Friday, July 26, 2013

Welcome to the SCP Historical Romance Blog Hop Weekend!

Good Morning Readers,
I’m paranormal romance author, Tabitha Shay. Welcome to my blog site. I know there are some of you out there who probably wonder just how much research goes into writing a novel. Well the answer is, at least for me, sometimes a lot, sometimes not so much. When I wrote Witch’s Brew, I thought I’d never finish researching Salem and witches, *giggles* but when I wrote Send Him an Angel, it was a totally different thing. I was lucky that I’d been to Deadwood, S.D., so was quite familiar with the history and the tales behind the history. Like, I bet most of you believe there was something special between Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok. According to the tour guides and historians from Deadwood, nope, there wasn’t. In fact, Will Bill barely tolerated Calamity Jane. But as a final joke on poor old Bill, the citizens of Deadwood, at the time of Calamity’s death, decided to bury her beside Bill. So their final resting place is side by side. One of the things I found interesting when we visited Mount Moriah Cemetery, was the fact that there was money lying all over his grave and no one touched it or tried to take it. I guess there are some who wished to give him the money to play a final round of poker. Hey, we’re guilty too. We left a little cash on his grave for him also.
As hubby and I were walking down the narrow streets of Deadwood, a funny thing happened. I looked up and coming toward us was this slender, dapper dressed man with a big mustache and a gun strapped to his hip, long hair, and certainly Wild Bill would have been impressed with this impersonator. It was like a blast from the past. He stopped to chat with for a minute and I asked him if he was the man who got shot in the back of the head. His reply, “Every damn day, three times a day.”
Strolling through the town and entering saloon after saloon (mostly gift shops these days) it got me to thinking. The niggling of a story started growing in the back of my head. I thought of all the *soiled doves* who once walked the streets of Deadwood or worked in the numerous saloons and I thought instead, why not angels? Why not have angels on the streets of Deadwood, instead of the women who worked and died in such a cruel way? And so my book, Send Him an Angel was born.
I hope you enjoy the blurb and excerpt from my latest release. Be sure and scope out the other SCP author’s blog sites this weekend for some great prizes. Please leave a comment for a chance to win a pdf copy of Send him an Angel, and oh yes, I highly recommend Deadwood and the surrounding area for a wonderful vacation spot. You won’t regret it.


In the Badlands of the Dakota Territory, a war rages between good and evil, between angels and Satan’s three sons…
Earth Angel —Elizabeth Bonner’s plans for her wedding dissolve when she discovers her fiancĂ© cheating. To escape the pain and humiliation, she flees to the rowdy mining town of Deadwood Gulch where one person stands between her and hell—Gabriel King.

Dark Angel —Gabriel is feared by most, but he meets his match with Elizabeth. 1876, Dakota Territory is no place for a lady whose innocence is tempting as sin. Toss in a couple of trouble-making cherubs, and the Old West will never be the same.

Elizabeth and Gabriel —more than one war is brewing in the Black Hills…

He spread the makeshift covers over both of them and drifted into sleep. Elizabeth closed her eyes and joined him in blissful sleep.
She didn’t know how long she slept, but the oddest sensation of being watched tugged her out of the light sleep she’d drifted into. Opening her eyes, she squeaked at the sight of horse’s hoofs surrounding their small bed. About ten sets of horses circled them. “What?” She rose halfway up careful to hold the clothes against her bosom.
Gabe slid his arm around her waist. “What is it?” he mumbled.
Elizabeth dug her nails in his hand, her breath caught in her throat. “Wake up,” she whispered urgently.
“What?” Gabe sat up, his face registering surprise. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought. Who are they?”
“Cheyenne. Let’s hope to hell they’re peaceful.”
Elizabeth eyed the younger man in the group. He sat astride his painted pony, straight and proud, his long, black hair hanging around his shoulders. He was handsome, but a bit scary and intimidating. He stared back at her, his expression solemn as a fence post, but she had the awful feeling he was laughing at them. There was something in his dark eyes, a touch of smugness she couldn’t quite define. Then she knew. He’d seen them making love. For whatever reasons, he and his whole little band of natives had observed them being intimate. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “They know what we did.”
Gabe nodded. “I believe you’re right. Damn.”
“Oh, God,” she repeated, and lowered her head, embarrassed.
“Look at this way, sweetheart. None of them likely speak English, so aren’t apt to tell anyone we know what they witnessed.” Gabe grabbed his pants and slipped them on under the cover. “Downright degrading catching a man with his pants down,” he uttered. Cautiously, he rose to his feet, bare-chested and bare-footed. “I’m Gabriel King. This is my wife, Elizabeth.”
The Indian nodded, his lips quirking. “I’m Grey Wolf. I speak English very well, as do all the members of my small band, but we don’t gossip like old women.”
Elizabeth squeaked and hid her face under the covers. “Can’t speak English, huh?”
She heard masculine laughter and peeped over the covers. What the heck did those savages find so funny?
 The one called Grey Wolf nodded at her. “I understand a riverboat exploded. Are you two survivors?”
Elizabeth swallowed back a sharp breath at his perfect English.
Gabe nodded. “We could use a ride to Yankton. That is, if you’d be willing to give us one.”
Grey Wolf nodded. He said something in his native tongue and one of the men slid off his horse. “You can take Little Eagle’s mare. Do not worry about returning it. Keep it. It’s a gift.”
“But…we can’t just take a man’s horse,” Elizabeth protested.
“Maybe one day, I will need a favor from you,” Grey Wolf said.
/Be sure and scope out the other SCP author's blog sites for prizes and great stories.// There are lots of prizes.






Coming Soon From Secret Cravings Publishing!

Death takes an unscheduled holiday…
Giver of Life—Nyra Winters has two abilities that no witch before her has ever possessed—the power to heal and restore life. However, her constant interference in Death’s plans makes her a target of the angry god, King Titan, ruler of the Underworld.

Seeker of Death—Dym Satarius, Prince of Death, is sent to the magical realm of Ru-Noc to collect Nyra Winters. Devoid of all emotion, Dym believes this assignment will be no different than any other—collect the witch’s soul and return to hell—job done—but something goes terribly wrong and he is stranded in Nyra’s world without his powers or the ability to return to his realm.
Witch’s Touch―Where life and Death collide…

Friday, July 12, 2013

The Amazing Ginger Simpson!

Welcome Readers,
Please join me today to welcome the most wonderful romance author and one of my best friends, Ginger Simpson. I've had the pleasure to work with this lady a few times over the years and she's taught me so much about the publishing world. Her books simply terrific. Please leave Miz Ging a comment!

My latest release is Culture Shock.

Faulty wiring can cause a lot more than a power outage.

The annoying alarm sounded. Alex awoke with a terrible stomachache. Not the start to the day he had hoped for since he spent all evening helping Cynthia clean up the mess from the break-in and listening to her berate his actions. Hopefully, the crime had been the act of a random burglar. He'd worried all night it might have been more, but his concern at the moment was this awful pain. He grasped his belly as the aching intensified.
Forcing himself out of bed, he stumbled to the bathroom. When he used the toilet tissue, a crimson stain caught his attention. "Oh, my God, what's wrong?"
Despite his heart climbing into his throat, he managed to draw in a deep breath. The cause of the blood dawned on him, he was having a period. "Oh for Christ's sake, I don't believe this." He looked upward. "Why do you hate me?"
Luckily, he wasn't totally ignorant. After all, he'd lived with a woman before, and there was absolutely nothing that wasn't advertised on TV these days. Nothing was sacred. How many times had he been forced to watch tampon commercials and other feminine hygiene products?
Rummaging under the sink, he searched for whatever it was Cynthia used during her monthly. He found the very item he'd seen advertised so often. Pulling a cylinder from the box, he grimaced and began reading the instructions on the back of the carton.
He squinted at the small print. "Warning: Do not insert cardboard cylinder." That seemed rather obvious to him, but then hairdryers came with warnings not to use them in the bathtub or shower. Obviously there were some ignorant people in the world.
But ... what the hell did he do with the string? He dangled the tampon in the air and studied it for a moment, then following the diagram, he propped one foot on the closed toilet lid, but hesitated. "I can't do this." How did a woman…especially one with long talons?
Reality gave him a stern reminder. Using the tampon was a necessary evil given his situation. With clenched teeth and squinted eyes, he probed for an opening and inserted the cotton torpedo, leaving the string dangling for removal.  A queasy feeling seized him, and he plopped down on the commode. This was the last time he was going through this torture. He had to find a way to get back into his own skin and the comfort he missed so much.

Cynthia stopped by on her way to work and found Alex, still clad in a bathrobe and, curled in a fetal position on the couch. She arched a brow at him. "Why aren't you ready to go?"
He glared up at her. "You started your period. My stomach is killing me."
"Oh, is that all?" She clucked her tongue against her teeth. "It's called cramps. Now you know what it feels like. Get up and get dressed."
He adjusted his position and closed his eyes. "I'd prefer not to. I think I'm dying."
She bent over and shoved her face close to his. "No one ever died of cramps. Get up!"
"I can't," he whined.
"You're pathetic!" She straightened and shook her head. "Good thing you aren't pregnant. I've always heard that if men were the child bearers, every family would only have one. I don't think you'd live through the first birth. I never realized what a wimp you are."

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