Montana Dreaming

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About the Author

JUDY DUARTE, an avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, always wanted to write books of her own. One day she decided to make that dream come true. Five years and six manuscripts later, she sold her first book to Special Edition.

Her unpublished stories have won the Emily and the Orange Rose and in 2001 she became a double Golden Heart finalist. Judy credits her success to Romance Writers of America and two wonderful critique partners, Sheri WhiteFeather and Crystal Green.

At times, when a stubborn hero and a headstrong heroine claim her undivided attention, she and her family are thankful for fast food, pizza delivery and video games. When she’s not at the keyboard or in a Walter Mitty-type world, she enjoys travelling, spending romantic evenings with her personal hero and playing board games with her kids.

Judy lives in Southern California and loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: PO Box 498, San Luis Rey, CA 92068-0498, USA. You can also visit her website at www.judyduarte.com.

To Emalee Rae Colwell, who made her appearance in time to give Grandma a refresher course on birthing rooms and the miracle of childbirth.

Welcome to the world, baby girl!

In addition, I’d like to thank Christine Rimmer, Allison

Leigh, Pamela Toth, Karen Rose Smith and Cheryl St John, the other authors in the MONTANA series, for making this book a pleasure to write.

Chapter One

Juliet Rivera had always favored the aroma of grilled onions and green peppers, but tonight, the kitchen smells of the busy bar and grill triggered a wave of nausea.

“Are those fries up yet?” she asked, arching her back and trailing her fingers along the contour of her distended womb.

God, she hoped everything was all right. The baby had been unusually quiet today, which increased her concern about working after Dr. Hart had recommended she take it easy. She didn’t want to risk triggering premature labor, but she needed to support herself and the child she was going to bear.

Buck Crowley, the burly cook who’d once practiced his culinary skills on navy seamen, slid the plate toward her and grumbled. “You tell that fortune hunter that I’m not making them any crisper than this. French fries aren’t supposed to be as hard as matchsticks.”

“Thanks, Buck.” Juliet made her way through the dining room of The Hitching Post and placed the well-done fries in front of the lanky customer who’d asked her to take them back to the kitchen.

She watched him poke a finger at the heaping platter of extra-crispy potato strips, apparently checking to see if they were made the way he’d requested.

He wasn’t going to send them back again, was he?

If he did, she could imagine Buck storming out of the kitchen and into the dining room. The retired military man wasn’t prone to confrontations with the customers, but he, along with some of the other Thunder Canyon locals, didn’t appreciate all the strangers who’d flocked to the charming Montana town with hopes of striking it rich.

Years ago, several other gold rushes had lured their share of prospectors into Thunder Canyon. But the Queen of Hearts mine had played out, and Buck believed the contemporary gold-seekers would end up disappointed.

Juliet crossed her arms over the shelf her belly made and shifted her weight to one foot, waiting for the customer’s approval.

Dios mio, señor. Cual es su problema? With just under six weeks to go until her due date, she’d probably give birth before he decided whether the fries were good enough.

Juliet was dead on her feet and ready to clock out, especially after her visit to the emergency room two days ago. But she couldn’t leave yet. The Hitching Post was hopping like a Saturday night, and it was only the middle of the week.

The persnickety customer finally shrugged his shoulders, then reached for a fry. When he popped a second one into his mouth, she turned to go, pausing as her boss approached.

Martha Tasker, a matronly woman who wore her silver-streaked hair pulled into a topknot, placed a hand on Juliet’s shoulder. “I’m worried about you. How’s it going?”

Other than sore feet and a twinge of nausea whenever she neared the kitchen? Juliet forced a smile. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“No more fainting spells?”

“Not since Sunday afternoon.”

Mrs. Tasker studied her, as though trying to make her own assessment. “This is your just first night back on the job. We can try to handle the load without you. Why don’t you call it quits until tomorrow?”

Because Juliet’s small nest egg was only enough to see her through delivery and a few weeks after that. What would she do when it was gone? She’d been told there would be a workman’s compensation settlement that would go to her brother’s estate, but that could take years, and she wasn’t counting on it.

She flashed her employer another smile, one she hoped boasted more confidence than she felt. “As soon as the dinner crowd thins out, I’ll go home.”

“Good,” Mrs. Tasker said, as she began to wind her way back to the cash register she manned. “We don’t want that baby comin’ into the world too early. That fainting spell nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“What fainting spell?” a husky baritone voice asked.

Juliet glanced over her shoulder and spotted Mark Anderson, a reporter for a major news service who’d been sent to Thunder Canyon to cover the gold rush. Apparently, he’d just entered the dining room and had overheard her conversation with Mrs. Tasker.

She guessed him to be just shy of six feet, although he looked monstrously tall with his hands on his hips and glaring at her like a highway patrolman who’d just snagged a reckless driver. His dark hair, a bit long and unruly, bore a tinge of gray at the temples, so she judged him to be in his late thirties.

“It was nothing,” she told him, although the fainting spell and ambulance ride to the hospital had been pretty scary.

The reporter eyed her carefully. “Have you seen a doctor?”

Juliet wasn’t sure why he asked, why he cared. But she couldn’t see any reason not to answer honestly. There were too many people in this world who didn’t tell the truth, people who kept secrets. And she’d be darned if she’d be one of them. “I have a doctor. And I saw a resident obstetrician in the emergency room at Thunder Canyon General. Everything is fine, although I’m supposed to take it easy.”

“Then what are you doing here?” His husky voice, with the hint of a soft southern drawl, settled over her like a drizzle of melted chocolate. But his probing eyes weren’t nearly as sweet and comforting.

A strand of hair that had come loose from the gold clip she wore while at work tickled her cheek, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You’re certainly not taking it easy.” His whiskeybrown eyes swept over her again, no doubt spotting the exhaustion in her expression that a dab of lipstick and mascara couldn’t hide.

She wasn’t sure whether she should be angry with him for butting in or pleased that he gave a darn about her health and the baby’s welfare. But for a woman who’d grown up in a small, close-knit family, she’d been alone and on her own for too long to completely shrug off his concern.

He pulled out a chair and sat at the nearest table—on the dining room side, rather than closer to the bar where he usually parked himself for the evening. His gaze lingered on her, and he continued to study her with more interest than any of the other male customers.

At one time, she might have wondered if the reporter found her attractive. But how loco was that? With a belly that seemed to grow bigger every day, there wasn’t much for a man to find appealing—not that she cared anyway. Her baby was the one and only priority in her life.

Wanting to break the intimacy of his gaze, to distance herself from his interest, she asked, “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Not yet. But I’ll have a drink.”

Since coming into town last week on assignment, he’d had several stiff shots of bourbon every night—at least, that’s what he’d ordered when she’d been working. Then he ate dinner before heading across the street to the inn, where the news service had put him up.

She doubted he had a drinking problem, since his cynical yet flirtatious personality remained constant, and he appeared unaffected by his alcohol consumption.

“Bourbon and a splash of water?” she asked.

“Good memory.”

“Predictable customer.”

He grinned, and she headed for the bar, which sat on the far side of the room, near the dance floor that saw a lot of action on Friday and Saturday nights.

The Hitching Post had once been the town saloon, and although renovated many years ago into a respectable eatery, its history lingered in the old photographs that dotted the walls, the refurbished bar that still boasted scars and scratches from yesteryear and a painting of a nude woman, who was rumored to have been the original owner—the Shady Lady, as the locals called her.

Juliet always found it difficult not to stare at the image of the voluptuous blonde who sported a teasing grin. More straitlaced folks might disagree, but she thought the nineteenth-century piece of art added to the charm of The Hitching Post.

When the bartender handed her Mark’s drink, she returned to his table, placed a cocktail napkin in front of him, then served the glass of nearly straight bourbon.

He lifted his drink in a mock salute. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

His eyes continued to study her, but she couldn’t seem to make herself move, get back to work.

“Can you take a break?” he asked.

If she were inclined to think like a single woman on the prowl rather than an expectant mother wanting to nest, she’d consider it. “No, I’d better not. I’m still on the clock.”

“There are laws about companies giving their employees a break during the workday.” He glanced at her tummy, then caught her eyes in a mesmerizing gaze.

Juliet’s grandmother, Abuelita, had taught her to search a person’s expression—especially the eyes—to try and spot the secrets one kept. Of course, with Juliet’s history, she wasn’t very good at character assessment. And for some reason, she suspected she’d be just as lousy at guessing what drove Mark Anderson, what caused him to mellow out at night with alcohol instead of a cup of decaf and a slice of pie.

“Excuse me. I’d better get back to work.” She turned to go, but he caught her by the hand.

Mark wasn’t sure what had compelled him to touch the pretty Latina with sparkling caramel-colored eyes and long black hair she’d swept into a twist. It wasn’t like him to be forward, but he’d been drawn to her since the first day he’d stepped into The Hitchind Post hoping to while away the hours until his story developed.

Sure, there was a little attraction involved, he supposed. She was a beautiful woman, in spite of her condition. And her spunky personality made him sit up and take notice. But it was more than a case of Latin blood and genetics that caught his eye and held his interest.

He loosened his grip on her wrist, letting her go. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to sit down for a while.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said, but slowly took a seat anyway. “It’s almost time for me to go home.”

Mark couldn’t remember any Hispanic families in the area when he’d lived in Thunder Canyon. But that had been twenty years ago.

“Where’s home?” he asked.

She nodded at the ceiling. “I live here. In the apartment upstairs.”

He hadn’t expected her to reveal more than an “I live northeast of town,” or “In that new housing development off White Water Drive.” The women he knew liked to play cat-and-mouse games, never saying what was really on their minds, holding back and not revealing too much.

Was Juliet that young and inexperienced? Or were there a few women in this world who were still honest and open?

Either way, he found her innocence refreshing, to say the least.

He glanced at the ceiling, as she had done, and a grin tugged at his lips. “Did you know that the second floor of The Hitching Post used to be a whorehouse?”

She smiled, a flush coloring her cheeks. “Mrs. Tasker, my boss and landlady, told me that, although she referred to it as a ‘house of ill repute.’ But you’d never know it now. One of the previous owners converted the upstairs into a living area for his family back in the 1950s.”

Mark had heard the second floor was now an apartment. But when he’d lived in Thunder Canyon as a teenager, legends of the saloon and whorehouse held more interest for him and his friends than the renovations had.

“I lucked out,” she told him. “I got a job and a place to live all in one day.”

Lucky for her, maybe. Mark was glad he’d left Thunder Canyon. And just being within city limits made him uneasy and gave him reason to throw back a couple of bourbons before turning in. The booze helped pass the time and keep the memories at bay.

She shot him an unabashed grin. “I love it here.”

“Here?” He scanned the dining room.

“Yes, working at The Hitching Post and living in Thunder Canyon, especially the old part of town. I love the Wild West charm.”

Mark chuckled. “What are you, a history buff?”

“In a way.” She fiddled with the unused napkin in front of her. “My dad and brother used to love those old shoot-’em-up westerns. You know, Bonanza reruns, Gunsmoke. John Wayne movies. And before long, I was hooked, too.”

“Really?”

She leaned forward, her eyes flashing impishly, and grinned. “And when the TV is on the blink, I’m a big fan of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour.”

“No kidding?”

She lifted up her right hand in a Boy Scout fashion. “Honest. But don’t tell.” She smiled again, suggesting that she didn’t really care what people thought of her choice of reading material. Caramel-colored flecks sparkled in her brown eyes. “On my days off, I walk along the wooden sidewalk here in Old Town and study the false-front buildings.” She slid him an enchanting smile. “Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can see a cowboy in a spun woolen shirt, leather vest and dungarees, walking along the dusty western streets.”

“You don’t say. That’s a pretty vivid imagination you’ve got. Do you hear his spurs go jingle jangle jingle?”

“Of course.” The mirth in her voice taunted his cynical nature. “You mean you haven’t ever envisioned a prim lady dressed in calico and wearing a splash of lemon verbena?”

“No. Never.” He leaned back in his chair, extending his legs, as his gaze swept her pretty face. “Not even a pretty señorita with flashing dark eyes.”

Her lips, with only the hint of rose-colored lipstick, quirked as she made a tsk-tsk sound. “That’s too bad. Life must be boring for a man mired in reality.”

That was for sure. What little imagination Mark had was spent deciphering puzzles, weeding out lies and digging for the meat of a story. And although his life was normally far from dull, that wasn’t the case on this assignment.

Covering the gold rush was a waste of his time, and it chapped his hide that his boss had sent him here because he’d once been a local boy. But Mark was a professional. He’d get the damn story written, make Thunder Canyon look remotely interesting, then get the hell out of town. As long as he could stay a step ahead of the memories he’d like to forget, he’d come out on top.

“My life isn’t dull,” he told her. “Not by a long shot. But I’ve got to admit I’m bored in Thunder Canyon.”

She leaned back in her chair. “You’re a stick in the mud.”

“And you’re a romantic.”

Her smile drifted and the light in her eyes faded. “About some things, I suppose.”

His gaze fell to her belly, to the swollen womb where her baby grew, and he realized the conversation had taken a personal turn for her. A heavy turn?

“What’s your husband do?” he asked, curious about the guy and hoping he was supportive and making sure she didn’t do too much in her condition.

“I’m not married. I’ll be raising my child alone.”

God knew he didn’t want to go there. Mark would be in and out of town long before she had the baby. At least that was his game plan.

“Soooo,” he said, trying to get them both back to an impersonal level, at least when it came to the lover in her past. “You fell in love with Thunder Canyon and settled here.”

She nodded.

“Amazing. And I couldn’t get out of town fast enough.” The minute the words slipped out, he wanted to take them back.

There were some things Mark Anderson was hell-bent to forget, some memories he refused to discuss. Some guilt, that if left unchecked, would stealthily creep back in the dark of night, pointing a finger and reminding him how he’d failed his sister, his family.

But he’d be damned if he’d let the reminder haunt his dreams tonight. So he gamely changed the subject. Again. Back to her past. “Where are you from?”

“Originally? San Diego.”

“That’s a long way from Thunder Canyon.”

“The distance was part of the appeal.”

Mark nodded, as though he knew something he couldn’t possibly understand. The reporter in him wanted to question her, to learn why she was running, but this wasn’t another work-related interview. And he didn’t want to encourage self-disclosure when turnabout wasn ‘t fair play.

“My baby’s father didn’t want our child,” she offered without being asked, then shrugged and cast a smile that didn’t convince Mark that the guy’s rejection hadn’t done a number on her. “So I left town with the intent of settling down in the first place that felt like home to me.”

The lover who’d fathered her baby was a fool. But Mark kept the thought to himself. “And you just ended up here?”

“I stopped at a restaurant near Sacramento and chatted with a couple of tourists who’d come from Montana. They told me how quaint and charming Thunder Canyon was, and I decided to visit.”

“And then you decided to stay.” An easy assumption.

“That’s about the size of it.” She scooted her chair back and stood, her belly and the baby stretching between them.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Back to work.”

“Shouldn’t you go upstairs and put your feet up or something?” He didn’t know why he was feeling so protective of her.

God knew he didn’t have any intention of getting involved with any local women, not to mention a pregnant one who was a good ten to fifteen years younger than he was. But that didn’t keep him from feeling sorry for her. After all, the father of her child wasn’t in the picture, and considering her job, money was obviously an issue.

She shouldn’t be working so hard this late in her pregnancy. Something could go wrong.

A momentary flash—lightning quick—thundered in his chest, reverberating in his mind and threatening to shake the memories free from their dark hiding place.

Kelly lying on the floor. The gray pallor of her death mask. The distended belly. The pool of blood.

Mark could tap dance around the truth all night. But he knew where the urge to protect the pretty waitress had come from.

His sister had been about Juliet’s age when she and her unborn son had died.

As Juliet slid the chair she’d been sitting in back to the table, obviously ending their chat and the short break she’d taken, he couldn’t keep quiet. “I hope you’re turning in your apron for the evening.”

“Dr. Hart told me to take it easy. And she suggested I stop work. But that’s not an option right now.”

“You need to take the doctor’s orders more seriously.” No one understood how something could go wrong better than Mark.

“I did take the doctor seriously. I took off two days from work, I’ve cut back my hours a bit and the other waitresses have tried to make my job easier.”

Before Mark could stop her, she made her way to another table, leaving him to ponder the easy banter, the subtle flirtation that went on despite her circumstances.

And the overwhelming urge to take care of a woman he hardly knew.

He took a drink of the bourbon. And then another. He hoped the alcohol would drown the memories Juliet’s pregnancy had invoked. But it didn’t seem likely.

The godawful guilt had reared its head, and it was too late to turn back the clock, to right a wrong he’d never forget.

Chapter Two

As was his custom, at least while in Thunder Canyon, Mark ended each day of interviews by downing a couple of drinks and having dinner at The Hitching Post.

He didn’t feel any better about the value of his work on this story or feel any closer to wrapping it up than he had on his first day back in town. For the most part, all he could come up with was human-interest type stuff.

Public opinion, it seemed, was split when it came to the gold rush and the influx of fortune hunters.

Some townspeople had gotten so excited by the fervor, they’d locked up their homes and drained their bank accounts in order to buy prospecting gear. Others—mostly business owners—were pleased by the increase in revenue the newcomers brought to town.

But then there were the vocal locals, those who hated the publicity and the swarm of strangers who’d turned the quaint little town topsy-turvy. Juliet, with her love of history, probably fell into that group.

Mark scanned the room and found her near the cash register, talking to her boss. Why didn’t Martha Tasker trade jobs and let the pregnant waitress sit on a stool while collecting payments and making change? It wouldn’t hurt the older woman to take orders and serve customers for the time being.

As Juliet walked away, she massaged the small of her back with both hands.

Damn. It grated on Mark to see her working so hard. And hurting.

But hey, he reminded himself. That really wasn’t any of his business. He ought to be relieved that she hadn’t waited on him this evening. That she hadn’t made any effort to stop by his table—in spite of the friendly conversation they’d shared last night.

Yet the fact that she hadn’t come by bothered him, too.

He missed her smile, her wit. Her company.

But then why wouldn’t he? Juliet was about the only person, place or thing in this town he found interesting or appealing.

And she hadn’t looked his way this evening.

Was she avoiding him? Had he been too intrusive last night? Offering his opinion and advice without being asked?

Maybe so, but that was just as well.

Last night, following their chat, he’d gone back to the Wander-On Inn and, when he’d finally dozed off, he’d slept like hell, tossing and turning all night long like a trout trapped in shallow water.