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About the author:
Nevertheless, after thirteen years, I am now able to do what I’ve always loved by taking advantage of the epublishing revolution. And I still have dreams. Currently, for example, I dream of growing a lavish vegetable garden on our bluff. Unfortunately, dreaming about it doesn’t make my thumb any greener. Fortunately for all of us, the survival of my protagonists is dependent only on my imagination rather than my ability to avoid over-watering them.
What inspired you to write your book?
After the birth of my daughter, I still enjoyed the genre but became a bit more critical of the traditional damsel-in-distress story line. Instead, I wanted to see stronger women who are fully capable of being their own heroine. I find that most of my writing these days is inspired by strong and passionate (sometimes passionately stubborn) women.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Her grandmother once accused her of being a damned idiot; and as Chastity Fairfax lay pinned to the dirt by a man intent on choking the life out of her, it was clear that she had probably been right. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so determined to assert her independence, if she’d simply been an obedient daughter, if she hadn’t spent every moment of every day wishing that she could enjoy the same freedoms as her family’s own stable hand…perhaps if she’d been a different kind of woman entirely, she wouldn’t have ended up in this predicament, fighting for her own life.
She had once heard about a young man who fell off his horse and cracked his skull on a rock. He miraculously lived to tell about that moment between life and death, where his mind re-played random moments of his short life. As she struggled to steal a breath and remain conscious, Chastity found herself waiting for that flashback. But nothing came.
Had her life flashed before her eyes, she would have remembered a simple and unsatisfying childhood, followed by years of frustration with the limitations of a young woman’s life. She would have remembered her parents, whom she loved in spite of their narrow-minded concern over the opinions of small-minded socialites. She would have remembered fleeing her home and embarking on an exhilarating journey.
And eventually, she would have remembered sitting across the card table from a grinning Adonis, sharing a pint and a cigar, laughing over the uselessness of women and secretly plotting her revenge against the infuriatingly stunning chauvinist. She wouldn’t have even minded remembering the back-breaking work, the blisters, or the broken ribs that plagued her on her brother’s ranch.
But as she stared into the loathsome eyes—and the tobacco-speckled teeth—of a man who wouldn’t rest until she was dead, Chastity Fairfax couldn’t remember a single damn thing.