Tree of Life Series Branch 3 :
n​Willow by Holly Bargo

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n nBe care what you wish for, because you just might get it.  n nWillow should have taken heed of that familiar warning, because she wanted Dane’s attention and then got it. She wasn’t ready.  n nOn assignment protecting a paranoid client at a convention, Dane Karl has finally found his mate, a very young sidhe ill-equipped to deal with a legendary mercenary warrior, fierce weretiger, and powerful sidhe all wrapped up in one big, badass package.  n nHis plan for a slow courtship ruined by the catastrophe that destroys the conference hotel, he claims Willow as his mate to keep her safe from the demons hunting sidhe flesh and sidhe magic. Willow must find her strength to stand up to her legendary husband’s overbearing ways, deal with the shade of his long dead, sidhe wife, and survive the demons after them.  n nCan an ancient warrior learn to love? Can a young, untried sidhe find her strength?  n​ nThis is the third and final book of the Tree of Life trilogy.n n

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Review

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nWillow by Holly Bargo #review
nPosted by brriske 
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nWillow is a young sidhe who was determined to branch out on her own from her very sheltered parents and her village. Of all places for her to work, she works for the National American Vampire Association. But sidhe blood is poison to vampires. She’s a pure white sidhe, a healing sidhe and runs across a fallen woman. It’s her nature to heal. She realized she’s healed the famous bain sidhe, Rowan Nemad. Rowan gives her a parting piece of friendly advice of locking down her glamour tighter because there are many things hunting sidhe and would claim her against her will. They chatted through some of the conference and Willow’s eyes fall on the famed bodyguard Dane Karl. And for some reason, he asks her for coffee. She’s very intimidated by the weretiger, as much as he’s trying to put her at ease. He recognizes her as his soulmate and knows that he has to court her. ​ n

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Excerpt

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nAh, there he was. Willow’s breath caught in her throat and she grew very still as she watched him, admired him. A tall man with straight shoulder length, dark blond hair, massively built of long, thick bone and hard muscle and no fat, he prowled slowly along the aisles of exhibits. She watched him pause beside the booth occupied by Night Life Magazine. He desultorily flipped through a few pages, exchanged a few words with the publisher’s staff person who manned the display, and moved on. His gait was slow and gliding, predatory. His heavily lidded eyes appeared sleepy until one took a second look and realized that they were sharp and hyper-watchful. 
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nShe concentrated, delicately calibrating her body and releasing the tiniest amount of tigress pheromones into the air. 
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nA convention attendee stopped to ask about membership benefits, commanding Willow’s attention. She smiled pleasantly, showed him the list of membership benefits and explained them, and described the membership fee structure.
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nDane stopped in front of a booth promoting eighteen karat gold fang caps, with and without gemstone embellishments. His nostrils flared and the back of his tongue tingled, detecting the stimulation of pheromones almost too faint to detect. He inhaled more deeply through his mouth and followed the whisper of scent to a slender brunette who seemed to be completely unaware of his presence as she addressed an attendee’s questions. There she is. A tingle of awareness shivered through his body as he studied her from across the aisle. He watched her thank the attendee for his interest, press some literature in to his hand, and slowly realize that someone was staring at her.n

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My parents celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary on November 14, 2019.

Four days later, my father died.

Dad wasn’t in good health. He’d been in heart failure for the last few months. But still … we didn’t expect Dad to die quite so soon or so suddenly. Here’s his obituary. He was 79 years old.

Two of my brothers called to let me know what had happened, what was happening. I called my husband and he came home from work. We packed, called a nephew to take care of the animals, and headed out. Dad died while we were en route with just another 100 miles to go.

I took a two-week leave of absence from my work, notifying clients on the fly. I did what I could to help my mother. I wept the day after we returned while washing dishes.

There’s usually a reason–not necessarily a good one–why I don’t post my usual blogs. I won’t finish my latest work-in-progress either by the end of the year. I take these personal commitments seriously. But this time, I’ll simply beg your indulgence.

My father died and I’m still grieving.

nWhen editing other authors’ work or delivering unsolicited advice, I counsel fiction writers to imbue their work with realistic details. The reasons are many, but they all boil down to one thing: the reader’s trust. If the reader can trust the author with the small details, then the reader will gladly take the author’s metaphorical hand and trip the light fantastic into the most imaginative of realms.
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nAuthenticity requires realism.
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nHowever, I occasionally encounter too much realism in fiction. When authenticity overpowers fiction, it may turn offensive. This distinction may also determine the boundary between authentic and marketable.
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nOne such example comes from “dark,” motorcycle club, and BDSM romances. I know some readers get a kick from a hero (or antihero) calling his one true love a slut or whore or other, even more derogatory term. However passionate, that kind of terminology immediately switches a story from authentic to offensive for me.
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n​The man who loves me ought to know better than to call me such a derogatory name, especially when speaking to me during moments of intimacy. Men who respect women don’t use such language when speaking to those women. Women who expect respect don’t accept such language when spoken to them.
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nThe same goes for racial epithets, which some subcultures routinely use to refer to each other. Using those offensive words might be commonplace among that subculture–and using those terms with a light touch adds that necessary element of realism–but saturating dialogue with such terms overwhelms.
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nOne cannot help but wonder if the author, too, thinks in those terms.
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nMy thoughts on the topic go beyond mere profanity. Reflecting on the way too much authenticity tips over into offense, I’m reminded of comedian George Carlin’s 1972 monologue on the seven dirty words you can’t say on television. (If you can’t tolerate profanity, then you shouldn’t listen to this.)
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nThe saturation of offensive words and profanity in characters’ dialogue demonstrates the limitations of those characters’ vocabulary, just as it shows the limitations in a real person’s vocabulary. Most of us have encountered the individual who uses the “F-word” every other word when he or she spoke. That person uses it as noun, verb, adjective, and adverb. Speech saturated with such words loses its shock value because we become desensitized to it. Sometimes, I juxtapose eloquent literary verbiage against the deliberate insertion of such a word to add shock value.
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nDesensitization to offensive and profane words does not improve our language or strengthen our vocabulary. Those whose language is so limited lose the ability to deliver or understand stinging insults or high praise without them. Like stereotypes, language informs the reader by assigning a commonly understood trope or archetype. A gangsta from the ‘hood employs much different speech than a church bishop, or a noble lady from a lowly maidservant. Our use of words and the variety of words used give rise to assumptions of education and intelligence and wit.
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nLike passive voice, when it comes to authenticity (aka realism), sometimes less is more. Authors seeking to tread the line between authenticity and offense often dance on a knife’s edge.n

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