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Stories of family and romance beneath the Big Sky!
“That is the skimpiest bathing suit I’ve ever seen,” Pierce told Chelsea as she rose out of the icy water of the lake.
She looked at her two-piece suit. It was cut high on the legs, as all of them were. “Surely not,” she said airily.
Uh-oh, wrong thing to say. He looked as if he would like to choke her.
“That outfit might be modest for the city, but around here, folks dress more circumspectly.”
Chelsea couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you don’t sound at all like the Pierce Dalton who dared me to go skinny dipping in the pool at my apartment building at three o’clock on a January morning.”
“I’m not here to discuss the past,” he informed her. “If the guys working here see you like that, they’ll take it as an open invitation to visit. I won’t have them distracted by a siren from the city.”
Chelsea rubbed the end of the towel over her dripping hair. “You’d better watch yourself, too, Pierce. City sirens are hard to resist.”
Her Montana Man
Laurie Paige
MILLS & BOON
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LAURIE PAIGE
“One of the nicest things about writing romances is researching locales, careers and ideas. In the interest of authenticity, most writers will try anything…once.” Along with her writing adventures, Laurie has been a NASA engineer, a past president of the Romance Writers of America, a mother and a grandmother. She was twice a RITA® Award finalist for Best Traditional Romance and has won awards from RT Book Reviews for Best Silhouette Special Edition and Best Silhouette, in addition to appearing on the USA TODAY bestseller list. Recently resettled in Northern California, Laurie is looking forward to whatever experiences her next novel brings.
To Bobby and Melba,
for all the adventures in Montana.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
Chelsea Kearns stripped the surgical gloves from her hands and tossed them in the Contaminated Waste Disposal bin. In the locker room she showered, then dressed in street clothing of khaki slacks and a cotton shirt of cool, mint green.
Once outside the hospital, which housed the county morgue, she breathed deeply several times before unlocking her car from the passenger side, opening both doors and letting the accumulated heat escape.
Here in the Beartooth Mountains of Montana just north of Yellowstone National Park, summers were usually pleasant—low eighties during the day, forties at night. The temperature on the digital display at the bank proclaimed the temperature to be ninety-three.
“This heat is terrible. It must be global warming,” a passerby said to her companion as they strolled past Chelsea. “The government should do something.”
“Maybe we’ll have a thundershower later this afternoon,” the companion said in a soothing voice.
The first woman grimaced. “Those only bring lightning and forest fires at this time of the year.”
Chelsea sympathized with the ill-humored woman. She felt out of sorts herself. The bank clock indicated it was well past the noon hour on Wednesday, July third.
She’d eaten a quick breakfast at five-thirty, but she wasn’t hungry. She never was after a morning spent in the morgue, doing her job as a medical examiner. The autopsy had disclosed information that was going to shock most people in the town of Rumor, located twenty miles from here.
Tossing her purse onto the passenger seat, she reluctantly followed it inside the hot car and started the engine. She turned the air conditioner on full blast and aimed the vents directly at her face.
Leaving Whitehorn, she followed the highway to the turnoff that would take her to Rumor, Montana, and the lakeside cottage where she would be staying for the next three weeks. This first week she had to work, but after that she had two solid weeks of vacation.
Ah, bliss.
However, before the fun began she had bad news to report to the deputy sheriff in charge of the investigation. The autopsy she’d performed indicated murder, not suicide; although, the perpetrator had tried to make it look that way.
The absence of powder burns precluded a self-inflicted shot, or else the victim would have had to have held the weapon with her toes in order to inflict a wound in her left temple at a sufficient distance. Besides all that, the angle of entry of the projectile was all wrong for suicide.
Chelsea sighed. This was going to be a tough case. She could feel it in her bones. The trial, assuming they caught the guy who did it, would be time consuming. She’d have to come down from Billings, an hour’s drive each way, and testify about her
