Zina Abbott is the pen name used by Robyn Echols for her
historical romances. Robyn currently lives with her husband in California, USA,
near the “Gateway to Yosemite.”
She is a member of Women Writing the West, and
American Night Writers Association. She enjoys any kind of history including
family history.
When she is not piecing together novel plots, she pieces
together quilt blocks.
Connect with the Author here:
Running from hostile Indians attacking Salina, Kansas in 1862,
feisty Kizzie Atwell, Grandma Mary’s oldest grandchild, runs into freighter
Leander Jones traveling the Smoky Hill Trail. He is as interested in her as his
stallion is in her mare. The two join forces to prevent the Fort Riley Army
captain from requisitioning their beloved horses for the cavalry. Avoiding
bushwhackers and fighting off a thieving bullwhacker binds their bargain.
In 1865, at the victory dance held at Fort Riley to celebrate
the end of the Civil War, Kizzie is asked to participate in a fund-raiser to
aid the Sanitary Commission helping injured and sick soldiers. It involves
chaste sweetheart kisses in exchange for tickets purchased by officers and
guests. As a contract freighter for the Army, Leander is invited. Much to
Leander’s chagrin, before his chance to claim his kiss, Kizzie’s uncle steps in
and puts an end to the kissing game.
Is Leander out of luck, or will the bargain Kizzie and Leander
made three years earlier to save their horses lead to a more romantic bargain
sealed with a kiss?
Snippet #2
Kizzie heard the whinny
and snort of fear. She felt something tug the reins out of her hands as
Sugarcone began to step back. Something or someone was behind her trying to
steal her horse.
Kizzie pulled the pepperbox pistol out of her waistband as
she spun around. “Drop the reins! Don’t you dare try to steal my horse.”
Kizzie’s eyes widened and her breath began to heave as she
took in the appearance of the filthy, poorly dressed man twice her size that
stood before her. He was of average height, but the width of his shoulders and
his barrel chest above his bulging stomach spoke of bulk strength. His dark beard
and moustache bushed full over the lower half of his tanned face coated with
dust. A sweat and dirt-encrusted misshapen slouch hat covered his head. His
sunken eyes narrowed even further as his mouth split into a mocking grin. He
raised his hands, but never let loose of the reins.
“Naw, you don’t want to shoot no one with that silly little
pop gun. You just hand it over real nice. I’ll take that and the horse and
leave you be.”
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