About margarettanner

WHO IS MARGARET TANNER? I have always been a writer from as far back as I can remember. I used to write these pitiful sad little ditties then I moved on to short stories. I was quite successful with short stories, had a few published and won a few contests. One contest win really sticks in my mine. Years ago I entered a competition for a sock company writing about feet. Little feet, big feet, smelly feet any kind of feet and guess who won? I dutifully collected my prize - twenty pairs of socks. Dad and my brother were very happy, so were their feet. I graduated to novel writing and fell in love. Margaret Tanner is a multi-published Australian author. She loves delving into the pages of history as she carries out research for her historical romance novels, and prides herself on being historically accurate. No book is too old or tattered for her to trawl through, no museum too dusty, or cemetery too overgrown. Many of her novels have been inspired by true events, with one being written around the hardships and triumphs of her pioneering ancestors in frontier Australia. As part of her research she has visited the World War 1 battlefields in France and Belgium, a truly poignant experience. Margaret is a member of the Romance Writers of Australia, the Melbourne Romance Writers Guild (MRWG) and EPIC. She won the 2007 and 2009 Author of the Year at AussieAuthors.com. Her novel Frontier Wife won the Best Historical Romance Novel at the 2010 Readers Favorite Award, and another novel, Wild Oats was a 2011 Finalist in the EPIC awards. Margaret is married with three sons and a gorgeous little granddaughter. Outside of her family and friends, writing is her passion. Website: http://www.margarettanner.com/ Publishers: The Wild Rose Press. Whiskey Creek Press. Books We Love

Agency Woman by John Logan

Cheryl Wright and Margaret Tanner would like to welcome award winning Scottish author John Logan to our Romance Authors blog. Nice to have you here with us.  Would you like to tell us about your latest release Agency Woman? From the blurb and excerpt it sounds like another gripping read. 
Blurb for Agency Woman:
A lost, wandering and damaged man finds himself drafted  back into the world he thought he had escaped, when the local branch of a  powerful, international Agency needs a mysterious job done in the remote  Highlands of Scotland.
The  new companion who leads him out of disaffected early retirement is a seductive,  young, novice female agent, but could there really be far more to her than there  at first seems?
They  find themselves in a world of natural beauty, mountain and beach, which they  will only contaminate with extraordinary rendition, abduction, bloodshed and  torture.
The  modern bureaucratic world of paperwork and subcontracting will mean that no-one  actually knows which government or country is behind the operation, but one man  will soon remember why he left Agency work like this and why he hates it so  much, even though it may really be love that has dragged him back into it  all.
A  dark, Scottish tale of conspiracy, espionage, murder and terrorism, with an  existential edge, and the spirit of an ancient mountain looming at its  centre.“The  specific character of despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being  despair.”
Soren Kierkegaard

Agency Woman cover orange let 1000
The old stories don’t need to be  repeated endlessly. The ancient knights can be allowed to fall from their  horses, lumpenly, and die. Even the horses, though with more grace, may be  allowed to fall over and turn limp on the grass. Thus, in a moment, they are  permitted their release from this arena. Their struggles forever on record, for  perusal later, at a safe distance.

            The woman had that thick, black hair I have always loved. Even her skin  was alive strangely, as though some thick juice was flowing through it, near the  surface, as my eye gazed. Desiring the woman was a normal response. The mind  turns from knights on their horses, towards women with their hair and skin,  easily. The woman’s mind was locked on some course, purposeful, the eyes  directed forward, a rigidity there. I didn’t let that put me off. I kept looking  at her. Then she sensed me and looked back. I had to look away. I chose the  clock, gazed up at it, then mimed the action of raising my wrist, lifting my  jacket sleeve, checking the time of my watch against the time on the clock. I  looked back over at the woman. Now she was sitting on a bench, her legs crossed  neatly. Her shoes were red, scarlet, and that was a small shock behind my ribs,  but it didn’t put me off her at all. Instead, I made a focal point of one of her  shoes. It was possible to look at the shoe without having that sense of trespass  I’d felt when she found me looking at her face. Somehow the shoe was in the  public domain. I committed no violation, no infringement, by looking at the shoe  like this. None that I was aware of anyway. We all must be free, ultimately, to  pick our own objects of contemplation. I could look away from the shoe, to the  clock, or to someone else in the railway station, then I could look back at it.  Occasionally, from the shoe, I could lift my eyes and look at her hair again,  her face, then back to the shoe. This was all permissible, somehow.

            Millions of years of evolution for me to be here now, a biped, with a  central nervous system ending in two close-set stalked predatory eyes, and  staring at this red shoe. And why not? Good enough. Perhaps, later, there will  be something even better than the red shoe to look at. Perhaps not. In any case,  I will be satisfied, having had this interlude, this occupation, afforded by the  red shoe and its wearer.

            Knights and their horses. And their hawks. Now, as I look at her, I might  be hiding, beneath my coat, the tensed body of my hunting hawk. Its head buried  tight in my armpit as it dozes, belly full from some recent kill. I could tear  open my coat, shock the bird into wakefulness, watch as it stared around. I  think the first thing it would see would be that red shoe. The bird would  explode out from beneath my sheltering armpit oxter, cutting through the air, an  arrow born only to plunge its life against that red shoe’s surface, embedding  its razor claws in her ankle that I cannot let myself contemplate. I feel this  imaginary hawk now, suddenly, a warm living thing resting secretly beneath the  flesh of my underarm. Emboldened by the thought of my hawk, I let my eye drift  up from the red shoe to the woman’s ankle. But she senses this. Then I sense her  sensing the change in my regard. She moves abruptly. I flinch and beneath my  armpit the hawk’s eyelids flutter as its dream begins to break.

            I should turn away now, walk off, just to be relieved of this woman and  her red shoe. Myself and the hawk then, alone, walking these streets. That would  make better sense to me. My private thoughts and the hawk’s unbroken dream of  soaring above rabbit-filled fields beneath pink-golden dawn sunlight. Compared  to that freedom, what does the woman or her red shoe signify really? All the  excitement tied up in her ankle is probably just the woman’s natural claws,  digging into me, as though it were her and not the hawk, nestled under my arm,  holding on.

            Perhaps I’m not being ambitious enough, and that is my knightly failure.  Perhaps my aim should be to get free of the woman, her red shoe, her ankle, and  the hawk itself, free of the bird too.

            I look away from the red shoe, deliberately, and let my gaze roam all  around the railway station. Then I look back at the shoe. I can’t deny that  there is something good about being able to let my mind rest on the object, like  a punctuation mark.

            Suddenly, between my legs, beneath me, I feel my whole knightly horse  come to life. A long lance fills the space beneath my right armpit, and my right  hand. The weight of it pulls me over to one side and the woman is restless again  as she senses me lurch. Let her be restless. I have to handle lance, horse,  hawk, red shoe, ankle, all of it. If I can turn now and ride away, without a  backward glance, I think that would score many points for me, in the knightly  realm. The gods of the knightly realm would love me if I could manage a thing  like that. But I can’t manage it, can I? Not yet anyway. Not now. Before I can  be certain though, the gods of the railway station decide everything for me. She  looks at her watch, compares it to the time on the clock, or pretends to in  mime, rises on her twin red shoes, walks off towards a static-bodied train. All  done with perfect courtly precision. And with no backward glance. 

            Or perhaps there is a backward glance, an internal one, one that I could  never see. Perhaps she’s casting a backward glance over her whole history, her  whole past life, as she walks to that train. Perhaps the desert plain behind her  is now littered with the heroes and heroines of her past life, now frozen into  asphalt, fossilised, or turned into Biblical pillars of salt for passing  scorpions to lick away at. Physically though, no backward glance. Not from her,  and certainly not at me, her watcher, her chronicler, so I turn away myself. I  walk briskly towards the railway station’s main exit. I don’t look back either.

 Click here to purchase



Having to sell your childhood home is a truly sad and traumatic task.

The Real Estate Agent’s board said it all – FOR SALE – DECEASED ESTATE. There was a large green SOLD sticker plastered across the poster.

I came to visit you one last time because after tomorrow you will be no longer ours. As I stood at the front of No. 29, your tile roof seemed just a little drab, but your weatherboards – how well the new white paint suited them, and the mission brown trim gave you almost an air of elegance.

You will never be a grand old lady like the Victorian and Edwardian houses that fetch such high prices. No fancy iron lacework or intricately designed facade. You were a working man’s house, an old “L” shaped weatherboard.

A battler returning from the war built you, using his deferred army pay as a deposit, and times were tough. That’s why your verandah roof is covered in malthoid and your walls are lined with plaster board. There are no fancy fittings on the doors or windows either.

You sheltered the man, his wife and three children from gusty winds, as you stood all alone for a time in a great empty paddock. You were only half built when the family moved in, but they were thankful for the two rooms that were habitable.

There were no roads, and in winter the children squelched in mud, then tracked it all across you floors. It snowed one day, and the family cooked toast on a fork over the open fire because the electricity had gone off.

At first, only generaniums could grow in your heavy clay soil, but years and loads of sandy loam later, camellias, daphne, azaleas and numerous annuals grew triumphantly around you.

You have no front fence now as it was taken down years ago. I trudged up the concrete path leading out to the backyard. The rotary clothes hoist looked almost obscene when I remembered the old fashion line, with the wooden prop, that my father had put up when we first moved in.

Right down the back, under the big plum tree we built such cubby houses. A mere lean-to, a double storey, fruit box mansion and there was even one masterpiece with a secret room hidden behind an old tablecloth.

Ah, a wheel from my brother’s old pram wedged in a forked branch of the Granny Smith apple tree. How many times had the little fellow toddled off with his pram down to the main street on his ‘way to work.’ Desperate searches were instigated by my frantic mother when she realised her son had gone but somehow we always managed to find him again without the aid of the police, even if it did take an hour or to. Of course, those were the days when you could wander around at any hour, leave your windows and doors open and not be violated by some thug.

The old wash house. I pushed the door open and ran my finger across the concrete troughs. Was there just the slightest tinge of blue? A legacy from the Reckitt’s mum always used to whiten her sheets? I stared at the space where the old copper once stood. It not only washed our clothes, but provided bathwater also for a time until we could afford a hot water service.

The floor was concrete because we never did put lino or any covering on it. Unlined walls too. Chalky scribble on the woodwork remains, a testament to our lack of artistic talent.

One of the windows was boarded up, but you couldn’t see it from outside, because the branches of a lemon tree covered it.

My brother had kicked his football through the glass in a closely contested afternoon game with some of the neighbourhood kids. I remember there was hell to pay later that night though.

I fingered the back door key. How smooth and suddenly cold it felt. I had promised the new owners I would leave it inside and go out the front when I had finished.

I stood in the vestibule, it would be called a family room now, and it was sad to see the place so empty. The green room, not much more than a sleep-out really, had belonged to my brother. The pink room, we girls shared that, while our parents had the blue room. The floorboards creaked ever so slightly – was that a damp patch on the ceiling?

Mum often regaled us about the time in the early days, when I wandered up the hall with a little mouse following a few steps behind me. My sister and I received dolls for Christmas one year, but we didn’t get prams, so we put our dollies in a shoe box and dragged them along by a piece of string.

The 21st birthday and engagement parties, you remember them don’t you No. 29? We were able to jam a hundred people in here.

Loungeroom. You were painted in apricot kalsomine once. I think I like it better than the green flat plastic you wear now.

The fireplace hasn’t changed much though. It hasn’t been used in years, an electric heat bank provided warmth in later times. It was easier and cleaner, but not to be compared with scented pine logs and dancing orange flames.

Mantelpiece, you look so bare now, denuded of your photographs and little ornaments. On one end had been a picture of my mother’s brother in his Air Force uniform, down the other end was a portrait of my father in his army uniform. Yes, the family had fought for King and country.

We kids hadn’t been allowed in the loungeroom much. We spent most evenings around the kitchen table listening to the daring exploits of Biggles and Tarzan.

Oh, the excitement when television first came in, the whole neighbourhood went mad. We were one of the last families to get a set, but it didn’t matter because we made it in the end.

Well, this is goodbye No. 29, I won’t be coming back to see you again, and no, I’m not crying, I’ve just got a speck of dust in my eye – that’s all. No-one sheds tears over a house.

It’s a lie, of course I’m crying, and you’re not just a house. You’re my childhood home. You sheltered me and kept my secrets. What would have happened if anyone had found out that it wasn’t a log rolling out of the fire that burned a hole in the carpet, but a little girl playing with matches?

I walked away, and then turned around for one final look. You were the best No. 29.


Margaret Tanner writes well researched historical fiction with romantic elements.




Amazon Countdown Deal – Savage Possession

My historical novel, Savage Possession, is only 99 cents on Amazon at the moment in the new Amazon Countdown Deal.

A sweeping tale of love’s triumph over tragedy and treachery in frontier Australia.

A mistaken identity opens the door for Martin Mulvaney to take his revenge on the granddaughter of his mortal enemy.

An old Scottish feud, a love that should never have happened, and a series of extraordinary coincidences traps two lovers in a family vendetta that threatens to destroy their love, if not their lives.






At 11a.m. on the 11th November, 1918, an Armistice was signed and the guns fell silent. The Great War had ended but the repercussions would be felt for years.

If you get the chance, please buy a red poppy and wear it proudly, in memory of the fallen.

Australia was a small country in 1914, with a population of less than 4 million, yet we sent over 300,000 men to the front, Gallipoli in Turkey, Egypt, France and Belgium.  More than 60,000 of our soldiers lie on Gallipoli or in the beautiful cemeteries of France and Belgium, 12,000 miles from home.

Our pilgrimage commenced in Amiens where we were met by our guide Colin Gillard who runs Battlefield Tours with his wife Lisa. Colin has a wealth of knowledge regarding the battlefields. Using war-time maps, he was able to point to within a hundred yards, where my grandfather’s cousin was seriously wounded near the village of Hermes in 1917. Chills ran down my spine, I felt as if a hand was gripping me from the grave. Unfortunately, this relative died of his wounds, leaving a wife and two small children behind.  He is buried in the war cemetery at Rouen, and we were elated but sad when we found his grave.

We visited large cemeteries where hundreds of white headstones stood amongst green lawns with pretty flowers nodding their heads between the graves.

At Thiepval we saw a monument with thousands of names engraved on it, for English soldiers who fell in the area but have no known grave. One of the most memorable monument wasn’t very big.  It was at Fromelles, a bronze statue of an Aussie soldier carrying his wounded mate.


Cobbers statue at Fromelles.

The battle for Fromelles was fought on the 19th and 20th July 1916, Australia had 5,500 casualties the British 1,500.  For over 90 years no-one knew the fate of nearly 300 of these soldiers, but there had been rumours for many years of mass graves in the area, and it was only after a tenacious campaign waged for years by an Australian school teacher that the authorities finally acted, and four mass graves were discovered about three years after our visit. 250 soldiers have now been laid to rest in separate graves in a new Commonwealth war cemetery.  Of the 250 bodies, over 100 have so far been identified by name using DNA volunteered by relatives, but the authorities are still hoping that more soldiers will eventually be identified.

In the Belgium city of Ypres is a soaring stone archway at an entrance to the town. The Menin Gate memorial to the Missing has etched into its walls the names of 50,000 thousand British and other Commonwealth soldiers who served in the region but have no known graves. Even after all these years, they still play the last post every evening as a mark of respect for the fallen.

The largest Commonwealth War cemetery is Tyne Cot with over 12,000 graves in it. More than half the headstones have no name. They bear the inscription “Known Only To God.

We visited large war cemeteries here and beautiful and sad as they were, the most touching was a small cemetery near Passchendale with only a handful of white headstones. Night was falling as we passed through this cemetery, and as we stopped to read the inscription on an eighteen year old soldier’s grave, we whispered that someone from home had come to visit him. When we turned and walked away through the misty rain, all we could leave behind for him was our tears and a red poppy.


I have written three novels set against the background of World War 1, about brave soldiers and the stoic women who waited, sometimes in vain, for their menfolk to return.

My fourth novel, A Rose In No-Man’s Land, published by TWRP, is about an Australian army nurse.

Award winning, fellow TWRP author, Jo-Ann Power has also written a story, Heroic Measures, also about a World War 1 army nurse. Her powerful, highly acclaimed story is written from the American perspective.


An award-winning manuscript

Sister Amy Smithfield is carrying on her family’s military tradition in the only way she can, as an Australian Army nurse. Dedicated to her calling, she has sworn off interest in men for the duration of the Great War in Europe . When she literally runs into Mark Tremayne, an English captain in the Australian army, her real struggle begins.

Mark has his own reasons for keeping any relationship with the opposite sex in the casual mode, and he fights to deny his attraction to the petite blonde nurse who stirs his senses beyond the ordinary.

Their battle against love continues from Australia to the Mediterranean to France . When Amy is captured by German soldiers, Mark realizes how much she means to him — but can he overcome pride and find Amy after his jealous anger pushes her away?





Honoring those who have served their country in war, most focus on those who have fought on the battlefields. But one group’s heroics under fire have slipped through the pages of history, a group whose blood and sweat were left in operating rooms and hospital tents, a group whose heroism has seldom been measured.

             For nurse Gwen Spencer, fighting battles is nothing new. An orphan sent to live with a vengeful aunt, Gwen picked coal and scrubbed floors to earn a living. But when she decides to become a nurse, she steps outside the boundaries of her aunt’s demands…and into a world of her own making.

Leaving her hometown for France, she helps doctors mend thousands of brutally injured Doughboys under primitive conditions. Amid the chaos, she volunteers to go ever forward to the front lines. Braving bombings and the madness of men crazed by the hell of war, she is stunned to discover one man she can love. A man she can share her life with.

But in the insanity and bloodshed she learns the measures of her own desires. Dare she attempt to become a woman of accomplishment? Or has looking into the face of war and death given her the courage to live her life to the fullest?



Blog: http://theyalsofought.blogspot.com

Award-winning author of fiction and non at www.jo-annpower.com


Margaret’s other novels set during the Great War.


When Harriet Martin masquerades as a boy to help her shell-shocked brother, falling in love with her boss wasn’t part of the plan.



Captain Phillip Ashfield toasted his unexpected elevation to fatherhood as a barrage of artillery pounded the battle scarred fields around him.



Laurie Cunningham, carrying the out-of-wedlock child of a shell-shocked WWI veteran, marries another man who is being unjustly tried for murder.


Margaret’s Website: http://www.margarettanner.com/






New Release from Margaret Tanner – A Wicked Deception

In 1854, the Australia goldfields swirl with the heated danger and betrayal of the Eureka Stockade rebellion. At the center of this maelstrom is Melanie O’Dea, a woman with a price on her head and the authorities on her heels. Melanie accepts aid from a neighbor, The Honorable Michael Guilford, but it places her in even more peril. After Michael seduces her and callously discards her, Melanie is left to fend for herself. Can she endure such treachery and survive the sweeping winds of uncertainty?

Click to Buy Now!



Here’s a few lines from Roseanne Dowell’s Deadbeat Dads
Does everyone start married life with rose colored glasses? I’m sure no one thinks their marriage will end in divorce. I certainly didn’t. Mine was the perfect love, the perfect marriage. I was going to have the perfect life, and it was an absolutely perfect day for a wedding. The sun streamed through the window as I walked down the aisle on my father’s arm. Johnny looked so handsome standing at the altar waiting for me.
Deadbeat Dads by Roseanne Dowell
Available from:
Find Roseanne’s other titles at:
Check out her website: www.roseannedowell.com or her blog http://roseannedowellauthor.blogspot.com/
We hope you will call back on April 19 to read a few lines from Vijaya Schartz


Fiery Possession:
Jo Saunders did to him what no other woman had done in years. Set his pulses racing, exciting him to the point where he nearly lost control.
Damn Jo Saunders. Damn her to hell.


Please come back on April 12 to read Roseanne Dowell’s exciting snippet.




Persephone Cole, A Vintage Holiday Mystery Series

It’s 1942 and Persephone ‘Percy’ Cole is bucking the odds and pounding the pavement of Manhattan as one of its first female private detectives. Joining the ranks of other gumshoes such as Sam Spade, Lew Archer, and Phillip Marlow, this five-foot eleven, full-figured gal has the same hard-boiled, take-no-prisoners attitude, but with a difference. A shamus with a wicked sense of humor, she’s the mother of an eight-year old son. Whether it be on the Great White Way, the Diamond District, or chocolate-covered corpses, Persephone Cole blazes a trail for all other lady dicks to follow.

She finds her holiday cheer in solving crimes of the most deadly kind – murder.

Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse – http://tinyurl.com/agayofv

Persephone Cole and the Christmas Killings Conundrum – http://tinyurl.com/arm3pxk

Persephone Cole and the Mother’s Day Murders – Coming soon!

Amazon Buy Page for Heather’s books: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004QL22UK
Don’t forget to call back and view Sydell Voeller’s blurb on 6th February.



A sweeping tale of love’s triumph over tragedy and treachery in frontier Australia.

A mistaken identity opens the door for Martin Mulvaney to take his revenge on the granddaughter of his mortal enemy.

An old Scottish feud, a love that should never have happened, and a series of extraordinary coincidences traps two lovers in a family vendetta that threatens to destroy their love, if not their lives.


Don’t forget to call back and read Juliet Waldron’s blurb on 27th January