Five Ways Easter and Spring Appear in Western Fiction by Caroline Clemmons

 

Spring arrives differently on the frontier. There are no department store window displays, no pastel ribbons tied to city lampposts. Instead, spring shows up in the smell of thawing earth, the sound of creeks running high with snowmelt, and the first brave wildflowers pushing through soil that seemed dead just weeks before. For readers and writers of western historical fiction, that rawness makes spring—and Easter—even more meaningful. 

Here are five ways Easter and spring naturally appear in western historical fiction, and why those moments resonate so deeply with readers. 

1. Easter Sunday Services in Frontier Towns and Homesteads 

Church was one of the few community institutions that took root almost as soon as settlers did, and Easter Sunday was one of its biggest days of the year. In western historical fiction, an Easter service can do a remarkable amount of storytelling work in just a few pages. 

Picture a small congregation crowded into a clapboard church barely bigger than a barn, or a circuit preacher arriving on horseback just in time to hold services under an open sky. Easter meant: 

• Families dressed in their very best, even if "best" meant a clean calico dress and boots polished with tallow. 
• Communities gathering from miles around—ranches, homesteads, and town lots alike. 
• Hymns sung without instruments, or accompanied by a battered pump organ someone hauled west in a wagon. 
• Sermons about resurrection and hope that meant something particular to people who had lost so much to weather, illness, and distance. 

For characters carrying grief—a widow rebuilding after loss, a rancher starting over after a failed first venture—that Easter message lands differently than it would in a comfortable eastern parlor. And for readers, those scenes carry genuine emotional weight. 

2. Spring Planting as a Symbol of Hope and Survival 

In the historical West, spring planting was not optional. It was the difference between eating and not eating come winter. That urgency gives spring garden and field scenes a tension that purely decorative settings never quite achieve. 

In western historical fiction, the planting season often marks a turning point: 

• A new widow deciding whether to stay on her land or sell out plants her first spring garden alone—and her choice to press seeds into the soil is her answer. 
• A hero and heroine who have been circling each other warily find common ground working side by side to get crops in before a coming storm. 
• A homesteader's first kitchen garden signals permanence; she is no longer just surviving—she is building something. 

Seed catalogs, which began reaching frontier homes in the latter half of the nineteenth century, appear in period fiction as small miracles. Imagine a woman poring over descriptions of vegetables and flowers she has never grown, making careful choices about what to order with very little money. That catalog is her plan for the future written on paper. 

Spring planting also carried the weight of everything that could go wrong—late frost, drought, grasshoppers, flooding. That vulnerability keeps frontier hope from feeling naive. These characters know the risks. They plant anyway. 

3. Wildflowers and the Return of Color to the Land 

After a hard western winter, color comes back to the land gradually and then all at once. For readers and writers of western historical fiction, that return of color is deeply satisfying—and symbolically rich. 

Different regions brought different blooms: 

• Texas hill country and prairies burst with bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, and evening primrose in March and April. 
• The Kansas and Nebraska plains saw pasqueflowers pushing through while snow still patched the ground. 
• The Colorado foothills offered early shooting stars and golden banner along creek banks before the higher elevations had thawed. 

In fiction, wildflowers can mark the emotional turning point of a story. A heroine who arrived in the West in the dead of winter, doubting every choice she made, steps outside one April morning to find the world has gone gold and blue while she wasn't looking. It doesn't fix her problems, but it gives her a reason to stay. 

Wildflowers also give western heroes a rare chance at tenderness. A rough-edged rancher who stops work to let a patch of wild columbine bloom undisturbed, or who brings a handful of field flowers to a woman who has had very few gentle moments—those small details build character quietly and effectively. 

4. Easter Traditions Carried West From Home 

Frontier families did not leave all their traditions behind when they crossed the Mississippi. They carried them west in memory and practice, adapting as needed with whatever materials the land offered. 

Easter traditions that appear in western historical fiction include: 

• Egg dyeing with natural materials: onion skins for gold and rust tones, beet juice for pink, walnut hulls for brown. Frontier women were resourceful, and their Easter eggs were no less beautiful for being made without store-bought dye. 
• Easter baskets filled with what was available: dried fruit, a small paper of hard candy, a new hair ribbon if the family could manage it. 
• Special Easter meals: a ham if the smokehouse allowed, fresh bread, a cake or pie that represented real sacrifice in sugar and flour. 
• New clothes for Easter Sunday—or the wish for them. A child's longing for a new dress or a young woman carefully mending her best outfit to be presentable can tell you everything about her circumstances without a word of explanation. 

These traditions, adapted to frontier conditions, connect characters to the homes and families they left behind. They also show readers that the West was settled by whole people—people who missed things, who tried to hold onto beauty even when life was hard, and who believed that celebration still mattered when there wasn't much to spare. 

5. Spring as the Season of New Beginnings in the Story Arc 

In western historical fiction, spring often arrives at the same time a romance is finding its footing—and that parallel rarely feels accidental. The season does thematic work that supports the story without the author having to spell it out. 

Spring in the story arc can signal: 

• A fresh start after winter hardship: Two characters who weathered something difficult together—a blizzard, a cattle loss, an illness—emerge into spring changed, and closer. 
• The reopening of possibilities: Trails that were impassable in winter are clear. New people arrive in town. Old grudges feel less fixed when the air smells like green grass and wild onion. 
• The approach of a deadline: Spring also brings roundup, trail drives, and planting urgency. Those practical pressures push characters toward decisions they have been avoiding all winter. 

One of the things I love most about writing western historical fiction is that the land itself keeps time. Readers feel the turn of the seasons as a real, physical thing—not just a backdrop, but a participant in the story. Spring's arrival, with all its wildness and hope and risk, is one of the most powerful tools a Western author has. 

Whether it's an Easter Sunday that draws a lonely widow back into her community, a garden planted as an act of stubborn faith, or a hillside gone brilliant with wildflowers overnight, spring in the historical West carries a particular kind of promise. It has been tested by winter. It knows what it costs to return. And it comes back anyway—which is really the heart of every good Western romance. 

Wind from the Abyss by Janet Morris

 

 

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler ....

She is descended from the masters of the universe.

To hold her he challenges the gods themselves. 

Wind From the Abyss

The Silistra Quartet Book 3

by Janet Morris

Genre: Dystopian Epic SciFi Fantasy Romance

Dystopia. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.

 

Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris' classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman's quest for self-realization in a distant tomorrow.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler .... She is descended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the gods themselves.

 

Praise for Janet Morris' Silistra Quartet:

"The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow's universe." -- Fred Pohl

"Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure." -- Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.

"The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris' Silistra series." -- Anne K. Kahler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.

 

This Perseid Press Author's Cut Edition is revised and expanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance your reading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, and covers designed for these premium editions.

 

Wind from the Abyss starts with this . . .

 

"Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did not recollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding as would have led me to an awareness of the significance of the various occurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns, I am adding this preface, though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of the events described by "Khys' Estri" (as I have come to think of the shadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) not be withheld from you as they were from me. I knew myself not: I was Estri because the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped of comprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatest irony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who in reality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expression of Khys' humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences, my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bring together once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea, then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar, co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen son of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys' puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastly becoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoing retribution at the dharen's hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen, the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper's city -- and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed: siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum, whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did the dharen Khys bespeak it, himself. . ."

 

“Morris, so good at giving us characters we can identify with, characters we can love and hate, strikes at the very heart of the human condition and the duality of humanity — both good and evil. Her prose is lean and spot-on, every word carefully chosen to enhance the milieu of her imaginary world and advance the plot, giving us access to the thoughts, emotions and machinations of the people whose stories she is presenting to us. Once again, she gives us a “thinking man’s” science fiction/fantasy that explores the nature of power and sexuality, and how they can be used, misused and abused. This is a brilliant, mature and very adult novel that will not only leave you thinking about your own place in the universe, but questioning the very nature of existence.” – Goodreads reviewer

 

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I.In Mourning for the Unrecollected

 

The hulion hovered, wings aflap, at the win­dow, butting its black wedge of a head against the pane. Its yellow eyes glowed cruelly, slit-pupiled. Its white fangs, gleam­ing, were each as long as my forearm.

I screamed.

Its tufted ears, flat against its head, twitched. Again and again, toothed mouth open wide, it battered at the window, roaring.

Once more I screamed and ran stumbling to the far wall of my prison. I pounded upon the locked doors with my fists, pressing myself against the wood. Sobbing, I turned to face it.

The beast’s ears flickered at the sound. Those jaws, which could have snapped me in half, closed. It cocked its head.

I trembled, caught in its gaze. I could retreat no farther. I sank to my knees, moaning, against the door frame.

The beast gave one final snort. Those wings, with a spread thrice the length of a tall man, flapped decisively, and it was gone.

When the hulion was no more than a speck in the greening sky, I rose clumsily, shaking, to collect the papers I had strewn across the mat in my terror. They were the arrar Carth’s papers, those he had forgotten in his haste to answer his returning master’s summons.

I knelt upon my hands and knees on the silvery pile, that I might gather the pages and replace them in the tas-sueded folder before Carth returned.

Foolish, I thought to myself, that I had so feared the hulion. It could not have gotten in. I could not get out: It could not get in. Once I had thrown a chair at that impervious clarity. The chair had splintered. With one stout thala leg, as thick as my arm, had I battered upon that window. All I had accomplished was the transformation of chair into kindling. The hulion, I chided myself, could have fared no better.

Hulions, upon occasion, have been known to eat man-flesh. Hulions, furred and winged, fanged and clawed, are the servants of the dharen who rules Silistra. I had had no need to fear. Yet, I thought as I gathered the arrar Carth’s scattered papers, hulions are fearsome. Perhaps if I had been able, as others are, to hear its mind’s intent, I would have felt differently. My fingers, numb and trembling, fumbled for the delicate sheets.

One in particular caught my eye. It was in Carth’s precise hand and headed: “Preassessment Monitoring of the Arrar Sereth. Enar Fourth Second, 25,697.”

I had met, once, the arrar Sereth. Upon my birthday, Macara fourth seventh, in the year ’696 had I met him, that night my child had been conceived. I had read of his exploits. He frightened me, killer of killers, enforcer for the dharen, he who wore the arrar: chald of the messenger. Sereth, scarred and lean and taut like some carnivore, who had loved the Keepress Estri, my namesake, and with her brought great change to Silistra in the pass Amarsa, 25,695 — yes, I had met him.

I sat myself down cross-legged on the Galeshir carpet, papers still strewn about, forgotten, and began to read:

The time is approximately three enths after sun’s rising, the weather clouded and cool, our position just south of the juncture of the Karir and Thoss rivers. I highly recommend that you look in upon the moment.

The arrar Sereth, on the brindle hulion Leir, touched his gol-knife. It was the first unnecessary movement he had made in over an enth. My presence, alongside upon a black hulion, disquieted him. The brindle, gliding at the apex of its bound, snorted. He touched its shoulder, and the beast, obedient, angled its wings and began its descent.

When its feet touched the grass, he set it at a grounded lope. 1 followed suit, bringing my black up to pace him.

Sereth regarded me obliquely. I, as he, served the dharen, he thought, and touched his hulion to a stop.

We had been riding all the night, up from Galesh, where I had met him with the two beasts. He had served the dharen, most lately, in Dritira. And before that, in the hide diet, and before that upon the star world M’ksakka had he dealt death and retribution at Khys’ whim. And dealt them successfully, though those tasks had been fraught with deadlier risk than a man might be expected to survive. His thought was wry, recollecting.

“How did you find M’ksakka?” I asked, to key him, to bring something else above the impenetrable shield he has constructed. My hulion rumbled at the brindle he rode, and that one answered.

“I will make a full report to Khys,” he said, slipping off the hulion’s back. “Let us rest them.”

I joined him where he lay upon the grass, staring at the sky.

“I missed this land,” he said. “The sky there is dark and ominous, always cloudy. M’ksakkan air stings eyes and lungs. Everything is covered with a fine black dust. I would not go again off the planet.”

“Perhaps he will not send you,” I conjectured.

He saw M’ksakka, and that seeing was colored by his distaste, both for the world and the work he had done there. The methods he had employed displeased his sense of fitness. The value of the M’ksakkan’s death was to him obscure. I saw the moment: the adjuster’s surprised eyes, wide and staring as Sereth’s fingers closed on his throat, around his windpipe,·the M’ksakkan’s clawing hand upon his wrist as he ripped out the man’s larynx, vocal folds dangling; then the blood, spurting, and the sound of the adjuster’s choking death. And I saw others he had killed, those who were anxious to try their skills against a real live Silistran. He had been hesitant to do so, but more hesitant to face an endless line of their ilk, so he had killed the first three. Again, his thoughts sank below readable level. The hulions lay quiet, lashing their tails. The clouds scudded heavy over the sun. A soft, drizzling rain commenced.

“The dharen is pleased with you,” I said.

He sat up, his mind absolutely inviolate. “What do you want, Carth?” He stared down at me. I lay perfectly still. He made no attempt to read me for his answer. He merely waited.

“A first impression. You are coming up for assessment.” I rose up. “We want to get some sense of you. Your mental health is now our concern.” He ducked his head, ripping grass from the sward. “You brought child upon that well woman in Dritira,” I prodded.

He saw her. In many ways she had reminded him of the Keepress. It had been passes since he had taken a woman. On M’ksakka there were females, but nothing he understood to be a woman. He had not couched many of them. And in hide diet, there were only forereaders. In Dritira, with that woman who reminded him of the Keepress, he had spent his long-pent seed. Four times he had used her, before she was more than a receptacle in his sight. And he had abused her, more than was his custom.

“Get me the forms. I will collect my birth-price,” he answered. He did not want the woman.

“You should take her. We have been considering her. She might yet make a forereader.”

“Then it is a pity she caught. From inferior blood can come only inferior stock.”

“Khys has asked me,” I told him, “to bid you welcome to any of the forereaders we hold in common at the Lake. Spawn from such a union surely would be possessed of talent. The bitterness you hold is out of proportion to the reality. We all, at one time or another, find there is something we want that we may not have.”

He did not answer me, but rose and went to his hulion. He thought of the Keepress Estri as one thinks of the dead, with acceptance; and then thought of his own life, and what compromises he has made to keep it. What he let me know, I have no doubt, will please you. What he did not — that is what concerns me. He allowed me nothing else for the duration of our return.

His shield, as you will find, is set lower and much farther into his deeper conscious than any I have encountered. Most of his processing must take place behind it. Deep-reading him is out of the question. He visualizes barely enough to verbalize his will. That he is functioning superbly is attested by his works. That he feels it to his advantage to serve us at present is a certainty. I worry over what might occur should he choose, eventually, not to serve us.

My formal recommendation is for a complete and detailed assessment. Also, I feel some attempt might be made to pacify him, in light of what he is fast becoming. Or perhaps even to eliminate him, lest he become, like Se’keroth, the weapon turned upon the wielder.

And it was signed Carth.

“Carth!” I gasped, as a dark hand snatched the sheet from my grasp. Still upon my knees, I twisted to see him. His dark eyes gleamed. He ran his hand through his black curls.

“Did you find this informative, Estri?” he asked, towering over me, the paper crumpled in his fist. Carth was furious.

I dared not answer. I started to my feet.

“Pick these up!” he commanded, pointing.

I scurried to obey him, scrambling for the leaves strewn upon the web-work carpet, my stomach a knot. Once before, I had seen Carth this agitated, when I had written for him a certain paper. And he had called it audacious, and destroyed it. I finished, and rose to my full height, handing the tas envelope to him. My head came to his shoulder. He looked down at me, stern-faced.

“You were ill-advised to do this,” he said. “The dharen is not pleased with you. This” — he threw the crumpled sheet across the room — “will only aggravate matters. You had best make some effort to placate him.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Has he taken some sudden interest in me?” I had seen the dharen precisely three times since I had come to reside at the Lake of Horns: the night he had gotten me with child, the day following, and once while I lay near death when the unborn had driven me to seek it. He had not been at the Lake of Horns when I bore his he-beast into the world. I had cried out for him during that premature and extended labor. He had been unavailable. Now, nearly eight passes later, he had returned.

“Do not be insolent!” Carth’s voice rasped as his palm cuffed my face to one side. Tears in my eyes, I put my hand to my cheek. It was what I had thought, not what I had said, that had brought me chastisement. Shaking my head, I backed away from him. Though I had known Carth a telepath, a surface-reader, rarest of Silistran talents, never had he shown his skills before me, one who neither spoke nor heard the tongues of mind.

“Estri, come here.”

I went to him, my hand trailing from my cheek to the warm, pulsing band locked about my throat.

When I stood before him, he lifted my face, his hand under my chin, so I must look into his eyes.

“He is very angry, child. You must realize that what you think is as audible to him as what you say. I know it was not malicious, that you read what you found. Forget it, if you can. Concentrate on what lies before you.” He patted my back, all the anger gone out of him.

“I do not want to see him,” I said, toying with the ends of my copper hair, grown now well below mid thigh.

Carth pursed his lips. “You have no choice. He will see you in a third-enth. Make ready.” And he turned and strode through the double doors that adjoined my prison to Khys’ quarters. Khys, my couch-mate, was again in residence. The dharen of all Silistra, back from none knew where, would again rule from the Lake of Horns.

Make ready, indeed, I thought, combing my hair. I had only the white, sleeveless s’kim I wore; thigh-length, of simple web-cloth. My jewelry was the band of restraint at my throat. I retied the garment upon my hips. Throwing my hair back, I regarded myself in my prison’s mirrored wall. My body, copper-skinned, lithe, only shades lighter than my thick mane, postured at me, arrogant. I had thought, for a time, that the he-beast had destroyed it, but such had not been the case. Exercise had given its grace and firmness back to me. My legs are very long, my waist tiny, hips slim. Pregnancy had altered me little. My breasts were still high and firm, my belly flat and tight. Good enough for him, surely. I widened my eyes suggestively, then stuck my tongue out at her. She made a face back. I grinned and wondered why I had done so, turning from the wall that ever showed me the boundaries of my world.

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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. She contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy series Thieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythical unit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. She created, orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writing stories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The Little Helliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the 1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies in Bantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russian and other languages. In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of this landmark series. The third edition is the Author's Cut edition, newly revised by the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Janet said: 'People often ask what book to read first. I recommend "I, the Sun" if you like ancient history; "The Sacred Band," a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; "Lawyers in Hell" if you like historical fantasy set in hell; "Outpassage" if you like hard science fiction; "High Couch of Silistra" if you like far-future dystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitive Perseid Press Author's Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.'

 

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Lance by Stacy Eaton

 

 

When her world loses its color, he’s the only one who can help her find the brush again.

Lance

Loving a Lancaster Book 4

by Stacy Eaton

Genre: Contemporary Small-Town Romance

As a Forensic Accountant, Lance Lancaster lives on facts and the small details that get overlooked. When his firm takes on a new client, and Aurora Moonshadow enters the room, the facts he lived by and relied on quickly begin to vanish, leaving him in the unknown territory of protective gemstones and Navajo folklore.

Aurora Moonshadow believes in signs and living every minute to the fullest. After her father passes and she takes over the family business, she finds herself unable to understand the dire situation her father left behind. That is until Lance arrives to help her. The creativity that has been hidden by grief quickly emerges after meeting him, and Aurora is on top of the world until her protective bracelet breaks.

When Aurora goes missing, Lance returns to Sedona and will do just about anything to help find her. Learning that she started painting again after their one night together makes Lance even more determined to locate her and bring her home safe.

Will they be able to find Aurora before everything she loves is destroyed, including herself? Or will Lance be left with only her final painting?

Lance is the fourth book in the Loving a Lancaster Series. This series spin-off of the Loving a Winston Series, which spins off the Loving a Young Series.

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Leo, Book 1
Luna, Book 2
Levi, Book 3
Lance, Book 4

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Stacy Eaton is a USA Today Bestselling author and began her writing career in October of 2010. Stacy took early retirement from law enforcement after over fifteen years of service in 2016 due to a second serious concussion. Her last three years on the job were in investigations and crime scene investigation. She now writes full-time.

Stacy resides in southeastern Pennsylvania with her husband, who works in law enforcement. She has a daughter in college and a son who is currently serving in the United States Navy.

Stacy writes a variety of genres, but mostly romance. She enjoys writing real-life stories that people can relate to with real-life problems, emotions, and solutions.

Her favorites: Classic cars, photography, Disney, music, coffee, and her favorite sweatshirt that says, You are dangerously close to getting killed in my next novel.

 

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Firestorm by Dana Wayne

 

 

Some fires are set...others are felt

Firestorm

by Dana Wayne

Genre: Contemporary Small Town Romance

The greatest danger may lie in the firestorm burning between them

Jenna McCray dedicated her life and trust fund to helping others succeed through her charitable foundation, Pathways Mission. After a self-imposed hiatus, her first venture back into the dating pool is an unmitigated disaster witnessed by many, including hunky Fire Marshall Thomas Donovan.

Donovan had a profound mistrust of the upper crust—until Jenna McCray. One photo in the paper. That’s all it took. Regal. Composed. A killer smile. She looked straight into the camera…and into him--and he hadn’t even met her yet.

When he finally did, the effect was seismic. Prim, proper, and utterly magnetic. Something primal flared to life inside him, and he was powerless against it. Calling her “The Ice Queen” didn’t help. Mocking was easier than admitting she'd gotten under his skin long before they even spoke.

When a fire ravages her business on the same night someone vandalizes her home, he wonders if the incidents are connected and searches for answers.

But someone wants to keep their secret buried.

As danger escalates, so does the blistering chemistry between Jenna and Donovan, and he vows to protect her at all costs—even if it means risking everything.

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Jenna shrieked and jumped up, toppling her chair and stumbling into someone behind her, who then collided with a waiter carrying a water pitcher, sending all three to the floor in a shower of ice-cold water.

She landed partially on top of the man, his arms around her waist as he bore the brunt of the fall. Another scream lodged in her throat when she saw it resting on her thigh.  

Suddenly, his hand moved, and the spider vanished.

“You’re okay,” murmured a husky voice against her ear. “It’s gone. You’re okay.”

Laughter filtered through a fog of humiliation. She’d freaked out—in a public place and lay on the floor atop a total stranger while Oscar did nothing but watch, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Something wrong, Jenna?” he crooned.

“I t-t-told you I h-hate spiders.” Her body trembled, and she couldn’t control the quiver in her voice.

The man’s arms tightened slightly.

“Did you?” cooed Oscar. “I must have forgotten.”

***

Donovan couldn’t believe his eyes when he first saw Jenna McCray in person tonight. All prim and proper, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and his crazy heart raced like a runaway train. 

She’d dominated his thoughts from the moment he saw her picture in the paper two weeks ago. Hell, he’d even cut the damn thing out and kept it in his desk. How pathetic was that?

Everything from her regal posture to how she sipped the wine screamed money and class. Coffee-colored hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape, and pearl studs in her ears emphasized the delicate bone structure of her face and the fullness of ruby-colored lips. The basic black dress and single strand of pearls would look simple on most women. On her, it was elegant.

When their gazes locked briefly, the jolt of desire was so potent it shocked him.

The returning look of interest stole his breath.

Every unexplained feeling he’d endured the last two weeks hit like a tidal wave. It took massive effort to walk calmly to his table.  

Oscar's joining her was an unpleasant shock. The man was dirty as mud. Why on earth would a woman like her associate with him?

Thoughts in turmoil, he decided to skip dinner and leave—until all hell broke loose.

He’d never met anyone with arachnophobia, but judging by her reaction to a fake spider, she suffered an extreme case. As snickers from the other patrons registered, his protective instincts surged.

A shudder rolled through her body, and she sucked in a jerky breath, mumbling something he didn’t catch.

“It’s gone,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

She made a move to stand, and he maneuvered to assist, one hand remaining on her arm for stability.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact and swiping at the water on her dress. “I’ll pay to have your clothes cleaned.”

Face flaming, she watched the waiter clean up the mess. “Oh, Alfred,” she asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Miss McCray.” He nodded toward Oscar’s retreating figure. “And he’s to blame—not you.”

Donovan lightly squeezed her arm. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

She managed a shaky “I’m fine,” then swallowed. “Th-thank you. For helping me.”

 Donovan clenched his teeth as his fantasy dreams went up in smoke. She couldn’t even look him in the eye when she mumbled insincere words of gratitude.

“Anytime.”

At his terse response, dark, earnest eyes, filled with confusion and something he couldn’t readily identify, whipped to his. Desire coursed through him, heady as strong whiskey, leaving him off-balance.

She frowned and retrieved a wallet from the bag on the table, pulled out a card and some bills, then passed the money to Alfred. “If this isn’t sufficient for my wine and the pitcher, please let me know.”

He hesitated, then took the money. “It’s fine, Miss McCray.”

A harried woman appeared from Donovan’s left. The manager—they’d met on a previous visit, but he couldn’t recall her name.

“Oh my God, Jenna. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Katie. Embarrassed but unhurt.” She nodded toward Donovan. “This gentleman broke my fall.” She nibbled her lower lip as though unsure of what to do next. Inhaling, she passed him the card. “Thank you, Mr…”

“Donovan.”

“Mr. Donovan. Please—”

“No mister. Just Donovan.”

Lips slightly parted, she hesitated. “Oh. Okay. Donovan. Please send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes. It is.”

Cheeks the brightest red he’d ever seen, her earnest expression softened.

“Please.”

That one word curbed his resentment. He took the card, ignoring the tingle as their fingers brushed.

“Donovan,” said Katie. “Thank you for helping my friend.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

“And dinner’s on me tonight.”

“Actually, I was just leaving.”

She looked around. “Was something wrong with your table?”

He shook his head. “Unexpected change in plans. I was on my way out when—this happened.”

“Then please accept a raincheck for next time.”

He nodded, knowing he would never accept the offer, no matter how kindly extended.

Katie rubbed Jenna’s shoulder. “Guess kicking him to the curb in a public place wasn’t such a good idea after all, huh?”

Donovan barely covered his surprise. So that’s what happened—good for her.

Jenna’s gaze skipped from him to Katie. “No. It wasn’t.”

“I’ve never seen you react that way before.”

She glanced at Donovan. “I—it just surprised me. That’s all.”

He immediately recognized the lie. She wasn’t surprised. She was terrified.

“I told him they bothered me.”

And that’s the understatement of the century.

 “And you’d already told him to back off,” added Katie, “so the creep had a Plan B to get even. I’m just happy you weren’t hurt.”

This time, when she looked at Donavan, her gaze held, and the intensity floored him. A dark chocolate brown enhanced by a golden ring around the edges, they glistened in the restaurant’s ambient lighting.

Or was it unshed tears? 

Texas Winds

by Dana Wayne

Genre: Contemporary Small-Town Romance

Two hearts shattered by betrayal. Once chance to trust again.

 

Jake Holloway discovered his wife’s infidelity as she lay in a coma, carrying a child that may not be his.

Four years later, his heart remains closed to all emotion. Lexie Morgan’s dream of happily-ever-after ended the day she stood alone at the altar. The need to put distance between her and the pain places her in the path of feral hogs and Jake Holloway’s life. Neither is prepared for the intense attraction.

When Lexie meets his four-year-old daughter, Katie, the timid child with downcast eyes steals her heart.

Forced to rely on Jake’s assistance, it’s impossible to ignore the escalating pull.

But the past never dies, and resurrected hurts threaten their fragile bond.

Will the ever-changing Texas winds hold them together or reduce their love to dust?

 

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Ankle and hip throbbed in unison, and a growing headache added to the misery mix.

She took a breath and looked around. The front bumper dug into the far side of the muddy embankment, and the blown-out tire rested in muck halfway up the rim. Dingy water in the ditch swirled around her feet and leached up her mud-coated pant legs. Her disgusted gaze took in the filthy jeans and soaked and blood-coated tee shirt. “Crap,” she muttered. “Brand new shoes.” She swiped a hand across her cheek, leaving a streak of bloody mud in its wake. “Great way to start my first vacation in years.”

She adjusted her grip on the door and blew wet hair away from her mouth. “Alrighty then.” Muttering under her breath, she reached past the dog and plucked the half-full Swear Jar from the floorboard. An irritated swipe at the wet hair clinging to her cheek left more muddy streaks behind. “Time for the big guns.” She placed the jug on the seat near Biscuit and pulled two soggy one-dollar bills and three quarters from her pocket. She took a breath and ceremoniously dropped the quarters through a slot cut into the lid, mumbling after each one. “Damn. Damn. Dammit.” She took a deep breath and crammed the wet bills through the hole. “And son-of-a-bitch.” 

“Don’t reckon that’s gonna help much.”

An f-bomb exploded before she could stop it.

***

Startled by the man’s deep voice, Lexie swore and spun around, tossing the jar over her shoulder as intense pain shot up her leg.  Off-balance, she grabbed the door to keep from falling on her rear as the jug landed with a mushy thump at the stranger’s feet.

The brim of a dark Stetson cast his face in shadow, but there was no disguising his frame. Tall, at least six-two or three, shoulders a mile wide, with long, muscular legs encased in worn jeans. Muddy work boots covered his feet, and well-used leather gloves stuck out of his front pocket. Rain dripping from the brim of his hat left wet trails on his pale blue chambray shirt, and the rolled-up sleeves revealed tanned, muscular forearms.

He hesitated, then picked up the jar, one corner of his mouth curling up as he read the inscription. “I’m guessing that last word is expensive,” he said as he passed her the container before stepping back.

His husky, just-woke-up voice raced through her like fine wine, leaving her momentarily speechless. “It is,” she snapped and took the jug. “Five bucks.”  She glanced past him and noted a grime-coated, black Ford F250 crew cab parked behind him on the shoulder of the road. Holy crap. I never heard a thing. She eyed her bag, mentally calculating how long it would take to reach the pistol inside if needed. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. I have a gun. And I know how to use it.” 

He made no effort to approach, just stood there, hands on his hips. “Are you hurt?”

She gripped the door tighter when her throbbing ankle threatened to fold again. “No. I’m good.”

“You have blood on your face. And mud.”

His intense gaze traveled up and down her body, causing an involuntary shiver.

“Were you ejected?”

“No. I slipped when I got out.”

He tipped his head toward the back seat. “What about the dog?”

She glanced at Biscuit, who showed no concern over the stranger’s sudden appearance, and noted a little blood on the side of his mouth. How did she miss that before? “Biscuit!” Dismissing the man, she leaned against the car and ran her hands over the dog again, checking more thoroughly for anything broken. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

The dog stoically endured her frantic exam with only a slight whimper when she touched his front paw before moving to his mouth. “Come on, baby, open up.” She slowly pried his jaw open and saw blood on his tongue.

“Looks like he bit it. Probably on impact.”

It took tremendous effort not to react to the unexpected voice behind her left shoulder. “Yeah. Probably. I’ll have him checked out when I get to town.” 

He looked at the luggage piled in the back of the SUV. “Where you headed?” 

She glanced up and discovered walnut-colored eyes watching Biscuit, his square jaw visibly tense. His face was rugged and somber, bronzed by wind and sun and covered with dark stubble. No laugh lines around full lips, and unspoken pain was alive in dark, fathomless eyes. In a heartbeat, his expression changed, switching to closed-off and distant as he took two steps back, hands stuffed in his front pockets.

Multi-awarding winning author Dana Wayne is a sixth-generation Texan and still resides in the Piney Woods. She routinely speaks at book clubs, writers’ groups and other organizations and is a frequent guest on numerous writing blogs. A die-hard romantic, her stories are filled with strong women, second chances, and happily ever after.

“I’m all about the romance, so my tales are heartwarming, have a splash of suspense and humor. While they are a little steamy, I believe romance is more about emotion than sex, and the journey is more important than the destination.

“I retired in late 2013 and published my first book in 2016. I was over the moon when it was awarded first place in a contest through the Texas Association of Authors, and I never looked back. My books have been nominated for and/or received various awards and numerous five-star reviews. To have my work validated in such a manner is very gratifying and humbling.”

Affiliations include Texas Association of Authors, Writers League of Texas, East Texas Writers Guild, Northeast Texas Writers Organization, and East Texas Writers Association.

 

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Baby ConSEALed by Leah Miles

 

 

The family he didn't know he wanted might be the only thing worth dying for.

Baby ConSEALed

SEAL & Shelter Book 1

by Leah Miles

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Baby ConSEALed won the 2024 Georgia Romance Writers' "Maggie Award"!

 

Rissa Parker struggles to support herself and her daughter by working overnights as a home health nurse. After witnessing her employer's murder, she has no choice but to grab her two-year-old and run toward the one person strong enough to protect them, the Navy SEAL who fathered her child during a one-night stand.

Navy SEAL Bernard "Burn" Cruz is a straight arrow, approaching work and play in equal parts. He doesn't regret much in life, except for one woman he's never forgotten. Nearly three years after their initial encounter, she shows up in San Diego at the bar his team likes to frequent, and he believes Forever might have knocked on his door. Until a child cries, and all hell breaks loose.

As bullets fly and bodies drop, Rissa must outrun a killer whose connection to her past threatens to destroy any chance at a future with the father of her child, and Burn discovers the family he didn't know he wanted might be the only thing worth dying for.

Baby ConSEALed, an award-winning contemporary romantic suspense novel, is fast-paced, steamy and suspenseful. Pick up your copy today!

  

“A tightly plotted, fast-paced whirlwind of a ride fraught with secrets, danger, and an emotional love story that focuses on family—the kind you choose.” —Lena Diaz, Publishers Weekly best-selling author

 

“With a to-die-for hero, sizzling tension, and edge-of-your-seat suspense, this romance delivers all the feels in an unforgettable, heart-pounding read!” – Charlee Allden, Goodreads Review

 

“A fast-paced, slow-burn romantic suspense where danger, secrets, and second chances collide….  With bullets flying and hearts on the line, Leah Miles delivers high stakes and emotional impact in equal measure.” – Cam Torrens, Goodreads Review

 

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 “A Cosmopolitan, please.” After this, she’d call it a night. Get a cab back to Liesel’s place. Maybe read a few chapters of a book. Wild and crazy. That’s me.

She took a sip of the drink the bartender delivered, letting the tart cranberry linger on her tongue as she watched the television mounted above the bar. A bowling tournament played, of all things, the announcer droning on about a perfect strike. A man slid between her stool and the next one, close enough that the heat of his body radiated toward her.

“Sorry to crowd you.” His voice was deep, smooth, and impossibly calm despite the chaos of the crowd around them.

She turned—and nearly forgot how to breathe.

He was tall and built like he actually used his gym membership. His dark skin contrasted against the crisp blue of his button-down, and when he tilted his head, the light caught his short black curls. But it was his eyes that stole her attention, a golden shade, piercing yet unreadable.

For a moment, she thought he might be about to hit on her, but he only raised a hand, signaling to the bartender. Of course, he wasn’t interested in her. She needed to finish her drink and go back to the apartment. Rissa gulped down a large swallow and barely managed not to cough.

“Patrick. Beer for me and one of those for the lady.”

She blinked. “You’re buying me a drink?”

Amusement flickered in those striking eyes. “Only if you want it.” He wedged himself farther into the space, turning sideways to fit, with one elbow propped on the bar and his free hand tucked in his pocket.

She absently swirled a finger through the condensation on her mostly empty glass. One more drink might be too much. “I think I want a soda,” she said.

He gave a slight nod of approval and called out the order to the bartender. While he did, she took the chance to study him more closely. The sharp angles of his face, the short-cropped hair, and the faintest hint of a scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

“The golden color of your eyes reminds me of a stray cat I sometimes feed near my apartment. I mean, they’re nice,” she added quickly, when she realized that may have sounded a little weird. “Not that I’m calling you a cat.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound. “I’ve been called worse.”

She glanced down at her glass, unsure what to say next.

“You here alone?” he asked.

“No. My friend is over there.” She motioned toward Liesel, who was dancing with a guy who looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster.

His gaze followed hers, and something flickered in his expression. “The guy she’s dancing with is from my SEAL team.”

Rissa’s stomach dropped at his words. “You’re a Navy SEAL?” He was so far out of her league.

“Nine years.” His eyes locked on her, and he seemed to be waiting for her to comment.

She didn’t know much about military ranks, but the way he carried himself suggested he wasn’t just some guy on weekend leave. “I’ve seen that TV show, Navy SEAL, but I don’t know anyone in the military.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You do now.”

 

Leah Miles writes romance and paranormal fiction from her small-town in South Georgia, where she lives with her husband and cocker spaniel while running an insurance agency and Airbnb business.

After a dozen years in news production at CNN, Leah Miles now manages an insurance agency and an Airbnb business in rural Georgia, while writing romantic suspense and paranormal romance featuring take-charge heroes and fierce heroines.

 

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Love, Loyalty, and Longhorns: Western Romance Tropes by Caroline Clemmons

If you've ever picked up a western romance and thought, "I know exactly how this is going to go—and I love it anyway," you already understand the power of a great romance trope. Tropes aren't shortcuts or lazy writing. They're the familiar story frameworks that readers reach for on purpose, the same way you'd reach for a favorite quilt on a cold night. You know the comfort is coming, but the journey to get there is always a little different. 

Western romance has its own distinct set of tropes, shaped by the frontier setting, the wide-open landscape, and the particular code of honor that defines the best cowboys, ranchers, and lawmen in the genre. In this post, I'll walk through three classic western romance tropes that have kept readers loyal to the genre for generations—and explain why each one works so well. 

The Lone Cowboy Who Needs Saving (From Himself) 

This may be the most enduring trope in all of Western romance. The hero is capable, skilled, and self-reliant to a fault. He can ride, rope, and survive a blizzard, but he has no idea how to let another person in. Past loss—a dead wife, an estranged family, a war he can't forget—has convinced him that solitude is safer than love. 

The heroine doesn't set out to save him. She's busy with her own problems. But her presence, her directness, or simply her refusal to be intimidated by his silence gradually cracks the wall he's built. Watching a man this guarded finally choose vulnerability is deeply satisfying, which is exactly why readers keep coming back to this trope. 

An example of this type of Western is Shad, my book in the Guns for Hire series.  Shad is a bounty hunter trying to raise enough to buy himself a ranch.  About the time he gets a down payment together, his uncle, who was injured in the war and has the mind of a child in a man's body, gets himself into trouble, and Shad has to spend his nest egg to get him out.  Shad goes after the outlaw with the highest reward he can find.  While sheltering in a cave from a storm, he finds a badly injured woman who is almost dead and has to care for her.  She was injured fleeing from the outlaw Shad seeks and his gang, who occupied her ranch.  

Marriage of Convenience 

Few tropes are more at home on the frontier than the marriage of convenience. The practical demands of homestead life—needing a partner to file a land claim, protect children, run a ranch, or simply survive the winter—made marriages of necessity a genuine historical reality, which gives this trope its satisfying grounding. 

In western romance, marriage of convenience usually brings together two people who have every reason not to fall in love. He's too gruff, and she's too independent. She came west to escape something, and he's still haunted by someone. They agree to a practical arrangement, keep their emotional distance, and then proceed to fall completely in love despite themselves. 

The slow burn this trope produces is exceptional. Every small act of kindness—a quilt left by the fire, a horse treated gently, a nightmare interrupted by a quiet presence—carries enormous emotional weight because both characters are pretending not to care. 

An example of this kind of Western is the Pinkerton Matchmaker series.  A woman wanting to work as a Pinkerton agent must marry their partner in a marriage of convenience.  It can be dissolved once the case is over.  Of course, in my Pinkerton books, the marriage outlives everything but the two people in it.

The Mail-Order Bride 

Closely related to the marriage of convenience, the mail-order bride trope has a specific energy all its own. The heroine leaves everything familiar behind to travel to a stranger in an unknown place. She's brave, possibly desperate, and betting everything on a fresh start. The hero has advertised for a practical partner, not a love match, and is often unprepared for the woman who actually arrives. 

What makes this trope so compelling is the inherent vulnerability on both sides. She is far from home with no easy way back. He has opened his household, and sometimes his children, to a stranger. Trust has to be built quickly because the frontier doesn't wait for feelings to sort themselves out. That urgency accelerates the emotional arc and makes the eventual bond feel hard-won and real. 

Many of my books involve mail-order brides.  For example, the Pearson Grove series involves mail-order brides for brothers separated by the Civil War, and then for townspeople in the same small town.  Gentry, his friend Jesse, his brother Quinn, Levi the blacksmith, Keith the town banker, and Sidney the mercantile owner, each deal with mail-order brides that are not exactly what they ordered and yet are exactly right.

Why These Tropes Work

Western romance tropes endure because they're not really about the frontier at all—not at their heart. They're about people learning to trust, choosing courage over self-protection, and deciding that another person is worth the risk of being known completely. The longhorns and the wide-open sky are the backdrop. Love and loyalty are always the point. 

Whether you've read hundreds of western romances or you're just discovering the genre this spring, these tropes are the reason the books feel familiar and fresh at the same time. They're a promise the author makes to the reader: the road will be hard, but the destination will be worth it. 

What is your favorite western romance trope? I'd love to hear which ones you reach for most.