It’s too early to say how quickly it’ll go, but Virginia aka Mama Connagher has been talking to me loud and clear since last night.  I sat down late last night–minutes before I said I was going to bed–and suddenly had 1200 words carved out.  This scene has been on my mind for a long time, so it didn’t take much effort to write.

I don’t know what the “plot” will be for this book — I think it’ll be more of a basic character-driven romance with a Connagher reunion on the side.  We’ll see though.  I don’t have it plotted at all, just a few key scenes I know need to happen.  I really don’t know how it’ll unfold yet.  But here’s a snippet while I wait for Charlie to tell me what his OTHER name is…

Rocking in her chair on the front porch, Virginia Connagher watched the sun set as she’d done every night for thirty years, ever since she and Tyrell had first bought this ranch.  It’d been a rough mess of two hundred acres and a tiny shack barely livable with falling down fences and more weeds and cactus than pasture.  A lifetime of sweat, tears and blood had turned this land into her dream—one of the finest stables in all of Texas.  Her show horses were becoming famous.  And it didn’t mean a damned thing.

Not without him.

Pink darkened to violet and stars dotted the velvet canvas.  A whippoorwill called from one of the blackgum trees he’d planted alongside the driveway when they’d first moved out here.  She loved the bird’s calls…and yet hated it too.  He’d always loved those damned noisy birds.

“This always was your favorite time of day.”

She turned her head, shocked to see him sitting beside her in the matched mate to her chair.  Dusty, stained cowboy hat tipped back on his head, sun-lined weathered face, eyes so blue and brilliant it hurt to look into them, and big Texas mustache.  He wore faded denim from head to toe and worn boots that had seen better days, the same thing he’d worn just about every single day of his life.  She could even smell his Stetson cologne, the only thing he’d ever worn.  “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting.”  His slow, easy drawl made her throat tighten, her eyes filling up with tears.  “Thought it was past time.”

“You died fifteen years ago.”

He tipped his hat back further and gave her a solemn nod.  “I sure did, Princess.”

He hadn’t called her that in…she couldn’t even remember how long.  Early in their courtship—perhaps warfare was the better word—he’d called her a snooty princess and the name had stuck.  She’d called him a lowlife cattle rustler.  Then they’d married and had a wonderful life together.  Until it all ended.  “You never came to see me before.”

“You wouldn’t let me.  You’re a hard woman, Virginia.  Besides, you didn’t need me then.”

She stared at him, gripping the chair arms so hard her fingers ached.  He’d always done this.  Infuriated her to the point she wanted to lay into him with her fists, her hair brush, a whip, anything she had at hand.  Once she’d accidentally given in to that temptation, she’d finally figured out he’d deliberately been trying to drive her to unleash some violence on him all along, to their mutual enjoyment.

“I didn’t need you,” she repeated slowly, carefully enunciating each word.  “When you left me alone to raise our children.  When I had to organize your funeral.  When I’ve been alone all these years.  Yet now you decide to mosey back into my life?  What on earth for?”

“You’ve been alone too long.”

She let out a harsh laugh that jarred her ears.  “Don’t tell me you’ve come back from the grave to tell me I need to move on and find a new man.”

“You’re too much woman to be alone.  It ain’t right.”

“No, I’ll tell you what ain’t right.  You leaving us.  Me having to bury you in your wedding suit.”  The memory of how fake and stiff he’d looked in his coffin made her bury her face in her hands.  “It wasn’t right, Ty.  I should have buried you in jeans like the boys wanted.  But I just wasn’t myself and Miss Belle said you didn’t care one way or the other, but I hated seeing you in that suit.  It should have had only good memories.”

He gently pried her fingers away from her face and lifted her right hand to his mouth.  Funny, she’d forgotten how much his mustache tickled.  She’d cursed that thing, complained how the whiskers had poked her nose when he kissed her, but now… I’d give anything to feel those damned whiskers against my cheek again. 

“Miss Belle’s always right, don’t you know that yet?  I didn’t care one way or the other.  All I want you to remember about me is this.”

His palm on hers, big and strong and rough.  He’d worked as a ranch hand all his life, when he wasn’t rodeoing.  He’d busted just about every bone in his body including his skull and tore up his hands doing hard work under the unforgiving Texan sun.  She gripped his calloused hand tighter, desperate to keep him with her.  “How could I ever find another man who moved me like you still do?”

“He’s there.  You just have to open your eyes.”

“I don’t want no one else.”

He brushed his mouth against her knuckles again, deliberately tickling her skin with a wicked knowing glint in his eyes.  “You will, if you let yourself think about it.  I know you too well, Virginia Connagher.  If you set your mind against a thing, you’ll never surrender the fight come hell or high water.  It’s a miracle you ever loosened up enough to let me into that stone cold heart.”

“It’s colder and stonier now, Ty.  You said I’m a hard woman, and you’re right.  I don’t think I could ever let anyone in again.”

He nodded solemnly.  “I know it.  That’s why I’ve come to help you see the way.  I love you too much to watch you hurt alone any longer.”

Hurt alone. Those words stung, sinking deep beneath her skin to pierce her heart.  She wanted to avert her face and keep the desperation and hunger hidden away, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.  He might fade away and she’d never see him again, not until she met St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.  “There’s no other way, Ty, and you know…”

“I know,” he broke in, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.  “You’ve been hurting alone.  I don’t like it.  Not at all.  Virginia Connagher shouldn’t ever hurt alone.”  He squeezed her hand hard enough that the fine bones began to grind together.  It made her blood thicken with the sweet memory of their shared secrets.  How he’d been able to feed that hungry side of her that feasted on pain.  “Not my woman.”

“I don’t want to forget you.”  It came out plaintive, making her wince, because she hated nothing more than being weak.

He laughed, a dark chuckle that came against her ear, his breath hot and moist in her ear.  “You’ll never forget me, Princess.  But that don’t mean you can’t take another man in my absence.”

Something shook her whole body.  Lightning arced through her mind, making her body twitch uncontrollably.

“Ty…”

Darkness swallowed her.  She lost the sensation of his hand on hers.  She couldn’t see him any longer, though his cologne filled her nose one last time as though she’d buried her face against his chest.  “I’ll always love you, Virginia.”

Voices crashed and rattled inside her.  Lights streamed by, like she was flying.  So fast.

“Female, fifty six years old, broken arm, severe concussion.”  Hands probed her stomach, sending her gasping in pain.  “Probable internal injuries.”

She opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but her brain didn’t want to work.  Nothing hurt.  That was probably a very bad sign.  The scent of Stetson still lingered.  She closed her eyes, trying to hold on to him, but already his image had faded in her mind.  The brightness of his eyes had dimmed, the edges fuzzed and softened by time.  She started crying and she didn’t care who saw.  “Ty.”

“Mama!”  Vicki suddenly appeared, her face white, her eyes huge and dark with fear.  “What happened?”

“We lost her pulse for a minute or so, but she’s back with us now.”  One of the nurses grabbed Vicki’s arm, holding her back from following into the next room.  Lights blazed everywhere, too bright, too painful.

“Mama!”  Vicki cried out.  “Victor’s on his way!  I’ll call Conn too.  Don’t worry about a thing!”

Virginia tried to turn and see her daughter, to find out what had happened, but someone put something over her mouth and she slid into nothingness where not even a sweet dream of Ty could find her.

So far, 2013 is shaping up to be a busy year.  This past week, I’ve finished up line edits on Her Grace’s Stable, finished a 35K novella (but that’s another story, literally), revised Sig’s book (Lord Regret’s Price) for the second time including adding 2K+ to the end (bringing total to 77K), and written a synopsis.  Even better, Sig is now out visiting on submission!  Keep your fingers crossed that we hear good news in a few weeks.

As for the novella, it’s not really a novella.  It’s part one of a big story.  A story that both terrifies and excites me.  I’ve been working on the premise for this story for over a year.  A hint to what it’s about is in this interview.  I’ve got part two very well plotted, but part 3 is still a vague mess.  It might be one of those stories that I have to write the next act before I can figure out the end.  I have some ideas of what I want to happen, but there are certain elements that still escape me.

Now that Sig’s away and the 3/15 deadline is regretfully out of reach, I’ll be rereading what I have so far and tackle part 2.  I’m also going to make notes on Lady Wyre’s Rebel while the story’s on my mind.  It’s gonna be one wild crazy ride!

I finished the wip tonight.  Yep, I know.  It’s crazy.

I was on fire.  Drunk on words.  I couldn’t stop.  The story consumed my every free moment.  Even when I was working or cooking dinner or picking up kids from school, I could hear Ranay and Charlie in my head.

And surprisingly, I finished under the 35K mark.  Granted that’s first draft, but IF–and that’s a huge if–I want to submit it for the antho call, I met the size requirement.

I flirted with the road less traveled but didn’t quite go there.  Or rather, I went there, but it’s so subtle and woven into the narrative in little ways that I don’t think you would know.  Until I write the next book that’s in my head.

7756 words for the day.  Yeah, I know.  I haven’t written that much in… I can’t remember.  Combine that with yesterday’s total, and it’s insane.  When the story’s right (write) though, it just goes.  I couldn’t type fast enough.  In this case, I’m thankful I’m a pretty fast typist, because I didn’t want to lose a single moment.

Another snippet, continuing from yesterday.

Yet I couldn’t stifle the kernel of anticipation that had sprouted in that dark secret corner I’d fought so hard to control this past year.  Even worse, that little sprout threatened to grow into Jack’s beanstalk when he and Sheba followed me into the break room.  Clients never came back here, but I didn’t think Dr. Wentworth would mind.  She claimed not to have any favorites, but Sheba was too perfect not to make it high on our office’s most beloved list.

I wasn’t sure what Mr. MacNiall did for a living, but we often had the pleasure of boarding Sheba while he was out of town.  Truth be told, we spoiled her rotten and gave her the run of the office when she was ours for a few days.

I started to scoop him a cup from the crockpot, but I decided I’d better warm him first.  “This didn’t come out of a box.  It’s a concoction I came up after making it over and over and now it’s become a sort of tradition.”  I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stop babbling like a nervous twit.  “It’s got coconut milk in it.  Is that okay?”

He shrugged off his coat, treating me to hints of the powerful cuts of muscle beneath his sweater.  “As long as it’s hot and chocolately, I don’t care.”

And then he looked at me.

I mean, he really looked at me.  Not through me, not in my general vicinity required through polite social interaction.  He looked at me like he could see everything inside me.  Everything I’d fought to fix, and if I couldn’t fix it, the things I ignored and pretended weren’t broken and painful.  Some days those things ached so badly I was afraid I’d shatter into a thousand pieces.  His eyes saw that darkness in me.  He saw how damaged I was.

And he didn’t turn away.

He didn’t look at me with pity.  Or revulsion.  His gaze didn’t skitter away.  He didn’t start making excuses so he could retreat unscathed before my compulsions trapped him in a web of crazy he’d do anything to escape.

Oh, the way he looked at me…

I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t blink.  I couldn’t breathe.

With all that scorching intensity, he was either all in or completely out.  No in between.  No safety net.  No flirting.  No escape.

A lot like me.

Which makes him entirely off limits.  I jerked my gaze away and the effort made sweat bead on my forehead.  Too dangerous by far.  Neither one of us would be able to escape a relationship unscathed.

He took a long drink, giving me respite from his gaze, enough that I was able to suck in a loud breath.  I managed to get my heart beating again.  My fingers were icy, my hands shaking, and as hot as my face felt, I was probably glowing as brightly as Rudolph’s nose.  Desperate to hide my reaction, I bent down on my knee and concentrated on Sheba.

The dog gave me a knowing look, as though to say, I know he’s a great master, but he’s all mine, human.  I scratched behind her big perked up ears and under her jaw.  Her long ebony coat was immaculately groomed.  If she jumped up on her rear legs, she’d be almost as tall as me.  Yet like her master, she was unfailing gentle despite her power.

“Ranay?”

The soft tone of his voice made me close my eyes, even as I wanted to turn my face up to him and let my hunger show on my face.  Hunger for him, for the control he wielded so effortlessly.  I was already on one knee.  It’d be so easy…

Too easy.

I buried my face against Sheba’s neck and made a sound I hope he took for “Yes?”

“May I ask you a personal question?”

I clutched the big dog harder.  Luckily she didn’t mind.  In fact, she licked my cheek and made a low whuff in my ear.  “Of course, Mr. MacNiall.”

“Mac,” he chided.  “Hell, you could even call me Charlie and I wouldn’t mind, even though the only other person who calls me that is Mom.  I’ve been coming to Dr. Wentworth for years and I’ve known you since the first day she hired you.  Surely you can call me by name now?”

He remembered when I’d been hired?  Had Dr. Wentworth talked to him about me?  How much did she know about my unsavory past?

Considering she was Mom’s best friend, probably way more than I wanted her to know.  She’d probably only given me the job out of the kindness of her heart, though I think I’d more than earned her trust.  I was never late, I loved the animals, and I was determined to do my best work every single day.  I was holding it together.  Nobody had any cause to suspect I might have a few screws loose.  “Dr. Wentworth likes us to be professional at all times.”

“She calls me Mac.  Why can’t you?”

He didn’t have to remind me.  For a while, I’d burned with jealousy when I heard the easy familiarity between them, until I understood there was nothing between them but friendship.  The first few months at my new job, I’d been oblivious to the clients–concentrating instead on their animals.  Eventually I’d realized those animals only came to us via their human counterparts, and I’d found myself reconnecting with the world.

I wish I’d never looked into Sheba’s human’s eyes.  I wish I’d been able to crush that first hint of attraction.  I wish he wasn’t such a dedicated pet owner who brought Sheba in faithfully every single month for grooming.

How could I even begin to explain it to him?  If I cracked that door open even just a little, the whole avalanche would slip free and bury me beneath dozens of feet of roiling, uncontrollable emotion.  It took all my will and effort to keep all that locked away so I could function.  It’d taken me two years to get over the last man I’d dated.

Although “dating” wasn’t exactly the right word for such a disastrous and dysfunctional relationship.

“I have to get back to the front desk.”  Without looking at him, I pushed to my feet and carefully edged around him.  Part of me was afraid he might lay a hand on my arm to halt my escape.  The other half of me frantically pleaded that he seize both of my arms and haul me against him until I had no choice but to tell him the truth.  I refused to be disappointed that he merely followed me back to the front of the office.

I took my seat, firmly entrenched behind the high counter that walled me off from the world.  Only then could I attempt to meet his steady, piecing gaze again.  Nope, I couldn’t do it.  Not yet.  I settled my gaze on his sweater, tracing the weave of each thread, the way the colors met and blended.  That distracted me enough to answer him.  “What do you want to know?”

He merely stared back at me, waiting.

Waiting.

Oh God.  This man was so dangerous.  He knew how to play me.  How to tempt me.  Without ever talking about more than Sheba’s next appointment, he knew secrets about me that I tried so hard to hide.  Secrets I buried, denied, and prayed I could erase, but they were always there to torment me.

I didn’t want to let him in.  I didn’t want to play his game.

That’s a lie.  I want to play his game so badly I’m scared to death.

I’m slinging words on the new project I’m considering for the 3/15 deadline.  The first 20K is very solid.  But I have two possible difficulties to deal with.

1. Word count.  I’m already over 26K and I can only play with 35K.

2. Content and tone.

This is supposed to be for a Christmas call, and yeah, the holiday does play an important part in the story.  But the tone and content of this “Christmas” story isn’t very ho-ho-ho-happy holidays, if you know what I mean.

I’m more of a Blood and Shadows kind of girl.  Even at Christmas.

I’m also fighting the hero something fierce.  Well, fighting isn’t quite the right word.  He’s cooperating way better than Sig – I got 6K today.  Yep! *boggles*  Words aren’t a problem right now.  It’s what he keeps edging toward.  I’m not prepared to discuss it yet, because honestly, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.  Do I take the road less traveled…and definitely the harder sale?  Or do I stick to the chosen path, even though it’s overgrown and twisty?

I’m not exactly the safe path kind of writer, even when I try really hard to be.

But who knows.  The market’s a crazy beast.  In the end, I have to be true to myself, and despite these struggles, I’ve been true to the hero who keeps wanting to lurk in the shadows.  He’s still dark and as unpolitically correct as most of my heroes.  Whether the hints he keeps trying to drop to me are meaningful or not, I guess I’ll find out.

I haven’t posted anything about this project yet, so I’ll share the opening scene below to give you just a taste of this holiday craziness I’m working on.

You could tell a lot about a man by watching him handle his dog.  Working as a receptionist at a vet clinic, I saw all kinds of men come through our doors.  Sometimes the dog came charging into the office, tangling up his owner’s legs in the leash, ignoring any sort of command.  Big dog, little dog, it didn’t matter.  Some men just didn’t know how to handle a pet.  I didn’t mind those dogs or their owners, even if I often had to clean up some odorific messes around the office once they were gone.

It was the dogs who came in cringing with their tails between their legs that worried me.

Those dogs–and their masters–often gave me nightmares, sometimes so bad I seriously thought about changing professions before I completed my vet tech training.  Not that I suspected the dogs were being outright abused–Dr. Wentworth was very careful about ensuring the safety of her charges.  It just broke my heart to think any sweet, devoted dog wasn’t loved unconditionally with patience and understanding.

Dr. Wentworth had lots of clients, but none of them were like Sheba’s human.  As queenly as her namesake, Sheba strolled in like she was entering a world-class dog show instead of her vet’s office.  A king shepherd in prime condition, she could have torn the place up before I could even clear my desk at the front.  Yet she sat at her master’s feet and looked up at him, ears perked, tail wagging.

“Good girl,” he murmured in a low, sweet voice that still managed to thrum with power.

Power that made me clench my thighs together.  Oh, to have that delicious rumbling voice heap such praises on me.

Charles MacNiall wasn’t your typical tall, dark and handsome sort of man.  His hair–while dark–was curly and a little too long for today’s styles, and while he was taller than me, that wasn’t really saying much since I’m barely more than five feet tall.  His physical size wasn’t impressive, but he was lean and tight and hard.  He had the strength, both physically and mentally, to be alpha to a hundred-plus pound, extremely active and strong dog.

More importantly, he had presence.  He wore an aura of controlled energy like a force field about him.  Even though he stood on the opposite side of the receptionist counter, I could feel that warm power licking at my attention.  His energy was a compelling heat that made me want to curl up at his feet just like Sheba.  Always mindful of his power, he rarely turned the full force of his gaze on me, as though he sensed that I was far too susceptible.

Kind and gorgeous, he allowed me to peek at him without trying to draw me out or to catch me staring.  In fact, he seemed oblivious to anything other than Sheba’s health, which suited me fine.

I’d probably fall apart if the man looked at me.

My cheeks flushed and I concentrated fiercely at the computer screen, hoping he thought I was merely shy, not appalled at my own stupid weakness.  It didn’t matter how many times he came in since I’d been working here.  He always hit me like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

I held my breath for several moments until I felt more in control, and then I turned and gave him my best customer service smile without exactly meeting his gaze.  “Good afternoon, Mr. MacNiall.  Dr. Wentworth is almost ready for you.  You’re our last client today.”

He kept his gaze directed down at his dog, but he smiled, flashing a killer dimple in his cheek.  “I’m not in a rush.”

It was all I could do not to let out a ridiculous little sigh of pleasure.  I soaked him in quickly–the way his curly hair tumbled down across his forehead, his full, sensual lips, the warmth in his dark eyes.  His cheeks and nose were ruddy, his hair windblown more than usual, like he’d been outside a long time.  If he were younger, I would’ve guessed he’d been sled riding for hours, even though there was hardly enough snow to make it worthwhile.

As if he’d heard my thoughts, he said, “I’m playing hooky today, much to Sheba’s glee.  She’s had me at the park all day.”

On Christmas Eve Eve, our unpredictable Missouri weather had finally chilled enough to be called winter, putting me in an extremely rare holiday mood.  It had to be a temporary sugar stupor that made me open my mouth.  “We’ve got a pot of hot chocolate in the back.  Would you like a cup to warm you up?”

“I’d love one, thanks.”

I bit my lip to keep from cursing out loud.  I wasn’t supposed to engage him in conversation.  It was too risky.  I certainly wasn’t supposed to serve him anything.  That led my wayward fantasies down a twisty narrow road of snake pits and creepy caverns.  Relax, I ordered myself sternly.  It’s just a cup of cocoa.  I’m not hitting on him.  He’s not hitting on me.  This is just a nice friendly offer of a hot drink on a chilly day.

I don’t have to go into take me-to-your-dungeon territory.