Hidden Pockets by Paty Jager #Western #Romance #Characters

Women living in the west in the 1800’s dressed in the silks, satins, and fashionable dresses for special occasions just like their sisters in the east. However, they also dressed decidedly different when facing the rigors of western living.

In the rural areas women’s clothing could be dated to when they first arrived from the east up to ten years earlier. Silk and satin could be scarce in the rural areas. In these instances they would make ball gowns out of gingham and calico adding all the extra flounces, bustles, and trains. Adding handmade lace collars and wool braid around the hems to enhance the garments

.

They had one special dress they wore only to dances, church, and socials. A corset would be worn with their finest dresses to special occasions.

Common material for women’s clothing was linsey-woolsey, calico, silk, plaid, muslin, printed cotton, wool challis, dimity, and grosgrain-striped silk taffeta. Most garments had a pocket sewn in the right side seam.  Generally, each dress was the same style(they used the same pattern over and over), the fabric and decorations made them different.  In the early part of the 1800’s most wore one piece dresses. A dress with a full skirt required 10 yards of calico or 14 yards of silk because silk wasn’t as wide on the bolt as calico.  From 1850 on women started wearing two-piece outfits(skirt and blouse). It wasn’t until the 1890’s when the “shirtwaist” or blouse became popular. By 1886 the chemise (like a long slip) was replaced with the camisole a shorter version of the chemise with square or round neckline, lace and embroidery.

 In 1882 stores began selling ready-made clothing.

Traveling on stage coaches and trains linen dusters were worn to keep the dirt and coal dust off their clothing.

Three essentials of any western woman were their apron, bonnet, and shawl. An apron was a full length   Some would even have a fancy bonnet to wear to weddings, funerals, and socials. The shawl was a quick wrap to throw on to greet company or make a trip to the outhouse. They usually had a special one to wear to social events if their family had the means.

garment worn while cleaning the house and cooking. It helped to keep their clothing clean, making less laundry. They called any type of hat a bonnet. Most had a sunbonnet with ties under the chin and a wide cloth brim reinforced with cardboard or thin slats of wood to make the brim stiff and keep the sun off their faces. They would also have a winter bonnet or hat.

Working and dealing with the heat they would shed undergarment layers, specifically petticoats and a corset. Rather than the 5-6 petticoats that was customary they would work in one or two. This also helped on wash day when they only had to laundry a couple petticoats and not half a dozen.  To keep their skirts down without all the layers to hide their limbs, they would sew metal bars or lead shot in the hems, thwarting any strong winds. They also wore bloomers under their skirts rather than all the layers of petticoats. In winter, flannel or quilted petticoats kept their legs warm.

Western women worked by their husband’s sides. To make their chores easier they shortened their skirts, wore split skirts and some even wore men’s clothing. It made walking and riding horses easier. They also were less likely to wear the tight corseted styles. They could do their work easier in loose-fitting garments.

My current heroine has sewn pockets onto her underskirt to hide her money and when she stops wearing a dress and wears a union suit and men's clothing, she uses the extra material from the sides of the union suit to make pockets on the garment for her money. It is a way to make sure she won't have her money stolen. 

 

This information was found in: The Writer’s Guide to Everyday Life in the Wild West by Candy Moulton.

Wednesday Western- Downfall of the Pony Express

Many believe it was the completion of a transcontinental telegraph that put the Pony Express out of business.

Photo from Smithsonian

The first transatlantic telegraph was completed in August of 1858. People could now send messages from New York or Chicago to London in a few minutes rather than waiting for a ship to cross the Atlantic. However, it still took a month to get a message from New York or Chicago to San Francisco. Either by ship around the cape Horn or by stage coach.

In 1860 the Pony Express was started to send messages in ten days from St. Joesph, Missouri to Sacramento, California. The cost was $5 per half-ounce.

The transatlantic telegraph failed after three months but there were entrepreneurs who saw the business opportunity of the telegraph. This men began connecting short lines of telegraph communication around the country. Omaha was as far west as messages could be sent up until 1855 when lines from there were connected to St. Joesph and Fort Smith , Arkansas.

The smaller telegraph companies in the west began consolidating. And in 1860 the Western Union sent a man to survey a route for a transcontinental telegraph. The surveyor found a path from Omaha through Salt Lake City, Fort Kearney, Fort Laramie, South pass, Julesburg, Carson City, past the Sierra Nevadas and into Sacramento and eventually San Francisco.

The plan was to fund the construction with private investors, but in June of 1860 Congress appropriated a 10-year, $400,000 subsidy to the Pacific Telegraph Company and the Overland Telegraph company.  The Overland Telegraph Co. started in California and worked their way toward Salt Lake City and the Pacific Telegraph Co. started in Omaha and headed to Salt Lake City.

An agreement also had to be made with the Shoshone Indians to keep peace along the telegraph route.
In July of 1861 the project of linking the telegraph between Omaha and California began. The first contingent of men traveled ahead staking out the line. The hole-diggers, pole-setters and wire party came behind them. They covered three to eight miles a day.  To keep peace with the Shoshone the telegraph company paid Indians to tend the livestock and provide game for food.

The Pacific crew arrived in Salt Lake City seven day before the Overland crew, yet they finished the project in four months when President Lincoln believed it would take them ten years. The Western Union telegraph was fully operational November 15, 1861.

Two days after the coast to coast telegraph was connected the Pony Express shut down.

Source: WildWest Magazine

Wednesday Western- Nicole McCaffrey-western time travel

Please welcome my longtime critique partner and wonderful writer, Nicole McCaffrey. She's here to tell us about her newest book.

I’ve always loved the idea of writing a time travel story, but I knew if I ever made the attempt, I’d want a slightly different spin on it. Instead of sending a modern day woman back to be romanced by a man with 19^th century manners and morals (dreamy sigh) I wondered what would happen if I sent a 21^st century guy—accustomed to the looser morals of today’s society—back in time and introduced him to a 19^th century woman. My passion for the Civil War often leads me to that era for story settings, and I knew I’d want to incorporate that into the story. But that’s as far as I ever got.  The idea seemed destined to gather dust in the back of my imagination since I never could figure out where my characters would meet…or how.

Then one evening as I drove by an abandoned Greek Revival style house that I often drive past, I had one of those “eureka!” moments.

My hero would buy an abandoned old house with every intention of tearing it down.  He soon learns it was once the home of a famed Civil War spy, and on inspection of the home, he steps into one of the upstairs bedrooms and encounters her.  But is she real--or a ghost?

Below is the blurb for This Moment in Time and a brief excerpt—I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  Leave a comment for a chance to win a free pdf of this story!

~*~

Not even captivity can sway Southern widow Josette Beaumont from spying for the Confederacy. Under the nose of the Union army, she willingly risks her life to pass information to her sources. Until a stranger appears in her bedroom one day with a cryptic message: stop spying or you'll die. She has no reason to believe his warnings about the future, but his company is the only solace in her long days of imprisonment and his friendship quickly comes to mean so much more. If only she could make the sacrifice he asks of her...

To hell with history, real estate mogul Jamie D'Alessandro has no intention of saving the historic mansion he's purchased, even if it is the home of a famous Confederate spy. But when he steps into an upstairs bedroom of the old house, time suddenly shifts, bringing him face to face with a very beautiful and irate Southern lady. Against his will he's drawn into her cause--to save the Confederacy. But Jamie has a cause of his own. According to his research the lady spy has only days to live. Should he change history to save the woman he loves--or sacrifice life in his own century to be with her for This Moment in Time?

The flash light glinted off the top of a framed painting. Jamie lowered the beam, illuminating the portrait. A woman with dark hair and smoldering dark eyes. A modest hint—downright puritan by today’s standards—of pale bosom peeked over the ruffled bodice of a white dress. Somehow that hint of creamy flesh seemed more forbidden—sexier — than any modern woman he’d ever seen. There was something prim and ladylike about her that made it feel wrong to stare at her like that. Was this the famous spy? Her name escaped him, but he made a mental note to learn more about her.

A loud thump from the second floor caught his attention. His heart leaped to his throat, and for a moment, he felt like a scared kid in a haunted house. He shook his head, chuckling at himself. The house had been locked up tight since the renovation team had come through to inspect it, there was no one around. Probably a rodent or critter had gotten inside. Still, he had no intention of spending the night listening to the scratching and thumping of a wild animal.

He shone the flashlight ahead of him until he found the winding, elegant staircase that led to the second floor. Common sense warned him not to trust the stairs; the old house was full of wood rot. But curiosity got the better of him and he tested the first step before putting his full weight on it, and the next, and the next. Fully expecting to go through the boards and land on his ass, he continued the same tenuous journey until he reached the second floor.

Amazed he’d actually made it, he gave a quick glance behind him, then began to move around the second story. Shining the light upward, he saw the staircase continued to a third floor, but wasn’t about to push his luck any further.

He paused, waiting until he heard the scratching again. With the beam of light at his feet to illuminate the floor, he took slow, cautious steps, following the sound. As he drew closer he paused, wondering if he should have brought something for protection. What if the creature was rabid?

Stepping fully into the room where he’d heard the noises, he paused to appreciate the huge windows that overlooked the valley. They didn’t make houses like this anymore, and while he had nothing but the utmost appreciation for the trappings of modern society, he had to admit, there was something about the way they built things a couple of centuries ago. They didn’t need high tech gadgets and expensive fabrics to scream wealth and elegance. It was right here in the architecture.

Forgetting himself for a moment, he stepped across the room. The loud groan of a floorboard caused him to freeze, wondering if the floor could support him. The banging now came from behind him. Heart suddenly pounding, he whirled. A door—to a closet, perhaps?— rattled insistently. He swallowed. He’d never believed in ghosts, had laughed off any notion that they existed. So what the hell was this?

As he stood there, a cold draft of air swirled about his feet. Wasn’t it supposed to get really cold when a ghost appeared? No, no, he wouldn’t allow his imagination to take him there. Dammit, he was James D’Alessandro III; he’d never allowed anyone or anything to intimidate him. It would take more than an abandoned old house to spook him.

On silent feet, he crossed the room to the door, mentally counting—one, two… three. He yanked it open. His breath left him in a relieved exhale. Nothing stood behind it. The cold breeze continued, whistling through a broken window. The branch of a tree had long since grown inside and as the wind blew, it scratched against the wall. A gust must have blown the door shut; that was probably the bang he’d heard from downstairs.

He took another deep breath to help slow his heart rate. While he was out gathering tools tomorrow, he’d have to get something to put over the window. He’d never get any rest with that door thumping all night long, and the air blowing inside would only make the house colder.

Chuckling at his own ridiculous fear, he started to turn. A voice—not the howling of the wind this time— and the sudden sensation of warmth at his back stilled him.

“Honestly, Sebastian, he can’t keep me locked up here much longer. I’ll go mad.”

A woman? She sounded calm, perhaps a little angry.

“Drat it, now I’ve lost count.” A heavy sigh followed. “The last I remember was twenty strokes, I’ll have to start over from there.”

Heart back in his throat, he turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. The first thing to greet him were the windows—the very same windows he’d admired moments ago. Only they were now adorned with white lace. To the left, a warm fire crackled in the fireplace, casting a golden glow across the gleaming hardwood floor. And directly in front of him, a dark gray cat lay sprawled across an ornate four poster bed, calmly grooming itself. It paused, tongue in mid stroke and stared up at him with curious green eyes.

“Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty…”

Swallowing, he forced his gaze from the cat to the source of the voice. A woman sat at a vanity, tugging a brush through long, dark hair. In the mirror, he watched as her gaze moved from her reflection. To him. She let out a gasp. The brush fell from her hand. She whirled on her seat to face him.

“Wh—who are you?”

She could see him!

If it’s possible to be born a writer, then I certainly was.  I’d probably have started sooner if there had been pen and paper available in the womb! But for as long as I can remember, I have heard voices in my head.  Fortunately for me, they’re all characters—begging me to tell their stories.

I’ve been married to Peter, my best friend, for fifteen years, and am a work-at-home mom with two busy boys ages ten and twelve.  When I’m not working, writing, or buried nose-deep in a research book, chances are I’m baking, taking long walks with my beloved border collie mix or just kicking back and hanging with my guys.

 

Please visit my website www.nicolemccaffrey.com or my blog http://nicolemccaffrey.blogspot.com/.

This Moment in Time is available:

Kindle

The Wild Rose Press

Barnes & Noble

Wednesday Western- Palavering "bout words

For writers of westerns who want to give their stories the true western flair here are some words to toss into your stories.

Fractious                    

simmered                                

tipped his hat                         

rebuff

Mercantile                  

Give my regards to                

unhand me                             

pitiable glance

Swooned                    

bridle jingling                         

moved with an easy prowl     

bemused

Cowpoke                    

donned his hat                                   

hand cupped her elbow          

court (date)

Compunction             

Scandalously pleased             

seen the error of his ways      

tin washtub

Babble and blither      

tinny tune of a piano              

touched the brim of his hat    

hoosegow

Offer my assistance   

Flummoxed                            

Befuddled                              

oughtn’t to…

I reckon                      

in the altogether (naked)        

wrenched off boots                

palavering (talking)

Confabulation            

balderdash                              

old rope springs on bed          

spectacle

Ledger book               

said with an indignant sniff   

Union blue                             

the Rebs

Fretful                        

looking/feeling so retched      

tend to business                     

telegraph operator

Commotion    

stampede

strung ‘em up                         

price on his head                    

whooping it up

Horsewhip                  

interjected                              

turnin’ coward                                   

yellow bellied

Gulch                         

Had him pegged for…           

critters                                    

raising dust

Bandana                     

rattler striking                         

virtues                                    

all hell broke loose

Spin a yarn                 

old geezer                               

saloon                                     

Cayuse (small pony)

Oration                       

nickered                                 

perdition                                 

sweltering

Buckboard                 

roustabouts                             

sawdust floors                        

heathen

Trail-worn                  

fingers or hands calloused     

damnation                              

cattle trails

Copious                      

holster riding low on hip        

brothel or bathhouse              

ill repute

Cowpunchers             

ladies of ill repute                  

mutton choppers                    

gathering of lost sheep

Pious                          

thunderous                             

rendition                                 

both Colts at the ready

Bindweed                  

warm molasses                       

stormed like a barn cat            

Wednesday Western - More Honky Tonk Hearts

Honky Tonk Hearts

Lonely hearts seem to gravitate to the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk. A few miles outside Amarillo off historical Route 66, the large wood-paneled structure boasts a large neon star with a single flashing steer riding away from it. Owner and bartender, Gus Rankin, has seen his share of the wandering souls cross his bar and dance floor over the years—he’d even like to think he helped a few find true love along the way.

www.thewildrosepress.com

Those Violet Eyes

by 

Vonnie Davis

Soon after I signed with The Wild Rose Press, I noticed talk on our author’s Yahoo loop regarding various series. Many sounded fun and interesting.  So when Stacy put out the submissions call for the Honky Tonk Hearts series, I knew I had to give it a try.

Unfortunately every idea I came up with sounded lame and…well…the expected, the ordinary. Nothing grabbed my attention. And if a story idea wasn’t grabbing me by the throat, it surely wouldn’t appeal to a reader. So I set aside the wish to participate in what promised to be a great series.

Then late one night as I was in that fluttery fragile state between wakefulness and sleep, a man on a Harley rode into our bedroom. He got off his bike and adjusted his stance to accommodate his prosthesis. Somehow I knew he was a veteran who’d lost part of his leg in Iraq. He took off his helmet, sat on the edge of the bed and asked if I’d write his story.

Those Violet Eyes releases TODAY, June 27^th.

BLURB:

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?

Excerpt:

Evie charged through the swinging door to the kitchen and skidded to a stop. It couldn’t be. Although his back was toward her, there was no mistaking the height and broad muscled shoulders. This mystery nephew of Gus’s was the guy who’d remarked on her eyes. Her stomach did a little twitchy dance, nerves no doubt.

She ran her suddenly damp palms over her short skirt and cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Win?”

No answer.

She took a couple steps closer and noticed he was washing vegetables under a spray of water. “Win?”

No reply.

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.”

FIND ME ON THE WEB AT  www.vonniedavis.com

BUY LINK AT THE WILD ROSE PRESS:

http://bit.ly/ThoseVioletEyes

LOST MEMORIES

Sherri Thomas

Lost Memories is a story I started a couple of years ago, but put on the back burner for a time. Then I heard a country-western song that reminded me of a scene I wrote. Over and over these lyrics played and replayed in my head until I had no choice but to dust off the pages and write Nick and Darcy’s journey. Weeks into their bumpy ride The Wild Rose Press posted submissions for the Honky Tonk Hearts series. Coincidently, I had already written a scene involving a bar, which later turned into the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk. To me the two branded together without difficulty or pain J. After submitting and revising a bit, I was ecstatic to receive word that they wanted to contract Lost Memories. We are in the editing stages now and I will be sure to let you know when I receive the release date. 

BLURB: LOST MEMORIES

   

When your past is a blank, it’s hard to trust the future…

A car accident leaves Darcy Brooks with amnesia, but she’s determined it won’t ruin her life. She finds a job on a dude ranch—hiding her brain trauma to get it—and falls in love with her work. Now if she can just avoid falling in love with her boss.

Nick Matthews knows his new employee is hiding something, and he’s determined to discover what. He’s failed to protect his family from disaster in the past and won’t let it happen again. Now if he can just keep his attraction to Darcy from clouding his judgment.

Nick soon comes to value Darcy as an employee and a friend—even as the heat between them builds. But when a man claiming to be Darcy's husband shows up, Nick realizes just how much he wants to keep Darcy for himself.

UNEDITED EXCERPT: LOST MEMORIES

Darcy rose onto her elbows. Yuck. Her jeans were caked with the mud and who knew what else. Anxious to get out of the stench, she placed her palm Nick’s. Her heart skipped a beat, and she forgot to breath.

He tugged on her arm pulling her to her feet. She slammed into his chest as his arm went around her waist. The momentum made her step back into one of Horace’s holes, knocking them both off balance, and her on top of his hard chest. Air whooshed from her lips. She stared at him in horror.

Oh, God, he was sure to fire her now.

“I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?” She moved her leg, catching her boot on the cuff of his jeans.

”No.”

Specks of mud splattered his face. She bit her lip to keep from laughing as she wiped the dirt from his cheek, making the damage ten times worse. His skin was warm and bristly under her finger. She quickly withdrew her hand.

His thump swiped a clump of sludge off her check.

She sucked in a breath. This was not right. The way her body succumbed to one touch of his hand was wrong. 

Nick moved his leg. Every hard inch of him pressed into her flesh, branding her to him. He tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

A spark ignited in her toes and heat worked through her body. His chest rose and fell in a rapid pace beneath her palms, but her own air suspended in her lungs. She fought a wild urge to rake a fingernail over his unshaved jaw and pulled her knees up in an effort to get to her feet. Large hands encased the back of her thighs in a stilling motion, and she ending up straddling him as he rose to a sitting position. A helpless gasp robbed her of speech.

His eyes strayed to her lips.

Her stomach fluttered. Ripples of anticipation churned deep inside. She forced herself to look away. His magnificent body was off limits. He's my employer for goodness sake.

She gave herself a mental shake and swallowed the moan rising in her throat.

Why don’t I feel this way around Sam, Trent, or Chris?   

“I must look quite a sight,” She commented trying to escape her own thoughts.

“We both do.” He smirked, revealing a devilish indentation in his left cheek.

When did he get a dimple? She didn’t remember seeing one before.

Muscles flexed under her, the warmth of him seeped through her jeans. She glanced away wondering how to talk her jelly filled muscles into getting up. Failing to persuade her body her sights returned to his seconds later. Green specks highlighted his brown orbs - another new finding to keep the breath from my lungs.

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www.sherrithomas.blogspot.com
http://twittter.com/sherlynromance

Wednesday Western- Honky Tonk Month

During June on Wednesdays I'll be showcasing a story by Wild Rose Press authors that was written as part of a contemporary western series. Here is what they were given to come up with a story.

Honky Tonk Hearts

Lonely hearts seem to gravitate to the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk. A few miles outside Amarillo off historical Route 66, the large wood-paneled structure boasts a large neon star with a single flashing steer riding away from it. Owner and bartender, Gus Rankin, has seen his share of the wandering souls cross his bar and dance floor over the years—he’d even like to think he helped a few find true love along the way.

www.thewildrosepress.com

Thank you Paty Jager for inviting me to share a little about Honky Tonk Man and why I wrote the story and for letting me visit on Western Wednesday!  Yee haw!

When Editor, Stacy Holmes, emailed and invited me to write for the series I was in the middle of another project and didn’t become intrigued until I took the time to consider the possibilities.  In the end, the image she painted of Gus Rankin, the owner of the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk won me over.  Every once in a while Gus sneaks back to his messy office, takes a break in the rickety, torn leather chair and props his feet on his desk as he smiles at the bulletin board filled with pictures from couples that have tossed aside their lonesome hearts to take a chance on love.

Blurb: He has rules for a reason.

Pool shooting, guitar playing, honky tonk singer, Jace Monroe, has a knack for hooking up with the wrong kind of women, rich ones who don't take him or his music seriously. So when he meets a down-to-earth, honey-haired waitress at the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk, he thinks his luck has finally changed.

Rules have never been her strong suit.

The last place Sunny Brooks wants to be is on her daddy's thriving ranch, but her mother needs her. To escape the constant concern for her mother's health and stay out of her father's overbearing presence, she spends most nights out at the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk and eventually in the arms of Jace.

But when misconceptions come to light, the sweet music they make together might be silenced forever unless she can show her honky tonk man that some rules are meant to be broken.

  

Excerpt:

Finally, he cleared his throat and glanced down at his boots. “I don’t get involved with rich girls.”

“Pardon?” She blinked up, not quite believing what she thought she heard.

Swallowing hard, he looked away again, and then back, but at a spot somewhere over her shoulder. “I don’t go out with rich girls,” he repeated.

What was that supposed to mean?

“You have a lot of rules. No money, no rides, no rich girls.”

“I have my reasons.” His eyes met hers, deadpan.

“Are you serious?” She blinked again in disbelief.

No reply. Just a blank stare and slight twitch in his jaw.

She clutched her knees and leaned forward. “Well good for you.” Worn down from fretting over her mother and tired of his rigid rules, she stood, brushed the dust from the back of her jeans, and stormed off.

Why bother straightening him out about the state of her wealth—or rather lack of it—when he hadn’t even thought to ask first or consider her feelings before dumping her.

What surprised her when she climbed back into her truck and tore up the roadway was how much it hurt. She hadn’t known him long enough to feel this much pain. An invisible fist grabbed her heart and tightened until she had to gasp for a breath.

Tears stung her eyes. The bastard had broken her heart.

Visit my website for other books by Sylvie Kaye

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