Where in the world do you get your ideas? That is the number one question I get from readers. My answer is simple. Life.
If you’ve read any of my published works, you’re probably saying yeah right. That really happened to you? My answer is, “Well, not all of it, but the catalyst for the story really did happen to me, or to someone close to me.”
Example, in ‘Obsessed By WildFire’ the heroine is a barrel racer. I was a barrel racer and have a few ribbons to prove it. My family’s barn burned at the hands of an arson. These memories among others were the sparks for the story.
In ‘His Witness to Evil, a tractor-trailer is stolen. My family is and has been in the trucking industry going on seventy years. I remember going with my father to the New York City Markets as a young girl and seeing the drivers sleeping in their cabs with their feet hanging out the window. Very few trucks had bunks then. You wouldn’t take a child into the markets today and you certainly wouldn’t sleep with your windows open. Heists occur.
‘In The Presence Of Evil’ deals with bank wire transfers being intercepted and sent to criminal accounts. Yes. It happened. How? It’s in the hands of the FBI to find out. Today, criminals don’t need to pick your home’s lock in order to rob you.
Catalysts for stories are everywhere and all I need to do is ask what if and my imagination takes off. It's as simple as that.
I haven’t shared info or an excerpt for Obsessed By Wildfire in a while, so here you go. OBW is a fun, sexy, contemporary with just a bit of suspense set in the heart of Texas. If you'd like a free digital download of Obsessed By Wildfire just join my newsletter.
Isobel Trinidad is her own woman. She vows no man will rope her into the humdrum life of a housewife and take away her dreams of becoming the National Barrel Champion like her father had done to her mother. Her mind is set, until a handsome Yankee comes to town and upsets everything she has believed.
Arson brings State Fire Marshal Warner Keyson to Mule Post, but a wildfire of a woman stops him in his tracks. Intrigued by Issy’s fire, he contrives ways to keep her close while conducting his investigation. What they create, which neither of them bargained for, is the blaze of a lifetime.
Chapter One of 'Obsessed By Wildfire'
The sun had set.
Mini dust tornados swirled off the tires of Isobel Trinidad’s seen-better-days Chevy pickup. She maneuvered through the Blue Bug Saloon’s crammed lot at a less than safe speed, nearly taking the fender off of Suzie’s prized classic Mustang. Suz would scalp her next time she went into the Hair Crazy Salon to get the dead ends trimmed from her waist length hair. And she was partial to her raven locks.
A couple of orange cones flew as she reached her destination and slammed on the brakes. The pickup skidded to a stop in the no parking area in front of the double doors. She jammed her truck into park and shouldered the door open before the four-by-four’s engine stopped its final whine.
The neon light above the Blue Bug’s entry turned her white tank top a beautiful, light shade of sapphire and glazed her bare arms with an indigo tint.
Why hadn’t Chicky used blue? Blue was comforting. But no, he’d used gut-wrenching yellow. The town’s handyman knew she hated yellow. Why he’d even helped her spray paint her yellow taxi purple. The man didn’t listen. She hated men who thought they knew what was best for a woman when they had no clue.
Chicky left her no choice. She had to kill him.
She reached over the side of the truck, into the bed, and grabbed her lunge whip. It was the Thursday night before a holiday weekend and Mule Post’s hot spot was packed. Did she care? No. It just meant there would be a whole herd of witnesses to watch Chicky cower his way back to her spread and fix what he’d done while she’d been off checking out a promising two-year old stallion.
Her fingers curled around the leather strap in her hand. In the morning, she wanted to walk out on her front porch—the one that still needed a dozen or so floorboards replaced—look out over the hundred fifty-seven point eight acres she’d inherited from her Gran, sip her morning cup of tea and see anything but yellow wood siding. There still was no promise of rain in the forecast and a brilliant full moon hung over Mule Post. Chicky could paint in the dark.
White would be good.
She kicked up small puffs of dust as she rounded the truck’s front end.
Prickly pear green would be good.
“You know, you should be more careful.”
The late-night-radio voice stopped Isobel’s right heel from stomping the Blue Bug’s step. She turned. If it wasn’t for the fact her blood pressure was already at a dangerous level, it would’ve shot there staring into the cornflower blue eyes of this stranger. He was a good six inches taller than her five foot eight, broad at the shoulders and chest, trim at the waist and hips and from what she could tell by the stretch of his jeans, his package was where he got the gumption to face off with her while she was in a hellish ass-kicking mood.
There was no doubt he was a Yankee. He wore sneakers. No Texan would wear running shoes to go dancing. And his scent wasn’t leather, hay or old horse. She lifted her chin a notch, just a little, to let him know what he was about to take on. “Who are you?”
“Warner Keyson. You?” He folded his arms across his chest. His muscles bulged from beneath the rolled back sleeves of his white dress shirt. She’d seen bigger forearms—on a few NFL players.
“Well, Ms. Trinidad, you could’ve caused some damage or killed someone the way you barreled in here.”
“The last time I heard, Raleigh was Mule Post’s chief and you’re not one of his officers. Besides everyone’s inside.”
“There could be a couple or two in the backseat of those cars. You know, enjoying the night.”
Warner Keyson’s warm caramel gaze drifted over her and Isobel’s legs buckled a degree before she roped off her reaction. Refusing to look away, she wrestled the urge to step closer and touch the cute dark lock that curled behind Mr. Keyson’s right ear. “Were you peeking in windows?”
“Nah, not peeking.” His full lips pulled up the tiniest bit.
Looking pass him, she scanned the cars. Had he been in the backseat of one of them? Had one of the local girls already run him down and claimed him?
“So what do you have in mind with that whip?” He broke her musing.
“Whip?” She’d forgotten she still had it in her grasp, and the reason why.
Chicky. Her fire to kill the devil with a paintbrush had taken a new direction. This blaze was much more alluring, but she had a ton and half of chores to do this weekend, starting with thrashing Chicky. She couldn’t be distracted by a weekend fling, not this weekend.
“I’m going to use it on a man who doesn’t listen. So if you don’t mind—”
He chuckled. “Not at all. You’ve got business to tend to and so do I.”
He took a step back and Isobel’s psyche tickled with disappointment. Was his business a half-naked woman waiting in his car? Longing for his strong arms to pull her close, feel his large hands travel over her body and help to unwrap his package?
“Goodnight, Isobel Trinidad.”
He’d said her name again, like he meant to remember it.
The Yankee smiled, turned and walked back through the dozens of cars. He had a damn fine flank side.
What brought Warner Keyson to Mule Post? Certainly wasn’t the rodeo. There wasn’t a bit of hayseed scent about the man.
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