Friday, December 23, 2011

Prologue to Laiden's Daughter




Northern England, Early Spring 1329



Northern England, Late Winter 1329
The wee bairn wept as bitter winds whipped down from the hills thrashing whirlwinds of snow around the feet of those gathered to pay their last
respects. They were there to say goodbye to Laiden, the bairn’s mum.

The little girl clung to Moirra; her tiny face buried in the auld woman’s wool skirts. Moirra had been her mother’s best friend until the day she died. Now she was the only good thing the child had left in the world and the only person who remained who would protect her from her father.
The bairn tried to be brave, as Moirra had told her she needed to be, but it wasn’t easy for someone so young. When Laiden had died, Moirra had made the sign of the cross, wiped tears from her wrinkled face, and told the bairn that her mother was in a much better place. Young though she was, the bairn wondered what better place could there be than here with her daughter?
The priest spoke in strange words the little girl did not understand. The tone of his voice and the leaden sky matched the heaviness in her heart. He didn’t seem to be reading from the book he held in his claw-like hands; he seemed instead to have memorized the words. There was no sadness or feeling to his scratchy voice. The bairn did not care for the skinny man with the dull brown eyes and wished he would go away.
Perhaps, the bairn thought if she could just lie down next to her mum and warm her, then her mum could come back from the better place Moirra had told her of. Earlier that morning, she had shared her idea with Moirra. Tears had welled in the auld woman’s brown eyes before she gave the little girl a hug and told her, “Twere it that simple lass, I woulda done it meself.”
They had been by Laiden’s side for days, had placed cold rags on her forehead, and covered her with blankets. They offered her warm broths and had prayed over her. None of the herbs the healer provided had worked. In the end, nothing had worked.
On the morning of her passing, Laiden must have known she was not long for this world. She begged and pleaded with Moirra to take care of her daughter. Moirra made the promise, a promise the bairn wished desperately the auld woman could keep. She did not want to stay with her father and brothers. The three older brothers were mean to her, especially when no one was looking. They thought it quite funny to leave spiders in her pallet or to pull at her braids.
As a light snow began to fall, the bairn’s thoughts turned to the morrow, and all the morrows without her mum that would follow. Who would sing to her at night or comfort her when she was frightened? Who would tell her
stories or care for her when she was ill? Who would teach her to weave or sew? Who would protect her from her father and brothers? She could only pray that it would be Moirra.
When the priest had finished speaking the people gathered around her father. They gave him their condolences and offers of help should he need it. Broc stood somberly, nodding his head, but said nothing. He was a tall man and strong, but somehow he seemed small this day, and his skin looked nearly as ashen as Laiden’s had been when she died.
Long after the men had covered her mum’s body with stones, the bairn remained at her side. Her stomach hurt from missing her so much. The only thing that kept her from screaming out was the fear that even on this day, her father would send her to cut a switch with which to beat her. Such an outburst would not be tolerated, no matter the reasons behind it.
After a time, Moirra came and took her back to the bairn’s own cottage. Perhaps they were going to pack up what few belongings she had before they would go to Moirra’s home. She had, after all, made a promise.
The pain in the auld woman’s eyes when she asked her of it was quite evident. Moirra explained that first she must speak to Broc and together they would make the decision as to where she would live and who would care for her.
Moirra tucked the bairn into her pallet by the fire and pulled the blankets snuggly under her chin. Had this been a normal day, the bairn would have pleaded for permission to forgo her afternoon rest. Today however, was not a normal day. Moirra told her not to worry, that all would be well. The bairn wanted so much to believe her.
After night had fallen and the candles were lit, the bairn feigned sleep. She stayed quiet and hidden under her blankets as she listened to Broc and Moirra argue over what was to become of her.
“How are you goanna teach her about things when she’s no longer a bairn but a full grown lass? Have you thought of that Broc?” Moirra asked, frustrated with his obstinacy.
Broc would not listen. He would not let anyone take Laiden’s daughter. It wasn’t out of devotion to his dead wife that he kept the child, there were other reasons; reasons he kept secret for fear of losing his own life. While it was true that he had loved Laiden, loved her with all that he was, she had not been able to return those feelings. After all these years, after all he had done for her, he could not lay claim to that which he wanted most -- her love. Her heart, right up until the end, had always belonged to another.
The bairn could not understand why this cold, distant man refused to let her live with Moirra. She had known her whole life, short as it was to this point, that the man held no good feelings towards her. She was always in the way and stealing her mother’s affections from him. He never hid his resentment toward her for it.
Had the bairn been blessed with the ability to read minds, she would have known that it was guilt and fear that drove Broc. Guilt for a lie he had told long ago in order to keep Laiden for himself and the fear of being found out that kept him from letting the child go.
“Nay!” His voice rose in anger. “I’ll not hear of it!”
The next words that Moirra spoke were words that would change the little girl’s life forever. “I promised Laiden on her death bed that I would take care of her daughter! Why do you want the child, when you be not her real father?”
The child froze. Surely she must have misunderstood.
A low growl came from Broc’s throat. “I be more of a da to her than her own woulda been! I be the only da she knows and that is how it shall remain. I’ll not hear anymore of the matter. Now be gone with ye auld woman!”
When Moirra left the cottage she took the bairn’s heart with her. Only five summers old, she was bright enough to figure out that her life would never be the same. The grief and anguish she felt at losing her mother increased a hundredfold the moment she realized she would never be allowed to live with Moirra.
As she lay hidden under the blankets her mind asked questions her heart could not answer. Sadness, blended with the dread in her heart, formed into quiet tears that spilled down her small cheeks. She prayed that God would keep her safe and protect her from her father’s wrath. God would have to, for He was the only one left who could. 

Thursday, December 22, 2011

The Bedeviled Heart

Hello everyone!  I started reading Carmen Caine's new book, The Bedeviled Heart, yesterday.  I've been waiting for months for the release and I did a happy dance of joy when I saw that it was finally available at Amazon yesterday.

If Amazon would let me give it more than five stars, I would! The Bedeviled Heart is very well written, funny, exciting and romantic without being smutty. ;o)  I could not put it down! Anyone who knows me knows that I'm usually in bed by nine each night. I was up past eleven last night reading this.  I should finish it this morning...just a few Kindle pages left really.

Here is the book description:
Cameron Malcolm Stewart, Earl of Lennox, had made his peace with destiny. It was not his fate to love as other men. 

Wed and widowed seven times, he had come to believe that sharing his name alone would consign a woman to an early grave. 

So, on the sunny spring day Cameron encounters a delightfully devious, bright-eyed lass selling charmed stones in one of Stirling's alehouses, he tosses her a shilling, thinking only to steal a kiss. But it is a kiss that will change his life forever. 

To care for her ailing father, the precocious Kate Ferguson has resorted to swindling the drunkards of Stirling. But a chance meeting with a handsome and seductively mysterious outlaw named Cameron ends with a kiss that changes the course of her destiny. 

But as dark times descend upon Scotland, Kate is inadvertently caught in a deadly web of court intrigue spun by the royal favorite, Thomas Cochrane. And as King James III falls prey to his fear of the Black Arts, accusations of witchcraft and treachery abound. 

The fate of Scotland itself hangs in the balance, and while Cameron vows to defy destiny itself to hold Kate forever in his arms, he must unravel the plots of nobles and commoners alike to protect the country that he loves. 


You're going to fall in love with Cameron! You can just picture him in your mind and hear is Scottish brogue lilting off his honorable tongue. And Kate is an absolutely adorable character and I found myself wishing I had a friend like her. 


Carmen has done it again-created believable lovable characters. She takes you away within the first page. I don't want the book to end. If you don't believe me, try a sample! ;o)


Happy reading everyone!!

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Favorite lines from "Laiden's Daughter"

I have a few favorite lines or sections from Laiden's Daughter.  One of my favorites is:

“ Ya see, lass, ya saved me from havin’ to kill the whoreson meself!”


I'm interested to know what one of your favorite lines or parts of the book is. 


Happy Reading!

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Laiden's Daughter

It has been such an exciting few days at our house! I'm finally getting customer reviews...which I shouldn't say finally I guess, because it just hit the 'ethereal' shelves last Friday! But I am getting them and sales are increasing steadily.

I'm just very curious to find out from my readers what their favorite part(s) of the book were.  Leave me a post and let me know!  I do look forward to hearing from you!
It's been an exciting few days at the Tisdale's! I'm very interested to hear from my readers. Tell me what your favorite part of "Laiden's Daughter" was.
Getting good reviews on "Laiden's Daughter"! That is very exciting. So far it is at 4.5 out of 5 stars. ;o)
Wow! I can blog from my phone now. This could be dangerous!!

Friday, December 9, 2011

And we have launch!

This is by far one of the most exciting days of my life.  It's right up there with the days I had my kids and the day I married Kevin!  There aren't enough words in the English language to describe what I'm feeling right now. ;o)

I'll be blogging off and on all day, and throughout the weekend I'm sure.

I'm interested to know from all of you, what has been one of the most exciting days or moments of your lives.

Suzan

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Houston, We Are A 'Go' For Launch of Laiden's Daughter

Wow! What a week! The last 24 hours have been crazy-crazy good and crazy 'aaaahhhh!'  It was such an amazing sensation to see Laiden's Daughter uploaded successfully to KDP.  I had a few little technical glitches, but once I figured those out, we were a go!

In about 24 to 48 hours, people will actually be able to purchase my book.  This has been an amazing ride and one that I have thoroughly enjoyed.  I'm already working on the second book in the series.  It is titled "Findley's Lass".  I plan to have it complete and ready by December of 2012.

But for now, I'm beyond excited to have "Laiden's Daughter" complete and ready to be read.

I had a great conversation with my husband tonight.  I explained that the joy is in the writing of the book. But an even bigger joy is in sharing the book. I look forward to finding out what the reader actually thinks of the book.

Happy reading everyone!

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Launch Day Is Near!

With just six days left before Laiden's Daughter is available on the Kindle, you can imagine the excitement in our home  It's quite palpable.  I think the last time I was this excited was the day I married Kevin!  Similar anticipation, same distracted thoughts, same sweaty palms and same nervousness.

It has been a fun ride thus far. I have enjoyed every moment of the book writing process, save for the dreaded synopsis! ;o) Some women enjoy being pregnant, while others enjoy the birthing.  (I didn't much care for either, I just wanted the babies!) While writing Laiden's Daughter has been very much like being pregnant and giving birth to something wonderful, I haven't had to suffer through with swollen ankles, morning sickness and weight gain.  This has been a far more pleasant experience. ;o)

I have a feeling the next six days are going to be very crazy for me which in turn means it will be even crazier for my husband and son.  I don't think there is another man on the planet strong enough to put up with me or my goofiness. I thank God each day that He has put Kevin in my life. My husband's love and devotion is beyond question.  My son puts up with me as I'm his only source of food. Hey, I'll take devotion any where I can get it!

I'd like to thank each and every one of you in advance for your patience.  I've got great friends who have been so patient with me and I am eternally grateful to them!  I can't wait for the tenth and I hope everyone enjoys the book.

Have a great week!

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Thanksgiving memories.....

The year was 1995.  Two days, COUNT THEM! Two days before Thanksgiving, my mother calls and says, "I'm handing over my melted plastic spoons and my pans with no handles to you.  YOU are fixing Thanksgiving Dinner."
For a moment I thought she had been drinking.  Turns out, she wasn't.
So in a frenzied fashion, I threw together a Thanksgiving Feast fit for kings. Turkey, dressing, baked beans, potatoes...pies...bread....you get the idea.  I even made monogramed place cards!  I had learned about place cards from Martha Stewart.

At 10:00 a.m. on Thanksgiving Day, my youngest daughter says, "mommy, my tummy hurts."  If you had a nickel for every time a kid told you that, you could retire to Maui!  "You'll feel better when you eat."  I told her with a pat on her head and a motherly smile.

At 10:30 a.m. my husband (whom I'm no longer married to and the next sentence could explain one of the reasons why) says, "We have to be at dad's at 4:00."  'Dad' lived in the Quad Cities, a good hour from our home.  My dinner was being served at Noon.  Three hours to eat and clean up before we needed to leave by 3:00. I could do it.  I had watched Martha Stewart enough times that I felt confident I could handle it. She was my hero. I had faith in her abilities.  I had faith in my own.  I would simply channel Martha for the remainder of the day and I could get through it.

My family arrived early (as they're often want to do!)  The table had been set the night before.  Everything matched. My plates matched the silverware which happened to be the cheap kind you pick up at Dollar General, the kind with the colored plastic handles.  Even my glasses matched. (I've since learned its called stemware, but mine had no stems. I was young, naive.  Don't hold it against me.)

At noon we all sat down to feast.

At noon o' one I felt my heart fall to my feet.  My mom had attempted to cut into her turkey with her fork.  The handle broke off on the first attempt.
Was my turkey so hard that it broke the fork??
No.  It was the cheap plastic forks. Praise Jesus, the turkey was fine!  The fork however, was an omen, a precursor of what was to come.

At noon o two, my youngest repeated again that her tummy hurt.  I gave her extra potatoes to help make it better.

At noon o two point five, my mother asked where the gravy was.  She knew well that I didn't know how to make gravy.  I had tried over the years and each time it ended in failure.  My gravy always had the consistency of wall paper paste.  Now, as I've told you in the past, my family thinks gravy is a drink to be served with each meal like a fine wine.  Some members of my family have often questioned my lineage, for every Dixon-Wingfield woman could make gravy. Evidently its a trait picked up and learned in utero. I must have been hatched or worse yet, switched at birth by accident.  Mamma immediately went into the kitchen, ashamed of me I'm sure, and in less than five minutes she had a bowl of hot, perfect gravy. Dinner was saved.

My family eats well, and fast, let there be no doubt.  Dinner was consumed in less than fifteen minutes.  Mom, dad and brother were out the door by noon forty-five.  My youngest, Debbi, still complained of a tummy ache. I convinced her she would feel better after a nap in the car, patted her head again and sent her to watch cartoons.

Hurriedly, I cleared the table, put the left overs away, washed the dishes, took out the trash, washed children's faces and swept the floor.  Yes, alone. It was simply easier than trying to explain to a grown man how to hold a broom or how a dish towel operates.

We left our home by two-thirty. I was quite glad to be ahead of schedule! Even though Debbi had complained yet again of an icky tummy.  I had the Martha Stewart thing down pat.  It was a perfect day.  Life was good.  She'd feel better after a slice of her Grandma Betty's pumpkin pie.

Less than ten miles left in our journey and I hear Emilee, my oldest, begin to scream from the back seat.  "Debbi's puking on me!!"

Traveling down the highway at 60 miles an hour is not the best time to be thrown up on.  It's also not the best time to try to scramble out the door to get away from one's puking little sister.  Martha Stewart NEVER mentioned what to do when your six year old is puking in the back seat of the car on Thanksgiving Day.  Was I the only one something like this happened to?

We cleaned the mess as best we could, turned around and went back home.  The girls had fallen asleep in the back seat, so we lovingly carried them into the house and put them on the bottom bunk together.  Two hours later, it is Debbi's turn to scream.  "Emilee just puked on me!!!"  It all went down hill from there.
Debbi didn't throw up again, but Emilee however, had taken on the role of the Exorcist. She threw up so many times that I lost count.  She threw up on things I didn't even know we owned.  Every blanket, every sheet, every pillow, every mattress.

At six, the weatherman said to be prepared for an ice storm.  Funny, Martha never mentioned ice-storms either.

At eight, I began to smell something very similar to burning plastic.  I smelled it again every few minutes. My now ex-husband told me I was hallucinating from the fumes coming off Emilee's vomit.  The smell would come, the smell would go. It went on like that for an hour.

By nine, he was hallucinating to.  "Whats that smell?" Was he serious?
After a very careful and thorough investigation, we discovered it was the furnace.  Try to get a furnace repair man to come out at nine on Thanksgiving Night during an ice storm.  I took a chance and tried calling one anyway.  After his initial laughter subsided, he diagnosed the problem and told me to shut the furnace off, because if we continued to run operate it, it would most assuredly catch on fire.

The furnace went off.
The ice storm hit.
Emilee continued to puke.
I continued to do laundry.
It got awfully cold, awfully quick.  I turned on the oven.  Emilee continued, like clock work every six minutes to vomit.  I continued to do laundry.  She finally got the dry heaves.  I finally discovered why some alligators eat their young.  There was no way to fight an ice storm to take her to the hospital.  I was trapped in a cold house, with a puking kid, and had ended up running out of laundry detergent.  And blankets.  And patience.

At six the next morning, she finally stopped throwing up.
At six o' one, I called my mother.  I gave her back the melted plastic spoons and the pots with no handles.
That was the last Thanksgiving meal I cooked for a very, very long time.

May you be blessed with many, many happy Thanksgivings!!!

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Mamma

I presented a copy of the manuscript to "Laiden's Daughter" to my mother today.  As I predicted, she cried.  That of course made me cry. ;o)  I have a cool mom to begin with.  Until I met my husband Kevin, I do believe she was my only source of unconditional love. Yes, Dad loved me, but in a different way.

She's an awesome women with a tremendous amount of inner strength on many, many things.  I learned how to be creative from her.  I also learned how to be a fierce mamma bear from her as well!  Our motto?  Don't mess with our babies.  Usually tempered with Don't make me come in there!

My mom had always wanted to be a police officer.  In her day, girls/women just did not do things like become police officers. Long story short, probably one of the top five worst days of my mother's life was her fortieth birthday.  She woke up that day and realized that it was too late for her to realize her childhood dream.  I remember that day vividly, although at the time, I did not understand the significance of the moment.  It wasn't until I was in my early thirties (last week!) that I understood what that did to her.

I tell you this story so that you can get a better idea of where I get some of my intestinal fortitude from.  I think of that day often and I don't ever want to wake up on any birthday and realize it was too late to do something. I use it to propel me forward.  Its sort of where I get my it's now or never attitude.

I owe it to my mom.  I owe a lot of things to my mom.  From my mom I received the following:

  1. Creativity
  2. Imagination
  3. Stubbornness
  4. Wicked sense of humor
  5. Intense sense of right and wrong
  6. Our want of taking care of others.
  7. We can pinch with our toes-can pick things up with them too. ;o)
Some of the things I didn't get from my mom:
  1. Her ability to take three potatoes and an onion and feed ten people!
  2. Her talent for baking pies.  (I've tried, believe me I've tried!)
  3. Her love of gravy (her family considers gravy a drink to be served like a fine wine at each meal!) 
  4. Her love of Oscar Mayer hotdogs and bologna  
  5. Her seventh sense of coffee.  With one little taste she can tell you the brand and whether its decaf or regular! Some people have the tongue for wine, my mom has the tongue for coffee.
  6. Her sports knowledge.  Name a sport, ANY sport from football to curling, and she can tell you the stats on any team and/or player.  It is weird. Really. One of her favorite things? Extreme sports. 

I love my mom, I really do.  ;o) Even when she drives me crazy, I still love her. ;o)

So when I gave her the manuscript today, she cried first, then read the prologue. I explained to her that my 'romance' novel wasn't graphic or anatomically correct in relation to 'physical' romance.  (Translated, I don't write love scenes like Maya Banks, although I do love her love scenes! lol)  Anyway...she said, "So I don't get to read about all that 'lustful thrusting'?"  Emilee (my oldest daughter) choked on her coffee and had to leave the room for a few minutes.  Mom looks at me and says, "I know what lustful thrusting is!  She thinks I don't, but I do!"  Keep in mind my mother is over 70.

There was far more to the conversation but I'm editing because I have a fine Christian woman for a mother-in-law (I LOVE YOU JUDY!!!)  I was raised by heathens-my husband by devout Lutherans.  We're still learning to co-exist. Don't get me wrong-I'm a believer! I consider myself a Christian.  I know Jesus is my savior.  I was just raised differently than some...my childhood stories are for another day, another blog.

So, I love my mom. She's cool.  And she is very proud of me.  She's always proud of me, even when I drive her crazy.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Prologue, Laiden's Daughter....


Laiden’s Daughter
By Suzan Tisdale
  
Prologue

Former Scottish lands, English Territory
Winter, 1329

The wee bairn wept as bitter winds whipped down from the hills thrashing whirlwinds of snow around the feet of those gathered to pay their last respects.  They were there to say goodbye to Laiden, the bairn’s mum.
The little girl clung to Moirra, her little face buried into the auld woman’s skirts. Moirra had been her mother’s best friend until the day she died. Now she was the only good thing she had left in the world and the only person who remained that would protect her from her father.
The bairn tried to be brave, as Moirra had told her she needed to be, but it wasn’t easy for someone so young.  When Laiden had died, Moirra had made the sign of the cross, wiped tears from her wrinkled face, and told the bairn that her mother was in a much better place.  Young though she was, the bairn wondered what better place could there be than here with her daughter?
            The priest spoke in strange words the little girl did not understand. The tone of his voice and the leaden sky matched the heaviness in her heart. He didn’t seem to be reading from the book he held in his claw-like hands, he seemed instead to have memorized the words. There was no sadness or feeling to his squeaky voice. The bairn did not care for the skinny man with the dull brown eyes and wished he would go away.
Perhaps, the bairn thought, if she could just lie down next to her mum and warm her, then her mum could come back from the better place Moirra had told her of.  Earlier that morning, she had shared her idea with Moirra.  Tears had welled in the auld woman’s brown eyes before she gave the little girl a hug and told her, “Twere it that simple lass, I woulda done it meself.”
            They had been by Laiden’s side for days, had placed cold rags on her forehead, and covered her with blankets.  They offered her warm broths and had prayed over her. None of the herbs the healer provided had worked. In the end, nothing had worked.
On the morning of her passing, Laiden must have known she was not long for this world.  She begged and pleaded with Moirra to take care of her daughter. Moirra made the promise; a promise the bairn wished desperately the auld woman could keep.  She did not want to stay with her father and brothers.  The three older brothers were mean to her, especially when no one was looking.  They thought it quite funny to leave spiders in her pallet or to pull at her braids.
            As a light snow began to fall, the bairn’s thoughts turned to the morrow, and all the morrows that would follow without her mum. Who would sing to her at night or comfort her when she was frightened? Who would tell her stories or care for her when she was ill?  Who would teach her to weave or sew?  Who would protect her from her father and brothers?  She could only pray that it would be Moirra.
When the priest had finished speaking the people gathered around her father. They gave him their condolences and offers of help should he need it. Broc stood somberly, nodding his head, but said nothing.  He was a tall and strong man, but somehow he seemed small this day, and his skin looked nearly as ashen as Laiden’s had been when she died.
Long after the men had covered her mum’s body with stones, the bairn remained at her side.  Her stomach hurt from missing her so much.  The only thing that kept her from screaming out was the fear that even on this day, her father would send her to cut a switch for which to beat her with.  Such an outburst would not be tolerated, no matter the reasons behind it.
After a time, Moirra came and took her back to the bairn’s own cottage. Perhaps they were going to pack up what little belongings she had before they would go to Moirra’s home.  She had, after all, made a promise.
The pain in the auld woman’s eyes when she asked her of it was quite evident.  Moirra explained that first she must speak to Broc and together they would make the decision as to where she would live and who would care for her.
Moirra tucked the bairn into her pallet by the fire and pulled the blankets snugly under her chin.  Had this been a normal day, the bairn would have pleaded for permission to forgo her afternoon rest.  Today however, was not a normal day.  Moirra told her not to worry, that all would be well. The bairn wanted so much to believe her.
After night had fallen and the candles were lit, the bairn feigned sleep. She stayed quiet and hidden under her blankets as she listened to Broc and Moirra argue over what was to become of her.
 “How are you goanna teach her about things when she’s no longer a bairn but a full grown lass? Have you thought of that Broc?” Moirra asked, frustrated with his obstinacy.
            Broc would not listen. He would not let anyone take Laiden’s daughter. It wasn’t out of devotion to his dead wife that he kept the child, there were other reasons; reasons he could not share for keeping her.  While it was true that he had loved Laiden, loved her with all that he was, she had not been able to return those feelings. Even after all these years, after all he had done for her, he could not lay claim to that which he wanted most; her love.  Her heart, right up until the end, had always belonged to another.
The bairn could not understand why this cold, distant man refused to let her live with Moirra.  She had known her whole life, short as it was to this point, that the man held no good feelings towards her.  She was always in the way and stealing her mother’s affections from him.  He never hid his resentment towards her for it.
Had the bairn been blessed with the ability to read minds, she would have known that it was guilt and fear that drove Broc. Guilt for a lie he had told long ago in order that he could keep Laiden for himself.  ‘Twas the fear of being found out that kept him from letting the child go.
“Nay!” his voice rose.  “I’ll not hear of it!”
The next words that Moirra spoke were words that would change the little girl’s life forever.  “I promised Laiden on her death bed that I would take care of her daughter! Why do you want the child, when you be not even her real father!”
Time froze, as did the bairn. Surely she must have misunderstood.
A low growl came from Broc’s throat. “I be more of a da to her than her own woulda been! I be the only da she knows and that is how it shall remain.  I’ll not hear anymore of the matter.  Now be gone with ye auld woman!” 
When Moirra left the cottage she took the bairn’s heart with her.  Only five summers old, she was bright enough to figure out that her life would never be the same.  The grief and anguish she felt at losing her mother increased a hundredfold the moment she realized she would never be allowed to live with Moirra.
            As she lay hidden under the blankets her mind asked questions her heart could not answer.  Sadness, blended with the dread in her heart, formed into quiet tears that fell down her small cheeks.  She prayed that God would keep her safe and would protect her from her father’s wrath. God had to, for He was the only one left who could.