Witch Is The New Black (Paris, Texas Romance #3)

“Ridge…” His name zipped past her lips before her common sense could take hold.

Winnie grinned, appearing pleased. “Yeah,” she said on a wistful sigh. “He’s not a bad boss to have, huh? If I wasn’t sick with love over my husband, I can’t promise I wouldn’t be a rancher’s wife. He’s definitely easy like Sunday morning on the eyes.”

So easy. “He was very nice about me burning down his barn.”

Winnie scoffed. “Oh, Bernie, lighten up, honey!” She looked at her son and chuckled, tickling his round belly. “Tell Miss Bernie to lighten up, would you, Benny? Tell her accidents happen and we’re going to teach her how to prevent them. Then we’re going to teach her how to enjoy her magic. Right, buddy?”

Ben responded by giggling and leaning his forehead against Winnie’s.

Enjoy her magic? Heh. Bernie remained silent, refusing to voice how un-enjoyable the last twenty years of her life had been.

“Anyway, clothes,” Winnie said. “I’ve got ’em. Also, the magic. That spiels not to say that from time to time us witches don’t whip up something fabulous. Because we do, but we’ve also learned our lesson about the meaning of hard work and its value as a result of keeping our magic in check.”

“I don’t know how to whip up something fabulous anyway. I can, however, apparently whip up a good campfire.” Let it go, Bernie…

Winnie barked a laugh as she made her way across the planked-wood floor, her ballet slippers hushing out a soft rhythm. “We do roast weenies out in the garden from time to time. You’ll fit in here fine, Just Bernie. Good to have you aboard!” She let the door close behind her, leaving Bernie to wonder what Winnie had done to come into all this good fortune.

Fee stretched and yawned, his mouth opening wide. “These are some pretty sweet digs. We’re off to a good start, Bernie girl.”

Bernie sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to rumple the beautiful yellow and blue quilt with patches of pink and red flowers, and stretched her legs.

“You smell like dead people.”

“Have you smelled dead people?”

“You’d be surprised what I’ve smelled.”

“No. I probably wouldn’t.”

“Go get a shower, Farmer Sutton. Take a load off for a little bit.”

“Did you know the showers are timed? I read that in the rules.”

“Then you’d better shake a leg, because you have a lot of showering.”

“Fee?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for forcing yourself on me. I kinda like you right now.”

He rubbed his chin on her thigh. “The same way Batman likes Robin?”

Bernie popped her lips and grinned teasingly down at him. “More like Bert likes Ernie.”

Fee chuffed. “Bert doesn’t really like Ernie. He tolerates him.”

Bernie chuckled as she rose to shuffle off for her timed shower. Bert did tolerate Ernie and his shenanigans, but in the end, Bert needed Ernie in his life.

She was okay with admitting she needed Fee in hers.



Fee’s mouth dropped open when Bernie rushed back into her assigned bedroom, closing the door behind her and hoping no one saw her until she could figure out how to do something—anything—with her loaned clothing.

She planted herself in front of the mirror as her mouth fell open, too.

“Is that an elastic waistband?” he asked in horror. “And oh, holy slap in the face to Louboutin, are those orthopedic shoes? In mud brown?”

“What of it?” She hiked her loaned pants up under her breasts and sighed as she eyed them in the mirror. Sweet Susan, she looked like someone’s grandmother.

No. Even the seniors from the center she’d caught a quick glimpse of dressed more stylishly than she was dressed.

Fee moaned, falling to his back in dramatic Fee fashion. “I feel faint.”

Bernie gave him some side eye. “Judgment from a cat who wears a tutu and a tiara?”

“All from this century, I might add. You know, the after-the-churning-butter-and-beating-your-clothes-on-a-washboard-at-the-creek past, but before-we-successfully-land-on-Mars future. Listen, we can fix this, Granny. Come here.”

She straightened the collar on her button-up shirt with the pocket bedazzled in splashy red and yellow butterflies and the doilies ironed on the front of it and shook her head. “No, Fee. No magic. You heard Winnie.”

He clucked his tongue. “You’re right. Besides, I don’t think even magic can help that get up, Pook. Was there nothing in that cubby more suited to a thirty-something?”

Smoothing her hair down, she wrinkled her nose. “There was a dress that came straight off the back of Laura Ingalls fresh from the prairie, and some more pants with elastic waists. Oh, and a yellow velour tracksuit. I’m saving that for the ice storm I prayed for this afternoon or a special occasion—whichever comes first.”

“Then maybe we could offer Winnie a hand going through those donations?”

“We don’t have time for that now, Fee.”