The scent of breads and apples drifted through Ruth’s kitchen long before the sun crested the Wyoming hills. Outside, frost painted the windowpanes. Inside, laughter and gratitude mingled with the rhythm of kneading dough. In Willow Creek, Thanksgiving wasn’t about abundance—it was about belonging.

When the wind changes in Willow Creek, it doesn’t shout — it hums.And lately, I’ve felt that same hum while turning the first pages of my next story.

When I typed the final words of Letters from Willow Creek, I thought I’d feel relief. What I actually felt was gratitude — for the story, for the people inside it, and for what they quietly taught me along the way.

A journal entry written in the quiet of Clara’s heart

from the private journal of Jonathan Langston

Clara’s story struck a chord, and it’s only natural to wonder what her heart whispered in the spaces between. Here is one of those tender moments: the reckoning that followed Jonathan’s second letter — the instant she knew there was no turning back.

Some of you have asked, “Did Jonathan ever come close to saying more than he did?” This letter shows him circling the words his heart carried—but his pen couldn’t quite release.

When Jonathan’s letter first reached Clara’s hands, it carried more than words—it carried hope. Step into Clara’s unspoken thoughts in this exclusive glimpse from Letters from Willow Creek.

These lost letters open the door to Jonathan and Clara’s story in my clean historical romance, Letters from Willow Creek.

It’s a romantic idea, isn’t it? Keeping the letters someone wrote you. Tied in ribbon. Soft at the folds. Full of words that still make your heart do that little dip.

A Reader’s Circle, Not a Deadline

When I wrote about Clara’s lavender dress—the one worn thin, stitched with memory—I knew exactly what that felt like.