I put together a proposal for a trilogy set in Montana that I thought was perfect for Harlequin’s Intrigue line. 14 of my books have been published as Intrigues. I loved writing those books and had my heart set on continuing to write for Intrigue. I knew my readers would love this trilogy. Unfortunately, HQ didn’t feel the same way. So, I’m debating what to do with it.
My agent has sent the trilogy proposal to another editor or two, but if they reject the trilogy, should I go ahead and finish writing the stories and put them out myself as e-books?
The stories revolve around Clan Gunn siblings, two brothers and a sister, who are of Scottish and Cree descent. These stores are packed with family dynamics, murderous suspense, and sexy titillation. What do you think? Should I write the series? Would you purchase and read this trilogy? Everyone who posts a response will be entered in a contest to win a free copy of one of my backlist books. Your choice.
So, here is the opening of the first Clan Gunn Trilogy:
“Slow down or I’ll bleed out!” Justice Gunn shouted at his brother Noble.
Noble growled and punched up the speed until dust billowed behind the one-ton dually pickup as it careened down the rutted Montana road like an unhinged, three-wheeled carnival ride.
Justice considered grabbing the key. Shutting off the motor. Stopping the truck cold. But likely that would further infuriate Noble.
Clan Gunn motto: aut pax aut bellum
Either Peace or War.
Why, Justice wondered, did he always end up with war? Should he blame the Viking blood of his Scottish ancestors from whom he’d inherited cobalt eyes and a strong chin? Or his Cree grandmother who’d passed to him raven hair and a tenacious spirit?
Maybe the combination makes me look like I’m itchin’ for a fight, he thought, snatching the brim of his buckskin Stetson before it flew off into the thin, crisp air and landed in the field. This section of the 500 acre Smoking Gunn–the Gunn family’s ranch–backed up to Glacier National Park.
The seldom used road they traveled was a short cut to town, shortened more by Noble’s breakneck speeds. Fenced, miles-wide pastures of amber hay–that stretched to distant snow-capped mountain peaks–passed in a haze of sunlight and endless blue sky. Heaven on Earth to Justice usually, but right now pain robbed his appreciation.
“I’m bleeding all over the damned seat,” he barked. His right hand held a bath towel pressed to four, six inch slashes on his upper thigh. Every bump spiked his pain and cranked his temper past eruption. “You should have stitched this leg at the house.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“I’m a vet, not a doctor.” Noble, a throwback to the Norse side of the family–as blond as Justice was dark–cast an ice blue glare and accelerated again. The work-battered pickup groaned and bounced, dodged the occasional Scottish Pine, flew past a Siberian Larch. Tires slammed uneven rock bed, each hit punishing Justice more.
“You could have been cougar lunch,” Noble ground through clenched teeth. “What were you doing alone in the north field at dawn?”
The tips of Justice’s ears heated. They’d reached the lower pastures, Angus cows and spring calves grazed oblivious to the drama in the pickup. He fought the urge to touch his pocket, to feel the worn photo there. No. Where he’d really been, what he’d really been doing was private. His brother didn’t believe in powers beyond this earth. Justice did.