Slammed in a jail cell after killing a man in a crooked poker game, Ethan Craig's future looks bleak.

Then a witness, Amelia Ash, comes forward and offers Ethan a way out. But there's a catch. Amelia needs someone to escort her on a treacherous journey across bandit-infested country to her forthcoming wedding.

Ethan agrees to take her, but with raging rivers to cross and Buck Lincoln's outlaw gang on her tail, it isn't long before Ethan realizes just how treacherous this journey will be. There's danger every step of the way in this gripping western.

Leach Oldrich was fingering his whiskey glass again, and that meant he couldn't have a straight flush.

And Ethan Craig reckoned he'd risk his last dollar to prove it.

Trouble was, it really was his last dollar, and Leach knew it.

One last time Ethan glanced at his four displayed cards: two jacks, a three, and a queen, then lifted the corner of his hidden queen. He glanced at Leach's hand: the four, five, six and eight of hearts. Then he looked up at Leach, but Leach met his gaze with a steady eye.

And for Ethan, that clinched it.

'I'll pay to see what you've got.' Ethan threw his stake into the pot. 'And you just ain't got a straight or a flush.'

Leach chuckled. 'And I'm looking forward to taking your money.'

Ethan leaned forward. 'And I was right. You're just too confident.'

Leach pursed his lips, then sipped his whiskey, prolonging the moment before he revealed his hand. As he placed the glass down, his lips curled with a slight smile and, for just for a moment, doubt invaded Ethan's mind, but then Leach snorted and tipped his hidden card over.

It was the queen of clubs, and he had a nothing hand.

Ethan leaned back, then tipped over his queen. Leach didn't even look at the card as he gestured for Ethan to take the pot. As the other players grunted their appreciation, Ethan pulled the bills towards him.

'And with that,' the rancher to Ethan's right said, 'I'm leaving.'

'Me, too,' the plump banker opposite Ethan said, patting his ample stomach. 'I got me a bank to open up before the good citizens of Lodesville start complaining.'

Leach pouted. 'But surely you gentlemen will give me a chance to win back my money.'

The banker stood. 'I'm up ten dollars, and that's good enough for me.'

'And I'm down five,' the rancher said. 'And that was good enough for me, too.'

'That mean neither are you are man enough to fight it out on another hand?'

The rancher glanced at the saloon doors, then placed both hands on the table and leaned forwards to confront Leach.

'I can stay for another hand and teach you a lesson for that arrogance.'

The banker stared aloft, but then withdrew his watch and glanced at it.

'And I suppose those customers can wait another few minutes,' he murmured with a resigned sigh.

And so, Leach dealt another hand.

As he dealt, Ethan glanced at Leach wondering, as he guessed everyone else around the table was, whether he was a bad player, or a good one. Leach's unsubtle taunt after his systematic losses of the last two hours was such an obvious way of raising the stakes and taking somebody for every last cent he had.

But sometimes the most obvious ways are the easiest ways to succeed.

With this in mind, Ethan guarded his profits and backed out of the hand before anyone became serious. And sure enough, everybody suddenly felt that Leach had dealt them their best hand in the last two hours and the stakes grew with nobody prepared to back out.

When all the cards were down, the banker had two pair displayed and a possible full house. Leach had three kings and a possible fourth. The rancher was sitting on three exposed queens and as he had shown no inclination to bluff, Ethan reckoned he just had to have a fourth.

Ethan leaned back, watching everyone and trying to deduce whether Leach had been cheating to manufacture this position. From the corner of his eye he saw him repeatedly finger his gunbelt, suggesting he may have secreted a card there, but, just as the stakes rose to fifty dollars, a shadow fell across the table.

Ethan glanced up, but to his surprise, the newcomer was a woman. Ethan judged her to be in her earlier twenties. She wore a crisp and stern dress and despite her pleasing oval face sported an expression to match.

'Mr. Oldrich,' she intoned, tapping a firm foot on the floor. 'You are already one hour late.'

'Amelia, stay outside like I told you to,' Leach murmured, not even looking up. 'And I'll join you just as soon as I've won my money back.'

'Based on your record of the last two days, I cannot wait that long. We will go now.'

Her comment dragged a round of laughter from the table. Leach murmured his irritation, but made no move to stand.

'I'll raise another ten dollars,' he said, favouring the banker with a firm glare.

Ethan glanced at Amelia, wondering if she was a part of Leach's routine. The distracting arrival of a flustered and comely young woman just as the stakes got high was mighty suspicious.

Amelia snorted her breath through her nostrils then swung her head to the side to peer down at Ethan.

'And what are you looking at?' she demanded.

Ethan leaned back in his chair to appraise her from behind.

'The best view I've seen in many a year.'

Colour rose in her cheeks, but she firmed her jaw and looked away from Ethan as she folded her arms.

'Mr. Oldrich, take me away from this... this place, immediately.'

Leach grunted his irritation and, with a few glances at Amelia, another round of bets went into the pot. This proved too much for the banker and he folded, leaving just Leach and the rancher, who paid to see Leach's hand.

Leach glanced up at Amelia, winked, receiving a pout in response, then tipped over his hidden card. He had a full house, kings over tens.

The rancher and Leach shared eye contact. Then the rancher flipped over his final card to show that he did have four queens.

Leach blinked hard and delivered a pronounced gulp.

'You played well,' he murmured, nothing in his sullen tone suggesting that was a compliment.

'And I hope you're happy with the result,' the rancher said, leaning back to edge his jacket aside and display the ivory handle of his gun. 'I don't want you to go thinking I cheated.'

Leach glanced at the gun. 'Nothing of the sort.'

'Then I'll collect.' The rancher moved forwards, his gaze on Leach, but Ethan lunged and slapped a hand on his wrist.

'And I don't reckon you will,' he said.

The rancher swung his gaze from Leach to appraise Ethan.

'What you trying to say, friend?'

'I'm saying you just cheated.'

The rancher's right eye twitched. 'You weren't even in the game.'

'I wasn't, and that gave me plenty of time to watch what you were doing. And you just slipped yourself that queen from your sleeve.'

'You reckon you can prove it?'

'Perhaps not, but I can prove this.' Ethan raised his hand from the rancher's wrist then grabbed his jacket and threw it open. Tucked into the inside pocket was the four of hearts, which he threw, face up, on to the table.

As the rancher opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, Leach delivered a broad smile.

'Obliged for your observing skills, Ethan.'

'Don't be. Because he ain't the only one cheating here. You palmed that second ten several hands ago and I reckon if I investigate your clothes, I'll find the queen that this man just couldn't have.'

Leach's jaw muscles rippled, but then he smiled and exchanged a glance with the rancher.

'What you reckon?' he asked.

The rancher rubbed his jaw then gave a resigned shrug.

'Split the pot?'

'Hey,' the banker whined. 'I had a stake in that pot and I had a good hand. And all without cheating.'

For long moments everyone stared at each other. Then the banker thrust his hand to his holster. Ethan jumped back from the table, drawing his gun with his right hand and pushing Amelia to the floor with his left hand. But, as he swung his gun round to aim at Leach, the rancher drew and blasted lead sideways at the banker.

The shot caught him high on the shoulder and wheeled him to the floor, but before the rancher could fire again, Ethan planted a slug in his forehead that kicked him back in his chair. He tumbled to the floor to lie still seated in his upturned chair with his legs high.

Ethan swung his gun back to the table, covering Leach and the banker as he backed away two paces, but Leach thrust his hands high and the banker was writhing on the floor, clutching his shoulder. So, Ethan paced around the table to peer down at the rancher's body.

He confirmed that the rancher was dead, but then noticed the quietness in the saloon and that everyone who was surrounding the table was looking behind him towards the saloon doors.

Ethan stood tall and glanced over his shoulder, but it was to see a man with a star and a Peacemaker levelled on him.

'I'm Sheriff Pye,' the man said, 'and you'll holster that gun, cowboy, or die where you stand.'

Romance is a familiar feature in westerns, but I've never been comfortable with it myself. My view hasn't matured much beyond my attitude as a child when the kissy bits in movies made me squirm while I waited for the story to restart. Even today, for me, western romances haven't evolved much beyond the obligatory tacking on of the H&H getting hot and sweaty whether they want to or not. And worse, the subplot is such an odd form of literature — namely, romance written by men for men.

Now before anyone raises an eyebrow, I'll admit that I'm joking, and I hope I haven't insulted any female western readers and writers, and male romance readers and writers. But in general, when we men try to be romantic, what emerges is usually pathetic and involves only needing two attempts to guess the date of our wife's wedding anniversary then buying her an ironing board as a present. And when writing romance, which is a genre that can't be faked, men treat readers to their vision of an ideal woman and their sad belief as to how true lurve works.

So, we have the tart with the heart. She has the skills to show a cowpoke a good time, but won't want to talk about cushion covers.

Then there's the widow woman — usually with ten-year-old son in tow. She'll show a cowpoke a good time, won't talk about cushion covers and, having loved and lost, won't want to get too mushy. And she has a son who has moved on from his messy early years and now needs guidance in the important skill of shooting people.

And then there's the feisty rancher's daughter. She'll show a cowpoke a good time, won't talk about cushion covers and… I could go on with the stereotypes, but the theme is the same. Romantic western women have simple motivations and don't need wooing.

But even more amusing is the romance subplot itself, which is... well, I'm in trouble there. I can't describe it because there isn't one. Romantic women fall for the hero after he's uttered one line of dialogue — two if she's playing hard to get — then drag him into a haystack without him asking. Then they obligingly disappear until the last chapter when they provide him with someone to go home to after he's shot up the bad guy. Or she'll reappear in the penultimate chapter when the bad guy captures her and she needs saving. Although to let her influence the plot a bit, she'll get to smash a vase over the bad guy's head, rake his cheek, and knee him where the sun don't shine when he gets too frisky.

You could argue that this is an accurate portrayal of how romance once worked, but the books are read now. And either way, historical novels often tell you more about the period in which the book was written than the period being written about, a perspective that only becomes apparent with the benefit of hindsight. So, what we have is a modern day bloke's view of romance, and it's all a bit sad.

Real fictional romance is about Will They or Won't They. The reader knows H&H are meant for each other, but H&H don't and they spend their time between the covers hating each other before they realize the obvious and get between the covers. Western romances don't waste time on such shenanigans because that delays the hero shooting up the bad guys. So, H&H get together at the earliest opportunity and the only question then is whether the hero can rescue his gal from the bad guy's clutches before the final page.

With this perception in mind, when I started writing westerns, I considered. Should I inflict my version of romance on other blokes who'd picked up my book only because it had a picture of a gunfight on the cover? Or would I try to depict romance the right way? Unfortunately, I had to admit I'm as clueless as the next bloke is about mushy stuff, so I avoided it and my female characters didn't drool over the smelly cowpokes. And neither did the smelly cowpokes waste time on that 'You're beautiful in your wrath' sweet-talking.

But the temptation was there, battering at me and urging me to bare my unromantic soul. The first inkling that the temptation would win came with my Avalon western Miss Dempsey's School for Gunslingers where I let the hero drool over Miss Dempsey. Luckily, he became tongue-tied whenever he was in the same room as her, so he got through the book without inflicting any mushy stuff on readers.

But I'd climbed on board the slippery slope. And then came Six-shooter Bride and I started sliding.

The story started normally enough with a situation I'd used before. The jailbird hero has two unpalatable alternatives. He must choose between staying in jail or escorting a straight-laced woman across bandit-infested country to her wedding. He considers, but decides to take her (it'd have been a short novel if he'd stayed in jail).

The plot idea was only an excuse to throw the hero into heaps of danger and get him to shoot up lots of bad guys. But even I realized he couldn't shoot up bad guys all the time and so while he reloaded his gun, H&H talked. And he didn't like her. And she didn't like him. And they argued. Then they faced danger. Then they argued some more.

Occasionally it occurred to me I was writing western romance subplot number 7: mismatched couple hate each other but circumstance forces them together and after facing danger grow to respect each other and finally realize they love each other. And every time I realized where the story was going I stopped them getting too close and got the hero to kill some bad guys instead.

But H&H didn't listen and insisted on getting closer until those dreaded three little words (Howdy there, ma'am) were hovering on the hero's lips. Boy, can your characters irritate you sometimes.

Admittedly, if you read the book, you might not realize there is a romance subplot going on. I dug my heels in on that slippery slope and demanded that the characters keep their mushy thoughts to themselves but, try as I did to avoid it, I'll admit the truth. In Six-shooter Bride, I included a romance subplot and so joined the sad ranks of blokes writing romance for blokes.

But far worse than that admittance is the fact that I enjoyed myself and am now ready to inflict obligatory romance on the unsuspecting world. And I'm loving it!