Montana Mail-Order Wife. Charlotte Douglas
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“I wanted answers to my questions,” she said.
“No more questions now. You need to rest. Sweet dreams, Rachel. I’ll stop in tomorrow. Maybe all those memories will have flooded back by then.”
He patted her cheek with a warm, callused hand, then settled his battered Stetson low on his forehead. At the door, he turned and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat, looking for all the world like a Western movie hero. When he disappeared into the hall, her hospital room seemed empty and cold.
She drifted into a twilight slumber between consciousness and sleep, only to wake with a jolt.
Wade hadn’t answered her most important question: why she had agreed to a marriage without love.
TEN DAYS LATER, although Wade had visited her every day, she hadn’t found the courage to ask the question again. She had hoped for a rapid return of her memories, and with them, her rationale for accepting Wade’s unusual marriage proposal, but her past remained a frustrating blank. With her future and all its uncertainties a gaping void, she clung now to the one solid and steadfast element of her present.
Wade Garrett.
The day of her release had arrived, and she thanked the nurses and Dr. Sinclair for their care. Happy to have exchanged the shapeless hospital gown for jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers the nurse said were hers, she waited for Wade in her hospital room.
A half hour later, Rachel left the hospital and walked at Wade’s side across the asphalt parking lot beneath the sweeping dome of Montana’s big sky.
As they headed west in his pickup along Highway 2, she gazed at his tanned profile, partially obscured by the brim of his Stetson and his mirrored sunglasses. She wondered if he’d sent a picture with his letters, and if the-Rachel-she-couldn’t-remember had fallen hopelessly in love with his sturdy good looks, in spite of his insistence on a strictly business liaison.
No wonder she’d said yes in her letters. Handsome, considerate, good-humored and stable, Wade embodied all the traits of the perfect husband.
Except he didn’t love her. He’d made that crystal clear.
Unable to remember why she’d agreed to marry him in the first place, she struggled now with whether to go through with his bizarre marriage proposal.
She hoped she wouldn’t regret accepting his invitation to stay at his ranch, but, broke and remembering no one, she had nowhere else to go. According to Wade, the authorities reported she had closed her bank account and canceled her credit cards before leaving Atlanta. If she’d had any money, it had disappeared. Her wallet was empty of everything but her ID card and a paper with Wade’s name and address, the information that had caused the local sheriff to summon Wade to her bedside.
“Thanks for offering me a place to stay.”
“No problem.” His agreeable smile hit her with the scorching intensity of the noonday sun. “It was the least I could do, since you gave up your apartment and job in Atlanta to marry me.”
Just the thought of marriage to the mesmerizing rancher created an erratic quiver in her stomach. “You promised—”
“I know,” he said with another heart-stopping smile, “no mention of marriage until you’re ready to discuss it.”
She reclined against the seat and barely registered the unfamiliar landscape flashing by. Her traitorous mind refused to yield its captive memories, swelling instead with seductive images of life as Mrs. Wade Garrett. She had extracted Wade’s promise of silence on the subject of matrimony, not because the prospect was distasteful but because of its disturbing attractiveness.
Twenty minutes out of Libby, Wade turned off the highway, which paralleled a river road signs identified as the Kootenai, swollen now with melting snow, onto a blacktop road that cut straight through a broad, green valley nestled between two majestic mountain ranges.
“We call this God’s country,” he said. “Bet you’ve never seen this part of Montana before.”
She laughed with bittersweet humor. “That’s a safe bet. Even if I had, I wouldn’t remember.”
On the narrow, two-lane road, they traveled past broad pastures where cattle grazed, and sped through intermittent stands of cedars and pines. A cloudless sky of vivid blue arched above the endless miles.
She rolled down her window and inhaled the fragrance of warm grasses and invigorating pine. “It’s good to breathe fresh air instead of the smell of antiseptic.”
“You’re an outdoor girl. Maybe,” he said with rough gentleness as he slowed the truck, “living on the ranch will jar your memories loose.”
“Maybe.”
Wade lifted his hand from the wheel and gave hers an encouraging squeeze. “You mustn’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”
His touch cheered her. With hope, she clung to the expectation that her past would soon be restored, and rejected the possibility of her memory loss being permanent. Dr. Sinclair had advised her not to worry about her amnesia, but to take one day at a time.
Wade turned off the blacktop and drove beneath an arched sign of rough-hewn timber with Longhorn Valley Ranch burned into the wood in tall, rustic letters.
His face lit with pride as he pointed west across a wide pasture edged on the far side by a curving line of trees. “The river runs through our property there. The Garretts have owned these grazing lands and forests for over a century.”
She envied his heritage, stretching back a hundred years. He belonged to the land. She could hear the attachment in his voice, see it in his eyes.
She belonged nowhere.
The truck had proceeded only a hundred yards between the ancient cedars that lined the drive when the acrid stench of smoke filled the cab.
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s burning?”
Wade slammed on the brakes, swung out of the truck and lifted his face to the wind. Blowing out of the east, the breeze reeked of burning wood.
“There.” He indicated smoke rising from a stand of mature trees.
“A forest fire. On your land?”
He nodded and his mouth hardened into a grim line. “My best timber, ready for harvest.”
He leaped back into the truck and, with a grinding of gears, floored the accelerator. She braced against the door as the truck bounced along the miles of dirt track beneath the trees. Within a few minutes, the road ended in a circular drive in front of a large house, and the pickup screeched to a halt.
Two sprawling stories made of weathered logs, with a wide porch shaded by rambler roses heavy with crimson blooms, the century-old house sat between two gigantic ponderosa pines. Although Wade had said she’d never visited his ranch before, she experienced an illogical sensation of coming home.
Her rush of pleasure at the sight of the stalwart but gracious house was interrupted by the shout of a tiny woman, white haired and frail, who waited on the front porch, her hands wrapped in her apron. “Wade Garrett, you came up that drive like a bat outta hell. Ain’t no sense in getting yourself killed over a little fire.”
Wade wrenched open the door and jumped from the truck. “A little fire! It’s dry season, Ursula, and the wind’s blowing! The whole mountain could go up in flames.”
“No need to panic.” Ursula appeared unruffled by Wade’s outburst. “The Forest Service and volunteers already have everything under control. I’m fixing to feed ’em supper soon as they finish mopping up.”
Rachel climbed down from the cab. “If you’re expecting a crowd, may I help?”
She’d taken a chance, asking. She didn’t remember if she could cook, but memories weren’t required to wash dishes.
Ursula’s smile subtracted