Spotlight & Giveaway: Reckless Fortune by M.M. Crane

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author M.M. Crane to HJ!

Hi M.M. Crane and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, Reckless Fortune!

 
Hi! So happy to be here!
 

Please summarize the book for the readers here:

RECKLESS FORTUNE is a contemporary mail order (fake) bride book with Alaskan scenery, the best small town in one building ever, a solstice party that turns extremely romantic, a plane crash that requires EVEN MORE forced proximity, and a self-professed ugly duckling who finds out exactly how much of a swan she really is. 🙂
 

Please share your favorite line(s) or quote from this book:

I think the first line sums up the hero pretty nicely: “Bowie Fortune never backed down from a dare.”

And don’t worry—the heroine is his biggest challenge yet. And as he’s a former Marine who flies bush planes for fun in the Alaska wilderness, that’s saying something!

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• Here’s a link to the book’s playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0cCjtlUrGZuB50PDHqqNfg?si=40bfca7c979e46d1
• And like all the books I’ve written set up in Alaska, writing this book made me want to move there immediately!

What first attracts your Hero to the Heroine and vice versa?

They are attracted immediately—and neither one of them is happy about it. They assume familiarity will breed contempt…

But that’s not what happens as they get to know each other!

😉

Did any scene have you blushing, crying or laughing while writing it? And Why?

This is one of my favorite scenes in the book. It’s an intimate moment. It’s a celebration of life, of love. It probably doesn’t work out of context but here you go anyway:

“And with every thrust, she thought, love.
Love was what mattered. Love was what would last. Long after they were gone, love would sustain them in the memories of those they left behind.
But here, now, there was this. Love made electric. Love, so deep and so good they became part of each other.
Love, whatever came next.
Love so that they would face it, together, without fear.
Because fear and love could not occupy the same space, she understood that now. Not only that, but love was so vast, so huge, it couldn’t matter how much of it any one person had. What mattered was the fact of it.
Love, she thought as they hurtled toward that edge again, together this time. Love, she thought, and then, together, they caught fire.”

Readers should read this book….

Because Alaska! And a modern mail-order bride! Plus a fake relationship, small town shenanigans, summer love, the “only one tent” part, the thinking they might die together but ooops now they have to figure out how to live together part…

Honestly, I’ve made the Fortunes of Lost lake books pretty much my catnip as a reader. I wish I could read them myself! I think you just might love them too.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have in the works?

I always have Harlequin Presents (and the odd Harlequin Historical) coming out as Caitlin Crews. My friends and I have another Jasper Creek anthology (all cowboys, all the time) called THE COMEBACK COWBOY coming out in the spring. And my first book as half of the author duo Hazel Beck is out right now for spooky season, if witches are your thing. SMALL TOWN, BIG MAGIC is available everywhere!

I write a lot, so the best way to keep track is to go here: https://megancrane.com/coming/

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: One copy of RECKLESS FORTUNE for a U.S. only winner.

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: If you found yourself crash-landed in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness (and were, of course, unhurt and possessed of a comfortable shelter): WHAT WOULD YOU BRING TO READ??

 
a Rafflecopter giveaway

 
 

Excerpt from Reckless Fortune:

Chapter One

Bowie Fortune never backed down from a dare.

Especially not if the dare came from his mouthy kid sister, who might not be a kid any longer, sure, but the principle remained intact.

Bowie liked to think of his refusal to back down—­no matter how ridiculous the dare in question—­as evidence not only of the high standards he maintained, but of a life well lived. The only kind of life worth living, to his mind.

And he’d tried several lives on for size already, so he could tell the difference.

As he landed his favorite longer-­range Cessna on what passed for a runway in the middle of spectacular Montana ranchland, he figured his life was looking just fine. No thanks to Piper and the challenge she’d issued him. But the Rocky Mountains down here in the Lower 48 were giving him a gorgeous early-­June welcome, as if summer really was on its way. The sky was big and bright. The land was pretty.

You could do worse, the Bitterroot Valley had seemed to tell him as he came in.

He set the plane down sedately and bumped along the countrified runway that was an upgrade from the gravel he was used to in Alaska. And laughed while he did it, because he laughed a lot more than some people considered appropriate—­he laughed more the less appropriate they found it—­and because sedate was not really his thing.

Mail-­order brides weren’t really his thing, either, but here he was.

Bowie normally flew charter flights around the Alaskan bush for folks with a taste for the more thrilling things in life. It was a guaranteed adventure—­and also something he would have done as soon as he got his pilot’s license, without anyone paying him. That he got to call it his job never failed to make him feel like he was getting away with something.

He never forgot for a minute that some poor slobs had to sit in airless offices and go to tedious meetings all day, a fate worse than death as far as he was concerned. But then, Bowie was from Lost Lake, out in Interior Alaska, where it was an adventure to survive on any given Tuesday. Not to mention all ten and a half months of winter. He figured growing up off the grid the way he had was what had given him an appetite for taking risks the way folks in big cities took their buses and subways.

Compared to some of the things he’d done—­most recently, flying like a lunatic through spring storms with a pack of equally fearless outdoor photographers, for example—­this mail-­order bride deal sounded pretty tame. What was pretending to be married, pioneer-­style, for one measly little Alaskan summer with a virtual stranger next to the thrill of landing on a glacier at 7,200 feet or playing hide-­and-­seek in fog and rain with some of the tallest mountains in the world?

Piper had dared him to take part in this publicity-­stunt-­slash-­contest being put on by a questionable collection of regional locals, mostly because, she’d maintained, he was too unruly and uncivilized to find himself a date, much less a wife. Even if the wife in question was fake and temporary, for the dubious purpose of a little prize money. Assuming they won.

I date plenty, Bowie had told her with a grin, sitting at the comfortable family dinner table in his parents’ house at the far end of the lake one blustery spring night. How and when and who is a little too much information for your tender ears.

There’d been a lot of snorting at that from the rest of the disreputable humans he claimed as his own, but Piper had only smiled at him in that particularly sisterly way she had. As if she pitied him.

It was meant to get his back up and it did.

You’ve gone full mountain man and you don’t even know it, she’d said sadly, with a shake of her head. You’ve become the character you play on your charter trips.

I beg your pardon. I do not play any characters. I provide local color and commentary, as requested.

But he’d been grinning lazily while he said that because maybe he did play a role or two. If he felt like it. He wasn’t an actor, though. He could still remember the various attempts at community theater at the Mine. The Mine was the center of the lake community. It was a whole village except, unlike most villages, it was all under one roof at the head of Lost Lake rather than spread out around the lake or along a road. There were no roads. The Mine was the bar, the restaurant, all the shops, and a place to shelter from the inevitable weather, too.

Watching folks he knew parade around in costume, orating in a great big room he couldn’t escape even if he was actively trying to pretend it wasn’t happening, was the stuff of nightmares.

Piper had rolled her eyes at him. You’re going to die alone, eaten by wild animals, Bowie. Even if you tried to entice some poor woman to take a chance on you at this point, how would you get her to stay?

Little sister. I don’t know how to tell you this. Bowie had held Piper’s gaze and let his grin expand some. I’m very persuasive in the right circumstances.

What would happen if you had to actually get to know someone? his sister had asked, as if that was an idle question and she wasn’t directly challenging him. Because maybe Piper was a little bit of an actor herself. No song and dance on a flight past Denali. No flying off at dawn. What if you had to let someone get to know you?

Bring it on, Bowie had replied immediately.

The way Piper had likely known he would, because she’d smiled with a little too much satisfaction. I’m so glad you’re game, Bowie, she’d murmured. Smugly. Because there happens to be the perfect opportunity for you to prove it.

And then she’d told him about the so-­called mail-­order bride contest taking place this summer. The rules were simple, according to Piper. The ladies who entered chose their men, after a stringent vetting process that would include home visits. Together, the so-­called couple would spend the summer exemplifying the Alaskan frontier spirit by performing and documenting as many survival tasks and adventures, as well as good, old-­fashioned frontier living, as they could. They were to post a picture every day and at least one video per week to a dedicated social media account, the better to advertise the charms of the area here, that, while remote and unspoiled as the locals liked it, could benefit from some more tourism in the summer months. The contestants were expected to promote the area and the contest, and any disreputable behavior would lead to disqualification, as would anything illegal or even distasteful in the eyes of the judges. The judges were a selection of local officials from villages in this part of the vast Interior who would get together and name one “best old-­school frontier couple” at the end of the summer.

The mail-­order bride part was a gimmick and meant as a throwback to how a lot of folks’ great-­grandparents had met out here, as no weddings would actually be occurring— ­at least not as part of the contest. What contestants did afterward was up to them.

When Bowie had suggested that might be the dumbest idea he’d ever heard, he discovered that said dumb idea had come about thanks in no small part to his own brother, the unofficial mayor of the unincorporated Lost Lake community. Quinn had been more than happy to discuss the whole thing in detail, even though Bowie thought it was about as foolish as that time Mia Saskin, known as Grand Mia to one and all around here, had decided they should have an Adopt a Bear contest. All fun and games until the bears in question took exception to being tracked.

With both Piper and Quinn going on about the mail-­order bride thing, a lot like they were in cahoots, Bowie had been backed neatly into it. He’d had no choice but to laugh like it was his very own idea and sign up on the spot.

Then act like he’d enjoyed every minute that had brought him out here to Montana to collect his fake bride for the summer, in the hope they might win some money if they made it all the way to Labor Day and proved themselves the most old-­school Alaska while they did it. Whatever that was.

He laughed again now as he climbed down from the cockpit and took a deep breath of Montana.

“Idiots,” he muttered into the stillness, though it was hard to say which idiot he meant. There were so many involved in this that it was hard to choose.

But it was done now. He’d chosen to fly down and pick up his bride for the summer because he could, and maybe because he’d wanted to both get his head straight with the nice, long flight as well as get to know the woman in question before they just . . . lived together. In his house.

Besides, there was no denying it was pretty here, and he’d always been a sucker for a pretty place with the wild still in it. Montana had that going for it. It was gorgeous by anyone’s standards, if a little soft by his. For one thing, there were roads. He’d seen them as he’d flown south. A person could drive anywhere, right on out to the interstate if they had a mind to. All the way to the sea or anywhere else that appealed.

Not like up in Lost Lake. There were no roads, only preferred tracks, rugged vehicles, and a lot of willpower, depending on the tricky Alaskan weather, to make it down to the nearest small village from their hardy little community. The town of Hopeless sat on a bend in the epically twisty Upper Kuskokwim River and had been named, originally, to indicate the state of mind of the gold rush hopefuls who had not gotten what they’d trekked all the way out into the hinterland to find. These days the locals figured the name kept undesirables—­meaning, the kind of looky-­loos who cluttered up the Southwest Passage on their cruise ships every summer—­far away.

In Interior Alaska, roads were a luxury. But then, so was summer. Some years it was just midnight sun most of the night and gray skies all day. You made of it what you could. That was some real old-­school Alaska right there.

Bowie let his feet get acquainted with Montana dirt while he stretched a little. He’d flown in over his would-­be fake bride’s family ranch today to get a feel for the place. He knew that he had to walk a ways to get to the main house, and he took his time doing it.

He told himself he was getting the lay of the land. Could be he was also putting off the inevitable trouble coming his way. Because Bowie loved himself some danger. Thrived on it, even. But trouble he avoided like the plague.

And he’d never known a woman who wasn’t some kind of trouble.

He had to figure that the kind of woman who would sign up for a bizarre contest in the boondocks was trouble with a capital T.

It was perfect walking weather today, with plenty of time to appreciate his last few moments of untroubled freedom. A pretty day in the kind of coy spring that marked most northern places he’d been—­warm and bright with a punch of lingering cold beneath it. The Bitterroot Valley was putting on a show. There were carpets of wildflowers everywhere. The Rocky Mountains were flexing their rugged beauty on all sides, some peaks still whitecapped.

If a person had to live outside Alaska, Bowie thought as he walked, Montana wasn’t a bad bet.

He walked for a good fifteen minutes along the little dirt track before he wound around to the house he’d seen from up above. Then he slowed, because as he approached, he could see folks were already gathered out in the yard.

Bowie wasn’t the sort to turn down a parade in his honor, but somehow he guessed that floats and a marching band weren’t where this was going.

He made sure his face was set in its usual amiable, easygoing expression, stuck his hands in his jeans pockets, and slowed his walk to a saunter. And he checked out the scene awaiting him from behind his standard-­issue aviator shades while he approached.

The marines might not have been for him, in the long run. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t learned a few things along the way.

Like performing a little recon on all things whenever possible. He liked to look lazy and unbothered and infinitely unthreatening, but that was a lot easier when he already knew what he was walking into. In this case, he was going in blind.

Piper had laughed when he’d suggested that he should have the opportunity to personally vet the woman he’d be spending his summer with. A little theatrically, to his mind, there at her cottage where he had virtuously stopped by to help her out with a little springtime roof repair.

You’re not the customer here, idiot, she’d told him scornfully, squatting back on her haunches on top of her cabin with the lake behind her like a bright blue frame, this side of the spring breakup that melted all the ice. She’d wiped at her forehead. You’re a contestant.

He hadn’t liked that much, but he’d run with it. It’s really not fair to the other contestants, though, is it? he’d asked, treating her to his best charming grin.

Mostly because she was his sister, immune to his charm since birth, and his best grin usually made her roll her eyes. That time was no exception.

I don’t know what makes you think you have a hope in hell of winning, she’d said, returning her attention to the roof. I think what you should concentrate on this summer is a little information gathering. About yourself and how weird you’ve become.

Bowie was under the impression that being weird was a favorite Alaskan pastime, and that his sister lived in a glass house of her own strangeness, but he’d only laughed.

While attempting to look wounded. What? I’m a catch.

Catch and release, maybe, Piper had replied, her eyes gleaming when she’d looked at him again. I feel sorry for your poor mail-­order bride, Bowie. Truly I do.

If he was honest, Bowie felt the same. But probably not for the same reasons.

Personally, he would not have signed up to be a fake mail-­order bride under any circumstances. Especially not to take part in this contest that a bunch of town leaders all along their stretch of the Upper Kuskokwim had come up with, mostly in an attempt to rustle up some measure of tourist interest in an area that was always going to be a little too off the beaten path—­even for folks who liked that kind of thing. The contest had been trumpeted all over the radio waves for months now. Reclaim Alaska’s Gold Rush Grit! the puff piece in the Anchorage Daily News had crowed, while also making it clear that everyone involved would be vetted thoroughly and made aware that it was all an elaborate game of pretend. That contestants would be judged on the difficulty of their attempted frontier projects—­and also whether or not they worked—­not on any actual marriages. And maybe come away with the grand prize of $10,000!

Bowie had been required to submit an embarrassing personal profile. He’d had to allow Bertha Tungwenuk, the mayor of Hopeless, to poke around his cabin and his private hangar, where he kept the only harem he’d ever need. His planes.

Quinn had been there, too, because while he was only unofficially the mayor of Lost Lake, he was actually the official representative of the community. A role he had always taken entirely too seriously. Though he sure had seemed to be enjoying himself on home inspection day.

You have to sign a waiver, you know, Quinn had said, his arms crossed and a smirk on his face that Bowie would have liked to take off with his own hands, but he was pretending to be civilized. Also he wasn’t twelve. You have to sign on the dotted line that you will, to the best of your ability, represent the Upper Kuskokwim well. You’ll be subject to fines if you don’t.

Seems to me that representing something well leaves room for a lot of interpretation, Bowie had drawled.

Not so much, Bertha Tungwenuk had said, scowling at him. No stunts, Bowie.

I’m wounded, Bowie told them both. Neither of them had looked moved. Maybe this is just the opportunity I need to settle on down and make something of myself.

Also, Quinn had replied in the withering tone only a big brother could produce. You might want to keep in mind that I’m one of the judges.

Bowie shoved all that aside, because it was time to meet his so-­called bride. No more pretending he wasn’t hoisted up high on his own petard. No more hoping for a sufficiently painful, yet not actually debilitating, accident to allow him to bow out with his pride intact. It was go time.

There were three women standing outside in the yard, watching his approach in a manner he could only call unfriendly, and none of them was Autumn McCall.

Because he’d seen a picture of Autumn, his very own fake bride-­to-­be. And the little video to go with it, in which she’d talked too long and too close to the camera. None of the three women draping themselves bonelessly on the fence, the grille of a pickup truck, and the porch railing, respectively, bore any resemblance to that video. They all looked about six feet tall, for one thing, and he had gotten the impression that Autumn was more compact. And all three of them had the kind of glossy blonde hair, pouty lips, and slim hips that whispered of expensive places Bowie avoided like the plague.

Bowie was sure he would have remembered pouty lips and that much blonde in a video that he’d liked only because Autumn had mostly talked—­very quickly and matter-­of-­factly—­about all the pioneer-­type tasks she planned to perform over the course of the summer. Without furnishing the to-­do list for a potential fake husband that most of the others had.

“This is quite a welcoming committee,” he said cheerfully as he drew close to the blondes.

“Less of a welcoming committee,” said the blonde closest to him, arms crossed as she propped herself up against the truck. “More of a gauntlet.”

“That’s a little less friendly,” Bowie agreed.

The closest blonde sniffed. The one by the fence stuck her hands on her hips, somehow managing to draw attention to her disturbingly long, oval-­shaped, pale blue nails. He didn’t know how a person got anything done with nails long enough to cause damage. Then again, that was probably the point. She didn’t look like the sort of woman who concerned herself much with productivity.

“We don’t like anything about this,” she told him, the blue nails tapping out a beat at her hips. “We’ve been looking into you.”

Bowie supposed there were some who might take offense to that sort of greeting, but he wasn’t one of them. “That’s smart,” he said instead, and meant it. “Back in the day I guess a woman just answered an ad and hoped for the best. At least in this day and age you have the internet.”

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Book Info:

The heat between them is enough to ward off the chilly Alaska cold front in the next Fortunes of Lost Lake novel from USA Today bestselling author M. M. Crane.

Bowie Fortune has always liked a risky proposition. A bush pilot out in the Last Frontier, flying in and out of places that give most pilots nightmares is what he lives for. That and his off-the-grid home out by Lost Lake, where his family has been living up close with the elements for generations. When his sister dares him to participate in the local version of a mail-order bride contest, he’s not interested—but Bowie doesn’t back down from a challenge. Even when the challenge turns out to be a woman who makes him want every last thing he knows he shouldn’t.

Entering a summer-long publicity stunt in far-off Alaska might seem extreme, but Autumn McCall has always had an indomitable spirit. She took care of her sisters and father after her mother died, and this is more of the same—since she intends to win the contest. Immersing herself in the pioneer lifestyle is one thing, but what she isn’t expecting is brooding, sharp-eyed Bowie with his wicked smile. As the sparks fly between them, will they burn each other alive—or learn how to simmer their way to a much bigger prize…together?
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Meet the Author:

USA Today bestselling, multi-award-nominated, and critically acclaimed author M.M. Crane has written more than 125 books—and counting. She’s won fans with her romance, women’s fiction, chick lit, and work-for-hire young adult novels as well as with the Harlequin Presents, Harlequin Dare, Harlequin Historical, and contemporary cowboy books she writes as Caitlin Crews. She has a master’s and a PhD in English Literature, has taught creative writing classes in places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Program, and is always available to give workshops (or her opinion). She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her comic book artist husband, though at any given time she is likely to be either huddled in a coffee shop somewhere or off traveling the world. Preferably both.