By Lyn Horner
Don't miss the giveaway at the end of the post!
INSPIRATION and
RESEARCH
I was inspired to
write MY VOYAGER by a writing class project and my desire to set a romance in
Galveston at the height of the island’s glory, before the devastating hurricane
of 1900. I thought what fun I’d have pairing a proper Victorian woman with a bedraggled
man who falls out of thin air dressed like a pirate. Including a precocious child
would make it even more fun.
While researching
the 1890s era, I grew fascinated by the historic Tremont House, a grand hotel
now in its third incarnation. In its heyday, the second hotel of that name
hosted presidents and celebrities. It’s the main setting for MY VOYAGER and
inspired me to turn this into a series of Old West hotel romances titled Legendary
Rendezvous. I’m working on book two, which features the Menger Hotel in San
Antonio, said to be the most haunted hotel in Texas.
Imagine a 17th Century buccaneer's thunderstruck reaction to "modern" marvels such as streetcars and horseless carriages. Experience his shock when he sees a steamship with no sails that runs as if by magic.
Swept forward in time by divine power to 1895 Galveston, Raphael Marquez is on a quest to retrieve the sacred relic he stole and return it to its rightful place. If he fails, his soul will be doomed to the firest of hell. The death of his wife and daughter at the hands of ruthless pirtes has left him bereft and vengeful.
Victorian widow Julia Reynolds and her young daughter, Livvy, accompany Julia's wealthy father on a trip to Galveston. They stay in the opulent Tremont House, a legendary landmark. Since being lied to and cheated on by her deceased husband, Julia distrusts men and is not looking for love. Yet, when a strange looking, injured fellow falls practically at her feet in the hotel lobby, she takes pity on him.
Raphael is enchanted by Livvy, who reminds him of his lost little girl. Her beautiful, kind-hearted mother also wends her way into his tattered heart. Attraction grows on both sides, but Raphael's deception as he pursues his mission, and Julia's unexpected connection to it stand in their way. A rare, historic Valentine's Day blizzard brings high drama.
Julia may hold the key to Raphael's redemption, but can she forgive his lies?
Galveston, Texas; February 1895
Julia Reynolds stepped
out of the Tremont House’s steam-powered elevator, clutching her six-year-old
daughter Olivia’s small hand and her own fragile composure. Heels clicking on
the hotel lobby’s marble floor, she pasted a smile on her face and tried not to
think about the letter she’d received a short while ago.
“Mama, you’re
hurting my hand,” Livvy complained.
“Oh, I’m sorry,
sweetie.” Julia immediately loosened her grip. “I didn’t mean to squeeze so
tight. Is this better?”
“Uh-huh. Can we
go to the ice cream parlor after the doctor? Please.”
“Yes, if you’re a
good girl for Doctor Harmon.”
“I’ll try, but I
hate when he puts that stick in my mouth. It almost makes me throw up.”
“I know, honey,
but he needs to hold your tongue down so he can look at your throat. Remember
how sore it was the last time we saw him? We want him to make sure it’s all
better now.”
“But it doesn’t
hurt anymore. He doesn’t have to –” Livvy shrieked just as a thud and a cry of
pain sounded nearby, off to their right. “Mama, that man fell out of the air!”
Julia pivoted and
gasped at the sight of a man lying curled on the marble floor several feet
away. He wore strange clothes and his face was hidden by long, tangled black
hair. And he was sopping wet.
“Stop pointing at
him, Livvy. That’s not nice,” she said absently. After a pause she asked,
“Mister, are you hurt? Do you need help?”
Through a
pain-filled haze, Raphael realized the female voice was speaking to him. Groaning,
he struggled to sit up, holding his sagging left arm against his chest. He raked
hair from his eyes and lifted his aching head. Brilliant light stung his eyes,
making him blink fast as he struggled to see. When he was able to focus on the
strange woman and girl staring at him, he returned their stares, struck by the
woman’s odd attire.
She wore a
narrow, bell-shaped gray skirt and short black velvet coat belted in at her
slender waist and flaring over her nicely rounded hips. The coat sleeves were
hugely puffed from shoulder to elbow and tight from elbow to wrist. A
high-necked white bodice showed at her throat. These garments were nothing like
the women’s gowns he was familiar with.
She was quite
lovely, he also noticed, with upswept blonde hair and a tiny hat perched above
her heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes.
Then his gaze
swung to the little girl. Dressed in a sky-blue coat over a frilly frock, white
stockings and shiny black shoes, she was blonde like the woman – her mother,
Raphael assumed. She was also very pretty like her madre, with long, bouncing curls, pink cheeks, and a rosebud mouth,
open in an “O” of astonishment.
She made him
think of his own small daughter, lost to him along with her mother, his dear
Louisa, murdered by MacKenzie and his bloodthirsty pirates. His throat
tightened at the memory.
“Do you need
help?” the woman repeated. When he didn’t answer, because he did not trust
himself to speak, she crossed her arms beneath high breasts and frowned
impatiently. “Do you not understand English, sir?”
“I speak your
language,” Raphael said, voice raspy from emotion and sea water. In truth, he
found her accent as odd as her appearance. It sounded nothing like the English
he had learned as a child while living in his mother’s homeland. “I do not need
your assistance,” he added, levering himself onto his knees and pushing to his
feet. He swayed but managed to remain upright, again cradling his arm.
She eyed him critically.
“Then I suggest you go to your room, or wherever you came from and change into
dry – less bizarre garb. Come along, Livvy,
let’s go or we will be late for our appointment.”
While Raphael
glanced down at his wet shirt and breeches, the child – Livvy – resisted her
mother’s effort to draw her away. “But how did he do that, Mama?”
“Do what?” the
woman asked, forcefully dragging her inquisitive offspring away from Raphael.
“How did he fall
out of the air?”
“Don’t talk nonsense.
The man tripped over his own feet and landed hard, that’s all. Alcohol does
that to a person.”
She believed him
drunk, Raphael realized, offended. He wanted to storm after her and deny her
false assumption, but his head and shoulder throbbed unmercifully, and he was
still somewhat unstable on his feet. He watched her and the child walk toward a
set of heavy doors that evidently led outside. Only then did he pay attention
to his surroundings.
The large space
was brightly lighted by peculiar devices hanging on the walls and from the
ceiling. They held no candles that he could see. Turning in a slow circle, he
gaped at the opulent room. Obviously the antechamber of a prestigious
residence, it was lavishly appointed with marble, dark polished wood and potted
palms. A sweeping staircase climbed to a curved balcony that must lead to inner
rooms.
He also noticed
several people standing around, staring at him. A middle-aged couple eyed him
in disapproval and crossed the room to a tall mahogany desk. Behind it stood a
soberly clad man, el portero – the
concierge – Raphael deduced.
Like Livvy’s
mother, everyone Raphael saw wore outlandish attire, increasing his suspicion
that he had landed in some strange, unknown land. Dios! He could not believe the whirlwind had carried him aloft and
set him down in one piece, much less in such a place. How could this be?
“It is so because
the Madonna wishes it this way, you dolt,” he muttered. She had sent him here,
causing him to “fall out of the air” as young Livvy said. Thinking of her, he
heard her high-pitched voice and wheeled toward the outer doors, growing dizzy
with the sudden movement. He stumbled, nearly falling, and gasped as fresh pain
shot down his arm. Clasping it to his body, he managed to regain his balance.
“See, Mama? He
hurt his arm. We have to help him,” Livvy declared, tugging her mother’s skirt,
attempting to lead her toward Raphael.
Lips set in a
thin line, the woman walked back to him. “Sir, my daughter is correct, you are
clearly injured. I will call for a doctor. Meanwhile, you need to get out of
those wet clothes and lie down. Are you staying here at the hotel?”
Raphael opened
his mouth to say no but realized she would insist on knowing where he was staying. Before he could concoct a
reply, el portero marched up. “I am
so sorry if this man has offended you, Mrs. Reynolds.”
The scowling
fellow looked Raphael up and down. “Mister, I don’t know what happened to you,
but you cannot stand here dripping in the lobby. Are you a guest of the Tremont
House?”
In a quandary,
Raphael stammered the only thing that came to mind. “I-I do not know. That is,
I do not remember.”
“You don’t
remember!” Mrs. Reynolds exclaimed. “I suppose you don’t remember how you got
here or why you’re all wet either, hmm?”
“I am sorry, I do
not.”
“I know how you
got here,” Livvy blurted. “You fell out of the air.”
“Livvy, stop
saying that,” her mother reprimanded. To him she said in a caustic tone, “Are
you asking me, I mean us – she gestured at the hotel man – to believe you have
amnesia?”
He frowned. “I do
not know this word. What does it mean?”
“It means to lose
your memory.”
“Ah, I see.
Perhaps I do suffer from this amnesia.”
She studied him
closely, one hand on her hip, the other wrapped around Livvy’s small hand. “Did
you hit your head when you fell?”
Raphael knew it
was possible to lose one’s memory after a blow to the head, and so did she, it
appeared. He touched a tender spot on the back of his head. “I must have. It
aches,” he said, wincing involuntarily. His fingers came away coated with
blood.
She sighed.
“Well, I supposed Doctor Harmon can determine if you are being truthful. For
now, let’s get you a room.”
“Wait a moment.
He can’t stay here looking like that,” el
portero protested, shaking his hand at Raphael. “Our guests would be
scandalized.”
“Of course,
Mister Bagly, exactly why you must see him to a room right now and find some
decent clothes for him to wear. While you do so, I shall call Doctor Harmon and
ask him to come and tend the man’s injuries.”
“B-but, Mrs.
Reynolds, I really cannot –”
“Need I remind
you who my father is, sir?” the lovely Mrs. Reynolds asked with an imperious
lift of her chin.
Bagly’s narrow
jaw tightened. His thin brown mustache twitched. “No, Madam, I know who he is.”
He stiffly bowed his head to her. “I will show the gentleman to a room
immediately.”
“Excellent.”
Raphael’s benefactress smiled and turned to him. “Bagly will take care of you,
Mister . . .” She laughed. “Goodness, I don’t even know your name.”
“Uh, I don’t –”
She waved him to
silence. “I know, I know, you don’t remember it, correct?” She cocked a slim
dark blonde eyebrow.
He shook his
pounding head and stared uncomfortably at the floor. He had trapped himself in
a lie, a position he might live to regret.
Lyn Horner, Author
Lyn Horner resides in Fort Worth,
Texas – “Where the West Begins” – with her husband and a pair of very spoiled
cats. Trained in the visual arts, Lyn worked as a fashion illustrator and art
instructor before she took up writing. She loves crafting passionate love
stories, both historical and contemporary. Lyn also enjoys reading, gardening, genealogy,
visiting with family and friends, and cuddling her furry, four-legged children.
The author’s Texas Devlins series blends authentic Old West settings, steamy romance
and a glimmer of the supernatural. This series has earned multiple awards and nominations,
including Crowned Heart reviews and a Rone Award nomination from InD’Tale
Magazine.
Lyn’s paranormal-romantic suspense
series, Romancing the Guardians,
combines her trademark flashes of psychic phenomena with Irish folklore,
chilling apocalyptic prophesies and captivating, far-flung settings. Along the
way, readers are treated to thunderous action, terrifying suspense and sizzling
romance.
Lyn Horner is giving away an e-book of HER VOYAGER to one person who leaves a comment on this post.
