Out in print now at Amazon and The Wild Rose Press—available in eBook on Nov. 2^nd—historical romance novel, Kira, Daughter of the Moon! 

A beautiful Scots-Irish healer in the rugged Alleghenies finds herself accused of witchcraft. With the terror of the French and Indian War fresh in her mind, can Kira love a white warrior?

Set among the superstitious Scots in the rugged Alleghenies, the story is an adventurous romance with a blend of Celtic and Native American flavors. Although written to stand alone, Kira, Daughter of the Moon is the long-awaited sequel to my award-winning historical romance novel, Through the Fire.

Blurb: Logan McCutcheon returns to colonial Virginia after seven years in the hands of Shawnee Indians. But was he really a captive, as everybody thinks? He looks and fights like a warrior, and seems eager to return to those he calls friends and family. 

Kira McClure has waited for Logan all those years, passing herself off as odd to keep suitors at bay--and anyone else from getting too close. Now that he's back, he seems to be the only person capable of protecting her from the advances of Josiah Campbell and accusations of witchcraft. And to defend the settlers against a well-organized band of murderous thieves.~

Excerpt:

“My secret in exchange for yours.”

Tantalizing.  He was drawing her into his snare, but she couldn’t resist asking, “How do you know I’ve a secret?”

“To begin with, you’re hiding in a tree.  What from, a wild beast?”

“Near enough.  You.”

He smiled.  “Was I to think you a large red bird, or overlook you entirely?”

Drawing her remaining shreds of dignity around her like a mantle, she said, “This isn’t one of my best hiding places.”

“Indeed?  Where are the others?”

“That would be telling.

The strengthening breeze tossed the branches around them as he considered.  “You never could keep secrets from me, Cricket.  I’ll discover them and you.”

An assertion she found both disturbing and oddly heartening.

His lips curved as if the deed were already done.  “Why were you hiding?  Am I so very frightening?”

“Oh––I feared you were some sort of warrior.”

The humor faded from his eyes.  “I am.”

***Royalty free images

May, 1783, the Virginia Frontier, the Allegheny Mountains

That terrified cry came from the stream.  Zane didn’t have much time to reach her.  And he was so close!

He slid the musket strap from his shoulder.  Grasping the long firearm, he raced over the misty path.  Like a buck taking flight, he dodged stones and sprang over fallen limbs.  He skirted an enormous downed trunk capped with toadstools.  Shouldering the musket again, he pushed through the underbrush.

Branches snagged his brown hunting shirt.  Briars snatched at his leather breeches and wool leggings.  He tore free.  

A tangle of vines lay between him and the woman.  Taking the tomahawk slung at his side, he chopped his way through.  Chest pounding, he arrived at the engorged stream.

With eyes honed to detect the barest hint of man or beast, he scanned the swift current.  Woodland debris bobbed in the brown flood.  No woman.  She must be farther downstream.

He sprinted along the edge of the bank.  Whoever this unfortunate female was, she was about to drown.  Even without knowing her, it goaded him.  And the urge to save her swelled inside like the muddy water overflowing its banks.

There!  Zane spotted the young woman clinging to a branch as the torrent did its damnedest to rip her away.

“Hold on!  I’m coming!”

Her head swiveled toward him, face white with fear and fatigue. 

“Hold on!”

She managed the barest nod.

 

He laid his musket on the ground.  Wedging his moccasins against the 
stones and roots, he sidestepped down the slick earth.  Then reached out and grasped the branch she held to—testing its strength. The wood was firm beneath his hand.

So far, so good.

He leaned over the swirling water.  Careful.  One misstep and they’d both be swept away to a watery grave.

Desperate eyes met his, the hue of summer leaves and marbled with brown like the forest.  Her fingers slipped.

Quick!  He snagged her shoulder, digging in his fingers so her cloak wouldn’t come away in his hand.  “I’ve got you!”

She clutched at him.

“Don’t!  You’ll pull us both in!”

A look of misgiving flitted through her panicked gaze.

“Trust me.  I’ll not you let go.”

***

The Lady and the Warrior is FREE at Amazon through March 8th.  This short American historical with a The Last of the Mohican’s flavor is intended to give readers a taste of my long historicals.  If you like it, chances are you will enjoy my other works too.  My talented daughter Elise did the strikingly beautiful cover.

*Images of the stream and old family musket, powder horn, and hunting pouch are by my mom, Pat Churchman.

By Beth Trissel

The Allegheny Mountains are muted in haze. Only the faint silhouette of blue ridges shows through the shroud. Most of the brilliant foliage that I reveled in has fallen from the trees covering the hills up behind our house. The woodland lends a sort of secretiveness to the valley and the mountains. I can well imagine how the tales of ‘haints’ and wandering spirits grew out of these misty hollows and remote ridges. It’s easy to feel secure snugly tucked by the fireside with a steaming bowl of soup...but outside when the night breeze rustles the few leaves left clinging to bare branches, and creatures stir in the shadows, then I wonder if some of the stories may even be true.

There’s a tradition in the southeastern corner of Rockingham County, Virginia, about the lizard lady near Grottoes who lives up the mountain road. I first heard about her from a caller on a local radio show, and the story is written up by the late historian/author John Heatwole in his book of Supernatural Tales. To quote Mr. Heatwole, the caller said “on nights when there’s a full moon, an old lady who lives on the road leading up to Brown’s Gap turns into a lizard, a big lizard; about human size...when you ride up on that road at night you get the freakiest feeling that you’ve ever had in this world.”

Mr. Heatwole went on to say that there aren’t any stories of the lizard lady doing anything more than basking in the moonlight, but added, “The image of that giant lizard with that old woman’s eyes can set goosebumps to rising.” And neither he nor anyone else has trekked up there during a full moon to see her for themselves. Nor shall I.