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The Husband School
Kristine Rolofson


Meg Ripley may run the local diner, but she has never been one to get involved in the small town craziness of Willing, Montana. Now suddenly she’s entangled in it? In addition to harbouring a pregnant runaway, she’s been enlisted to transform scruffy bachelor cowboys into husband material for a reality dating show.Including her ex-boyfriend, and the only man she’s ever allowed herself to love, Owen McGregor.Owen is still devastatingly handsome and the passion between them hasn’t faded with time. Unfortunately, neither have the issues that drove them apart. But that doesn’t mean Meg is ready to turn him into the perfect man for someone else!Because despite their past, Meg suspects that Owen is still the one.







Turning bachelors into Casanovas, one cowboy at a time

Meg Ripley may run the local diner, but she has never been one to get involved in the small-town craziness of Willing, Montana. Now suddenly she’s entangled in it? In addition to harboring a pregnant runaway, she’s been enlisted to transform scruffy bachelor cowboys into husband material for a reality dating show. Including her ex-boyfriend, and the only man she’s ever allowed herself to love, Owen McGregor.

Owen is still devastatingly handsome, and the passion between them hasn’t faded with time. Unfortunately, neither have the issues that drove them apart. But that doesn’t mean Meg is ready to turn him into the perfect man for someone else! Because despite their past, Meg suspects that Owen is still the one.


“It’s not your imagination.”

She let her cheek rest on his chest for the tiniest second, just the blink of an eye, really, before the last notes of the old Willie Nelson song faded to an end. “I’m glad we’re friends again, Owen.”

Gently released, she stepped out of his arms.

“Friends,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before. He kept hold of her hand as they waited for the next song to begin. It was silly to carry a grudge, Meg realized. They could be friends now. Older and wiser, she had no reason to fall in love again.

And no desire to. Her hand felt so warm and small inside of his.

No desire at all.


Dear Reader,

I’m so happy to be writing again! I took some time off from my computer to plan weddings, experience the thrill of being an adoring grandmother, travel and learn to play the violin. I even went to Blue Grass Camp! I also sewed twenty-eight quilts (but who’s counting?).

The Husband School was inspired by a stop in a small Montana town during one of my husband’s and my annual cross-country road trips. Combine our love of small Western towns with the memory of running a café ourselves plus the many “what if” questions a writer naturally generates, and with a little luck and a whole lot of time, a story was born. This story. About a little town trying to save itself and its way of life.

I once lived in a town so small that when I went to a yard sale, the woman running the sale knew what I was going to buy before I got there. She was right!

I hope you enjoy Willing, Montana, and the people who live there. The world needs more love stories, good neighbors and happily-ever-after romance.

Love,

Kristine Rolofson

www.KristineRolofson.wordpress.com (http://www.KristineRolofson.wordpress.com)

www.WelcomeToWillingMontana.wordpress.com (http://www.WelcomeToWillingMontana.wordpress.com)


The Husband School

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

Kristine Rolofson




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


KRISTINE ROLOFSON

Author of more than forty novels for Mills & Boon, Kristine Rolofson divides her time between Rhode Island, Idaho and Texas, where her handsome and brilliant grandson entertains her with drum solos. When not writing, she quilts, bakes peach pies and plays the fiddle in a country blues band. Her love of vintage cowboy boots is the stuff of legends.


To Sharon Winn and Patricia Coughlin, who listened and helped. I owe you more than all the dark chocolate and blueberry cake in the universe can repay.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u0b5aa7f7-2117-5b8d-a07e-f5176f7217d3)

CHAPTER TWO (#u9369d664-0d87-54b0-aead-8ab6be46688f)

CHAPTER THREE (#ud749ef0d-530e-5fc9-8d6e-129326becc1a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u3969da61-e841-5bab-a0ed-de8f13185e25)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

ON A TYPICAL Monday, Owen MacGregor would have never set foot in Meg Ripley’s restaurant. He would have done what he always did, which was drive up to the Java Hut, order a tall black coffee from dour Esther Grinnell and drive the final eighty miles home. But on this bleak October morning, when the sky looked as if it was about to unleash a wild storm on his corner of Montana, Esther’s coffee shack was inexplicably shuttered and Owen needed food. Boo nuzzled his collar and Owen reached up and scratched the dog’s chin.

“You hungry, too?” That was a dumb question, since the little mutt was always ready to eat. When he wasn’t sleeping. Or sprawled on the couch watching television. Owen had found the skinny stray hanging around the barn weeks ago. He’d brought him inside, fed him and named him. Content with his new living arrangements, Boo now had little use for the outdoor life.

Owen hesitated at the flashing red light at the intersection of Highway 10 and Main. Two blocks to the right, at the north edge of town, was a hot breakfast with his name on it, along with bacon for the dog gazing out the window and wagging his tail. Boo was looking for McDonald’s, his favorite place in the world, and expected a treat whenever he rode along in the truck. But Owen hadn’t had an appetite two hours ago after his weekly trip to Hopewell Living Center, and had sped past the cluster of Great Fall’s fast food restaurants next to the highway. It had taken some time for his mood to lift and his hunger to set in.

And now the thought of breakfast was strong enough to make him consider stepping into the Dirty Shame Café. Oh, the sign in front of the building read Willing Café, but folks born and bred in the area knew the place as “The Shame” and probably would always call it by its original name. He’d heard Meg had changed the name on the menus, but he also knew she couldn’t fight history.

Boo whined and wagged and licked his ear, but Owen didn’t smile. He rarely smiled these days.... His own fault. He’d spent most of his adult life in an office, dealing with politicians and lawyers. He had a gift for dealing with difficult people, and he’d turned a law degree into one of the top environmental firms in the country.

And yet he rarely felt any degree of happiness.

Owen turned the steering wheel and stepped on the gas. The world wasn’t going to come to an end if he walked into Meg Ripley’s restaurant and ordered a couple of fried eggs.

With luck, she wouldn’t be there.

With luck, she’d ignore him.

With luck, he’d be able to ignore her.

Owen didn’t imagine his luck, meager as it was this morning, would hold. For one thing, he assumed Meg would be working. He also assumed she still lived in one of the original cabins adjacent to the restaurant. And ignore him? Well, that was the best he could hope for.

She was thirty-two, unfortunately young enough to remember their disastrous summer together, unlike his irate mother, who this morning had demanded he apologize for sitting on her cat even though she hadn’t owned a cat in two decades, and he’d made the mistake when he was nine. His mother’s memory had become increasingly faulty, her confusion more apparent this past year. He hadn’t told her about his temporary move to the ranch; she assumed he was still working in DC and so far it hadn’t occurred to her to question his weekly Sunday visits, though on the rare times she mentioned his work, he’d told her he’d taken some time off. She hadn’t seemed to understand, which was just as well. Explaining he’d used the settlement of the ranch property as an excuse to leave an increasingly boring career would not have been easy. His mother had no love for the Triple M.

Boo whined again as Owen drove past the restaurant to find a parking spot in the lot next door. The dog believed “stop” equaled “food,” and he was usually right.

Owen took a couple of minutes to stretch while Boo trotted over to a half-dead bush and lifted his leg. Then the dog hurried back to jump in the front seat, knowing he would be rewarded with food after guarding the truck while his owner was inside the building doing whatever humans did before they brought food to their loyal canines.

“I’ll be back,” Owen promised. He was talking to his dog a lot more often lately, which was the behavior of a man who had settled into a solitary lifestyle. No, he told himself, he wasn’t going to turn into his late uncle, a grizzled loner who preferred dogs to people and rarely bathed. He didn’t want to end up dying alone, freezing to death next to a barn, his body discovered a week later by a UPS driver. That was not a lifestyle Owen would willingly choose. Although lately he’d begun to wonder if he’d started down the “eccentric bachelor” path without being aware of it.

Damn. Hungry and lonely was a tough way to start the day.

* * *

“DO YOU THINK she’ll marry me?”

“Of course not.” Meg placed a plate piled high with bacon, eggs and hash browns in front of the hopeful suitor. She had no intention of coddling Joey Peckham, who was at this moment looking depressed, despite the fact that she’d just refilled his coffee and served him breakfast. “You must be out of your mind. She’s not going to go out with you, so leave her alone.”

“You serious?”

“Deadly serious,” she assured him.

“Aw, you’re breaking my heart.” He picked up his fork and, ignoring the paper napkin she’d slid next to his coffee cup, stabbed a chunk of fried egg. “And ruinin’ my day, too, if you want to know.”

“I’m not ruining anything. She danced with you once, at Pete’s party,” she reminded him. “It wasn’t exactly a relationship.”

“It could be. If she’d let it. If you’d talk her into giving me a chance.” He spoke with his mouth full, so Meg turned away. Joey was six years younger than she was, but acted about fifteen instead of twenty-six. He needed to find himself a real, live girlfriend, the sooner the better, and stop imagining himself in love with every woman who two-stepped with him. Especially not with Lucia Swallow, who baked the restaurant’s pies and was single-handedly raising three children since her husband had died in Afghanistan.

“You’re hallucinating. Lucia is too old for you,” she stated one more time over her shoulder, knowing as she said it that the only thing Joey wanted to hear was that she would support his romance.

Which she wouldn’t. Lucia was a friend and Joey was an idiot.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be in love,” Joey muttered.

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m sure it’s overrated.”

“You have no heart,” he said, looking down at his eggs again. “That’s your problem.”

“One of many,” Meg agreed, trying not to laugh. “Really, Joe. Lucia’s not the woman for you. And you’re too young to be a father to those boys of hers.”

He scowled down at his plate. “How come you know so much and you don’t even have a boyfriend?”

“They’re overrated, too.” She gave in and laughed, all too familiar with comments about her private life. There were few secrets in such a small town. “And if you don’t stop griping, I’ll tell Lucia you have fourteen cats.”

“That’s my uncle. Not me.”

Meg shrugged. “She’ll think that kind of crazy runs in the family.”

“We have dogs,” Mr. Fargus interjected from his perch on the neighboring stool. “Two poodles. Do you know my wife lets them dogs in the bed the minute she hears the back door slam shut? Every morning. None of them can wait for me to leave.”

Meg could understand that. Ben Fargus, at the age of eighty-six, was a man who liked the sound of his own voice. Meg was accustomed to his opinions; they piled up like dirty dishes all morning long. She often wondered how his wife put up with him, but they’d been together for more than sixty years. By choice or habit, Meg had no idea, but poor Mrs. Fargus obviously had a lot of patience. Or was really good at pretending he didn’t exist.

“Women,” Joey said, shaking his head. “They’re difficult.”

“So are poodles,” Fargus stated. “Real smart, though.”

“Huh,” Joey said, letting that information sink in. “Meg, do you think Lucia would like a dog?”

What Lucia liked or didn’t like wasn’t any of Joey’s business, so Meg pretended she didn’t hear the question and poured more coffee into the half-full mugs lined up in front of the five retired men seated in their usual places at the counter. For many of her customers, breakfast at Willing’s was a tradition only broken because of vacations, hospital stays or death. Despite such loyalty, Meg was always worried about making it through the winter.

“How’s everyone doing? Martin, you need more half ’n’ half?”

“I’m set, thanks.”

“George?”

“Please.”

It was a typical morning; the L-shaped room, as familiar to her as her own little house, was comfortably packed with the usual crowd. The mayor was holding his monthly meeting to discuss town business. The council members had pushed a couple of tables together in the back corner and from all appearances were involved in a serious discussion. Mondays were busy, but this morning had been almost hectic. There was something about the snow flurries and the gray sky that seemed to make folks want to get out and about while they still could, before a long, blizzard-filled winter began in earnest. And few seemed to be in any hurry to leave the snug warmth of the restaurant and head out into the wind.

Meg moved down the counter and dispersed coffee. The slender man on the last stool put his hand over his cup. “Thanks, Margaret, but I’ve had enough. Should be getting home, I guess.”

“Okay.” She paused in front of Mr. Ferguson, her former algebra teacher, who’d long since retired, and set his check on the counter. “How’s Janet? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s been busy getting ready for the quilt show. She’s been in her sewing room for weeks.” He smiled the indulgent smile of a man who loves his wife. “She says it’s going to be quite a show.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Meg said, knowing the annual event would give business a boost. “I bought an ad in the program. It’s on Saturday, right?”

“Yes.” He frowned, trying to remember. “Sunday, too, I think.”

“I hope I can get over there to see it.” She’d have to remember to ask one of the high school girls to fill in for her for a couple of hours after the noon rush. The quilt guild would be selling coffee and desserts during the show at the senior center, but Meg hoped a soup-and-sandwich special at the café would bring in a little extra business.

“What are they doing over there?” Fargus gestured toward members of the town council huddled around a large table at the far end of the room.

“Planning to raise taxes, I’ll bet,” George grumbled. “I’m getting damn tired of taxes.”

“You could move to Florida,” Martin said. Meg hid her smile. George, a creature of habit who had been born in Willing, didn’t even like going to Billings.

“There’s something going on,” Fargus declared. “We’ll hear about it soon enough. Jerry’s got some idea. I can tell by the look on his face.”

They all stared down at the far end of the room. Sure enough, the mayor seemed excited as one of the town elders read aloud from a sheet of paper.

“If they’re raising taxes, then they’re trying to figure out how to get blood from a stone,” George grumbled. “I’ve half a mind to go over there and tell them so.”

Fargus snorted. “Like that would do any good.”

“Maybe I should get on the town council,” Joey mused. “Women like men with power, right?”

Meg noticed John Ferguson and Martin Smith exchanging an amused look before John grabbed his cap and stood to leave.

“Thanks for breakfast, Margaret.” He set six dollars by the empty coffee mug. “Guess I’ll get home before the snow starts for real.” He turned as the door jangled to announce another customer.

And it wasn’t just any customer, either, because the sight of this one made Meg’s stomach tense and her mouth go dry.

Owen MacGregor, master of all he surveyed, was a tall, imposing man. A down vest, unzipped, covered most of his wide chest, and he wore the typical Montana outfit: jeans, boots and plaid shirt. He politely stomped his feet on the worn doormat and removed his hat, but before he could move toward a seat, a white-haired man called his name. Meg watched as he greeted the Burkharts, an elderly couple in the process of holding each other up as they made their way across the room. Owen MacGregor played the gentleman and opened the door for them, allowing another burst of cold air in. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was the best thing to ever walk into the room. Even Mr. Ferguson looked pleased as the two men talked for a minute before the teacher disappeared out into the cold.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Martin declared quietly to his cronies at the counter. “Didn’t think he remembered where he came from.”

“With Eddie dead and gone, I don’t think there’s anyone to run things,” George said. “Guess that forced his hand.”

“Irene’s in a nursing home in Great Falls now,” one of the other men informed them. “I heard she gets confused easily. My daughter-in-law works there, says the boy visits her every week.”

Yes, Meg thought. He was always a devoted son. She’d assumed the old witch would live forever, queen of all she surveyed. She couldn’t picture the regal Mrs. MacGregor incapacitated in any way. The last time Meg had seen her was after the funeral, and the widow hadn’t let Meg in the house. Still, it was sad to think of Irene MacGregor in a nursing home.

She watched Owen slide into an empty booth and shrug off his jacket. He set his gloves on the table and picked up a menu. Which meant she was supposed to scurry over there with coffee and take his order, just as if they barely knew each other?

This was true, actually. He was a stranger now, far different from the young man who’d told her he loved her and given her his grandmother’s sapphire ring.

Meg still remembered the day she heard he’d left town. She’d cried in her mother’s arms for hours.

“You’d better get on over there,” one of the men said. “MacGregor doesn’t spend much time in town, so this is a special occasion.”

“You’re right.” She managed a cheerful smile. “And I need all the customers I can get.”

Well, she could handle it. No problem. She’d give him a minute to read the menu, and then she would saunter over and pretend they were friends.

This morning Owen MacGregor looked a little the worse for wear. Oh, he was still handsome, with that lean, lined face and thick, dark hair. She knew he wore contacts, hated shrimp and had named his first horse Pumpkin, much to his father’s dismay. He was secretly afraid of heights, crazy about animals and had broken his nose twice in one summer, causing his mother to faint both times.

At the moment he and his nicely healed nose were absorbed in the menu.

“Hey,” she said, approaching the table with a carafe of coffee.

“Hey.” He tipped his mug right side up and Meg filled it for him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What can I get you?” She used her best cheerful-friendly-waitress voice, as if he was a tourist she’d never seen before. He frowned just a little.

“It all looks good,” he said, copying her tone. “How about the Hungry Man Special, with scrambled eggs and bacon? And with an extra side of bacon to go, please.”

“Sure.” This wasn’t so hard. She could do this. Meg didn’t write down the order for fear her fingers would shake. Silly, but she had her pride.

“So how’ve you been?” He took a cautious sip of coffee and looked at her with real interest. As if he actually wanted to know the answer.

“Just fine. And you?”

“I’m good.” He kept looking at her, studying her face until, still gripping the handle of the carafe, she backed up a step. She was conscious of how she must appear to him, dowdy Margaret Ripley in her apron, worn jeans and thick athletic shoes. “Well, I’ll go put your order in.”

“Thanks.”

With that she turned and headed toward the kitchen. She returned the carafe to the coffee machine, wrote up the order before handing it to Al and, on the pretense of checking supplies, escaped to the back room. There wasn’t much privacy in either the town or the restaurant, but there was a tiny alcove behind the walk-in freezer that provided the perfect place to hide for a few minutes. Meg leaned against the gray wall, took a deep breath and eyed the calendar tacked to the wall. October was here already, with a long winter ahead.

She should be over it. She was over it. She was a grown woman, capable of running a business and running her life. She had friends. And a home. She dated when she wanted to, though she seldom wanted to, and rarely ever thought of the eighteen-year-old girl who had fallen foolishly in love with a young man she could never have. His presence here couldn’t upset her if she didn’t allow it to, but she hoped he wouldn’t make breakfast at Willing’s a habit. They’d each become so good at pretending the other didn’t exist, so why stop now?

* * *

“AND SO WE have to ask ourselves—what do women want?” Jerry Thompson desperately needed to know the answer. He tapped his pen against the empty page of the legal pad spread before him and studied the yellow-lined paper as if the solution to his problems would magically appear. When he looked up, the six members of the town council stared back at him.

Bachelors all, they were a varied group. On his left sat Les Purcell, a young cowboy who had been injured on the rodeo circuit and now lived with his grandparents. Seated next to Les was Pete Lyons, a nice enough guy who looked as if he slept in his clothes.

“Now, there’s one heck of a question,” Les muttered. “Anyone who has the answer to that can write a book, go on Dr. Phil and make a pile of money.”

“It’s a valid question,” Jerry, recently elected mayor—because Art Woodhouse died and no one wanted the job—and full of ideas, looked across the table at the owner of the only auto-repair place in town. Hank Dougherty was likely too busy to watch much daytime television.

“What’s Dr. Phil got to do with it?” Hank asked.

“Nothing. Just that he knows everything.”

“Or thinks he does,” Les said.

Jerry took a swallow of coffee. Obviously this was going to take more time than he’d thought. “Let’s not get off track. I’m serious about this. We need to know what women want and then we have to give it to them.” He ignored the spurt of laughter that followed this declaration and frowned. “I’m trying to get something going here. We’re talking about publicity. About money coming into town. About women coming into town.”

“Women? What kind of women?” This question came from Jack Dugan, who Jerry figured had no problem getting dates.

“Single women,” he replied, as if he was talking to a bunch of first-graders. Not that he had any idea what it was like to talk to schoolkids. But this group, the city council and various other men who enjoyed free coffee once a month at the town meetings and sat around a couple of pushed-together Formica-topped tables, was about as dense a bunch of men as he’d ever met. No wonder they didn’t have women of their own, or at least a date once in a while. Not that he himself was much different. He’d had two dates since he left Los Angeles three years ago and neither one had been what anyone would remotely call a success.

Pete, a thirty-something rancher who also drove the school bus, leaned forward. “How old are these women gonna be? And they’re not gonna be from a foreign country, are they?”

“Like the Russian mafia and the mail-order brides,” Mike Breen, the town treasurer who ran the county newspaper, added. “Saw it on Law & Order last night. Scary stuff.”

This was quite the suspicious group. Jerry took a deep breath and started over again. “No, Mike, they’re not going to take your money and kill you when you want to divorce them.” He’d seen that episode himself. “Look,” he said, eying the six bachelors who comprised the council. They weren’t a bad-looking bunch. They could be cleaned up, their shirts ironed or, better yet, replaced. They had a rugged appeal he knew some women were attracted to, but he had severe doubts that his constituents had the skills to keep a woman interested past the first date. Heck, most of them couldn’t make it further than a getting-to-know-you bottle of beer. “I have a friend in Los Angeles who’s putting together an idea for a reality show.”

“Like Survivor?” Hank perked up. He was fifty-five, widowed, with two grown daughters and a decent property in town. He might appeal to an older demographic, maybe the over-forty women.

“More like The Bachelor.”

Jack, who worked at the feed store, grinned. “Man, that’s a great show, that Bachelor. I never miss it.” The crowd grumbled their displeasure, but Jack didn’t waver. “You should see the women,” he insisted. “They act crazy, and they’re gorgeous and they sit in a lot of hot tubs with the bachelor. Everyone tries to get a date with the guy and lots of times he can’t tell the crazy ones from the ones who really like him.”

Jack was young and good-looking, struggling to keep a small cattle outfit afloat while working in town. He picked up odd carpentry jobs and was careful with his money. And, Jerry thought, he’d look perfect on TV.

“That’s right. Hot tubs and hot women in bathing suits.” Now he had their interest.

“The only hot tub in the county belongs to MacGregor,” Gary Petersen, retired from the co-op, whispered. “And he just sat down behind you, Jerry, so you might want to keep your voice down.”

Jerry restrained himself from turning around to see if Gary was telling the truth. He’d never met Angus MacGregor’s descendant but he’d read a lot about the family history. They’d practically invented cattle ranching in Montana.

“Thanks, Gary, for pointing that out.” Jerry wrote hot tub on his paper. “I’ll bet the TV production would spring for something. Either that or maybe we could use some town funds and buy one ourselves.” Everyone looked at Mike, who shrugged.

“Money’s hard to come by these days,” he declared.

“Yeah,” Pete muttered. “And so is a sex life.”

“We’re not talking about sex,” Jerry felt it necessary to point out, though the lack of women was the one of the biggest drawbacks to living in rural Montana. “We’re talking about attracting single women to our town. We’re talking about publicity, about attracting businesses, about letting people know we live in a beautiful part of the country where people care about one another. We’re talking about expanding the population, saving the school, making Willing a great place to raise a family again.”

“Quite a speech, Jerry. You’re starting to sound like a politician,” Hank said, chuckling. “You’re not running for governor, are you, son?”

“Not yet,” Jerry said. “Now, do any of you have any objections to getting married?”

“Well,” Hank drawled, “I did it once.”

“And?” Jerry prompted.

“It sure beat being alone.”

Not exactly high praise. Jerry fought the urge to bang his forehead on the table. Instead he gave each man a long look. “You’re all lonely and miserable and you know well enough that if a woman gave you as much as a nod you’d be signing a marriage license and following her around the IGA with a grocery cart.”

No one denied it, so Jerry figured they’d all just voted yes. Yes to inviting Hollywood to Willing. Yes to encouraging a busload of single women to give Montana bachelors a chance to impress them. Yes to drumming up a little excitement for a change.

Speaking of excitement, Jerry looked down the length of the crowded room and waved to Meg. She picked up a carafe and made her way toward his table. As far as Jerry was concerned, Meg Ripley was an important person. She knew everyone in town and he had no doubt she could run against him for mayor and win in a landslide. He’d been told she was thirtyish, single and straight, so Jerry had asked her out to dinner a month after he’d moved to town. They’d quickly become friends, though Meg politely refused any dates that could be construed as romantic.

He actually preferred blondes, but dark-haired Meg was attractive in a no-frills, low-maintenance way. He’d never seen her in anything but jeans, but she had a cute figure and a nice smile. In a town overpopulated by men, she mysteriously remained single, though he’d heard plenty of stories about broken hearts. As far as he could tell, Meg kept to herself and didn’t go out of her way to break anything.

“Meg,” he began, “how many times have you been proposed to?”

“I really don’t think—”

“Seriously,” Jerry said. “It’s important.”

She took a step back. “I’m not going to—”

“Eighteen,” Jack declared. “Last time we did a count, it was eighteen.”

“You’ve kept count?” Meg shot him a horrified look and Jack shrank back into his chair.

“It’s posted at the Dahl,” Hank pointed out. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything.”

“P-posted?” Meg sputtered. “I never saw it.”

“Men’s room.” Les whispered to Jerry, “Lucia Swallow’s up to eight and Patsy—you know, Patsy Parrish at the Hair Lair—she has seven.” These were interesting statistics, but Jerry needed Meg involved in his scheme and these numbers weren’t going to make that happen.

“Eighteen proposals of marriage,” he mused. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “I’m not.” She set down the full pot and removed the empty one. “Every once in a while someone has too much to drink, waves roses in front of me and wants to get married. And don’t get me started on Valentine’s Day.”

“There,” he said, slapping his hand on the table. “You’ve proved my point exactly. Do you all see now how unbalanced and crazy this is?”

“Crazy? You think it’s crazy that someone would want to marry me?” The look she gave him practically shriveled his manhood.

The council members sucked in their collective breaths. Jerry realized he was flying too close to the flame now, and any minute Meg would toss them all out of the restaurant, meeting adjourned. She wasn’t a fan of personal questions and she didn’t take kindly to discussing her love life, not that anyone thought she had one. He’d know if Meg had a boyfriend, probably because the news would make the front page of the local paper. Or at least the men’s room of the Dahl.

For one agonizing moment Jerry feared she would fling the empty coffeepot across the room. He’d heard there was a temper beneath the cheerful smile, but up until now he hadn’t believed it. He pulled out a chair and gestured toward it. “Look, Meg, I’m sorry. That’s not quite what I meant. Join us for a minute, will you?” He kept his voice soft, used the persuasive tone he’d spent so much time cultivating. “We need your help.”

She edged away. “No, thanks. I have breakfast orders—”

He wasn’t about to let her off the hook. He needed a female perspective and he needed it now. And he didn’t care if it came from an overly sensitive woman who had a bad attitude or a bad boyfriend or just disliked men. “Meg. Please. Just tell me, what do women want? You know, from men. We need to know.”

“Excuse me?” The question obviously surprised her, because she paused in midflight and stared at him.

“I’m serious,” he repeated, his pen poised. “Tell me what women want. It’s important. I’ll take notes.”

“Jerry,” she said, backing up. “You don’t have a big enough piece of paper.”


CHAPTER TWO

OWEN PAID NO attention to the yammering of the town council until Meg approached their table and got all huffy. Then, his attention caught by the curious discussion going on behind him, he overheard Jerry’s question and the laughter from Meg’s reply.

She’d been proposed to eighteen times? The official count was more likely to be nineteen, because Owen doubted that their teenage romance was public knowledge, so his own proposal wouldn’t be on the list. Had every man in town tried to hook up with her these past years? Now, that was an unpleasant thought. No wonder Meg was kind of prickly about the subject. That kind of attention would embarrass her—or at least would have embarrassed the shy girl he’d once known.

He watched Meg—who, surprisingly, had acted as if they were nothing more than acquaintances, which he supposed was exactly what he’d hoped for—hurry to the counter, where a couple of old guys waited to pay their bills. She looked good in those jeans. And kinda cute in the red-checked apron, too, so he couldn’t really blame the local guys for trying.

“Mr. MacGregor? I don’t think we’ve met.” Owen turned to see the redheaded man standing next to his booth and holding out his hand toward him. “Jerry Thompson. Mayor.”

“So you’re the brave man who wants to know what women want? Nice to meet you.” Owen stood and shook the hand offered to him, which prompted a flurry of greetings from the others at the table. There were condolences about his uncle, surprise that Owen was still in town and introductions made to the younger men Owen didn’t recognize.

Jerry grinned. “I guess Meg’s keeping it a secret.”

Owen, who’d had a few eye-opening experiences of his own since growing up and venturing off the ranch, knew what women wanted. He uncharacteristically shared the knowledge. “Women want your money, your attention and your soul.” That got a burst of laughter. Owen frowned and added, “And that’s just the beginning.”

The mayor’s disappointment was obvious. “Don’t tell them that. I’m trying to get something done here.”

“You’re awfully bitter for a young man, MacGregor,” Gary Petersen pointed out.

“Yeah, well, women have a way of doing that to you.” Owen returned to his seat in the booth and picked up his coffee mug. “Sort of gives you a different perspective.”

“So you’re not lookin’ to get married any time soon?” another guy asked. Pete...Pete Lyons was his name.

“I don’t have anyone in mind, Pete.” He’d played football with the guy in high school, he remembered.

“It’s a generational thing with these kids. They’re all that way,” another said.

“No, we’re not.” Jerry looked insulted. “Not all of us. I’ve been looking around for the right woman. It just hasn’t happened yet.”

“And when it does?” Owen asked the question of Jerry while the others looked embarrassed. “Will you live happily ever after?”

The mayor blushed. “I sure hope so. I want a relationship, a wife, kids, a family. The whole enchilada.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy.”

“It should be.”

“Yeah,” Owen said, “it should be, but I’ve never had much luck.”

Jack’s face fell. “Well, if you can’t get lucky, there’s no way the rest of us can.”

The conversation was fortunately interrupted by the arrival of Owen’s breakfast. Meg set three plates in front of him, one with five strips of bacon, another with three hotcakes and the third with eggs and hash browns. It was everything he’d hoped for.

He attempted to change the direction of the conversation. “I heard there’s snow—”

“Hard to believe some gal hasn’t moved herself into your place by now,” Pete declared. “Unless you’ve got someone in the city that you’re not telling us about.”

He quickly looked up to see if Meg had overheard that comment, but she seemed to have hightailed it out of there as fast as she’d delivered his meal. “It wouldn’t be a secret,” he replied as quietly as he could, “but no, there’s no one out at the place right now but me.” Not that it was anyone’s business, but that didn’t seem to stop the men’s questions.

“There will be when the TV cameras show up,” the annoyingly cheerful mayor assured him. “They’ll probably want to see a working cattle ranch. You know, for atmosphere.”

“TV cameras?” Owen picked up a slice of bacon and bit into it. Hot and crispy, it smelled and tasted great. Everything, from the buttered toast to the fried potatoes, smelled great. “What exactly is it that you have going on, Mayor?”

“We’ve just voted to bring some new business into Willing,” Jerry told him proudly. “It definitely has possibilities for population growth and prosperity.”

“He’s bringing women into town,” one of the younger ones said. The bull rider, Owen thought. “For us.”

“Beautiful women,” another interjected.

Jerry correctly interpreted the look on Owen’s face and hurried to interject. “For a TV show. A friend of mine from L.A. is looking for a remote Western location with lots of local color.”

“Local color,” Owen repeated, picking up another slice of bacon. “I assume that’s all of you?”

“What do you think?”

“About you bringing in a TV show?”

“Yes.”

“Why bother? Don’t you still get your fair share of tourists in the summer?”

“For two months, maybe three,” Jerry said. “It’s not enough.”

“Our hyperactive and ambitious mayor has come up with a way to increase the year-round population of Willing and save the town,” Gary explained. “It’s a bold plan. I’ll give him credit for that.”

“Save the town from what?” Owen hid a smile behind his coffee mug. “Plague? Pestilence? Space aliens?”

Jerry wasn’t amused. “From certain death. Literally. I have a study, with future growth projections and analyses of trends. According to the experts, Willing is going downhill.”

Owen thought about that for a long moment. He glanced out the window and didn’t see much going on. The main road into town was empty, but October was a quiet month. And winter was a quiet season. He couldn’t blame folks for worrying about the future, but Willing had never seemed to change much, let alone go downhill. It occurred to him how little time he spent here, how little he knew or cared what went on. His life was elsewhere, and had been for many years.

“What kind of trends?” Mike wanted to know. “I like to keep track of advertising prospects,” he explained.

“I have copies of the report for each one of you,” Jerry said. “As I said earlier, if we don’t start attracting businesses and families, there’s not going to be any reason to support a school. Or the money to do it. And once we have no school, we’re finished.” Jerry was obviously getting revved up.

“And the solution is a television show?”

“The solution is publicity, and lots of it.”

“And women,” Jack interjected. “Don’t forget the TV show is about women.”

“We could make this town come alive,” Jerry said. “Unless you’re willing to stand by and see your heritage evaporate, Mr. MacGregor, Willing will be a ghost town one of these days.”

Owen wasn’t sure he wanted the town to “come alive,” whatever that meant. What should have been a quick stop on the way home had turned into the possible annihilation of his descendants. “What’s wrong with things staying the way they are? And how does not having a school mean the demise of Willing?”

Jerry slid a sheaf of papers across the table. “Take a look at these and see if you think things can stay the same. As I’ve explained to the council, we need to become proactive.”

“I’ll look at them. While I eat.” Owen turned back to his meal. Because he’d said he would—and because he knew the town council would watch—he studied the report. Sure enough, doom and gloom were on the horizon, but it didn’t spoil his appetite. He methodically worked his way through his meal—and the pages of information—until all three plates were empty. Meg left him alone, as did everyone else. The illustrious members of the town council quietly discussed the weather, the price of cattle, football and the new season of Survivor.

When he was finished eating the best breakfast he’d had in years, Owen pushed the plates aside and moved his coffee closer. Across the room, Meg worked the cash register while two elderly men took turns handing her money and getting change. She looked the same as she had in high school, except her hair was shorter. She had the same warm smile he remembered being directed at him when he’d spent a lot of time hanging out in the summer kitchen, flirting with the shy girl with the big brown eyes.

“All right,” he said, turning around again to face the council. “I see your point.”

Jerry nodded. “I thought you would.”

“But I guess I can’t imagine your friends in California would be interested. We’re not exactly Bozeman.”

“That’s the hook. We’re small-town guys.” He waved his arm toward the rest of the men. “The fantasy is moving to small-town America.”

“Whose fantasy?”

“Well, people who don’t live in small towns, of course.” Jerry picked up his notepad and leafed through the pages until he found the one he wanted. “Let’s move on to preparation. We’re going to need to form some committees. Owen, can I put you down for locations? You know more about this county than anyone, and Tracy—the producer of this thing—will be looking for local color.”

“I don’t—”

“Meg!” Jerry called as she approached to clear Owen’s table of dishes.

She wiped her hands on her apron. “I am not going to answer any more ridiculous—”

“This is about catering.” Jerry flipped to another page. “Tracy will need a price list for the crew. That is, if we get the gig. Can you put something together? Meal ideas? Costs? They’re going to need to use as much local help as possible, which is good for you, since you’re the only game in town aside from Chili Dawgs, and who can eat chili dogs every night?”

Pete raised his hand. “I can.”

“I can put a menu together,” she said slowly. “What’s going on? And who’s Tracy?”

Les leaned forward in his chair. He was a likable kid and Meg felt badly that the rodeo career hadn’t worked out for him. “Jerry’s friend. Hollywood’s coming,” he said, giving Meg a shy smile.

“That’s the plan. Sit down and I’ll explain everything.” Jerry gestured toward the seat opposite him.

“Okay. I have a few minutes,” she said, surprising Owen by sitting. “Before the lunch rush starts.”

Owen watched Meg’s expression change from tolerant to skeptical as the eager mayor launched into his dying-town, we-need-women-and-families spiel. He wound up with, “What do you think? Can we make it work, get our single guys fixed up with some city women?”

“Well.” Meg looked at the men gathered around the table. Except for Jerry, they were not a sophisticated group, but she clearly didn’t want to hurt their feelings. “I guess that’s up to, ah, Tracy.”

She glanced at Owen.

“Don’t look at me,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m not going on a television show.”

“Of course you’re not. I’m sure you have plenty of women already,” she agreed, which made it sound like an insult. Owen didn’t have “plenty of women,” but he wasn’t going to deny it. Let her think he slept with someone other than Boo. She didn’t need to know that he’d read War and Peace last summer and talked to his dog more than his friends.

“You’re a fine example of the Western man,” Jerry said. “We’ll need your help.”

Owen frowned at him. “I’m a what?”

“Fine example of a Western man,” Meg repeated, obviously trying not to laugh. “That’s quite a compliment.”

Owen opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. Jerry Thompson was one strange character. Jerry scribbled something on his pad. “Can I put you on the education committee, too?”

“No.”

Jerry acted as if he hadn’t heard Owen. “We’ll drive Tracy around and you can explain the history of the place and show her some picturesque spots for dates.”

“Picturesque spots?” Meg chuckled. “Like watching bears at the dump?”

Jerry bristled. “It’s a transfer station now. Very contained.”

Gary grinned. “We conceived our oldest daughter, uh, ‘watching the bears.’ Had to get married three months after that.”

“Too much information, Petersen,” the town treasurer said.

“But romantic,” Jerry interjected.

“Well, it was at the time.” Gary looked around the table. “I’ll bet I’m not the only one who went bear watching.”

Jack blushed and hurried to his feet. “I have to get to work. I told the boss I’d be in before noon.”

“I’ll walk out with you,” Hank said. “Got to put a new transmission into a Buick. Meeting adjourned?”

Jerry reluctantly nodded. “I’ll email everyone with your committee assignments. And I have your approval for an emergency town meeting?”

There was groaning, but Owen noticed no one actually protested. Jerry continued to make notes, Meg remained in her seat and the three youngest members of the town council sat back as if they had nothing more interesting to do this morning.

“Well,” Meg said to Jerry, “you have your work cut out for you.”

“I know.”

“No offense,” she continued, glancing at the three younger men. “But when’s the last time any of you had a date?”

Les raised his hand. “Last summer. She was backpacking—”

Owen’s curiosity got the better of him. “Did you ask her out, put on a clean shirt and take her somewhere?”

“Like where?” The poor guy actually looked confused.

“To dinner,” Meg prompted. “Or to the movies.”

“Not exactly.”

“That doesn’t count as a date,” Owen said.

Jack, one of the best-looking men in the county, leaned forward. “What about blind dates? Do they count?”

“If you asked her out, put on a clean shirt and took her somewhere,” Owen repeated.

“Nope.” Jack spread his hands out. “Got nothing.”

“It’s not like there’s a lot to choose from,” Les said. “I mean, I live with my grandparents.”

“Which helps them out a lot,” Meg assured him. “They’re always telling me what a blessing you are to them.”

“Well, blessings don’t get dates. If it wasn’t for Mexican Train dominoes and satellite TV, I’d go crazy.”

Owen felt his pain.

“For heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Iron your clothes and go out once in a while.”

“Go where?”

“The Dahl? Church? Billings?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “With who?”

“This brings me to my next issue,” Jerry interjected. “We all know there are very few single women in this town.” He held up his pad. “I’ve made a list.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

He looked down and read aloud. “In no particular order. Deb Walker, divorced. Lucia Swallow, widowed. Joanie Parker, divorced. I’m not counting anyone collecting Social Security or using a walker. For now I’d like to just concentrate on the under-forty age group.”

“Under forty,” Meg repeated. “That leaves Deb out.”

“I’ll cross her out, but she sure doesn’t look forty,” he said, studying his notes again. “Lucia, Joanie, Patsy Parrish, Aurora and—”

“Joanie is with Cam,” Joey said.

“Nope. Broke up. I checked.”

Joey brightened. “Really?”

“You’re an efficient guy.” Meg looked impressed. Owen wasn’t. He figured Jerry Thompson was too damn nosy. Despite the gloom-and-doom population study and the lack of social events, hosting a television show was just about the strangest idea he’d ever heard.

Jerry looked up from his papers. “Cam drank himself into a stupor last night and Aurora had to take him home when she closed up.”

“If Cam stopped drinking, he might still have a girlfriend,” Meg declared. “The guy needs help.”

“What’s in it for you?” Owen asked the mayor. “You must have known when you moved here there wasn’t much going on.”

“Uh, yeah.” He flushed, fiddled with his pen and avoided making eye contact with Owen. “I thought it was a great real-estate opportunity.”

“Uh-oh,” Meg said. “Broken heart?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Tracy—the producer. We, uh, had a thing. About five years ago. She wouldn’t leave Los Angeles and I was having a really bad asthma problem. Smog,” he added. “I thought, well, never mind what I thought. We still text.” He glanced toward Owen. “Hey, it’s a start.”

He shrugged. “You do what you have to do.”

“She’ll be here in three weeks,” he said. “She’s coming for the weekend, before Halloween. She’ll get a taste of our picturesque Western town, meet the guys, see the sights and check out the festivities.”

“Festivities?” Owen remembered parties for the kids at the elementary school, teachers dressed as witches and decorations on a few houses, but he wouldn’t have described them as particularly festive.

“Big party at the Dahl the Saturday night before Halloween,” Jerry said. “There’s a raffle to see who gets to decorate the bear.”

“Your grandfather’s bear,” Les explained, in case Owen had forgotten. “It’s a big deal.”

Owen tried to picture the massive stuffed grizzly in a costume but couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He wondered if that was another one of the mayor’s crazy ideas.

“The base is cracked,” Jerry said. “We’re going to have to raise money to repair it soon.” He gave Owen a pointed look. “Unless you’d like to take care of that yourself.”

“Back to the list,” Meg said. “Who else do you have?”

“Maxine, rents a place out of town, has all those dogs. And then there’s you, of course.”

“Keep me off your lists.” Meg frowned. “Wait a minute. Why is there a list?”

“Because I needed to point out to the council—and to the preproduction team—that we have a lack of women to, uh, you know, get together with.”

“Like we didn’t know?” Les, who might have been bucked off one too many bulls, looked confused.

“They wanted to make sure we were legitimately short of women. To keep things accurate, I also have a list of all the single men in the county,” Jerry said, flipping through the notebook until he found the page he wanted. “I starred the ones who are between twenty-one and forty-five.”

“This gets better and better.” Meg leaned forward to peer at the names. “How many?”

“Forty-eight.” He glanced at Owen. “I didn’t put your name on here because, ah, it’s not like you really live here.”

“True.”

“But I can pencil you in,” he offered. “Have you ever wanted to be on television?”

“About as much as I want to sit naked in a pit of rattlesnakes,” Owen replied.

“Well,” said Meg, pushing back her chair, “that’s an appealing vision. I’m going to go back to work now and let you future reality stars work out the minor details.”

“Leave me out of this,” Owen said, but Meg ignored him. Again. He watched her head toward the counter, where one lonely patron sat nursing his coffee and reading People magazine.

“Damn.” Jerry closed his notebook and grimaced. “I wasn’t finished.”

“She used to be shy,” Owen said. “Quiet. Sweet.”

“No way,” one of the kids said. “She’s tough.”

“Hard-hearted,” another agreed. “Not like her mother. Loralee was always smiling and happy.”

“And not the brightest light on the porch.” Owen assumed Loralee, who was something of an airhead in the marriage department, had a lot to do with her daughter’s lack of enthusiasm for the men around here. He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and scooped up the Styrofoam container of bacon for Boo.

“Gentlemen,” he said, settling his hat on his head. “It’s been a pleasure, but I’m heading home.”

“I’ll be in touch when I get this thing going.” Jerry stood and shook Owen’s hand, as did the other three.

“I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help.” Because I don’t want to be on television, I don’t want to help turn the town into a dating game and I think you’re all pretty much insane.


CHAPTER THREE

MEG STOOD BEHIND the counter and fiddled with the money in the cash register as if it was the most important thing she’d done all morning.

She ignored the ringing phone, the clatter of dishes, the chatter between customers, and took a few moments to feel sorry for herself. There’d been times in her life when she wished she was drop-dead gorgeous, and this morning was one of them. She wished she’d been able to stun Owen MacGregor with her beauty, make him secretly regret their breakup, see him surprised and awed by the elegant Meg Ripley.

But that would never happen. Meg slammed the register drawer shut and thought about cleaning the restrooms. No, that could wait. She would pour more coffee and take more breakfast orders and help Al prepare for the lunch rush.

Wowing Owen, the “fine example of a Western man,” wasn’t going to happen. Meg was plain. She knew it. In fact, she’d been told as much from the age of four, when her pretty mother had no longer been able to hide her disappointment. Her daughter was, at best, nondescript. A shy child with brown eyes, brown hair, knobby knees and pink plastic eyeglasses, Meg wasn’t exactly a Miss Montana hopeful, though her mother had assured her that someday she would blossom into a lovely young woman. She had never blossomed. Not really. And certainly not to her mother’s expectations. She wore contacts now, but her eyes and hair remained a nondescript brown and she’d obviously inherited her decidedly nonvoluptuous body from her father’s side of the family.

She was grateful for that, actually. Her mother, sweet and foolish, had enjoyed looking in the mirror and unbuttoning her uniform to show a little more cleavage. “You have to flaunt ’em if you’ve got ’em,” she’d say, giving Meg a wink. Loralee believed in the power of blue eye shadow, underwire bras and high heels. And, despite having married five times, remained convinced that Mr. Right was just around the corner. The perpetual stack of romance novels next to her bed and her tendency to weep during made-for-TV movies led Meg to believe her mother would never, ever change. Despite Loralee’s exhausting marital history and age—sixty-two was a rough estimate—she showed no signs of slowing down. Men still circled around her to admire and be admired. Loralee didn’t disappoint.

“Meg!” Al broke into her self-pity. “Phone!”

She took the portable phone from him without looking at the caller ID.

“Willing Café,” she said, wondering if she should get her hair highlighted.

“Sweetie,” sang a familiar voice. “How’s everything at The Shame?”

There was no use reminding her mother that the “Dirty Shame” was now the much more respectable “Willing Café.” Loralee didn’t listen. “Hi, Mom. Believe it or not, I was just thinking about you.”

“You’ll never believe what Joan and I did this morning! We played golf! Can you believe it? Golf,” her mother chirped over the phone. “I’ve hit the mother lode.”

“The mother lode of what?”

Loralee, too busy talking to answer questions, had continued, “I’ve taken up golf myself. There are men everywhere, Megs. Lovely men who enjoy talking to a woman once in a while.”

Her mother wasn’t a gold digger or an opportunist. She’d married men she’d felt sorry for, or thought she was in love with and could help with their drinking problem or their gambling issues, or, in one drastic case in 1988, a shy trucker who’d decided it was time to go straight. Men took advantage of Loralee, not the other way around.

“Be careful,” Meg warned, feeling much too old to deal with another stepfather. “Don’t even think about getting married.”

“Honey, I’m done being young and silly,” Loralee said. “But I’m not about to sit around this condo and watch Joan knit charity afghans.”

“No,” Meg said, “of course not. But maybe you could borrow some yarn and learn to—”

“And I don’t like the casinos that much,” she mused. “Joan does, though, so I go along to keep her company. We like the buffets.”

Unlike her youngest sister, plump Aunt Joan had married a man who needed no fixing. She’d waited forty-one years to find the love of her life, which Meg thought was admirable. They’d been married thirty years when he died, leaving Aunt Joan with no financial worries and a spacious two-bedroom condo overlooking a golf course. She’d begged her sister to move to Arizona. Loralee had flown down for a visit last year and showed no sign of returning.

“We’re going to join a league, so we’ll play almost every morning before it gets too hot. What do you think?”

“That sounds fun.” In no universe could Meg picture her mother playing golf or, for that matter, being content to live with her much older, conservative sister. However, both women seemed pleased with the arrangement so far. Meg suspected that soon enough Loralee would find life with Aunt Joan a little tame and move back to Willing.

“We might drive up in the spring, make a road trip out of it. See a bit of the country. And you, of course, sweetie. Are you going to come down for Christmas? I’m on the internet right now, looking at flights. I can book it right now for you, what do you think?”

“I don’t know about Christmas, Mom. Maybe I’ll come down in January, like last year.”

“You can’t tell me that place is busy over the holidays. I know better.”

“I can’t travel if there’s a storm—”

“There’s always a storm.”

“Yes.” And it was difficult to drive to the airport in three feet of snow. “And I’d rather not get stuck in an airport when I could be home.”

“You should move down here. Get out of the cold weather,” her mother said, as she did near the end of every phone call to her daughter. “We sit by the pool every afternoon, you know. A little sun would do you good, brighten you up a bit.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Meg fibbed.

“You’re at a nice age to find an older man, sweetie. You could get highlights, a bright red bathing suit—men love red. And a spray tan! I’ve been saving coupons—”

Meg punched the on switch on the empty food processor and raised her voice, “Static, Mom! I can’t hear you!”

And feeling relieved and guilty, she hung up.

Loralee meant well, but she refused to accept her daughter’s single lifestyle. I want you to be happy. I want you to find a man and have babies. I don’t want you to be alone every night.

Fair enough. That all sounded good, but Meg had had a shot at all those things once, a very long time ago. Even then she’d known that dreams didn’t always come true. In the years that followed, when she’d finished school and worked at her dream job, she’d assumed she’d meet someone special, someone who would charge into her world and fill her empty heart with massive amounts of love. Who would make everything good and right and perfect simply by taking her into his arms.

Just the way Owen MacGregor had.

But fifteen minutes ago she’d watched that particular man leave the restaurant and stride across the gravel parking lot. And she knew she’d given up on fairy-tale endings a long time ago.

Her one and only Prince Charming had left the building.

* * *

“IT’S THE CRAZIEST idea I’ve ever heard.” Owen pointed the truck west, out of town and toward home. Boo, busy chomping on bacon, didn’t argue. He didn’t even bother to lick the rancher’s ear, which was the way he usually participated in conversations.

“Good thing I got out of there when I did,” Owen muttered as he adjusted the heating vent. Amazing that by changing his Monday routine in the slightest way, he’d risked getting involved in the wackiest town project since the stealing of the grizzly from Dahl’s.

That memory made him smile. The old man, with typical good grace, had thrown a welcome-home party for the bear once Owen and his teammates had confessed and hauled the mangy thing back to the bar. Sean MacGregor had then grounded his son for two weeks, and the Willing Destroyers had spent a long weekend cleaning out cattle sheds.

Until the day he died, which had been just a few short years later, Sean had sponsored an annual “Grizzly Reunion” beer fest at the Dahl. And to his shame, Owen had no idea if that was still going on. The truth was, Willing was no longer his home and hadn’t been since his father died. Ed, a recluse all his life, had moved in and taken over the cattle operation. Owen’s mother refused to live in the big house alone and had moved to Helena, and then followed him to DC. Owen had switched his major from grassland management to environmental law and, until now, had never looked back.

He’d been proud of his family’s contributions to the town—heck, his great-great-great-grandfather had named the stupid place—but he’d had no interest in Willing for many years. Cattle ranching, what he’d grown up expecting to do for the rest of his life, had lost its appeal after his father’s burial in the family plot.

While his mother’s relatives littered half of the state, there were no other MacGregors left. Ed was gone. Owen, temporary cattleman, had a pile of decisions to make.

And none of them involved television shows, dating, the mayor’s Hollywood girlfriend or Margaret Ripley’s boyfriends. But Owen thought about his father, the man he’d respected more than anyone else in his life, and looked for a place to turn around.

* * *

SHELLY COULDN’T WAIT to get off the bus. She had to pee. And she’d been feeling queasy for about a hundred miles. Or maybe longer, like five months. Since she’d found out she was going to have a baby. If any news was guaranteed to make you want to stick your head into a toilet bowl, it was learning you were pregnant. Especially if you were eighteen and the baby’s father was nowhere to be found.

Not yet, anyway.

Shelly resisted the urge to pat her swollen belly and instead reached into her bag for M&M’s. If she sucked on them one at a time, until the coating evaporated in her mouth, she could make the rest of the bag last until the next stop. According to the driver, they were about fifteen minutes away from a quick breakfast stop at a café. He recommended the cinnamon rolls, if there were any left, and explained that the passengers were welcome to bring their hot drinks back on the bus with them, as long as the cups had lids. He didn’t want to be cleaning up coffee spills when his shift was over.

Fair enough. Cleaning up other people’s messes wasn’t Shelly’s idea of a good time, either, though if she thought about it for more than a couple of minutes—and she had plenty of time to think, sitting here on a Greyhound heading south—she had to admit that she herself had been stuck with a doozy of a mess. She didn’t need to be cleaning up after anybody else.

“Next stop, Willing,” the driver called. A couple of passengers lifted their heads and muttered to themselves. The bus was almost empty. A couple of senior citizens heading home from the casino—they kept talking about good luck and recounting their money—a young mother with the quietest little kid Shelly had ever seen, three sleepy college kids who looked like they’d had a pretty fun weekend and one older man whose weathered face gave him away as a rancher, Shelly guessed. He was dressed all in denim and he’d tipped his hat when he’d passed her as he’d walked down the aisle to take a seat in the back. He seemed fatherly, too, giving her a compassionate look as he’d noticed her bump. Or maybe he just thought she looked too thin or too pale or too tired. Maybe her pregnancy didn’t show when she was sitting down.

Yeah, right. She’d picked up some big shirts at the Goodwill, shirts big enough to cover her unzipped jeans and the belt that held them up over her bump. Bump. That’s what they called it in the gossip magazines when Britney and Angelina were showing off their pregnant bodies. Well, here in the real world there wasn’t much to show off. This particular bump rested on her bladder, meaning every time the bus hit a real bump—which, thank God, wasn’t often—Shelly worried that she was going to wet her only pair of jeans.

She’d watched the sun come up after napping off and on through the night. She’d dozed off after an early-morning stop in some windy, gray town. She planned to brush her teeth and clean up a little at the next stop. With any luck the restaurant wouldn’t be too expensive and she could get something filling. She reached for her bag, hoping that when she counted her money again there would be more than she remembered from the last time she’d looked.

“Willing comin’ up,” the bus driver called several minutes later. “Remember, you’ve got about fifteen minutes, so eat fast. They’ll serve you quick if you tell ’em you’re from the bus.”

He shifted down, turned off the highway and onto a local road. It wasn’t much longer before he eased the bus into a busy parking lot and stopped beside a one-story building Shelly assumed was their destination. She gathered her belongings and was the first one ready to get off the bus. The other passengers were trying to wake up and the old guy was polite enough to let her go first. He’d even tipped his hat again, which made her blink in surprise.

The driver half stood, but he looked annoyed at the stragglers and then glanced pointedly at his watch. “You get right up to the counter and get yourself a hot meal,” he told Shelly. “But we’re back on the road in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks.” She turned toward the steps and rolled her eyes. God. She didn’t need any reminders.

“Watch your step,” he called. “Come on, folks, get a move on!”

She hadn’t known how hungry she was until she went through the glass door and inhaled the smells of coffee and bacon. Of course, she could do without the coffee smell, but she’d always loved bacon. It made her think of Christmas mornings. She made her way to the bathroom before hurrying to the long counter on the other side of the room, but there were no empty stools. The place was overly bright and had a battered, worn appearance. In a nice way, though. It was also noisy, conversation mixing with clattering dishes and country music coming from unseen speakers.

She sank into a small blue booth, plopped her two big tote bags next to her and grabbed the menu stuck behind the napkin dispenser. Pancakes were filling and usually cheap. Today’s special was an omelet that came with four pieces of bacon, three pancakes and hash browns. A meal like that would blow her food budget for the whole day.

A dark-haired waitress appeared at the booth, a pot of coffee in her hand. She set a white mug down on the table and smiled. “Hi. Coffee or tea?”

“Uh, no, thanks. Just water.”

“Milk?”

“I don’t—”

“Bus?”

“What?”

“Sorry. You’re from the bus, right?” At Shelly’s nod, she continued, “Then don’t order anything complicated or Kermit—the driver—will have a stroke. He keeps to a schedule, no matter what, like the world will end if he’s three minutes late.”

“Yeah, I noticed. What about pancakes? Do they take too long?”

The waitress had kind eyes and a sweet smile. “That depends how many orders are ahead of you. Scrambled eggs are a better bet. Or oatmeal. We’ve got that in the slow cooker, all made up. I can put some raisins in it. With some brown sugar sprinkled on top?”

Shelly shuddered. “I’ll risk the pancakes.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll put a rush on it. Would you like bacon or sausage with that?”

Of course she did. But a side order of either one, enough to get the taste of chocolate candy out of her mouth, would add too many dollars onto the check. “No, thanks.”

“I’ll be right back.” Shelly watched her stop at the next table and refill their coffee cups before she slipped behind the counter and stuck the order near the grill. Maybe she could get a job waiting tables until the baby was born. It didn’t look hard. Just like putting supper on the table at home, only with folks who said “please” and “thank you” and left tips. She pulled the worn map out of her bag and unfolded it to study the vast space that was Montana. Her money wasn’t going to last much longer.

The waitress returned with a glass of milk and a glass of water. “It’s on the house,” she said, her gaze sliding to Shelly’s abdomen. “For the baby.”

“Thanks.” She didn’t know what else to say, because she was cold and tired and smelled like the stale belly of a bus. The last thing she intended to do was cry all over a stranger.

“So where are you headed this morning?”

“South, I guess.”

“You guess?” The waitress looked over her shoulder toward three of her fellow bus passengers at the register buying drinks and cinnamon rolls from a guy with a white apron and chef’s hat. The bus driver had disappeared into the rest room and the older rancher-type guy was drinking coffee at the counter. “I’ll be back in a minute,” the woman promised.

Shelly wished she’d hurry with the pancakes, because she was starting to get queasy again. She moved the syrup container closer, tugged a couple of paper napkins out of the holder and lined up her silverware. According to the menu, she was in Willing. And Willing didn’t look like much, at least not what she could see from the parking lot when she’d walked in. But this restaurant seemed pretty busy for a cold morning. Folks were smiling, talking, acting like everyone knew one another. Weird.

“Here you go.” The waitress set a plate stacked with three pancakes and topped with a scoop of butter in front of her. There was bacon, too, crispy and fragrant.

“I didn’t order—”

“It was a mistake,” the woman said, as if Shelly was doing her a favor by eating it. “It would have been thrown out otherwise.”

“Thanks.” She picked up one piece and chewed, willed her stomach to settle down. Just the thought of getting back on the bus made her belly churn. “What’s it like here?”

“Here in the restaurant or here in town?”

“Well, both, I guess.”

“It’s home,” was the woman’s simple answer. She slid into the booth across from Shelly and folded her hands on the table. “I’m Meg.”

“Shelly.”

“Nice to meet you. Believe it or not, I usually mind my own business. Does your family know where you are?”

“I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“I’m nineteen. I can go wherever I want.” Shelly poured a fountain of maple syrup over the pancakes and dug in. She felt bad about lying to someone who had given her free bacon and milk, but then again, since when had trusting total strangers improved her life?

“You may or may not be nineteen, but you don’t have any money—”

“Not true,” Shelly said over a mouthful of pancake.

The woman continued, “You’re a little vague about where you’re headed.” She smiled, which made her look younger. About thirty, Shelly thought. No rings. She looked harmless enough, so Shelly decided a simple version of the truth would work just as well as a whopper of a fib about meeting her soldier boyfriend in Fort Hood.

“I’m on the road, uh, looking for a guy.”

“Well, then,” Meg drawled. “You’ve come to the right town. According to the mayor’s latest calculations, we have forty-eight single men from the age of twenty-one to forty-five. You can take your pick.”

Shelly drank half the glass of milk. “They count them here?”

The waitress looked amused. “Yes, they do, actually.”

“Weird.”

“Definitely. So who are you looking for? I’m guessing...the baby’s father?”

“Yeah.” She chewed another large piece of pancake and washed it down with milk before picking up another slice of bacon. The year before she’d gotten pregnant she’d called herself a vegetarian, but the baby had changed all that. Now any kind of pork product made her mouth water as if she was a little kid at the state fair.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is he from around here?”

“Maybe.” He’d mentioned Willing once, but as hard as she tried, Shelly couldn’t remember what he’d said about it. He’d talked of other Montana towns, too. She wished she’d paid more attention to their conversations when they’d been together.

“What’s his name? Maybe I can help you contact him. You shouldn’t be traveling alone like this.”

Shelly shook her head. The less said the better, and she didn’t want this snoopy woman calling the cops or social services. Been there, done that. Instead she pulled her cell phone out of her bag and skimmed through the menu until she found what she wanted. She passed the phone, with its fuzzy photo of a smiling young man, to Meg. “Here.”

“It’s hard to see his face under that hat.”

“Trust me, he’s cute.”

“Yes, but—”

“He’s tall, too. And funny.”

“I don’t—”

“Miss!” The bus driver waved at her. He was heading toward the door, the other passengers following him. “Three minutes!”

Shelly looked down at her empty plate and her stomach heaved. She’d eaten too fast and she was going to throw up now, she really was. “I should have hitchhiked.”

“That’s never a good idea, sweetie,” Meg the waitress said, her voice gentle. She handed her back the phone. “You look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

She thought about the bus fumes, the jouncing, the endless miles to a place with no guarantees.

Shelly was suddenly very, very tired. The busy room seemed smaller, the noise quieted and everything swirled into black.


CHAPTER FOUR

KERMIT WASN’T KNOWN for his compassion, and because his punctuality was the stuff of legends, no one was surprised when the bus headed south without its pregnant passenger.

Meg and her customers managed to move Shelly to the floor, put a makeshift ice bag on her forehead and call the clinic before the girl came to and started to protest.

“Stay quiet,” Meg told her. “You fainted.”

“I’m okay, I’m gonna miss—”

“There will be another bus.” Just not for three days, Meg added silently. “You have to stay right where you are.”

“Am I on the floor?”

“You sure are. Are you having any pain?”

“No.” The girl closed her eyes again, probably because the sight of four elderly men staring at her was more than a little frightening. She moved her hands over her belly. “I’m fine.”

“Not exactly,” Meg said. “Something happened and you passed out.”

Shelly kept her eyes shut.

“Remember the time Hank Richards had a heart attack, right in that same booth?”

“No, actually, I don’t.” She shot George a look that said be quiet.

“Uh, he was fine,” the old man mumbled. “After the triple bypass.”

“My Debbie used to get wobbly and sick like that when she was expecting the twins.” Martin peered down at the girl. “Are you expecting twins, young lady?”

“I—I hope not.”

Jerry, who’d been the first to grab his cell phone and call for help, leaned toward Meg and whispered, “This could be our lucky day. A new resident and a population explosion.”

“That’s so not funny.”

He shrugged. “Hey, we need all the help we can get. In the meantime, what are we going to do with her?”

“We?”

“It takes a village...”

“It takes an obstetrician,” Meg pointed out, having helped Lucia through her last pregnancy. “And he’s sixty miles away.”

“Oh, good,” Jerry said, looking up as the door opened. “Hip’s here. I sure hope he’s sober.”

* * *

HORATIO IGNATIUS PORTERMAN, the local EMT, was otherwise known by his initials. Everyone loved him, everyone owed him a favor and no one questioned why his best friend was Jack Daniel’s. That was his own business: a man was entitled to his demons, and, to Hip’s credit, he didn’t drive. He and his cousin shared a house in town and Theo, a car collector, was always ready to drive his cousin wherever he was needed.

Luckily, Hip’s services weren’t in great demand. He carved animals from tree trunks in the large shed behind the house when he wasn’t administering first aid. In the summer the lawn sprouted bears, moose, elk, prairie dogs and sale signs. Once in a while one of them went home with a passing tourist.

Jerry hoped he’d upgrade to an art studio once the cameras started rolling. Hip wasn’t bachelor material, but as an artist he’d give the town another dimension and attract other creative types. Jerry was already thinking how to give artists tax breaks, but first things first. Save the town, bring in the artists, attract the tourists.

“Hey,” Jerry said, making way for his city rescue volunteer. Owen MacGregor, a grim expression on his face, followed Hip across the room. The rancher’s frown eased when he saw Meg, but he didn’t look exactly cheerful as he stared at the girl on the floor.

Jerry wasn’t sure what Hip could do, aside from taking the girl’s blood pressure and pulse. Theo would most likely end up driving her to Lewistown, since he owned the ambulance.

“She’s looking better,” Jerry said. “Not so green.”

Meg nodded. “I don’t think she’s been eating well. You should have seen her shovel in the pancakes.”

Owen stepped closer. “Where’s she from?”

Hip, crouched over the girl like a paternal crane, asked the same question. He didn’t get an answer, but she did open her eyes. She was a pretty thing, but Owen thought she seemed way too young to be pregnant.

Owen tried again. “Anyone know who she is?”

“Her name is Shelly,” Meg said. “She was on the bus heading south.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You know her?” Owen hoped there was help on the way. Like the girl’s mother, who would be wearing a nurse’s uniform and pushing a gurney.

“No. We were talking when she slid sideways.”

“Huh.” This was from Hip, a rescuer of few words. He removed the blood-pressure cuff from the girl’s arm. “Seems fine now. Should rest for a while, though.”

The patient frowned. “Can I sit up? You’re all kind of freakin’ me out.”

“That goes both ways,” Meg pointed out, and the girl had the decency to look embarrassed as Jerry and Hip helped her sit up.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. You’ve had a pretty tough morning, I think.”

Owen thought that might be an understatement, but he kept quiet while Hip asked Shelly—if that was her real name—if she felt dizzy.

“I’m fine. I just have to get out of here. The bus—”

“Is long gone,” Hip said. “Sit still. I’m gonna check your pulse again.”

Owen watched as three of the older men drifted back to their self-assigned stools, though he noticed they swiveled to face the action in the room as if they were watching television. He thought two of them looked familiar. The burly cook came out of the kitchen to pour fresh coffee and keep an eye on the register. Jerry planted himself in a chair and gave Owen a curious look. As did Meg.

“You weren’t gone long. Did you forget something?” she asked in a very polite voice.

“I was talking to Hip when the call came in.” Someone’s unconscious at The Shame. Hurry. Might need an ambulance. He wasn’t about to admit to his brief attack of social conscience about the damaged pedestal of the grizzly, which was what had brought him to the Dahl, where he’d found Hip, in the first place. “I thought he might need help, so I followed him over here.”

Meg didn’t look at him. “That was nice of you.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable. It was one thing to order breakfast, but standing next to her like this was odd. Come to think about it, everything about being back in Banner County was odd, including finding his old friend drinking at the Dahl at eleven in the morning.

“I’m okay now,” Shelly insisted.

Owen thought that was a stretch. From the looks of the skinny teenager, okay might not happen until the next decade.

“Tomorrow’s the doc’s day in town,” Hip informed them, still crouching by the girl’s side.

“She shouldn’t go to a hospital?” This was from Meg, who still appeared flustered.

“I can’t go to a hospital.” The kid stroked her little belly bump and looked defiant. Exactly how old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? Someone needed to call child services. He exchanged a worried look with Meg, who gestured toward a booth where a battered leather purse and a faded blue duffel bag sat on the vinyl seat. Owen walked over to check it out. Shelly was traveling light, but he assumed she’d have some kind of identification.

“It might be a good idea to stay in town overnight and see the doctor tomorrow,” Meg fussed. “Just to make sure everything’s okay with the baby and you’re approved to travel.”

Hip grunted something in agreement, but Owen didn’t listen too carefully. He dug around in the purse until he found a cheap cloth wallet. Sure enough, there was a driver’s license inside, along with seventy-three dollars in cash. Shelly Smith. Smith? How convenient for a pregnant runaway, he mused, studying the Idaho license with a Boise address. According to the state of Idaho, Shelly Ann Smith turned eighteen on August 3 and lived at 3702 Broad Street.

Well, that was a start.

He didn’t examine the rest of her things, though he noticed a half-empty bag of candy, a thick packet of chewing gum and a pair of gray wool socks stuffed inside the purse. A small vial of pepper spray hung from a keychain clipped to a set of keys, so at least the girl had the sense to keep her feet warm and protect herself.

On the other hand, she was pregnant, practically broke and half starved. So much for sense.

“Where are you headed?” Owen asked, returning to stand where the girl could see him. “Maybe we can give you a ride.”

She shook her head and struggled to sit up. Hip helped her and she brushed her hair away from her face.

“She’s looking for her boyfriend,” Meg informed them.

Owen crouched next to Hip. “Tell us where he is and we’ll get him.”

“I, uh, don’t know.”

Owen looked at Meg, who shrugged. “That’s what she told me, too.”

“Son of a—” Hip clamped his mouth shut.

Ben Fargus decided to comment. “How the heck can you find someone if you don’t know where to look? I don’t get it.”

Shelly’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. “I know it sounds dumb.”

“You don’t know where he is right this minute?” Owen asked. “Or you don’t know where he is period?”

The girl’s silence answered the question.

“His name, then.”

“Sonny.”

“Sonny what?” Owen was suddenly very glad he’d never had daughters. His patience with teenage girls wouldn’t have lasted more than a month. Shelly began to cry and Owen watched Meg lean over and pat her back. He tried again. Surely the kid needed help with this, because Sonny wasn’t exactly an unusual nickname. “Sonny what?”

“Don’t yell at her.” This was from Meg, who glared at him with cool brown eyes. Yes, he recognized that expression.

“I’m not yelling.”

She didn’t look the least bit convinced. “Keep your voice down. You’re scaring her.”

He looked down at the kid blowing her nose into a paper napkin. “She’s got a lot to be scared about,” he pointed out. “You’d better call the sheriff or social services or someone who can get her some help.”

The girl squealed. “The sheriff?”

“No, sweetheart. We’re not calling the sheriff. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Meg turned to Owen and lifted her chin. When he was young and foolish, that stubborn chin had melted him right to his bones. Good thing he was older and immune.

“I’m out of here,” Shelly declared. She struggled to her feet. “Where’s my stuff?”

Hip stood, towering over her. “Whoa.”

“Got something to hide?” Owen asked.

“Got something to do,” was the snippy reply. “Lots to do.”

“Well,” Owen drawled, conscious of Meg’s protective attitude toward the kid. God forbid he interject some common sense into this situation. “So do I.”

He looked at Meg until she met his gaze. “Her last name is Smith and she’s from Boise. She’s eighteen years old and she has seventy bucks in her wallet. No credit cards, no checkbook.”

“You looked in my bag?”

Owen ignored the girl’s question and looked at Hip. “Call me about the bear.”

Hip nodded. “I can fix it there if Aurora says it’s okay.”

“Who’s Aurora?”

“She bought the place a few years ago,” Hip said.

“What happened to Mick?”

“A woman in Santa Fe.”

Well, that made sense. Mick and his father had been good friends, but the bar owner wasn’t the devoted family man Owen’s father had been. “Keep me posted, then.”

“Will do,” Hip promised, packing up his equipment.

And that, Owen decided, striding across the room to the door, just about maxed out his civic responsibilities for one day. He wouldn’t be coming back to town again anytime soon.

* * *

NOTHING HAD CHANGED, Meg realized, no matter how the man pretended to be pleasant. It had always been easy for Owen MacGregor to walk away. She certainly wasn’t surprised. He was as predictable as the bus driver who figured his schedule came first.

Why he had returned with Hip was a mystery, but Meg supposed he’d been curious about the emergency phone call. Not that he’d been interested in anything to do with Willing for fourteen years. So why now?

Meg knew she’d hear about it eventually. Secrets were hard to keep in this little part of Montana. And secrets there were this morning. She watched Hip guide the girl into a chair and say something to make her smile and shake her head. Jerry moved to stand beside her. “Looks like the crisis is over?”

“For now,” she told Jerry, whose gaze was also on the girl.

“I’ll give her a ride to Lewistown,” he said. “And I’ll personally take her to the clinic.”

“That’s nice of you, but then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think she has any family or any place to go. And obviously not very much money, either.”

“I’ll talk to social services then, see what they can do for her.”

“She could end up on the streets,” she worried. Meg didn’t think the girl would go along with that plan. She was a runaway, Meg guessed. In trouble because she was pregnant, possibly, and searching for the man she thought would be the answer to her prayers. That was the part that Meg hated to think about: a pregnant teenager putting all her faith in someone who didn’t tell her his last name or where he lived. “I think she has other ideas, Jer.”

“She certainly didn’t want us to call the sheriff. She doesn’t look like a criminal,” he mused, “but you might want to keep an eye on the cash register.”

“Al has that covered.” The old grump stood with his arms folded across his massive body, as if daring anyone to order anything from the kitchen. “He doesn’t like anything that upsets the routine. And he particularly hates Kermit. The bus passengers are always rushed, which means Al can’t get the food out fast enough.”

“And Al doesn’t like to be rushed?”

“About as much as he likes surprises. Can you keep an eye on the little mother for a few minutes?”

“Sure. And unless I’m going down to Lewistown, I’m going to get posters printed up for the town meeting.”

“You’re not wasting any time.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, imitating a Western drawl. “Y’all have to strike while the iron is hot.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She laughed. With one last glance at Shelly, who looked less pale and sipped water under Hip’s watchful eyes, Meg retreated to the relative privacy of the kitchen and its ancient wall phone.

If anyone knew about being pregnant, it was Lucia. The woman had given birth to three boys in six years and still had a sense of humor. Right now Meg needed an expert opinion.

“Hi, Meg,” Lucia said, answering the call.

“Hi. Can you come over here?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Is it Al? Did he quit again?”

“No. I need some advice. About being pregnant and—”

“What? Pregnant? You don’t even date!”

“Lu,” she tried to explain, “I’m not talking about—”

“You called me. What do you mean, you’re not talking about it?”

Meg started to laugh. “Luce, I’m not pregnant. But I have a kid here who is, and she fainted and then the bus left and Jerry called Hip and now I need help.”

“Hip? What would he know about pregnant women?” Meg heard the sound of pleading from Lucia’s youngest. “In a minute. Find your boots—the red ones—and get your backpack. Sorry about that, Meg. We’re getting ready to go to Mama’s for lunch.”

“Lasagna or chicken parm?”

“Chicken parm.”

“Nice.” That was an understatement. Lucia had lucked out when she’d married Mama’s only son. “That’s okay, I won’t keep you long. I just needed advice.”

“You’re not going to get a whole lot from Hip.”

Meg agreed. “That’s the point. And I don’t know what to do with her. She’s stranded. And she won’t let anyone drive her to the hospital or the clinic.”

“You said kid. How old is she?”

“Eighteen, but she looks younger than that.”

“How pregnant?”

“Enough to look pregnant, but awfully thin.”

There was silence as Lucia thought this over. “I’ll just bet she hasn’t had any prenatal care. Where’s she going?”

“She’s looking for her boyfriend. Except she doesn’t know where he is or what his last name is...so I’m not thinking she has a great chance of finding him. Montana’s a pretty big place to begin looking for a guy named Sonny.”

“Oh, my.”

“Exactly.”

“Can you talk her into staying and seeing the doctor tomorrow? She’s going to need vitamins and blood tests and an ultrasound. Unless you can get her a lift to Lewistown. She could pick up the bus again there, but she’d be better off seeing a doctor first. And anyway, if she doesn’t know where to look for him, where does she plan to get to on the bus? This is as good a place to search as any.”




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