The cowboy is such a romantic soul
Every culture needs legends and heroes; the Cowboy is one of America's best. We see honor, leadership, integrity, hard work, strength and freedom in the cowboy. We envy the simplicity of his long day's labor and the wide-open spaces he roams. Little boys want to grow up to be him, and many little girls want to grow up and marry him. He contains the last vestiges of wildness allowed in the new millennium, and as much as our country changes, he remains the same. America needs the Cowboy both to remind us of how far we have come and to bring us back to the simplicity of the values he represents.
From Zane Grey to Linda Lael Miller, authors have painted the cowboy as sexy, romantic, virile, the ultimate alpha male. He ropes horses, fights bad guys, wears jeans that hug him like a second skin and sweeps women off their feet. He dances the Texas Two-Step and the waltz with equal ease, sips aged bourbon or ice cold beer with equal aplomb and can shoot a target dead center from a thousand feet. I mean, what’s not to love?
I live in one of the greatest places of the world, the Texas Hill Country, where I am surrounded by ranches. On a frosty morning I can see the quintessential cowboy mounted on his horse, buttoned into his sheepskin-lined jacket, his Stetson pulled low over his forehead to shield his eyes from the rising son, thighs clenched against the flanks of his mount as he urges him forward after a recalcitrant calf or a wandering cow. He is the idol of dreams, the star of fantasies, as he rides with a smooth gait across the acres of pasture rolling off toward the horizon.
And then, of course, at the end of the day, with the dust of the land showered from his body, he makes mad, passionate, exquisite love to the woman of his heart. Or in some case, the many women of his heart!
And this is why I make the cowboy the central figure in so many of my stories.
From Back in the Saddle:
Picture yourself in the local honky tonk, a dark atmosphere redolent with the scent of beer and good whiskey, the jukebox playing in the corner and the man of yourt dreams in jeans, boots and western shirt and a look that makes every boen in your body melt:
“I…haven’t danced in a while,” she said lamely as she tried to relax in his grip.
God. Could I sound any more idiotic?
He chuckled, a low rumbling sound. “I think it’s like riding a horse. You never really forget. I think you could probably say that about everything.”
His lean fingers massaged the knot at the nape of her neck, his arm holding her against him as they shifted their bodies minimally in place. The stroking of those fingers sent shivers down her spine, but they also coaxed her to relax and move in rhythm with him. She actually found herself leaning her head against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “I learned music can make you forget just about any damn thing.”
She wanted desperately to ask him what he was working so hard to forget, but he’d made it very clear that was off limits. Maybe she’d give her friend Jacie a call and see what the dirt was. She hadn’t called any of her friends since she’d been back, but now curiosity was breaching her self-imposed exile.
The song ended and again another one clicked into place. Chance made no move to lead her from the dance floor. Instead, he simply kept moving in place, the two of them swaying to the music.
From Down and Dirty
Now picture a large, sprawling Texas ranch with a typical ranch house, stone and adobe with wood floors and the owner, sin on the hoof, surrounding you with his male scent of musk and cattle and earth:
The voice was rich as sin and warm as melted chocolate. Krista’s head snapped up, and she nearly melted into a puddle at what she saw. Six foot five of the most mouth-watering male she’d ever seen. Thick, curly black hair crowned a face that the word ‘rugged’ was made for. Lashes equally as dark shaded eyes of smoky silver. A thin cotton plaid shirt and soft jeans barely concealed the hard musculature of his body. Crisp dark hair peeked out where the shirt was open at the neck, and the rolled-up sleeves revealed arms with well defined muscles that didn’t come from any gym. A chocolate Stetson crowned his head and hand-tooled boots covered his feet.
Krista wildly looked around for paper towels or a cloth or something to wipe herself with. Remembering the bandana, she pulled it out and began blotting herself.
“Here. Let me.”