“You are many things, Melanie McFarlane, but weak is not one of them.”

And then, because he was weak, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

She didn’t pull away. And when common sense finally penetrated the fog clouding Russ’s brain and he listed his head, her eyes were no longer wet with tears.

Just a wary confusion that he recognised all too well. Because he felt the very same thing.

He lowered his hand and took a step back. Softly cleared his throat. “If we’re gonna go, we’d better – ”

“Give me t-ten minutes.”

Russ nodded and backed towards the door. He felt as if he’d just run a marathon.

How the hell was he supposed to last for another five and a half months of this?

ALLISON LEIGH

started early by writing a Halloween play that her school class performed. Since then, though her tastes have changed, her love for reading has not. And her writing appetite simply grows more voracious by the day.

She has been a finalist for the RITA® Award and Holt Medallion contests. But the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from a reader that she laughed, cried or lost a night’s sleep while reading one of her books.

Born in Southern California, Allison has lived in several cities in four different states. She has been, at one time or another, a cosmetologist, a computer programmer and a secretary. She has recently begun writing full-time after spending nearly a decade as an administrative assistant for a busy neighbourhood church. She currently makes her home in Arizona with her family. Allison loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

Dear Reader,

What is it about the MONTANA series that we love so much? As a reader and a writer, I’m thoroughly enamoured of these larger-than-life Western heroes and the strong, capable women who capture their hearts. It is just pure fun to wallow once again in the pages with them through their laughter and their tears, and triumph along with them when they find their happily-ever-after.

As for the hard-headed souls of this particular tale, Russ and Melanie have differences that at first seem insurmountable. But, of course, even with these two who are so used to pushing others away, love finds its way.

But isn’t that one of the best things about love?

It finds a way.

All my best,

Allison Leigh

A Cowboy Under Her Tree

ALLISON LEIGH

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my cohorts

in crime: Christine Rimmer,

Stella Bagwell, Crystal Green, Pamela Toth,

and Victoria Pade, and our extraordinary

editor, Susan Litman, who keeps it all together.

It has been a pleasure and an honour

working with you.

Chapter One

“You want me to what?”

Melanie McFarlane’s fingers tightened around the glass stem of her lemon-drop martini as she stared at the stupefied expression on Russ Chilton’s annoyingly rugged face. “I believe you heard me.” It took an enormous effort, but she kept her voice low. Mild. It helped that she had a lifetime of keeping herself well modulated and in control.

That’s what one did, after all, when one was a McFarlane. Heaven forbid that they actually indulge in some sort of human manner.

“I heard you,” Russ muttered. His long fingers were wrapped around the base of his beer bottle. No icy pilsner glass for him. He probably figured he was too salt-of-the-earth to bother with such niceties. “I just figured you’re off your bean or something.”

Or something, definitely. In her current vocabulary, or something was code for increasingly desperate.

She swallowed. Slowly turned the stem of her delicate martini glass and eyed the narrow twirl of lemon rind floating in the liquid. The waitress had already delivered their third round, and Melanie knew better than to finish off the drink when just two was already beyond her limit.

“It is important for me to make a success of this endeavor.” She didn’t believe it was any of his business just how important. Asking for his help in any way whatsoever was taking all of her strength as it was. Particularly when she knew he didn’t approve of her presence in Thunder Canyon in the first place.

She didn’t want anyone to know that it wasn’t “McFarlane” money that was invested here. It was only Melanie’s. And if she lost it all, she didn’t know what she would do. Because returning to work for one of the McFarlane hotels wasn’t an option for her.

Not anymore.

Russ snorted softly. “You mean you don’t wanna fail at turning a perfectly good working ranch into some damn fool tourist trap. As if there aren’t enough of those already cropping up around Thunder Canyon,” he added derisively.

“The Hopping H will be a guest ranch,” she corrected. “With your assistance, the actual—” her fingertips lifted “—ranch sort of activities will still continue.” She was banking everything on Thunder Canyon’s increasing popularity as a resort destination to help ensure her success. She knew plenty of people who would pay astronomical sums to get away from their high-pressure lives and at least play at getting back to what they thought of as “the simple life.”

She’d been one of them, after all.

Only simple was turning out to be not quite so simple.

His lips twisted in a motion that ought to have made them look less sensual. “Ranch sort of activities,” he mocked softly. “What’s the matter, Red? Talking about shoveling manure and castrating calves a little too earthy sounding for you?”

Sadly, she had plenty of earthy thoughts where he was concerned, and not a single one of them were prudent.

Particularly for a McFarlane.

She needed this man’s help, not his…his—

She managed to shut off the untoward thoughts as she softly cleared her throat and shifted in the hair-on-hide chair where they sat across from each other at a leather-topped table in the lounge at the Thunder Canyon Resort. The live band wasn’t playing its usual eclectic mix, though, choosing instead to go with Christmas standards that were more in keeping with the holiday party that had been going on around them for the past few hours.

Melanie had never been a huge fan of the holidays, but just then, she felt even less than her usual smattering of holiday spirit. “I’m perfectly willing to shovel manure and do whatever as well as manage my guests’ lodging and entertainment needs.” She’d even learn how to cook and change bedding if she had to. And given her luck lately in holding on to ranching staff—well, hands, they were called—she just might need to.

He made a strangled sort of sound, as if he were trying not to choke. Or laugh.

This was not going the way she’d hoped.

Nothing about coming to Thunder Canyon was going the way she’d hoped. Scratch that. Even before she’d come to Thunder Canyon, nothing had gone the way she’d thought it would.

She was supposed to be in Atlanta, still capably running the newest jewel in the family crown—McFarlane House Atlanta. She would be, too, if she hadn’t found out that while she’d been running things, her father and brother had been behind the scenes really calling the shots. She’d been nothing more than a figurehead. An ignorant, humiliated figurehead.

“Mr. Chilton—”

“Think you might as well call me Russ, ma’am.” He leaned back in his high-backed bar stool, hooking an elbow behind him and looking every inch the poster boy for Western living.

Only there was nothing boyish about Russ Chilton.

From the tips of his leather boots—polished only because this was supposed to be a Christmas party, she suspected—up the six feet-plus of rangy muscle covered in black denim and thick Irish wool to the top of his dirty-blond hair that always seemed disheveled and an inch too long, he was a supremely well-grown male.

He wasn’t handsome in the strictest sense. His nose was too hawkish, his jaw too square and stubborn.

But the end result was definitely good-looking.

But was he too good-looking for her peace of mind?

She needed someone believable, but she certainly didn’t need someone she was in danger of falling for.

Fortunately for her, Russ Chilton could hardly stand her. So all she had to do was convince him they could help one another, and maybe she had a chance of success where the Hopping H was concerned.

“Fine.” She sipped her drink, reminding herself that she was the one in control of this little tête-à-tête. “Russ. I know that you were interested in acquiring the Hopping H.”

He sat forward suddenly, folding his elbows on the small high-top table, and seeming to take up all of her oxygen as he fairly loomed over her. “Interested?” There was no Western hospitality showing in his flinty brown eyes. “I had an offer in on the place with those city fools who inherited it from their grandparents, and you know it.”

“And I beat your offer,” she said reasonably. “It was simply a matter of business, Mr., er, Russ. It was nothing personal.”

“Things in a town like Thunder Canyon are personal,” he said evenly. “At least they always have been before—” His lips twisted again and he jerked his chin slightly, as if to encompass not only their surroundings, but the town beyond the walls of the Thunder Canyon Resort. “We don’t need more progress,” he said flatly. “We damn sure don’t need more tourists to fill up the beds at your guest ranch. Go open a McFarlane House somewhere else, honey.”

The “honey” was hardly an endearment. If anything, it was condescending, and her resolve stiffened. She didn’t need condescension from anyone. She’d been living with plenty of it from her own family, thank you very much.

It was one of the things she hoped to put an end to once and for all. All she needed was to turn the Hopping H into a success. A McFarlane-sized success.

Then maybe she’d finally get the respect she deserved.

“Progress is inevitable, Russ.” Her teeth snapped off his name as it lingered on her tongue. “Which any intelligent person should recognize.”

“Guess I’m just a dumb, backwoods hick, then.” His drawl was deliberately thick. “Mebbe I should ’jess tip ma hat and thank ya for the opportunity of purrtendin’ to be yer—”

“Shh. Keep your voice down. Please.” She looked around them. Even at the late hour, there were plenty of partygoers still present, and she certainly didn’t want someone overhearing. It had been foolish of her to bring up the subject with Russ at this time, anyway.

But she’d been watching him most of the evening as he worked through the crowd, seeming to be friendly with about half the guests. And then, when he’d been standing with his friend, Grant Clifton, who owned the original property she’d hoped to purchase, her thoughts had just seemed to finally coalesce.

Russ Chilton owned the Flying J, which bordered a sizable portion of the Hopping H.

He was her closest neighbor and he’d wanted the property for himself.

So she’d taken the bit between her teeth and run with it.

Just like her parents were always telling her—she’d obviously acted too hastily.

“What’s the matter, Miz McFarlane?” His brown eyes hadn’t warmed one iota. “If you’d wanted strict privacy for this discussion, you could have chosen a more discreet setting.”

He was absolutely correct, of course. All he needed now was to tell her that she was behaving impetuously, and she’d suspect that Russ Chilton counted mind reading among his various talents. “Perhaps I thought you might be more approachable in a social setting.” She turned the stem of her glass again. “A miscalculation on my part.” She slid off the chair and gathered up her small red purse. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

Her heart was in her throat as she turned to leave.

“Hold on there, Red.”

Everything inside her sagged with relief but she knew that not a speck of that weakness showed on the outside. Thirty years of McFarlane existence had taught her that, at least.

She slowly turned on her heel, ignoring the way her head swam, and smoothed back a lock of her short hair that had fallen forward against her cheek. She gently lifted her eyebrows with inquiry. “Yes?”

“Is that look an acquired skill or a genetic trait?”

She tucked her slender purse beneath her arm, remaining silent.

He let out an aggravated breath. “Sit back down.” He reached over and jerked her chair a few inches out from the table.

“Such gallantry.” She slid back onto the high chair, slowly settling her purse in her lap. Outside the windows that overlooked the mountainside, the bright twinkly white lights seemed to dance more than usual. She blinked and focused instead on Russ’s face.

It was not twinkly at all, and far more steady.

“Do I take it that you are interested in my offer, then?”

“Like you said. I’m interested in the Hopping H.”

“Then we have an agreement.” Act as if success were a foregone conclusion. Her parents had fed that to her along with her baby formula.

He lifted his hand. “Not so fast, sugar pie.”

She wanted to shout with impatience. For six months now, ever since she’d stepped foot in Thunder Canyon, this particular man had been a thorn in her side. It was no wonder she’d needed an extra dose of Dutch courage to even approach him with her business proposition. “Is there something you’d like me to clarify?”

His lips twisted. “Oh, you’ve been pretty clear already.”

“Then you can see that this arrangement is mutually beneficial. In return for your assistance, you’ll receive a very generous interest in the Hopping H.”

“Which only benefits me if you don’t run the place into the ground.”

“Which is why I need your assistance,” she returned evenly. For pity’s sake. How long would it take for the man to give his yea or nay? “You can ensure that never comes to pass by teaching me what I do need to know.”

“What about your hired hands? Be an easier matter, I’d think, if you just learned about ranching business from the people you’re already paying.”

She studied his face, wondering if he were being sarcastic or not. Thunder Canyon was still, in many ways, a small community. And given her experience in the months she’d lived there, gossip was as much an avocation as skiing or hunting for gold. “My last two hands quit.”

A faint flicker in his eyes warned her that maybe he truly hadn’t known that fact. “Harlan and Danny?”

“Yes.”

His lips tightened. “When?”

“Five days ago.”

“And you’ve been staying on trying to manage everything on your own since then.”

“Yes.”

He made a noise under his breath that sounded like a rather creative oath. He gave her a square look that had her breath catching oddly in her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She was grateful for the purse in her lap. It gave her fingertips something to dig into. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” she assured smoothly. “It’s not as if you were responsible it.” The brothers who’d been her last remaining hands had simply quit with no notice whatsoever. They’d collected their final pay and had moved out of the bunkhouse by the end of the day. Where they’d gone, she had no clue.

Nor much care. They’d barely been better than no help at all.

“No wonder you’re anxious for an answer,” Russ was saying. “Look, Miz McFarlane—”

“Melanie. You have a mouthful of nicknames for me. Surely you can manage that. Russ,” she added pointedly.

He ignored her. “I don’t know what kind of people you’re used to, ma’am, but around here, neighbors tend to watch out for neighbors.”

“Is that what you were doing three months ago when I moved onto the Hopping H and you assured me I was doomed to failure?”

“Pardon me for pointing out the obvious,” he countered, “but you’re sitting on land now with no hands on the payroll and judging by your offer to me—a desperate offer, I’ll bet—not much of an idea how to manage on your own without them. Is that how you folks define success?”

Success was what being a McFarlane was all about.

She dropped the lemon rind from her unfinished drink on the small square napkin beneath the glass and tossed back the rest of the cocktail. “I’m looking for replacements for Harlan and Danny,” she said. “But even when they are replaced—” the assurance was more bravado than anything since her efforts at hiring more hands had thus far been futile “—I want to know more about the ranch workings. I need to know.” She leaned toward him, lowering her voice. “The Hopping H is my future, Mr. Chilton. As a working guest ranch. I am not going to let it fail. Either you can help me in that endeavor, and benefit quite nicely in the process, I might add, or I’ll find someone else.” She didn’t know who, though. Hiring someone was out of the question, given the state of her finances. “Yes or no?”

“I get half an interest in the H.”

“Yes.” She’d thought about offering less, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And if—no, once—the guest ranch was on its feet and operating in the black, she’d be able to buy the man right back out again.

McFarlanes didn’t “do” partnerships any more than they ever asked for help.

“And all I have to do is teach you enough about running a ranch so that you can keep your place from sinking under.”

Her gaze darted around them. But nobody was paying them any heed, particularly since the lavish midnight buffet was being set out. “Yes. That, and—”

His brows drew together in a mighty frown. “And do it all while pretending to be your husband,” he finished.

Chapter Two

Russ watched the faint tide of red climb in Melanie McFarlane’s lily-white cheeks at his flat summation.

“Yes,” she replied in her slightly crisp voice. “That’s the deal.”

He picked up her empty martini glass and gave it an exaggerated sniff. “My old buddy Grant must be telling his barkeeps to pour heavy these days.”

“I am not inebriated,” she enunciated with the exaggeration of one who pretty much was. “Nor am I…off my bean, as you so eloquently phrased it.”

“Nobody ’round here will believe we’re hitched.”

“Why not?”

He very nearly laughed out loud at that. “People know me, for one thing.” And he’d made it more than plain that he had no intention of following the path to matrimony that every one of his buddies had been taking lately.

“Which means what? That you’re not interested in women?”

“Not redheaded women with Boston in their vowels, that’s for damn sure.” Been there. Done that. Nobody who knew him would believe he’d repeat the experience.

“I’ve never lived in Boston,” she assured snootily. “My family is from Philadelphia.”

The moneyed part of it, he added silently, where he knew the headquarters of her family’s hotel empire was located.

“And besides, the only people we need to convince of anything are my family,” she continued.

“Why?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, seduction is key.”

“What’s the key?”

“Discretion,” she repeated so smoothly it left him wondering if he was the one who’d misheard, or she was the one who’d misspoke.

Either way, he damn sure needed to keep his mind off seduction where this woman was concerned. “What are you hoping to prove here, Melanie McFarlane?”

Her long lashes swept down, hiding her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean. This is a business venture. Of course, I expect to succeed at it.”

“Business ventures that involve you playacting as someone’s wife. What’s the deal? You’d rather have them think you’re married to someone like me, than let them think you couldn’t manage on your own?”

Her lashes flew up and he saw a tinge of guilt in her expression. Enough to wonder if he hadn’t hit on some truth. But all she did was turn up her nose a little in that way of hers. “I would be grateful if you could keep your voice down.”

He wasn’t exactly yelling. Hell. He didn’t want any of his friends overhearing their conversation, either. At the rate that weddings and engagements were occurring around Thunder Canyon, God only knew what sort of rumors might be set into motion. “And you figure six months is all it’ll take for you to learn the ins and outs of running the H.” It was laughable, really. Either she thought he had superhuman abilities—which he doubted, given the uppity looks she usually gave him—or she had no clue what a huge bite she was trying to swallow.

“I should certainly understand the basics by then. At least enough to know whether my ranch hands are doing their jobs or not.”

If Russ saw Harlan or Danny Quinn any time soon, he’d have a few words to say to the dolts. It wasn’t as if hands didn’t come and go. They did. But leaving a woman—no matter who she was—high and dry like they had was pretty damn low. “And if it’s not enough time?”

She didn’t look away. “Then naturally I would expect to renegotiate our agreement.”

“You’d give me more than fifty percent?”

Her lips curved, revealing the perfect, gleaming white edge of her teeth. “I’m a businesswoman, Russ. What do you think? Not in this lifetime. But there could be some additional financial remuneration.”

“You’d pay me cold hard cash to play your hus—”

She leaned forward, closing her hand over his forearm. “I believe we understand one another.”

He understood that those long, slender fingers of hers might as well have been branding irons given the effect they had on his flesh. “Then understand this.” He shifted and caught her hand in his as she went to draw away, and spotted the flicker in her deep brown eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “I may be just a rancher, ma’am. But I know how to smell cow patties when I see ’em.”

She tugged at her hand and he loosened his grip enough for her to slowly work herself free. “You think this is some sort of game for me?”

“I don’t know what this is for you,” he admitted. “But there’s no way in hell that I’d agree to this nonsense on just a handshake.”

“I thought a man’s handshake was his bond. Particularly in this part of the country.”

“You’re not from this part of the country.”

She winced a little. “Are you suggesting that Easterners can’t be trusted to keep their word?”

“Not the Easterners I’ve ever known. You want my help, then we get hitched for real. No pretense.”

“But, but that’s preposterous!”

“Is it?”

She sat back in her seat, brushing her fingers through her deep-red, lustrous hair. It fell back, perfectly, in its sleek lines against the nape of her long, elegant neck.

Even disconcerted, she looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. Not the faddish magazines filled with outlandish looks, but the expensive publications that only people of her ilk bothered to peruse.

Nola’s kind of magazine.

“Don’t worry,” he added, brushing away thoughts of his ex-wife. “I’m not just trying to get into your pants.”

The red that had risen in her cheeks drained away, leaving her looking pale, but no less stunning. “How reassuring.” Her voice was thin.

Oh, yeah. He was the one who’d misheard.

She looked at him as if he were something to be scraped off the sole of her undoubtedly expensive holly-berry-red high heels.

“Unless that’s what you’re hoping for,” he goaded.

“No,” she assured hastily. “That is not on the table.”

He looked at the high-top beneath their empty drinks. “You sure now? This here table looks mighty sturdy—”

“Are you naturally odious or is that an acquired skill?”

He very nearly laughed. As far as he was concerned, Melanie McFarlane was the epitome of high maintenance. She looked expensive. She talked expensive. She smelled expensive.

But she did keep his mind moving.

And God help him, he’d always been taken in by leggy redheads. Not this time, though. The last time he’d lost more than he could bear.

“Maybe I’m a bit of both,” he allowed.

Her lips compressed.

The cocktail waitress appeared next to them, deposited a fresh round from her jam-packed tray and promised to return for the empties as soon as she could.

Melanie met his stare for an uncomfortable minute. Then she lifted her drink and gulped down half. She fiddled with her purse and drew out a slender gold pen, then pulled the fresh white napkin from beneath her drink. “I think your…idea…is overkill. Perhaps if we just put the terms in writing.” She began writing carefully, then lifted her pen, looking at him as she slid the napkin toward him. “Does that make you feel better?”

He looked down at the list as he took a pull on his beer and wished he’d ordered a whiskey, instead. But then again, they’d both already had plenty to drink.

They were still sitting together at the table, after all. That had to be the result of alcohol. There was no other logical explanation.

The first several items on the napkin were straightforward, considering the nature of the agreement. Act as her husband—for the benefit of her family—and teach her everything she needed to know without seeming to teach her.

“Better?” He let out a disbelieving snort. “This is pretty damn crazy.”

She didn’t reply. Just wrapped those long, cool fingers of hers around her glass and sipped. If he wasn’t mistaken, her hand wasn’t entirely steady.

Nerves? Alcohol?

He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at the napkin. After six months of their make-believe marriage, she would sign over fifty percent of the property to him.

Free and clear.

He could finally expand the Flying J into the Hopping H’s prime territory. Not all of that territory, as he’d been planning to do for years, but half of it was nothing to sneeze at.

What was six months of his time, after all? He’d already put that, and more, into raising the funds to back his original offer on the H.

The offer that she’d trumped.

Now, he could have half the spread and plow his money back into it to boot.

From the corner of his vision, he watched her lift her drink again. Take a delicate sip. Set the glass carefully down.

She shifted slightly and the top of her red dress—a sort of wrapped thing that clung to her curves—gaped for a moment, giving him a fleeting glimpse of something pale and lacy against flesh that looked taut and full. It had to be his imagination that had him hearing the slide of her legs as she crossed one over the other. The bar was too damn noisy for him to have actually heard anything of the sort.

Imagination could be a pain in the ass.

He peered at her sloped handwriting, so cultured-looking and different than his own chicken scratching, as he reached the bottom of her stipulations.

“No hanky-panky,” he read aloud, glancing up at her.

She looked vaguely bored. But there was a thin line of white around her compressed lips that belied the demeanor. “It seemed prudent to add that point.”

He figured the humor winding around inside him would be sort of misplaced just then. “I think my grandmother used to use that term.” He leaned closer toward her, catching a whiff of her expensive scent. No imagination required there. Other than to wonder where she dotted that evocative perfume.

At the base of her neck? Her wrists? Between her breasts?

He stared into her eyes, making himself think of the Hopping H, and what he stood to gain. She’d said it herself.

This was business.

But seriously. Hanky-panky?

“I’m a rancher, babe,” he said with the cocky wisdom of a ten-year-old poking a sleeping cat with a stick. “We call it by more basic terms.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“Sex,” he said wryly.

The relief that crossed her face was comical. Did she think he was so uncultured that he’d drop something way more basic?

Probably.

“Here’s the deal.” He set the napkin squarely in the center of the table, his palm covering her neat little list. “You can list your terms like this all you want. We can sign it. We can flippin’ notarize it. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not pretending to be anything. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

A swallow worked down her throat, drawing his eyes to the hollow at the base of it. Just below that seductive indentation, a single sparkling diamond seemed to almost float at the center of a nearly invisible chain. “Evidently, I misjudged the level of your interest in the Hopping H.” She pinched her fingertips around the edge of the napkin. “I don’t suppose I can prevail upon your holiday spirit to keep this discussion between the two of us?”

He kept his hand on the paper, preventing her from pulling it free. “People ’round here would tell you I don’t have any holiday spirit.”

She looked insulted. “I don’t indulge in gossip, Mr. Chilton.”

“What do you indulge in, Miz McFarlane?” Below the sparkling diamond, there was another sweep of smooth, ivory skin, leading down to that wrapped dress.

She shifted in her seat, affording him another woefully brief glimpse of lace. “Quite obviously, wasting our time.” She tugged at the napkin again.

“I didn’t say you were wasting your time.”

She let out a faint sigh. “Then what are you saying?”

“I told you. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this for real.”

She leaned forward, the edges of her fine white teeth meeting in a smile that seemed remarkably close to a clench. “I am not looking for a real husband,” she assured under her breath.

He leaned closer, too, mostly to see how quick she’d back away.

Only they ended up nose to nose, because the infernal woman didn’t retreat.

“I’m not looking for a real wife, either,” he murmured. Her skin was just as fine this close as his imagination suspected. And her lashes were long. Not the clumped-up, mucked-up kind of long that came out of some tube. He didn’t kid himself that she went without cosmetics. Life with Nola had shown him just how effective that particular art could be. But he’d bet his favorite saddle that those lashes of Melanie’s didn’t have any need for artifice.

And those lashes suddenly flickered, dropping down to shield her dark eyes. “People are staring. Just give me the napkin and I’ll go.”

“Sugar, if you give up this easy, you might as well pack it in and move back to Boston.” His fingers covered hers, stilling her tug on the napkin.

“I told you. I’m not from Boston and I’m not giving up.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Knowing enough not to beat a dead horse,” she returned.

“Why don’t you just sell me the H now, and cut your losses? Go back and run one of those towering hotels your family’s famous for?”

“Why don’t you just take a flying leap? Did you not just hear what I said? A McFarlane doesn’t quit.”

He smiled faintly. “Right. So if you don’t want to fail, it’s like I said. We get hitched for real. Then we’ll have something to talk about.”

“A person might think your virtue were at stake.” Her voice was low and the smile on her lips didn’t extend to her eyes.

His fingers itched to wrap around another beer. At least that was an easier explanation than thinking that his fingers itched to wrap around something much more warm and animated.

With hair the color of mahogany set on fire.

He curled the itchy fingers into a fist. “I gave up on virtue years ago. But I want to make damn sure you can’t finagle your way out of giving me my cut when our little association ends.”

“Aren’t you two looking cozy?” The deep voice interrupted them.

Melanie’s head whipped up, but Russ had to give her credit for her quick recovery. “Hello, Grant. Stephanie.” Her smile for the couple was friendly. Warm. “Thank you again for inviting me to your party. It’s a lovely way to kick off the season.”

“We’re glad you could make it,” Steph assured. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a sparkly clip and her green eyes shined almost as much. “You, too, Russ.”

Russ was watching the expression on Grant’s face. Things had smoothed a lot between him and Grant in the past months, but they still hadn’t quite gotten back to being as tight as they’d once been. Grant was Russ’s oldest friend, but since Thunder Canyon had made the leap from being a bump in the road to the flavor of the year for the jet-setting crowd, they’d had more than a few differences.

Grant embraced the progress. He’d found a brand-new niche, managing the Thunder Canyon Resort. He fit in.

Russ didn’t.

But at least Grant hadn’t sold his family’s ranch, Clifton’s Pride, to the redhead, though. Of course, that had meant Russ lost out on the Hopping H when Melanie snapped it out from under his nose, instead.

“Yeah. Looks like you’re doing plenty of celebrating.” Grant’s sharp blue eyes took in the collection of empty glasses and bottles on the table that the busy cocktail waitresses hadn’t yet cleared away. “Why don’t I set you both up with rooms tonight? We’re almost at capacity, but there are a few cabins left.”

“Worried about keeping the roads safe?” Russ drawled.

Grant smiled faintly. “Something like that. Cab service isn’t exactly running swiftly tonight.”

Russ eyed Melanie. “One room will do, won’t it, darlin’?” No time like the present to start the townsfolk thinking that there was some hanky-panky going on between him and the Easterner.

He wasn’t so far gone that he could turn down a piece of the Hopping H. Business was business. She’d said so, herself.

Melanie swallowed again and slowly gave up her tug-of-war on the napkin. Her gaze—wide, brown, deep—focused on him. Her lips—soft, full, pink—parted softly. “One room is fine,” she finally agreed, sounding oddly shy.

And just that quickly, Russ’s damned imagination sidled into action again. His declaration had been pragmatic. His imagination was not.

Steph was doing a fair to middling job of hiding her shock. On the other hand, Grant didn’t look all that shocked. Just knowing.

After all. He and Russ did go a long way back.

“I’ve already alerted the desk,” his old friend said smoothly, proving one of the reasons why he was good at what he did. He anticipated things before they actually occurred. “You can pick up your key whenever you’re ready.”

Russ didn’t look at Grant. He ran his fingertips deliberately over the back of Melanie’s slender hand. Felt the tremble she couldn’t hide. “Appreciate that.”

“We’d better say good night to the Stevensons,” Steph murmured to Grant. “Looks like they’re getting ready to head out.”

“Right.” Grant covered the hand she tucked beneath his arm as if they’d been doing that all of their lives. “Catch you later.” His lips twitched. “Enjoy yourselves, now.”

“We plan to.” Russ watched the color rise in Melanie’s cheeks. “Supposed to snow sometime tonight, and the rooms here have outdoor hot tubs.”

“You know what they’re thinking,” Melanie said under her breath once Grant and Steph moved off to intercept the departing couple.

“Exactly what you’re wanting them to think,” he returned. He lifted the beer bottle. Found it empty. Eyed her empty cocktail. “Want another round?”

“I think I’ve had plenty.”

“Then we should hit the room. That is, if we’ve got a deal. A real deal.”

She seemed to steel herself a little as she rose to her feet. She swept a shaking hand down the side of her dress and turned toward the door. “Bring the napkin.”

“What for?” He caught her elbow in his hand, keeping her from sailing ahead of him as she looked prepared to do.

Her gaze swept down him from head to toe. The color in her cheeks bloomed even brighter. “Consider it a prenuptial agreement.”

Chapter Three

Melanie simply had to shut off her brain as they went through the process of obtaining the offered room key and getting to their room, which was actually one of the cabins looking out over Thunder Canyon, rather than a single room in the lodge itself.

It felt as if she and the hunk of granite towering over her were the focus of every pair of eyes they passed, first at the registration desk, then the coat check where Russ almost mockingly tucked her into her calf-length fur. Nor was her ego healthy enough to believe that she would be the subject of any particular gossip. After six months, she was still a newcomer in Thunder Canyon.

A curiosity.

An oddity.

Russ, however, was as much a part of the town as the foundation on which the charmingly Old West buildings were built. And it seemed very clear to her that he was definitely the focus of those curious looks.

They had to leave the main lodge to get to the cabin and the moment they stepped outside, Melanie felt the slap of cold, crisp air in her face.

It was both heady and sobering at the same time.

But she couldn’t back down.

Which is why she soon found herself standing in the center of the small two-room cabin, facing a man who didn’t like her, much less approve of her.

An electric hurricane-style lamp was already lit and it cast an intimate glow around the cabin. The interior looked rustic without being rustic and despite the haze clouding her sensibilities, her McFarlane brain still managed to take in the amenities of the cabin.

Pure luxury.

Similar to what she hoped to offer her guests.

She jerked a little when Russ dropped the cabin key on the long pine table surrounded by four chairs in the dining area. Seeming oblivious to her, he shrugged out of his shearling coat and tossed it onto the leather couch that was draped with a red-and-black-plaid woolen throw. There were also two comfortable-looking armchairs and an enormous ottoman that doubled as a coffee table. He brushed past her, entering the small, efficient kitchen area. “Take off your coat.”

Evidently, his helping her into it had been for the benefit of the people watching them. She set her purse on the table and slid off the mink that her father had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday and draped it carefully over one of the ladder-back chairs.

She tried to see through the open doorway that led to the bedroom, but it was too dark.

She heard him rummaging in a cupboard and was surprised when he returned to the table without another drink from what she expected would be a well-stocked bar.

Instead, he had a ballpoint pen in his hand. He yanked out a chair, sat down, and tossed the somewhat crumpled napkin on the table in front of him. He clicked the end of the pen and added his own scrawl beneath hers.

When he finished, his dark gaze was brooding as he slid the napkin across the smooth wooden surface toward her. “You gonna stand there all night, or sit yourself down?”

“Stand.” She picked up the napkin and read his additions, under which he’d confidently signed his name. Russ J. Chilton.

“It’s not short for Russell?”

He just watched her.

What did it matter what his name was? She tossed the ink-riddled napkin back to him. His first term had been that their marriage be performed legally. He’d already made that point perfectly clear. The second was the description of acreage he wanted when it came to getting his division of the Hopping H. But the last condition?

She gave him a look. “I need you to teach me what I need to know, not agree to do everything you tell me to do.”

“Where the Hopping H is concerned,” he pointed out the rest of his statement with a shrug. “Someone’s gotta be the boss.”

“And I suppose where you’re concerned that’ll never be a woman.” She managed not to roll her eyes.

“It won’t be a woman who doesn’t know the front end of a horse from the back.”

Then she did roll her eyes. “And women are accused of exaggeration. Believe me, Mr. Chilton, I know which end is which, and currently, you’re acting like the hind end.”

He shrugged again, obviously unfazed. “You can do all the bossing you want when it comes to your guest enterprise.” His lips twisted at that, telling her yet again what he thought of that particular endeavor. “But when it comes to ranch operations, I call the shots. Or there’s no deal. You can go find yourself some other sucker.”

“I’m not looking for any kind of sucker. Just someone who’ll give me a fair deal and exercise some discretion at the same time.”

“And you think that you’ll get that from me.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Won’t I?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

She unfolded her arms and closed her hands over the back of the mink-draped chair. It seemed to help the way the room tended to spin around her head. She really shouldn’t have had that last martini. “We don’t have to like one another to acknowledge certain facts. And one is that you’re scupu…scrupulously fair. Everyone in town says so.”

He made a soft grunt. “Too damn fair. What’s your family got to do with all of this?” He shoved his hand through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled.

Probably what he looked like when he woke in the morning.

She swallowed, trying to banish the thought. “Hmm?”

“You said only your family had to believe we were married. Why?”

Her fingers sank farther into the fur. “They need to believe I’m competent in all areas of the guest ranch. Being married is a side note to them. Why would you trust getting your share out of a marriage—an uncostumated…consummated marriage—more than you’d trust a contract?”

His gaze seemed to drop to her lips. “Does it matter?”

Touché. She leaned over the table and slid the pen from between his fingers. Before she could talk herself out of it, she signed her name with a flourish, right beneath his.

Then she tossed the pen on the table and straightened. The bravado had a price, though, and it was called head rush. She gripped the back of the chair again, waiting until her vision cleared and the room stopped swaying. “I’ll make arrangements, then, for this legal marriage.”

“No. I’ll do it.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”

He unfolded himself from the chair and smiled humorlessly as he very deliberately picked up the napkin, folded it in half and tucked it in his back pocket. “I shouldn’t have trusted the last woman I married. Why would you be any different?”

Leaving Melanie blinking at that, he headed through the cozy living area and into the darkened bedroom beyond. A moment later, a soft light came on and she saw the foot of an enormous lodgepole bed.

One bed.

Naturally.

Russ was out of her line of sight, but a familiar-looking ivory sweater was tossed onto the foot of that bed.

She chewed her lip and looked sideways at the leather couch.

“If you were any sort of gentleman, you’d offer to take the couch,” she said loudly enough for him to hear.

“Being fair doesn’t mean being a gentleman.” He appeared in the doorway and Melanie nearly wilted with relief that beneath his sweater he’d worn a white T-shirt.

A white T-shirt that clung faithfully to every line of his impossibly wide chest.

She barely had time to brace herself for the bed pillow that he tossed across the room to her.

“They keep extra blankets in that hassock thing,” he told her. “Lid lifts up and they’re inside. Get some sleep. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Then he turned his back on her and closed the door between them.

Melanie squeezed the downy pillow between her hands.

She wasn’t sure if she were envisioning his neck or not.

She turned to the couch and tossed the pillow on it. The ottoman did, indeed, contain storage beneath the heavy leather-topped lid and she pulled out two blankets, which she spread out on the couch.

Eyeing the closed bedroom door, she nibbled her lip as she stepped out of her high heels. She needed the restroom. And not just to clean her face and her teeth. But she’d rather go out into the cold night and hide behind some bush rather than knock on that door.

The door that suddenly opened, as if the man behind it had, once again, been reading her mind. “Bathroom’s free,” he said abruptly.

The T-shirt was gone.

She dragged her eyes away from the dusty brown hair swirling across his chest and arrowing down a ridged abdomen that should have been winter pale, but wasn’t.

The last man she’d occasionally dated in Atlanta had been exactly six-one, worked out two hours a day, ran marathons and religiously waxed his chest. He’d been more beautiful than most women, utterly sophisticated and, amazingly enough, he’d been straight.

But for some ungodly reason, the appeal of Russ’s masculinity soared to a universe far beyond Michael’s. She’d never once contemplated becoming intimate with Michael, any more than she’d considered it with any of the other men who’d escorted her over the years.

That was, until she’d met this irritating man.

Now, she seemed to struggle with those unfamiliar thoughts every time she turned around and she knew if he knew that she’d managed to attain the age of thirty without sleeping with a man, he’d have a field day with the knowledge.

She was five-seven, but she still wished she hadn’t been so quick to remove her shoes as she sailed past Russ and all his appallingly glorious muscle and flesh into the spacious bathroom beyond the king-size bed, because he seemed larger than ever.

She closed the door and leaned back against it, stupidly feeling as if she needed to catch her breath. As if she’d just run some sort of gauntlet.

It was so ridiculous. Melanie didn’t get breathless over men, much less men who figured she wasn’t worth the time of day.

A mirror across from the door reflected her image and she stared hard at herself. Made herself remember just what she was working to accomplish here.

It had nothing to do with personal relationships, and everything to do with business.

That was who she was.

She let out a long breath. Ran her hand through her hair and straightened deliberately from the door. She was merely overreacting to the stress of the situation.

That was all.

Feeling more like herself, she reached for one of the twin robes that were provided by the resort. The shower was separate from the oversize, jetted tub and she turned it on, letting the rushing sound of water continue the job of soothing her jagged nerves. Moving more quickly than her swimming head was comfortable with earned her a stubbed toe and soap in her eyes when she washed her face. There were small complimentary tubes of toothpaste but no toothbrushes, and as she made do with a nubby washcloth and her finger to do the job, she vowed that the Hopping H would not be remiss in that area.

On the other hand, the soaps and lotions provided were about as heavenly as anything that McFarlane House hotels had ever provided. Showered and clean, she tossed aside the towel and folded herself into the smaller of the two thick terry robes. She rinsed out her lingerie and commandeered the robe hangers for them and her dress which she hung on the back of the bathroom door and opened it again, and acting as if she had blinders on, tossed the larger robe in the general direction of the bed as she strode back out to the living area.

Only Russ was stretched out on the couch, his ankles propped on one arm, his head on the other. He’d dragged one of the soft blankets halfway up his chest. One hand hung off the couch, propped on the ottoman. His other was thrown over his head.

Sound asleep.

She pressed her lips together, thoroughly disconcerted.

“Go before I change my mind,” he muttered softly.

Not sound asleep, she quickly revised.

She turned on her bare heel and fled back into the bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.

His ivory sweater was still in a heap on the foot of the bed. Feeling very odd about it, she picked it up, laying it out over the bare pine dresser top.

His T-shirt was on the floor and she gave it a wide berth as she pulled back the thick red comforter that topped the bed. The linens were crisp and fresh when she climbed between them and sighing, she sank into the downy pillows.

By all rights, exhaustion and alcohol should have assured her of immediate sleep.

So, naturally, the moment she turned off the lamp next to the bed, all she did was stare, wide-eyed, into the darkness.

Dawn had barely broken when Russ gave up trying to sleep.

He tossed back the blanket and sat up on the couch, shoving his hands through his hair, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

He ought to be following his own advice of getting some sleep.

Too bad every time he’d closed his eyes, his imagination had gone into torture mode.

Probably what he got for trading six months of so-called marriage for a hunk of land that he’d been wanting ever since he’d assumed control of the Flying J after his dad died. Jasper Chilton had been more than happy to keep the Flying J just as it had been when he’d taken it over from his father.

But not Russ.

Hell, no. He had to want more, and look where it had landed him.

Promising to marry a woman no more suitable for him than Nola had been.

At least this time his eyes were wide-open. He was more than a decade older than the twenty-one-year-old kid he’d been back then, and no ridiculous notions of love were clouding his brain these days. Who knew what would happen? Maybe the next six months would be far less torturous than the two years of wedded “bliss” that he and Nola had shared before she’d permanently hared off back to the bosom of her Bostonian family.

Most importantly, this time he’d be able to keep what he wanted out of the deal.

Half of the Hopping H was a poor comparison for the loss of the son he never saw anymore, but it was the only positive note on the horizon as far as Russ could see.

So he’d take what he could get.

Even if it meant playing house for a while with Melanie McFarlane.

He pushed off the couch and found coffee makings in the kitchen, probably taking too much pleasure in the noise he was making while he was about it. But if she wanted to know more what ranching life was supposed to be about, she’d damn sure better get used to rising with the chickens.

He’d built himself up a fine head of steam about the matter by the time the coffeepot was half full. He yanked out the pot, stuck his mug beneath the steaming stream from the coffeemaker until it was full, then stuck the pot back in place. Feeling stifled inside the cozy cabin, he shoved open the wide door that led out onto the wraparound-style porch and went outside, mug in hand.

The cold doused him from bare feet to bare head, and he let out a long sigh.

As far as his eye could see were signs that Thunder Canyon would never again be the hometown where he’d grown up. There were more schools. More shopping centers. More this. More that.

Even now, despite the early hour, he could see the dots of people working their way along the ski slopes even though the lift wasn’t yet running. From one of the resort’s restaurants—probably the Grubstake—he could already smell the scent of frying bacon.

His stomach rumbled.

Too many beers last night and not enough food.

Another thing that would be easy to blame on her.

Only his parents hadn’t raised him to shuck off his own responsibilities. Melanie hadn’t held a gun to his head.

He’d jumped without a parachute after the carrot she’d dangled all on his own.

“Good Lord. Have you lost your mind? It’s freezing out there.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Well, well. If it isn’t the future Mrs. Chilton.”

Her lips turned down at the corners. “I don’t recall agreeing to change my name.”

He actually hadn’t expected otherwise, but why let her know that? “There ain’t no staff people hanging around here to serve you coffee.”

Her eyes with those thick dark lashes narrowed. Her hair was slightly rumpled and she was bundled to her chin in the massive red blanket from the bed. It ought to have clashed with her auburn hair—he’d learned such things thanks to Nola’s clotheshorse ways—but it didn’t. If anything, Melanie looked…too damned tasty.

Soft. Sleepy. Female.

And everything inside him stirred annoyingly to life.

He looked away at the snowy mountainside. Cold was definitely a good thing. “You want some, get it yourself. It’s hot in the kitchen,” he finished.

“I don’t drink coffee.” Her voice was snooty again. “And you’re letting in all the cold air.”

He didn’t look back at the rustle of bedding that preceded the not-so-soft slam of the door. He pulled out the napkin from his back pocket and squinted at the splotchy lines of writing they’d made on it the night before. In the cold sober morning light, his signature was even more of a scrawl than usual, and her neat penmanship showed some decided unevenness.

No hanky-panky.

She’d even underlined it. Twice.

Muttering an oath not only at himself but at the universe in general, he tucked the napkin back in his pocket, then leaned his forearms on the rail of the deck and glared at the million-dollar view.

“Happy wedding day, Russ,” he muttered under his breath. “Welcome back to hell.”

Chapter Four

Melanie would have liked to have locked that door between her and Russ J. Chilton, leaving him stewing out there in the frigid air.

But a frozen stick of ice wasn’t going to be able to teach her what she needed to know to keep the Hopping H from falling apart before she could even open its first guest cabin. So she kept her itchy fingers from flipping the lock and returned to the bedroom where she did lock the door.

Not that he’d be likely to break it down anytime soon. The man couldn’t be clearer where his distaste for her was concerned. She hoped he would manage to get that under some control, at least when they were around other people.

She washed up, touching her lips with some gloss from her small purse and dashing her comb through her hair, then pulled on her dress from the night before, wrinkling her nose a little at the smell of cigarette smoke that clung to the fabric. Unfortunately, her bra and panties were still damp and since Russ was still out on the porch when she left the bedroom, she quickly shoved them into the deep side pocket of her mink. Then she pulled on the coat, pushed her bare feet into her shoes, and yanked open the door again.

He was leaning over, elbows bent atop the rail, displaying those ridiculously wide, bare shoulders again, and—drat it all—a very fine denim-covered rear.

She wished she’d worn her panties and bra after all, damp or not. Because even if he didn’t know she didn’t have a stitch on beneath her dress, she did. “Are you going to lollygag there all day, or what?”

He sent her a slow look over his bare shoulder that had an annoying jolt curling low through her abdomen. “Anxious to find a justice of the peace, are you?”

She flipped up the collar of her coat, holding it closely together beneath her chin. “I’d like to go home and change first. But, yes, the sooner we start, the sooner you’ll be the proud owner of more land.”

“And we’ll be free of each other.”

“Exactly.”

He straightened and walked past her, leaning his head close to hers as he went. “We’re just a match made in heaven,” he murmured.

She managed to hold her ground. “At least we both know what we want out of the deal,” she returned as he came inside.

She was waiting by the door, purse in hand, when he came back out of the bedroom a short time later, his hair damp and slicked back from his face, and his naked chest once more hidden beneath that thick ivory wool. “I cleaned out the coffeemaker,” she told him before he went into the kitchen, presumably to take care of the matter himself.

“Without breaking a fingernail?” He grabbed his coat but didn’t bother to pull it on. “Someone should give you an award.”

“This will be considerably easier if you could stow your foul humor for a while.”

“Afraid I can’t act the lovesick fool who’d toss aside all rhyme and reason to get married again?” He nudged her through the door and closed it behind him, checking that it was locked.

“Considering how you talk about it, one might think you’re still in love with your former wife.”

He snorted and headed down the steps to the snow-plowed sidewalk that led back toward the main lodge. “Right. Watch the path there. Looks like some ice.”

She avoided the spot he pointed at, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. “How long ago was it?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“We’re supposed to be getting married,” she reminded. “Presumably these are things that we would want to know about one another. If, you know, if the situation were real.”

“Well, it isn’t.” He continued striding ahead of her.

She strongly considered sticking her tongue out at the back of his head, but curtailed the childish impulse. She was a thirty-year-old hotelier, not a spoiled heiress the way he seemed to want to think.

By the time she caught up to him inside the resort, he was turning in the cabin key. She went out the front where she’d left her car parked the night before and pulled her car keys from her purse as she waited for him.

“I’ll take those.” He went to pluck the keys from her fingertips, and she jerked them away.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a husband’s job to drive.”

She let out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, please.” But when Russ held out his palm, clearly in demand, she shoved the keys in her coat pocket. “You’re not driving my car. You won’t even fit in my car. We can just meet back at the Hopping H.”

“Don’t think so.” Before she knew it, he’d reached into her coat pocket and extracted the keys.

Along with her panties.

She wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

“Well, well.” He let the panties hang from his index finger. “Unless you’re carrying a spare—”

She snatched them off his finger and shoved them back into her pocket. “You’re making a scene.”

“Hey, babe, I’m just trying to drive us to the chapel.”

“Fine. You want to drive? Drive.” She ignored his goading smile.

“That’s yours over by the tree, right?”

She knew good and well that he recognized her sports car, because he’d made a point several months earlier of telling her that such a vehicle was useless on a ranch. “Are you going to play caveman from here on out, or act like a civilized human being?”

“Don’t know.” He crossed the parking lot and managed to press the correct buttons on her remote to unlock the car without setting off the alarm. “If I feel a yen to throw you over my shoulder and start brandishing a big wooden club, I’ll let you know. But at least I keep my drawers on,” he added. “Seems the mark of a civilized man.”

Humiliated, she yanked open the passenger door when it became embarrassingly apparent that he wasn’t going to open her door for her and slid inside. She knew he’d have to adjust the driver’s seat to his height, and she resolutely remained silent. He could figure it out for himself. When he knocked his knee into the steering column in the process, she smiled innocently. “What about your vehicle?” She didn’t see the ramshackle truck she’d seen him driving around town parked in the lot.

“What about it?”

She exhaled slowly. Undoubtedly, his orneriness was another attempt to get under her skin. “Just so you know,” she told him evenly, “you can do all the driving you want, but I am not doing your laundry.”

He gave a sudden bark of laughter. “Do you even know what the washing machine looks like?”

She lifted her nose into the air and looked out the side window. What was it to him if she’d had to read the directions in the owner’s manual…twice? It wasn’t her fault that she’d been raised in a setting that ensured such matters had always been taken care of by someone else.

Being a McFarlane hadn’t been about how well she could play at household chores. It was about how well she could manage a luxury hotel.

And she’d thought she’d been doing an admirable job of it, until she’d learned otherwise.

She pressed her palms together. Now that the decision had been made to actually get married, she wasn’t certain how to proceed. “Do you, um, know what the marriage license requirements are in Montana? Blood tests? Waiting period? Anything?”

“Don’t know.”

“So you didn’t get married here, before?”

His gaze slid her way for a moment before he zoomed out of the parking lot with more finesse than she’d have expected for a man who didn’t seem to drive anything but ancient, rattling pickup trucks. “Nope.”

She refused to indulge her curiosity. “I guess we can wait until Monday to find out.”

“We’ll fly to Vegas this afternoon.”

“So soon?”

“Cold feet already?” His voice was mocking.

“Of course not.” But her stomach muscles were clenching. Which was ridiculous. The only difference between the proposition she’d made to him and the final agreement they’d come to was a license. A piece of paper. What did it matter if that paper was signed now or five days from now?

They made the rest of the drive to the Hopping H in silence. He parked in front of the wide stone steps that led up to the main house. “Pack light,” he ordered. “I’m gonna check the barn and the stock.”

She hadn’t needed the reminder of where his priorities were but it was probably just as well.

She went up the steps that had already undergone significant repair and restoration and unlocked the door. She looked back, watching him continue driving along the gravel road that eventually would lead him to the Hopping H’s outbuildings. Lord only knew what sort of comments she’d earn once he’d assessed the situation there.

Her gaze skipped over the tall snow-heavy pines that surrounded the house. With a fresh coat of white on the ground, it was almost postcard-perfect.

On the outside, at least.

She sighed again and went inside where the signs of construction and refurbishment were all around her in the form of scaffolding against the two-story fireplace and lumber stacked in the dining room that would eventually be a state-of-the-art media room. The two-man construction crew’s progress was coming along more slowly than she’d have liked, but she’d had to hire them in from Bozeman and she was lucky to get them on site for more than three days of the week.

Nevertheless, though the going was slow, she couldn’t fault the quality of their work. Plus, they’d come in with the most reasonable bid.

When it was her own money on the line, she couldn’t afford to call in the same companies her family usually used. Nor did she want to chance any of her vendors reporting back to them about her business here. She’d dealt with that situation far too often, too.

She worked her way around enormous paint buckets and went upstairs, heading straight for the aspirin bottle first.

Pack light, Russ had decreed. At least that was something she did know how to do. When he stomped through the front door a while later to find her already sitting in one of the oversize suede wing chairs that had come with the Hopping H, she allowed herself the indulgence of enjoying the surprise on his face.

Of course, he masked that surprise quickly. “The water troughs for the stock were frozen over, but I broke it up. And the horses are low on feed.”

She crossed her high-heeled boots at the ankle. “Shall I run to the supermarket?” she asked sweetly. She knew she was low on feed. She was low on everything. Unfortunately, she’d thought she could trust Harlan, who’d assured her that he’d put in the appropriate orders long before he and his brother walked off the job.

Russ ignored her sarcasm. His gaze swept the interior of the house, undoubtedly judging the renovation mess with his usual criticism. “That thing hooked up?” He nodded toward the ancient black phone that sat on the table she’d pushed against one wall to use as a temporary desk.

“Yes.”

He reached for it and didn’t seem at all slowed by the old-fashioned rotary dial. For all she knew, he hadn’t moved into the current century with push-button phones, either.

His phone call was brief, though, and he hung up, looking at her over her shoulder. “You’ll have a delivery by early next week. In the meantime, I’ll have one of my guys stock you up.”

How simple he made it sound. She’d been calling the feed supply manager every day for the past week.

Being angry that he’d accomplished what she could not seem to, though, was not going to get her anywhere. Russ had helped. That was the bottom line. And she was working hard on the whole okay-to-accept-help concept.

It did not come naturally to her.

“Thank you.” She dashed her hands down the sleeves of her ivory leather jacket. “Will the animals be all right while we’re gone?”

He looked vaguely amused. “You want pet-sitters or something?”

She felt her cheeks flush. “I want you to tell me what I need to know. Remember?”

“The stock’ll be fine. I’ll assign Joey to work over here. Why’d you take down the wall that used to be by the staircase?”

“The rooms down here are too small. Who is Joey?”

“One of my hands. He’s young, but he’s reliable. If you’re planning to change everything inside the house here, why buy it in the first place?”

She pushed to her feet, looping the strap of her overnight bag over her shoulder. “I’m not changing everything.”

He lifted his brows, looking at the evidence. “Could’ve fooled me. So how long’s it going to take before you’re ready?”

“I am ready.”

He looked up the staircase. The old iron balusters and rail had been removed, leaving the treads out in the open. “Up there, I suppose.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your suitcases.”

She jiggled her overnighter. “You did recommend packing light, didn’t you?” He’d ordered it, actually. Like some royal decree. It would have served him right if she’d loaded up every piece of luggage she possessed.

Of course, she’d come to Montana with only a few pieces. The rest was back in Atlanta. Useless and left behind along with everything else from her life.

Her former life, she reminded herself.

Things were different now, because she was making them different.

“Are you going to stand here all morning critiquing my renovations or shall we get going?”

He looked her over, head to toe, and she twisted the wide leather strap harder around her hand. “What?”

He shook his head and grabbed the overnight case from her. “Let’s get moving.”

She refrained from pointing out that she hadn’t been the one standing around. She followed him back out to the car that he’d once again parked in front of the house and this time didn’t bother fruitlessly waiting for him to open her door.

She kept her focus out the side window as they made the drive from her house to his. It wasn’t that great a distance. Less than ten miles, she figured. Yet the silent drive seemed almost interminable.

“Wait here.” He finally stopped behind a modest two-story house and got out before she could even summon an argument.

He left the car running, and she crossed her arms, watching him take the back porch steps in one long stride.

She could hear the squeak of the storm door despite the distance, and then he disappeared into the house.

In comparison to the Hopping H, Russ’s house looked about a quarter of the size. The siding was painted white. The shutters around the windows both up and down were black. From what she could see, craning her head around inside her car, the roof looked sound.

Other than that, the house was decidedly plain.

She nibbled at her thumb, wondering if Russ had wanted the Hopping H’s ranch house, as well as the land. Maybe that was why he’d seemed to look at her renovations with such criticism.

She sat back quickly when she saw the storm door move again, and was sliding her sunglasses onto her nose when he got back in the car after tossing his own small duffel atop her overnighter in the minuscule space behind the seats. As she’d done, he’d changed clothes, as well.

This time, his boots weren’t spit-shined.

“We’ll grab a charter at the airstrip and catch a commercial route outta Bozeman.”

She tucked her tongue between her teeth as she mentally calculated the cost of a private charter. The McFarlanes owned more than one corporate jet, but her finances these days didn’t necessarily run to such extravagances. Not when she had nearly every dime she possessed tied up in the Hopping H.

But a lifetime of pride kept her from uttering a single peep.

The airfield was located near the Thunder Canyon Resort and they left her car parked in the lot there. Melanie pulled out her credit card and passed it over before they could even bring up the subject of paying for the charter. Russ, however, gave a grimace and pulled out his wallet.

She was used to always paying the bills. With her family’s wealth, it always seemed expected. Even by men. And though she had to be careful, she still felt odd about putting her card back in her purse. “Purchasing plane tickets another thing that’s a husband’s job?”

“Be useful,” he suggested, heaping on more outrageousness. “Go find me a cup of coffee.” His lips quirked up, definitely waiting for a reaction.

Standing there at the small counter while he took care of the finances was nothing she felt comfortable doing, so she merely arched her eyebrow at him and strolled, instead, over to one of the seats lined up below a window that overlooked the airstrip.

He didn’t exactly look surprised by her failure to jump to his demand, and she ended up feeling thoroughly uncharitable when he returned with not only his own insulated cup of coffee, but a second cup for her, as well.

“It’s the only kind of tea they had,” he said, flipping her a paper-wrapped teabag.

“Thank you.”

“Pilot’ll be ready soon.” He sipped the hot brew. “You probably fly private all the time.”

“Not lately.” She studiously dipped the teabag in the steaming water. “You?”

“When I have to.” His gaze passed her for the windows overlooking the airstrip.

“Is that often?”

A muscle flexed in his hard jaw. “Not anymore.”

And after that, he said no more. His silence didn’t bother her, though. She had no particular desire to share her life story, either.

After that, it seemed an alarmingly short time before Melanie found herself strapped into the rear seat of the smallest plane she’d ever seen, much less been flown in. Only four seats in the horribly small cabin, with Russ in one of the front two, alongside the pilot, whom he briefly introduced as “Mac.”

The middle-aged pilot with a toothpick clenched between his teeth seemed about as taciturn as Russ, and as the tiny plane took flight, she could only pray that Mac was as capable a pilot as Russ was reportedly a rancher.

But every time the small plane bumped and jolted, she had to swallow a gasp.

She didn’t know how long they’d been in the air when Russ pulled off the headphones that matched the pair Mac wore and looked back at her, undoubtedly taking in her clenched hands on the armrests.

“Thought you’d be used to flying.” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the plane’s engine. The plane’s one engine.

What happened if that engine failed?

“Enormous flying buses, yes.” Ones with multiple engines. She uncurled her fingers that were beginning to cramp. “And when it’s not a commercial flight, the McFarlane company planes are…somewhat larger than this.” They were jets. Outfitted with every conceivable comfort.

The morning sunlight was slanting across his face through the plane’s windows, turning his brown eyes a lighter, amber shade. “You want to live in Thunder Canyon, you’d better get used to roughing it a little.”

Melanie thought she heard Mac cover up a laugh.

Her cheeks warmed. She could only imagine how spoiled both men seemed to think she was. “I wouldn’t term riding in any sort of plane as roughing it.” She didn’t need to lean forward to be heard, because the space between her row of seats and his was about the size of a postage stamp. “And this four-seater experience isn’t going to scare me into running back home, if that’s what you were hoping.”

His lips twisted. “You’ve stuck it out six months already. I gave up hoping after five.” He turned back around in his seat and pulled his headphones back into place.

Her imagination was really working overtime, because she could have sworn that there had been a hint of admiration in his voice.

Chapter Five

The first thing they did upon arriving in Las Vegas was ditch their coats, for the temperature was a good twenty degrees higher than it was in Montana.

They took a cab from the airport to the Marriage Bureau, and all the while Russ watched Melanie’s face pale a degree with each step. Filling out the forms. When he handed over cash for the fee. When they left the building a short while later, marriage license in hand.

“How’d you get to be thirty without ever marrying?” He’d looked at the application form she’d filled out when they’d handed them over. He was relieved now to see a flash of ire show in her face at his impolitic question. Ire was better than that tense, nervous look that was so much at odds with the uppity woman he’d come to know.

“It’s not a crime,” she said in her snippiest back-east voice.

“Nobody ever asked you, huh?”

Her jaw dropped slightly. “It’s a wonder you’re not still married,” she returned. “What woman in her right mind would possibly give up such a sensitive spouse?” She stepped to the curb and waved down a cab with the ease of someone who’d been doing it most of their life.

He hitched the strap of her overnighter and his duffel higher over one shoulder. Damned if his own duffel wasn’t heavier. “Who says she’s the one who gave me the boot? Maybe it was the other way around.”

She slanted him a look as a cab slid to a stop at the curb in front of her, as obediently as a well-trained poodle. “Of course it was,” she said as kindly as if she were speaking to someone mentally deficient. She pulled open the rear door and slid inside.

Russ tossed the luggage in the front seat before following her into the back. “Closest, cheapest wedding chapel,” he told the driver.

Melanie huffed slightly and crossed her arms over her chest. She turned her head away, looking out the side window, and didn’t speak again until the cab deposited them outside a small, white chapel with a tall steeple.

There were two couples ahead of them, both of whom couldn’t seem to keep their hands off their intendeds. Which was a good thing, or Russ figured the way Melanie stood as far from him as possible at one side of the waiting area, seemingly transfixed by the wall of photographs, would have drawn some curious looks. The ceremonies ahead of them weren’t exactly long affairs, and when it came time for him and Melanie, he saw the way she swallowed and seemed to pull up her shoulders in preparation.

Less like a fighter getting ready to enter the ring than a prisoner facing sentencing.

On that, he could relate.

He eyed her. She wore ivory jeans and an ivory turtleneck that clung faithfully to her curves. The only color about her was her vibrant hair. “You want flowers?”

She gave a sharp shake of her head.

The gray-haired clerk who’d been trying to up-sell their basic wedding package looked disapproving. “Here.” She handed over a bouquet of pink plastic roses. “They’re included.”

Melanie looked reluctant.

“Go ahead, dear,” Russ urged. “They’ll look so pretty on our complimentary photograph.”

She took the small bouquet. “Thank you,” she told the woman without a hint of the annoyance that was in the look she gave Russ.

“Good luck to you, honey,” the clerk whispered to her, casting a skeptical eye over Russ as she took their fee and waved them toward the front of the excruciatingly cheerful chapel.

Russ couldn’t tell if the man standing in front of the plastic flower-bedecked altar was a minister or not, and didn’t much care. “Keep it brief,” he told the man.

“In a hurry for the honeymoon,” the man said easily. “Well, you came to the right place. Brief is what we specialize in here.”

“Goody,” he heard Melanie whisper under her breath.

“All right now. I’m Pastor Frank.” He waved at the young couple standing to one side of the altar. “My son and daughter will be your witnesses. If you would join hands?”

Russ nodded at the witnesses and grabbed Melanie’s hand. It was as cold as ice, but at least she didn’t pull it away from him.

A few “I do’s” and several snapshots from the digital camera that Pastor Frank had whipped out of his pocket, and two minutes later, they were walking back out into the sun, duly wedded.

Melanie yanked her hand away from his and slid on her sunglasses. The digital film disk they’d been given was dumped unceremoniously into the trash can outside the door.

“You hungry?”

“No.” She fiddled with the plain gold band that had also been included in the price of their wedding ticket, sliding it back and forth over her knuckle. “But you probably are.”

“I’m touched. Already showing wifely concern.”

The ring came off her finger and was stowed inside that ivory purse of hers.

“You’re gonna have to put that back on when we get back to Thunder Canyon.”

“I’ll wear it when I need to.” Her voice was even. “Maybe cheap gold doesn’t bother you, but it makes my skin itch.”

The gold band on Russ’s finger seemed to burn into his flesh, but it had nothing to do with the inexpensive metal. “We packed for overnight, but we could try to catch a flight back to Bozeman. Or we can still get a room and do it in the morning.”

Her chin jerked a little at that.

“Get a flight in the morning,” he clarified, swallowing a bite of laughter. “Trust me, Red. Only way you and I would be doing what you’re naughty little imagination is conjuring is if you pleaded.”

“In your dreams,” she replied loftily.

Unfortunately, that was already a problem. Not that she needed to know that. And he sure in hell didn’t intend to do anything about it. Sex with his paper-only wife would only lead to trouble. “We’ll fly back in the morning, then.” He took her arm as they entered a crosswalk and joined the throng of people crossing the street. “When’s the last time you were in Vegas?”

She gestured vaguely toward one of the newest hotels towering over the skyline. “At the opening.”

“You don’t have any McFarlane hotels here.”

“No.” She looked out over the strip. “Not McFarlane’s style.”

“Wouldn’t think a guest ranch in Thunder Canyon would be McFarlane’s style, either.”

“It will be.” That determination she never seemed to turn off rang through her words. “Not all of our hotels are monoliths of traditional style and elegance, you know. The first hotel my brother, Connor, opened was in an unused railway station in Seattle. It’s won awards, even.”

“But I’ll bet they still put a McFarlane Mint on the bed pillows with the turndown service.”

She lifted her shoulder. “So? Those mints are good. We have exclusive rights to them. Have you had one?”

He and Nola had spent their wedding night in McFarlane House Boston, and she’d bought a box of the expensive things in the gift shop to bring back to Thunder Canyon. It hadn’t satisfied her yen for luxury for very long, though. “A long time ago.”

They could have chosen any one of the mile-long hotels looming around them to stay at. But he spotted a small diner tucked between two fenced-off construction zones and headed toward it instead, pulling her along with him.

The inside was crowded, the hum of voices and Christmas music just shy of a din. Yet there were two stools available at the counter and he made his way toward them. He dropped their suitcases on the floor between them and handed her one of the laminated menus that were tucked between a jar of mustard and a bottle of ketchup.

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