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“Send that man away!”
Thea Maxwell stared at her father without understanding. “Who…you mean Rafe?”
Her dad nodded. “He’s the law.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“He’ll be investigating Bobby’s accident.” Robert Maxwell closed his eyes for a moment. “If one of those boys dies, it’s going to be all we can do to keep your brother from being tried for murder. This deputy you’re so set on getting friendly with will be the one making the arrest, gathering the evidence. And he’ll be the one pushing to convict.”
He looked straight at Thea, his face haggard, his eyes as cold as stone.
“Are you willing to let your boyfriend send your brother to prison?”
Dear Reader,
In the midst of writing Married in Montana, I made a major change in my life: I bought a horse. After taking riding lessons for a few months, my daughter fell in love with a spotted saddle horse named T-Bone, a sweet guy with whom she could learn the ropes of riding and showing horses. I was horse crazy when I was a teenager, so I’ve enjoyed encouraging her equine adventures.
I suppose my early romance with horses explains, in part, why I love to write about the people who make ranching their life. The vacation I would choose is a couple of weeks spent on a working cattle ranch—in Montana, of course—riding out with the crew every morning, coming in tired and dirty and hungry in the evening…and then getting up the next morning to do it all over again!
I get to live a bit of that cowboy life when we go to the barn to ride—and when I write books like this one. My heroine, Thea Maxwell, is living my idea of the perfect life. All she needs is the perfect man with whom to share it. Deputy Sheriff Rafe Rafferty fits the bill…except for the fact that he’s on one side of the law and she, thanks to family complications, is on the other. Working out Thea’s and Rafe’s problems, against the magnificent backdrop of the Montana Rockies, gave me a great deal of pleasure. I hope their story does the same for you.
All the best,
Lynnette Kent
P.S. I should mention that once I finished Married in Montana, I took the horse experience a step further…I bought one for me!
Married in Montana
Lynnette Kent
For Roxanne and Ellen, who mined the Maxwells and their story with me. Thanks for all the hard work. We make a great team!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
SETTING HIS JAW, Rafe Rafferty stepped out of his truck into the driving rain. He turned immediately to open the rear passenger door. “Okay, son, you’re home. Get out.”
Sprawled across the back seat, a nineteen-year-old troublemaker rolled his handsome head from side to side. “Don’ wanna be home.” Each word puffed out a rich aroma of beer.
“Doesn’t matter what you do or don’t want.” Rafe reached in and caught the boy by one wrist. “You’re not spending the night in there.” He gave the connected arm a jerk. His passenger flowed into a sitting position, held it for a second, then slid to the floorboard like a rag doll.
Rafe glanced at the water running an inch deep around the soles of his boots. “This is gonna hurt you a hell of a lot more than it hurts me.” He braced a foot on the running board of the truck, grabbed the boy’s ankles, one in each hand, and thrust backward with all the force his legs would generate.
A second later, Bobby Maxwell, heir apparent to the Walking Stones Ranch near Paradise Corners, Montana, landed on his butt on the driveway in the rain.
Rafe ignored the boy’s cussing. “I’ll wake them up inside,” he told Bobby. “And then I’m leaving. You want to sleep out in this weather, that’s your business. Getting you home before you killed yourself or somebody else was mine.”
His heels struck loudly on the floorboards of the wide porch as he crossed to the ranch house’s front door. The brass knocker had been fashioned as a bull’s head—an Angus, no doubt, the specialty of Walking Stones Ranch—with a twelve-inch horn spread and a ring through its nose. Rafe grabbed that ring and slammed brass against brass five times, good and loud. Then he backed up a step, propped his thumbs in the pockets of his uniform slacks and waited.
Soon enough, the porch lamps flashed
