The novella is the story of Gwynn Powell, who gets much more than she bargained for when she buys a farmhouse sight unseen in Vermont.
Here's a short excerpt:
The Jack trotted reluctantly over to his owner’s side. And I knew where I’d seen them before.
“You’re truck guy.”
“You’re the guy with the ancient truck. The one that tried to run me off the road today.”
I could see the dint of recognition light in the guy’s eyes. “I did not try to run you off the road.”
“You did too. I nearly ended up in a ditch.”
“You drive like my grandmother.”
“You have a truck old enough to be my grandmother’s.”
“It’s not that old. And at least I don’t drive it as though it were a horse and buggy.”
Tardis started barking again, which got Tyrone going and made the cows to low out a complaint. “See, they all agree that you are an impatient lout.”
“Impatient lout? You don’t even know me.”
“You’re right. Why are you in my barn?”
“It’s my barn too, Sweetheart.” He crossed his arms.
“I’m not your sweetheart.” I bit the words out.
“Shut up, all of you.” Truck guy could be pretty imposing when he wanted to be. He stood there, tall, tan muscled forearms crossed one over the other looking like an imitation of a Norse god. Tardis stopped barking, so Tyrone stopped. Then the cows stopped. “Half this place belongs to me.”
“You’re Slate?” Stupid question number three. I don’t know why this hadn’t dawned on me yet, but I hadn’t considered a Norse god goatherd. Guess sometimes I can be a little thick.
“What did you think? That I’d broken into the barn so I could milk the cows?”
“No. I didn’t. Wait a minute. What do you mean half belongs to you?”
“I own half the farm.”