Not even good enough to be called trash

Linda Lael Miller, Shotgun Bride (Pocket Star, 2003).

The only reason this is on my blog is because I'm committed to reporting on every (non-work-associated) book that I read. This book, apparently second in the hallowed "McKettrick Cowboys" trilogy, was one of a handful of romance novels on the bookshelf at the N.S. cottage that my family and I rented this August. I had brought the current book club choice - Rose Tremain's Restoration - along to read, but it made sense to read a vacation paperback instead. Judging from the back-cover synopsis, Shotgun Bride seemed the raciest and most amusing of the bunch:

Kade McKettrick's got five mail-order brides-to-be camped out at the local hotel, all more than eager to provide him with the heir that will win him the Triple M ranch. But Kade, the newly appointed marshal, has his hands full with a troublesome outlaw gang. Why, then, is he so easily distracted by pretty "Sister Mandy" -- who most assuredly is not the nun she claims to be?

So, inspired by the cheese of Twilight, I dug in. But this book sucked. I didn't even finish it, a rarity for a completist like me. The story was plodding. The dialogue wasn't witty or sparkling. But I woud have dealt with this in exchange for good romantic tension and bodice-ripping love scenes. But no. When the cowboy and his lover finally get to it, after two-hundred-and-something pages, Miller likens their derobing to "an ancient ritual of sacred magic" or some such nonsense. It made my skin crawl.