Hi everyone,

I just wanted to announce that my historical romance novel, Falsely Accused, has just been released by my publisher, Books We Love.

On board the convict ship taking them to the penal colony of Australia, Maryanne Watson and Jake Smith meet and fall in love, but Jake hides a terrible secret that will take him to the gallows if it ever comes out.

On arrival in Sydney the lovers are separated. Maryanne is sent to work for the lecherous Captain Fitzhugh. After he attacks her she flees into the wilderness and eventually meets up with Jake who has escaped from a chain gang.  They set up home in a hidden valley and Maryanne falls pregnant.  Will Jake come out of hiding to protect his fledgling family? And how can love triumph over such crushing odds?




New Release from Author Susan Horsnell

CapturingCharlieCoverOur dear friend Susan Horsnell has a new release. (And isn’t he gorgeous?)

Both Margaret and myself (Cheryl) have had the pleasure of meeting Susan in person. It’s absolutely wonderful to be able to finally meet someone you’ve corresponded with via email and the internet.

I am so pleased to be able to spread the word about Susan’s wonderful books!


One week before he is due to marry, Charlie leaves the family who had given him a second chance at life.

Orphaned at the age of 10, when his parents and sister are killed in a botched bank robbery, Charlie is taken in by his father’s best friends.

After being deceived by his fiancé, Charlie sets out on his own. He encounters an abandoned dog and the two become close companions as they travel over the mountain range in search of a new home.

After being shot at and thrown from his horse, he suffers a life threatening head injury. Josephine Platt takes responsibility for his care, after all, it was her crazy Grandmother who shot the poor stranger.

Will Charlie recover and lose his heart to the feisty girl or will past experiences leave him unforgiving and bitter?


Here’s a short excerpt:

Charlie came in early from riding the fence line. The day was hot, the air thick with moisture, and he looked forward to a swim in the nearby creek. It would wash off the dirt and grime of the day as well as bring relief to his tired, aching muscles. Fixing fences was back breaking work and the only job on the ranch that he hated. The chore needed doing too damned often thanks to one very amorous bull.

He sighed as he dismounted near the barn and led his horse, Shadow, inside. Giggling and chatter reached his ears as he entered. Sounds like Lois. Wonder who she’s with? He led his horse into the nearest empty stall, patted his nose and closed the stall door.

Charlie strode towards the tack room at the end of the stable block, the area the sounds had come from. A smile graced his face. Maybe Lois will come swimming with me.

He pushed open the door to the tack room and froze. Lois squealed as she sat upright in the small bed, attempting to clutch the sheet to her breasts. Her top half was bared for Charlie to see. Her creamy white skin, small perky breasts and dark rose coloured nipples drew his eyes. The man she was with lay as naked as the day he was born, Lois was obviously the same.





Barnes & Noble:





About Susan Horsnell:

SusanHorsnellI was a Nurse, a career that spanned more than 35 years. During my career I specialised in caring for people with Alzheimer’s type Dementia, an area that fascinates me despite how heartbreaking it can be. My dear father-in-law is unfortunately afflicted with this disease and now resides in a Nursing Home. In the not too distant future I am hoping to pen a novel incorporating some of the stories I have heard from these amazing people. Part of my career was with the blind and I also cared for severely disabled children for a while too.

When I retired 4 years ago I decided it was time to get the stories out of my head and onto paper. From there I just hoped my stories were interesting and well written enough to attract readers.

I am married to the love of my life, we have 2 wonderful adult boys, and 5 amazing grandchildren. We also play substitute Mum and Dad to a beautiful, adopted young lady. We reside in sunny Qld, Australia in the midst of a Blackbutt Forest. We are surrounded by the peace and quiet of Mother Nature and wildlife abounds. It is a dream come true location for us.

For more information about me, I can be found at:

Amazon Author Page:



Twitter: @susanhorsnell


Thanks so much Susan for joining us today!


Don’t Tell, Don’t Die is Now Available


I am very pleased to announce that Don’t Tell, Don’t Die (romantic suspense novel) is now available.

It has been released in both print and kindle formats, and can be found on Amazon.

Here’s a blurb:

Mild-mannered kindergarten teacher Kareena Ellis witnesses a murder. Stalked by the murderer who is intent on killing her, Kareena must flee. Personal trainer Mason Bradshaw is in the wrong place at the wrong time.

What is Mason to do? Someone is determined to kill the timid young woman who has stumbled into his protection. Can he protect Kareena from certain death?

To read the first chapter FREE, follow this link to the book page on Amazon.

If you haven’t already, join Cheryl’s Facebook page as she is holding celebration giveaways.



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

Owl Valentine’s Day Card

Can you believe it’s February already?  I am flabergasted, but even more than that, the shops started weeks ago with their Valentine’s Day displays.

I’ve been making some Valentine’s Day cards recently, as I supply a local gift shop with them each year, and they usually sell well.

Here’s a card I finished this morning.

IMG_1071Owls are all the rage lately, and I’ve recently become addicted to them.

If you would like to learn more about how to make this card, click here to go to my cardmaking blog.





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.