Great to have you here, Jennifer - I am leaning more and more toward those sexy cowboys as I learn the craft of erotic romance writing so I was a very happy girl when I read your blog post. It gave me food for thought about the whole western thing as a setting for a story...the sex part I can pretty much conjure up myself when I think of half-naked cowboys! ; )
WESTERN OR NOT?
Michaela and Sully. Stands with a Fist and John Dunbar. Hawkeye and Cora. Charley and Sue.
Have I got you thinking? What TV series or movies did these characters come from?
*insert Jeopardy music here*
OK, time's up!
Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman; Dances with Wolves; Last of the Mohicans. Open Range.
Now, down to business. :) The characters I mentioned are those I never tire of. These are the kind of characters I write about (or aspire to). These are the kind of characters that grow larger than life in my head. Ever since elementary school, when I spent my summers reading about Sacajawea leading Lewis and Clark, I’ve had a love affair with frontier stories. So I have to wonder: Does that make me a western historical romance writer? I’m not sure. Let me explain. In my opinion ‘western’ brings to mind a certain image. When you say the word, do you automatically picture Clint Eastwood or John Wayne riding down a dusty Texas street? Do you picture two gun-slingers meeting on said street at high noon? Mmm-Hmm. Me too.
And therein lies my dilemma. None of my stories take place in Texas. Stagecoaches? Nope. Cacti? Sorry. And *gasp* there’s not a tumbling tumbleweed in sight. Yikes!
Am I a fraud? Will the real card-carrying western romance writers kick me out of Dodge? :) OK, I joke, but it’s something I’ve given some – maybe too much – thought to. And I have to ask: What is my subgenre?
A chaptermate suggested I call my work frontier historical romance. What do you think? What do you expect when you pick up a book labeled western historical romance?
I'd love to give an e-book of RAFE'S REDEMPTION to one lucky commentator!
He rode into town to buy supplies, not a woman.
For hunted recluse Rafe McBride, the raven-haired beauty on the auction block is exactly what he doesn't need. A dependent woman will be another clue his vengeful stepbrother can use to find and kill him. But Rafe's conscience won't let him leave another innocent's virginity to the riff-raff bidding. He buys her, promising to return her to St. Louis untouched. He only prays the impending blizzard holds off before her sultry beauty breaks his willpower.
She wanted freedom, not a lover.
Whisked to the auction block by her devious, gambling cousin, and then sold into the arms of a gorgeous stranger, outspoken artist Maggie Monroe isn't about to go meekly. Especially when the rugged mountain man looks like sin and danger rolled into one. But a blizzard and temptation thrust them together, and Maggie yearns to explore her smoldering passion for Rafe.
But when the snow clears, will the danger and secrets that surround Rafe and Maggie tear them apart?
Maggie wanted freedom, not a lover…
Oh, Lord. He was going to kiss her. She shouldn’t want this. She was confused enough.
Respectable women didn’t kiss men they barely knew, certainly not men who made them have wild,
It was crazy. He was making her want crazy things. Making her not give a damn about her reputation
or her virginity. Or her long-awaited freedom. All she could think about was that dream, and the way
his sinful mouth had felt. The table was only a step away, and honey was just as sweet as peach juice…
She swallowed hard and looked up into his hooded eyes.
“Maggie,” he groaned. “Don’t be scared. I’d never hurt you.”
Her mouth parted to object, but firm lips covered hers, hungry, demanding. She gasped, shocked at his
hunger, but even more at the illicit response coursing through her. An aching heat unfurled low in her
stomach, pulsed between her legs. Oh, yes. It started just like in the dream.
He deepened the kiss, coaxed her lips with his warm tongue. Long, languid strokes teased the inside of
her mouth, encouraging, tempting before he pulled back to nibble the corners of her lips.
Oh, God. Is this what all kisses felt like? Hot, lethargic? Melting her like molasses over warm bread?
“Kiss me, Maggie,” he breathed.
About the Author
After trying several careers—everything from a beautician to a dump truck driver—Jennifer finally returned to her first love, writing. Maybe it was all those Clint Eastwood movies she watched growing up, but in her opinion there is no better read than a steamy western historical.
Married to her very own hero, she lives on fifteen acres along with two beautiful daughters, two elderly horses, two spoiled cats and two hyper dogs.
During the summer she does Civil War re-enacting and has found it a great research tool, not to mention she has continued appreciation for her microwave and hot water heater.
Visit Jennifer Jakes at www.jenniferjakes.com
Ok, you've pulled me in Jennifer! And I really admired you for writing a full-length erotic romance novel. Not sure I could do that...but never say never.
Great post - over to you guys...what makes a western a western?