Amazon Best-selling Historical Romance

Amazon Best-selling Historical Romance
Escape to a romantic period where love endured, grew, and flourished despite a Civil War.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Louisiana Y2K Christmas

Only 99 cents. A Louisiana Y2K Christmas bonus changed my life. Other stories and poetry included. December 17, 1999, I bought a used computer for $650 from an ad I found in the newspaper. That one step would change my entire life. Everyone talked of Y2K which would render it useless and said I probably wasted my money. It was my Christmas present to myself that year. December 21, 1999, I had it connected to the Internet, but on December 31, 1999, if the Y2K scare was correct, only ten days later computers worldwide would crash from the Y2K bug.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Interview with Shelia Deeth about Bethlehem’s Baby

There’s a young servant marching with those magi out of the desert, so we’ve sent our intrepid reporter to talk with him.


Reporter: Hello young man. Can you tell our readers where this caravan is heading?

Student: Sure. We’re on our way to Jerusalem.

Reporter: What? In Israel? Why on earth would professors from Babylon be heading there?

Student: Well, we saw a star.

Reporter (points): That star?

Student: Yes. That’s right.

Reporter: And I suppose your wise professors have some great theory about what it means.

Student: Yes, well, no. Not exactly. It was my theory first.

Reporter: Your theory?

Student: Yes. Everyone was arguing about it, see, so they sent me off to the library to see what I could find.

Reporter: Lots of books in that library, are there?

Student: Tons of them. I thought I’d start with the old Israelite stuff though, ‘cause my great great granddad... whatever... my ancestors were Jews back in the day. Came over to Babylon with Daniel.

Reporter: With who?

Student: With Daniel. He was a great Jewish professor, a prophet they called him. He’s got lots of books in our library.

Reporter: Well, since you’re heading for Jerusalem, I guess you must have found something in those books.

Student: Yes, I did. It was in Daniel’s stuff. He had lots of numbers and seventy seven...

Reporter: Um... Could you skip the mathematics please?

Student: Sure, okay, but it’s really cool. Well, anyway, if you add up all Daniel’s numbers and count them right, well, there’s a king going to be born right around now who dies about thirty years on.

Reporter: Seriously? You’re telling me King Herod’s going to die in thirty years?

Student: No, not him.  A new king.

Reporter: A new king? I don’t suppose old Herod will be too thrilled with a new upstart claiming his throne.

Student: That’s not my problem. I just read the books.

Reporter: And let the professors take all the credit I suppose.

Student: Of course.

Reporter: And clean up after the camels?

Student: Well, yes, that too. Sorry, I’ve got to go.


So there you have it folks. Babylonian professors are on their way to Jerusalem to welcome a new king, and we won’t be responsible for what King Herod does when he finds out.


More about Bethlehem’s Baby:

Meet the Emperor Augustus’s advisors, the quiet research student helping wise men study stars, the shepherd whose granddad keeps complaining, an Egyptian fisherboy, a Roman soldier, and more in this set of 40 5-minute read-aloud stories based around the events of the Christ Child’s birth in Bethlehem.



Find Bethlehem’s Baby at:

More of the Five-Minute Bible StoryTM Series on the publisher’s website:


Connect with Sheila at:


Friday, October 18, 2013

Where did the Ideas come from for Southern Superstitions?

Mother was a natural-born storyteller. She told stories from the past about horse and buggy days when grandpa courted grandma. He lived on the banks of the Clio River. She lived in Springfield, Louisiana, and it'd take him all day to get from Clio to Springfield to visit her, driving a horse and buggy down gravel roads. She explained how the mattresses were stuffed with the gray Spanish moss that hangs from live oak trees. In the winter, they had to heat bricks to put in the bed with them and warm their feet.

She brought the past and our family history back to life for us. I lost my father when I was only four on Christmas Day. After his death, all I had were her stories and my memories. He was from Brookhaven, Mississippi, and they met on a Greyhound bus.

Mother died, and her stories died with her, except for the ones stuck in my memories. Her love for stories, books, and reading taught me to love books and value reading at an early age. She read all the classic fairy tales to me before I started school at five years old, the first grade. Because of her stories, I now write my own. If not for her stories, and her guiding spirit, I doubt I'd ever told any myself. Southern Superstitions began with my mother's words, "The Lord has something better in mind, and the Lord works in mysterious ways." I wrote a short story that came to me from working on a strawberry farm with her while I was still in elementary school and from listening to her words. I titled the short story, "The Lord Had Something Better in Mind," and it won first place in fiction-writing competition at Southeastern Louisiana University. I penned it in my first college creative-writing class. Years later, I developed the short story into my full-length novel, Southern Superstitions.

Mother was full of old wives' tales and superstitions. I expanded my short story into a novel using many of them. With the book, Mother lives on. Her voice rings with the words of the book. She is in essence the woman, Myrtle. She brought humor to many situations, and I know of no one else who can tell stories the way in which she did, including me.

First written April 6, 1999

I've had good reviews on Amazon for the novel, but some readers think of her as a complaining old woman. She was so much more, for she taught me Bible verses among all those old wives' tales and Southern superstitions. And, she taught them to me in a way that would stay with me forever. I used to think she talked in riddles and wondered why she didn't just speak in plain English. It took me years to grow up and understand. I'd never have spent much time thinking about something that she just came right out and told me point blank, but she produced though-provoking riddles that made my mind work and made me think. Some of those old superstitions are included in Southern Superstitions. You might've grown up with some of them, too.

June Russell is the daughter of a small-town Louisiana strawberry farmer determined to have a career besides her mother's berry farm.

Andy Allen is a strawberry inspector at the local bureau whose interest in June has grown past business into more a personal one.

But June's mother, Myrtle, thinks June can do better than a simple strawberry inspector. Worse, Myrtle's wild beliefs in anything superstitious appear almost prophetic when June and Andy are thrown time and time again into unexpected and life-threatening situations.

A storm, an accident, escaped convicts, Andy missing in a Louisiana swamp.

Can love survive the obstacle course placed in their path? Can June and Andy overcome each trial with belief, faith, hard work, and the power of prayer?
Available in paperback or ebook at Amazon. Available at Barnes and Noble, Sony, Kobo, and
Andy falls in love, but June's mother thinks her daughter can do better than a strawberry inspector. Can Andy convince Mrs. Myrtle he'll be the son she has never had and win her approval? He's going to have to change her mother's mind in more ways than one if their relationship is to survive. Can he persuade June that there is more to their relationship than friends? He doesn't want to be the big brother she never had. It's going to take more than Myrtle's superstitions to see them through an April flood, an accident, and escaped convicts when Andy goes missing in a Louisiana swamp while on a deer-hunting trip during Christmas season. Can love survive the obstacle course placed in their path? Will June be able to give Andy a child? Can two determined young people overcome each obstacle with belief, faith, hard work and the power of prayer? Will they ever convince Mrs. Myrtle to let go of superstitions, or will she stubbornly cling to them just like she vows she'll never fly on those big-winged mechanical birds because man ain't got no business messing with God's plans? June never gives up on Andy and clings to hope that he'll return to her. It was faith in God that would bring her husband home. Even a lucky penny or dime declared, "In God we trust."
June couldn't keep bittersweet memories at bay. She remembered a New Orleans trip when Andy had convinced her to stroll the Riverwalk. When she'd asked where he planned to take her in that big, wicked city, he'd laced his hand through hers and replied, "How about the zoo?"

Her heart ached when she remembered how flippant she'd been when she'd answered, "As if I'd monkey around with you." She wanted nothing more than to have Andy in her arms again. Her hand darted to the spot he'd kissed her, and she pressed her fingertips against it. She'd turned her face, and his lips found hers.

Then, he'd pulled her to her feet, took her hand, and said, "Come on. Let's enjoy the water some more before the sun slips away." Holding her by the hand, the two walked into the river together.

After all they'd been through, convincing her mother to accept Andy, an April flood, struggling to have a child together, and working side-by-side, the love of her life, her soul mate was missing and nothing would ever be the same. How could she go on listening to her mother's superstitions? Was there no changing the woman's mind about them any more than changing it about flying on an airplane? She could hear her mother rave about those big-winged mechanical birds and how man had no business messing with God's plans, but deep in her heart she knew it was faith in God that would bring her husband home. Even a lucky penny or dime declared, "In God we trust." Only $2.99
Look what people are saying about B. J. Robinson's Southern Superstitions!
Shawn K. Williams says, "Southern Superstitions is an inspirational story that's full of personality as well as intricacy in the way it explores the complexities of family life and the conflict between faith and luck. Barbara does a great job of pulling together the deeply rooted superstitions of the South and entwining them into a suspenseful tale of faith, romance, and endurance. I especially enjoyed the setting and the culture of the deep South."
Kathy Boswell says, "Very good. She never gives up hope that Andy will return to her someday. She puts it all in God's hands like she's done every crisis in her life. She knows He will take care of this for her."
Pam Cable says,
"When I read Barbara Robinson's Last Resort, I thought it can't get any better than this. But, as a southern writer myself, I found myself caught up in this book of superstitions and the power of God. With a strong hand, the writer delivered the goods here. As good as a read from Eudora Welty. I was wrapped in the "pages" from beginning to end. Captivating. Loved the character
of Andy ... Enjoyed the ride, B. J. Robinson."




Thursday, October 17, 2013

Prologue to Magnolia A Wilting Flower

Before I was old enough to read, Momma had me hooked on fairy tales. She bought a new one for me each month out of the small social-security check she received after my father's death. She rocked me to sleep reading my favorite ones each night. I loved The Glass Mountain, Cinderella, and Snow White. I was only four years old when my father died one cold Christmas Day in a charity hospital.

Four years earlier, I'd been born in a charity hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana. We never had much, but I'd not yet realized that. To me, before Daddy died, we had everything.

We lived in a small town on South Third Street in a rambling white apartment house. We only rented, but I didn't realize what that meant at the time. To me, we were rich, for I was rich living in my make-believe world of fairy tales, rich in sunshine and fresh air, swinging in my board-and-rope swing underneath the giant pecan tree in our front yard.

I was a happy little girl who had everything she could possibly want. I had a doting daddy a loving momma, and a precious little sister, who was only four months old when our daddy died. Daddy rocked us and sung us to sleep, singing about our beautiful blue eyes, or Mother would read and rock us to sleep with fairy tales. My world was rich, happy, and content. I wanted for nothing. Little did I know then, that my life would be no fairy tale. Happy endings were all I knew.

We had a small front porch, and hummingbirds flew right up to the wild azalea bushes, pink honeysuckle, that grew alongside it. I'd try to catch those cute little birds, but Momma and Daddy told me to leave them alone, or they'd hurt me. I didn't see how anything so cute and tiny could hurt me, but I did as I was told, being the good little girl I was. Daddy said he was proud of his good little girl for leaving nature in peace.

I was an outdoors child who bounced up early to run outside into the sunshine and yell for Daddy to push me in the swing he'd made for me, underneath the old pecan. It didn't matter to me that it wasn't a store-bought one like my neighbor had. For, my daddy pushed me so high that my tiny feet nearly touched the low-hanging branches. I'd squeal with delight and scream. "Push me to the sky, Daddy!"

Daddy would laugh and say, "That's my girl. She already knows the sky is her limit."

My neighbor's shiny new gym set sat untouched and unused in her backyard. No loving father took the time to push her. She said her father was too busy making a living to buy her and her mother all the finer things in life. Her daddy was more important than mine because he was such a busy man with an important job. She'd tease me and brag about how she'd have so many nice things and all I'd ever have was what Daddy could put together for me with a board and some string. "Your daddy isn't important. He doesn't even hold a job, but my daddy works all the time," she'd brag. My swing is prettier than yours. Mine cost more. Yours is just an old cheap board-and-rope swing, homemade at that."

I'd run home crying to Momma and tell her all the mean things she'd said to me.

"Now, now, child, don't cry so." Momma patted my shoulder and hugged me. "You wear your heart on your sleeve. Don't let her have her way. That's what she wants, to see you cry. Tell her, Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you."

I dried my eyes, ran outside, and yelled the words across the street that Momma told me to say.

She responded. "If words don't hurt you, why do you run home crying to your momma, little girl?"

My friend was older than me and in school. She said she wanted to become a teacher when she grew up. Sometimes she'd practice on me. I liked her then, and I was curious to learn as much as I could from her. She taught me how to count and taught me my ABC's. Thanks to her and Momma's reading to me, when I started school at five, I could count, say my ABC's, and knew all the nursery rhymes and fairy tales by heart.

I practiced for Daddy, and he was so proud of me. He bought me a little red-plaid book sack to begin first grade. Today they're called book bags or backpacks, but it was not a backpack like the ones known to students of this age. It had a small handle and was carried like a briefcase. I'd fill it with my fairy tale books and pretend I was going to school. I still had a year to wait before I would actually start, and Daddy always told Momma that he wanted to make sure I had a book sack to start school with, just in case anything happened.

I had no idea what he meant. Momma thought he was giving me the book sack much too early, since I still had a year before I would begin school, but I was tickled over it and played school while I waited to begin the real thing. Little did I know then, school would play a very large part in my life.

I didn't understand why Daddy didn't work like other fathers. Momma told me he received a check each month because he was disabled, whatever that meant. But, Daddy didn't seem disabled to me. He was able to play with me, swing me, sing to me, and walk me to the store. He could do all kinds of things. In my eyes, Daddy was king. He walked on water. I was his little princess, and he had me spoiled rotten. If I decided I wanted watermelon at 12:00 o'clock at night, he'd let me have some. When Momma fussed at me for something, I'd run to Daddy crying. He'd pet me and make me feel better.

Daddy had a special chair. It was an old green overstuffed one, and I could curl up in it and get lost, which is exactly what I did when Daddy wasn't home and Momma fussed at me. After Daddy died, when Momma hassled me, I'd run to his chair. Somehow, I felt like I was still with Daddy when I curled up in his chair and cried my eyes out.

The year I was four years old is the year I remember best about Daddy. I can't remember much before that year. It was such a good year in the beginning. Little did I know that before I turned five, Daddy would be forever lost to me. Daddy took me with him nearly everywhere he went that year. If I didn't get to go with him, I'd sit in the swing he made for me and watch the road and wait for his return.

My mother, Alice Myrtle, would tell everyone, "Magnolia is the apple of Edbert's eye." It was plain for the world to see that I was Daddy's little girl. Momma named me after the beautiful white flower because she and Daddy got married in Magnolia, Mississippi. I often asked her to tell me about how she met Daddy. Her eyes would take on a faraway look, and she described how she met him on a Greyhound bus. She was from the small town of Springfield, Louisiana, and he was from Brookhaven, Mississippi. Momma always told me it was fate that they met that day.

Momma was a strawberry farmer's daughter, and Daddy was the son of a cotton planter. Destiny brought them together. They had so much in common. They both loved pretty sunshiny days, the country, and watching flowers or plants grow.

Before Daddy became sick and disabled, he worked at a New Orleans shipyard. He stayed in the city during the week while he worked and came home on the weekends. This was when I was very young and we were living in Mississippi beside my Grandma Russell's, Daddy's mother. My father's brother, Uncle Ernie, took over the cotton farm in Mississippi.

When I was only four years old, we visited Uncle Ernie's farm before my Daddy died later that year. Uncle Ernie let me use a smaller sack than all the other pickers and told me that I could help pick the cotton. I was tickled and proud because I had a job and could earn my own spending money. I carefully filled my sack, and he paid me twenty-five cents for each one I filled. I didn't make very much money because I soon played out, and I didn't fill very many sacks. I think I ended up with a dollar.

Uncle Ernie liked to play with me like Daddy did, but he wouldn't spoil me like Daddy. He'd bounce me up and down on his knees and let me climb onto his back, so he could give me piggyback rides. However, if I tried throwing one of my temper tantrums that always worked so well on Daddy, Uncle Ernie would say, "Cry a little louder," and he just ignored me. At first, I'd scream and yell and cry just as loud as my little throat and lungs would allow, but I soon realized that it'd get me absolutely nowhere with Uncle Ernie. He just sat on the porch in his rocker, laughed, and said, "Come on. Cry a little louder. You can do better than that. We can't hear you."

At first, that made me that much madder, and I cried that much louder, but finally my throat ached, and I was out of breath and red in the face. The worst part was that it'd all been for nothing. I finally had to give up in the end because I never got my way with Uncle Ernie.

Now, Grandma Russell was a different story, and I missed her after we moved away. She spoiled me like Daddy did, and she let me play with whatever I wanted.

Momma told me I got into her kitchen cabinets and tore off all the labels from her canned goods. Grandma just laughed about it and said we'd have a surprise each time we ate. Momma fussed at me and threatened to whip me, but Grandma just said, "Oh Amelia, (used Amelia for mother's name) kids will be kids. She's done no real harm."

I was spared a whipping, but Momma said, "You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady. Now Grandma won't know what she's opening."

Another time I was at Grandma's house rocking in my little red rocking chair Daddy surprised me with on his last weekend trip home. I rocked away as hard as I could. The next thing I knew, the rocker turned over, and my head hit the floor.

Momma and Grandma both came running when they heard my cries. "You're okay," Momma said. "Lucky for you, you've got a hard head."

Funny, but I was to be called hardheaded many times after that, but I didn't yet know it. One day my own husband would tell me that I was one hardheaded woman.

The last thing I remember about my early Mississippi days was the way I loved to play outside in Grandma's front yard with the little doodlebugs that looked like little Volkswagen cars. I was fascinated by the way they rolled up their tiny bodies. Momma thought I should be ladylike and play with dolls and keep clean all of the time, but I loved the dirt and the mud. My favorite pastime was making mud pies. I can remember Momma running outside many a time and yelling, "Magnolia, you're certainly no flower blossom. Just look at how filthy you are, young lady. Get yourself inside and cleaned up this very minute. Why I named you Magnolia, I'll never know." Hands on her slim hips, her hazel eyes flashed in fury.

When I was a little older, I'd always reply, "Because you and Daddy were married in that pretty little Mississippi town." She'd laugh at me surprised that I remembered.

Momma would always say, "Why can't you be more like your sister, young lady?" Those hazel eyes of Mom's flashed green with anger. Her shoulder-length reddish brown hair glowed more red than brown with the sun, but she soon found a boxed solution to keep her hair what she termed brown. It looked black to me. Mom ranted. "She plays with dolls and keeps clean. You act like a tomboy, always playing outside in the dirt and wanting to play with boys' cars and trucks instead of your baby dolls."

After we moved from Mississippi, my aunt who hadn't seen me since I was four sent a huge box of toys for Christmas. My sister had all dolls, tea seats, and doll clothes. I had all boys' toys. Trucks and cars, not one doll. "Momma," I said, "my aunt thinks I'm a little boy. She don't even know that I'm a little girl." Tears ran down my cheeks because she knew what my sister was and had sent her all her favorite toys.

Momma tried to make me feel better. "Magnolia, perhaps your aunt remembered how much you liked to play with cars and trucks when we were in Mississippi. Don't worry. I'm sure your sister will let you play with some of her dolls and tea sets."

"I don't want no baby dolls. "I'm too old and big for a doll. I wanted skates for Christmas, and I didn't get any, so I'll just make skates out of those big stupid trucks."

Momma just looked at me and shook her head. "I hope you don't break the trucks or your legs. I didn't get you roller skates because I was afraid you'd break a leg and now you come up with your own."

I took a big yellow dump truck and a red fire truck and put one on one foot and the other on the other foot. Then, I skated across the living room with trucks on my feet.

Momma said, "I wish she'd sent you dolls like she did your sister. If you'd been more ladylike I'm sure she would've. She must remember how much of a tomboy you always were. Girls should be girls." Momma tossed her hair and with a swing of her hips, flounced to the kitchen.

When we grew older, we played school. Like my friend had once taught me, I practiced on my sister. "It's not fair," she'd cry. "You always have to be the teacher. Why can't I be the teacher sometimes?"

"Because I'm the oldest, and I know more than you." We played school underneath a huge shady tree in the pecan orchard. It branches served as the roof of the schoolhouse, and many times they served as the roof of our playhouses.

Momma always declared that she could tell the weather by my moods. Dreary weather depressed me, but sunshine seemed to mirror my very own spirit. I loved to awaken to a fresh, sunshiny day, with the sun streaming through my bedroom windows. I loved to look out the door and see the sun smile down and listen to the birds sing their happy morning tunes. Once, before we moved back to Momma's neck of the woods, Daddy bought a piece of land in Angie, Louisiana. We lived in a rent house while we were working to build our own home. I would bounce up early, ready for the fresh air and sunshine. "Momma, it's daylight. Let's get up!"

"It's just little daylight, Magnolia. Go back to sleep and wait for big daylight before you wake me up." That was Mom's way of getting to stay in bed a little longer. I'd have her up at the crack of dawn when the roosters crowed, if I could.

When we lived in Angie, Mom told me I got into her kitchen cabinets one night while she and Daddy were watching television. They didn't have many groceries, and I took all of her rice, sugar, and salt and dumped them into toy pots. I pretended to cook on my little green kitchen stove. She said she had a fit when she discovered me because I had her rice, sugar, and salt all over. It was scattered on the countertop and a trail ran from the kitchen to my bedroom. That's how she found me. She followed the mess from the kitchen and there I was stirring rice, sugar, and salt together to make a gumbo. She said that's what I told her I was cooking.

Momma declared that my face was like an open book. She could always tell if something was on my mind, or if I was upset about something. In later years, I recall how she said she could tell from the way I walked home from school each day if I'd had a good day or a bad one. If I came down the sidewalk with my shoulders sagging, my head hanging, and my eyes downcast, she knew that something bad had happened to me at school that day. If I had a good day, I'd come strutting down the sidewalk like a cocky old rooster strutting his stuff with my head held high. Words gushed from my mouth before I got inside the door. I just couldn't wait to tell Momma what I was excited about. Momma said she always hated to see me coming with my head down because she knew something bad had happened. She said I was like a flower, either blossoming or wilting. I'd say, "I should be. After all, you named me after a flower."

"Yes, and little did I know it at the time, but it was a perfect name for you. Sometimes you droop like a flower wilting or dying. Other times, you seem to sprout or spring open like a flower blossoming." She smiled. "Perhaps I should've named you blossom."

"I like Magnolia better. Besides, I think it's rather romantic to be named after the little town where you and Daddy were married. It's full of beautiful magnolia trees. Momma and Daddy had taken me on a Sunday drive once during the spring of the year to that pretty little Mississippi town. It seemed to me that Momma meeting Daddy was like a fairy tale, especially the way she told the story of them meeting on the Greyhound bus. But, like my own life was to be, Momma's was no fairy tale either. However, at that time, I was still living in my fairytale world of make believe, and I loved Momma's romantic stories.

I'd grow up loving romance novels, perhaps because there never seemed to be enough romance in real life, at least not for me. Danielle Steel was one of my favorite romance authors. Many others were destined to follow. I went from fairy tales to romance novels like a runaway roller coaster and got what little romance I could out of life from the characters in my books. In years to come, a country music singer would come up with a song about a Louisiana woman and a Mississippi man. I'd tell Momma that each time I heard that song I'd think of them, since she was a Louisiana woman and Daddy was a Mississippi man.

Daddy never got to hear the song, but Momma loved listening to Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn sing it. She was a country music lover and reared me on it. I like other types of music, too, but country is my favorite because it tells stories about life, and I listened to it from childhood to adulthood.

I loved to listen to Momma's stories about Daddy. Her stories were all I had left after his death. She had a way of making him come back to life for me, with her hazel eyes sparkling as she told me stories about their happy times and life together.

She told me how Daddy always showed up loaded down with surprises for both of us. He'd come laughing inside, glad to be home with us once again and say, "How's my two favorite girls?" He'd grab Momma and hug her until she thought he'd surely break her small bones in two. He'd pick me up from the crib or playpen and head to the rocker. "Got to make up for lost time and sing to my baby girl."

Eventually, Daddy sold the house in Angie and the one in Mississippi. He sold the one in Angie before he completed it. He moved Momma back to her home state so she wouldn't have to be away from her family. She could be closer to all of her relatives in Springfield, Louisiana, her hometown. I often wonder if Daddy moved us back because he knew he wasn't going to be around much longer, and Momma would need her people.

When we first moved back, he had a job at a New Orleans shipyard, where he worked until he became disabled. At first, we lived in a tiny house in Springfield. I remember Daddy taking me fishing with him when we lived there. I watched the ducks swim on the water, and the chickens followed us to the river. Daddy showed me how to bait my cane pole with a real live worm. He took me fishing and taught me how to bait my own pole when I was only four years old.

From there, we moved to a rambling white apartment house on South Third Street. I lived there until I lost my Daddy at four years old on Christmas Day.

The last week Daddy stayed in the city, Momma and I went to New Orleans to surprise him. I was too little to remember the trip, but I was all ears when Momma told me about it after Daddy passed. She was reminiscing about happier times.

"When we got to your daddy's room in that boarding house, I knocked on the door, but he didn't answer at first. I pounded and pounded and finally I heard him coming to open the door. He'd been sleeping with the gas heater on in that room without a crack in the window. It's a good thing we went to visit your Daddy when we did, or we could've lost him sooner. I had to crack the window and let the fumes air out of that room. He was so surprised and glad to see us. There, by the side of his bed, was a big walking doll he'd bought for you. He had his gifts for us and thought he'd be bringing them home and surprising us as usual. This time, we surprised him though, because we didn't wait for him. We caught a Greyhound bus and went to him.

I loved listening to Momma's reminiscing about the olden days, what she called the good old days, when she was a little girl growing up on my grandfather's strawberry farm in Springfield, Louisiana. I loved those strawberry tales about how hard my Grandpa and Grandma Threeton worked on their strawberry farm. Years later, I found out they really weren't tales at all, but truth. Most of all though, I loved listening to her tales about Daddy and how good he was to us, how happy we'd been, once upon a time. Just like a fairy tale, there was a once upon a time, but unlike a fairy tale, we had no happy ending. All we had were our happy memories.

The little girl Momma had reared on fairy tales would one day grow up and discover just what a cold, cruel adult world the real world could be. She'd soon find out how cruel life could really be and that real life was, indeed, no fairy tale. Though she dreamt of Prince Charming who'd ride up and rescue her on his white horse just like the fairy tales described, she was not destined to meet her own Prince Charming, at least not for years. Then, just when she finally thought that she had, their lives were interrupted. Later, she'd often wonder where had all the fairy tales gone?

Sadly, one day it'd be her who'd tell her own child that life was not fair and that he may as well face it. She'd grow up saying life was not fair and having someone tell her over and over that no one ever said that it was. The words, "Life is not fair, Kid," would often ring in her ears.

But until the time she was four years old, life was fair and good. Everything came up roses. She was the princess of sunshine, and her daddy always told her, "Your sweet smile is like a ray of sunshine; don't ever lose it."
Little did she know at the time, as she beamed that smile at her daddy's loving eyes, that one day in the near future, there'd be no more sunshine for her. Her world was getting ready to cloud over, and the blue skies would turn gray. She had many storms to batter, but for the time being, her life was storm free, and she could happily smile for all the world to see.

B. J. Robinson writes Southern fiction from Florida where she lives with her husband and pets, a golden cocker spaniel, Sunflower, a golden retriever, Honi, and a shelter cat named Frankie. She's an avid reader and passionate writer. When she's not writing, she's reading and reviewing books.

Buy book here or click on picture to the side.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Big Price Reductions on Older Books

Prices on my first books out have all been reduced! Have some browsing fun and check out the blurbs, reviews, and prices. Don't forget the second page! Have fun and read!

Monday, October 7, 2013

Book Launch Celtic Knot by Tammy Doherty

About CELTIC KNOT by Tammy Doherty

When widow Abby Finnegan meets ranch hand Kyle Lachapelle, she figures he’s as deceitful as her family. But Kyle is a Secret Service operative working undercover, and Abby has a disturbing connection to his counterfeiting case. Abby’s protecting her heart while Kyle can’t afford the feelings stirring in his. Love is out of the question…or is it the answer? 


 “Look, mister,” Boone stood toe to toe with Kyle, their eyes level with one another. “I’m the law in these here parts an’ it’s my job to know about newcomers to town. An’ I ain’t partial to your wiseacre answers.”

“Well, I guess that makes us even, ‘cause I’m not partial to your lewd, nosy attitude.” Kyle held Boone’s gaze, as if daring the other man to make something of his answer.

Boone stared back, unblinking. He wouldn't back down from a stare-off. Most cowpunchers either worked for Raymond Bigelow or were just passing through Prophecy. Bigelow hands generally knew their place when it came to Boone Warren. Rambling men were naturally intimidated by Boone’s large size and the way he carried himself. This man was quite obviously not intimidated or impressed.

Tension thickened the air as each man waited for the other to back down. Abby noticed that while Boone’s gun rested in its customary place at his hip, the stranger was unarmed. If Lachapelle noted this fact he made no sign that it mattered. And though she well knew how apt Boone was with his fists, she began to wonder if perhaps this newcomer might be able to best him in a fight. She wasn’t willing to find out the answers to any of these questions.

“That’s enough,” she scolded sharply. “I’ll not have such a show of childish violence in front of my daughter.”

Even the sharpness in her voice did not break the staring match. Abby frowned and forced herself between the two men, shoving Boone backwards. He broke eye contact with Lachapelle and turned his gaze to her.

“I’m ashamed of you, Boone Warren.” Her voice was quiet, yet forceful. “You really must learn your manners.”

He dipped his head as if apologizing, but only to Abby and only for a moment. His anger was barely veiled as he looked again at Lachapelle. “Make sure you're on your best behavior when in my town. I don’t tolerate any hooliganism. Understood?”


Interview of character:

 Today I have the pleasure of chatting with Millie Finnigan. Millie's mother, Abby Finnigan, is the heroine of CELTIC KNOT.

"Welcome, Millie. Have a cookie and tell us a little about yourself."

Millie grabs a cookie but waits to eat it. "Hi, I'm excited to be here today. Let's see, I'm seven years old and I live with my mother in Prophecy, Colorado." She takes a bite of cookie, not talking again until she's finished chewing. "My real name is Millicent but Momma only calls me that when she's cross. I try not to make her angry 'cause she works real hard and hardly ever smiles. Momma has a pretty smile but sometimes her eyes seem to look far away and her face gets sad."

"Why do you think she's sad?"

"It's as if she's looking at a photograph in her memory." Millie fidgets with her dress, dropping her gaze a moment before continuing. "Remembering Daddy, I think. He died when I was four. That's when we moved back to Prophecy. Momma says that Daddy called me his little blessing. I don't hardly remember him. Sometimes that makes me sad."

"What makes you happy?"

A smile brightens Millie's countenance. "Playing with my best friend, Jennifer Stanton. Her pa is the town preacher an' her folks are real nice. They always treat me like family. Pastor and Mrs. Stanton worry about Momma an' me, 'cause we don't always have money for nice things. But Momma takes real good care of me."

"Doesn't your grandfather own the largest ranch around Prophecy? In fact, he owns most of the town. Why doesn't your mother ask him for help?"

Millie shrugs. "Momma's family isn't very nice. I've never even met my grandfather. Once, I heard someone say that Raymond Bigelow, that's Momma's father, is so mean an d contrary he makes Satan look angelic. All's I know is my uncle Clayton is scary. He says things like teaching the whelp proper respect. That's what he calls me, the whelp." She shudders. "I don't like him."

"I'm sure your mother stays away from Clayton, then."

"We try but Momma works at the Silver Streak Saloon, as a maid. Uncle Clayton goes there a lot and he looks for Momma. He likes being mean, an' not just to her. I can't understand why Boone is friends with him."

"Who is Boone?"

"He's our sheriff. Boone's real nice. He always wants to buy me stuff but Momma won't let him. She says she don't want to be beholden to him." Millie scrunches her nose. "Not sure what that means. I do know Boone wants to marry Momma. He might be a nice daddy. Still, I want Momma to be happy. She never smiles for Boone, least ways, not the kind of smile she gets when Mr. Lachapelle is around."

"Kyle Lachapelle? When did you meet him?"

"He came into the mercantile one morning when Momma was buying supplies an' things." Millie leans forward to whisper, "He likes lemon candies just like me." She sits back in the chair, speaking in her normal voice once more. "An' he stood up to Boone, didn't let anyone push him around. Later, he walked with Momma and me and he was a real gentleman. I hope he comes around more, 'cept Momma told him she don't want to be his friend. I hope she changes her mind."

"I sure hope so, too. Millie, it's been a joy having you here today. Do take one of those lemon candies from the jar for later. Yes, you may take one for Jennifer as well. Thank you for visiting."

~ purchase links: Amazon 




 About the Author

 Tammy Doherty lives on a small farm in central Massachusetts with her husband and two children. A veterinary technician by training, she works for a veterinary supply distributor as well as working on the family perennial farm. Tammy is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and is a Grace Awards board member. Her three historical Christian romance novels, Celtic Cross, Claddaugh and Celtic Knot, are available in print and as eBooks. Currently she is working on contemporary romantic suspense. Visit Tammy on Facebook at, or  on her blog The Mystique of Naultag 

Magnolia A Wilting Flower by B. J. Robinson

Magnolia Jane Russell is the story of a young girl who lost her daddy on Christmas Day when she was four. Her mother struggles to rear her when she's left a twenty-five-year old widow she doesn’t' want to be. Magnolia faces peer pressure in school and being made to feel that she's not college material. Will she make one dream in her life come true even though she discovers life is no fairy tale?

Journey to a simpler time in life under the shade of an old pecan tree when Jack's cookies and Coca Colas were only a nickel. Attend a school dance with Magnolia in the gym where Pistol Pete was filmed and where he played basketball. Know Magnolia personally before the end of the prologue. Won 2002 Florida Palm Literary Award and trophy. Autobiographical novel. New Release.
Short excerpt. See more inside of the book at Amazon.

Before I was old enough to read, Momma had me hooked on fairy tales. She bought a new one for me each month out of the small social-security check she received after my father's death. She rocked me to sleep reading my favorite ones each night. I loved The Glass Mountain, Cinderella, and Snow White. I was only four years old when my father died one cold Christmas Day in a charity hospital.

Four years earlier, I'd been born in a charity hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana. We never had much, but I'd not yet realized that. To me, before Daddy died, we had everything.

We lived in a small town on South Third Street in a rambling white apartment house. We only rented, but I didn't realize what that meant at the time. To me, we were rich, for I was rich living in my make-believe world of fairy tales, rich in sunshine and fresh air, swinging in my board-and-rope swing underneath the giant pecan tree in our front yard.

B. J. Robinson writes Southern fiction from Florida where she lives with her husband and pets, a golden cocker spaniel, Sunflower, a golden retriever, Honi, and a shelter cat named Frankie. She's an avid reader and passionate writer. When she's not writing, she's reading and reviewing books.

Buy book here or click on picture to the side.