Jump on board the tour bus!

Today we're kicking off my blog tour for The Celtic Fan! Exciting, huh? There's a giveaway too. So join us all week at the tour locations. You might learn something about the book, or you might learn something about me. It might be something you don't want to know . . . you can never tell. But you won't know unless you visit!

Monday, 03/03/14
For Whom the Books Toll

Tuesday, 03/04/14
Drue's Random Chatter

Wednesday 03/05/14
Illustrious Illusions

Thursday 03/06/14
Mad Gypsy in Wonderland

Friday 03/07/14
Romance Book Craze

Come by, visit, leave a comment, enter the drawing - and have fun! See you there!!!

Your wish shall be granted!

I heard from enough of you to believe that you want to hear more. You're going to get your outtakes. And they're going to be good. If you don't believe me, just read this. I had intended to do them on Wednesdays, but I'll probably post them on Mondays. I'll let you know when they're here. So enjoy!

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     I need to be home with Nikki. It was impossible to get anything done. All Tony could do was think and worry. He was pretty sure everything was okay, but there was this niggling fear in the back of his brain. What if there really was something wrong with her? He’d already made the decision earlier in the day: He had to hire someone to take over the office. A manager, or a personal assistant, or someone, anyone, who could take over the running if need be and let him go home. A pile of paperwork sat in the middle of his desk, taunting him, but he fought off the temptation. It could wait until the next day. Dinner would be waiting. She would be waiting. What if she wasn’t there much longer, waiting for him? I’ve got to shake that off, he told himself. Everything was going to be fine.

     Then the door popped open. “Hey, boss, can you come out here?” Malcolm stood in the doorway. “There’s something you need to see.”

     “Sure.” Tony followed his site supervisor out the door and into the parking lot. Malcolm pointed down the driveway.

     “Look.” Malcolm folded his arms across his chest as Tony peered down the driveway. He could see two figures headed their way, and he could tell, even at that distance, that one of them was Franklin. She was the only dog of her kind anywhere near there, but today another dog walked beside her.

     Dog? Tony squinted. Was that a dog? “Malcolm, what the hell is that?”

     “I’m not sure. That’s why I called you out here.”

     “Is it a dog?”

     Malcolm was squinting at them too. “I . . . I don’t think so. I can’t tell . . .”

     Tony took another long look. “No, it’s not a dog. It looks like . . .”

     Malcolm stared hard. “Is that a . . .”

     Tony chuckled. “It’s a damn goat.”

     “What the hell?” Malcolm put his hands on his hips and watched the two figures drawing closer. After a few steps, the goat would veer off the drive into the grass. It would take a few bites from the weeds before Franklin herded it back up onto the drive and they both started strolling toward the barn again.

     Tony couldn’t believe his eyes. Within minutes, Franklin walked up and sat down beside Tony. The goat followed, walked past Franklin, and began to make itself at home near a bale of hay, which it promptly began to raid.

     “What do you want me to do?” Malcolm asked, slack-jawed.

     Tony shook his head. “Damned if I know. There’s a farm about a mile away where they raise goats. I’m sure that’s theirs. I’ll call her, tell her it’s here.” He strode back into the office and took a number from his planner. “Hey, Jenny? It’s Tony Walters.”

     “Yeah, Tony! What’s going on?”

     “I think I have one of your goats.” Tony looked out the office window to see Franklin and the goat play-butting each other in the front parking lot.

     “Uh, I don’t think so,” Jenny Sanders replied. “I’m pretty sure it’s not mine.”

     “Got to be.”

     “Tell you what – let me go count and I’ll call you back.” When they’d hung up, Tony walked out the door. Franklin came up, sat down beside him again, and the goat followed suit. It knocked its head into Tony’s knee a few times, then went back to the bale of hay, nibbling a little at a time. When one of the clients walked his horse by, the goat bleated at it, then returned to the hay. When the phone rang, Tony answered, “Short one, huh?”

     “Nope.” Tony couldn’t believe it. “It’s not mine, Tony. All of ours are here. Tell me something: What does this goat look like? Is it brown and white?”

     Tony looked at it again. “No. It’s mostly black. It’s got white ears and white feet, but the rest of it is black.”

     Jenny laughed. “All of ours are liver and white.”

     “Whose could it be?”

     “There’s a farm about six miles from here that . . .?”

     “Six miles?” Tony couldn’t believe that Franklin had gone six miles to get a goat.

     “Yep. Bob and Angela Moyers. Call them up and ask.” Jenny gave him the Moyers’ number before she hung up. Tony dialed and waited.

     “Hello,” a female voice barked.

     “Is this Mrs. Moyers?”

     “Yes. Who’s this?”

     “Mrs. Moyers, this is Tony Walters down at Cabrizzi Farms. How are you?”

     “I’m quite well, thanks. What can I do for you, Mr. Walters?”

     “Well, I’ve got this goat,” Tony started to laugh.

     “It wouldn’t be black and white, would it,” she chuckled.

     “Actually, it would. I got your number from Jenny. I was hoping . . .”

     “That it was mine? Yeah, probably. We’ve got almost a hundred and fifty of them down here, but that one, she’s a real problem.” She stopped, then said, “How did she get down there?”

     “You won’t believe it, but my dog brought her home.” Now Tony was laughing outright. “What do you want me to do with her?”

     “Keep her. She’s too damn much trouble.” Before Tony could protest, the line went dead.

     Now he wasn’t laughing. Keep her? I’ve got a damn goat now? He watched Franklin and the goat playing in the overhang of the barn roof. The big dog seemed content, even happy, to have the goat around. Malcolm wandered up, grinning. “So? Find out who she belongs to?”

     “Yeah.” Tony shook his head. “They don’t want her back.”

     “Are you trying to tell me that we’re keeping her?” Malcolm’s eyebrows peaked upward.

     “Looks like it.”

     “That could be good.” Malcolm looked like he was giving something serious consideration.

     “What are you thinking?” Tony was afraid it was something that was no good.

     “Well, lots of breeding facilities and racing facilities keep goats. They calm the horses. No one’s exactly sure why or how, but it works. Maybe this is a good thing.” They watched as the goat tried to pull a piece of siding off the side of the building. Before Tony could run toward her to stop her, she’d moved on to a nylon rope tied to a cleat on the wall, pulling on it and trying to pull it down. She chewed on the end.

     “Looks like we’ll have to make a concerted effort to keep things picked up. And we’ll have to make sure all the clients know not to leave things lying around. All my life I’ve heard goats will eat anything.” Tony didn’t know what to think. He had a goat. Fantastic.

     Malcolm shook his head. “No. That’s not true. Sheep will eat anything. Goats are a little more discerning.” They watched while she ate a gum wrapper a client had dropped, then moved over to Tony’s truck and started to lick a tire. "But I could be wrong about that, I guess."

     “I have this feeling that trouble is brewing.” Before Tony could get the sentence completely out, Vic’s truck pulled up and the big man got out.

     “Hey, guys! What’s sha . . . what the hell?” Vic’s eyes went wide. “Is that a goat?”

     Tony nodded. “Yep. That’s a goat.”

     “What the fu . . . why is there a goat here?” Vic’s gaze went from the goat to the two men, then back to the goat.

     “It’s a long story. But I’m keeping her. Want to name her?” Tony chuckled.

     The goat looked up from the trash can she’d managed to knock over, then made a beeline to Vic. When she reached him, she pressed her face to his shin and just stood there. Malcolm was heaving with laughter. “Looks like you’ve got a new girlfriend.”

     Vic’s face turned purple. “Goddamn it, Tony, why do you keep getting these weird pets that try to assault me? Get this thing off me!” Vic was backing away, but the goat was keeping pace. It was a lost cause.

     “Why do you have to be so damn attractive to all the ladies?” Tony laughed, and Malcolm started to howl.

     “Damn it, I just came over here to ask you something!”

     “Yeah, what’s that, Hunky McHunkster?” Tony gasped, doubled over.

     “Laura wanted to know if you guys want to come to dinner.”

     “Sure!” Tony was trying to control himself. “What are we having?”

     Vic opened the truck door, climbed in, and before he slammed the door shut, he yelled, “GOAT!”

Wednesday Pick-Me-Ups

I've got a question for all of you. I expect to hear SOMETHING or I'm not going to do it.

I have outtakes, things that didn't or won't make it into books. Would you like to see those? Maybe every Wednesday, or every other Wednesday? What would you think about that? I think it would be fun, but you'll have to tell me if you want them or not.

I'm thinking of one in particular that has to do with a goat. Yes, I said a goat. That's got you curious, doesn't it?

Let's see the comments, readers. You supply the "yeas" and I'll supply the goat!

BTW: Leagh's looking for bloggers to participate in my blog tour. Just go to Romance Novel Promotions to sign up. And thanks in advance.

And the winner is:

TJ Kolber! Congratulations to TJ. The bracelet is being made by Kate as I type this and it will be forwarded to TJ as soon as it hits my mailbox. Thanks to everyone who entered and keep an eye out - I'll be having more giveaways in the near future. You can bet I'll be giving away some books pretty soon. Check back!

Really? And an excerpt too? You don't want much, do you?

I'm giving away a beautiful, hand-made, literature-inspired brass cuff bracelet made by Kate over in the United Kingdom. I'm hoping someone out there wants it. I can't believe my contest sign-up isn't overloaded yet. You don't have forever; you just have until the end of the week. Might want to get a jump on it. And while you're at it, check out The Celtic Fan, the book released Friday that is cause for the giveaway celebration. You won't be sorry.

So here's an excerpt from The Celtic Fan, as promised.

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     Her bedroom wasn’t as stately as the living area in the front. Lace curtains graced the windows, and a lace coverlet lay draped over the seafoam green comforter. The walls were a pale, cool shade of lavender, and held several art posters tastefully framed. One was a Monet, and one was an enhanced reproduction of the photo from the cover of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Both had gallery names along their lower borders. There was a soft floral arrangement in a Longaberger basket on the dresser atop a hand-crocheted runner.

     The bathroom echoed the same decor, complete with glycerin soaps, dried flowers and leaves embedded in them. I hung the robe on the back of the door and peeled out of my jeans and shirts, careful not to leave clumps of caked dirt on the floor. Once I’d stripped out of every piece of clothing I’d been wearing and wrapped them all in on themselves to contain the mess, I laid them carefully outside the bathroom door and called, “Okay, my clothes are outside,” down the hall. Then I locked the bathroom door, wondering if I were about to reenact a night at the Bates Motel. But I had to admit, the hot water was wonderful, and I never knew soap could feel so good.

     Then I remembered that I’d put my underwear out there too. Oh, well, I was pretty sure she’d seen a guy’s underwear before, but then I remembered I’d been wearing the boxers with the cartoon characters on them. Wonder what she’d think about those? The thought made me laugh. The lights flickered a couple of times but stayed on. I could still hear the rain pounding on the roof, a deafening sound, even above the rush of the water from the showerhead. The water pressure changed abruptly, then returned to full force in a few minutes. Assuming it was the washer kicking in, I knew she’d started on my clothes. There was no turning back now. I hoped the power held out.

     The gardenia-scented shampoo and conditioner rinsed out of my hair easily, and I turned the water off and stood for a second. Her towels were pale lavender and huge, and they carried the scent of lilac, like an old lady on Sunday morning. I’d never touched a towel so soft. Once I’d dried off, I put on the robe. It came right to my knees, and was roomy, warm, and comfortable. Opening the bathroom door, I looked and, sure enough, my clothes were gone. In their place was a pair of boxers, never worn. I picked them up, stepped back inside the bathroom, and slipped them on discreetly under the robe. That seemed pretty strange to me. She answered the question in less than a minute.

     “Guess you’re wondering about the underpants, huh?” she laughed.

     “Well, as a matter of fact, yes,” I admitted as I headed back down the hall to the living area. She was nestled in a corner of the sofa, feet up and in snugly socks. She held a cup of steaming tea in her hands.

     “Bought them to sleep in and they were packaged wrong, wouldn’t fit. But I kept them. I don’t know why.” Then she grinned. “Someone knew you would need them,” she explained to us both. “Tea? I love it when the weather’s bad. Want some?”

     “Sure. But don’t get up. I can get it myself.” I reached for a cup and saucer sitting on the counter. The whole kitchen was tiled with the glazed version of the fireplace tiles. It was impressive, immaculate, and very inviting.

     “So,” she started, “Mister Steve Riley, tell me some things about you. You’ve been asking all the questions. What about you? What do you do for a living?”

     “I’m a writer,” I said, then corrected myself. “I mean, I’m a journalist. I write for the Knoxville paper. I’m a feature writer there. Before that, I worked for a regional magazine, some small weekly papers, things like that. Then I hit the big time, at least I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

     “Um-hum,” she acknowledged, sipping her tea. “Never met a real writer before.” I wanted to scream, What about Nick Roberts?, but I held my tongue. She pushed on. “Where’s your wife?”

     “Don’t have one,” I said in a flat tone. “Never had one. Don’t particularly want one, either.” She looked a little startled.

     “They tell me everyone wants someone to love them,” she smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re not included in that ‘everyone.’”

     “I had someone who loved me. Problem was, she loved lots of other guys too,” I spat, thinking about Donna and my doctor bill. “I have a career, a nice home, a nice car. I can get a date when I want one.”

     “You mean you can get laid when you want to, don’t you?” she snapped, instantly lifting the tea cup to her lips to hide the mischievous smirk on her face.

     “Yeah, I guess that’s exactly what I mean,” I shot back. “What’s wrong with that?”

     “Gee, I don’t remember,” she answered me, feigning an unconcerned demeanor as she set down her tea cup. “It’s been six years for me.”

     Oops. I couldn’t begin to imagine where this conversation was heading, but I could hear the train wreck it would cause a mile away. Then I caught what she’d said. Six years.

     “Wow. That’s a long time,” I mumbled. “Six years. That’s a very long time.” I repeated myself, trying to imagine not being with a woman for six years. I couldn’t. It just wasn’t possible.

     “Not really,” she mused. “I was married to the same man for almost sixteen years. I know when you fall off the horse you’re supposed to get right back on, but I just haven’t been able to. But then you wouldn’t understand, now would you?” She looked out at me from under her bangs and brows, a teasing grin curling the corners of her mouth.

     “No, guess not.” I couldn’t imagine being with the same woman for that many years. This question and answer session had not gone as I’d imagined. I looked out the window but it was inky black, so dark that there was nothing to see except the reflective sheets of rain pouring down the glass, interrupted by little bits of dirt or bird droppings stuck to the panes. She noticed that I was checking out the elements, and she rose and opened the front door.

     “Listen,” she instructed. All I could hear was the sound of the rain on the roof. I shrugged. She said it again: “Listen.”

     I could hear something, but I didn’t recognize the sound. “What’s that sound?” I asked.

     “It’s the creek. It’s rising. Ever heard of a flash flood?” she asked in a solemn tone.

     “Yes, I have,” I answered, apprehension in my voice.

     “That’s the sound you’re hearing. The creek’s out of its banks. But don’t worry, we won’t be flooded up here. It’s just that it floods the bridge. You’ll probably need to stay here tonight.” I shuddered. Staying in a strange house with a woman I barely knew who hadn’t had sex in six years sounded a little frightening to me, but it was better than drowning or being swept away. “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll get you a blanket, some sheets and pillows, things like that. You’ll be fine.” Whew. I’d escaped the sequel to Planet of the Nymphomaniacs. Or perhaps I should think of it as a great opportunity. Nah, surely not.

     She motioned for me to return to the living area, and she turned to follow me. Then she stopped stock still and whispered emphatically again, “Listen.”

     I heard it. It was a creaking, rubbing sound, and I could feel the hair on the back of my neck bristle, as though someone were scraping a chalk board. “What is that?” I asked. Before she could answer, there was a strange crash, like a dozen trees falling in a forest, only very close by and very muffled. It was followed by a rushing roar which quickly faded, and then just the sound of the rain on the roof again. I looked at her, questioning with my eyes, and noticed that her face had gone pale and her hands had begun to tremble. “What was that?” I demanded, hoping to snap her out of her stupor, to get an answer.

     Her eyes were moist, and I panicked, afraid she might cry. “That was my bridge. It’s gone.” The words sunk in like lead in my stomach as the rain beat down, pummeling the earth, the house, everything everywhere, while the rain-swollen creek received it all. Pregnant with the deluge, it had given birth to a catastrophe. But we were dry, and we were indeed safe.

     And there we’d stay.

IT'S HERE!!!!

The Celtic Fan is a reality! Thanks to everyone who made this book happen. I'd especially like to thank BB eBooks, my file conversion company, for the extra-special effort they put in to make this book look fabulous.

Special thanks goes to Carrie, the fabulous artist who did the artwork of the Celtic knot that appears not only on the model (yes, that's me!), but as glyphs throughout the book and on the back cover. Carrie brought the dream I'd had for thirteen years to light, and I can't thank her enough. I have a goal, and when it's met, you are all going to be treated to a video of me actually getting the artwork tattooed on ME!

At the bottom of this page is the Rafflecopter form for the gift I'm giving here. Take a look!

This is a beautiful brass cuff bracelet made by Kate over at Jezebel Charms across the pond. It's absolutely lovely. And in case you're wondering, that's a quote from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. Take a minute to fill out the Rafflecopter form, look over the requirements, and the winner will be announced on Sunday, February 23, 2014. Since it's coming from Great Britain, it may take a little while to get it to you, but get it to you I shall!

Check out the blogs where my blitz is running - I'm giving away signed copies of The Celtic Fan, either in the ebook format of your choice or in print! Go and visit, please, and let these bloggers know you appreciate their work and hearing about my book from them.

Romance Book Craze
Drue's Random Chatter
Mad Gypsy in Wonderland

In the meantime, hope you're getting ready to sit down with your copy of The Celtic Fan and get a little reading in. It's still cold outside - what better way to pass the time? And send me a message or start a convo here to let me know what you thought of the book. I'd love to hear from you!

There will be a giveaway - oh yes, there will

I've made a decision. There will be a giveaway here to celebrate the release of The Celtic Fan. I'd like to be able to go ahead and post pics, but I've put in a request to the artist to use one of her photos so everyone can see how beautiful it is. Hopefully I'll hear from her by tomorrow. If not, I'll just redirect everyone so they can go to her site and see it there.

It's getting closer!