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Mar 28, 2023

Ordering a bride was supposed to be easy…

Join Marigold as she rolls into Denver today! She’s not the mail-order bride Virgil expected, but she’s the one he’ll have to take home because he has three children and a lot of gold to mine if he wants to feed them.

Publisher’s Weekly calls The Prospector’s Only Prospect “…a delightful twist on the mail order bride trope…”

After eight days in a cramped stagecoach, divorcée Marigold Davis already regrets her decision to come to Denver City to marry. She certainly didn’t realize she’d signed up for mosquitos, mud, and scores of rough men eyeing her like a hot meal on a cold day. But with her life in Kansas all but incinerated, Marigold needs a husband. Even if she’s not the bride that gold prospector Virgil Gardner is expecting…

Virgil Gardner has a reputation as a grumpy hard-ass, and he’s fine with it. He’s also no fool – this is not the woman he agreed to marry. It takes a tough-as-nails woman to survive the harshness of a Rocky Mountain gold claim, and this whiskey-eyed, gentle beauty is certainly not the type. Now it’s just a matter of how quickly she’ll quit, so he can find a wife who will stick. Someone who can care for the only thing he values even more than gold–his children.

But Marigold isn’t about to give in. Cramped in a one room shack. Berry picking turned into a bear escape. Or, cooking for an entire crew of bottomless pits. She’s got more grit than most. And just when Virgil starts to realize his replacement bride might be the treasure he’s been looking for, an unannounced guest arrives… to change everything.

“Collins mines the setting for both danger and humor, providing the perfect backdrop to this sensuous romance. Readers won’t want to put this down.” ~ Publisher’s Weekly

Buy The Prospector’s Only Prospect now


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Mar 27, 2023

I’m celebrating the final countdown to my release date for The Prospector’s Only Prospect with some exclusive snippets.

In this one, Marigold gives Virgil a haircut…

Oh shit, this was a terrible idea.

He gathered himself to stand, but the weight of her hands came onto his shoulders.

“Sit straight. Dip your head forward.”

He swallowed and tucked his chin.

The cold metal began to clip along his nape. He watched his broken, dirty nails curl into his palms.

The blades made a few passes against his neck, barely warming from the heat of his body, then began to clip around his ears.

“Don’t move,” she warned softly.

It was downright erotic, holding still like this while she petted his hair and gathered it in bunches. He held his breath but heard hers along with the soft rustle of her clothes. Her short skirt brushed his knees and the back of his hands.

The clip-clip of the scissor blades worked around his head and down the side of his face, making his beard itch. Just as he was about to scratch into it, she began pinching sections of whiskers. Her knuckles brushed his cheekbone and grazed his lips.

He was caught in ecstatic torture. His mouth watered. Her clothes smelled of flour and the familiar must of the cabin and the warm musk of a woman.

As he spread his knees, she stepped between. He opened his eyes enough to see the swells of her breasts beneath her coat. Were her nipples hard?

He felt as though his skin had shrunk and he would split right out of it if he didn’t put his hands and mouth on her. Everything in him wanted to grab her and kiss her and fuck the daylights out of both of them.

“You have a widow’s peak. I didn’t realize…”

“Why does that matter?” Through his haze of arousal, he lifted his attention enough to catch her pulling her face into a grimace of apprehension.

“It doesn’t.” Her voice was high and sharp enough to cut through his sexual trance. “I’ll just…” She pinched and clipped and wrinkled her nose, face confounded.

“Marigold.” His blood cooled. Fast. “You said you knew how to do this.”

“You’re my first man. I understand most find that to be a thrill. I’ve never understood why. The first flapjack is always the worst of the batch. Everyone knows that.”

“Very funny.” He brushed her hands away and ran his hands over his hair. It didn’t feel anything like after the barber had finished with him. “How bad is it?”

“It’s fine,” she insisted but looked as if she needed to pee. “Maybe if these were sharper?” She snipped the air twice. “You’re not paying for it,” she reminded him.

“Jesus Christ.” He rose and went to the window, shifted to glimpse his reflection in the glass. “I look like a half-peeled potato!”

She bit her lips, showing no contrition at all. “I’ll get better now that I know what not to do.”

Muttering every curse word he knew, he slapped his hat over his chewed-up head and stalked off to work.

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