The Entertainers: Will Rogers

By Elizabeth Lane


Will Rogers died before I was born.  I never saw any of his movies or heard his voice on the radio.  But I feel as if I knew him because he was my dad’s favorite movie star.  Dad talked about him a lot, especially on long car trips. 

Most movie cowboys were city boys with pretty faces.  Born in 1879 on the Dog Iron Ranch in Oklahoma’s Indian Territory, Will was the real thing.  Both his parents were part Cherokee (Will once quipped that his ancestors didn’t come over on the Mayflower, but they met the boat).  The youngest of eight children, Will quit school after the 10^th grade.  He was more interested in being a cowboy than in reading, writing and arithmetic. 

A freed slave taught him how to use a lasso to work Texas Longhorn cattle on the family ranch.  As he grew older, Will’s roping skills were so remarkable that he was listed in the Guiness Book of Records for throwing three lassos at the same time:  One rope caught the running horse’s neck, the other would hoop around the rider and the third swooped up under the horse to loop all four legs.  After some early adventures abroad, will returned to America and went into show business as “The Cherokee Kid.”  His skills won him jobs trick roping in wild west shows and on the vaudeville stages where, soon, he started telling small jokes. 

Quickly, his wisecracks and folksy observations became more prized by audiences than his expert roping.  He became known as an informed philosopher, telling the truth in simple words so that everyone could understand.  Here are some examples:  

“A fool and his money are soon elected.” 

“Advertising is the art of convincing people to spend money they don’t have for something they don’t need.” 

“Buy land.  They ain’t making any more of the stuff.” 

“Even if you’re on the right track you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” 

“If stupidity got us into this mess, then why can’t it get us out?” 

“Never let yesterday use up too much of today.” 

“We are all here for a spell.  Get all the good laughs you can.”  

Will starred on Broadway and in 71 movies and was also a radio broadcaster.  He wrote more than 4,000 newspaper colums and six books.  Presidents, senators and kings sought his opinions.  Inside himself, Will Rogers remained a simple Oklahoma cowboy. "I never met a man I didn't like," was his credo of genuine love and respect for humanity and all people everywhere. He gave his own money to disaster victims and raised thousands for the Red Cross and Salvation Army.  

Will was also a devoted husband and father of four.  He married Betty Blake in 1908 after an 8 year courtship.  He would say, “When I roped her, that was the star performance of my life.” 

In 1935, at the age of 55, Will took off on a flight around the world with a legendary pilot named Wiley Post.  The plane crashed in Alaska.  Both men lost their lives.  The outpouring of national grief over Will Rogers's passing is generally regarded to be the greatest such show of national mourning since the death of Lincoln some seventy years earlier.   Will has been honored with postage stamps and monuments, including a statue in the U.S. Capitol building.  And his wise, simple words are still with us.  

Elizabeth Lane has written more than thirty historical romances, several set in the early 20th century. Her latest is CHRISTMAS MOON, a time travel set in present day and 1870s Wyoming, available in print and Kindle from Amazon.com, and in other e-formats from E-Reads. Watch for her latest Harlequin Historical, THE WIDOWED BRIDE, in March 2011.

Excerpt Thursday: Elizabeth Lane

This week on Excerpt Thursday, we're welcoming long-time contributor Elizabeth Lane as she celebrates the release of her latest Harlequin Historical romance, THE WIDOWED BRIDE, set in the 1920s American West. Join us Sunday when Elizabeth will be here to talk about her latest and give away a copy! Don't miss it. Here's the blurb:

A PROHIBITED PASSION...

Ruby Denby Rumford endured her monstrous husband's abuse until death--by self-defense--did them part. Now she and her daughters seek a new beginning in Dutchman's Creek, Colorado, but will her past stay buried?

With an obligation to uphold the laws of prohibition and an undercover persona in place, U.S. Deputy Marshal Ethan Beaudry comes to town ready to end a shady bootlegging ring. He doesn't expect to find beautiful, mysterious Ruby involved--or to be forced to choose between duty to the law and this forbidden passion.

***

Dutchman's Creek, Colorado
May, 1920

The sooty cobweb stretched from the chandelier to the high ceiling, a good four feet out of reach. Lurking near its center was a spider--a monster with long, prickly legs and a body as big as a copper penny.

Ruby Denby Rumford glared up at her adversary. She'd always had a mortal dread of spiders, but she couldn't let this one get the best of her. If she wanted to attract good tenants for her boarding house, the place would have to be spotless from floor to ceiling. The spider had to go.

Circling warily, she plotted her attack. She might be able to reach the web with the broom. But if she knocked the spider loose, it could end up anywhere--in her hair, in her face, down her blouse... Ruby shuddered as she weighed her options. The only way to make sure the creature didn't land on her would be to capture it first.

A dusty Mason jar with a lid sat on the kitchen counter. That would do for a trap. But she'd need something to climb on. Ruby sighed as she surveyed the rickety cane chairs that had come with the old boarding house. Maybe she should have paid $4.50 for that stepladder at the hardware store. But buying the property had taken almost all her money. Until the rents started coming in, she would need to hoard every cent she had left.

Moving a chair to the center of the room, she tried standing on the seat; but the spider was still out of reach. She needed something more--that wooden crate in the corner might do. Placed on the chair, it would raise her a good eighteen inches.

With the crate in place, Ruby retrieved the jar and prepared for battle. She could do this, she lectured herself. A woman who'd fired three bullets into her raging, two-hundred-pound husband at point blank range should have no trouble facing down a creature the size of her thumb.

Hollis Rumford had deserved to die. Even the jurors had agreed after they'd heard how Hollis had abused her and threatened worse to their two young daughters. At the urging of the best lawyer in the state, they'd acquitted Ruby on grounds of self defense. But her wealthy friends--mostly Hollis's friends--had been less forgiving. The Springfield Missouri social set had cut her off cold.

Exhausted and needing a change of scene, she'd fled to Europe with her little girls. A few months later she'd returned to discover that her late husband's estate had been gobbled up by creditors, leaving her with little more than a pittance.

There was nothing to do but pull up stakes and make a new start.

Dutchman's Creek had been a natural choice. Ruby's brother Jace, her only close kin, had settled on a nearby ranch. He and his spirited young bride Clara were expecting their first baby. They'd urged Ruby to come to Colorado so their children could grow up together.

Ruby had welcomed the invitation. She'd seen the town on an earlier visit and been captivated by its peaceful mountain setting. She'd always been close to Jace, and Clara was like a sister to her. But she had no intention of becoming a burden to them. Whatever it took, she'd vowed, she would find a way to provide for herself and her children.

The vacant boarding house at the south end of Main Street had looked like an answer to her prayers. She and her daughters could live on the main floor and rent the four upstairs rooms for a steady income.

Only now was she beginning to realize how much she'd taken on.

Clutching the jar in one hand, she hitched up her narrow skirt and hoisted herself onto the edge of the chair. Her brother had offered to come and help her get the place in shape. Ruby had turned him down out of stubborn pride. Jace had already done enough for her, risking his life and freedom to protect her after Hollis's death. It was time she learned to manage on her own.

That aside, she'd gladly accepted Clara's invitation to take the girls for the week. Mandy and Caro were having the time of their lives on the ranch, riding horses, climbing trees, bottle-feeding orphaned calves and gathering eggs in the chicken coop.

Meanwhile, their mother had a spider to dispose of.

Holding her breath, Ruby mounted the crate. Her knees quivered as she steadied her balance on the wooden slats. Seconds, that was all she'd need to do the job.

Close up, the spider looked bigger and nastier than ever. Steeling herself, Ruby twisted the lid off the Mason jar and positioned it below the creature. A little more stretch and she could use the lid to maneuver it inside. Heart pounding, she eased onto her tiptoes...

A wooden slat splintered beneath her weight. Thrown off balance, Ruby lurched upward. The jar shattered against the floor as she grabbed for the chain that suspended the small chandelier. Miraculously, the chain held. But her thrashing feet had toppled the crate and chair, leaving her to dangle above the wreckage. The distance to the floor wasn't all that far, but falling could land her on a splintered board, a jutting chair leg or shards of broken glass.

The web was empty now. The spider, she realized, could be anywhere. Panic clenched Ruby's stomach. Her grip was getting weaker, and she had no safe place to fall. There was only one thing she could do.

Scream bloody murder.

* * *

U.S. Deputy Marshal Ethan Beaudry had been assigned to weed out bootleggers, not rescue females in distress. But the shrieks coming from the old boarding house were too urgent to ignore. Vaulting the picket fence, he charged up the steps and burst through the front door.

His breath caught in his throat.

The woman had stopped screaming. She hung by her arms, staring down at him from beneath a tumble of red-gold hair. Her eyes were as blue as the heart of a mountain columbine.

She did make a fetching sight, dangling like an acrobat from the chandelier chain, with her white blouse pulled loose and her skirt hiked over her shapely calves. Ethan was tempted to spend a few more seconds admiring the view. But then she spoke.

"What are you staring at, you fool? Stop gawking and get me down from here!"

Her voice was low, with a taut, gravelly edge that roused Ethan's senses. "Do you trust me to catch you?" he teased.

"Are you sure you're strong enough?" she retorted. "I'm not what you'd call a little woman."

No, she certainly wasn't, Ethan observed. At five-foot eight or nine with a body that could grace the bow of a frigate, she'd make an armful for any man.

He wouldn't mind being that man.

Kicking aside the debris, Ethan stood beneath her and held out his arms. "Come on," he said.

She hesitated, her eyes taking the measure of his broad shoulders and six-foot, two-inch height. One by one, her fingers peeled away from the chain.

With a little yelp, she dropped straight down, feet first. Ethan caught her awkwardly around the knees. From there she slid down the front of him, delicious curves gliding intimately down his face, over his chest, down his belly to--

Lord have mercy, he was in trouble now. His erection had sprung up with coiled-spring efficiency, ready for playtime. She would have felt it all the way down.

Feet touching the floor, she pushed away from him. Her face was flushed, her full lips parted. Ethan fought the temptation to fling caution to the wind, seize her in his arms and kiss her till she burned. The lady would probably slap him hard enough to dislocate his jaw. And she was a lady. Ethan made a practice of reading people, and he was certain of that. Her clothes were simple but expensively made. The Irish linen blouse, smudged with dust and edged with the barest touch of lace, looked European, as did the daintily pointed kidskin oxfords. And he would bet money that the pearl studs in her earlobes were as genuine as her upper-class Midwestern accent.

So what was such a woman doing in this run-down boarding house, a rumored delivery point for the bootlegging trade? He couldn't believe she was involved. But he'd known stranger things to happen.

A flick of her tongue moistened her lower lip. Her complexion was like a porcelain doll's, but close up, Ethan could see the careworn shadows beneath her eyes. He estimated her age at about thirty, and something told him she'd had her share of troubles. He'd noticed right off she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. But she was far too stunning not to have married. A widow, Ethan surmised. A luscious redheaded widow who'd been around the block and knew every step of the way.

Intriguing. And damned tempting...

An Ordinary Day In: The Life of a Washerwoman

By Elizabeth Lane

Among the family treasures in my home is my Great-Grandma Magelby's battered old copper wash boiler. It measures 20 inches across by 13 inches high and sits on a three-legged iron stand, which supported it over the fire. On one side of the lip, where the soapy water was always dumped out, the copper has been corroded away. It makes the old tub less presentable but even more precious. When I look at it I imagine her dumping out the wash water time after time, week after week, over the years of her life.

Washing clothes in those old days wasn't a job for sissies. To give you an idea of what was involved, here's a list of instructions, written by a grandmother to a new bride. The spelling errors are from the original. I can't vouch for its authenticity, but it's a fun read and probably pretty accurate.

WASHING CLOTHES

Build fire in backyard to heat kettle of rain water.
Set tubs so smoke wont blow in eyes if wind is pert.
Shave one hole cake of lie soap in boiling water.
Sort things, make 3 piles--1 pile white, 1 pile colored, 1 pile work britches and rags.
To make starch, stir flour in cool water to smooth, then thin down with boiling water.
Take white things, rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard, and boil, then rub colored don't boil just wrench and starch.
Take things out of kettle with broom stick handle, then wrench and starch.
Hang old rags on fence.
Spread tea towels on grass.
Pour wrench water in flower bed.
Scrub porch with hot soapy water.
Turn tubs upside down.
Go put on clean dress, smooth hair with hair combs.
Brew cup of tea, sit and rock a spell and count your blessings.

Monday was the traditional day for washing. In many communities there was competition among housewives to see who could get their wash hung first and whose whites were the whitest. In good weather the washing and drying could be done outdoors. In the winter the job had to be done in the kitchen, with lines strung wherever they would fit. Starched clothes were sprinkled and rolled up to await Tuesday--the traditional ironing day.

The above list mentions "lie soap". Most people made their own soap in those days out of lye (which came from wood ash) and fat. The soap was used for bathing as well as laundry. My mom's sister swore by homemade lye soap and made it all her life. We always used to save our bacon drippings to give her for soap. Here are a couple of recipes I found.

Boiled Soap (for cooking outdoors in a kettle)
32 pounds lard
16 quarts soft water
8 cans lye

Boil two hours and then add one more gallon of water. Stir and remove fire from kettle and pour into molds.

Cold Soap
6 lbs melted fat
1 can lye
2 1/2 pints water

Add lye to water and dissolve. When container which holds the lye water is warm, add the fat and stir until cool. Pour into a cloth lined box, or a box that has been dipped in cold water, and cover. Cut soap into squares when set.

The modern age of the washing machine dawned with the invention of a self contained electric machine in the first decade of the 20th Century. In 1922 Howard Snyder placed a circular plate studded with four vertical fins at the bottom of a tub and attached it to a drive shaft to make the first agitator washer. Some time later, rollers were added above the tub for wringing out clothes. My mother used an old Maytag of this style for most of my growing up years. She taught school all week and spent most of her Saturdays doing the wash. We've come along way with our modern automatic washers that known how and when to wash, rinse and spin. So give your washing machine a hug today.

Elizabeth Lane has written more than thirty historical romances, several set in the early 20th century. Her latest is CHRISTMAS MOON, a time travel set in present day and 1870s Wyoming, available in print and Kindle from Amazon.com, and in other e-formats from E-Reads. Watch for her latest Harlequin Historical, THE WIDOWED BRIDE, in March 2011.

CHRISTMAS MOON Winner!

We have a winner for Elizabeth Lane's CHRISTMAS MOON guest blog. A free copy goes to:

librarypat!

Contact Carrie to provide your mailing address. The book must be claimed by next Sunday or another winner will be drawn. Please stop back later to let us know what you thought! Congratulations!

Guest Author: Elizabeth Lane

This week on Unusual Historicals, we're helping contributor Elizabeth Lane launch her special holiday time-travel treat, CHRISTMAS MOON. Stick around to see how you can win a free copy. Here's the blurb:

Pregnant, unwed and down on her luck, history teacher Emma Carlyle is facing the worst Christmas of her life. Needing some research for her master's thesis on legendary Wyoming lawman J.D. McNulty, she makes a Christmas Eve drive to South Pass City, where J.D. was buried. Heading home, she loses her way in a storm. After her car vanishes, she ends up in 1871, half-frozen, on the doorstep of a remote mountain cabin.

When J.D. himself opens the door with a pistol in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other...well, let's just say that sparks start flying. These two lost souls are clearly meant for each other. But there's one problem. Emma has studied everything about J.D.--and she knows he has only a few weeks to live.

***

"Five Spurs! This is a marvelous story filled with the spirit of Christmas miracles... The romance between J.D. and Emma evolves from suspicion to amazement to a sizzling, unbridled love. Resolving a time travel romance is always tricky but Elizabeth Lane does a terrific job of making it all work--including that little detail of J.D.'s imminent death. An engaging, intriguing and thoroughly enjoyable story of timeless love." ~ Love Western Romance

***

Tell us about yourself.

I'm a westerner by birth and upbringing. My grandparents lived like pioneers and my great-grandparents were pioneers. I grew up in a small town, in a family of people who loved the outdoors. Maybe that’s why writing Western romance comes so naturally to me. But I can and do write other things. My earliest books were big historical sagas. Then the market changed and I found a new home at Harlequin Historicals. Counting a couple of ghost writing projects, I'm coming up on 35 books. Twenty-eight of those books have been for Harlequin--3 of them contemporaries, the rest historicals. CHRISTMAS MOON is a step in a new direction, my first e-book and my first time travel.

CHRISTMAS MOON is something new for you. How did you come to write it and publish it as an e-book?

I'd written about 30 books for Harlequin and wanted to try something different. I've always loved time travel, and the old West seemed a natural setting for me. My agent encouraged me to add the Christmas element. I loved every page of this book, but we couldn't sell it, not even to Harlequin, because it didn't fit their format. No major publisher wanted a Christmas/western/time travel. My agent has his own e-book publishing venture, E-Reads. We decided to publish it there. The timing couldn't have been better. With the recent boom in e-publishing and plenty of promotion on my part, CHRISTMAS MOON has received a lot of attention. I couldn't be happier. This is a special book, and I wanted to have it read and enjoyed.

What can your readers expect next?

I'd planned to end my "Bride" series with THE HORSEMAN'S BRIDE. Then a stunning, strong-willed woman strode into the last chapter of the book, and I knew I wasn't finished. Those of you who've read, or will read THE HORSEMAN'S BRIDE, will be happy to know that Ruby gets her story. Look for THE WIDOWED BRIDE in March.

After that, I'll be leaving Dutchman's Creek, Colorado for the northern California coast and a haunting post-gold rush story, final title and release date TBD. More news, I've just signed to do two more full length historical westerns and a novella for Harlequin. That should keep me busy for a while.

***

Tis the season, readers, for some Christmas magic. Would you like to like to win a free copy of CHRISTMAS MOON? Leave a comment or question for Elizabeth for your chance. I'll draw a winner at random next Sunday. Void where prohibited. Best of luck, and the best of the season to you!

Excerpt Thursday: Elizabeth Lane

This week on Unusual Historicals, we're helping contributor Elizabeth Lane launch her special holiday time-travel treat, CHRISTMAS MOON. Join us Sunday when Elizabeth will be here to answer questions about this latest venture, talk about her upcoming projects, and give away a copy of CHRISTMAS MOON. Here's the blurb:

Pregnant, unwed and down on her luck, history teacher Emma Carlyle is facing the worst Christmas of her life. Needing some research for her master's thesis on legendary Wyoming lawman J.D. McNulty, she makes a Christmas Eve drive to South Pass City, where J.D. was buried. Heading home, she loses her way in a storm. After her car vanishes, she ends up in 1871, half-frozen, on the doorstep of a remote mountain cabin.

When J.D. himself opens the door with a pistol in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other...well, let's just say that sparks start flying. These two lost souls are clearly meant for each other. But there's one problem. Emma has studied everything about J.D.--and she knows he has only a few weeks to live.

***

The woman on J.D.'s porch looked as if she'd just staggered out of a nightmare. She was wild-eyed and tarnally spooked, gripping a stick of kindling as if she wanted to bash in his face. The fact that she was dressed like some kind of Chinaman, in sagging black trousers and an enormous, puffy green silk coat, only added to J.D.'s befuddlement. What lunatic asylum had this female escaped from?

"Easy, now, lady." J.D. kept the Colt leveled at her collar bone, but mostly for show. "Put that stick down, and I'll take my itchy finger off this trigger."

Slowly and shakily she lowered her arm. He could see now that she was half-dead from cold and exhaustion. Her lips were the color of laundry bluing and her hair was plastered around her face in frozen strings. She was swaying on her feet like a drunkard.

J.D. cursed under his breath. He'd been looking forward to a peaceful night with his books, the old tomcat and a bottle of the finest rotgut whiskey in Glory Gulch. Maybe if he drank enough of the stuff, he might even forget it was Christmas Eve.

Muttering words unfit for a lady's ears, he eased off the hammer and laid the Colt on the bookshelf. "Well don't just stand there. Come on inside. And don't expect any apologies for my state of undress. I wasn't expecting company."

The kindling stick clattered to the porch as she dragged herself across the threshold. She was tall for a woman, with a body that appeared too stout for her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were staring at him as if she'd just seen Abraham Lincoln's ghost.

Her chilled lips worked in an effort to speak. "Where...am I?"

J.D. bolted the door behind her. "Glory Gulch, Wyoming. The upper edge of it, at least. Main part of town's further down the canyon."

"Glory Gulch?" Her eyes widened. "People are living here?"

"A few score, maybe, most of us down on our luck. Not like the old days before the gold played out." J.D. bit down hard on his cheroot as a new thought struck him. "Any other folks out there with you? Any of your family lost in the storm?" He didn't relish searching in a blizzard but if there were other travelers with the woman, he'd rather find them alive tonight than dead tomorrow.

Distrust flickered across her face, and he realized she'd misread him. "Oh, there'll be plenty of people looking for me by morning--police on snowmobiles, maybe even a helicopter or two. As long as they find me safe, there'll be no trouble for you."

J.D. shook his head. The woman was touched for sure. "You're talking gibberish, lady. Sit down and have a whiskey. Maybe it'll bring you around."

"Tell me one thing." She was staring up at him, her wild, scared doe's eyes searching his face. "Who are you? What's your name?"

"McNulty, for whatever it's worth to you. J.D. McNulty."

Her eyes widened for an instant. Then the pupils rolled back in her head and she swayed to one side. J.D. lunged, catching her as she went down in a dead faint.

She was heftier than he'd expected, and her belly, where it pressed his arm, felt as round and solid as a brood mare's. Only then did it dawn on J.D. that under her puffy coat, the lady had company. She was in a family way, and damned near ready to deliver.

A cold knot clenched in J.D.'s gut, jerking tight. Lord almighty, not that. Anything but that!

Anniversary Bash: Finale!

Welcome to the final day of Unusual Historicals' anniversary!

I have to say, this has been one of the best blogging experiences I've had in a long time. The comments all of y'all have provided have often had me rolling with laughter. Definitely the way to start every morning, and even more than that, the best way I can think of to celebrate four years at such an awesome blog. I can't wait to see everyone stick around as we return to normal programming.

Before we get to the really, really good stuff--the extra huge pack of books we have to give away today--I want to take a moment out to thank Carrie Lofty for the work she puts in around here on a regular basis. I've always known she was the one who kept this gig running smoothly, but I never realized until I took over this week exactly what that entailed. A lot. Like, just putting up posts with pictures and silly questions has taken me hours of work. I can't imagine how much time Carrie must put in. Ms. Lofty, I tip my hat to you.

Ok, the books. What have I been holding back for today? Why, really awesome stuff. Twelve books! You read that right, twelve. All stuffed carefully in one box and mailed off to a single lucky winner. Sounds like a wonderful distraction from family and holidays!

Today's winner will get:

Elizabeth Lane:
The Horseman's Bride (signed)

Amanda McIntyre:

The Diary of Cozette; Tortured; The Master & the Muses (all signed)

Hope Tarr:
Vanquished (signed)

Diane Whiteside:
The Devil She Knows (signed and there's a matching keychain)

Lisa Marie Wilkinson:
Fire at Midnight; Stolen Promise (both signed)

Lisa J. Yarde:
On Falcon's Wings

Kate Bridges:
Alaska Bride on the Run; Mail Order Marriages (both signed)

Monica Burns:
Kismet

Seriously people, how can you top that stack? Y'all are lucky the books are actually at Carrie's house. If I had 'em, they'd probably be pre-read before they got to the winners. (Honestly, I've read most of them already. But that's just because I really do love the special zing I get from reading a great historical set somewhere different.)

We've hopefully introduced you to a lot of new Unusual Historicals authors this week. So for today's Grand Prize, tell me which UH author you're most eager to read. The winner will be drawn at random first thing next Sunday morning, just like our usual Sunday giveaways.

The usuals: Void where prohibited. Prizes can only be mailed to the US and Canada. Don't talk to strangers. (Unless they're really cute and rich.)

***

Lorelie Brown's first book, JAZZ BABY, is currently available from Samhain Publishing and will be released 4 January in paperback. Her second romance, an 1880s-set western, will be published by Carina Press in Summer 2011

Weekly Announcements - 11 Dec 2010

First up, great news! The winner of yesterday's prize package is: GAIL! Email Carrie (contact AT carrielofty DOT com) to provide your information. Congratulations!

Join us tomorrow when we wrap up our massively awesome Fourth Anniversary Bash! We'll have OMG TWELVE books up for grabs. See you then!

***

In the meantime, former guest author Jan Scarbrough is back to help us celebrate Christmas early. She's giving away an ebook copy of the novella collection A GROOVY CHRISTMAS . Written by Jan and two other authors, the novellas are set in 1944, 1968, and 1975. Very cool! Just leave your comment in this post. I'll draw the winner on Monday morning, after all the Anniversary Bash hubbub has died down!

***

If you haven't seen this week's posts at the RT Book Reviews blog, do check them out. Carrie Lofty, Blythe Gifford, Elizabeth Lane, Michelle Styles, and a couple intrepid Unusual Historicals contributors all wrote new material to celebrate our anniversary week.

Among those posts, Elizabeth revealed the cover to her March release, THE WIDOWED BRIDE, set in the 1920s. In addition, Michelle's post on the international market for Harlequin was linked to by Dear Author.

***

Congratulations to Zoe Archer, whose second "Blades of the Rose" book, SCOUNDREL, was selected by Smart Bitch Sarah Wendell as one of her top picks for 2010. Jeannie Lin's BUTTERFLY SWORDS was also chosen! What a cool pair of selections to represent the best in exotic historical romance. We're very proud!

You can read the entire list on the Kirkus Romance Blog.

***

UH reader and author Kelly Heckart wrote in to ask that we announce the release of her latest paranormal historical romance, set in 6th century Scotland. Happy to, Kelly! BELTAINE'S SONG is the second book in the "Dark Goddess" trilogy, available now from Awe-Struck.

***

Would you like an early Christmas present? Bookstrand has Lindsay Townsend's romance, FLAVIA'S SECRET on offer as a free ebook from now until Valentine's Day. FLAVIA'S SECRET is set in ancient Roman Britain in 206AD. If you haven't tried one of Lindsay's books yet, here's a chance!

***

We'll also draw the winner of Michelle Styles's trio of romances from Harlequin Mills & Boon. You still have time to leave a comment or question for your chance to win.

***

Stay with us through the coming weeks when we'll be featuring the best unusual historical authors! Michelle Beattie, Elizabeth Lane, Alix Rickloff, and Lorelie Brown will be our guests. Join us!

***

Remember, you don't have to be an Unusual Historicals contributor to submit good news to the weekend announcements. If it has to do with unusual historicals, we'd love to shout it out to the world! Send announcements to Carrie. See you next week...

Anniversary Bash: Day Four!

First things first and that would be yesterday's winners! RomanceLover88, you win the pack from Michelle Styles. Zai Abd Rahman, you get the ebooks. You each have 24 hours to contact myself (lorelielong at gmail dot com) or Carrie Lofty (contact at carrielofty dot com) to collect your prizes.

It's Thursday and the work week is almost over. What better way to celebrate than winning a hefty stack of books from Unusual Historicals authors? Personally, I don't think you can beat that with a stick. Today's prize is a big ole stack of eight books, and all but one are signed! Isn't that cool?

Beverly Jenkins:

Wild Sweet Love

Elizabeth Lane:

The Horseman's Bride

Maureen Lang:

Whisper on the Wind

Jade Lee:

Wicked Surrender

Jeannie Lin:

Butterfly Swords

Blythe Gifford:

Innocence Unveiled

Alex Beecroft:

False Colors (I don't know if y'all care, but this was one of my favorite books of last year.); Captain's Surrender

Personally, being able to give away all these great books is definitely putting me in the holiday spirit. It's practically Christmas, right? So to be entered in today's drawing, tell me what you want for Christmas.

Pseudo-lawyer disclosures: These books can only be shipped within the US. All entries must be accompanied by a valid email address. Void where prohibited. Don't take candy from strangers.

***

Lorelie Brown's first book, JAZZ BABY, is currently available from Samhain Publishing and will be released 4 January in paperback. Her second romance, an 1880s-set western, will be published by Carina Press in Summer 2011.

Real Life Heroes: Cochise and Thomas Jeffords

By Elizabeth Lane

No, the photo below is not of Cochise. It's Jeff Chandler, the Brooklyn-born actor who played the great Apache chief in three different movies, winning an Oscar nomination for his portrayal in the 1950 film, Broken Arrow.

No verifiable photograph of the real Cochise is known to exist. But accounts of the time describe him as tall and handsome with a fiercely majestic presence. At a time when Native Americans were commonly played by white actors, Chandler (who was 6' 5" and Jewish) did a first class job. The scene where James Stewart walks into the Apache camp and Cochise, played by Chandler, first steps into sight is pure goose bump material.

The real Cochise was born some time between 1812 and 1815, most likely in the Chiricahua Mountains of what is now southern Arizona. By 1835 he was leading raids against the Apaches' traditional enemies, the Mexicans. His ferocity in battle and his chiefly bearing soon made him a leader among his people.

Cochise tolerated the growing presence of Americans in his territory until an incident in 1861. A rancher had lost some cattle and his half-Mexican son. The local army commander summoned Cochise to his tent. Cochise came with his wife and son, his brother and several nephews. Cochise, who was innocent, was accused of the crime. When the soldiers tried to arrest him, he drew a knife, slashed the tent and escaped.

The soldiers held Cochise's family hostage. To ransom them, Cochise kidnapped four men from a stagecoach station. Believing that his family had been killed, Cochise tortured and killed his captives. In retaliation, the soldiers killed his brother and nephews, who were still prisoners. Cochise's wife and son were released, but the damage was done. Throughout the 18960s Cochise made war on the Americans, raiding, killing, striking terror into the hearts of settlers and outwitting the army at every turn. When his father-in-law, the great Mangas Coloradas, was murdered by whites, who removed his head and sent it back East, Cochise's rage reached new heights. By the end of the decade Cochise was the most feared Indian in America.

Enter a new player in this drama. Mail supervisor Thomas Jeffords was the one white man Cochise respected and trusted. Their friendship is one of the greatest legends of the West. Through a series of events, Jeffords managed to arrange a meeting between Cochise and General Howard, known for his fairness toward the Indians. A treaty was arranged, which gave the Apaches a reservation in their beloved mountains and named Cochise's friend Jeffords as the reservation agent.

This is a photograph of the real Jeffords, who was played in the film Broken Arrow by James Stewart. The romance between Jeffords and the Apache girl, played by Debra Paget, was entirely fictional. But the rest of the story is mostly true.

Cochise honored the treaty to the end of his days and died in his sixties of natural causes. His grave has never been found. His eldest son Taza, who followed him as tribal leader, also walked the path of peace. He died of pneumonia on a visit to Washington DC in 1876. Cochise's younger son Naiche and his warrior daughter Lozen continued to battle alongside another Apache leader, Geronimo.

Elizabeth Lane has written more than thirty historical romances, several set in the early 20th century. Her latest is CHRISTMAS MOON, a time travel set in present day and 1870s Wyoming, available in print and Kindle from Amazon.com, and in other e-formats from E-Reads. Watch for her latest Harlequin Historical, THE WIDOWED BRIDE, in March 2011.

Women Did It Better: Nellie Bly

By Elizabeth Lane

The crusading journalist known as Nellie Bly was a real-life heroine in every sense of the word. Born Elizabeth Jane Cochran in 1864, she was the third child of a wealthy Pennsylvania judge and his second wife. She was raised in comfort until the age of six, when her father died. Unfortunately he left no will providing for his second family. Elizabeth's mother and her five children were thrown into poverty.

In desperation, her mother married an alcoholic who abused her. When she later filed for divorce, Elizabeth testified at the trial. At fifteen, Elizabeth entered normal school, hoping to become a teacher and support her mother. But with her family so poor, she was only able to attend one semester. She then moved to Pittsburgh with her mother. For seven years she helped run a boarding house, taking other work when she could find it. She dreamed of becoming a writer.

That dream came true when she read a series of columns in the Pittsburgh Dispatch, from a popular writer who wrote that women belonged at home doing domestic tasks and called the working woman "a monstrosity." Elizabeth's spirited rebuttal about the plight of women and girls who had to work so impressed the paper that they hired her and gave her the pen name "Nellie Bly" after the Stephen Foster song. Her first story was about poor working girls. Her second called for a reform of the state's divorce laws. The paper, however, wanted to confine her to the women's page, writing about social events and fashion. Bly convinced the editors to let her be a foreign correspondent in Mexico, where she sent back stories about the lives of the Mexican people. On her return, however, she was again confined to the women's page. That was too much. Nellie quit and struck out for New York.

After knocking on doors for six months, she talked her way into the office of the New York World. The editor, possibly to brush her off, challenged her to write a story about the patients housed in a New York mental institution. Impersonating a mad person, Nellie came back from Blackwell's island ten days later with stories of beatings, ice cold baths and forced meals that included rancid butter. Her story stirred the public and politicians and brought money and needed reforms to the institution. At the age of 23, Nellie Bly had begun to pioneer a new kind of investigative journalism.

In the years that followed, she exposed corruption and injustice, always taking the side of the downtrodden. Her fame also opened the doors of the rich and famous, and she profiled many celebrities of her time. The peak of her fame came when she took a whirlwind trip around the world in 1889 to beat Phileas Fogg, the fictional hero of Jules Verne's "Around the World in Eighty Days." Traveling by ship, train and Burro, she made it back to New York in a little over 72 days, cheered by huge crowds.

At the age of 30 Nellie Bly married a 70-year-old industrialist named Robert Seaman. After his death ten years later she ran his business until it went bankrupt. Then she turned back to reporting. Picking up where she left off, she championed worthy causes, including finding homes for abandoned children. She died from pneumonia in 1922, at the age of 57, after a life that would rival any work of fiction.

Tragic Tales: Baby Doe

By Elizabeth Lane

Horace "Haw" Tabor may not have been long on talent or ambition, but he made up for it with sheer dumb luck. The year 1878 found the 48-year-old Tabor running a store in Leadville, Colorado, while his loyal wife, Augusta, kept a boarding house. Storekeepers at the time had the option of providing a "grubstake" for miners on their way to the wilds for a shot at fortune. In return, the storekeeper was entitled to one-third of any riches the miners discovered.

That spring, Tabor grubstaked a pair of sorry-looking miners named August Rische and George Hook. They didn't seem to know much about prospecting, but the two of them wandered into the hills and, by chance, dug into a vein of pure silver. Their Little Pittsburgh Mine yielded $20,000 a week. Haw Tabor's $60 investment earned him $2 million in the first year alone without getting his hands dirty. In short order he became mayor of boomtown Leadville and lieutenant governor of Colorado. Augusta, unable to adjust to her husband's meteoric rise, became more and more reclusive.

Enter Baby Doe. Born Elizabeth Bonduel McCourt, and newly divorced from her slacker husband, Harvey Doe, she was blue-eyed, blond, spunky, and irresistible. In 1879 she met the newly-rich Haw Tabor. Despite their 26-year age difference, the two fell in love. Over the next few years, as Tabor's relationship with Augusta became more distant, his liaison with Baby Doe became increasingly public. In 1881, Tabor quietly obtained a backwoods divorce from his wife (without bothering to inform her). At some point he and Baby Doe were quietly married.

Eventually word of the secret divorce reached Augusta Tabor. She hauled her ex-husband into court and received a million dollar settlement.

In 1883 Tabor was appointed to fill a 30-day vacancy as U.S. Senator from Colorado. He and Baby Doe took advantage of the chance to stage a lavish Washington wedding, attended by no less a person than President Chester A. Arthur. Soon, however, the gossip caught up with them. The priest who'd performed the ceremony declared the marriage illegal because both parties had been divorced. But since they'd already married each other earlier, it didn't make any difference. The wedding had been pure theater.

That was the end of Tabor's political career. Although he and Baby Doe lived well for a time, and he attempted to run for governor and senator, public opinion had turned against him.

In 1893 the final blow cam when the federal government announced that it was going to stop buying silver for its currency and convert to the gold standard. The crash ruined Tabor. Everything he had was sold, but nothing he could do was enough to support Baby Doe and their two daughters. In 1899 he died of appendicitis in the single room he shared with his family. Shortly before his death, he reportedly told his wife to "hang onto the Matchless Mine."

Baby Doe spent the remaining thirty-five years of her life in a cabin outside the Matchless Mine in Leadville. Still beautiful, she could have easily remarried. She chose instead to "hold onto the Matchless."

In early March of 1935, her frozen body was discovered on the floor of her cabin. Deserted by her daughters, she had passed into legend. Her life has been the subject of two books, a Hollywood movie, two operas, a screen play, a one-woman show and countless other books and articles.

Good Times: Shivaree

By Elizabeth Lane

Frontier weddings were a great excuse for celebration. Given time, money and good weather, the bride and groom might host a picnic or dance for their guests. But the liveliest form of wedding entertainment was the shivaree--the hazing of the newlyweds on their wedding night.

The origins of the word "charivari" are likely from the Roman caribaria, meaning headache or the Greek kerebaria: kera (head) and barys (heavy), named for the effect of the cacophony on the hapless newlyweds. The tradition has been practiced for at least 700 years as it is depicted in an engraving in "Roman de Fauvel"--an early 14th century French manuscript.

Charivari, or shivaree, started as a French folk custom, going back to the Middle Ages. It was originally a mark of disfavor--for example, if the neighbors thought a widow had remarried too soon. But in the American West, the shivaree was all in fun.

One writer describes the shivaree as a combination of trick-or-treating, fraternity hazing, and Christmas caroling. The participants would gather at a neighbor's place, maybe having a few drinks to warm up. As night fell, they would converge on the house where the newlyweds had gone, trying to arrive shortly after the couple got into bed. On a signal, they would start singing, yelling, and banging on pots and pans. If the couple refused to come out, they would bang on the door, demanding to come inside and have a drink.

If the groom opened the door and gave them money or a treat they might go away and finish the party somewhere else. But if the uproar was ignored, they might break in, kidnap the groom, take him far away, and leave him to find his way home in the dark--perhaps undressed.

One Kansas newspaper provides the following description of a shivaree party: "They performed such tricks as shooting bullets through the windows, breaking down the door, dragging the couple out of bed and tumbling them about on the floor, and indulging in other equally innocent tricks." The editor added, "It requires backbone to get married out this way."

My prim little grandma, who married in the early 1900s, described the shivaree that took place on her wedding night. A group of friends showed up demanding to come in for refreshments. She and Grandpa barred the door and wouldn't let the celebrants in.

Even in my day, growing up in a small western town, the shivaree wasn't an unknown custom, especially if the bride and groom were in their teens, with lots of friends around. I've heard of friends sneaking into a reserved motel room, short-sheeting the bed (if you have to ask what that is you're a lot younger than I am) and doing things to the toilet that involved saran wrap, Vaseline or Jello. I myself have enjoyed decorating a friend's car with embarrassing slogans and yards of toilet paper.

How about you? Do you know of anyone who's been shivareed? Have you ever played tricks on someone at a wedding? Did anyone play tricks at your wedding?

Disasters: The San Francisco Earthquake

By Elizabeth Lane

In 1906, San Francisco's fire department was one of the most modern and efficient in the world. At the sound of alarm bells, the superbly-trained firemen could hitch the horses, fire up the steam pump and be on their way to a fire in ninety seconds. They had to be good. In a city built mostly of wood, even a small fire could blaze out of control in no time.

The 58 fire companies were on constant alert to keep the city safe. The man responsible for them all was their legendary chief, Dennis Sullivan. A vigorous man of 53, Sullivan had been at his post for 13 years. His men loved him, and there was nothing about fighting fires he didn't know. He had lobbied the city government for years to get the failing water pipes and cisterns repaired and to build a line to pump water from the bay in case of a big fire. "This town," Sullivan had declared, "is in an earthquake belt. One of these fine mornings we'll get a shake that will put this little water system out, and then we'll have a fire. What will we do then?"

His prediction came true on April 18, 1906 at 5: 12 a.m. The animals sensed it first--dogs barking, horses shifting and whinnying. Then, as a distant rumbling rose to a deafening roar, the quake thundered through the city. The first shock lasted forty seconds, followed by a brief silence and another twenty-five second shock--little more than a minute in all. But to the million Californians who felt it, the quake seemed to last forever. The heaving, cracking earth toppled chimneys and towers, splintered rows of frame houses, twisted steel rails, bridges and pipelines. People and animals were crushed by collapsing buildings and falling brick walls.

Dennis Sullivan and his wife Margaret were asleep in their rooms on the third floor of the Bush Street fire station. The dome of the California Hotel next door toppled onto the roof of the fire station, crushing the building. When Sullivan sprang out of bed to find his wife, who'd been sleeping in the next room, he fell through the floor, all the way to the basement, where he was scalded by the steam boiler. His men dug him out of the rubble and rushed him to a hospital. Mrs. Sullivan survived, but Dennis Sullivan never recovered from his injuries. He would die four days later.

In the silence that followed, survivors poured into the streets, gaping in horror at the damage. The scene that met their dazed eyes looked like the end of the world. But the worst was yet to come. Fueled by broken gas mains, fires began to flare in the city. The firemen rushed to do what they could. But the odds were stacked against them. Water was in short supply, the water mains broken, the cisterns in such poor condition that many of them were empty. And the men had lost their beloved chief.

The wooden buildings burned like tinder. The heroic firemen were driven back as fire swept through the towering office buildings and hotels in the downtown area. The wealthier neighborhoods had suffered little damage from the quake because they were built on solid rock. Now, with water gone, the military commander, General Funston, ordered that many of these homes be dynamited to create firebreaks.

Unfortunately the one man who knew how to use dynamite in fighting fires--Chief Sullivan--was gone. As a result, many buildings were blown up unnecessarily, and some fires were even started by the dynamite. The fires raged for three days. By the time the Saturday evening rain dampened the ashes, 490 blocks, totaling 2831 acres, had been burned and more than 450 lives had been lost. Perhaps the most tragic loss of all was the man who, had he lived, might have been the hero who saved much of the city.

But the spirit of San Francisco was undaunted. Within days, aid was pouring in, and the cleanup and rebuilding had started. The city was on its way to becoming even greater than before.

My April 2009 Harlequin Historical, HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE, is set against the backdrop of 1906 San Francisco in the last days before the quake and fire. It's a story of devotion, danger and sacrifice. I hope you'll enjoy it.