Today we're talking to Meggan Connors on her tour with Goddess Fish Promotions for the Civil War steampunk romance, "Jessie's War".
Meggan will be awarding a silver pocket watch pendant and a cameo choker, and a signed paperback copy of The Marker, her historical romance to a randomly drawn commenter during the tour. (US/CANADA ONLY)
Thanks for stopping by and visiting, Meggan!
It’s Time for Fun Facts with Meggan Connors First, thank you for having me here at It’s Raining Books. Today, I’m talking about fun facts about me. Let’s get this party started, shall we?
1. I have a talent for making fun of myself.
I’m serious on this front. I could make a career out of making fun of myself, and the unexpected, quirky, and just plain weird things that happen to me. In fact, I am about to demonstrate this mad skill of mine in this blog.
2. I am afraid of cows.
It sounds crazy. The husband tells me they’re big and slow and probably not that smart.
But… they’re big. And they stampede (hey, I’ve watched Westerns on TV). And…and…Pamplona? I know, that’s bulls, but still. Bovines.
When I was much younger, a friend of mine convinced me I needed to go cow tipping. Talk about my Heart of Darkness. Oh, the horror! I got within fifteen feet of a calf, screamed, and was on the other side of the fence before my friend could even blink. To this day, I don’t know if one can even tip a cow. All I know is that I have no plans on trying.
3. I’m not fond of clowns, either.
When the husband and I first got together, he has this heinous, atrocious collection of Red Skelton pictures. OMG, all those creepy clowns. Needless to say, the pictures found their way to his parents’ house, where they live to this day.
This loathing of clowns runs very deep, and probably stems from watching Killer Clowns from Outer Space one too many times. In fact, here’s a sample conversation between my children and me:
Chewey, age 5. “Mommy, chase me.”
Me: “Honey, I’m wearing heels. I can’t chase you.”
Monk, age 8: “Chewey, you know Mom doesn’t run unless she’s being chased by clowns.” Then she laughed like a maniac.
This is mostly true. I’ll run if I have an escaping preschooler, I have to, or if I’m being chased by clowns. I suspect this is also true if I’m being chased by cows.
In all honesty, I’d rather not test this theory.
4. If there is the remotest possibility that I could be hit in the face by a ball, it will happen. And not in a good way.
When I let out my dirty little secret—that balls tend to hit me in the face—it invariably gets a chuckle. No, I don’t mean it in that way. I mean, I’ve been hit in the face with a basketball, a baseball, and a football, and all either while I’m behind a fence, or when I’m at a collegiate sporting event. Either way, it’s wrong, man. Simply wrong.
5. And, last but not least, I am the queen of wardrobe malfunctions.
While I have many stories about my clothes randomly falling off, I will share this gem:
I was on the shuttle up at the university. The thing was packed with football players and cheerleaders… and me (obviously, neither of those). I was wearing a cute skirt, boots, and a silk shirt. When I went to stand up to get off the shuttle, I stood on my skirt.
It fell off.
I don’t mean that it slid down. I mean, it fell off. The thing hit the ground and got tangled in my boots. I wrestled with that thing like it was a freaking anaconda. Yes, wearing my giant granny panties. In front of the football team.
The shuttle was silent. I’m sure I could have heard crickets chirping, if I hadn’t been cursing under my breath and begging God to let me put my clothes back on.
Eventually, I got my clothes back on, and, with my head held high, I got off that very silent shuttle.
As I walked into my building, I paused.
They weren’t silent anymore. They were laughing. No, more than laughing. They were guffawing, cackling and howling with laughter. I could still hear them laughing as the shuttle stopped at the next stop.
As for me, what did I do with my most embarrassing moment?
I laughed. I laughed until I cried, and then I told the first person I saw.
We’re friends to this day.
I wanted to thank the good people at It’s Raining Books for hosting me today. I had fun!
The American Civil War has raged for more than ten years. The outcast daughter of a famous inventor, Jessica White has struggled to salvage what little remains of her life. Then, one cold winter night, the lover she'd given up for dead returns, claiming the Union Army bought the plans for her father's last invention. But he's not the only one who lays claim to the device, for the Confederacy wants the invention as well. Both sides will kill to have it.
...And only he can save her.
As an agent for the Union Army, Luke Bradshaw is a man who will use whomever and whatever is at his disposal in order to complete his mission. An attack by Confederate soldiers ensures that Jessie will turn to him for help, but Luke can't help but wonder about the secrets she keeps--and if those secrets will ultimately prove fatal.
Someone knocked, and Muha’s tentative barking turned hysterical.
Taking her revolving shotgun back down, she crept to the lever that would pull down the shutters and arm the Gatling gun mounted to the rooftop.
“Go home, sheriff. Not talking to you today.”
“It’s not the sheriff.”
Her hand froze and the shotgun clattered to the floor. Gooseflesh dotted her arms and her pulse quickened, a frantic rat-a-tat-tat like a hail of bullets, as her body recognized what her logical mind denied.
The room went quiet. Muha sat with her ears pricked up, her tail thumping cautiously against the worn pine floor. The wolf recognized the gravelly voice, too.
The knock became more insistent, sharper. “Please open the door, Jessie.”
It was a dead man’s voice.
She struggled to fill her lungs with air as the pine door shook beneath her visitor’s heavy fists. Those hands would be big and strong and ridged with calluses. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, and she tried not to think about them. Or their owner.
She’d gotten over his loss just like she’d gotten over all the others.
With trembling hands, Jessie picked up her shotgun and rested it against the wall. Her legs leaden, she walked to the door and put her hand on the knob, but hesitated.
She’d dreamed of this moment for years, of this man walking back into her life.
Now she couldn’t bring herself to let him in.
“Please. It’s freezing out here.”
She turned the knob, and Luke Bradshaw stood in her doorway, the brim of his hat heavy with snow, and small flakes clung to the dark lashes fringing his silver eyes.
He was as tall as she remembered, towering over her as he stood on her sagging front porch, bringing with him the scent of smoke and sulfur and snow. A black slouch hat covered his head and rested low over his eyes, and a black duster swirled around his bright-spurred boots. The silver six-shooter on his left hip glittered in the low light, and a large, black satchel was strapped to his broad back.
Muha pushed her head past the door.
Luke gave her a lopsided smile and took off his hat. “Hi, Jess.” A scar she didn’t remember ran through his right eyebrow, and another creased his chin. He held his hand out to Muha and scratched behind her grizzled ears, the way he always used to greet her. He handed her a piece of jerky, and despite the long years, a friendship was immediately rekindled. “There’s a girl.”
“Luke.” Jessie reached out to touch his cheek. The stubble of his unshaven jaw was rough beneath her palm, and his skin was cold. Her fingers trembled as she traced his lips, his breath warm against them.
He kissed her fingertips.
Dead men didn’t breathe or kiss a girl’s fingers. Dead men didn’t leave as boys and come back as men. Dead men didn’t come home with new scars or shiver with cold.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
His sweet, boyish smile melted her heart, and something inside her, denied for far too long, splintered and howled in despair.
She slapped him.
The crack echoed in the empty, snow-lit darkness behind him. Jessie stepped back to slam the door on this would-be ghost who had the gall to walk back into her life and act as if he’d never left.
Links: Website: www.megganconnors.com