Book Review: The Woman on The Painted Horse by Angela Christina Archer

A love that can never be….

Angela Christina Archer’s “The Woman on The Painted Horse” has been on my TBR pile for a while and this week I treated myself to a long-overdue read.

Alexandra Monroe is the feisty and gusty heroine, telling the story from her POV, and on the cusp of womanhood, and still pressed on the opposing thumb of her parents. Born into a wealthy Montgomery Alabama family, living during the Civil War, she has prestige, honor and everything a young lady could want or need. Sort of. There are certain fundamental things lacking at home.

And Alexandra is a also a slave smuggler, covertly doing what she can for the area slaves, and risking her life with each run she makes. If her domineering parents only knew of her dangerous exploits. They want her to marry Thomas Ludlow. His family rolls in wealth, rank high in society and marriage between Alexandra and Thomas will both secure their rank in society and provide Alexandra with resources and funds for even more slave smuggling.

Except Thomas is a narcissistic, cruel, bullying, miserable SOB that you would gladly kick into next month. And keep kicking. That kind of guy you just naturally and easily hate to pieces.

Except Alexander has met William Greysden, from the local Indian tribe. Their love will never be accepted by Alexandra’s family, by society or William’s tribe.

What can a young lady of society, and covert slave smuggler, possibly do?

Warning, this is not a fluffy romance, packed with mindless kisses and passionate sex. This is a gritty novel, set during one of our nation’s more turbulent times, written in sometimes a disturbingly comparable turbulence. Alexandra, and those dear to her, endure treatment no human should ever witness or endure. This book can be achingly ugly and cruel in its honesty. Sometimes it just hurts to read it.

And it also is a beautiful love story, of a love that could be and should not, and a love that should be but cannot. Which one will finally win? It is an honest story, one I will not spoil, as the reader will turn pages till the end, wondering.

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A visit from Angela Christina Archer and “Where the Black Roses Grow”

This is a story about the Salem witchcraft and of romance blooming in such an unlikely time and place.

In 1692 the fear of witchcraft is spreading around Salem village. While those who are accused and sentenced face death, everyone else faces the risk of accusations placed upon them.

As Emmalynn Hawthorne, the daughter of a woman hung for witchcraft, places a bouquet of flowers upon her mother’s grave, a circle of black roses sprouts out of thin air. Dark magic, the roses strike fear through her heart when Mary Pruett and the handsome new-comer, James DeKane, spy upon her as they pass along the traveling road. Emmalynn flees and her panic soon turns into terror as another vine of black roses sprouts and grows throughout the inside of her home. Is she a witch? Will she be the next accused?

James DeKane has secrets of his own—ones that could prove deadly for him and anyone he holds dear. At fault for the untimely death of his parents, he must protect his hidden brother and dying sister, all while fearing that the haunting prophecy bestowed upon him at birth will come to pass. Desperate and fighting the monster deep inside of him, he’s searching for the one love who can alter his destiny.

Here is a little sampling of Where the Black Roses Grow:

Twenty-five men and women were accused.

Nineteen hung to their death on Gallow Hills.

One suffocated under bone crushing stones.

All believed to possess the power of witchcraft.

A gentle spring breeze blew the soft flower petals of the bouquet lying against my chest. They fluttered against my black, cotton dress as my feet crunched through the twigs and rocks along the dirt path.

The flowers were nothing more than the wild vegetation that bloomed around my home. Not akin to the pretty sprays of flora most set upon the crosses of their departed loved ones. Flowers of worth were not allowed in this part of the graveyard.

I tiptoed down the path past the only other mourners imploring the free-grace of God as they cried and prayed, their whispered prayers the same pleas bespoken before countless times.

One of the mourners watched me as I passed her with a look of judgment in her eyes. The brewing disdain spread through her rigid shoulders.

“I know where thou travel.” Her eyes narrowed as her words quivered from her lips. “Disgrace upon thou for thy betrayal to God, the Church, and to the honored Reverend.”

“My apologies for thy erroneous belief.” Trapped between my fear and her hatred, my teeth clenched.

The woman gasped, covering her mouth at my curt dismissal, but I ignored her and continued through the graveyard.

Leaves rustle from the tall trees as beams of sunlight danced around me. My grip upon the bouquet tightened, bending the stems and tugging at the petals. I tucked my chin deeper toward my chest then lifted my hand unto my face sheltering my eyes. I continued down through the maze of overgrown weeds and through the broken rotten wood gate.

I cared not for the mourner’s ill-placed belief, for my soul mourned the loss of my mother–the falsely condemned witch.

Along the meadow in the outskirts of town near the peddler’s road, the damned and cursed lay in shallow graves, devoid of headstones, unless a family member willing to bear the burden of shame bestowed them with one.

While not a conviction sin, the mere act of visiting this cursed part of the graveyard caused whispers–a scary thought in times of preternatural torment. One never wishes for another to speak about their actions, and my audacious defiance toyed with betrayal toward all held sacred.

Want to know more about Angela?

Angela lives on a ranch with her husband, two daughters, and many farm animals. She was born and raised in Nevada, and grew up riding and showing horses from hunter jumper, English equitation, western pleasure, trail, and halter. While she doesn’t show anymore, she still loves to trail ride her paint horse, Honky. In December of 2007, she and her husband moved to Oklahoma.

From a young age, she always wanted to write a novel. However, she never believed she could write anything well enough for a publisher to even consider her. Every time the desire flickered, she shoved the thought from her mind until one morning, in 2009, she awoke with the determination to follow her dream.

You can visit her website at http://www.angelachristinaarcher.com

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