poor old Mrs. Peters had passed away.
Suddenly the announcer’s voice penetrated her thoughts.
“The winner is M. Stewart!”
Melanie felt a hand on her back propelling her forward. As she moved toward the grinning announcer, she noticed a tall, dark-haired man moving from the wings on the far side of the stage. Slim and muscular, he exuded the very essence of a man-about-town. He had rugged, chiseled features and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
And those eyes were fixed firmly on her!
Melanie gave herself a mental shake and focused on the task ahead. Nervously, she wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt before moving to stand beside the announcer.
“M. Stewart,” he boomed in his loud, TV personality voice.
“Yes,” Melanie answered, and then heard a yes from directly behind her. Turning her head, she found those deep blue eyes glaring at her.
“I’m sorry, miss, but I think he asked for me.” Low and rumbling, his voice rolled past her left ear as the man carefully but still rudely elbowed his way past.
“But my name is M. Stewart,” Melanie insisted, wondering if the whole thing was a hoax. The announcer was obviously at a loss as he turned his perfectly groomed head from one to the other.
“I’m Melanie Stewart.” Melanie was so nervous her voice slipped out in a soft squeak that no one seemed to hear.
Finally the director hissed from his seat in the sound room. The words were audible over the whole stage. “Do something!”
“I’m sorry, folks,” the announcer said slowly, “but there seems to be a bit of a mix-up here. Our winner of the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest is M. Stewart. Sir, may I have your full name, please?”
The handsome interloper gracefully inclined his head as he stated clearly, “Mitchel Edward Stewart.” His glittering blue eyes dared Melanie to top that.
“And you, miss. Your name is?” The microphone was stuck in her face, and Melanie forced a tight rein on her temper as she answered.
“Melanie Clarice Stewart.”
“Well, isn’t this great. Are you two married?”
The stranger’s dark head shook adamantly, his blue eyes hurling daggers at Melanie.
“I am not married and I have certainly never met Miss Stewart,” he said, arrogantly dismissing Melanie’s presence with a brush of his hand. “I was advised by telephone that I had won a contest and that I was obligated to be here today.”
Melanie’s simmering temper flashed to the surface. Not so fast, she thought, and tugged the rumpled letterhead from the pocket of her skirt, intent on wiping the smugly satisfied look from Mr. Mitchel Stewart’s handsome countenance.
“I received this letter by special delivery,” she said, waving the letter for all to see. Heat flooded her face as she stared into mocking blue eyes.
“I was to receive a phone call with further instructions, but—” She paused for effect. Her tone was acidic in the extreme. “Apparently, that went astray.”
Mitchel Stewart looked stunned at her words. Obviously he thought she was faking. Anger rushed through her as Melanie remembered all the things 50,000 could provide for her friends. There was no way this man was going to do her out of what was rightfully hers. She couldn’t afford to let Mr. Pushy M. Stewart push her out of the running. If his name really was Stewart!
Just then, Papa John stepped into the spotlight. Taking the mike from the dumbfounded announcer’s hand, he spoke into it in the soft, musical drawl known throughout North America.
“Now, folks. It looks like there’s been some sort of mix-up here today. According to my information, our winner, M. Stewart, lives at 300 Oak Street in Mossbank, North Dakota.”
His weathered face studied the two. Melanie spoke up.
“Yes, well, I work at that address. It’s a nursing home. Sunset Retirement Home.”
Clearly, Mitchel Stewart was not to be outdone. He stepped forward.
“I am also employed at 300 Oak Street.”
Her anger grew as she glared at him, her eyes narrowed and searching. How could he do this to her? He was lying. She knew it. She knew all the tenants in the home, and she knew the employees, as well. He wasn’t one of them.
“I started two weeks ago.” He said it triumphantly, as if this was a game of one-upmanship. Melanie fumed.
“This sure is a puzzler, folks.” Papa John scratched his head, obviously considering the next step.
One of the most popular television stations in North Dakota was broadcasting a lot of dead air, which was certainly not good for business, but it seemed no one could think of anything to say. Finally, the announcer stepped forward and spoke directly to the camera.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have watched a newsmaking event on WMIX tonight. We apparently have two winners in the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest, both named M. Stewart and both living in Mossbank and working at 300 Oak Street.” He smiled fatuously at both of them before glancing at the camera. “Keep tuned, and WMIX will keep you up to the minute with events as they happen.”
As he gave the familiar station call letters, Melanie drooped with fatigue. Papa John moved to brush a gentle hand over hers.
“I’m real sorry about this, miss,” he apologized. “I don’t know what happened. There must have been some error. The selections were made by computer.” Papa John grinned at her. “Couldn’t have picked a better station, though, could I? WMIX. Mixed up, they should call it.”
Melanie smiled weakly.
They both turned at the throat-clearing sound from Mitchel Stewart. The dark-haired man had absolutely no manners, Melanie decided grimly. He stood peering down at both of them, eavesdropping on their conversation without any compunction. She turned her back to him deliberately as Papa John spoke again.
“I’m sorry about you, too, Mr. Stewart. I promise you that I will get this straightened out and let you know as soon as I can. Thank you both for making time to come down.” The old man reached into his shirt pocket for a scrap of paper and a pen.
“Where can I reach you during the day, Miss Stewart?”
Melanie shuffled through her purse for a business card. She tried to ignore the tall man directly behind her.
“I am the director of care at Sunset,” she told him, keeping her voice quiet.
“That’s the one attached to the hospital,” Papa John said, scribbling in odd, unreadable ink strokes. “I know about it from friends.”
“Here’s my address,” Mitchel Stewart announced gruffly, unasked. “I’m often at the hospital, but I’ll give you my card with office numbers.” Trust him to butt in, Melanie thought.
A lean, muscular hand proffered a crisp white business card. His
