Montana Passions
Christine Rimmer
Allison Leigh
Pamela Toth
MILLS & BOON
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In the town of Thunder Canyon there are men who can send pulses racing and temperatures rising!
Montana Passions
Three thrilling and satisfying romances from three beloved Mills & Boon authors!
Stranded With the Groom
By
CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been an actress, a sales clerk, a janitor, a model, a phone sales representative, a teacher, a waitress, a playwright and an office manager. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Those who know her best withhold comment when she makes such claims; they are grateful that she’s at last found steady work. Christine is grateful, too—not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma.
For Montana readers everywhere. Welcome to Thunder Canyon, Montana.
Chapter One
“A mail-order bride,” Katie Fenton muttered under her breath. “What were they thinking?“
In Thunder Canyon, Montana, it was the first Saturday after New Year’s—and that meant it was Heritage Day.
The annual celebration, held in the big reception room of Thunder Canyon’s sturdy stone-and-brick town hall, included rows of brightly decorated booths, some serving food and others displaying endless examples of local arts and crafts. There was always a pie auction and a quilt raffle and, as evening drew on, a potluck supper and dancing late into the night.
Also, this year, the Thunder Canyon Historical Society had decided to put on a series of historical reenactments. In the morning, they’d presented the local legend of the great Thunder Bird, a mythical figure who took the form of a man every spring and met his mortal mate on sacred ground. According to Native American lore, their joyous reunion caused the spring rains to fall, the leaves and flowers to emerge and the grass to grow lush and green.
At two in the afternoon, there was the discovery of gold in 1862 at Grasshopper Creek—complete with rocks the size of baseballs, sprayed gold to look like huge nuggets.
And now, at four-thirty, it was time for the mail-order bride—played by Katie—arriving by train to meet and marry a man she’d never seen before.
Katie stood huddled on the narrow stage at the west end of the hall. Perched on a makeshift step behind a rickety cardboard mock-up of a steam engine and a red caboose, she kept her shoulders hunched and her head down so she couldn’t be seen over the top of the fake train.
Utterly miserable—Katie hated, above all, to make a spectacle of herself—she stared at the door hole cut in the caboose. On cue, she was supposed to push it open and emerge to meet her “groom.”
Outside, the wind howled. A storm was blowing in. Though the local weatherman had promised nothing much worse than a few flurries, most of the Heritage Day crowd had departed the hall during the past half hour or so and headed for the safety of their homes.
Katie herself was more than ready to call it a day.
But unfortunately, this year for the Heritage Day revels, a local merchant had come up with the bright idea of providing free beer on tap. The beer booth was a big hit. Certain of the citizenry had been knocking it back since eleven or so. They couldn’t have cared less that the predicted flurries seemed to be shaping up into a full-blown blizzard. They were too busy having a grand old time.
Out on the main floor, someone let out a whistle. Katie heard the impatient stomping of heavy feet on the old, well-polished hardwood floorboards.
“C’mon, where’s the bride?”
“Get on with it. We want the bride!”
“The bride!”
“The bride! Give us the bride!”
Katie cast a desperate glance to the tiny wing area at the edge of the stage where sweet old Emelda Ross, one of the few members of the Historical Society who’d yet to go home, hovered over an ancient reel-to-reel tape recorder.
“The bride, the bride!”
“Wahoo, let’s see her!”
Katie gave Emelda a shaky nod. Emelda turned on the tape and two loud train whistles erupted: her cue.
Sucking in a big breath and letting it out slowly, Katie tugged on her 1880s-style merino wool frock, adjusted her bonnet and pushed open the cardboard door.
The beer drinkers erupted into a chorus of catcalls and stomping.
“The librarian!” one of them shouted. “Hey, the librarian is the mail-order bride!”
Another let out a whoop. “Hey, Katie! Welcome to Thunder Canyon!”
“We love you, Katie!”
“If your groom stands you up, I’ll take you, Katie!”
Lovely.
With care, so as not to knock over the train, Katie emerged to face the crowd. She smoothed her dress again, her nervous hands shaking. How, she wondered miserably, had she let herself get roped into this one?
With great effort, she forced a wobbly smile and waved at the beer drinkers, who
