Sunday Snippet: The Snowy Weekend & a Real Snippet Edition

Hiya, mes amis, happy Sunday. It’s snowing here in the city (probably up at the lake cottage, too, from the look of the radar). Has been since last night–they’re predicting 8 to 10 inches when it’s all over. But we are snug in our little brick house enjoying this view. I love snow, particularly a big snow that quiets the world and turns everything soft and white. It makes me want hot chocolate and a fire in the fireplace, a soft snuggly sweater and a good book. I may just spend the day that way. It feels like a good day to take a break and breathe read a book for pleasure.

And speaking of good books… See what I did there? It’s called a transition or a segue. It’s an author trick to lead readers to the next part of the story. That one wasn’t very subtle, but it’s fun to practice the art. Anyway, speaking of good books, here’s a little snippet from my newest Juniper Falls Ranch book, The Cowboy’s Comeback, which releases this Thursday, January 29. You can pre-order and it will magically appear on you e-reader on Thursday. Don’t you just love technology? Here you go…meet Bo Kennedy and Cassie Franklin…

The Cowboy’s Comeback Excerpt

As he saw a couple of men hurrying out of the barn toward him, Bo Kennedy thought better of the walking stick and thrust it back into the cab of the truck. Although Foster knew he was healing, there was no need for the cowhands’ first impression to be that he was a crippled old man. He shut the door and, walking slowly but with purpose, met them halfway across the drive. “Hey.”

The younger of the two men stuck out his hand. “Bo?”

“Yup.”

The man gave his hand a firm shake. “Del Foster. Welcome to Juniper Falls Ranch.”

“Thank you, sir.” Holy shit. The rancher was the guy from the western wear ads. Bo blinked and tried not stare.

The older man, gray-haired and a little grizzled, offered his hand. “Gus Prevott. How’s the leg, son?”

Bo considered telling the whole truth. The ankle was sore from all the hours of driving from Texas to Montana, and that he wouldn’t mind an ice pack and an easy chair with a footstool. Instead, he smiled. “Doing well, thanks. Healed up and released from PT. Ready to go.”

Del’s mouth pursed up as he looked him up and down—up mostly because Bo was pretty sure he had a good five inches on Del Foster and probably an easy eight on old Gus. “We’ve both been there. It’s a long recovery, so don’t be setting yourself back by trying to impress us.”

Bo lifted his chin. “I can work, sir.”

“Don’t doubt it a bit.” Del grinned. “And don’t sir me. I’m Del.”

Just then, Whiskey whinnied and stomped in the trailer and Cash shoved his nose against the rails.

Del started toward the rig. “Let’s get your horses. Stalls are all ready for ’em, but the east pasture is empty right now, so we can let them open up if you want.”

Bo followed, anxious to let the boys out into a pasture where they could roam. The nearly eighteen-hundred-mile ride had been just as hard on them, even though he’d kept his road time to about six to eight hours a day for their comfort as well as his own. He’d researched state parks with horse camps, keeping to places where he could get them out and walk them around a bit and then sleep outside the trailer. He’d hop on one and pony the other, switching off each evening after he’d set up camp.

He opened the rear gate, snapped leads on Whiskey and Cash and led them out, handing Whiskey off to Del as he brought Cash out himself. Still wary of the ankle and determined not to reinjure it, he was careful how he stepped off the back of the trailer. Fortunately, the dividers in the trailer folded back so he could turn the horses instead of backing them out. Just made it easier for him and them.

“Glad to see you have living quarters in your rig,” Del observed as he patted Whiskey’s neck and ran his hand over the gelding’s flank. “Good boy,” he murmured. “The bunkhouse isn’t finished yet, but it should be in few weeks. Waiting on plumbing to get in.”

Bo couldn’t help notice that Del’s accent wasn’t the western drawl he was used to hearing on the circuit. Not that every cowboy he met was from Texas or Arizona or points west, but Del Foster sounded like he was from back East … Massachusetts, maybe? Interesting.

The barn was vast, high-ceilinged, and newly painted dark red. Inside the scents of fresh hay, horseflesh, and new-sawn oak hit Bo’s senses, reminding him of Grandpa Clyde’s farm. “Nice barn.”

Del led Whiskey down the wide center aisle. “Over a hundred years old.” The pride in his voice was clear. He stopped at the last two stalls on the left. “Here and here for these boys—names?”

“You got Whiskey, and this here is Cash.” Bo scratched Cash’s neck under his mane. His dappled buckskin coat and thick black mane and tail were a source of pride, as was his bay, Whiskey’s rich reddish-brown fur and dark points.

Gus, who’d followed them in, pulled a marker out of his shirt pocket and wrote the horses’ names on the fresh white information plaques that were attached to the doors of the stalls. This place was organized. Nice.

Del opened the sliding door at the back of the barn, led them across a mostly dry mud lot, and opened the gate to a fenced pasture that looked to be about three, maybe five, acres. Four other horses grazing in an adjoining pasture looked up and nickered. Whiskey and Cash both whinnied in response. Suddenly, a shout from beside the barn turned the horses’ and the men’s attention to the huge arena where a paint horse raced toward the fence, dragging a longe line. Chasing right behind the horse was a young woman in tight jeans, a snug T-shirt, and a cowboy hat.

“Dammit, Storm, get your ass back here!” the woman cried just before slipping in a patch of horse manure. Windmilling her arms, she managed to land on her butt instead of her face as the paint horse raced along the board fencing of the roomy arena before nearly sliding to a halt and sticking its face over the fence to whinny at Whiskey and Cash.

Bo glanced at Del and Gus whose expressions of alarm had switched to amusement as the woman popped up and brushed her hands across her behind then groaned as she realized she’d just wiped them in horse poop.

“Everything okay there, Cassie?” Del asked, clearly having difficulty keeping from laughing.

Cassie? No way!

The girl’s wide-brimmed hat had dropped low on her brow, so her face was hidden from view as she stood there, hands, boots, and behind covered in manure. With a disgusted sigh, she swiped her hands on her thighs and then with a clean knuckle shoved the hat back off her face and stomped toward them. “Yeah, I’m fi—” She stopped dead in her tracks. Her jaw dropped, and she gaped. “It’s you.”

Bo’s heart leaped to his throat. It was her. The one person in his life he’d both hated and adored—sometimes at the same time. “Hey, Cassie.”

~*~*~*~

I can’t leave my own place to speak without saying something about the murder of another innocent protester yesterday morning. I am heartsick at the horrific events happening in the streets of Minneapolis and other cities where ICE has been turned loose. We must, must, must peacefully and loudly protest this regime, contact our representatives and senators and ask them to use their power to end this insanity, and most importantly, we must cling tight to each other. We will prevail and come back into the light.

Gratitude for This Week: Snow! I’ve written lots of words this week. I’ve been on the treadmill instead of allowing the cold to be an excuse not to walk. A quick video chat with Liz–I’ve missed her face. ARC reviewers are chiming in–they love The Cowboy’s Comeback. 

Stay well, stay safe, be kind to someone today–you never know what impact your smile may have–and most of all, mes amies. stay grateful.