I know I've been away for a while, but I've been busy, I promise I have been. I guess the old say of 'No news is good news.' applies here. As I check my Smashwords this morning I see that my free book The Talisman Crisscross is nearing a thousand downloads. That's 3 copies a day. And I'm hustling to get my second one in the series,  The Talisman: Cross Over done so that my readers can get it. Wish me luck! I still need to do the cover, or have it done for me. Hoping to have that done by the weeks end. Hum...I wonder how my book is doing over on Amazon...
This next time travel episode (yes, I said episode so hang on to your socks for future installments.) will not be free. I don't know quite what the price will be, but it will be.

Updates

Well, I'm not at Debra Parmley's blog today as expected. Instead we are shooting for the 6th. Don't hold your breath unless you are reading something that warrants that involuntary response!
Since I won't be hopping from blog to blog today it is time to decide whether or not my hero and heroine in Talisman: Crisscross in Time get out of their current crisis or rather how.
It is a romance so they will in the end, but at what cost?  Quinn- the hero is on trial for murder. Trish - the heroine has yet to pass the bar, but does she know enough to get him off? What game is she playing? Is one of them, or both insane? Of course at this point neither has verbally admitted to the other that they are in love, but if a character is willing to die for the other, doesn't that make it obvious?
Are you dying to know what I'm talking about? Okay, I know T. is, so here's a short excerpt to get you wanting more of this time-travel to the late 1800's.

"Would you care to tell the court of that afternoon?"


Quinn accurately related the events that took place up until they had left the saloon, but didn't mention the details of why such plans had been made.

"What happened when we left the saloon? I will remind you that you are under oath. There is no place here to spare the sensitivities of the women present, including myself."

"I drove ya to my place and we talked. Then ya left."

"We talked. Nothing more? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes, we talked… maybe argued, but nothin' else I'm sure."

"Did you infer, by direct means, or hint… at bedding me?"

Quinn dropped his gaze. When he looked up Trish noticed the pain etched there.

"Yes, I did invite ya to my bed."

"For money?" Trish ignored the murmurs and pushed on before her resolve faded.

"No." His features wore a tentative apprehension.
"Didn't you indicate that you would make it 'worth my trip'?"

"Yes, but it was a ploy to cover your actions." he defended.

Judge Fairbanks shifted in his chair.

"Is this a ploy now?" she asked.

"I don't think so, no."

Trish wanted to press him further but her wanting to know how deep his feelings for her ran had nothing to do with this trial.

"Thank you, Quinn. Your honor, I am through questioning this witness, but request that I have the right to recall him."

Fight in Progress!

Disclaimer: This fight is a work in progress.

Quinn rode closer to the camp, dismounting at the firelight's ring. "Smells right inviting." He nodded at the woman and the plate of beans in her hand.


"When she ain't burnin' it or dumpin' it on ya." The old timer turned his attention to the woman. "Get the man the rest of 'em vittles."

Quinn watched her. She glanced longingly at the beans and then handed him the plate. As he took the plate he noticed that her hands were tethered. A length of rope kept her within the ring of firelight.

"Have a sit. Move woman or ya'll get no blanket tonight."

The woman eyed her captor, an inkling of hunger mixing with the loathing glare. She moved away from him as far as her tether would allow.

Quinn nodded his thanks and grudgingly took her seat on a comfortable rock. He spooned a healthy bite into his mouth. They tasted awful. What had she done to them? The old timer took his place on a ratty stool and resumed his meal, seemingly unaware of the offensive taste.

"Bet cha'r wondrun' 'bout this." The old man traced the tether in the air with his spoon.

Quinn nodded in a nonchalant manner taking a smaller bite of beans.

"Ungrateful wretch. Saved 'er life, I did. An' this 'eres the result."

"She volunteered to be your slave, did she?" Quinn knew better, but wanted to hear the old timers version of the story. Nothing made it right to tether a woman like this, especially one that seemed rather unhappy about it. If she were a cattle wrestler than it might be different.

"Jus' opposite. Old Curly saves her life an' she weren't even appreciable. Ya ever heard of that?"

"I said 'thanks'," the woman said.

Curly yanked hard on the rope causing her to fall. Quinn considered the rope, following it with his eyes to find it anchored to a large rock near Curly.

Anger boiled in Quinn's throat. You couldn't force someone to be thankful and if anything Curly had heaped the wrath of a woman on himself. He managed to hide his feelings. Could Curly be reasoned with? Was Curly the type of man to seek revenge if Quinn stepped in to ruin his plans? Would he have to outright kill Curly to set the woman free? At best, Curly had warped motives for keeping her within his grasp.

"Women," Quinn drawled. "Seems they're more trouble than they're worth. Are you a gambling man, Curly?"

"Thinking of takin' 'er off my hands, are ya?" Curly shook his head. "Not 'fore I get my poke."

"Tough time getting that poke?"

"Ain't been the time."

"So what's stopping you?" Quinn measured the man across the campfire from him, disgust growing with his every word.

"Nothun now. My belly's full. I ain't a greedy feller. Ya can 'ave a go, jus' as well. Then we know what stakes we're playin' fer."

Quinn looked around to see the woman grasping a stout branch in her hands, obviously planning to stand her ground.

"No way. Over my dead body. You want a go? I'll take your manhood first," she hissed.

"Wretch!"

Quinn stood turning to face her, the plate of beans forgotten. He spread his hands, his fingers extended. He tried to reassure her, mouthing the words, "It's okay. I won't hurt you."

Curly's shadow grew, then distorted as he skirted the fire. "Ya go fer 'er hands. I'll hog tie 'er."

Quinn's hand recoiled at the same time he spun. His knife flashed once before sinking into Old Curly's shoulder. The stout branch caught him off guard. The second swipe hit him and all went black.

====
Okay, I'm being mean, but you'll have to read the book when it's released next spring to fine out who won the fight.
Talisman Series
Criss Cross for Love

Simmering Saturdays

I recently read a romance that the author's view of making a romance simmer was the romantic lead's constant whispering in the protagonists ear and his fingers always wrapping a lock of her hair around his fingers. In my opinion that is not simmering, that borders on letting the romance go stale!
And yet not every scene can hold a sizzling kiss so where does that leave us? My answer? Letting the relationship simmer to a boiling point.
Okay, granted -- I am far froma amaster on this one, but here is what I propose in the novel I am currently working on, Book One in The Talisman Series. Mind you, this excerpt is still in the writing stages...

A breeze stirred Trish's hair about her face, tickling her nose and eyes. Echoes of a sharp headache reminded her of her collision with the livery door. She slowly opened her eyes. A man stood at her window. She squinted, forcing bleary eyes to focus. "Quinn?"


He turned slowly and she noticed he held something. Fabric. Her clothes? "My bet is that this ain't your blood. No woman bleeds like this."

Trish tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness making her head spin pulled her back down. Swallowing hard and refocusing, she pushed herself upright. "Blood? What blood?"

"Found these bloody clothes. Ya had 'em tucked under your mattress. Whose blood is this?"

Trish stared at him wishing his back wasn't to the light. She couldn't make out his expression. His tone was as level as it had been at the poker table with Ace. Usually his tone held a vibrant quality, even when training a young horse. Not now.

"You rifled through my things?"

"No. Answer the question, Trish. Whose blood?" his tone, though still quiet had an edge to it.

Trish struggled with how to answer, her words rushing out without the usual care of an attorney. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I couldn't save him. He died in my arms. I didn't kill him. You've got to believe me."

Quinn's chest expanded with his deep intake of air, yet his words remained calm. "Whose blood?"

Trish shook her head, the pain rolling from side to side as the tears she'd held back burst to the surface. "Albert," her voice cracked. "I didn't--"

"Why didn't you stay with him?"

"I did," she swallowed trying to regain her composure.

"No. You weren't there when I found him," he said, his words accusing her.

"I did. I just-- I heard someone coming and realized how it would look if they found me with him. You have to believe me, I didn't kill him."

He stepped closer and she shrank back. "And the blood? Why?"

Trish kept her hands close to her body, but raised them defensively.

"I found him there, bleeding when I arrived. I held him in my arms and tried to comfort him. I lost it. I didn't know what to do. The horse was stamping. The scent of blood-- oh." Her hands flew to her face, covering her tears. "So much blood-- I tried to stop the bleeding and it just kept coming."

Sobs drowned out her words; she shuddered wishing she had done more. Wishing she'd never been there. Wishing she had never come here. Wishing he believed her.

Quinn stepped to the bed, dropping the stained clothing between them. "Ya should have stayed."

"I didn't know it was you. I thought the murderer…"

Quinn sank to the bed. The bedsprings groaned under his added weight, but he didn't touch her. "Ya should have stayed and told me who murdered him."

"But I don't know who did it."

Quinn glowered at her. "Tell me. No more lies. No more tears."

Trish stared at him in silence. She couldn't tell him.

"Damn it, Trish," his words sounded tortured. He pushed her back on the bed, seizing a handful of hair, constraining her. His kiss demanded she yield herself to him. At first she fought him, but when the weight of his chest came down on her, she surrendered.

For most of a week she had dreamed of his kissing her here. Her dreams had warmed her with excited anticipation. This was not as she had hoped. Tears of abject horror replaced tears of sorrow. The pressure of his lips bruised hers and yet his hands remained in her hair and against her cheek. The moment was brief, feeling torturously long.

He moved away, turning his back to her and breathing hard. "No more lies, Trish. The truth. All of it."

She remained prone on her bed where he had left her. "I told you," she whispered.

"Start at the beginning." He pulled the sheet up to cover her. "Why did Curly have you tethered?"

"I guess because he was sick. I certainly didn't deserve it."

"He isn't your papa?"

Trish gasped. "No!"

"Where you giving your--your body to Albert?" He sounded like he might choke on his words.

"No!" Trish rolled away from him, coming to a sitting position. "Never, how could you think that?"

Strong hands reached for her pushing her back to the mattress. "Woman, I am through playing games with you. Tell me the truth, all of it."

She stared up at him, willing him to believe her. She shook her head, fresh tears spilling form her eyes, marking fresh trails to her ears. "I can't."

He let go of her only to flick his bowie knife free, placing it at her neck. "Tell me the truth."

"I would never offer myself to Albert," she whispered. "I couldn't."

"Why?"

She swallowed and answered, "Because I'm --."

"He didn't want your body so you swung the hammer at his head in jealous anger. Is that it?" Twisted distaste wrinkled his handsome features.

"No," she gasped. "I'm not a murderer."

"But you killed Old Curly." Quinn's eyes glared at her, daring her to lie.

"That depends on how you plea and your defense attorney. Technically, I could plea self defense and get off while you would be found guilty. I'm only an accessory."

"How do you know that?"

"You wouldn't believe me." He applied pressure to her skin with the knife.

"Try me."

"Put your knife away and pull up a chair."

He looked around her scantily furnished room. "You don't have a chair."

She forced a weak smile, "Details… the knife, put it away?"

With a flick of his wrist the knife disappeared. "It is where I can get to it if you don't tell me the truth."

"Then you better find yourself a really comfortable place to sit and have an open mind."

+++++
Tension? You decide.