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An author with The Wild Rose Press, I strive to bring authors and readers together with a touch of Heart, Soul, and Happily Ever After.

Friday, November 11, 2016

Thankful Author 2016- Laura Strickland

In Remembrance

Back in my youth, my Mom always called this holiday Armistice Day. She spoke the words with reverence as if they were meaningful, even sacred. I’ll admit, I never thought to wonder why. To me it was just Veteran’s Day and—ignorant child that I was—mainly meant a day off from school.
My Mom, born and raised in the Republic of Newfoundland before it became part of Canada, carried with her the remembrance of truths that would only become apparent to me later in life—the significance of what took place at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of that eleventh month, when an armistice was signed ending the war meant to end all wars.
The famed Royal Newfoundland Regiment bled heavily and paid a daunting price during the First World War, sustaining wounds that still impact hearts today.  At Bowring Park in St. John’s, there’s a statue of a caribou—symbol of the regiment—that stands in proud tribute. But can any statue, however bright, match the courage of those boys—many so young they’d lied about their ages in order to sign up—who answered the call of honor at the battle of Beaumont Hamel and paid with their lives?
Now every year on November 11th, the words of my Mom—who’s long lost to me—echo in my mind, solemn and magical. Armistice Day. We speak often of the gratitude due our veterans because, sadly, that great conflict early in the twentieth century did not end war. People still gather their courage just like those Newfoundland boys who died in their hundreds, and step from figurative trenches to do what we would not wish to, facing incredible, insidious and impossible dangers.
For what am I grateful today? Even though I’m an author, words cannot begin to express.

 Can an old, sweet song teach them the true meaning of love?


Brendan O’Rourke hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since he arrived back at the family home in St. John’s, Newfoundland. The famed Celtic fiddler’s being haunted by the ghost of his great-grandfather, Charlie, who’s bent on keeping Brendan from ruining his life with the same selfish choice he made between music and the woman he loved.

Grace Dawe was finished with Brendan O’Rourke eight years ago when he chose music over their relationship. So why can’t she look at him now without going weak in the knees? And why, when he offers everything she’s ever wanted, is she considering his welfare above her own? Not until a beautiful old tune shows them the true meaning of love will they find a way to play their own song.


How unfair could life be? Grace Dawe bit the inside of her lip so hard it brought tears to her eyes. She’d been telling herself for days—ever since she learned Brendan O’Rourke had landed back in St. John’s—she could cope with seeing him. She’d resolved that she wouldn’t avoid her usual haunts on his account, wouldn’t change her habits. And now here she stood in Fitzgerald’s facing him and wishing she could fall through the floor.
He had no right to look so good—better in fact than he had when they parted in a storm of tears and bitter recriminations eight years ago, a break that had shredded her heart. She’d put that heart back together in the intervening years—or thought she had. Yet here she stood with it bleeding in her chest.
Because those intervening years had been kind to him, very kind. No longer the boy with whom she fell so wildly in love, he’d become the man she’d foreseen, his long, lanky legs clothed in a pair of faded jeans, shoulders encased in a worn leather jacket that looked soft as butter, his reddish-brown hair—full of wave—tumbling over his brow as it always had. The beard was new, but it became him. The lean cheeks, marked by long dimples when he smiled, remained the same, as did those hazel eyes, bright with intelligence and a spark of devilry, set under level brows.
Oh, heaven help her, she still wanted him. And she couldn’t let him see it. She absolutely could not let him see.

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Author bio:

Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has pursued lifelong interests in lore, legend, magic and music, all reflected in her writing. She has made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, but is usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario, with her husband and her "fur" child, a rescue dog. Author of Scottish romances Devil Black, His Wicked Highland Ways, Honor Bound: A Highland Adventure and The Hiring Fair as well as The Guardians of Sherwood Trilogy consisting of Daughter of Sherwood, Champion of Sherwood and Lord of Sherwood, she has also published three Steampunk romances, Dead Handsome: a Buffalo Steampunk Adventure, Off Kilter: a Buffalo Steampunk Adventure and Sheer Madness: a Buffalo Steampunk Adventure as well as two Christmas novellas: The Tenth Suitor and Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship, and a Valentine’s novella: Ask me. Her Lobster Cove Historical Romances include The White Gull and the novella, Forged By Love. Awake on Garland Street is her sixteenth book with The Wild Rose press.


  1. Thanks for this post--a reminder we all need to hear.
    And on a lighter note, I love your writer's voice.

    1. Thank you so much! It was an honor for me to write this one.

  2. Angela, Thank you for giving me the opportunity to create this post! I LOVE thankful author.

  3. Beautiful post! Thank you for sharing. Your latest release is on my TBR.

  4. Beautifully said, Laura. Thanks for sharing. :) And congratulations on your latest book. All the best!

    1. Thanks, Mary. And best of luck to you on your upcoming release!

  5. Loved your post, Laura. It brought a tear to my eye. Like you, I'm a Canadian and Remembrance Day means a lot. I always think of my father who fought in WW2 and all the other brave men and women who joined battles far overseas. If only, their sacrifice had ended all wars forever. Good luck with your book. It sounds fascinating.

    1. Thanks, C.B. Just finished watching the Remembrance Day ceremonies from Ottawa. Oh, those bagpipes!