Bridget Bell settles into the quiet life of an Iowa farm girl and does her best to fulfill her familial duty on the land from generations past. Growing healthy wheat crops and perfecting her mother’s apple pie recipe keep her creative mind focused. Living the simple life may feel monotonous, but at least it makes sense.

When Trevor Bennett—a handsome, city-slicker in a three-piece suit and fancy car—arrives for a routine crop inspection, things quickly go awry. Before Bridget knows what’s going on, her life unravels before her very eyes. One word from Trevor sends Bridget’s hard work straight down the drain. Suddenly, the law, the Chamber of Commerce, and the extension office are all set on taking action, spurred by the meddling stranger who's upended her world.

Bridget wishes Trevor didn’t look so good in that suit. His ocean-blue eyes leave her feeling unsteady. She may be rooted firmly in the soil, but every glance makes her feel like she’s drowning. Will Trevor stick around and be her life preserver, or leave her reputation in tatters on his way out of town?

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Release Date: December 3, 2024
Genre: Contemporary Romance

A Pink Satin Romance

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Excerpt

Chapter One
Bridget

The last thing I need to see this early in the morning is Thomas Butros standing in my wheat field scratching his head. While this particular pose is nothing new for my elderly neighbor who can’t keep his big beak out of my business, I’d rather he do it on his side of the fence.

I glance in my rearview mirror at the dusty Beamer that was all sparkly and new just minutes ago before the state inspector started trailing me. I resist the urge to punch the gas. I shouldn’t have let him follow me so close. My nosy neighbor has the worst timing. I don’t need Thomas and his trouble-making self butting into my business or laying a gnarled, crooked finger on my crops in the middle of an inspection.

The tires of my trusty Forerunner crunch on the gravel as I come to a screeching halt. I jump out of my green machine and try not to look as worried and hurried as I feel as I jog over to see what all the fuss is about.

“Well, I’ll be danged,” Thomas says as I come up behind him. He may be kind of old, but he is no small man. He stands with his feet spread apart and a meaty hand on each hip. I peek around one side of him.

“What is it?” I stand on tiptoe near his right side where his good ear is.

He points at something grunting and rolling around on the ground. “What you got there is a wild boar. I do believe it’s dyin’.” He takes off his hat and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “The darn thing was staggerin’ around in circles right before it tipped over on its side.”

I watch in horror as the ugly creature’s legs kick air. It takes one last grunty ragged breath.

Thomas looks down at me. His crow’s feet crinkle a little extra as his gaze focuses on me. “Bridget, it looks like you’ve got one dead pig on your hands.”

Rocks moving beneath the man’s feet draw our attention towards the road. We both turn to watch the suit step out of his dust-covered Beamer and proceed to walk down the steep embankment leading to the deep ditch. His shiny shoes almost slip out from under him.

I fight to hide a smile at the thought of him getting a grass stain or a mud spot on that snazzy three-piece suit of his. He dresses fancier than any crop appraiser I ever saw. The sight of his dirty Beamer makes as much sense as his shiny rims that rolled up my driveway first thing this morning, interrupting my cup of coffee.

“Sure is a shame that shiny black car of his has a fair amount of dust coverin’ on that fancy, citified paint job,” Thomas murmurs, or at least he thinks he does. I never can tell if he realizes how loud he talks, or if he has officially reached the age of free wisdom and not giving a darn who hears it.

I can’t help but giggle. “Yeah, it’s a real tragedy.”

Thomas chuckles. I can’t believe I’m conversing in a civil tone with my only neighbor for at least ten miles. We’ve been feuding for almost a year, but my beef isn’t really with Thomas. It’s with his son, Tommy Junior, who’s as creepy-crawly as the various and sundry of wildlife he’s been hauling into my wheat fields on a regular basis over the past month-and-a-half. My lack of sleep is making me awful cranky, which must be the only reason why I didn’t take the time to give the suit a proper introduction. He asked me if I was Bridget Bell before flashing me the nicest smile I’ve ever seen at the foot of my front porch steps.

I told Mr. Hollywood and his trooper shades to follow me before promptly hopping in my Toyota and leaving him in the dust.

Mr. Fancy pants with his pearly whites stands in front of me and Thomas. His hand is out. “Hi, I’m Trevor Bennett,” he says to Thomas. “You must be her father.”

Thomas and I look at each other. An unspoken word passes between us. I manage to tell Thomas to hide the pig with me. I step a little closer to Thomas and make the most of my sixty-one inches as I clear my throat. Thomas glances nervously behind us. He’s not very good at my unspoken game. “This man is not my dad,” I say.

Trevor looks confused. “Oh? Then who is he?” His pointed tone suggests that he is more concerned about my personal affairs than a crop assessor should be.

“I’m her neighbor,” Thomas supplies.

“What are you doing in her field?” Trevor looks like he’s about to whip out a notebook.

I shrug as if it’s perfectly natural for Thomas to be standing where he is without my permission. “He just told you. He’s my neighbor,” I ground out from between clenched teeth. Trevor is nosier than necessary. This will not bode well for me. “Occasionally he checks on things to be sure everything is going as it should be.”

“And is it?”

“Yes! Go ahead and have a look. You’ll find my wheat stalks are plenty healthy and growing at a rate that clearly demonstrates sustainability.” I point in every direction other than behind me.

Trevor shoulders his solid form between us and almost knocks me over. “I’d say assessing a crop’s hardiness and vitality is my job, not yours.” His comment sets all my nerve endings on fire. I cannot believe the gall of this man, which would irritate me further if I wasn’t so on edge. It must be the second layer of socks I forced myself into before jamming my feet into boots that pinch my toes that has me feeling all jangly. It can’t be Mister smarty-pants know-it-all, even if he does make that suit look awfully good. “I wouldn’t say it’s going all that great, ma’am.”

My toes curl inside my rubber boots that my overalls are tucked into. I feel a bit ridiculous in my dad’s long-sleeved flannel, but I hate bugs even if I am a farmer. I’m also resisting the fact that I’m destined to be a dedicated Iowa farmgirl despite the proof staring me straight in the face.

Trying to hide a dead, diseased boar from a state inspector is not the best idea but I don’t have a new one yet. I think I feel a panic attack coming on. This is the first time it’s happened since I’ve moved back home and it is not welcome. I close my eyes and pinch the skin between my eyebrows as I try to think of what to do or how to escape to my happy place. I don’t care which one comes first, so long as I can stop thinking about Trevor, aka Hottie Inspector, finding a dead pig in the middle of my field just months from harvest.

Visions of a brown-haired girl with her long, flowing colorful skirts wearing her ever-present stylish sunglasses, sitting beside a big white fluffy dog at a little round table beneath the awning in between customers enjoying the fresh air bring a smile to my face. The three years I’ve been away from my beloved Boston suburb fall away. The niche I carved on the corner of third and Jones is long gone, but it remains a piece of my heart. I can still see the friendly welcoming faces inscribed on the glass window of Banjo’s Books and Molly’s Pots on the opposite side of the street.

A throat clearing takes me back into the present.

“My name is Bridget.” I’m certain he already knows it. I don’t know why he’s calling me ma’am other than to annoy me. If the inspector’s done his job, he’s read over my file. I’d bet almost anything Arnold briefed Trevor on his future clients before he retired. Arnold was nothing if not thorough. I was glad I followed my instincts with Arnold when I had him over for pie the first time we met.

Arnold was a super nice guy for an inspector who worked for the state, so long as you stayed on his good side. I think we got on so well because he reminded me of my father.

There’s something about Trevor that makes me want to keep him at arm’s length.

He chews on a piece of wheat stalk as he stares down at the dead animal. “You’ve got yourself a dead boar with the case of glanders.”

I stare at the offending pig. “Glanders. Isn’t that like a disease in third-world countries with no clean water?” I feel a bit judgy and mean, but I’m desperate. The last thing I need on my hands is a sick pig. It’s bad enough trying to imagine where this stupid animal came from, although I don’t wonder that long before an idea comes to me. I have a pretty good idea Tommy Jr. knows, but I’m not ready to give my pesky neighbor up to the suit. I don’t know Trevor well enough, but I know Tommy. There’s a big difference between stupidity and malicious intent.

“I’m not sure it’s not glanders. There are many other conditions that can present in the same way. Aren’t you being a bit presumptive?”

His chiseled jaw tightens in the corner of my eye. Chiseled? Really? Why did that word pop into my head? I’ve gotta stop reading romance novels to fill up my empty love life. Great. I’ve pissed off the crop inspector and he hasn’t even started checking out my stalks. This isn’t the best way to start. “My dad was the Chief Epidemiologist for the entire state of Iowa for many years. I think I know what glanders looks like. And that pig is deader than a doornail.”

His outdated idiom tugs at my heart unexpectedly. I can’t believe my eyes are watering over a phrase just because it brings my grandfather to mind. It sounds exactly like something he would say.

I duck my head to wipe my eyes and will my throat to stop tightening. I  get a hold of myself before raising my head to look at my reflection in his obnoxious Oakley’s. “There’s no question the pig is dead. Have you ever seen glanders firsthand?” I eye the dead boar from the side. I almost wish the bothersome pig would get up off the ground and start snorting. I move my foot in the direction of its hoof.

“I wouldn’t touch that pig if I were you. The mortality rate of a human with glanders is pretty high. It’s not something you want to fool around with.”

I throw my head back. “Stop saying that word. You don’t even know if that’s what’s going on.”

He makes a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl. It ties my stomach in knots. This is absurd. “It may not be, but until it’s ruled out the responsible thing to do would be to handle that boar with proper PPE.”

My eyes bug at his pompous manner. “Excuse me?”

“Personal protective equipment,” he says in a loud slow voice. “Gloves, mask, and a gown. It’s best not to risk exposing any part of yourself to any part of that pig in transport.”

It’s not wise of me to poke at him, but I can’t take his know-it-all demeanor. “Actually, you would need more than just ordinary PPE. If it was glanders, and I’m not saying that it is, you would need double gloves and a well-fitting mask. Once bacteria is in the air, it can enter any exposed orifice. All it needs is a little breeze to go airborne.”

I glance over at Thomas Butros, who watches the road. How is it my neighbor can’t hear me speaking loudly in his face but he can hear truck tires coming from a mile away? I turn to see nosy Sheriff Sam Walsh barreling down my road in his brand-new truck. I stifle a groan. My morning just went from sucky to suckier.

 

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