Thanks for coming today and sharing the story behind your newest release, Celia. This sounds like a good one.
The Story Behind Showdown in Southfork
When I became acquainted with The Wild Rose Press on the Yahoo loop, I noticed a new series, which looked rather popular—
One day in the newspaper, I read an article about
“Albert, Texas offers 13 wooded acres, an 85 year-old dance hall, an ice house stocked with beer, a creek, pecan and peach orchards, and a few more assorted buildings. Population: 4.”
Showdown in Southfork was born. I named my little town—population: 1—Southfork after the Southfork of the Brazos River, which might run near Wayback, Texas, theoretically approximately 15 miles away.
This is an excerpt:
A chill ran down her arms, as she parked in front of the first building. Clutching the pistol in her right hand, she stepped down from the Jeep, slammed the door, and walked slowly up the dusty street. As she approached, she saw a man wearing faded Levi’s and a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat. He sat in a straight-backed chair, leaned against the wall on the back two legs, whistling snatches of “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys,” and whittling on a piece of wood, paying her no mind whatsoever.
“Who are you?” she called.
With the movement of a sloth, he stopped both activities—the whistling and the whittling—and raised his head. After fifteen seconds, he drawled, “Good afternoon.”
“I asked your name, mister.” She held the gun straight out with both hands, as she had seen the detectives do on Law and Order, whether they were male or female.
“Uh,” he began, but stopped to brush the wood shavings off his jeans. He held up a finger and said, “Just a minute.”
With infinite slowness, he wiped the knife blade back and forth on his jeans’ leg, snapped it closed, lowered the chair, and stood. With one hand, he hitched his jeans up a notch on his incredibly lean torso, and with the other, dropped the knife in a front pocket.
“Hurry up!” she yelled. “It’s blazing hot out here!”
Again, he paused and gazed at her. “Yeah. I know. That’s why I’m in the shade.”
“What are you doing here? And I want an answer now.”
“Here? You mean on the porch?”
“No, you… No, I mean in this town.”
Now, he ambled down the four steps to the ground but remained in the shade. With his back against the edge of the porch, one foot propped behind him, and his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans, he asked with a bewildered look, “What’re you doing with a gun?”
“Pointing it at you, you… Why can’t you answer a simple question?”
“Which simple question do you want me to answer first?”
Celia Yeary is a fifth-generation Texan, and her life revolves around family and friends—and writing. San Marcos has been her home for thirty-five years. She has written three romance novels for a small press, essays for Texas Co-op Power magazine, and several different topics for her weekly blog. She also writes women’s fiction and hopes a publisher comes along who likes these stories, too.
The author is a former science teacher, graduate of Texas Tech University and Texas State University, mother of two, grandmother of three, and wife of a wonderful, supportive Texan. Celia and her husband enjoy traveling, and both are involved in their church and the community.
ALL MY HOPES AND DREAMS-a Cactus Rose—
eBook available at: www.thewildrosepress.com
Print available now at: www.thewildrosepress.com
SHOWDOWN IN SOUTHFORK at: www.thewildrosepress.com