Spiderwebs, Mice and Newlyweds -- Vonnie Davis

At the end of the month, I have a novella coming out—Tumbleweed Letters. This historical, set near Deadwood in the Dakota Territory, takes place in 1879 and is my first historical. It is part of the Love Letters series.

For reasons explained in the story, Sophie and Cam meet and marry the same day. He brings her home to his ranch after buying supplies for the winter. As you can imagine, Sophie is taut with worry about her future with a man she barely knows. What kind of future will she have with him as she helps raise his son? Can they come to care for one another?

Since we’re talking about excerpts with the “most,” this is my excerpt with the MOST dirt…

Now was no time for being maudlin, wondering why her destiny landed her here. She had things to do. Sophie picked up her skirts and stepped into her new world.

A kerosene lamp with a sooty chimney set on a narrow table in the hallway littered with dirty clothes here and there. To the left was a parlor with heavy wood furniture covered with dusty wine velvet upholstery. A floral rug graced the floor. Maybe after she hung it on a clothesline and beat it, she’d be able to tell what color it was. Dirty long johns were dropped onto the floor where Cam had evidently taken them off. Stiff, smelly socks draped the one arm of a wooden rocking chair. She ran a fingertip over the grimy tables. Cobwebs draped a corner of the large room. Tomorrow would be a day of heavy cleaning.

Through a doorway was a large kitchen. She stepped inside and froze. Saints preserve me. It’s a pig sty, so it ‘tis. Dirty dishes were piled on the end of the large wooden kitchen table. Pans crusted with something set on the stove. Muddy boots were thrown in a corner. A mouse skittered across the floor and into a hole in the floor. Books were stacked on the floor next to a chair at the table.

How could someone live like this? She gave an involuntary shudder, pushed up her sleeves and set to work. Cam McBride was in for a shock if he thought he’d continue living in a hovel. Dirty pans were moved to the table. Then she filled the stove with kindling. Once she had a fire roaring, she pumped water into a pan. She was pleased to see the kitchen had a pump at the sink that would save her trips outside for buckets of water.

Cam carried in sacks of flour, sugar and coffee beans. He set them on the floor and opened a door to a little pantry. Two mice darted into the kitchen. The man dared to ignore her startled gasp. “Want me to empty these into the round tins Maw always used?”

“Not until I see how clean they are.” She waved her arms around the dirty, greasy kitchen. “Cam McBride, you should have your ears boxed for living like this. Tis an abomination, so it ‘tis.” She could have sworn she saw the corners of his mouth quirk as if he were fighting a smile. He turned to walk away and she stuck out her tongue at him.

The next time he came back inside, he set packages of piece goods and notions on the settee in the parlor. Books he bought in town were dumped onto the kitchen floor next to the crooked pile already there. She shot him a dark look. Had the man forgotten the bookshelves in the parlor? He stuck both hands in his back pockets. “I’ll put the horses away and check on the livestock while you…”

“While I try to clean one spot upon which to stand?” She snatched the broom and began sweeping out dead leaves and mud clumps. Although by the stench, she wasn’t completely sure it was mud. “Tis a haven for dirt you have here.” Her motions were swift and jerky. She flashed him an irritated glare. “And where are your manners? Take your hat off inside.”

He didn’t. In fact he stood there for a minute just staring at her. Then he reached out, wrapped a long arm around her waist and drew her to him. She slammed against his muscled chest and gazed at his hardened features. His blue eyes squinted as he seemed to regard her, and then slowly, very slowly, a smile spread across his solemn face. Merciful heavens. Look what a smile does to his eyes, to his face…to me.

“I won’t abide a bossy wife, Sophie Catherine. But I do like your spirit.” He tipped her chin with two fingers, the pads of them rough and strong. His blue eyes darkened as he leaned down to cover her lips with his. Both of his arms were around her now, and in his arms she felt safety, a measure of tenderness and delightful physical sensations. The kiss was hard and swift—akin to her reaction to it.

“Did I say I wouldn’t demand my husbandly rights tonight?”

She stiffened and squared her shoulders prepared to do verbal battle. “You most certainly did.”

“I think maybe I lied.”

Her eyes widened. She placed both palms on his cheeks and drew his face close to hers until they were eyeball to eyeball. “Well, I won’t abide a husband who lies.” She let him go and set back to cleaning.

His laughter—rich and deep—was a heart-stealing surprise. The heat of a blush rushed up her neck to swathe her cheeks. She kept on sweeping hoping he couldn’t see his effect on her. His footsteps echoed across the floor, the door closed and she smiled.

**** RELEASING OCTOBER 31^st

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.