Sigourney “What is this place?” I ask, breathless, tilting my head back between stories of broken ruin. Wind whistles through shattered windows and groans against concrete silos layered in graffiti. Every surface tells a story no one bothered to erase. “Old cyanide mill,” Gideon says. “Party spot. Used to come up here as a teen.” Spray paint bleeds over everything, crude tags over intricate murals. In the center, a slab of concrete rises like an altar with the words “urban myths” scrawled across it. Gravel crunches beneath my boots, echoing hollow in the vast chamber. Dust floats through slivers of sunlight cutting the fractured ceiling. The air feels abandoned. Preserved.…

Leonora Six Months Later The barn smells different now. Fresh pine. Clean hay. Warm animals. Not smoke. I run my palm over one of the new beams, fingers tracing smooth wood where blackened ruin once lived. The old stone foundation still stands—thick, stubborn, laid by my great-grandfather’s hands—but everything above it has been rebuilt. Stronger. Arlo insisted on that word. Stronger. Crickets hum outside. Cattle settle in the north pasture, low and content. Lantern light sways gently from a hook near the loft, casting long shadows up into the rafters. “You still do that,” Arlo says quietly behind me. I don’t turn. “Do what?” “Touch the walls like you’re making…

Austin The red light clicks off. The silence afterward is heavier than the sound ever was. Allie doesn’t speak right away. She just stands there, eyes dark, breath shallow like she’s deciding whether to cross a line she already knows she wants. That’s when the mic becomes irrelevant. Allie shifts closer, and the room changes temperature—like everything tightens around us. Her fingers curl in my hair. Claiming. Her other hand presses flat to my chest, right over my heart, like she’s feeling how fast it’s going. “Say it again,” she whispers. My throat tightens. “Which part?” She smiles against my mouth. Slow. Knowing. “The line where you slow down.” I…

Maverick Four Months Later Light threads gold through the curtains, spilling across the white duvet. I move silently, holding my breath, aware of every shift of muscle and bone. Mia sleeps beside me, hair a chestnut mess—her natural color now that her celebrity days are done. Her cheeks are warm and pink with sleep, lips curved in that way that tells me she’s dreaming about me. I shift. The bed creaks. An arm slips around my waist, pulling me back into tangled sheets and blankets. “No,” she says, grumpy—her morning routine. “What, Princess?” I chuckle. She rasps, “Do you always”—yawn—“have to get up at the crack of dawn?” “Have to.…

Small-town cowboys. Second chances. Love that’s earned—and fought for. Welcome to Rough & Ready Country, a connected small-town romance series where rugged men with complicated pasts fall hard for the women who challenge them to heal, stay, and build something lasting. Set in a tight-knit rural community, these stories deliver emotional depth, protective heroes, curvy heroines, and hard-won happily-ever-afters—no cliffhangers, no cheating, and no games with readers’ hearts. A snowbound rescue traps a grumpy cowboy and a sunshine woman together—where survival turns into something neither expected. A one-night stand between the groom’s brother and the bride’s curvy best friend is supposed to mean nothing until feelings get involved and danger…

KYLIE ONE YEAR AND ONE CHRISTMAS LATER Snow hushes the whole mountain, falling in soft spirals outside the bedroom window. But inside the cabin, everything burns warm and golden—woodfire glow, quiet breath, Camden’s big body crowding mine like he can’t bear a single inch of distance. He closes the door behind us with that careful precision he has in everything—not timid, just deliberate. Like he’s measuring the world twice before touching it. Like he’s measuring me. His hands—those wide, callused, impossibly gentle hands—slide to my hips. “You sure,” he murmurs, voice thick enough to melt snow off the roof. “Couldn’t be more sure,” I whisper. The heat in his eyes…

Winter The first thing I feel is warmth. Not the crackling fire. Not the plush blankets. But the heavy, possessive weight of Weston Hale, wrapped around me like a man guarding his favorite secret. Sunrise spills faint gold across my bedroom walls, soft and quiet after the blizzard’s rage. The storm has passed. The world is still. But West? West is wide awake. I know because his arm tightens around my waist the moment I shift, pulling me back into the solid heat of his chest, like he’s afraid I might slip through his fingers while he’s sleeping. “Don’t,” he murmurs, voice gravel scraped over velvet. “Not going anywhere yet,…

Davin One Year Later The thing they don’t tell you about Christmas with a sunshine wife? It’s war. Tinsel war. Cookie war. Garland war. I swear, I’ve fought insurgents with less enthusiasm than Arielle bringing holiday cheer into my mountain cabin. But today? Today, she’s the one sleeping in—curled around my pillow, hair wild, big belly rising under my old flannel shirt like she owns the place. She does. And everything in it. Including the tiny person kicking her ribs with the force of a pissed-off mule. I finish tying the last ribbon around the bannister. Lights glow across the cabin, fireplace crackling, stockings hung, tree lit, pancakes warming, and…

SILAS ONE DAY LATER The storm’s finally spent. Outside, the mountains lie blanketed in white, the pines bowed beneath their new coats. Smoke curls from the cabin’s chimney in lazy spirals, and the world feels soft again—like even the wind’s decided to rest. Inside, I’m warm for the first time in years. Sage stirs beside me, the early light painting gold in her hair. The soft hum she makes when she stretches nearly undoes me. I never thought I’d live to see her like this—peaceful, smiling, mine. “Morning, Cowboy,” she murmurs, voice still raspy from sleep. “Morning, Sassy,” I whisper back, brushing a kiss across her temple. “Merry Christmas.” She…

Wendy ONE MONTH LATER If I could bottle the sound of my mother screaming over the turkey timer, I’d sell it as a holiday alarm. “Wendy!” she hollers from the kitchen. “Where’s the sweet potatoes?” “On the counter … next to the marshmallows!” I shout back, even though she’ll ignore me and ask again in ten seconds. Behind me, Slapshot leans against the doorframe, arms folded over a chest that looks like it was carved by a hockey stick. He’s wearing a red sweater that says Let’s Get Lit with a string of blinking LED lights and an expression that could curdle eggnog. “Your family’s … energetic,” he mutters. “That’s…