Gardening Tips On This Wintry Day

*My garden in a sunbeam, picture by daughter Elise. Ah gardening, so dear to my heart.  I come from a long line of plant lovers and inherited the gardening gene.  I’ve passed it on to my younger daughter, Elise, my right arm in the garden, but all of my children are fans to some degree.  And now, the little people, the grandbabies are our new crop of apprentices. My five yr old grandson is of some actual help.  The same cannot be said of the two yr olds. (*Pic of grandbaby by Elise)

My main recommendation when it comes to gardening is to use a lot of compost and natural mulch, like well rotted hay or straw, even leaves, in your vegetable and flower beds.  Healthy plants better resist insects and disease.  Earth worms are a gardener’s best friend and thrive in natural mulch, humus-enriched soil.  Avoid chemical fertilizers and pesticides or you’ll kill the worms and other beneficial insects.   I’ve even gone on worm finds and introduced more into the gardens, plus bought them from a reputable online source.  Yes, I’m nuts over worms as are my grandbabies now from my enthusiasm.

My primary focus in gardening is our vegetable, perennial & annual flower, and herb beds.  I’m particularly fond of heirloom and old fashioned cottage garden plants.  Some of these vintage varieties involve saving seed and ordering from specialty catalogues.

Those herbs and flowers that attract butterflies, hummingbirds, songbirds, and honey bees are of special interest. I strive to provide a wildlife sanctuary of sorts.  The American love of a chemically dependent green lawn is the opposite of what beneficial insects and wildlife require, and plants for that matter.  Think wildflowers and herbs.  Rejoice in the butterflies and hummers that will follow.

(*Pic of nasturtiums by my mom)

We rotate annual our garden vegetables as well as practicing companion planting.  There are time honored combinations we’ve tried as well as making some of our own discoveries. Nasturtiums and radishes planted closely around the cucurbit family (also commonly referred to as the cucumber, gourd, melon, or pumpkin family) help to deter the squash vine borer and cucumber beetles which are deadly to the plants.   This family is our most trouble prone, so gets the greatest attention when it comes to companion planting.

Radishes are also a good companion for lettuce, spinach, and carrots.  If I were to choose one companion plant it would be radishes and the second, nasturtiums, but there are many excellent choices and we’re learning more all the time about effective combinations.

I interplant garlic with roses and have beneficial effects in warding off some of the pests and diseases that attack them.  *I prefer the old time roses and David Austen varieties that combine the best of the old with the repeat bloom of the new.  My favorite rose is Abraham Darby by David Austen. (*Pic of Abraham Darby Rose by Elise)

Tomatoes grow more robustly when planted near basil.  Peppers also like it.  Sweet marjoram, which reseeds itself for us, is another beneficial herb to interplant with vegetables and flowers.  Mint helps deter cabbage worms.   Pumpkins and squash better survive when rotated from their usual spots.  This year we tucked a pumpkin in among the massive, native clematis vine growing along the backyard fence that we refer to as ‘the beast.’  The borers didn’t find it, plus ‘the beast’ helped cradle the orange globes.

We’ve observed that old fashioned sunflowers with multiple heads (planted by birds from the birdseed variety) grow the most vigorously.  Sunflowers attract masses of goldfinches, a favorite songbird, and when planted in and around corn, reduce army worms in the ears.  Marigolds are an excellent companion plant for vegetable and flowers to help ward off Japanese beetles.  Borage enriches the soil, attracts honey bees, and is another good companion for squash.  Onions planted near carrots help repel the carrot fly.  Chamomile is another good companion plant but use it sparingly.

Encourage beneficial insects to make their home in your garden and experiment with companion planting.  Avoid monochromatic schemes and think variety.  And Happy gardening!  (If spring ever returns to these snowy realms.)

Snippets From Reviewers (To Hearten Myself)

I’m also listening to sustaining songs as I forge ahead with my next book (s).  Anyone else like Celtic Women? The Lord of the Rings sound track is rousing…Confession time, I tend to say to myself, OK, so that last novel/story was good but no way can you write the next, and so forth.  Somehow I’ve made it through half a dozen+ pubbed or soon to be pubbed works, but the doubts still nag and drag me down.  Creativity must be free to soar!   If I did it before, then by heaven, I can do it again, right?  Altogether now, repeat after me, “I can!/You can!”

I’m featuring the covers from Somewhere My Lass and Through the Fire which I never ever thought I’d make it through. (Thus the title for Through the Fire).  But I more or less thought that about all of them except Somewhere My Love which came to me like a gift.

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“I love historical romances. They are one of my favorites and anymore when I think of a historical I think of Beth Trissel. She is an author who has proved herself over time…a beautiful storyteller.”~ Bella Wolfe, Reviewer for You Gotta Read

“Beth Trissel is one of my favorite authors. How perchance did I get to read her work? It was through a contest and ever since then I knew that she was something special…from the plot to the characters, everything was well written.” ~ Denisse Alicia, The Pen and Muse

“Ms. Trissel is great at creating believable and loveable characters. She’s also great at giving us a happily ever after…kind of a bittersweet ending. Beth Trissel is a new author for me and one I will be looking for in the future as well.” ~ Ruby Lee, Reviewer for Mistress Bella Reviews

“Ms. Trissel’s alluring style of writing invites the reader into a world of fantasy and makes it so believable it is spellbinding.” ~ Camellia, The Long and Short Of It Reviews

“With characters so perfectly created, like intricate works of art, you feel each and every emotion that they possess.” ~ Angela Simmons, Reviewer for Book-Views.com

“Ms. Trissel has captured the time period wonderfully. As I read I am transported back to the mid-1700’s on the American frontier…I felt I was there through Ms. Trissel’s descriptions and settings. I look forward to reading more of Beth Trissel.” ~ Shelia, Reviewer for Two Lips

“Ms. Trissel brings the countryside and its people alive with her fascinating and at times gory details.” ~ Danielle, Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More

“Ms Trissel spins a very fine yarn. Her vivid imagery takes you right back into the action. The colours, scents and views tickle the senses. The deep description of scenery and historical setting gave me just the right idea…” ~ Steph Patterson, Historicals Reviewed

“In addition to creating memorable characters, Ms. Trissel makes wonderful use of descriptive language. ~ J. Thomas, “The Long and the Short Of It Reviews”

“I can definitely recommend this book, especially for historical fiction fans and all true romantics. This is a great story, and I am looking forward to reading more from Beth Trissel.”~By Mary, Reviewer for Bitten By Books

Flower Thoughts On This Snowy Day

I’m thinking springtime thoughts amid the winter drear.  Have a day warmed with hope and imbued with new life.

“Wherever flowers cannot be reared, there man cannot live.”~ Napoleon Bonaparte

*Which rules out this place for lord only knows how many more weeks.

“The Earth Laughs in Flowers” (and I miss them) ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Never a daisy grows, but a mystery guideth the growing.” ~  Richard Realf

I love spring anywhere, but if I could choose I would always greet it in a garden.  ~Ruth Stout

“The naked earth is warm with Spring,

And with green grass and bursting trees

Leans to the sun’s kiss glorying,

And quivers in the sunny breeze.” ~Julian Grenfel

*I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which

is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.* ~ e.e. cummings

Flowers… are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares,

and take

The winds of March with beauty.  ~William Shakespeare

“Yes, in the poor man’s garden grow

Far more than herbs and flowers—

Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,

And joy for weary hours.” ~ Mary Howitt

Little flower, but if I could understand, what you are, root
and all in all, I should know what God and man is.
~ Tennyson

“Life is full of beauty. Notice it. Notice the bumble bee, the small child, and the smiling  faces. Smell the rain, and feel the wind. Live your life to the fullest potential, and fight for your dreams.”  ~ Ashley Smith

There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed in the infinite leisure and repose of nature. ~ Henry David Thoreau

“Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life.” Rachel Carson

For more on my work please visit: www.bethtrissel.com

An Interview I Did With A Local Student Writing Club

How did you write a decent description without boring your readers?

My cardinal rule since the onset of this writing journey has been, Never bore the reader. I write adventure, mystery, and suspense and make my descriptions pretty gripping while adding enough detail for readers to feel they’re ‘there.’

Why did you decide to write historical romance? How did you start to write books?

I’ve always been fascinated with the past and love books with historical settings. Period movies are also my favorite. I’m a natural born romantic so combining history with a love story came easily.  I made the decision to take the leap into writing novels after commenting to my mother that my favorite books were historical romances of some sort and I wished I could write one.

She said, ‘why don’t you?’  And I said, ‘do you have any idea how much research I’d have to do?’  And she said, ‘Begin.’

I was also inspired by family accounts of ancestors taken captive by Indians during the French and Indian War and others who fought in the Revolution.  With all the rich history surrounding us here in Virginia and my early American roots, setting my novels in Virginia and the Carolinas also came naturally. Now I’ve reached further back into my Scot’s roots with my upcoming release, a unique Scottish time travel Somewhere My Lass.

How do you get over writer’s block?

I have what I call my thinking times, when I scheme and dream. Certain movies or music inspire creativity, like The Fellowship of the Rings…

How do you come up with your ideas?

Some stories stem from accounts I’ve read, including family genealogy, and others come from dreams.

Do you ever have problems not going over the top details and plot lines? No, I’m perfect in every way.   OK, sometimes I have to rein myself in.

How did you find a publisher?

After years of writing books set in early America which New York didn’t want, I was invited to submit to the Wild Rose Press, a small but fast growing company that publishes novels in both digital download/E-book and print.  The Wild Rose Press is eager to build its American historical line, but considers all romance categories.  If you’re interested in submitting, check the submission guidelines on their website.

On average, how long does it take to write your books?

Far longer than it should.  I agonize over research and fuss over every word.  An average time would be six months, although I’ve written a novel in three, while some have taken years.

How old were you when you finished your first book?

Ten years older than 30.

Have you ever killed a character? How do you do it?

Oh yes. I’ve killed a lot of them, sometimes even envisioned individuals who’ve annoyed me in their place.  In the fort Assault scene in Through the Fire I killed one of the refs from my daughter’s basketball games (gave him the name Hutch, an abbreviation of his last name).  He was particularly aggravating.  That story is set during the French and Indian War and he’s a frontiersman attacked by a warrior who ran a knife up under his ribs.  Hutch probably also got scalped but I didn’t stick around to give those details. Some of my characters have been shot by muskets, pistols, had their throats cut, been tomahawked, poisoned…

How old were you when you really got interested in writing?

I’ve written since elementary school, diaries, short stories, poems, and non-fiction pieces before moving onto novels.

What was it that made you want to be an author?

I love to read and think the story tellers are vital to society.  Where would we be without them? They preserve history and inspire as well as teach and entertain.

Do you have a person in your life that you would consider to be your inspiration?

Many. I come from a creative family with parents who encouraged me in that direction.  I admire anyone who strives to achieve their dreams.

Were you ever interested in writing in other genres than historical romance?

I also write light paranormal as I’m intrigued by ghosts, time travel and fantasy. My stories have a lot of mystery and adventure in them so if I were to let go of the romance genre, I’d focus more on those elements.

How many total books do you have published?

Four novels and a Christmas story in an anthology that came out this past December, plus I’ve signed for another historical and light paranormal.

What would you consider to be your favorite book you’ve written?

My favorite is the first novel I ever wrote and the next one coming out, a Native American romance set in the colonial frontier, Red Bird’s Song.

How did you first attract enough attention to be published?

I finaled in a number of writing contests, even won a few, and that helped a lot.

Who’s your favorite author to read? Favorite book?

Ever and always my favorite author is CS Lewis and his Chronicles of Narnia.  He’s been a great inspiration to me.

How do you cope with rejection?

First mope then try to learn from it; see if any suggestions were made I can apply to my writing.  If not, then let it go and forge ahead.  I’ve had hundreds of rejections over the years, used to throw weekly rejection parties to cheer myself up.  I had treats and jigged around the kitchen with the dogs.  A good sense of humor is a must.

Do you base your characters on people you know?

Some are based on individuals I know, while others are drawn from historical figures I admire or even detest.  I’ve also been influenced upon occasion by an actor.  Captain Vaughan in Enemy of the King was inspired by the character Sark in Alias.

How do you determine the goals of your characters?

My stories are strongly character driven.  I have to know them well and consider what they would or wouldn’t do in any given situation…ask them what they want.  I listen to my characters. I can plot all I want but they have a way of asserting themselves and altering the story, usually for the better.

*When Rebecca challenged Tonkawa in the cavern scene in Through the Fire, I hadn’t planned on her enraged response and had to scramble. I tried to persuade her to calm down and await rescue but she refused. I wrote the scene her way.  It’s times like this I sound a bit skitzo.  I have a saying that ‘I talk amongst myselves.’  It worries my mom.  Highly creative people are a little crazy, I think.  Here’s to crazy creativity!

For more on my work please visit: www.bethtrissel.com

Ghost Story

This fascinating story is taken from the book I’ve been featuring lately, Shenandoah Voices, Folklore, Legends and Traditions of the Valley by late author-historian John Heatwole.

Brock’s Gap:

“Up in the Brock’s Gap region (*of the Shenandoah Valley)the old resident’s referred to the rest of the world as “out.”  It was not uncommon to hear the phrase, “people would come along from out.”

In the old days, the rest of the country was well served by the Valley Pike and other well maintained thoroughfares, but the Gap and its scattered homesteads remained isolated beyond the first rise of the Allegheny Front (*Mountains). The hamlets of Fulks Run, Criders, Bergton and Dovesville were oases of social contact, as were a few churches here and there, but the people in the Gap were pretty self-sufficient.  Before electricity came into the area, moonless nights smothered the hills, hollows and mountains…making the faint glimmer of candlelight in a window way off a welcome sight to a late-night traveler.

It’s not surprising that some wonderful ghost stories have come from this area.  Unusual happenings were woven into stories that were told and retold…long winter nights found rapt listeners gathered around a glowing fire or warm stove to be thrilled by a story teller.”

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Ghost story:  “One young girl of the Crider’s area was told that she could take the horse and go to meet her mother and sister who were returning from a trip to “out” late one night.  Her path took her to a neighbor’s farm gate where she dismounted, opened the gate, led the horse through and then re-latched it.  As she climbed back on the horse, she heard something coming from the direction she had just come.

“Someone come a runnin,’ was a man a comin’ up the road a runnin’.”

He was coming fast and she was scared.  She kicked her horse into a gallop.  As she looked back over her shoulder she saw the “man” run through the closed gate as if he were made of air.  “I flew out,” she said, but it seemed to make no difference—he was gaining on her.

“When I got to the top of the hill he was about two steps behind me.  He grabbed the horse by the tail, and she kicked up, and away she went as hard as she could run!”

That did the trick and the pursuer disappeared in their dust.

“I don’t know what it was.  It wasn’t no human; no human coulda kept up with that horse!”

The woman who was once the girl in the preceding story also related her father’s brush with a demon.

“My daddy seen one one time.  He was comin’ home after dark from Casper Turner’s.  Saw what looked like a man layin’ on a fence; had eyes like fireballs!”  Her father had a gun with him, and he shot at the demon.  The thing fell off the fence and started making a noise that made the man think he should be getting away from there.  “Had run down from the mountain.  He was scared to death.”

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(More) Superstitions and Tales from The Shenandoah Valley of Virginia

These sayings and stories are taken from Shenandoah Voices: Folklore, Legends, and Traditions of the Valley by late Valley historian and author John Heatwole. I’ve found his accounts fascinating and very useful information for some of my American historicals.

Many early valley settlers, my ancestors among them, were Scots-Irish.  People from the British Isles tended to be superstitious.  Also prevalent here were Germans bringing with them the influence of the superstitious Pennsylvania-Dutch, so sayings, practices, and beliefs abounded in the valley and surrounding mountains.  Imagine the stories that came out of those remote, fog-shrouded hollows.  Some superstitions still persist today.

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“If your right eye itches, you will soon be displeased, and if your left eye itches, you will soon be pleased.  If your right foot itches, you’ll soon walk on strange or unfamiliar ground, and if your left foot itches, you’ll soon walk in the graveyard.”~

“If you are out driving a wagon or buggy and a black cat crosses the road in front of you from right to left, it is a bad sign. If it crosses from the left to the right, there is no reason for concern.”~

“If you enter a house and leave it without sitting down it is bad luck.  Particularly if you leave by a different door than the one you entered.”~

There was a magic spring in the Briery Branch area of Rockingham County.  A young woman went there, and with a mirror, looked over her shoulder into the water and saw the image of her future husband reflected on the surface.  She recognized him because of the hat he wore all the time.~

It’s bad luck to dream about muddy water.  In some parts of the valley it’s said that to dream of muddy water means a flood is on the way.~

While seated at a table for meals, you might accidentally drop one of your eating utensils.  If you drop a fork, it means that a man will soon come to the house.  If a knife is dropped, a woman will soon appear.~

Back in the mountains it was reported that if some ‘swept around you’ it was bad luck and you’d never get married.

‘Jack-ma-lanterns’ are described as well defined, sinister lights.  To quote one old timer: “‘Ol folks used to tell ’bout jack-ma-lanterns that ‘ud lead you you off at night.  back in those days there wasn’t lights to guide a body ever’where like ’tis today.  If you started to go somewhere at night you’d try to spot a light in some neighbor’s house and foller that.”  Jack-ma-lanterns were known to lead people into thickets or swamps.  One way to avoid the lure of the faux lights was to turn your pockets inside out before starting on your journey.

More Than Human:  There was an old Pennsylvanian Dutch saying that was used when speaking of someone who was thought to be involved in the dark arts.  The old timers would say that he or she ‘could do more than eat bread,’ which must have meant that the person was taking part in something beyond the daily existence known to most people.

Precautions: Certain precautions could be taken to protect yourself and your family from the mischief of witches who were blamed for all manner of ills and misfortune.  Near the village of Jerome, in Shenandoah County, it was said that some people plugged up their keyholes to keep witches from entering their homes.~

A ‘Dutch’ lady in the Naked Creek area of Augusta County had a great fear of witches getting into her barn on Halloween and vexing the animals, so to ward off trouble she greased the corners of the barn every year on that Eve.  Supposedly witches entered the barn by the corners and the grease made them slide off.  This same woman was extremely concerned about witches preventing her butter from firming up, so she put needles in the churn before she began to make the butter.  Then she and her granddaughter would carefully count them out again when they paddled the butter out of the churn.  *I’d be more concerned about a missing needle myself.

Apparently this woman wasn’t the only Valley housewife to fear for her butter.  Another put a hot iron wedge in her churn.  An added practice to protect butter was to pour the cream into a trough and whip it vigorously.  It was thought that as the butter formed, the witch who had hexed it was also whipped.  An alternative practice was to put silver coins in the churn.

When a rifle wouldn’t shoot straight, the problem was often attributed to a hex. Some early gunsmiths engraved a circular design called a ‘witche’s ring,’ around the bore opening of the rifle.  Rifles that weren’t protected with the ring could be put in jeopardy if their owners crossed someone who could loose evil upon them.

A witch doctor could remove a spell from a rifle, or you could make a trip to Clamper Springs in the Hills of Judea. It was believed that the spring had magical properties, and that tow, the fiber of flax, wrapped around the end of the ramrod, dipped in the water, and then used to wipe out the barrel, would remove the hex and protect the rifle forever.

These are just a few examples of how to ward off the hexes.  Although witches were feared, most early valley residents regarded them as more of a nuisance than a source of all-out terror and the women blamed were tolerated– depending on their social standing–or shunned, but no one suspected of witchcraft has been punished or executed in America since the early 18th century.  Sorcerers, however, were considered a source of unspeakable horror, to the point that few stories about them were even told, their names not spoken.  Rather like ‘he who shall not be named,’ from Harry Potter.

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For more on this subject please visit an earlier post.

For more on my work please visit: www.bethtrissel.com

*Most pics by my husband

Sayings and Superstitions from The Shenandoah Valley of Virginia

These sayings are taken from Shenandoah Voices:  Folklore, Legends, and Traditions of the Valley by late Shenandoah Valley historian and author John Heatwole.

Many early valley settlers were Scots-Irish, my ancestors among them.  People from the British Isles tended to be superstitious.  Also prevalent in the valley were Germans bringing the influence of the Pennsylvania-Dutch, another superstitious group.  To quote Michael Scott, boss from NBC’s hit show, The Office, “I’m not superstitious, just a little stitious.”

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It’s bad luck to lay a hat on the bed.~

An itching nose means a visitor is coming. ~

A cardinal bumping against the window pane is an indication of an early death~ *To this I have to add ‘or an insanely jealous bird regarding his reflection as another male.’

Peel an apple all in one piece and throw the peel over your shoulder.  When you turn around and look at it lying on the ground, whatever letter it reminds you of will be the first letter of your future husband’s last name.~

It’s bad luck to bring a shovel into the house ‘because it is a grave tool.’ Some also think a hoe in the house bodes no good.~

“If your right eye itches, you will soon be displeased, and if your left eye itches, you will soon be pleased.  If your right foot itches, you’ll soon walk on strange or unfamiliar ground, and if your left foot itches, you’ll soon walk in the graveyard.”

“If you are out driving a wagon or buggy and a black cat crosses the road in front of you from right to left, it is a bad sign. If it crosses from the left to the right, there is no reason for concern.”

If you enter a house and leave it without sitting down it is bad luck.  Particularly if you leave by a different door than the one you entered.~

If a bird flies into your house there will soon be a death in the family~Within six months if a whippoorwill comes to your treetop and sings at night. ~

If a baby smiles in its sleep, the child is talking to the angels. ~ *My personal favorite.

Count the number of foggy mornings in August and that is how many winter snows there will be.~ I heard this one not long ago and suspect it may be true.  I’m also a believer in wooley bears predicting winter…

A new moon with the points up means dry weather, and a moon with the points down means rain will soon fall. ~

On Ash Wednesday people made pancakes or the chickens wouldn’t lay.~ *We still have pancake suppers in the valley on that day.

~Horse chestnuts carried in the pocket are thought to ward off rheumatism.~ Sassafras tea is good to thin the blood. ~ Broth made from the hind legs of mice is good for kidney ailments.~ *Not tried this one. ‘Swamp root’ tea is also recommended for kidney disorders.~ I’ll have to research exactly what swamp root is.
Before taking a new baby out for its first ride (this probably applied to a wagon or buggy) the ‘herb lady’ rubbed warm bear grease on one of the infant’s palms and the bottom of the opposite foot thus insuring that the baby was protected from the rigors of the journey.

A hog’s tooth carried in your right pocket will ward off toothache.~ *Maybe I should take up this one.~ Sage tea will keep a woman’s hair from turning gray prematurely.~

Treat measles with sheep manure that has been boiled, strained, and diluted with moonshine.~ *I assume with enough moonshine the patient didn’t notice the manure so much.

Freckles on the face can be washed away on the first of May. If they are washed in morning dew, they will be transferred to the hands which can be dried on another less visible part of the body like the arms or legs and left there permanently.  It’s recommended that this practice be repeated for three years in a row to work. ~

And I could go on, but this is enough for now.  Well, maybe one more.  “To get rid of warts, tie a knot in a string for each wart you have and bury it under rock.  When the string rots the wart will be gone. ~

Contributed by author Beth Trissel.  For more on my work please visit: www.bethtrissel.com

*Photographs of the valley by my talented husband.

Upcoming Releases

Somewhere My Lass~

Neil Mackenzie’s well ordered life turns to chaos when Mora Campbell shows up claiming he’s her fiance from 1602 Scotland. Her avowal that she was chased to the future by clan chieftain, Red MacDonald, is utter nonsense, and Neil must convince her that she is just addled from a blow to her head–or so he believes until the MacDonald himself shows up wanting blood.

Mora knows the Neil of the future is truly her beloved Niall who disappeared from the past.  Although, her kinsmen believe he’s dead, and she is now destined to marry Niall’s brother, she’s convinced that if she and Neil return to the past, all will be right. The only problem is how to get back to 1602 before it’s too late.

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Light paranormal romance Somewhere My Lass is a unique suspenseful Scottish time travel, the next story in my ‘Somewhere’ series.  Release date TBD. I will keep you posted. This story was mega challenging to write, but I loved the characters and am pondering a sequel.

Red Bird’s Song~
Taken captive by a Shawnee war party wasn’t how Charity Edmonson hoped to escape an unwanted marriage. Nor did Shawnee warrior Wicomechee expect to find the treasure promised by his grandfather’s vision in the unpredictable red-headed girl.

George III’s English Red-Coats, unprincipled colonial militia, prejudice and jealousy are not the only enemies Charity and Wicomechee will face before they can hope for a peaceful life. The greatest obstacle to happiness is in their own hearts.

As they struggle through bleak mountains and cold weather, facing wild nature and wilder men, Wicomechee and Charity must learn to trust each other.

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Native American Historical Red Bird’s Song is an adventurous romance set in the Virginia colonial frontier with a The Last of the Mohican’s flavor, inspired by events that happened to my early Scots-Irish forebears.  The first novel I ever wrote and oft rewrote, Red Bird’s Song is the story of my heart.  I am thrilled to finally be getting this published. Release date TBD, but it will come out before Somewhere My Lass.  Again, I’ll let you know the date when I do.

Illustrated Excerpt from Historical Fantasy Daughter of the Wind

Blurb:  Autumn, 1784: A tragic secret from Karin McNeal’s past haunts the young Scots-Irish woman who longs to know more of her mother’s death and the mysterious father no one will name. The elusive voices she hears in the wind hint at the dramatic changes soon to unfold in her life among the Scot’s settled in the mist-shrouded Alleghenies.

Jack McCray, a wounded stranger who staggers through the door on the eve of her twentieth birthday and anniversary of her mother’s death, holds the key to unlocking the past. Will she let this handsome frontiersman lead her to the truth and into his arms, or seek the shelter of her fiercely possessive grandfather? Is it only her imagination or does something, or someone, wait beyond the brooding ridges—for her?

Chapter One

Autumn, 1784, The Scots-Irish Gathering in the Allegheny Mountains of Western Virginia

A change was coming as surely as the shifting seasons; Karin McNeal heard the urgent whispers in the wind. She stood on the porch oblivious to the vibrant music pouring from the room behind her and the rain-spattered bluster whipping her long skirts. Lengths of her black hair tore free from the tresses piled on her head and danced in gusts that sounded like voices, men’s voices, the first angry, growling, the second almost succulent to her ear. His low timbre beckoned to her like ripe berries in summer.

A woman’s soft lament seemed to carry through the gusts too, a plaintive entreaty calling to Karin from the distant past. Something unfathomable…lost, lonely, and longing deep within Karin cried out in return. She strained to discern the elusive secrets hidden there for her—

“Shut the door, lass!” her grandfather boomed from within the McNeal homestead. “Join in the cheer. ’Tis your night.”

“Coming.” She backed into the large room and closed the door with reluctance in spite of the damp autumn eve’s chill. Shaking off her odd mood, she returned her attention to the robust celebration.

Fiddle music soared through the stone-flanked log walls with the exuberance of a bird in flight. The lively strains chased away any thoughts of wind voices. Smiles wreathed the faces of neighbors gathered within. Merriment reigned tonight and Karin did her part. Summoning a smile to her lips, blue petticoats swirling, she stepped to the English country dance while the two fiddlers sawed at the strings. Feet stomped on every side of her and jigs struck up. Each dancer seemed determined to outdo the other hooting revelers. Karin’s low-heeled black shoes flew. Her brass buckles flashed in the light from the hearth and the glow of many candles. Her stepbrother, Joseph—at least, that’s the kinship she felt for the tall young man partnering her—spun her with gusto.

She reeled, giggling, to the side of the raucous swell. Pausing to catch her breath, she brushed back her loose spill of hair, more down than up now.   “Enough—”

Joseph ran laughing to her and engulfed her hands in his grasp. “Not by half. Come back, Karin.”

“You’re tireless,” she protested between pants. His Scottish good looks weren’t flushed as her face must be. Auburn hair rode unruffled in a queue at the back of his neck and his chest didn’t rise and fall beneath his white shirt as hers did beneath the gold-striped jacket laced over her heated bodice. “Give me a bit. ’Tisn’t ladylike to be in such a lather.”

Joseph arched one roan brow. “Now, who told you that?”

Her uncle, Thomas McNeal, stopped beside them with a brimming mug in each hand. “I might have said something of the sort. Besides, she’s a frail lass. Not up to all this revelry, mind.” He grinned, offering Karin one of the stoneware cups.

Joseph crinkled greenish-brown eyes in a wry smile. “She outrode me only yesterday, as you no doubt heard.”

Uncle Thomas chuckled. “Word gets about.”

“I suppose all the folks know I was beaten by a girl.”

Karin gulped sweet mouthfuls of cold cider. “Winning that race was easy. The mare did most of the work.”

Uncle Thomas slapped Joseph on the back. “Then maybe you should dance with the mare, or partner some other young lady.”

“Yes. Do ask another,” Karin said.

The stubborn streak she knew well tightened the cleft in Joseph’s jaw. Joseph shook his head. “None here I fancy. Drink your cider, dear heart. I’ll go and get a real drink.”

She looked on as the moody young man made his way through the mass of folks to the trestle tables pushed together at one side of the large room. Smoked hams, chicken potpie, baked apples, pumpkin pies, cornbread, slow-cooked beans with molasses…more tempting fare than she could possibly sample heaped the platters, bowls, and wooden vessels spread over the groaning tables. Pitchers of cider, kegs of apple brandy, and brown whiskey bottles rose alongside the banquet. Savory scents mingled with wood smoke and the musk of crowded bodies.

Tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, she asked, “Is Joseph vexed, Uncle Thomas?”

“Frustrated. It’s you he fancies, gal.”

She tilted her head at her handsome relation, the youngest of the three uncles and her favorite. The same strength that emanated from her grandfather imbued the lines of his face. His blue eyes could be every bit as tender as Grandpa’s and equally biting when he’d been provoked.

“Joseph’s a dear,” she said, “but he feels more like my brother than my beau, if that’s what you mean.”

“Your grandpa wedding his mama doesn’t make him so.”

“Maybe not. Still, it doesn’t seem right, whatever passes between a husband and wife passing between us.”

Uncle Thomas eyed her in fond bemusement. “You’re as innocent as a babe.”

Her cheeks warmed beyond the heat in the crowded room. “Grandma Sarah says I know all I need for an unwed lass.”

“What of old Neeley?” he asked.

“She speaks mostly of herbs and doctoring.”

He grimaced. “Far be it from me to instruct you in such delicate matters, but don’t put too much weight on romantic notions, as I once did,” he added, with an edge. “Joseph’s a good man. Think on him.”

No need to think, really. Karin possessed a deep fondness for Joseph, though not the riotous passion she sometimes dreamed of and knew next to nothing about. But she admired Uncle Thomas, a hero from the recent drawn-out war.  Pursing her lips, she nodded. “I will.”

“Not that there’s any hurry in choosing a husband, and believe me, you can have your pick,” he added with a nod at Kyle Brewster standing near the hearth. The curly haired young man slanted soulful eyes at Karin and she looked away.

Uncle Thomas smiled. “No hurry at all. Your grandpa’s content to keep you under his roof and dote on you.”

“Like giving me this party.” Karin shifted her focus to the animated assembly weaving in and out to the steps of the next dance. “We haven’t known such gaiety in years.”

“Couldn’t with that bloody revolution. Thank God the war’s behind us. We’ve much to rejoice. Happy birthday, Karin.”

She smiled past the ache inside her. “Oh, it is happy.”

“With your men folk guarding you like a shebear? Woe unto the suitor who pays you more than nodding attention.”

“I don’t mind. Really.”

He weighed her with a long glance. “You have such a forbearing nature for one so adored. I feared you would be spoiled beyond all endurance, but you’re not, are you?”

Unsure of his meaning, she shrugged. “Should I be?”

“Utterly. No matter. I only wish your mama could see you. Mary would be so proud,” he said, a husky note creeping into his voice. “She was just your age when—” He stopped. “Sorry. I shouldn’t bring that up today of all days.”

“Yet ’twas on this very eve she died.”

“Yes,” Uncle Thomas sighed, regret etched in every nuance of his face. “God rest her. I suppose Neeley told you?”

“Yesterday. She said Mama died birthing me.”

He looked pained. “The old lady’s been broodier lately, more preoccupied with the past. You mustn’t blame yourself for Mary’s death. She was so weak by then and the fever settled in.”

“Do you remember her well?”

“How could I forget? You are very like my dear sister.”

Karin stared up at him, her mind swelling with questions. Uncle Thomas rarely mentioned her mother. None of the family did. Only Great-Aunt Neeley, stiff with rheumatism, her swaddled figure seated by the hearth, sometimes spoke of the beautiful Mary McNeal. Karin treasured each word and thought her mother an angel, but Neeley never spoke of her father. No one did, as if they feared the word might conjure up a demon from the shadows.

“There, now.” Uncle Thomas smiled, smoothing her cheek with fingers roughened from work and hours out hunting in the wet. “We want nothing but happiness for our wee Karin. Not so wee now, and far too bonnie for my peace of mind.”

The smile struck her as forced and she’d glimpsed the nearly fierce glint of nostalgia in his eyes. Maybe the time had come at last, as it had with old Neeley. She swallowed the rest of her cider and summoned her courage. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done. But what of my father?” she asked as softly as she could and still make herself heard above the din.

His brows arched in marked surprise. “You know your grandfather won’t allow any mention of his name.”

“But who was he? At least tell me that much.”

Down came his brows and he drew them together. “I can’t, lass.”

The mystery gnawed at Karin. “Please.”

Struggle hinted in his earnest stare, and then he cast his gaze around the room. She followed his quick study. No one in the eager gathering paid them any mind. All danced and drank as if their lives hinged on every step, each drop. Joseph knocked back a tankard of brandy with a friend and the two leaned companionably together.

Wearing a guarded look, Uncle Thomas bent nearer to Karin and spoke with such reluctance she strained to hear. “All I can say is, it’s him you got that black hair and olive skin from.”

She fingered the small strawberry-colored half moon on the side of her neck. “And my birth mark?”

“Perhaps. Your mother gave you those blue eyes, though. McNeal blood runs strong in you, gal.”

Some other strain stirred inside Karin as well, like the wild beating of a distant drum. “Did Mama care for him?”

Her uncle winced as if from a blow. “I reckon she did, though I don’t see how. Your da was a rascal.”

“Even so, he was my da. What does that make me?”

Uncle Thomas looked her sharply in the eyes. “McNeal.”

She gulped. “Papa never wed Mama, did he?”

“Not with the church’s blessing.”

“Is there some other way to wed?”

“I’ve divulged more than enough now, miss.

Your grandfather would have my hide.” Her uncle clamped his lips together.

Again, the tantalizing secret escaped Karin and hovered just out of reach. She gazed across the crowd at the burly man with gray streaking his red hair. Grandpa McNeal could quell any man with a glance and still had the strength of a rampaging bull. Karin lacked the nerve to confront him. Her step-grandmother, Sarah, the petite, middle-aged woman circling in the dance with him spotted Karin. A smile lit Sarah’s pretty face, pink under the white cap, and she beckoned to Karin. “Come on, lass.”

A grin warmed Grandpa’s weathered features. He waved her over. “Kick up your heels. Show us what you’re made of.”

Uncle Thomas set his mug on a stool and hooked his arm through hers. “You can’t let his challenge go unanswered. How about I partner the bonniest girl here?”

Setting her mug down, Karin dashed with him into the throng. ’Twas time to rejoice, not dwell on the murky past. As if in opposition of her resolve, a hammering on the door accompanied by a hoarse cry broke into their celebration.

“Whisht!” Grandpa hushed the startled assembly. He held up a silencing hand. “Listen.”

Musicians ceased to play, their bows poised above the strings. Dancers halted in mid-step and every head turned toward the front of the house. Karin joined her eyes with dozens of others boring into the oak resounding under someone’s urgent fist.

“For God’s sake—let me in—” a man rasped out.

Grandpa strode to the door, slid the bolt, and opened it wide. Leaves swirled through the blackened doorway and a young man staggered inside, his face partly hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, chestnut hair pulled back. He wore the rugged dress of a frontiersman, a brown, green-fringed hunting shirt, leggings, and deerskin moccasins well up his calves. Wet through from the blowing rain, he fell forward. Blood streamed down his sleeve from a wound to his shoulder.

Grandpa reached out to steady him. “What on earth?”

The injured man collapsed in his arms. “I’m shot—” His musket slid from the woven strap over his other shoulder and thudded to the floor with the clank of metal.

“Who in the world?” Karin gasped, covering her mouth, her eyes riveted on the stranger.

“I’ve no notion. Wait here,” Uncle Thomas cautioned her, and pushed through the onlookers to his father.

Grandpa upheld the sagging stranger. He greeted Thomas with a scowl. “Who fired that shot? Most everyone in the settlement’s right here.”

“Not the Tates,” Uncle Thomas pointed out. “Horace Tate will shoot any man he takes for a Tory. So will Jeb.”

“Don’t that old fool and his boy know the war’s over, blast them? Give me a hand with this poor fellow, Thomas. His arm’s a right mess. Let’s take him to the back room.”

Uncle Thomas braced the man on one side and Grandpa supported him on the other. The newcomer equaled them in height and appeared solidly built, but the McNeal men weren’t the least bit daunted. “I

have him, Papa. Come on,” Thomas said.

“My musket,” the injured man grunted.

“Got it.” Joseph propped the long firearm in the corner near the blackened stone hearth.

Neeley rose stiffly from her chair and shuffled forward, her stooped figure a head shorter than Karin’s. “You’ll want my help, John McNeal. Fetch the woundwort, Karin. Sarah, steep some comfrey in hot water and bring fresh linens. Joseph, the poor fellow could do with a spot of brandy,” the tiny woman rapped out like a hammer driving nails. Old, she might be, and as wizened as a dried apple, but Neeley took charge in a medical emergency whether folks liked it or not. Sarah dashed to the cupboard to take down the brown bowl. Karin flew beside her and grabbed the crock reeking of salve. Sarah snatched a towel and they spun toward the hearth as the men made their way past the gaping crowd.

The stranger lifted his head and looked dazedly at both women. Karin met vivid green eyes in a sun-bronzed face stubbled with dark whiskers. A fiery sensation shot through her—and not just because he was devastatingly handsome.

“Hello, Mama,” the newcomer said huskily.

Sarah sucked in her breath. “Dear Lord. Jack?”

“In the bleeding flesh.”

An echoing gasp traveled the room. Sarah’s rosy skin blanched white as the bowl slid from her fingers, cracking on the floor. “I can scarcely believe it’s you.”

Karin feared the overcome woman might faint, but she wasn’t feeling a great deal steadier herself. That strange awareness inside her grew, like a summons urging her to an untamed place.

The man called Jack ran fast fading eyes over Karin. “Paca tamseh,” he said, and sagged more heavily against Grandpa.

Jaws fell open on every side of them. “Indian words,” someone hissed. “I heard ’em, plain enough.”

A nearly tangible wave of fear and loathing ran through the stunned multitude. Karin shrank back from the man, but Sarah clutched her arm and pulled her forward with a steely grip. “Can you blame him for knowing their speech after all these years?”  She jerked Karin down onto her knees and they knelt beside the newcomer. Loosening her grip on Karin, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “My poor boy.”

Heart racing, Karin hugged the pungent crock to her chest. She looked from Sarah to her grandfather in confusion. “I never knew she had an older son.”

“Jack was eight when Shawnee captured him twenty years ago with nary a sign of him since. Any son of Sarah’s is welcome in my house and in this settlement,” Grandpa said with a look, daring any to object.

None did. At least, not aloud, although Karin expected there’d be plenty of muttering behind their hands.

Joseph approached his older brother like a sleep walker. “You told me Jack was dead, Mama.”

“I thought he was. God be praised he’s returned to me. Few taken as children ever come back.”

“Yes, but how did he know where to find you?” Uncle Thomas asked Sarah. “You weren’t a McNeal when he was taken.”

Neeley clucked impatiently. “Never mind that now. We’ve a wounded man here who’s been welcomed home with lead shot.”

Jack fluttered his eyes and looked beyond his weeping mother to Karin. His gaze drew her almost against her will.

She leaned toward him. “Someone seeks for you, Shequenor’s dahnaithah,” he whispered.

The message rippled through her with a prickling shiver. And she knew—his was the inviting summons in the wind.

****

For more on my work please visit: http://www.bethtrissel.com/

DAUGHTER OF THE WIND TRAILER:

For Historical/Light Paranormal Romance Daughter of the Wind

“I loved the plot of this story, oh and the setting was wonderful. I just can’t believe how much detail the author went into without being boring about it. Ms. Trissel is great at creating believable and loveable characters. She’s also great at giving us a happily ever after…kind of a bittersweet ending.” ~ Reviewer Ruby Lee at Mistress Bella Reviews

“I found this book fascinating. The descriptions of the settlement made it easy to imagine, and the characters were believable and well developed…I can definitely recommend this book, especially for historical fiction fans and all true romantics. This is a great story, and I am looking forward to reading more from Beth Trissel.” ~By Reviewer Mary at Bitten By Books

“This fabulous historical fantasy story doesn’t hesitate from word one. It sweeps the reader into an emotional whirlwind that disrupts life in the McNeal clan, a well-to-do family that is well established in the Allegheny Mountains in 1784. The haunting, sometime scary, happenings bring about breathtaking moments that make Daughter Of The Wind a true page-turner.” ~ Reviewed by Camellia at The Long and Short Of It

Autumn, 1784: A tragic secret from Karin McNeal’s past haunts the young Scots-Irish woman who longs to know more of her mother’s death and the mysterious father no one will name. The elusive voices she hears in the wind hint at the dramatic changes soon to unfold in her life among the Scot’s settled in the mist-shrouded Alleghenies.
Jack McCray, a wounded stranger who staggers through the door on the eve of her twentieth birthday and anniversary of her mother’s death, holds the key to unlocking the past. Will she let this handsome frontiersman lead her to the truth and into his arms, or seek the shelter of her fiercely possessive grandfather? Is it only her imagination or does something, or someone, wait beyond the brooding ridges—for her?

A bearwalking Shawnee warrior, secrets from the past, a rugged frontiersman, gifted heroine, magical moonstone, love at first sight…DAUGHTER OF THE WIND

Excerpt:
The strange awareness inside Karin grew, like a summons urging her to an untamed place.
Jack ran fading eyes over Karin. “Paca tamseh,” he said, and sagged more heavily against Grandpa.

“Indian words,” someone hissed. “I heard ‘em.”

Karin shrank back from the man, but Sarah grabbed her arm, pulling her forward with a steely grip. “Can you blame him for knowing their speech after all these years?” She jerked Karin onto her knees and they knelt by the newcomer. Loosening her grip, Sarah wrapped her arms around his neck. “My poor boy.”

Heart racing, Karin hugged the crock. She looked to her grandfather. “I never knew she had an older son.”

“Jack was eight when Shawnee captured him twenty years ago. Any son of Sarah’s is welcome in my house and the settlement,” Grandpa said with a look, daring any to object.
None did. At least, not aloud, although Karin expected there’d be plenty of talk behind their hands.

“You told me Jack was dead, Mama,” Joseph said.

“I thought he was. Praise God he’s back.”

“How did he know where to find you?” Uncle Thomas asked. “You weren’t a McNeal when he was taken.”

Neeley clucked. “Never mind that now. We’ve a wounded man who’s been welcomed home with lead shot.”

Jack fluttered his eyes and looked to Karin. His gaze drew her almost against her will. She leaned toward him. “Someone seeks you, Shequenor’s dahnaithah.”

The message rippled through her. And she knew—his was the inviting summons in the wind.

****

For more on my work please visit: www.bethtrissel.com