A.L. Debran Historical Western Romance

I recently needed a photograph of myself for my upcoming promotional activities in the Latte Limelight at CoffeeTimeRomance in August. If I were, by any stretch of the imagination, photogenic, I might have enjoyed the experience just a little more. I fussed and fretted my way through a gazillion pictures and they weren’t getting any better. So, the only alternative was to just have fun with it and let the pictures fall where they they may. >>>> Scroll down if you’re impatient to see the results of my amateur photo shoot, otherwise, read on for my philosophical thoughts on photographs and ageism in publishing.<<<<

Personally, I’m opposed to glamour photos because 1. The pictures seldom, if ever, really look like the person in real life and 2. I hold to Popeye’s philosopy: I y’am what I y’am and that’s all what I y’am.

My photographic endeavor reminded me of the age-related discussion at BookEnds Literary Agency Blog on July 8, 2008. Should or shouldn’t an author reveal their age or should they remain mum as is the accepted resume practice to avoid age discrimination? Too young and the author may be viewed as lacking enough life experience to write their way out of a wet paper sack and conversely, too old (hints of this being the Big Five-O) because the author has one foot in the grave and not enough time left for an agent/publisher to invest the time to build their career.

Hmmm.

No one knows how much time they ultimately have. Consider Margaret Mitchell’s short-lived writing career. I say one good novel beats the heck out of a plethora of mediocre ones.

Either way, too young or too old–whatever those subjective descriptors mean–authors face a variety of challenges in addition to possible age discrimination: Rejection…IF their query letter didn’t have all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed, …IF the agent/publisher didn’t “fall in love” with their story, …IF the publisher/agent is leary of  first novels, …IF the author’s e-published works are considered “not really published, …IF that elusive global and invisible “someone” said historicals or vampires aren’t selling anymore, …IF this, …IF that, …IF something else. Then does age really matter in light of those obstacles? I don’t have a definitive answer for that rhetorical question.

Sometimes, publishing feels like a crap shoot. You roll the dice that is your novel and everyone hopes it doesn’t turn up snake eyes.

But I’ve digressed. Back to my promotional photographs. I have a picture on my website, and admittedly, I’ve changed some since it was taken, so concealing my age from an agent or publisher…or reader…is moot at this point anyway. The world already knows what I look like and can estimate my age. I say celebrate your age no matter where you are in the Circle of Life (<—click to watch Elton John’s video if you need a philosophical lift)

Then return here and have some fun at my expense.

When you see what I usually look like while I’m working, you’ll apppreciate that I clean up pretty well actually.

These two are my best sides.

Homage to John Lennon

Surreal - which is the psychological state I occasionally frequent.

Pop Art

She’s got the look…

This is what I look like during Cobblestone Press Chats:

So here I y’am. I don’t know whether I have a healthy ration of self-confidence or just don’t give a hairy rodent’s derrierre, but I don’t take myself very seriously.

Oh, if you want to see the photo I sent to Coffee Time Romance, you’ll have to visit in August.

Now, this is my idea of photogenic.

Yours in romance, yours in writing… 

A.L.Debran

writing western and historical romances…most of the time

Ad eundum quo nemo ante iit.

Greetings everyone.

I’ve just added three new FREE READS for your reading enjoyment.

The Bootlegger Wore Bobby Socks is a tongue-in-cheek ’50s-style Film Noir. I hope you get a chuckle as you read it.

Gambling with Love is a western romp between a U.S. Marshall and the gambler who has his heart.

The Cowboy and the Critic is a contemporary story involving a former rodeo clown and an uptight, agoraphobic book critic.

Be sure to check my FREE READS in a few days for the next installment of WINDS OF FREEDOM. I’m going to serialize it right here on my blog.

A.L.Debran

writing western and historical romances…most of the time

Ad eundum quo nemo ante iit.

The Bootlegger Wore Bobby Socks
 
Tennessee Hills - 1957

It was an assignment like any other, except it wasn’t. I was ready to bust-up a moonshine transport operation when a sassy little dame driving a souped-up tanker car threw a monkey wrench in my plans. I was waiting for my partner in a main street diner when I heard the pipes of her 1954 Ford coupe with a bent eight rumbling into town. She skidded to a stop and walked in like she owned the joint.

I looked her up and down as her ponytail bounced with the sway of her hips. Her dungarees were rolled to her knees and she sported white bobby socks and saddle shoes. Her shirt tails were knotted under the low cut of her blouse, showing just enough skin to emphasize her hour glass figure. I thought she’d look nice in a sweater, too.

She stopped at my booth and slid along the vinyl seat across from me. Great Balls of Fire was on the jukebox and Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear was in her eyes. It was just my luck the whisky runners turned out to be her family.

Yeah, I recognized her all right. It’s my business to know people. Her name was Bobbie Jo, but locally she was known as Frank Hamilton’s wayward daughter. Just looking at her, I could see why. We’d met on a mountain road three days earlier when I’d come up behind her and nabbed her license plate with my bumper snatcher. She hadn’t waited around. She’d grabbed another gear and put that car into overdrive. She left me looking at her tail lights like a kid in a candy store wishing for a piece of something sweet that wasn’t good for him.

Sure, we were adversaries. I’d sworn to uphold the law, and she was determined to break it. She gave me a look that would make a priest go to confession and I was tempted to forget my duty as a Federal officer.

“Sharing your milkshake, Mr. T-Man?”

I pushed the glass toward her and said my name was John Spence, special investigator for the Alcohol and Tobacco Division of the U.S. Treasury Department.

“I’ve been known to do a little special investigating myself.”

Her lips were the color of ripe cherries and she wrapped them around the straw, swallowed twice, then slowly licked her bottom lip. I kept my cool, but I was thinking she could wrap those cherry reds around something else…and suck. I knew what she was doing, but I didn’t take the bait. She was trying to distract me and send me back to Washington empty-handed.

“You have something that belongs to me, Special Agent Spence.”

I knew what she meant, but I played dumb.

She dipped a fry into my milkshake and ran her tongue around it until all the ice cream was gone. I was glad the table wasn’t transparent. The gun in my holster wasn’t the only thing hard and ready to go off half-cocked.

“My license plate. Papa said if I asked real nice-like, you’d be a gentleman and return it.”

She was wrong about the gentleman part, besides, it was government property now. Evidence.

“Evidence of what?”

She was playing coy. Her car was modified for running whisky and she’d dumped her load a couple of miles before I got her plate.

“Ah, but you didn’t actually see it happen. You talk a big story, Mr. Revenuer, but I’m only interested in…action.”

She slid out of the booth and leaned so close the scent of her Evening in Paris gave me a rise, if you get my drift. I knew I was in trouble when I pictured her on the laminate table top and snatching something other than her license plate.

I was falling faster than a mob informant in cement overshoes and I had to concentrate on her baby blues to keep from gawking down the front of her blouse, and she knew it. She wiggled her ass all the way to the door then shot me a look as hot as a Betty Crocker casserole cooking at 450.

“I don’t think you’re not man enough to keep up with me, let alone catch me.”

She left town with her tires smoking and I was on her trail like a hound dog hunting coons - single minded with no back-up plan. In two miles, she hit a hundred.

She was right.

I couldn’t keep up, but I red-lined down a straight stretch to make up ground. I rounded a curve and went into a sideways skid when she came roaring at me out of a bootlegger’s turn. I took a side-road and wrapped my radiator around a tree.

She pulled up and killed her motor. “You all right Mr. G-Man? You’re looking a mite pale.”

I lit a cigarette and walked to where she’d perched herself on her trunk. She needed a good spanking, but now wasn’t the time. She owed me a car and a lift back to town.

“You’ll need this then.” She dangled her ignition key between us then ran her fingers along the ‘v’ of her blouse as she tucked the key out-of-sight right where she lifted and separated. “Before we go, why don’t you try out these little play pretties and see how you like them.”

They weren’t little, but they were pretty. The sound of engines up the road caught my attention, but she had my tie off and belt unbuckled faster than a 33 1/3 going at 78 speed on a turntable. My dick was stiffer than a crew cut with butch wax when she wrapped her long legs around me in a vice grip and her lips tasted like melted cotton candy. She was ready and I was going to town when cars screeched up behind us. Old Man Hamilton and his mountain boys piled out and all of them were packing shotguns.

They had the drop on us and I’d been caught with my pants down.

*****

© Copyright 2008 - A.L.Debran - All Rights Reserved

Disclaimer: A.L.Debran’s Free Read are not professionally edited. They are merely offered to readers as a taste of her writing style and voice.

 Gambling with Love

Dodge City, Kansas 1883

“I’m sorry, sir, there are no vacancies.”

Nick Foster wasn’t listening. He was staring at the poker game in the adjoining room. Seeing Lainie again was like taking a right hook to the gut. Took the wind right out of him. He’d been trailing her for months, but hadn’t expected to catch her in Dodge City. Last he’d heard she was running a Faro game in Tombstone.

“The woman playing cards. She come in alone?”

“Yes, sir, this evening. The blizzard’s shut down the stage until the weather clears.”

Nick nodded, thinking. “What’s her room number?”

“I can’t give—”

Nick opened his coat and vest. The clerk hesitated, obviously debating the ramifications of not cooperating.

“209, sir.”

Nick pocketed the key.

Stranded travelers and tobacco smoke filled the lobby, but no one noticed Nick as he walked to the bar and ordered whisky. He looked like any other saddle tramp passing through with his tied-down gun, saddle bags over a shoulder, and cowboy hat pulled low over his face. He downed the whisky in a gulp, refilled, then moved where he could watch the game unnoticed.

He glanced at the clock. 12:03. She’ll order coffee soon, play another hand or two, then go to her room. Never plays much past midnight. Tossing off the whisky, he headed toward the stairs. The languid cadence of her cotton-soft southern drawl wafted in the air around him.

“Gentlemen, I do apologize, but I must take my leave of you. I cannot go without my beauty rest. It has been a pleasure. Good night.”

Her voice sent a warm rush straight to his groin. Damn I’ve missed that woman. Now that he’d found her, his willpower to separate love from duty vanished.

Nick let himself into her room and his eyes adjusted to the darkness as he dropped his gear by the door and shed his coat and hat. He built up the fire then stretched out on the bed. The windowpanes rattled under the onslaught of the raging blue norther. He was grateful to be inside after riding three hours in the worst snowstorm Kansas had seen in years. He smiled. It’ll be plenty warm once I get her out of her clothes and into bed.

Minutes later, a key turned in the lock and Lainie stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim yellow hallway light. Closing the door, she placed the coffee on a table then sashayed to the bed.

“I saw you leave the lobby. All this time I’d hoped you were dead.”

“Your aim was off, and you were too far away. Just stunned me. You should have crammed your little parlor gun right in my belly when you pulled the trigger.”

“Why, thank you so much for the advice. I’ll remember that.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

He grinned. “You gonna shoot me again?”

“That depends on your intentions toward my virtue.”

He reached for her. “You know my intentions toward your virtue have never been honorable.”

The instant their lips touched, a rush of pent-up, smoldering desire spread through his body like lava flowing from a volcano. The three lonely years since he’d last made love to her slipped from his heart and he almost forgave her for running out on him. Almost.

He flicked open the pearl button at her throat then the next two. Her sparkling green eyes said she wasn’t going to stop him.

“You got yourself in a passel of trouble in Charleston.” With her dress opened to her waist, he worked the bustier hooks.

She brushed his lips with soft kisses. “I’m a gambler, darlin’. I live on the edge of trouble.”

“I heard you took a senator’s son for five thousand dollars. He was a kid. That’s not your usual style.”

She pushed away indignantly. “That kid was at least twenty-five and he erroneously fancied himself a cardsharp. I simply taught him an important life lesson.”

“That’s not all of it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Please, do go on.”

“You invited him to your room, slipped something in his drink, and took the rest of his money.” Nick studied her. “That boy died, Lainie.”

“I most certainly did not invite him to my room. He demanded I give over of my sexual favors as consolation of his monetary loss. I flatly refused and sent him away. In fact, I left the hotel within the hour. He was quite alive at the bar. Drunk, but alive nonetheless.”

Nick wanted to believe her, but it wasn’t up to him to determine her innocence. Or guilt. His job was to bring her in. “So you won his money fair and square?” Three hooks surrendered and he ran his fingers over the soft swells of her breasts.

Her sassy smirk returned. “As honestly as he deserved. Is it my fault he wasn’t good enough to recognize a bottom deal? I told him as gently as I could if he couldn’t afford to lose, then he shouldn’t play.”

Her bustier gave way and Nick ran his tongue around her nipples. “There’s a price on your head.”

Smoothing her hands under his vest, she said coyly, “Don’t let a little old thing like—” Startled, she yanked his vest open then slowly, suspiciously, raised her gaze to meet his. “When did you become a U.S. Marshall?”

“Shortly after you left me.” With a deft, swift movement, Nick handcuffed her wrist to his. “Lainie Conrad, you’re under arrest for murder.”

Her momentary wide-eyed surprise turned mischievous as she unbuckled his gun belt, pulled it from under him, and dropped it on the floor. When she unbuttoned his trousers and trailed warm, wet kisses along his skin, all thoughts of duty disappeared. A myriad of sensations overtook him and he closed his eyes.

Jerking with a grunt at the sudden shock of cold steel rammed into his belly, he looked down at the snub-nosed, seven-shot knuckleduster in her grip.

“Is this point-blank enough this time, darlin’?”

*****

© Copyright 2008 - A.L.Debran - All Rights Reserved

Disclaimer: A.L.Debran’s Free Read are not professionally edited. They are merely offered to readers as a taste of her writing style and voice.

 The Cowboy and the Critic

Out of patience and out of time, Janae Palmer slammed her hands on the keyboard so hard the delete button popped off. Before she could grab it, her Siamese batted it under the bookshelf. Normally, she rarely heard her upstairs neighbor, but thirty minutes ago, he’d cranked his music past noise ordinance regulations and it wasn’t letting up. It was impossible to finish her book review with Mr. Cowboy Way literally dancing on her ceiling.

Owen Quinlan was a good-looking guy in an earthy, redneck sort of way. Six-foot something with sky blue, let’s-get-naked, eyes. Since he’d moved in three months ago, fantasizing about him had increasingly interfered with her productivity. 

Despite living in the same small apartment building, their only real conversation had been her comment about his progression from crutches to walking staff. His cryptic explanation about learning to walk again after his rodeo accident had roused her curiosity. A quick internet search of his name revealed his career as a PCRA rodeo clown had ended between a barrel and a bull about a year ago.

As she swiped a ruler under the bookshelf for the errant key, the music stopped, but within seconds, her short-lived respite vanished. Exasperated, she jumped up, stubbed her toe on the table leg, and knocked over her wine glass. Hastily sopping up the spill, she hobbled out the door while grumbling disparagingly about his parentage. Her sandals slapped smartly against her heels as she stormed down the hallway and up the stairs.

She knocked and waited.

She yelled and banged.

Nothing. What is he doing in there? Kicking cow shit?

Beyond frustrated, she grabbed the handle with an angry twist and shoved. The door swung wide and propelled her across the threshold in a jumble of flying flip-flops. Stumbling awkwardly, she regained her shoes, dismissed the ramifications of breaking and entering, and barged toward the adjoining room. Grimacing against the reverberating cacophony, she wondered why anyone would subject themselves to such dreadful racket. New Age was decidedly more appealing.

She caught some lyrics. Forty below…heater in a truck…allemande left— The tune grated and the air was blue with crude language. Why am I not surprised? Everyone knows cowboys are defined by their collective lack of good taste. Even the good-looking ones. She started to announce her presence over the din, but the sight of him struck her speechless.

Owen stood with his back to her, shirtless. She licked her lips at the tight fit of his Wranglers and trailed her gaze up his bronzed back to linger on the scar running half the length of his spine. The defined muscles across his broad bare shoulders begged caressing. She imagined pressing against him from behind then smoothing her palms across his belly to pop open the button on his jeans. Grabbing the zipper pull, she dragged it down—

Her notion of a cowboy abruptly clashed with the art work on the walls and the canvas and easel in front of him. Jolted back to reality, she saw the long-handled slender brush in his left hand and the painter’s palette balanced on his right. Recalling her original mission, she crossed the tiled floor and tapped him pointedly on the shoulder just as the music stopped.

Her voice boomed in the sudden silence. “Excuse me.”

“Shit!” Startled, Owen whipped around and too late she saw his arm swinging. “What the fu—”

Both her glasses and consciousness left at that instant.

A voice wavered at the fringes of her awareness. “Hey, Miss Palmer. Wake up.”

She surfaced for a moment then drifted into a twilight dream. Dropping her lacy negligee at her feet, she slipped between the sheets. Owen pulled her over to straddle his lean, naked body and she bent down to kiss him—

“Janae?”

The tapping on her cheek and sound of her name brought her reluctantly from her private reverie. She felt a cool, damp cloth across her eyes and a towel against her nose and mouth.

“Hold still. Your nose is bleeding.”

Blood? She jerked awake. Pain shot through her head as she relived the moment of palette-to-glasses impact. She also realized she was flat on her back with an ice bag for a pillow. Lifting the cloth from her eyes, she squinted at Owen’s fuzzy image until one mustache framed one set of lips.

She mumbled into the towel. “How long was I out?”

“Two, maybe three minutes. How’d you get in here? And why the hell did you sneak up on me?”

“The door wasn’t locked.”

Chuckling, he said, “You could’ve at least brought a six-pack and pizza. So, what do you want?”

Sitting up, she gingerly touched the bridge of her nose and the back of her head. “My boss is a deadline nazi and I can’t work with the commotion you’re making—”

“You need a shot of whisky.”

She stared at him. This isn’t a social visit, you moron.

He stood and extended his arm. “I’d have carried you to my bed—the couch, but I’m supposed to baby this steel rod in my back a while longer.”

He wiggled his fingers until she grasped his hand and he hauled her up. Her knees folded. Grabbing her in a strong embrace, he guided her to the couch.

“Hey, don’t pass out on me again.” He helped her stretch out and retrieved the towel and ice pack. “I don’t think your nose is broken, but you’ll have a couple of shiners by morning. Here. Your glasses don’t look any better than you do.” He offered the lenses and broken frame. “You’re not very tough, are you? You went down like you had a glass jaw.” His mustache twitched with a suppressed smirk and his eyes sparkled.

She snatched the pieces brusquely, irked and embarrassed. Insensitive jerk. He’s enjoying this too much. I can’t believe I’ve fantasized about him.

“I’ve got Jack and Chevas. Ice or straight up?”

 *****

© Copyright 2008 - A.L.Debran - All Rights Reserved

Disclaimer: A.L.Debran’s Free Read are not professionally edited. They are merely offered to readers as a taste of her writing style and voice.

You may have noticed from previous posts that The Princess bride is my favorite move. Well, this is my favorite line from The Princess Bride. Click on the center arrow on the little video to listen.

I found this on the website for the new Princess Bride game. You can bet your sweet bippy I’ll be playing the game soon.

A.L.Debran

writing western and historical romances…most of the time

Ad eundum quo nemo ante iit.

Lonely Places, my first published book, is celebrating its second anniversary June 30 at Cobblestone Press. I’m particularly fond of this story because it has autobiographical elements woven throughout. For instance, it’s set in my home town on the very location of the ranch where I grew up, however, I did change the name of the town. The heroine, Elliotte, has amnesia from a traumatic head injury. So did I. Elliotte struggles with a relationship that had strong potential to work out, but was actually doomed from the beginning. Same for me. Elliotte is torn between two men for whom she has deep, but differing emotions. Whenever I reread it, it’s always a bittersweet reminder of my life.

Lonely Places is a western historical that takes place in the last years of the 1800s. It’s set in the northeastern corner of Colorado along the South Platte River.

Beau is the anti-hero and he leads a double life. Elliotte is indebted to him for saving her life. Liam is the man who loves her in spite of her relationship with Beau. It is a triangle with little hope of a happy ever after for any of them, but Liam never gives up that Elliotte will return his love.

Here’s a never before posted excerpt.

Late that night she lay in bed, relaxing in the light of a waxing gibbous moon streaming through the window. She could still feel Beau’s hands on her shoulders and around her neck. A slight noise in the hallway reached her. She’d left her door slightly opened, a continuing need for freedom and escape, she supposed, and the imperceptible sound of footsteps stopped at her door. Leaning on one arm, she turned. The door widened slowly, and Beau stepped across the threshold.

“Elliotte?” Her name was a whispered question.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to come in.”

She hesitated, wanting him with her, but also leery of his unpredictable intentions. “All right. The lamp is to your left.”

“No. No light,” he said quickly, still not moving from the doorway.

Silence in the room. “Beau, what do you want?”

“Just to come in.”

“Then come in.”

He remained in the doorway, hat pulled down low, a dark imposing silhouette backlit by the dim foyer lights. She wished she could see his eyes. He stepped into the room just far enough to close the door behind him, but left it just as he’d found it. He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at her. There was an unfamiliar, pronounced limp to his movements. She continued to watch and wait, her heartbeat picking up now that he was near the bed.

“I’d like to lay down with you.” His voice was a deep whisper.

She visualized a repeat of the attic encounter, but as soon as she saw it, she dismissed it. This was different. She moved over to the far side of the bed and pulled the blankets back, inviting him in.

“No.” He took the blankets from her, spread them out, and sat on the edge of the bed. She remained partially sitting, watching him. He smoothed her hair and touched her face. She took his hand in hers and held it there against her cheek. The shadows and his hat hid his expression. He stood and took off his long leather coat, and placed his hat on the floor. Her anticipation grew.

“You left without saying goodbye. We had things to talk about.”

“I know.” He sat on the bed. “You said you missed me. Why?”

He stretched out with his left arm extended across the pillows, carefully favoring his right leg. She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and he drew her close against his body.

She shrugged. “Maybe I like your company.” She didn’t know how to verbalize how she felt about him. It certainly wasn’t love, although if she didn’t think of him during the day, he certainly visited her in her thoughts at night.

He mulled over her words as if assessing their truthfulness. “Even after our night in the attic?”

She took a moment to choose her words, but her voice was soft and matter?of?fact. “Yes. Even after that night.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and she brought her arm over his chest in response. Silence and drkness surrounded them before she spoke again. “You’ve been hurt.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

“I can’t.”

She leaned up and looked at him. “Please, I’d like to know. I care about what happens to you. I want to be closer to you. Please let me.”

He shook his head. “No, I can’t. Lay here with me. I just need you beside me.”

There they stayed, neither speaking. One atop and one under the blankets. He turned his face into her hair. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the warmth of his neck and chest, catching a whiff of whisky. Not another word passed between them. Before the pinks and blues of daylight arrived on the horizon, Beau slipped his arm from under her, tucked the blankets, and left the room.

Apology offered for the night in the attic. Apology accepted. But within a few days, Beau left again without explanation, in the company of a tall, swaggering man who had introduced himself as Tom Horn.

Stop by my website, www.al-debran.com , to check Today in History or the current moon phase. Read my book blurbs and join my newsletter to keep up with the happenings in my writing world and have the chance to win prizes when I have drawings.

I’m currently writing the as-yet-untitled sequel to Lonely Places. It’s Beau’s story. Beau meets a gypsy woman who has her own reasons for helping Beau hunt down the man responsible for his wife’s murder.

Until next time…

A.L.Debran

writing historical and western romances…most of the time

Sit vis vobiscum!

My newest release, In the Cards, The Vampire Oracle: Life, hits the e-book shelves at Cobblestone Press on June 6th. Pop over to my website to read a blurb. Here’s the cover:

On the topic of vampires, my favorite vampire movie is Dracula 2000 (click to watch video) with Gerard Butler doing his magic. The music to this video is Adagio in G Minor for Trumpet and Organ by Tomaso Albinoni. It’s a stunning piece. If you’d like to hear it, click here: Adagio.

A.L.Debran

Sit vis vobiscum! 

I came across this internet site today. It’s a nice compilation of historical novels categorized in a time period-genre sort of fashion.

http://www.historicalnovels.info/index.html

A.L.Debran

Sit vis vobiscum!

Happy Mother’s Day. This video is especially for mothers of boys:  Mother’s Day.

A.L.Debran

Sit vis vobiscum!