Not married; sold.
The reality of the situation bore down on her. The constable had said this was
a legally binding marriage certificate. But the receipt didn’t say that anywhere.
It said she was simply purchased goods. Just like the sacks of flour and beans
in the back of the wagon.
Elaine Dodge joins us today from South Africa to share a bit about her historical romance novel, Harcourt's Mountain, which is set in 1867 British Columbia. Please join me in welcoming her to Books & Benches! Scroll down to the end for a giveaway and flash fiction by the author.
Harcourt's Mountain
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The western frontier of British Columbia hardly seems a likely place for romance. Filthy, terrified and confused, Hope Booker is waiting to be sold off the ‘bride’ ship. Luke Harcourt happens upon the sale. It’s not love at first sight, but he feels compelled to save her from a life of slavery and prostitution. To allay her fears of being raped by him, Luke promises never to touch her. Being a man of his word, this is a pledge he quickly finds almost impossible to keep.
Battling their growing attraction to each other, they must learn to live together in the forests of the wild and almost unexplored mountains. They face white water, Indians, wolves, as well as a dangerous man from Hope’s past.
No longer able to deny their feelings, their ‘happy-ever-after’ is shattered when a corrupt land baron forces Luke’s hand. Enraged at the man’s actions, Luke rides into town—and disappears.
Alone and pregnant, Hope faces the prospect of the worst winter in ten years. The trauma of fighting off a hungry grizzly brings on labor, but the baby is stuck. Luke meanwhile wakes up on a ship bound for South America, captained by a revengeful sadist who plans to murder him. Luke’s chances of survival are slim. Can he stay alive and make it back to Hope in time?
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing
Heat Rating: Level 2 - Sensual (kissing and at least one sexual encounter – there but not described in detail)
Excerpt from Harcourt's Mountain
At the top was
the date, 1st March, 1867, and the three signatures. There was his name—Luke
Harcourt. It was an educated hand. That was a small measure of comfort. At
least she hadn’t been married to a complete barbarian.
Not married; sold.
The reality of the situation bore down on her. The constable had said this was
a legally binding marriage certificate. But the receipt didn’t say that anywhere.
It said she was simply purchased goods. Just like the sacks of flour and beans
in the back of the wagon.
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iTunes
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She took a deep breath and decided she would
worry about that only if, or when, she had to. Maybe he just wanted a
housekeeper. It was a small measure of comfort and she didn’t put much faith in
it, but she clung to it all the same.
He’d been gone about ten minutes when a white
haired, plump, Chinese lady flew out the door and rushed over to Hope. She
grabbed Hope’s hands and tugged at her, all the time chattering away. Hope
didn’t understand a word.
An elderly Chinese man, clearly the lady’s
husband, hurried out of the shop behind her. He tried to get the old lady to
let Hope’s hands go but she refused. His eyes twinkled with affection when he
turned to Hope. “Please, you will have to come inside. My wife will not be
denied.”
Hope climbed from the wagon and allowed
herself to be whisked into a new and unexpected world. The immense structure
was filled with large wooden vats of boiling water. Clothes were either lying
in large, dirty piles beside them, being stirred around inside, or being pulled
out and hung up over lines that criss-crossed the shop in a bewildering fashion.
Felt-shod Chinese in plain dark blue suits bustled around. In one section of
the store some young women ironed the clean clothes.
Were all these people related? At the back of
the warehouse, large fireplaces held large kettles of boiling water. The heat inside
the building was enormous, steam rising from all the vats in great clouds.
Perspiration ran down her face and back,
making her feel more uncomfortable than ever. She wiped it off her forehead
with the back of one hand. The old lady still had hold of her other one,
patting it and chattering away.
A young woman came up and spoke to the old
lady who looked sharply at Hope. She nodded to the young woman. They both
fingered Hope’s dress, shaking their heads. Could this be more humiliating?
They took hold of her arms and hustled her up
a set of stairs. Hope was alarmed. What did they want?
Giveaway
An e-book edition of Harcourt’s Mountain to the first person who can tell me the name of one of the men who ran the bride ships in real-life. Post the answer on my Facebook page with the heading MK McClintock Guest Blog competition.
An e-book edition of Harcourt’s Mountain to the first person who can tell me the name of one of the men who ran the bride ships in real-life. Post the answer on my Facebook page with the heading MK McClintock Guest Blog competition.
Meet Elaine Dodge
I was born in Zambia, grew up in Zimbabwe and am currently
living in South Africa. I say currently because I did my first round-the-world
trip when I was four years old. So who knows where I'll end up! I trained as a
designer and worked in that field for a number of years, even running my own
company. A long stint in advertising followed. In the last few years I've
been toiling away in the TV industry, winning an odd international award.
Writing was an aspect of each part of my career. But I realised this
wasn't enough. I love "telling stories". I'm passionate about it, so
in November 2011 I decided to "wrestle the Rottweiler" and put those
stories on paper. I feel most alive when I'm writing and delight in letting my
imagination run riot.My first book, Harcourt's Mountain signed by Tirgearr Publishing, was launched 15 August 2013. The reviews have been marvellous! Mostly five stars. It's so exciting! I have been featured as a guest blogger on other authors' sites, have done a radio interview about the book. AND Harcourt's Mountain was nominated for the 2014 RONE Awards!
Right now, I'm in the throes of editing my second novel, The Device Hunter, which is an altogether different animal to Harcourt's Mountain, both in genre and temperament! I am also plotting out and have begun my third novel The Raging of Christopher Sly, which is completely different to either of the other two. Because so many readers have asked for it I've also begun the plotting for a sequel to Harcourt's Mountain.
Flash Fiction by Elaine Dodge
"I Lie for A Reason"
“The difference is, I lie
for a reason.”
“Sir,” Brian Coxley sighed,
“I’m sure your reason is excellent, but you still can’t lie on the smoked
salmon. Please get up.”
I snuggled deeper down
into the ice. “No.”
“Sir, am I going to have
to call security, again?”
“Call whoever you like,
I’m not leaving!” A small crowd had gathered. Which was hardly surprising, I
was after all, an unusual occupant in the fresh fish display. There was the
slam of a door in the distance.
“Simmons!” A loud and, I
could already tell, obnoxious voice boomed out. I could tell because I’d heard
it before. Yesterday, in fact, when I’d attempted a lie-in over the imported
cheese section. That had been a mistake. My clothes smelled horribly of mould–and haddock, for some bizarre
reason. Perhaps it was that which had caused me to seek out the salmon.
“Oh great, now Mr
Silverton’s coming. You’re going to cost me my job, you know!”
I did sympathise. It
wasn’t his fault. But really, if you’re going to have such delicious fish in
such nice, cold, crunchy ice you must expect to get liers. I didn’t plan on
being there long. Just ten minutes or so, until my toes got all tingly. Then
I’d pop off home, put the kettle on for a nice hot cup of tea and listen to tonight’s
episode of The Archers. Perhaps some Bovril toast for supper. Toast…all nice and golden and dripping in
butter and tangy Bovril.
Golden.
Orange.
You know, he was right.
The salmon wasn’t a good idea. Pumpkins now. Perhaps I should try the pumpkins.
It was nearly Halloween after all. I needed to get into the spirit of the
season.
“Right then,” I said, “I’m
off.” I could see the relief on Coxley’s face.
Poor man. “Ta-ra!” I nipped out of the display, grabbed a decidedly
shocked Mrs Thompson round her ample middle and planted a big, wet kiss on her
cheek. Leaping on my motorised mobility scooter, I raced at a heady eighteen
kilometres an hour for the supermarket entrance, scattering tins of baked beans
as I took a corner on, what I’d like to think, was two wheels. One could only
dream of such displays of motorised prowess.
Today was not a good day. I’d
been moved on, and, not only was it raining outside, which made the fact that I
was already cold and a tad moist a possible precursor to double pneumonia, but Constable
Clod was
just coming through the big glass door. Well, when I say he was coming through
it I mean, unfortunately, that he waited, like a good, law-abiding citizen, for
the wide doors to slide gracefully open before, as he would say, proceeding
onto the premises. Bounding through,
shoulder to the glass, shattering it, doing a swift duck and roll would have been
far more exciting. But old Cloddy did everything by the book. He’d no more
dream of crashing through glass doors, ducking and rolling than he would peeing
sitting down!
The glass was probably the
‘this-will-need-an-armoured-vehicle-to-crack-it’ variety anyway. Grief, life was dull in Ditchling.
Ditchling! What a name.
Lying dead in Ditchling. Hardly an improvement on ‘lying dead in a ditch’ now
is it? Hence the quest behind my lie-ins!
Speaking of which,
tomorrow’s another day.
Brrrr. Very cold now. My
fingers are quite benumbed, as they say. Or rather, as anyone who has access to
OED Online would say. Most folk these days couldn’t spell ‘numb’, let alone ‘benumbed’!
Yes, I know I’ve changed tenses. Who’s telling this story? I’m ninety-three, I
can change tenses if I want. Can’t change my underwear without help, but I can
change tenses without anyone’s permission or assistance!
Where was I? Oh yes, the
cold. With any luck I will get that double pneumonia. Ha! There won’t be any
lying dead in Ditchling for me! When they talk about me down at the pub it’ll
be, “That Joe Simmons! What a nutter. Did you hear? They found him lying dead
in the Brussel sprouts!”
Now there’s a thought! I always did like sweet, little Brussel
sprouts. Forward Ho!
