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Hiding in Montana by Lucinda Race

Hiding in Montana, Book 2, Cowboys of River Junction

By Lucinda Race

Can love flourish while danger lurks in the shadow?

For Polly Carson, working the land on a Montana ranch is a dream come true. No one knows she’s on the run, carrying a secret that could endanger the big eclectic family she’s found on the ranch. Not even the man who rescued her broken body from the bottom of a ravine recognizes her. He doesn’t know that it was him who brought her to River Junction in hope of finding a safe haven and a chance to start over.

Something about Polly draws Clint Goodman, foreman of Grace Star Ranch, like a bee to wildflowers. If only he could remember why she seems so familiar. She trips his trigger for sure, but he’s been burned before. He loves his job and his cowboy life, but women want picket fences and a man who doesn’t work weekends. But maybe a woman like Polly is worth taking a second chance.

Polly’s a strong woman with a deep inner strength. Clint, the strong silent type, loves and respects her fierce independence. But just as their slow burn romance is heating up, Polly’s past returns to threaten her future. As lies and secrets are revealed, no one on the ranch will be safe.

Excerpt

Polly Carson stuck her leather work gloves in the back of her faded Levis. She sat back on her heels, surveying the row of tomato plants she had just mulched. Rubbing the ache in her lower back reminded her she wasn’t twenty anymore. Looking at her surroundings, she wouldn’t change life on Grace Star Ranch for anything in the world. Working the land in Montana had been a dream come true, and it put her in close proximity to Clint Goodman, the only man who made her heart skitter in her chest with just a smile. Not that he even recognized her. No one could. But she knew he had a good heart. What person would happen along, find a woman so badly broken that he’d stay with her, and even visit her in the hospital? She remembered little about those first days, but she remembered his voice, the deep dimples, and sable-brown eyes, and the way he talked about his home, Grace Star Ranch, had sounded like heaven on earth.

She touched her face, picturing her reflection in the mirror. The plastic surgeon had done an amazing job of putting her back together. The only scars that remained were on the inside. She shook off the darkness that threatened to obscure the July sunshine and stood up. This morning she woke in a cold sweat, her heart racing from the same nightmare she’d had for the last three years. She was running and her feet gave way, sliding down a rocky embankment. Helpless. Ending in a heap at the bottom of a ravine. But it hadn’t been a dream. It had been what brought her to this point, even though she remembered nothing after she had breakfast until they found her. Until Clint found her. Even now, her heart pounded in her chest as it tightened with the familiar panic. Taking several deep cleansing breaths, she reminded herself nothing would get done dwelling on the past. She knew better than anyone life could change in an instant.

The sound of someone calling her name interrupted her thoughts. Annie, the owner of the ranch and her boss, was headed in her direction.

“Morning,” she called out. “How’s things going out here?” She popped her hands on her hips and took in the massive garden. “It’s amazing what you’ve done in just a year.” She bent over and tore off a lettuce leaf, inspecting it, and then popping it in her mouth. “Nothing like from garden to mouth.”

Polly liked Annie. Her openness and willingness to listen and implement new ideas was just one reason working here was the best job she’d ever had. “The critters would devour the lettuce if we hadn’t installed that fencing.”

“I’m glad Clint and the boys could get it done before everything grew.”

Polly turned away so Annie couldn’t see her cheeks get pink at the mere mention of his name. “Chicken wire did the trick, that’s for sure.”

“Tell me, what’s the scoop with these tomato plants? They’re already a foot tall and deep green, nothing like what I saw down at The Trading Post a few days ago.”

“I grew these in the greenhouse. We’ve got a grape variety and ones that will ripen in our short growing season. Quinn’s already thinking about how many quarts he can process for the winter.”

Annie shuddered. “We just got over that season. I’m not ready to start thinkin’ about snow.” Her soft twang only came out occasionally, but Polly liked it.

With a soft laugh, she said, “It’s part of growing food. We need to think about the harvest and preserving it. Besides, we have a pleasant summer coming up since our spring has been warm. It’s a good indicator we’re in for a stretch of sunny days ahead.”

“Do you think you’ll have enough greenhouse space to grow even more for next year? With the resort having a soft opening in the fall, I’m hopeful we will book the cabins solid next summer.”

Annie had part of the ranch under construction with six family-style cabins and an expansion to the horse stable. Her plan was to add a dude ranch resort as an offshoot of the cattle business. Daphne, her friend from Boston, had moved out to run it.

“Not to worry, I’m using this year’s harvest as a gauge of what we’ll need to expand for next year. Feeding the ranch hands and preserving what we can is a part of the overall plan. You’ll need to decide how meals will run for the resort, are guests eating with the hands, or is there a separate dining hall? If Jed’s going to oversee everything, then he has ideas about the menu. I guess what I’m saying is, it’s an open-ended discussion until we know if Quinn is the head chef or if you are having two separate kitchens.”

Annie tapped her chin with her index finger and turned her head in the direction of the dining hall. “I’ve been putting off this conversation long enough. I’ll run down and talk to Quinn this morning. I was hoping he’d come to me and ask for the head chef job, but maybe he’s waiting for me to offer it.” With a shake of her head, she grinned. “He’s strong and silent like a few of our men around here.”

Polly instantly thought of Clint. He was the strong, silent type, steady as her heartbeat, well, until he occupied space with her, and then her heart thumped wildly. She really needed to stop crushing on that man.

“And you have a few raucous ones down there, too. Clint had Zak Dawson up helping with the fence and all he did was crack jokes.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Clint or Zak?”

Her cheeks grew warm. “Zak’s the funny man of that duo.” But Clint had the occasional one-liner that cracked her up, too. Not that she was about to tell Annie that.

“Zak’s a good man and even better with the horses. He probably tires of not having people to talk with, so he makes up for it.” Annie gave her a sharp look. “Clint’s got a good sense of humor. He just keeps it on the down low until he really gets to know someone.”

She dipped her head and looked at Annie. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Hey, can you do me a favor before you head out?” Annie glanced back at the main house. “Mary’s a little tired today. Would you cut some lettuce and if there are radishes, harvest some for dinner tonight and drop them at the house? I have to run into town and I’d feel better knowing someone had laid eyes on her while I’m gone.”

“Is she alright?”

“If you ask her, yes, still running this place like my Pops were still alive. But she picked up a cold, and it’s settled in her chest, and we both know Mary, stubborn as a mule about resting. She’ll be down here when she gets ready to fix dinner, getting what she can and well…” Her voice trailed off.

Polly saw the tears well up and then get blinked away from Annie’s eyes. “Consider it done. Maybe we can have tea together and I can pick her brain about her success with the garden all these years.”

“I tried to tell her I’d”—she gave a sheepish grin and shrugged her shoulders—“well, Linc would cook tonight, but she insists on fixing supper.”

“My grandma was just like Mary, never wanting help. At least Mary’s relinquished most of the gardening to me. She even allowed me to work in her flower gardens.”

Annie placed a warm hand on Polly’s arm. “I really appreciate your patience with Mary. She’s the only family I have left.”

“We all love her, so stop worrying. I can pop in whenever for a quick glass of water.” She patted the small walkie-talkie on her hip. “And you can reach me anytime.”

Polly would do just about anything for Annie and her family. After all, if it wasn’t for the woman standing in front of her, Polly wouldn’t be living her dream or live in close proximity to the man who had saved her life. One of these days, she needed to fess up and tell him who she was and thank him.

“I got lucky when Jeremy introduced us at The Trading Post.”

Polly swallowed the lump in her throat; she knew exactly what Annie meant. It was a fresh start for both of them—Annie taking over the family’s ranch and her working at the ranch. They were both building a new life from the ground up.

“Hey, how often is a gardener given the chance to start an entire operation literally from just a patch of land and an idea?”

Annie shrugged. “Like every spring?”

“Nope, this land needed to be cultivated and coaxed back into life. We’ve added compost and fertilizer, turned in nutrients, and let the magic of nature work over the winter.” Much like her transformation as she worked the land, it restored her faith that the future was bright. She had left the withered version of herself on that hiking trail.

“You did the work.” Annie gave her a bright smile.

In more ways than just the plot of land in front of them. “Thanks, Annie. All I needed was the opportunity.”

Her smile grew. “Oh, look, there’s Clint and Linc.”

The two cowboys headed in their direction. Clint was taller and thinner than his boss, who was also Annie’s husband, but they both had dark hair and the muscles of a hard-working cowboy. That’s where the similarities ended. Linc’s smile was quick and easy, whereas Clint’s was slow and guarded. He was slowly getting comfortable around her, but it had puzzled Polly why.

“Ladies,” Linc said and pecked his wife’s lips. “I thought I’d find you out here, Annie.”

“Actually, I was talking with Polly about plans for next year, and then I’m on my way down to see Quinn.”

Clint gave Polly a half grin. “Gotta feel sorry for the cook. Once Annie says she’s gonna talk to someone, that means they’d best be prepared to make some decisions.”

Although her tongue felt like she’d trip over it if she spoke, she laughed and then said, “I think I’d been in that same position last year.”

He pushed his Stetson back on his head and gave her a rare, wide smile. “And look how that turned out. We’re now eating better than ever, thanks to your skills.”

She could feel the flush rise in her cheeks and she eked out, “That’s nice of you to say.”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” Clint’s deep drawl made her toes curl in her work boots.

Polly could feel Annie’s eyes watching them as they bantered. She chanced a quick look, and Annie’s eyes widened with laughter. But it left her questions unasked. Polly was sure that would be a topic of conversation when they talked later.

“Linc, why don’t we head down to the dining hall? I think Polly was going to ask Clint for some help with something.” Annie gave Polly a sly wink and slipped her arm through her husband’s.

“Clint, after you’re done up here, can you stop down at the horse barn and check on things there? I have some things to go over with Annie in the office.”

Polly noticed the glint in Linc’s eyes and if she were to hazard a guess, this was part of Annie and Linc’s not-so-subtle way of playing matchmaker.

“You got it, and then I’m gonna check on the new calves. Doc Howard will be making a quick trip out later too.”

“Good.” Linc took Annie’s hand and with a smile in Polly’s direction and a curt nod to Clint, he said, “Take all the time Polly needs to get whatever done.”

When they were out of earshot, Clint stuck his hands in his front pockets and rocked back in his boots. He was studying Polly carefully. “So, how can I help you?”

Buy Links (including Goodreads and BookBub)

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BJFCQJ77

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/hiding-in-montana-5

http://books.apple.com/us/book/id6443868765

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hiding-in-montana-lucinda-race/1142526802?ean=2940186597841

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1170479

https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Lucinda_Race_Hiding_in_Montana?id=OmaVEAAAQBAJ

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/63848490-hiding-in-montana

https://www.bookbub.com/books/hiding-in-montana-clean-western-romance-suspense-cowboys-of-river-junction-book-2-by-lucinda-race

Award-winning and best-selling author Lucinda Race is a lifelong fan of fiction. As a young girl, she spent hours reading mystery and romance novels and getting lost in the fun and hope they represent. While her friends dreamed of becoming doctors and engineers, her dreams were to become a writer—a novelist.

As life twisted and turned, she found herself writing nonfiction but longed to turn to her true passion. After developing the storyline for the McKenna Family Romance series, it was time to start living her dream. Her fingers practically fly over computer keys she weaves stories about with mystery and happily ever afters.

Lucinda lives with her two little dogs, a miniature long hair dachshund and a shitzu mix rescue, in the rolling hills of western Massachusetts. When she's not at her day job, she’s immersed in her fictional worlds. And if she’s not writing mystery, suspense and romance novels, she’s reading everything she can get her hands on.

Social Media Links

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Bookbub Lucinda Race https://www.bookbub.com/profile/lucinda-race

Amazon Author Page https://www.amazon.com/Lucinda-Race/e/B00Q0MMNUM

Lucinda’s Heart Racers Reader Group https://www.facebook.com/groups/118597305361578

https://lucindarace.com

Linked In

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Rabbit, Rabbit by Pru Warren

I have a peculiar New Year’s Eve tradition that has earned me a very odd reputation in my neighborhood…

My mother taught her daughters: On the first day of the month, if the very first word out of your mouth is “rabbit,” then you will have good luck all month long.

(I’ve done some unofficial research among Facebook friends; people either look blank at the “rabbit” tradition or nod wisely. You either know it or you don’t. Some people have strange versions, like you have to say “WHITE rabbit,” which of course is ridiculous, as everyone knows.)

On the first of the month, Mom would wake up her three girls by shouting “It’s August first—say rabbit!” and then we’d scream “Rabbit!” from our beds with crap-of-dawn enthusiasm. Yay!

I’m not a morning person by nature, and over the years I’ve missed MANY a good-luck month because generally, the first thing I say when (for example) March turns into April is “God-damned alarm clock, shut UP.” It’s very hard to follow that up with an innocent and happy “Rabbit!” and believe that you’ve fooled fate.

Now, nighttime? Yeah—I’m smart at night. At some point in my teens, I decided that since March turned into April at MIDNIGHT (not at the moment I returned to consciousness the next morning), I could ensure my good luck by chanting “Rabbit” in the middle of the night.

Success! I’m the most fortunate person on the planet, so clearly my plan was working.

Eventually I married the highly-charismatic Jonathan and between us we popped out the always-busy Rusty and as my family grew, it got harder to secure the midnight hour to make sure I was saying “Rabbit” at the right time. (More often I was saying “Absolutely not; go back to bed, I’m not kidding.” Almost always to the son, but occasionally to the husband. Like you do.)

So I worked out a new short-cut. We were never big drinkers and not mad partiers, so our New Year’s Eve celebrations were almost always spent happily ensconced at home, marveling that THAT many people would want to stand in Times Square in the deepest wintertime freeze in order to watch an illuminated ball slowly descend a tower. Yay?

Wrapped cozily in blankets on our bed, I would watch the ball fall, kiss my husband silently, and then quietly chant “Rabbit” twelve times—one for each month of the coming year. There—all taken care of!

The kid got bigger over the years, as kids are wont to do, and my general calm was stretched by the realization that Bad Things might happen to him (or to Jonathan). I decided that it would not go amiss if I chanted a few “Rabbits” for each of them. (Jonathan refused to say his own “Rabbits.” Instead he just laughed at me, but who can blame him? I’ll admit that it is a VERY odd tradition, made weirder by my New Year’s Eve compulsion.)

So I had to do a dozen “Rabbits” for me. Then I’d point at Jonathan so he (and fate) would know I was ensuring HIS luck for the coming year and say twelve more “Rabbits” for him. Swivel and point at the kid, allowed to stay up until midnight for the occasion (as opposed to every other night when he’d stay up against express and stern parental demands, which generally fell on indifferent ears) and say a dozen “Rabbits” for him. By this time, both Jonathan and young Rusty were giggling with delight at my foolishness.

It was Rusty who found the glorious Grain family who live down the block. Nancy Grain is one of Those People; she knows everyone and loves everyone she meets. You could stop a stranger on the sidewalk anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of my house and ask “Do you know Nancy?” and they’d say “Oh God, I LOVE her!” Nancy is awesome, her husband Ed is the most acerbic wit in the world, and they have four adorable children—one of whom was in Rusty’s first grade. Nancy absorbed us into her vast extended family and we were so happy to be there. (Still are!)

Nancy and Ed have a neighborhood New Year’s Eve party. Everyone comes. Everyone. WE needed to come, too. The kids all get to stay up late and play in their kid-magnet basement. Come. You’ll have a wonderful time.

Bathed in the golden radiance of Nancy’s hospitable soul, we finally broke free of our stay-at-home rut and off we went, to meet neighbors and bask in the milk of human kindness.

But as the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight, I realized that I had a little problem. Um…what was I going to do about the “Rabbit” issue?

Was I going to bow to temporary social pressure? NOT ensure the luck of all those I loved by chanting “Rabbit” over and over again? Or would I hold to my values? (As if insanely repeating the word “Rabbit” could be considered a value. Yes, I always stand when the “Star Spangled Banner” is played, and I say “Rabbit” uselessly and foolishly first thing in the New Year. That’s a value, right?)

We got closer and closer to midnight. Jonathan was in the kitchen in joyous conversation with people he really enjoyed talking to. Rusty was downstairs in the basement shouting with joy along with all the neighborhood kids. I was in the corner of the living room, and the people around me were all agreeably tipsy. When midnight struck, no one would pay attention to ME. I could risk a few repetitions without being branded a total weirdo. Right?

The countdown came. Ten…nine…eight… the voices got louder and louder with excitement. (Is this any more rational or intelligent than saying “Rabbit?” Really—what sense does it make??) No one was listening. The final countdown—three…two…one! Cheers and screams and the inebriated kissing of cute neighbors because of course you can kiss people at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

Eyebrows up, I closed my eyes and started whispering. “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit…” This requires me to count to twelve on one hand while pointing at the “Rabbit” recipient with the other. So—me, first. (When the air bags deploy on the plane, put YOUR mask on before helping others; a good life philosophy.)

A little pool of silence formed around me. I peeked from one eye and saw that a woman was looking at me, her brow drawn in confusion. I slammed my eye shut and kept going; you don’t want to lose count in the middle of a “Rabbit” request, and you certainly can’t stop to explain until the last “Rabbit” is said; these have to be the FIRST things you say.

My dozen done, I turned so I could point to Jonathan in the kitchen. “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit…” The little pocket of silence had expanded, and in that vacuum, I nervously raised my volume. “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit…” A quick peek proved that all the people nearest to me were now watching.

Jonathan done, I turned to point to where I assumed Rusty was in the basement. I took a breath and spoke out loud, determined to see this through. “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit…” Then one more dozen for the dog, asleep at home over THERE.

The drunken revelry had died away with alarming quickness. Silence and confusion spread across the room and into the kitchen where I could hear Jonathan erupt into howls of laughter. Time to ensure the safety of my parents, both still alive at the time. Twelve “Rabbits” while pointing to where I assumed they were. And then for my older sister and her family, so I turned to the east and thrust out a long arm to point at her house, some ten miles away. “Rabbit,” I said loudly. “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.”

Next, my younger sister and her family, who live about ninety miles to the northwest. By this time, the only sound in the room was me shouting at full volume and Jonathan suffering a fit of hysterics in the kitchen. “Rabbit!” I yelled. “Rabbit! Rabbit!” (The “Rabbit” call is like a shotgun; the farther it has to go, the broader its range, so you can get an entire family with one dozen if they’re far enough away.) (My compulsion; my rules.)

Finally, as is my custom, I held my pointing hand over my head like the Pope dispensing a blessing, just in case I’d forgotten anyone. “Rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit-rabbit!”

The entire neighborhood, slightly buzzed, watched me as I closed my eyes and whirled around in the corner, chanting the word “Rabbit” a total of ninety-six times at increasing volume.

I finished and opened my eyes. Every single one of them regarded me with astonishment, except for Jonathan who was having a hard time inhaling for laughing so hard.

What can you do? I shrugged and said, “Happy New Year.” Then I dragged Jonathan out of the kitchen, retrieved our son, and went home.

That was thirteen years ago. I don’t go out on New Year’s Eve anymore, and there are still people in the neighborhood who look at me funny. BUT THEY’RE ALL ENJOYING TREMENDOUS GOOD LUCK, so who’s laughing now?!

And they’ll have that next year, too (as will you) because I’ll be chanting “Rabbit” at midnight tonight, you can be sure. You’re welcome…and Happy New Year!

~*~

Pru Warren writes romcoms and gladly welcomes the new year in the silence of her own home! Her latest trilogy, The Surprise Heiress series, was published on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited on Dec. 25. Start with Breath of Fresh Heiress.

Breath of Fresh Heiress https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BBQ2LMZR?notRedirectToSDP=1&
Full of Hot Heiress https://www.amazon.com/Full-Hot-Heiress-Romantic-Surprise-ebook/dp/B0BBSZK3LR/
Vanished Into Thin Heiress https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BBTCFKZQ?notRedirectToSDP=1&

Regifting by Liz Flaherty

My mom always had a few pairs of new socks tucked back somewhere for unexpected guests at Christmas. I was embarrassed by that, as I thought we were the only family in the world who gave socks and underwear for Christmas. (We can add that to the plethora of things I've been wrong about.)

Many years later, I keep a bagful of bottles of foaming

hand soap and bars of handmade soap in different scents--enough to get me through a year of unexpected guests and add-on gifts because...well, doesn't everyone like soap? I wonder if my kids are embarrassed. I don't think I'll ask. I'll  just go on giving bottles and bars of soap. If the receivers don't care for them, they can give them to someone else. 

I'm not sure when regifting became a "thing." It's even in the dictionary. When I was younger, it was something you looked over your shoulder when you did, hoping against hope that you weren't giving something back to the person who gave it to you. You made sure the tags were off and that the gift was still in its original container. 

This year, because I was having so much fun making them, nearly everyone on my present list--and a few who weren't--got one or two potholders for Christmas. I gave them away with signed books, as add-ons instead of (or in addition to, sometimes) bottles of foaming soap. I was embarrassed again, because they're pretty obviously crafted by a person who's in no way a crafter. 

But people have been kind about receiving their soap and potholders. I hope they've come in handy, even if only as regifts for unexpected guests. 

What's important about regifting is that it is still giving. The person you're giving it to is important to you or you wouldn't bother, would you? If you still consider the gift yours after you've given it away and harbor resentment because it wasn't used the way you hoped, then you didn't really want it to be a gift anyway, did you?

Today, I'm your regift. (And if someone just said, What, again?...well, yeah, I don't blame you.) The person who was supposed to be on the Window today couldn't make it--it's the busiest time of year and she ran out of time, something we can all identify with--so I'm today's guest on the Window. 

Thanks for reading, for visiting through this Holiday Project of a post every day. And thanks to the guests who've come and shared pieces of their lives and memories and traditions with us. The Project isn't done yet, but we're winding down. As we go into the New Year, I wish you all so much happy. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody. 

Oh! I'm a guest today, so I get to do my little promo shot here at the end, too! No, don't go away--maybe you haven't read it.

A while back, I got the rights back to A Soft Place to Fall, one of my favorite stories. It's about Marriage Resurrected, one of my favorite plots; about quilting, one of my favorite things; and set in rural Kentucky, one of my favorite places. It's inspirational romance, although I write inspirational like my friend Pamela Thibodeaux, with a bit of an edge. If you haven't read it, I hope you try it now. I love its new cover, created by Nancy Fraser. It's available in both ebook and paperback. Although it can be gotten from bookstores, I know it's not there yet, so I'm giving you the Amazon and D2D links. 

Early McGrath doesn't want freedom from her thirty-year marriage to Nash, but when it's forced upon her, she does the only thing she knows to do - she goes home to the Ridge to reinvent herself.
Only what is someone who's spent her life taking care of other people supposed to do when no one needs her anymore? Even as the threads of her life unravel, she finds new ones - reconnecting with the church of her childhood, building the quilt shop that has been a long-time dream, and forging a new friendship with her former husband.
The definition of freedom changes when it's combined with faith, and through it all perhaps Early and Nash can find a Soft Place to Fall.

The First Christmas Memory by Caroline Clemmons

What’s the first Christmas you remember? Mine is when I was three. We lived in Southern California, where—for some reason—the Christmas Eve family gathering was held at our house instead of at the home of my older half-sister, Elsie Reed. As soon as it was dark, my brother-in-law, Buster Reed (one of my all-time favorite relatives), said he had to go to the airport to pick up Santa, who had agreed to come early as a favor to Buster. I was so impressed that Buster knew Santa so well.

Buster returned with Santa, who came in the door laden with gifts and pushing a baby buggy for me. In the buggy was a life-size baby doll. Can you imagine how excited I was? Of course Santa knew my name and those of the other children in the room. We have an odd range of a blended family, so my niece Linda is only three years younger than me, and was six months at the time. I remember her sitting on the floor and staring at Santa with wide eyes. I’m certain mine were just as wide.

After Santa had handed out gifts to all the children present, he told Buster he’d have to get on his way or he’d be late getting back to the North Pole, where his elves were loading his sleigh. Years later, when other kids told me there was no Santa, I argued that there was because I’d seen him and my brother-in-law knew him personally.

Years later, I learned the real details. My sewing whiz half-sister, Clarice Camille (Linda’s mom), had created a realistic costume that was used many years. That year, Buster’s older brother, Roy, played Santa. After Roy retired from the job, my half-brother, Herschel Johnson, took the job. This tradition continued many years. I’m happy to say, my eldest daughter got to accept a doll from Santa when she was a year old.

I love holiday traditions. Our family numbers have dwindled now, but we still hold on to some traditions.

What are some beloved traditions in your family?

Thank you for having me here at Window Over The Sink.

Hello, I’m Caroline Clemmons. My Hero and I live in North Central Texas cowboy country where we ride herd on two rescued indoor cats: elderly and extremely clever Sebastian and lovely and shy Jasmine. Our rescued dog is an energetic young labradoodle named Baxter, that would play fetch all day if he could find a sucker someone to toss one of his toys. I write primarily romance but also an occasional cozy mystery. Most of my over 80 titles are from sweet to sensual historical westerns, but I also write contemporary and time travels. My cozy mysteries are contemporary. Most of my romances have mystery and/or adventure in them. I’m fortunate enough to write full-time in a tiny office my family refers to as my cave. Hero and I have two grown daughters who are, of course, perfect. When I’m not writing, I enjoy spending time with my family, reading my friends’ and others’ books, dining out, browsing antique malls, shopping online, dabbling with oil paints, researching genealogy, and taking the occasional nap.

You can find me at these links:

Website https://www.carolineclemmons.com

Newsletter https://carolineclemmons.us5.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=0a24664c906875718d975ad7b&id=7c2e488a51 Subscribe for a free historical novella about a humorous, disastrous wedding, HAPPY IS THE BRIDE.

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/CarolineClemmonsRomances

~*~

About Jesse and the Mail Order Bride 

Sheriff Jesse Cameron is dedicated to uphold the law of his adopted country. After leaving Scotland, he came to Texas, and learned he liked the place and the people—at least, most of them. He keeps Harrigan County free of troublemakers with his “strict but fair” policy. Now that he has a steady job and has bought a house, he figures it’s time to find a wife and start a family. He and his best friend write to the same matchmaker, hoping their brides will be sisters or friends. Jesse hopes his wife will provide a peaceful home and welcome him each evening with a good meal and a warm smile.

Growing up in an orphanage left Rosalin Arnold too naïve to avoid being trapped in the clutches of an evil man who has her picking pockets. Those who’ve tried to escape him always fail, and are severely punished—or killed. Rosalin has been plotting to get away, and seizes her chance to escape. She takes her best friend with her, and also a boy of eight. All she and her friends want is a home where they can live honestly without constant fear. She prays she has successfully evaded the man who has tentacles everywhere.

What will happen when her lawman husband learns the truth about her criminal past? Have she and her friends escaped successfully?

You can learn the answers by reading the JESSE AND THE MAIL ORDER BRIDE at Amazon in e-book, print, and Free at Kindle Unlimited.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BD64JC1D?ref_=pe_3052080_276849420