Then, One Drunken Valentine's Night...by Vonnie Davis

After my divorce in the early nineties, I spent twelve years as a single woman. As such, I have to tell you, I hated Valentine’s Day. It was a day for couples, displays of affection, flowers and wining and dining. In contrast, I was stuck in the “world of aloneness” with a pack of Oreos, take-out Chinese and the company of two cats—who were getting more snuggle time than I was, I might add.

Twelve years is a long time to yearn to belong to someone. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy writing romance. Don’t we all long to belong? We place two characters on the page and watch them dance around each other, sometimes in a foxtrot, occasionally in a pelvic-grinding slow dance and often in the sensual push and pull of a tango. The music stops and tensions and conflicts arise. One misstep and hearts are broken.

Now we all know a broken heart doesn’t mend overnight. It took me eleven years to reach the point where I wanted to give love a chance again. And what did I do? I drank too much wine one Valentine’s eve, went online and filled out a membership form for match dot com. Really, at fifty-three you’d think I’d have had more sense. But I was in the middle of a righteous, wine-induced crying jag and, like Rhett Butler, frankly I didn’t give a wine-darn.

I did the next morning, though, when I sat straight up in the bed, clasping my ears so they wouldn’t fall off my hung-over head and gasped, “My God, I put myself on the Internet. A picture and everything!” I threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed, determined to delete my match dot com profile aptly titled “Magnet 4 the Absurd.” I cracked my knuckles as I waited for my old dial-up connection to whiz and whirl as it did its thing. After all, I reasoned, I was a grandma and an “extra-fluffy” one at that (polite-speak for overweight). How many guys would possibly respond?

I had seventeen emails in less than eight hours. Some were stinkers. A few were looking for a sugar momma to support them. And a couple, I suspect, were married, in search of a little action on the side. Then, there was Calvin. A retired English teacher who also wrote. It was this man who healed my broken heart.

My Valentine’s Days are no longer alone. We don’t do extravagant celebrations. Dinner out sometimes. Perhaps an afternoon movie. I might get a pot of pink tulips—my favorite. Mainly, I get lots of hugs—and Calvin gives the best hugs.

However you celebrate Valentine’s, why not stop by some of the Roses’ blogs for the Honky Tonk Hearts Blog Hop? Some of us, along with many other authors, wrote novellas in the Honky Tonk Hearts series at The Wild Rose Press. We're all coming together with our stories to show you how lonely hearts come together in Texas, in Gus Rankin's Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk.

Leave a comment; there will be lots of prizes. The blog hop runs from tomorrow, the 13^th to the 15^th. You can start at my blog— www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com –where you’ll find the list of links to other participating blogs.

Visit Vonnie Davis at www.vonniedavis.com

A Cheerleader in the Midst of Madness by Vonnie Davis

 

I've always had a problem with self-esteem. Sure, I knew I could raise some pretty terrific kids or cook a gourmet meal or ace a test in college, but I didn't think I could ever attain my deepest desire--to become a published author. Enter cheerleaders. Well, one especially. My Calvin--tall, slender, gray kinky hair, a quick smile and a belief I could do anything. Finding love at anytime in one's life is wonderful, but to find it after living alone for twelve years and nearing the end of what society deems "middle age" is an exceptional feat. I am a blessed woman.

 

It was Calvin who insisted I stop dreaming about becoming a writer "one day" and start tapping those computer keys "now." But the house, I lamented. I have housework to do. He accused me of making excuses. After more than forty years of making them, I suppose I'd become an expert at rationalizing why I couldn't write. Calvin was having none of it. This man with a Masters in American Literature took over the dishwasher, the vacuum and the toilet bowl brush. He now holds a graduate degree in Household Husbandry with a minor in Cheerleading.

 

Every afternoon, he makes me a cuppachino, frothing the milk stiff just the way I like it and carefully carries it to me, his tongue tucked between his teeth so he won't spill a drop on his clean floors. And, in return, I give each of my fictional heroes one of the many endearing qualities of my real-life hero. In my heart this bit of Cavin is what helps make them all strong and lovable.

 

So when the call came that THOSE VIOLET EYES finaled in the National Achievement of Romance Fiction Award, guess who leaped with joy? My knobby-kneed cheerleader. Every time he looked at me the rest of the evening, he grinned and said, "No longer will you say you're not good enough. Never again."

 

Who is your cheerleader? Who along your rough and pitted road to publication cheered you on? Who told you you can do this. Who helped you believe that through the madness of life--and there is SO much madness hurled at us--that you can achieve your goals? Who makes you feel you're a better person? This, my ladies, is love...sisterly love, parental love, friendship love and romantic love. What a precious gift.

 

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Vonnie Davis is an author of contemporary, historical, paranomal romance and romantic suspense. Visit her at www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com or 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.

A Novice on a Motorcycle

By Vonnie Davis

I remember my first motorcycle ride with great clarity. The man I was dating, at the time, had just bought a new Yamaha 650. Since my children were spending the weekend with their father, the new guy in my life decided it would be a great day to initiate me to the joys of riding a bike.

Poor guy had no clue as to the extent of my novice status--or my fear. Or that I’d be so stiff I’d make steering the bike harder for him. I was so scared, I was afraid if I moved my eyeballs, I’d throw the bike off balance. I froze. During the entire two-hour ride I stared at the back of his helmet, memorizing the serial numbers and other information.

When we got home and I could mercifully stand on solid ground, rubbing my bumm to get the circulation going again, he asked how I’d enjoyed the ride. “Fine,” I replied, “except, don’t your feet get hot? First I kept my toes down until I couldn’t stand the heat anymore and then I'd put my heels down.

He shot a glance at his tailpipes where the rubber from my soles had melted onto them. He’d forgotten to put the foot pegs down and I’d been riding with my feet on the hot tailpipes. He had to spend several hours rubbing the melted soles off the chrome. It was a long time before he left me forget it.

In my recent release, Those Violet Eyes, Win takes Evie home from work after the battery on her car goes dead. She’d never ridden a bike either.

“You need a ride home. Come on.” Win turned and walked to his Harley, tugging a key from his jeans pocket.

Evie scurried after him, his helmet dangling from her hand. “Wait. Wait a second. I’m not riding on that thing with you.”

Win settled onto the seat and inserted the key. The Harley jumped to life, making that low rumble it was so famous for; her system did a strange rumbling of its own when she took in his broad shoulders. He didn’t say a thing. He just sat there, staring off into the night. Waiting. Waiting for her just like he’d done before when he wanted her to do something. This blasted man’s silence was different from others. His silence whispered, “Come to me.” Worse, she watched him wait and felt him will her to do his silent command.

Damn him.

The lights on the rooftop star and steer snapped off. She needed a ride home. Marshall was always the first to leave, so he’d be no help. “I’ll ask Gus to give me a ride in his truck.”

“He’s gone. Left before you did. Think it might be for a woman, but don’t tell Keira.”

Keira was probably filling out the alcohol log sheets for the BATF, a process her friend claimed was the bane of her existence. While the current bane of her existence sat silent on a rumbling Harley. Waiting.

“Won’t you need your helmet?” She extended it to him.

He shook his head once. “Your safety’s more important than mine. You use it.”

He was the strangest man she’d ever met.

Well, hadn’t she been hoping for a little adventure, something to change the everyday humdrum of her life? And she did need a ride home.

She put on the helmet and took it back off. “My pony tail won’t fit.”

Win’s hands rose to remove the clip from her hair, his muscled legs holding the bike upright. His eyes locked on hers as his fingers splayed in her tresses and fluffed them out.

“Your hair’s beautiful. I hate to cover it up with this old brain bucket.”

Her insides did more of that strange twitching she found very perplexing. No man ever complimented her before, nor touched her hair. Not like he was doing, anyhow.

He took the helmet from her, settled it on her head and made some adjustments so it fit her better.

When she hiked her skirt to get on, his gaze followed her legs; she was sure she heard him groan. The man made her yearn and fear at the same time.

“Wrap your arms around me.”

“No, I’ll hurt your back.”

“Wrap your arms around me, Evie.”

“No.” She had no intentions of touching him. If she did, she might like the feel of his hard, muscular frame too much, and that just wouldn’t do. She was leaving here as soon as she saved enough money.

Win coasted the bike backwards, walking it along with his boots. The bike made its potato-potato-potato sound.

“Hold on or you’ll fall off.”

“No, I won’t.”

He gave the bike more gas and released the clutch. It lurched forward—Evie jerked backwards. Her arms snapped around his waist, and she snuggled close. Just as she feared, her arms around him felt good, much too good.

She closed her eyes. Win Fairchild could be trouble, trouble in black jeans and a Harley T-shirt.

Warm air rushed by as the bike pierced the darkness like an arrow. A sense of freedom exhilarated her. Was it the ride or the man that heightened her senses? Subtle changes in temperature were noticeable as they rounded corners and took the gentle hills. Scents she missed while riding in a car were now hers for the smelling—pine, honeysuckle, wild flowers. The nighttime serenade by crickets, bullfrogs and the occasional owl made her smile. Everything was more vivid. No wonder people fell in love with riding motorcycles.

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS: http://bit.ly/ThoseVioletEyes

AMAZON: http://bit.ly/TVEVonnieDavis

Would A Rose Soften Your Heart? -- Vonnie Davis

I love roses. Their heady smell. The velvety texture of their petals. Their beauty in all stages of bloom. One day Calvin carried home a pot of pink tulips. "Angel, I remembered you like pink roses so I got these for you." He was so pleased with himself...and I was more than pleased with his thoughtfulness. So what if it was the wrong flower. He'd made the purchase with his heart. Isn't that what every woman wants? To be uppermost in our man's thoughts?

Roses play a part in my release from The Wild Rose Press, Those Violet Eyes. Part of the Honky Tonk Hearts seires, it releases today. Evie, my heroine, has been driving an old clunker with doors that won't open and a driver's side window that won't close. She gets in and out by shimmying through the open window. One night after working as a waitress at the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk, she comes out to find her car's battery is dead. Win, my hero, offers to put in another battery. The next day, her brother drives her to work where she has several pleasant surprises waiting on her --

Getting Dooley to drive her to work was no problem for Evie. The man loved any excuse to go to the Lonesome Steer—or any bar, for that matter.

“See if your car starts, Evie, while I go in and say ‘hi’ to everyone.”

“Don’t forget the evening chores.” No doubt he already had.

“Yeah, yeah.” He all but ran into the honky tonk.

Evie stepped to her car and noticed the windows were wound up. Her stomach dropped. Who would have done such a trick? How would she get inside the car? Wait. Whoever wound them up had to open the doors. Doors jammed tighter than Sam Houston’s tomb for months now.

She reached for the handle and breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened, slick as anything. She closed it. Opened it. Closed it. A smile blossomed for the first time that day. Who fixed my doors? She opened the door again and turned the handle for the window. It worked perfectly. How wonderful. No more riding in the rain with the window down.

Had Win done this? Had to be him. Who else would have?

Evie sat in the seat, turned her key and the engine sprung to life. Oh, Win, thank you.

That’s when she noticed the yellow rose bud. One single yellow rose in a little vial of water lay on her dashboard. She reached for it and fingered the velvety petals. No one had ever given her flowers before. A lone tear plopped onto the blossom. Win thought enough of her to fix her car and give her a rose. What was she to make of this? Of him?

Kenny Chesney was singing from the jukebox about a sexy woman in his life when Evie stepped inside the honky tonk. She waved to Keira and Gus and headed straight for Win.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she closed the swinging door as quiet as she could. She wanted just a minute; just a minute to look at the macho-Marine with the caring heart. He’d given her a rose. What man would think of placing a rosebud on a woman’s dash? None that she knew of, that’s for sure. Yet he had. He’d also installed a new battery and fixed her windows and doors. She hadn’t asked for his help. This giant of a man had given it freely. Was his heart that generous?

Win’s back was to her as he chopped vegetables. Muscles played under his tight T-shirt. His biceps were huge. How would it feel to be enveloped in the warmth and strength of his strong body?

As if he sensed her presence, his head rose and he slowly turned toward her.

Suddenly nervous at being caught studying him—hoping she hadn’t been drooling—she cleared her throat. “Hi.”

He nodded once in greeting.

“Ah…thank you. My car starts right up.” She stepped further into his domain, her heart pounding in her ears and her stomach doing that twitchy thing it always did around him. “The car doors work now, too.”

Win stood there, silent and waiting. No emotion showed on his stony features. His hazel eyes regarded her as she moved to stand beside him. Lord, but the man resembled a wall of muscle.

She caught herself chewing on her bottom lip and stopped. “It’ll be nice to wind my windows up. Last week a bird flew in the car, and I ran down a mailbox trying to get it out.”

Her remark cracked his austere face. His lips twitched and his eyes turned soft, almost affectionate. Then he shook his head as if he didn’t know whether to believe her or not. “There’s no one like you, Evie.”

 

Evie Caldwell hoards every penny for her escape from the servitude life created by a worthless brother and the endless work on a ranch that will never be hers. The last thing she wants is a muscled man with a macho Marine attitude complicating her life. But, oh, how that man can make her insides do a twitchy thing.

Wounded vet, Win Fairchild, returns to Texas to heal, find a piece of his soul and open a ranch for amputee children. Finding someone to love was not on his agenda. Nor was dealing with a wildcat, until she captures his heart with those violet eyes.

But now that he knows what he wants, can Win convince Evie to stay in Texas—and his bed?

Is a Strong Self-Esteem a Bad Thing?

I grew up in the generation when girls were taught self-praise stinks. While boys were taught to proclaim their worth. In the early 1960's, women were valued for how clean they kept their homes and men, for how much they earned. I had it drummed into me that Mondays were for laundry, Tuesdays for ironing, Wednesdays for baking, Thursdays for cleaning the downstairs and the upstairs were cleaned on Fridays. Cooking for Sunday meals was done on Saturday as was shopping. On Sunday, the Sabbath, we rested. Is it any wonder I hate routine?

Some would say life was gentler then. But was it?

Milllions of women were sure their self-worth was tied to taking care of others. Not a bad thing, really, but what about their dreams, their desires, their needs? Then the middle sixties hit. We had the sexual revolution, the power of the peace movement and the dreams of the civil rights movement. Slowly we moved into the feminine self-affirmation movement.

Women of a younger age are more prone to draw attention to their strong points. Yay them! When I hear my granddaughter say, "I can't wait for college next year. I shall shine bright like the stars," I want to stand up and applaude. "Go, Sugar Dumplin'!"

Yet a strong self-esteem is not merely for the young, it should be for us, too. We--you and me of various ages--deserve to feel good about ourselves. About our achievements, dreams attained, goals earned. And why not? Did we not work for those things? Allow your self-esteem to germinate, to grow, to bloom.

In my novella, Those Violet Eyes, Evie is hiding behind her dream of going to college to become a teacher. Win, the new man in her life, is encouraging her to make her dream come true. But, as so often with dreams denied, the excuses are often stronger than the dream. --

Win evidently saw her determined features. He shook his head a couple times and clicked his tongue for Blaze to approach her. When his horse stopped beside hers, he glanced across the pond, watching the birds—or waiting. Damn him.

Well, she could wait, too.

She slipped a foot out of her stirrup and slung it across her saddle. Leather creaked. A bullfrog plopped into the water. Silent minutes clanged by, growing louder with each tick of some unseen clock.

“Never took you for a coward, kitten. Not with all that attitude you’ve got.” Win slid his gaze to her, his hazel eyes growing hard. “Or was that all bluster to hide a scared little girl.”

Before she thought it through, Evie slid off Molly Mae. “You come down here and say that to my face, Win Fairchild, you overbearing, pushy jerk. I’ll slap your ears so hard, they’ll make a jam sandwich. Two floppy ears jammed together, you no-brained idiot. What gives you the right to push at me like this?”

Win slipped off Blaze, all ease and grace. In a flurry of movement, he grabbed her arms and hauled her to him. “What do you want out of life, Evie? Do you want to rot away on the Double-Bar working for Dooley? Or do you want to go after your dreams?”

“Some dreams are just that—dreams.” Didn’t he understand?

Win nodded. “True. I have a dream of going back to the Corps, but it won’t happen, not with my hearing loss and amputation. I have to accept it as an unrealistic dream. I also have a dream of helping kids who’ve lost limbs to accidents or diseases. It’s going to take some work and sacrifice on my part, but I aim to do it. Got a new dream, too.” His voice grew softer and he ran his knuckles down her cheek, his gaze intent on hers.

Don’t ask.

Available June 27th from The Wild Rose Press

Is There Anyone More Lovable Than a Spunky Old Broad?

I chuckled when I read the list of topics for blogging in February. I'm sure you all know why. I mean, Spunky Old Broads? We all know I resemble that remark.

So tell me, when did we start admiring older women? I think it began in childhood with grandma. Remember those aprons, those enveloping hugs and sugary treats? And wasn't it the neatest thing when Grandma told our parents to stop scolding us? We were just being children, after all.

Those Mother Goose rhymes further reinforced the fact that old women were good, entertaining and full of love. When other adults were too busy to read to us or hear our silly jokes, older women had the time to devote to us.

When Mom declared fast food was unhealthy, cute old ladies campaigned for more meat in our sandwiches. Fact was, the more seasoned ladies were never happy until our tummies were full.

When we hit our teenaged years and looked at our parents with disdain, who did we look to for role models? That's right! Spunky old broads. They taught us it was right and good to be our own person. That marching to the beat of a drum was passe, but to dance to the beat of our internal flutes was a groovey way to inner happiness. "Don't be a cookie cutter," they instructed.

Perhaps that's why Maxine is so popular. Is she not the epitome of we older women? Sassy. Outspoken. Ballsy.

And who doesn't love Betty White, spunky old broad that she is? She's an advocate for humane animal treatment, and for that she has my gratitude. Still, old women are more than warm cookies and smiles. Try crossing one once, and see what happens...

I'm telling you, it's not a pretty sight.

I'll be 64 in May, easing into that old broad status. "When I am old, I shall wear a purple dress and red hat, which doesn't go..."

Vonnie Davis is author of Storm's Interlude, a contemporary romance set in the hill country of Texas, available now from The Wild Rose Press and Amazon. Her novella, Those Violet Eyes, is part of the Honky Tonk Heart series and will be released June 25th. A romantic suspense set in Paris, Mona Lisa's Room, will be released this year also with the Wild Rose Press.

Planning Ahead Can Be A Great Way To Organize

Planning ahead is easy. Make a check list and stick to it. Mark things on your calendar--doctor visits, editing deadlines, family events. Oh, and blogging dates, too.  One musn't forget those.  I post regularly at four blogs: Vintage Vonnie, Voices of the Heart, Seven Night Writers and here at The Roses of Prose. Now, if I were truly a planner, I'd write my posts early and schedule them to self-publish on the specified date. Many do that, but not I. No, I don't plan ahead that well. You see, this post should have gone up at midnight, not at ten-twenty in the morning.

If I were such a planner, then at times like this when I'm not at my best, I could merely roll over and try to go back to sleep, knowing my post was already up. But I'm not. So after a night of coughing, hacking and sniffling, when I shuffle into the bathroom for more decongestant and something niggles at my cottony mind--like, what day is it???--I wouldn't go into an OMG panic.

It's just a bug of some kind, nothing earth-shattering, but I'm useless right now just the same. I see the doctor at three-thirty today, and he'll tell me what I already know: I have a virus. But thanks to the cancer scare I had three months ago, I now have a hovering husband who is calling the doctor every time I sneeze or get a headache. Pass me that box of tissues, would you, please?

Of course, if I'd only get in the habit of posting and scheduling my blogs a few days in advance, I wouldn't be in this "egg on face" predicament, stumbling and fumbling, trying to think of something witty to say. Perhaps that should be my goal for 2012. Post blogs early and schedule them to self-publish on time!!!

I do have something great to share. My cover for my novella, part of the Honky Tonk Hearts series is in. Somehow the artist was able to capture Evie's dose of attitude, but then I shouldn't be surprised. The Wild Rose Press has the best graphic artists.

Evie Caldwell hates her life. Five years ago, she gave up college and her dream of teaching to care for her ailing mother. Now, she’s trapped taking care of her worthless brother and the family ranch. Waiting tables to earn her way out of Texas, the last thing she wants is a muscleman with a macho Marine attitude complicating her life. But, oh, how that man makes her insides melt.

Wounded vet Win Fairchild returns to Texas to heal, find a piece of his soul, and open a ranch for amputee children. Finding someone to love is not on his agenda. But when he starts work at the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk, a spitfire with violet eyes and a major attitude instantly captures his heart.

Evie just wants to escape, but now that Win knows what he wants, can he convince Evie to stay in Texas—and his bed?

My final galleys for Those Violet Eyes are in. As soon as my eyes stop watering enough so I can see the computer screen clearly, I'll get started on those. Until then, it's orange juice and hot tea for me. Let's add another thought to the list of things to do in 2012, shall we? STAY HEALTHY, EVERYONE.