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After reading “Gone with the Wind” at the age of ten, Maggie decided that she wanted to be a writer too. When writing epic tomes became way too daunting and, frankly, boring, she decided to write what she loves to read the most: sweet romance stories. She endeavors to find a new twist in the telling, but the age-old story of boy meets girl will forever be at the heart of her writing.
Born and raised in northern California, Maggie has lived on both coasts of the United States. She now lives in the beautiful Flathead Valley in northwestern Montana.
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Margaret Desmond Novels
King’s Valley Romance Series
Ethan’s Bride
Her Ordinary Joe
The Return of Devin Wakefield
Annie and Jake
Sweet Grass – Montana Romance Series
Trusting Travis (Spring 2019)
THAT HOLLISTER MAN
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“YOU’RE WASTING YOUR time with that one. Got his heart broke. Nothing and no one will ever fix it.”
Compelled to leave Boston as a means of saving her teenage brother—the only family she has—from a life of crime, Sage Dolan gladly accepts the serendipitous opportunity to purchase a small ranch and a restaurant in the rural community of Hollister, Montana.
Sage’s eagerness to start a new life for herself and her brother is met with a few obstacles along the way, the greatest being a rugged, handsome rancher who is not happy that an outsider has purchased the one piece of land he and his family have coveted for years.
Soon, Sage is engaged in a battle of wills, but she quickly discovers that it’s not a battle over property as much as it is a crusade to unlock the door to a lonely man’s heart.
Book One in the Sweet Grass – Montana Romance series, this story is a stand-alone with a HEA and no cliff-hangers.
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HER THOUGHTS SCATTERED into the wind as she stepped outside the barn to find a man on a horse less than ten feet in front of her. He was looking toward the house but, at her startled gasp, he turned his face sharply towards her.
The air seemed to go still around them as they stared at each other. Sage was unaware of the wind or the cold, her focus narrowed on the stranger. It wasn’t fear that had her heart suddenly beating like the wings of a hummingbird. She didn’t know what it was. She’d never felt like this in her life.
This was a man unlike any she’d ever encountered before. Not in real life, anyway. It was as if he’d stepped directly from the pages of one of her father’s western novels; he fit every image in her head of what a real western man would look like.
He sat tall in the saddle, his broad chest and wide, sloping shoulders amplified by the shearling sheepskin coat he wore. Brown leather chaps fitted snug over lean and muscular thighs, tapered down his long legs and flared above his dusty boots. His chiseled jaw and firm mouth were all that she could see of his face; the rest of it was thrown into shadow beneath the lowered brim of his brown cowboy hat.
His horse snorted, sending puffs of white vapor into the chilly air. Sage’s gaze flicked to the animal, a magnificent specimen—a thoroughbred quarter horse mix, she guessed—its sleek, steel-grey coat carrying the sheen of recent exercise.
“Are you a guest of Gigi’s?”
The low, rich timbre of his voice caught at a place deep in her being. She released a slow breath, her own voice shaking a little as she replied, “No. I’ve just moved in.”
He nudged his horse closer, stopping alongside of her. The shorter distance between them forced her to tilt her head back to look at him. From this angle, he appeared like a giant. She caught the enticing whiff of leather and warm horse and good clean sweat.
“Moved in?” he queried in that deep voice that carried a slight hint of a drawl. “You mean Gigi’s renting out a room to you?”
She still couldn’t see his eyes, but it felt as if they were burning into her. The strange feelings inside of her intensified, heating her blood. “No. Gigi sold this place to me.”
He froze.
The horse, sensing the change in the air, swiveled its ears back and tossed its head.
Maybe Sage had imagined the man’s sudden tension, because within seconds he was sitting loose and relaxed in the saddle. He patted the horse’s neck with a gloved hand before touching that same hand to the brim of his hat, pushing it back far enough that she could finally see his eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, set beneath thick, black brows and a high forehead creased with lines. His face was handsome in that tan, craggy way of men who spent most of their time working outdoors. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties.
“That makes you my new neighbor then,” he said, his tone now curiously absent of inflection. “I’m Spence Hollister.”