Artist, Writer & Wild West Woman
Thursday, 9 January 2025
JO. B. CREATIVE!: ALIAS JEANNIE DELANEY - BOOK 1 - GO WEST, GIRL! - ...
JO. B. CREATIVE!: ALIAS JEANNIE DELANEY - BOOK 1 - GO WEST, GIRL! - ...: ALIAS JEANNIE DELANEY - BOOK 1 - GO WEST, GIRL! CHAPTER 1 I remember oh, so well writing, editing and writing and re-writing Chapter 1. ...
ALIAS JEANNIE DELANEY - BOOK 1 - GO WEST, GIRL! - CHAPTER 1
ALIAS JEANNIE DELANEY -
BOOK 1 - GO WEST, GIRL!
CHAPTER 1
I remember oh, so well writing, editing and writing and re-writing Chapter 1. 'Oh, no - ' Hubby sighed with a grin many times, ' - not Chapter 1, again.' That became a joke, but genuinely funny in the end. 'NOOOO - Not chapter one!' I had to get it right.
I did in the end, I think. Judging by the response of my editor, the first professional to endorse my writing - 'I love it!' - and to assure me that it wasn't rubbish. My readers - 866 of them, plus
a bunch of 5 star ratings and reviews - have sung the story's praises and exclaimed the originality of the western theme. Plus
Kindle Unlimited readers often steam through the story like a railroad train.
They can't all be wrong.
So, for your delight and delectation I'm sharing an excerpt of Chapter One of Alias Jeannie Delaney - Book 1 - Go West, Girl!. If you enjoy this, either read the rest of the novel by borrowing it through Kindle Unlimited or purchase the e-novel or paperback through Amazon. Sit back with a cup of coffee or tea and have a read.
A devastating cowgirl comes of age on the wild frontier. Her gun is snake strike fast & her sexuality is as fluid as a miner's whiskey.
Jeannie Morgan, the fastest gun west of the Mississippi, is a devastating and charismatic pants-wearing cowgirl who is also a magnificent lover to both men and women. As she navigates the unforgiving frontier, she must confront her own identity and desires, all while facing down deadly confrontations and personal tragedies. Will she find happiness or will her her tomboy beauty, her powerful persona and her lethal gun finally be the death of her? This is for readers to find out.
Available in E-book, paperback & Kindle Unlimited on Amazon.
Chapter 1, 1891
That iconic heavy-lidded cobra gaze, its fine laughter lines crinkled, delivered its seduction. I returned the gaze with difficulty. Those brown hands smoothed my trembling body and I combed my fingers through that thick, tousled corn-coloured hair. The curved lips grinned, clearly coveting mine, and my palms caressed that gorgeous jaw and neck. The expectant dizzying kiss smothered my gasp. I jolted awake. My body arched, my thighs juddered and my pleasure was delivered. Oh, God. I squeezed my thighs together and the elation eased. I gasped breathlessly, and let my breathing return to normal. For God’s sake. Although it had nothing whatever to do with God.
What a strange dream and awakening! Deep in my soul stirred a yearning, a deep desire. Forbidden thoughts and feelings. All prompted by yesterday. I moved slightly in my hotel bed to sit up. Aargh! My shoulder thudded with my heartbeat, aching. I laid a palm over the bandage to ease the pain, and glanced over at the bright red and white cotton bandanna lying on the cabinet, stained a darker red with dried blood. I relaxed back against the pillows, closed my eyes and thought about yesterday. I smiled.
Yesterday I’d looked every inch the cowgirl. Feeling proud of my independent, adventurous self I had sat, back straight and chin high, in my saddle, riding astride, guiding my horse towards the edge of the fir-forested foothills of the Rockies. I had planned to ride up there and take in the views. Back home in New York I rode a little, but this – riding western-style – was a real treat. My new ankle-length split riding habit gave me undreamed-of liberties. I loved the freedom of it. My bandanna was tucked under the collar of my open-necked blouse and knotted at the front. My jacket, ankle boots and broad-brimmed felt hat completed the image of an independent cowgirl. And no corset – how shocking was that? My heart sang.
Now, relaxed against my pillow, I smiled at the remembrance of it all. My mind snapped. On an impulse, I shot upright and leaped out of bed. Owwww! Not again … I grasped my shoulder and waited for the thumping pain to subside. Then I crouched down and delved inside my leather travelling bag and retrieved my journal and pencil. I’ve got to write all this down before I forget. I carefully settled back into bed and began to write feverishly all about yesterday. The gunshot. Those men. My encounter with her. My dream.
As I scribbled like a demented being, gloomy spring morning light edged the curtains at the sash window and glinted on the china jug and bowl in the wash stand. On the street below, the sounds of men exchanging greetings and the clip-clop of passing horses wafted in. Drifting up the stairwell outside my door were the melded aromas of fresh coffee and stale tobacco. Gosh – I could do with a coffee! But this was more important right now …
I’m staying in Coyote Creek, a burgeoning frontier town huddled in the foothills of the Rockies. Snow covers much of the greenery, and the base of the foothills reaches coldly onto the plains. To the west are the southern Rockies. Montana lies to the north, and to the east stretches this vast basin until it hits the eastern Rockies and Nebraska. To the south lies the Colorado Front Range and Colorado itself. So strictly speaking I’m dead centre of the western frontier, and I love it. I may be a city girl born and bred, but the wild frontier calls me.
I’m Kate Howard, feminist, bohemian and journalist. A bit of a rare breed, I’m proud to say. I’m in my mid-twenties, by now expected to be married. My refusal to wear corset and bustle distressed my respectable, middle-class mother and sister, but the freedom this has brought me is breathtaking, particularly when riding a horse. I’d decided to embrace the opportunity of riding western in the foothills, because I’d heard how thrilling and exhilarating it can be – and how true this has proved to be.
Yesterday I rode Bella, a fine brown American quarter horse with a white blaze and socks. The livery stable owner had assured me that she was reliable and trustworthy. So as I broke from the trees and onto a grass-covered granite ledge a feeling of delight and ease filtered through me. Below, Coyote Creek looked like a model town built out of matchsticks and clusters of stones, and the tiny figures of two deer nibbled on grass on the outskirts. I closed my eyes and breathed in the clean air.
Time to move on. I had a job to do. I nudged Bella back into the forest – and a gunshot fractured the peace. I jerked, and my shoulder seemed to explode. Birds clattered through branches and Bella reared. I don’t remember hitting the ground. Bella bolted, swallowed up by the trees. I lay on my front, my cheek nestled in soft earth, prickled by pine needles. I was near to fainting, feeling dizzy, light-headed and slightly sick. Crunching footsteps approached me, then stopped near my head. My heart pounded crazily.
A deep voice growled. “Mornin’, lady.”
Another added. “Easy pickin’s.”
I managed to raise my head a little. Two men leered down at me. Probably late twenties and stupid. Filthy. Dirt mixed with sweat. Rumpled cowboy clothes. Their arms hung at their sides, and each had a holstered pistol strapped to his thigh. Two horses stood nearby. My head flopped back down and the raging pain in my left shoulder registered. Their shadows shrouded me and my breathing was laboured. Oh, God … The beginnings of tears surfaced.
Another voice intercepted. “Fer cryin’ out loud …“
A figure, cloaked by deep gloom, emerged from the trees. It slowly moved forward. My gaze fell on the sunlight-glazed cowboy boot toes, then, as the figure approached, slowly climbed slim, long legs clad in faded blue Levis. The light slid over slim hips embraced by a gunbelt. Then my gaze climbed again, to reveal denim shirt sleeves rolled below the elbows. The light shifted north again. An open shirt neck formed a narrow V, and a star glinted on the left breast. Tall. Athletic, clearly. A sheriff or deputy, obviously. My relief at being rescued overcame everything. Thank God. My curiosity had almost overwhelmed my pain as well. The sunlight melted the deep shadow veiling the face.
My heart skipped a beat. It’s her.
Jeannie Morgan stood with legs akimbo, and the two idiots gawped at her.
She flicked her head. “Goddamn sick, the pair o’ ya, pickin’ on an unarmed gal.” Her husky, androgynous tones broke the hush. “Git outta here. Move!”
It was fascinating to watch her working her magic. She moved towards the men and gave the pair of them a heavy-lidded, unblinking, soul-destroying gaze. Her head was slightly lowered as she looked up and loaded that gaze upon them. They froze on the spot. Her right hand inched towards the grip of her holstered gun. They turned tail, scrambled towards their horses, mounted up and galloped back through the forest.
She watched their escape and chuckled. “Assholes.” She turned and approached me.
That’s when the sunlight fully drenched her. My astonishment ripped through me. Her boyish beauty was legendary, and here it was. My mouth gawped open, I stared round-eyed at her and my pain was forgotten. She crouched in front of me and her proximity washed over me. My pain was dragged into the background.
Jeannie Morgan held the look of a gorgeous youth with feminine overtones. It was well known that she was capable of leaving young women dangerously breathless, but my lengthy, mesmerised scrutiny revealed the truth of her gender. A red and white Indian bandanna bound collar-length, tousled fair hair. A fringe covered half her forehead. A totally unorthodox approach for a white woman.
Our gazes clashed. Hers, an iridescent, milky pale blue, won. I was anchored to the spot, frozen, and my heart thundered. She reached for my hand and, trembling with emotion, I took it. A gentle, warm, pleasant hand. She pulled me to my feet and I clutched my burning arm. It was only then that I registered my blood-soaked jacket sleeve. She glanced at it, and tenderness surged through those eyes as they narrowed in concern.
“Okay, darlin’? Jees – yer bleedin’ badly, huh?” She studied my blood-soaked sleeve and nodded towards a flat boulder. “Sit there an’ let’s take a look, darlin’. You’re lucky Ah was on the trail back there an’ heard that shot, huh?”
Honey. Her voice was like honey, with a western twang, the Rs audible. I nodded. Oh God. I fancy her like mad! I was also shocked at this longed-for encounter, because she was the reason for my visit to Coyote Creek, but I hadn’t counted on this happening. I’d assumed I would encounter her in town and hopefully talk to her in my role as a journalist. Because I’d always wanted to meet her because I’ve been a huge fan of hers since her fame had begun to burgeon.
And secondly, my boss on my New York newspaper, The Evening Observer, had always wanted an interview with her. He’d called me into his office and grinned at me. “Go to Coyote Creek, Kate. Seek out Jeannie Morgan and interview her. You know you’ve always wanted to.” My dream come true. How could I not?
Now I sat here on a boulder looking up at her. I dragged free of that discomfiting, seductive gaze as she grinned her toothy crooked grin, gentle dimples deepening in her cheeks. My heart hammered. My face burned with … jealousy. What? I wanted to be her.
An absurd desire had taken root, too. Her sensuality distracted me from the pain as she crouched again and helped me remove my jacket. Her warm breath bathed my face and she smelled not unpleasantly of, I imagined, cowboy. Kind of smoky. She unbuttoned my sleeve and gently folded the blood-soaked cotton back to expose my arm below the shoulder. The bullet had skimmed the skin, leaving an ugly ragged line. She cradled my arm in a strong, bronzed hand. Her veins were prominent, the skin a silken sheen.
That was so nice, the feeling of her hands upon me.
Her presence and her voice bolted shivers through me. “We gotta bandage it, darlin’, huh?” She grinned at my mesmerised gaze. Her slim fingers – her nails pale against her golden skin – unknotted her bandanna and used it to carefully bind my arm. “You’re gonna have a scar, darlin’.”
I glanced at the white trail across the inside of her right wrist, and the fine golden down on her forearm, touched by sunlight. On her left wrist she wore a selection of thin leather bracelets, and a signet ring on her index finger. She regarded me and I coloured.
She smiled gently. “D’ya carry a gun, darlin’?”
“No. Perhaps I should.”
Pale laughter lines crinkled around her eyes. “Try a small Derringer mebbe, huh?”
“I will. It was stupid of me to come out unarmed.”
She shrugged. “You’re okay. Jist remember fer next time, huh? Particular in these parts. You a stranger? Never seen ya before.”
“I’m on vacation. It’s beautiful here.”
“Good t’have yer, darlin’, but ya gotta see the doc ’bout that arm. Where ya from? Interestin’ accent ya got there.”
“New York. Manhattan.”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded. “Kinda busy, huh?”
I chuckled and nodded, and she grinned back and crinkled her nose. She was one of those people who when they talk to you make you feel that you’re the most important person in the world. While she crouched down there, my gaze meandered along the curve of her long, womanly neck – a small Indian pendant on a leather thong hung against her smooth brown chest.
She peered intently at me, her eyes slightly thinned. “You’re trembling fit t’bust, darlin’. Sure you’re okay?”
I nodded and we stood up. She was tall, approaching six foot.
“All right t’get back? Ah’d give ya a ride only Ah ain’t headin’ that way.”
“My horse bolted. It’s not far. I can walk.”
“Sure. Okay? S’spect yer hoss went home. You take care now.” She flashed her grin and winked. That charismatic magnetism filled the whole forest.
I managed a jocular salute, and she chuckled and threw her head back, her jaw and neck revealed in all their sexuality. She touched fingertip to thumb between her lips and whistled. A soft rustling preceded the entry of a beautiful brown horse into the clearing. She leaped into the saddle and returned my salute. “Ciao, darlin’!”
She circled her horse, nudged him into the forest and was gone.
I gaped at the spot where she’d been and touched the scarf on my arm. I felt emotionally and physically shattered....
If you read that, I hope you did enjoy it and are looking forward to reading more. Currently I'm working on Facebook Advertising graphics and, when that's done, I'm editing Book 3, which, all going well, will be launched during the summer.
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IF YOU READ & ENJOYED SHARON STONE STARRING IN THE QUICK & THE DEAD OR ANG LEE'S BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, YOU MIGHT LIKE ALIAS JEANNIE DELANEY BOOKS 1 & 2!
OF JEANNIE
Here are some more samples for you...
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TWO CHAPTER SAMPLES
BOOK 1
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BOOK 2 |
Sunday, 5 January 2025
MISSING MY STORY!
MISSING MY STORY!
Do you know, when I'm not working on my story (Alias Jeannie Delaney) I'm missing both it and Jeannie!
I've spent so many years writing, reading and editing my epic western, the life story Alias Jeannie Delaney, and illustrating her, that when I've come away from it to concentrate on the marketing and promotion of it, or doing something other than anything connected to her, then I've missed her.
Not surprising really, when you think about it. So much of my time has been spent on ruminating and thinking about it, researching the facts, creating the plot and the story, and finally, after many years, self publishing Books 1 and 2 and now, reading and editing Book 3.
If you've been following me or reading the story, I'm sure you'll appreciate that I'm rather attached to Jeannie. She fascinates me and every time I work on her story, I'm excited by it. I love it! That must say something about it- that it's a good one. At no point have I ever grown bored with it. It excites me at every turn, although it's given me tremendous trials and tribulations, mostly mental, with depression, and not understanding why this is. After all, I'm working on something that excites me, so how can I be depressed over it?
I can only tell you what happens, factually. No rhyme or reason for any of it. I've explained in previous posts the basis of my mental health issues due to biological family emotional abuse and neglect, particularly after having children. I escaped into my story and created the other 'me'. Mind you, I'm not tough like she is, or scary, or devastating in appearance and persona. I'm not unattractive, and I'm more like Doris Day's 1953 Calamity Jane - cheeky and funny. (Sheer coincidence that the film was made in the year of my birth!). I can't watch the end of that because Calamity is driven away by Wild Bill to their honeymoon, wearing full bridal gear. She's been tamed, dammit!
Anyway, enough of that. In order to refresh my work on Jeannie, and get close to her again, I'm going to make more illustrations of her. I've been meaning to do that forever, and with the aid of graphics packages and inspiration from AI, I will do so.
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