 by S.E. Law.jpg)
Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 47222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
I’m all alone on my family’s homestead.
I milk the cows, tend the garden, and feed the chickens.
But I can’t manage the property alone, so when a handsome cowboy appears out of the blue, I accept his offer of assistance.
As for payment?
I have nothing of my own … except a home, a heart, and my generous curves.
Ranger:
Darcy thinks I’m a penniless journeyman who goes from farm to farm, cobbling together a living.
Little does she know, but I’m an industrial billionaire who wants her property.
In short, I’m here for her land … and not her body.
But soon, we’re head over heels with desire and unstoppable attraction. Darcy Fields is sweetness personified, with big brown eyes and a trusting nature.
But what happens when she finds out about my true identity?
Even more, Darcy’s pregnant with my baby … and I won’t let her go without claiming those curves for myself!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
DARCY
I stand on the front porch of the old farmhouse, holding my morning cup of joe, and looking out across the land I’ve lived on since I was born. The dew glimmers on the soft grass that engulfs the yard, despite the sticky threat of a humid spring day. Birds tweet softly from their newly built nests in the old western larch trees nearby. Somewhere near the barn, squirrels and mice scuttle about their morning routines, ignoring the lonely girl standing on a broken-down porch.
It’s safe to say this farm is everything to me, and holds all of my fondest memories because I wasn’t just raised here; I was actually born in the upstairs bedroom.
I grew up hearing my Pa recite the story over and over again, possibly one of his favorite anecdotes. He’d always start out the same way: “Your Ma was in the kitchen baking a pie and I was out mowing the yard when all of a sudden, handfuls of pie went whistling by my noggin, mere inches from covering me with flaming hot crust and steaming berries.” The story continues along the lines of how the midwife was late, and how Ma kept squishing berries into Pa’s hands while she squeezed his palms to death. Then, I popped into the world surrounded by berries, flour, and powdered sugar. In fact, Pa says that I was just the sugar they needed to complete their family recipe.
It’s a sweet story, and just like my mother before me, I like to bake pies. The first time I ever made one, Pa dodged me like a cat. I laugh out loud as I think back on the moment. Pa claimed he had to be careful around me and pie, since that’s how my mom announced to him that she had gone into labor, by throwing one at his head.
It feels good to laugh, I muse. It’s been a stretch since I’ve been able to enjoy these happier memories. I sit down on the porch steps, eager to let my mind enjoy these rare moments of tranquility before the pain and grief set in, like they tend to do.
I let my mind wander to my early years on the farm – playing with baby chicks, learning to milk the cows, picking wildflowers for the vases my mom kept in every room. The property is surrounded by old trees, the climbing kind that are perfect for a kid’s adventures. And also perfect for giving me so many scars when I fell out of them, I think with a chuckle. I instinctually rub the scar on my arm where I’d broken it from just such a misadventure.
Right before my sixth birthday.
Grief sweeps in, taking over the happy memories I want to focus on, and instead tearing at my already aching heart.
Ma.
One week before my sixth birthday, we said goodbye to my mother. I didn’t know it as a child, but Ma had been sick for some time, and her death was confusing for a girl so young. My mother had been a raven-haired beauty who was as delicate as she had been beautiful. I remember she smelled like lavender and every night at bath time I’d beg her to let me smell like that, too, hoping it was the scent that made someone so lovely.
Even now, sitting on the front porch thinking about her, I can almost smell that subtle lavender scent in my mind. I breathe deeply, missing her. I suppose it was my age that saved me from feeling intense grief because as a kid, I hadn’t been able to really grasp such loss. But now, at the fragile age of twenty, it hurts to know that I lost my only female role model before I’d had the chance to learn about life from her.
With Ma’s death, Pa had stepped in to play the role of mother and father.
I honestly don’t know how it did it all. Raising me, running a farm, working as hard as he did. I shake my head in wonder at my father.
Pa really had done it all. He learned to braid hair so that my long, wild, brown tresses were somewhat contained. Neither of us had any sense of style, so he would dress me in overalls and too large t-shirts most days. When my body started to develop into its womanly figure, Pa gave me some money to go to the local five-and-dime to buy a few nice sundresses, in case I ever wanted to go out or if I needed them for school events.
Shifting so I can lean my back against one of the porch columns, I smile as I think about those early years. Pa running the farm, trying to teach me how to run the farm, and all the while insisting that I just enjoy being a little kid. On my first birthday without my mother, just one week after her death, Pa had been so upset that he didn’t know how to make my favorite cake. So instead, he got two gigantic steaks and stuck a candle in the middle of mine. And every year after that, a steak-cake was our birthday tradition.