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“Howie rose and smiled down at her. “I just eat what’s put before me without being picky. I know everything you make will make my tastebuds bless the day you set foot in Morgan’s Crossing” he drawled, waiting to see the adorable look of confusion that crossed her face when he flirted. Bertha lowered her gaze and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Only your tastebuds?”

Quote by Debra Holland

Book:Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Series Novel
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Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Series Novel

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Debra Holland

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“Howie brought her hand to his lips. “You stepped in front of me,” he said in wonder. “I didn’t need you to. I can handle Prudence Morgan.” “But you didn’t.” She tapped his chest. “You stayed quiet for the longest time before responding.” “Quiet is how I handle difficult people….” “You don’t handle me that way.” Her voice came out sounding breathless. Howie slipped his arms around her. “If it were up to me, this is how I’d handle you.” Butterflies danced in her stomach. Not a fearful battering of wings, but a sparkling mating flight, making her heart soar into her throat. “Why isn’t it up to you?”

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Book:Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Series Novel
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“I was disappointed when she suddenly looked away, bashful. It surprised me. Madison occurred to me as so cool and confident. This was her private space though, likely the place she was most herself, no facade, no way she had to be, just a girl with her horses. This was not the kind of place or girl that rodeo boys got to be in or near. Yet here I was, standing toe-to-toe with the goddess in her most private of cowgirl places.”

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“As she reached the stairs, she made a quick detour and stepped outside. A crescent moon hung in the midnight blue sky along with trillions of twinkling stars. Out here there were no streetlights to wash out the view. She loved being able to see the stars. Tonight, the mountains were etched deep purple against the night sky. The white snowcapped tips gleamed silver. Nearer, silhouetted pine trees swayed in the breeze as if in a slow dance. “You are such a romantic,” Trask had once told her. “Are you sure you want to open a bar? You should be writing poetry.” She’d laughed. “How do you know I don’t?”

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