The second half of Pat Henshaw's Foothills Pride series is finally coming out in print - four of her stories in one volume:
The influx
of San Francisco Bay Area gays is now commonplace in Stone Acres, California.
But that means big city problems—much to the dismay of long-time residents of
the small community.
In Relative Best, Zeke Bandy’s hotel
becomes a haven for a battered youth. Native American Vic Longbow, who escaped
a similarly brutal upbringing, comes face-to-face with it at Zeke’s place. With
trouble surrounding them, can Zeke and Vic find their own peace and love?
On the outside,
hardware store owner Frank McCord is the town’s bachelor handyman in Frank at Heart. Inside, he’s pining for
true love, particularly the regard of software designer Christopher Darling.
But recently divorced Christopher isn’t looking for another husband.
Country
contractor Ben in Waking the Behr
has always believed he’s heterosexual…until he meets city entrepreneur Mitch
O’Shea. Mitch never thought he’d settle down with a guy from the country. Can a
gay city mouse and a sexually confused country mouse find love?
When UC
Davis horticulture grad Fen Miller agrees to help out in his cousin’s nursery
over Christmas, he rents a room in sous chef John Barton’s Victorian house.
John, another shorter than average man, catches Fen’s interest. But John’s past
comes back to threaten them both in Short
Order.
Excerpt
From
Waking the Behr:
Driving
Mitch’s Rhino GX up to the Bottom was every good old boy’s wet dream. The thing
greedily gobbled up the road. A couple of times I felt like I was holding it
back with a thin piece of rope that was on the verge of breaking.
Mitch,
the bastard, laughed at me the whole way.
“Let
her have some head.”
“Can’t.
We’re coming up on a couple of tight switchbacks. Don’t want us to go off the
road before we’ve had lunch.”
“Pussy,”
he whispered.
Easy
enough for him to say. I was sure glad I hadn’t let him drive. We’d have been
careening all over the place and probably would’ve had a lot more near misses.
I could
just imagine my cell lighting up with calls as we passed some of my friends in
their trucks. I felt them all staring at Rita as we flew by.
“You
could have let her go,” he grumbled after we parked at the Bottom.
My hands
were shaking from exhilaration. My zillion-dollar smile had to be glowing.
Fuck. A guy could come just from driving this baby.
“Whatever,”
I mumbled, because I really didn’t have any words at all. I had no native
language at that point. I was cruising on the blissful release of having danced
with Rita.
As we
rounded the corner of the parking lot and headed for the front door, my brother
Connor nearly bumped into me.
“What
the fuck is that thing, Ben?” He was practically panting as he took in Rita.
“Well,
damn me. There are two of you beauties,” Mitch whispered close to my ear.
“Yeah,
well. Mitch O’Shea, this is my younger brother, Connor. Connor, Mitch.”
They
stared for a split second before Mitch thrust out his hand and Con grabbed it.
“Hey,
nice to meet you. What kind of car is it?”
They
stood much too close, in my opinion, as Mitch listed Rita’s specs.
Not that I
was jealous or protective or anything. I mean, Mitch had said he was gay, and
Con definitely was. So they were a perfect match, right?
Are
you kidding? my dick sneered.
My gut
screamed that Con was encroaching, which was really weird. It wasn’t like I had
any real designs on Mitch. I mean, I’m straight, even though I was between
women and didn’t really feel like hunting down another one at the moment.
So what if
I was attracted to Mitch? He was a good-looking guy. I had a lot of
good-looking friends.
True, none
of them made me want to run my hands all over them, though. Which was beside
the point, right?
“So
you’re here for lunch?” Con asked Mitch.
I
nodded, but Con didn’t acknowledge me.
“Mind
if I join you?” he asked, staring at Mitch.
Couldn’t
he tell he was the third wheel at this party?
I
shrugged, and Mitch nodded. I had no clue what the nod meant.
Lorraine,
the Bottom’s co-owner, latched on to us near the hostess stand, scooped up
three menus, and said over her shoulder, “Right this way.”
Connor
was having lunch with us, then.
“Let me
give you a quick overview about the roadhouse, Mitch. Then you’ll have some
basic info to think about. Okay?” This was a working lunch, right? So I’d best
be acting businesslike.
Mitch
nodded, and Con, fortunately, figured out what was going on and shut the fuck
up.
Guest Post
Have you ever taken a trip to research a story? Tell me about it.
Indirectly. When we moved from the Washington, D. C. area toseries.
What is your writing Kryptonite?
Two things will pull me away from writing faster than Cradle of Egypt or Jewel Quest to soothe my soul. Hours later I look up and realize that while I’ve had a lot of fun, I haven’t gotten anything done.
Do you use a pseudonym? If so, why? If not, why not?
Well, sort of, but not anymore, and here’s why. I used to couldn’t figure out what I could do about his using my name, so I switched to my real married name—only to find out there was an author named Pat Henshaw already. Fortunately, she writes non-fiction self-help fashion books, so I don’t think we’ll be confused anytime soon.
If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
My advice would be simple: Write more and don’t be shy about showing your work to others I suffer from self-doubt all the time. Maybe if I’d been given the confidence early in life, I’d have an easier time putting down my thoughts.
Do you reward yourself for writing, or punish yourself for failing to do so? How?
I believe in rewards, not punishment. Amazon is my friend, so I end up getting myself ridiculous rewards like a fountain pen, a new computer game, a Paper Nano kit, or something else that I have fun playing with. (I’ve even been known to reward myself when there’s nothing to reward. But that’s another story, right?)
Indirectly. When we moved from the Washington, D. C. area toseries.
What is your writing Kryptonite?
Two things will pull me away from writing faster than Cradle of Egypt or Jewel Quest to soothe my soul. Hours later I look up and realize that while I’ve had a lot of fun, I haven’t gotten anything done.
Do you use a pseudonym? If so, why? If not, why not?
Well, sort of, but not anymore, and here’s why. I used to couldn’t figure out what I could do about his using my name, so I switched to my real married name—only to find out there was an author named Pat Henshaw already. Fortunately, she writes non-fiction self-help fashion books, so I don’t think we’ll be confused anytime soon.
If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?
My advice would be simple: Write more and don’t be shy about showing your work to others I suffer from self-doubt all the time. Maybe if I’d been given the confidence early in life, I’d have an easier time putting down my thoughts.
Do you reward yourself for writing, or punish yourself for failing to do so? How?
I believe in rewards, not punishment. Amazon is my friend, so I end up getting myself ridiculous rewards like a fountain pen, a new computer game, a Paper Nano kit, or something else that I have fun playing with. (I’ve even been known to reward myself when there’s nothing to reward. But that’s another story, right?)
Author Bio:
Pat
Henshaw, author of the Foothills Pride Stories, has spent her life surrounded
by words: Teaching English composition at the junior college level; writing
book reviews for newspapers, magazines, and websites; helping students find
information as a librarian; and promoting PBS television programs.
Pat was
born and raised in Nebraska where she promptly left the cold and snow after
college, living at various times in Texas, Colorado, Northern Virginia, and
Northern California. Pat enjoys travel, having visited Mexico, Canada, Europe,
Nicaragua, Thailand, and Egypt, and Europe, including a cruise down the Danube.
Her
triumphs are raising two incredible daughters who daily amaze her with their
power and compassion. Fortunately, her incredibly supportive husband keeps her
grounded in reality when she threatens to drift away while writing fiction.
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