An American Rose Christmas Romance Anthology

An American Rose Christmas, a charming collection of historical romance stories by six Wild Rose Press authors, is 30% off at The Wild Rose Press. Also available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online booksellers.   My story in this anthology is A Warrior for Christmas.  I loved writing A Warrior for Christmas and hope you will enjoy my contribution to this delightful holiday collection. 

Blurbs:

Tory captain Dr. Nicholas Clayton discovers stolen military secrets on a severely injured female spy. When her wounds heal, Holly Masters must decide if she can kill the man who saved her life.~

While pretending to be a male soldier, farm girl Sara Brewster falls for a handsome Union army surgeon. When her secret is revealed, will a lavish Christmas Eve ball work in her favor–or will her heart be broken?~

Southern belle Marybeth Dawson discovers Santa Claus can’t cross the Mason Dixon line–but handsome Union soldier, Trevor Sutton can.~

When a strong willed upper class New York girl falls for a dashing, compassionate stable boy, it will take a Christmas miracle to bring them together. Thankfully, true love is on their side.~

All reformed prostitute Eva Baird wants for Christmas is to have her daughter back in her arms. But gun-toting outlaws, spiteful in-laws, and a sweet-talking stranger with arresting gray eyes threaten to turn her dream into a lump of coal.~

 A Warrior for Christmas~

 

Reclaimed by his wealthy uncle, former Shawnee captive Corwin Whitfield finds life with his adopted people at an end and reluctantly enters the social world of 1764. His one aim is to run back to the colonial frontier at his first opportunity––until he meets Uncle Randolph’s ward, Dimity Scott.~

Excerpt:
December 1764, An estate outside Philadelphia

Blinking against wind-driven sleet, Corwin Whitfield followed the stout man through the front door of the massive stone house, far larger than he’d imagined. A dozen cabins or Indian lodges put together could fit inside and still leave ample room. With winter lashing at their heels, Uncle Randolph had pressed both man and beast hard to reach Whitfield Place before nightfall.

Icy pellets hit the door as his uncle shut the solid wooden barrier. Better than a skin flap, Corwin supposed. He was well accustomed to the wet and cold, but a fire would feel good. His gloved fingers were numb from riding over snowy roads all day, not to mention all the previous days. Puddles spread at his boots on the flagstone floor in the entryway.

“Welcome home, Mister Whitfield.”

By the light of the small glass lamp on the stand inside the door, he saw a woman in an apron, severe skirts and gray shawl. The cap engulfed her pinched face. Inclining her head and curtsying, she said, “How was your journey, sir?”

“Wretched, Mistress Stokes.” Uncle Randolph waved a gloved hand at Corwin. “My nephew.” He swiped a paw at her. “My housekeeper,” he added by way of introduction. “Fifth cousin of my late wife’s, or some such connection.”

“Indeed.” Mistress Stokes curtsied to Corwin. “Welcome to Whitfield Place.”

He considered the etiquette drilled into him by his uncle and offered a brief nod. A bow didn’t seem required.
Uncle Randolph scowled. “Foul weather.”

She seemed unperturbed by his gruff manner. “Yes sir.”

“Bound to worsen. See to it the fires are built up.” Unbuttoning his brown caped coat, Uncle Randolph flung it onto the high-backed bench along one wall. He peeled off his gloves, tossing them and his tricorn onto the sodden heap.

Corwin did the same with his newly acquired garments. He couldn’t fault his uncle’s generosity, but the man had the temperament of an old he-bear.
Uncle Randolph ran thickened fingers over gray hair pulled back at his neck and tied with a black ribbon. “Where’s Miss Dimity keeping herself? Is she well?”

Corwin detected a trace of anxiety in his tone.
The dour woman gave a nod. “Quite well, sir. She’s in the drawing room just after having her tea.”

“Good,” his uncle grunted. “Tell cook we’ll have our supper in there. Stew, pastries, and ale will serve. Don’t neglect the Madeira.”

Another curtsy and the housekeeper turned away to pad down a hall partly lit by sconces wrought of iron. His uncle frowned after her. “She’s a good body and keeps this place tidy but tends to be lax on the fires. We mustn’t risk Dimity taking ill. Delicate girl. Cold as a tomb in here.”

Corwin found Whitfield Place equally as welcoming as a grave. The chill was pervasive. A furlined wican would be warmer. He followed his uncle across the frigid entryway and through a wide double door. His relation paused just inside the spacious room and Corwin halted beside him.

“There she is,” Uncle Randolph said with the hint of a smile in his normally reluctant features.  “My ward, Miss Dimity Scott. The little Quaker as I call her.”

Corwin thought it highly doubtful this staunch Anglican had taken in an actual Quaker. Looking past assorted tables, gilt-covered chairs and a gold couch, he spotted the feminine figure seated before the glowing hearth. A padded armchair the color of ripe berries hid much of her slender form. His first impression was of fair curls, like corn silk, piled on her head beneath a circle of lace; his second, that the young woman bent over her embroidery seemed oblivious of all else. One this unaware would never survive in the frontier.
He’d been taught to move with the silence of a winged owl while observing all around him. “Why does she not look up at our coming?”

“Ah, well, that’s a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” The hesitancy in his uncle’s tone was unlike this man who knew his own mind and was swift to instruct others. He squinted at Corwin with his good eye; the other perpetually squinted from an injury he’d received in a duel. “I trust you’ll not hold it against the poor girl as a sign of weakness, my boy. Warriors sometimes do and you’ve kept company with those savages far too long.”

It wasn’t like his uncle to ramble, and Corwin shifted impatiently upon hearing his adopted people disparaged again. “What are you saying, Uncle?”

He rubbed his fingers over a chin grizzled with whiskers. “Dimity cannot hear us.”

“At all?”

“Not a sound, unfortunately. Though she is able to detect the vibrations of music. Odd, that.”

Like the beating of Indian drums. “Has she always been without hearing?”

****

Native American Historical Romance Novel Red Bird's Song

Red Bird’s Song is the story of my heart for many reasons. It's the first novel I ever wrote, rewrote, and learned how to write in the process of all those endless revisions. It's also the story I've cared most deeply about and connected with on various levels. Part of me is still seated around the circle at the fire with my Native American brothers and sisters.

The initial encounter between Charity and Wicomechee at the beginning of the story was inspired by a dream I had on New Year’s Eve–a highly propitious time for dreams–about a young warrior taking an equally young woman captive at a river and the unexpected attraction between them.  That dream had such a profound impact on me that I took the leap from writing non-fiction essays to historical novels and embarked on the most amazing journey of my life.  That was years ago and the saga continues. 

I also met the prophetic warrior, Eyes of the Wolf, in another dream at the advent of this adventure, so when I describe him in the book I’m envisioning a character I feel I know.

The setting for much of Red Bird’s Song is the same as my other strongly Native American novel, Through the Fire, the spectacular Alleghenies.  

Much of the history depicted in the story was inspired by accounts I came across while researching my early American English/Scots-Irish roots and the Border Wars. The French and Indian War is the most well known, but there were others.  Life in the frontier was unsettled even after The American Revolution had drawn to a close and warfare a reality. The boundaries of the frontier just keep shifting farther west. 

In the early-mid 18th century, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia was the colonial frontier and only hardy souls dared to settle here.  The bulk of these were the tough Scots-Irish.  If the Indians had only had to fight regular British troops they might ultimately have won because they scared the s— out of men trained for conventional warfare, but the long knives were another matter.  They weren’t easily intimidated and soon learned from their cunning enemy.

Although Hawk Eye in The Last of the Mohicans is an adopted Mohican, his lifestyle and behavior is that of a colonial frontiersman.  The more rugged of these men dressed as he did, much in the Indian way.  They hunted & fought with muskets, tomahawks, and their famous knives.   Indians acquired these knives as well.  They blended traditional weapons and ways of living with newfound tools and weapons of Western man.  A highly adaptable people.

The attack at the opening of Red Bird’s Song in the Shenandoah Valley is based on one that occurred to my ancestors and is recorded by Historian Joseph A. Waddell in The Annals of Augusta County. A renegade Englishman by the last name of Dickson led the war party that attacked them.  Initially I’d intended to make the Colin Dickson in Red Bird’s Song a villain but as soon as he galloped onto the scene I knew differently. 

Wicomechee, the hero in Red Bird’s Song, is based on the Shawnee warrior by that name who lived early in the nineteenth century and to whom I have ties.  The Moffett’s, an early Valley family I’m related to, include a reference to him in their genealogy.  Wicomechee’s father, John Moffett, was captured in Kentucky by the Shawnee at the age of eight and adopted into the tribe.  It’s said he was a boyhood companion to the great chief Tecumseh, a chief for whom I have enormous admiration.  

The accounts of John Moffett and Wicomechee are recorded by Waddell. It’s also noted that during the Black Hawk Wars Wicomechee recovered the captive daughters of a Dr. Hull and brought them safely into camp, which reminds me of Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans.  I’ve included more on this amazing warrior at the end of the novel as a bonus for those who read it.

Red Bird's Song is available in print and/or digital download at the Wild Rose Press, Amazon, Barnes&Noble and other online booksellers.  Your local bookstore can order the novel in as can your library if you ask them to.   To read excerpts from the novel visit this post: