A Warrior For Christmas Is One Of Six Historical Romances featured in An American Rose Christmas. Tentative release date Dec-11 (possibly earlier) in print and digital download.
Blurb:
Reclaimed by his wealthy uncle, former Shawnee captive Corwin Whitfield finds life with his adopted people at an end and reluctantly enters the social world of 1764. His one aim is to run back to the colonial frontier at his first opportunity––until he meets Uncle Randolph’s ward, Dimity Scott.
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Chapter One
December 1764
An estate outside Philadelphia
Blinking against wind-driven sleet, Corwin Whitfield followed the stout man through the front door of the massive stone house, far larger than he’d imagined. A dozen cabins or Indian lodges put together could fit inside and still leave ample room. With winter lashing at their heels, Uncle Randolph had pressed both man and beast hard to reach Whitfield Place before nightfall.
Icy pellets hit the door as his uncle shut the solid wooden barrier. Better than a skin flap, Corwin supposed. He was well accustomed to the wet and cold, but a fire would feel good. His gloved fingers were numb from riding over snowy roads all day, not to mention all the previous days. Puddles spread at his boots on the flagstone floor in the entryway.
“Welcome home, Mister Whitfield.”
By the light of the small glass lamp on the stand inside the door, he saw a woman in an apron, severe skirts and gray shawl. The cap engulfed her pinched face. Inclining her head and curtsying, she said, “How was your journey, sir?”
“Wretched, Mistress Stokes.” Uncle Randolph waved a gloved hand at Corwin. “My nephew.” He swiped a paw at her. “My housekeeper,” he added by way of introduction. “Fifth cousin of my late wife’s, or some such connection.”
“Indeed.” Mistress Stokes curtsied to Corwin. “Welcome to Whitfield Place.”
He considered the etiquette drilled into him by his uncle and offered a brief nod. A bow didn’t seem required.
Uncle Randolph scowled. “Foul weather.”
She seemed unperturbed by his gruff manner. “Yes sir.”
“Bound to worsen. See to it the fires are built up.” Unbuttoning his brown caped coat, Uncle Randolph flung it onto the high-backed bench along one wall. He peeled off his gloves, tossing them and his tricorn onto the sodden heap.
Corwin did the same with his newly acquired garments. He couldn’t fault his uncle’s generosity, but the man had the temperament of an old he-bear.
Uncle Randolph ran thickened fingers over gray hair pulled back at his neck and tied with a black ribbon. “Where’s Miss Dimity keeping herself? Is she well?”
Corwin detected a trace of anxiety in his tone.
The dour woman gave a nod. “Quite well, sir. She’s in the drawing room just after having her tea.”
“Good,” his uncle grunted. “Tell cook we’ll have our supper in there. Stew, pastries, and ale will serve. Don’t neglect the Madeira.”
Another curtsy and the housekeeper turned away to pad down a hall partly lit by sconces wrought of iron. His uncle frowned after her. “She’s a good body and keeps this place tidy but tends to be lax on the fires. We mustn’t risk Dimity taking ill. Delicate girl. Cold as a tomb in here.”
Corwin found Whitfield Place equally as welcoming as a grave. The chill was pervasive. A furlined wican would be warmer. He followed his uncle across the frigid entryway and through a wide double door. His relation paused just inside the spacious room and Corwin halted beside him.
“There she is,” Uncle Randolph said with the hint of a smile in his normally reluctant features. “My ward, Miss Dimity Scott. The little Quaker as I call her.”
Corwin thought it highly doubtful this staunch Anglican had taken in an actual Quaker. Looking past assorted tables, gilt-covered chairs and a gold couch, he spotted the feminine figure seated before the glowing hearth. A padded armchair the color of ripe berries hid much of her slender form. His first impression was of fair curls, like corn silk, piled on her head beneath a circle of lace; his second, that the young woman bent over her embroidery seemed oblivious of all else. One this unaware would never survive in the frontier. He’d been taught to move with the silence of a winged owl while observing all around him. “Why does she not look up at our coming?”
“Ah, well, that’s a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” The hesitancy in his uncle’s tone was unlike this man who knew his own mind and was swift to instruct others. He squinted at Corwin with his good eye; the other perpetually squinted from an injury he’d received in a duel. “I trust you’ll not hold it against the poor girl as a sign of weakness, my boy. Warriors sometimes do and you’ve kept company with those savages far too long.”
It wasn’t like his uncle to ramble, and Corwin shifted impatiently upon hearing his adopted people disparaged again. “What are you saying, Uncle?”
He rubbed his fingers over a chin grizzled with whiskers. “Dimity cannot hear us.”
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1780 South Carolina, spies and intrigue, a vindictive ghost, the battle of King’s Mountain, Patriots and Tories, pounding adventure, pulsing romance…ENEMY OF THE KING.
“A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.” ~ Edward Abbey
Yes, I am well aware of the need to ‘do something’ about our current health care system. I badly want to see insurance made more affordable, but this bill is not the answer. Portions of it were read aloud (not that I hadn’t already had an earful from hubby) but what I heard increased my concerns.
“We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness–That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive to these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such Principles and and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. . . .” ~ Thomas Jefferson
A good friend of mine sent me the following info and I was very impressed, so am sharing it here. 
Cinnamon and Honey
BLADDER INFECTIONS:
INDIGESTION:
FATIGUE:
I’m thrilled to have signed with The Wild Rose Press for my historical romance, the story of my heart (actually written first and oft rewritten, the story I cut my teeth on and grew up with) RED BIRD’S SONG! Set in the Virginia colonial frontier with a The Last of the Mohicans flavor, inspired by events that happened to my early American ancestors and the story that launched me onto my novel writing journey.
Misty autumn day, cold rain falling, leaves scattering from the trees in a red-gold swirl. The Alleghenies are veiled in the distance beyond the hazy hills above our meadow. On my dining room table sits a box of tiger lily and tulip bulbs that need planting, should already be in the sodden ground. I trust we’ll have some fine sunny days yet that may entice me out into the garden before winter settles in.
For one thing, advancing November is what I call ‘the snugly time.’ For those of you with real fireplaces, I envy you. There’s such primal satisfaction and comfort in the crackle of a wood fire, the orange glow of the flames and red coals, the smoky scent. I have a fireplace DVD, I kid you not, and an large electric space heater that looks like a wood stove with a fake fire in it. But it gives out warmth and if I play the fireplace DVD while running the space heater/wood stove, at least it provides the feel of a hearth. Certainly better than back when all I had was the DVD alone. That emitted zero heat in this drafty old farm house. My sister, feeling this was the height of pathetic, gave me the wood stove/space heater for Christmas. We do have ancient chimneys here but none are safe to use. Someday, someday, we shall build a new one. But the farm has a way of eating up all the scanty funds before they stretch to include a new stone hearth.
I’d love a massive hearth such as I describe in many of my novels. Hint, hint. The Big Meadows Lodge up on the Skyline Drive has the most wonderful hearth in the world. I could settle in for days and write in that cozy room with a superb view of the ridges and valley spreading out below. On a clear day, you can see for miles and miles. And when I’m up there before that hearth I am deeply content to let the rain fall and fog shroud the ridges. A snug log cabin would also do nicely as a writers retreat.
The Allegheny Mountains are muted in haze. Only the faint silhouette of blue ridges shows through the shroud. Most of the brilliant foliage that I reveled in has fallen from the trees covering the hills up behind our house. The woodland lends a sort of secretiveness to the valley and the mountains. I can well imagine how the tales of ‘haints’ and wandering spirits grew out of these misty hollows and remote ridges. It’s easy to feel secure snugly tucked by the fireside with a steaming bowl of soup…but outside when the night breeze rustles the few leaves left clinging to bare branches, and creatures stir in the shadows, then I wonder if some of the stories may even be true.
The strange awareness inside Karin grew, like a summons urging her to an untamed place.
“You told me Jack was dead, Mama,” Joseph said.
on the bedside alight. Another candle glowed from the top of the washstand. The dancing flames cast long shadows on the plastered log walls and the faces hovering above him.
A pang knifed through him. If his mother were remarried, then his father no longer lived. Not that he begrudged her bettering her lot with the McNeals, but his father had been a fine man. Jack faintly recalled his even temper and hearty laugh, and he’d been a crack shot, a skill Jack had inherited but failed to use tonight. He hadn’t gotten off a single volley at his attacker, the sneaky bastard.
Joseph slipped Jack’s buckskin pouch and powder horn from his injured shoulder. He laid them on the bedside table along with his tomahawk and slid a strong arm beneath his neck. “Sip this,” he said, tilting his head as he held a mug to his lips.
Jack chafed to think of such a valuable animal left to stand out in this foul weather. Then John McNeal drew a wicked looking knife and gave him something else to worry over. Jack could only hope the older man still retained the full use of his sight as he sliced through his bloody sleeve, spoiling his favorite shirt—damn, his lucky shirt. Well, he was alive, wasn’t he?
It crossed his clouded mind that he’d frightened her and must make amends if he hoped to have another word, or anything else, with this rare creature. Of her heritage, there could be no doubt. It was stamped in her face and coloring, but the bewilderment in her blue-gray eyes betrayed her ignorance.
Her eyes, too, Jack suspected. Looking past her, he watched in fascination and relief as Karin edged nearer the bed. He much preferred her to tend his injury, but if he spooked her she’d bolt like a skittish mare. Teeth clenched against the pain, he tried to appear unthreatening. Maybe he could entice her closer.
A bearwalking Shawnee warrior, secrets from the past, a rugged frontiersman, gifted heroine, magical moonstone, love at first sight…DAUGHTER OF THE WIND
