Catherine Lanigan - A Fine Year for Love

Her grandfather told her never to trust a Barzonni

Nothing gives Liz Crenshaw more delight than walking the hills of her family’s winery and tending her precious vines. And nothing frustrates her more than Gabe Barzonni, the handsome, successful and utterly aggravating son of Indian Lake’s most prominent farmers. All her instincts scream “avoid,” especially when she finds out he’s going into the wine business himself. But Liz can’t seem to shake him. One minute, he’s nosing around her property, the next he’s arranging to escort her to her best friend’s wedding. Well, too bad. Whatever he has designs on—her or her land—Gabe is out of luck. Now, to get him out of her mind...

The man was trespassing

He had his back to her as he held a wide-mouth glass tube of dirt...her dirt...up to the sun. Liz moved in closer and leveled her shotgun at him.

“Put it down and turn around.”

The man raised his arms and turned to face her.

Liz gasped. “Gabe Barzonni?”

Gabe chuckled. “Hi, Liz.”

She glared at him. “Spill. Why are you stealing my soil?”

“I wasn’t stealing. Exactly.” He started to smile, but catching Liz’s suspicious scowl, he obviously thought better of it. “I followed some tourists out to the vineyard. Your chef de cave told us we were free to walk around.”

“Sure you are. Among the Cabernet grapes. Not over here.”

“I didn’t know,” he said. “Liz, can you please put the shotgun away? It makes me nervous.”

“Good,” she said. “I want you to be nervous. Maybe you’ll start telling me the truth.”

Dear Reader,

I hope by the time you’ve picked up A Fine Year for Love you are as enthralled with the characters in Indian Lake as I am. I realize that as the author I am supposed to love my people, but with each new romance I am finding some very strong-willed, dedicated and loyal folks who are fascinating enough to keep me up at night telling me their story.

You may remember that I introduced Liz Crenshaw in Love Shadows and explained that she and her grandfather owned a vineyard north of Indian Lake. In my fairy-tale life, I have romanticized a world in which I was a vintner. I adore vineyards. I love the precise rows of thriving vines that undulate up and down hills and soak up the sun. If I ever did own a vineyard, I would be so obsessed and possessive, I’d probably be ostracized by all my friends for being obnoxious about my life’s calling. Therefore, I nailed those flaws to my heroine’s heels.

When love does finally come to Liz’s doorstep, she holds Gabe Barzonni at gunpoint. Little does Liz realize she is right to be suspicious of Gabe, whose secret desire is to become a vintner and leave his father’s lucrative farm. From their first encounter, when Gabe is trying to steal a sample of Liz’s soil, sparks fly left and right. Through revelations of decades-old family secrets to the heartbreaking awareness of Sam Crenshaw’s dementia, to a life-and-death crisis, Liz and Gabe must finally come to terms with what truly makes life precious to them.

I would love to hear from you and your thoughts about our friends in Indian Lake. You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and Pinterest. My website is catherinelanigan.comor you can email me at cathlanigan1@gmail.com.

Then join me in a few short months for more heartwarming romance in the fourth book in the Shores of Indian Lake series.

Catherine Lanigan

A Fine Year for Love

Catherine Lanigan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHERINE LANIGANknew she was born to storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister to entertain them. After years of encouragement from family and high school teachers, Catherine was shocked and brokenhearted when her freshman college creative-writing professor told her that she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and that she would “never earn a dime as a writer.” He promised her that he would be her crutches and get her through his demanding class with a B grade so as not to destroy her high grade point average too much, if Catherine would promise never to write again. Catherine assumed he was the voice of authority and gave in to the bargain.

For fourteen years she did not write until she was encouraged by a television journalist to give her dream a shot. She wrote a 600-page historical romantic spy-thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent who then garnered bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published novels, nonfiction books and anthologies ago.

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This book is dedicated to my son, Ryan Pieszchala. I love you deeply.

I’ve said it before and I will keep saying it. I am so very blessed with extraordinary editorial expertise. Each time I begin to stray, Claire, you bring me back and I can’t thank you enough. Any accolades I receive—they belong to us.

And to all the editors and staff at Mills & Boon Heartwarming. You are truly a most unique group of creative and visionary people. I am honored to work with you all. Most especially I want to thank Victoria Curran for bringing me into this very supportive and caring new family at Heartwarming. And as always, deep gratitude and affection to Dianne Moggy. A very big hug to you all.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

DRAPED LIKE GLITTERING prisms of rubies from a princess’s neck, pinot noir, French burgundy and cabernet grape clusters danced in the summer breeze at the Crenshaw Vineyard. In precise rows, the vines ran down the hills and stopped just shy of the valley. Lolling lazily in the warmth of the sun, the grapes were ripening and stretching to perfection.

Liz Crenshaw wore cutoff blue jeans and a white shirt she’d tied around her narrow waist. She drove her ATV, its attached utility trailer filled with compost, among the rows of vines. Long ago, her grandfather had banned tractors or trucks from the fields because their hard rubber tires compacted the earth and kept the rainwater from seeping properly into the roots. Liz made the compost herself. It was organic, like everything grown on Crenshaw land. They didn’t use fungicides or pesticides on the grapes, fruit trees or berry bushes.

Liz liked the idea that she and her grandfather were vestiges of a simpler time and way of life. For so long, it had been just the two of them against the world. Sam often joked they were not just related, but joined at the hip and the brain, like Siamese twins. Sam’s pet name for Liz had been petite chérie ever since she had been a little girl.