Hope’s Gran died the morning of the summer solstice. They cremated her that night on a bier set atop the celebration bonfire built by Hemming, the local hedge-witch. Hemming might not be much good at magic, being a better herb-healer than witch, but he had enough Power to turn the flames incandescent. The pyre burned white-hot and sparks shot twenty feet in the air, making everyone step back several paces to avoid being scorched. Hope thought Gran would have enjoyed the show.
The following day she buried all but two handfuls of Gran's ashes in the shade of the Crooked Oak on the rise across from the farmhouse. Gran had loved that tree, and not just because that's where Grandpa Jerry was buried. She'd drag her rocker from the porch to sit beneath its branches of a summer eve and watch the sun slip behind Whistler Peak. She'd rock back and forth and say there was no place on earth she'd rather be. The cynical might claim that's because there wasn't much left of the world beyond their tiny valley tucked away in the Siskiyous, hidden from the worst of the Sundering. Hope preferred to believe Gran meant exactly what she said, Sundering or no.
Early the next morning Hope packed water and a lunch and half of Gran's remaining ashes and set out to hike Whistler Peak. Her goal was the Outlook, a rocky outcrop a little over half-way up the mountain. The temperature rose steadily as the sun climbed the sky, leaving the brief coolness of the morning behind like a forgotten memory. Bees and other winged insects hummed around her as they zoomed through the trees searching for wildflowers, and small birds chirped and twittered overhead. Each step of her leather boots on the trail stirred puffs of dust which hung motionless in the heat before sinking back to earth. Sweat soaked the neck of her tank shirt, a sticky trickle working its way down between her shoulder blades. Hope ignored the heat and discomfort with the ease of long practice and kept walking.
She'd lived in Mystic Valley all her life, as had five generations of Devlins before her, and she was as familiar with the mountain trails as she was with her own nose. As her climb grew steeper the dirt path gave way to rock, Valley Oaks yielded to Black Oaks and they to Douglas-fir, and the earthy fragrance of pine and mountain loam scented the air. Hope stopped for a moment at a turn in the trail and looked back over the Valley. She could make out the farmhouse and the Crooked Oak, but she wasn't high enough for what she'd come to do.
She reached the Outlook an hour or so past noon and sat on a flat rock in the shade to eat her lunch. Two Red-tails circled high, gliding on the air currents, hunting for prey hiding in the alfalfa and wheat fields. On the eastern edge of the Valley, Jacob Root's cattle rested in the shade of the oaks, out of the blistering heat of the mid-day sun. Hope brushed the last crumbs of her sandwich onto the ground, a treat for the squirrels and chipmunks, and cradled the small container of Gran's ashes in her hands. It was time.
"I could wish you'd kept your secret and never told either one of us, but I guess that doesn't matter now. I’ll find Kellan and bring him home. I promise."
She stood at the edge of the Outlook and opened the container. "I followed your wishes. You're resting beside Grandpa, just where you wanted to be, but I know you loved the Valley, too. Watch over us, Gran." As she swung the container in a wide arc an unexpected breeze stirred the air and carried the ashes away, out over the Valley. Tears stung eyes she'd thought already cried out and she turned away to start the long trek south in search of her brother.
I didn’t read it. I put it on my “to be read/recently read” shelf and ignored it for three months.
This is not all that uncommon for me. When I am engrossed in a series, I sometimes buy the newest book and leave it on this shelf for a month, just to savor the anticipation, especially when I know the next one won’t be out for quite a while. In the meantime I read other things. But three months is a long time.
Each time I was ready for a new book I passed up the Deveraux, again and again, feeling more internal pressure and guilt each time. Eventually it became too much to bear. I opened the book.
Within a few pages I was interested. Soon I was caught. I couldn’t put it down. The story was just too good, the story-telling too fine, to abandon. The last few satisfying pages moved me to tears, and I read them again immediately.
I decided, and told my friend, it was the most romantic story I had ever read. I began thinking about the components of a truly romantic story. I had never before thought about romance in just that way. It was a revelation. I set a new goal someday to write a story as just as romantic. I will continue to explore the elements of truly romantic stories.
So, dear children, what is the moral of my tale? There are several choices; friendship, snobbery, preconceptions, open-mindedness, inspiration. You can choose your favorite. I have benefited from them all.
The cover for "St. Batzy & the Time Machine" was drafted and just needed to be finaled. However, I loved the style of that cover so much, I completed three versions of a cover for "Chasing Rainbows" before I came up with one I loved as much as "St. Batzy." (Just had to share, so they are posted here--hopefully without the spacing going completely weird. :) 
The Mid-Willamette Valley Romance Writers of America® would like to wish everyone a Happy, Healthy, and Prosperous New Year for 2012!
