How did you get started writing?
I’ve written poetry for years — love notes, birthday cards, good-bye cards for departing co-workers. I turned on to crossword puzzles in my twenties, and I noticed that only certain consonant sound combinations can start a word. Sound, mind you, not spelling. I am an auditory person, so this suited me. I used this to generate possible words for the crossword puzzle. When I started writing lots of rhyme, I used the same principle to generate rhymes. I wrote tons of poetry in notebooks which ended up in stacks in the attic somewhere. A few appeared in the occasional newsletter for an organization I belonged to.
Then I wrote a poem I wanted to keep. I knew the notebook thing was hopeless, so I decided the poem needed to be on a computer somewhere. However, I earn my living as a computer software engineer, so I’m involved with more than one computer. For a while I did simply store the poems (there were more than one by this time) on a computer, but I always seemed to want to get at it when I wasn’t in front of that one.
So I looked for a way to store them online, found a couple of online communities, started getting involved in them, started reading ezines online. I came across a contest in an ezine I liked, and sent in a poem, which I had conveniently to hand as I’d stored them in an online facility. I was one of four finalists, and, thus encouraged, I started to work more at it.
What genre(s) do you write in and why?
Poetry and fiction at the moment.
If you’d asked me back in 2005, which was when I started taking myself seriously as a writer and poet, I would have sworn that I would never, ever, write a word of fiction.
Then I discovered the Muse Online Writers Conference, and hooked up with Linda Barnett Johnson, who ran (and still does, though I’ve had to drop out due to time constraints) an online writers group. But in order to participate in the poetry workshop, you had to write fiction as well. I wrote my first fiction story, one for children, and a site in England put it up online. It was months and months and months … before I had another fiction acceptance, but by then I was hooked.

What inspired your latest book?
I’m a huge science fiction fan, and have been since I was in elementary school, but I’d never written a science fiction story. In fact, I had a phobia about it, as I was intimidated by the world-building. I decided to simply go for it and do NaNo in 2010, so I started planning. I wanted to write about the interaction of alien and human culture, and my main character I made a fourteen year old boy. I did a lot of world-building, thinking about the culture, the arts, the politics of both my aliens and the Terran Federation, and relatively little attention to the plot — I had a page or so of notes. Then I started writing.
I wrote 31 poems as part of the universe of the novel. Eight of them appear in the book. I’ve published the whole collection through CreateSpace. It’s called “Sand in the Desert.”
Where do you get the ideas for your stories?
The idea for this book was pretty straightforward – teen boy gets involved with terrorists and saves the day. The interesting stuff — to me — was the characters and the society. As to ideas, I’m working on two more novels set in the same universe, one an adult sci fi that came out of a back-story question I asked myself. The answer ended up a one-liner in “Relocated,” but the resolution let me to another novel.
The YA does tie up some loose ends. One of the secondary characters from “Relocated” is again the main character.
There are still things that haven’t been resolved — political questions as to the interactions of the Federation and Aleyne, the question of Aleyni/human origins, some stories about a character who appeared briefly in a previous draft of the adult sci fi novel I’m working on and who is barely mentioned in this one.
Then there are the characters that haunt me — characters in search of a story. I have a family of three kids I’ve had kicking around my head for a couple of years. I recently took a class and managed to write some stories I like using these characters. I’m still working on how I want to develop these stories — work them into a novel? Continue to write short stories? Both?
Oh, yes, and then there are the ones where I put down the book and say, “but what happens when …” That’s when I take notes. I have a folder of book ideas. Far more than I’m going to have time ti write. I’m pretty sure this is true of many writers.

Do you have critique partners?
I belong to a couple of poetry groups. The group of us who wrote “Lifelines,” the Poetic Muselings, are still together, and I belong to another online poetry group. I also have a writing partner – we exchange a chapter a week. I just sent her the last chapter of the adult sci fi.
How likely are people you meet to end up in your next book?
Random people? Not so much. People I know? Um, well — I do take characteristics from them. The grandmother in my novel “The Angry Little Boy,” which will be out next year, is based on my ex-mother-in-law, and the name of the dog in the story is to commemorate a dead friend. Of the three kids I mentioned above, two of them have some characteristics of my two oldest boys. The third is a girl, and she sprung full-blown from somewhere or other and appeared before me, hands on hips.
What is most difficult for you to write? Characters, conflict or emotions? Why?
The piece that I’ve worked on the most, I think, is story structure and plot. I had no background in fiction writing when I started out, so that was something I needed to learn about. I’m doing better, though, as I’ve continued to take classes.
I’m not a detailed plotter by nature. I start with the characters and the setting, the beginning, major plot points, and the ending (more or less). I did have notes for scenes/incidents/whatever for the two books I’m working on how. The kid one I kept fairly close for the first quarter of the book, maybe, and then it took off. One of the characters surprised me by not turning out at all as I had envisioned him.
Point of view is something else I’ve been working on lately. Relocated is first person, and the Angry Little Boy is third person, but strictly from the little boy’s point of view. The adult novel I’m working on is the first time I’ve attempted a multi-point-of-view story. I’d written a bunch of it and was struggling with how to keep track of the point of view characters when I got the chance to sign up for an online class in point of view. It was a huge help. Still, the decision on who the POV characters would be in this story was far from trivial. This is the third major rewrite of this novel. The first two times I got it wrong — first time wrong story (and therefore wrong POV character), the next time right

Has your muse always known what genre you would write and be published in?
My muse hadn’t a clue. Not one. I’m a fairly serious amateur musician, but I decided in high school not to make it my profession. It never even crossed my mind to be — or want to be — a writer. The poetry thing was just a way to handle teen-age angst, and after that because my sweetie liked getting poetry, and then because it was handy for Christmas cards and the like. One day, however, my muse came calling, and I wrote a poem that I knew was worth saving. I haven’t looked back since.
One of the morals of this story — and there are many, at least for me — is not to limit our vision of ourselves and what we can be or do. Another is that organization is vital. Until I put up my writing online, so I could access it and see how it evolved, etc, I could make no progress as a writer, because I couldn’t gain any perspective on my writing when it was floating around in a succession of notebooks.

Bio:
Born and raised in New York City, Margaret Fieland has been around art and music all her life. Her poems and stories have appeared in journals such as Turbulence Magazine, Front Range Review, and All Rights Reserved. She is one of the Poetic Muselings. Their poetry anthology, “Lifelines,” was published by Inkspotter Publishing in November, 2011. Her book, “Relocated,” is available from MuseItUp publishing, You may visit her website, http://www.margaretfieland.com. or http://poetic-muselings.net/

http://tinyurl.com/MuseRelocated
http://tinyurl.com/SandPoetryPrint
http://tinyurl.com/SandPoetry

Over the years, I have written to various levels of sensuality. Each story requires something different but in general, the levels of intimacy remain the same. You will find many articles written on this subject with good reason. For us, the romance writer be it erotic or sweet or sensual, the stages are all the same.

Everyone is in agreement that these steps need no verbal queue but all lead from the first advance to intimate contact. It’s all in the body language, folks and body language doesn’t lie. If you need some lessons in body language, watch the Fox show, Lie To Me and you’ll learn everything you ever wanted about body language. They do it right.

But getting back to us writing love scenes, it is imperative that you have these steps. Sometimes, you can skip a step if the story calls for it BUT for the most part, these steps need to happen for your reader really to get into your story. And the love scenes can make or break a novel.

Eye to body – This is commonly known as the once over. In addition, it is usually very subtle. The gaze will drop from the upper face, meaning the eye and nose area, to the lower face then on down to the upper parts of the body. Sometimes, the person will step back to get a better, fuller look at you. If that happens their whole, posture will change as they glance at you up and down to see how your face matches your body.

Eye to eye – Intimacy increases the moment two people have eye contact. The more eye contact, the more soulful the looks. The looks will become more and more meaningful as more are exchanged. If a person refuses to gain contact in this sensual charged moment will send a message one is not interested.

Hand to hand – Contact is usually lingering but light. It can be disguised as being accidental or occurring in a social setting, which is considered acceptable. This would be like one putting a hand under and elbow to guide someone, two people reaching for the door handle at the same time or a handshake that slowly ends. Look at the way the Victorians or those of the Regency period acted toward each other and you will see this step everywhere.

Hand to shoulder – This behavior can again be hidden within what is considered socially acceptable behavior. Until this point, either person can withdrawal gratuitously without any real hurtful feelings. But once this boundary has been crossed, there is no going back without one’s pride being severely injured. This is just a touch to the shoulder for a variety of reasons, like getting ones attention. This is also a form of claiming ones territory and can be used to ward others off.

Arm around waist – This is the signal that one wants greater intimacy. This is the time to get out if one does not desire this relationship. Feelings will be hurt if one doesn’t respond positively to this gesture.

Mouth to mouth – No, we don’t mean the rescuitation kind. LOL! This is the actual act of kissing where chemical information is passed from one person to another. The kiss adds another sense to intimate contact and that is taste. The first sense, encountered way back in step one, is smell and pheromones are a very powerful odor. Taste can tell one all sorts of information about people like body temperature, hygiene level and a variety of other things. If the people are really involved in the kiss, their temperature will go up since the stimulation will cause sexual excitement. When people are emotional cold, they are usually physically cold as well which means they are not that interested in continuing the encounter. The more passionate a person gets, the more their temperature increases.

Hand to head – This is a trust issue. The more one person trusts another, the more likely they will allow their head being touched. Women tend to do this way before men. Caressing ones head indicates an increasing trust between the two people involved. Our heads are extremely vulnerable and only someone we trust are ever allowed to touch us there with a negative reaction.

Hand to body – This fondling can happen through clothes or under them. Some people will close their eyes as they are unconsciously gathering more information about the person they are with. However, keeping ones eyes open while maintaining total eye contact is a more powerful gesture. There one uses even more senses, touch, sound, taste and sight as well as smell. During the physical portion of our encounter, our sense of smell is very powerful, as it will help us to become more in tune with our sexual partner, making us more sensitive to their unique smell. Odors are a powerful aphrodisiac, which helps to prepare us for a pleasurable experience and to etch our partner in our memory. The best source are natural smells, so keep the perfumes to a minimum.

Mouth to body – This can be very stimulating and a real turn on for both parties. Breasts and necks are very sensitive for both sexes as are the lower abdominal region. Fellatio and cunnlingus can be very rewarding as long as both partners are into oral sex.

Hand to genitals – Gentle caresses are always best in this stage. If you have gotten this far, intercourse is usually imminent. One can heighten the sexual tension in the story by making the characters get this far without fulfillment. Once one gets to this step, each partner trusts each other explicitly in a normal relationship. There are some other types of relationships where trust is never achieved.

Genital to genital – This is the final act in lovemaking. Everyone is different and the emotions as well as all the senses need to be utilized when writing a great love scene. Vaginas and penises are utterly boring when none of the stimulus is present.

Now, not all of these steps need to be present in your novel. Just remember, each step is a sensual journey. Recently, I had been in the blah stage of writing a love scene. Then I saw last week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy and they reminded me of just how sensual stolen looks and accidental caresses could be. Suddenly, I was all hot and bothered again to get back to my characters.

Hope that this little journey can help you all create great love scenes. I know that I read them again and again when I get stuck.

I want to thank Cynthia for allowing me to come to her place. It’s a wonderful place to gather. One commenter will get a copy of my newest book, The Harvester, sometime next week. You’ll be chosen by random drawing and I can’t wait to meet you.

Have a great week!

Lynn

Lynn Crain has penned over 25 novels in romance in the genres of science fiction, fantasy and contemporary romance, erotic to tame in nature. She always knew that writing was her calling even if it took years at other professions to prove it. She has belonged to EPIC and RWA for more years that she cares to think about. Currently, she lives in Europe while her husband of nearly 30 years pursues his dream of working internationally. Her state-side home is in Nevada where family and friends wait patiently for their return. You can find her hanging out at A Writer In Vienna Blog (www.awriterinvienna.blogspot.com) and various other places on the net (www.theloglineblog.blogspot.com; www.twitter.com/oddlynn3; www.lynncrain.blogspot.com ). Still, the thing she loves most of all is hearing from her readers at lynncrain@cox.net.

Logline: Sky Nerezsh, a Harvester of men, leaves home avoiding a tragic path when a rival comes to claim Earth and the two Scottish lifemates she’s just discovered.

Blurb: Princess Sky Xera Nerezsh came to earth to avoid the normal succession path to the throne. Being the oldest daughter, she will be required to murder her mother in order to secure her path to power. Sky loves her mother and refuses this path, choosing instead to disappear in the vast reaches of space. When her past collides with her present, she has to think quick on her feet, claim two men and a whole planet just to avoid the inevitable: a meeting with her mother. Along the way, she discovers true love and a burning need to be there for them always. Now if the other Harvesters can just keep to themselves, they’ll have no problems. But who said true love was ever easy.

Excerpt: Suddenly one dark haired man was on the table in front of her, gyrating his sexy hips in her face, his package mere inches from her mouth. In another life, she would have leaned forward and planted her lips on his crotch, willing his body to perform. She really should have been paying more attention to the situation around her instead of wondering about where Angela had gotten herself.
Leaning down, his breath reminded her of the sweetgrass that grew on her home planet of Tyrsati, heightening her senses even more. “Sweetheart, I see how you want me…it’s written all over your face.” His voice purred in her ear.
Sky gasped and pulled back to get a better look at the man in front of her. He reminded her of the gods of Vada. He was tall, well-muscled, dark hair brushing the top of his shoulders and had the most incredible violet eyes she had ever seen. Guess the optics weren’t wrong. He would fetch an exquisite price on Texra and her mother would be extremely proud for her acquisition. She shook her head to clear the cobwebs.
“Nice eyes, sweetie – hang around after the show – I’ll make it worth your while.” His voice hit a resonance with her and her whole body flushed. It had been years since she had reacted to any man. Now her emotions and body betrayed her for an insignificant being on an outer planet. She shook her head. This planet was no more insignificant than any other, including her own but she knew if she didn’t get herself under control, the Harvester in her would take over. Old habits die hard.
“Don’t let his demeanor fool you, luvey. He just wants to get into your pants.” Another deep voice reverberated close to her ear.
She glanced over her shoulder and again her breath was nearly taken away as she looked into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen in the galaxy bar none. The sky of Octa couldn’t hold a candle to the color that swirled in their depths.
“Ooo, Jaxon is right about the eyes. Very cool green.”
“Contacts,” Sky managed to get out for the second time this evening, her voice low.
“And a sexy voice to boot. Very nice.” He twirled away to join his companion on stage. He was just as nice looking as the first guy but just a little shorter. His shiny hair swung around his jaw line as he moved and her hands ached to run her fingers through it and over his body.
She sat there stunned as the people at her table laughed and clapped her on the back as if she’d done some sort of fantastic feat. While her time on this planet had been very thrilling, in her old life working for her mother, their performances had to be impeccable or their fate might be worse than death. She vaguely wondered just how she’d rate them.
Sky did her best to smile and act as if what happened was one of the most exciting things in her life when in reality it brought back some memories she’d rather forget. Folding her hands in front of her, she closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. She opened her eyes slow and caught a glimpse of a targeting laser. The light was in a part of the spectrum that no one of this planet could even see but her optics caught it.
Scanning the crowd, she allowed her eyes to whirl, not caring who saw. There were not supposed to be any Harvesters on this world as it had been declared too primitive to even be included in the Alliance of Planets. She came here because she knew this was the one place her mother wouldn’t think to look. Now, she knew another Tyrsatian walked the same world as she did, occupying the very same room.
Maybe it was time to see just what type of trouble Angela got herself into. Leaning across the table, she quickly gave Jayne her phone number and said her goodbyes to all the others present. Rising slowly, she didn’t want to alert the other Harvester but she was just far enough away and at a weird angle to not see who it might be. Moving quickly to the back wall, she moved to where she stood way behind the woman but close enough to see who it was.
Jesata Ardik. Of all the Harvesters to show up on her new home planet, one of the most relentless in the business had to land on her new home. This wasn’t going to be easy. She had to delay her from marking them because once they were marked, it didn’t matter wherever in the universe they were, they would be considered fugitives until captured and sold to the highest bidder. Meaning, she wouldn’t be able to get them off world without the help of her mother.

Buy Links:
Smashwords ~ https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/171101
Amazon ~ http://www.amazon.com/Harvester-Girls-Night-Out-ebook/dp/B008AP7ESI/ref=sr_1_15?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1339491578&sr=1-15&keywords=Lynn+Crain
ARe ~ https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-theharvester-825386-340.html
Barnes & Noble ~ http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-harvester-lynn-crain/1111514688?ean=2940014795517

1.How much time do you spend promoting your books?

A. I’m all ways on the lookout for places to promote my books on the internet. My schedule and a few other things like a tight budget make it impossible for me to travel very far so blogging, and internet interviews are my best options for promotion. I do send to conferences book marks of my titles and excerpt booklets, both have done well for publicity.

2.Where do you get the ideas for your stories?

A. Oh, wow, that’s like asking how do you breathe. The ideas usually pop into my head when someone says something that catches my attention. For example years ago a friend laughingly commented I must be from another planet. I replied no just a different dimension of this one, which then lend to my first book “Cat and the Wizard”.

3.Do you have critique partners?

A. Lucky for me yes! Several people in my local chapter are all ways up for a quick read and feedback. They make life so much easier.

4. Give us an elevator pitch for your book.

A. At a ghostly southern estate Cuilean Kelley is about to have his reality and dreams collide.

5. Do you have a view in your writing space?

A. Yes, I can see what my four year old grandson and his two year old sister are up to while sitting at the kitchen table working on my lap top. I have a regular desk but then I couldn’t see what the ‘grands’ are plotting next.

6. What genres are you drawn to as a reader?

A. Paranormal, I love Elaine Bergstrom’s Austra Vampires, Lynsay Sands vampires, Katie MacAlister’s vamps, and of course Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse series. My other guilty pleasure is any book with the word ‘sheikh’ in the title.

7. Has your muse always known what genre you would write and be published in?

A. My muse is an adventurous one! She prefers romance and paranormal (vampires) romance at that, but she has talked me into doing a book with an angel, a ghostly thriller, a contemporary, erotica, and a multicultural ménage a trios.

Release date July 13, 2012

The Estate

author J. Paulette Forshey

Night after night Cuilean Kelley’s dreams are haunted by an exotic woman. His days are preoccupied searching for a set of rare books. Clues to the mythical tomes lead him to a tiny parish outside of Savanna. He unearths not only the volumes, but discovers the woman of his dreams is real, and being held in a spectral prison guarded by an ancient lost civilization. Her freedom depends on Cuilean and the books connection to a ghostly southern estate.

Excerpt: The Estate

“Oh, my, isn’t he a little biscuit?”

Cuilean bit the inside of his mouth, on the comment of his person, to keep from laughing.

One of the well coiffed white-hairs snickered. “My dear, I bet there’s nothing “little” about him.”

What was that old saying he mused, something about snow on the mountain top but fire underneath. He glanced over and back quickly to make sure, yep, they were seventy-something and not seventeen.

“Yes, he’s certainly a tall one must be six foot two or three.”

“Honey, I wasn’t referring to his height and he’s at least six four if not taller.”

It took the southern belle a minute to comprehend. “What? Oh! Mildred get you mind out of the gutter.”

“She’d have to step up to have her mind in the gutter,” another scoffed.

Snickering giggles smothered behind fine linen handkerchiefs reached his ears.

“That olive skin and that thatch of black hair, hmmmmm.”

“The boy needs a haircut and a bath,” snapped one.

“I wouldn’t mind giving him both. I’d just love to scrub his back…and his front.”

“Did you see those green eyes? Like fresh spring grass they are. I’d kill for those thick black lashes he has, well if I had those I’d never have to buy mascara again.”

“I read in a book once about Celtic heritage, they called men with his coloring Black Celt’s. Doesn’t that sound so romantic?”

“Bessie May what kind of book was that?”

Cuilean noted from the minute long hesitation Bessie May wasn’t in any hurry to answer. That and the way she crossed her arms over her more than ample bosom and pursed her lips tight. His grandmother, red-haired and pale-skinned, had called him a Black Celt when he was young. She told him he was a throwback to the marauders who pillaged, and plundered the land before finally claiming it as theirs. And after the women of the tribes they ravaged, tamed those same raiders.

“Bessie May, we’re waiting.”

Hand clutching her handkerchief to the base of her throat, Bessie May stood for a moment more before blurting. “It was one of those romance books. So there.”

Her friends closed their eyes and shook their heads for a moment as though in prayer. “You really need to get out more,” suggested one lady.

“I wonder why he’s here.”

“Doesn’t look like he could afford to buy even the smallest, most worthless, item on the auction block.”

Cuilean bit back another grin staring straight ahead. No, he supposed he didn’t, wearing a much worn jean-jacket, a faded blue work shirt, tattered jeans, and thin-soled tennis shoes. Right now he probably looked like something the proverbial cat drug in, especially after traveling in these clothes for several days. He listened, decided which one would hold the most information, turned and locked his gaze with hers.

“Good morning, ma’am, and ladies.” He gave them a courtesy nod. “I’m Cuilean Keeley.”

About the Author

J. Paulette, award winning author, lives in a small Ohio town with her husband, and a Basset Hound, who thinks she’s a princess. Her mornings belong to her writing, her days are spent loving her five grandbabies, and her nights belong to her husband, the inspiration for her heroes. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Central Ohio Fiction Writers, Southeast Ohio Novel Writing Group, Northeast Ohio Romance Writers of America, and the Fantasy, Futuristic & Paranormal Chapter of RWA. She also writes under the name of Genevieve Delacroix.
Look for her next release later this year, A Tango Trinity, from Whispers Publishing

www.jpauletteforshey.com
paulette.forshey@facebook.com
Twitter @ForsheyJ
The Estate can be purchased from www.whispershome.com and Amazon.com

Please help me welcome my friend and critique partner Jennifer Zane to my blog today. Be sure and leave a comment to be entered into the prize drawing.

How did you get started writing? Years ago my co-workers and I were talking about romance novels and how it would be easy to write one. We figured since there is a specific plot sequence and always a Happily Ever After, how hard could it be? I took this discussion seriously and considered it a personal challenge. I quickly joined the local Romance Writers chapter, was plopped into a writing group with the most diverse hodge podge of ladies, and started writing. I have to admit, my first book, a Western historical, was terrible! But, after over ten years, my writing group is still as hodge podge as ever, but we’re the closest group of friends and each others’ best (and worst!) critics. I will whole heartedly admit I wouldn’t have kept at my romance book challenge without my group to coddle, harass and push me. (If you read between the lines here it screams, ‘Hint, hint- Get a writing group!’)

Tell us about your current series. My current series are called the Gnome Novels. The first is Gnome On The Range, the sequel, Gnomeless. They are contemporary romances set in Bozeman, Montana. They are romance, mystery and humor rolled into one. I lived in Bozeman for five years and the stories are based loosely (you’ll see what I mean when you read the books!) on myself, my family, friends and neighbors. Like any small town, it’s quirky and full of book fodder.

I’m excited to say Gnome On The Range won two awards at RomCon 2012. It was the Readers’ Crown winner for Best Contemporary and Best First Book! Knowing READERS gave me this award is very special to me.

Where do you get ideas for your stories? My ideas come from life experiences, friends’ life experiences, the news, etc. Just observing others. I’ll give some examples: My next door neighbor ran the local adult store. Goldie is based loosely on a different neighbor. My son really did get his arm stuck in a patio umbrella stand. I love going to garage sales. I used to work for the local volunteer fire department. I’ve been to more county fairs than I ever thought possible—and wore flip flops. Once. My kids and I had contests watching the thermometer in the car drop down, down, down on the way to school in the morning. The lowest we saw was -23 F in March when the rest of the world was on spring break in their bikinis. My dad towed a trailer with a car on it across the country that came loose. It wasn’t funny for him but works well in a book!

If you look around you, there’s lots of book material. Everywhere.

Excerpt from Gnomeless:

When little girls play make-believe with their dolls, most pretend they’re mommies or princesses or teachers. Have little tea parties with them, play dress-up. That’s what my sister, Violet, did with hers. Me? I played plumber with mine. I dressed my little Betsy Wets-Alot up in a pair of gray coveralls stolen from a male test pilot action figure I’d found at the toy store. He’d been tossed, naked, into the back of my closet until my sister found him and used him for the groom in her pretend weddings.

Not only did I dress my self-wetting doll in menswear, I ran a straw down the pants leg to divert the faux pee away from her anatomically-incorrect little body. No potty for her. I was five and knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I, Veronica Miller, wanted to be a plumber. Just like my father.

Now, over twenty years later, I’d fulfilled my childhood dream. I was the plumber I’d longed to be, working with my dad. Soon to be working on my own. One last payment to my old man stood between his official retirement and my small business owner status.

I smiled to myself about this almost-upon-me momentous occasion while lathering my hair in the shower. I squealed when the spray of water I was standing beneath went cold and quickly rinsed out the strawberry scented shampoo.

“Stupid hot water heater,” I grumbled to myself as I yanked back the plastic shower curtain and stepped out into the steam filled room. I longed to get back to my own house as Violet’s plumbing system needed some serious work. Even in the thick humidity, goose bumps popped out all over my body as I quickly toweled off and snuggled into my ratty, yet wonderfully comfortable flannel robe.

While I leaned over and rubbed my wet hair with a bright pink towel, I heard it. The sound of a key in a lock, the front door opening. I froze in place upside-down, staring at my knees between the edges of the robe, towel tangled with my long hair. Since I was a plumber, not a law enforcement officer, I lacked the training to keep panic at bay. That hot, adrenaline-induced fear rose up inside me between one heartbeat and the next. I swear the little wet hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Help. I needed to get help, but my cell was in my purse, which I’d dropped by the front door, one room away. No house phone.

I stood up, flipped my dark hair back over my shoulder, held my breath and listened. Rustling and a little mumbling was all I could make out. Who was in the house? Sure, they must have a key since I hadn’t heard a window break, but the only other person who was supposed to have one was Violet, and she was in Utah.

I tiptoed over to the door, bit my lip and winced as I turned the knob and hoped it didn’t squeak. I slowly opened the door as I held my breath. Peeking into the bedroom, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Barely made bed, dirty clothes tossed haphazardly at the wicker hamper. Something heavy thumped onto the floor from the vicinity of the front door and I looked in that direction as if I had x-ray vision and could see through the wall to the person in the living room.

I squeezed through the small gap I’d made in the bathroom doorway, afraid if I opened it anymore, the old hinges would give me away. Breathing as quietly as possible, which was pretty hard in panic mode, I bent down and grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on to use as a weapon. What I held didn’t register. I knew it was solid wood like a baseball bat and as good as I was going to get for protection.

Violet’s house was small, with only one floor and a scary basement I rarely visited. Living room, kitchen, bedroom and bath. That’s it. Which also meant there wasn’t anywhere to hide.

For breaking and entering, the guy wasn’t Mr. Stealth. It was the middle of the afternoon, he’d come in the front door and he was awfully noisy for someone being where they weren’t supposed to be. Even if he was the worst robber ever, that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

My palms were sweaty as I peeked around the door jamb into the living room. His back was to me and he appeared to be looking down at something he held in front of him, probably a cell phone. It appeared he was texting, or reading one. Tall, around six feet, maybe a little more, and solid. He wore jeans and dark leather shoes. His black jacket was a lighter weight than one would expect for the dead of winter in Montana in the throes of a bitter cold snap. A gray knit cap covered most of his dark hair.

I didn’t recognize him, but I wasn’t in the mood to wait for him to turn around and see me. I decided to use the element of surprise. I tiptoed over to him and whacked him on the arm with my wooden weapon. Hard.

Thwack!

I’d aimed for his head, but nerves and slick palms messed me up and I hit his shoulder instead. The reverberations tingled in my fingertips.

“What the…?” Mr. Intruder said, his voice deep, full of surprise, the cell phone dropped to the floor at his feet. He raised a hand to his upper arm. As he started to turn to face me, I hit him again, this time on the back of the head.

Crack!

It wasn’t the sound of his skull breaking, but my weapon instead. The wood broke into two, one piece clattering to the floor.

Intruder grunted, fell to his knees with a thunk, then fell face first onto the floral area rug in front of the fireplace, his face turned toward me.

I stood there motionless, stunned, holding half of my broken weapon. Huh, varsity softball had paid off. It appeared I’d hit a home run. I looked down at the prostrate form on the floor. One leg moved a little, which, combined with some groaning, indicated I hadn’t killed him. Even with his eyes closed, I instantly recognized him.