Historical Fiction with Speculative and Romantic Elements
Date Published: 09-01-2026
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust
England, 1381 AD: Blanche Fitzjohn is an outcast in her small coastal
village. Not only is she the illegitimate daughter of John of Gaunt, the man
responsible for her neighbors’ over-taxation, but she possesses strange
abilities: hearing sound from miles away and smelling people’s emotions.
She takes solace in her studies with the local wisewoman and in her friendship
with Geoff, a groom at the local manor. Until the day Henry of Lancaster,
Blanche’s half-brother, brings her news of an arranged marriage to Sir
Thomas Prescott, Constable of the Tower of London. Although she smells cruelty
on him, Blanche agrees to marry Thomas in the hopes that her influence may
help better the lives of Geoff and all England’s villeins.
But soon, the peasants’ discontent turns to revolt. Though her heart is
of the people, Blanche’s nobility makes her an enemy to the rebels. To
save herself and Henry from the executioner’s ax, Blanche must use every
power at her disposal, even those she once considered a curse.
About the Author
J.E. Rizzo is a life-long history fanatic and writer of historical fiction,
and her work can be found in Vanity Fair, The Boston Globe, The Guardian, The
Tudor Times, Tudor Life Magazine, Scary Mommy, and Ultrarunning Magazine.
Rizzo won Manuscript Academy’s Agent Choice Award in 2024, and her
article Past and Precedence: Abortion Law in the Middle Ages and Its Use to
Overturn Roe v. Wade won History Inquiry’s Medieval History Writing
Challenge.
By day, Rizzo works in Human Resources—a field offering more than ample
opportunity to observe the follies and fancies of humankind. Before her career
in HR, Rizzo worked as an opera singer, a professional baker, and a dog
walker. These days, when not writing she can be found running ultramarathons
through the forests and mountains of New England, knitting, reading, sewing,
baking, or performing any number of (what some might call) old-lady hobbies.
She also keeps busing caring for her two children and forty-seven houseplants,
making her husband carry heavy things and cook her gourmet meals, and
rehabilitating her rescue dog and semi-feral ginger cat.
Phillip’s on the run, with not just one but two alphas on his trail.
Raised as an alpha, Phillip’s unexpected manifestation as an omega turns
his life upside down. His father demands a handfasting, insisting Phillip be
mated to whichever alpha wins the day with their pheromones. But when the
triumphant alpha turns out to be his school friend Everett, Phillip realizes
they are fated mates. However, as a diminished omega, his chances of bearing
Ev’s children are slim. Heartbroken, Phillip flees to London.
Everett never expected to be Duke of Harriford. His title brings a slew of
distasteful marriage and handfasting offers. The latest invitation for his old
friend Phillip shocks Ev into accepting. Phillip is everything he remembers
and more, and Ev soon finds himself responding to the potent scent of
Phillip’s pheromones. When his mate runs, Ev questions whether their
feelings are true, or merely the bond of alpha and omega. Despite his fears,
he’s determined to find Phillip and bring him home.
As Ev searches London, Phillip questions the wisdom of his choices. His plans
have begun to unravel rather spectacularly. To start with, he’s
pregnant, the one thing he thought he’d never be. Worse, there’s
an alpha hunting him -- and it’s not Ev.
EXCERPT
Yorkshire, 1811
Lord Phillip Tyerman stared through the barred windows of his tower room at
the parade of men and women summoned by his father. All of them were
well-heeled and every one of them was looking to make a prestigious match with
the earl’s eldest son. The earl’s omega son, who was unable to
inherit either lands or title. The earl’s useless son, who wasn’t
even a full-fledged omega. Just a not-quite-beta whose first presentation had
caused no scandal, lured no lusty alphas, and could have been passed off as
little more than being in his second puberty. Not even the beta servants of
the household had realized anything was amiss. Only his youngest sister had
noticed. It had been Philomena, who was now heir to their father’s
estate at fifteen, thanks to her unexpected and early manifestation as a
dominant alpha. Lovely Phil, whose patrician nose had wrinkled as though a bad
odor had just filled the air.
“What a dreadful stink! Have the oranges gone over?”
Phillip could hear it even now, a full year hence, and it still rankled to the
point where he’d taken to wearing a strong sandalwood fragrance to avoid
smelling like rotted fruit. His father’s shocked look had likewise never
left his mind. The forbidding expression on the earl’s face had been bad
enough, but Phillip’s subsequent banishment to the tower room from the
heir-presumptive suite had cut even deeper. He had been nearly twenty-two at
the time, grown tall and strong. He was the spitting image of his father.
Everyone, even his omega mother, had assumed he’d manifest soon as an
alpha, and his delicate sister as an omega.
The tall and strong young man had become the omega, and the petite, delicate,
and winsome girl had become the alpha. God most certainly had a peculiar sense
of humor, at least insofar as the Tyerman family was concerned.
With a snort of irritation at the memory, Phillip turned his attention back to
the courtyard below, where the last equipage had rolled up to the front steps.
The livery on the carriage door proclaimed the occupant to be a member of the
Harrifords. Intrigued despite himself, Phillip opened the windowpanes and
peered through the bars, hoping for a glimpse of whomever it was that had come
from that prestigious family to gawk at the sale of the Tyermans’
awkward omega son. Of course, even if the occupant proved to be Ev Harriford,
Phillip fully intended to be well away from this house long before
arrangements could be made to pursue a match with any of these honored guests.
He sighed and turned away from the window, leaving it ajar to bring in fresh
air to a room that was stuffy even in the dead of winter. He had no fear of
his scent drawing unwelcome attention from all those alphas despite being near
his heat. His pheromones were practically indiscernible, as even in heat they
never carried much beyond his immediate person. The doors to the tower stair
were securely locked, and only his mother and his beta valet carried the keys.
He felt no qualms about allowing the room to air out while he dressed for this
ridiculous charade.
Well, said charade would come to an abrupt and hopefully embarrassing end for
his father. Phillip had a small bag packed with the most minimal necessities
safely stowed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d return to his rooms to
“refresh himself” when the alphas retired for brandy and banter,
and he’d make his escape then, while his father negotiated with them for
Phillip’s eventual marriage to the highest bidder.
The tiniest tremor ran along his spine. It seemed his estrus had chosen to
come in a timely manner. At least he would not have to spend several days in
isolation waiting for it to arrive so the festivities could begin in earnest.
The mere thought of said festivities sent another shiver through him, this one
of disgust.
A brisk tap sounded on the door, followed by the sound of keys in the lock and
his mother’s quiet entrance. She gave him a mildly disapproving glance
upon seeing him still in his ordinary daywear. “You should always lock
the inner door, Phillip,” she chided him. “You ought to be in your
tails by now. You have a scant half hour before dinner. Your father wishes you
to meet the guests tonight prior to the formal ceremony on Saturday.”
“Ceremony!” Phillip winced as the word came out in shocked tones.
“What ceremony?! I thought this was the usual idiotic dinner party
series so he can twist the arms of his alpha friends and convince one of them
to marry me to their offspring --”
“No, dear,” his mother interrupted with false serenity. She smiled
at him, the attempt obviously meant to soothe, yet the smile did not reach her
eyes. “The earl has decided to make this a formal handfasting ceremony,
to ensure the chosen candidate does not hand you the mitten after. So only the
most acceptable and honorable suitors were invited. If you don’t find
anyone particularly to your liking, the earl will decide who wins the right to
bond with you.”
The earl will decide. His mother’s use of his father’s title told
Phillip that Lady Winifred Tyerman did not support this extraordinary
decision. It also told Phillip that his father had chosen not to leave the
critical matter of his awkward son to chance or romantic feelings. His
thrice-damned sire would pick the person who would control Phillip for the
rest of his life. Then the true significance of his mother’s words
penetrated the fog engendered by the word “ceremony.”
“A handfasting? What on earth are you on about?” Phillip cursed
himself for the shake in his voice.
Handfasting was an ancient custom, very much out of use, as it used a bonding
bite to ensure the omega couldn’t flee with another alpha or beta. But
to do so in this day? The handfasting ceremony included a public bite, binding
the omega to the alpha forever, socially and physically, even if the alpha
chose to marry someone else. While the ceremony wasn’t precisely
outlawed, it was frowned upon as outré and generally reserved only for
omegas of wealthy families perilously close to the end of their breeding
years.
And this was to be his fate? He’d be damned first.
About the Author
Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not
necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her
writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan,
strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes
all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.
And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.
The Beauty of Individual Things follows Margot Andrews, a young American
woman swept from New York high society into the dazzling yet fractured world
of 1920s London. When the transactional demands of privilege collide with
betrayal and violence, leaving her disillusioned and adrift, she escapes to
the freshwater shoreline of lost childhood summers.
With her past unrecoverable and her future uncertain, Margot searches for a
different life amid Detroit’s dynamic and monied Prohibition
era—with its yacht races, rumrunners, and industrial might. Set against
a city on the rise, she must navigate her family’s ruthless pursuit of
social standing, the magnetic pull of charismatic boat racer Ellis James, and
the relentless echoes of her past. The story explores the weight of loneliness
and the personal cost of love and reinvention as Margot decides whether to
remain a fragile ornament of her family’s design or forge an identity
that is beautiful, imperfect, and entirely her own.
About the Author
Karen Thomas Yoo was born and raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She graduated
from the University of Michigan and received an MBA from Duke University. When
she isn't writing, she can usually be found in her garden or on a paddleboard
in Lake Michigan. A mother of three grown children, she lives in Grosse Pointe
with her husband. This is her first novel.
The Beauty of Individual Things follows Margot Andrews, a young American
woman swept from New York high society into the dazzling yet fractured world
of 1920s London. When the transactional demands of privilege collide with
betrayal and violence, leaving her disillusioned and adrift, she escapes to
the freshwater shoreline of lost childhood summers.
With her past unrecoverable and her future uncertain, Margot searches for a
different life amid Detroit’s dynamic and monied Prohibition
era—with its yacht races, rumrunners, and industrial might. Set against
a city on the rise, she must navigate her family’s ruthless pursuit of
social standing, the magnetic pull of charismatic boat racer Ellis James, and
the relentless echoes of her past. The story explores the weight of loneliness
and the personal cost of love and reinvention as Margot decides whether to
remain a fragile ornament of her family’s design or forge an identity
that is beautiful, imperfect, and entirely her own.
Excerpt
No one tells a young woman that things usually happen because of money,
sex, or power. We learn it on our own. Polite girls go on to elegantly
suppress the notion, but most know it, and I was nothing if not polite. It was
different for Grace. She was a Maxwell. It wasn’t in their nature to
suppress things. They blew them up.
An early lesson remains etched in my mind. It was a summer day in 1913. The
Maxwells had secured a white clapboard weekly rental on the shores of Elk
Lake, tucked among the rolling farmland and evergreen forests of northern
Michigan.
The screen door slammed. I shaded my eyes as Uncle Fred crossed a narrow strip
of beach, wearing a faded black-and-white-striped bathing costume.
“You’ll burn, Fred,” Aunt Lou clucked from her canvas sling
chair under the shade of a lurid yellow umbrella.
Cousin Grace doubled over, shrieking with laughter. “You look like a
ghost,” she sputtered. I suppressed my giggles by intently staring at a
beached canoe.
Uncle Fred hadn’t brought any alcohol on that vacation.
“It’s called drying out,” Grace had whispered one night
after we were tucked away in our shared bed. “The booze turns dusty and
blows away … or something.”
I never saw the dust, but for two or three rocky days Uncle Fred kept to his
room, scolding us through the door to lower our voices. Then one bright
morning, the dust cleared. All breakfast table chatter quieted as he stood at
the head of the table, bright-eyed and eager to lead us on bracing outdoor
excursions involving tree identification—white pine versus
red—campfires, and fish brought home on stringers. I felt sorry for the
fish, but they were delicious.
Now, after nodding in acceptance of his daughter’s ribbing, Uncle Fred
called to me, “Margot, I’ll see you at the end of the dock.”
I immediately stopped giggling. I had been forbidden from docks and floating
canoes because I didn’t know how to swim. At ten years old, I was
mortified by this humiliating precaution yet too frightened to do anything
constructive about it.
Aunt Lou had dismissed all petulant objections. “The water doesn’t
care, child. It’ll drown you all the same.”
About the Author
Karen Thomas Yoo was born and raised in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She graduated
from the University of Michigan and received an MBA from Duke University. When
she isn't writing, she can usually be found in her garden or on a paddleboard
in Lake Michigan. A mother of three grown children, she lives in Grosse Pointe
with her husband. This is her first novel.
Voiceless Donnell and defrocked priest Nathan are outcasts and strangers at
the turn of the century. Despite his handicap, Donnell has made a life for
himself as a businessman and owner of a saloon. His heart goes out to those
whom life has dealt an unhappy hand. When Nathan arrives in this former
gold-rush town, horsewhipped and ill to the point of collapse, Donnell is the
only one to offer help.
Barely ordained before being accused of unnatural desires, Nathan has been
sent to travel a faux road to Damascus as penance. He did not expect to
survive the trek, and longed for the peace he might find when his body gave up
the fight.
He never expected to meet someone like Donnell. Despite his lack of voice,
Donnell is the teacher Nathan has hungered for all his life, and the lover he
never dared seek out. Triumphing over a lifetime's worth of threatened
damnation will not be easy to overcome, but Donnell's not giving up. The
passion they share is what both men have always craved, but never found. When
they're discovered, standing together is the only thing that will save them
both.
EXCERPT
In a fit of optimism, some enterprising settler twenty-odd years ago had named
this patch of land "Shady Grove." The name hadn't stuck longer than the first
summer, arid heat scorching the life out of anything the daft fellow had tried
to plant, and carrying away his wife and children.
After that, or so the story went, the settler had cursed his homestead with
the new name of "Hell."
When gold was found not far west in a puny stream, the name changed yet again
to "El Dorado." Though that lasted no longer than the rush of miners who
picked, panned and mined away most of the precious metal.
When the gold was mostly gone and civilization caught up with the roughneck
men who'd blazed through in search of riches, there came bankers, lawyers and
doctors, along with their pretty wives and dainty daughters. Amongst
themselves, they'd formed a quaint city council, elected a mayor, nominated a
marshal, and rechristened this hole in the ground as "Nazareth."
Those whose tongues weren't corseted by the niceties observed in polite
society still called the former boomtown "Hell."
As for Donnell, he called it home, and had since the day he was born, a silent
infant who'd opened his mouth to wail, but made almost no sound, not then and
rarely ever afterward. The best he could manage was a sort of scale of
breathing -- a whistle, a shush, a sigh. He'd never spoken a proper word. At
least his hearing was top-notch.
Music was Donnell's voice instead, tickled out through the ivories of the old
upright piano he'd paid a considerable sum in gold dust to have shipped from
Chicago. Within the safe haven of Treighton's saloon, Donnell had placed that
piano facing the street, where he'd have a fine view through the mosquito
netting over the window when he played.
He could arrange Treighton's however he wanted, no questions asked. Owner's
rules and that owner would be him.
Music wasn't his only skill. He was a favored son of Lady Luck, and the cards
danced to his tune. Those who thought a mute man was simple, and an easy cheat
at faro, often found themselves losing big.
He'd given up the game after winning Treighton's, though. No sense in pushing
his luck too far.
A man who'd call himself satisfied with his lot in life, Donnell caressed the
piano keys, a jingling tune flowing smooth and sweet as quality whiskey under
his mastery of the music. He let the corner of his mouth quirk upward with dry
humor. Many were they who'd claimed the son of a whore, muteness aside, would
never make anything of his life. They'd been wrong, too.
Did they accept his good fortune with grace? Hell, no. The "proper" folks of
Nazareth scorned him still, and always would. Too good for the likes of him
and his saloon.
Thank God for sinners, eh?
* * *
A sudden clamor rose from the dusty, uneven street outside, usually quiet and
deadly dull during the morning hours while laborers and leftover miners
toiled, polite society occupied themselves with polite works, and gamblers
slept off their night's fun. Attention captured, Donnell peered through the
mosquito netting over his window.
Soon enough, the source of the commotion came into view. Donnell raised one
eyebrow, intrigued. A tall, lean man, far too thin for his height. He was
dressed in the tattered remnants of a once-respectable shirt, now missing its
collar and cuffs, and formerly sturdy denim trousers, with no hat on his head
nor shoes on his feet nor a coat on his back. Bleached-out hair stringy from
lack of washing and long enough to be caught up in a queue hung over his face
and tangled across his eyes.
Donnell leaned forward, instantly captivated. He'd never seen the equal of
those eyes, their color distinct even at this distance. Aqua blue, the shade
of summer skies, dulled by hunger and pain, but no less remarkable.
In point of fact, were he to be cleaned up and provided with a few good
healthy meals, Donnell guessed this young man would easily steal anyone's
heart away. Not least of all his.
Not that anyone knew about his preferences. It was safer that way. He came in
for scant questioning about his lack of female companionship, as most thought
if his tongue didn't work then neither would his cock.
Donnell abandoned those thoughts and focused on the beautiful -- yes,
beautiful -- young man instead, a far more pleasant diversion. He'd no stubble
on his cheeks or chin, both badly sunburned. Young, then. Tall and gangly
enough that at a guess Donnell would have put him in his late teens, no more
than twenty, not so far Donnell's junior.
A man could make quite a lot of himself in twenty years plus change. He could
raise himself a fine establishment like Donnell's, or he could end up
staggering filthy and starving down a dusty, badlands street with children and
bad-tempered dogs jeering him every barefooted step of the way.
Donnell frowned when the young man staggered, swaying alarmingly before
righting himself. That didn't seem to be clumsiness, but rather weariness.
Perhaps illness?
"Drunk," Bettina sniffed, peering past Donnell. She might work in a saloon,
but she had no patience with men who behaved badly when they'd had too much of
the grape and grain. She didn't scold like the holy men, no, she tore strips
off their hides and nailed them to the wall, and they loved her for it.
Barely hearing her, Donnell continued to track the man's progress. Seeming to
ignore the rabble jeering at him, he came to a stop and stood up as straight
as he could, attempting to brush dust, mud and worse off his clothes,
smoothing them down. He dragged his hair out of his face with hands that shook
minutely and gazed up the length of the street still to go.
The quiet despair in his eyes struck a chord in Donnell's heart, reverberating
with a sense of hollow misery. Here was a man who'd fallen as far as he could
go, with a trail of heartbreak behind him that stretched out for as many miles
as he'd walked.
Donnell sat back and drummed his fingers on his knees. Poor bastard.
Enough kind souls had helped Donnell in his day. He owed this poor fellow no
less.
About the Author
Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat
hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter
weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong
love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to
watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.
As the Kelly Can Saga continues, Charlie and his wife, Susan, must deal with
continued conflict as they attempt to grow their fledgling Kelly Oil Company.
Like many other oilmen, Charlie and his partner, Hank Thomas, want to acquire
oil and mineral rights to the Osage Nation’s land in northern Oklahoma.
This leads them to confrontations with an adversary from their recent past.
Susan’s life is imperiled by those evil characters. How will her cowboy
come to her rescue and deal with dangerous direct threats on their lives?
Charlie rapidly steps up to the challenge as any past Top Hand at the
world-famous Miller’s 101 Ranch would.
About the Author
E. Joe Brown is an award-winning author of
novels, short stories, and memoirs. His current projects include a series of
historical fiction novels set in his native Oklahoma. Publication of the first
book in the series is scheduled for August 2022. His memoir ‘Mickey and
Me’ about meeting his hero, Mickey Mantle, is now featured in the
National Baseball Hall of Fame. Joe currently serves as President of New
Mexico Westerners, an Advisor to the SWW Board of Directors, and is a member
of Western Writers of America and Military Writers Society of
America.
He supports his love of music and performance through
active membership in the International Western Music Association. He served on
the organization’s board of directors for three years. In 2013, Governor
Susanna Martinez appointed him a New Mexico Music Commissioner.
Veterans
Portrait Project, Military, USAF
Photo Courtesy of
Stacy
Pearsall's
Veterans Portrait Project
Joe concluded his lifetime
military and civil service careers upon retirement on June 30, 2010. An
exciting multi-faceted career of firsts included leading the USAF Range
Instrumentation Team to aid the original NASA Space Shuttle program. His team
helped create the Shuttle Worldwide Network and supported the first six
missions of Space Shuttle Columbia. As the Air Force Flight Test Center
Project Manager, he guided the design, construction, and implementation of the
Benefield Anechoic Facility on Edwards AFB. The facility tests
state-of-the-art electronic warfare systems in a secure environment. His final
assignment was in direct support of the two-star Major General at Edwards AFB
where he advised on strategic planning to assure future readiness to test USAF
and Department of Defense weapons systems.
An alumnus of the
Oklahoma State University College of Engineering, Joe continued his
engineering education during both his military and civil service careers. He
completed coursework at the University of Colorado, Georgia Institute of
Technology, George Washington University, University of Tennessee, Chapman
University, and the University of California at Los Angeles. He later
completed a BS in Business Management at Phoenix University and the Executive
MBA program with a Strategic Planning emphasis from Webster University.
Joe
has been married to his wife Linda for over fifty years, and their sons have
given them five beautiful grandchildren.
She went back in time to rescue him. She never
counted on falling in love…
Alma Whitecrow prefers hunting and fishing with men, not
romancing them. But hearing about the roguishly handsome coureur de
bois, who saved her sister from the Dakota, haunts her thoughts and dreams.
Well-versed in surviving the wilds, Alma resolves to travel to the
mid-eighteenth century, as her sister once did, to save the man from impending
death.
Charlot Baudelaire thumbs his nose at society’s
expectations, content living as a loner, trading with people he calls the Saulters.
If he needs a woman for the night, there is always a willing maiden. What he
doesn’t expect is a spunky and stubborn female warrior to challenge him.
Charlot is not the man Alma dreamed about, and Alma is not
the kind of woman Charlot pursues. But the longer they are together, the more
drawn to each other they become, until Alma faces the biggest decision of her
life. Stay with a man who may never reciprocate her love, or return to her
Ojibway home and bland existence.
Alma had expected to step into a battle. Reality set in. The only
killing she’d done was animals when hunting with Grandpa. But if she didn’t
shoot, she risked her own life and Theodore’s as she faced six Dakota sporting
arrows.
Theodore growled, waiting for her command.
The Dakota didn’t fire at her, though. They seemed to fire
everywhere else, hollering in a language she couldn’t comprehend. The fear in
their eyes indicated she’d terrified them.
Maybe they assumed she was a ghost when she’d emerged through the
flickering flames.
As the Dakota scattered, she tracked their moccasin footprints, but
one set stood out. Grandpa had told her about the spread of the toes, and these
toes weren’t spread. They came from a person who walked in shoes or boots.
Someone who later in life had switched to the footwear of the Indigenous
people.
She followed the footprints with Theodore beside her, sniffing. She
used the end of her rifle to move aside the thick brush, which was why her
homeland was called the bush at her reserve. There was nothing to call a
forest or woods about Northwestern Ontario.
The thick underbrush kept trying to snag her clothing. Clothing she
longed to remove. When she left home, she’d donned an outfit for a cold
Halloween night. But summer bloomed here. She could remove her jacket since she
had a sweater underneath, and beneath that a tank top.
A groan came about ten feet from her, and she aimed her rifle in the
direction of the sound. She moved through the many twigs and branches but
didn’t spot a blood trail. Whatever lay beneath the berry bush had been hit
there.
Another groan.
Whoever was hurt wasn’t an animal. That was the sound of a human
being. Maybe one of the Dakota?
She edged in closer until she caught the moccasins sticking out,
along with breeches. This wasn’t a Dakota or warrior from the village under
attack.
Her heart held its beat.
Had she found Charlot?
Setting
While growing up as a little girl, my family was involved in baseball, so we’d head for the local baseball diamond at The Point (a peninsula on the lake). While my mother sat in the stands to watch, and my father coached the team, me, along with my brother and sisters, along with our cousins, would tear off to the replica fort situated right beside the baseball game happening.
I had no idea at the time that the fort was once a trading post during the fur trade in Canada. Nor did I realize where we played was a big gathering spot for my Ojibway ancestors to meet in the spring to celebrate the Midewiwin. From what I researched, over a thousand of them would gather there to celebrate “seeking the good life.”
I also didn’t understand that the waterways were the “roads” for my people to travel. Most people associate Indigenous people with horses and teepees. That is not so for the Woodlands people who were all about the wigwam and canoe. The French fur traders, and eventually the Voyageurs also traveled these waterways. The lake and river were part of The Voyageurs Highway.
The first explorer through my land was Jacques de Noyon who travelled these waterways as far back as 1688. Then there was Pierre Gaultier de Varennes, sieur de La Vérendrye who established the first fort in my area (the local hospital is named after him). The replica fort came afterward and was rechristened “Fort Frances” after Lady Frances Simpson, the wife of the Governor of the Hudson's Bay Company, George Simpson.
So yes, writing about this area came naturally to me for the Maizemerized series. I wanted to explore my homeland from the Rainy Lake and Rainy River to Lake of the Woods.
Free use image from Open Clipart Vectors
Ornery Owl's Review
Five out of Five Stars
This story kept me reading! The pace is snappy and the plot is unique. If you like time travel romance and your favorite tropes include grumpy/sunshine and enemies to lovers with definite sexual chemistry, this is the story for you. Only one bed--or bedroll? You got it!
I found Alma to be a relatable and emotionally compelling heroine. She is practical, plain-spoken, and proud of her hunting skills. Charlot is well-cast as the grumpy component of the grumpy/sunshine pair with his rough edges, roguish charm, and soft center. I felt Alma's struggle to decide whether to remain in the past, considering everything she'll lose if she does so.
My only complaint is that the time travel rules are somewhat vague. Is the path between eras only open at Halloween? Is it limited to the corn-maze's reappearance? This wasn't a big enough bone of contention to cause me to remove a star from my rating. The world-building and the strength of the characters and their connection carry the story.
The steamy encounters between Alma and Charlot make this book appropriate only for adult readers. The scenes are beautifully written and those who enjoy explicit moments in their romance will appreciate them.
Born For This
Maizemerized Book 1
She’s always been obsessed with her ancestors, and now he’s
offering her a chance to live with them... forever.
Second-year university student Edie Whitecrow gobbles up
each course on Indigenous studies. If only she could experience the lives of
her Anishinaabe ancestors instead of reading about them. On
her way to a Halloween party decked out as a historical Ojibway maiden, she
spies a corn maze in a spot known to be barren.
A scarecrow figure beckons Edie to enter with the enticing
offer of making her biggest wish come true. She jumps at the chance and finds
herself in the past, face to face with the man who haunts her dreams—the
handsome brave Thunder Bear. He claims he’s spent twelve years waiting
for Gitche Manidoo to send her to him.
Life in the eighteenth century isn’t what Edie romanticized
about, though. When her conscience is tested, she must choose between the
modern day or the world of her descendants—where the man she was born for
resides.
What readers
are saying:
“This novel is true to history while still spinning a
lovely tale of love. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves historical and
time travel romances.” –Goodreads Reviewer
“The story had me glued to the pages from start to finish. Loved and recommend
this book.” –B&N Reviewer
“Based on prior reading from the author, I knew this would be a great book. I
had no idea just how much I’d love it.” –BookBub Reviewer
“Once I started reading, I was not putting this book down.” –Goodreads Reviewer
This is one of the best romance novels I’ve ever read in
my entire life. This book will pull you in full force and make you feel so many
different emotions.” –Goodreads Reviewer
Thunder Bear nodded. “Fire Woman. Is it not an appropriate name? The
flames did not burn you. Fire is your friend. Your spirit guide.”
“I want to be honest.” She wet her plush mouth with the color riper
than raspberries. “I have been educated in the ways of the white men. Where I
come from, we live like white men.”
“I know you do. It is in your speech, your movement, your behavior.”
He reached out and touched her bare arm that possessed delicate strength
beneath the smooth flesh he palmed. “You are here to become what you are meant
to truly be. We will teach you, if you are willing.”
“I am more than willing. In the white man’s world, I am learning
everything about the People. I have studied the People ever since I was a
little girl.”
“I know you have. It is why you came.” He could not resist letting
his palm move along her arm. Beneath the skin he stroked, her slight muscle
flexed.
She wet her lips.
The urge to claim her mouth was a test of his restraint. They’d only
met this morning, and he must go slow. To slide his mouth over hers after just
meeting was not how a warrior conducted himself. Yet, the way she’d drew her
tongue along her lower lip was caressing and licking him beneath his
breechclout. Her innocent gesture might as well have been her nails raking his
backside, her hands boldly exploring his arms, and her breasts melting against
his chest.
She was aptly named, because a fire danced in her sparkling dark
eyes. A fire of desire. A fire of need. A fire flickering with mesmerization in
her gaze touching his face.
He stifled the groan aching to leave his throat.
She seemed to drag her gaze to the dark water. If where they stood
was better lit, he’d probably witness redness on her cheeks.
“What is it?”
Again, she wet her lips. “I… Maybe I should go back?”
A punch seemed to knock his gut. “Return? Now?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean the wigwam. Not the…the…”
“The dancing flames?”
She nodded.
Relief loosened the knots of his shoulder muscles. He didn’t believe
in restraining any maiden, but if she had dared to run for where she had come
from, he probably would have tossed her over his shoulder and carted her back
to the camp. Now that he had found what he’d waited twelve years to capture, he
wasn’t letting her go.
Somehow, he had to help her find her courage to survive with them.
She was destined to be here.
An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie
resides in the country with her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful
Alaskan Malamutes. When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds
in the flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush,
teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye, or
sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful memories with
the people she loves most.
Patrick Callahan comes to Cape Breton expecting easy money from a quick and lucrative timber deal. Instead, he only finds humiliation. Swindled out of his inheritance and stranded in a windswept fishing village, he is left with nothing but a single suitcase and a future that has collapsed overnight. At seven and a half feet tall, Angus MacAskill is a gentle giant with his own past. In St. Ann's, he is known for his silent kindness as much as he is for his stoic nature. He offers Patrick a bookkeeping job in his mercantile, and a place by the fire. What begins as a simple arrangement blossoms into a profound connection neither man could have ever imagined.
Set within the wild beauty of nineteenth-century Nova Scotia, Finding Harbor is a queer historical romance about survival, finding home, and a love that takes root slowly but with unshakable strength. Perfect for fans of Annie Proulx (Brokeback Mountain), Cat Sebastian (A Gentleman Never Keeps Score) and KJ Charles (An Unseen Attraction).
Excerpt
Patrick watched, fascinated by the sight. Submerged, Angus looked even more amazing. His chest rose like an island from the water, with rivulets flowing through the valleys of his muscles. His hands, spread wide to aid his floating, could have easily spanned Patrick's entire ribcage. Every proportion spoke of power held in careful check, strength tempered by conscious gentleness.
As Angus had predicted, the water's temperature became pleasant after the initial shock. Patrick swam to the pool's center. His strokes were strong and careful. They reflected his childhood summers in Boston Harbor. He circled Angus once, then twice, like a small craft orbiting a ship.
"Show off," Angus said, righting himself in the water. He moved with surprising speed for his size, catching Patrick around the waist before he could dart away.
Patrick found himself lifted effortlessly, Angus's hands secure around his midsection. "What are you—" he began, but his question transformed into a yelp of surprise as Angus tossed him several feet through the air. He hit the water with a splash, sank briefly, then surfaced, sputtering but laughing.
"Again?" Angus asked, his eyes bright with mischief.
"You're a menace," Patrick said accusingly, but he swam back to Angus, nonetheless, allowing himself to be captured once more.
This time, Angus hoisted him into the air with deliberate care, ensuring Patrick was prepared before launching him skyward. At the pinnacle of his leap, Patrick savored a delightful instant of weightlessness—just a taste of flying. Then, in a beautiful arc, he dove cleanly back into the water. As he emerged, he noticed Angus watching him with bright-eyed admiration.
"Graceful," the giant commented. "Like a kingfisher."
What began as play evolved into a pattern: Angus would throw, Patrick would fly, then dive, then return for more. Each toss sent him higher, Angus's strength precisely controlled to provide thrills without danger. Patrick laughed freely, just like he did as a child. He forgot about being self-conscious. The joy of movement, water, and trust flooded him.
Breathless and excited, Patrick swam to Angus and climbed onto his broad shoulders. He wrapped his arms loosely around the giant's neck. "Onward," he commanded imperiously, pointing toward the small waterfall.
Angus obliged. He swam with powerful strokes that barely seemed affected by Patrick's added weight. They traversed the pool together, Patrick riding high above the water's surface, feeling the play of muscles beneath him as Angus moved. In the tender embrace, skin met skin; Patrick's chest molded to Angus's back. This connection stirred a quieter pleasure, profound and comforting.
At the waterfall, Angus stood tall, water cascading down his body. Patrick, perched confidently on his shoulder, felt like he was soaring among the towering trees. The shift in perspective was exhilarating.
"You see things differently from up here," Angus said in a low voice, one hand reaching up to steady Patrick.
"Is this how you always see the world?" Patrick asked, marveling at the altered perspective.
"More or less," Angus confirmed. "Higher than most, lower than trees."
He helped Patrick slide down from his shoulders. His hands guided Patrick through the water. Soon, they faced each other, bodies close but not touching. Droplets clung to Angus's eyelashes and beard, catching sunlight like tiny prisms. His hands remained at Patrick's waist, neither restraining nor demanding, simply connecting.
Patrick placed his palms against Angus's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath water-cooled skin. Angus's eyes held his, patient and waiting. He inched closer, their lips poised for connection. When the kiss came, it tasted like fresh water and sunlight; unhurried and adventurous. Unlike their first kiss by the fireside, heavy with longing, this one held a different charm. It was not about urgency, but the playful bliss of certainty. Angus's arms cradled him gently, as water lapped at their shoulders. Wrapped in each other's embrace, they felt whole for a moment, completely secluded in their secret haven.
About the Author
Duncan Gaye lives in River Forest, Illinois. He believes magic can be found anywhere, even the suburbs. He writes the kind of love stories that sneak up on you—queer, tender, and just a little strange. His books are full of burly big-hearted men, tall tales, impossible odds, and the kind of endings that leave you wanting more.
When not writing, he likes to read, travel and relax with his adorable senior dogs, Spotty and French Fry.
The Long Shadow Series by Duncan Gaye is a thematic anthology series of stand-alone LGBTQ+ novellas and novels that tell love stories shaped by the extraordinary. Blending elements of speculative fiction, magical realism, tall tales, and literary drama, these are stories where intimacy and identity meet epic strength and emotional vulnerability.
From the mythical to the mundane, each book explores larger-than-life characters—strongmen, bodyguards, super soldiers, and other giants. For fans of emotional intensity, queer desire, and stories that stretch the boundaries of realism, this series offers a new kind of legend.
