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This Perfect Stranger
Barbara Ankrum
Was a husband a requirement up here in this wild country? For Maggie Cortland, a widow struggling to keep her husband's ranch - her beloved land - the answer was crystal clear. She needed a man, preferably one who was big and strong, and not afraid to take risks. And then, out of the rainy Montana sky, this perfect stranger rode up on his Harley, looking for work….Cain MacCallister hadn't belonged anywhere in so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like. In the four months since his conviction was overturned, he'd drifted. And now this fragile-looking beauty with sadness in her eyes was asking him to be her temporary husband. Could he ever go down that road again?
“Cain?” she said in a voice usually reserved for pleas to the executioner. “Will you marry me?”
Following a moment of protracted silence, he laughed out loud. “Man, for a minute there, I thought you asked me to marry you.”
Maggie’s face had gone two shades of red. “I did.”
The smile slipped disbelievingly from his expression. Cain stared at her, dumbfounded. Standing up to his ankles in the horse dung and straw he’d swept out of the stables, he nearly sat down where he was.
“Not a real marriage, of course. Don’t look at me that way. I know how this sounds.”
Cain snorted, thinking he’d been transported to some weird alternative universe while he wasn’t looking. “You do?”
“I—I said it all wrong. Actually, there is no right way to ask a complete stranger to marry you.”
Dear Reader,
There’s so much great reading in store for you this month that it’s hard to know where to begin, but I’ll start with bestselling author and reader favorite Fiona Brand. She’s back with another of her irresistible Alpha heroes in Marrying McCabe. There’s something about those Aussie men that a reader just can’t resist—and heroine Roma Lombard is in the same boat when she meets Ben McCabe. He’s got trouble—and passion—written all over him.
Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity continues with Born To Protect, by Virginia Kantra. Follow ex-Navy SEAL Jack Dalton to Montana, where his princess (and I mean that literally) awaits. A new book by Ingrid Weaver is always a treat, so save some reading time for Fugitive Hearts, a perfect mix of suspense and romance. Round out the month with new novels by Linda Castillo, who offers A Hero To Hold (and trust me, you’ll definitely want to hold this guy!); Barbara Ankrum, who proves the truth of her title, This Perfect Stranger; and Vickie Taylor, with The Renegade Steals a Lady (and also, I promise, your heart).
And if that weren’t enough excitement for one month, don’t forget to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest. Details are in every book.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
This Perfect Stranger
Barbara Ankrum
To Babs For throwing me your reserve chute on this one and for reminding me daily why we do this very difficult thing.
Thanks.
BARBARA ANKRUM
says she’s always been an incurable romantic, with a passion for books and stories about the healing power of love. It never occurred to her to write seriously until her husband, David, discovered a box full of her unfinished stories and insisted that she pursue her dream. Need she say more about why she believes in love?
With a successful career as a commercial actress behind her, Barbara decided she had plenty of eccentric characters to people the stories that inhabit her imagination. She wrote her first novel in between auditions, and she’s never looked back. Her historicals have won the prestigious Reviewers’ Choice and K.I.S.S. Awards from Romantic Times Magazine, and she’s been nominated for a RITA Award from Romance Writers of America. Barbara lives in Southern California with her actor/writer/hero-husband and their two perfect children.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
The idling Harley-Davidson rumbled beneath him with an impatient growl. All power and muscle and ragged edges, the machine—like its rider—waited for some sign that the town that lay at the foot of the pass whose crest they straddled was better or worse than any other.
Dawn was just beginning to ease the darkness from the sky. Lights winked from the small constellations of buildings scattered across the valley below. Cain MacCallister had seen a hundred towns just like it in the past few weeks. Even stopped in a few. But destinations, like dreams, were temporary things, and a man like him didn’t stay long in either one. Still, his dark gaze prowled the compilation of roads and ranches crisscrossing the picturesque landscape below the way a hawk’s did a potential landing spot. And for a moment, Cain dared to imagine himself belonging there. It was foolish, he knew, because he hadn’t belonged anywhere in so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like.
Tightening his fist around the throttle, he glanced to the west. The road forked here toward Missoula. If he wanted to, he could take it. Ride another hundred miles. Not much farther than that. He’d poured the last of his money into the gas tank of his bike just outside of Butte. He might find a job in Missoula, lose himself in a city of that size for a while. A man with choices would do that. But it had been two days since he’d eaten, and hunger gnawed at his insides. He needed food and sleep and most of all, he needed a place to be. At least for a while.
A cool night wind swept down off what some called The High Lonesome, tugging at his thick, dark hair and stirring the restlessness in him. He understood loneliness the way only a man who’d been behind bars could. Most of the time it suited him. But today he felt it in his bones with a deep and abiding ache.
His skin went hot as memories of holding Annie skittered across his mind. They tended to catch him off guard at moments like this, but he tamped those memories down. No use thinking about her. That chapter of his life was over. Whatever needs still eddied inside him, he could assuage with an anonymous roll in the hay. And even as that urge crystalized low in his loins, he realized his decision was made.
He gunned the throttle with a brutal twist of his big hand. The engine answered him with a roar that echoed through the pass and drifted down toward the rushing Musselshell River like the call of some wild thing. Somewhere in the distance, an animal howled in reply.
“So, that’s it then.” Maggie Cortland stared disbelievingly at the bank manager, Ernie Solefield, who was studiously avoiding eye contact with her. For that, she was almost grateful, because she didn’t trust herself not to start blubbering like a baby.
“I’m afraid so, Maggie,” he said curtly, shuffling papers on his perfectly ordered desk. “I wish it could have gone the other way.”
She stared blankly at the shiny bald spot at the top of his head. The smell of money permeated this place, but it dangled, as usual, just out of her reach. “Ernie, you’ve known me for seven years. You know my land—what it’s worth. You knew Ben. We had you and Sarah to our house.”
He shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, Maggie. You know I did everything I could.”
“Everything within the prescribed limits, you mean.”
His head came up with a snap. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The expression on his face, somewhere between anger and guilt, told her she was right. Somehow, that comforted her. After all, she knew the drill. She’d been through it at every bank in town. Lead Maggie Cortland by the nose. Let her think there’s a chance, then pull the rug out from under her. She just hadn’t expected it from him.
She glanced around at the people milling in the teller line, at the bank officers handing out forms to perspective clients. People she knew and once trusted. Her throat felt like it was closing up.
Maggie got to her feet, gathering up her purse and paperwork from the desk that stood between them. “I think you know exactly what I mean, Ernie. Thanks for your time, but you know what? I don’t need your money. I’ll find a way, with you or without you. If you think I’m going to fold just because Laird Donnelly has every man in this town by the short hairs—”
“This has nothing to do with Laird Donnelly,” Ernie sputtered, shoving to his feet as Dorothy LaBecque, the pretty, thirty-two-year-old blonde watching them from the express window, ducked her head and pretended to be counting her drawer. “Our decision was based solely on your ability to—”
“Play my part? Is that what you were going to say?”
“No, of course not.” Flustered, he glanced around at the stares they were beginning to draw, then, in a lower voice, stammered, “Based on—on your, uh, potential to show a profit.” He hesitated and leaned closer, as if what he had to say embarrassed him. “You’re all alone out there, Maggie. The bank…they don’t put a lot of stock in a single woman’s ability to…” He shook his head. “If you were uh, still married…” He let the rest drift off.
The laugh that escaped her made him flinch. “Still married? Since when is that a requirement for loans these days? Isn’t there something in American jurisprudence about discrimination in regards to single—”
“This isn’t about discrimination and you know it. It’s a hard life up here. Hard enough for men, let alone women. Now…you need to calm down, Maggie. I think you’re overwrought.”
Overwrought? With slow deliberation, she placed one palm flat on his desk, leaned closer to him. “It’s Mrs. Cortland to you. And you can tell Laird Donnelly for me that I will never roll over for a man like him, no matter how many people he’s got on his payroll.” She glanced meaningfully at the tall blonde behind the express window, then back at Ernie.
Ernie absorbed the blow, then leaned one smooth hand on the desk himself, coming inches from her face. “Watch yourself, Maggie. You don’t know what you’re playing with here.”
“If I were a man, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. But this isn’t the nineteenth century and Donnelly’s not the only one making up the rules.”
Ernie slid his gaze to the bank’s only window, where clouds were crowding the morning sky. “Ben would’ve wanted you to sell.”
His words hit her like a ringing slap, and the sting of them made the room go blurry for a moment. When she’d gathered her control again, she pinned Ernie with a look that had all the color rushing out of his florid cheeks. “That,” she said quietly, “was beneath even you, Ernie.”
Ernie lowered his eyes, searching for somewhere safe to land his gaze as Maggie turned and headed out of the bank. In the glass reflection of the door just before she pushed past it, she could see Dorothy hurrying over to Ernie’s desk.
Outside, the air was crisp, even for May, and the dark clouds that scudded along the shanks of the Bitterroots carried the promise of weather. She wished she had foregone the dark business suit today and worn her usual work clothes. It was cold and no one gave a damn about her experience running a business anyway. No one gave a damn, period.
There were a million things to do this morning, but at the moment, she couldn’t think of a single one that sounded more important than drowning her sorrows in a steaming cup of coffee at Moody’s. Not that she wanted to talk. She didn’t. She simply couldn’t face heading back alone just yet.
Her hands were shaking as she pushed the door to Moody’s open. The rich aroma of coffee hit her the moment she entered the shop and settled over her like a balm.
“Hey, Maggie,” the attractive, middle-aged woman called out to her from behind the counter where she held court with her coffeepot. A half-dozen men of various ages gathered around her on the vinyl-covered counter stools like a bunch of hungry old roosters, pecking for crumbs. They turned to look as Maggie walked in the door.
“Hey, Moody,” she said, ignoring their stares. “Can I get a cup of coffee?”
“Comin’ right up.”
The café was warm and cozy with gingham-checked curtains and a different Victorian lamp hanging down over each table. Old books covered the shelves that rode above the windows and antiques and greenery dotted the wall space that wasn’t taken up by windows. Moody had done more than convert this old diner into something special. She’d created an ambiance that made Maggie feel at home here. She suspected that half of Fishhook felt the same.
Her name, of course, wasn’t really Moody. But anyone who still remembered her real one lived under penalty of death if they divulged it. No, Moody Rivers was as much a fixture here in the valley as the river that had earned her her nickname. A free spirit, who, at fifty, answered to no one but was adored by all.
She set a steaming cup of coffee and a pitcher of cream down on the booth table, tilting a sideways look at Maggie. “Wanna talk about it, hon?”
Maggie thought she couldn’t stand kindness right now. Her eyes glistened as she shook her head.
The older woman smiled. “Well, then, I know just the thing.” A minute later, a plate appeared under Maggie’s nose filled with a “Moody’s Dutch Double-Fudge Brownie,” last year’s county fair grand prize winner.
“Chocolate,” Moody sighed. “The elixir of life. It’s on me. Talk’s free, too, if you want it.”
She wanted to wail, but prudence prevailed. She thanked Moody and stirred cream into her cup, watching the white slowly spiral into the black. A gaff like public crying would instantly be fodder for the wags of Fishhook and a mere two degrees of separation from good ol’ Laird Donnelly—a man who regularly ate the young for breakfast and was already licking his chops at the prospect of her next falter. No, she couldn’t show weakness. Not for a moment. She took a sip of coffee and sank back against her seat. Exhaustion pulled at her, even though the day had barely begun.
Peripherally, she heard the little bell above the café door jangle, felt the men at the counter turn to take in the newest arrival with a collective, male bristling. To her left, Moody looked up too. The perpetually easygoing woman fumbled a coffee cup against its saucer, then juggled it still again, seeming to attempt the same thing with her expression.
Cool air from outside slithered against Maggie’s face as curiosity tugged her gaze in the direction of the lace-covered door that still blocked the newcomer from her view.
“C’mon in,” Moody invited, still a bit wide-eyed. “Find yourself a seat. I’ll bring ya a menu.”
“Just coffee,” he said in a deep, baritone voice as he cleared the door, tugging off his black leather gloves one finger at a time.
The coffee cup poised at Maggie’s lips froze where it was. For a moment, she actually forgot to breathe. Big, was the first adjective that leapt to mind. No less than six foot-three and used to ducking door frames. Drop-dead handsome was the second. No, that was three adjectives, she amended stupidly, unable to tear her gaze from him. Square-jawed, with shockingly blue eyes hooded by thick brows, the dark-haired stranger took in the small café with a quick turn of his head. His gaze locked with hers for an assessing moment before it swept away again. And like a blow to the solar plexus, it left her heart inexplicably racing in her chest.
He moved with the graceful efficiency of a caged cat, prowling to a table in the corner of the room and sitting with his back to the wall. If this had been the Old West, she would have guessed him a gunslinger, but she supposed he was just another loner on his way to somewhere else.
Here, machismo was as much a part of the landscape as cattle, but there was no pretense about the pure, unadulterated maleness that lurked beneath the black clothing this man wore from head to foot. His self-contained intensity made every head turn his way as he walked in the room. And her response to it was as obvious and as primal as that of everyone else in the room. Unbidden images tumbled through her—of sweaty sheets and his big hands on her skin.
She managed to get her coffee cup to her lips, trying to comprehend her completely carnal reaction to the man. It had been years since a man—any man—had made her think of…sex. But this stranger had managed it in the space of ten seconds. And he hadn’t said more than two words.
Lust at first sight, she thought. It was more than shocking. Ernie was right. She was overwrought. She forced herself to stare at the brownie on the plate in front of her, realizing that she’d lost all interest in it.
Moody crossed the room in the unhurried way she had and set a cup of coffee down in front of him. “Take cream?” she asked.
“Just black,” he replied.
“We’ve got the best hash browns this side of the Rockies and omelettes that’ll make you think you died and went to heaven. How ’bout it?”
Maggie could’ve sworn the man’s gaze slid longingly at the plates of food being cradled by the old roosters at the counter, before returning to his coffee.
“This’ll do,” he said, and pulled a long sip as Moody watched.
“Suit yerself, darlin’. Enjoy.” She breezed by Maggie’s table with a little grin and a wink as she passed. Maggie, who was concentrating on swallowing a bite of brownie, nearly choked.
“Reckon we ain’t seen the last o’ winter by the smell o’ that air,” old Bill Miller announced to no one in particular from his spot at the counter. “Storm’s rollin’ in.”
“Ah,” Bob Tacumsa replied with a shake of his gray head, “Just the leftovers. T’won’t be much.”
“Yeah,” Wit Stacey replied, glancing pointedly at the stranger. “Them Northers blow in all sorts o’ riff raff this time a year.”
Maggie watched the stranger tap his finger against the rim of his cup, trying to ignore them.
Moody slapped at the counter with her damp towel perilously near to Wit’s plate of eggs. “And it mostly accumulates at my counter,” she said sharply. “Mind yer tongue, Wit, or you’ll find yourself wearin’ my best breakfast plate.”
