Loving the Enemy #HistoricalRomance #Western is LIVE!

Anne Conley's first ever historical romance is here!

The year is 1865 and The Civil War is officially over, but tensions are still high as everyone tries to get back to normal. Emily Evans and her mama, Rachel, are waiting for their men to come home. They’ve spent the last two years doing whatever it takes to hold on to their Texas farm, so when a passel of Union soldiers makes their way through on their way back to the North, the women find a possible solution to keeping their land out of the bank’s hands.

The last battle of the war, a fruitless skirmish at Palmito Ranch, was Isaack Ward’s last chance for a death of honor. When he survives the futile conflict the North lost, he and his men can only begin the long journey home. The last thing he expects is to fall ill and wake up to a loving gaze and halo of golden curls. 

Recuperating on a farm somewhere in east Texas, Isaack realizes he has nothing to go home to and only love and comfort where he is. Emily’s sunshiny demeanor and caring outlook provide visions of a future he hadn’t thought he deserved.

When Emily receives word her future husband isn’t coming home, she allows herself to acknowledge the emotions evoked by the quiet soldier with the dangerous eyes evokes. Can she learn to love the enemy?

Don't let the title fool you.  It IS a companion novella to my Book B!tches series, but you DO NOT have to read the Book B!tches at all to enjoy this one (although it would be cool for me).

Excerpt:

Fireflies lit up the evening, as if they were just as glad the rain had stopped. The wilderness here had a specific beauty to it, and even though he’d been sleeping in a smelly barn for the last month or so, he preferred it to the luxury he’d been accustomed to in New York. Even more, he preferred sleeping under the stars and didn’t know how he’d ever go back home. It wasn’t his home anymore. Right now, on this farm, with the fireflies buzzing around, flashing their mating signal, Isaack was more at home than he’d felt in years.

A creak jerked his attention to the porch, and he saw Emily there, wrapped in her blue shawl, the one that looked so beautiful against her skin. Silently, she pulled the edges closer as she watched him.

He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, for getting caught staring at her, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. She was the most magical creature he’d ever seen, and now they were out in the open, alone, at night.

Together.

Wordless, Isaack walked up the porch steps, careful to keep to the edges so they didn’t squeak, his eyes on hers. She tracked his progress as he stalked closer. It had been so long since a woman made him this edgy, this tense. He felt a buzz around Emily, a heat he didn’t know.

It was a burning energy that radiated out and pulsed within. A fiery, pulsing buzz. One he couldn’t extinguish.

He focused his gaze on Emily as he closed the gap between them. When they were toe-to-toe, he didn’t know what to do next. So he continued his stare. He couldn’t look away if he wanted to; the pull to her was too fierce.

“Are you okay? After this afternoon?” he whispered, lost in her seeking eyes. She nodded, mute. He reached out a finger to touch her hair, loose around her shoulders. His finger made the courageous journey, twining around the piece of corn silk. Isaack watched it, in awe. He had wanted to touch it for weeks now but hadn’t known how to get up the nerve.

It was the fireflies’ fault for putting romantic notions in his head.

Gathering courage from his finger, Isaack took a breath, the deepest he could manage, and lowered his face to hers.

Tentatively, he touched her lips with his, feeling their softness—infinite softness. She whispered a sigh at the contact, and Isaack’s finger tugged on the tendril of hair wrapped around it, grasping more. Emily’s delicate fingers traced up his shirt, tickling his chest, leaving a heated trail behind. He couldn’t stop. Having come this far, he couldn’t go backward, only forward.

His other hand rested on her hip, urging her into him as his mouth opened over hers. Every inch of her trembled under his touch as she pressed her body against his. He’d been wrong. She was certainly softer than she looked.

Her innocent kiss turned to more as she opened under his mouth, unfurling like a flower blooming in the dawn’s light. The fiery need inside him exploded, and he tugged her body closer, flush against his. Isaack felt her soft curves next to him, and he longed for more. He willed his hands to be still and not explore the curves and soft skin he knew he’d find under her garments, even though every fiber of his being craved it.

She tasted of sunshine and innocence, and he couldn’t get enough of her. But, tonight, it was not to be.

With a whimper, Emily pushed him back, and he allowed it, his hooded eyes watching her shrink back against the wall of the house. But she didn’t run. Her eyes looked at him, full of questions, but she didn’t speak, only brought the back of her hand to her mouth and stared with wide eyes. Her fingers trembled in the moonlight.

“I’m not sorry for that, but I probably shouldn’t have.” His voice was a gruff whisper as he took a step backward.

“No …” Emily looked like she would say more, but Isaack didn’t know what she meant by that one word, and he didn’t press her. He had no idea if she had a man off in the war or not. He’d heard she’d been married, but there were so many widows now.

Christ.

Links:  Amazon, Amazon UK

Barnes and Noble:  Coming soon

iTunes:  Coming soon

Kobo:  https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/loving-the-enemy-11

My mom, my writing, and I

My mom has been super supportive of my writing from infancy.  She was a writing teacher for YEARS, and did everything she could to develop my love for the written word.  She encouraged me to read whatever I wanted, whether it was age appropriate or not.  I'm not even sure 'age appropriate' was in the vernacular when I was growing up.  She bought me journals to express myself, told me my crappy poetry was awesome, and treasured my early writing attempts as if they were gold nuggets.

So when I told her I wanted to try writing novels, she was very enthusiastic.  When I finished my first one, of course I asked her to read it and give me feedback.  And she had lots of feedback.  From comma mistakes to the ever-ubiquitous 'too much sex'.  But she was proud that I'd written it.

And her pride has been there ever since.  As only a mother can have pride in her child, she's supported me in EVERY aspect of my writing journey, even the ones she doesn't understand, because let's face it.  This industry is insane.  Every aspect of it was an extreme learning experience for me, and I'm not an eighty-year-old handicapped retired teacher who's addicted to CSI and the cooking network.

But she's my mom.  And we're close.  Every year, I take her and my aunt on what I call the Cemetery Run, where we travel through the bowels of southwest Arkansas and visit her parents' graves.  Sometimes we visit their grandparents.  It's fun.  We visit cousins, we drink whiskey, and they talk.

And I listen to their stories.

My mom and my aunt tell stories about growing up in rural Arkansas and Texas, dirt poor, absentee father, partying mom, and tons of brothers and sisters.  They tell stories they heard growing up, about their parents and grandparents and all the shenanigans.

After listening to years of stories, and my mom desperately wanting me to write something different, I decided to try historical romance.  I can't explain the desire to write this specific genre, except I enjoy reading it, and it might make my mom happy, so why not?

Whether or not she enjoys it as much as I hope she will, there is still sex in it, because I guess I'm a big perv at heart and I like stories with sex.  But there's not MUCH, and I'm hoping my mama can just skip that page.  I'll even mark it for her, so she doesn't have to accidentally read about folds and members and such.

So, what I'm getting around to saying is this.  I like this story.  I didn't necessarily write it for readers, and I have several more that I intend to write, and I will like them.  I have no idea how to market and sell them, since most of my readers are contemporary, and don't get into western historical stuff, but that's okay.  These are my books.  I wrote them for me.

And my mama, even if there is still too much sex.

Because it is rare that a romance author has the support of her family in her journey, and I'm ridiculously happy about the pride my mom has shown in me.


If you want to give Loving the Enemy a shot, here's the preorder link.  It will go live in about five days.  http://amzn.to/2hWc9pT