Description:
Kentucky belle Seraphina Jones craves a dashing stranger worth kissing. When she spies her handsome, half-naked hired hand at the riverbank, she thinks her dreams of romance have come true. But this Texican is wanted for murder.
Jesse Quaid can't let Sera's sweet kisses distract him from rendezvousing with Cass, a childhood friend, to clear his name of a crime he didn't commit.
But then a case of mistaken identity turns Cass into Jesse's deadliest rival for Sera's heart.
Now, Sera must find a way to end the feud before the man she loves is lost forever.
"Adrienne deWolfe is a jewel of a find for your keeper shelf." Christina Dodd, NYT Best-Seller
"Undoubtedly an author to watch." Jennifer Blake, NYT Best-Seller
MB's INTERVIEW:
Thank you, Adrienne deWolfe
What does the myth of
the Western Cowboy / Outlaw mean to you?
It means Texas!
Texas *is* the Old
West. To this day, state legislators
battle over water rights. CEOs wear
cowboy boots at their board meetings. Property
owners get tax breaks if they graze livestock in their yards. Images of longhorns and bluebonnets dominate
the walls of swanky hotels and shopping malls. Riders in Western attire fearlessly trot their
horses across downtown traffic in Austin to attract weekend tourists for rides. For an historical writer like me, living in
Texas is like living a part of history!
I don’t think anyone
can live in Texas and not get caught up in the “romance” of the Old West. As a matter of fact, I was writing a medieval
Romance, set in England, when I first moved to Texas. But after writing for a Houston newspaper –
reporting on county fairs and rodeo events – I started to grow more interested
in Texas history. Substitute teaching in
public schools was part of that journey.
(Did you know that you have to pass a course in Texas history before
you’re eligible for a high school diploma?)
Texans are extremely
proud of their history -- and they should be.
Texas is the only state in the Union that became a self-governing country. I love learning about Texas and sharing the
culture of my adopted state with my readers.
I believe that a good
book cover is extremely important to selling any type of fiction; however,
industry experts are constantly debating what makes a book cover “good.”
In my opinion, a book cover’s job is to entice the reader to view
the writing inside. What’s the best way to
make the art accomplish this task? Make
sure the image is dominated by some element of the story’s archetype (mystical
creatures for Fantasy ; cowboys and lawmen for Westerns, etc.)
If you’re an Indie
Romance Author (who is struggling to grow your sales,) you’d be wise to follow
convention – in other words, put a romantic “clinch” on your cover,
featuring the hero and heroine. If your cover depicts a perfectly lovely landscape
with a rainbow arching over a Victorian house, the Romance reader will probably
pass up your book. (Not because there’s
anything wrong with the art, mind you, but because the image doesn’t scream,
“ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP INSIDE.”)
Over the years, legacy
publishers have learned that readers identify genre Romance by the “clinch”
cover. More importantly, readers WANT to
see the hero and heroine together. That’s
why I’m so thrilled with the ebook cover for SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL. Not only does it clearly convey a Romantic relationship,
the cover artist chose extremely attractive models (Jimmy Thomas is in high
demand among Romance cover-art collectors.)
I also love that Sera
is “on top” in the clinch scene, because the implication is that she is a strong-willed
heroine – which one might expect from a title like, SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL.
Finally, I think that
the cover artist did a fabulous job of tying the cover of SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL
into the first two books of the Velvet Lies series.
By the way: two more books are planned for the Velvet
Lies series, featuring characters from Books 2 and 3. Stay tuned!
In Seduced by an Angel, the hero is a
renegade from the law, and he wants to clear his name of a crime he didn’t
commit. Which is the main plot, the romance or the action? Was this choice a rule,
or your decision?
If a writer claims that a book is a Romance,
then that writer needs to present a storyline that concentrates on a Romantic
relationship. Otherwise, the author runs
the risk of boring the Romance reader. (And yes, that’s a rule. A publisher will not categorize a book as a commercial
Romance if the evolving love relationship is overshadowed by the mystery, the
political intrigue, or the alien universe.)
As a Romance novel, SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL concentrates on the growing feelings between
Jesse and Sera, and on the conflicts that threaten to pull them apart – namely,
Cass. The story is unusual because of the type
of Love Triangle that I created.
Sera is a preacher’s daughter; Jesse and Cass are outlaws. When one of them pins on a marshal’s badge,
their friendship falls apart. Soon, the lawman and the outlaw become deadly
rivals for Sera’s heart.
In my experience, paperback Romance publishers are squeamish about
letting authors write love triangles in which the heroine is torn between two
strong, charismatic males. The publisher
fears the reader will be disappointed by the heroine’s choice (in other words,
the ending won’t be happy for the reader.)
Hopefully, I’ve written a book that will make you fall in love with Jesse and Cass – and yet, will leave you feeling satisfied that Sera made the right choice.
I saw on your website that you teach “How to
Write a Novel That Sells” and “How to write a Romance Novel That Sells.” What are your responsibilities when you teach these
classes?
I believe that my responsibility as a teacher is to help aspiring authors live their publishing dream. To that end, I focus my lessons on the foundations of fiction and the business of writing.
I am absolutely certain that I would NOT be published today if I wasn’t mentored in a similar way by published Romance authors. If you’re a Romance fan, you’ll recognize many of my teachers’ names: Susan Wiggs, Barbara Dawson Smith, Christina Dodd, Jennifer Blake, and Rita Gallagher (to name a few.)
I vowed that I would someday give
back to the writing community the way that my mentors had given to me. That’s
why I created my website, WritingNovelsThatSell.com,
and that’s why I created my novel-writing courses. (By the way:
I’m working to create self-study eClasses with a story critique option. Stay tuned!)
In my opinion, teaching how to write makes
you a critic. How does it feel to be
on the other side?
Your question is so insightful!
Yes, to teach writing, I have to provide feedback. I always worry about how my feedback is
received, because I know how fragile a writer’s feelings can be. I constantly walk a tight rope between being
enthusiastic and encouraging, versus being honest and helpful.
Earlier in my career, I experienced excruciating criticism – from
college professors (who expressed disdain for my “Romance” style of writing) to
literary reviewers (who clearly didn’t “get” what I was trying to convey. )
Those experiences left me with a deep empathy for aspiring authors.
Like it or not, criticism will haunt a writer throughout her career. To stay sane, you have to learn to separate
your personal feelings from your professional work. How?
By remembering this simple rule:
Criticism always says more about the critic than the writing.
What are your upcoming projects?
Devil in Texas (Book 4, Velvet Lies), featuring Cass, “the
other man” in Sera’s love triangle with Jesse. For a sneak peek of Cass’s
story, visit eBook Discovery
DarkWind (Book 1, Guardians of Aeld,) a YA Fantasy
series. For a sneak peek featuring
Raevyn, the Wind Sorceress visit Magic&Mayhem
Wizards of the Wild West (series.) To chuckle at the Wizard’s otherworldly
sidekick, visit his world
For more sneak peeks and updates about my novels,
subscribe to the RSS feed for my Fantasy blog HERE or subscribe to my reader newsletter HERE You can also find me on Twitter, Facebook,
Pinterest, and Google+.
EXCERPT:
Excerpt
and
Behind the Scenes with the Author
Chapter 1
Stanford
Lincoln County, KY
April, 1882
"A
preacher's wife has no business riding around on the back of a horse, especially one as high-strung as a thoroughbred,"
grumbled the mountain-sized man in the elegantly tailored, black broadcloth.
"I'll
have you know, Michael Jones," retorted his spirited young companion, a petite
southern belle with a heart-shaped face, "I shall not be rushed into marrying some fuddy-duddy preacher just because you
would rather chase your new wife around the bedroom rather that act as a respectable
guardian to me."
Michael's
clean-shaven face turned crimson. "Seraphina, that is not only ludicrous, that's
offens—"
"And
secondly," Sera interrupted breezily,
tossing her blue-black ringlets, "you're not footing the bill for my filly.
My brother who loves me is."
Straining
his ears to eavesdrop on this family dispute, Jesse Quaid stroked the nose of the
frisky filly in question and murmured endearments to silence her whickering. The
rangy, trail-weathered Texican considered himself a good judge of horseflesh, and
he knew that Michael Jones had accurately assessed the yearling's temperament after
watching her perform in the pre-auction parade around the racetrack at Sportsman's
Hill.
On the
other hand, Jesse had always possessed a knack for handling horses. He'd sneaked
into Tempest's stall to acquaint himself with the coal-black mischief-maker so he
could pose as the filly's trainer. Jesse was hoping this ploy would finally let
him meet Seraphina Jones.
For nearly
a month, Great Spirit had been sending him dreams of a dark-haired White Woman riding
astride a flying raptor. Jesse's Cherokee grandmother had taught him to look for
signs in his waking world when the Eagle Messenger of Great Spirit appeared in his
sleeping world. Still, Jesse had never imagined that Sera was real.
Then,
earlier that morning, Jesse had spied her from across the street as she and her
chaperones had exited the Gables Hotel. Stunned to observe his dream in the flesh,
Jesse had broken one of his cardinal rules of self-preservation: he'd risked being
recognized in a crowd. Discreetly trailing Sera, he'd entered a restaurant to watch
her eat breakfast with her sister-in-law. He'd strolled across the street as she'd
window-shopped with her brother along Stanford's busy commercial district. He'd
tracked her family's private carriage to the yearling auction at Sportsman's Hill.
All of
this reconnoitering had taught Jesse a great deal about the Jones family, and more
importantly, about the vivacious Sera. He knew that she considered herself a proponent
of the Woman's Reform Movement, and that she was hoping to vote in a
presidential election someday. He knew that she had a soft spot for a 16-year-old
orphan, named Collie, who'd been failing to report for his chores on the Jones's
property. He knew that she was excited to become an aunt to the baby that her sister-in-law,
Eden, was due to birth in six months.
Jesse
had observed that Sera freckled in the sun; that she was fond of flavored ices;
that she favored gardenia perfume; and that she never removed her white matinee
gloves, even if she was buttering cornbread at a restaurant.
This observation
had been Jesse's first clue, explaining why Great Spirit had led him to Sera.
Jesse's
second clue had been Sera's collapse in the milliner's stairwell. The incident had
occurred shortly after lunch, in plain view of Stanford's commercial district—or
rather, it would have, if her brother, Rafe, hadn't sheltered her so expertly with
his body. Sera had emerged from the hat shop without her right glove. By the time
Rafe had noticed that the glove was missing from her hand, Sera's fingers had already
closed over the wrought iron banister.
In a flash,
the color had drained from her face. Her knees had buckled. Even from Jesse's hiding
place, some ten yards away, he could see Sera's bright, curious eyes grow dull and
sky-blue vacant.
"Sera!"
Rafe cried, dropping her hatbox and squatting in the stairwell beside her.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"Th-the
milliner's assistant," Sera half-marveled, half-gasped. "She let a man
put his hand on her bodice! Right in this
stairwell, during some late, dark night! Oooh. Sloppy. After a kiss like that, Preacher
Prescott would have that young woman cleansing
her soul for the rest of her natural born—uh-oh. Now that vulgar young man is hiking Abigail's skirts up above her—"
Sera choked, her eyes growing as round as terrapin shells. "Abby's not wearing any bloomers!"
During
the course of this monologue, Rafe's expression had dissolved from worried, to amused,
to comically distressed. He grabbed his kid sister's white-knuckled hand and gently
but persistently began to pry her fingers from the banister.
"Sera,"
he crooned, "let go now. Let go, my angel. You're having one of your Episodes.
Did you bring your Spirits of Hartshorn? Give me your reticule."
Sera collapsed
on her buttocks in a heap of China-blue damask. She was knuckling her eyeballs.
"Why'd you do that?" she groused,
grimacing at the smelling salts that Rafe had uncapped. "I might have learned
something!"
"That's
precisely what I was afraid of."
Sera tossed
her saucy curls. "And you pride yourself on being the Black Sheep of the family.
Since when did you turn into the fluffy white, bleating kind?"
"Now,
now. No hitting below the belt," Rafe drawled, returning the bottle of salts
to her reticule.
"Did
you used to kiss your sweethearts like that?" she asked wistfully.
"Absolutely
not."
"You've
become a lousy liar."
"Ah.
My nefarious plot to lull you into a false sense of security is working. Are you
feeling better?"
The color
had returned to her cheeks. She grinned, letting him help her to her feet.
"You're so much more fun as a chaperone than Michael."
"Guilty
as charged."
"Michael
would've shoved a tongue depressor down my throat. Or worse, a sedative."
"Doctors
can be such pills."
"He's
half-convinced I'm possessed by demons," she confided unhappily.
"Nonsense."
Rafe patted the hand that she'd placed on the impeccable sleeve of his pearl-gray,
swallowtail coat. "Michael thinks you're sick. Doctors are inclined to think
that way. It pays the bills."
"What
do you think?" she ventured, biting her lip. Her expression was pleading as
she gazed into her tawny-haired brother's shuttered face.
"I
think you're an adorable imp," Rafe teased glibly.
Sera sighed,
looking troubled. But she quickly hid the truth of her feelings behind a playful,
well-rehearsed smile. "Well, you would be the perfect judge of that, Raphael Jones. I daresay the walls in the
Louisville Theater are still stained tomato-red
after you played Shakespeare's Juliet. Tell me. Did you draw upon that balcony scene
to teach Silver how to spark? Or did she already know how to kiss before you married
her?"
Rafe's
golden tan slowly turned a shade of pink. "Those are not the sorts of questions
that you should be asking about your sister-in-law."
Sera rolled
her eyes. "Don't go turning all growly and Michael-like on me. I can't very
well get married without learning something
about kissing. Collie's too young to teach me. Eden's too private. Michael's too...
well, Michael. And Aunt Claudia would
rather fill a man full of buckshot than... Raphael Jones, I do declare. You're blushing!"
Recalling
Rafe's embarrassment, Jesse chuckled to himself. He didn't normally seek out the
company of wide-eyed innocents who were eager to be kissed. In truth, Jesse avoided
female entanglements for the same reason that he had never put down roots in any
civilized place. An outlaw couldn't be too careful.
Much to
Jesse's irritation, however, his best friend of 11 years didn't worry about attracting
attention. Cass liked to cut his wolf loose—so to speak—whenever he rode into a
new town. As a result, the younger man had been arrested the night before on yet
another public intoxication charge. Since Cass couldn't afford the $25 fine, he
was expecting Jesse to break him out of jail after nightfall. Instead, Jesse had
been seriously considered losing himself in the mountains, to teach the unrepentant
Cass a lesson.
Fortunately
for Cass, Great Spirit had conspired to keep Jesse in Stanford by presenting him
with the flesh-and-blood embodiment of the Eagle Messenger from his dreams. Somehow,
Jesse had to befriend Sera. He was hoping that posing as a horse trainer would lower
her guard—and Michael's.
Jesse's
beautiful Eagle Messenger stood only 20 yards away in the sun-beaten dust of the
stable yard. She was arguing with her towering, 30-something chaperone, who outweighed
Jesse by at least 25 pounds.
Jesse
steeled himself to patience, the kind of patience that had caused Cass to dub him
"Lynx." Jesse wasn't the kind of man who let physical size intimidate
him, but he was sensitive to the fact that he was wanted by the law. Whatever he
said or did to Michael Jones in the next few minutes could irrevocably change his
life.
With the
silent tenacity of his bob-tailed namesake, Jesse waited in the shadows of the stall
for Sera to enter the stable. He didn't think that she or Michael could see him;
they were standing directly outside the open door of the building, beyond which
stretched a white picket fence, a pasture of blue-green grasses, a milling crowd
of elegantly dressed bidders, and the ribbon-festooned stage of the empty auction
block.
The purple
parasol that Sera twirled so irritably in her gloved hands gave her and her brother
a modicum of relief from the midday heat. Still, Sera must have been pretty fired
up to ignore the sticky discomfort of her lavender-silk walking dress and God-only-knew
how many pounds of underwear. Even Michael's chiseled features were ruddy and moist.
Observing
them from his comparatively cool stall, Jesse kept his Stetson tipped and his face
shadowed, a strategy born more from habit than need. Sera and Michael were dressed
in a gentrified manner, which suggested that they weren't inclined to converse with
a drifter, who sported a three-day old beard, faded cotton work shirt, patched linen
duster, and scuffed riding boots. Indeed, the Jones siblings were unlikely to notice,
much less remember Jesse, unless he gave them some cause for alarm.
That's
why Jesse had concealed his cartridge belt and the low-riding holster of his .45
by fastening several buttons on his duster. To Jesse's mind, appearing as a hired
hand, rather than a hired gun, gave him the advantage. He wasn't yet ready to reveal
his purpose for meeting Sera.
Sera hiked
her chin and glared at Michael. "Because I don't want to ride a Tennessee Walker," she told him tartly. "Nor
do I wish to ride a Morgan. I want to ride Tempest."
"Sera,
be reasonable," her chaperone chided. "Tempest was sired to be a long-distance
racer. Even a Quarter Horse would be better suited for your personal—"
"Tempest," Sera insisted stubbornly.
The filly
tossed her head, as if she was aware that she was the bone of contention between
the noisy humans outside. Jesse hushed the filly, hard-pressed not to chuckle as
Tempest put on airs. Sera was proving much like the horse she adored.
"Trouble,
brother?" drawled a dashing gentleman in an impeccably tailored, fawn-colored
coat.
"Rafe!" Relief flooded Sera's face. She rounded
on her tawny-haired brother as he strolled across the stable yard toward his bickering
siblings. Rafe looked only slightly younger than Michael. However, Rafe's gilded
complexion and hair made him hard to recognize as a Jones sibling.
Sera grabbed
his arm and dragged him into the fray with a well-practiced pout. "Michael
won't let me have the pony I want!"
Rafe halted
beside his sister. He arched a mocking eyebrow at his taller, brawnier brother.
"Michael, for shame. It's Sera's birthday."
Michael's
brow darkened. Jesse had already observed that bad blood existed between the brothers;
he just wasn't sure what the feud was about.
"While
you're gallivanting around Aspen, piddling away the financial resources of your
sorely misguided wife," Michael growled, "I shall be left behind to mend
Sera's broken heart after your foolish
thoroughbred breaks its leg on the rugged terrain of Blue Thunder Mountain. Assuming,
of course," Michael added tartly, "that Tempest, the budding widowmaker,
doesn't throw Sera headlong over a cliff and break her neck first."
"Spoken
like a physician," Rafe countered, feigning a yawn. "We'll take your Diagnosis
of Doom under advisement, Dr. Jones."
"No,
we won't!" Sera butted in.
Michael
ignored her. "The child is my responsibility—"
"I
am not a child!"
"—And
until she marries or turns 25, I am her legally appointed guardian—"
"Gabriel wouldn't have had to live with a
guardian until he turned 25," Sera grumbled.
Rafe reacted
as if he hadn't heard her. "You've turned into your father," he taunted
his brother.
"Gabriel
would have had the good sense to run away,"
Sera insisted more loudly.
Rafe rattled
on: "The only difference between you and Jedidiah," he told Michael,
"is that you carry a medical bag rather than a Bible to beat unfortunates with."
Sera stomped
her foot. "Tempest and I are going to run away to a Hallam Street mansion,
where we can drink sparkling champagne, and waltz until 4 a.m., and hire a British
butler to serve us breakfast in bed!"
Rafe started.
"So
you're planning to move to Aspen and live with Rafe, is that it?" Michael asked
Sera dryly.
Rafe's
neck reddened. He shot his brother a withering glare.
"You
don't want me either?" Sera demanded in wounded tones, retreating a step from
Rafe.
He recovered
his composure with a speed and an aplomb that would have made wily, sweet-talking
Cass look like a bumpkin.
"Sera,
my angel, you must never think that. As soon as Silver and I finish the renovations
for the nursery—and Max finishes erecting his new theater, of course—I shall speak
to Silver about your visit—"
Sera snapped
her parasol closed to hear how neatly he'd foiled her plan. "You are both beastly brothers, and you have both ruined my birthday!"
"Sera,"
Rafe cajoled.
"Go
away!" She jabbed her umbrella at each of them in turn. "Gabriel is the
only brother who ever loved me! He brought me rainbows for my birthday. Did you
know? I woke up to rainbows in my hotel
room this morning!"
Rafe and
Michael exchanged uncomfortable looks as Sera turned on the heels of her lavender
kid boots and fled into the stable. Before Jesse could announce himself, much less
exit Tempest's stall, Sera was tearing off her gloves, flinging open the door, and
throwing her arms around the filly's neck.
The yearling
whickered in sympathy while Sera's slender length trembled with suppressed sobs.
Jesse fidgeted. He'd always been as worthless as a four-card flush when a woman
started bawling.
A moment
or so later, however, Sera must have sensed him doing his uncomfortable best to
shrink into the darkest corner of the stall. Slowly, inevitably, she raised her
tear-streaked cheeks from Tempest's mane. Eyes as blue as a robin's eggs blinked
up at him through the slanting shafts of the Kentucky afternoon.
"Are
you Tempest's jockey?" she whispered.
"No,
ma'am," he said kindly, repressing a smile. He couldn't remember the last time
he'd seen a jockey who stood six feet tall. "Just a trainer."
Sera sniffled,
her forehead furrowing. Her glistening eyes raked him from hat to spurs before finally
locking stares with him once more. "You're from Texas?"
"I
lived there a spell."
He let
his dimples peek. He'd always considered them his most appealing quality. Compared
with Cass, whose fallen angel's smile fairly made women swoon, Jesse knew he was
homely. But he possessed straight teeth, a full head of black hair, and eyes as
green as a Chinaman's jade. As long as Cass wasn't in the same room, flirting and
showboating, Jesse could hold his own with the women.
"What
gave me away?" he drawled.
She dashed
away a tear. The tiniest hint of humor tugged the corners of her mouth. "The
way you dragged out 'ma'am' as if it had three syllables." She blushed a charming
shade of rose. "Michael tells me a lady shouldn't speak so directly to a man.
But you did ask. And I meant no offense,
Texican."
"None
taken, ma'am."
He was
rewarded with a genuine—albeit watery—smile. Her whole face lit up when she smiled,
making her porcelain skin glow from within.
"I
haven't been having the best birthday," she confided, stroking Tempest's neck
with a childlike yearning. "Rafe and Michael—they're my brothers—are arguing
again. I wish they would stop. I told them both that all I really wanted for my birthday is for them to get along, but Rafe insisted
on buying me a pony, which hurt Michael's pride, I think. Michael is watching every
penny so he and Eden can have their baby..."
When he
was silent, she glanced up shyly from beneath wet, spikey lashes. "Do you have
brothers?"
"None
that are bloodkin."
She nodded,
sighing wistfully. "I guess brothers aren't the worst thing that can happen
to a girl. Gabriel was a decent sort."
She chewed
her bottom lip for a moment, as if trying to think of something else to keep their
conversation going.
"I've
never been to Texas," she confessed, "but Rafe wrote to me about it. He
tried to be a cowboy there, but he wasn't much good with scorpions or tarantulas."
Jesse
cleared his throat. He didn't dare laugh, not with the wealthy Aspenite arguing
with his brother only 20 yards away.
Sera's
forehead puckered again. Her expression turned deeply melancholy as she gripped
Tempest's harness and kissed the filly's nose.
"I
love her already, you know," she whispered, mostly to the filly. "We were
destined to meet. Like the kid sister I never had. She needs me. And if she doesn't
want to race, she shouldn't have to race. She's not fast enough, anyway. But the
other bidders don't know that yet. They'll buy her, hoping she'll win them a fortune.
When she doesn't, the beatings will begin. They'll whip her, and whip her, and whip..."
Sera shuddered.
A tear spilled down her cheek.
Raising
those unnaturally bright, blue eyes, she locked her stare with his. "I can't
let that happen," she said in a husky, hurting voice. "Don't you see?
I have to save her, Jesse."
Every
hair on his head stood on end.
She guessed my name?
Chills
scuttled up and down his spine.
How did she guess my name?
"Sera?"
Rafe called, stepping into the stable. "Are you coming? The second half of
the auction's about to begin."
She staggered
a bit, as if Rafe's voice had broken her concentration. She blinked down at her
gloveless hands. She looked confused.
Jesse
recognized the signs of an interrupted trance state. His grandmother, Hiawassee,
had been training as a Medicine Woman long before she'd left the Cherokee nation
to marry a White man.
Instinctively,
he offered Sera his arm to keep her from teetering and falling off her spiky heels.
But Michael,
being a White man's doctor, saw signs of faintness in Sera's condition, not a rude
awakening. "Dammit, Rafe. You got her over-agitated. She's having one of her
Episodes."
Outpacing
his brother, Michael tugged a small bottle from his coat pocket. As he screwed off
the lid, the stench of Spirits of Hartshorn invaded Jesse's senses. He grimaced,
imagining how those smelling salts would burn Sera's sensitive nose and eyes. He
squeezed past her in the stall, protecting her with his body.
"Step
aside," Michael barked. "I'm a doctor."
"She's
all right, doc," Jesse said, striving for a jovial tone.
Michael
ignored him. "Sera, where your gloves? Put them on."
Michael's
command confirmed Jesse's suspicion that Sera's Episodes were triggered by touch
and that she hadn't learned to control her clairvoyance—which Cherokee Shamans had
dubbed the gift of half-sight.
Sera's
brow furrowed. She appeared to be searching for her gloves. She glanced at the oats
bag and then at the horse blanket that had been thrown across the wall of the stall.
She didn't look entirely lucid, so Jesse stooped, shaking straw from the daintily-sewn,
white kid before handing her gloves back to her.
Michael
looked far from pleased by the solicitous attention that his sister was receiving
from a stable hand. Although there wasn't enough space for a single other human
in the stall, Michael stepped forward, hell-bent on pushing inside, anyway.
Rafe caught
his brother's arm. "Give her room to breathe, for pity's sake."
"I
think I'm better qualified to judge Sera's medical condition—"
"What
the hell are you folks doing in that stall?" a booming voice challenged from
the stable's doorway.
Jesse
started, realizing that a small crowd of groomsmen and handlers were descending
upon the building to lead the horses to the auction block.
Sera emitted
a tiny gasp, snapping out of her daze. She ran to Michael's arms for protection,
but her panicked gaze flew to Rafe. A sweaty, cigar-puffing man was stumping along
the corridor of stalls, ignoring the curious horses that nickered or turned their
heads to follow him.
Cigar
Man shoved his way past Jesse. Squatting in Tempest's straw, he inspected her legs
for sabotage. He must not have found any problems, though, because when he straightened,
his grunt held a grudging note of satisfaction.
"You
folks shouldn't be here," Cigar Man snapped as he untied the filly's lead rope.
"The auction has started. The stable is off limits to bidders. Get along with
you, now."
"Rafe," Sera whispered desperately, tugging on
her gloves as they followed the procession of horse flesh into the stableyard.
"We'll
rendezvous at the lemonade pavilion," he soothed, flashing a confident smile.
Michael
frowned. "Now hold on a—"
"What
I purchase for my sister on her birthday is none of your concern," Rafe told
his brother curtly. He gave Jesse a nod before turning on his heel and cutting across
the stable yard.
Michael
scowled after him.
Jesse
watched Rafe's golden head dissolve in the river of bonnets and bowlers that were
bobbing toward the auction block.
"Yes,
yes, Michael, I shouldn't have taken off
my gloves," Sera was meanwhile apologizing. She rolled her eyes as he bent
his dark head over her wrist and took her pulse. "I'm perfectly healthy,"
she insisted when he felt her forehead with the back of his hand.
"You're
flushed."
"So
are you," she retorted. "The day is hot. Don't you dare open that hideous bottle again, or I
swear I shall cook you nothing but turnips for a month!"
Michael's
lips quirked, belying the worry in his midnight-blue eyes. "Fortunately, I
now have a wife to take pity on me in the kitchen."
Sera sniffed.
"Not after I tell Eden how you tried to keep me from Rafe's birthday present."
Jesse
cleared his throat, readjusting his hat brim to hide his amusement. "I reckon
a filly as spirited as Tempest would be a handful for any new owner," he said
diplomatically. "But thoroughbreds are smart. They can be retrained. Otherwise,
they'd just get fat and lazy when their racing days are through.
"So
if the lady has set her heart on taking Tempest home," he drawled, encouraged
by Sera's enthusiastic bounce, "I'd be happy to turn that filly into a proper
saddle horse, Doc."
Sera rewarded
him with a smile that was pure sunshine.
Michael
wasn't as easily influenced. He raked cool, appraising eyes along Jesse's rough-rider
attire, his gaze focusing narrowly on the bulges beneath the linen duster. Fortunately,
Jesse had won his coat in a poker game from a cattleman who'd been a good 20 pounds
heavier than he. The fabric draped Jesse's cartridge belt and holster like a tent.
"And
might I know whom I have the pleasure of addressing?" Michael countered coolly.
Jesse
stuck out his hand. "The name's Jesse, Doc. Jesse Quaid."
Michael
hesitated to take Jesse's hand, but the reason why wasn't immediately clear. Michael
could have been averse to Jesse's interference in a family matter. Or he could have
been reluctant to do business with a man whom he considered beneath his financial
station.
Michael
did finally overcome his hesitation, though. He shook Jesse's hand, which cued Jesse
that today, at least, he looked White enough to pass inspection.
"Michael
Jones," Michael introduced himself tersely. "I believe you've already
met my sister, Miss Seraphina Jones."
Jesse
tipped his hat. "A pleasure, ma'am."
Sera beamed
at him as if he was some kind of hero, and he felt his insides warm. He wasn't accustomed
to being favored so openly by respectable females—especially in front of their White
menfolk.
"Mr.
Quaid is Tempest's trainer," Sera told her brother enthusiastically.
"He would be the perfect person to make Tempest safe for pleasure
riding. Then you wouldn't have to worry about me riding her on Blue Thunder Mountain
or anywhere else! Please, oh please, Michael. Hire Mr. Quaid for my birthday!"
"Sera,
it could take weeks, maybe months, to
retrain a thoroughbred—"
"Rafe
will buy Tempest for me, Michael. And
I do intend to ride her, with or without your permission. So the sooner you hire
Mr. Quaid, the better."
Michael's
expression suggested that he was torn between spanking her and pleasing her.
"The
truth is," he told Jesse, "we don't live in Stanford. We live in Whitley
County, about five miles east of Ywahoo Falls—although you may be better acquainted
with the Sundowner Logging Company, which runs a sawmill about 12 miles north of
our town, Blue Thunder."
Sera lives close to sacred Cherokee burial
grounds?
A fresh
set of chills gusted down Jesse's spine.
"Don't
you fret, Doc," he drawled. "I'm used to traveling wherever the work leads.
I'd be right pleased to spend as much time as it takes to train Tempest in Blue
Thunder. The fact is, I've grown rather fond of that filly."
"You
see, Michael?" Sera gushed. "Mr. Quaid is a Godsend. You must hire him
quickly before some other bidder snatches him away."
Michael's
jaw twitched. His business sense was clearly vying with his affection for his sister,
who didn't know the first thing about negotiation and had all but dashed any advantage
that Michael would normally have had, haggling over wages.
But Jesse
didn't give a damn about the wages. And he didn't need room or board. He could camp
in the hills and live off the land—which was his preference, anyway, since he sometimes
encountered his own Wanted Poster whenever he rode into an unknown town.
No, the
only thing that Jesse needed was to rid himself of the price on his head. And if
that meant following Great Spirit's Eagle Messenger to Blue Thunder to clear his
name of murder, then so be it.
"My
sister drives a hard bargain, Mr. Quaid," Michael said dryly. He fished in
his vest pocket and pulled out a white, embossed calling card. "If my brother
secures the filly at the auction—"
"You
mean when," Sera interjected with
glee.
Michael's
reluctant amusement threatened his Poker face.
"—Then
we shall be leaving Stanford on the six o'clock train. You may meet me in the lobby
of the Gables Hotel, about four o'clock this afternoon, to discuss your employment."
The six o'clock train? Jesse steeled himself against a show
of alarm. Did that mean Michael would expect him to leave for Blue Thunder tonight
with the Jones family?
How the hell am I supposed to break Cass
out of jail between now and six p.m., in broad daylight?
"Much
obliged," Jesse rallied, accepting the card.
Michael
inclined his head. Sera turned to wave a jubilant goodbye as her brother escorted
her toward the auction block.
Jesse
drew a long, steadying breath. He brushed his thumb over the bold, black lettering
of the calling card. A lot was riding on his business arrangement with Michael,
not the least of which would be his ability to pass himself off as a law-abiding
waddie, who drifted from town to town, seeking employment from ranchers.
Fortunately,
Stanford was the furthest east that Jesse had ever ridden. When he'd conceived the
idea of training Tempest, he'd been assuming that his reputation as a livestock
rustler hadn't preceded him to Stanford. Now he had to hope that his Wanted Poster
wasn't hanging in Blue Thunder.
And speaking of lawless behavior...
Jesse
frowned.
Cass's
fondness for getting drunk and shooting up the town was going to be a problem in
Blue Thunder, just as it had been in Fort Worth, Wichita, Dodge City, and now Stanford.
But what was Jesse supposed to do? Leave Cass in Stanford's jail? Let some bounty
hunter catch up with him?
Even if
Cass hadn't saved Jesse's life eight times over the last 11 years, Jesse couldn't
turn his back on the hothead. Cass was more like a kid brother than a friend.
Distracted
by the commotion at the top of the bidding platform, Jesse watched the auctioneer's
gavel come crashing down. He heard the booming, "Sold!" and Sera's delighted squeal as Rafe stepped forward
to claim the ticket that would let his sister take Tempest home.
Jesse
squinted at the sun. He reckoned the time to be shortly after 3 p.m.
Muttering
an oath, he turned on his heel and hurried across the yard to the public livery,
where he'd stabled Kavi.
At 4 p.m.,
he would have to provide Michael with a legitimate excuse for not leaving Stanford
until the morning. Failing that, he would have to break Cass out of jail before
6 p.m.
Hoisting
himself into Kavi's saddle, Jesse turned the mare toward town and spurred her into
a canter.
With any
luck, he would find the solution to both predicaments at Stanford's apothecary shop.
Behind the Scenes with the
Author:
SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL by Adrienne
deWolfe
Bullet Points:
·
The story was written 12 years after Book 2 of
the VELVET LIES series was published in paperback
·
The idea for SEDUCED’s heroine came from a visit
to an antique store: where I met a
psychic, who was “practicing” her gift of psychometry
·
SEDUCED contains a love triangle between 2
strong, charismatic male characters and the heroine. (Something most paperback publishers
avoid. See why, below.)
·
Heroine is a preacher’s daughter with the gift
of psychometry (when she touches metal with her bare hands, she has visions
about the object’s owner.)
·
Hero is part Cherokee and wanted by the law for
a murder he didn’t commit
·
Hero’s best friend is the 2nd male in
love triangle
DETAILS:
SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL is the
long-awaited story of Seraphina Jones, sister of Rafe (hero of SCOUNDREL FOR
HIRE) and Michael (hero of HIS WICKED DREAM).
When SCOUNDREL and WICKED were released
in paperback, I intended to write Sera's story - I even set up her story plot
in HIS WICKED DREAM - but you know what they say: stuff happens!
In May 2012, my ePublisher asked
me to write Sera's story: a fresh, new, never-before-published Romance novel,
in anticipation of releasing SCOUNDREL FOR HIRE and HIS WICKED DREAM for the
first time as eBooks.
SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL is Book #3
in my Velvet Lies of Western Historical Romances – but Sera’s story has a
paranormal twist. I got the idea for her
character when I went to a rural antique store, where I ran into a
psychic. This psychic was wandering from
desk, to armoire, to fire screen, “touching” the furniture and reporting the
various scenes that she psychically observed through the furniture (weddings,
school classes, Christmas parties, etc.)
The psychic explained that she
was learning to fine tune her gift of “psychometry.” When she touched manmade objects, she could
see their owners “through time” and peek into their lives. I thought, “Oh my gosh, I HAVE to write a
story about that!”
So in SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL,
Outlaw Jesse Quaid (who is part Cherokee,) has a dream from Great Spirit that
Sera can help clear his name of murder.
Jesse can't possibly imagine how
a 19-year-old preacher's daughter can help him, until he learns that Sera has
visions about the future and the past.
Sera is terrified of her
visions, which typically occur when she touches metal. The only way that she
can keep her visions at bay is to cover her hands with gloves.
Fortunately, Jesse's grandmother
was a Cherokee Medicine Woman, who had visions, too. Jesse has to help Sera
learn how to accept her visions, before he can persuade her to help him clear
his name.
The other part of Sera’s story
that makes SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL so unusual is her Love Triangle. In my
experience, paperback Romance publishers are squeamish about letting authors
write Love Triangles in which the heroine is torn between two strong,
charismatic male characters.
If a paperback Romance author
gets approved to write a love triangle, then her editor requires one of those
men to be exposed as a villain/major jerk. The other solution is to kill one of
the men before the book ends.
I rebelled against writing
either of these scenarios for SEDUCED
BY AN ANGEL. That's why I chose to publish the novel through my e-book
publisher.
The challenge in writing a
dual-hero love story is to make one of the male characters clearly right for the heroine. At the
same time, I wanted to make the reader root for the other man (whom I'm
secretly in love with! So of course,
he’ll have his own book, DEVIL IN TEXAS, which I’m currently writing.)
I’m keeping my fingers crossed
that ya’ll will like SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL. I took a bit of a risk writing a
heroine with such a different kind of story!
By the way, if you like a more
traditional Western Historical Romance, check out my bestselling Wild
Texas Nights series.
Adrienne deWolfe is a #1 Bestselling Author and a recipient of 48 writing awards, including the Best Historical Romance of the Year. She consistently delights readers with sexy, action-packed, western-style romances, including her Wild Texas Nights series and her Velvet Lies series. In addition, she is the author of the bestselling non-fiction ebook series, The Secrets to Getting Your Romance Novel Published.
Fascinated by all things mystical, Adrienne writes a weekly blog about dragons, magic, and the paranormal at http://MagicMayhemBlog.com to help her research her upcoming YA Epic Fantasy series.
She also writes a weekly blog with fiction writing tips and advice about the business of writing at http://WritingNovelsThatSell.com. She enjoys mentoring aspiring authors and offers professional story critiques and book coaching services.
Story Critiques and Mentorship for Fiction Writers ** Velvet Lies Series ** Wild Texas Nights Series ** The Secrets to Getting Your Romance Novel Published (Series)
Author's US/Can/UK/ Australia Giveaway
Hello! Thank you so much for hosting my blog tour on your awesome website! I look forward to meeting your readers!
ReplyDeleteAdrienne deWolfe
http://MagicMayhemBlog.com
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