Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas

“A fresh, heartwarming voice.” ~ Jodi Thomas, New York Times Bestselling Author


For champion professional knitter Dymphna Pearl, inheriting part of a sun-blasted ghost town in the Texas hill country isn’t just unexpected, it’s a little daunting. To earn a cash bequest that could change her life, she’ll have to leave California to live in tiny, run-down Fat Chance for six months—with seven strangers. Impossible! Or is it?

Trading her sandals for cowboy boots, Dymphna dives into her new life with equal parts anxiety and excitement. After all, she’s never felt quite at home in Santa Monica anyway. Maybe Fat Chance will be her second chance. But making it habitable is going take more than a lasso and Wild West spirit. With an opinionated buzzard overlooking the proceedings and mismatched strangers learning to become friends, Dymphna wonders if unlocking the secrets of her own heart is the way to strike real gold.


Excerpt from Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas:

The man stopped about three feet in front of them. He didn’t smile. He thrust out his chin at Thud.

“That your dog?” he asked.

“Yes,” Professor Johnson said.

The man now thrust his chin at the WELCOME TO FAT CHANCE, TEXAS sign in Professor Johnson’s hands.

“That’s my sign,” he said.

Dymphna noticed the man had his right shoulder angled back at an unnatural angle. She wondered if there was something wrong with his arm, but as the fog started to clear, she saw that he was resting his fingertips on the butt of a gun. The gun was in a holster buckled across the man’s hips. At a distance, the hostler had blended in with the loud board shorts, but as he got closer, there was no mistaking it.

The man suddenly whirled on the RV. He yelled out:

“Throw your weapons down and come out with your hands up.”

“Sir, this RV is coming in from Los Angeles,” Professor Johnson said. “We don’t have weapons.”

One of the windows opened slowly and a man’s hand appeared, palm up. In the palm was resting a pistol. The hand dropped the gun to the ground as the door hissed open. Powderkeg came down the steps into the open with his hands locked over his head.

“Good Morning, Viet Nam,” the old man said. “I know that gun.”

As Powderkeg moved towards the side of the RV with his hands clasped over this head, another gun hit the dirt – this one a semi-automatic handgun in a dark gray and alarming pink – also hit the dirt. Old Bertha heaved herself down the stairs, glaring at the old man.

“A lady can’t be too careful” she said, putting her hands in the air and moving towards Powderkeg.

A switchblade was next out the door, followed by a glowering Wally Wasabi.

“Dude,” Wally said. “You suck.”

“Move along, Sonny,” the old man said. “And get those hands in the air.”

“Whatever,” Wally Wasabi said, but he moved down the RV with his hands up.

“How did they get all those weapons on their planes?” Dymphna whispered to Professor Johnson.

“You can put a switchblade in checked luggage,” Professor Johnson whispered back. “And if you let TSA know you’re bringing a firearm – ahead of time in writing and you have a permit – you can bring it in checked baggage, as well.”

“Wow,” Dymphna’s voice was so soft she could barely hear it herself. “Who knew?”

“I did,” the professor said. “And every TSA agent in America.”

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