Winner Take All – an Amazon Best-seller #MFRWAuthor #RomFantasy
I’ve long been an author who doesn’t linger long in any one genre, so
imagine my surprise last week when one of my lesser promoted and known books
suddenly climbed to the #17 spot on Amazon’s best-seller list in Westerns!
A week later it’s sitting at #24,
and a review posted today that made me laugh out loud. (In a good way!)
I’ve always considered myself more an Historical writer than
contemporary, though in recent years I’ve become very associated with both
contemporary and paranormal genres. The thing is, when I am feeling lost about
where to go next, I inevitably go back to the Old West. My first heroes were
cowboys and the love affair has never died.
Winner Take All is a combination of
influences for me, and Dylan Coulter is many heroes rolled into one. He has
Paladin’s charm and easy grace, Chris Larabee’s intensity and deadly accuracy
with a gun, and probably both men’s tempers when pushed. (For those who don’t
recognize those names – Paladin is Have
Gun, Will Travel, played by the late Richard Boone, and Chris Larabee is The Magnificent Seven, played by Michael
Biehn.) The heroine, Maggie, is a lady with fight, brains, and
independence–she’s the heroine I often wished had graced the screen with the
heroes I love.
This particular novella has an odd history. It was first published back
in 2005, and sold virtually nothing. Once I got the rights back, I filed it
away for a number of years. In 2012, I decided it was time to bring it back for
readers. It was a disaster, the company I contracted it with was the wrong
publisher for it, and it languished again. I think it was on their catalogue
for a couple of months, then I requested termination. Winner had lost again, and I put it back in the literary vault.
XoXo Publishing asked to publish it months later, and I decided to let it go
again. Another doomed release. So, earlier this year, New Dawning Book Fair, a
company I love working with, put out a call for Westerns. This is one of my best
books, and I am fond of it. I considered it for a time, then decided to take a
chance again. This time I think the book has found a home. Less than six months
out, Winner Take All has found its
audience.
Probably no surprise that I’m creating a new Western, too – one with
some amazing and sizzling possibilities. It’s called Parlour Photography, and I
think readers will love the idea!
Here’s an exclusive look at Winner Take All:
Historical/Western Erotica Novella
When Dylan Coulter rides into Sparkling Springs, he quickly discovers
the woman who runs the local saloon is worth the risk of facing the hangman. Things
get ugly fast when Dylan is accused of killing the only son of the richest
rancher in the area. Unwilling to leave her behind, Dylan takes Maggie with him
as he tries to dodge bounty hunters and a determined Pinkerton agent who just
happens to be Maggie's old love...
Excerpt:
It was well into the night before Maggie
was able to herd the last of the night’s customers out of the Spur and lock the
doors behind them. When she dropped the key in her pocket and turned around,
she was startled beyond reason to find herself face to face with Dylan Coulter.
“Mr. Coulter, I thought you’d gone
upstairs,” she said, feeling instantly foolish when he grinned at her
discomfiture.
“Where am I supposed to go upstairs,
ma’am?”
Her annoyance with herself went up another
notch. “I’m sorry. I’d forgotten that you’ve just arrived. I’m on my way to my
rooms, so I’ll show you the way.”
“You stay here?” He sounded surprised and
she gave him a sidelong glance.
“Of course. It’s comfortable, and
convenient.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, still smiling
broadly.
He took the oil lamp from her hand and
gestured for her to lead the way. A slight scowl marring her face, Maggie set
her jaw and headed for the stairs, the soft pool of golden light steady at her
back as heavier steps trailed hers up the plain flight, and along the shadowy
corridor.
“Your room is number three, Mr. Coulter,”
she told him, pointing, “at the end of the hall, on the left. I had your things
sent up earlier. Your horse is stabled across the street.”
“When did you have time to do all that?” he
challenged, pleased, but also curious.
She laughed. “While you were busy taking
money from foolish drunks.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Coulter.”
“It’s Dylan, ma’am.” He handed her the lamp
and touched the brim of his hat before walking away, humming softly to himself.
Before she could think about it, Maggie
stopped him by calling out quietly, “Dylan, have you had any supper?”
He turned, watched her for several
indeterminate heartbeats, and then shook his head.
“Would you like to join me?” Some inner
voice was already laughing at her, and Maggie ignored it. She never socialized
with customers. This was not only uncharacteristic; to her mind it was absurd.
Yet… “Jonas Wilkins runs the café a few doors down, and he often stays late for
me,” she said by way of explanation.
The amusement in Dylan Coulter’s blue eyes
was already making her regret the impulsive invitation, but she bit back the
tart words that would retract her cordiality, and waited for him to walk back
to stand in front of her.
“I’d be delighted to have supper with you,
Miss Watson,” he assured her and offered his arm.
“Maggie,” she said. “If you wouldn’t mind
waiting for just a few minutes, I’d like to tidy up before we go.” She knew
full well that she looked more than a bit harried after a long shift in the
bar.
“I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty
minutes, ma’am,” Dylan said with a smile.
* * *
Fifteen minutes after they’d separated
upstairs, Maggie was waiting in the main room of the saloon. She heard a heavy
footfall on the stairs and swung around to look at him.
For the second time that night, Dylan
Coulter took her breath away. He’d changed from his riding clothes into a suit
of rich, dark blue. His shirt was pale blue, ruffled at the cuffs and down the
front. His silk tie was black, and the jacket he was pulling on drew her
attention to broad shoulders and the undeniable impression of strength and
power. He hadn’t bothered with a hat, and his dark brown hair was neatly
combed, the deep waves gleaming when he passed under a lamp.
As he continued his walk toward her, her
eyes drifted over him. Narrow hips flowed into long legs that were muscled from
many hours spent on horseback. His boots were polished black leather, and the
silver spurs were more ornate than functional. A gold chain dipped gracefully
from the pocket of his burgundy vest, and the watch fob was a small,
exquisitely carved replica of an old-fashioned flintlock pistol. At his hip,
once again, rested a polished black gun, holster and shell belt lacking
ornamentation.
A tiny sliver of ice formed at the base of
her spine and began a swift ascent, chilling the back of her neck in
heartbeats. He knows how to use that gun, too, a tiny voice murmured inside her
head. The knowledge scared her a lot more than she wanted it to, though she
wasn’t sure why it should.
“Maggie?”
She actually started at the sound of his
quiet, richly timbred voice. His accent, like so much else about him, was
something of a mystery; it revealed lingering traces of the south, but also the
precision of an education obtained abroad. There was a subtle, growling purr in
the texture of his speech A sound that made her feel awkward and vaguely
disoriented. She’d felt a shadow of that kind of feeling only once before, and
the reminder of it unsettled her further.
“Mr. Coulter.” She tried to smile, and knew
it was only a partial success when his eyebrow rose, curiosity lighting the
deep azure gaze that studied her. “Dylan,” she corrected softly. “Shall we go?”
It was safer than standing around looking at him. She was distinctly certain
that too long in his presence would not bode well for her peace of mind.
“Ma’am.” He nodded and offered his arm.
“How far is this café?”
“A few doors down,” she said, and waited
while he locked the saloon and pocketed the key. She opened her mouth to
question the action, then chose not to bother.
“How much money did Billy Madison lose to
you?” She asked the question carefully, a deep reticence about the answer
stirring something akin to dread in her heart.
“A fair bit,” Dylan replied, his tone
casual. “He assures me his daddy will be happy to pay the debt.” He looked down
at her, a tiny smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Is that true, Maggie.
Or is the boy really as stupid as he seems?”
She sighed and shook her head.
“Unfortunately, both.”
Dylan nodded. “Is this the place we’re
looking for?” They’d stopped outside a small building with several windows in
the front, and a sign above the door that read Wilkins Café.
She glanced at the door, with its shutter
down but a light clearly burning inside. She smiled. “Yes, this is it.”
* * *
“She’s pretty friendly with that stranger,
Billy,” Gil Horner noted as they watched from the concealment of an alley
across the street from the café. He wasn’t much interested in Billy Madison’s
attempts to win Maggie Watson’s heart, but Billy’s father paid him well to keep
the kid alive. He had the feeling this would be one night when he had to earn
his pay by more forceful means than the threat of his presence. If the kid went
after Coulter, Gil knew they didn’t really stand much of a chance. Coulter had
an air about him that Horner had encountered before; he was dangerous, cool,
and confident. All the things Billy Madison wasn’t, of course. “Why don’t you
just leave it, kid?” he advised, knowing as he spoke that the boy wouldn’t be
deterred.
“Maggie and me have an understandin’, Gil,”
Billy objected. “I don’t aim to leave her alone to face the likes of Dylan
Coulter.”
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Horner
grabbed the young man by the shoulder and spun him around so he could look
Billy in the eye.
“What you and Maggie Watson have is a
misunderstandin’, kid,” he snarled. “She’s out of your league, Billy. Leave her
alone before it gets you killed!”
He waited, and in a detached corner of his
mind, he gave the kid a once over. Billy was a good-looking boy, with light
brown eyes and hair as black as his Indian mother’s had been. He carried the
best features of both his parents, and there wasn’t a girl within a fifty-mile
radius who wouldn’t be eager to marry him. Nature being perversely absurd, the
only woman he’d ever expressed an interest in was the one who didn’t want him.
Maggie was twenty-five to Billy’s nineteen, and Gil had wondered a few times if
that wasn’t her primary objection to the kid. Horner had made a play for her
once, and like others, she'd shot him down with kind, but firm words.
“You still hankerin’ for her yourself,
Gil?” Billy asked with a sneer. “That why you want me to give up?”
“Go home, Gil,” Billy ordered. “If I need
backup, I can find Boyd.”
“Billy,” Horner began with forced patience.
“The Sheriff’s out of town. Boyd ain’t in a position to be doin’ you favors.
He’s the deputy, let him do his job.”
Billy started to object, just as Horner
knew he would. Gil’s closed fist rose straight up, clipping the boy soundly
beneath the chin, snapping his teeth together and knocking him out cold in a
matter of seconds. Sighing heavily, Gil caught the kid’s weight, hefted him
onto one broad shoulder, and headed down the alley to the waiting horses. Billy
would be madder than a caged bobcat come morning, but that was better than
dead. At least in Horner’s book.
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