Buy the book...

http://www.bookstrand.com/anny-cook

Blurb:
Love between a white woman and a Cherokee warrior is forbidden in Virginia in the 1820s. After killing her brother in self-defense, Lyrissa Murphy escapes to the shelter of Crazy Woman Cave. When Gray Horse Redhand tracks her there, he realizes their survival depends on joining forces and traveling to the west. Before they have the chance to leave, their encounter with a dangerous enemy leads to the discovery of an ancient burial and a beautiful spear.


Fleeing deadly pursuit from her unbalanced father, Lyrissa and Gray enter a new, unknown world. There they face threatening encounters with vicious warriors and strange animals, discover a magical future, and fall deeply in love. Their shared desire sustains and encourages them as the mysterious, enchanted spear points the way to the Dragon Fort of the Tuatha where they finally accept their new, unexpected home in the heart of Cabhán Geal.


Excerpt:

Tracking down a white woman who murdered her brother was a fool’s errand. A warrior of the people had no business meddling in the whites’ affairs. Yet, here he was, crouched beneath a narrow, rocky shelf jutting from an ancient, granite cliff, patiently waiting out the storm’s fury. Gray Horse Redhand shook his head as he stared out at the deluge.

Wind whistled through the fall woods, snagging dying leaves and hurling them to the forest floor as rain poured from the dark, roiling clouds. Thunder rolled across the hills, punctuated by lightning zigzagging from the black sky to dance on the mountaintops. Crazy Woman Cave, a well-hidden shelter on the trails that crisscrossed the backside of the Smoky Mountains, wasn’t very far away. He calculated he could walk to the cave well before sunset if the rain stopped.

His own people, the ones the whites called Cherokee, usually shied away from using the cave. There were slyly whispered tales of encounters with the Nunnehi, the spirit people, and the Yunwi Tsundi, little people, who lived near the cave. Gray wasn’t worried about meeting the Nunnehi or the little people. If he should meet them there, he would ask for their help in finding Lyrissa.

Those who used the cave made sure they replenished the supply of dry firewood before they moved on. He decided he would stay overnight at the cave and continue his search for the missing preacher’s daughter from the settlement at Twin Brooks in the morning, though he was afraid he wouldn’t find her in time.

The men who stopped at his village looking for her had blurted out a wild tale of murder and insanity. Gray rejected the story, positive in his heart it was a pack of lies, but he kept his mouth shut. Once they were gone, he’d exchanged a long, silent look with his uncle before slipping off to the cramped willow hut he shared with his father. There he put together a small hunting pack, gathered his weapons, and set off to find the missing woman.

As he squatted on his heels with his back against the shallow shelter and watched the storm lash the trees, he wondered what circumstances would drive a woman out into the wild. Already frost was heavy on the ground in the morning. It was a foolish time of year to flee hearth and home. Only something extremely threatening would send her on the run.

Slow burning anger twisted in his belly when he recalled the last time he’d seen her. He was a young man then, filled with arrogance and pride and she—well, she was a fragile, beautiful, young girl poised on the brink of womanhood. Among his people she would already be considered ready for marriage, but the white men had a different measure of time.

Lyrissa Murphy. He remembered the day long ago—a steamy afternoon filled with summer sunshine and the first hot claws of desire. Their encounter was innocent enough. He smiled, recalling how he lurked in the cattails watching her, wondering what it would be like to lay with the girl gathering mint from the banks of a shallow stream that bordered the cleared land near her home. As she bent to break off another stem, the sharp scent filled the air. Her pert, young breasts pressed and shifted beneath the soft, faded fabric of her dress.

Then, without lifting her head or otherwise signaling her awareness, she asked, “What is your name, boy?”

Boy. His fists had curled at the insult.

“I am not a boy,”he sneered from his hiding place. “I am a man.”

“Oh. How old are you?” she inquired as she moved farther away from his hiding place.

“I have eighteen winters,” he declared proudly. “How old are you?”

“I’m fourteen.”She sighed softly. “If I’m seen talking to you, my father will lock me in my room again. He doesn’t allow me to talk to men.” She tucked her skirt beneath her backside and squatted on the bank. “Actually, he doesn’t allow me to talk to anyone.”

He slithered closer to the stream. He was ready to ask her why her father treated her so when a shout from the house startled her. She scrambled up, grasping the mint stems in trembling fingers as a young man raced across the small clearing. When he was close enough, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “What do you think you are doing out here, Lyrissa? You know you’re not allowed out of the house unless I’m with you.”

Gray silently urged her to protest when the other man touched her, but he wasn’t surprised when she ducked her head submissively and remained silent. He’d observed more than one white woman suffering far worse treatment.

“Who were you talking to?” the young man demanded.

“There is no one here, Neal.”

“I heard your voice.” Angry accusation was thick in Neal’s voice.

“I was talking to myself,” she replied quietly. “I do that when I am alone.”

Though Gray burned to burst from his hiding place and knock Neal away, he lay still, barely breathing, listening to Neal berate her as he dragged her back to the house. Why would anyone treat her like a dog? When the door slammed shut, he slithered from his hiding place into the dark woods, returning to his village, angry and shamed as he recalled the rough treatment of the gentle Lyrissa. And yet, he knew his interference would have made things worse. Reality was harsh. She was white. He was Cherokee.

http://www.annycook.com

Just another mandarin day...

So, I got a phone call saying did I know the head high pooh-pah-doo-dah was arriving in the office tomorrow? Yes. I did. I actually read that email. Was I prepared for this VIP? Uh, what’s to prepare? He'll walk…probably float…through, nod to the plebiscite and then spend a whole hour talking to a bunch of engineering type men while I write a story…er...work very, very hard at whatever I’m supposed to do and then he'll leave and I expect gold dust will be left in his wake as a trail of his magnificence at being in the office. Other than making a note to sweep up the gold dust for assaying later I can’t think of anything else I have to do. Apparently I’m not appropriately impressed enough. Well, no…unless he can turn water into wine he’s not much use to me. Yes, I expect I’ll get into trouble. I also expect I’ll eat a mandarin…same old same old really… 

Zoot…

So, I was talking to a friend at lunchtime and the conversation came around to bras and no, I’m not sure how it did but we have conversations that can go from aardvarks to bras to metaphysics and end with “is zoot really a word?” Anyway, back to bras…this is a good male friend…no - just a friend…yes, men make good friends… I know…its weird right…and we came to the discussion of undoing them…the bras…not the men. Men are easily undone…but that’s another blog to do with lips, tongues and sucking. 

I once worked at an all-female office where one of the biggest and most controversial discussions we had was about doing up a bra. Do you shove your boobs in first and then bend your arms around behind your back to do up the hooks or do you put the bra around your waist at the front, hook it up on your midriff, then twist it around while shoving your boobs up? The debate raged for days. A lot of names like “freak” and “weirdo” were thrown around at the women who were flexible enough to do the behind the back thing – those women in turn called the midriff fasteners “boob-less wonders” because the theory was only the flat chested did that as they didn't have as much to lift. Yes, I think we did get some work done eventually but it was a tense filled couple of weeks. The boob-less wonders are still wrong by the way…

Back to my friend…he said it can be very hard sometimes to unhook a bra. I can see that especially if your bra has three or more hooks at the back. You know, I never consider the hardship a man is faced with when it comes to a bra. Women? Bras are like breathing to us. On. Off. Boobs up. Boobs down. In. Out. Maybe bra removal should be added to the school curriculum.  Maybe men have to learn patience and better ball holding skills. Maybe do it yourself is the thing.

Anyway, I still think zoot is a word… 

Looks like we're overly bloody picky...

So, I was listening to the radio on the way home in the car the other day when the announcers started talking about redheads. They asked people to call in if they had dated a redhead or would they date a redhead. It turned out a lot of people were not attracted by redheads and the main issue seemed to be that they didn't want to have a redheaded kid. I don't know. In a world where so few people find real love and we all crave it, we're awfully bloody picky about how we want someone else to look when in reality none of us are that bloody good looking and we're all flawed in some way. I want real. I don't care about what colour it comes in. 

Oh, and by the way it's pukeable Monday... 

The Sock Wanderers...

Of late I’ve been walking around the office in my socks. Why? I dunno. The urge to go shoeless is upon me. Is it an act of rebellion? A cry for freedom? The need for new Docs? Or do I like being an inch shorter? Are short women cuter? Are short women without shoes wildly mysterious? Is an extra inch relevant in the scheme of things? What is relevant? Is there an actual scheme of things or is it propaganda to make us think there is a point to life and therefore we should be wearing shoes and not be sock wanderers instigating anarchy and calling upon others to abandon their shoes in defiance? What would happen to shoe makers then? Would sock makers rise to be the nouveau riche? Would generations to come study the sock wanderers and ponder why? What spark of madness set them off? What did it achieve? Probably not…    

Two things I learned today…

One…I’m a lot shorter than I think I am when I kick off my docs and walk around the office in my socks. That sudden loss of an inch surprised me. Typical it’s easier to lose it in height than in width. And two, after thirty odd years of not playing netball…back then I was a part of the mighty, albeit constantly losing, Snowflake team in primary school when I was 8  to 12 years old…that when faced with desperate strangers needing ring-in players or they forfeit, I can don the bib once more and be as pathetic now – albeit enthusiastic – as I was then. So, in reality, I’m shorter and I played netball - ipso facto I’m in my second childhood.      

I Hate My Job...

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009V366W8

Maud Croker leaned against the back wall of the conference room and blew out a sigh. I swear to god I have heard all this corporate bullshit so many times before. Wayne Nelson had just announced that he was resigning from Cacoffeeny, a company whose slogan was bringing ‘coffee to the chaotic’ and looking forward to moving on to ‘new challenges.’ The interpretation of that was he was being shafted out of the company. Everyone knew that. They were aware Wayne had a knife at his back and was being made to go. While it was true he was about as effective as a chocolate fireguard, the staff liked him because he let them do what they wanted. That was a huge bonus to Maud. She liked to spend her days at work doing anything but work. Besides, if they didn’t want her to use the internet or the printer then they shouldn’t have put those temptations in her place. At least that’s how Maud saw it.  

She looked at the new guy as he walked over to take Wayne’s place in addressing the twenty-odd staff who had turned up to the meeting. There would have been two more but for the fact Angelo and Clarissa were off sick today. Maud smiled. Sick my ass. It was a well-known fact they were shagging each other senseless due to the fact Clarissa’s live-in girlfriend Amelie was out of town and Angelo had a dick and Clarissa craved it. She had confided in Maud that a tongue would only get her so far, a fist was too big but Angelo was ‘just right’. Maud had to agree about the tongue. The fist, she wanted to try before condemning it. And as for Angelo? I could so do him.   

Thinking about dick, she looked over at fellow employee Craig and wondered what he looked like naked. Maud often wondered that. He was tall, lean and lithe. ‘Panther-like’ the cleaner, who came in every Thursday at three o’clock, described him. Maud nodded absently, her gaze running from his jet black, razor-cut hair down to an ass she wanted to grab and hold onto as he pounded into her. Yep, he was sleek as. Not that he ever noticed her. He was only interested in the accounts bitch, Marian, who was ugly as sin, but reportedly liked to be tied up, whipped and humiliated by the multiple men Craig was known to associate with. Maud heard someone refer to them as ‘Craig’s six-pack.’ Whipping? Humiliation? No thanks. Tied up with multiple dicks at the ready? I could do that.      

It had been six months, twenty-four days, sixteen hours, thirty-seven minutes and nine seconds since Maud had been with a man. Yeah. She had been counting. Frustration did that to you and while her glittery, thrusting jack rabbit lavender dildo was good, it wasn’t the same as hot, sweaty male flesh and sticky cum coating your skin.   

Someone laughed and her attention went from cum to the new bloke who was taking over. The best that could be said of him was he looked like a Muppet. He had a bland shaped oval face with a nose and ears that looked like they had been stuck on. The ears were too small and the nose was too big. Maud pondered the theory it wasn’t just big feet in a man that indicated a large dick. Lordy, I have dick on the brain.