IDA One...IDA Two...

I don't know why I'm blogging about this since I think outside of the man jogging up our street last night, I've told everyone I know online and in our neighborhood. If only I'd been a little closer to the street, when he ran by, his sneakers pounding a steady stacatto beat on the pavement, I could have tackled him or tripped him at the very least. Instead, I waved and yelled, "Oh, Mr. Hunkster!!! Yooo hooo!!!" His eyes opened wide for a beat and then he took off faster, tossing a frightened look over his shoulder.

Must have been my expression that spurned him on. Or maybe my outfit. I mean, I was dressed for relaxation. Still, I wanted to tell him my good news. Just like I want to tell you. My THOSE VIOLET EYES took first place in the Contemporary Short Category of the IDA's (International Digital Awards). But wait! There's more! My TUMBLEWEED LETTERS took first place in IDA's Historical Short Category. I won two first place spots.

Is that wild, or what?

THOSE VIOLET EYES also won first place in the NERFA (National Excellence in Romance Fiction) a few weeks ago.

    

Evie rolled her eyes and stepped behind him, tapping him on the back. The metal strainer clattered in the sink and a blur of motion barely registered before steely hands gripped her forearms. Oh my God! In a flurry of movement, he snatched her off the floor and backed her against the stainless steel counter. Cold wet hands viced her arms. Her eyes snapped wide and the air whooshed from her lungs when his body slammed into hers.

Win’s eyes were narrowed, his breathing rapid through a clenched jaw and a vein bulged in his forehead. “Don’t do that.”

The man was every inch the warrior, every hard tensed inch. He held her mid-air, so close they were nearly eyeball to eyeball. As his gaze traveled over her face and awareness evidently crept in as to the sex of his attacker, several inches of his frame hardened even more.

Evie swallowed. Oh, good Lord.

He glared and his nostrils flared.

“I…I’m sorry, Win. I called your name, but…but you didn’t answer. I was only trying to get your attention.” Her lips twitched at the humor in the situation—hadn’t Keira told her the man lost part of his hearing? Evidently she’d startled him. Poor soul. She felt a portion of herself return. A portion she’d hidden for so long; that light-hearted part of her soul that teased and cajoled. “Honest, I wasn’t trying to attack you.” She placed an open palm on his defined pecs and patted. “You’re safe with me, big guy.” Just to rattle him some more, she winked.

Win’s hazel eyes flashed for a second, then he slowly leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You’re not safe with me.”

 

BUY LINKS: http://www.amazon.com/Those-Violet-Honky-Hearts-ebook/dp/B008EX95DS/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1372560303&sr=1-1&keywords=those+violet+eyes

 

 

 

“So you came to town to find me?” How much sense did that make? She knew women were scarce. Mary Jamison, a mail order bride, was married within the hour after arriving in Deadwood. Her ecstatic groom certainly didn’t mind her snaggle-tooth and crossed eyes. Widow Stoltz was married the day after her husband’s funeral and birthed a wee babe a week later.

Appearances and family heritage didn’t matter in the wilderness. Hadn’t she fought off her share of suitors? Then why? Why had she hitched herself to this mountain of a man? She had no clue.

Cam turned the team of horses to the right and encouraged them to climb the hill. Leather creaked and fittings jingled in the evening quiet. The smell of pines grew stronger. An owl hooted and something rustled off to the left. She wasn’t used to large open spaces without the lighting of civilization; unease crept up her spine. It was so dark out here.

Finally, her husband answered, “Eli needed warmer clothes for winter, and we needed enough food to stock the pantry for winter.”

“So, you just added wife to your shopping list?” She’d married an odd man. Handsome, but odd. “How much further till we get ho…”—she couldn’t say it—“to your place?”

“You’re my wife now, Sophie Catherine. My home is your home. My son is your son.”

“Most people simply call me Sophie.”

“A husband should have a name for his wife that no one else uses, don’t you think?”

Foolish her, she’d always hoped a husband would call her a name of endearment, like darling or sweetheart. Simple-mined notions to be sure. What man would find her attractive? Hadn’t her Tommy called her plain?

Now was the time, she supposed. “You…ah…you never mentioned sleeping arrangements.”

His voice carried deep and quiet in the night. “I run a ranch, not a hotel. As my wife, you’ll be sleeping with me.”

Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath came in shallow bursts. “Will…will you expect…”

“Yes.”

Merciful heavens. She twisted the ends of her shawl between her fingers. “Surely you’ll give me time to get to know you. I…I only met you today.”

 

BUY LINK: http://www.amazon.com/Tumbleweed-Letters-Love-ebook/dp/B009W6XH3A/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1372560383&sr=1-1&keywords=TUMBLEWeed+letters

 

Tumbleweed Letters by Vonnie Davis

When rancher and single father Cam McBride finds a letter tucked in a strip of cloth tied to a tumbleweed, he is captivated by the mysterious author. Finding a second tumbleweed letter further pulls him under the lonely writer's spell. He needs a mother for his little boy and a wife to warm his bed. Could this mysterious woman fill his needs?

Sophie Flannigan is alone, scared, and on the run from a rogue Pinkerton agent. She spends her days as a scrub lady at Madame Dora's brothel and her nights writing notes to the four winds. Her life holds little hope until a small boy lays claim to her and his handsome father proposes an advantageous arrangement.

Can these three benefit from a marriage of convenience, or will a determined Pinkerton agent destroy their fragile, newly formed bond?

Fingers touched her arm. “My name is Cam McBride, ma’am. I’ll gladly buy you a new dress or pay for a bolt of calico. Blue like what you're wearing now.” His deep voice raised gooseflesh on her arms.

She could not, would not look at him. He was so tall and broad shouldered, he was downright intimidating.  “That really won’t be necessary, Mr. McBride. Good day.”

“Will you at least accept my apology?”

Sophie nodded and made a beeline for the door. For some reason, she wanted to get away from this man.

“Ma’am?” Footsteps echoed behind her. “Your name?” His hand wrapped around her wrist, feather light, yet firm.

Her stomach fluttered and her mouth went dry.

The child leaned forward in his father’s arms and grabbed her collar. “Mine.”

Saints preserve me, this child will tear apart my clothes yet. “Sophie…Sophie Flannigan.”

“Won’t you look at me when you talk?”

She shook her head and tried to move away.

“Where do you live?” His grasp on her tightened.

Goodness, but his voice was spellbinding. Something about it made her body react in strange ways that disturbed her. “I live where I work. Madam Dora’s brothel.”

His hand fell away, and she hurried out.

Behind her, a child wailed, “Mine. Mine, Daddy…mine.”

Jethro Rhinehardt leaned against the pillar when she stepped out onto the porch. Although she couldn’t see the man’s face, she recognized his build and mud-splattered canvas duster. If she hurried, she might sneak past without his noticing her. She’d have made it, too, if a nail poking out of the porch hadn’t snagged the twine on the bottom of one of her shoes and ripped it, causing her to stumble.

“Well, well, little Miss Scrub Lady.” He turned and side-stepped, blocking her path. For a heavy man, he slithered quickly, just like the snake he was.

Sophie tried going around him, and he stepped to the left, stopping her again. “Can’t you say good morning? Or are you too high and mighty?” He spit tobacco juice on the porch, and it splattered against her skirt.

“Good morning, Jethro. Now please let me by. I have errands to run for Dora. I can’t afford to lose my job.” She stepped to her right this time.

Once more he slid in front of her. To her surprise, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her so they were eyeball to eyeball. Tobacco juice stained his scruffy beard that reeked of something foul. Her stomach lurched and she fought to swallow the bile. She still clutched the folds of material over her petticoat, determined this man would not see her undergarments.

“How’s about a kiss for ol’ Jethro? Or do I have to pay first?”

Her slap cracked in the morning air. “I’ll not be spoken to like that.”

Jethro’s eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. First the bear of a man shook her and then he had the audacity to slide his paw over her rump.

In response, she fought like a barn cat—hissing, kicking and scratching. She scratched his eye and tore a pocket off his shirt. “Get your filthy hands off me, you heathen.”

Men—miscreants, really—circled them. A few called out obscene suggestions for Jethro. There were hoots and hollers. A few men laughed and pounded Jethro on the back.

She fisted her hand and punched him in the nose. Blood splattered onto her bodice.

“How about you unhand the lady and put her down before she kills you?”

Jethro shook her again.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said put the lady down.”

Sophie’s head whipped around to locate the man who’d spoken in her defense. Cam’s face was a dark mask of fury. He slowly set his son on the porch and laid his purchases at the child’s feet, his gaze never once leaving Jethro’s face. When he straightened and stepped toward the dirty man, her captor set her down.

 

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLetters

AMAZON -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLettersDavis

 

YOUR LUCKY SIX -- by Vonnie Davis

I love y'all. Each of you have impacted my life in one of several lovely ways--readers, blog visitors, commenters and "atta-girl" supporters. Without you, I'm writing for a zero readership. So, here I am, wondering what I can give you for Christmas. Sadly I can't afford to gift you all with something, but I can offer an eBook present to a few of my cherished commenters. 
 
I'm offering eBook gifts to 6 lucky commenters.
 

Tell me in your comment what sub-genre romance you prefer reading--contemporary, paranormal, American historical, Regency, European historical, romantic suspense, fantasy, or erotic--AND which one of my books/novellas you'd like to have along with your email address so I can reach you. Easy, peasy.

 

STORM'S INTERLUDE is a contemporary cowboy romance that won the HOLT Medallion Award of Merit in two categories: Best Book by a Virginia author and Best Mainstream/Single Title. It was also nominated as Book of the Year for 2011 at Long and Short Reviews. Here's the back cover blurb: Nurse Rachel Dennison comes to Texas determined to prepare her new patient for a second round of chemo. What she isn’t counting on is her patient’s twin brother, Storm Masterson. Despite her initial attraction, Storm has two things Rachel can’t abide: a domineering personality and a fiancée. Half Native American, with the ability to have "vision dreams," Storm dreams about Rachel for three nights before her arrival. Both are unprepared for the firestorm of emotions their first encounter ignites. Ultimately, it is Rachel’s past—an abusive, maniacal ex-boyfriend—that threatens to keep them apart…and Storm’s dreams that bring them together again.

My novella, THOSE VIOLET EYES, recently recieved a 5-Star, Top Pick review from Romantic Reviews. If you love a wounded war hero, you'll enjoy this stroy. The blurb for this contemporary cowboy story is: Evie Caldwell hoards every penny for her escape from the servitude life created by a worthless brother and the endless work on a ranch that will never be hers. The last thing she wants is a muscled man with a macho Marine attitude complicating her life. But, oh, how that man can make her insides do the twitchy thing.

Wounded vet, Win Fairchild, returns to Texas to heal, find a piece of his soul and open a ranch for amputee children. Finding someone to love was not on his agenda. Nor was dealing with a wildcat, until she captures his heart with those violet eyes.

But now that he knows what he wants, can Win convince Evie to stay in Texas—and his bed?

For those of you, who love a Western historical, you might enjoy TUMBLEWEED LETTERS set in Deadwood, Dakota Territory in 1879. This is what I call a short story--a shade under 25,000 words per the publisher's guidelines for the Love Letters Series. When rancher and single father Cam McBride finds a letter tucked in a strip of cloth tied to a tumbleweed, he is captivated by the mysterious author. Finding a second tumbleweed letter further pulls him under the lonely writer's spell. He needs a mother for his little boy and a wife to warm his bed. Could this mysterious woman fill his needs?
 
Sophie Flannigan is alone, scared, and on the run from a rogue Pinkerton agent. She spends her days as a scrub lady at Madame Dora's brothel and her nights writing notes to the four winds. Her life holds little hope until a small boy lays claim to her and his handsome father proposes an advantageous arrangement.

Can these three benefit from a marriage of convenience, or will a determined Pinkerton agent destroy their fragile, newly formed bond?

MONA LISA'S ROOM, book one of my Red Hand Conspiracy Series, is a full-length novel packed with danger, suspense, romance and humor. If you enjoy reading about an older heroine and younger hero, you'll smile over this read. This romantic suspense is set in Paris. I'll have you running the streets of the Left Bank in stilletos while a band of terrorists pursue you...er...Alyson, my heroine.

I tried writing something more fanciful this year with a short story kicking off Still Moments' Matchmaker Series. We were given descriptions of Freya, the matchmaker, and her coffee shop. A magical coffee shop since it appears and disappears only to show up in another town where Freya can work her magic on another couple. A TASTE OF CHOCOLATE is a personal favorite of mine, and I can't explain why. I just love Declan. What more can I say. This is my shortest of stories at 11,000 words, but again series often have word counts to abide by. Because I love it so much, I'm giving away 2 copies.

So, here's what you need to do. Leave the following 3 items in your comment:

• Tell me what kind of romance you enjoy reading.
• Choose one of my titles to win
• Leave your email address so I can reach you

GOOD LUCK!

I'LL DRAW THE WINNERS AT TEN O'CLOCK ON CHRISTMAS EVE!

What is a Tactile Child? by Vonnie Davis

In my novella, Tumbleweed Letters, two-year-old Eli McBride loves to touch fabric. He's fascinated by the feel and textures of fabrics, leaves and rocks. He learns by touching his world. Experts today would refer to him as a tactile child.

Approximately five percent of all students are tactile or kinesthetic learners, according to Dr. Katharine Hansen, Ph.D.. These students learn with their bodies in motion. Most often, they are male.

Tactile learners are easily distracted and can become frustrated with auditory presentations. When other children get up to sharpen a pencil, someone or something is outside the window, or any number of other distracting situations occur, the child looses focus

These children are often labeled as disruptive, inattentive, unmotivated, or problematic by a teacher who either doesn't understand the learning style needs or prefers to ignore the small percentage of students in the class who are tactile learners.

The label may follow him throughout his life and create problems in class, work and life in general. The student may come to believe he can't learn and never reach his learning potential.

Is this sad, or what?

The tactile learner may be labeled ADD or ADHD when he is not. The parents may receive pressure to put him on medication in order to make him less likely to be distracted, but the medications prescribed to ADD or ADHD learners may create problems due to side effects rather than solve the problem.

My son received a letter from my grandson's teacher a few years ago. She claimed Ryan was disruptive and difficult to keep on task. She wanted him tested for ADD. Mike called his brother, who is a teacher, to ask his advice. "How can Ryan have ADD and be in the top one-percent of math students nationally? If he has ADD, could he stay focused long enough to complete a math problem?"

Steve encouraged him to refuse the teacher's request. "Ryan is not ADD. He's an intelligent child who needs a teacher smart enough to engage him in other learning styles. Fight the labeling. It will follow him throughout school." Thankfully Mike did.

Today Ryan is a scholar athlete, taking honors and advanced placement classes in all subjects. He called me last night to tell me he got all A's for this marking period, even though he's taking 3 maths this semester, something he had to get special permission to do. "Government is my worst class, Grandma. I only got a ninety-two percent in it. Government is so boring to me."

Tactile learners prefer to learn and explore with their hands. They enjoy and learn well with math manipulatives, learning stations, art projects and other experiential tools that are commonly used in pre-K through Grade 3. Once the shift is made to the strongly visual presentation mode common in Grades 4 to 8, and then to a strong auditory shift in high school and college, this learner can fall behind. The best learning environments are those that cater to all three learning styles at all times.

 

Excerpt from TUMBLEWEED LETTERS:

Eli slid from Cam’s lap to peer into the woman’s shopping basket. He fingered her piece of yellow flannel. He lost interest quickly when something else seized his attention. “Mine! Mine!” Suddenly he ran down the aisle, his arms outstretched to grab the skirt of a startled woman.

Cam hurried after his son. “Eli, stop.”

A determined Eli tugged one way, and the red-haired woman tugged the other. “Mine,” he screeched.

“Let go of me.” Material ripped. A feminine gasp filled the quiet of the store.

“Ma’am, I’m plum sorry. I don’t know what got into him.” He stooped to pry Eli’s fingers from her calico skirt, the blue print was familiar. The hem was partially frayed. It couldn’t be. Slowly his gaze traveled up the gathers of the skirt to a narrow waist and gaping material where his son had torn it from the waistband.

Or rather, was tearing it for Eli now lay on the floor, his back arched, one booted foot and a bare one firmly planted on the wood plank floor and his chubby face a reddened mask of determination. “Mine,” he growled.

Cam tried to pry his son’s fingers from this poor woman’s skirt. Eli held the material in his grasp, giving Cam a nice view of her ankles. Twine tied the thin soles of her shoes to the worn leather uppers.

“Would you be looking up my skirt, then? Is this the behavior you’ve taught your son? Tear the clothes off the ladies so you can get a free gander at the merchandise?”

By her brogue and red hair, she was Irish.

“Humph.” Mrs. Dunlap exclaimed, her grey eyebrows arched. “Merchandise would be correct. If I were you, Mr. McBride, I’d keep my innocent son away from the likes of her.”

TUMBLEWEEDS ARE ROLLING by Vonnie Davis

RELEASING TODAY!

A ROMANCE INVOLVING THREE PEOPLE -- A WOMAN ON THE RUN, A LONELY MAN AND A DETERMINED CHILD -- SET IN DEADWOOD, DAKOTA TERRITORY IN 1879.

 

A FREE eCOPY TO ONE LUCKY COMMENTER

CHOSEN AT MIDNIGHT ON NOVEMBER 2nd.

 

When rancher and single father Cam McBride finds a letter tucked in a strip of cloth tied to a tumbleweed, he is captivated by the mysterious author. Finding a second tumbleweed letter further pulls him under the lonely writer's spell. He needs a mother for his little boy and a wife to warm his bed. Could this mysterious woman fill his needs?

Sophie Flannigan is alone, scared, and on the run from a rogue Pinkerton agent. She spends her days as a scrub lady at Madame Dora's brothel and her nights writing notes to the four winds. Her life holds little hope until a small boy lays claim to her and his handsome father proposes an advantageous arrangement.

Can these three benefit from a marriage of convenience, or will a determined Pinkerton agent destroy their fragile, newly formed bond?

 

“So you came to town to find me?” How much sense did that make? She knew women were scarce. Mary Jamison, a mail order bride, was married within the hour after arriving in Deadwood. Her ecstatic groom certainly didn’t mind her snaggle-tooth and crossed eyes. Widow Stoltz was married the day after her husband’s funeral and birthed a wee babe a week later.

Appearances and family heritage didn’t matter in the wilderness. Hadn’t she fought off her share of suitors? Then why? Why had she hitched herself to this mountain of a man? She had no clue.

Cam turned the team of horses to the right and encouraged them to climb the hill. Leather creaked and fittings jingled in the evening quiet. The smell of pines grew stronger. An owl hooted and something rustled off to the left. She wasn’t used to large open spaces without the lighting of civilization; unease crept up her spine. It was so dark out here.

Finally, her husband answered, “Eli needed warmer clothes for winter, and we needed enough food to stock the pantry for winter.”

“So, you just added wife to your shopping list?” She’d married an odd man. Handsome, but odd. “How much further till we get ho…”—she couldn’t say it—“to your place?”

“You’re my wife now, Sophie Catherine. My home is your home. My son is your son.”

“Most people simply call me Sophie.”

“A husband should have a name for his wife that no one else uses, don’t you think?”

Foolish her, she’d always hoped a husband would call her a name of endearment, like darling or sweetheart. Simple-mined notions to be sure. What man would find her attractive? Hadn’t her Tommy called her plain?

Now was the time, she supposed. “You…ah…you never mentioned sleeping arrangements.”

His voice carried deep and quiet in the night. “I run a ranch, not a hotel. As my wife, you’ll be sleeping with me.”

Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath came in shallow bursts. “Will…will you expect…”

“Yes.”

Merciful heavens. She twisted the ends of her shawl between her fingers. “Surely you’ll give me time to get to know you. I…I only met you today.”

 

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLetters

AMAZON -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLettersDavis

 

TUMBLEWEED LETTERS in 25 days -- Vonnie Davis

 

News of an arranged marriage

Dear John letters

Unexpected inheritance

Mail order bride

Death of a loved one

We regret to inform you...

 

Sometimes, a letter changes everything.

 

In the historical Love Letters series, a character's life is forever changed by the receipt of a letter. Let your imagination run wild as you consider what life-altering news would be in your hero or heroine's envelope and how it would lead to the love of a lifetime.

 

Stories must be historically accurate and should range between 20,000-25,000 words in lengtht. The letter must occur within the first three pages of the story.

This was the series description I found on The Wild Rose Press website. It made me wonder. After all, I'd read a couple of the Love Letters stories and loved them. Could I write something to contribute to the series? I had a visual of a letter written in the margins of a torn piece of newspaper, wrapped in a strip of calico and tied to a tumbleweed. My research began. Deadwood, Dakota Territory snagged my attention. A rough and tumble town, it was full of memorable characters. I studied some of their histories and allowed a couple to work their way into my plot.

 

1876 Vintage Postcard of Deadwood

Set in 1879 --

When rancher and single father Cam McBride finds a letter tucked in a strip of cloth tied to a tumbleweed, he is captivated by the mysterious author. Finding a second tumbleweed letter further pulls him under the lonely writer's spell. He needs a mother for his little boy and a wife to warm his bed. Could this mysterious woman fill his needs?

Sophie Flannigan is alone, scared, and on the run from a rogue Pinkerton agent. She spends her days as a scrub lady at Madame Dora's brothel and her nights writing notes to the four winds. Her life holds little hope until a small boy lays claim to her and his handsome father proposes an advantageous arrangement.

Can these three benefit from a marriage of convenience, or will a determined Pinkerton agent destroy their fragile, newly formed bond?

EXCERPT:

Someone tugged on her skirt. When she glanced down, the little boy—Eli, his father called him—held up his arms in a silent request for her to pick him up. When she did, he burrowed his head in the crook of her neck and fingered the collar of her dress.

“Mine.”

She ran a hand up his narrow back and enjoyed the feel of the child in her embrace. Sensing the child’s father and Jethro were about to come to blows, she stepped back into the mercantile to shield him from the violence. “We’ll shop for a spell, Eli.” She hurried to the counter and asked Mr. Thatcher for Dora’s stockings. She set Eli on the counter while she withdrew her boss’s money from her reticule.

She tried her best to ignore the loud cursing outside. The sound of flesh smacking flesh made her jump. “I abhor violence.”

The store owner eyed her torn clothes, her blood splattered bodice and swollen knuckles. His face reddened. Sophie gave him her best school teacher glare, and he turned to wrap her purchase in brown paper.

Cam’s presence made itself known before he spoke. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Heat stampeded through her body while chills raised gooseflesh on her arms. A warm hand went to the small of her back, and she inhaled a gasp. Her gaze swept to his reddened, swollen eye and split lip. “Oh, Mr. McBride, all because of me? That was so unnecessary.” She tsked and pulled a handkerchief from her reticule to dab blood from his lip.

“Mine,” Eli stated to his father.

“Yes, she is.”

Her eyes widened as her gaze rose from his split lip to his blue eyes and determined expression. Her ears buzzed and her world tilted.