The Essential Yardbird ~ by Kristine Raymond

Having recently acquired a flock of three-day-old chicks, I started thinking about how valuable these birds were to early pioneers and settlers. They were easily transported, not taking up much space on a wagon - a makeshift coop could easily be secured to the outside of the conveyance - and, once settled on a homestead, the birds required little feed, foraging on their own for scraps, keeping weeds and pests out of the garden, and fertilizing the earth with every step they took.


These compact critters were multi-purpose, providing their caretakers with eggs and meat - extra eggs were often sold in exchange for ‘pin’ money - and raising the next generation of chicks.  They were also handy to have around if someone needed tar and feathering!

Often used as a means of currency, most settlers were happy to accept a yardbird in lieu of cash, recognizing the benefits of owning such remarkable birds, and a well-tended flock was a source of pride.

I’m looking forward to the morning when I step into the henhouse and collect my first fresh egg and like the pioneers of long ago, I’ll be singing the praises of these remarkable birds.

Side note - even though I titled this piece The Essential Yardbird, it's mainly in the Deep South that chickens are referred to by that name.

Revisting the old ways ~ by Kristine Raymond

As of this writing, the world is in a state of uncertainty.  Fear of contracting Covid-19, scarcity of food and necessities, distancing ourselves from family and friends - our lives are in turmoil.  But we'll get through this, just as generations before us did.

I'm not going to list the plagues and illnesses that have affected the population since the dawn of time or even those that have been concentrated in the United States.  That's what Wikipedia's for.  What I'd like to point out is that we survived.  The human race, I mean.  Yes, there were casualties, sometimes in the millions, and while that's scary and incredibly sad, life continued on.

I'll admit; I'm all for modern-day conveniences.  I love WiFi, air conditioning, home delivery, connecting with people around the world simply by turning on my computer.  But the downside of this 'at our fingertips' culture - where we can have anything from takeout to a new car delivered to our doorstep - is that we've lost the ability to provide for ourselves.

There was a time in this country, not so long ago, in fact, that almost everyone tended a garden, owned a flock of chickens, and maybe a milk goat or cow.  They sewed their own clothes (I'd be in trouble with that one), baked their own bread (from grain they grew, no less), and fished or hunted for meat.  They doctored themselves through injury and illness - yes, even plague - and not only survived, but flourished.

I understand that culture is no longer practical for so many reasons, yet in some small part could it be?  What if we took a moment and looked backward instead of forward?  Rediscovered those skills that came second nature to our great-grandparents?

What if we planted a fruit tree or bush or tended a few vegetable plants in containers on our deck?  Raised a couple of chickens in our backyard or put in a beehive or two?  Learned how to can to take advantage when produce is abundant at the Farmer's Market, ensuring our shelves - and bellies - are full when times are lean?  Made our own soap or alternative cleaners?  What if we weaned off having to rely on others for everything and learned, once again, how to provide for ourselves, focusing less on convenience and more on self-sufficiency?

Now, I'm not advocating doing away with import/exports or eliminating jobs or using pages from the Sears-Roebuck catalog during bathroom breaks.  Hey, I love modern conveniences as much as the next person.  Besides, those catalogs are harder to find than TP these days.  Non-existent, in fact.  Nor am I endorsing fishing without a license or hunting out of season or any other illegal activities.  What I'm suggesting is blending the old with the new, incorporating the knowledge of our ancestors with the technology of today so that the next time there's a crisis (and there will be a 'next time'; history has shown us that), we're able to respond with gratitude in the knowledge that we're prepared rather than with fear of the unknown.


   

I'd like to check out a book, please ~ by Kristine Raymond

Library in 1885

And, you can, at the Copper Queen Library in Bisbee, AZ.  Established in 1882, the Copper Queen is America's oldest operating library, but that doesn't mean it's behind the times.  In 2019, the 137-year-old athenaeum was awarded the honor of best small library in America by the leading publication for bibliophiles for expanding its early literacy program, developing a seed library for gardeners, offering unconventional items, like sports equipment, for checkout, and providing Wi-Fi internet hot spots.  It's the first library in Arizona to receive the prize.

Its history is an interesting one.  Originally opened inside the mine's company store after, according to one popular legend, mining officials arrived in Bisbee to find a man hung by a lynch mob, the consensus was that the miners needed something to occupy their time.  With a donation of 400 books from back East, the library was born.  Its location moved several times over the decades, first in 1885 to a two-story wood-framed structure, then after a fire in 1892 left the building and books in ashes, a brick building was erected and the library reestablished.

It moved to its current location above the Bisbee Post Office in 1907 and, even today, serves as a gathering place for locals.  In fact, some of the furniture from that time is still in use, though the brass spittoons are a thing of the past.

Copper Queen Library - circa 1907

Copper Queen Library - circa 2016

Roughly 3000 of the 5,500 residents of Bisbee carry library cards and an annex was added last December to serve the nearly 150 families residing in the nearby border town of Naco.











Now, where did I put my library card?

A splash of color ... in your mailbox ~ by Kristine Raymond

With springtime still several months away - at least, according to the calendar - it's time for seed catalogs to begin their annual arrival to mailboxes around the country.  Aside from the fact that most annuals are planted when the danger of frost has passed, I think the publishers of said periodicals mail them during the winter months to add a punch of color to the dreary, gray days of the new year. 

Anyone else want to order one of everything?  Just me, then?

Public domain

The first commercial seed company was founded in 1784 by David Landreth, an immigrant from England who set down roots (pun totally intended) in Philadelphia.  Along with his brother, Cuthbert, he built his seed company into an empire that's still in operation today.  Along with printing one of the first seed catalogs in the country, the seeds that Landreth sold also traveled south to George Washington’s Mount Vernon and Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, and west in covered wagons across the rivers and prairies to untamed lands.

Over the next few years, other mail-order seed companies began sprouting up. 

Public domain

Milo T. Gardner, Dexter M. Ferry, and Eber F. Church started M.T. Gardner & Company (later known as Ferry-Morse) in 1856.

Public domain

In 1868, a fifteen-year-old boy by the name of George W. Park, wanting a little pocket money, took out an advertisement for $3.50 in The Rural American, an investment that returned $6.50 in orders.  Thus began Park Seed, a company that's still in business today.

Public domain

In 1876, a name most home gardeners are familiar with, W. Atlee Burpee, started his own mail-order business selling fancy poultry after borrowing $1000 from his mother.  But as more and more requests flooded in from farmers wanting seeds to plant in their gardens, Burpee recognized the opportunity and expanded his catalog's offerings, and by the 1880s, his was the fastest growing mail-order seed company in the world.

To this day, Burpee's colorful catalogs grace the tops of kitchen tables and nightstands everywhere.

Even places like Seed Savers Exchange, founded in 1975 by Diane Ott Whealy and Kent Whealy, got its start thanks to earlier generations.  The company launched with two varieties of seeds handed down by Diane's grandfather, whose parents brought them from Bavaria in 1870 when they immigrated to America. 

With careful cultivation and mindfulness, the rich legacy of our ancestors can live forever.

Holiday decorating on the prairie ~ by Kristine Raymond

In modern times, folks have been known to take holiday decorating to the extreme.  Outdoor lighting displays with enough illumination to rival that of a small city; massive trees hauled in from outdoors and stuffed into too-small rooms; animated, musical ornaments that spin and flash and sing adorning the branches of those trees; in some homes, not a single surface escapes a touch of holiday magic.  But it wasn’t always that way, especially for families living west of the Mississippi in the early to mid-1800s.

Long before Santa came down the chimney, celebrations were held by other cultures during the winter months.  In Scandinavia, Yule began on the winter’s solstice – December 21 – and lasted through January.  In Rome, a holiday to honor Saturn, the god of agriculture, began a week before the winter’s solstice and lasted a full month.  And, in Germany, the pagan god, Oden, was honored during the winter months.  Christmas, as we know it, wasn’t even declared a federal holiday in America until 1870.

Stockings hanging from the mantle, visits from St. Nick, Christmas trees adorned with shiny ornaments; such ideas didn’t come into fashion until the early 1800s.  Though the legend of Santa Claus can be traced back to the fourth century to a Turkish monk named Saint Nicholas, his popularity grew in America after Clement Clarke Moore’s A Visit from St. Nicholas was published in the New York Sentinel in 1823.  And, it was Queen Victoria and Prince Albert who introduced to the world in 1841 the tradition of bringing a tree indoors to decorate.  While such customs were quickly adopted by people in the bigger cities, those living out on the windswept prairies had to improvise.

With timber scarce in those lush grasslands, and what little there was needed for shelter and fuel, the luxury of a Christmas tree was just that – a luxury – leaving the settlers to get creative with their ‘decking of the halls’.  Freshly cut boughs of cedar or scrub pine were laid upon windowsills and mantels to add a touch of greenery, and in more than one home, sagebrush or tumbleweeds, strung with paper chains and popcorn, stood in for a tree.  Scraps of colorful yarn or fabric were tied into bows and fastened onto the ‘branches’, while gingerbread cookies and paper angels nestled in-between as ornaments.  Bowls filled with twigs, berries, and other decorative natural materials graced the family table, adding a festive charm.

That rustic décor of days-gone-by holds a charm unequaled by today’s ‘bigger is better’ and ‘let’s add another strand of lights’ mindset.  At least, it does in my opinion.

However you celebrate this holiday season, I wish you the best and brightest filled with lots of love.

~ Kristine

There's gold in them thar hills ~ by Kristine Raymond

I think the reason I fell in love with aspens is because I've always adored birch trees.  Now, to be clear, they are two different species.  Birch belongs to the genus Betula whereas the numerous varieties of aspen fall into the genus Populus.  Sounds like a spell taught at Hogwarts, doesn't it?  But their similarities, rather than their differences, are what captivated me when I moved from the New England, where birch trees are plentiful, to the mountains of Arizona, where stands of aspens dot the landscape.

Copyright©Depositphotos  Aspen trees

Copyright©Depositphotos  Birch trees

As a kid, my family vacationed in New Hampshire, on eight acres up in the mountains.  Aside from a well-hidden path just wide enough for our station wagon to travel and a small clearing on which to pitch our tents, the rest of the property was covered in trees.  Pines, oaks, maples, and...yes, birch.  I loved peeling the bark from the trunk and rubbing my fingers across the velvety texture on the underside.  And, lest you think I ran around harming innocent trees, one of the characteristics of paper birch - the variety that grew on our land - is bark that peels off in sheets. 

Copyright©Depositphotos  Paper birch bark

In autumn, the leaves turn golden yellow and flutter in the wind, an enchanting sight to a kid with a huge imagination.

When I decided to make my move out west, it was a photo in Country magazine that clinched my choice of destination.  An aspen grove on Mt. Elden; thousands of golden leaves rippling in the afternoon sunlight.  I may have been leaving everything I knew behind, but those gorgeous trees, in their resemblance to birch, helped ease the transition.

Did you know that aspens grow in clonal colonies, spreading by means of root suckers born of a single seedling?  Each individual tree can live upwards of 150 years but the root system underground is thousands of years old.  One such colony in Utah, given the nickname of "Pando", is estimated to be 80,000 years old (from Wikipedia.)  Did you know that forest fires, as devastating as they are, encourage the growth of new aspen trees?  Nature is remarkable in her ways of healing herself.

On an unseasonably cold day in June of 1993, my husband and I stood amidst a grove of aspens and exchanged our wedding vows, their verdant leaves fluttering non-stop in the blustery breeze; the sound akin to thousands of tiny hands applauding our commitment to one another.  It was the same grove where my beloved brought me on our second date two years earlier, introducing me to the beauty of aspens up close as, until that day, I'd only viewed them from a distance.  Imagine my delight at discovering trunks as snowy-white as the trees from my youth and pendulous flowering catkins like those of the birches back home.  They were different, yet so similar; closing my eyes I was transported back to New Hampshire, camping in the woods with my family.

I'd be hard-pressed to choose a favorite between the two - the sturdy birch, its paper-like bark sparking hours of imaginative play in a young child (that'd be me), or the resplendent aspen, setting the mountains aglow each autumn in shimmering gold. 

Copyright©Depositphotos  Aspens in autumn

Come to think of it, aspens did provide quite a picturesque backdrop for a newly-married couple (also me.)  Sorry, birch; as much as I love you, aspen trees will forever have my heart!
 

   

The History of Dream Catchers ~ by Kristine Raymond

When I moved to Arizona in the early 90s, one of the first things that captivated me, aside from the glorious expanse of blue sky and feeling of openess, was the Native American influence that infused every shop and roadside stall.  Now, I know what you're thinking; what did I expect relocating to that part of the country?  Truthfully, I hadn't given it much thought.  All I knew of the region I'd gleaned from watching T.V. westerns and reading historical romance novels.  Neither had prepared me for the wonders I discovered.

Visit any tourist shop in the Southwest and you'll find the same items - turquoise rings, bracelets, earrings, and bolo ties; Kachinas in varying sizes; colorful, hand-loomed rugs; and dream catchers.  It was this last item that sparked my interest.  Aside from their beauty, the meaning behind them captivated me.

©Deposit photos

According to belief, Asibikaashi ('Spider Woman'), as she was known by the Ojibwa Chippewa tribe, was a spiritual protector of both adults and young children and babies.  As the tribe spread across the nation, Asibikaashi instructed grandmothers and mothers to weave webs made of willow and sinew to protect their loved ones from harm.  Feathers, beads, and other embellishments were added to further enhance the web's apotropaic magic.

©Deposit photos

It wasn't until the 1970s that the name 'dream catcher' became mainstream, appearing in non-Native media.  By the early 90s, around the time I made my trek west, they were considered one of the most popular and marketable craft items available; though oversized and made of plastic and synthetic fabrics, they bore little resemblance to the hand-crafted charms of the Ojibwa. 

The most accepted meaning of the dreamcatcher's shape is that the round circle represents the earth and moon, although newworldencyclopedia.org makes reference to the hoop representing the sun.  The web's eight connections to the circle symbolize a spider's legs, and the feathers are thought to allow good dreams to float gently to the sleeping individual while any bad dreams get caught in the web, evaporating like dew when the morning sun hits them.

©Deposit photos

While many believe that the dreamcatchers of today are a violation of the culture, beliefs, and traditions of Native Americans, I must admit - I still find them charming.

Happy Anniversary, Hidden Springs ~ by Kristine Raymond

A few short weeks ago, I celebrated an anniversary.  Not the kind you think - or maybe it is, given my occupation.  On September 1, 2013, I sat down in front of my computer and began typing.  I was going to write a book - just for the fun of it.  You know, to see if I could.  What made its way from my brain to my fingers to my keyboard and into my Word document ended up as the first of nine books in the Hidden Springs series.

I remember knowing with unfailing certainty that my story would take place in the Old West.  How could it not when I, the author, often dreamed of living in an untamed land where a man who was fast on the draw was equally quick to defend a lady's honor?  And that same woman, with her demure manner and gentle smile, in reality, hid a spine made of railroad spikes beneath her corset.  Ah, those were the days, weren't they?

As the words flowed, my characters began to take shape.  Sam Mackenzie, a drifter cowboy, searching for a place to belong.  Kate Ryan, a woman mistrustful of strangers, due in no small part to the violence that stripped her of her family and left her guarding a terrible secret.  Add in a frontier town, a wild horse roundup, and a love story with more twists and turns than a sidewinder, and voila!  Here to Stay was born.

Two more books followed in rapid succession - Hearts on Fire and Abby's Heart.  Two stories that pulled me deeper into this Old West world I'd created.  More followed, as each book birthed the next; sideline characters demanding equal time on the page. Before I knew it, I'd published nine books total with stories spanning thirty-three years.  All that from writing a single story for the fun of it.

I've often been asked which Hidden Springs book is my favorite and, to that, I have no answer.  Each one holds a special place in my heart, not only because they are extensions of my imagination, but because the characters and storylines and the town itself, fictional as it is, are real to me.  I love these people like they are my own friends and family.  I'm invested in their lives and futures.  I laugh with them, cry with them; celebrate their victories and commiserate with them in their defeats.  And more often than not, I giggle at their antics, identifying on a personal level with certain quirks in their personalities.  So, in a way, I guess, you could say that every time I read one of my books, I am living back in the Old West.

Excerpt from Dancing in the Dark:

The two men strode down the middle of Main Street, small clouds of dust swirling up from beneath their boot heels.  They didn’t seem to notice the looks cast in their direction by curious townspeople, who wondered what was causing the grim expressions on their faces.  Neither spoke, each man occupied by his own thoughts, though if they had, they would’ve discovered they were both thinking about the same person – Melinda Sue.

Jack’s thoughts were spinning; bouncing around in his head like the marble set his son, Micah, played with. As marshal of Hidden Springs, he had an oath to uphold, to protect the citizens of this town he loved, and those who lived in outlying areas, from anyone who wished to cause them harm. He’d failed to do that very thing six years ago and now, he wasn’t sure he could face Melinda Sue objectively. The woman had caused too much hurt and anger, and given his previous personal relationship with her, he’d always felt he shared some responsibility for her actions.

Rusty, on the other hand, was wondering why Melinda Sue would encourage her new husband to settle here, and more specifically, what fueled his interest in the Brewerton place. Garrett Sterling appeared affluent enough to reside anywhere he wanted, and though Hidden Springs was a fine place to live, it seemed beneath the station of someone so wealthy. Stomach churning, he followed Jack up the steps of the boarding house and entered the building.

“Good day, Mrs. Peabody,” Jack said, touching the brim of his hat. “I was wondering if you could tell me if a Mr. Garrett Sterling and his wife are staying here.”

“Wife!” The boarding house owner sniffed haughtily. “You mean that nasty Melinda Sue Perkins? Yep, they’re stayin’ here.” The robust woman came around the front desk, hands on her hips. “If I’da known who she was beforehand, I never woulda’ rented the room. But that Mr. Sterling came in by himself, all shined up and waving a handful of bills. It wasn’t ‘til after I gave him the key that he brought that woman in.”

“It’s alright, Mrs. Peabody. I understand how you feel.” Jack reached over and took her hand, patting it reassuringly. “I wonder if you might tell me which room they’re in. I’d like to have a conversation with the Sterlings.”

Returning the pat, Delilah Peabody arched an eyebrow. “A conversation, huh? Can you promise me you won’t be conversin’ with bullets? I have other guests to think about, you know.”

“I’ll do my best to keep the shooting to a minimum,” Jack assured her, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, alright then. They’re in room three. Top of the stairs to the right.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He walked to the staircase and eased his way up, taking care to tread lightly. Rusty followed close on his heels, alert to any danger that might arise. When they reached the landing, they could hear loud voices coming from the room in question. Jack held his fingers up to his lips and leaned closer to the door, eavesdropping on the conversation taking place inside.

“… don’t care what you think! You promised me we’d come back and live here and I’m holding you to that!”

“Melinda, darlin’, you were less than forthcoming in describing this town. What am I supposed to do here all day? There is no theatre or music house in this…this…settlement, or a decent drinking establishment. The only thing I’ve seen that arouses my interest is the whorehouse.”

“Whorehouse? Over my dead body! No husband of mine will visit a whorehouse. I’ll not have the people of this town talking behind my back!” A drawer slammed shut. “Besides, I thought you wanted to be a rancher.”

Eager to hear Sterling’s response, Rusty leaned forward next to Jack, his ear to the door.

“A rancher!” Sterling snorted. “What I want, my darling wife, is a spread so big it makes every living soul in this territory green with envy. I want horses and cattle and crops, and most importantly, I want dozens of men to do the work for me. Did you see the condition of that house? The barns? The land? It’ll take months, maybe years to build the Brewerton place up to my standards.”

White hot anger boiled up inside of Rusty. It was bad enough the man was willing to pay more for the one place Rusty wanted; now he was vilifying it. Glancing at Jack, he straightened, taking a step back from the door, his spur jiggling as it made contact with a tea table sitting against the wall. The conversation in the room came to an abrupt halt and Jack barely had time to move away from the door before it was flung open.

“Why Marshal Tanner, what a pleasure to see you.” Melinda Sue draped herself against the doorway, her low cut dress showing an ample amount of cleavage. “How’ve you been, Jack?” she cooed, placing her hand on his chest. “Married life agreeing with you?” Her seductive implication was not lost on anyone.

“Darling,” Sterling remarked exaggeratedly, walking over to stand by his wife, “aren’t you going to invite our guests in?” He offered Jack his hand as the men entered the room. “Garrett Sterling. A pleasure to meet you, sir. My wife speaks very highly of you.”

Jack hid a grimace. “I bet she does,” he replied sardonically. “I believe you’ve met Rusty Flanagan?”

“Ah, Mr. Flanagan, my good man. Nice to see you again. Though I should hold a grudge that you’re trying to acquire a certain piece of land I have my eye on, I do rather like a challenge.” The man walked over to a sideboard, upon which several bottles of liquor were displayed. “Either of you gentlemen care for a drink? Whiskey, perhaps? Brandy? No? Well, excuse me while I prepare myself a libation. It’s been quite an afternoon.” He poured an inch of amber liquid into a tumbler and drank it down, then refilled his glass. Settling himself on the settee, he looked expectantly at Jack, waiting for the lawman to speak.

“Mr. Sterling…,”

“Garrett, please. Mr. Sterling sounds so formal.”

“Mr. Sterling,” Jack repeated, resuming his line of questioning. “What brings you to Hidden Springs?”

“I thought that had been made clear.” Turning to Rusty, he asked, “Didn’t you tell him that I’ve put a bid in on the Brewerton place?”

“He did tell me that. And I’m asking you again – what are you doing in Hidden Springs?”

“You always were straight to the point, Jack,” Melinda Sue laughed.

Ignoring her, Jack leveled his gaze at her husband, folding his arms across his chest. The older man shifted in his seat, almost imperceptibly, but his movement didn’t escape the lawman’s notice. “I’m waiting.”

“Now see here!” Sterling huffed, jumping up from the settee, “there is no good reason for you to be here questioning our intentions. Is this how you welcome every newcomer to your town?” His attempt to sound injured over having his motives challenged fell flat, the sweat on his forehead and puffy red cheeks giving him away.

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” Jack clarified, in a level tone. “I’m not welcoming you to town. In fact, I’m inviting you to leave. Today, and never come back. Your wife is not welcome here and by extension, neither are you.”  




Get Dancing in the Dark here.

**********************************************************************

About the Author

It wasn’t until later in life that Kristine Raymond figured out what she wanted to be when she grew up, an epiphany that occurred in 2013 when she sat down and began writing her first book.  Sixteen books (in multiple genres) later, she’s added the title of podcasting host to her resume, thus assuring that she will never be idle.

When a spare moment does present itself, she fills it by navigating the publishing and promotional side of the business.  When not doing that, she spends time with her husband and furbabies (not necessarily in that order), reads, or binge-watches Netflix.

Find out more about Kristine on her website at www.kristineraymond.com and follow her on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and BookBub.

And for links to podcast episodes, guest posts, and other great stuff, check out Word Play with Kristine Raymond at www.wordplaypodcast.com.

Writing the Old West ~ by Kristine Raymond

It was no surprise to anyone, including me, that the setting for my first book was 1800s Arizona Territory.  From as far back as early childhood, I've been a fan.  I remember sitting on the floor next to my dad watching western movies.  Maybe I was too young to understand the plot, but the action and wildness and lawlessness stirred something inside that I didn't quite comprehend.  All I knew was when that opening theme played and a mounted cowboy rode across the screen, a spark lit deep within my soul that burns to this day.

So, imagine my delight upon discovering Saturday Afternoon at the Westerns.  Now, growing up, my siblings and I were not allowed to sit around in front of the TV all day, so I had to get creative.  Brokering a deal with my mother, she agreed to let me stay indoors and watch television as long as I was 'domestically-occupied'.  Translation - I had to iron my dad's work shirts for the week.  It took me years longer than it should have to realize which one of us got the better end of the bargain, and, to this day, I despise ironing - though I still love my westerns.  Hmmm...maybe I did come out ahead on that one.

© Levy-Gardner-Laven/Four Star Television

The Big Valley was, and is to this day, my favorite.  (I own the entire series on DVD).  I never tire of watching the Barkleys and wanted desperately, as a kid, to move to Stockton, CA.  While I haven't made it that far west yet, the wide open landscape and scenic vistas in this show, and others I watched, are what prompted me to move to Arizona in my early 20s.  But, that's a story for another time.

© Xanadu Productions Inc or its successors

The High Chaparral was my next favorite.  Even as I type this, I can hear the opening theme.  The energy.  The excitement.  The anticipation.  A siren song to a kid with wanderlust in her veins, long before I understood the meaning of the word. 

There were others shows that held a similar appeal.  Alias Smith and Jones, The Rifleman, and Bonanza, and a few years later, Guns of Paradise and The Magnificent Seven.  So, when I sat down to write my first novel, I envisioned a dusty town, a sweeping ranch, and the thundering of hooves.  The backdrop of any great western.  Next came the six-shooters, the hats, the boots and swagger.  In other words, the cowboys.  The story is a romance with a touch of suspense like so many others out there,  but, for me, it's the setting that elevates it to a new plane.

© Kristine Raymond

Writing about the Old West isn't easy, especially for a gal who grew up near the ocean and had only the likes of the Barkleys and Cannons and Cartwrights for reference (okay, yes; I also had books and Google, but for the sake of this post, I'm relying on my television viewing experiences 😉 ), but it gave me a great excuse to pop a disc into the DVD player and revisit my childhood for a few hours.  Without the iron and ironing board!      

Oh, and I always rooted for the horses.


Excerpt from Here to Stay (Book One in the Hidden Springs series)

          Ryan’s Ranch was four hundred and fifty acres of scrub brush and arroyos, trees and grassland.  There was a large stream that ran through the property, a tributary of the Verde River.  Stands of cottonwoods grew along its banks.  Ten miles to the west, the Black Hills loomed, their peaks rugged and uninviting.  It was easy to get lost in those mountains and an ideal place for bandits to hide.  The landscape on the ranch was varying; there were native grasses for pasture and dry, dusty areas that seemed to grow nothing but rock.  Closer to the mountains were abandoned gold and silver mines, Cooper’s mine among them.  Streams and creeks flowed randomly through the property, in some areas forming deep pools that made excellent fishing holes.  During the monsoon season, dry creek beds would fill with fast moving water and flowers brightened the landscape with brilliant color.

          The day broke clear and bright.  It’s warm for this time in April, thought Kate, as she brushed her hair from her face.  She had been up since four, making biscuits and checking to make sure that they had everything they needed to start putting up the fence.  Carly was going to make dinner for everyone each day so that was one thing Kate didn’t have to worry about.  She didn’t need any delays.  Each day put her that much closer to seeing her dream become a reality.  Her own horse ranch!  Her father would have loved it.  She smiled, and then the smile faded as she thought about her father and Christopher.

          No! she thought to herself, you have too much to do.  You can’t think about them right now.  She shook her head as if to clear the unhappy memories and put another pot of coffee on the stove to boil.  She would need plenty of coffee this morning to keep the men fueled up and working.  Besides herself and Daniel, there were the three men she had hired yesterday, plus two she had talked to earlier in the week.  Rusty Flanagan was just a kid, no more than sixteen or seventeen, and worked part-time in the general store.  Simon Archer wasn’t much older and apprenticed at the blacksmith shop behind the livery, with Lars Jensen.  Even though they were young, they both seemed like hard workers and they could use the money. 

          “Riders coming,” she heard Daniel call.  Kate grabbed the pot of now boiling coffee and made her way outside.  She had set up a table earlier with plates, cloth napkins, tin cups and utensils, plus a tray of biscuits, kept steaming hot under a towel.  There was also honey and jam for the biscuits and sugar for the coffee.  She set the hot pot down next to the one she had brought out earlier, just as the riders were dismounting.

          “Morning, Miz’ Ryan,” Jack said. “You look lovely this morning.”

          Sam made a wry face behind Jack’s back and Kate bit back the smile that threatened to appear.

          “Thank you, Mr. Tanner.  Help yourselves to biscuits and coffee.  It’s going to be a long day so I want to get started as soon as possible.”

          Kate turned and walked over to her horse.  The gelding was already saddled and waiting patiently for her to mount.  She patted him gently and he nuzzled her in return.  She noticed Sam watching them.  “Isn’t he beautiful?” she asked.  “His name is Ciarán.   It means ‘dark one’ in Gaelic.”

          As she swung herself into the saddle, Sam couldn’t help but admire the rider more than the horse.  He wondered where her family was; how she came to be on her own.  She seemed to hold herself away from the others, not that she was unkind but her body language said ‘stay away’.  Sam wanted to be the one to make her say ‘come here’.  Crazy, he thought to himself, I don’t know anything about her.  But he was drawn to her in some inexplicable way.  He vowed to make sure he worked alongside of her to try and get her to open up.  He was more than willing to tell a few tales about himself in order to make that happen.

          “Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to do some work?” Jack asked as he rode by, churning up as much dust as possible.

          “I’m coming,” coughed Sam, “I’m coming”.

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