Big Sky Reunion

“Your door is.” Daniel’s boots tramped across the wood floor until his long, jean-clad legs materialized in front of the display case. “Hey, Goldilocks. Looks like you’re hard at work.”

“I am.” Melinda considered asking him if he’d enjoyed his date with April, but thought better of it. Instead, she squirted window cleaner on the next section of glass.

“Is Aunt Martha planning to reopen the shop?”

“We’re thinking about it.” She swirled the glass cleaner around, blurring her view of his legs.

“That a fact?” he drawled, an arrogant grin in his voice. “Want some help?”

She lifted her head too fast, whacking it on the inside of the display case. She rubbed the back of her skull.

“No! I’m fine.” She looked up at him. Foolish woman! She should’ve known he’d be grinning at her, a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his dark eyes flash with amusement.

CHARLOTTE CARTER

A multipublished author of more than fifty romances, cozy mysteries and inspirational titles, Charlotte Carter lives in Southern California with her husband of forty-nine years and their cat, Mittens. They have two married daughters and five grandchildren. When she’s not writing, Charlotte does a little stand-up comedy, “G-Rated Humor for Grownups,” and teaches workshops on the craft of writing.

Big Sky Reunion

Charlotte Carter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Blessed are those whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the one whose sin the Lord will never count against them.

—Romans 4:7, 8

Special thanks to Nancy Farrier for sharing her knowledge of the inspirational market, helping me with the plot and for simply being a really nice person.

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 Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Letter to Reader

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Chapter One

“Hey, look who’s back in town. Goldilocks.”

Melinda Spencer whirled. Shock slammed into her like a runaway truck. Her eyes widened and she took a step back.

Gazing down at her was the original bad boy of Potter Creek, Montana. His dark eyes held the same teasing glint she remembered from ten years ago. His easy slouch and the cocky way his Stetson sat tipped back on his head suggested he hadn’t changed one whit since she last saw him.

Since the day she’d gotten on a bus to hightail her way out of Montana and back to her home in Pittsburgh. She’d lost her heart to this dark-eyed Romeo.

She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “Hello, Daniel. I thought you’d be long gone from here by now.” Probably in jail or killed in a bar fight.

One corner of his mouth kicked up a notch. “Nope. This is my hometown. I’m here to stay.”

“Good for you,” she said, deadpan. She turned her back on him to finish the task he’d interrupted, unlocking the door to Aunt Martha’s Knitting and Notions shop. The silly key didn’t want to work, which had nothing to do with her fingers that had suddenly turned clumsy.

“What brings you to town?” Daniel asked.

She went still for a moment, then looked over her shoulder. “Aunt Martha had a stroke. I brought her home from the rehab facility this morning. I’m here to take care of her.”

“So you’re not planning to stay long?”

“I’ll stay as long as she needs me.” In truth, she didn’t have much of anywhere else to go, but she wasn’t going to tell Daniel O’Brien that.

She resumed her efforts with the obstinate key.

“Here, let me help you.”

He reached around her, his hand closing over hers, his fingers long and deeply tanned. His forearm had a light covering of dark hair over corded muscles. He was too close, so close she caught the scent of the prairie on his shirt and the unique masculine aroma that was his alone.

Memories of being seventeen years old and foolish assailed her. Memories she’d never been able to completely bury even when she’d married another boy, the one who had taken her to the senior prom.

She yanked her hand away, her heart thudding like the hooves of a quarter horse galloping across the open landscape.

The lock released its grip on the door. Daniel shoved it open.

“There you go, Goldilocks. Welcome to Aunt Martha’s Knitting and Notions.” With a mock bow, he gestured for her to enter the small shop.

Instead she held out her hand. “The key.”

His eyes twinkling, his lips curved upward, he dropped it in her hand.

“Thank you.” She stepped inside, intending to close the door behind her, leaving him standing on the cracked sidewalk that ran the length of Main Street.

No such luck.

Like a predator on the prowl, he slipped past her and sauntered into the store.

Bins for yarn lined two walls from floor to ceiling, but many were empty. Other bins were a jumble, worsteds mixed with baby weight yarn, variegated and solid colors randomly mingled in the same bin. The display rack for knitting needles, crochet hooks, stitch markers and other notions canted at a precarious angle and the pattern books tucked into a pocket display looked as though they’d been published in the 1950s.

In a back corner of the room sat a table and six unmatched dining room chairs that had been used for knitting classes. Odds and ends of yarn were scattered about the table.

Daniel picked up a skein of merino yarn and tossed it gently in the air, catching it and tossing it again as a young boy might toss a baseball. In no way, however, did Daniel O’Brien resemble anything other than a full-grown cowboy with an attitude.

“It smells musty in here. Better leave the door open and air out the place.” He tossed the skein back in the bin where he’d found it.

Melinda wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think that Aunt Martha has opened the store in weeks.” Martha, even at age eighty-two, had always been lively and energetic, busy in the community and with her church work, until the stroke felled her. Or so Melinda had thought.

From the disarray in the shop and out-of-date stock, she suspected her great-aunt hadn’t spent a lot of time serving her customers in recent years. Assuming she had any customers left.

Her shoulders sank. Not only had she planned to help her aunt during her recovery, but she’d also desperately hoped to turn Aunt Martha’s Knitting and Notions into a profitable business that would support them both.

Apparently God didn’t care what she wanted. Not that she deserved His help.

Still skulking around and poking into things, Daniel said, “I heard you got married a while back. Your husband come to town with you?”

Despite the ten-inch needle of grief that stabbed her in the chest, she lifted her chin. “I’m widowed.”

That stopped him in his tracks. The teasing glint vanished from his eyes and his brows tugged together. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard that.” He lifted his Stetson, ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair and resettled his hat. “You got kids?”

“No.” No husband. No child—not anymore. She’d as much as killed them both with her own hand. Her chin quivered. She bit down on her lip, turned away and walked behind the counter to the ancient cash register.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to check the inventory and some of Aunt Martha’s records.” She looked at him expectantly, willing him to leave.

He straightened to his full six feet two. “You want me to get lost.”

“Yes, please.” Her teeth clenched.

He shrugged, an easy roll of broad shoulders beneath a blue work shirt that pulled tautly across his chest. He’d filled out in the past ten years and looked as though he was used to hard work. Which, remembering his wildness, the way he’d loved to party and drive at reckless speeds, was hard for her to believe.

“Then I’ll catch you later, Goldilocks.” He winked and ambled to the door.

She watched him walk down the sidewalk past the shop’s dusty display window, all loose limbs and easy gate. His buddies used to call him Swagger.

He called her Goldilocks.

“My name is Melinda,” she whispered to herself. Goldilocks and her wide-eyed innocence no longer existed. That foolish person had endured a painful death along with her son, Jason.

Daniel still had that arrogant swagger that had hooked her the moment he’d walked across Riverside Park to stand two feet in front of her. In a low, husky voice, he’d said, “Hi, Goldilocks. Wanna go for a ride in my truck?”

To her dismay, a part of her still did.

Daniel reached his pickup parked a few doors down from Martha’s shop. He’d driven into town to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy. When he’d spotted Goldilocks, he’d been so surprised that a dust devil racing across the prairie could’ve blown him over.

Opening the truck door, he smiled to himself. He would’ve recognized her golden curls from a mile away. Long and bouncy and woven of pure silk.

A city girl, she’d been sent out west to spend the summer with her great-aunt Martha before her final year of high school. Daniel had spotted her right off then, too. Even knowing she was too young and he ought to keep his distance, he’d been drawn to her like a horse to a quartered apple in his hand.

He’d teased and cajoled and lured her with every bit of charm he had.

But Miss Goody Two-Shoes had won out. She told him no and skedaddled back home to Pittsburgh without so much as a wave goodbye.

That hadn’t done his ego a bit of good. Not that his ego hadn’t needed a good kick in the butt back then.

She was different now. Older. Maybe wiser. A widow with a hint of sadness shadowing her baby-blue eyes. No longer a girl, now she was a full-grown woman.

But she hadn’t given him a single sign that Goldilocks had any interest in a second time around.

He climbed into the cab of the extended pickup, which was baking hot from sitting out in the summer sun.

He wondered how long she’d stay in Potter Creek this time. Long enough for him to get a second chance to prove he wasn’t a worthless cowboy?

Sweat crept down his back and he licked his lips. It might be worth a shot—if she stuck around for a while.

The O’Brien ranch lay a little northwest of Potter Creek, less than thirty minutes away. Daniel and his older brother, Arnie, ran a hundred head of beef cattle on the place and Daniel pursued his passion for breeding quarter horses. His mares had foaled some of the top-ranked quarter horses in the state and he got big bucks for his stallions to service mares owned by other horse owners.

Turning off the highway, he drove under the wrought-iron arch at the entrance to O’Brien Ranch and bumped over the cattle guard. The driveway bordered the horse pasture on the right and led to a two-story white house his grandfather had built.

A house and ranch his father had nearly destroyed in a drunken haze that lasted around fifty years, until his death.

April, his favorite sorrel mare, trotted over to the fence. He tooted his horn and she shook her blond mane in response, keeping pace with the truck until she reached the end of the pasture.

He pulled the truck up next to the barn and parked just as Arnie came out of the open double doors riding his shiny red ATV.

“Yo, bro.” Daniel swung down from the truck. “What’s happening?”

Using hand controls, Arnie brought the ATV to a halt. His dog, Sheila, a golden retriever mix, sat proudly behind him. “What I want to know is what took you so long, Danny boy. Had Doc Harper gone fishing?”

Daniel slapped himself on the forehead. Doc Harper was the town pharmacist. “The prescription. I forgot to pick it up.”

Arnie gave him a steady-eyed look and slowly raised his brows. Although they both had inherited their mother’s olive complexion and the telltale cheekbones of the Blackfoot Indians, Arnie’s upper body was more muscular than Daniel’s. His legs, though, had withered considerably since the accident that had paralyzed him eight years ago.

“You got distracted, I gather,” he said.

“Yep, you could say that.”

“Good lookin’?”

Heat from more than the sun flooded Daniel’s cheeks. “Mindy Spencer’s back in town.” He used the nickname for Melinda that family and close friends used. “She’s helping her aunt.”

Arnie’s eyes widened and he tilted his head. “If Ivy hears about Mindy, she might not be too happy.”

Scowling, Daniel shook his head. “Ivy doesn’t have any claim on me.”

“She’d sure like to.” Taking off his hat, Arnie wiped the sweat from the inside of the hat band. “Is Mindy planning to stay permanently?”

“She said not.”

“Interesting.” Arnie shifted the ATV into gear. “Have a nice ride back to town.”

Daniel held out his hands, palms up. “Ah, come on, Arnie. The prescription can wait till tomorrow, can’t it?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. Doc Harper closes up shop on Sundays.” He drove the ATV to the back porch of the house. Sheila agilely jumped down and waited while Arnie unloaded the wheelchair from the back of the all-terrain vehicle. Using a trapeze device Daniel had jerry-rigged for him, Arnie lifted himself out of the ATV and into the chair. “Say hello to Mindy for me next time you see her.”

Daniel jammed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Right.”

Chortling a big-brother laugh that put Daniel’s teeth on edge, Arnie wheeled himself up the ramp and into the house, Sheila right behind him, ready to be of service whenever she was needed.

Yanking open the truck door, Daniel got inside. He’d go into town. Get the prescription. And come right back. Like he was supposed to have done the first time.

Unless Goldilocks was still hanging around the knitting shop.

Then he might stick around for a while.

Chapter Two

Head down, her footsteps as slow as a desert tortoise, Melinda left Knitting and Notions to walk the short distance to Aunt Martha’s house.

She hadn’t spent long in the shop after Daniel left. Realizing how much needed to be done to get the store up and running was a daunting prospect. First, a top-to-bottom cleaning would be needed, followed by rearranging the stock and ordering new yarns and notions. Advertisements would have to be created and placed in the local biweekly newspaper, flyers made and posted around town about classes and special activities.

To make the shop a profitable venture, she’d have to attract customers not only from Potter Creek and its five thousand residents, but from the surrounding area, as well. Which meant she’d be competing with shops in Bozeman, less than an hour away.

Daunting was an understatement.

For as long as Melinda could remember, Martha had lived in a small one-story stucco house facing Second Street, directly behind the shop. The large backyard used to be a riot of color during the summer, roses in full bloom, morning glories scampering up a trellis, beds of purple iris and lilac bushes. Ten years ago Melinda had helped her aunt put up jars and jars of vegetables she’d grown in her garden, most of which she’d given to the church’s food pantry to help the poor.

Now the yard had gone scraggly and overgrown. Only the indestructible morning glories struggled onward and upward, covering the trellis with bright blue flowers.

The house looked as ragged as the yard with its chipped paint and dangling window screens.

Guilt punched a hole in Melinda’s chest. A knot tightened in her stomach. So much had changed in the past ten years. She should have kept better track of her aunt’s situation instead of focusing only on her own problems.

For three agonizing years, she’d devoted her life, day and night, to Jason. The last two she’d rarely left his side or thought of anything but his well-being.

The steps wobbled as she walked up onto the porch where a wicker slider sat, dusty and abandoned.

In the kitchen, which featured a circa-1950 chrome-and-Formica table and a white tile counter, the dishes she’d washed after their lunch sat drying on the drain board. From the living room, she heard the sound of the TV playing.

Aunt Martha sat in her favorite wingback chair, the remote control in her hand, her walker right next to her chair. Her collapsible wheelchair was in the front entry if she needed it.

“Hello, Mindy, dear. Did you pick out some yarn while you were in the shop?” Due to the stroke, the right side of Martha’s mouth didn’t work quite right and her speech was slightly slurred. Her hair had long since gone from the blond of her youth to silver-gray, and her face was lined from a lifetime of Montana sunshine and hours of hearty laughter.

“Not today. I brought along a sweater I’ve been meaning to finish for ages. I’ll work on that first.” She picked up the newspaper Martha had dropped on the floor and set it on the coffee table. “Anything I can get for you?”

“No, I’m fine. I don’t want you to trouble yourself over me.”

“That’s why I’m here, Aunt Martha. Have you done your afternoon exercises yet?”

“Oh, pshaw, child. Those therapists at Manhattan Rehab purely wore me out. I’m taking today off.”

Frowning, Melinda picked up the rubber ball her aunt was supposed to squeeze multiple times during the day and handed it to Martha. “You aren’t going to be able to knit a stitch if you don’t get your strength back in your hands.”

Martha looked up over the top of her glasses at Melinda. “You’ve turned into a bossy little thing, haven’t you, child?” With a funny twist of her lips, and considerable effort, she held out her hand for the ball.

Melinda placed it in her palm. “Now squeeze.”

Martha did as instructed.

Sitting down in the floral-print love seat, Melinda stretched out her legs. She wiggled her toes in her sandals. She wasn’t wearing polish on her toenails and idly wondered if Daniel had noticed.

Rejecting the thought, she sat up straighter, pulling her feet closer to the sofa.

“Before your stroke, were you still teaching knitting classes?”

“Oh, my goodness, no, dear. Young people don’t seem so interested in knitting these days and most of the ladies who used to come into the shop have either died or moved into an old folks’ home in Bozeman or Manhattan. Unless someone called for something special, I’ve hardly opened the door for the past year or so.”

Which explained both the obstinate key and the disarray in the shop. Melinda puffed out her cheeks on a long exhale.

“I was thinking… I thought I might reopen the shop.” She chose her words carefully. Her heart stuttered in the same uncertain rhythm. “Maybe stay in Potter Creek permanently.”

Eyes widening and a lopsided smile creasing her cheeks, Martha said, “That would be so nice, dear, but are you sure you want to be stuck in a small town like Potter Creek? There isn’t much for young people to do here.”

Then why had Daniel stuck around?

“You remember, I was managing a knitting and needlework store until—” her voice broke and she struggled to keep a tremor from her lips “—until Jason got so sick.”

“That poor little boy. I was so sorry—”

“The shop built up a really nice clientele,” she hurried on, unwilling and unable to talk about her son. “Mostly women, of course, but quite a few young mothers. Even some teenagers. The classes were filled all of the time and we kept adding new ones.”

Moving her right arm awkwardly, Martha put the rubber ball in her lap. “Is that what you’d like to do with my shop?”

“After your hospital social worker called me about your discharge plan, I got to thinking about the shop and how much you’d taught me that summer I visited. I wouldn’t do anything with the shop without your approval.” She did need to keep busy, though. She couldn’t go on wallowing in self-pity and isolating herself from human contact as she had for the past six months.

Using her left hand, Martha lifted her right hand and brought them both to her chest. “Praise the Lord! I’ve been praying He’d give me a sign of what I should do. Now God has answered my prayer and sent you to me.”

Slanting her gaze to the worn and faded Oriental carpet on the floor, Melinda shook her head. “I don’t think I’m God’s answer to anything. But I do need to work, Aunt Martha.” Regret and grief nearly choking her, she lifted her head. “I’m broke. I had to declare bankruptcy last month.” Enormous medical bills had taken every dime she’d received after her husband’s death—a death benefit from the defense contractor who’d employed him as a civilian truck driver in Afghanistan. An IED had blown up under his vehicle. Even then, she’d still owed thousands of dollars for Jason’s care. She’d had no choice but to file for bankruptcy and start over again.

Alone.

Desperately trying to stitch her life back together again.

“I’m so sorry, Mindy. If I’d known…”

She tried to shrug off her aunt’s sympathy, but it felt like ice picks were being jammed into her spine one after the other, cutting off the messages from her brain to her muscles. The pain paralyzed her.

“Of course you can run the shop, dear. I won’t be of much help, but I’m sure you have some wonderful ideas.”

The tension drained from her shoulders. The tightness she’d been holding in eased and her facial muscles relaxed.

She had a job and a task that was so daunting she wouldn’t be able to think of the past. Maybe she’d even be able to sleep at night without the dreams that had haunted her for the past three years.

One problem remained. Now that she was going to stay, what was she going to do about Daniel and the feelings she had for him that had never quite gone away?

Foolish feelings she should have discarded when she put on Joe’s wedding ring.

After dinner, Melinda decided to finish her unpacking. She’d brought only two suitcases with her. Her few other possessions she’d stored with a friend to be shipped later—if she decided to stay in Potter Creek.

She’d stayed in Aunt Martha’s guest room ten years ago, the narrow twin bed and varnished pine bedside table and matching dresser familiar to her.

Shaking out her clothes, she hung them in the small walk-in closet: casual blouses and slacks, the ubiquitous jeans that was the uniform in small Montana towns. A few pairs of shorts and tank tops for the scorching days of summer.

At the bottom of the suitcase she found her Bible. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she held it for a moment and rubbed her fingertip over the faux-leather cover. For years she’d read the Bible or a book of daily devotions every morning. And she’d prayed.

But no longer.

Tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision. Her chin quivered. The bitter taste of failure, of God’s censure, filled her throat. He would never forgive her. Nor could she forgive herself.

She opened the drawer in the bedside table and tossed the Bible inside where it would be out of sight, no longer a reminder of lost hope.

As the Bible landed with a thump, the cover flew open. A snapshot slid out.

She covered her mouth with her hand to prevent a sob. Jason. Two years old. A towhead with a beatific smile, wearing his swimsuit, running through the sprinklers on a hot afternoon. A perfect child. As smart and quick as an Olympic athlete and just learning to talk. She could still hear him calling her.