Back in the ’90s, I’d never attempted a series, but when I created Harmon Bass, a legendary tracker who answers a naĂŻve young Eastern heiress’s call for help in the lawless Bend of Texas, I couldn’t walk away. She’d thought she’d hired the strapping, elegant hero depicted in her favorite dime novels. Imagine her surprise when confronted with a short, soft-spoken half-breed who went hatless and without a sidearm.
While re-reading the original five-books to which I’ve gotten the rights back, I’m researching ways to get them scanned into an editable format since I no longer have the original drafts, and doing one of my other favorite things—playing with cover concepts. I’m also digging up that Book 6 I’d started long, long ago when I had plotlines to bring the historical family up to present day. Suddenly, I have a ton of long-anticipated work to do that will more than fill the rest of 2021! Happy Trails, and Happy Writing, fellow Warriors!!
“There’s been some mistake,” she murmured faintly.
As she started to rise, his hand closed around her wrist. It wasn’t a painful or aggressive grasp, just a firm, controlling circle of rough, dry fingers. She stiffened all over as he spoke softly with a steel-threaded quiet.
“I’ve just ridden a hundred miles for the promise of pay. I’m thirsty, I’m hungry, I’m tired and right now I’m getting more than a little annoyed, so you just sit yourself back down.”
Amanda dropped into the chair without so much as a whimper to asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m the man you sent for.”
“How did you get that letter I posted in care of the Texas Rangers?”
“They sent it to me.” One corner of his mouth crooked up wryly as he tapped a dirty forefinger on the cover of her dime novel. “You wanted the heroic Harmon Bass bad enough to offer up a thousand dollars, and here I am to collect.”(and the rest of the scene . . .)
She studied him candidly for a moment as the violent shock wore offer, returning her usual brash spirit. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t plan to offer up that money to just anyone and I don’t believe for a second that you’re Mr. Bass.”
His amusement had affected the rest of his mouth by then, shaping it into a small smile. “And why’s that, Miss Duncan?”
“If you can read, you’d know perfectly well that you are nothing like Harmon Bass.” She sized up his insignificant appearance with a clear eye and a cool word. “Why, you’re too young, not much more than twenty years old, you don’t carry a gun, you don’t dress like any gentleman I’ve ever seen, you let yourself be pushed around by a stranger, and you’re—you’re shor—you’re not tall.”
No, ma’am,” he claimed calmly in the face of her fierce blush, “tall, I’m not, but I can read, and I can tell the difference betwixt fact and fiction. Whether you like it or not, I’m the man you want. If you were counting on some steely-eyed, quick-fingered fool like the one in that there book and like our dear departed neighbor, then no, I’m not what you want. I’m no gun-handy hero, but in your letter, you said you needed a tracker, and ma’am, I’m the best there is.” He paused and said, softer still, “And I need the money.”
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