Are you an Issues Writer? - Sarah M Anderson

Indigenous Issues and their portrayal.

A look at vintage cinema and the modern romance.  A totally random holiday post.

I'm an American Indian fan from way back though sadly disadvantaged being an Australian.  I'm old enough to remember all those movies from the sixties and seventies with John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Glenn Ford, Audie Murphy and so on.  I saw all those Spaghetti Westerns with Clint Eastwood and Terrence Hill.  I saw The Magnificent Seven and fell in love with James Coburn.

I also saw A Man Called Horse and Little Big Man. Along with a relatively unknown school library book "Comanche", a book that was quite graphic despite being targeted at young teens.  They made a big impact on me. (I have Googled for the book and all I find is one by Fabio)

American Indians are perceived as much more romantic than our own indigenous people here in Australia.  The most well known movie about an Australian Aborigine made in the seventies was "The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith."  It is about a part indigenous young man who struggles to cope with his place in the world. Jimmy murdered everyone in such a violent and bloodthirsty manner that half the people in the cinema in Cunnamulla walked out.  It probably did nothing for race relations in a town that was 50% indigenous.

Even "Jedda," a more sympathetic portrayal of a young indigenous woman brought up in a white world, made by Australian film maker Charles Chauvel in 1955, ends badly for the young woman, torn between her attraction to a tradition male and a half-breed who would keep her in the white world. Recently we have  movies like Samson and Delilah dealing with the alienation of indigenous young people and  "Rabbit Proof Fence" is about the stolen generations, when indigenous children were taken from their families to be brought up in white homes and on mission stations.

So what does all this have to do with Sarah M Anderson.  It is probably about a year ago I first read a Sarah M Anderson book.  She writes about Cowboys and Indians with emphasis on the Indians.  It is because of this that I would class her as an issues writer.  She doesn't beat you over the head with it.  The books are primarily about the romance.   But you can't help learning a little along the way.

All of the books I've read by Sarah have American Indians in strong lead roles.  Women and men who are dealing with the conflict that comes when one group in society is disadvantaged.  That disadvantage can be manifested in many ways, economically, educationally and in most cases, a disparity of power.   They also deal with the dichotomy between fitting into the broader society in order to work with the powers that be and maintaining the links to tribe and culture.

The first book in her new Bolton Brothers series has just been released (what's not to love about men on motorbikes.) This is a totally gratuitous link to a blog that features hot men & bikes & cars.

Straddling the Line by Sarah M Anderson   *****

Sarah M. Anderson has written another of her amazing stories about conflict between cultures and the struggle to find who you are when you are literally 'Straddling the Line'.  I love it when the title of the book can have multiple meanings and this is one of those.

Josey White-Plume doesn't know which side of the line she really belongs.  She's tried living in the white man's world in New York and it didn't work out. So she's come home to the Reservation to try living in her Lakota world.  She is desperate to be accepted as one of the Tribe and is working her darnedest to be the person she thinks will be welcomed.  The last thing she needs is to be attracted to Ben Bolton, a numbers cruncher white guy.

Ben is also struggling to find his place in his own tribe, the Bolton family.  He doesn't quite fit, trying to walk the line between his father's old fashioned obsessions and making their motor cycle business viable in the modern world.  When Josey walks into his life, wanting help for the school she is helping build on the Reservation she opens his eyes to so much more.

How these two interact, the relationship they build is just beautiful to see. Josey and Ben are two very different people but they compliment each other in their strengths and weaknesses.  They have a lot to teach each other and a lot to learn.  Together they are amazing. Together they can straddle the line between two worlds and make it work for both of them.

Romance Novels - Trash or Treasure.

How many times have you heard Romance Novels dismissed as fluff, lightweight and unrealistic?  How many times have you heard the art of Romance writing denigrated as lacking in originality, plot and not real literature?  And what about Romance writers.  Critics can't seem to make up their mind.  They could be wizened spinsters creating unrealistic fantasies or bored housewives trying to inject spice into an otherwise unfulfilled life.  On the other hand, critics suggest they could write one of these romance novels in a weekend.  After all how hard is it to past a couple of cardboard cut out protagonists into whatever is the current trope and turn out something that will sell?   I'd like to see the results of that exercise.

Just today on Twitter, word got around that a library in the U.S planned an Un-Valentine's Day party where romance covers would be "vandalised" in their words, to decorate the lounge.  A library thinks it is a fun thing to vandalise books because they are only Romance novels.  I can hardly wait until Halloween when truckloads of Stephen King novels will be similarly trashed.  Yeah, I believe that's going to happen.

There are a lot of things I could say about the general denigration of a genre that accounts for 50-55% of book sales depending on sources.  First of all is the implied sneer at all those foolish readers, the majority of whom are women.  You must wonder why we were given the vote.

As for the writers.  They range from professional women with careers in the medical profession, academia, accountancy, military, film industry, education, publishing and a whole range of other interesting and challenging jobs.  And yes some of them are wives and mothers.   Some are single, many are married or with partners, some are divorced and widowed.  In other words they come from all walks of life with a vast array of life experiences to bring to their writing.

Now for the books.  Lightweight fluff.  I was joking on Twitter the other day that this year seems to be the Year of Endometriosis in Romance.  I've read several romances in the last few months that have heroine's dealing with the results of this often debilitating disease.  It causes pain, excessive bleeding and can lead to infertility.  Not the stuff of happy endings.

Last year I would have designated as the year of the mastectomy.  A whole batch of books that dealt with cancer survivors and the struggle to make a new life and find love after a blow that strikes at the heart of being womanly.

Other serious issues in books I've read this past year include rape, child abuse, miscarriage, marital abuse, infidelity, loss of a child, loss of a spouse, abandonment, divorce, unexpected pregnancy, surrogacy.  The list goes on.

And we haven't even touched on the men in our heroine's lives.  In the current climate with war coming so close to home we have heroes with PTSD and serious injuries.  And the ever present Alpha male who is an affliction in himself until brought to his knees by the love of a good woman.  Nice to read about but how many really want to live with these guys.

Whatever you think about romance novels, they do not skim over the realities of life.  They deal with the things that real women are facing every day in a world that doesn't guarantee a happy ending.  But in these books women can find hope and courage and inspiration that no matter how dark things may seem...and on page 143 things can be very dark indeed...it is possible to find a happy ending.  And love can mend even the most broken of hearts.

Tis the Season

It's that time of year again.

In our house that means checking all the bunks have fresh sheets for the influx of family.  This year we will have all seven children in the house plus a ring-in attached to No. 5.  No.2's fiancé is missing in action, spending Christmas with his family as his parents are just back from touring the country.   Seriously you don't need an occasion when the whole family is together to have a party, but these days with No.1 in Berlin more often than not, and Nos. 2, 3 and 5 living in Brisbane, it isn't that common to have everyone in one place.

I will probably dig out some favourite Christmas movies, "It's a Wonderful Life" and "Love Actually" and this year I'm thinking of watching "The Holiday" for a little romance with a seasonal touch.  Speaking of Jude Law...  No.7 and I went to see "Rise of the Guardians" at the cinema in the neighbouring town of Warwick.  Jude Law is the voice of Pitch Black aka The Boogyman.  Is there a reason why a British voice does evil villain so very well?  No. 7 thought it was the best Christmas movie she'd seen. It had humour, pathos and lots of good will and a hot Australian bunny voiced by Hugh Jackman.  What more could you ask for?

Still on the subject of Hugh Jackman, I hope to see Les Miserables in the New Year.  I've managed to avoid reading the book and the 'serious' movies for years.  Surely with music and singing it wont be depressing. Nos. 4, 6 & 7 are coming with me to see The Hobbit in 3D at a Vmax cinema in Brisbane on Boxing Day as a special treat.

Christmas reading.  So far I've read Christmas Wishes by Rhian Cahill, a spicy little short set in Australia.  Another Australian Writer with a historical in an English setting is Anna Campbell with The Winter Wife which is a nice little reunion Novella.  I also read and enjoyed Newborn Baby for Christmas by Fiona Lowe,  set in Australia too.  On my Christmas TBR I have a duet by Sarah Morgan Wish Upon a Star and a trilogy of linked stories, A Christmas Letter by authors Fiona Harper, Donna Alward and Shirley Jump.  Intriguing because each of the authors comes from a different country so I'm looking forward to seeing if there are any notable differences considering they are all snowy northern hemisphere stories.

I am in big trouble because I forgot the Baby It's Cold Outside Anthology which I read a while ago.  It's a terrific read from four of my favourite sizzling hot Harlequin Mills & Boon authors, Amy Andrews, Heidi Rice, Aimee Carson and Kate Hardy.  Sorry girls.  Don't know how I could forget those totally Hot guys.  Maybe it was jealousy, maybe I was blocking them from my mind.  Maybe I drank too much Bailey's...

Seasons Greetings

This is the picture we used on our Christmas Card this year created by No.6

DH and myself as Mr and Mrs Claus and the elves from left to right are as follows.

No. 4, No. 6, No. 1, No. 5, No.2, No. 3 and on the floor is baby elf No.7


To finish off, I'll include the 1k short I wrote for the latest Seasonal Themed Writers Challenge on the Harlequin boards. It's a matched set with my other reunion short. It didn't win so by all means finish reading here. 

A big thank you to all those people who have read my blog over the year.

Tis the Season 

The ice clinked and settled, melting slowly in the heat of a late December evening.  Dipping one finger into the glass, Jess swirled the frozen lumps into a whirlpool.  Her mother always said drinking alone was a bad sign.  As usual she was right.  Annoying woman.  She’d been right about everything even til the end.

‘This is my time, Jessica.’

‘That’s just stupid Mum.  You’re only fifty-four.’

Not that she looked it.  Years of fighting for her life, the chemo, the surgeries, the pain.  She looked old.  And tired. 

‘They’ve been fifty-four good years, in spite of losing your father so young.  Don’t hold on Jessica.  You’ve your own life to live.’

Maybe mum hadn’t known everything.  Not that it was her fault.  Oliver still turned up to visit the hospice regularly.  Pretended all was well between them.  He’d moved out a couple of months before the funeral.  That beautiful spring day at the cemetery was the last time she’d seen him.  Doing his duty, standing beside her through the Church Service and at the interment.  His grave expression suited his long patrician good looks.  Cool grey eyes mocked her gently when she had to beg a handkerchief.  She never could remember to bring her own.  Right to the end he did everything expected.  Holding her hand, his long elegant fingers threaded through her small slender ones.  Even letting her bury her face in his shoulder to dampen his dark, well cut suit with her tears.

Right until the end when everyone had gone home and just the two of them remained.  Embarrassed by the memory of how she clung during the service, she’d withdrawn from him, uncertain about his mood.  He stood silent, watchful, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers.  At some point he’d loosened his tie and run his fingers through the pale blond hair giving him a faintly disreputable air.

‘Thank you for all your support, Oliver.  I appreciated you being here.’  He didn’t answer, just stood there expectantly.  ‘Well, I suppose this is goodbye.’

‘Is it, Jess?’

‘You won’t need to come around any more now Mum’s gone.’  That tell tale nerve in his jaw pulsed.  He probably couldn’t wait to get away.

‘True.  I suppose there’s no other reason for us to see each other.’

That hurt.  Hearing him say it finally.  Cautiously, Jess extended her hand.  ‘Friends?’

A strange silver glint showed in his eyes.  ‘Friends?  I don’t think so, Jess.’

Scrubbing her face,  Jess frowned at a brightly clad Santa on a Christmas card.  ‘There’s no need to stare, haven’t you seen anyone drunk before?’

He didn’t respond, his jolly red-flushed face indicated he’d probably been into the Bailey’s too.  Bailey’s on ice.  She giggled.  Bailey’s on a snow cone at the North Pole.  Not sweltering in the heat of an Australian summer.

She could hear bells ringing.  Santa’s sleigh no doubt.  He’d have a hard time getting down the narrow flu of this fireplace.

A figure swam into view.  Not dressed in red.  Not Santa then.  ‘What happened?  Couldn’t Santa make it?  Fancy sending Frosty the Snowman instead.’

‘You’ve been drinking.’

‘Clever, clever Snowman.  Do you think your icicle heart will melt in the heat?’

‘I don’t have a heart remember.  You told me I came fully formed in solid marble.’

‘Marble.  Cold hard marble.  I remember now.’

The tears came, trickling beside her nose.  He’d liked her nose once upon a time.  Liked the freckles,  the ginger curls, even the muddy hazel brown eyes.  Liked the fact she was only as tall as his heart. 

‘I’d forgotten what a maudlin drunk you were.’

‘I’m not mor…maudlin.  I’m just tired.  I’ve been working right up til this evening.’

‘Saving the world from silence at the music store.’

‘Music is very shmoozing.   Soothing.’

‘I think it’s time for bed, Jess.’

‘Didn’t you bring me a Christmas present?’

‘I did, but I don’t think you’re in any condition to receive it.’

The world spun as strong arms scooped her up.  ‘Marble, cold hard marble.’

Daylight illumined the sleeping figure, the milky skin with the smattering of freckles on shoulder and nose.   The kissable lips, the lush curve of… 

‘Oliver?  What are you doing here?’  She pulled the sheet up, hiding the tantalising curves.

 

‘Sleeping.  What one usually does in bed.’

‘Not this bed.’

‘Why not?   This is the marital bed and we are married.’

‘You left.’

His chest tightened painfully at the memories.  ‘You threw me out.’

‘No I didn’t.  Did I?’  Her forehead creased in a frown.  ‘Did I?’

‘I certainly understood “Get out and stay out” to have that meaning.’

‘I didn’t mean it.  I was upset.’  She struggled into a sitting position holding the sheet across her chest.

‘Not surprising.  It is upsetting when your exceedingly heartless husband demands sex of you now and then.  But I think you did mean it.’

‘My mother was dying.’

‘And in my purely selfish male way I thought I was offering you comfort.  I was wrong apparently.’  He could see her eyes studying him.  So much hinged on her response.

‘No you weren’t wrong, Oliver.  I just wasn’t prepared to see it.’

‘You could have just told me you weren’t in the mood.’

‘You said I was immature and needed to grow up.’

‘I cared about your mother too.  You never gave me credit for that, Jess.  You were hurting but so was I.   You were slipping away from me.   Every day you seemed more distant.  It’s hard to be shut out.’

‘I didn’t know I was doing it.’

‘I know.  And every time I pushed, you just retreated more.  So when you told me to go, I went.’

‘Why are you back?’

‘Christmas is the Season for Peace and Goodwill to all men.  I was hoping for a little of that to come my way.’

‘You want to come home?’

‘I would very much like to come home.’

Her hand reached out and her fingers intertwined with his.

‘Tis the Season.’

 

The Ghettoisation of the Medical Romance

Where have all the Doctors Gone...

I used to read doctor and nurse romances all the time.  But I have hardly touched a "Medical" romance for years.  I've recently started reading them again after discovering some authors that really captured my imagination.  But I am still reluctant at times to pick up a "Medical" off the shelf.

I spent a few minutes rummaging through my vintage Harlequin Mills & Boon romances this afternoon looking for a quick read.  After the intensity of the voting section of the So You Think You Can Write competition and late nights trying to Mr Sheen my manuscript into a pristine polished condition, I needed a break.

 The selection I picked out as possibilities included books by Jean S. Macleod and Jane Arbor who were mainstream romance writers.  All of the books are standard Harlequin Romances, all of them included nurses and doctors. Of course there are authors who are known for Doctor/Nurse romances like Betty Neels, Lilian Chisholm, Marguerite Lees, Vivian Stuart and Juliet Armstrong.

I've been puzzling about this for some time for a number of reasons.  One is that the manuscript I submitted to the competition features a surgeon as the hero.  I happen to like writing romances about professional men.  Doctors, Lawyers, Architects and so on.  This particular story, and all the others I am working on with doctor's and nurses, don't fit the current "Medical" category because the guidelines stipulate that both the hero and heroine must be professionals working together in a medical environment of some kind.  My doctors have a fancy for glamorous models, and artists and my nurse is tangled up with a lawyer.

There is also a discussion on the Harlequin boards on "Medical" romance that bemoans the lack of broader distribution of the line.  Apparently they are not available in store fronts in the U.S. though they are here in Australia.  Then there is the fact that only eight people submitted a manuscript to the SYTYCW competition under the "Medical" imprint.  So is there a problem?  And does it lie in the extremely rigid guidelines about what comprises a "Medical" romance.

The difference?  Why do I relish reading these vintage authors and their doctors and nurses and yet hesitate to read the more specific "Medical" category?  Perhaps because "Medical" category romance takes itself so seriously.  If I buy one of these modern Doctor/Nurse romances, I will almost invariably be seeing my hero and heroine interact in a medical environment.  It's certainly a great way to throw them together and offers some interesting and occasionally heartbreaking story lines.  But it's all a bit intense and to a former nurse (of the very lowest, bottom of the rung kind) it's also a bit like work.  Every...single...time.

Not that I don't enjoy the occasional visit to a hospital. Though in real life I don't want to stay there!  And the writing is amazing.  The quality of the "Medical" stable is high and includes some of my mainstream favourite authors like Sarah Morgan, Kate Hardy and Olivia Gates from the Desire line.  There are exciting things happening in the "Medical" with some of the new authors really stretching the boundaries.  I mean that mostly in a good way <G>.

But if there is an attitude to "Medical" romance that keeps it marginalised, all this will go unnoticed and unappreciated by the general populace of romance readers. While I can appreciate the Harlequin Mills & Boon dedication to the promise they make to readers to give them what they want and expect, perhaps it can be carried to extremes.  In the case of Doctor/Nurse romances, perhaps they have made their promise too narrow, too confined.

I notice that the new KISS Riva lines promise an arc from mild and sweet to hot and sexy but with an overall promise of alpha males and a flirty modern take.  Wouldn't it be nice if there could be a similar arc with Doctor/Nurse romances so that people who find too much hospital and medical jargon off-putting could ease into it gently while still enjoying the pleasures of McSteamy and McDreamy.  And maybe there could be more Tulips and Manorial homes, more cruises to exotic destinations, and maybe doctors and nurses could marry outside the profession.  Maybe they could marry artists and models and lawyers and billionaires and princes that don't coincidentally happen to be doctors as well.

Warning

The Devil and The Deep by Amy Andrews      *****


This book should come with a WARNING. Do NOT choose this book to read while sitting at the bedside of a dying relative. You will make enemies when you glare at the nursing staff for interrupting you. Because you will not want to put this book down. This book also has really sizzling love scenes, so it is not the book to read in the presence of your Mother-in-Law. Even if she is in a coma and will not notice your heavy breathing and hot flushes.

Seriously this book has some wow factor. I always loved those old musicals in which there was a story within a story. This book has a story within a story that will have you running to the fridge for an Icepack.

The heroine Stella Mills is a best selling author of a historical romance featuring a pirate so hot he would turn the seven seas into a steamy desert when he captures Lady Mary Bingham and seduces her. The funny thing is that Vasco Ramirez is based on Stella's real life childhood friend Rick Granville who would never be interested in doing any of those interesting things to Lady Mary's alter ego, the real life Stella Mills.  Or would he?

The long time friendship between Stella and Rick is sorely tested when her father leaves them a treasure map in his will, sending them on a Treasure Hunt together. Or is it a Pleasure Hunt?  Rick is a hero to die for, though early in the book when he displayed his flirty technique with OTHER women I was ready to clip him under the ear. But once he got going, he had me under his spell like the rest of those poor bemused women. I thought I knew better but apparently I'm a sucker for a gorgeous guy with a nice line in flirty charm.

Stella is a wonderful heroine. In spite of her denials, it's obvious that Rick was always the one for her from the time she was ten years old. Even her ex is so opposite to Rick you can see how hard she was running. But her book gives her away every time. So imagine what might happen if Rick should get hold of it. Lucky a macho seagoing treasure hunter isn't likely to read a romance novel.

If you've read Amy's recent books Taming the Tycoon and How to Mend a Broken Heart, you wont expect this. Just as they are entirely different, this is different again. It has the wit and humour of Taming the Tycoon but the added vibe of a rollicking sea going adventure and don't forget that sizzling hot historical pirate.  Amy's heroes and heroines are so incredibly real you have this sneaking feeling you've met them somewhere. They aren't perfect but they are likeable as well as loveable. If you are after a feel good read that still packs a punch emotionally and with nicely graded sizzle on every page, this is the book for you.

SYTYCW : The Fireman- A Short Story

This is another short story from the Writing Challenge competition on the Harlequin Community boards. The story had to include a Firefighter and a dog.  I include it on my blog today in honour of the So You Think You Can Write Competition raging merrily at the moment.  
If you would like to read my entry you will find it under After the Funeral in the new Kiss imprint section.  There are some fantastic submissions and I recommend you go browsing. I've found quite a few that I am desperate to read so I can see them have their Happily Ever After.  
Some of my favourite recommendations can be found on some other blogs here and also here and here and here. 
But don't restrict yourself. There are dozens of Supernaturals, Historicals and Suspense as well as Inspired and Heartwarming.  And don't forget Medicals. Over 600 entries to browse through in 19 different categories. 
 If you like any of the stories be sure to vote.  You get to cast one vote per day until the 11th October. Use your power wisely.

The Firefighter.

The taste of smoke sits uneasily on her tongue, drying her mouth.   She can’t see it, but it lingers in her nostrils after every breath, stinging her eyes, making them water.  It must be long past midnight, that gulf of darkness when everyone is asleep. 

The silence is broken by a frighteningly insidious sound.  A crackling, a sudden gasping roar as something succumbs to the ravenous monster.  The curtains in the lounge room across the hall perhaps.  Those thick, dusty velvet drapes would cling to the heat, welcome the licking flames like a lover.

Her phone must be somewhere.  Fumbling across the bedside table, she knocks something to the floor and kneels down to scrabble on the carpet.  The mobile must be in the kitchen.  Probably on the bench beside the microwave.   Groping her way into the hallway, she dismisses the morbid thoughts that stir.  Which way to go?  The front hall tempts her with its promise of freedom only metres away. Yet if the fire has taken hold in the lounge...  The kitchen holds the best hope.  But she has to find Abby.

‘Abby.  Abby.  Here girl.’  

 Is she stuck in the laundry?  The polished timber, cool under her bare feet, comforts her as she moves along the hallway, hesitating at each doorframe.  If only she could see.

Sweat trickles down her spine under the thin cotton nightdress.  Not far now. A faint whisper of fresh air greets her at the open door of the kitchen.  From the window over the sink.  More confident now she walks around the table to the bench.  Her reaching hands find the microwave, and in moments, close over the mobile phone.

Nothing happens as she keys in the emergency services number.  A dead battery.  Dropping the phone with a clatter, she presses her hand to her racing heart.  So this is fear.  Changing direction she aims for the back door, her hands clutching at the knob, fingers reaching for the key on the deadlock.  Finding nothing.

She left it back in her room with the rest of the keys.  Dare I go back for it?  The windows, all with security bars, aren’t an option.  Back in the hallway the smoke fills her lungs with just one breath. Coughing she staggers across to the laundry.  The door is shut, but opens easily and she almost falls into the room.

‘Abby?  Please, Abby.’

 

Her fingers close over a coil of leather. She’ll need it, if she finds Abby. It’s becoming harder to breath.  They say to go low and crawl to escape the smoke.  The laundry is empty.  Abby must be elsewhere. Is ringing in the ears a sign of smoke inhalation?  Coughing, choking, she lies on the floor, the tiles cool under her damp cheeks.

He didn’t think they’d find anyone alive, the way the fire took hold at the front of the old Queenslander.  The slender figure, lying on the tiled floor of the laundry caught him by surprise. 

‘One adult female.’  He informs his team as he rolls her over, ready with the portable oxygen.

 She coughs as she draws clean air into her lungs.  Cornflour blue eyes stare up at his mask blankly.

‘You came.’

Recovering his voice, he nods. ‘Yes, what’s your name sweetheart?’

‘Sarrah.’ Her voice, husky from the smoke, still sounds like music.

‘Saaarrah.  That’s pretty.  Now we need to get you out of here.’

Light as a feather, she curls against his chest trustingly.  From nowhere comes a surge of protectiveness, well beyond his usual fierce determination.

Her hand clutches at his collar, bumping at the mask. ‘Wait, you must find Abby.  Have you seen her? A big golden Labrador.’

‘We’re searching the whole house Sarrah.  One of us will find her.’

She settles then, holding the mask against her face in one hand, the dog harness in the other.

Reluctantly he relinquishes her to the paramedics.  Her hand comes out wildly, snagging his gloved wrist as he moves away. ‘You will find Abby wont you?’

Enveloping her fine boned hand within his large ones he squeezes. ‘Sure we will, sweetheart.’

Lying back at the behest of the paramedics, Sarrah sighs, releasing her grip on the coiled leather.  If anyone could save Abby, he would. 

From the moment she heard his voice in the darkness, that hammering of her heart eased.  His strong arms and broad chest embraced her easily.  Like home.  Her fears melting away like willo-the-wisps in the dawn.

A loud crash, followed by a thunderous roar and she struggles against the restraining arm of a paramedic. ‘What happened?  That noise…’

‘The roof caved in on the house, love.  Now, just lie back and put that oxygen mask back on for just a tic.’

Fighting back the moisture building in her eyes, she slumps back on the gurney.  Abby and the fireman are still in there somewhere.  She can hear yelling and people running past the door of the ambulance. Oh please let them both be ok.

A scuffling noise and a protest from the paramedic alerts her and she wrenches off the mask. A large bundle of damp fur lands on her lap. ‘Oh Abby. You’re safe.’  Burying her face in the rough fur, she surreptitiously dries her tears.

 

‘There you go Sarrah. She’s safe and sound.’

Extending her hands in the direction of that deep, reassuring voice, Sarrah lifts her chin, revealing her blank stare to the man standing at the door of the ambulance. ‘Thank you.  You don’t know what this means to me.’

Warm hands return her grasp, tightening convulsively, as if he feels the same magic. ‘I think I do sweetheart.  I think I do.’

One hand pulls away, the leather harness replacing his clasp.  She grips his remaining hand tighter. ‘You do understand.’

A touch on her cheek answers her, a feather-light grazing of firm lips, a finger tilting her chin. ‘I’ll be seeing you, sweet Sarrah.’

It sounds more like a promise than a goodbye. 

The End-Maybe

Thanks for Reading.

A Short Romance

Coming Home -Seasons

The trees along the driveway showed bright orange and yellow.  They’d been a fresh green the day she’d left, the light breeze stirring the tops of the avenue of liquid ambers.  Today the wind gusted, bright leaves scattering across the dirt of the drive, into the overgrown grass of the neglected paddock.

She accelerated up the narrow track, noting the last remnants of wattle flower in the bush that surrounded the house.  It sat, squat and broad, the veranda empty apart from a table and two chairs.

They’d been wedding presents.   That first year she and Trey used them every weekend, even in the chill of Winter.  Trey’s parents chose them, the stained timber table and cushioned chairs suiting the Federation style of the newly built home.  Would they ever forgive her?  Would he?

A light showed in the study, the mountain behind the acreage shadowing the sturdy building once the Autumn sun lowered in the late afternoon.  Trey must be home.  His parents said he would be, but she’d not taken it for granted.

Edging the car around the circular driveway, she slowed to a halt at the front stairs.  If he was in the study he would see her.  How would he react after six months?  That last fight had been horrific.  Even now she still saw his harsh face vivid in her memory, taut with anger, his grey eyes pale as ice.

He recognised the car immediately when it stopped at the gateway.  He’d chosen it for her not long after they returned from the honeymoon.  The personalised number plate provided the final confirmation, if he’d had any doubts.  Her initials and year of birth.  Lacey Ann Cruikshanks, aged twenty-three.

 

She laughed every time she said the name, like she had the first time she’d heard it.  ‘Next you’ll be telling me your mother’s name was Widdershins.’  He’d laughed too.  He couldn’t help himself.  And as he laughed, he’d fallen in love.

Now the joke was on him.  He’d been a fool to think staid Trey Cruickshanks, lawyer and stalwart of the town, could hold a dancing sprite twelve years younger than himself.  She’d danced into his dull life, tossing her bronze curls and making his world sparkle with the light of her amber eyes. 

He’d noticed how blue the Winter sky could be after a frost.  The brightness of the Spring flowers.  The misty arc of a rainbow after a Summer storm.  He’d enjoyed snuggling with her in front of the wood fire, stoking it to a blaze to keep them warm as they made love on the woven rug she’d bought on one of her trips to South America, before they met.

She’d seen the world and all he’d seen was his home town, and the city where he’d gone for those few years to university.  No wonder, when that second Spring came around she’d gone.  He could barely remember why now.

She’d been so young, he’d not wanted to tie her down with children before they had a chance to have adventures together.  A chance for him to prove he wasn’t the stick in the mud she’d teased in those first months together.

Now it was too late.  Lace would breeze in and pack up the last of her things.  Her musical instruments, the carved wooden ornaments from all the corners of the world, that rug in front of the fireplace…  The breath he drew hurt and he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest, through the light cotton of his plain white button up shirt.

He’d put away the bright colourful polo shirts and printed T-shirts and jeans she’d given him over the short months of their marriage.  The plain navy slacks and long sleeved business shirts suited the man he was.  Boring.  Ordinary.

 

She could see into the office now.  Empty, the large window framing the antique timber desk with the matching swivel chair.  Solid, dependable, like Trey.  It had been that air of permanency that first drew her to him.  Apart from his looks of course.

He had a body to die for, tall and lean, his angular hard boned face topped with a mane of dark blond hair that never seemed to sit neatly, for all his attempts to tame it into submission.  His eyes seemed chilly at first but when he laughed they softened into a cloudy grey.

 

Kind eyes, that until those last weeks always crinkled tenderly at her when she did something ditzy.  He’d been a rock that she could cling to in the stormy insecurity of her life.  All those years battered from pillar to post with her unreliable mother, a virtually unknown father, had left her lost.

Travelling the world, she’d searched for a place to call home, yet she’d found it here in this small rural town, while backpacking across the country.  Now she’d risked losing it all because she’d done what she always did when things didn’t work out.  She’d run.

The call to his parents, just to ask if Trey was ok, had brought her back.  They’d always been so kind, but when they’d told her how he’d withdrawn into his shell, she’d heard the condemnation in their normally gentle tones. 

Gathering her courage, she climbed out of the car, rubbing the small of her back as she stretched after the long drive.  Trey stood at the front door, watching her.  What would he say when he saw her stomach?

Nothing.  He just stood there, face drawn and closed, waiting for her.  The six steps up to the veranda felt like a hundred under those cool eyes. 

‘What brings you here, Lace?’

 

No welcome, no pleasure.  His eyes lingered on her stomach and those sensual lips tightened.  Suddenly all the things she rehearsed to say seemed unimportant.  ‘I’m sorry Trey.’

‘Sorry?’

‘For running.  I should have talked about it.  I should have stayed.’

Lifting her eyes to his face, always a journey in itself, he was so tall, she caught her breath at the expression in his eyes.  Not cold or angry.

‘Are you staying?’ 

‘Will you have me?’

His large hands cupped her face.  ‘Do you doubt it?’  The soft tones wrapped her in warmth.

Closing her eyes she let him draw her into the solid strength of his embrace.  ‘I love you, Trey.’

‘Welcome home, love.’