John Six Feathers believes the truth of what happened at Wounded Knee one-hundred and ten years ago has not been told. He wants to see the medals of honor given to soldier's who participated in the slaughter of women and children removed.
Faith Donahey believes the truth is more than just an overall picture, and her great-great grandfather deserves the medal of honor he received, despite what the Lakota say. A horrible accident on the highway, a spiritual intervention, and the truth as they knew it becomes the truth as they will tell their children and their grandchildren down through time. This is a chronicle of their times and the events thereof.
While this is a love story, it is also a cautionary tale of people and how they learn from one another and grow to understand their similarities as well as their differences. Cultural barriers are breached as the vast wilderness swallows them in a tale of something so tainted and vilifying they must band together or be destroyed by the fear and hatred of one people and the unquiet desperation of another.
I loved writing this tale and found the research both riveting and heartbreaking.
Riveting in the respect of wanting to know more, to learn what, why and how one people can be so arrogant as to treat another people with such lethal disregard for their rights and their lives. Of course, there has always been greed. The deadliest of the deadly sins.
Heartbreaking for the obvious reasons. Anyone who has ever studied—even casually—the plight of the many Indian tribes in this nation must be touched by the wrongness of it. Whole clans slaughtered, their cultures and languages destroyed—and only a few remain. There have been many tales of a similar nature regarding the American Indians—Sand Creek Massacre comes to mind immediately. These and other atrocities echo stories from around the world. From Ireland to Scotland, India and many other places colonized by the British; to the Mongols, Viking and Saxon invasions, the Celts, the Romans… The list is endless, and in my quest to tell stories that depict the human condition as well as give a bit of history, I find this particular incident—Wounded Knee—a prime example of terrorist tactics.
And a most horrid blot on the honor of this country. To have actually given murdering soldiers Medals of Honor for killing women and children was—and remains—a shameful thing.
But that is another story for another day. I will regale you no further with my proverbial soap box. I only ask that you read my books with an unjaundiced eye and enjoy the story. And if, perhaps, your sense of justice is moved to cry "foul!" then I have done some good, I think.
When I began research for the Lakota Moon Series I ran across a website that deals with donations for the people of Pine Ridge Reservation. Reading further, I discovered this place in the center of our country is one of the poorest places in the nation, and like a 3rd world country in some respects. It made me ashamed to be an American, for the first time in my life. I cannot imagine children who have no school supplies, people without winter coats, families who know hunger—not here in the USA.
I bookmarked the sites that pertain to this and kept up with the issues, eventually joining and contributing to their drives. Anyone who is interested in helping, may go to their site at:
While there have been innovations and changes recently that the Lakota have taken to improve their lives, such as small business development, there is a long road ahead and my hope is that others will see their efforts and be willing to assist.
The Lakota are a proud people and the only Native American Nation to withstand the onslaught of the pioneering whites. They drove the white man away, thanks to Red Cloud and Crazy Horse's leadership, and until the 'goons' in Washington broke the treaties and sent troupes in, they remained free on their lands.
My social conscience was stricken heavily by the horrible conditions these people live with and it boggles the brain to think of the money spent on foreign wars when we have so much need right here.
When you read my books—and I wish you will—you will hopefully glimpse the true people of the Nations. They are a treasure trove of wisdom and knowledge we've only begun to tap.
Diane Davis White
From the HeartlandNext in the Series will be book four, Moon of Tender Grass, unfinished but shaping up nicely. This will be another time travel and the historical subject will be The Battle at Greasy Grass Creek, better known as Little Big Horn.
An exciting tale of a family caught up in the series of events preceeding the battle, and their experiences in the aftermath--both then and now.
Moon of Tender Grass, Blue Crow's Story
This is a fun series, lighthearted and playful, with gradually increasing heat levels until the last book, The Chickasaw Wore Plaid, turns up the heat to scorching. I planned the books this way to entice the reader to step a little further into the fire with each book.
The Campbell's are coming to Texas and things will never be the same!
Archie Campbell and his business partner, Graham Macdonald conspire to increase their business by using their grandchildren in an ad campaign, posing as a happily married couple. The problem is getting the younger generation to cooperate.
Tav Macdonald isn't keen on marriage, even a pretend one. Yet his first sight of the lovely Vanessa Campbell has him rethinking his position on the matter.
Vanessa Campbell has no intention of indulging her wily old grandfather's scheme to marry her off to a Texas Rancher. Seeing the handsome cowboy, however, gives her pause to reconsider the idea.
This book is available at Kindle as well as FictionWise and All Romance eBooks. Be sure and get your copy soon and begin the slow burn that eventually erupts into a roaring bonfire of passion.
"Last night has nothing to do with today, Tav. You’ve been promising to show me the ranch. What better way than to have me along while you do your chores?"
"Watch yourself, missy. I might put you to work."
"I’m game," came her snappy answer. "We have horses and cattle and sheep in the highlands. On a much smaller scale than this of course, but I’m no stranger to what you call wrangling. I’ve even mended a fence or two in my time."
"You? Mend fence?" Tav let a scoffing sound escape. That mistake cost him a stinging slap across the rear with a rawhide glove for his insolence. He turned and snatched the glove out of Nessa’s hand. "Lady, if you want me to turn you over my knee, right here, right now, in full sight of every man on this ranch, do that one more time."
"You sound so ferocious, Mactavish." She smiled wickedly. "Too bad I know you so well. You’d never dare—"
He didn’t know what made him do it. One minute he was holding her glove and glaring at her, the next minute he’d grabbed her around the waist and slung her over his shoulder. He headed for the barn. Nessa squirmed and squealed. He just held on firmly and slapped her shapely rear once when she wiggled so hard they almost fell in the mud.
Once in the shelter of the barn, he closed the wide double doors and turned to face her. Nessa had backed up to the far wall. There was no escape. He grinned. The woman was conveniently close to the ladder to the loft. Every frustration he’d felt for her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, every sleepless night, and lust filled thought merged into one mindless drive. He took a step, then another, moving in on his prey.
Primeval hunger blinded him. Like a conquering clansman taking the spoils of war. She looked so defenseless, though she didn’t cower. Her eyes were trained on him—huge, startled, so blue no sky could match the shade. She held herself poised as though to run—or fight.
Tav’s blood surged, pushing him painfully against his zipper at the thought of wrestling her to the ground, tearing away the cloth that separated their flesh. Her lips parted slightly, tongue darting out to lick the corner of her mouth. God help him, he was going to ravish her.
He closed the distance, halting inches from her. One hand came up of its own volition, stroking the silky flesh of her throat. He heard a growling noise, not recognizing it as coming from his throat. Tracing the contours of her finely molded facial bones, he allowed his other hand to circle her nape, drawing her up toward his mouth.
"Stop, Tav. Please."
Her softly spoken plea barely registered as he took her lips, silencing her words. Nibbling at her lips, sucking them, pressuring them apart with his tongue, he mindlessly devoured her mouth, coming alive as she responded, stroking her tongue against his with the same frantic urgency.
He pressed her to the wall, lifting her to fit him, sliding a knee between her thighs. She closed her self around him and the damp heat of her seeped through their clothing, burning his muscled flesh as she moved against him.
I write for pleasure, mainly western historical with Native American Heroes, the occasional contemporary romance and also bit of whimsical fantasy. My heroes are always modeled after my late husband, whose Chickasaw heritage inspires me. Alpha heroes are the only kind I write, and they have to be compassionate, passionate and intelligent or they never make it to the page. My published work includes Native American Romance and I'm published in several contemporary anthologies as well. Along with writing, I've branched out to produce book trailer videos.
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