Angry at her for the way her stricken face had called to him that night and had made him act so impulsively. Angry at the cable TV station that had organized the “Cinderella Marriage Marathon” in a shameless attempt to climb onto the “reality TV” bandwagon.
But he didn’t feel angry about that night. For some weird reason, their time together—all eight hours of it—was the only bright memory he had brought home from his ill-fated trip to Las Vegas in March.
Six months later, his body had awakened at once, clamoring with need at the very sight of her. Six months later, he could remember practically every word they’d spoken to each other, every gesture she’d made, every nuance of her laugh.
Six months later, however, and on his home ground, he was more realistic, more alive to his own vulnerability, and he just wanted beautiful, warm-hearted Jill Chaloner Brown out of his life.
Chapter Two
Jill thanked Mr. Thurrell for unloading her bag and went up to the house.
Thurrell cruised slowly off, without waiting until she’d reached the front steps. He seemed far more interested in watching a small group of cattle in a nearby field than in checking to see whether there was someone here to greet her. She felt very alone as she held feverish Sam awkwardly on her hip and hefted their shared travel bag in her other hand.
The setting of this house was magnificent. The Montana landscape awed her, dwarfing her concerns and mocking them at the same time. She’d never seen such incredible scenery. The mountains looked as though they had been painted onto the sky, huge and yet close enough to touch.
Overhead and in the distance to the east, clouds piled up and up into the blue. They were clouds like magic lands, tinted a hundred shades of white and gray. Their shadows chased across the straw-colored carpets of grass that covered the ground. To the west, higher up, they were different but just as beautiful, feathery and fast-moving against the high roofline of the house.
Beyond its gorgeous setting, the age and disrepair of the place showed, though. It hadn’t been painted in so long that the clapboard was bare and weathered to a silvery gray. The wide front porch sagged.
Still, there was something appealing about the house. The porch was swept clean and set with a pretty harvest display of pale grasses, gourds in weird, goblin shapes and bunches of Indian corn. Surrounding the house like trusted companions were a half-dozen big old trees, and some wild and ancient rosebushes had recently had their long, supple canes trained and tied along the remains of a post and rail fence.
As Jill reached the porch, its swing creaked in the cold wind. The clouds that had been flying across the sky were beginning to change now. Grayson had been right about the weather closing over. Sam wasn’t dressed for it, and his cheek was burning against hers. The need to get him inside, safe, warm, settled and filled with warm fluids overcame Jill’s sudden attack of nerves, and she rapped on the door loudly, not really believing that anyone was home. The place was so quiet and solitary.
Until, blessedly soon, she heard footsteps. The door opened, and there stood an older female version of Gray, wearing jeans and an untucked shirt made of soft, plaid-patterned flannel. She had the same dark eyes and straight nose as her son, framed by a pretty cloud of gray hair.
Maybe she would have the same smile, too, only Jill hadn’t seen that yet. Face to face with Mrs. McCall, she was overwhelmed by how much there was to explain, and by the need to cut it as short as possible in order to get Sam inside.
“Gray s-sent me,” she stammered. “He’s coming along the… I’m sorry…the Angus spur, I think he said. He’ll be here soon. He said you’d— The thing is, my little boy is sick, and it’s getting colder by the minute, and I really want to…”
She trailed off.
“It’s all right. It’s all right,” said Mrs. McCall in a comfortable voice. Her hand, faintly dusted with flour, took Jill’s travel bag and tucked it out of the way against the wall. The same hand left flour traces on Sam’s forehead as she rested her palm there for a moment, then crooned, “You’re as hot as can be, aren’t you, cowboy? Come in, honey.”
She put an arm around Jill’s shoulder as Jill took a better hold on Sam, wrapping both her arms around him. He hadn’t spoken a word since they left Gray back in that big open field.
“Come straight through to the kitchen,” Gray’s mother said. “I have the oven on, and it’s the warmest room in the house. He must be hungry.”
“I don’t know if he is, but I’d like to get some hot liquid into him, and some Tylenol, and then I’m hoping he’ll take a long nap. He hardly slept last night.”
“Poor mite! I have soup on the stove and corn bread just gone into the oven. I’ve been expecting Gray back for lunch.”
“We delayed him, I think.”
“You’ll eat, too?”
“As soon as I’ve settled Sam.”
“You’re staying the night, of course.”
“Gray asked us to,” Jill hedged, then admitted, “I was so grateful.”
On her shoulder, Sam stirred. “Mommy…?”
“Isn’t it good to be inside, Sam?” Jill whispered to him.
She dreaded the possibility that this was a real illness. Strep throat, or influenza. What were doctors like out here? How long would it be before he could travel safely?
Stomach in knots, she followed Gray’s mother down a clean, plain hallway and, moments later, Sam was seated on her lap at a big old kitchen table. There was a cast-iron, wood-fired range that was no longer in use, next to an electric stove that wasn’t a whole lot newer. There was a wooden dresser set with a motley collection of decorative plates, and there were floral calico curtains bunched in the windows.
Mrs. McCall moved about the large yet cozy room with quiet efficiency.
“Where did you leave Gray?” she said.
“Um, I’m not sure. About a mile back, I guess.”
“He should be home any minute, then. He’ll come and check that you’re safe before he sees to the horse. You haven’t told me your name yet, honey.”
The reproof was so mild it was almost a compliment.
“I’m sorry. It’s Jill. Jill Brown.”
Jill Brown McCall? She didn’t say it, being absolutely sure that Gray, like herself until very recently, would have said nothing about their marriage to his family.
“It’s good to meet you, Jill. And you, Sam, darling-heart, although I know you’re feeling too bad to talk.” She slid a wide, half-filled soup plate across to Jill and cautioned, “Still piping hot, so wait a little,” then added, “I’m Louise.”
There was the sound of boots clumping on the back steps, then the rattle and creak of old doors opening, and Gray appeared. He swept his hat off his head with a single, practised movement, and Jill could see that his nose was shiny with cold and his black eyes glistened. The feeling of the outdoor world of the ranch
