Bell Bridge Books

FIREWORKS, FEISTY HORSES AND FRISKY COWBOYS
Kathleen Eagle

If you’re ever in North Dakota on the Fourth of July, head straight for Mandan, “Where the West Begins.”   Bismarck and Mandanare the Twin Cities of North Dakota, and like my current home near the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, the cities are separated by a great river—the Missouri in North Dakota and the Mississippi in Minnesota.  In both cases, a state capitol looks across the water at its sister city.  In both places, the two siblings have two very different personalities.  It’s East meets West personified, where cowboys and Indians may be one and the same.  My husband’s people, the Lakota, are sometimes called “West River Sioux.”  Their Dakota cousins’ homeland stretches from east of the Missouri as far as the Mississippi.

THIS TIME FOREVER, my latest release from Bell Bridge Books, begins as rodeo cowboy Cleve Black Horse runs into serious problems on his way to the annual Fourth of July Mandan Rodeo Days, advertised nowadays as “The Most Fun You Can Have With Your Boots On.”  You couldn’t prove it by Cleve—he didn’t make it to the rodeo—but I can tell you from experience that Fourth of July in Mandan, while maybe not the most fun I’ve ever had wearing boots, is definitely right up there in the top tier of good times.  When we lived in North Dakota, we rarely missed what I consider to be the real Western rodeo—outdoors, old-fashioned grandstand bleachers, clowns shouting out the same jokes you hear every year, a snow cone for every kid and a pretty blonde buckle bunny for every cowboy.

There’s an afternoon  parade down Main Street, of course, home of thriving local stores and lively saloons.  One of our favorite features is Art In the Park, where artists and crafters sell everything from fine pottery to funny whirligigs.  I have many treasures made by people I came to know through Art In the Park.  If you appreciate American Indian Art—and who doesn’t?—you’ll find it in the Five Nations Gallery at the Mandan Depot, which isn’t too far from the park.  One of the beauties of Mandanis that nothing is too far from anything else.

On “Patriot Night,” July 3, the rodeo committee does a fundraiser for the Wounded Warrior Project.  On the Fourth, the evening rodeo is followed by fireworks, made especially wondrous by the North Dakota night sky.  Most of my books are set in the Dakotas, where the sky is everywhere you look, and the stars are gloriously bright and abundant.  You have to see it for yourself.  Day or night, sunrise or sunset, no IMAX or Omni Theater or Biosphere will ever do justice to the Dakota sky.  It’s “America the Beautiful” in real life, real time.

And that’s what the Fourth of July is all about.  Have a good one!

Marrying James Bond

By Hope Clark

Lowcountry Bribe, the first in The Carolina Slade Mystery Series, opens with the protagonist being offered a bribe from a client she least suspects—a hog farmer. She calls the Inspector General’s office, and within 48 hours, they have a federal agent on the ground checking the situation. The investigation goes awry, trust is lost on so many levels, and lives are threatened.

At conferences and readings, I love talking about the opening chapter to that book . . . because it comes so close to reality. I was once a federal employee who was offered a bribe. And my husband was the agent who showed up on the case. We rigged hidden recorders and pin-hole cameras, rehearsed a script to pull off the “sting,” and dealt with threats against me. We didn’t catch the culprit, but we married 18 months later.

At that point in the presentation, the room goes abuzz. Many people then ask me how much of the book is fact and which part fiction. It’s fun, because that means the story reads that realistically. And while I have to tell them the rest of the story is fiction, I can’t help but put myself in those fictional scenes.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself where reality stopped and fantasy started. And when I do take that pause, I smile. Because I can get lost in my head with my characters and have a grand time, especially knowing that I get to actually sleep with the good guy. In this case, fantasizing in bed about a character is a very good thing, because I’m married to him.

I’ve actually pondered what would happen if, God forbid, I developed dementia in my older years, and fact gradually muddied into my fiction, blending Slade and Wayne into my own history until I could not remember the difference. After all, writers get very close to their stories and the players that make those tales come to life. I did minor investigations in my prior career with the federal government, and my husband was indeed an agent with many war stories under his belt. As I juggle the possibility of make-believe and my past entangling in my gray-headed mind downstream, I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad predicament.

To make matters worse, my husband is my sounding board for subsequent stories. He keeps my technical details accurate, my gun references true, and laughs at the predicaments Slade gets into, chuckling that he’d never let that happen on his watch. At my speaking engagements, he’s often asked if he was my model for Wayne, and he answers, “Nah, Wayne’s a wuss.” Everybody laughs, and I crack a smile. I know he’s serious.

What better life can I ask for than to secretly write about my husband, pretending I’m the girl in the story, carousing through escapades, playing dare-devil, and solving crime.

We may not look like Daniel Craig and his charming Bond-girl with our middle-aged appearances, but we love to think like we are . . . because one time we did some of that, and now we live happily ever after.

BIO

C. Hope Clark lives on the banks of Lake Murray, South Carolina, writing her mysteries, and often reading aloud to her federal agent with his lit cigar, neat bourbon, and deep opinions about how Wayne still isn’t close to the “real deal.” Tidewater Murder, the second in the Carolina Slade Mystery Series, arrives on book shelves in April 2013. www.chopeclark.com

IT’S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS

by Elizabeth Sinclair

When we were first married, by no stretch of the imagination could my husband be described as a romantic. Please don’t misunderstand.  He loved me, and I knew it.  He was a big hand-holder, hugger and kisser. He just fell short in the gift-giving department.  For years, being very practical, his idea of a good gift was a blender, a vacuum, a breadmaker, or (are you ready?) a sponge mop with a special scrubber strip.  To his benefit, it did have a pink bow on the handle. He told me it was a joke, but, given his track record, I had serious doubts.

Getting the idea?

When one of our two daughters got old enough, she became very big on remembering special occasions and would give him a gentle reminder.  “Daddy, it’s Mom’s birthday.  Did you get her a present?  A real present?”   She knew early on that a kitchen appliance did not qualify as a REAL present. When that didn’t seem to sink in, she began giving him suggestions. And I have to say that after she started helping out, the gifts did improve . . . until that fateful Valentine’s Day.

One this Valentine’s Day, she’d been involved in some school events and didn’t remind him until quite late that day that he should get me flowers or candy. Since we owned a luncheonette at the time and right across the street was a florist, the solution to a gift for his wife at 8PM on Valentine’s Day Eve was simple.  He’d opt for flowers.
On Valentine’s Day morning, I was awakened with a kiss and told there was a gift on the dining room table.  I hurried downstairs and found a terracotta pot sitting in the middle of the table.  Laying around the base of the pot were a pile of red petals and protruding from the pot were a dozen stems, a few leaves, and the remains of what once were tulips.By the time I’d stopped laughing, my husband had appeared. I kissed him and thanked him.  After all, it was the thought that counted, and it wasn’t a sponge mop.

I’m happy to report that he has improved 100% and now gives me such gifts as perfume, lingerie, jewelry and clothes and often makes me a lovely romantic dinner for my birthday.  And all that only took 51 years of marriage.

So, what’s the strangest gift you’ve ever gotten from your spouse?

ROMANCE FOR THE LONG HAUL

Kathleen Eagle

I didn’t see myself as a serious romantic until I wrote my first book and started looking for an agent.  Of the half dozen or so query letters I sent out, half generated positive responses.  I weighed the pros and cons and chose the one who had a secretary.  Sure sign of success, right?  I wasn’t sure about his comment that I would be entering the market at the perfect time because “Romance is becoming very popular.”

Romance?  I wrote a story about a woman who took an east-west journey similar to mine, and I set it a hundred years ago.  It was a cross-cultural story set in Indian Country, but there were no captives, certainly no savages. Wasn’t that what they were selling in the grocery stores these days?  I’m an English teacher, a Lit major, a fairly down-to-earth kind of woman.  Sure, I’m optimistic.  I see the glass half full—accentuate the positive half of the agents’ responses and the uplifting nature of my story.  But I’m not really a romantic.  Not seriously.  I’m very serious.  I have Scandinavian ancestry.  Serious, practical people.  How did I come up with a Romance?

Okay, so I fell in love with a cowboy who’s also American Indian.  He’s two Romance heroes in one.  The first time I saw him, he was taming a horse.  I was mesmerized.  Practically, seriously, positively captivated.  He smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.  He spoke poetry.  He took me for a ride on his horse, and that was the beginning of all she wrote.

Three kids, three grandkids, two different careers, nearly fifty books and almost as many years later, I can say without reservation…um, I mean, without hesitation…that I’m a romantic.  The glass is always measured in terms of its fullness.  Half-full, brimming, running over, life is the glass we fill for ourselves and those we love. What we fill it with is up to us.  I choose to flavor mine with Romance.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Kathleen Eagle’s latest Bell Bridge Books publication is THIS TIME FOREVER 

The Last Good Man is $1.99 at the Kindle Store (Amazon) and the Nook Store (Barnes & Noble).

This Time Forever is $1.99 at the Nook Store (Barnes & Noble).

You Never Can Tell is $1.99 at Kobo Books .

If My Life were a Romance Novel

By Brittany Shirley

I am constantly reading, editing, and rereading romance novels. I love them, every part. The hero. The heroine. The mushiness. The difficulties. That bewitching moment when he looks at her and finally realizes this is love. They are amazing. Some are set in the past, the future, a different dimension. They all have those wonderful sections that make me keep reading. I am fortunate enough to be able to get paid to read them. While editing is one of the smaller portions of my job, it is also one of the most enjoyable. I was chatting with the lovely Deb Smith the other day. I told her something that I heard from others: “Oh, Brittany! The right guy is out there for you.” That was unsolicited consoling. I did not say “Oh, I am so lonely.” Or “Wow, I wish I had a boyfriend.” None of those words came out of my mouth. I made a joke about my  “future husband.” Apparently that got people thinking I was lonely right now. The truth is at the ripe age of _____ (because I am not going to tell you my real age), I have plenty of time to get married. But, as I am telling this to Deb, I have a thought: what if my life were a romance novel, and this is just the opening scene. Now, I am a huge fan of all books, but I love a good romantic tale. It’s what I read, and it’s what I edit.

So in my dream world, my life is a romance novel (how exciting is that?). I have a weird childhood. I go to college and graduate on time. I am the Type A student. I have tons of friends, good friends. I date some good guys. There are relationships that just don’t quite work but end on good terms. I date some bad guys that break my heart (so far, Check!). All in all, I am that average girl. I make mistakes, but my life is ordinary. Until one day!

One day, I am at the grocery store. I see a cute boy. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. He is chuckling because I am stretching but I still can’t reach the ketchup. Why do they have to put it on the top shelf anyway? He walks over, grabs the bottle of ketchup, and hands it to me. WOW, ketchup guy is really gorgeous. I say thank you, but it is probably barely audible. He smiles, says you’re welcome, and walks away. I am standing there in awe of what just happened. I snap back to reality and continue to grocery shop.

A month later, my best friend, Danielle, sets me up on a blind date. The guy is super nice and a doctor. We will call him, Bob. What he lacks in communication (so not a talker), Bob makes up in his choice of venue for the evening. We go to a cooking class. I love to cook. LOVE to cook. This is a perfect place for a date: we can talk, but silences won’t be awkward because we will be cooking. There will be wine. Yay, finally a man with taste! I start to question whether Danielle put him up to this or if he is just that awesome. We are partnered with another couple. The man is out of the room when we begin. We make small talk with the girl. She is a little older than I am, but she is one of those natural beauties that doesn’t need make up. She also has the flirty, shy quality that I will never have. I am loud and opinionated, and shy isn’t exactly an adjective that could describe me. EVER. I try not to hate her as I crush the garlic for the risotto. That is when I notice that my doctor date is staring at her. Not just a slight glance to check her out. He is full-on, jaw-dropped staring. Now, I do hate her. I can’t wait for her date to get back so mine will stop. While this is not number one on my list of worst dates, it certainly is not my best. Her date finally comes back after everyone has already started sautéing the garlic. She gives him a glare that could melt the ice in the Arctic. Even I feel bad for him. Then I see his face. I can’t breathe. It is him. It’s the guy from the grocery store.
“You’re the ketchup guy!” I blurt out. Bob looks at me like I am crazy. But I am not crazy. I didn’t ruin our date, he did. So ketchup guy chuckles and his eyes squint. “Yeah, that would be me. I rescue ladies from top-shelf ketchup disasters.” I giggle. Which, if you know me at all, is NOT something I do. Girly girls giggle. I laugh, guffaw, and snort while doing so. I don’t giggle. Maybe it’s the wine. Bob has stopped looking at anyone and is concentrated on the food.

All of the sudden, ketchup guy starts sneezing and coughing. His face is beginning to swell. To me, it looks like an allergic reaction, but I am no doctor. Bob looks at him and tells the instructor to call 911. No one has an Epi Pen. Then I remember I have Benadryl, the byproduct of my reaction to perfumes of any kind. I dig in my purse find the bottle, and shove a few at him. He has to swallow them with wine. Eventually, before the paramedics show up, he turns a normal shade of pink as his face is no longer swollen.

The paramedics arrive and look him over. They deem him well enough to forgo the ER. I turn back toward my date who has been chatting with super flirty, shy girl. I roll my eyes and hope there is a twenty in my purse for a cab. It looks like Bob and Sarah (I heard him call her that) have other plans. Yay, me! I can save a life and lose a date all in the matter of three hours.

    Ketchup guy walks over to me while I am drinking my fourth glass of wine. I am getting a cab anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.

“Hi, my name is (insert future my husband’s name here). I wanted to say thank you for saving me an embarrassing trip to the ER. For that, I am eternally grateful.”

“You’re welcome. My name is Brittany.” I say in what I hope sounds like a sexy voice.

I can totally tell he is laying it on thick, but I let it slide. He almost died for goodness sake. Well, had to go to the ER. Then, I find myself flirting. I have not done that in a while. Bob barely spoke on the ride here, except to introduce himself. Ketchup boy tells Bob he will take me home, and that Bob should probably take Sarah home soon. The kitchen is closing. He winks at Bob and walks back over to me. I didn’t even know people my age did that. It is pretty attractive.

I don’t exactly argue, but I do ask, “Why do you assume I will just let you take me home? I don’t know you. The only thing I know is that you have an allergy and you can reach ketchup.”

But I do let him take me home. He asks me for my number. I give him every number except for the last. I write down a math equation. If he can figure that out, he is definitely a keeper. And he does.

We date, fall in love, and are genuinely happy. There are arguments. We fight. There is tension.

One weekend, he surprises me completely and takes me to an Opening Day game.  He proposes to me at a Busch Stadium in St. Louis (The Cardinals are my favorite baseball team). We get married in a sweet, Southern ceremony. And every year, on my anniversary, I call Danielle to thank her for setting me up with Bob. Because without Bob, I would have never met my future husband. Bob married Sarah, so all in all. Everything worked out for the best.

While I lucked out with a gorgeous guy (in this romance novel), that is not even close to how I admire men (I mean YES, I love the way they look). But, hey, I was attracted to Bob ( which is all I need). He was cute. But Bob blew the date, and I landed my ketchup guy. J There is something magical about how people fall in love. About how they find themselves complimented by another. About how they spend the rest of their lives in love. Yes, love means fighting, tension, anger, and threats of poisoning their favorite food. But the story and the look in a person’s eye is so enchanting. This is what my life would be like if I got to pick how I would meet my future husband. But I don’t think I can write a story as captivating as real life and true love.

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!

MY VERY FAVORITE VALENTINE

By Trish Jensen

I have an admission to make. I’ve never had a really cool Valentine with any boyfriends or even my husband of ten years. Same old, same old flowers and dinners out and yada, yada. Nice, but just not all that creative or new. I appreciated but kept thinking, “This is what you came up with? Did I really believe you were special?”

I spent every year thinking up treasure hunts or whatever to make them fun.  And every year I’d get roses and cards. Actually, one year I received a new furnace. I almost fainted with the romance of it all.

Eventually, the truth finally sunk in. Men just didn’t get it. Valentine’s Day was something they had to do because it was expected. There wasn’t a romantic bone in any of their bodies.

So, okay, men were dolts. A fact of life. Live with it.

But then on Valentine’s Day, after my marriage kind of crumbled and I was looking at a pretty bleak day, my doorbell rang. It was a delivery guy, holding a box and a balloon. He sang “I’ll always love you,” then handed over the box and the balloon. The balloon said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweetheart.” In the box were two things: One was a beautiful necklace and the other a note. “You’ll always be my baby.”

It was from my dad.

And that was my best Valentine’s Day ever.

It doesn’t matter who the love comes from, it matters what it means. And that meant the world to me.

I wish you all a happy Valentine’s Day! And no furnaces as gifts! J

For A Good Time Call is $1.99 at the Kindle Store.

Stuck With You is $1.99 at Kobo.