Spotlight & Giveaway: BLUE JEAN SUMMER by Maggie Gates

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Maggie Gates’s new release: BLUE JEAN SUMMER

Opposites become unlikely allies when a desperate cowboy needs to marry in order to save his grandfather’s land.

Hayes Wilder needs to find a wife—pronto. After returning to the small town of Honey Hollow before his grandfather’s death, he’s shocked to learn that the sprawling Wilder Estate was left to him. All Hayes wants is the one thing money can’t buy—more time with his grandfather. Failing that, he’ll do whatever it takes to save his grandfather’s legacy from falling into the wrong hands. Even if it means marrying in order to satisfy the terms of the will.

Catherine Foster, reigning Miss Virginia and former Honey Hollow native (who had a childhood crush on Hayes), is saddled with mountains of medical debt ever since her mother’s death. Running out of time to figure out her next move, Catherine reconnects with Hayes at his grandfather’s funeral.

Hayes and Catherine impulsively strike a bargain: He’ll pay off her debts, but only if they get married. Despite the situation, Hayes and Catherine look forward to getting to know each other as adults—after the wedding. Which is tougher than anticipated when the entire town has eyes on them and his half brother keeps circling the property like a vulture, determined to poke holes in their marriage. Most troubling of all, this pair may have miscalculated how much they have in common—enough for this cowboy to fall in love for real.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from BLUE JEAN SUMMER 

CHAPTER 1

Hayes

sat sixteen hands high atop a bluff and watched mourners float across the valley like wraiths cloaked in black. The horse let out a low grunt of displeasure, shifting from hoof to
hoof. He was just as agitated as I was.
The late‑spring breeze was balmy but still cool as it flowed down from the Blue Ridge Mountains. My best black suit, crisp white dress shirt, silk tie, cuff links, and patent leather loafers weren’t proper riding attire, but that had never stopped me before.
Sweat beaded on the back of my neck as the midmorning sun seared the exposed skin, but I didn’t budge. At least I felt something.
Even if it’s a mild sunburn.
Elvis, the Appaloosa who had helped me flee, stood stal-wart as we watched the long caravan of cars rumble down the lane like a snake slithering through the valley.
Vibrations rippled through my chest as my phone buzzed.

I laid the reins across the pommel and pulled my phone from the inside pocket of my suit jacket.

Hallie Campbell: The minister is looking for you.

Hallie knew I’d be present for the funeral when I had to be, and not a second sooner. Then I glanced at the time and realized that second was now.
I tucked my phone back into my suit jacket and eyed the old dirt path that led up from the valley and snaked around to the kissing rock, wondering just how uncouth it would be to watch the funeral proceedings from the ledge. Granddad wouldn’t mind, but the spectators would.
Elvis picked up on the shift in my energy and the tension I had on the reins. He adjusted his footing on the path, ready to take me higher up the mountain.
If I didn’t have to bury my granddad in a few minutes, I would have continued up the low incline as far as the trail would take me. Each pounding hoof slamming into the earth would have taken me farther and farther away as I tried to outrun the grief.
I didn’t truly want to be alone—now or in the greater, more existential sense—but losing people again and again hurt far too much.
Being alone meant I wouldn’t have to worry about find-ing a diamond ring and a breakup note on the kitchen counter, or picking out caskets.
I peeled my eyes away from the valley and stared up at the sweeping tree line that was more green than blue. Things al-

ways looked different when you were in the thick of it. In the distance, the forest slowly morphed from emerald to cobalt.
My phone buzzed again, but instead of pulling it out to see another reminder from Hallie, I tapped Elvis with my heels and squeezed my thighs around the saddle as he began to lumber down into the valley.
The moment the dirt path turned to grassy plains, Elvis took off like a bullet out of a gun. Crisp mountain air flooded into my lungs as we galloped across the expanse of the estate. I imagined this was the rush that NASCAR drivers felt when they were rounding banked turns at two hundred miles per hour. But rather than making me fly, the hit of adrenaline was the only thing grounding me to reality. We zipped past the racetrack, where champion horses practiced day in and
day out, and skirted around the hot‑walker.
The training facilities were empty today. Rather than practicing, the teams of coaches, jockeys, and owners would be up in the rose garden to pay their respects.
I tugged on the reins, slowing Elvis to a canter, then a trot, as I steered him into the paddock and dismounted. I didn’t bother detacking him. The moment the funeral was over, I’d be back in the saddle, heading for the hills.
I felt as much like a ghost as the rest of the Wilders who had come before me.
As I walked up to the estate house, my loafers squished through the soft grass that had soaked up yesterday’s rain. I kept my head low as I cut across the field, avoiding the white pebble path that led to the rose garden, and dipped into the house.

Servers and chefs jockeyed for position as they squeezed in and out of the kitchen door to unload a box truck with crates of dishes and hot boxes.
In the midst of the chaos, a head of copper hair whirled around and looked me up and down. “I’d ask where you’ve been, but I think I have a pretty good idea.” Hallie handed me a lint roller. “Minister’s waiting. Lewis is already out there.”
I put on the expression I had used for days like this since I was a child and ran the roller over my pants to catch all the black and white hairs that Elvis had left behind.
Hallie was waiting with an open palm to take the roller. “What do you need?”
I looked through the glass patio doors where bodies had begun to fill the neat lines of chairs. “For today to be over.” For a moment, Hallie’s usual strength slipped, and I saw her grief too. “Only a few more hours and then it’ll be quiet
again.”
That’s what I was counting on.
I slipped into the study that was drenched in cedar and mahogany, grabbed the sunglasses I had left on my grand-dad’s desk, and slid them on.
The minister was nervously checking his watch when I slipped through the patio doors. I ducked under the lip of the tent and took the front‑row chair that had a placard de-noting it was reserved for me. I glanced at the three head-stones nestled into the rose garden and let out a slow breath as history repeated itself.
I was over the funeral circus somewhere between “dearly

beloved” and “we are gathered here to celebrate the life of Walter Wilder.” Preachers needed to find some new material. You’d think after millennia of people dying there’d be some variety, but it was always the same old spiel. Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust, and all that bullshit.
The May heat billowed beneath the tent. Sweat slid down my back, trapped by my suit as I stared at the plain pine box that held my grandfather. The preacher droned on and on in a voice that was probably meant to be soothing but was, frankly, grating.
Granddad would have hated it.
He hated the formality of things like this. He would have hated having the who’s who of Virginia and DC showing up to rub elbows. He would have hated the fake platitudes, in-sincere hellos, and snide condolences that masked business deals. The only things he would have liked were the decora-tive spray of roses and the plain pine box—because, in his opinion, spending a penny more than necessary on some-thing going in the dirt was stupid.
When my grandma passed away a few years ago, Grand-dad complained about how long the preacher had taken, then walked into the house after the funeral, changed into his favorite overalls, and fixed himself a bowl of ice cream.
Walt Wilder was a simple man. So simple that he refused to go by his full name. He was frugal to a fault in his per-sonal life but generously shared the wealth he had amassed. The ten‑million‑dollar estate nestled in the Shenandoah Valley had always been home. For him and me.
I didn’t have many memories of home before the Wilder

Estate. Granddad used to show me pictures, but that was all they were at this point. Static memories that didn’t feel as though they belonged to me.
I glanced over to the left of the casket and spotted the top of my mother’s headstone peeking out among the rose-bushes, as if she were attending the funeral herself. My fa-ther’s headstone was beside hers, hidden by soft pink blooms. To the right, roses and shadows danced over my grand-ma’s headstone like an ethereal crown. The garden had dressed
her up as her husband joined her once again.
This is too much.
There are too many people here.
Instead of paying my respects and entertaining a horde of folks in that big old house the way I was expected to, I wanted to ride back into the mountains.
The preacher finally took a breath. It’s about time.
“Hayes, Lewis, would you and the loved ones who will assist with the lowering of the casket please come forward?” the preacher asked in that sickeningly soothing voice.
I stood, buttoned my suit jacket, and took a step forward as my half brother, Lewis, did the same. We were joined by Mason Bishop, the estate’s groundskeeper, and Levi Caldwell, a local farrier. Granddad had loved them both as if they were his kin.
We took our places, each holding a strap as the funeral director and his assistant removed the supports under the casket. Just as the preacher began to give the final blessing, a shrill cell phone ringtone pierced the air.
“Shit!” A staccato whisper broke through the silence.

I glanced over my shoulder, glaring through my sun-glasses. A head of blonde hair bobbed as the woman rum-maged through her purse and turned off her phone.
When she sat up, I almost dropped the strap.
It had been ages since I’d seen those blue eyes. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since she had come around the es-tate, but it didn’t surprise me in the least that she was here today.
Like Mason and Levi, Granddad had loved her as one of his own.
The preacher cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to the task at hand. Slowly, we lowered my granddad into the earth. It felt fitting for the roses to go down with him as he was welcomed to his final resting place. He wouldn’t have wanted to be empty‑handed when he was reunited with my grandma.
I stared into the grave as the rest of the men shuffled back to their seats.
“Hayes,” the preacher said under his breath.
I looked up and realized I was still standing there, prob-ably looking like I was about to jump in too. I turned and went back to my seat, glancing at the blonde woman one last time. Sweat beaded along my hairline as the preacher said a final prayer, then dismissed the crowd with offers of support and counseling in the days and weeks ahead.
But the crowd didn’t care for the solemn words. Bodies popped up like gophers as people jockeyed to speak with each other. I stood and looked around for the person I wanted to talk to, but I caught the disappearing swath of her blonde hair

as she scurried to the outer edge of the rose garden to call who-ever had tried to get in touch with her.
Mason and Levi were the first to leave. Their boots left distinct imprints as they trudged across the grass. I was about to do the same when a hand clapped my arm.
“Hayes Wilder. It’s been a long time.”
I turned and was met by the overly styled hair of Gover-nor Maxwell Grant. I felt about politicians the same as my granddad had. Unfortunately, in my line of work, I spent a lot of time with them.
“Governor Grant,” I said, extending my hand. “Thank you for coming today.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said. “Your grandfather was a good man. Did a lot of good for this state. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” My gratitude was as insincere as his con-dolences. “Will you be joining us for lunch?” I asked, not wanting to draw out the conversation.
A glint of sunlight drew my attention away from the gov-ernor. The warm rays made her blonde hair ripple like the shimmering waves of golden wheat fields. Behind the privacy of my sunglasses, I watched as those long legs reentered the tent and weaved between chairs, beelining for the two of us.
The governor followed my line of sight. “Unfortunately not. I have prior commitments.” In the blink of an eye, his attitude changed into something hurried and curt, but at least he dropped the pretense of mourning. “Give me a call,” he said in a hurry as he slipped a business card with his per-sonal number into my hand, then clapped my shoulder and shuffled away. “Let’s do lunch another time.”

I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do less. “Thanks for your condolences,” I muttered to his back.
Her long lashes blinked over denim‑colored eyes as she watched the governor scurry off. “Wow. He left faster than I did after my last two dates.” She offered a handshake. “You probably don’t remember me, but I—”
“Of course I remember you, Catie.”
Her grip was firm as we shook hands. “Catherine,” she corrected with a smile sweet like honey.
I smoothed my thumb over her hand but didn’t let go. “You’re all grown‑up.”
Catherine looked down, making those long lashes dance across her high cheekbones as a soft laugh slipped from her lips. “I suppose that happens, doesn’t it? It’s been a long time.” Sadness glossed over her eyes. “Your granddad was always so kind to me. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”
I believed her.
“Did you stay in touch with him?”
She nodded, slowly sliding her hand out of mine to brush those bombshell curls off her shoulder. “I’m friends with Hallie. When I would come out here to see her, I always ended up staying an hour or two longer because Walt and I would start talking. He sent me flowers after I was crowned Miss Virginia last year.”
A small gold pin was fastened to her black dress and sported the state seal on top of a dogwood flower. The engrav-ing on it noted her role as Miss Virginia.
“Congratulations.” I pulled off my sunglasses and tucked them into the inner pocket of my suit jacket so I could take her in.

Gone was Catie, the freckle‑faced seven‑year‑old who would come to the estate to ride horses. Gone was the girl who would let herself into the house because she knew my grandma would have ice cream and knew my granddad would sit with her while he had a scoop too. Gone were the sun-burned cheeks that would lift in the brightest smile whenever I’d cut through the kitchen on the way to my room.
Catherine Foster was a breathtaking woman. It was hard to reconcile that she was the same person I remembered. But that smile was timeless.
“I don’t want to hold you up,” she said. “I’m sure there are loads of people who want to chat with you. I just wanted to say hi and tell you how much I’ll miss your granddad.”
“Thank you. Are you coming up to the house for lunch?” “I plan to. Hallie invited me. I hope that’s alright.”
“Of course it is.” A smile I hadn’t felt in weeks pulled at my lips. “Hallie calls the shots around here.” I chuckled. “Even Granddad said so.”
She laughed under her breath, like we were kids sharing secrets. “He was a wise man.” Her gaze quickly darted around the tent, assessing who was left of the crowd. “Will the gov-ernor be there?”
My guard slipped as I muttered, “Thankfully, no.”
Catherine’s ruby lips pursed in a tight smile. “I’ll see you in there, then.” She reached out and laid her hand on my arm. “It was good to see you, Hayes.”
“You too, Catie—Cath,” I said, catching myself.
Her eyes creased at the corners as she turned and slipped out from under the tent, following the white pebble path up to the house.

The unexpected peace she left in her wake didn’t last long. “The lawyer’s here to read Grandfather’s will,” Lewis said with a clap of his hands as he sidled up to me. “He’s
waiting in the office.”
Right. Because the last thing I wanted to do on the day of my granddad’s funeral was sit through a grand announce-ment of who got what.
Greed danced in Lewis’s eyes as he turned, then looked over his shoulder. An impish smirk curled at the corner of his lip. “You coming?”

Excerpt. ©Maggie Gates. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.

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Meet the Author:

Maggie Gates writes raw, relatable romance novels packed full of heat and humor. Maggie calls North Carolina home. In her spare time, she enjoys daydreaming about her characters, jamming to country music, and eating all the barbecue and tacos she can find! Her e-reader is always within reach due to a love of small-town romances that borders on obsession.

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