Tuesday, June 30, 2020

BWL Publishing Inc. July New Releases

BWL Publishing Inc. July 2020 New Releases – https://bookswelove.net

Morgan Redding faces evil in her mother’s new husband and ends up at her aunt and uncle’s animal rescue refuge, where she meets Rowan.

Rowan Marcus falls hard for the new woman who takes up residence at the wildlife refuge. The cougar inside him wants to make her its mate. Rowan can’t stop his need to protect her at all costs.

Then all hell breaks loose, animals get killed, a crime syndicate’s involved, and Morgan finds out she’s a shifter! Too many secrets, too many forces at work, too many dangerous threats that Morgan and Rowan must face. Thank goodness for the Marcus Pryde.

* * * * *

The maid knocked on the door to room 103, hearing no reply, she inserted her pass key and opened the door. When she saw the dead man lying on the floor beside the bed, she dropped her arm load of clean sheets and towels, raising her hands to her mouth. A second later she turned and bolted for the elevator.  Detectives John Robichaud and Pete Duncan would soon be drawn into another complicated investigation as they tried to piece together who the dead man was and why here ended up at the King Edward Hotel with no identification or legitimate reason for being there. Their efforts would eventually put them up against an organized German spy operation that saw them and their friends at Naval Intelligence chasing German agents and murderous merchant seamen from a mystery ship at anchor in Bedford Basin.

* * * * *

After winter makes its final stand with a ferocious March blizzard, Emerald Valley begins to warm with the promise of spring – and a new crop of Savero Gold foals is eagerly awaited. It is also a time of great joy for Kane and Jessica as they are welcomed home from the hospital with their own precious newborns.

Bea and Will are welcomed with open arms as well when they leave Bermuda for good and return to the lush rolling hills of the Valley. And to everyone’s surprise and delight, Rowdy and Victoria decide to put Texas in their review mirror and move back home to the Valley to raise their children.
Then the unthinkable happens – every parent’s worst nightmare. A child is abducted and a community in shock gathers to pray. And then another child goes missing….
Back Home in the Valley takes you on a gripping journey of suspense you won’t soon forget.

* * * * *

Detectives Janna Brill and Mama Maxwell are chasing shadows. They have an attempted robbery of a political fund-raiser, another of a society bash, and a dead billionaire businessman. All under the eyes of state-of-the-art security. The brass want the case solved fast, but there are no fast answers. There are plenty of witnesses and security footage. Plenty of suspects, too: politicians, drag queens, spies, industrialists, scientists, even robots. But nothing helps identify the assailants, and all the clues only say the crimes were impossible to commit...

* * * * *


Monday, June 29, 2020

Featured Author Victoria Chatham

Hello! I am BWL Publishing Inc. author Victoria Chatham. You can view and purchase any of my titles by visiting my BWL Author Page here http://bookswelove.net/chatham-victoria/.

From as far back as I can remember, the writing was as much part of my life as reading. I don’t remember learning to read, only that I could and did. Reading books made a significant impact on my life. Having a soldier dad meant we were always on the move, never overseas but to several postings in England and Wales. I learnt early on the disappointment of leaving friends behind, but books came with me or could be borrowed from libraries wherever we lived.

The power of the stories I read stayed with me, right from Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking Glass, to Treasure Island, Gulliver’s Travels, Black Beauty and many more of what were then considered children’s classics. At age thirteen, I read my first Georgette Heyer Regency romance, Sprig Muslin, and fell utterly in love with the genre. My favourite Heyer novel is Frederica, which I still find as fresh and funny as the first time I read it.

It was also at age thirteen that I started writing real stories, prompted by my English teachers who praised my award-winning essays. And then life happened. Leaving school and getting a job is a heady experience, especially in the early sixties, with happy hippies and flower power added into the mix. My other life-long love is horses, and it was finally a job in a hunting stable that took me away from home. I still read plenty of books, but the writing faded into the background only to re-emerge when my children arrived on the scene.

Just as I had enjoyed books as a kid, I made sure mine had books too. Quite apart from the books they owned, we made weekly visits to our local library. Those were the days of Fattypuffs and Thinifers, Flat Stanley, The Starlight Barking, and, of course, every Ladybird book published. We also – shock, horror! – drew stories on the dining room wall. I’m no psychologist, but it always appeared to me that telling a child not to do something meant they automatically did it. So we crossed that bridge by designating a wall on which they could draw. When it was full, we painted over it and started writing stories again.

It wasn’t until I immigrated to Canada that I became serious about writing. This time nothing short of publication would do. My husband, now deceased, was my most significant support. He signed me up for writing classes, silently supplied cups of tea and mugs of coffee during the times I sat down to type out the next bestseller, and in general, believed in me while I did not. But writing had become a given, a little bit of heaven every day when I could retreat into a world of lords, ladies, and happy-ever-afters.

I have one contemporary western romance amidst my publishing line-up, but it’s the historicals that I enjoy writing the most. I have also written short stories, three of which appeared in an anthology from which all proceeds go to supporting breast cancer research. One author suffered a loss, one survived, and at the time my stories were included, I was finishing a five-year course of post-cancer treatment. A year after finishing that, I faced a second go-round with breast cancer and all that entailed. Books, through all those treatments and surgeries, were, along with my dogs, my constant companions.

Here is an excerpt from my first Regency romance, His Dark Enchantress. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Six

“Good morning, Miss Devereux.”

“Good morning, my Lord.”

Lucius chuckled, and at the sound, Emmaline set her jaw and lifted her chin.

“Does it kill you to be polite to me?” Lucius asked, his voice as soft as the silk lavender gown she had worn to Almack’s.

“Cuts me to the core,” Emmaline responded promptly.

He laughed at that and escorted her to the waiting riding party.

“I hope you find Psyche to your liking,” he said, indicating the perfectly groomed dark brown mare that Noble held.

“She’s beautiful.” Emmaline patted the mare’s neck before allowing Noble to assist her into the saddle.

Lucius mounted his horse, and with a clatter of hooves, they made their way towards the park. Beamish rode ahead with Lucius while Noble brought up the rear.

“Is all well?” Juliana reached across from her horse, caught Emmaline’s hand, and gave it a little squeeze.

Emmaline returned the pressure. “I’m so sorry, Juliana, but I’m afraid your brother appears to bring out the worst in me.”

“Don’t feel bad. That is a reaction many people experience.” Juliana smiled a little as she thought of how best to explain her brother’s behaviour. “Lucius can often be overbearing. I think it stems from him having inherited the title at such a young age. He was but fifteen when our Papa died, and losing him affected Lucius greatly.”

“I’m sorry. I did not know that.”

“Well, it was a long time ago. Caroline tells me they were on excellent terms, and she would remember, being the eldest of us three. Lucius tried his best to be responsible but became quite wayward after he went to Oxford.”

“I remember you telling me he was considered quite the rake. But, rake or not, you are so lucky to have a family.” A wistful tone echoed in Emmaline’s voice.

“Not all the time.” Juliana checked her mount, which showed signs of wanting to forge ahead. “Both Lucius and Caroline, who I know mean well, are doing their best to marry me off to gentlemen who do not inspire me in the slightest.”

Emmaline took note of the words, not missing the softness with which they were spoken.

“Mr. Beamish has still not spoken to your brother?” she whispered.

Juliana shook her head. “The opportunity has not yet presented itself.”

“How did you come to know Mr. Beamish?”

“His father’s estate borders Avondale Park, and he and Lucius practically grew up together. They are close in age, you know, and went up to Oxford within a term of each other.”

“Oh, I see.”

Juliana shot her an amused glance. “They are opposites, are they not?”

Emmaline smiled at her friend’s perception.

“Maybe that’s what makes them friends,” she said.

Once in the park and trotting smartly along Rotten Row, Emmaline silently agreed with Mrs. Babbidge that it was, indeed, a fine morning. Sunlight glinted off the waters of the Serpentine, a light breeze tweaked the leaves on the trees, and the green turf beside the tan-covered ride stretched invitingly before her. A little demon of daring whispered in Emmaline’s ear but was drowned out by a question from Juliana.

“Did you enjoy last evening?”

Emmaline bit her lip. There was no way she could tell Juliana the truth, that her feelings for Lucius had grown more quickly, more deeply than she could have ever believed and that, once having stepped into his arms, she had not wanted to step out of them.

“It is a long time since I have been in the company of so many people,” she said. “I was simply overcome by it all. I am so sorry I spoiled your evening.”

“You did not spoil my evening, silly.”

“No?” Emmaline gave Juliana a sideways glance.

“Well, maybe a tad,” Juliana admitted with a smile. “I enjoyed Mr. Beamish’s company very much.”

“Aha – now comes the truth of it!”

“As does my brother.”

Emmaline looked up to see Lucius trotting towards them. He sat his horse in perfect balance. Beneath lowered lids, she glanced at the long, firm muscles of his thighs, imagined his slim fingers that were even now encased in black leather riding gloves, closing around hers. She swallowed hard.

“Juliana, I have to ask you quickly – have you divulged any information from my letters to your brother?”

“None. You know I would not.”

Emmaline cast Juliana a grateful smile, but Lucius was too close for her to say more.

“I trust the air has revived you this morning?” he asked of her as he drew alongside.

“Indeed, my Lord, I am now feeling quite well,” Emmaline acknowledged. The little demon was back, its voice stronger now. She turned her head and looked Lucius directly in the eye. “The only thing that could make me feel any better would be to race you to the end of the ride, for I know I would win.”

As soon as she uttered the words, Emmaline could have bitten her tongue. Why had she let that demon spur her to issue such a challenge? She gulped. Too late now to retract it.

Sunday, June 28, 2020

Housewives, Traditional Sex Roles & Mopping the Floor

Amazing how much time housewives spend pondering their floors. You may think that such a preoccupation is a sign of not much going on in that life, but from a "housemaid" view, the state of the floor is a re-occuring issue. Worn board floors, where cat fur accumulates in powdery drifts after a mere 3 days, or the kitchen linoleum which desperately needs waxing, they all cry out to me. I might fancy myself in an observatory, pondering the gravitational fields of Trans-Neptunian objects, but math always evaded me. --Or maybe I was just a typist at heart.

Gravitational studies do have a small place in the field of housecleaning.  A bit of cat fluff falls at the same speed as the toast crumbs my husband sweeps absently from the table onto the floor. This practice of his used to make me see red. Sometimes he'd do it even while I, rag in hand, was on my way to tidy that exact surface. These days, however, I pick my battles. He doesn't seem to realize that things on the floor immediately become my problem. Or--more darkly--maybe he does.

Most likely, he doesn't think and then multiplies this by doesn't care, because really scratch the surface and most men don't think much about women's work, especially if they have a "proper" housewife in residence. 

This blog is from an elder's POV, one from the "baby bust" cohort. As a female of that era, I was trained to domesticity in the traditional mode by a mother who wasn't much for housework herself and maybe figured such a virtue would eventually help me out in the marriage market. Back then, the deal between the sexes was: The Man performs the work he does in field or office, factory or machine shop and in return, Woman cooked, cleaned and helped to tend the green square surrounding the house, as well as being MOM to the kids. If you were a farmer's wife, you had an extra task in the form of poultry. 

Prehistorical Digression:

Imagine a Cro-Magnon a.k.a. EEMH "European Early Modern Human" woman (perhaps an Aurignacian, the ones with the great wall "posters") cleaning out the clan cave. Gotta take out the garbage you know, or you'll attract all kinds of unwanted guests, like the cave bear who used to live here, the local wild dog pack or the saber toothed tiger, the old one who can't chase faster prey anymore.

This old tiger may be a bit lame, but he's fast enough the dine on you, monkey.

Better to get the tell-tale odors away from your front door. You could simply heave the gnawed bones over the edge of the cliff. If you weren't lucky enough to have such a handy disposal area, you had to laboriously dig a hole with an antler pick and bury the stuff. And just about the time you'd get the place cleaned out, I'd bet dollars to donuts that the men would be back with a new carcass and all jazzed on fermenting grapes or something vegetative and disorienting they'd eaten in the woods. They'll just want to barbecue and party. If that's the case, tomorrow will just be same another day of taking out the trash.

Thank heaven EEMH men did "bring home the bacon," because women were incredibly busy. Either pregnant or nursing, chewing great swathes of hide to soften it sufficiently to sew, or gathering firewood and water and scrounging about for roots, nuts and berries, while trying to keep the older children from falling over the edge of that room with a spectacular view.

Years ago, post climbing the ladders to the dwellings at Mesa Verde, my first question was  how did they raise any kids up there? Or did they tie up toddlers  like backyard dogs until they'd acquired complete balance skills and some judgment?

So now, considering what housecleaning used to be like, I don't consider my modern housework all that hard. When I wrote Mozart's Wife I imagined Constanze's trials when the money ran out--which it often did--and how often she'd find herself doing the chores. Hand-scrubbing those lace cuffs and cravats and undies in a world in which there was no decent hand-cream for winter cracked skin! Soothing ointments? Another item for which you'd have to track down the ingredients and then concoct a cure yourself. Worse would be dishes in a world with no indoor plumbing. The Mozart's, like many today, ate a lot of take-out when they could no longer afford an apartment with a kitchen and/or the requisite cook and scullery maid to staff it.

Personally, mopping floors has become a creative driver. Versions of this housewife's trance work often appear in my stories. The Cinderella-like tale of Genesee, where a Metis girl is demoted from beloved daughter to servant, or Elizabeth Hamilton's strategy in A Master Passion to "encourage" her husband to accept the gift of a housemaid from his in-laws, or  Angelica in Angel's Flightattempting to settle her nerves by scrubbing the steps at her Uncle's Hudson Valley house on the eve of a British terror campaign .

~Juliet Waldron

Barnes & Noble

"Thou dost appear beautiful on the horizon of heaven... "

(From the Hymn to Aton by Akhenaton "the Heretic")


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