Generational Heroines

Grandma was among the first women in America to earn a Master’s degree. Teaching for many years before then, beginning in a one room school house, marrying and moving to a three story school house teaching fifth grade, then again to the next town where she made an incredible mark as first grade teacher, she also raised four children, studying at night after their needs were met. She graduated with her Master’s in Education the same year her oldest child graduated with his Bachelor’s degree.

A strong woman, yes. Not many dared cross her. Yet she had the gentle fun artsy silly side that made her such a wonderful teacher. There is now a memorial tree and marker planted in her honor at her final school, also my grade school.

She has a son and three daughters. I grew surrounded by all of them and their spouses and children. It was a delightful time of noise, wide discussions, gift exchanges, birthday cakes, and little ones running around everywhere. Family was penultimate in my childhood. It was also highly inspirational.

I’m a people watcher. I always have been. I think it could be because there was just so MUCH variety to watch in one house where we all gathered each birthday and holiday. Think of an artist’s colony except with all ages, and you’ll have a feel for it.

The women in my family were always particularly fascinating and each was a heroine in her own right. The styles were different but whatever the style, things seemed to revolve around them individually, more so than with the men. No offense meant to the men but I come from a very long history of strong independent women. Kudos to the heroes who could deal with them long-term. ;-) We have gutsy women who will say whatever they think and those who will hardly admit any feelings; in charge types and followers; women who love to be out and about and on the go and those more like hermits; some have reached what they went after, others are still trying for it or content with what they did accomplish; some went to school to study and some to socialize. Whichever type(s) they are, they have one common characteristic: they  are strong women. Their strength may not be obvious to the casual observer. Sometimes you have to look deep and try to see it the way they do. And they’re family, part of a chain, intertwined.


My heroines always come with family connections, and the way their families affect them comes out in their individual choices and outlooks. They are always strong, but their strength is often quiet and supportive more than feisty and independent. They tend to have highly independent female friends or relatives they admire, and they grow throughout the book, learning to assert their own independence with age and experience.

My heroines stem from reality. We all know that older women are much more likely to appear stronger and more together and less worried about appearances and the shallow things of life. We do grow. So far, all of my heroines begin as young women at that age of emergence, so to speak. Their stories begin at the point they’re truly beginning to come into their own and the reader always sees how they do, what encourages it.

I go a step farther with the concept of growth and family and intertwining in my Rehearsal series. Beginning when Susie is barely twenty, it extends over four books to after she has fully grown and found herself and become comfortable with her place in the chain. It covers more than ten years. Her family is involved throughout, as is her hero’s family and her best friend’s family. Even the minor characters have familial involvement enough to see where they came from and where they’re heading. The sequel to the series is firmly in my head and checks in on the next generation, connecting the effects of Susie’s generation on her daughter’s. Susie is not a highly independent, outgoing type.  Her daughter, however, is fully both. Their stories will mesh, and continue. While Susie’s mother’s story is only touched on in the series, it will likely become its own.

Whether or not the heroine is the strongest and most vivacious character, she is always the center of my stories, even if she has no POV scenes. We don’t need to direct the stage to be pivotal or the main draw, after all. Sometimes it’s simply what we are that steals the show, and what we are is always affected not only by our parents but by the generations of our families.

Do you have a truly inspirational woman in your family who could be a heroine? I’d love to hear about her!

LK Hunsaker
  

PLOTTING WITH WOUNDED HEROES

My heroes are all wounded. Not just emotionally, but physically, as well. Being a hero in a Cheryl Pierson story is like being an expendable member of the landing party on Star Trek. If you had on a red shirt when you beamed down to the planet’s surface, you could pretty well figure you weren’t going to be returning to the Enterprise in one piece, or alive.

In my recent TWRP historical western release, Fire Eyes, U.S. Marshal Kaed Turner is tortured and shot at the hands of the villain, Andrew Fallon, and his gang of cutthroats. A band of Choctaw Indians deposit Kaed on Jessica Monroe’s doorstep with instructions to take care of him. “Do not allow him to die,” the chief tells her.

Can she save him? Or will he meet the same fate that befell her husband, Billy? Although Kaed’s injuries are severe, he recovers under a combination of Jessica’s expert care and his own resolve and inner strength.

The injuries he sustained give him the time he needs to get to know Jessica quickly. Their relationship becomes more intimate in a shorter time span due to the circumstances. Under normal conditions of courtship, the level their relationship skyrockets to in just a few days would take weeks, or months.

Wounding the hero is a way to also show the vile, evil deeds of the villain. We can develop a kinship with the hero as he faces what seem to be insurmountable odds against the villain. How will he overcome those odds? Even if he weren’t injured, it would be hard enough—but now, we feel each setback more keenly than ever. He’s vulnerable in a way he has no control over. How will he deal with it, in the face of this imminent danger?

Enter the heroine. She’ll do what she can to help, but will it be enough to make a difference? This is her chance to show what she’s made of, and further the relationship between them. (If he dies, of course, that can’t happen.)

From this point on, as the hero begins to recover, he also regains his confidence as well as his strength.

It’s almost like “The Six Million Dollar Man”: We can build him stronger…faster…better…

He will recover, but now he has something to lose—the newfound love between him and the heroine. Now, he’s deadlier than ever, and it’s all about protecting the woman he loves.

Or, his injuries may give him a view of life that he hadn’t hoped for before. Maybe the heroine’s care and the ensuing love between them make the hero realize qualities in himself he hadn’t known were there.

In my holiday short story, A Night For Miracles, wounded gunman Nick Dalton arrives on widow Angela Bentley’s doorstep in a snowstorm. Angela is tempted at first to turn him away, until she realizes he’s traveling with three half-frozen youngsters, and he’s bleeding.

As she settles the children into the warmth of her home and begins to treat Nick’s injury, she realizes it’s Christmas Eve—“A Night For Miracles,” Nick says wryly. “I’m ready for mine.”

In this excerpt, the undercurrents between them are strong, but Nick realizes Angela’s fears. She’s almost as afraid of taking in a gunman with a reputation as she is of being alone again.

FROM “A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES” (RELEASE DATE DEC. 2, 2009, TWRP)

Angela placed the whiskey-damp cloth against the jagged wound. The man flinched, but held himself hard against the pain. Finally, he opened his eyes. She looked into his sun-bronzed face, his deep blue gaze burning with a startling, compelling intensity as he watched her. He moistened his lips, reminding Angela that she should give him a drink. She laid the cloth in a bowl and turned to pour the water into the cup she’d brought.

He spoke first. “What…what’s your name?” His voice was raspy with pain, but held an underlying tone of gentleness. As if he were apologizing for putting her to this trouble, she thought. The sound of it comforted her. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t want to think about it. He’d be leaving soon.

“Angela.” She lifted his head and gently pressed the metal cup to his lips. “Angela Bentley.”

He took two deep swallows of the water. “Angel,” he said, as she drew the cup away and set it on the nightstand. “It fits.”

She looked down, unsure of the compliment and suddenly nervous. She walked to the low oak chest to retrieve the bandaging and dishpan. “And you are…”

“Nick Dalton, ma’am.” His eyes slid shut as she whirled to face him. A cynical smile touched his lips. “I see…you’ve heard of me.”

A killer. A gunfighter. A ruthless mercenary. What was he doing with these children? She’d heard of him, all right, bits and pieces, whispers at the back fence. Gossip, mainly. And the stories consisted of such variation there was no telling what was true and what wasn’t.

She’d heard. She just hadn’t expected him to be so handsome. Hadn’t expected to see kindness in his eyes. Hadn’t expected to have him show up on her doorstep carrying a piece of lead in him, and with three children in tow. She forced herself to respond through stiff lips. “Heard of you? Who hasn’t?”

He met her challenging stare. “I mean you no harm.”

She remained silent, and he closed his eyes once more. His hands rested on the edge of the sheet, and Angela noticed the traces of blood on his left thumb and index finger. He’d tried to stem the blood flow from his right side as he rode. “I’m only human, it seems, after all,” he muttered huskily. “Not a legend tonight. Just a man.”

He was too badly injured to be a threat, and somehow, looking into his face, she found herself trusting him despite his fearsome reputation. She kept her expression blank and approached the bed with the dishpan and the bandaging tucked beneath her arm. She fought off the wave of compassion that threatened to engulf her. It was too dangerous. When she spoke, her tone was curt. “A soldier of fortune, from what I hear.”

He gave a faint smile. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Miss Bentley.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this peek into what makes my heroes ‘tick.’ For more information and excerpts, I semi-maintain two blogs for your reading pleasure.

http://www.cherylpiersonbooks.blogspot.com is my writing tips and news blog, and
http://www.westwindsromance.blogspot.com is my western historical blog. You can visit my website at http://www.cherylpierson.com

Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!
Cheryl