Bounty Hunters in the Old West by @JacquieRogers

The law was a bit sparse in the Old West, often not a lawman around for hundreds of miles. If a criminal knew how to live off the land and he owned a fast horse, he was pretty well guaranteed an escape. What's a sheriff to do?

In 1872, the Supreme Court ruled that bounty hunters were a part of the U.S. law enforcement system with a decision in Taylor vs. Taintor:

“When the bail is given, the principal is regarded as delivered to the custody of his sureties. Their domain is a continuance of the original imprisonment. Whenever they choose to do so, they may seize him and deliver him up to his discharge; and if it cannot be done at once, they may imprison him until it can be done. They may exercise their rights in person or by agent. They may pursue him into another state; may arrest him on the Sabbath; and if necessary, may break and enter his house for that purpose. The seizure is not made by virtue of due process. None is needed. It is likened to the arrest by the Sheriff of an escaped prisoner.”

As you can see by this decision, bounty hunters didn't have to adhere to the same rules of due process that lawmen did. (This is still true in some states.)

One of the greatest bounty hunters was Pinkerton Detective, Charlie Siringo. Siringo had a long and distinguished, if not controversial, career. He had steely nerves and his cleverness got him out of more than one jam. But he wrote a book, and the Pinkerton Agency wasn't too keen about that, so he spent several years at the end of his life arguing with them. Could be that the Pinkertons were the only ones to ever best him.

Lots of town marshals and county sheriffs supplemented their meager incomes with bounties. Of course, they had to follow the rules of due process while a bounty hunter had no such restrictions. Then again, if there's no one around for a couple hundred miles, who's to know? This is part of how the West was tamed. Many lawmen straddled the fence between law-enforcing and law-breaking.

In order for a bounty hunter to get his money in British Columbia, he had to bring the criminal in alive. The US had no such compunctions, but the bounty was half if the prisoner died before making it to jail. Bounty hunters didn't receive payment until later, so when they brought in prisoners, they'd either have to wait, or have the money sent to a bank. (They'd probably wait, considering the state of banking at the time.) But the most important thing was that bounty hunters' names were never, ever recorded, because their anonymity was their protection. This little item is what makes research difficult.

(From Wikimedia Commons)

Much to movie and TV viewers' delight, popular lore glorifies the Old West bounty hunter. The role of Josh Randall in Wanted: Dead or Alive in the 1950s made Steve McQueen a star. "Josh Randall (Steve McQueen) was a man of few words. A bounty hunter by trade, he tracked his prey all over the West. Randall carried an 1892 44/40 center fire Winchester carbine that he called "Mare's Laig." It handled like a revolver by had the punch of a rifle. Unlike other bounty hunters, Randall had scruples. He tried to bring the prisoner in alive and often found himself called upon to protect people in need."

Then there's my personal favorite, Paladin, played by Richard Boone on "Have Gun-Will Travel." (Okay, so he was more of a hired gun than a bounty hunter, but they go together well.) 

I haven't written a novel with a bounty hunter character yet, but I have a few planned.  My Christmas story, A Gift for Rhoda, in Wishing for a Cowboy (Prairie Rose Publications) has a retired bounty hunter hero.

Blurb

Rhoda Johnson is stranded in a lonely cabin without a groom. The townsfolk say she's better off without him, but her drunken groom sends a message that he'll claim her as his Christmas bride. Gunman and ex-Confederate soldier Nate Harmon comes to Idaho to make peace with his abolitionist preacher father. When half-frozen Nate reaches the cabin on a snowy Christmas Eve, instead of finding his folks, he's greeted by a pretty blonde with a shotgun who keeps calling him Mr. Snyder. Will she shoot him, or melt his heart?

Excerpt of

A Gift for Rhoda

by Jacquie Rogers

a short story in 

Wishing for a Cowboy

With trepidation, Rhoda stoked up the fire in the stove, then leaned her back against the door and closed her eyes, praying for strength. It was Christmas Eve, a stranger—a hulking grizzly of a man, but a stranger nonetheless—had come bearing gifts, so sharing her shelter in the blizzard was the Christian thing to do. Maybe.

Before she gave herself a chance to think again, she turned around and yanked open the door. The wind caught it, blew it open, and nearly mashed her into the wall.

Rhoda grabbed her shotgun and pushed the door nearly shut, and yelled, “Mr. Snyder, you can come into the house.” She slammed the door again, not sure whether she was frozen from fear or from the cold.

Within a minute, boots clomped on the porch. She had said she would let him in and she’d go through with it—that was that. With false bravado, she swung the door open.

Aiming the shotgun at him, she said, “Leave all your weapons outside, Mr. Snyder.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He held his hands out to his sides, likely wanting to assure her that he had no intention of using his weapons. “But who the blazes is Mr. Snyder?”

♥  ♥  ♥

There are eight wonderful stories in this Christmas anthology, and at the end, there are recipes that go with each story, and mine is Rhoda's Wedding Custard Pie (bonus—it's gluten-free!).

Hearts of Owyhee series

Much Ado About Marshals

Much Ado About Madams

Much Ado About Mavericks

(and available for Christmas...)

Much Ado About Miners 

TAKING THE TRAIN IN 1870

   
     Let's take a trip on a train in 1870, just to see what it was like. Ads and handbills guaranteed a colorful experience. First, of course, we have to take a wagon or buggy ride to reach the train depot. The waiting room is lined with wooden benches, heated by a potbellied stove, and lighted  by oil lamps. Westward bound emigrants swarm the building and boarding platform, many still wearing costumes common in their home countries, and not knowing a word of English.

Inside the ticket office

     At the ticket window, we buy our tickets from the station agent who is in shirt sleeves, with fancy sleeve garters above each elbow and paper cuff protectors, like gauntlets to protect his real cuffs. On his head rests an eyeshade made of celluloid, a type of paper common in the day. A fat watch chain drapes across his middle and, as he hands us our tickets, he checks his watch against the station clock on the wall of the waiting room. But this is railroad time, not necessarily real time.
     There are more than seventy kinds of railroad time, all in use at once. Newspapers post train times but of course we know better than to rely on their schedules. What time our train arrives depends partly on what the clock in the last depot read, or what the railroad engineer's watch read when he left the station house. Some depots fire a gun at noon to help passengers know the right time to follow. Others drop a large ball from the top of a high mast to mark noontime. But who determines when noon is?
     To complicate matters, for each nine miles, east or west, our watches will lose or gain close to a minute. What a mess, simply trying to determine the time of day. Eventually, in 1883, railroads will adopt our present standard time system. Boundary lines between zones will be determined by railroad division points.
     A "highball" is an early railroad signal, a large red metal ball, hoisted on a pole in front of each station. All the way up, it is indeed a highball, telling the engineer to sail right on through. Down, it is a "lowball," meaning stop. The expression "to highball," meaning to get or keep going, is still in use.

     Our train stops at the next town, several miles down the line. If we're hungry, we might get off and seek a meal for 50 cents to a dollar at an attached restaurant. We might even be able to get a packed lunch basket for later for 50 cents. Railroad prices, of course. Food in cities is cheaper, but we're in a small town and don't have time to go hunting for restaurants as our train leaves soon. Yes, there goes the blast of the train's horn.
     Behind the smoke-belching engine is an open tender loaded with wood. In back of that is a U.S. Mail car, a railway post office, or a combined mail and baggage car. Then there are the passenger coaches, only three or four, as passenger trains in the 1870's aren't very long. The cars are wooden, except for the running gear, and 44 to 45 feet long, with open platforms on the ends and only a light iron rail to protect the passengers from falling into the swaying, clanking void between cars. Coaches are connected by a primitive link and pin coupling. To operate these, the switchman has to go between the cars and are frequently killed. In 1887, Pullman will introduce the enclosed vestibule.
     The seats in our coach are wooden, upholstered in red or green plush. A potbellied stove provides heat (steam heat piped in from the engine won't coming into being until the late 1880's). Coal-oil lamps provide light. Pintsch gaslights will come along in 1883, Pintsch gas being an oil product, and we'll have electric lights in the late eighties and nineties.
     Eating houses at railroads are notoriously bad, until Fred Harvey opens the first of his Harvey House restaurant in 1875 at Topeka, Kansas, on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line. If we want luxury, and a Hotel Train to our destination is available, we could go to the dining car and enjoy an out-of-this world meal, Turkey carpets, inlaid woodwork, fancy hangings, wall mirrors, snowy linens in the sleepers, mile-long menus, and prices to match. Hotel trains hauled mainly Pullmans and Silver Palace sleepers, about three each, two coaches and a baggage car.
     The train is frighteningly fast, traveling an amazing 25 mph, and we are gravely concerned about whether or not our human constitutions can endure such speed. Remember, we don't have automobiles or airplanes to use for comparison. We have horses, which can move about 15 miles an hour, wagons-- 2 to 1-1/2 miles an hour, steamboats-- perhaps 10 mph, and stagecoaches-- 5-6 mph. Why the train is a veritble speed demon likely to scorch the earth as it moves.
     My, I'm tired. Which way is the sleeper car?

Charlene Raddon likes to say that she began her fiction career in the third grade when she announced in Show & Tell that a baby sister she never had was killed by a black widow spider. She often penned stories featuring mistreated young girls whose mother accused of crimes her sister had actually committed. Those were mostly therapeutic exercises. Her first serious attempt at writing fiction came in 1980 when she woke from a vivid dream that compelled her to drag out a typewriter and begin writing. An early love for romance novels and the Wild West led her to choose the historical romance genre but she also writes contemporary romance. At present, she has five books published in paperback by Kensington Books (one under the pseudonym Rachel Summers), and the same five digitally published by Tirgearr Publishing. 

This blog was written with the help of the Foster-Harris book, The Look Of The Old West

Find Charlene at:

http://www.charleneraddon.com

http//www.charleneraddon.blogspot.com

http://www.twitter.com/CRaddon

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1232154.Charlene_Raddon

http://www.facebook.com/CharleneRaddon

 

   

Children’s Holiday Games of Long Ago

Holidays, especially Christmas, have always been most exciting for children. In the old days they didn’t have iPhones, iPads or any of the modern “toys” we provide to keep them busy while we cook Christmas dinner, set our tables and greet guests. Instead, they played games. Here are a few of their favorites.

A treat-filled paper bag is hung from from the ceiling or possibly a tree branch in warm climates. One child is blindfolded and spun around. Using a stick he or she is given several chances to hit the bag. Everyone takes turns until the bag breaks, spilling out its contents. The kids rush to snatch up as many treats as they can. Sounds like the piñata game, doesn’t it? Probably not a coincidence.

Kind of appropriate for romance authors! This game was popular at Valentine’s Day. A heart is attached (pinned, I imagine) to each child’s back with a name on it of one half of a famous couple. The players ask each other questions to learn their identity, such as “Am I a woman?” or “Am I alive now?” Once the player knows his or her name, they must find their partner in romance.

This game was often played at Christmas parties. A big, pretty spider (if a spider can be called pretty) made of wire and decorated, is hung from on high. Long strings or ribbons, one per player, were attached to the spider and wound around the room, under furniture, through doorways, maybe up and down stairs. They formed a complicated web. Each child chose one “thread” of the web and followed it to the end, where a Christmas gift waited.

There were also outdoor games, weather permitting. I describe one called Ring Taw in a short story titled A Texas Devlins Christmas, posted on Alison Bruce’s site today. I hope you’ll join the Devlins’ Christmas gathering. http://alisonebruce.blogspot.com/ 

 

Now here’s a snippet from my short story, Christmas Cookies for Tristan

Blurb:

Tristan Jameson isn't happy to attend a stuffy New York Christmas party, but when Charlotte Dixon walks in, the evening promises excitement. A tin of homemade Christmas cookies helps bring the two of them together. Recipe included!

Excerpt:

Tristan tensed when he saw a striking auburn-haired woman hand her coat to a butler in the penthouse foyer and walk into the crowded living room. He’d never met her, he was certain, yet he felt instantly drawn to her. Despite his avoidance of female companionship over the past two years, his pulse quickened and the chatter of partygoers faded away as he watched her.

She wore a cranberry red dress with tiny cap sleeves that went surprisingly well with her mahogany hair. Smiling brightly, she exchanged air kisses with Johanna Cantrell, their hostess and Tristan’s distant cousin, who had opened up her lavish Park Avenue suite for this early Christmas party. So gracious of her, everyone agreed. Of course they all knew tonight’s party was aimed at garnering backers for the lady’s upcoming mayoral campaign.

The redhead had arrived unescorted. Was she a personal friend of Johanna’s or some high-placed business executive who might be convinced to throw her support behind the candidate? Tristan doubted it was the latter. She didn’t look old enough to fill such a role.

Curious to discover her identity, he edged his way through the crowd and followed the woman down a hall toward the kitchen, admiring the slender curves revealed by her subtly flowing skirt. Members of the catering staff buzzed past like worker bees, carrying empty food trays to be refilled and filled ones back out to the buffet table in the spacious living room, or salon as Cousin Johanna called it.

Pausing in the kitchen’s open doorway, Tristan leaned against the door jam and observed the redhead as she held out a large Christmas tin to a portly, bearded man in a white chef’s uniform. 

“Please arrange these cookies on a tray and set them out with the other desserts,” she said in a low, smoky voice reminiscent of actress Kathleen Turner’s.

The man scowled. “Madame, I personally prepare all food for every event I cater, including the desserts.”

“Oh, but I baked these especially for tonight as a gift for Jo . . . I mean Mrs. Cantrell. She told me to bring them back here for you to serve.”

“I doubt that, young woman,” the pompous ass sneered. “That good woman knows I never allow anything prepared by another hand to be served at one of my events.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” The redhead’s voice shook slightly, either with distress or anger.

Read more: http://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Cookies-Tristan-Lyn-Horner-ebook/dp/B00GHP4PXU

Source: Games from long ago (Historic Communities) by Bobbie Kalman http://www.amazon.com/Games-Long-Ago-Historic-Communities/dp/0865055211/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1386374486&sr=1-1&keywords=games+from+long+ago

New Release - Ain't No Angel

Peggy L Henderson

I have a new release this week, so I’m using my posting day to share the blurb and a short excerpt.

Ain’t No Angel (Second Chances Time Travel Romance Series, Book 2)

Delaney Goodman has been running from her painful past all her life.  Dreams of working with horses have long been replaced with the reality of doing anything to make ends meet.  About to hit rock bottom, she accepts a stranger’s proposition, even if it sounds too good to be true. She figures she has nothing, not even her dignity, to lose.  She awakens in an unfamiliar setting - and century - and quickly discovers that she will need more than her charm to complete the task assigned to her.

On the surface, Tyler Monroe has everything going for him -  good looks, the respect of his friends and neighbors, and a thriving horse ranch.  However, his past holds deep wounds with thick emotional scars. When a brazen, beautiful woman arrives in town, Tyler makes an impulsive decision that will cause him to question everything he knows. 

Tyler is unlike any man Laney has ever met.  Laney is exactly the kind of woman Tyler wants to avoid. As the attraction between them grows, questions arise that stretch the boundaries of trust for both.  The secrets that threaten to tear them apart could be exactly what Tyler and Laney need to bring them together.

Excerpt:

Laney watched, mesmerized. Tyler seemed to know a split second before the horse wanted to slow down or turn in the other direction, and with the way he stepped forward or turned, or moved his hands, communicated to the animal what he wanted it to do. Her feet carried her to the edge of the pen without even thinking.

He’s a nineteenth century horse whisperer.

She’d heard of these training methods, where the trainer gained a horse’s trust simply by using the animal’s own body language to communicate. She had no idea this sort of thing was done in the old west.

“Miss Laney, Nice to . . . ah, see you again.”

Startled at the voice, Laney glanced to her right. Gabe McFarlain strode up to her, and rested his arm on the fence. Where had he come from all of a sudden? He smiled broadly, while his eyes lingered on her neckline. Laney’s hand involuntarily darted to where she’d left her dress unbuttoned. A quick glance down confirmed that she wasn’t showing off anything that was best kept covered in this day and age. At least she was reasonably sure that she covered up enough.

“Gabe,” she said curtly, then turned her attention back to Tyler and the horse. If he had noticed her, he hadn’t let on. His sole focus was on the animal running in circles around him. He suddenly stopped, and stood quiet, his hands at his side, and the horse immediately stopped as well, and turned toward him. Rather than moving in the animals’ direction, Tyler turned his shoulder away from the horse. To Laney’s amazement, the colt moved toward Tyler, and followed him around the pen.

“Looks like that one’s ready for you to get on his back,” Gabe shouted next to her.

Tyler glanced up. His eyes settled on Laney. Her mouth went dry. His dark stare was unnerving. Abruptly, he focused his attention back to the horse, and gave the animal a pat on the forehead. The colt lowered its head. Tyler adjusted the cinch around the horse’s belly, moving the saddle back and forth with exaggerated motion.

He’s desensitizing the horse to the movement.

The colt stepped nervously to the side, and Laney could hear soft murmurs from Tyler. Inexplicable chills raced down her spine, and warmth rushed through her as the sultry tone of his voice carried to her from the pen. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining him whisper words to her in that deep, seductive tone.

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Christmas Traditions

Christmas is a magical time of year. Children are overly giddy with excitement and impatient for the big day to arrive. Adults are frazzled, rushing from store-to-store in search of the perfect gift, or the most popular gift that no one seems to have one more in stock, including Amazon. Delicious aromas of cookies baking in the oven waft through the home. Lights twinkle from windows and rooftops. An angel, or a star, sits atop a Christmas tree. Family and friends gather for a feast, which leads to New Year's resolutions of going on a diet. I've often wondered if our fore-fathers felt this same kind of insanity and gaiety, but rather blog about them, I thought I'd use this column for you to become more acquainted with me.  

 

I love Christmas. I have ever since I was a kid, though if you ask my son, he'll tell you differently. The first words that'll probably come out of his are: "Mom can't wait to take down the tree and put it back in the box." While that might be true, (and it's because I'm the one who ensures the branches, ornaments and lights are packed away neatly) I do enjoy watching my son open his gifts Christmas morning. But before that day arrives, there are many other holiday traditions that I enjoy.   

 

Back when I was a child, I had fun opening presents with my brothers and sister, oohing and aahing over what everyone got, visiting relatives and then returning home for an Italian dinner of lasagna. A few days later, we'd load up the car and drive to my grandparents' house in New York City, celebrating both Christmas and New Year's Eve with them. Gram and Gramps lived on the first floor and my aunt and uncle on the second. Gram would cook a German meal and then we'd go up to my aunt and uncle's for a spell to celebrate the holiday. Somewhere during that time, Mom and Gram would sneak down to Gram's, arrange presents under the tree and then Gram would ring a little bell for us to return to her home. We'd open presents, have dessert and watch the ball drop in Times Square. The following morning it was time to return home. For me, this tradition lasted until I married and moved away. For the rest of the family, the tradition remained until Gram passed away.

 

 

As parents, the hubby and I have made our own traditions that, hopefully, our son will look back on with fond remembrance. As a mom, I have my own traditions to keep me sane throughout the season; the first being I do the bulk of my shopping before Black Friday. I hate crowds, standing in long lines and rushing. Once Thanksgiving has past, the tree goes up and the lights are strung on the house--a family activity that is usually done the day after Thanksgiving. Then I take a day when the kiddo is in school and wrap everything. (Again, I hate doing something last-minute. I once put together a drum set on Christmas Eve and never again.) Sometime during the weeks leading up to Christmas, we pick a night to make hot cocoa, pile into the car and go out looking at Christmas lights. As a family, we decide what to have for the Christmas meal and then, in a blink of an eye, it's Christmas Eve. We attend the children's mass at church, where the pews are over-flowing with people and the altar is aglow in candlelight. Even if you're not religious, this is one evening when you can literally feel the spirit of the season. Our last traditions consist of a light supper on Christmas Eve, to be followed by the kiddo waking us up at 5:30 Christmas morning and racing us down the stairs, with the dog squeezing past, eager to get to her stocking.    

 

While our fore-fathers didn't rush to the store, or drive around town looking at Christmas displays, I do envision them as having enjoyed this time of year, of having felt the wonder of the season and their hearts softening as they watched their children's faces light up in awe over something left for them beneath the tree.

Merry Christmas, Everyone! Enjoy the magic of the season!

 

Note: The Christmas tree in the picture is my current tree. The previous one had special meaning to me. It belonged to my grandparents. When Gramps died, Gram gave the tree to my husband and me. We had it for 10+ years, until the day the dog knocked it over, breaking it close to the top and a few of the ornaments. The best we can figure is he was asleep on the couch when someone rang the doorbell. Being the great guard dog he was, he knew he had to get to the window and bark, and didn't care that the tree was in his way.

 

Is it Butter?

 

This photo is of a butter churn
that has been passed down
from my great grandmother.
We are guessing vintage 1880 or 1890.

With the holiday season upon us, I thought I'd share a Christmas memory. We held our annual Christmas Girl Scout meeting at our assistant leader's home because she had a winding staircase and the tallest Christmas tree. She was also an excellent cook. That year, I was about ten and we made butter by vigorously shaking a jar with heavy cream in it. We sat in a circle and passed the jar around so everyone got a turn. I don't remember much after that. I assume we separated the buttermilk from the butter somehow, but for the life of me, I don't recall how. I do remember spreading it over a cracker and thinking how good it tasted.

With that memory fresh in my mind, I thought to share a bit more about churning butter. Historians believe the use of butter dates as far back as 2000BC. Pioneers had butter churns for making the process easier. I have the one my great grandmother used when she made her home at Fort Martin Scott.

Those making the long trek across our nation on wagon trains would place the cream in a bucket and attach the bucket under the wagon. The motion created by the moving wagon would cause the cream to become butter by the time the settlers stopped for the night.

And what about margarine? I discovered a very interesting article on ancestry.com regarding the history of margarine. See why this man went to jail for selling butter.

Excerpt from Once Jilted:

She searched for dried grass and brittle twigs to use as tinder, all the while feeling very unqualified to do the work she’d promised. What would Kane think of her if he knew she couldn’t even start a simple campfire? She kicked at the dried ground. What did it matter what Kane thought? She had to quit thinking about that man and concentrate on finding a suitor who wasn’t so opposed to marriage.

Her chore was interrupted by the arrival of Tom. His wagon clattered toward them. Stopping, he jumped down and hefted a large tin container to the ground. Shauna smiled. "Milk?"

"Yup."

Lefty paid him then sent him on his way. "I usually keep it in the creek, but I reckon you’ll want it close by for breakfast. I can move it out of your way afterwards.

"Thanks." She started to pick up a stick, when a thought struck her. "Lefty, do you skim the cream and save it?"
 

He shook his head. "Ain’t no time for churning butter if that’s what you’re getting at."
 

She nodded. Well, she’d be here for a while, and it only took a week to collect enough cream for a crock of butter. If she started saving now, she could offer the men a real treat in five or six days.
 

After gathering the needed fuel, Lefty showed her how to light it using only one match. He gave her instructions on feeding the flames until she had hot coals to cook with. Armed with new knowledge, she tackled the job with pleasure. Lefty meandered back to his own tent, leaving her alone to finish the morning meal.

While she waited for the right amount of heat, she explored the insides of the covered wagon. Whoever cooked before had not been very organized. A sack of flour rested in the corner near a bin of potatoes. To the right, she found a tin of sugar, while a container of lard was buried behind the bag of cornmeal. Though it took a while to scrounge all the ingredients, she decided on flapjacks for the morning meal. Lefty had shown her a four-legged flat griddle that was large enough to cover the fire pit. She dragged and situated the large cast iron plate over the glowing coals, leveling it with a rock under one corner.

After putting on a pot of coffee, she made sure she had all the ingredients she needed then mixed a large bowl of batter. Testing the griddle, she pronounced it hot enough and poured several spoonfuls of batter onto the sizzling surface. Next to the frying cakes, the water in the coffee pot began to boil. She smiled, pleased with her efforts.

"Ach, woman. Have you noo sense?"

She dropped the spatula, fell back on her bottom, and met the angry glare of Kane. "I’m cooking. Isn’t that why I’m here?" She righted herself and picked up the spatula, dusting off the grains of dirt.

"Aye, I can see that you’re cooking." He squatted beside her and placed one knee on the ground. "Has noo one ever taught you how to cook over open flames afore?"

She shook her head.

"Ne’er bend over like you were doing, lass. You’ll end up with your skirts ablaze or your palms burned. You have noo balance perched as you were."

"I thought I was doing just fine."

"Stubborn bird. Always put one knee to the ground like so," he said, indicating his own position. "This will force your skirts oot of the way and give you the balance you need. Try it."

She did as requested and found he was right. She flipped a perfect flapjack onto a plate and forgetting her annoyance, beamed at him. "Want to be the first to sample my cakes?"
An odd expression stole over his features. He rose without comment and walked away. She stared, dumbfounded. What had she said?