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About the author:
Romilly is in love with good stories. Ever since childhood, she has read voraciously across multiple genres, and she likes to write across multiple genres, too, from the romantic to the edgy to the strange, often a combination of them all. She loves music, poetry, peace, laughter, and mountains, and she lives in Tennessee with a close circle of family.
What inspired you to write your book?
I've been writing stories all my life and have written novels, novellas, and short stories in a number of different genres. Falling for the Marshal, the first book of my forthcoming Horseshoe Romance Series, was inspired by my love of westerns and by my appreciation for the tough, sexy Old West lawmen and cowboys who populate them.
Here is a short sample from the book:
This wasn't the main room of the Old West Museum.
It looked a lot like an Old West saloon.
She must have fallen asleep in the bathroom stall. It was the only logical explanation.
Her legs felt weak, like cooked strands of spaghetti. She leaned against the wall just outside the restroom and blinked a few times. The saloon scene persisted. She pinched herself. Hard. The main room of the Old West Museum didn't reappear. She still saw the piano and the bored pianist, the grungy men in hats, the women in bright dresses. She still heard the tinny piano music and smelled smoke and liquor and body odor. There was a more pleasant smell in the mix, too, which reminded Laura of the hikes she'd enjoyed in the Horseshoe Mountains with Daddy.
But oh, how wretchedly hot! What happened to the air conditioning, Laura wondered. It was July, for goodness' sake.
She felt weak. Confused. Her legs wouldn't hold her up anymore, and she sank to the floor, her back grazing the wall, and she landed on her butt with a thud. Maybe if she sat here for a few minutes, she would wake up and come out of this, whatever this might be.
Laura turned her head and focused her gaze on a corner table near the bar, and she saw, of all people, Marshal Tom Russell himself, looking straight back at her, his gaze speculative, puzzled. He was sitting next to an attractive blond woman in her late forties who was writing in what looked like a ledger. She glanced up and also saw Laura. Her eyes widened in surprise and she put down her fountain pen—what, a fountain pen?—then glanced over at the marshal.
He got up and headed Laura's way.
A dream, yes. But maybe a good one.
Neither photo she'd seen of the marshal could begin to do the real-life man justice. The sight of him took Laura's breath away and made her heart skip several beats. Tall, rangy, broad-shouldered and clean-shaven, he moved with the powerful, masculine grace of a lion on the savanna. His clothes were similar to what he had worn in the photograph where he had posed in front of his office: a plain shirt with an open collar, a vest, trousers, boots, and a badge. He wore a wide-brimmed tan hat. A gun belt was slung low on his hip, and the gun in the holster looked exactly like the one in the museum display. Laura didn't know what kind of gun it was, but Daddy would have known, with his interest in antique firearms.
Marshal Russell's penetrating gaze never left Laura's as he approached. She couldn't stop staring at his craggy, handsome face, steely blue-gray eyes under a high forehead, a firm jawline, and a strong chin. His ruddy skin tone spoke to a great deal of time spent outdoors. She'd guess his age to be mid-thirties or so. And oh, that thick, dark hair of his, cut short but falling in waves across his forehead. He stopped in front of her, and she blinked up at him. From her vantage point on the floor, he looked as tall and imposing as a skyscraper. He had to be well over six feet, since he towered over everybody else in the room.
He tipped his hat at her – oh, how that gentlemanly, courteous gesture sent her heart tripping! – then he held out a large hand with long, roughened fingers and a broad, sturdy wrist. “Howdy, miss. Can you stand?”
Oh, she loved his voice. It was the kind of husky, rumbly voice that could only come from a man his size, with a little velvet and a little gravel mixed into its tone. Resonant. Courteous. Even better than she had imagined it.
And he'd asked her a good question. She wasn't at all sure whether she could stand. She needed to try, but she felt weak and disoriented. If this were a dream, wouldn't she just roll with it, accept what was happening, and be able to do whatever she wanted?
But it had to be a dream. The only alternative was impossible. Unthinkable.