CiCi is very excited! Our second novel in the BRIDES OF LITTLE CREEDE Series, The Dance Hall Wife, released today! And we’re ready to party with our readers. We had so much fun writing Frank and Cat’s story, because they were so determined not to care for each other right from the get-go. Talk about ornery!
Frank Carter, rough, tough silver miner, and alpha from the top of his battered Stetson to the tips of his boots.
Catherine ‘Cat’ Purdue, former songbird, saloon girl, and now a no-nonsense businesswoman.
A single night of passion-gone-wrong set the tone for resentment as well as unfulfilled desire between this unlikely pair. It’ll take the worst sort of trial and tribulation–along with a hefty slice of danger–to set their priorities straight.
We’d love it if you choose to come along for their bumpy, action-packed ride! Our event party starts at 6:30 CST, on CiCi’s Facebook page:
In honor of the party, here’s a fun little teaser that might be exactly what you party-ers are looking for:
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After kissing Cat’s lips so sweetly, Frank had fetched her dressing robe, then said, “I can make hoecakes if you don’t like eggs.”
The man knew nothing of cooking. Catherine tried to talk him out of it, to no avail.
Before she could get in a final protest, he grabbed a sack of corn meal and dumped most of it into the pickle crock. Thank goodness there weren’t any leftover pickles or brine in there. Tying the sash of her robe, she watched him crumble the last hard-boiled egg into the corn meal, shell and all. Next, he flung in more Rumford than she’d ever used in a year. Nothing like a pound of baking powder in the hoecakes. Catherine bit her tongue to hold back her laughter.
“I’m forgetting something,” he mumbled, casting about the kitchen area. “Milk, I need milk. Or maybe water. We have lots of water.” He crossed to the pump and laid on the handle, filling the bucket.
She held out a staying hand. “Frank—”
“I said I’d make your breakfast. Just sit there and hold your hosses.” The gruffness had returned to his voice, though he shot her a wide smile that looked a bit crazed.
Clearing her throat, Catherine relaxed on the chair and let him have at it.
Half the bucket of water went into the crock, and Frank stirred it with his hunting knife—the same one he’d used earlier to peel the eggs. She’d seen him drop it blade-first on the floor. “Oh, Lord,” she murmured, partly-fascinated and slightly repulsed.
“You say something?” A hank of hair drooped in his eyes as he stirred harder.
“Nothing at all, Frank.” She kept a bland expression on her face, though it about killed her to do so.
The mess in the pickle crock all stirred up, he stared at it, then raised a confused face. “It doesn’t look right.”
Slowly, Catherine rose and ambled to the counter next to the stove—which he hadn’t yet lit. Peering into the crock, she valiantly sought to maintain a somber mien, but a chuckle escaped. Then a giggle.
Unable to stop herself, she leaned on the edge of the stove and her shoulders shook with laughter at the sight of lumps and floating eggshells in a sea of watery yellow meal. It had started to bubble madly due to the overload of Rumford, too.
“Yum, yum,” she managed, then shrieked when Frank picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “What are you doing? Put me down this instant.”
“Making fun of my cooking. Laughing at me,” he huffed, crossing the room to the bed and lobbing her onto the mattress. She bounced, once, then tried to scramble off the side.
“No, you don’t.” Frank grabbed for her legs and pinned her.
Catherine scraped tangled hair out of her eyes and stared up at him. His indignant expression set her nerves fluttering in anticipation of what he might do next.
Slowly he leaned down, until his lips barely brushed hers. “Try to do something nice, and this is what I get?”
The low growl in his voice made her heart pound. Here was the Frank Carter she knew, the one she could handle. The other one, the sweeter one? Not so much.
“I do think it’s very nice of you to cook for me, Frank.” Catherine trailed her fingers down the arm still pinning her to the blankets. Her breath hitched when he caught her wandering hand and brought it to his mouth.
“That’s not cooking. That’s a mess.” He nipped her palm, then licked the sting left behind. “But I’ll clean it up, after . . .” He trailed off suggestively.
“After you apologize for laughing at me.” He pressed his body against hers. “I figure maybe you oughta do that without any clothes on.”
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Hope to see you over at Facebook, wearing your best Western duds and ready to have some old-timey fun, at The Dance Hall Wife Event Party!
Little Creede Series Links:
Book One, The Substitute Wife: Amazon
Book Two, The Dance Hall Wife: Amazon