The Husband Project

Between the children, whom he liked, and the mother-in-law, who had a right to be suspicious, Sam was definitely out of his element.

The beautiful Lucia Swallow, with all that silky black hair and laughing eyes and a body that a goddess would envy, had tempted him. Loneliness had made him stupid. Boredom had made him reckless.

Lucia needed a man like Jerry Thompson, a guy with roots. Sam had walked past Jerry’s house on his way to buy the flowers. It was an impressive home, easily the grandest in town. Sam shuddered at the thought of living in a home like that. He’d spent much of his childhood dreaming of escaping the house with the wide staircase and the gleaming floors.

He’d been crazy to invite himself to go with Lucia to the concert, but he didn’t know how to get out of it without lying to her.

Dear Reader,

Last autumn, after spending three months without television, the first show I watched in a Montana motel room was something I’d never seen before: River Monsters, on the Animal Planet channel. I have never pretended to be the least bit outdoorsy, but there was something about the combination of myth, mystery, dangerous locations and fishing for “the big one” that entranced me. I was, if you’ll forgive the expression, hooked. The show’s host, handsome and articulate adventurer Jeremy Wade, had his own appeal, so I gave The Husband Project’s hero some of Mr. Wade’s adventurous attributes.

I so hope you love the townspeople of Willing, Montana, as much as I do. I’ve spent so many months with them and want them all to live happily ever after. I’d love to hear from you and promise to answer any and all emails. Thank you so much for spending time in Willing with me.

Love,

Kristine Rolofson

kristinerolofson@hotmail.com

www.kristinerolofson.wordpress.com

www.welcometowillingmontana.wordpress.com

The Husband Project

Kristine Rolofson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KRISTINE ROLOFSON

Author of more than forty novels for Harlequin, Kristine Rolofson (along with her husband of forty-two years) divides her time between Rhode Island, Idaho and Texas, where her handsome and brilliant grandson entertains her with drum solos. When not writing, she quilts, bakes peach pies, plays the fiddle and sings in a country blues band. She collects vintage cowboy boots and will not tell you how many are in her closet.

To Glen, who watched endless hours of River Monsters with me and did everything he could to be quiet while I wrote this book.

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 ONE

SAM HOVE TOLD three people where he was going.

His agent was thrilled at the news. Surely in a place without temptations Sam would finish writing his book at last. The manuscript was long overdue and, according to Robert, was certain to be well received. At least by fellow anglers and zoologists.

His doctor took note of the location. Willing, Montana? Where the heck was that? He then reminded Sam to call if he had any questions and wished him luck. He also asked Sam to autograph a photo for his kids.

His best friend and cameraman— Well, who knew what he thought, since he’d been much harder to contact directly. Russ was in the Amazon again. Sam had left a message in Belize with Russ’s latest unstable girlfriend. Russ preferred women “on the edge,” he’d once explained. Sam kept his opinions to himself. Women—“on the edge” or otherwise—were either a luxury or an irritation that Sam couldn’t afford.

Not that it mattered to a man with a damaged heart and three cracked ribs.

A surprisingly easy flight dropped him and his two battered leather bags in Billings, where he’d arranged, via the internet, for transportation to Willing. Finding a way to make getting to Willing work hadn’t been easy, but Sam had tracked down someone online who knew someone who knew someone. Samuel Barlow Hove was accustomed to getting wherever he wanted to go. In fact, he’d made a living out of it.

A tall young man standing next to a black Cadillac SUV the size of a tank waved at him. He’d parked along the curb and seemed oblivious to the swirling snow.

“Mr. Hove?”

“Theo Porterman?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied, and walked swiftly over to shake Sam’s hand. He looked about twenty-five, with a large square face, an easy smile and hands like a wrestler’s. Theo happened to be an auto mechanic who lived in Willing and he supplemented his income by chauffeuring when a trip happened to coincide with picking up auto parts.

“You visiting someone in town, Mr. Hove?” Theo, wearing a flannel shirt, thick vest and jeans, hefted Sam’s two bags into the backseat, then settled himself behind the wheel. He kept his leather gloves on. “Cold day,” he said, adjusting the heater knobs.

“Sam. And no, I’m working,” he replied, climbing awkwardly into the passenger seat. He’d known Montana would be cold, but the wind and the snow surprised him. He was grateful for his new wool shirt and down jacket, not to mention the waterproof boots, all compliments of Cabela’s online catalog.

He shivered and made a mental note to order more wool socks. The landlord had promised internet service, along with other amenities.

“So you’re working in Willing? You must be from California.” Theo headed west on the interstate and turned on the windshield wipers to bat away the splats of snow hitting the glass.

“Why is that?”

“We’ve had some Hollywood people visiting here lately.” Theo turned the defroster knob.

“No, I’m from—” He hesitated, thinking over his reply. He leased a room in Florida when he wasn’t working in the Amazon and had avoided his home state of New York for almost twenty years. “I’ve recently been working in South America.”

“Really? I’ve never been there. What do you do?”

“I work on documentaries. And I’m a writer,” he admitted. “Sometimes.”

“Like now?”

“Yeah. Like now.” Sam looked out the window and saw nothing green. Just gray and white and flat, which was pretty much what he’d expected. How long had it been since he’d seen snow? And why had he thought he wanted to live in it for the next three months? He ignored the renewed aching in his side and attempted to make conversation. “I hear Willing is a pretty small town.”

“You’ve never been there?”

“Not yet.”

“Huh?”

Clearly, that baffled the driver, so Sam tried to explain.

“A guy I met told me about it. I needed a quiet place to write for a few months. Someplace the opposite of a jungle.”

“It’s quiet in Willing all right. Most of the time. You can’t tell now,” Theo said, fiddling with the defroster. “But there’s no town prettier in the spring or summer or fall. Too bad you won’t be here longer so you could see for yourself.”

“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it,” Sam said. “I’ll be out of here before April.”

“You’re staying at Meg’s?”

“Meg’s?”

“She has some cabins for rent at the Willing Café,” Theo explained. “They’re small, but okay for one person long-term, I imagine.”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” He pulled a worn notebook from his jacket pocket and thumbed through it until he found the address. “I’m renting a house from Willing Properties. Two eighty Janet Street. An executive rental.”

“An executive rental,” Theo echoed. “Didn’t know we had any of those in Willing. What exactly is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Sam shrugged, then wished he hadn’t. It had caused his ribs to ache. He made himself cough to get more air in his lungs and ease the discomfort. “It’s better than a hotel room, more like an apartment. Short-term. At least, that’s my understanding.” He checked his notes. “Jerry Thompson is the agent.”

Theo thought that over for a long minute. “You’re renting Mrs. Kelly’s house,” he said at last. “She died last summer.”

“Oh?” Sam tucked the notebook in his front jacket pocket and winced.

“Peacefully,” Theo added, giving Sam a sideways glance. “In the hospital.”

Sam supposed Theo didn’t want him to be upset about staying in a home where the former occupant had died. He wasn’t about to explain he was wincing from the pain of his cracked ribs, not because someone had passed away in his future home.

“Was she a friend of yours?” Sam inquired.

“Well...she and my grandmother went to school together. Her husband had a ’56 Ford Thunderbird hardtop convertible,” Theo mused. “Fiesta-red. A real beauty. It’s still in her garage. I’d love to get my hands on that one.”

“I’ll bet,” Sam said, knowing little about cars but wanting to be congenial.

“Jerry hasn’t figured out what he wants to do with it.” Theo glanced over at Sam. “Did he say you could drive it?”

“No.” Nothing had been said about a car. Sam assumed he could walk wherever he needed to go. Or hire Theo. “Do you know Jerry well?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s the mayor. You’ll meet him soon enough. Ambitious guy. He’s buying up the town.”

“Really.” This was Sam’s attempt to make conversation without really conversing. “Why?”

Now Theo shrugged. “He’s from California. And I guess he likes buying houses. Jerry figures that Willing is going to make a comeback and real estate prices will rise again.”

Sam knew nothing about real estate prices and didn’t want to, but he couldn’t sit there in silence. He shifted in the big comfortable seat and prepared to ignore the ache settling deep in his chest. “Is there any fishing around there?”

“In Willing?” At Sam’s nod, he shook his head. “There are some decent-sized fish in the Judith, but not too many people want to work that hard to catch a trout. Access is tough.”

Ah, thought Sam, adjusting his seat belt so he could breathe a little easier. Good news.

“You doin’ okay? Got enough heat?”

“Fine, thanks. It’s been a long day. I had a bit of health trouble a few weeks ago and I’m still not over it.”

Theo shot him a worried look. “You don’t look too good.”

“I’ll be okay. It’s getting better.”

“There’s a real good clinic in Lewistown. We’ll be going through there if you need to get checked out.”

“I just need a bed and some rest,” Sam said. “But thanks for the offer.”

“No problem. My cousin Hip is an EMT. You can always call him if you need anything. We live right around the corner at Main and Joyce, two blocks down from the Kelly place.”

“I gather Willing’s not a big town?”

“Heck, no. We’ve got a bar, a restaurant, a couple of B and Bs, a hot dog shack and the usual grade school, church, community center, library—well, sort of—and a couple of stores.” He grinned. “I hope you’re not looking for excitement.”

“Just the opposite,” Sam assured him.

“We had some television folks here a few weeks ago, though. That had everybody stirred up for a while. We hoped something would come of it, but Jerry says these things take time.”

“What kind of things?” Sam stared out the window, hoping to see something other than gray, snow-covered ground and whirling snowflakes, but Interstate 90 disappointed him once again. He leaned his head back against the leather seat and closed his eyes.

“Just an idea Jerry had to generate a little publicity.”

Sam heard the click of a radio button, then the muted sounds of guitars and fiddles accompanying a sweet-voiced female singer.

“Do you mind the radio?”

“Not at all.” He didn’t open his eyes.

“I like that song. She was on American Idol last year,” Theo said. “Did you watch it?”

“No.”

“It’s a pretty good show, but my wife says it’s not as good as it used to be.”

And that was the last thing Sam heard until Theo stopped for coffee and a transmission in a place called Big Timber.

* * *

“DO NOT LET HIM in here,” Meg ordered. Her customary jeans, T-shirt and apron had been replaced with a deep blue wool dress and vintage gold necklace, and she had a familiar trapped expression on her face. Meg owned the local café and was happier in work clothes. She was also unaccustomed to being the center of attention.

“He only wants a couple of pictures,” Lucia promised. She waved to Mike, the owner of the town’s paper, and gave him a thumbs-up while the future bride continued to grumble.

“I don’t want my face splashed on the front page of the paper next week.” Meg frowned at Mike and the smile on his round face dimmed. Lucia felt sorry for him. Clearly he’d hoped to stay and party with the women. But that wasn’t going to happen. There were few women-only events in this town of mostly single men, and the women in town protected their privacy at all costs. He held on to the cupcake he’d just plucked from a three-tiered cake plate, though.

“You’re news. Your bridal shower is news. It’ll probably end up on Jerry’s blog, too.” Lucia couldn’t hide her amusement. Meg’s romance with her high school sweetheart had finally worked out. The two of them were perfect for each other, and everyone in town knew it. Everyone in town had watched it happen, so it was only fitting that any prewedding celebration be detailed on the front page of the local newspaper.

“I don’t want to be news.”

Lucia laughed. “Meg, anything and everything that goes on in this town is news, and you know it.”

“Everyone looks really happy.”

“It’s not every day we get to celebrate a wedding,” Lucia pointed out. “We’re going to make the most of it.”

“I’m glad. Thank you,” Meg said, sniffling uncharacteristically. “I really like my party.”

“You are not going to cry,” Lucia ordered. “Aurora will have a fit if she thinks I’ve gone all sentimental and made you cry. She’s worked really hard to get the bar ready for this.” Lucia thought the room looked elegant. Even the stuffed grizzly in the corner wore a cummerbund and a black bowtie. A red silk rose was wired into one large paw, making the town mascot look absolutely gentlemanly.

That had been Aurora’s idea, and Lucia had found just the right supplies at a thrift shop in Billings. She and Aurora, her cohostess, had originally planned to hold the shower at the community center, but they’d had to change the venue to Aurora’s bar, the Dahl, because of a conflict with the senior citizens’ Christmas potluck later that evening. Lucia suspected that Aurora had planned to have the party at her bar all along. The Dahl, one of the original town buildings from the late 1800s, was almost unrecognizable at the moment, its pine tables covered in white linen and decorated with flowers. Candles lined the bar itself, along with red roses in bud vases.

Lucia assumed every woman in town was in attendance. What had begun as a ladies’ night to celebrate Meg’s engagement while Owen was away had turned into a full-blown bridal shower, despite the continuing silence of the future bride and groom about their wedding plans. In winter, even in December with Christmas approaching, no one needed an excuse to party.

Aurora, enigmatic and always glamorous, sauntered over, refilled Meg’s glass and set the half-empty pitcher of margaritas on the table. “This is a blast. I knew something was happening that night after the town meeting when you and Owen kept pretending you weren’t looking at each other. Your handsome future husband is our local success story, lady.”

“He’s a hero,” Lucia added, though Meg looked horrified.

“Oh, please,” Meg groaned. “You’re both being ridiculous.”

“Us?” Lucia feigned innocence by widening her eyes and keeping a straight face. “I’m the town widow and Aurora is the surly bartender. We know of what we speak.”

“Darn right,” Aurora agreed, tossing her platinum hair over her shoulders. Lucia envied the color, which she had decided was real. The woman looked like a supermodel, even when wearing a faded T-shirt, jeans and Western boots. “No one can stop talking about your engagement. Owen performed a miracle getting you to agree to marry him. Proposing right there in the parking lot by the café, with everyone watching out the windows. You were the talk of the town.”

“Th-that was two weeks ago,” Meg sputtered, but Lucia saw the way her best friend’s eyes softened when she remembered the moment. A large antique ring with sapphires and diamonds sparkled in the candlelight as Meg held up her hand seemingly to stop their teasing.

“Parking lots can be very romantic,” Lucia said. She took a careful sip of her margarita. “We both understand that. No one’s blaming you for weakening and finally saying yes to the poor man. And think of that honeymoon you’re going to have.”

Meg, bless her, blushed. “Stop,” she whispered.

“I wish you’d hurry up and set a date,” Lucia said. “I want to start planning the wedding cake. Do you want real flowers or frosting flowers?”

“Frosting.”

“Colors?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Meg answered, looking pained. “You’re the baker. What do you think? I’m not sure Owen would go for anything too pink.”

“Some of that depends on the time of year,” Aurora said, plopping a wedding veil on Meg’s head. She fiddled with the headband and fluffed the white tulle. “Red and white for Valentine’s Day would work. It’s a bit of a cliché, but Lucia could make it modern.”

“I could. Or if you prefer spring, I could do April violets,” Lucia murmured. “With yellow daffodils. Or daisies.”

“Pretty,” Aurora said, arranging the tulle so that it expanded like a cloud around Meg’s shoulder-length brown hair.

“A veil? Really?” Meg’s eyes narrowed. “How much have you two had to drink?”

“Very little,” Lucia assured her. “But I’ve been baking cupcakes since four o’clock this morning and I’m wobbly.”

“The veil was your mother’s idea. I guess it’s some kind of family heirloom. I’ll go get your wedding photographer,” Aurora said. “This talk of baking may make me break out in hives.”

Lucia laughed. Meg’s expression was anything but amused, though. “I worry about you,” she said. “You’ve been baking cupcakes at four in the morning for weeks.”

“It’s just for the holidays,” Lucia said, wondering how much longer she could keep up the pace. Early-morning baking, dealing with the boys, frosting and decorating dozens of cupcakes for the noon deliveries. Then picking up the boys at school, laundry, cooking and all the things that went into mothering. She loved it all—well, except for the laundry—but at this time of year she was wearing down fast. However, all the baking was adding to her special savings account in the hope of a March break trip to Orlando. “This is my busiest season, especially for pies. After the holidays I won’t have much to do until Valentine’s Day. So what about February for the wedding?”

“Maybe, but the baby is due that month and Shelly doesn’t want to miss the wedding.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere at all until I know when you’re getting married.”

“You’ll be my matron of honor, right?”

“Absolutely.” Lucia was happy for Meg. Over-the-moon happy. She remembered those months before she’d married Tony, when the world had seemed made just for them, when every look or touch or kiss was magic and life was filled with endless years of possibilities.

“I can help you with the baking, remember,” Meg said. “My kitchen is your kitchen.”

“Thanks, but—” Lucia was about to remind her friend that her kitchen actually belonged to Al, a cook who preferred to be master of all he surveyed, when Aurora hauled Mike over to join them at the bar.

“I told Mike he can take one picture of you, one picture of the ring and one picture of the dessert table, but that’s it,” Aurora said. “And if he complained I’d have Loralee deal with him.”

Mike nodded his agreement, his mouth full of dessert. He wiped his fingers on a crumpled paper napkin before lifting his camera.

“That’s downright mean.” Lucia liked Meg’s mother, but the woman was famous for her multiple marriages and colorful observations, not to mention her flirting skills. Men in her presence were alternately charmed and terrified. She was as different from Lucia’s mother-in-law, Marie, as a woman could be.

“That’s the way it is,” Aurora said with a shrug. “It’s a tough world.”

Lucia moved out of camera range and surveyed the chattering crowd of hungry women. Mama Marie was fussing over the pile of gifts on the pool table, which had been covered with a huge white-and-silver tablecloth. Marie was just under five feet tall, and almost as wide as she was high. A descendant of Italian immigrants who settled in Boston, she had her roots in pasta, meatballs and “gravy,” commonly known in Montana as spaghetti sauce. Her graying hair was cut short and the only makeup she wore was pink lip gloss. She was the most maternal person Lucia knew.

Mike posed Meg behind the stack of presents, took a closeup of the engagement ring and the cupcake stand, then looked longingly at the food table before being hustled out the door by the ever-vigilant Aurora.

Lucia knew that Aurora, thirtyish, mysterious and very self-sufficient, had a lot of experience ushering men out that particular door. She didn’t suffer fools, drunks or boors lightly. Since she ran the only bar in town, the men played—for the most part—by her rules. Her customers minded their manners, their language and their alcohol consumption.

Meg, still wearing her veil, carried a paper plate piled high with meatballs and pasta salad over to Lucia. She nodded toward Loralee. “My mother just told me I needed to use more mascara. She seems to be having a good time.”

“As always.” Loralee, wearing silver boots, black jeans, a white sweater and glittery headband, was knocking back what looked like a blue martini and chatting with Patsy, the local hairdresser.

“She’s talking about coming back here when Shelly’s baby is born or maybe not even leaving at all.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Her broken wrist encased in plaster, Shelly moved carefully around the buffet table and chatted sweetly with Mrs. Parcell, an older woman who, along with her husband and grandson, ranched outside of town. The newest resident in town, the former runaway teen’s long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she sported an overlarge pink sweatshirt that covered her growing baby bump. Lucia guessed the sweatshirt belonged to Loralee, the now-surrogate grandmother who had unceremoniously taken the girl under her wing.

“Has Shelly said what she’s planning to do?”

“Face reality,” Meg said. “At least, that’s what she told us.”

“What exactly is reality?”

“Raising a baby alone. Giving the child up for adoption. I don’t know.”

“We’ll all help her,” Lucia said. “Whatever she decides.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“No,” Lucia said, knowing full well how hard it was to raise children on one’s own. “It won’t be easy. Whatever happens, she’s better off with your mother to keep an eye on her.”

“Yes, which is amazing, since I’m the one who’s always had to keep an eye on my mother.” Meg smiled ruefully. “Do you think Loralee is finally growing up?”

“Well, she hasn’t been married in years,” Lucia pointed out. “That’s progress.”

“You’re right. I should be grateful.” Meg perched on a bar stool and surveyed the party.