A Beary Merry Christmas by Vonnie Davis

Chapter Two of Three

After struggling to open both doors, Danner accepted she’d have to crawl out of the car’s window to go for help. She struggled and wiggled to make her escape, falling face first into the snow. When she landed, she cut the edge of her hand on a jagged rock buried beneath. 

The unscheduled snow gymnastics caused her knit cap to blow away before she could snatch it. She grabbed for a pine branch to keep from sliding down the side of the mountain and gasped when the rough needles upbraided the inflamed skin around the cut. Scarlet drops colored the snow. Needing to move higher, Danner reached for a boulder and used it to aid in her climb upward. It made the most sense to head where she’d been. There was a road there and an inn where she could ask for help—in the warm.

Wind whipped the snowflakes around her. Snow fell down the back of her coat and her sneakers were caked with it. 

Good Lord, my teeth are chattering.

A bare branch was a foot beyond her reach, and she toed her way toward it--inch by frigid inch. She stretched and strained to grab it. The dead wood gave way and she tumbled down the steep hill, crying out in pain as her back hit the demolished car with a thud. She took a couple of deep breaths to see if she’d cracked any ribs.

When no pain caused her to gasp, she brushed snow from her face and wished again she’d gotten gloves yesterday at the little shop where she’d bought a scarf. 

She’d been so pleased to find her ancestors’ tartan—a pretty sky blue, celery green, and a marine blue weave. There were no matching gloves in stock. Today her hands were paying for the exposure. Her toes were stiff. Yeah, she could use a pair of those fur-lined boots so many women wore in the Highlands.

She rose to her hands and knees—and came face-to-face with a bear.

Oh, dear God!

She froze. So did her heart. It was no use to scream. Who would hear her out here?

The bear plopped onto its bottom as if to get a better view of her. She gaped. The beast had a wedding band on one of its digits just behind its long, black claw. Had it belonged to a previous victim? 

To her astonishment, the beast’s dark eyes bore kindness as it tilted its head to study her. That’s when she noticed a small gold hoop in its ear.

This was beyond bizarre. She had to be hallucinating. Really, what kind of bear wore jewelry? What did the carnivoran mammal do? Lumber into Zales and pick out some golden adornments? Where would he keep his credit card--in its fat folds? 

In the face of certain death, her mind must have slipped into the realm of insanity. Just as well; maybe she wouldn’t feel the pain when the bear tore her apart. She stood to face the inevitable and prayed it would be quick.

In like manner, the bear stood on its hind legs, towering over her. With gentle movements it brushed the snow from her coat. She trembled at its touch waiting for his claws to rip her to shreds. 

Instead, it picked her up and held her to him like a baby.

She screamed and its dark brown eyes glowed golden. Its muzzle lowered to her face and damned if she didn’t smell whisky on its breath as it made a jaw popping noise.

Yep, I have truly lost my mind.

The bear walked on its hind legs as it held her close. A deer dashed over and the bear loosened its hold on her as if to show off his trophy to the other animal.

Oh hell, why not? I am clearly crazy. The accident and exposure to the cold elements have taken away my ability to reason.

The furry beast carried her around a large group of pines, waded through a gurgling stream, and trod toward a log cabin in a small valley nestled between high ridges. He set her on the steps and growled while motioning toward the door. She had to be delirious.

Since when do bears live in cabins? He should be in his own habitat, hibernating.

Her vision blurred and everything Danner had learned over her lifetime fell into question. The bear before her changed into a man.

A naked man.

He stood in the full-moonlight and her ladybits broke into a stanza of “Santa Baby.” Good Lord, he had broad shoulders. His heavily muscled chest and biceps were decorated with tattoos. A narrow treasure trial of dark hair took her eyes on a journey to a fantasy kingdom.

First the caring, bejeweled bear and now a fine measure of the male species—all from one body. How could this be? Her over-stimulated mind shutdown at the incredulity of it all—and darkness overtook her.

~ * ~ * ~

Hughen stared at the slender woman passed out on his front steps. Bear! Why?

She’s yer new mate, Hugh. I carried her to ye while I was at the forefront.

He backed up a step, then two while Jack Frost nipped at his frosted arse. Nay. Och nay. I dinna need a mate. Me mate’s passed on.

Aye, and this is yer new one. She’s perfect fer ye. Take her inside and warm her. She was knocked around in a car wreck and then slid down part of Dendrick Ridge. Ye need to take care of her.

The red-haired woman did have a large knot on her forehead. Dried blood, too, where her hand was sliced. He scooped her lithe form into his arms and carried her up the wooden steps. Once inside, he laid her on the sofa, removed soaked sneakers and stockings before covering her with a wool blanket made of his tartan. The navy and forest green plaid would help warm her while he got dressed.

When he bent in front of the fireplace to scrunch his heavy stockings and tie his shoelaces, a feminine moan sounded behind him. Before he turned to check on his injured visitor, he grabbed his kilt and wrapped it around his naked hips. Faint alto lyrics filled the place with soft singing. “Chestnuts roasting by an open fire," made him smile.

An enticing sight met him when he glanced over his shoulder. An unusual sight, really—violet eyes like Highland heather stared at him. His heart thundered for a few beats before righting itself.  She was a true beauty even with her long ginger hair hanging in wet, tangled tresses.

“How are ye faring? Do ye need more blankets? Are ye in pain?” He tugged on his sweater and knelt beside the sofa, taking her hand to examine her palm.

She jerked it from his grasp, her violet eyes wary.

“Easy, lass. Ye’ve got a nasty cut. I’ll get me first aid kit. I’m Hughen Matheson, by the way, and this is me cabin. I’ll nay harm ye.” He stood and put some distance between them to ease her discomfort.

“How did I get here?” Her gaze darted around the large room. “How … how did I get here?” her voice rose with a tinge of fear.

“Warm up first and then we’ll talk.” In the kitchen, he removed the first aid kit from the pantry. He looked at the remaining drink in the pot. “Would ye like a cuppa hot chocolate to warm yer insides?”

She stared at him with those mesmerizing eyes. Poor thing was petrified.

He folded his arms over the counter between the living and kitchen areas of the big room. In an effort to calm her, he smiled. “I willna harm ye in any way. I ken ye must be feart, alone in a strange man’s house with nae recollection how ye got here. Once I’ve given ye some nourishment, fixed yer cut hand, and gotten ye warmed up by the fire, I promise we’ll talk. “Tis Christmas Eve. I never murder innocent women on Christmas Eve.”

The corners of her mouth twitched as if she fought a smile. “I’ll take that hot chocolate. Thank you for looking after me. I’m Danner MacKay.” Her voice was low and sultry like the summer winds over Loch Moray. She shifted under his plaid. “I’m grateful for the warmth although I have no clue how I got inside your cabin. I know I keep saying that, but this is all so strange. I need a lot of answers.”

“Fair enough.” He leaned to gauge the height of the gas flame beneath the pan, then stirred the contents while it heated. How could he explain her presence here without scaring her to death? The truth was always the best. As much as he could share with her, anyhow. “Ye were in a car accident. Ye have some minor injuries. Do ye recall what happened?”

She straightened into a sitting position and wrapped his plaid around her. “Some. Bits and pieces.” Her fingers ran through her wet hair. “I remember the car falling and thinking I was going to die. A bear came.” Her forehead wrinkled as if she were in deep thought. Her hand went to the darkened knot above her eyebrows. “Its … its eyes glowed a bright yellow. Golden.”

Och, she would remember that. “A bear, ye say?” Hughen reached for a mug and poured it nearly full of hot chocolate and shook a can of whipped cream to top it off. She was pale and that worried him. To help revive her, he added whisky to the sweet concoction.

A steaming cup in one hand and the first aid kit in the other, he returned to sit on the coffee table near her. He extended the warm mug and she wrapped her uninjured hand around it.

“This feels so good. I don’t know if I should drink it or bathe in it. I was almost an ice cycle out there.”

His mind had snagged on the vision of her bathing in hot chocolate … or a fragrant bubble bath … or in the stream near the cabin in the warm moonlight of summer. 

Steady, man, ye need ta think on something else a'fore yer kilt tents.

“Are ye hurt anywhere else, Danner? Do ye need some ibuprofen?”

“That might help my headache. I’m sure I’ll be a mass of bruises tomorrow but for now the only pain I feel are in my head and hand.”

“Be right back with the pills.” He retrieved a bottle of extra-strength pain relievers and a class of water. On impulse, he poured himself a squat tumbler of whisky. Her appearance at his place had shaken him more than he cared to admit. What had possessed Bear to bring him a woman?

Once she took the pills, he sat on the coffee table again and sipped the whisky, its burn traveling down his chest to extinguish his own discomfort. Setting it aside, he opened the first aid kit. “Now, let’s get that hand taken care of. Is there anyone ye want to call to let them ken ye’re okay? I have a cell if ye have need of it.”

“No. There’s no one I need to call.”

He examined the depth of the cut. “Nae husband, Danner?”

“Not anymore. I’m divorced.”

Her confession pleased him and he stilled for a few seconds to absorb the feeling. She had the softest skin; it was almost pearlescent, glowing in the firelight. Peroxide bubbled when he poured it over the open wound. He wiped it off with gauze and squeezed antibiotic cream over the gash. Three butterflies held the swollen edges of her hand together before he wrapped a bandage around her hand.

Just because he could, he brought it to his lips and kissed the pressure point at her wrist. Her heartbeat fluttered against his lips.

“There. A kiss for yer boo-boo. Do ye use that term in America?” He feathered a second kiss to her wrist before he lifted his head to gauge her reaction. Her perfect lips were shaped into an “O” and a beautiful blush fanned across her cheeks.

She cleared her throat. “Y … yes, we do kiss boo-boos, although it’s been years since I’ve been the beneficiary of such tenderness.”

A burst of protectiveness and, aye, anger surged through him. “What kind of milksop were ye married to, Danner? Didna he treasure ye? Protect ye?”

“No.” She brought the mug to her lips and gulped her drink. Then, flog him blind, she slowly licked the whipped cream off her upper lip.

He watched the movement of her tongue and damn near groaned. There was a wee mole next to her upper lip that fascinated him. His own tongue brushed against the back of his two front teeth as it mimicked what he’d like to do to that small mole and her luscious looking lips.

“What about you, Hughen? Are you married?”

 “I lost me wife nearly two years ago.” To his surprise no pang of pain seized his heart at the mention of his loss. He’d mourned with every cell in his dual persona for his childhood sweetheart. Some claimed he’d mourned to excess, but he was a man who loved hard.

See? Yer new mate is healing ye already. ‘Tis time ye moved on, Hugh. Ye need someone to love.

He was a jumble of emotions. Unexpected desire for this strange woman warred with the memory of the only love he’d ever ken.

“So you live here alone?” Danner glanced around the great room.

“Aye, I do. Me two brothers and their families live on the other side of the hill. After Kaylee died, I sold our house in Mathe Bay and threw me energies into building this cabin. I wasna fit for civilization for a year after a sudden, murderous brain embolism took her. She was on her way home with a pregnancy test tucked in her purse.”

“Oh, how sad. I’m sorry for your loss. That must have been devastating.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I can’t imagine that kind of deep pain.” Her tender heart was evident. “I went through a lot of pain, too, but nothing compared to yours. I lost both my husband and a close friend thanks to their affair. They’re getting married tonight. A romantic Christmas Eve wedding.”

Her voice carried a lot of pain and he understood. “Is that why ye came to Scotland from the States? Ye’re American, right?” A bloody beautiful American.

“Yes. I’m from Las Vegas. I teach biology at the University of Nevada.”

He laughed and she scowled at his behavior. “Danner, ye’ll never believe this. I’m a chemistry professor at Highlands College. How bizarre is that? Statistically, what are the chances?”

See, Hugh? I told ye she was perfect for ye. Now, claim her and show her what chemistry a Scot can ignite..

Come back tomorrow for the final chapter of "A Beary Merry Christmas."

A Beary Merry Christmas by Vonnie Davis

Chapter One of Three

She peered through the snow-spattered windshield at the neon sign and hoped like hell there was room at the inn. Even though it was only three-ten in the afternoon, with her luck, there’d be no vacancies. Everything about this trip had gone wrong—flight delays, lost luggage, and a chipped tooth just for starters.

Danner McKay grumbled to the silent interior of the vehicle. “Who leaves warm Las Vegas and travels to the frigid Scottish Highlands for Christmas? A feel-sorry-for-me divorcee who refuses to spend the holiday alone while her ex remarries. That’s who."

The compact car hit a patch of ice on the nearly deserted road and spun into a couple of do-nuts while she fought for control. Her neck did a whipping motion with every spin. She’d swallow in fear if she had a bit of spit remaining in her mouth. Her foot off the gas, the demon car finally slowed.

“What idiot rents a car online without checking which side of the road everyone drives on?” She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. “Me, that’s who. For a woman with a PhD, I can do some pretty dumb things.” Granted, the University of Nevada where she taught biology had a high opinion of her intelligence. At this moment, she didn’t quite agree with their assessment.

For the past three days, she’d been a mass of nerves trying not to wreck the rental on these twisty, narrow Highland roads. She hadn’t relaxed for a moment of this ill-conceived trip. Back home, tracing her ancestors’ roots sounded romantic and fun. 

And just where was the fun in all of this?

Danner took a deep breath and straightened in her seat. She didn’t think it was possible, but the snow was falling harder. The lighted sign before her was no longer visible. Or was it behind her now? After several revolutions, she no longer knew which direction the car was headed.

She should have given more credence to Mrs. Campbell’s remarks at breakfast this morning, but the owner of the quaint Bed and Breakfast was always spouting something strange. “Och, the snaw will be an arse-dragger by this afta’noon. Any numpty oot driving in it has a hovercraft full o’ eels, so he does.”

The Scottish and their sayings—if she only understood them. Still, Danner had to admit this amount of snaw was the most she’d ever experienced in her life, much less driven through. 

And, like an idiot, here she sat.

A truck barreled down on her, its honking horn pierced the storms quiet. Her normally organized mind quickly zipped into confusion. Which side of the road was she on now? Where was she supposed to be again? Right side, or left? In an effort to simply get out of the way, she pressed on the gas to reach the side of the road. Before she got there, the truck—no it was a tour bus—sped by, creating a powerful, slushy wind current that shuddered and blew her tiny car off the icy road. It slithered down an embankment.

Unable to think of a way to stop its momentum into the foggy, snowy abyss, Danner panicked. She jerked on the emergency brake. The car spun and slid backwards before it ran out of ground and dropped.

I’m going to die!

After a moment of freefall, her neck snapped back amid a loud crash. Metal screeched. A second later she lurched forward to bash the steering wheel as the car’s body crunched and echoed. The seatbelt cut into her breast momentarily snapping off her air. Jarring shuddered through her body—and then eerie silence amid stark stillness.

Am I dead?

Someone’s heart is pounding in this car and I’m the only one in it. Has to be mine.

Maybe I’m still alive. Warm coppery-scented liquid is trickling over my eyes. My head hurts. Do you hurt when you’re dead?

Danner wiggled her toes in her sneakers. She raised her thighs a couple inches off the seat three times. Relieved to know the lower part of her anatomy worked, she shrugged her shoulders twice to test her arms. Her fingers opened and closed. Pleased everything responded to her mental commands, her hands went to her eyes to wipe away the moisture. They came back blood-covered.

The view from her rearview mirror showed a large grey boulder holding the scrunched compact in place. Her trembling fingers extended to depress the ignition button. It was senseless to keep the car running when it couldn’t go anywhere. She needed to nullify the potential fire hazard; she had a nearly full tank of gas, or petrol as the Scots called it.

A chill took root and began to grow inside the car.  She couldn’t sit there forever. She’d have to get out and go for help. Which way, she hadn’t a clue. 

Something thudded on the windshield and Danner jumped. Two little paws brushed away the snow and the black nose of a fox’s pointy red-face pressed against the glass to peer inside. His black eyes seemed to take in her predicament. A series of rapid, high-pitched yelps followed, almost as if it were asking her if she was okay. And wasn’t that the silliest thing?

Not only am I alive, I’m imagining things. Head trauma, I bet.

The fox jumped off the hood and disappeared.  

~ * ~ * ~

Hughen Matheson passed out hot chocolate and bags of candy to the four wee carolers who’d stopped at his cabin to deliver some Christmas music. Although he was sure the Almighty was pleased with their off-key renditions, he wasna so sure the heavens were as enamored of pots and pans turned into  drums as he was. He couldna recall when he’d smiled so wide over the makeshift instruments tied around each child’s waist.

Nae one could make a racket like his nieces and nephews. Aye, and he loved them all with a fierceness.

When his brothers decided it was time to go home, the normally noiseless log cabin filled with an unholy din. Och, the wee ones loved their Uncle Hughen, so they did.

Outside, he lifted each one in turn for a hug and gleefully accepted their chocolaty-mustached kisses before setting them on the back of the truck. Six-year-old Lachlan was the last to leap into his arms. His favorite, though he’d never tell a soul, was squeezed a little tighter than the others. And typical for the rascal, Lachlan tugged on the tiny hoop he wore in his ear.

Hamish, his twin brother, covered the precious ones with blankets to keep them from becoming snawlads and snawlassies on their ride across the range of birch, aspen, and Scot pines that separated them from each other. He hugged Hamish before he took his position at the tailgate to make sure they didna get into mischief. Hughen leaned in the open window to embrace Bruce.

Love warmed Hughen’s chest. Family was one of life’s richest blessings.

He waved and bade each one farewell by name as they slowly drove off. Silence settled around him like a blanket of nettles. Being alone was nae way to live.

Hughen stacked logs onto his front porch—enough to see him through the blizzard—before he trudged back inside a house that echoed with loneliness. Och, it had the appearance of Christmas cheer thanks to his sisters-in-law who’d decorated it for the holidays. Bless them, they didna like the thought of his being alone so much since Kaylee passed.

 A framed picture of the happiest day of his life graced the mantle decorated with pine and red-berry garland. Both Kaylee and he beamed with joy. Had someone told him on the day of their wedding he’d lose his childhood sweetheart in a few short years, he’d have declared them crazy. A long, pained sigh escaped from his lungs. This was his second Christmas without her. 

He moved to the kitchen end of the great room to straighten the mess his nieces and nephews made. Maybe he’d make himself a huge mug of hot chocolate with a healthy dribble of whisky to warm his icy soul. He glanced at the remaining cocoa in the pan. Nae, he’d take the whisky straight. He had a long, lonely night ahead of him.

Ye willna be alone this Christmas Eve, his bear promised him.

He scoffed and downed his whisky. Och? And will auld Saint Nick drop a bonny lass down me chimney? He refilled his glass before returning the bottle to its shelf in the pantry. This drink he’d sip in front of the roaring fire.

His bear budged at Hughen’s chest. What is it? Ye’ve been restless all aft’anoon. I sense unease and I’m nae in the mood. I’ve got me own memories to contend with tonight.

Shift, Hugh! Someone needs me help. A fox is here to take me to her.

His bear was now a frantic presence. Denying his other half would only cause him misery and a colossal bout of heartburn. Bear could be bloody nasty at times. Finally, he agreed to allow his bear to come to the forefront. To keep the shift from tearing apart his clothes, he tugged on the shoestrings before toeing off his boots. He undressed, tossing his things on the leather chair by the door.

Naked, Hughen stepped outside into the howling wind and heavy snaw. A chill skittered over his skin like a spider rushing up a wall to spin a web. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the change to begin. The last thing his human eyes saw was an excited red fox pacing in front of the wooden steps, nipping and chattering away.

A shimmer of transposing cosmic waves, a whirlwind of mind and soul continuum, and he transmuted from human to bear. Bones cracked and popped as they either shortened or grew. Eyes and ears moved into bear positions. Layers of fat covered muscles. And thick fur erupted from smooth skin. Although the mutation took less than a minute, a heartbeat or two of discomfort existed with his animal’s emergence.

Once his bear was completely in control, it roared repeatedly as it circled in front of the structure. Then it followed the chattering fox in search of who he’d sensed was in danger—his human’s new mate.

Come back tomorrow for the next chapter of "A Beary Merry Christmas."

Who Says Old Ladies Can't Travel Alone? by Vonnie Davis #EuropeanTravel #TravelingSafe #Paris #Edinburgh

Some fool man recently said a seventy-year-old widow had no business traveling overseas by herself

Then he had the nerve to say, "Mom, I want you in your hotel room by nightfall. And don't use the Metro. Terrorists like to bomb those things."

Since when, I ask you, should a woman listen to a man--even if he is her baby boy? Needless to say, I packed my bags and went. I showed him! Baby boy, or not! Why...the nerve I mean, really, would you listen to a thing this guy would tell you?

So, here's the view from my hotel room in Paris. My hotel was across the street from the Seine.

Sorry about the glare from my windows.

Notice the grey cast? That's how I saw Paris this time. I didn't have Calvin to hold my hand as I visited our old haunts. Instead I walked new streets and checked out new neighborhoods. I made my own memories. For example, I took a bus trip to Giverny where Monet painted his famous water lilies. The gardens there were fabulous. A sight I'll never forget.

Monet's house was gorgeous inside and out.

Kelly, Calvin's son, flew in from Berlin to join me for two days to be there when I spread some ashes in front of the building where Calvin and Kelly's Mom lived for a year. I couldn't do it. I broke down and Kelly ushered me up the street, telling me I didn't have to do it that day. "We can come back tomorrow," he said in a calming voice reminiscent of his father's. Instead, we went to Calvin's favorite writing café and had espressos.

Notice my swollen eyes. That night I had a long talk with myself and actually looked at the ashes, something I should have done earlier...but... 

The next morning we went out for breakfast and then walked to 21 rue Galande. This time I was able to fulfil my promise to my beloved. A part of him will remain in the City of Light he loved so much. When Kelly left to meet his flight, he hugged me and told me I'd be all right. I laughed through tears and said, "Kelly, I've never been right in my life. I wouldn't recognize myself if I were." He was laughing as he strode away.

A few days later and I was in Edinburgh where the ancient castle of Scotland sits atop an inactive volcano. Some hills and current streets are formed of hardened lava. I walked the Royal Mile from the castle to the parliament building.

The view from my hotel room. The castle and the Royal Mile are on the hill. I took a bus tour to a whisky distillery, which makes the whisky preferred by Prince Charles. The Scottish spell whisky without the "e" and get a little pissy about those who mis-spell it with that "e" in it. I sampled aged whisky from ten to twenty-eight years old and doona recall much after that. 

Another day I took a bus trip to see the Kelpies and the Highlands. Kelpies are mythical creatures that live in the lochs (lakes) and rivers as monsters and come ashore as beautiful horses with long, beguiling manes. When anyone tries to touch the manes, they are dragged into the water. Here I am, standing in front of two iron sculptures known simply as "The Kelpies."

Our tour guide, Calum, in his kilt. He told us the Scots spelled his name with one "l" and the British with two--Callum. There's your trivia for the day.

And the "hurry coos" that grow in the Highlands... or hairy cows in American-speak.

So this ole broad walked through  ancient streets and beautiful European cities alone. I didn't get lost. I wasn't mugged or hurt by terrorists. OK...ok, so I was in my hotel rooms by dark. But it didn't get dark until nine at night, so... And who needs to ride the metro when there are taxis and comfy sandals. I did come home with four handbags, but each one called my name...honest.

I admit to being happy I'm back home. Evie was over-joyed to see me and I missed my little Shih-Tzu. In many ways I had a lovely trip and in an important way a very lonely one. I wouldn't mind visiting Scotland again, going to the more northern part of the Highlands. The best part was garnering some story ideas. Travel tends to do that. New sights mean an increased curiosity and "what-if's..." for a writer's imagination.

Follow me on twitter @VonnieWrites. Or visit my website www.vonniedavis.com and sign up for my newsletter--soon to be a monthly mailing. I've been lax on my newsletter of late. I'll get better. Promise.

England Fiction, #Scotland for Real by Alanna Lucas #travel

Roses and Readers, please welcome our guest blogger, Allana Lucas Love to travel! And leave a comment for have a chance at winning an eBook from her backlist.

Earlier this month I chaperoned my daughter (who just turned 18!) and two of her friends to Scotland. Traveling with three teens was an interesting and thoroughly enjoyable adventure. We rented a flat in Edinburgh, but took several day trips, exploring various parts of the country. While waiting for our return flight home, we came up with our top ten for Edinburgh and beyond. Here’s our list- in no particular order, since we all agreed everything was awesome!

1) Listening to The Spinning Blowfish on The Mound -a busking band with bagpipes, guitar, and drums.

2) Hiking up to Arthur’s Seat

3) Going inside the J.K. Rowling suite at the Balmoral Hotel in Edinburgh (if no one is staying in the suite, the

concierge will allow you in the room to take pictures)

4) Spending the day at Edinburgh Castle- highlight of the visit: seeing the Crown Jewels

5) Exploring the numerous Closes along the Royal Mile- we also did the Mary King’s Close tour.

6) Learning about the ha-ha wall at the Holyrood Palace Garden- Prince Albert had the wall constructed for Queen Victoria

7) Seeing The Unicorn Tapestries at Stirling Castle (the original tapestries are at The Met Cloisters in New York City) – Only an hour train trip out of Edinburgh, plus an invigorating walk up to the castle.

8) Greyfriars Kirk and statue of the Greyfriars Bobby- the Skye Terrier spent 14 years guarding the grave of his owner until he passed away in 1872.

9) Climbing 287 steps to the top of the Sir Walter Scott Monument- it was a clear day and the views were incredible!

10) Walking a section of Hadrian’s Wall. We took a day trip to Roslyn Chapel, Melrose Abbey, and Hadrian’s Wall. Okay, so this wasn’t in Scotland, but it was on my life’s to-do list!

Blurb for Only a Hero Will Do:

Defender of the realm…and his wary heart…

Captain Grant Alexander is an enigma in London society. Dashing and handsome, he coldly eschews marriage. But the ton knows nothing of his role in the Legion: to bring Typhon, the traitor who seeks to destroy the British monarchy, to justice.

When Grant is thrown together with fellow Legion member Elizabeth Atwell, he’s instantly beguiled yet exasperated by this beautiful viscount’s daughter. She has little interest in combing the marriage mart for a well-bred, well-heeled husband, but is adept at code-breaking and handling a bow and arrow. She also refuses to do as she is told, insisting she accompany Grant on his mission.

As Typhon continues to evade capture and dark forces are at work, Grant realizes he must act, not only to protect the realm but Elizabeth too…not to mention his heart, which is in danger of thawing every time she comes close…

Excerpt for Only a Hero Will Do:

Early evening shadows danced across the white walls and cold white marble floors. Soon the austere ballroom would come to life with hundreds of guests, fresh flowers, and music.

Servants scurried around completing various tasks. Most were too busy to even take notice of Elizabeth’s presence. Tonight’s gathering of some of the finest and most well connected families in England would certainly bring out some of Typhon’s agents. Sooner or later, one was bound to make a mistake, bringing the Legion one step closer to discovering Typhon’s true identity and extinguishing the threat once and for all.

Elizabeth needed to be on guard tonight and was not going to leave anything to chance. Surveying the ballroom once more, she took her time covering every inch, contemplating every angle an attack might come from. She could not fail in this assignment. She would prove she was as capable as any man, and also prove to Grant that she belonged in his world.

With the layout of the room fully ingrained in her mind, she strolled to the pair of doors leading out onto the terrace. Pushing them wide open, she was rewarded with the sounds of chirping birds and leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. It all seemed so peaceful, but the gnawing in her stomach indicated it was anything but serene.

She dreaded her role tonight—to distract Mr. Ward with light flirtation in the hope that his tongue would loosen. Although a little sketchy, the rhyme he’d sung and recited during their ride in the park was a goldmine of information. Elizabeth suspected he was key to their investigation. Even still, the flirtation would be no more than that. There would be no moonlight stroll or stolen kisses under the wisteria. Absolutely not. A shudder rippled through her. There were certain things she was definitely not willing to do, not even for the greater good of her country.

She rested her hands on the cool balustrade, gazing across the lush green landscape. From this vantage point, in the twilight, one could still see across the vast sloping landscape. Once the sun set, therein lay the danger. The trees in the distance were a nest for Typhon’s men. One of them could be lurking in them there right now, watching her every move.

“Surveying the landscape?” Grant’s deep voice drifted onto the terrace and straight into her body, warming her insides.

She turned to greet him but was tongue-tied the moment she laid eyes on him. He cut an impressive figure in his blue coat and buff pantaloons. Swallowing hard, she stuttered, “Uh…y—yes.” Her response made her sound like a simpleton, not the able-bodied agent she wanted to be viewed as. She took in a deep breath, but soon realized that whenever Grant was near no amount of deep breathing could possible steady her nerves and racing heart. “You’re early.”

“It’s best I get the lay of the land before the light goes. Simon is stationed at the south end of the property, and Philson to the east.”

“And will you be stationed inside the ballroom this evening?” Her heart leaped at the possibility of spending more time with him.

“I’ll be near, just in case, but I won’t be partaking in any of the merriment tonight.” His words were formal, final.

“I’m sure you can spare one dance.” She thought to change his mind, but as soon as the words came out, she regretted them. His stern look cooled whatever warmth had entered her body.

He sucked in his breath and shifted his gaze, looking in the direction of the large pond. “I don’t dance.”

“You don’t dance? Why ever not?”

“It is not something I wish to discuss.”

The warning in his voice only made her want to challenge him more. “That’s not an acceptable excuse. Why won’t you open up to me? And don’t you dare say it’s because I’m the daughter of a viscount.”

“Damn it Elizabeth, that’s exactly why. Why must you push?”

“Because I care.”

BUY LINKS:
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What Happens When You #HaveTheFlu and #AmWriting by Vonnie Davis

This is not the post I wrote and thought I'd saved. But as my dad used to say, "You know what thought did? Nothing. He just thought he did." I have no clue where it went. And it was so pretty, too.

So, sorry to say, you're getting a rush job. I'm blaming it on the flu meds. Hey, it's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I've been working on a bridge bear shifter novella to take my readers from Mathe Bay to Sonas Isle, home of my next bear shifter series.  Effie will make appearances in both.

My heroine, Cameo, has prophetic dreams. It's both a gift and a curse.

Chapter One:

She was naked again.

The cold wind blew Cameo Stone’s long hair away from her shoulders and back. What was displayed below, as she floated above the danger, commanded her attention. Cameo was used to the form and sensations of her dreams. Dreams that were a sign of things to come—of illness, impending danger, or looming horrific events.

In her heart, she believed it was up to her to warn the person or persons in her nightmares that bad fortune lay ahead. A process that caused people to think she was whacky, dangerous, or someone simply to be avoided. It made for a lonely existence.

From her dreamy viewpoint, a silver compact like hers sped down a curved mountain road. A man wearing a black knit hat and black puffy jacket ran out of the woods. 

Action slowed to a snapping movie frame of motion, which typically meant important clues were coming. He had a rifle with a scope. A hunter, perhaps? A more sinister reaction gripped Cameo. Part of the barrel had been sawed off his gun. His green-eyed gaze in a face dotted with tattoos shifted to the driver. So did his weapon. 

An emblem was on the cuff of his black hat. Orange. Round. Edged in blood-red. In the center were bold black initials HSS.

The driver sped up, trying to go around the menacing man before he shot her. She hit a patch of ice and spun out of control. Out of her right peripheral vision, a policeman followed with his handgun drawn. The driver braked hard, swerved, tires squealing, but she still hit the officer. He rolled over her hood. As he bumped across the windshield, golden glowing eyes stared at her. His badge read Bowie Matheson. Sounds of him spinning and scratching her roof made her shudder. It was like fingernails on a blackboard. To her shock, a bear slid off her trunk giving chase to the man with the rifle.

Where had the damn bear come from? How had she missed that part?

By now, Cameo realized the driver was her. She zoomed silently from the sky to the interior of the automobile. As soon as she had it stopped, she jumped out, fully dressed somehow, and looked for the officer she’d struck. There was nothing on the road behind her compact. She dropped to her knees and peered under the vehicle. Nothing there. With her gaze shifting, she slowly circled her car before walking along the ditches on both sides of the narrow road.

Where was the man she’d struck?

            She woke with his name on her lips, “Bowie Matheson.”

Her feet slid from under the pile of covers and slipped into her bedroom slippers, or baffies as the Scots called them. Cool air hit her and she reached for her robe mid-shiver.  Her clock displayed three-forty-two and a cup of hot tea called her. All she had to do was shuffle downstairs to the kitchen in Matheson Lodge and heat a pot of water.

Cameo had been a guest at the castle converted into a hotel for five nights. She’d traveled to Matheville for an interview and was waiting for a response on a job as a solicitor at the law firm of McGuire and Dunn Associates. During the rest of the time, she drove and walked the narrow streets of the picturesque small town, acquainting herself with the businesses and places to rent should she get hired.

She tiptoed down the steps, wondering again why so many citizens bore the last name Matheson. The beautiful clean bay and the town, itself, bore part of the name. When she’d asked Fiona Matheson, who handled the reservation and staff of the lodge, the woman had informed her Mathe stood for bear. 

Until the dream she’d just had, she hadn’t seen any bears.

Once in the kitchen, she turned on a light and filled a teapot with water. It would take her several cups to work through the meaning of the dream and settle her nerves. This had been the first time she’d ever been a player in one of her prophetic nightmares—and it had her especially rattled.

Her tea made, she stirred in two cubes of sugar. It would be a long while before she’d take her car for a drive in the mountainous segments of the Highlands. That much she was sure of. Parts of her dream were understandable. A cop chasing an armed man for whatever reason.  Hints of the two men’s identities. This was typical in her night visions.

But where had the policeman gone? How had a bear replaced him? And why had that change been kept from her? Usually, she saw every gory aspect. Why not with this dream? Really, she ought to be relieved she’d been spared some of the details. And she would be if the driver of the car hadn’t been her.

Two cups of chamomile tea later, Cameo returned to her room and placed several logs in the fireplace. She crawled under the pile of covers, thankful for her flannel pajamas. Although the tea had soothed her, it hadn’t helped her to analyze the dream. She pulled the quilt over her shoulders, closed her eyes, and began counting backwards from one-hundred.

She was naked again…

~~~~~~~

I have a new logo for my bear shifter books. Don't you just love it?

www.vonniedavis.com

The Men Won't Leave Me Alone -- by Vonnie Davis

Men flock to me.

I’m serious.

Well, my heroes, anyhow. They come to me at night when I’m in that fragile, fluttery state between wakefulness and sleep. This is how all my stories are born—with my heroes' appearances. And they've all been dramatic in their own way.

For some writers, it’s the nub of a thought, or a snippet of an overheard conversation, or something read in a newspaper or magazine that sparks a “what if” idea.

 

Not for me, though.

For me, it’s the men.

 

One night, a couple years ago, a man sauntered into our bedroom wearing nothing but a black Stetson and a pair of cowboy boots. I glanced over at Calvin, who was snoring away and then at our handsome intruder. His sneer was intimidating. The man was clearly aggravated, while I was spellbound. He took off his hat and placed it in a more strategic location. “Ever notice how the full moon brings out the madness in people?”

I couldn’t respond--I mean, I thought I was near mad, myself. I just left Storm talk about the blue-eyed woman he’d been dreaming of while I drooled onto my pillow.

Several months later, I was writing a romantic suspense set in Paris. My hero was a French government agent and my heroine an older American school teacher. Things were going fairly well for this pantser. After all, writing a story set in the City of Light was like revisiting the jewel along the Seine. I was enjoying the process.

 

After we’d gone to sleep one night, someone slammed our bedroom door. I sat straight up in the bed. Wh…what was that? I glanced at Calvin, who hadn’t so much as shifted at the sound of that door slam. I must be dreaming.

I’d just dropped back to sleep when the door banged shut again. This time I saw who the culprit was—Niko, my French government agent. “What? What do you want?”

 

He pointed to me and issued an order. “Watch.”

 

And so I did. He stormed down a hallway, fluorescent lights humming overhead. His hands were clenched in fists. As soon as he opened a door, I saw my heroine tied to a chair in an interrogation room. She was blindfolded. Niko slammed the door and she jumped. Then the vision faded.

“That’s it? You woke me up for that piddlin’ little bit? Why is Alyson tied up? Why are you angry?” Oh, I was not happy. It took me four chapters to set-up that door slamming scene in Mona Lisa’s Room.

Another night, a man roared into our bedroom on a Harley. Niko and I were still arguing. Seems he didn’t think he needed to wear his Kevlar vest. Frenchmen and their egos—go figure. So, really, the absolute last thing I wanted in my crowded mind was another man. I grunted and rolled against Calvin’s back.


Mr.-Harley-Man started circling our bed, slow and easy just the way my youngest boy resorted to when he wanted to get on my last nerve. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I flopped onto my back. “What? What is it?” He got off his bike, took off his helmet, and adjusted his prosthesis. Somehow I knew he’d lost part of his leg in Iraq. “My name’s Win, short for Sherwin. Would you write my story?” Well, he was so polite with that Texas twang. I mean, what else could I do?

Not all the men who come into my bedroom late at night are grown. Eli, a golden-haired three-year-old threw a tantrum on my bedroom carpet one night. His chubby little hands were clenched in someone’s blue calico skirt. “Mine. Mine.” I had no clue what to make of him. Then a tumbleweed blew into our room with a piece of matching blue calico tied to it. And Tumbleweed Letters was born.

 

Nearly a year ago, I had a cancerous cyst removed from my saliva gland. A couple months into the healing process, two small golden orbs started shining in the back of my mind. Brain tumors, I thought. When I finally worked up the courage to call the doctor, the golden orbs blinked. Eyes? Were they eyes? They kept a steady blinking rhythm as they silently watched and waited. I was losing my mind, I thought. No doubt you're thinking the same thing.

 

Then one night the golden eyes glowed bright and moved from the back of my mind into the body of a bear. He stood at the foot of my bed. “Sorry,” I yawned. “You’ve got the wrong house. I don’t write children’s books.” The bear shook his head. “What? You’re not from a children’s story?” The bear shifted into a Scottish man in a kilt. Once more I quickly looked at Calvin, wondering if I should nudge him awake—I mean, really, the man does miss the most interesting stuff.

 

Deciding to keep the man in a kilt to myself, I ditched that idea and turned my gaze on his plaid. “I don’t write paranormal.”

 

He swaggered toward me and stood. “Aye, lassie, ye do and ye will.” He lifted the covers and slipped into the bed. Calvin snorted. “Me name is Creighton. Let me tell ye the story of how bears came to be extinct in Scotland.”

 

I’m telling you, ladies, the men just won’t leave me alone… I'm a romance writer and I LOVE my job.

One lucky commenter will be chosen at random to win a copy of Storm's Interlude. Paperback or eBook, your choice. All you have to do is tell me what kind of dreams you have about men...well, the PG parts, anyhow.