'd think I'd remember the year Hurricane Hugo struck, but I don't.

I don't remember what year I said "I quit" and retired.

Is this a dire defect? Should I take a remedial course or go into counseling?

Or should I just accept that my mental calendar has dates like "That was when I was working at the newspaper" or "We lived in Pennsylvania then."

I think exact dates are only important if you are writing an autobiography, which I don't plan to do. Or in your obituary.

In which case, someone else can look it up.

Change of pace or mini-vacation?

Last week I took a hiatus from writing. I didn't have writer's block, and I wasn't stuck in the middle of my book not knowing which way to go.

Because I am trying to be more of a plotter than pantser, I did sit down before I started my current work in progress with a notebook and made an outline of my plot points and dove a little deeper into character arcs. Why was I sitting on the sofa with a notebook instead of sitting at the computer keyboard? I don't know, it just seemed right to do my thinking away from my desk.

So I knew what came next. I knew what had to happen to get from point A to point B (or at this stage, from point E to point F). I just didn't feel like sitting down and writing it.

I  needed  a break. We all need to put our work aside and do something different once in awhile or we get tired and cranky. That's why vacations were invented.

So I worked on a different project and spent my time uploading my books on Nook and Smashwords. This took some formatting and involved doing a virtual interview which you can read at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AnsonWriter  But at least now they are available in more than one virtual bookstore.

I am also doing a first read of Elbert Marshall's new book, the third in the trilogy, called "Who Slew Bonnie Blue?"  Like "Plotz" (which I helped co-write) and his solo sequel, "Nomad," the book is filled with quirky characters and a twisty plot, and I am enjoying seeing the story evolve.

But duty calls, and my editor at Astraea Press has let me know she is ready to send me the edits for "A Question of Boundaries." Vacation is over, but I am recharged and ready to get the book on the road to publication and work on the sequel.

Which I will do until our "real" vacation coming up this summer. Who works when there are beautiful mountains to view, family to catch up with, and a hot tub where I can do both at the same time?

Do you take your work with you on vacation? I used to, but now I try to leave it behind. Are there occasions when you just have to? Let us know, we'll commiserate.

Why I'm Not Voting -- A Political Rant

Today is primary election day and I'm not voting.

It's not just that we live in a predominantly Democratic county and I'm a registered Republican -- for now.

No Republicans are competing in the local races so I have no  one to vote for anyway. Ah, but I can vote in the state races, a friend informed me when I told her why I  hadn't shown up for early voting and wouldn't show up today, either.

I have no desire to vote for any candidate for the Senate or House. I am not convinced the Republican candidates really reflect my views. In fact, I don't think Congress reflects the views of any but the top 1% of the population.

More and more, money decides who will run, leaving our choices more and more limited. Like many others, I wonder what the Supreme Court was thinking when they decided a corporation could be viewed as a person, and therefore could contribute to candidates and political parties. If this is true, why are they allowed to take their companies overseas and avoid paying taxes like the rest of the people? Or contrarily, why aren't the people given the same tax breaks as the companies?

I hear the word oligarchy coming up a lot lately.I looked it up and it means a state run by a few people. Yep, and we know who those few companies people are.

I have decided to change my political affiliation for the simple reason I am embarrassed to admit it. Not voting is not the answer, and I will vote in the November election, when I actually have a limited choice.

But I don't think I am alone in thinking it is a futile exercise in choosing the lesser evil. We have seen how candidates full of hope and optimism are stymied by an inert, if not hostile, Congress. We know, if we bother to do a little fact-checking, that we are constantly lied to, tricked by false statistics, treated as idiots, ignored, and increasingly, thanks to the lowered standards of our public schools, dumbed down to the point that most voters don't have a clue anyway.

I don't like how this country is going. I don't like the increasing debt to China, the downgrading of our military when half the world hates us, the fact that the dollar is decreasing in value in the world market, that our infrastructure is crumbling, and that people refuse to accept higher taxes as the price for security and safety.

I often joke it is time to join the expatriates in Costa Rica, but it is beginning to sound less like a joke and more like an option.

The center cannot hold and when the people wake up and realize the elections are a farce meant to delude them into thinking they are actually participating in the government, things will not end well.

Conversely, if the people don't wake up and realize how powerless they have become, things will not end well.

God help us all.

Getting there

I've been writing all day, trying to make a self-imposed goal of writing 30 pages before Saturday. My hands ache from typing, but I am three pages from making it. When I do, I will have the first third of my next book finished. The first draft of the book, anyway. And in case you missed it, it is a sequel to "A Question of Boundaries" called (so far) "A Question of Trust."

I can't tell you the release date for "Boundaries" yet, but hope it won't be too far in the future. Meanwhile, here's a scene in which Caroline has her first ride in a steam carriage.

     Caroline couldn’t help staring. The vehicle looked like a steamcab, but instead of the bright red and yellow paint that proclaimed a vehicle for hire, this was larger and was black with silver trim. The seats were of polished leather and as she sat down Caroline noted they also were more comfortable. Steam was vented from a pipe under the rear chassis, where the boiler was located, but the hod for the coal was in the front, giving balance to the whole.

     “What do you call this?” she asked.

     “A steam carriage. There haven’t been too many manufactured yet. I was lucky to get one of the first ones available. While steamcabs are limited to city streets, this one can go much farther. And faster.” He reached under the front seat and pulled out two pairs of goggles, which he handed to his passengers. “You will need these,” he said.

     The women buckled the leather straps behind their heads and then replaced their hats. Nathan had also donned a pair of goggles and with a lurch, they were in motion.

     The steam carriage could go no faster than the traffic around it, but when they reached less populated streets, it took on a speed that was both frightening and exhilarating. Caroline guessed they were traveling at least as fast as a railway train. She pressed a hand to her hat to keep it from flying away. Tabby had a firm grip on her shawl, which threatened to take off like a kite.

     “If the roads were better, I could go much faster than this,” Nathan yelled over his shoulder.

Caroline didn’t catch every word, but she understood enough. “Goodness, how could we go any faster?” she gasped, tightening her hold on the armrest as they juddered and bumped along the cobblestone streets.

     “I’m going to be black and blue,” Tabby said into her ear. “I won’t be able to sit down for a month.”

     Nodding her agreement, Caroline was relieved when the steam carriage slowed to a halt by an open field. Nathan hopped out and handed them down. “I hope you aren’t too discombobulated,” he said. “The springs are supposed to ease the jostling.”

      “I suppose it would have been worse without springs,” Caroline said, refraining from rubbing her bottom.