USA Today bestselling author Shanna Hatfield is a farm girl who loves to write. Her sweet historical and contemporary romances are filled with sarcasm, humor, hope, and hunky heroes.
Shanna creates character-driven romances with realistic heroes and heroines. Her historical westerns have been described as ""reminiscent of the era captured by Bonanza and The Virginian"" while her contemporary works have been called ""laugh-out-loud funny, and a little heart-pumping sexy without being explicit in any way.""
When Shanna isn't dreaming up unforgettable characters, twisting plots, or covertly seeking dark, decadent chocolate, she hangs out with her beloved husband, Captain Cavedweller.
Artist Brooke Roberts spent her life without roots, wandering from town to town. When she seeks refuge from a freak storm in the town of Romance, she decides to stay and open a blown glass studio. Determined to immerse herself in the community, she adopts a family of pigs. Brooke is unprepared for the chaos and comfort they bring to her world, or the dashing cowboy who rescues her heart.
Solid, dependable Blayne Grundy runs a busy ranch, volunteers on various committees, and takes in stray animals too large to stay at the local animal rescue. Then a chance encounter with a beautiful, beguiling woman leaves him so befuddled, he can barely remember his own name. His predictable organized life is about to be blown away by free-spirited Brooke.
Frantic, out of patience, and uncertain what to do, she riffled through her junk drawer, desperate to find Blayne’s card. Finally locating it in a stack of junk mail she hadn’t opened, she dialed his number and waited. And waited.
On the fourth ring, he answered.
“Hello?”
If she hadn’t been on the verge of hysteria about her pigs, that deep gravelly tone might have sent her into an entirely different sort of fit, one that would have turned her limbs languid and brain to mush.
As it was, though, she had more important problems than the way her body and soul ached to react to his voice.
“Blayne?” she asked, completely aware she spoke to him. No one else could make her knees turn to a gelatinous mass just by uttering a simple greeting.
“Yes,” he said, sounding cautious.
“This is Brooke. Brooke Roberts. We met yesterday at the festival and you helped me bring home my pigs.”
“How are the little oinkers?” he asked, a smile evident in his voice.
“Horrible!”
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