Another trip down anthology memory lane by Kaye Spencer #prairierosepubs #westernromance #anthology

In my June article (HERE), I revisited an anthology Prairie Rose Publications put out in the summer of 2014 (Lassoing a Mail-Order Bride).

For my July article, I’m revisiting another PRP anthology that saw its one-year publishing anniversary on July 4, 2020—

– a collection of six western historical novellas
that are hotter than a two dollar pistol and 4^th of July fireworks –

        

The stories and their authors are:

• Fake Marriage with a Dash of Desire by Karen Michelle Nutt
• The Lady Piano Player by J. Arlene Culiner
• Duty by Angela Raines
• Diamond Jack’s Angel by Elizabeth Clements
• A Summer to Remember by Julie Lence
• Give My Love to Rose by Kaye Spencer

A little more about my story—

Music often inspires my stories. In the case of Give My Love to Rose, Johnny Cash’s song of the same name gave me the basic idea for the plot. Rose in his song became my main character. The man who came across the dying man in my story is a deputy U.S. Marshal.

Here’s the song.

And here’s an excerpt.

Clint Callahan stopped a few feet from the covered front porch. “Is this the Griffin place? Lon Griffin’s?”

“Yes. It is.” The younger of the two women came forward, her gaze dragging from the back of the mule to look at him. “I’m Rose Griffin. This is my mother-in-law, Bess.”

Clint’s mental image of Rose crashed. Rose was hardly more than a girl, and Lon was…Well, he was old enough to be her father, maybe even grandfather. This put a different slant on the situation, and he wasn’t altogether comfortable with it.

Rose’s chin lifted with the set of her shoulders. “Was he dead when you found him?”

This was the hardest part, explaining. A woman’s reaction revealed much about her character. He’d seen it all from throwing themselves on the body in fits of wailing grief to outright joy the no-good scoundrel was dead.

“No. I found him at dusk not far from the railroad tracks.” Clint dismounted. “He’d fallen out of the saddle and lacked the strength to get up. When I knelt beside him, I could tell he didn’t have much time left. I asked his name and where he was going. He said he had to get home to Rose. I told him I’d take him home, but he was in too much pain to move. I offered to fetch you. He said no. He didn’t want to—”

“—to die alone,” Rose murmured.

Clint nodded. “Yes, ma’am. There was a buffalo wallow off from the tracks where the night wind wouldn’t hit us straight on, so I got him laid out on his bedroll. I put up a makeshift lean-to over him and built a fire close by. I boiled a piece of jerky and helped him sip on the broth. He dozed off and on all night. Sometimes he muttered nonsense in his sleep, other times he was wide awake and making sense. He must have told me his life’s story.”

Available on Amazon.com

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Until next time,

Kaye Spencer

Stay in contact with Kaye—

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WOMEN RANCHERS/HOMESTEADERS

Post by Doris McCraw
writing as Angela Raines

March is National Women's History Month, and March 1 is also National Horse Protection Day. What better to write about than women ranchers. Of course, once I decided to write on the subject the research began. There were women ranchers in the early days of Colorado history, but finding them does take a bit of work. I'll be writing about two of them.

Photo property of the author

I'll start with the one that caught my eye a few years back. In the 1879 Colorado Springs city directory a Mrs. R. Gamble was listed as a stock grower. While not technically a rancher, she piqued my interest. Mrs. Roxanna Gamble was a widow who had been born Roxanna Bentley in 1827 in Monongahela, Pennsylvania to Shesbazzar and Elizabeth Bentley. I've not found where or who she married, but she had a son names Shes and when her son was three, she was living with her parents again. She was only in the stock growing for a couple of years. She died in Colorado Springs in 1888 at the age of sixty-three.

Women like Teresita Sandoval in the early days of Colorado helped start towns, build ranches and leave their mark on the land they inhabited. Teresita married but left her husband for another man. These two moved to Colorado from what is now New Mexico and became part of Fort Pueblo life in the 1840s. In fact, the two of them were instrumental to the success of the fort in its early days. Teresita later ran the ranch her daughter inherited from her husband.   For more on this amazing woman here is a link to her life. Teresita Sandoval

Then there was this article in the Colorado Daily Chieftain in Pueblo, CO. from 1892:


Lastly, I found this information on 'women's work' in the August 18, 1893, Idaho Springs News, in Idaho Springs, Colorado.

How Women are Employed.

According to the last census, there are 110 women lawyers in the United States and 165 women ministers, 320 women authors, 588 women journalist, 2,061 artist, 2,136 architects, 2,106 stock raisers and ranchers, 5,135 government clerks, 2,438 physicians and surgeons, 13,182 professional musicians, 56,800 professional farmers and planters, 21,071 clerks and bookkeepers, 14,463 heads of commercial houses and 155,000 women schoolteachers.

To put it in perspective the population in the United States in 1890 was 62,979,766 of which probably 19,000,000 plus were children.

In the short story, I wrote for "Hot Western Nights", my heroine is managing the ranch her step-father left for his children. Here is a short excerpt:

Miranda Foster climbed the hill overlooking the ranch her stepfather left her to run for his heirs. Clouds flew across the sky. Standing on the hilltop, she watched a storm building, its track headed toward the ranch house. She didn't begrudge her duty, but by the time her step-brother Byron was old enough to take over, she'd be an old maid.

No one knew she wasn't the owner. It was her step-father's way of keeping the ranch safe. She remembered their conversation. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, but you'll be taken care of."

Miranda thought back on that conversation as she caught movement near the leading edge of the storm. Watching, she saw five specks detach and draw closer. The wind was pushing her back the way she'd come, trying to guide her to safety.

Miranda would not be moved. "You may threaten, cajole, or do me harm, but I will not be swayed from my duty," Miranda sent back to the wind as she waited for the oncoming riders, shotgun in hand. She never left the ranch house without it since the coming of Tate Browning. She stood, a calm determination not to give in.

"A woman can't hold such a place as this," the old man said as he rode up, almost on top of Miranda.

Miranda stood her ground, looking each of the men in the eye. "I've been charged with keeping this land safe, to never sell for any reason. Tell Tate Browning, it's a duty I shall discharge to the best of my ability."

Amazon

Doris Gardner-McCraw -

Author, Speaker, Historian-specializing in
Colorado and Women's History

Angela Raines - author: Where Love & History Meet

Books: Angela Raines Books

CREATIVITY - THE SPARK

Post by Doris McCraw
writing as Angela Raines

SPARK- look at some of the synonyms: hint, flare, jolt, ray, animate, excite, enliven. You get the idea.

When it comes to creativity, the spark for the project; beginning, middle or end, may come from many sources, if one is open to it.

I've been re-reading the short stories of author T.T. Flynn. I love his small strokes that create a character picture without being overly descriptive. In one story, 'Spawn of the Gun Pack' the opening line read: "Tom Brush killed his first mam when he was fifteen, and his last man when he was twenty— and in the years between, death missed him a dozen times only because he had been raised by Long Tom Kinnard." A great opening line, and a descriptive one at that. You get a feel for the character of Tom Brush, yet it leaves you wanting to find out more.

What kind of character would this man be if he missed dying because of who and how he was raised? What was his childhood like? These questions ring in my mind as I am developing the character in my current WIP. What kind of man is my hero? What in his childhood made him the loner he is? How did he become so self-contained?

Whether I use the answers to all these questions isn't important. What is important is my understanding of the man and his actions. This is where reading Flynn is so useful for me. It's his ability to create deep characters, in so few words, that jump out at you from the page.

My Thursday night improv writing group, weather permitting, is where I get sparks galore. It is amazing how a 'prompt' can lead your story in a wonderful direction. The key is to not get set in where you think the story is going. Many a time a prompt will open up a piece I'm working on and I get so excited. The prompt that sparked my current WIP was 'Knowing is not enough; we much apply. Willing is not enough; we must do." I knew it would be about a woman physician in the 1870s-80s Colorado, but not much else.

Here is a rough draft excerpt from the beginning:

     "Mother," Caleb called.

     Dr. Pauline Wilson looked up from the medical journal she was reading. It thrilled her that her son Caleb found the world such a place of wonder. She smiled. He was always calling her to come and see his latest find. Well, it was better than getting into trouble, although some might say what he was doing could lead to trouble. She had worried as he’d gotten older that no having a father would be hard on him. She still mourned her husband George, yet it was his death that propelled her to follow her dream of being a physician.

     "Mother, hurry."

     Pauline pulled herself away from her memories, hearing a sense of urgency in her son’s words. Pauline arrived in time to see her twelve-year-old son attempting to catch a large man as he tipped out of his saddle. Rushing forward, Pauline helped Caleb steady the man, draping his arms over the horse. “Caleb, go get the wheel-barrel.”

Sometimes it is a 'what if,' or 'what happened' from a piece of history or a character from another story that is the spark. I have an early novel I wrote about a brothel owner that came from a piece of history I was researching on a murder here in Colorado Springs in 1879. The research kept talking about how bad the wife was. I wondered what her side of the story would be? Fifty thousand plus words later, I found out.

Of course, photos are a great spark. Many a haiku came from a photo I took.

Giving to the world

Yet alone in disaster

Loneliness defined

We can never know what may be the 'spark' that sets us on a new journey. I think part of the gift is being open to the unexpected and going with the flow. So the next time you see the words poignant, purple and "Oh me!", see what you can go with them.

I will leave you with the beginning of my story in "Hot Western Nights" which began with a musical prompt.

     Miranda Foster climbed the hill overlooking the ranch her stepfather left her to run for his heirs. Clouds flew across the sky. Standing on the hilltop, she watched a storm building, its track headed toward the ranch house. She didn't begrudge her duty, but by the time her step-brother Byron was old enough to take over, she'd be an old maid. 

     No one knew she wasn't the owner. It was her step-father's way of keeping the ranch safe. She remembered their conversation. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, but you'll be taken care of." 

     Miranda thought back on that conversation as she caught movement near the leading edge of the storm. Watching, she saw five specks detach and draw closer. The wind was pushing her back the way she'd come, trying to guide her to safety.

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Happy Writing, Be Creative and Watch for those "SPARKS"

Doris Gardner-McCraw -

Author, Speaker, Historian-specializing in
Colorado and Women's History

For a list of Angela Raines Books: Here 

Loneliness as Story Theme by Kaye Spencer #PrairieRosePubs #blogabookscene #westernromance

We all have stories that resonate with us. They may be oral stories handed down through the generations in our family. They may be books we frequently re-read. They may be movies we've watched so many times we can recite the dialogue. What these stories have in common are five basic story elements that the speaker, author, or director have crafted so well that we never tire of the story. In fact, those stories touch us deeply, and we need them.

Theme is the glue that holds the story together. Theme is the message the author intends, consciously or subconsciously, to communicate to the reader. A story’s theme is generally a universal truth. It’s not uncommon for an author to write all their stories around one or two themes. As readers, we turn to stories with themes that “speak” to us. Think about those few special books that stay with you.  What is at the heart of the story that makes it so memorable? Identifying that ‘something’ can be elusive. We can’t quite get our hands on it, but we know it at an instinctive, visceral level, and we return for more.

I know my theme.

Loneliness.

Not being lonesome, not being alone, not being lonely, but the utter hopeless agonizing heartache of loneliness. Loneliness shows up in every story I write. I can’t keep it out.

But where did this loneliness come from?

Perhaps it was my only-child upbringing until I was 13, or that I was a loner all through school (still am) with few friends. Experiencing a difficult mother/teenage daughter relationship may also have influenced my loneliness. Could my tendency toward loneliness stem from the traumatic brain injury I suffered at 18 and the resulting *holes* it left in my life from the loss of many of my childhood memories? Or did an early, and ultimately unsuccessful marriage, and then raising three children on my own have something to do with it? Other factors could have been my battle with clinical depression (eventually won that war) throughout my twenties and into my thirties only to have panic/anxiety attacks muscle past the depression.

Maybe there are no reasons.

Maybe it’s a combination of all my experiences.

Maybe it’s just how I’m hardwired.

However, in case you’ve grabbed a tissue—not to worry. I had a great childhood, and I’ve lived a satisfying, adventure-filled life. In fact, looking back through the years, there are few things I’d change, and I have even fewer regrets. I’m not lonely, so don’t play sad violin music just yet. ;-)

For your loneliness-listening angst, here is Marty Robbins singing Mr. Shorty, which is, at its theme core, a story about the hopeless isolation of loneliness. The verse beginning at 52 seconds is the part that gets to me.

Since the August theme for blog-a-book-scene is Alone Again, Naturally, here is a lonely excerpt from my recently published story in the Hot Western Nights anthology—Give My Love to Rose.

EXCERPT

How many times had he heard the last words of love for a beloved wife and children, or a wish to see a mother one last time? Some cried. Others cleared the burden on their consciences. Most only had enough time to name next of kin. When you heard a person’s last words, shared their last breath, shouldered their confessions, you took on the duty of seeing their dying wishes taken care of.

This man, Lon Griffin, was no different. He’d clung to a thin thread of life, slipping between delirium and lucidity all through the night. His will to live gave out in the dark just before the dawn.

Any other time, Clint would have dug a grave right there, said the proper words, and then rode on to tell the family or sent a telegram, whichever was the faster way to convey the news. This time, though, Lon’s widow waited at the house a good many miles on farther north, she was probably wondering right now when she’d see her husband again. She never would, not alive, anyway, and Lon begged him to take him home to be buried in the family cemetery.

Haunted heartbreak clouded Clint’s eyes. That Lon left behind a family brought back his own loss. Nothing he possessed, not his guns, his badge, his physical strength, or his love had been enough to prevent the accident of nature that had killed his happiness in the blink of an eye.

Clint went about the pragmatic tasks of breaking camp and loading up his pack horse. He saddled his horse and Lon’s mule and then wrapped Lon’s body in a blanket and secured him over his mule’s back. Angling toward the river in the general direction Lon had explained would take them to his house, Clint thought of Rose and the image he created in his mind from listening to Lon’s delirious talk all through the night. He’d spoken of her with reverence that he’d done something right in his life to deserve such a woman.

Clint understood that. It was a lucky man who found a woman to be his life-mate. He’d been that lucky man once, and he didn’t have it in him to go down that emotional road again. Every now and again, though, a wish to belong somewhere and to someone stirred at the fringes of his heart as it stirred now. Maybe it was because it was the dawn of Christmas Eve. Maybe it was from sitting beside a dying man all night. Whatever the reason, the weight of his aloneness rode with him.

 Available on Amazon.com

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As a writer, do you have a recurring theme that shows up in your stories? What is the force behind your theme?

As a reader, are you drawn to stories with certain themes? What about these stories speak to you so you keep coming back for more?

Until next time,

Kaye Spencer

Writing through history one romance upon a time

Stay in touch with Kaye

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COLORADO FLOODS OF 1885

Post by Doris McCraw
writing as Angela Raines

Fountain Creek after flood stage 2015
photo property of the author

Colorado has had its share of disasters during its history from fires, avalanches, and floods. In 1885 floods struck across the state. Below is a brief overview of some of the areas affected. I've chosen to just offer snippets from the various articles. If anyone wants research more, most of the complete articles can be found on the Colorado Historic Newspaper site: Colorado Historic Newspapers.

Denver

From the Carbonite Chronicle, the following was reported on August 1, 1885:

The magnificent splurge made by Cherry Creek on Sunday — bridges washed away and property destroyed.

Denver had a flood. Not a flood of knowledge or a flood of light, but a genuine wet watery flood. It came down Cherry Creek on Sunday night about dusk and made things home, in that staid and quiet old watercourse, for a time. During the afternoon there had been premonitions of the storm and according to arrivals on the Denver and Rio Grande train, which got in yesterday afternoon, and the Denver papers of yesterday, the oldest inhabitants had predicted "a flood." For once "the oldest," etc., was not mistaken.

The flood came, and it came numerously. It brought a great many things besides water with it. There were trees and timber, and sand and chicken coupes, a dead cow, and many other articles of virtu and bric-a-brac. The flood came suddenly. At half past 5 o'clock in the evening there was a little turgid stream, tortuously forcing its way through sand in the bottom of the creek. A minute later two feet of water was rolling over the sand, and 10 minutes later, a majestic touring, that seized and hissed and roared, and mock the efforts of humanity, put forth to stop its destructive force. Onward it came, growing fiercer, and louder, and more resistlist. Thousands of people hurried to the scene and gazed with all and terror at the raging element. On its seething breast, it bore debris of all kinds, which in its mad fury it had torn from its resting places. The wooden bridges, which spanned the creek, were torn away like cobwebs, and the heavy timbers were tossed about like eggshells on the ocean. Huge masses of earth and immense sections of piling were carried out onto the seething vortex, the earth coloring the water, and the timbers adding to its fury.

Denver 1881 USGenWeb Archives  

Pueblo

The Pueblo daily chieftain of June 26, 1885, had the following article;

After the Flood.

With bright weather yesterday, trains running regularly in all directions, and the Arkansas River meandering peaceably within its banks, there was but little to remind the public of the great flood which took place the day before. There are still, however, several sizable and unsightly ponds in the lower parts of the city, and bayous of still water stand in central Pueblo. From all these ponds come the loud voices of innumerable frogs. The city authorities have had the broken streets partially repaired, where most in need of it. The "flood sufferers" were engaged yesterday in exposing their soaked clothing and carpets to the sun, washing out their crusts of mud which had settle upon the floors, and preparing to spend the night in a more comfortable manner than was possible the previous night.

Colorado Springs

From the Colorado Springs Gazette of July 26, 1885, we have the following:

While witnessing the performance at the opera house last night a reporter who was much interested in the antics of Muldoon and Mulcahey was notified that a water spout had broken in the northern part of the city and Shook's run flood was on a tear. Floods of this nature being frequent in Colorado reporter paid but little attention to what was said. Later, however, and man road up to the office and intimated that the flood was exceptional and that the lives had been lost. Immediately representatives were dispatched in every direction. It was reported that the house of Mr. B. A. P. Eaten in the northern part of the city had been washed away and his wife drown. Upon investigation, the report was found only to true.

In every respect, it was one of the most disastrous storms that has ever visited this section of Colorado. On either side of Shook's run hailstones as large as hens eggs and 18 inches deep were still laying at 4 o'clock. Not until today will we be enabled to make anyway near an estimate of the destruction. That it will amount to thousands of dollars there is no doubt.

Mr. Eaton's house was located on high ground on Wasatch Street between San Rafael and Yampa. It was substantially built on a stone foundation. When the Gazette reporter visited the grounds at 3 o'clock the property look as if it had been traversed by a cyclone. There was nothing left but the stone foundation. At the time water was flowing through the street to the depth of the foot or more.

Almost simultaneously with the flood in Shook's run, and before the rise of the Fountain, the water and Cheyenne began to rise rapidly and soon overflowed its banks. No estimate can be made of the amount of damage done on Cheyenne, and it is feared that much livestock has perished, and a large amount of hay, lately cut, is, without doubt, carried away.

Every wagon bridge on Shook's run was carried away, foundations and all. The Rio Grande railway bridge over that stream was lifted bodily and born on the flood down to destruction. 

Overview of Denver/Colorado Springs Flood

Although we find floods and disasters sad and sometimes overwhelming, they can and are used when telling the history and the fiction that comes from history. I myself have experienced flooding both where I live in Colorado and growing up in the mid-west and the Mighty Mississippi's floods. They are terrifying and awe-inspiring at the same time. I hope most never have to experience their power, but they were and are part of the lives of people. I still remember Louis L'Amour's story "Matagorda" and his use of the hurricane that hit that area as the 'character' that overarched the whole story.

The USGS had a publication from 1948 that talks about early floods that had been reported in this state. USGS publication

If you haven't picked up your copy of the latest collection "Hot Western Nights" from Prairie Rose Publications, don't delay.

Purchase from Amazon here

Doris Gardner-McCraw -

Author, Speaker, Historian-specializing in
Colorado and Women's History

Angela Raines - author: Where Love & History Meet

For a list of Angela Raines Books: Here 

Photo and Poem: Click Here 

Angela's Mountain Angels

Story Inspiration and Excerpt from Hot Western Nights - western romance anthology - by Kaye Spencer #prairierosepubs #westernromance

Songs often provide inspiration for my stories. Marty Robbins’ song Meet Me Tonight in Laredo gave me the basic idea for my book 'The Comanchero’s Bride', and Ghostriders in the Sky is at the heart of my book 'The Gunfighter’s Woman'.

Once again, a song provided the starting point for my novelette that is included in the new western romance anthology from Prairie Rose Publications—HOT WESTERN NIGHTS. My story is Give My Love to Rose.

 Johnny Cash fans will recognize that same title as one of his early hits. The song provided the [quite loose] plot fodder for my story. I changed things around and Rose became the main character. The man who came across the dying man is a deputy U. S. marshal.

Here is Johnny Cash’s singing 'Give My Love to Rose'.

EXCERPT

Gray sunrise at her back, milk bucket in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other, Rose Griffin gazed south beyond the river where the railroad tracks cut across the prairie. The tracks were too far away to see but, in her mind’s eye, she saw the abandoned water tower where Lon flagged down the train. She imagined him turning Molly out into the small fenced pasture with a natural spring and stowing his saddle and bridle under the lean-to.

Lon had allowed himself a week to take care of his business in Amarillo, including the travel there and back, which meant he should have returned by now. He was a man who allowed himself few celebrations in life. He wouldn’t miss being away from home at Christmastime unless he was dead. Truth be told, when they’d said goodbye, she’d known he wouldn’t make it home alive. Stoop-shouldered, eyes sunken, he’d wasted away these last many months and was in no shape to make the trip to his attorney. They all knew it, but there was no other way.

Lon’s plate was still at the head of the table. His mother, Bess, couldn’t bring herself to remove it. The sight of it represented the hope of his return, but too many days had passed to continue ignoring what had to be said. Rose didn’t relish the conversation they had to have, but Ma was a woman who found something good in everything and everyone. Her spirits seldom fell for long. She hadn’t said the words, but Ma knew as well as Rose they’d seen the last of Lon when he left home for Amarillo.

Bess Griffin was the mother Rose didn’t remember, and she loved Bess with all her heart, and those feelings were reciprocated. Since the day Lon had opened his door and invited her inside his house, Rose had whispered thanks for this blessing every night before she went to bed. Despite her upbringing, she wasn’t a religious woman, but she reasoned it couldn’t hurt to speak her gratitude aloud just in case there was someone out there listening.

Available on Amazon.com

Kindle | KindleUnlimited | Print

Until next time,

Kaye Spencer

Writing through history one romance upon a time

Follow Kaye here…

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