Dear Ones,

I’m writing to share with you the history behind Ryan’s Hand as my first, long-ago attempt to put on paper a story of fiction and to say (caution?) that you will find this book—an out-and-out romance—a departure from the more recent historical sagas of Roses, Tumbleweeds, Somerset, and Titans. That Ryan’s Hand and the other two romances subsequently published in the mideighties have been resurrected to a second life has both thrilled and somewhat concerned me. I am thrilled at the interest of my readership in the books that spurred their republication and concerned that the books may disappoint my readers’ expectations. Therefore, without a whiff of apology, I believe a little explanation is in order.

In 1982 I became aware of the Harlequin and Silhouette tidal wave sweeping the country, to name a couple of romance publishers in the forefront of the genre. The eye-opener happened in my classroom at a local junior high school where I was a teacher of ninth-grade English. I began to notice that many of the girls hurried to their seats to open up small, white-jacketed books to read before the bell rang. Curiosity—and the thrill of seeing my students reading something other than surreptitiously passed notes—drew me to their desks to see what had claimed their riveted attention. The handover was usually accompanied by a blush. “Ah, Mrs. Meacham, I don’t know that this is the type of thing you read,” my students would say, or something on that order.

To which I’d reply, “As long as you’re reading, I don’t care what the subject matter is.” Well, of course I did, but the books—romances, they were called—seemed harmless enough.

So I decided to read several for myself, an experience that led me to express to a colleague that while I understood the allure of the books to teenage girls and the women who flocked to the well-stocked shelves in bookstores to buy them, I found the usual dissension between the main male and female characters implausible. I distinctly remember saying, “Why, their silly conflict could be settled over a cup of coffee at Denny’s.” To which she seriously replied, “Well, then, why don’t you write one yourself and show ’em how it should be done?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I said. “I don’t know the first thing about how to write a book, romance or otherwise.”

“I bet you can,” she said, “and I’m willing to put money on it. If you try and can’t, I’ll buy you a steak dinner at the San Francisco Steak House, and if you try and can, you’ll buy me one.”

Well, to my utter shock, considering I didn’t even know how to chapter a novel, I lost the bet. That summer during school vacation, confident that my friend would be picking up the tab at the San Francisco Steak House, I sat down at my old Smith-Corona electric typewriter (’twas the predawn of the PC, and I wasn’t awake yet) to give the romance genre a whirl, if for no other reason than to appreciate the writers of the category who tried and succeeded. So Ryan’s Hand was conceived. I was determined that the enmity between hero and heroine (who, of course, as the formula dictated, were really secretly hot for each other) was well deserved, and the story evolved from there. Novice that I was, I broke the cardinal rule of fiction: I wrote about what I didn’t know. I never knew anybody the likes of Jeth and Cara, had never been to Boston, sat on a horse, twirled a rope, or been on a cattle roundup. I did, however, know about West Texas, land of sandstorms, blistering heat, pumping jacks, and fabulous people. A perfect setting where I could allow my imagination to run wild, I thought, as long as it did not stray too far from what I could see were the established guidelines of the romance.

When the book was completed, the same colleague suggested I send it to a local literary agent, and before I knew it, six weeks later, Ryan’s Hand was acquired for publication. As a result, I was put under contract for two more romances, Crowning Design and Aly’s House, which were published in the following two years. But I’d had enough of writing and publishing. I did not care for the solitary life and isolation of a writer, and I found the experience of meeting deadlines unnerving. I returned to the classroom, and my books went the dusty way of many an unknown author’s first literary efforts, without my ever learning whether I had showed anyone “how it should be done” or not.

But that was then, and this is now, thirty-two years later. In the sweeter light of now, I elected to let the books stand as they were then, warts and all. I ask only that you read with the understanding that at the time of their creation, I did not know what in the world I was doing. Please treat kindly and do be well.

Leila Meacham