Jennie Marsland

The rough draft of Heart is done!! I've been taking a break from writing this week to celebrate and clear my head. I had planned to tackle Nathan Munroe's story next, but I may finish my children's novel first, as it only needa about 10000 words more. It feels so good to be getting these WIPs off my plate!

Christmas is a-comin' and the goose is getting fat. I'm looking forward to a much-needed slowdown. It's been quite a year. I need time to simply do nothing and refill my creative well.

Heart is going to need a month or so of editing before submission, so it's looking like an early spring release is in the cards. I'll be posting updates, of course!

I'm on Chapter 22 of Heart now, with two or possibly three left to go. Then, after an incubation period, it'll be into revisions. My completion-by-Christmas goal may have been rather optimistic, but it shouldn't be too far off, hopefully not by more than a month or so.

At our RWA chapter Christmas party on the weekend, we had a book swap. I ended up with a copy of Anna Campbell's Captive of Sin, which I finished last night. I loved it! I've posted a review on my Lately Read page.

I know I've also got a recipe page to create. Life has been so hectic this autumn that I've fallen behind with a lot of things, but I should get a chance to slow down and catch up next week. I'm looking forward to a much-needed break!

I got the proof copy of the print version for Chance on  the weekend, corrected it and sent it back. In a few weeks I'll be able to hold a copy in my hands! I expect to go completely to pieces. There's no firm release date as the timing is really out of Bluewood's control, but you'll be able to hear me shout from coast to coast when it's available.

On Friday, I attended a book signing at the Annex, a wonderfully unique boookstore not far from Halifax. The store is on the top floor of a house and has the feel of a large, airy attic, full of treasures. The owner, Carolyn Laurie, is a member of our local RWA chapter, and two of the authors signing their work, Donna Alward and Judith James, are members as well. There was music and some Scottish dancing to fill the pauses between readings, and the whole evening was  a treat. There were six authors taking part, and veryone read so well.

It started  me thinking about what scene from Chance I'd choose to read to an audience. Any suggestions?

Martin played the first reel through a storm of conflicting emotions. The welcoming cheers from the crowd touched him. Memories overwhelmed him. It wasn’t until the beginning of the third tune that he dared to look out over the dance floor.

His gaze settled on Chelle as she moved neatly through the figures, flushed and smiling, her bright hair gathered in a soft knot on top of her head, exposing the graceful line of her neck. He hadn’t thought about her being here. It would surely make tongues wag, this soon after losing her mother.

Martin had a speaking acquaintance with her partner, who came from one of the farms on the other side of Carston. Lester Barrow was a decent lad, and Chelle seemed to be enjoying herself with him. When the tune ended, another Carston man took Lester’s place. By intermission time, Chelle had danced with eight or nine different partners and Martin’s nerves felt as stretched as the strings on his fiddle.

You’re daft, Martin. What’s the odds who she dances with? You’re not in the market, and she’s spoken for. But his jealousy wouldn’t down. It tangled with all the other feelings raised by being here, and it wouldn’t be rooted out.

He stepped off the platform and joined the line at the refreshment table. He’d just gotten his drink when he caught sight of Drew Markham lounging against the wall across the room, watching someone intently, with a hot light in his eyes. Martin followed his gaze to where Chelle stood with her cousin and his wife. His fists clenched, eager to make Drew’s teeth rattle.

Jealousy, protectiveness…Martin had no call to be feeling either, but they overwhelmed him. He returned to the platform, picked up his fiddle and held it out to Jason. “Break time’s over. Play a couple of tunes to start, will you?”

Jason quirked an eyebrow as he took the fiddle. “Easy, lad. You’re out of practice.”

Martin didn’t answer. He eased his way through the crowd, his pulse drumming in his ears like it had at eighteen when he asked a girl to dance.

The color on Chelle’s face deepened and spread to her throat when she saw him. Standing beside her, her cousin held out his hand. “Good to see you here, Martin. You haven’t lost your touch.”

“I’m not so sure of that, but thanks.” He shook Brian’s hand, then turned to Chelle. “Miss Rochelle, Jason’s going to start off the next set. Might I have the pleasure?”

Chelle smiled and mimicked his broad Yorkshire. “Aye sir, I’d be flattered.”

Jason began a jig. Martin took Chelle’s hand. The warmth of it spread through him instantly, and stayed with him as he guided her through the steps. She had on some kind of citrusy perfume that made him think of warm, exotic places. Some of her hair had worked loose to float in soft wisps around her face.

She could dance. She had rhythm, and she knew how to relax into the music. Caught up in her nearness, Martin felt like only seconds had passed when the tune ended.

Their eyes met. Chelle averted her gaze right away, but not before Martin saw her pupils dilate. Jason began a waltz. A squeeze of her hand brought Chelle easily into Martin’s arms.

Holding her, even lightly like this, was heaven and hell combined. No normal man could be impervious to the warm flush on her skin, the creamy shoulders and distracting hint of cleavage revealed by her dress, the feel of her under his hands.

Martin hadn’t bargained on the strength of the pull between them. It threw him. It had been a long time.

“I’d say you’ve done a lot of this.”

She looked up, her gaze casual and friendly again. She might be young, but she knew how to play the game.

“Yes. I’d say you have, too.”

“Aye, Eleanor and I used to go to most of the dances hereabouts.” How many evenings had they spent in this hall? So many that Eleanor’s presence lingered here, pulling at his heart while his senses focused on the girl in his arms.

“So I’ve heard. I was a little surprised to see you here tonight.”

Somehow, her voice helped to calm the turmoil inside him. “I’m surprised to be here. I wouldn’t be if the fellow who was supposed to play had been able to make it.”

Her hand shifted on his shoulder, a slight, unconscious comforting movement. “How does it feel?”

“It’s difficult.” Martin guided Chelle around a young couple in their teens, too wrapped up in each other to have any notion of where they were on the floor. Martin caught a look at the boy’s face and hoped to God he didn’t look just as thunderstruck. “But I’m glad I’m here.”

Chelle looked up at him. “I think Eleanor would be, too.”

Martin recalled that strange moment at the house. Could that have been Eleanor telling him it was time to move on? If so, why did he feel this wrenching sense of disloyalty? “Perhaps.”

Chelle looked away. They danced in silence until the waltz ended. They slowed, then stood in place for an embarrassing few seconds before Martin snapped back to the moment and led Chelle to her seat.

“Thank you, lass. I’d best get back to work.” A bit cool of him, perhaps, but he’d barely managed to find his voice at all. Back on the platform, Jason handed him his fiddle.

“You know how to pick ‘em, lad. Watch yourself. She could be trouble.”

Martin snorted as he rosined his bow. “Hold your horses, Jason. She’s engaged. She told me herself.”

Jason glanced across the floor at Chelle before picking up his flute. “She could be trouble if she were married.”

“Don’t be daft. She’s danced with half the lads here, why shouldn’t I take a turn?” Angry with himself for snapping, Martin drew his bow across the strings. “Come on, let’s keep the party goin’.”

I drew the winning name for my contest on Friday, meaning to post it Saturday, but things got so discombobulated over the weekend, running here and there, that I forgot! My apologies. The winner of an e-copy of Chance is Eva Rislakki! Congratulations, Eva, all the way to Finland! Thanks to technology, you'll have your copy in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Enjoy!

I promised excerpts from Heart a while ago...sorry it's taken so long. Five or six more chapters and the first draft of the book should be done!

Here's a tidbit from Chapter Two. Chelle is about to say goodbye to her brother and her home, but first she has to say goodbye to Rory MacAfee. Rory is determined to make sure she doesn't forget him, if he can't convince her to stay and marry him. He certainly knows how to go about it.

Chelle turned down her lamp, pulled her quilts close against the chill of the spring night and closed her eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly. Her head buzzed with the stress of the four days since the funeral. Sorting through her mother’s things, receiving goodbye calls from neighbors, packing, seeing the sadness on her father and brother’s faces as they prepared to leave the farm they both loved, had left her exhausted and empty.

Chelle hadn’t heard from Rory since the funeral. She couldn’t deny that his staying away was probably wise. It seemed to her that Mrs. McAfee had been a shade cooler than usual when she and her husband dropped by. Had she heard something?

The silent house seemed to reproach her, as if it knew it was about to be abandoned. Chelle turned on her side and curled up, trying to block out her sadness. She heard small sound, like rain being driven against glass by a strong wind – but it wasn’t raining. Then she heard it again. Holding her quilt around her, she rose to her knees on the bed just as something hit her window.

Gravel. She looked down at the lawn and saw Rory crouching by one of the azaleas, grinning up at her.

The fool. If her father or Trey heard him there would be the devil to pay, but it would be ten times worse if he’d been seen by anyone on the road. Chelle scrambled out of bed, opened the window and beckoned him closer.

“For heaven’s sake, Rory, what are you doing here? Go home before you wake the whole house.”

He showed her another handful of gravel and hissed back, “I’m not leaving till I talk to you.”

She rolled her eyes, but she knew he meant it. “All right, all right, I’m coming out.” Skin tingling with apprehension and another kind of tension she couldn’t name, Chelle drew the curtains and pulled off her nightgown. She grabbed the first dress in her wardrobe and fumbled with the buttons. The stairs creaked under her bare feet, but no one heard her. After a breathless wait at the bottom Chelle let out a sigh of relief, slipped outside and eased the front door shut behind her.

The cool moonlight cast crisp shadows in the empty yard, silent except for the rustling of the ivy over the door. Good, he’d had the sense to hide. Chelle knew she should be ashamed of herself, knew she was flirting with disaster, but something stronger than common sense drove her. This might be the last time she’d see Rory before leaving, and they needed to settle things between them. She wasn’t afraid of him. She knew nothing would happen that she didn’t want to happen. It didn’t occur to her to be afraid of herself. She only wanted to forget her grief for a while.

The ground stinging cold under her bare feet, Chelle started down the lane, looking for Rory in the shadows. When a hand covered her mouth and a strong arm wrapped around her waist, she wrenched herself away.

“Rory, I swear, the next time you scare me like that I’ll kick you as hard as I can.”

He lost his grin, but mischief still lurked in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to cheer you up, love.” Rory captured her hand and held it warmly in both of his. “How’s your father today?”

Chelle shook her head. Between nerves and his nearness, it took her a moment to find her voice. “He’s about the same. Rory, have you lost your senses? If Dad or Trey sees us – ”

He released her hand and slipped his arm around her. “They haven’t, and anyway, they wouldn’t kill me. They’d just insist that we get married. Would that be so bad?”

Chelle couldn’t stay as angry as she knew she should be, not with Rory’s arm around her. He felt so solid, so comforting. If only she could stop time, right now, and never have to leave him. “Don’t be too sure of that. They already know you proposed, and they weren’t impressed by your timing. I told them I’d said no for now. It’ll be bad if they see us, but worse if Mrs. Palmer saw you turn in here. You know she stays awake half the night. Your mother would hate me for the rest of her days if she heard about this from that busybody. Where’s your horse? If you put him in the barn, Cloud will raise the roof.”

The devil-may-care gleam came back to Rory’s eyes as he squeezed her. “He’s in behind your chicken house. Cloud won’t catch scent of him from there, and Mrs. Palmer’s lights were out. Stop worrying, Chelle, no one saw me.”

Chelle pulled away from him and glanced down the lane. “Don’t tell me to stop worrying. Come on, we can be seen from the road.”

She took Rory’s hand and led him in behind the house, following a path down to the creek that ran behind the McShannons’ cow pasture. A lopsided moon hung above them, giving the dew on the grass a chilly sparkle and turning the slow-moving creek to shimmering ripples. Near the bank they came to a sorry-looking structure, made of old boards and branches, leaning against a pair of poplars.

“Come in here.”

A wicked grin spread across Rory’s face. “Were you expecting me?”

Chelle dropped his hand. “Idiot, this has been here for years. Trey and I and the Sinclairs used to play down here all the time. I fixed it up a bit one day this winter. I guess I was in a sentimental mood. No one will see us here.”

She ducked under the low roof, with Rory right behind her. A mossy log served as a seat inside. Rory sat and pulled her onto his lap.

“I hope you’re in a sentimental mood tonight.”

Chelle wanted to hold on to her irritation, but it vanished, blown away by Rory’s warmth, his familiar scent, the feel of his arms around her. Chelle answered by reaching for his mouth. It fused to hers, harder and more demanding than ever before. She couldn’t deny him, whatever tomorrow might bring.

As he deepened the kiss, she felt Rory’s fingers working the buttons at the front of her dress. His warm hand slid under the fabric to cup her breast, teasing her hardened nipple. His touch went straight to Chelle’s core, burning the chill out of the night with a fire she’d never felt before. She gasped into Rory’s mouth with the pleasure of it before he shifted to nip at her neck. “God, your skin’s like warm satin…here… and here…”

Bold with desire, Chelle threaded her fingers into his hair and turned his face back to hers for another scorching kiss. Rory shifted her so she was straddling him and buried his mouth in the hollow between her breasts. His hand crept under her skirt, moving along her leg, leaving a hot trail on her skin. His breath caught when he reached the juncture of her thighs and found her bare.

Chelle nearly jumped out of her skin at the need he awakened in her. This was what they’d been edging towards for months now. She curled her fingers into Rory’s hair and held on for dear life as he teased her, stroking between her folds, creating a fierce ache inside her. His lips formed words against her breast, his voice a harsh whisper.

“Marry me, Chelle. I’ll speak to my family and your father tomorrow. It’ll work out for the best, I promise. I love you.”

She heard him through a haze of passion, but a shred of reason still remained to her. It told her this was wrong. She couldn’t do this to her father and Trey.

She couldn’t do this to herself.

We lost one of our sixteen-year-old kitties today. Patch was never what I would call an affectionate cat - she was standoffish and, frankly, more than a little weird, but her passing has left a hole in my life.

Patch and her sibling, Emily, pre-date my DH in my life. When he first started to visit, Emily would climb all over him, as if she were saying 'pick him! Pick him!'. Patch, being Patch, hid. She always disappeared whenever anyone came to the house.

This is a cat who once got stuck with her hind feet on the piano and her front feet on the table, unable to get from one to the other. Who once walked in my watercolors and left French Ultramarine pawprints on my kitchen floor.

Patch walked to the beat of her own drum, but she was part of the family. Sending her over the rainbow bridge was the right thing to do, but we'll miss her.

Happy mousing in the Elysian fields, Patch. Until we meet again.

Here we are again! A 100-word PG blurb, posted as a comment. Authors, let's hear what you're up to!

This is Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada. Time for turkey with all the trimmings and pumpkin pie. It's a lovely crisp, clear fall day, and I'm looking forward to a family dinner later.

Thanksgiving in our family is usually a quiet affair, centered on a good dinner with family. I'm lucky to have my folks living close by, and this year my brother will be home from Ontario.

I've always been grateful that I have a close family, and I become more so with each year. How does your family celebrate Thanksgiving?

McShannon's Chance is now available from Bluewood Publishing! To celebrate, I'm going to run a contest in keeping with the harvest season and my own love of moderation in all things, including moderation itself. In other words, a recipe contest.

If you'd like your name in a draw for an e-copy of Chance, simply leave your favorite cooler-weather recipe as a comment to this post. Desserts, mains, appetizers, anything goes. On October thirty-first, I'll draw a name from a hat. Then, I'll create a new page and post all the recipes.

Back in June, I wasn't sure this day would come. My thanks to the folks at Bluewood for their hard work and belief in this story. And my thanks to you for stopping by and participating in this new beginning.

Okay, I know it's officially here already, but summer is just starting to slide into autumn here in Nova Scotia. At present my  garden is still a riot of sweet peas, brown-eyed Susans and dahlias, and we're reveling in tomatoes, but the leaves are starting to turn and the nights are growing cooler. We can't be far from frost. I'd like to be posting  pictures, but unfortunately we don't have a functional camera right now,so you'll have to use your imagination.

Autumn always makes my thoughts turn to poetry. I think it's the combination of the dramatic colors and the bareness that follows as the year draws to a close.  In the spirit of the season, here's a verse from my favorite seasonal poem by Shelley. I fell in love with this one in elementary school.

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being

Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou 5

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain and hill;

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

And I love the very last line: If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

I've been plowing ahead on McShannon's Heart. I've set myself a goal of having the first draft completed by the end of November if possible.  I'll start posting excerpts soon. Stay tuned! And finally...

It's Free Promo Sunday again! Post your 100 word excerpt as a comment. It's been slow lately and I'd love to have more authors telling the world about their work.