I started school in the DICK AND JANE days. Little sister Sally, a kitten named Puff... Oh yeah, good times. But the simple story doesn't do it for me anymore. In fact, I think my Muse has A.D.D. She and I seem to be rambling all over the spectrum of commercial fiction.
Case in point: After eight published romances (count 'em: one for Silhouette, six in the Rainbow Rock series, an inspirational for Covenant), my next book--the one due out next summer--is a family saga with only hints of romance. Called A SECRET FAMILY RECIPE, it's the story of a broken family trying to repair itself, not exactly what some might have considered my "brand," yet that was where my Muse wanted to go and that's where we went.
Just yesterday I finished a final edit of EASTWARD TO ZION, an historical set between 1852-1860 in Australia and the western United States. It was another venture into the previously unexplored. Okay then, Muse: Have it your way.
I'm already half-way into the next venture, a book I call "a paranormal detective story with a sassy, chick-lit voice." Called MAGGIE RISING, it's the story of a bright young woman who is working her way through California State University, Chico as a psychic reader. She readily claims not to believe in the paranormal and says folks just like to drop a few bucks on an evening's entertainment, so she tells them what they want to hear, yet it seems the paranormal believes in her. It's not your typical reluctant-psychic-turned-detective meets reluctant-ghost-turned-witness story.
Where might my Muse strike next? She's thinking about a sisters story set in beautiful Florence and a Renaissance-era historical set in the sample place but in the days of Lorenzo di Medici. She also has several other stories for Maggie to pursue.
So far I have yet to write a single character named Dick or Jane.
RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, the first book in the six-book Rainbow Rock romance series, is currently available FREE for E-book readers: Kindle, Nook, Apple devices, and at Smashwords for downloading to home computers.
When Meg Taylor was attending Rainbow Rock High School, Sally Williams and Little Jimmy McAllister were her two best buddies. Now, a decade later, Meg has returned to help Sally with her children: four of them aged three and under. Fascinated by a man she saw as she drove into town, Meg asks a loaded question. From the opening pages of RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, here is a snippet of their conversation.
"Any new men in town?" Meg kept the question casual as she stretched her legs on Sally's back lawn. It was the first time the women had sat down since the circus they called breakfast.Care to make any bets on what may happen next? RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is now available as a FREE download for Kindle, Nook, and other platforms. Get your free copy today."Why? You meet somebody?"
"No, of course not." Meg didn't meet Sally's eyes. "I just wondered what the prospects were--you know, for the women here."
Sally moved one fussy infant into the shade of the mesquite tree and scolded her daughter. "Isabel, stop teasing the cat!" She turned back to Meg. "There are some interesting men around." She lifted her brows, her voice rich with meaning. "Danny Sherwood's still here."
Meg groaned. "Spare me."
"You had quite a crush once."
"That was a long time ago, when I was young and stupid. Besides, isn't he married? I heard he and Lucretia Vanetti--"
"Ancient history. You're right; he's a jerk. Cretia got smart last year. She went around telling everybody how he hit her when he-- Tommy, shame on you! Get that out of your mouth!" She wiped Tommy's face and sighed. "How he hit her when he came home drunk. He denied it, of course, but the divorce went through just the same. But there are other men." Sally lifted one eyebrow. "Little Jimmy McAllister's still here."
"That's good." Meg kept her voice neutral. "I hope to see him while I'm here, but you know that's not what I mean, Sally. I'm asking about interesting men."
Sally shrugged. "People change. Darn, Sammy's crying again."
Gene Pitney got it right: "It isn't very pretty what a town without pity can do." Meg Taylor suffered through her high school years in a town without pity. Now, a decade later, she is returning only to help a friend. From the opening pages of RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, here's a glimpse of her love/hate relationship with Rainbow Rock, Arizona.
Meg left the rain behind as she turned north from Holbrook toward Rainbow Rock, nervously drumming the dash. Would people even know her? The slim, poised businesswoman she saw in her mirror every morning was a far cry from the chubby, awkward teen known as Peggy Taylor, or behind her back, as Piggy. Her ivory skin was clear now, her figure trim, her glasses replaced by contacts that intensified the blue of her eyes, and her weight down by thirty pounds. She'd changed her long, limp hair to short, chic curls that had darkened almost to black, but none of that had quieted her insecurity.
Brooding thoughts evaporated like the summer rain as she crested the ridge. Rainbow Rock lay before her, nestled in the bowl of a desert valley. Thunderclouds still rolled along the layered sandstone bluffs that had given the town its name, freckling their vivid colors in light and shadow, but the sky above the valley floor was clearing. Meg pulled onto the overlook and sat staring down on the town. For years she'd struggled to forget everything about Rainbow Rock, fighting so hard she had even forgotten the good things, like the rugged spectacle of the painted hills and the peace that followed a summer storm.
Peggy Taylor, Sally Williams, and Little Jimmy McAllister had been "the three musketeers," indivisible against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or the barbed insults of the high school in-crowd. Meg's loyalty to those friendships had finally brought her back; it caused her to move forward now, nudging her car onto the highway. As she dropped into the valley, the clouds along the far ridge dropped a veil of shimmering rain. A shaft of sunlight struck it and burst into color, streaking the sky with a brilliant double rainbow that stretched above the distant hills like a welcome banner.
Meg shook herself to ward off a growing sense of awe. She prided herself on being sensible, not given to seeing signs and omens. It was merely a coincidence that she had returned during one of the summer's loveliest moments, and that was all it was.
Want to read more about Meg Taylor and Rainbow Rock. RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is now available as a FREE download for Kindle, Nook, and most other platforms. You can even read it on your computer; just download at Smashwords or scribd.com. Enjoy!
For a couple of decades I taught the American Indian Literature course at California State University, Chico. One of the archetypes that frequently occurs in native tales is "the beautiful one," the exquisitely perfect person whose beauty allows him or her to achieve what ordinary souls cannot. When I decided to write a book set near the Navajo and Hopi Nations, I created a "beautiful one" of my own.
From the opening pages of RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, here is the first time our heroine, Meg Taylor, sees "the beautiful one." She has just arrived in the town of Rainbow Rock, Arizona, and has stopped for gas.
Before her lay a stretch of red earth that reminded her just how lovely the desert could be. Dotted with sagebrush and greasewood, it lay perfect and timeless in the pure golden light of the afternoon, its plane broken only by the small, flat hill that stood a lone sentinel on the valley floor.And that was when she saw him, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was climbing Valley Hill some forty yards away. His muscular upper body, bare and bronzed, was dappled by the spotty light as he worked his way up the bluff. He wore old, well-fitted jeans and climbing boots, and the light breeze riffled his leonine mane of thick blond hair. He seemed perfect, essential and ageless, at one with the bluff, the desert, and the endless sky.
Meg let out her breath, unaware she had been holding it, then stared in fascination. A shaft of light fell over the climber, making his tanned skin gleam like polished gold. "Who is he?" she whispered, not realizing she had spoken aloud until Kyle answered.
"He's a local guy. Name's Jim. Some kids spotted Indian relics and he's checking to see if there might be an old burial site."
Disappointment cut through Meg like summer lightning, leaving a flat taste. "A grave robber."
"No, ma'am, not Jim. He's not in it for the money. He locates burial sites and gets ‘em recognized by the state so nobody can mess with 'em."
"Oh." Meg turned her concentration to the man on the hill. He was beautiful, to be sure, but there was also something mystical about him--ageless and elemental, something that called out to her, drawing her to him. As she watched, he rounded the curve of the bluff and disappeared. Disappointment cut through her as she realized she had never seen his face.
Like to know more about Meg and Jim? It's easy. RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is now available as a FREE download for Kindle and Nook and at most other e-book sites, including Smashwords, OverDrive, and scribd.com.
When I was 11 years old, my dad arranged for our family to travel to Second Mesa on the lands of the Hopi Nation to see the annual Snake Dances. For a little girl with a snake phobia, this was a mixed blessing: the opportunity to witness a rare cultural event combined with a waking nightmare. Yet I'm so grateful I went and had the opportunity while this ceremony was relatively open.
In RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, Jim takes Meg to see the annual ceremony. She is like I was: uneasy (read, terrified) in the presence of snakes. Here is a little of what happens, just as the ceremony is about to begin.
It had been nearly two hours since their arrival at the pueblo. They'd walked down from the place designated for the off-mesa visitors to park through narrow alleyways between the walls of the first American apartment buildings, some of them nearly a millennium old. The pueblos rose two and three stories high, built of stone and adobe. People reached the upper levels by climbing handmade ladders, and even the oldest Hopis seemed comfortable scaling their way up and down.
Many doors had been open as they came through and Meg had seen into the Hopi homes, their floors hard- packed red earth, some flagged in stone; their walls whitewashed and sometimes painted in dark geometric shapes. Lines were strung across the walkways, some draped in drying laundry, others hung with strips of raw meat that would soon become jerky.
They had finally come to the flat surface near the pueblo where Hopi men—some in ceremonial dress, others in jeans and flannel shirts—had designated the area for the dances and had carefully warned each watcher that cameras or recorders would be confiscated. Jim explained that the snake dances had not been photographed since 1911 and surviving photographs were few.
“I wish I’d seen them,” Meg said. “That might have helped to prepare me for this.”
“You’ll be fine,” Jim assured again as he took her hand. “You’re stronger than you think, and besides, I’m here too—if you need me.”
“Thank you,” Meg whispered. She found a tender sweetness in both his confidence and his support.
Now they sat in the proscribed circle, waiting, Meg's stomach tensing more with each passing moment.
“You know you’re lucky to be able to see this,” Jim said, gently stroking her fingers.
“Lucky? How’s that?”
“Look around you. How many white faces do you see?”
She looked and counted. “Not many.”
“These dances used to be open to tourists, if they behaved themselves,” Jim explained. “Now they’re only open to outsiders who have been specifically invited. It’s a long, sad story why, but let’s just say that some visitors didn’t behave themselves very well. The Hopi take these ceremonies very seriously. Even those tribal members who don’t generally practice the Hopi religion see this as a primary way of holding onto their ancient culture—well, this and using the Hopi language.”
Then he added, “And before you ask, no. I don’t even dream of speaking Hopi. Navajo is an Athabascan language, Hopi a Shoshonean tongue.”
Meg smiled. “Not at all the same, I gather?”
Jim shook his head. “I’m glad you get that. Lots of people think that just because I can speak the one, I should automatically be fluent in the other. That’s a lot like saying that someone who can speak Korean should be fluent in Mongolian just because they’re both Asian languages.”
Meg laughed. “I’m glad I knew better than that. It sounds like you’ve been around that block before.”
“A few times,” Jim said, but his voice was calmer as he went on to tell her that the snake dances had been closed to most outsiders since a popular comic book had characterized their deities as “evil kachinas,” or avenging spirits back in 1992.
For a limited time, RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is available as a FREE download for Nook, Apple and, soon, for Kindle. Also available at Smashwords, OverDrive and scribd.com.
Last week's entry introduced readers to a bit of the Navajo culture included in RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, a sweet contemporary romance now appearing as a FREE download. This week does a more realistic take on the old Hollywood concept of Indian burial grounds. Meg and Jim have taken a picnic to a nearby canyon filled with native petroglyphs. Burials like the one mentioned here are probably Anasazi.
For a time, they merely wandered along the creek, hand in hand, one and then the other pointing out sights worth noticing. After a time, they stopped beside another sheer wall of red, its last two feet mortared closed with gray cinder blocks.
"What's this?" Meg asked, leaning against the red as she examined the block wall.
"A burial."
Meg's hand came away as if she'd touched a hot iron.
"Some local kids crawled in there to check it out, found remains, and notified me. I called friends in the anthropology department at Northern Arizona University and they had a team out here from Flagstaff by the next weekend."
"I guess they must have authenticated the find," Meg said, inclining her head toward the wall.
"They authenticated it, examined and cataloged it, then reburied everything exactly as they believe it was in the beginning. After that, some Boy Scouts came in here and bricked it up as a service project, so nobody else would disturb the site."
Meg nodded understanding. Then she touched the rock again, this time almost reverently. "Who's in there?" she asked.
"They were children, three of them, apparently all from the same family."
"Oh." Meg felt the wind go out of her. "Three children in the same family. How old were they?"
"The eldest was about three, the youngest just an infant. The middle one was somewhere in between."
Meg thought instantly of Sally's beautiful children and felt a stab of pain for the unknown mother who had buried three children at once. If Jim had noticed the correspondence in ages, he was tactful enough not to mention it.
"My anthropologist friend dated the burial back to around the time Europeans first settled in this area. It's his guess that the whole family contracted one of the many diseases white men brought—smallpox, perhaps. Maybe typhoid or diphtheria. Apparently the adults survived, at least long enough to bury their children. There may have been older children who made it too."
"How sad." Meg's breath caught in her throat. "How very sad."
"Yes, it is." Jim paused. "Now let's find a way to get happy again." He grabbed her hand and ran, dragging her, splashing and protesting, into the creek.
RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is now available as a download.
This week's sweet sample is from RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, which is now available as a FREE download (for a limited time) from Smashwords and scribd.com, and which will soon be available FREE from Kindle, Nook, and Apple as well. One reviewer said the overall quality of the book was "elevated by its cultural context." The book is set in northeastern Arizona and shares glimpses into Navajo and Hopi cultures, like this one.
Dawn crept over the eastern horizon as they made their way out of town toward the Navajo nation. The eastern sky was a rainbow of soft pastels, ribbons of pink, peach, and mauve mimicking the brighter layers of sandstone beneath them.
Meg quickly understood why Jim drove a pickup. By the time they crossed the borders onto the reservation, the roads had turned to barely paved trails. Later they became paths made by horses' hooves and wagon wheels, little more than ruts on the desert floor.
Their first stop was at a summer hogan some thirty miles inside the reservation. There Jim dickered for a magnificent squash-blossom necklace, got the price down so it sounded like a steal, then nonchalantly mentioned that he might consider the earrings too, and ended up paying as much as the artist had asked in the first place. All of it Meg followed through the men's body language, the items they picked up, and the dollar amounts they quoted.
"I didn't realize you speak Navajo," Meg observed with admiration as they started down the rutted path.
"Like a native, or so I'm told." He shrugged. "It makes sense. I learned it as a native language, right along with my English."
"How? Navajo is one of those languages nobody learns—except Navajos."
"Remember Franklin Nakai?"
She couldn't have forgotten. Nakai had been at the hub of too many jokes and pranks during her school years. "Didn't he work for your father?"
"That's right. He and his wife Ruth worked on our place from my earliest memory. Ruth helped Mom in the house. She understood English, but she never spoke anything but Navajo. I grew up speaking Navajo to Ruth and English to my mother. I learned both at the same time and never thought a thing about it."
"I've heard of that," Meg said. "We studied the concept in a language class in college. They say a child can learn any number of languages at once, so long as he always speaks the same language to the same person and never mixes them up. It's only when the same person speaks to the child in different languages that the kid gets confused, or worse yet, stammers."
"It worked that way for me," Jim answered. "When I got older, the Nakai boys were always around and we spoke only Navajo. When I'm with them, I think in Navajo. It's automatic."
"The only Navajo I ever learned was Yah-ta-hey."
"And that's only sort of Navajo," Jim said. When Meg looked confused, he told her of how a former tribal chairman had started a radio program for Navajo listeners and had created a greeting out of the Navajo words for "good" and "morning."
"So it's a translation?" Meg asked.
Jim nodded. “Sort of.”
"Then I promise I won't use it for the next two days."
“That’s a good idea,” he said, smiling wryly.
Their itinerary took them through Indian Wells and Ganado, as well as down a couple of rutted cow paths with the hogans or small homes of talented artisans at their end.
“I’ve noticed most of these little compounds have both a home and a Hogan,” Meg observed. “So where do they live?”
“Some of the Dineh still live year-round in hogans,” Jim answered, “but most have a more or less European style home they live in. Still they keep a Hogan for ceremonial purposes.” He grinned. “It can double as a guest house, too.”
Meg noticed how the hogans were all built in the same general pattern, mostly in hexagonal or octagonal shapes with an earthen ceiling. At each stop, Jim pulled into the door yard and waited patiently in his truck until the occupants came out to speak to him, explaining to Meg that Navajos considered it a sign of rudeness if a stranger walked up to their door. Whenever the people spoke English, Jim used it, trying to include Meg in their conversations, but many reservation-born artists spoke only their native tongue. Jim led those negotiations in rapid, easy Navajo, quickly concluding deals worth hundreds or many thousands of dollars and always paying in cash.
"Don't you worry about carrying so much money?" Meg asked as they loaded a beautiful hand-tooled saddle into the truck.
"Only when I'm off-rez," Jim said. "Things I take onto the reservation sometimes walk away by themselves, but I've never had anything stolen."
"What's the difference? Between walking away and thievery, I mean."
Jim frowned in concentration. "It's a little tricky to explain to someone who doesn't already understand the concepts, but the Indians have a communal sense of ownership unlike anything we know. If you leave a half-eaten plate of beans lying around, or a pair of still-serviceable work boots sitting outside your house trailer, they likely won't be there when you come back. They’re being used by someone else who has a need of them.”
“And people just accept that?” Meg felt her cultural norms doing a one-eighty.
“It’s what people grow up expecting,” he answered. “On the other hand, everyone here recognizes that money, being a European concept, is treated with a white or European kind of approach. It belongs to an individual. If it's mine, no one else will touch it."
"You sound like you have a real respect for these people."
"Where else in America could you drive around in a new truck with nearly thirty thousand dollars in your jeans and expect to come home alive?"
Check out RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME and the other Rainbow Rock books, available FREE (now or soon) at Kindle, Nook, Apple, Smashwords and scribd and soon at OverDrive.com.
I hope you have all taken advantage of the FREE download for RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, available from Kindle, Nook, Apple I-Store, Smashwords and scribd.com. If not, it will still be FREE for a limited time. Please take full advantage.
RIDE THE RAINBOW home tells the story of high school pals, Meg Taylor and Jim McAllister who rediscover one another ten years after graduation. One of the characters you'll meet in this story if Jim's brother, Kurt McAllister. This week's sweet sample is from AT THE RAINBOW'S END; it begins with Kurt's point of view.
A stiff breeze scoured the desert floor, catching powdery snowflakes and drifting them against the roots of the greasewood and creosote bushes. Kurt McAllister watched the would-be storm with tepid interest, idly reminded of the way his mother used to sift powdered sugar onto freshly baked gingerbread. It had been a good meeting in Gallup that morning. If all went as planned, Rainbow Productions would soon have a contract for an exclusive series of educational videos. They had a funding proposal in for a documentary on Navajo weaving and were already paying their bills with pickup jobs for weddings, birthdays, graduations, and family reunions. In the four years since he had established his business with the woman who was now his sister-in-law, Kurt and Meg had built an inventory of successful management training programs that were bringing in steady income. They were earning a strong reputation in the field and had recently moved into a larger storefront office in Holbrook. All was going splendidly, better than expected.
So why, Kurt wondered as he gunned the engine of his shiny new pickup and pulled into the I-40 fast lane, did he feel like chewing rails and spitting spikes? Frustration seemed to dog his heels these days, faithful as a bloodhound and not one bit prettier.
The road sign showed that Holbrook and his turnoff were still twenty-seven miles away as Kurt punched up the speed to pass a black touring car, but the added speed did nothing to decrease his restlessness. Neither did the fact that there was no apparent reason for it. Things were going splendidly in the business. The only weak area they'd had from the beginning had been scriptwriting. Meg wrote the basic script when they did a management training video, and his brother Jim, an expert in Navajo and Hopi art, wrote most of their documentary pieces. So far, there had always been someone at the community college in Holbrook who could refine their scripts. Though he and Meg had spoken of hiring a professional scriptwriter—and they'd have to get someone if they got the documentary on Navajo weaving—that seemed more an opportunity than a problem. So it had to be something else that was wringing his stomach. Whenever they had a problem in the business, Meg always sat down to analyze it. Maybe he should try... But thinking of Meg only made him more uneasy. Was it something about Meg that was bothering him? True, she hadn't been kicking in her usual full share in the business lately. Normally, she'd have been with him at that meeting in Gallup, but her burgeoning pregnancy was slowing her down. Kurt hadn't minded picking up the slack. Rainbow Productions was his dream, and he never would have been able to start it without his sister-in-law. Besides, he was delighted to see Jim becoming a father. He loved Jim as he loved all the McAllister clan—fiercely, and Meg had made Jim happy. They were a dynamite couple and Kurt had no trouble imagining the beautiful, intelligent child that would result from combining those two gene pools. He fully expected to be an insufferable uncle, bragging to anyone who would listen. So the problem wasn't with Meg's contribution to the business, or with the pregnancy. What was it then? He was thirty years old, well established in a growing business, and doing exactly what he'd always wanted to do, and still he couldn't help feeling that something important was missing from his life.* * * *
The idiot light in the small compact flashed on for the fifth time in as many miles: Brakes, it said. "Drat!" Alexa brought her fist down on the dash. "Now that's useful. Tell me something I don't know." She eased her foot onto the brake pedal and got mush, the same thing she'd been getting for the last twenty miles. "If I'd wanted oatmeal, I could have stopped at that greasy spoon," Alexa grumbled, pushing harder on the brake pedal and cutting back a little more on her speed. She had struggled for so long, wanting what no one from Henderson, Kentucky had ever dared to want, and promising herself she would have it. Now here she was, touching distance from the dream of her lifetime. No way was she going to let a set of bad brakes stop her! The last road sign had said Holbrook was only twenty-seven miles away. It was probably a risk to drive that far on spongy brakes, but she figured they'd still stop her in a crisis, and risking it was probably wiser than stopping along the shoulder of Interstate 40 in the middle of nowhere at all. She glanced at the road atlas she kept open on the passenger seat. Holbrook didn't look like much of a town, but even if the place was positively dead, it probably had a mechanic who could work on brakes, or the master cylinder, or whatever it was that was causing that accursed idiot light to make her feel like such an idiot."Okay," she said aloud, determined to strike a deal with the car. "I'll coax you into Holbrook if you promise not to break down on me before we get there, okay?" She cast a worried glance at the offending light, almost expecting it to answer.
I hope you enjoy reading RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, now available as a FREE download. If you do, perhaps you'll want to know more about Kurt and Alexa as well. Have a great week!
For the last two weeks, I've run samples from my sweet contemporary romance, RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME. I start this week with an exciting announcement: RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is now available as an e-book and, within the next few days, you'll be able to get it as a FREE download for Kindle, Nook, and other e-readers. I hope you will take advantage.
Last week's sample ended with Jim and Meg meeting again ten years after high school. Meg has returned only to help her friends, Frank and Sally Garcia, with their new twins. Jim asks if she's busy. Several of you have written to know more about what happens. Here is the end of Chapter 1, beginning just before last week's cut-off.
Be sure to watch your favorite e-book store this week for RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, available as a FREE download.Moments and years yawned between them, reminders of differences too wide to span. Meg sighed. "So you're working on the farm again?"
Jim's features tensed, an expression so brief Meg wasn't sure she'd seen it. "No. I help out occasionally, but my brother Chris is the farmer, and Kurt helps too. I'm more into commerce, myself. And you? What are you up to these days?"
"Management training, a consultant with Montgomery Adams Seminars."
"Now that sounds like the Peggy Taylor I remember."
"I'm called Meg now."
"Meg?" He tasted the name. "That doesn't sound like you."
She smiled indulgently. "It's all that sounds like me anymore--to me, anyway."
Again the silence stretched. "Say, are you busy this evening?"
"Tonight?" Meg tried to concentrate. "I don't have any plans after the picnic. That is, unless you count Tommy's bath and Isabel's bedtime story."
"That's quite a domestic streak you're developing." His amused look did odd things to the pit of her stomach.
She smiled, forcing herself to relax. "I'm afraid this is a case of 'looks can be deceiving.' I can cope with the older two, but the babies still scare me half to death. I'm glad their mother is constantly within reach. I never tended anyone under five before."
"Sounds like you could use a break. Think you can sneak away for a couple of hours? Most of the town's driving into Holbrook to see the fireworks." As naturally as if he did it every day, he reached up and picked a bit of mulberry leaf from her hair. The action brought him close, close enough that Meg could feel his body heat. "I'd like to take you. To the fireworks, I mean. Maybe we could talk over old times."
Meg's stalled heart resumed beating and shifted into high gear. "I'd love to go, if Sally can spare me. She and Frank have taken the kids for watermelon. I'm supposed to be melting--uh, meeting them there about now."
"Why don't I meet you there? As soon as I put something on."
Meg resisted the impulse to tell him to come as he was. "That sounds fine," she managed.
"See you then," he said as he strode away.Most of a minute passed before Meg remembered to blink, but then she forced her feet into action. Who would have thought Little Jimmy McAllister would turn into such a model for a new Michelangelo? Or that he'd still be in Rainbow Rock? Or that he'd exude such... such power? She drifted toward the watermelon booths, surprised to notice how low the sun had sunk.
Sally looked up as she approached. "Well, there you are! We'd about given you up."
"I bumped into 'Little Jimmy' McAllister." Meg couldn't resist the sarcasm.
Sally grinned mischievously. "Looks good, doesn't he?"
"Brad Pitt should look so good!" Meg collapsed on the bench.
"Brad Pitt isn’t here," Sally observed dryly. "Maybe the three of us could get together sometime, talk over old times."
"Jimmy, er, Jim said the same thing, except he suggested a twosome at the fireworks in Holbrook. Sally, would you mind?"
"Are you kidding? Go! Enjoy! Frank'll help me with the kids, won't you, sweetheart?"
"Sure, babe." Frank leaned over the table and kissed Sally soundly. "Go, Meg. I wouldn't mind having the evening alone with my wife." He wrapped her in a possessive bear-hug and Sally giggled.
"Looks like I'm interrupting something." Jim arrived looking splendid in white jeans and a turquoise polo shirt. "Don't mind me," he said as Sally turned to acknowledge him. "Just go on with, uh, whatever you two were doing." He grinned broadly as he sat beside Meg, easily slipping an arm behind her on the table.
Sally extricated herself from the clutches of her husband. "Meg tells me you're going to take her into Holbrook for the show tonight."
"If it's okay with you two."
"More than okay," Sally said.
"Sounds good to me," Frank added.
Jim looked to Meg, who smiled dreamily. "Me too." Was that her voice? It sounded like an infatuated teen’s, all giggly and breathless.
"That's settled then." Sally dismissed them with an easy gesture. "Go have fun at the fireworks. Then maybe we can all get together later this week."
"It's a date," Jim said. "You ready Peggy, er, Meg?"
"Sure Jimmy, er, Jim." Meg fell into step beside the golden man who had been her girlhood pal. She had never been so ready in her life.
In RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, first book in my Rainbow Rock series, Meg Taylor returns to the town where she, her friend Sally, and their buddy Little Jimmy McAllister were high school buddies. She finds much has changed in ten years. This scene occurs at a local community fair, which Meg attends with Sally and her family, when she spots a man she has seen (she thinks) only once before.
She looked up...and saw him again.
He was in the dunk tank, his back to her, his impressive body bare except for swimming trunks and speckled by the spotty, late-afternoon light that filtered through the cottonwoods, his lion's mane wet and dripping behind him. Meg immediately recognized the man from the bluff; her breath caught in her throat as she turned in his direction. His golden skin was damp and glistening, his hair dark with moisture. Walking without feeling her feet, Meg approached from behind the cage, drawn inexplicably forward as if she knew him, as if she had always known him. Her lips parted and one hand rose involuntarily, as if to touch that warm, damp flesh.
"Meg!" Frank's voice startled her out of her spell. He was in the crowd just to the side of the tank.
Reluctantly Meg looked up.
"I thought we'd lost you!" Frank called, adding, "We're having some watermelon before we leave. Meet us there when you're ready."
Meg nodded as Frank disappeared into the crush. She looked quickly back at the golden man, fearing that Frank's shouted conversation had attracted his attention, fearing even more that he had simply vanished, a figment of her imagination. As she turned, he did vanish. She gasped, and then realized that the boy in front of the booth had struck a bull's-eye.
The crowd roared as the man's perfect form dropped from sight, raising a plume of water that overflowed the tank. He came up sputtering, taunting the crowd, and Meg caught a glimpse of his profile as he turned. I have to see his face. It was more a drive than a thought, and it propelled her between the booths to the front of the tank. She arrived just as he climbed out, his back to her, a towel thrown across his broad shoulders.
"Ya done good, Jim!" someone called.
"Thanks, Tom," he answered. The sound of his voice caused a warm curling in her belly. Astonished at herself, Meg pushed through the crowd, drawing near. Then there he was, an arm's reach away.
He was tall, with a face just as fascinating as the rest of him--a strong jawline, boldly chiseled cheekbones, and a straight, patrician nose leading to a shy, slightly crooked grin. His features were also strangely familiar, almost as if she did know him, and yet she couldn't--could she? And yet there was something about his eyes...
He looked up as she approached, smiling tentatively, then paused, studying her. "Peggy? Peggy Taylor?"
Meg gasped.
The man stepped toward her. "Peggy?" he asked again. "It is you, isn't it?"
She stared, sure she should know the face, but unable to fit it to the body, or the name. Then she knew.
"Jimmy? Little Jimmy McAllister?" She barely recognized her own voice as it poured out like honey.
He stepped forward, reaching as if to embrace her, but then he let his hands drop to his sides. "It's great to see you."
"I, uh . . ." Words eluded her. "You are Little Jimmy, aren't you?"
He grinned, absently toweling his splendid chest. "Yeah, but no one calls me little anymore."
"No." She couldn't stop her eyes from doing a thorough, appreciative inventory. "I can see why not. What happened?"
"I grew." He shrugged. "We McAllisters are late bloomers." He returned the scrutiny. "The years have been good to you, too." The moment thickened as the one-time friends studied each other. "What are you doing back in Rainbow Rock?" Jim asked as he toweled his arms, hands, and throat.
Meg followed his hands with her eyes, suddenly imagining the feel of that warm skin. She flushed. "I, uh, I came to help Sally with her babies. I'm staying with the Garcias."
"That's good," Jim said. "Sally can use the help. I can't understand why she didn't mention you, though."
Meg was wondering the same thing. "My plans were only certain a couple of days ago. I asked her not to tell anyone I was coming."
"Not even the third musketeer?" His look sizzled through her, warmer than the July afternoon.
Meg gulped to catch her breath. "I didn't realize you'd still be around. Didn't you go away to school?"
"Arizona State," he answered, nodding. "Tempe isn't that far away."
"Then you came back?" Meg looked around her. "To here?"
Jim's grin straightened. "I came home."
Moments and years yawned between them, reminders of differences too wide to span. Meg sighed. "So you're working on the farm again?"
Jim's features tensed, an expression so brief Meg wasn't sure she'd seen it. "No. I help out occasionally, but my brother Chris is the farmer, and Kurt helps too. I'm more into commerce, myself. And you? What are you up to these days?"
"Management training, a consultant with Montgomery Adams Seminars."
"Now that sounds like the Peggy Taylor I remember."
"I'm called Meg now."
"Meg?" He tasted the name. "That doesn't sound like you."
She smiled indulgently. "It's all that sounds like me anymore--to me, anyway."
Again the silence stretched. "Say, are you busy this evening?"
RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME is now available as an e-boook for Kindle, Nook, Apple, Smashwords and scribd.com.
Today's excerpt is from the opening of RIDE THE RAINBOW HOME, the first book in my six-book Rainbow Rock series. Enjoy!
Chapter One
"Oh!" Meg jumped as lightning crashed overhead. She swerved slightly, but fought her sports car back into her lane. July had come to the high plateau and with it, a typical afternoon thundershower. To Margaret Taylor, who hadn't seen the plateau for years, the storm was anything but typical. Lightning danced along the ridges and shimmered through the valley of the Little Colorado River, sending thunder rumbling in its wake. Giant thunderheads loomed thousands of feet above the red sandstone cliffs, pierced here and there by shafts of yellow light that brought heaven to earth. Meg watched in wonder as she pushed east along I-40, back to the land she had once called home.
Home? Rainbow Rock had never been home. The five years she'd spent there had been the worst of her life. The jeers she had suffered as stepdaughter to Lon Ramsdell, the high school principal, had been ravaging: "teacher's pet," "killjoy," "goody-goody," and so much worse. With relief she had grabbed her diploma and hit the road for UCLA, vowing never to return.
And she hadn't. Not for ten years, years she had spent putting adolescence behind her and building a career in management training. But time had softened the sting of those old wounds. Maybe it was time to make her peace.
A phone call had begun this adventure, interrupting one of her busiest mornings. She had known the voice instantly. "Meg, I had twins! Sammy and Serena."
"Congratulations, Sally." Meg had covered the phone while she mouthed to her secretary to hold all calls. "You have your hands full, don't you?"
"No kidding! That's why I called. Can you come help?"
"You're kidding, right?" She pulled the Sky Tech file as she mimicked the line from Gone with the Wind. "I don't know nothin' 'bout tendin' no babies, Miz Scarlett."
But Sally had always been persuasive, and her arguments--a recent cesarean, an absent family, and four babies under four--were convincing. Add to that their ten-year high school reunion later in the month and Meg was hooked. "Okay, I'll come," she'd said, wondering why she'd ever fought it, "but I'll only help with the housework. You can take care of the babies!" She had finished some pressing business and arranged for her colleague, Allen, to cover her next six-week training tour. Then she had started for Arizona.
Meg left the rain behind as she turned north from Holbrook toward Rainbow Rock, nervously drumming the dash. Would people even know her? The slim, poised businesswoman she saw in her mirror every morning was a far cry from the chubby, awkward teen known as Peggy Taylor, or behind her back, as Piggy. Her ivory skin was clear now, her figure trim, her glasses replaced by contacts that intensified the blue of her eyes, and her weight down by thirty pounds. She'd changed her long, limp hair to short, chic curls that had darkened almost to black, but none of that had quieted her insecurity.
Brooding thoughts evaporated like the summer rain as she crested the ridge. Rainbow Rock lay before her, nestled in the bowl of a desert valley. Thunderclouds still rolled along the layered sandstone bluffs that had given the town its name, freckling their vivid colors in light and shadow, but the sky above the valley floor was clearing. Meg pulled onto the overlook and sat staring down on the town. For years she'd struggled to forget everything about Rainbow Rock, fighting so hard she had even forgotten the good things, like the rugged spectacle of the painted hills and the peace that followed a summer storm.
Peggy Taylor, Sally Williams, and Little Jimmy McAllister had been "the three musketeers," indivisible against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or the barbed insults of the high school in-crowd. Meg's loyalty to those friendships had finally brought her back; it caused her to move forward now, nudging her car onto the highway. As she dropped into the valley, the clouds along the far ridge dropped a veil of shimmering rain. A shaft of sunlight struck it and burst into color, streaking the sky with a brilliant double rainbow that stretched above the distant hills like a welcome banner.
Meg shook herself to ward off a growing sense of awe. She prided herself on being sensible, not given to seeing signs and omens. It was merely a coincidence that she had returned during one of the summer's loveliest moments, and that was all it was.
A beep sounded and a light on her dashboard advised Meg to check her fuel. She grumbled, muttering a word her mother would not have approved. She'd probably have to stop before driving to Frank and Sally's. Sighing with frustration, she scanned the horizon for a gas station.
The first signs were for tourist traps, like Thunderbird Indian Trading Post and Fort Huachuca Gifts and Curios. Tourists, blindsided by such signs, believed they could get a crack at real Native American crafts. Meg knew better. One summer it had been her job to peel "Made in Korea" stickers off the cheap kachinas and tipi trinkets at Fort Huachuca (she hadn't discovered it was illegal until she started business school in L.A.), and no one told the tourists that the Indians of northern Arizona had never lived in tipis, or that the real Fort Huachuca was on the Mexican border, having nothing to do with Navajos, Hopis, or any other Native North Americans. Meg smirked as she drove by; tourists who bought such trash got just what they deserved.
She passed the Eagle Wing Lodge with its cabins in the shape of cement wigwams so unlike local hogans and pueblos, and then she spotted Kirby's Shell. She looked for a self-serve pump, then remembered that small-town Arizona seldom offered one, and stopped beside the only unleaded pump that didn't wear an "Out of Order" sign. A nice-looking towheaded teenager jumped to her service, his friendly smile turning wolfish when he spotted Meg behind the wheel.
"What can I do for ya, little lady?" he drawled in a creditable imitation of John Wayne.
"Just fill it, please." She flashed the boy a no-nonsense look that said, Whatever your line is, I'm not biting.
Not the least discouraged, the boy leaned near her window as the pump rang her total. "What brings you to town?"
Meg ran one manicured hand through her short, sassy curls. "Do you have a drinking fountain?" she asked, then noted the name on his uniform and added, "Kyle?"
The boy flushed slightly. "No, ma'am, but there are paper cups by the sink in the ladies' room, 'round back." He opened her door.
Something about the boy's face seemed familiar. "Kyle what?"
He grinned, the wolf on the prowl again. "Willard, ma'am. Kyle Willard at your service."
Meg opened her mouth in surprise, and quickly closed it again. No need to blow her cover by telling Kyle she had once been his baby-sitter. "Check the oil, please," she tossed over her shoulder as she rounded the building. She heard the boy whistling tunelessly as she rounded the corner--and caught her breath.
Before her lay a stretch of red earth that reminded her just how lovely the desert could be. Dotted with sagebrush and greasewood, it lay perfect and timeless in the pure golden light of the afternoon, its plane broken only by the small, flat hill that stood a lone sentinel on the valley floor.
And that was when she saw him, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was climbing Valley Hill some forty yards away. His muscular upper body, bare and bronzed, was dappled by the spotty light as he worked his way up the bluff. He wore old, well-fitted jeans and climbing boots, and the light breeze riffled his leonine mane of thick blond hair. He seemed perfect, essential and ageless, at one with the bluff, the desert, and the endless sky.
Meg let out her breath, unaware she had been holding it, then stared in fascination. A shaft of light fell over the climber, making his tanned skin gleam like polished gold. "Who is he?" she whispered, not realizing she had spoken aloud until Kyle answered.
"He's a local guy. Name's Jim. Some kids spotted Indian relics and he's checking to see if there might be an old burial site."
Disappointment cut through Meg like summer lightning, leaving a flat taste. "A grave robber."
"No, ma'am, not Jim. He's not in it for the money. He locates burial sites and gets ‘em recognized by the state so nobody can mess with 'em."
"Oh." Meg turned her concentration to the man on the hill. He was beautiful, to be sure, but there was also something mystical about him--ageless and elemental, something that called out to her, drawing her to him. As she watched, he rounded the curve of the bluff and disappeared. Disappointment cut through her as she realized she had never seen his face.
Kyle shifted uneasily.
"Well." Meg shook herself back to reality. "What do I owe you for the gas?"
"It needed oil too." Kyle began an itemized list of charges as they rounded the building.
Meg followed reluctantly, looking back to see if the man was really gone or if he had ever really been there at all. For a fleeting moment Meg wondered if he'd been nothing but a mirage, or a wish. She forced her attention back to the boy, pulling bills out of her wallet.
It had been the moment, she told herself as she left Kirby's. The moment, not the man, had caused her sudden fascination, her trembling hands, her rapid heartbeat. It was the magic of the storm and the mystery of the desert that had caused her to lose her head, a quirk of timing, a trick of fate. She smiled, almost believing. She was halfway through town before she realized she'd never gotten that drink of water.
