Furbaby Friday with P.L. Parker!


I am happy to welcome my friend and fellow author, P. L. Parker, back to the blog to share the wonderful story of her rescue kitty.

P.L. Parker: …and then there was Dorie! Here she is in her favorite spot, relaxing as she checks out her territory.


My parents were notorious for taking care of stray cats, feral or otherwise. It was not unusual for them to have up to 17 cats that they took care of at any given time. Before long, people would hear about the cat man and would drop off unwanted cats nearby and they made their way to Dad and Mom’s place. Eventually, they found a free service that would catch the cats, spay them and then bring them back.
Just a month or so before Dad passed away, this half-grown little female cat showed up at their place. She was nervous but friendly, but she was lucky if she got a bite or too of food before the other cats chased her away. Anyway, Dad paid her special attention because he was sure someone had lost her. He put up signs, contacted the vet clinics and the animal shelter but no one ever came to claim her.
When Dad passed away, we moved Mom from their home in Ontario, Oregon, to Boise and she moved in with my sister. Mom had been confined to wheelchair for many years and my sister became her full-time caregiver. It was a rough time, back and forth to Ontario to take care of their place.
We worried about the cats and a neighbor promised to feed them while we looked for homes, preferably farms since the majority were feral. But then there was Dorie! Mom worried about her so one day I grabbed a pet carrier, drove to Ontario, and caught the little booger. She cried all the way back to Boise but she recognized Mom so she settled into the house pretty quickly.
It wasn’t long before Mom realized Dorie would play fetch. Not only would she retrieve a ball and bring it back and drop it before Mom, but if it wasn’t close enough, Mom would tell her to push it closer and the little girl would do just that! Here is a video of Dorie playing fetch. Watch how she shoves the ball with her paw closer to Mom.

Because of her unusual markings, Dorie is referred to as a “cow” cat, white with black circles around her body. She is a loving little girl, a scamp, a talker and full of hell most of the time, but a really sweet cat. She gave Mom hours of enjoyment before Mom also passed and now my sister loves this little cat dearly, but she loves me too. Whenever I visit, she spends the entire time rubbing against me, giving me kisses and showering me with attention!
Dorie found a place in our hearts and she is here to stay.

Beth: What an adorable kitty!

For more on P.L. Parker visit:

Her Amazon Author Page:  https://www.amazon.com/P.-L.-Parker/e/B002BMIAPM/
www.plparker.com
www.plparker.blogspot.com

Furbaby Friday with Louisa Cornell


I’m happy to have my friend, Louisa Cornell, here to share her precious rescue dog and her fabulous Regency Romance novel, Stealing Minerva.

Spanky

A little over eight years ago, a coworker of mine told me of two young miniature dachshunds, less than a year old, who had survived an explosion and fire in a meth house in our county. They had both suffered smoke inhalation and some burns. I have always had a soft spot for dachshunds of any size as the first dog I remember of my childhood was a standard red dachshund named Fritz. It didn’t take much for my coworker to convince me to take the little survivors home with me.

Not long after they came home they began to suffer seizures. My veterinarian knew their histories and after a few tests it was her diagnosis that Spanky and Chester suffered seizures due to damage caused by their being raised in a meth lab for the first ten months of their lives. Gradually the seizures tapered off and until several months ago only occurred once a month or so. Several months ago, Chester’s seizures became more frequent and more violent, and after a few weeks we lost him to those seizures. Spanky continues to have seizures every now and then, but so far, we have been more fortunate with him.

Spanky is a happy, slightly spoiled little fellow. He has a blanket he drags with him everywhere – a combination Linus and Pigpen is my little red sausage dog. I have learned a great deal from Spanky. When he has a seizure, he does his best to find me if I don’t find him first. All I can do is hold him, but that seems to be enough for him. And sometimes that really is all any of us needs – to know someone is there. And when his seizure is over, he looks around, does a full body shake, and runs off to his next adventure. I think that is the best way to handle the problems life sends us. Find someone to stand by you, ride it out, do a full body shake, and be off to the next adventure.~

Pics of Spanky with his brother Harvey, the grey black dog,
who looks as if he was put together by a committee, and Boudreaux, my 17
year old basset hound.

Stealing Minerva BLURB

Colonel Sebastian Brightworth has a reputation for seduction. He seduces money into his hands and never lets it go. He seduces women into his bed and never lets them stay. Seducing his best friend’s latest betrothed into jilting him days before the wedding seems an easy task. Especially with a thousand-pound purse in the offing. That is, until Sebastian discovers his friend is engaged to the one woman in England he cannot possibly seduce. Again.

After seven years in a less than perfect marriage and two years as the Perfect Widow, Minerva Faircloth is engaged to the most eligible earl in England. Their amiable marriage will keep her son safe from his uncle’s cruel plans and her heart safe from disappointment. Everything goes according to plan, until her betrothed’s closest friend arrives. Sebastian Brightworth stole her heart nine years ago. What thievery is he up to now? And how will she ever survive it?

Excerpt From Stealing Minerva

“Don’t shout at my mother!” A reedy childish voice penetrated Sebastian’s haze of pain and indignation. A tirade of ear-splitting barking erupted from beneath the bed.

“I wasn’t shouting.” Sebastian shifted himself onto one knee. “What the hell!” A long reddish sausage with fur latched onto his forearm. The more he tried to shake it free the harder it bit. Ferocious growls emanated from deep in its chest.

“Precious, let the man go.” Minerva set to pry the creature from his flesh. “I am so sorry, Colonel.” He’d have believed the sincerity of her apology had it not been delivered whilst laughing. Oddly enough, he didn’t mind. Her laughter enthralled him. “Edward, take her before she bites me.” A fate she narrowly missed as “Precious?” turned her toothy attentions to her once her snout was made to let go of Sebastian.

He tugged a relatively clean serviette from the wreckage of Master Edward’s dinner and wiped at the blood on his arm. It appeared the dog had few teeth. Mercifully the ones it did have were either small or dull or both. His new shirt had taken the brunt of the attack.

“You did better than Lord Creighton.” The boy stood, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets, a look of grudging respect on his face. “He had tears in his eyes after Precious bit him.”

“Creighton? She bit Creighton and he wept?”

Minerva rolled his sleeve up away from the wound and took the serviette from him. “She bit Lord Creighton in a somewhat more delicate portion of his anatomy.” She tied off the makeshift bandage and let her eyes fall to Sebastian’s crotch.

“I’d have wept too.”

“Quite so.”

Buy Link: http://a.co/iVmr2e5

Get Stealing Minerva in Kindle at: 

Author Biography:

Louisa Cornell is a retired opera singer living in LA (Lower Alabama) who cannot remember a time she wasn’t writing or telling stories. Anglophile, student of Regency England, historical romance author—she escaped Walmart to write historical romance and hasn’t looked back. A two-time Golden Heart finalist, three-time Daphne du Maurier winner, and four-time Royal Ascot winner—she is a member of RWA, Southern Magic RWA, and the Beau Monde Chapter of RWA. Her first published work, the novella A Perfectly Dreadful Christmas in the anthology Christmas Revels, won the 2015 Holt Medallion for Excellence in Romance Fiction. Her first full-length published novel, Lost in Love, was a Golden Heart finalist. She lives off a dirt road on five acres in the middle of nowhere with a Chihuahua so bad he is banned from vet clinics in two counties, several very nice dogs, and a cat who thinks she is a Great Dane and terminates vermin with extreme prejudice.

Social Media Links:

Louisa’s Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Louisa-Cornell/e/B00PYZQOA6/
http://numberonelondon.net/ 
https://twitter.com/LouisaCornell

http://www.louisacornell.com/

https://www.facebook.com/RegencyWriterLouisaCornell

Thanks for stopping by! Please leave Louisa a comment!

Furbaby Friday with Karen Whiddon


I’m delighted to have Karen Whiddon here to share her love of boxers and the fine work she does for these wonderful dogs, and a book dear to her heart, The Texas Soldier’s Son (Romantic Suspense).

Karen: I was thrilled when asked to post about a beloved furbaby. Rescuing dogs is my passion and I’ve volunteered for years with Legacy Boxer Rescue here in north Texas. Over the years, I’ve fostered and adopted and currently have a full house – four personal Boxers (two foster-failures) and one foster who is currently considered a Keeper due to a medical condition.

So which one to talk about? I love them all in different ways. But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to discuss my first foster dog, Katniss.

Katniss was brought into the shelter on the edge of death. Severely emaciated, she was anemic and covered in ticks. Her age was estimated at 4-6 years. When I stepped up to foster her, she was immediately taken from the shelter to the rescue’s vet. In addition to this, she had erlichia. My husband and I picked off over one hundred ticks off this girl. The vet said she was so anemic that if we let her run, her heart could stop, so she had to be crated. After a warm bath, we put her on a regimen of four meals a day and medicine.

Despite all she’d gone through, she still wagged her tail and was friendly. As she gained weight and her anemia cleared up, I rejoiced when she did her first Boxer zoom around the back yard. She got along with all my dogs except my grump old male Macadoo. The two of them got into several dog fights, so I ended up keeping them separated.

Katniss was adopted 7 months after I got her in April of 2013, but the adopter returned her in ten days because his vet learned she had kidney failure. Which explained the constant drinking of water and the fact that I had to take her out in the middle of the night every single night. I took her back, and she was put on prescription food and fish oil. This was in November of 2013.

In May of 2014, I took Katniss on a Home Visit for a potential adopter. The man (a single father) fell in love with her. Even the fact that she had kidney failure didn’t deter him. He took her to his own vet and had her checked out and then adopted her. She thrived there. I kept in touch and received many photos over the years.

However in October of 2017, her adoptive father called me. He was at the vet with Katniss and her kidney failure had won. She’d stopped eating and drinking and the vet had run tests and the time had come to help her to the Rainbow Bridge. He asked if I would like to be there – and said he didn’t think he could do this alone.

She remembered me. Despite her clear weakness, she wiggled her tail and kissed me. I was honored to stand with her dad as the vet helped her peacefully pass.

For me, Katniss will always signify all that is good about rescue. I still miss her, her dad does too, but she had 4 more years of a good life, being loved, than she would have. And in March of 2018, I found another dog for Katniss’s dad to love. A boy this time. The adoption is finalized and another dog will know a loving home.

Katniss’s pic and story can be read here: http://www.savetheboxers.com/beforeandafter2.php?dogID=3076

I have a book coming out in May called The Texas Soldier’s Son (Harlequin Romantic Suspense) To quote from my Dear Reader letter in the beginning of the book:

As a writer, every now and then it feels like a story is given as a gift from the cosmos. The Texas Soldier’s Son is one of these books. Writing it felt like telling the story of good friends, maybe even family. I was there with them, just recounting what happened. Moved to tears with them, frightened for them, rejoicing with them, and falling in love just as they did.

From the back cover blurb: “Jacob is your son.” A thrilling new Top Secret Deliveries story. Army Ranger Kyle Benning never expected to live again… or have a family. When he was believed dead in an explosion, Nicole Shelton gave birth to Kyle’s baby. Now she’s someone else’s widow and a prime suspect in a murder case! Everything Kyle once knew is a dangerous as a war zone, but he battles trauma and a killer to rescue the woman he loves.

Excerpt from The Texas Soldier’s Son:

No matter. He’d be setting things straight soon.
The 2013 Chevy Silverado he drove had been one of his lone expenditures. He’d paid cash for the used pickup, knowing he’d need something reliable for the drive west to Anniversary. Excitement jumped inside him, drowning out some of the ever-present anxiety. Excitement and, dare he say, joy. Because soon, he’d be with Nicole. He couldn’t wait to see her face when he knocked on her door, to pull her into his arms and breathe the fresh strawberry scent of her shampoo, to kiss her lips until they both felt as if they were drowning.
In his pocket, he had the only other thing he’d spent part of his savings on. An engagement ring. As soon as he and Nicole got caught up, he planned to get down on bended knee and ask her formally to be his wife.
They’d talked about marrying before he’d signed up for the army. He’d even given her his high school class ring as a token, proof that he was hers and vice versa. She’d taken to wearing it with a long chain around her neck, safely tucked under her shirt so her strict parents wouldn’t see.
God, he loved her. As his truck ate up the miles, he amused himself with imagining several different scenarios when they saw each other for the first time in over a year. His favorite was the one where she hopped into his truck, they drove out to the lake and made love right there in the cab.
Finally, he crossed from Louisiana into Texas. Not too much farther now. The hum of his tires on the asphalt soothed him and he felt more relaxed than he had since the explosion.
When the Anniversary city limits sign came into view, dusk had settled over the sky. The sunset colored the sky pink and orange, promising another hot East Texas day tomorrow. He remembered how everyone liked to complain about the summer heat. It would be a cakewalk compared to the temperatures in Kabul.
Instead of heading toward the small frame home he’d rented via the internet for the next six months, he drove directly to Nicole’s parents’ house, praying she’d be home. Parking out front, he jogged up the sidewalk, his heart pounding in his chest, and rang the bell.
A moment later, the door opened. Nicole’s mother stared at him, frowning. “What are you doing here?” she asked, the rancor in her voice startling.
“I’ve been discharged from the hospital, ma’am,” he said, figuring he’d kill her with kindness. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to see Nicole.”
“Nicole?” She recoiled as violently as if he’d struck her. “Nicole doesn’t live here. She’s over on Broad Street in the house she shared with her husband and son.” A slow, malicious smile spread across her face. “Bill Mabry? I’m thinking you might remember him?”
He hadn’t gotten much past the words husband and son. When he finally caught up, the name Bill Mabry made his stomach churn. That had been the same guy her parents had tried to force her to marry when he and Nicole had been together.
“Well?” The older woman stared, her gaze hard. “Is there anything else that I can help you with?”
For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t force the words out past the huge lump in his throat. Only when she’d started to close the huge oak door in his face did he think of the one other thing he needed to know. “Did Nicole even mourn me at all?”
“Of course not,” she said smoothly, without missing a beat. “Once the army notified your foster family of your death, she’d moved on. She was already married with a newborn by then. I didn’t want to disrupt her life.”
And then she waited, eying him with a certain mocking relish, waiting for him to reveal how devastating he found her answer. He refused to give her the pleasure.
Though his head spun, he turned on his heel, the military precision of the movement kicking in by instinctive habit. Somehow, he made it to his truck, unlocked the doors and slid inside. Turning the key, he started the engine, put the shifter into Drive and pulled away.
He started to head to the park by the lake, the same secluded place he’d intended to take Nicole, but instead he found himself heading toward Broad Street. He still couldn’t believe her mother’s words, couldn’t accept that she hadn’t waited barely any time at all before getting married and pregnant. For her to have a newborn, that meant she’d jumped into bed with this Bill Mabry guy right after getting the erroneous news of Kyle’s demise.
Had he truly meant that little to her?

Get The Texas Soldier’s Son in Kindle at: https://www.amazon.com/Texas-Soldiers-Son-Secret-Deliveries-ebook/dp/B075XYJDHW/

Award winning author Karen Whiddon spun fanciful tales for her younger brothers as early as the age of eleven.  Growing up in the Catskill Mountains of New York, then the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, she found enough magic in the rugged peaks to keep her imagination fueled for years.

Now making her home in North Texas, she shares her life with her hero-like husband and five doting dogs.  In her spare time she volunteers for Legacy Boxer Rescue, Inc.  She has published around 45 books.  Currently she writes for Harlequin Romantic Suspense and Harlequin Nocturne.

You can email Karen at KWhiddon1@aol.

Thanks for stopping by! Please leave Karen a comment.

April in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia


(In front of our farm-house)

You are likely to find me out in the garden, because the garden is where life is. Everything is green, growing, flowering, or with the promise of blooms and fruit to come.  The garden is a vibrant place, and yet, deeply peaceful, too, and ever-changing. No two days in the garden are the same.  Each day holds new discoveries. Spring is a giddy time, with so much to do at once.

Many things grow in the garden that were never sown there. ~Thomas Fuller 1732 (This is very true)

While much of the country is still buried under winter, those of us fortunate enough to dwell in the Shenandoah Valley, or ‘The Shire’ as I call it,  are blessed with spring loveliness. Not that the weather doesn’t waffle here, because it has and does, dipping back into frigid temps after luring everything into bloom. But most plants are hardy enough to withstand this whimsy. We are well accustomed to the annual dance. I cover my gullible lilies and pray for the blossoming trees.

A new project has opened up in my gardening world with the redoing of our farm pond–digging out years of accumulating silt–and the expansion of the surrounding fence.  This gives us much more room to grow our dreams, safe from munching cows, and a lot of tree planting has ensued. Yesterday, daughter Elise and I planted thirty additional trees and bushes on the pond banks, after a long planting session this past Saturday with the enthusiastic help of my three oldest grandsons. While we labored, we were surrounded by birdsong from meadowlarks, red-winged black birds, the song sparrow, killdeer, cardinals… It’s hard work, but the pond will be glorious. Our aim is to plant for the birds, water fowl, fish, pollinators, and people. I’m envisioning magic.

(One end of our Pond)

(Elise, Me, and my three grandsons after a long tree planting day)

As for my writing, admittedly it has sagged as planting and gardening take priority, but I have a new story idea buzzing around in my head. Outside time gives me the opportunity to ponder my emerging plot. How can I not be inspired while enveloped in all this spring beauty?

(Virginia Bluebells in front of our house)

“Science has never drummed up quite as effective a tranquilizing agent as a sunny spring day.” ~W. Earl Hall

“April is a promise that May is bound to keep.” ~Hal Borland

“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 Grenfell

“In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours.” ~Mark Twain

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
~Robert Frost

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems. ~Rainer Maria Rilke

“It’s spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you’ve got it, you want — oh, you don’t quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!” ~Mark Twain

***Images by daughter Elise Trissel

Furbaby Friday With Patti Sherry-Crews


I’m happy to have Patti Sherry-Crews here to share her wonderful furbabies and her Western historical romance, Margarita and the Hired Gun.

Lucille “Lucy” Bell

Patti: Growing up we always had dogs. Back-to-back dogs without gaps in between. Because my firefighter father sometimes hunted for sport, the dogs we had were bird dogs. My childhood was peppered with springer spaniels and English setters, and once, the odd Dalmatian. When we got a new dog it went like this: Contact a breeder, anxiously await birth of the litter, and then a long car ride to pick up our new puppy.

As an adult I switched over to Team Cat. I discovered cats are not only good company but they fit in easily with a busy lifestyle.
When I got married and started my own family, it made sense to stick with the lower maintenance pet cat, and so one Thanksgiving week we put our two kids in the car and drove to Orphans of the Storm Animal Shelter. There were rooms of cats and kittens waiting for a home. We walked in with a wish list, and on that list was one calico kitten. We walked out with a tabby cat. How did that happen?
As we went from room to room looking at calico kitties, a volunteer followed us around thrusting a cat at us saying, “Trust me. This is the one you want.” I looked at the common grey tabby, who was not a kitten, and politely said no, and moved on.

“Watch this,” he persisted. He flopped the cat on her back so she rested in his arms paws up, quite comfortable with the arrangement. “See how she lets me do this. It’s very unusual for a cat to let you handle them this way. She’s really relaxed and trusting.”
He went on to demonstrate with other cats, who sure enough, squirmed their way out of being held in this position. He convinced us the grey tabby cat was for us. I mean, if a person who volunteers in a place with hundreds of cat has a favorite, I’m going to listen.


Lucille “Lucy” Bell has been and remains the best pet we’ve ever owned for the last thirteen years. Hands down. The best. Other than regularly destroying house plants and annually plundering the miniature Christmas village, she doesn’t have a bad habit. On top of that, she has magical healing powers and a routine you can set a clock by. And despite not speaking English, she has a way of communicating her needs and feelings in ingenious ways.
Flash forward a few years and the kids are petitioning hard for a dog. It seems the cat was merely a gateway pet. My husband and I resisted because we felt it would be too much work. But eventually we broke down, despite knowing that the contract the kids wrote up detailing how they were going to take care of the dog between them was empty chatter (we were right about that, by the way). We decided to get a puppy rather than a dog because we wanted to bring it up ourselves.
Then came a frustrating period where we couldn’t find a puppy. Every time I’d see an available puppy on a site covering shelters in the Chicago area, we’d pile in the car and head straight to the shelters, and each time the puppy had been given a home before we got there.
One day I looked at the site to see a litter of puppies from southern Illinois had just been brought in to a shelter not far from us. The puppies were said to be a mix of pug, beagle, and golden retriever (The mind boggles at the thought of a pug and/or beagle being “romanced” by a golden retriever—particularly in rural downstate Illinois).

Gracie May

Off we went! By the time we got there all the puppies had already been taken except for one. She was so cute, we almost died of sweetness overload. Plus, the fact that her sisters and brothers were gone and she was alone, did tug at the heartstrings. The volunteer at the shelter vouched for her, saying “she doesn’t have a bad bone in her body”. After a brief get to know you session, we took her home (I can still remember the smell of her puppy breath!).
She was so little! We watched her grow, taking bets on what sort of dog we’d end up with. We all hoped the retriever in her would lead to large dog. My husband hoped she’d be a dog with a downward hanging tail, which sounds strange, but if you’ve ever walked behind a dog, you can see his point.
So, what dog did we end up with? If there is a trace of golden in our dog she hides it well. I’ve even come to suspect the shelter threw in the golden retriever for broader appeal (but, really shelter, you had us at pug and beagle). Our Frankendog, Gracie May, grew into a small, russet dog who walks with her tail held high.

What do you get when you cross a pug with a beagle? A Puggle! Puggles, combining the best of both breeds, have come on to their own. The Scrabble Dictionary even added the word “puggle” to their list of new words this year. Puggles can run a gamut of tan to black, curly or straight tailed, short snout to longer, beagle-like face. But whatever mixture of pug and beagle they possess, once you know a puggle, they are instantly recognizable to you. When puggle owners run into each other on the street, we have to stop and talk about our dogs.
Another expectation that got left at the wayside was that we weren’t going to let the dog on the furniture. That idea lasted about a day. Good thing too, because pugs are bred to be lap dogs, and there is no place she’d rather be. Even when I take her to the dog park, she’d rather try and climb into the laps of the dog owners than socialize with the other dogs. I like to plop down on the couch after a long day and call out “where is my couch buddy!” and she comes running and settles across my lap. When she’s not in a lap, she’s usually stretched out on her back on the couch with her sock monkey doll.
Our cat-who-is-not-a-calico-kitten and our What’s-it-going-to-be-dog are the best additions to our family. I may be projecting, but I sense rescue animals know they were saved and are eternally grateful.

Bio: Patti Sherry-Crews lives where she grew up in Evanston, IL, where she can frequently be seen walking behind a little dog. She writes contemporary romance, women’s fiction, historical western and medieval romances.

Her first historical western romance, Margarita and the Hired Gun has been recently re-release in the collection Under a Western Sky, which features six full-length Prairie Rose Publications novels.

Blurb for Margarita and the Hired Gun:

Pampered Margarita McIntosh is not used to being forced to do things she doesn’t want to do—but when her father, Jock, sends her away for her own safety, she has no choice. The long journey from Flagstaff to Durango tests her personal strength of will as never before, and the secret she carries in her saddlebag could be the death of her.
A rough Irish gunman, known to her only as “Rafferty”, is entrusted with getting her to her destination “safe and intact”—something he fully intends to do to claim the reward he’s been promised by Jock McIntosh. With a price on his head, the promised money is Rafferty’s ticket to a new life, and he’s not going to jeopardize that for anything—not even love.
But there are steamy nights and dangers all along the arduous trail for MARGARITA AND THE HIRED GUN, with deadly secrets between them that passion cannot erase. With her father’s enemies after her and the secret she conceals, will Rafferty’s protection be enough to save their lives? And will the heat of their passionate love be enough to seal their future together—if they do survive?

Speaking of leaving your expectations at the door and falling in love, here is an excerpt: This is the scene when Margarita first meets “Rafferty”, the man who is to accompany her to safety. He has a massive hangover and unbeknownst to her, they are in a brothel.

“The saloon must serve as a hotel,” she said.
Homer gave her an odd look as he stood up. “Something like that. I’m going to go find Rafferty.”
Now, she waited uncomfortably, alone at a table, while Homer went
up the stairs at the far end of the room. With relief, she saw him
returning, just one of the cowboys at the nearby table
half rose out of his seat as if about to approach her. Homer nodded to
them as he walked by, a warning in his face directed at the cowboy, who
sat back down.
Homer pulled out a chair next to her. “He’ll be down directly.”
The girl who had been sweeping minutes earlier, put down a pot of
strong smelling coffee and two chipped enamelware mugs at their table.
“Make that three mugs. A guest will be joining us. Can we get
something to eat?” Homer asked.
“Biscuits, eggs, and bacon.” The young woman headed off
without waiting for a reply.
Margarita’s attention was drawn to the stairs again. A man in a fancy
brocade waistcoat under a black jacket was making his way down the
stairs. He had long, silver hair, and a mustache curled up at each end,
defying gravity with the aid of mustache wax. Catching her eye, he
tipped his hat to her.
“He’s older than I expected,” she whispered to Homer, who turned to
look over his shoulder.
“That ain’t him,” he said, as the gentleman joined the card game in
progress.
After a beat, another man appeared at the railing overlooking the
saloon.
The tall man with black hair leaned on the railing. With his
arms stretched out at full span he took in the room below with a
predatory gaze. He was powerfully built with broad shoulders and long
limbs. Like a bird of prey, he held his head still while his eyes shifted
around the room. Margarita felt like he was deciding which one of them
he would swoop down to pick off first.
Although nobody moved, the room changed. It felt like
the very air grew hot and dry in his presence, charged with a heaviness
that wasn’t there a minute ago.
When he saw Homer, the man’s gaze came to rest for a second. Then
his stare shifted, and met with hers. He lifted his eyebrows in surprise,
fixing her with such an intense stare that Margarita leaned back in her
seat.
“Rafferty,” said Homer, nodding his head in the direction of the man,
who now moved toward the stairs, eyes still on Margarita.
He walked slowly, swinging one long leg after another, a slight
swagger in his shoulders. Unable to bear up under his direct gaze any
longer, Margarita looked down at her coffee. Her throat constricted in anticipation, but still,
he moved down the stairs and across the room at an unnervingly slow pace.
When he arrived on the scene, the women at the table stopped talking and looked
expectantly at him. He didn’t register their presence as he walked past
them—to their apparent disappointment.
The men playing poker watched him with wary eyes. One of them
touched the gun in his holster, nervously.
The cowboys stopped talking and drew closer together.
Without a word or invitation, the tall man pulled out the chair across
from Margarita. The gun sticking out of his waistband put a lump of fear
in her stomach.
He jerked his head in her direction, looking at Homer. “Why is she
here?” he asked in a deep voice, speaking in the same slow pace as he
walked. He had an Irish accent, she noted.
Homer poured out a cup of the thick, dark liquid for him. “Rafferty.
This is Margarita McIntosh, Jock’s daughter.”
“And she’s here for what reason?” he asked in a brusque tone.
Margarita looked up, her face burning with indignation. She was met
with quite a sight. The man across from her had a few days’ growth of
black whiskers covering the lower part of his face. Jet-black hair stood in
loose curls around his head in an uncombed mass in need of a wash.
He was without a jacket, and his long john’s undershirt was
pushed up at the elbows, showing long, muscular forearms. Worse, the
top buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, exposing the patch of black hair
on his chest. The tight, sweat-stained garment showed every bulge and
indent in his lean torso, including his nipples. He was as good as naked.
Margarita tried to hide her shock at this unseemly display. She’d never
seen so much of a man’s body before, up close.
His eyes bored into her. They were steely eyes the color of indigo set
in bloodshot orbs. Her discomfort seemed to amuse him. He narrowed
his eyes, and a smirk twisted his lips as he observed her watching
him. Other than his lips and eyes, he was as still as if he’d been carved in
stone. Very economical in his movements.
“Well, here’s the thing. She’s the job. Jock wants his daughter
delivered to his sister in Durango. He wants you to make sure she gets
there. Safe—and intact,” Homer said, in a way which made her redden.
The man called Rafferty grinned rakishly, displaying surprisingly
even, white teeth. “If it’s safety he’s after, there’s better ways to
transport his precious cargo, I would think.”
“He wants her movements to go undetected.”
Rafferty leaned over the table. She could smell him now. He smelled
like sour sweat, whiskey—and cheap perfume. There was some other
odor Margarita couldn’t identify, but it repelled her.
She raised her handkerchief to her nose to breathe through its
lavender-scented folds. Catching her gesture, the dark man glowered at
her briefly before the smirk returned to his lips.
“I’m a hired gun. Why does he need me to accompany her? She can’t
take a stagecoach or train? I have to wonder what’s going on that my
particular skills are required.”
Homer raked his hand through his hair, clearly wrestling with how to
answer the question. “Jock is on the run. He got involved in a dispute.
He’s afraid the men that are after him will grab his daughter to lure him
back. That’s all you need to know.”
He jerked a thumb in her direction. “I’m not interested in this job,” he said, starting to stand up.

Get Margarita and the Hired Gun in Kindle at:  https://www.amazon.com/Margarita-Hired-Gun-Patti-Sherry-Crews-ebook/dp/B01EAS7F50

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Furbaby Friday with Julie Lence


I’m happy to welcome Julie Lence to the blog to share her wonderful rescue dog, Nova, and her western historical romance No Luck At All.

Hi Beth. Thank you for having me as your guest today. To give your readers a little background about me, I’m a stay-at-home mom enjoying a career writing western historical romance. I’ve been married to my high school sweetheart for 34 years and we have one son who is now in college. Ever since I was young, I have always loved animals. Dogs and horses are my favorites. While I don’t own horses, writing western romance enables me to incorporate them into my work. As for dogs, my family had several throughout my childhood years, and the hubby and I have had 3 of our own. Our current dog, who rules the home, is a German shepherd.

Nova is a rescue dog. She came to live with us about 11 years ago. Our male shepherd had passed away, and though I swore after him I didn’t want any more pets, being alone in the house all day, I couldn’t stand the quiet. I made a call to our vet and asked him to find us another shepherd. He telephoned back about a week later stating he had found 2 shepherds. One was a male who was very high strung and most likely a pet I wouldn’t be able to handle. Nova, on the other hand, was a sweetheart and desperately in need of a home before she was sent back to the shelter. Excited, the kiddo and I went to see her at the vet’s office. She was quite a shock, as I was expecting her coloring to be all black, as our male was. Tan, with a bit of black fur, it took a moment to wrap my brain around the change, but as soon as Nova was released from her kennel, she came running to me and the kiddo, excited and happy to see us, as though she knew she belonged to us. Fifteen minutes later, she was in the car and going home with us.


That first afternoon everything was right in my world. We had a dog in the house again! Nova loved her new home and backyard. She played with the kiddo, who was about 6 at the time, and she welcomed the hubby when he came home from work. She also claimed the spot on the landing where our other shepherd liked to nap. At around 2 years old, she was gentle, house broken, friendly, and had manners. The story went she had had several owners, one of which was an army man who had been training her. He was shipped overseas and Nova stayed behind with his wife. Sadly, he was injured and sent home. His wife couldn’t take care of him and Nova, too, hence the reason Nova eventually came to live with us.

About a year after having her, Nova began to have health issues. Our vet recommended she see an internal specialist, who was fairly certain she had cancer and didn’t have long to live. I never prayed so hard in one weekend, with my stomach in knots and hiding tears from the kiddo while we waited for her test results. Those prayers were answered in that she didn’t have cancer, but a mass that could be reduced and controlled with medication. She has since been on meds, and continues to develop problems as she ages. But no matter how many curve balls life throws at her, she is a real trooper and maintains her zest for life… and treats, and potato chips, and veges and fruits, and her tennis ball.

Rescue dog Nova

Nova loves Christmas and knows her Christmas stocking. As soon as she sees me fill it Christmas Eve, she guards it until Christmas morning. She also knows Thanksgiving and gets excited when I bring the turkey into the house, usually spending Thanksgiving Day in the kitchen waiting for the bird to cook. She is smart in that she knows everyone’s routine, the sound of not only our vehicles but our neighbor’s, and that the answering machine will pick up on 4th the ring. (Actually, if I don’t answer the phone by the 2nd ring, she starts whining.) Some of the things she doesn’t like is going to the vet, even though both of them spoil her, and the Fed Ex and UPS trucks. She barks as soon as she hears them coming up the street and doesn’t stop until they’re gone. Getting a bath or playing in the sprinklers are also not favorites, but she does like to be brushed and roll in the grass. And she likes riding in the car. Her 1st summer with us, we took her to Durango, up and over several 14,000ft mountains. She was green going over the last one and I thought she was going to be sick, but she held on. She also likes going on walks, but that has come to an end as she suffers from arthritis and cannot walk too far.


Having Nova has been a blessing. She is good company for me, as I tend to talk to her as if she’s a human. Funny thing is she understands most of what I’m saying. We’ve taken her camping, on more drives in the mountains and to the park. She’s loyal and protective, barking at anyone who comes to the door, even those she knows. One of the best memories I have stems from a few years ago.

Around 4a.m., the C.O. detector went off. Hubbs tried everything to get it to shut up, but it wouldn’t. Fearing the alarm was real, we called the fire department. Kiddo and I put Nova into the car and backed out onto the street. As the fire truck pulled up, I expected her to start barking at the firemen, but she sat and calmly watched. Now when one of the smoke alarms goes off, she looks at us to see if we are leaving the house again. A second funny memory—my laundry room is upstairs. One day while the wash machine was running, it made this God-awful racket. Nova came running and met me at the door to the laundry room. We looked at the machine, she looked at me and I looked at her and we both had the same expression—what the heck? And then we walked away, deciding there was nothing we could do until the machine was done washing.

There are so many more memories, like when she snatched a hamburger off the counter, how she used to cuddle with me on the couch (she’s 85lbs.), how she chases the squirrels and birds out of the yard, that I could continue talking about her all day. She is my girl, and will continue to rule the house until she no longer can. As I mentioned above, the novels I write always include horses. I only have one story where I feature a pet, and Wiley isn’t a dog. He’s a wolf. Below is his initial meeting with Creel and Racine Weston in No Luck At All.

Excerpt from No Luck At All

Racine hurried across the yard to the springhouse. Collecting her pie, she made haste toward the back of the barn where hammers and saws could be heard. The ranch hands were steadfastly working on the bunkhouse, hoping to finish and move in by the end of the following week.
“Morning, Blade,” she called, approaching the building.
He paused from nailing trim around a window and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “Morning, Miz Racy. What brings you out here?”
“I’m going to town with Creel. There’s a kettle of soup on the stove for you and the others.”
“Appreciate it.” He nodded.
“There’s fresh bread, too.” She cast an uneasy glance toward the back of the house. “Blade, will you do me a favor?” She brought her gaze back to him.
“If I can.”
“Can you find Lucas or Royce and let one of them know I’ll be in town all day? Please? They’ll understand the message,” she added at his strained look.
“They ain’t gonna be happy to hear they’re not getting pan toast today.”
“You know?”
“‘Course, I know. We all do. Ain’t nothing those boys do we ranch hands don’t know about.”
“Then why the look just now?”
“‘Cause the others and me ain’t gonna get a good laugh today watching those two sneaking around the trees.”
“Oh?” She smiled. Then a thought struck. “Do Paige and Missy know?”
“I doubt it. They’d have taken those two to task for coming over here and botherin’ you, and nobody’s heard any yelling, that I know of.”
Racine sighed in relief. “Thank goodness. Creel found out yesterday and wasn’t happy. He bade them to eat at their own homes.”
Blade shook his head, tiredly. “You’d think by now he’d have learned his brothers will do anything they can to rile him. They don’t do it outta meanness. They do it–”
A sharp wail split the air.
“What in all creation…?” Racine’s heart hammered beneath her breast.
“Wolf! Only he don’t sound too good.” Blade grabbed her arm and set her back against the bunkhouse. “You stay here.” He took off for the edge of the woods, as fast as his injured leg would carry him.
The horses in the corral began to whinny. Racine drew a sharp breath. From the corner of her eye, she saw Davey and Joe drop their tools and run.
“The heck I will,” she murmured, lifting her skirts the same time a door slammed. She guessed Creel had heard and come to investigate, but she didn’t take the time to find out. She ran after the men, and nearly skidded in her tracks when she came to a halt beside Blade.
“Mother of Mercy,” she panted in awe. Standing between two thick trees, blood dripping from his heaving side, drool dangling at the corner of his mouth, a big, gray wolf stared at them, pain in his eyes.
Racine made to step forward only Blade grabbed her arm.
“He’s got company.” He pointed to something blocking the wolf’s path—a rattlesnake, tail sticking up and hissing.
“Sonofabitch!” Creel grasped her other arm. “Go back to the house and–”
“He’s bleeding, Creel.” Racine grabbed his upper arms, imploring, “You’ve got to help him. Please?”
No sooner were her words out then a knife sailed through the air and pinned the snake’s head to the ground. Racine whirled in the direction from which the knife had come and saw Davey jab Joe in the shoulder. “Got it!”
Jerking her attention back to the wolf, she locked her gaze with his and spoke in a soft voice. “It’s all right, boy. No one’s going to hurt you.” To Creel, she said, “How in heavens did Davey do that?” and saw the wolf’s ears prick to the sound of her voice.
“He’s good with knives is all you need to know,” Creel whispered back.
Racine nodded. She’d question him later and wouldn’t allow him to be so evasive, but right now the wolf needed help. “Easy, boy.” She took a cautious step forward, and then another, her basket banging against her hip. The wolf growled a warning.
Ahh, an idea came to her.
“Racine!” Creel hissed.
“Shush,” she whispered. “We have to help him.” She knelt down, slipped the basket off her arm and opened it. Withdrawing the pie, she held it out so the wolf could see and sniff it.
Holding her breath, she waited patiently, hearing the sounds of guns being cocked behind her. Please Lord, don’t let them shoot the wolf, she prayed.
The hair on animal’s neck rose. He growled low and pawed the remains of the snake.
“C’mon boy, come get the pie,” she coaxed. “You don’t want that snake. He tried to bite you.”
The wolf’s ears pricked again. He looked at her and growled louder.
“C’mon boy, you can do it.” She shoved the pie closer toward him. “Come here and get a piece.”
Creel hissed another warning to her. She shushed him a second time and extended the pie even farther. “I know you’re hungry,” she pressed
Then the unbelievable happened.
The wolf dropped down on the dry, brittle leaves and whined, pitifully and painfully.
Keeping her gaze on him, Racine sucked in a breath and slowly crawled forward on her knees.
The wolf panted heavily. Spittle dripped from his mouth and he whined again.
Finally, after a long, heart-stopping minute, she was inches from him, and cautiously set the pie beneath his nose. He eyed it, then her, and then began to gobble it as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“Get me more food,” she whispered to Creel. She heard him curse under his breath before he ran toward the house.
“It’s good, huh?” She smiled and reached a tentative hand forward. While he licked the plate, she touched his head with her fingers.
He lifted his eyes and growled again, but it wasn’t one of conviction.
“Don’t bite the hand feeding you,” she instructed. “You want more, you be nice.” And again, he surprised her. He actually let her pet his head. “Good boy.”
“I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.” Davey expelled a long, astounded breath. “He’s lettin’ her pet ’em.”
“How’d you do that, Miz Racy?” Joe wanted to know.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Wolves aren’t known to take to humans,” Blade said. “He senses something good in you.”
“He likes my cooking, same as all the men on this ranch,” she said softly before taking in the extent of the wolf’s wounds. “He’s got a long gash on his side. And plenty of scratches to go with it.”
“Must have gotten into a fight with another animal.” Blade sheathed his gun.
“We’ll patch him up,” Creel said, halting a few feet behind her. “Soon as he eats this and falls asleep. I put some laudanum on the toast.” He passed the plate to her.
“Thank you.” She took the plate and gave it to the wolf, her hand still patting his head.
He gobbled it up and looked to her as though to ask for more.
“Later,” she said softly. “Right now you need to sleep so I can help you.”
“Soon as he’s out, we’ll move him to the barn,” Creel said. “Be easier to treat him in there.”
She nodded and continued to stroke his mangy fur. “He needs a bath, and a good brushing.”
“Don’t think you’re gonna keep him, darlin’. He’s wild and could take a notion to lunge for your pretty little neck at any time.”
“He won’t,” she said matter-of-factly, and was rewarded a short time later when the wolf fell asleep to her hand caressing his ears.
She stood up and moved out of the way while Creel lifted him and carried him toward the barn.
“Put him in one of the stalls,” she instructed, “while I heat some water. And be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Creel grinned.
“Blade,” she called, mounting the porch steps, “please find me a brush. I want to get the snarls out of his fur.”
“Yes, Miz Racy.”
“Thank you,” she said and hurried inside.

Julie Lence

No Luck At All is available at Amazon: www.amazon.com/dp/B0064R6NVI
Thank you for taking the time to read about Nova. If you would like to connect with me, I can be reached here:
Website: www.julielence.com
Facebook page: https://facebook.com/#!/JulieLence
Twitter: https://twitter.com/julielence

Thanks for stopping by. Please leave Julie a message!

Furbaby Friday with Diane Kelly!


I’m glad to have dog lover, Diane Kelly, here to share her Furbaby, Reggie, and novel Enforcing the Paw, the 6th book in her mystery Paw Enforcement Series.

Hi, Beth. Thanks for inviting me to be on your blog! My featured fur baby is Reggie. She’s one of three dogs who share their home with me and my husband, along with six cats. Reggie was a pound puppy and our best guess is that she’s part Dalmatian and part American bull terrier like Spuds McKenzie or the dog from the Target commercials. She’s deaf but very smart, and she responds to hand signals. She also closely watches the faces of humans around her to judge their moods. She’s very sweet and friendly, and she loves to take a dip in the neighborhood pond when we got for a walk. This photo is of her playing in the packing paper when we moved back to Texas a couple of years ago after a three-year stint in Nashville. She had so much fun playing in the pile!

Book Info:

Enforcing the Paw is the 6th book in my Paw Enforcement series. The books feature a female cop who is paired with a female K-9 after things go sour between the cop and her human partner. While neither Megan (the human) or Brigit (the K-9) are thrilled about their partnership at first, they learn over time to respect each other and eventually become best friends. I’m a big dog lover, and I’ve had so much fun writing this series! The chapters from the dog’s point of view are my favorite. She’s definitely got some tough K-9 attitude!

 

Book Blurb:

A TAIL OF TWO LOVERS

When relationships go south, some people just can’t—or won’t—let go. When Fort Worth Police Officer Megan Luz and her pawed partner Brigit investigate a series of stalking incidents involving a couple who recently broke up, their detective powers are put to the test. Is this a case of a controlling creep who refuses to accept rejection—or one about a woman scorned whose fury has been unleashed?

EXCERPT FROM ENFORCING THE PAW – Diane Kelly
(Book #6 in the Paw Enforcement Series)
Fort Worth Police Officer Megan Luz
On a Monday night in early August, my shepherd-mix partner Brigit and I were out on patrol, working the night shift. Well, at least I was working. Brigit snoozed away on the carpeted platform in the back of our specially equipped K-9 cruiser. A human officer would have been fired for sleeping on the job, but K-9s? They could get away with it. Lucky dog. She wasn’t quiet about it either, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Way to rub it in.
Her snooze came to an abrupt end when a vandalism call came in over the radio. She snuffled and raised her head from the comfy cushion I’d bought her, casting me a bleary-eyed look that said she was none too happy about her sweet dreams being interrupted.
“We’ve got a report of a broken window,” the dispatcher said. “The victim reports she believes her ex-boyfriend tried to break into her home.”
Ugh. Domestic violence is the worst.
The victim’s address was on College Avenue in the southern part of the Fairmount neighborhood, only a few of blocks from our current location. Brigit’s unique K9 skills could be especially helpful in a situation like this, where the perpetrator would have left a scent trail.
I grabbed the microphone from my dashboard and responded to the call. “Officers Luz and Brigit on our way.” I slid the mic back into its holder and punched the gas. Off we go!
Three turns and less than thirty-eight seconds later, my cruiser rolled to a stop in front of the address. While the historic Fairmount neighborhood boasted some beautifully restored homes, many of which were quite large, this single-story white house was among its more modest dwellings. My brown eyes took in the place, while the brain behind them performed some quick computations of its own accord, estimating the home to be approximately 1,200 square feet given its width and depth. White oleander bushes flanked the front porch and spanned the width of the house. Hmm. You’d have thought the owner might have planted pink oleanders to add some color, but who was I to judge? There was no garage. The house had been built long before cars were common and the owner had apparently decided not to add one, though there was a short paved driveway in which a beige Hyundai Accent was parked. The porch light was on, as were lights inside the front room, the glow visible around the edges of the slatted wood blinds in the windows. The broken window must be around back.
I climbed out of my car and opened the back door to let Brigit out. After allowing her to take a quick tinkle in the grass, I clipped her leash onto her collar and led her up the single step to the front door. While many of the other houses in the area sported cheery floral wreaths on their front doors, a large sign that read NO SOLICITING was plastered across this door. Even the welcome mat wasn’t very welcoming. Instead of greeting visitors with a simple WELCOME or funny phrase—the one at our house read WIPE YOUR PAWS—it looked more like a torture device, all stiff and bristly.
I raised my hand and knocked. Rap-rap-rap! A moment later the door was answered by a pretty and petite Latina woman. Being of both Mexican and Irish descent, my skin, like this woman’s, was slightly darker than most Caucasians, though mine bore a scattering of freckles while hers was more uniform in color. The woman appeared to be in her early thirties, giving her a six- or seven-year lead on me. She stood a couple inches shorter than my five-feet-five inches, putting her around five three. As long as we were talking in numbers, I might as well say she’d be around an 8 on the attractiveness scale. As for myself, I’d let others be the judge of that. The number I was more interested in was my IQ, which was above average, thank you very much.
The woman wore a drab gray bathrobe over sleepwear, slippers, and no makeup. Her dark hair was messy from sleep, loose curls playing about her head, much unlike the taut bun into which I’d pulled my dark locks. Her eyes flickered down to Brigit, who was sniffing at something through the wooden boards of the porch, but she responded with neither interest nor fear.
“He’s at it again,” she snapped without preamble. “I hope y’all can put a stop to it this time.”
Her eyes seemed to be looking at a spot over my shoulder rather than directly at me. I wasn’t sure if she had an ocular issue or if she was avoiding my eye. I decided to find out by shifting slightly in the direction she was looking. When I did, her eyes moved along with me, remaining a little off target. Hmm.
“I understand someone attempted to break into your home?”
“Not someone. It was my ex-boyfriend.”
She could very well be right. But she could also be jumping to conclusions. I’d learned early on in my law enforcement career not to take everything at face value. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Adriana Valdez.”
I mentally repeated the name to commit it to memory. “And what happened exactly?”
“I was in bed sleeping a few minutes ago when a loud crash woke me up. I turned on my lamp and found one of my bedroom windows broken and a brick lying on the floor.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No. I didn’t look out the window. I was too freaked out.”
Funny, she didn’t seem so freaked out. To me, her emotions seemed more along the lines of irritation and anger. But maybe that was because she’d had time to calm down since I’d arrived, to gather her nerves and wits, and was now realizing that replacing the window would be both a hassle and an expense. “What makes you think it was your ex?”
“It had to be him,” Adriana said to the spot over my shoulder. “Nobody else had a reason to do something like that.”
Juvenile delinquents did things like this all the time without a reason, but no sense arguing with her. “Can you show us?”
“Us?” She glanced down at Brigit. “Is the dog coming with you?”
“I’d planned on bringing her in, yes.” She was my partner, after all.
Her lips pursed and her nose twitched. “Does she shed?”
“Shed?” Brigit was a furry, hundred-pound shepherd with approximately eighty-billion active hair follicles. She shed enough hair each day to stuff a sofa. So, naturally, I said, “Not much.”

Buy links:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Enforcing-Paw-Enforcement-Novel-ebook/dp/B01N6DJ914

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/enforcing-the-paw-diane-kelly/1124362830?ean=9781250094865#/

Walmart: https://www.walmart.com/ip/ENFORCING-THE-PAW/55258530

Social Media:

Website: www.DianeKelly.com
Twitter  @dianekellybooks
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DianeKellyBooks/

Author Bio:

A tax advisor and former assistant attorney general for the state of Texas, Diane Kelly is no stranger to white-collar crime. When she realized her experiences would make great fodder for novels, her fingers hit the keyboard and thus began her award-winning Death and Taxes series. Of course her fictional heroine’s life wouldn’t be complete without a couple of rescue cats! A graduate of her hometown’s Citizens Police Academy, Diane also writes the hilarious Paw Enforcement series, which features a female K-9 team. Soon she’ll launch her Fixin’ to Flip home renovation series. You’ll be surprised to see what Sawdust, the cat featured in the series, drags in! Diane lives in north Texas with her husband, three dogs, and six cats.

Thanks for stopping by! Please leave Diane a comment!