Margot Dalton - Cowboys and Cabernet

Tyler’s voice was cold and level. “Listen, Ruth, I never touched Jodie Hiltz. I’d hardly know the girl if I saw her on the street.”

Ruth glanced up at him, aching to believe him. But Jodie’s words were carved into her memory: “He’s so handsome without his clothes…he has a birthmark on his left hip…shaped like a map of Texas….”

Ruth moaned softly. She remembered the sweet pleasure of the previous night when she and Tyler had made love, laughed and teased.

“Show me Amarillo,” he’d whispered.

Ruth forced herself back to the present. She looked hopelessly at Tyler. “Jodie wasn’t lying. Please take me home. I have to start packing.”

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Margot Dalton

for her contribution to the Crystal Creek series.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Sutton Press Inc.

for its contribution to the concept for the Crystal Creek series.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Crystal Creek! In the heart of Texas Hill Country, the McKinneys have been ranching, living and loving for generations, but the future promises changes none of these good folks could ever imagine!

Crystal Creek itself is the product of many imaginations, but the stories began to take shape when some of your favorite authors– Barbara Kaye, Margot Dalton, Bethany Campbell, Cara West, Kathy Clark and Sharon Brondos–all got together with me just outside of Austin to explore the Hill Country, and to dream up the kinds of romances such a setting would provide. For several days, we roamed the countryside, where generous Texans opened their historic homes to us, and gave us insights into their lives. We ate barbecue, we visited an ostrich farm and we mapped out our plans to give you the linked stories you love, with a true Texas flavor and all the elements you’ve come to expect in your romance reading: compelling, contemporary characters caught in conflicts that reflect today’s dilemmas.

Margot Dalton’s fascination with the burgeoning Texas wine industry finds expression in this captivating tale of Tyler McKinney, the eldest McKinney offspring, and Ruth Holden, a Californian with a string of impressive credentials in wine making to her name, and a measured, analytical, thoughtful approach to growing grapes that puts our poor frustrated cowboy right off his feed!

And next month, watch for Amarillo by Morning, the story of Cal, Tyler’s younger brother. An entrepreneurial young Texas bootmaker in search of an endorsement gets way more than she bargains for when she is bombarded by the formidable charms of rodeo rider Cal McKinney….

C’mon down to Crystal Creek–home of sultry Texas drawls, smooth Texas charm and tall, sexy Texans!

Marsha Zinberg

Executive Editor,

Crystal Creek

When Harlequin editors first approached me about writing these books, I was really nervous. I’d never even been to Texas…how could I write books about the place? But when my husband and I finally traveled to Austin for a research trip, I was amazed and delighted to find that I felt right at home. The countryside is truly big and beautiful—just like the hearts of the people. And Texas ranchers are every bit as colorful, rugged and lovable as their counterparts on the Canadian prairies where I grew up. They have the same hospitality and generosity of spirit, and that deep love for the land and its traditions that unites farmers and ranchers all over the world.

Now, when anybody mentions the place, I just smile and say, “Yeah, I love Texas. I’m even learning to speak the language.”

Margot Dalton

AT THE DOUBLE C RANCH

AT THE CIRCLE T RANCH

AT THE LONGHORN

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

THE WINTER CLOUDS rolled into California’s Napa Valley during January, dark and heavy, brooding on the craggy hilltops and drowning the sheltered valley in mist and rain. The fields that had so recently been alive with color and motion now lay dormant, their acres and acres of grapevines resting neat and bare in long trellised rows, stripped of leaves and fruit, awaiting the new growing season.

By late afternoon the light thinned and faded, then slipped away behind piled masses of clouds. Night fell early, a dank smothering blackness that rolled across the hills in a solid ominous mass, blocking the moon and stars.

Don Holden moved restlessly across his dining room and pulled the drapes aside, peering out into the darkness. He looked at his watch and frowned, then glanced through the rain-splattered window again, his face drawn with concern.

He was a slender, handsome man in his midfifties with dark graying hair, mild brown eyes and a carefully trimmed beard. He wore casual brown corduroy slacks, a soft flannel shirt and a tan cardigan with suede elbow patches, and looked like a college professor or a respected artist or sculptor.

In actual fact, though, Don Holden was a businessman, a self-made entrepreneur with one of the most successful privately owned vineyards and wineries in the Napa Valley. He was firm in business dealings, incisive, knowledgeable and tough, well-known throughout the region for his rugged independence and his uncanny instincts for the wine-making business.

But tonight, in the privacy of his own dining room, Don Holden presented a somewhat less confident demeanor than his business colleagues were accustomed to seeing. In fact, the man’s expression was positively timid when he turned away from the window and glanced through the wide Spanish archway leading to the kitchen, then peered anxiously out again into the rainy darkness.

Somewhere nearby a door opened suddenly, admitting a gust of damp air and a cool breath of freshness. Don’s shoulders sagged with relief and he crossed the room quickly, smiling at the damp person who stood dripping in the entrance hall.

The newcomer stripped off a hooded oilskin cape to reveal a slim body in high rubber boots, jeans, denim jacket and faded Oakland A’s baseball cap.

“For God’s sake, get those muddy boots off, girl,” Don said, trying to make his voice gruff, though he couldn’t quite hide the fond smile that tugged at his lips beneath his neat beard. “Look at you. You’re dripping all over the place.”

His daughter pulled off the boots and set them casually on a rubber tray beside the door, then removed her baseball cap to reveal a head of tumbled short brown hair and a face of gamine prettiness. Flushed with cold, dressed in casual clothes, Ruth Holden looked more like a thirteen-year-old than a woman of almost thirty, Don told himself. Her skin was creamy and perfect, just a trace of summer tan remaining, and her eyes were golden brown, warm with affection as she smiled at her father.