You are about to be transported back in time to the Colorado
Territory, 1872! Won’t you join us for an old fashioned shin dig at Mariah’s parlor at the Rocking C Ranch? So saddle up, gallop on over into the 20th century, hitch up your horse and kick up your heels! You never know who might saunter on in. The trails are already blazin’! Come on in!
Undulating pines shroud the Rocking C Ranch. And from Mariah’s parlor, the sound of fiddle and harp drift out into the wide open range.
Behind the bar, Sharon, Lyn, Mary and Val, donned as saloon girls, flaunt themselves in their red brocade dresses with black lace-up corsets and attached bustles while serving sarsaparilla with come hither smiles.
Anxious to greet the guests, Cuddles and Junior, donned in brown suede cowboy hats and leather boots, kick up their heels in delight on the dance floor. A beautiful black velvet stallion horse head is mounted on the wall adjacent to the backdrop of the Colorado Rockies and crystal blue sky. A makeshift Wild West jail has been placed in the corner of the parlor, just in case any cowboys get out of line. A sheriff’s badge shimmers on the wall next to photos of some outlaws, among them The James Gang.
A covered wagon pulls up and Ginger steps out, taking Oliver’s hand. He offers a sweeping bow, handing her a yellow rose from the armor. He tips his black Stetson, but not before raking his eyes over the length of her body, winking his approval. Ginger looks drop dead gorgeous in a teal blue satin gown with flowing sheer sleeves, bustle back bow and thigh-high slits exposing a garter belt with a pink rosette. And to complete her ensemble, a matching hat with ostrich plumes. They enter the parlor just as the musicians strike up their rendition of the Venetian waltz.
What in the heck is a sarsaparilla made of?
Good luck! Now before you step back in time to the Colorado Territory, 1872, here’s a little about Ginger and a sneak preview of Sisters in Time.
Two eras collide when a modern day attorney and a pioneer wife find themselves locked in a time not their own.
Mariah Cassidy awakens in the twentieth century. Confined in a pristine environment, hooked to tubes and beeping machines, she’s scared, confused and wondering why everyone keeps calling her Mrs. Morgan. Who is the strange man who keeps massaging her forehead and telling her everything is going to be all right?
Taylor Morgan tries to focus on her surroundings through a blinding headache. The patchwork quilt, the water basin, and the archaic room don’t strike a familiar chord. Her mouth gapes when a handsome man waltzes into the room, calls her darling, and expresses his delight that she’s on the road to recovery.
Clearly something is amiss.
Taylor’s head pounded with pain. Trying to focus, she opened her eyes and blinked a few times, then propped herself up on her elbows. Everything looked strange. The room seemed bright and cheery, but things appeared very old fashioned. She fingered the patchwork quilt covering the bed, and puzzled over the antique mirror hanging above an old-time washbowl and pitcher across the room. An incessant ache throbbed in her temple.
Where was she? What’d happened to her? A zillion questions raced through her mind.
“David,” she called for her husband. Her voice painfully resonated in her head. “David, where are you?”
She slid off the bed. Her legs wavered beneath her and she clung to the bedpost. Slowly, as she regained her equilibrium, she weaved across the room and peered into the mirror. A massive bandage covered the top her head; black circles ringed her swollen eyes. She didn’t recognize herself.
“Boy, I look like hell,” she muttered.
As she raised her hand to touch the bandage, the door behind her opened, and she spied the reflection of a strange man.
“Mariah, sweetheart. You’re finally awake.” He crossed the room with open arms.
Taylor spun and faced him. Feeling disoriented, she shook her head. “You have the wrong room, sir.”
His brows arched. “Mariah, what are you talking about? What wrong room?”
“Look fella, I’m not Mariah. Evidently you’re in the wrong place if you are looking for someone by that name.”
The stranger rushed over and took her in his arms. “Oh my sweet angel, the bump on your head is worse than Doc Samuels thought.”
Taylor shoved him away. “Take your hands off me. Who is Doc Samuels, and who in the hell are you?”
Suddenly, the room spun. Her stomach turned queasy. Needing to sit, she staggered back to the bed, her gaze still assessing the stranger.
“I’m Frank… your husband.” He followed her, his head cocked, his eyes clouded in confusion.
She swallowed. “Excuse me? My husband’s name is David... David Morgan. I don’t know who you are, mister, but you must be the one who bumped your head if you think I’m your wife.”
“Well, if you aren’t, then just who might you be?”
“Taylor Morgan. I live in Denver. Can you please tell me where I am?”
“You’re in Colorado, about two hours from Denver City. Don’t you remember?”
“Two hours? How in the hell did I get here?”
Frank’s eyes widened. “When did you start cussing?”
“Don’t worry about it, just answer me. How did I get here?” Her last nerve frayed, and he plucked at it.
“Don’t you recall? We were going to town in the wagon—”
“Wagon? What the hell would I be doing in a wagon? A station wagon?”
Frank took a deep breath. “We were going to town, and Jacob needed to pee. I think he disturbed some rattlesnakes and they spooked the horses... Sound familiar?”
Taylor’s mind raced. Who was this loony? Before he spoke again, she assaulted him with a barrage of questions. “Who is Jacob? Wagon? What horses? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Frank... is it? Look, Frank, I have an idea. Why don’t you just call me a cab and I’ll get out of your way.”
She looked down at the tacky nightgown she wore and wondered who had removed her clothing. Tugging at the sack-like shift, she let out an exasperated huff. “If you’ll just retrieve my things, I’ll get dressed and be ready to go when the taxi gets here.”
Romance author, Ginger Simpson currently resides in Tennessee with her husband and biggest fan, Kelly. Since the publication of her first book in May 2003, she has added eight more books and six published novellas to her list of accomplishments. Although she retired to devote more time to writing, her promotional efforts, blogging, tweeting, and interacting with new friends made on all her author’s and reader’s loops have stymied her efforts. 2009 was a productive year but now she’s concentrating her efforts on finding an agent to land that million dollar deal. You can view Ginger’s backlist at http://www.gingersimpson.com/ and everyone is invited to visit her at her blog at http://mizging.blogspot.com/. She loves to hear from her readers at firstname.lastname@example.org.