Grab your coffee. It's newsletter time, and I'm elbow-deep in apples. This morning I'm starting the final preserve of the season—apple cider. My mom's farm blessed me with another harvest, and I've spent weeks transforming those apples into butter, sauce, and fermented goodness. But cider? Cider is the grand finale. I'll cut up every last apple, toss them in my roaster with oranges, cinnamon, cloves, and allspice, then let the whole glorious mess roast for twenty-four hours. My house will smell like spiced heaven. Tomorrow I'll jar it up, and that'll be it. Canning season: complete. Well, almost complete. There's still jelly later, but we don't talk about that yet. Here's what I'm thinking about as I prep these apples: finishing is its own art form. It's not the thrilling part. It's not the first bushel of harvest or the electric rush of a new story idea. Finishing is the patient work—the slow simmer, the careful stir, the moment you decide it's ready and not a moment before. You can't force it. You can't rush it. But you also can't walk away too soon, or all that work turns to mush. Which brings me to The Rancher's Healing at Pack Saddle Ranch. I'm so close I can taste it. The manuscript is nearly done—just polish work now, tightening sentences, smoothing rough edges, making sure every scene earns its place. The cover needs its final touches too. And let me tell you, I am never satisfied. I agonize. I second-guess. I even scrapped the entire first draft of this book because it wasn't right. Kept the bones, expanded the story, and started over. Editing is my least favorite part of writing. It's a necessary evil, painful as a toothache, but I'm slowly developing a process and finding tools that help. Mostly, I just have to accept that "done" doesn't mean "perfect." It means ready. Gary McAllister would understand that struggle. Gary knows the land at Pack Saddle Ranch like the lines of his palms—stubborn, unforgiving, utterly his. But one rainy morning, a fuse burns too fast. Dynamite rips his world apart: shattered leg, smoking stump, a past that never healed. He survives the operating table in Sandpoint, but returns home crippled, pride intact and brittle as dried leaves. Enter Evelyn Bennett, a nurse who chose duty over social ladders. When Dr. Wallace asks her to help Gary heal at the ranch, she steps into a world of mud, mule bells, and three proud brothers whose stubbornness rivals the mountain itself. She arrives with bandages and common sense, but the work proves to be more than bandages. It's about trust. About a family mending itself against a bank deadline, wolves near the calves, and winter breathing down their necks. Here's their first encounter, right after surgery: "Am I still in hell?" His voice came out rough as sandpaper. "No. Sandpoint Hospital." She kept her tone light, professional. He tried to push himself up. She pressed a firm hand to his shoulder. "Don't fuss over me." "Then stop trying to undo our hard work." Their eyes met for the first time. Something sparked between them, sharp as flint on steel. His face was the kind that was no doubt handsome when exhaustion didn't carve lines around his eyes and pain tightened his jaw. Strong bones, stubborn chin. A fighter's face. "My brothers?" "In the waiting room, wearing holes in the floor." "The ranch—" He tried to rise again. "Will survive one more day without you." She adjusted his pillow, ignoring the way his jaw clenched at being tended. "Rest now. You'll need your strength." He studied her with those green eyes, taking in her uniform, her hands, her face. She felt the assessment like a physical touch. "You're not from here," he said. "Sandpoint born and raised." Gary is a stubborn rancher who probably makes Evelyn want to use the broom on him like she did on Butt Head the rooster last week. (Remember that showdown?) But she's a nurse with patience—lucky for Gary—and she'll coax him along. The question is, does he even realize she's patiently coaxing him into a better version of his stubborn self? He's carrying weight most people can't see. 1919 was a brutal year for the McAllisters. Brother Charles died in WWI. Brother Johnny died in an accident similar to Gary's—one that Gary blames himself for because he was supposed to be watching. Their father had a heart attack in the field that same year, and Gary's convinced it was a broken heart. Three losses in one year, and Gary was barely in his twenties, still trying to find his own way in the world. Now it's 1927. He's thirty. He's been holding the ranch together with white knuckles and sheer will. He won't let his youngest brother, Alfred, light fuses—only Gary will do it. He won't lose another brother. He won't let anything else slip through his fingers. But healing—real healing—can't be forced. It can't be controlled. Like apple cider roasting low and slow, like a manuscript that needs one more pass, some things require patience, time, and the wisdom to know when to let someone else help stir the pot. So here's where I am: while the cider roasts and fills my house with that spiced, cidery heaven, I'll be finishing the edits. Maybe finishing the cover. (All digits crossed.) Check back next week—I should, barring any disasters, have a link for you to grab your copy. If you love my historical fiction for the richness of time and place, you'll find that here. But this time, there's a romance woven through it—healing and hope and two people learning to lean on each other when everything else feels like it's falling apart. I can't wait to share it with you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have apples to cut and a manuscript to polish. Until next time,
Amy P.S. — Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to leave a review. Seriously, it means the world. Reviews help other readers find my books, and they help me grow as a writer—good or constructive, I appreciate them all. If you've read one of my stories and haven't left a review yet, I'd be so grateful if you would. Even a sentence or two makes a real difference in helping these books find their people.
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