I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but it’s not too late to pop into Goodreads and enter the giveaway for a signed copy of my new historical romance novel, Kira, Daughter of the Moon. I am giving away three copies at: Goodreads.

(Contest runs through Nov. 21st)

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.~

***Kira, Daughter of the Moon is available in print and various ebook formats from The Wild Rose Press,  Amazon, Barnes & Noble in Nookbook, All Romance eBooks, and other online booksellers.

Although written to stand alone, ‘Kira’ is the sequel to my award-winning historical romance novel Through the Fire. 

Now, more about my new romance and very unique heroine. 

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?

1765––The recent Indian wars are over (for now) and an uneasy truce in place. Free-spirited Kira is at odds with the superstitious Scots-Irish in the settlement and rumor spreads that she may be a witch. Her imagination runs to fairy rings, the little people, and haints (something that’s there but ain’t). She's happiest out among the trees where she can hide from her painful past and any warriors who might again appear. A gifted healer with a menagerie of wild creatures, she's in the forest releasing a tame crow when her little beagle sounds the alarm. She peers warily from the leaves at the handsome young stranger. His buckskin breechclout and moccasins are more in keeping with a warrior's than any frontiersmen she knows and there's a stealth in his manner that reminds her of the way Indians pass through the trees. Yet he's not a warrior. Unless, he’s a renegade. This is the set up for the story, but there’s a great deal more behind it, and especially, Kira, the most unique heroine I’ve ever written.

Not only does Kira have a tame crow she’s nursed back to health, but a number of wild animals under her care in what she calls her nursery, a protected nook in the woods close to the homestead where she lives with the Houston family who took her in after her parent’s death (relatives of the hero, Logan McCutcheon). Some of her Kira’s babies ride in pockets she’s sewn inside her cloak for that purpose. Her guardian, particularly his wife, aren’t happy about hosting her creatures and banish the talkative crow, the reason she’s in the woods releasing him when she spots the potential threat.

Besides my love of animals, two books influenced this aspect of Kira’s character, one was a children’s book my youngest daughter brought home from the school library in fifth grade. I wish I could recall the title and maybe a helpful reader will because I’d love to locate a copy. I only remember it’s a true story about a family who took in injured and orphaned animals and I was much impressed by their talking crows. The second book, The Singing Creek Where the Willows Grow, The Mystical Nature Diary of Opal Whiteley, is a remarkable journal first written in crayon by an amazing girl, and later laboriously pierced back together after her sister shredded the pages. Sadly, Opal suffered from schizophrenia in an era when little was known about treatment, but her relationship with nature is the most outstanding I’ve ever come across.

When I first wrote Kira, Daughter of the Moon, I simply entitled the novel Kira, because she’s very much her own person. But she evolves into a much stronger young woman as a result of Logan’s return to her life, and that aspect of Kira is influenced by the Native Americans he counts as friends who give her the name, Daughter of the Moon.

***Kira, Daughter of the Moon is available in print and various ebook formats from The Wild Rose Press, from Amazon, Barnes & Noble’s Nookbook, All Romance eBooks, and other online booksellers. Although written to stand alone, Kira, Daughter of the Moon is the sequel to my award-winning historical romance novel Through the Fire. 

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

Years ago, while researching and writing my first novel, historical romance Red Bird’s Song,  I had a dream–the entire story was inspired by a dream–but this was particularly significant.  Dire, even.

An older warrior appeared before me, darkness all around but I saw him clearly, long gray hair, wrapped in a blanket of the same hue touched with silver. He never spoke a word. His message came to me telepathically, and was one of warning. If I continued down the path I’d embarked on, the way was filled with hardship. He also wanted me to be fair to his people. I was in the early stages of research and had not yet gained the empathy for Native Americans that I’ve come to since then. His profound request compelled me to deeper insight with a focus on Eastern Woodland tribes and the Shawnee–one of the main tribes my ancestors encountered.

As for turning back from the path I’d chosen, I couldn’t. I realized I was alone on a boat in a black sea drifting away from where he stood on an icy shore. I don’t know how to sail, and I didn’t have oars. Nor did I know where I was going, or might find a safe harbor. Forbidding, yes.

And he was right. Completing this novel, many times over as I honed the craft, plus all the subsequent stories, and navigating the baffling world of publishing is like being adrift in an uncharted sea. At night. To persevere has taken unbelievable tenacity. And the adventure continues. This warrior, whom I have thought of many times, took the form of Wicomechee’s grandfather inRed Bird’s Song. The English version of his name, Eyes of the Wolf.

I always knew that was his name.

*Colonial Native American Romance Novel Red Bird’s Song is available in print and or digital download from The Wild Rose Press, Amazon,  Barnes & Noble, and many other online booksellers.  

To read excerpts from RED BIRD’S SONG~

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.

There’s a country saying about the number of foggy mornings in August being an indicator for the amount of snows we will have this winter. A great many, at this rate. But this weekend a cold front blew through and a crisp north wind chased away the clouds that had hung over us for days. The van was making disquieting noises, so my husband and I borrowed our son’s truck and headed up to the Blue Ridge Mountains along the Skyline Drive. The ridges were free of their hazy shroud and every tree stood out with clarity in the beautiful green-gold light. It was one of those clear blue, see forever days and we gazed out over miles and miles of the lush valley and the Massanutten Mountain range. The Alleghenies loomed in the far distance.

Lunch at the Big Meadows lodge was a delight with a seat by the window overlooking the magnificent panorama. Then we hiked the rocky path up Bear Fence Mountain, stepping on a bit of smashed up rattlesnake tail on the way. It was my fervent hope not to encounter any living relations as we climbed from stone to stone. The sign that told about the trail had advised caution, but said it wasn’t a dangerous trek. Well, no, not if you don’t fall to your death.

As we neared the summit, the arrangement of the jagged rocks reminded me of the fence that early settlers built around their pig pen to keep the bears from snatching the bacon and must be where that unusual name comes from. My husband ventured farther up the pinnacle than I did, but he’s part mountain goat. The gaps between the jutting stones kept me to the initial level. He wanted to pull me up to his vantage point but that would have meant letting go of my tenuous hold with at least one hand. Even so, I absorbed enough of the dizzying vista below for my spirit to soar with the eagles. As we drove back out of the park we saw a line of stopped cars and people pointing to something hidden back in the trees––our third bear sighting this summer. Must be a good sign. Bears are mystical creatures with much power, according to the Shawnee.

©2007 Beth Trissel from Shenandoah Watercolors

NORTH CAROLINA: HOLDEN BEACH
Contributed by Beth Trissel ©2007 Beth Trissel

I stand on the edge of this sacred land the Shawnee people call the Great Turtle Island, where the water meets the shore. Salt spray brines the air. Gulls wheel, crying, in the blue and pelicans bob on the waves as the ocean rocks me like a primal cradle. In and out rushes the endless tide, frothing the glistening sand with millions of tiny diamonds. That eternal sound is always in my ears, calling to me. People from all walks of life are drawn to this ancient place seeking some gift from the sea.

Sunburned men with a beer in one hand and a pole in the other fish as though their very sustenance depends on it. Bikini-clad women lie like beached whales basking in the sun, or jog along the shore. Three teenage girls dressed in long navy jumpers wade into the surf squealing in delight. Perhaps this is their first visit to the Carolina coast, or any other. Near them stands an old man, pants hiked to his white knees, gazing out at the waves with contentment on his face. He has come home. Curly-headed children dance in the tumbling foam. One little red-haired girl plunges bravely in while her chubby-legged brother flees to his watchful mother and snuggles against the baby in her arms.

Young builders cluster on the sand with buckets and spades, intently fashioning castle turrets and digging motes. Is there anyone as utterly contained in the present as a child at play? Parents join in the fanciful creations and for that moment lose their cares in the sea. A shark emerges under fingers, large and small, with harmless teeth of splintered shells––as ephemeral as the day. No lasting work is done, yet they build on while people paddle on rafts or dive into waves. Seekers all. The orange sun sinks low in the cloudy palette of colors and casts fire on the waves. People linger, reluctant to go inside. What do you search for? What do I?

Our family has always sought gold doubloons from sunken Spanish galleons in the battered shells left behind by the tide. Not a likely find, though we heard of one man who did. Still, we look for the coins and passing whales.
One day I saw great fins and splashing tails, a whole pod of whales. Not because they were truly there, but because I chose to. Led by me, my mother and teenage daughter saw them too and were disappointed when they had gone. Schools of dolphin really did skim through the wake behind shrimp boats, but I fondly remember the whales and keep an eye out for white-sailed clipper ships.

The ocean is a fertile place for the imagination, also to find healing for the soul. Journeying to the beach is annual pilgrimage for many families. What of yours?