Excerpt from Candy Cane Cowboy, now available as part of the A Cowboy This Christmas anthology. It's my first attempt at contemporary romance, do let me know what you think! 

​Covering the morning shift at the local diner meant Mandy Robinson had an early start to her workdays. Like today. She tiptoed around gathering her things. On a whim, she grabbed the old leather-bound journal she’d found when cleaning out the antique roll top desk. Quietly, she let herself out of the ranch house she shared with her dad. The porch light lit her way to the old Ford truck parked in the driveway and she slid behind the wheel.
Click. Click.  Mandy yanked out the key, glared at it then jammed it back in the ignition before turning it again. Click.  “Darn it,” she muttered. The battery on the truck had died. Again. Served her right for not plugging it in last night but she hadn’t thought it would get so cold. She glanced at her watch and grimaced. Now she’d be late opening up.
Mandy grabbed her purse and hopped out of the cab, slamming the door with all the aggravation she could muster. She shook her head. Despite its shortcomings, she loved this truck. Just as well, because at the moment she couldn’t afford to buy a new one. Besides, it had been her dad’s pride and joy. When he could still drive, that is. Macular degeneration had left him with vision loss so now the truck belonged to her.
Wrapping her scarf around her neck before shoving her hands in her pockets, she struck off down the road towards the distant houses clustered along the highway. Stars still pricked the night sky although the pink faint glow on the horizon showed the sun would soon rise. Despite the mid November darkness, the snowy fields around her reflected what light there was, enough that she could find her way. She wasn’t the only one out at this early hour – the yips and howls of coyotes echoed in the distance, and she shivered at the mournful sounds. A little over a mile, she told herself. If she jogged, she would get there in fifteen minutes.
Thankfully, the empty parking lot told her no one had been inconvenienced by her cranky vehicle. She climbed the three steps leading to the verandah and kicked snow from her boots against the railing before pulling the key from her pocket. This one, at least, worked. The door squealed open and she stepped inside, batting the light switch as she walked past, lighting a row of red pendant lamps. The Big Spruce Diner had served the community for years, as evidenced by the faded fifties décor of red vinyl and chrome. Stools lined the beat-up counter and the booths by the windows sported duct tape on the bench seats and tabletop jukeboxes that didn’t work. A black and white checkerboard floor completed the look. Mandy loved it. It reminded her of baking peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies in her grandma’s kitchen.
She hung up her coat, switched on the radio to the local country station, tied back her hair, and headed into the kitchen. Within minutes, the aroma of brewing coffee swirled through the air, ready in time for the regulars who would shortly trickle in for breakfast. She tossed bacon, sausages and frozen hashbrowns on the grill and soon everything sizzled to the accompaniment of Elvis crooning Blue Christmas. She frowned at the radio. It seemed as if Halloween had just passed but really, Christmas was only five weeks away.
The door squealed again, and footsteps sounded on the tiled floor. “Morning, Mandy! Coffee ready yet?”
The breakfast rush had begun. “Morning, Ted,” she sang out. “Sure is. On the burner, help yourself.” From past experience, she knew that after Ted poured himself a coffee, he would slide onto his stool at the counter and open the morning paper. She also knew he’d want orange juice, two eggs sunny-side up, bacon, hashbrowns, and sourdough toast with marmalade. She assembled his plate and backed out the kitchen’s swinging door, holding the plate in one hand and the glass of juice in the other.
Later this morning, after breakfast and before lunch, she’d have a few moments to herself. She glanced at her purse dangling from the hook beside the door. Tucked inside was the journal. Ordinarily she might have tossed it without a second look along with all the other detritus of lives long lost, but something about the gold embossed green leather cover drew her. She’d kept the book until she had more time to flip through it.
Finally, the diner sat empty. Mandy made her way to the corner booth and opened the journal. A few pressed lilac florets fell out along with the fragrance of lilac. An odd sensation came over her, as if opening the journal freed the spirit of whoever had owned it. The strong feeling made her lift her head to search the diner. Nothing. Shaking her head at her silliness, she began to read:
This is the journal of Amanda Elizabeth Thompson of Big Spruce, in the province of Alberta.
Her great- grandmother and namesake. How special. In anticipation, Mandy turned the first page.
November 15, 1906.
What a coincidence, she thought. Today is November 15. She shrugged and continued to read:
Today whilst in town with Mama, I met the most interesting fellow. His name is Charles Burton and he’s come to Alberta to stay with our dear neighbors, the Burns. Mama tells me he’s an English lord but surely such an unassuming man could not be a member of the nobility?  Could I be so bold as to wish to see more of him? He has the kindest face and the bluest of eyes… when he looks at me, oh my, my heart flutters and I can scarce take a breath. However, I doubt very much a grand, cultured gentleman such as himself would consider a simple country girl like me.
The entry ended with a sketch of a hat and boots. The ones Mr. Burton wore, Mandy supposed. She inspected the sketch more thoroughly. With only a few strokes of pen and ink, Amanda had perfectly captured the items. Admiration filled her for her great-grandma’s talent.
Boots thudded on the stairs and the door swung open. Mandy glanced at the wall clock. Ten thirty. Usually no one entered the diner this time of the morning. Curious, she closed the journal and pushed it aside. A young guy, in his thirties, she guessed, stepped inside. A stranger. Now that was a rarity in these parts. No one ever moved to Big Spruce, usually they moved away into Calgary. What brought him here?

​Did you like what you read? You can find the buy link on my home page! Happy reading! 
 

 

Excerpt from my current work in progress, A Proper Deception:
​
A single candle barely bit back the darkness in the tiny attic room. Laura Courtenay pulled up a thick shawl around her shoulders and looked at the shriveled form of her mother, resting on the room’s only bed. Sometimes death came quickly, like in the chaos of a runaway carriage crash, or the leaden sting of a pistol’s ball. Other times it danced a slow dance, dipping and swaying, beckoning and teasing, as it did now for Lady Amanda Courtenay, overcome with consumption a scant few months ago.
Laura leaned over to dab her mother’s forehead, letting a hot surge of anger push back the impending grief. How had her feckless gambler of a father, let it come to this? Her mother should be home, at Courtenay Hall, dying in the dignity of her own bedroom, not here, in this cramped and barren room, the only thing they could afford in London’s East End since her father, Lord Robert Courtenay had lost everything – their home, the stables, even the paintings on the walls.
The candle guttered, sending shadows against the wall.
“Reuben”, whispered her mother. “Please promise me you’ll keep Reuben from the workhouse. Promise me you’ll look after him.”
“I promise.” Laura tucked the blanket beneath her mother’s chin. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”
A weak smile crossed her mother’s lips. “You’ve always been a good girl.” She held out her hand and Laura took it. One final sigh and her mother was gone, her spirit flitting out the window, leaving a trail of shivers down Laura’s back. The candle guttered again as if the passing soul tugged it along.
A toddler’s fretful whimper sounded. Reuben. Her three-year old brother.
She turned to gaze at him, sagging against the bed at the enormity of the realization she was solely responsible for his welfare.
 
*** 

​Laura scrunched herself as close as she could to the stone wall beneath a slit that barely passed for a window. If she was lucky, from time to time a faint breeze would waft through, a brief respite from the stench of her cell. She glanced around and shuddered. How had she ended up here, in Newgate Prison? A poor choice made, born of desperation, that’s how. She glanced around the ward filled with other female prisoners.
“Ye can’t push yerself through the wall if that’s what yer thinking,” wheezed one of her cellmates, a grey-haired wizened women sporting the tattered remains of black servant’s garb.
“Ah Lizzie, leave ‘er be. Can’t ye see she’s in a hobble?”  Another prisoner, who had introduced herself as Martha, shifted her bulk and turned to peer through rheumy eyes at Laura. “There’s naught ye can do,” she said, “other than pray the magistrate looks kindly upon ye. Which he might,” she added, “you’re comely and if ye lift yer skirts high enough. Like I would ‘ave done in my younger years.” Her voice trailed away, and she looked up as if she could see back in time before looking back at Laura.
 Laura’s face heated at the vulgar reference. Lift her skirts indeed. Her distaste must have shown on her face for Lizzie chuckled.
“Ye’ll change yer mind soon enough,” Martha continued. “When yer belly cramps with hunger and ye long for a clean frock.”
“What sort of man would take advantage of a defenseless woman?” asked Laura.
Martha shook her head. “Ain’t no gentlemen here.”
“No, I suppose not.” Her chains clanked as she pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around her shins. Not only was it smelly and dark, but cold seeped through her clothing, chilling her to the bone. Today was her second day in jail, how long would she have to wait until her trial?
Curses and shrieks added to the clamour sounding through the barred window of the door. It was mealtime although she knew from past experience one could scarcely call it food. The door squealed open and the guard tossed chunks of black bread on the ground.
Laura wasn’t quick enough. By the time she got to her feet, a jumble of bodies had surged to the bread, scrabbling on hands and knees to find what crumbs they could. Apparently, manners weren’t high on the list. But then, why would they be when one had to do what one could to survive in these wretched conditions?
Taking pity on her, Lizzie ripped a piece off her portion and handed it to Laura. “ ‘Ere. Let this be a lesson. If ye don’t fight fer yerself, no one else will.”
She nodded her thanks and bit into the hard crust, gagging at the sour taste. She had to keep up her strength. She finished the bread then sipped the ale she had obtained yesterday from the guard in exchange for her lace handkerchief before peering into the half empty container. She would have to make it last as long as she could otherwise she would have to drink the foul water from the bucket in the corner beside the slop pail.
Laura swallowed a sob. Any sign of weakness and her cell mates would be upon her like ants to honey, tearing her clothing from her, searching her pockets for anything to sell or barter.
After she settled herself back into her position beneath the slit, she thought of her brother. How was he? Where was he? She’d left him with her neighbor but the woman had four children of her own to feed. Who knew how long she’d tolerate a little boy that could do naught to earn his keep?
She cradled her head in her hands. How long would she be kept here? And if found guilty, would she be hung or transported?
Then what would happen to Reuben?