Only a few days until the release of High Country Spring! If you haven’t yet, you can still preorder it at these links: Amazon | iBooks | Nook | Kobo | Google Play | Scribd
But before it releases, I’ve got a little sneak peek here:
The kitchen was the prison she spent most of her afternoons in. Hot with the oven firing, no window to look out of and daydream over, and endless piles of food to chop, bread to knead, and pots to wash. Franny had learned cooking well enough to please her mother—or at least to silence most of her criticism—but she hated it.
She began chopping the chiles for supper, her nose burning with the scent. But she didn’t dare rub at it, since the chile juice on her fingers would only make the burning worse. And her fingertips would carry the scent the rest of the day, making her gag every time they got near her nose.
If only Catarina hadn’t gone off and gotten married. Or Isabel either. Then Franny wouldn’t have to do any of this.
A knock at the back door had her wiping her hands on her apron, her nose still twitching.
Felipe waited on the other side.
Her heart jerked at the sight of him, hat in hand, sun catching at the thick dark mass of his hair. And his long fingers, cradling his hat so gently…
His touch on her this morning hadn’t been as gentle as that.
With his dark hair, dark eyes, and neatly trimmed mustache, his features were nothing more than perfectly pleasant. The dreamy, sad quality of his eyes was the only remarkable feature. And yet, sometimes she could not look away from his face.
He held up a shirt. “I found this in one of the pastures.”
So he wasn’t here to apologize, then. Not that she should have nursed that hope—he never apologized. At least not to her.
She took the shirt from him. One of her father’s shirts, which had blown off the line a few days ago. Now dirty and torn. Wonderful.
She crumpled it into her fist. “Thank you. I lost another one with it. You didn’t happen to see it, did you?” She kept her tone distant, formal.
He shook his head. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.” Just as stilted as her words to him.
“You didn’t have to knock,” she said, sharpish with her annoyance over the shirts and his behavior this morning and this stiffness between them. “You could have come in.” She didn’t like seeing him standing at the back door like some kind of supplicant. It irritated her.
Of course, everything she did irritated him.
“My boots are muddy,” he said tightly.
“That never stops Juan or Papa,” she pointed out.
“Yes, and you have to clean it up.” He sounded angry at her about it. Which made no sense.
She didn’t want to expend the effort on trying to understand him. Such an attempt was certain to fail.
“Well, thank you for bringing me the shirt,” she said, intending to send him on his way. A memory slipped free of her forgetfulness. “Oh, and I have a bridle to fix and I’ll need your leather punch to do it. Can I borrow it tomorrow?”
His mouth flattened. “Tell me which bridle and I’ll fix it.”
“No, I want to do it myself.” Her voice climbed with frustration. Such a simple thing and he wouldn’t even allow her to do it.
“It’ll be easier if I do it.” As flat as his mouth.
Stubborn, hateful man.
“I want to do it myself.” Her lips and tongue drew those words with deliberation, each syllable distinct and willful.
He dropped his gaze, his fingers tightening on his hat, his lashes veiling those sad, dark eyes, and the parts of her that weren’t tight with temper went tight with longing.
Stubborn, hateful girl to yearn after a stubborn, hateful man.
“Fine.” The word was short as her temper. He set his hat back on his head and left without a word of farewell, his legs putting distance between them as fast as they could.
And still she noticed the broadness of his shoulders, the leanness of his hips, her body vibrating with more than simple irritation.
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