Since I was a child I’ve wanted to travel the Oregon Trail
and experience what those intrepid pioneers experienced
as they traveled across the vast unsettled West. Now, decades later (I won’t
say how many) I still love to travel and
I’d still love to travel the Oregon Trail, what’s left of it.
So, when I wrote my first book, the
Oregon Trail was a natural location for me to choose for setting my story, Tender Touch. It’s a tale of fear,
desperation, escape, prejudice, love and the kind of courage and endurance it
took all those pioneers to make such a trip.
Blurb:
Three nightmarish years of marriage had shattered
Brianna Wight’s sheltered world. Faking her own murder, she fled St.
Louis…harboring terrible secrets that could mean her death.
The tragic loss of his Indian wife left
Columbus Nigh a wanderer; necessity made him a wilderness guide. But now he found
himself drawn to the enigmatic woman who’d hired him to lead her westward. Her
gentle strength stirred his lonely heart…her tender beauty aroused his deepest
passions.
But the perils of the Oregon Trail paled beside
the murderous wrath of the man who tracked them across the harsh frontier.
Brianna knew the only way to save herself and Columbus was to risk their tender
love. Only then could she free herself from the horrors of the past—and embrace
a rapturous future.
Excerpt:
St. Louis, Missouri, April 1849
Brianna Wight’s heart
pounded as she reluctantly followed her housekeeper’s son inside the dingy,
cavernous livery stable. She felt as though she were entering the very bowels
of hell.
Heat from the
blacksmith’s shop blasted her delicate skin through her clothes and fluttered
the veil covering her face as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The flames leaping from the forge and the murky silhouettes of men, dancing
about the fire like so many devils, were all she could make out.
Harsh, angry voices
flew at her out of the blackness, like hurtled knives. Instant terror stiffened
her body, and she threw up an arm to
shield her face.
“Wait your turn,
stinkin’ squawman. Whaddya need yer horse shod for anyways? It’s only
one o’ them Injun ponies. Get back to yer slut squaw an’ have her pick the
lice from yer hair, why doncha?”
The voice that
answered was soft, deep and—Brianna thought—deceptively calm, but the words
were unclear.
“Why, you bastard!”
the first voice yelled.
The sound of flesh
and bone striking flesh and bone froze Brianna. Her heart stuttered. That sound
was entirely too familiar, as was the pain that always followed. She tensed,
waiting to feel the expected blow.
Instead, a man sailed
toward her out of the smithy. Brianna screamed in the instant before he slammed
into her. Together, they tumbled to the straw-littered floor in a tangle of
arms, legs
and skirts.
“You blasted squawman!”
someone bellowed. “Look what ya done now. Get up, damn you! That’s a lady
you’re laying on.”
Brianna fought for
air and shoved frantically at the heavy man weighing down her already bruised
and battered body. Pain from a hundred places threatened to rend her
unconscious. Inside her head, a voice shouted,“It’s not
Barret! Not Barret!” But the fear had her
in its grip. She could not stop battling
for her life, as she had been forced to do, so many times before.
Close to her ear,
a low rumbling voice muttered, “Hell- fire! Give it up, woman. I ain’t gonna
hurt you.”
Hands like steel
bands pinned her wrists to the hay-and
horseshit-strewn dirt floor. His panted
breath warmed her cheek, smelling of tobacco, and, oddly enough, apples.
Brianna felt her breasts flatten against his hard chest, felt that same hard
chest expand and deflate along with hers, as they each gasped for air.
Something stirred inside her, something she had never felt when Barret held her
this way, something that left her confused, as well as scared.
“All right,” the low
voice rumbled. “I’m gonna get up now.”
The weight lifted
from her body. He towered above her, ten
feet tall and at least three across. As she lay there staring up at him through
her veil, still fighting off the fear, he reached down to offer her a hand up. She could see better now, well
enough to note that his palm was dirty and callused, the smallest of the long,
slender fingers missing a joint.
“You all right?” he
asked, not unkindly
Before she could
gather enough sense and wind to answer, Sean and his mother were there, bending
over her. Brianna groaned as they hauled her to her feet. Every bone in her
body ached. It was all she could do to stay upright while Mrs. O’Casey brushed
the dirt and straw from her rumpled skirts. She refused to give way to the
tears and pain and terror that threatened to engulf her. If she couldn’t even
survive one day of freedom without knuckling under, how would she live long
enough to start a new life?
Charlene Raddon’s first serious attempt at
writing fiction came in 1980 when a vivid dream drove her to drag out a
typewriter and begin writing. She’s been writing ever since. Because of a love for romance novels and the Wild West,
her primary genre is historical romance. At present, she has five books originally
published in paperback by Kensington Books. More recently these were published as e-Books by Tirgearr
Publishing. In May, 2016 Charlene
self-published her ebooks with new
covers. Charlene also designs book covers and other graphic materials for
authors at her site, http://silversagebookcovers.com.
Links:
Buy link for Tender Touch: https://www.amazon.com/Tender-Touch-Charlene-Raddon-ebook/dp/B01DYEJAYA/
Thank for sharing,
Tina
1 comment:
Thanks for hosting me, Tina. Best of luck with your books.
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