The second half of Pat Henshaw’s Foothills Pride series is finally coming out in print – four of her stories in one volume:
During the recession at the beginning of the 21st century, many gays and lesbians moved from the San Francisco Bay Area and Sacramento to the Sierra Foothills. FLAG (Foothills Lesbians and Gays) was formed. This series was written for them.
The influx of San Francisco Bay Area gays is now commonplace in Stone Acres, California. But that means big city problemsâmuch to the dismay of long-time residents of the small community.
In Relative Best, Zeke Bandyâs hotel becomes a haven for a battered youth. Native American Vic Longbow, who escaped a similarly brutal upbringing, comes face-to-face with it at Zekeâs place. With trouble surrounding them, can Zeke and Vic find their own peace and love?
On the outside, hardware store owner Frank McCord is the townâs bachelor handyman in Frank at Heart. Inside, heâs pining for true love, particularly the regard of software designer Christopher Darling. But recently divorced Christopher isnât looking for another husband.
Country contractor Ben in Waking the Behr has always believed heâs heterosexualâŚuntil he meets city entrepreneur Mitch OâShea. Mitch never thought heâd settle down with a guy from the country. Can a gay city mouse and a sexually confused country mouse find love?
When UC Davis horticulture grad Fen Miller agrees to help out in his cousinâs nursery over Christmas, he rents a room in sous chef John Bartonâs Victorian house. John, another shorter than average man, catches Fenâs interest. But Johnâs past comes back to threaten them both in Short Order.
Excerpt
âIâll leave the happy couple with these words from an old Native American chief who, if he was smart, said them to his other half: âI will fight no more forever.ââ I raised my glass of water and shouted over the noisy crowd, âTo Sammy and Nedâmay they have a long, happy, peaceful life together!â
The raucous audience at Stonewall Saloon whooped and hollered through my words and got even louder after my last sentence. Rising from their seats, Sammy and Ned raised their clasped hands like boxers whoâd won a particularly hard bout but now were on their way to a great wedding.
As they gushed about how happy they were that everybody could make it to their wedding, I started to pack up my banjo and guitars. Tonight Iâd left the fiddle backstage because I was so tired. Iâd been burning too many candles from both ends. After locking away the instruments in the storeroom and breaking down the mic and the amps, I caught the end of Sammyâs speech.
âIf you enjoyed Zeke Bandyâs guitar and banjo playing, remember heâs here at Stonewall Thursday and Friday nights. Weâre honored to have him play at our wedding.â
When the crowd cheered, I stood, turned, and waved to the fifty or sixty bobbing heads on the other side of the stage. Whistles and catcalls joined the shouts and cheers. I had my fans and a lot of regulars in the audience.
âSee ya tomorrow, Red! I love you!â some drunk yelled, and the crowd cheered louder.
âOh, cut it out, guys! Youâre making me blush.â And they were, with all their yells and waves and hoots and hollers.
A cry went up about more beer from one side of the room, and the night proceeded like all the others when I played. Attention spans flew out the window as the beer and hard drinks flowed.
Completely sober, I put away the rest of the equipment and shut off the power on the platform that bar owner Guy Stone had designated as a stage.
Jimmy Patterson, Stoneâs significant other and owner of Pennyâs coffee shops here in Stone Acres, California, waved at me as I returned to the barroom from the storage area in the back.
âI got a table!â He was trying to shout over the noise.
As I limped toward him, men slapped me on the back and told me how much they enjoyed my playing. I kept moving, even though guys tried to stop me and give me requests for Thursday night. One guy even grabbed my face and kissed me, which would have been really flattering, even hot, if he hadnât stopped, stared at me, and said, âYouâre not Tom.â
I turned to walk away, only to hear him shout, âRed, youâre cuter than Tom.â I didnât turn back but heard him yelp like heâd been hit.
I ended up sitting at a big table in the corner of the drinking area with a decent view of the tiny new dance floor. At the table with Jimmy sat four guysâflamboyant designer Fredi Zimmer and his husband, staid, reliable Max Greene, both of whom I knew fairly well, and two guys I didnât know.
My eyes were drawn to the one who had strong cheekbones, long blue-black hair, and vibrant adobe-colored skin. He could easily have been a poster boy for the California Native American Heritage Commission. If I could pick a guy to kiss me unexpectedly, heâd be my choice. The libido I thought dead from overwork rose from its grave.
While the guys wrangled over who was paying for the next round, I took in the other man to the left of my preferred eye candy. This guy flaunted nearly white-blond hair, startling blue eyes, and a California tan, like the ultimate surfer dude. He did nothing for me, but I appreciated the effect heâd probably have on a lot of other guys here tonight.
I could easily see the humor in the three of us sitting at the same table, though. Considering Iâve got bright red hair, porcelain white skin with a thick spattering of freckles, and cornflower blue eyes, this table covered a large portion of the rainbow.
Jimmy introduced us while he partially stood to get Stoneâs attention. âZeke, these are two of the groomsmen, Vic Longbow and Hayden Weller. Zeke Bandy.â
Both of them nodded, a nod I returned.
âHey, man. Nice pickinâ up there.â Hayden, the beach god, waved his nearly empty glass of beer at me.
âThanks.â I never knew what to say when someone complimented me after a performance. While part of me was floating on the post-performance high, the rest of me was critiquing what Iâd done and what Iâd like to do over.
âAre you recorded?â Vicâs voice was low and soothing, the kind of sound that oddly created a center of calm in the middle of the barroom noise. I gladly stepped into the peace and took a deep breath.
I looked down, fleetingly taking in the scarred tabletop, and balanced momentarily on the pinpoint of serenity Vic had presented me.
âNo, no recordings. I havenât ever had the time or energy.â I shrugged. I owned and ran the historical hotel in downtown Stone Acres. When was there time to record?
âWhere do you get the songs? Are they yours?â Vic was focused on me so much that the rest of the table dimmed.
âNo. God, no. Theyâre all old tunes that have been knocking around forever, mostly by bluegrass and folk groups. I take it you donât listen to this kind of sound?â
He smiled. âYouâve opened up a whole new door for me, and I canât wait to explore whatâs inside this new music room.â
His look caressed me enough that my dick perked, and suddenly I dared to believe my dream of finding a boyfriend and possibly a husband wasnât as nebulous as Iâd always thought. If someone this fine could look at my skinny ginger self and respond even half as much as he was, I was on the right path. I grinned at him and he at me.
Yeah, he was too hot for me with his high cheekbones and exotic hair, but I could practice on him and dream, right?
Author Bio
Pat Henshaw, author of the Foothills Pride Stories, has spent her life surrounded by words: Teaching English composition at the junior college level; writing book reviews for newspapers, magazines, and websites; helping students find information as a librarian; and promoting PBS television programs.
Pat was born and raised in Nebraska where she promptly left the cold and snow after college, living at various times in Texas, Colorado, Northern Virginia, and Northern California. Pat enjoys travel, having visited Mexico, Canada, Europe, Nicaragua, Thailand, and Egypt, and Europe, including a cruise down the Danube.
Her triumphs are raising two incredible daughters who daily amaze her with their power and compassion. Fortunately, her incredibly supportive husband keeps her grounded in reality when she threatens to drift away while writing fiction.
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