Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Destination Life : : Anne McAllister

lifes journey biggerAnne is musing on the oddities of writing – it’s a way of coming slowly out of the shell-shock of having three nine-year-olds in the house for a week.

I have written sixty-eight books – one of them twice (and counting, but let’s not go into that).  And while each of them has been, in one way or another, a romance with a happy ending, not one of them has behaved like any of the others.

If there is a ‘formula’ I have never found it.  If there is an easy way to get from beginning to end, I have never found it. 

But some books are easier than others.

Some books have heroes who cooperate (with me, at least, even though they don’t often make easy going for the heroine). Some books have heroines who know their own mind and aren’t afraid to make it clear to all concerned. Some editors understand what I’m getting at.  Some take a little more convincing. Some understand better than I do what the book is about and are kind enough to tell me (those are called revision letters). 

And how do you tell the difference?

You start writing – and discover what you’ve got along the way.

It’s not unlike raising kids.  You start out with a little person you know nothing about and you learn – together – what makes them tick.  Some kids are easier than others.  Some make you scratch your head and muse a long time before you begin to understand what they think they are doing.  I’ve had books like that, heroes like that.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000031_00003]But just recently I had a book that  came to me almost begging to be written.  The hero said, “Write my story. Please!”  and the heroine said, “If you don’t, we’ll never get together.” (subtext: do you want our heartache on your conscience?).  And besides the hero who was a cowboy (and I have been missing my cowboy heroes!), and the heroine who was a reality tv show director (fortunately Sarah Mayberry knows a lot about that!), there was the hero’s dad who had his own issues, the hero’s sister, who may have a story in her yet, the hero’s grandmother, who did have a story but no one knew until the end, and a bunch of reality tv ‘talent’ who got in the way and made pithy comments and complicated everyone’s life (except mine).  And there were the border collie puppies.  Can’t forget them.

And then there was Jane Porter telling me to, “Write it. Now.” 

So I did.  I temporarily abandoned Lukas Antonides and the love of his life – if he could only get her to realize it – and set about giving Cole McCullough and Nell Corbett their happy ending (they didn’t even have to guilt me into it. Well, not much, anyway).  I wrote Last Year’s Bride in less time than it often takes me to write our Christmas catch-up letter, and it’s already been available as an ebook for a couple of weeks as the last of a series of Montana Born Brides – part of the Great Wedding Giveaway series in Marietta, Montana! 

Not only that, but it has a cover I absolutely love (and not just because my talented daughter-in-law took the photo).  The whole project has just made me incredibly happy – and eager to continue exploring the McCullough family (but first, back to Lukas!). 

I had never quite forgotten how much cowboy heroes resonate with me, even though it was a dozen years between Deke Malone in The Cowboy’s Christmas Miracle and Cole McCullough in Last Year’s Bride.  I’m so glad I got to write Cole’s story. 

I’m including an excerpt below in case you want a quick trip to Montana and an acquaintance with hard-headed, sexy, determined cowboy Cole McCullough. 

Chapter One

"It's only one blessed night!" Sam McCullough smacked his hand on the old round oak dinner table as he rose and glowered across the meat loaf at his son. "You're not going to tell me you've got a date.”

“No.” Cole had plenty of practice keeping his voice even. “I just don’t like the notion of doing business at a Valentine’s Day dance.”

“It’s not a dance,” his sister Sadie corrected. “It’s a ball.” She used her fingers to put quotes around the word, as if her enunciation weren’t enough. She was grinning like the Cheshire cat from the old storybook she used to lug around when she was a little thing. Now she was nineteen and read fashion mags.

“The ‘ball’ –“ Sam’s voice made the same quotation marks his daughter’s had “ – is a business proposition itself. You reckon Troy Sheenan is in it for the pretty music? You better believe he’s got his eye on the bottom line.”

“And it’s a damn sight blacker than ours,” Cole muttered. He forked in another bite of his grandmother’s meat loaf, but he didn’t take his eyes away from his father’s. Under the grizzled stubble on Sam’s cheeks, Cole saw the wash of red that meant the old man was getting riled. He knew his grandmother saw it, too. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that her fork had stopped halfway to her mouth. She pressed her lips together, but then after a brief moment the fork continued its journey and she took another bite and kept on chewing.

“Ours won’t be red much longer. I’m workin’ on it,” Sam said, both hand pressing down against the table as he leaned to ward Cole. The cords in his neck stood out.

“So’m I,” Sadie chipped in cheerfully. “Got an interview Sunday afternoon.”

Sadie’s job prospects – she was a marketing major at MSU whose work experience was largely confined to waiting tables at the diner in Marietta and writing ads for the Copper Mountain Courier and the Bozeman Chronicle -- were not going to save them from foreclosure, and they all knew it.

Cole wasn’t convinced anything was going to save them – and wasn’t sure he wanted it to. As much as he loved the ranch that had been in his family for a little over a hundred years – and had been his life for virtually all of his own thirty years – he knew the pain of fighting a losing battle, of watching his father die a little more each day as their financial ground eroded beneath them. It seemed to him that his dad’s new plan, running cattle for his old friend – and now millionaire several times over – Tom McKay, wasn’t much better than any of the others he’d come up with over the past dozen years.

“One Saturday night,” Sam pressed him. “One little dance. It’s not like you have better things to do. It’s not like I’m askin’ you to marry the girl!”

Cole’s jaw went tight. Good thing, too, he thought grimly. He rolled his shoulders and tried to ease the feeling of carrying not just the ranch, but the entire Absaroka mountain range on his back.

“You might have fun,” his grandmother remarked, her tone mild. She smiled at him over the cup of coffee she cradled in her hand. “Been a long time since you’ve had some fun, Cole.”

It wouldn’t be fun to go a fancy “ball” at the old Graff Hotel which in his youth had been a rundown flea bag joint and had recently been “restored to its former glory” by local-rancher’s-son-made-good. Troy Sheenan, the older brother of one of Cole’s classmates, Dillon Sheenan, had parlayed his smarts into millions of bucks in the California technology market and had decided to spend a lot of it locally, restoring the Graff. Cole had always liked Troy, and he admired his decision even though he wasn’t sure he understood it. And maybe it was just envy that had him squirming at the thought of turning up at the Graff as if he belonged there with all the rich folks.

But he couldn’t see any way out of it. Not if his grandmother was sticking her oar in. Emily McCullough rarely voiced a comment when he and his father locked horns. She watched worriedly, but she didn’t speak up unless she was worrying about Sam’s dodgy heart. He’d had a heart attack in his mid-thirties, right after Sadie’s mother had upped and left.

“Congenital defect,” the doc in Bozeman had said. “But we can do something about it.”

Or they could have if Sam had agreed. He hadn’t.

“No time,” he’d said succinctly, checking himself out of the cardiac unit as soon as he could pull on his boots and slap his hat on his head.

“You’ll have all the time in the world if they bury you,” Cole had argued often since, and his older brother Clint had shaken his head and muttered, “Damn fool.”

But no one told Sam anything, least of all his sons or his mother. Only Sadie could occasionally worm her way through a chink in the Sam McCullough armor.

Now she tossed her dark hair and said stoutly, “I’d go, but I don’t suppose Tom McKay’s daughter would want to dance with me.”

A faint smile flickered across Sam’s hard face. “Don’t reckon,” he said drily. Then he turned his gaze back to Cole. “It’s a real live cowboy she’s hankerin’ to meet.”

Cole had heard a lot about Tom McKay’s daughter in the last week or so. The opposite of his sister who had never been sick in her life despite growing up teething on spurs, Lacey McKay had been frail and sickly for much of her life. Her father’s rough-and-tumble Montana childhood had been the stuff of fantasies. A liver transplant two years ago had given her a new lease on life. And a promise from her father had brought her to Marietta to see the stuff of her fantasies in person. That apparently included meeting “a real live cowboy.”

“I ain’t pushin’ you to marry the girl,” Sam pointed out. Again.

No chance of that. Cole couldn’t count the number of times he had heard his father hold forth long and hard about the foolishness of thinking “hot-house city girls” could survive the wilds of rural Montana. He could recite Sam’s diatribes by heart, had grown up on them. The words ground together like stones in the pit of his stomach.

“What do you say, Cole?” his grandmother asked quietly. “I won’t even put much starch in your shirt.” She gave him a gentle coaxing smile.

She knew he’d do anything for her, so she rarely ever asked. She had been the shelter of his youth, the one he had always been able to count on, who had kept him steady and strong when so often he had wanted to go right off the rails. If she hadn’t protected him from every bit of his foolishness, it was only because she hadn’t been there at the time.

She worried about his dad. Sam was her only son. He was hard and stubborn and could argue a fence post into the ground. But she loved him. So did Cole – when he didn’t want to hit the old man over the head with a shovel.

Now he wiped his mouth on his napkin, set it beside his plate, then pushed his chair back from the table and stood up so that he could meet his father’s gaze eye to eye. It was gratifying that, for the last decade, he had an inch and a half on his father and it was Sam who had to look up.

Now their gazes locked, Sam’s blue eyes as hard as the ice on the Yellowstone River. Cole knew what they were saying: It’s for the ranch. It’s your duty. A man does his duty. Always.

He let his breath out slowly. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Right. There’s a dinner beforehand." Sam was breathing easy now. "Be a good time for you to talk to him about how many cattle we can run. I’ve been thinking Angus from that spread down in Utah. Or there's a place in Idaho – the Bar Nine Hollow – that would be a good place to pick up some.” Confrontation over, foreclosure forgotten, business at hand, Sam moved right on.

But Cole hadn’t forgotten. He carried his plate to the sink. Sam was still giving orders when Cole walked out of the room.


Now Cole and Nell are on the virtual shelves, the nine-year-olds are back with their parents, and Anne is back working on  Lukas’s revisions, being tempted by Sam, and pestered by Cole’s brother who, she thought, was happily married and cleverly tucked away in Boston where he couldn’t make trouble. She should have known better!

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