To any authors/publishers/ tour companies that are looking for the reviews that I signed up for please know this is very hard to do. I will be stopping reviews temporarily. My husband passed away February 1st and my new normal is a bit scary right now and I am unable to concentrate on a book to do justice to the book and authors. I will still do spotlight posts if you wish it is just the reviews at this time. I apologize for this, but it isn't fair to you if I signed up to do a review and haven't been able to because I can't concentrate on any books. Thank you for your understanding during this difficult time. I appreciate all of you. Kathleen Kelly April 2nd 2024

17 April 2024

Yellow Bird’s Song by Heather Miller Blog tour! @HMHFR @cathiedunn @thecoffeepotbookclub


Book Title

Yellow Bird’s Song


Heather Miller

Publication Date

March 19th, 2024


Historium Press




Historical Fiction, Native American Studies, Western, Biography

Rollin Ridge, a mercurial figure in this tribal tale, makes a fateful decision in 1850, leaving his family behind to escape the gallows after avenging his father and grandfather’s brutal assassinations.

With sin and grief packed in his saddlebags, he and his brothers head west in pursuit of California gold, embarking on a journey marked by hardship and revelation. Through letters sent home, Rollin uncovers the unrelenting legacy of his father’s sins, an emotional odyssey that delves deep into his Cherokee history.

The narrative’s frame transports readers to the years 1827-1835, where Rollin’s parents, Cherokee John Ridge and his white wife, Sarah, stumble upon a web of illicit slave running, horse theft, and whiskey dealings across Cherokee territory.

Driven by a desire to end these inhumane crimes and defy the powerful pressures of Georgia and President Andrew Jackson, John Ridge takes a bold step by running for the position of Principal Chief, challenging the incumbent, Chief John Ross.

The Ridges face a heart-wrenching decision: to stand against discrimination, resist the forces of land greed, and remain on their people’s ancestral land, or to sign a treaty that would uproot an entire nation, along with their family.

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As a veteran English teacher and college professor, Heather has spent nearly thirty years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, with empty nest time on her hands, she’s writing herself, transcribing lost voices in American’s history.






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Heather Miller, Author

Yellow Bird’s Song, Excerpt 5

John Ridge, Washington City, Indian Queen Hotel, 1831

After a brief repose, we dressed for dinner and walked toward the renovated dining room. Husbands, wearing white waistcoats, held chairs for their adorned, elegant wives. Across the hall, bachelors hovered in parlors in small groups, standing in front of papered, epic scenes of Greek battles extending from chinked ceiling to hardwood floor. Others smoked cigars behind the anonymity of winged, jewel-toned chairs with faceless hands tapping cigar ash into trays resting atop shining mahogany tables.

I was joined by Coodey, Ross’ observant nephew, and two others: Taylor, with his pessimistic and pensive face, and Tahunski, an elder. Tahunski’s mind was quick, well-informed, responding to his counterparts with a quick tongue. Some might say the same about me—my father, for one. But I had learned to offer silence as the less offensive answer. When Tahunski spoke, I feared what he might say. The man shuffled his chair close to the table, while Coodey sat last, taking the dominant chair at the end.

I sat next to a fellow southerner, or so I assumed, overhearing his banter to the gentleman seated on his left. The southerner’s long hair parted down the middle, although his fashionable sideburns framed a clean-shaven chin. His eyelids folded over his lashes, with a sharp nose above a gracious smile.

He noticed me when I lifted the napkin onto my lap. He leaned to my side and gestured toward the end of the table. “Here comes Brown in that white apron of his. Seems we are to have ham for dinner.”

The weight of the smoked ham required two servants to carry the large platter. After the meat’s grand entrance, Brown held a large fork in one hand and a slicing knife in the other. The entire table applauded when he cut into the meat and served the first guest. Then he continued to plate while servers arranged cutting boards of fresh bread and bowls of seasoned and roasted vegetables to fill and color the white tablecloth. 

Tahunski mumbled, “There’s enough food here to feed New Echota. White man’s excesses.” After his remark, he snapped his napkin open and placed it on his lap, begrudgingly following the rules of European etiquette.

“When in Washington—” I replied.

The talkative white man to my left passed me a serving bowl and said, “Take these. I’ve lost all taste for sweet potatoes.”

I spooned a helping onto my plate, asking, “Why is that, sir? Do you not care for their sweetness? Perhaps it is the texture that turns you from the root.”

“Neither. Ate too many of them once, starved after eating corn mush for months.”

He spooned a serving of stewed greens onto his plate from another serving dish and passed it to me.

With the exchange, I asked, “Did you serve in the militia? My father refuses to eat corn mush for the same reason. Although he has no aversion to sweet potatoes.”

“Yes, in a volunteer regiment from Tennessee.” He cleared his throat. “During the Creek Wars, under Jackson’s command.” He took up his fork and continued his tale, “We took a Red Stick village of mostly women and children. It was the day I decided I’d rather meet my maker with a clean conscience than fight any longer under Jackson’s command. Some other volunteers and I tried to leave after the slaughter, but Jackson threatened me with a lead bullet at close range. So, we unstrapped our blanket rolls and stayed.2 Under one of the burned Creek huts, we found a hole filled with sweet potatoes, enough to feed the men for a month. We were too hungry to ration them. So, we roasted and ate them all in one sitting. After that, I lost my will for slaughter and any taste for sweet potatoes.”3

I said, “My father fought under General Jackson, leading a Cherokee brigade against the Red Sticks at Horseshoe Bend. Your stories remind me of his.”

“You couldn’t be.” The man scoffed and replied, “Then again, I can see the man in your face. Would you be Major Ridge’s son?”

“I am. John Ridge.”

He put down his utensils and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, John. Feel like I know you already if you’re anything like your father. How is the Ridge?”

I rested my fork handle on the edge of my dinner plate and shook his hand. “If you were to ask him, he’d say he’s as young as ever. But, of course, my mother might offer you a different answer altogether.”

“We’d still be fighting barricaded Red Sticks if it weren’t for your father. Name’s Crockett, congressman from Tennessee.”

“Your reputation precedes you, sir,” I replied.

He resumed his dinner with a bite of the steamed greens. “Has to. Reputation is necessary for politicians, regardless of its truth. Just last week, I had a portrait made. Instead of representing myself as a dignified congressman, I donned my buckskins and threw my musket over my shoulder. An hour before, I’d gathered some stray dogs off Pennsylvania Avenue and had them painted sitting at my heels. My constituents expect the frontier Crockett, and I intend to give him to them.”4

Crockett continued, “I received a letter of appreciation from your Chief Ross. He thanked me for standing up to Jackson. Your chief could have just written thank you, but he carried on for four pages. Unfortunately, a once direct man seeking public office loses his aptitude for simplicity after they count the votes.”

I took my knife and sliced two pieces from the bread loaf. Handing one to Crockett, I said, “Then I’ll just offer my thanks. It is no common thing, especially for a southerner, to oppose President Jackson’s Indian removal and stand against the democratic majority.”

“Well, I’d rather be politically buried than hypocritically immortalized.”5

I handed him the butter dish and gestured toward our delegation. “We seek audience with Secretary Eaton and President Jackson.”

“You all might need one of these.” Crockett held his knife into the light and studied its edge. “We call Jackson ‘Sharp Knife’ for a reason. The man is uncompromising. Speaking against him for your people has likely ruined my political career. But our Constitution gives Congress the power of the purse, not the executive. So, I couldn’t see the point in violating such an honorable document to provide this President control over the sum it would take to buy out the Cherokee.” Crockett shook his head and buttered the bread held in his hand.

Tahunski overheard our conversation and offered his thoughts. “Shame we didn’t just kill Jackson at Horseshoe Bend. I didn’t know you then, but I would have shot back if Jackson had threatened my service in a volunteer militia. Taken the man down then if I knew he’d cause my people so much trouble.”6

I said, “If General Jackson gives us an audience, we plan to make it clear how the entire holdings of the Second United States Bank would not be enough to persuade us to move. Nor do I believe America’s tax-paying citizens would agree to such an offer.”

“Agreed. I learned that same lesson from a man behind a plow. Said he wouldn’t vote for me. Course I asked him why. He said I’d voted for an unconstitutional bill, twenty thousand dollars to aid women and children left destitute after a fire in Georgetown. Some of the hardest work I’ve ever done, putting out that blaze. When I saw the poor state of the victims with my own eyes, I voted to relieve their suffering with federal dollars.7

“But that farmer, Horace Bunce, wouldn’t budge. Finally, after offering me a convincing argument, I agreed with him and acknowledged my error. I promised him I’d never vote for such again. Many suffer across this nation, homes ruined by fires or floods I know nothing about. As Bunce said, it was the principle of the thing. Bunce taught me it wasn’t the federal government’s task to offer charity to some and not all.”8

Crockett sliced into cold ham with the knife in his hand. He continued, “The Constitution outlines the responsibilities of government: protection of personal rights and the rights of each state, establishing and maintaining laws, defending against foreign invasion, and regulating trade and tariff.” He speared and took a bite. After swallowing, he said, “Like Bunce said, the rest is just usurpation.”9

During the meal, our conversation attracted the attention of the man seated to Congressman Crockett’s left, who introduced himself as Bluff, a correspondent for the New York Observer. He said, “I attended a dinner here at the Indian Queen last April, honoring deceased President Jefferson. Jackson’s dander was up when he and Vice President Calhoun debated whether states had the right to override federal laws after South Carolina threatened to nullify the administration’s tariff demands. Jackson dominated the first toast, saying, ‘Our Union—it must be preserved!’ Calhoun, not to be outdone, stood and raised his glass after Jackson’s toast. ‘Our Union—next to our liberty, most dear!’”10 

I responded softly, and my two new acquaintances leaned in to hear. “Had I been in attendance, I would have raised my glass only after Calhoun drank from his.”

The three of us poured glasses of wine and set about toasting, “To Liberty—most dear.”

#AmericanHistory #NativeAmericanHistory #TrailOfTears #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub

Tour Schedule Page:

✨ PREORDER ✨ Jasper (Broken Falls, #3) by Laramie Briscoe! #commissionedearned


Jasper (Broken Falls, #3) by Laramie Briscoe

Genre: Small Town Contemporary Romance

Release Date: May 24, 2024



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I never thought my fake marriage, would become real...

Jasper Hamilton

I've always been a pawn in the game of chess my grandfather prefers to play with me. It started when I was a child who didn't have anywhere else to go after my parents were killed.

Gone was my home full of love and warmth, and in its place was a mansion with a man as cold as a winter night.

The only thing that kept me sane were my friends. Those blue-collar buddies who didn't care about my grandpa's bank account.

I never cared about the money either. Until he threatens to take away the one thing I love in this world. The foundation created in their memory. The only way for me to get it back? Play by his rules, take a wife, and secure an heir.

Something I never planned to do after growing up the way I did. But the way I respond to Daisy Williams, and the satisfaction I get from calling her my wife makes me feel like I've been promoted from Pawn to King.

Tropes Included

  • small town

  • blue collar

  • marriage of convenience

  • brooding for everyone but her

Jasper is book three in The Broken Falls Series: a series of interconnected standalones following a group of friends who have become family in small-town West Virginia, and the women who bring them to their knees. You do not have to read them in order, but each book builds upon the relationships of the last.

#BAPpr #LaramieBriscoe #commissionedearned

The Summer I Went Crazy by Laura Koerber Book Tour! @SilverDaggerBookTours #LauraKoerber

The summer I went crazy happened forty years ago

 when I was just seventeen, but I've never forgotten.

It started with rape and ended with a promise. In

 between I fell in love, broke the law, and made an

 irrevocable decision.

The Summer I Went Crazy

by Laura Koerber

Genre: Coming of Age, YA Literary Fiction

The rule for guys like me was that we'd grow up to be like our parents. Our parents put a lot of work and money into making sure we did. I got it all: the expensive private school education, the summers in Europe, the family connections to a congressman and other influential people, an admission to Yale. I was fast tracked for success.

Instead, I became the witness to a rape.

And I fell in love, broke a bunch of laws, made an irrevocable decision, and made a lifetime promise.

And now, forty years later, I am making a phone call.

The Year I Went Crazy is a rewrite of an earlier novel, Coyote Summer. The plot is much the same, but Coyote Summer is a magical realism novel with a fantasy element, while The Summer I Went Crazy is straight realistic literary fiction about coming of age.

**TRIGGER WARNING – While not containing the direct

 decription of rape, it does describe dealing with the

 aftermath of rape and includes drug and alcohol abuse.

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Epilogue:  Utah 2019

          Her phone is ringing. I’m using the land line because the call is too important for a cell phone. I can’t risk the hassles: static, weak sound, or a dropped call. My voice has to reach across the Rocky Mountains, across the Great Plains, and all the way to Wisconsin. And it has to reach across nearly forty years and who knows what changes and pain as well. She never got married. Does that mean anything? Girls who went to Saint Anne’s were brought up to get married. 

Just like the boys who went to St. Andrew’s were supposed to grow up to be captains of business or leaders of the people— like my old buddy, Clint, now known as Congressman Welch. Claire, Clint, and I had been private school kids, brought up with the belief that we were entitled to turn our expensive educations into prestigious positions in society. 

Well, Clint had done that by winning his dad’s seat in Congress. I didn’t know anything about Claire except she’d never married, and she still lived in Camden. Right there in Clint’s district.

She must be scared. 

Ring, ring, ring. Is she standing by the phone, afraid to answer?

I’d phoned her once before, but it was a long, long time ago, a painful conversation between strangers that I still remember with humiliation. I’m expecting this call to be painful too. Ring, ring.

Maybe she isn’t home. Or maybe she’s letting her message machine take the calls. That seems likely, come to think of it. She’s probably been getting harassing calls. Christ, harassing calls! At least mine isn’t one of those. Please answer. Please. Ring, ring. 

She isn’t answering. Well, I can understand that. So I need to say something to her message machine, something that will remind her without scaring her. Maybe just tell her my name and hope—

“Hello?” Suddenly her voice. Tentative, as she’d been the last time. I’m so startled that I gibber incoherently, “Claire? Claire? It’s Benny. I’m Benny?”

Silence. I can hear her breathing. “Claire?” I try again, afraid that she might hang up. “Do you remember me?  Benny from high school. I made a promise to you?”

She starts to cry.

Chapter One: The Party, June, 1983

The rule was that Camden girls were all dogs. That’s what all the St. Andrew’s guys said. It wasn’t true; some, maybe even most, were pretty, but the guys joked about what dogs they were anyway. Camden girls went to public school, so they had to be dogs. 

We were all real studs, of course. Healthy in body and mind: athletic, scholarly, regular attendees at church, destined to be lawyers or CEOs or Congressmen. Or maybe doctors but not family practice. Some high paying specialty. We were going to pick up wives along the way from the stock available at an Ivy League college or a country club or something like that. And our wives would be pretty. At least for the first couple of years.

We were going grow up to be our parents. That was another rule. 

So I kind of wondered why I was checking myself out so carefully in the mirror. My hair was combed, I had no obvious zits, and I’d applied deodorant. I looked like a prep school kid. I liked looking like a prep school kid because I was a prep school kid, but something was bugging me.

I wasn’t very tall. Maybe that was it.  

Clint banged on my bedroom door, two thumps, like a code. He didn’t say anything. I grabbed my monogrammed leather jacket, a gift from my big sister. Her idea of macho, I think, intended to make me more impressive to the female gender. I slapped my butt to make one last wallet check. As long as I had my wallet, nothing could go too badly wrong.

Clint was sashaying down the hall like he lived in my house. Well, he’d been my best friend forever, and we were always running in and out of each other’s houses. I could tell by his loping, lopsided stride that he was drunk already. Him first, me behind, we galloped down the stairs. 

 On the way to the door, we passed the archway to the main living room, the big room at the front of the house. Neither of my parents was in there which meant they were down the hall in the den or the TV room. I leaned around the door and hollered, “Hey, I’m off!” From the depths of the house, my mom shouted back, “Have fun!” Clint and I were on our way to a party. Not a party with anyone I would know. Someone had invited Clint, and Clint had invited the rest of us.

By “us” I mean me, Marty, and Rob. They were waiting in Clint’s car, having started the party off up in Clint’s room at his house with some hard liquor. I clambered into the nearly vestigial back seat, bumped shoulders with Rob, and got a nose full of his aftershave. Clint stomped on the gas, and we launched ourselves upon the world with a roar from the engine of his bright red Mustang. 

 I watched the big houses of our neighborhood flash by and morph into the brick store fronts of downtown Camden. The streets were wet and smeared with the colors of the streetlights and neon. Clint charged the yellow traffic lights and bullied his way through the bar crowd traffic. Once he got past downtown, he rammed the gas pedal down and we roared through a neighborhood of little white cottages, acres of them—student housing for the state university. I knew a grad of our school who lived somewhere out there in Outer Slobovia. He said he wanted to be a veterinarian, but really he just didn’t get very good grades at our school, so he had to go to a state U. We passed knots of students standing at the corners or walking around. Marty hollered out the window at them just to be obnoxious. One group responded with peace signs, and I saw a hand raised with a joint.

“Hey, they have some pot,” Marty yelled over the radio.

          “What?” Clint yelled back.

          “Those townies were going to give us some pot.”

          “Plenty where we’re headed.”

We flew down the long slant to the river, accelerated across the bridge, and shot up the hill on the other side into the alien world of rural Wisconsin. Dairy farms. Or some other kinds of farms. Farms anyway. I was from Camden, but I didn’t know anything about farms except the obvious: They were spaced at regular intervals; each had a very, very bright light attached to the barn; and they were fenced. Because of cows, I assumed.

We hurtled through the darkness. Clint always drove like a fighter pilot, swooping and swerving. He got very relaxed and fluid when drunk, and I actually was not afraid he’d kill us. I just rolled around with the turns, first me leaning into Rob, then Rob leaning into me. Then Clint braked abruptly, aimed the car between fence posts, and we bounced up a dirt road to a yard packed with cars parked every which way around a shabby farm house.

I could tell right away that most of the kids were not from our school because the pickup trucks and cars looked like they belonged to somebody's mom or dad. Clint braked with a flourish, and the red Mustang came to a quivering halt, exhaling steam into the cool night air. We all disentangled ourselves and climbed out.

#Yabooks #youngadult #comingofage #LiteraryFiction #TheSummerIWentCrazy @IzzyJody #books #readers #reading #booklovers #booktok #bookbuzz #bookboost #BookPromo #AuthorPromo  #BookBlogger #Bookstagram #bookish #bookclub #MustRead #Writersofinstagram #AmReading #BookTour #Giveaway #writingcommunity #readerscommunity 

Laura is an artist who lives on an island with her husband and her two dogs. She has always entertained herself by telling herself stories. As a child, she used to like going to bed because she could lie awake under the covers and run movies in her head. Later, as an adult, she enjoyed long distance driving for the opportunity to spend hours writing novels in her imagination.

Now Laura divides her retirement time between dog rescue, care for disabled people, political activism, and yes, she still tells herself stories while she is driving. Her first book, The Dog Thief and Other Stories, written under the pen name of Jill Kearney, was listed by Kirkus Review as one of the One Hundred Best Indy Books of 2015. She's also the author of I Once Was Lost, But Now I'm Found, Limbo, The Eclipse Dancer, and Wild Hare. She has a story contribution in the book Rescue Smiles, too.

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