For the men of Painted Pony Creek, it’s never too late for a second chance...
Cord Hollister is a true cowboy at heart. As a man who has devoted his life to training horses under the big skies of Montana, he thrives on the stability of ranch life. But when a girl arrives in Painted Pony Creek with a shocking secret, Cord’s orderly life is upended. She’s the spitting image of the first woman who broke his heart—a woman he hasn’t seen in years—and he’ll do whatever he can to help her. He just can’t do it alone...
Shallie Fletcher left heartbreak where it belongs—in the past. And she’s done everything she can to reinvent herself and move on. But when an opportunity arises to partner with a therapeutic riding program for kids, Shallie can’t resist seeking out Cord for lessons. Back in school, he was the crush she couldn’t forget, even though he only had eyes for her best friend. Seeing him now floods her with memories...and fills her with hope. Could the one who got away be the one who stays?
Praise for #1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Linda Lael Miller
“Linda Lael Miller creates vibrant characters and stories I defy you to forget.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author
Debbie Macomber
“Miller’s return to Parable is a charming story of love in its many forms.... [A] sweetly entertaining and alluring tale.”
—RT Book Reviews on Big Sky River
“Miller’s down-home, easy-to-read style keeps the plot moving, and she includes...likable characters, picturesque descriptions and some very sweet pets.”
—Publishers Weekly on Big Sky Country
“A delightful addition to Miller’s Big Sky series. This author has a way with a phrase that is nigh-on poetic... This story [is] especially entertaining.”
—RT Book Reviews on Big Sky Mountain
“Miller’s name is synonymous with the finest in Western romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A passionate love too long denied drives the action in this multifaceted, emotionally rich reunion story that overflows with breathtaking sexual chemistry.”
—Library Journal on McKettricks of Texas: Tate
“Miller’s prose is smart, and her tough Eastwoodian cowboy cuts a sharp, unexpectedly funny figure in a classroom full of rambunctious frontier kids.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Man from Stone Creek
Also by Linda Lael Miller and HQN
The Carsons of Mustang Creek
A Snow Country Christmas
Forever a Hero
Always a Cowboy
Once a Rancher
The Brides of Bliss County
Christmas in Mustang Creek
The Marriage Season
The Marriage Charm
The Marriage Pact
The Parable series
Big Sky Secrets
Big Sky Wedding
Big Sky Summer
Big Sky River
Big Sky Mountain
Big Sky Country
McKettricks of Texas
An Outlaw’s Christmas
A Lawman’s Christmas
McKettricks of Texas: Austin
McKettricks of Texas: Garrett
McKettricks of Texas: Tate
The Creed Cowboys
The Creed Legacy
Creed’s Honor
A Creed in Stone Creek
Stone Creek
The Bridegroom
The Rustler
A Wanted Man
The Man from Stone Creek
The McKettricks
A McKettrick Christmas
McKettrick’s Heart
McKettrick’s Pride
McKettrick’s Luck
McKettrick’s Choice
Mojo Sheepshanks
Arizona Heat (originally published as Deadly Deceptions)
Arizona Wild (originally published as Deadly Gamble)
The Montana Creeds
A Creed Country Christmas
Montana Creeds: Tyler
Montana Creeds: Dylan
Montana Creeds: Logan
And look for the second book in Linda Lael Miller’s all-new Painted Pony Creek series, Country Proud, coming soon from HQN!
Linda Lael Miller
Country Strong
To animal lovers everywhere.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the town of Painted Pony Creek in the Big Sky State of Montana. Country Strong is the first of three stories based in this town; it will be followed by Country Proud and Country Born.
The heroes of these books, longtime friends, are Cord Hollister, Eli Garrett and J.P. McCall. Central to this first one is Cord, who owns a horse ranch and a horse-training business. You’ll also meet Shallie Fletcher, a woman from his past, who becomes part of his life again.
And you’ll meet Eli, the local sheriff, and J.P., a military veteran, and you’ll learn more about them in Country Proud and Country Born, and see how they find love, too.
In this book, this series, you’ll experience everything that’s important to me and, as I know from past contact with my readers, to you, too: a strong sense of community, a love of country and small-town life and, above all, the importance of human connections—especially family and friendship. The possibility of redemption. The importance, too, of a sense of humor, which can help us through hard times and make good times even better. The same goes for the role of music and how it enhances our lives.
And I can’t imagine what my own life would be without dogs, cats, horses, birds... I’m an “animal person” all the way, and I’m fortunate that almost everyone I know is, too. (I’d love to hear your animal stories, dear reader. Write me at the website or address below. Send pictures if you’d like.)
Ultimately, it all comes down to love, doesn’t it?
I’m grateful to have these beliefs in common with my editors, Paula Eykelhof and Michele Bidelspach, and my agent, Irene Goodman. I’d also like to extend my appreciation to a number of people at Harlequin Books, a division of HarperCollins: Dianne Moggy, Margaret Marbury, Loriana Sacilotto and Susan Swinwood.
My family—daughter, Wendy, and niece, Jenny, and their respective (and respectful!) partners are vital to my personal and professional lives. So, of course, is the rest of my family. And my longtime friend and fellow animal lover, Debbie Macomber.
Much gratitude to my many loyal readers!
Linda Lael Miller
You can reach me at my website, www.lindalaelmiller.com, and at my snail-mail address, PO Box 19461, Spokane, Washington 99219.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EXCERPT FROM A PROMISE TO KEEP BY ALLISON LEIGH
PROLOGUE
&nbs
p; Eighteen years before...
SPARKS ROSE FROM the crackling bonfire in lazy, twisting spirals, the tiny stars of some miniature universe, soaring high above the loud party on the stony banks of Painted Pony Creek, blazing brilliant red-orange trails against the night sky for a few glorious moments, then, inevitably, fading to ash. Drifting slowly earthward, so briefly bright, then gone.
Shallie Fletcher, seventeen and prone to finding cosmic meaning in just about everything, sighed. Sparks continued to flare, then vanish, only to be replaced by more.
Not that she’d ever shone, let alone soared.
That was for other girls, girls like her best friend, Reba Shannon.
An ache formed in Shallie’s throat as she watched her best friend wrap her dazzling self around Eli Garrett, there at the faint, flickering edge of the firelight, but the ache didn’t stem from jealousy.
Oh, no. What Shallie felt, that hot summer night, was remorse.
And guilt. Mostly because of what Reba was busy doing. But Eli was certainly doing his part...
He was making a damn fool of himself, which was his own fault, since he’d had too much beer, like a lot of the other guys and not a few of the girls. High school was over. Graduation was a full week in the past, but the parties, it seemed, might go on all summer. Or until the whole class ended up in jail for underage drinking, whichever came first.
Shallie, raised in foster care by her aunt and uncle, both of whom swilled cheap vodka from midmorning until they passed out sometime after the eleven o’clock news, quietly avoided alcohol. Tonight, knowing what she knew—what everybody knew, except for Eli and his two closest friends, John Patrick McCall, known as J.P., and Cord Hollister—she’d considered diving headfirst into a bottle and curling up at the bottom, like the storied worm in a jug of rotgut tequila.
If she’d been drunk, after all, she could have forgotten for a little while that she’d stood by and watched, saying nothing, not for just a day or a week, but for months, while Reba, beautiful, narcissistic Reba, played her game. While she convinced each of them that she was in love with him, and him alone.
Shallie hadn’t been the only one who could have, should have, spoken up. But that didn’t really matter now, did it?
She’d known Eli, J.P. and Cord since kindergarten. A tomboy, Shallie had been part of their circle from day one, when they’d decided, for whatever reason, to befriend the scruffy foster kid from the run-down motel south of town.
In the early years, she’d gone everywhere with those three—fishing and swimming in this very creek, horseback riding, and even to Saturday afternoon matinees at the Silver Buckle Theater, before it closed for good.
She’d eaten supper with their families, in their clean, orderly houses. In her early teens, J.P.’s older sisters, Clare and Josie, had given her clothes, brushed and braided her hair and, when the time came, taught her a million things she would’ve had to learn by trial and error otherwise.
How to make the most of her features with a minimum of makeup, for instance, and which colors looked best on her. They’d insisted that being smart was a good thing, more important than being pretty or popular, though both of those things were fine, in and of themselves. A girl just had to remember that being pretty didn’t mean jack-shit if you were ornery or a liar or a cheat. Popularity, the very popular McCall sisters agreed, was fun all right, but it didn’t have much substance in the long run.
It was great to be class president or prom queen or a cheerleader, but some people got stuck, Clare and Ellie maintained, and accomplished little or nothing after graduation.
Who wanted to peak in high school?
Watching them, Shallie wondered about her own future with her friends. With Reba. And with Eli, J.P. and Cord. Especially Cord...
Was it better to say something right now?
Or do nothing?
CHAPTER ONE
Evening of Thursday, June 6
THE NIGHT REBA SHANNON’S ghost materialized in the cramped storeroom behind Sully’s Bar and Grill, where Cord Hollister and his best friends, J.P. McCall and Eli Garrett, sat playing their usual every-other-Thursday game of five-card stud, the famous big sky was fixing to bust wide open and dump a shitload of rain.
Cord, never the anxious type, had been curiously uneasy all day. Woken up that morning with the small hairs on his nape and forearms rising and an odd twitch in the pit of his stomach.
The storm had been brewing even then, but it wasn’t the impending gully washer that was getting under his hide. He was used to violent storms, having lived in God’s country from the age of three; hell, he relished them, always had. Could stand at a window for hours, watching lightning slash jagged rips from sky to ground, dance along the rods on the barn roof, roll itself into a fiery ball and tumble from one end of the horizon to the other—and back again.
The wilder the show, the better Cord liked it.
Which was a damn good thing, since on the Montana plains extreme weather was common enough—blazing hot summers, apocalyptic blizzards in winter, flash floods and the deep, sticky mud residents called gumbo in the spring, when the rains came and the snow began to melt high in the Rockies.
Some springs were mild; creeks and rivers, freshly thawed, stayed politely within their banks.
Flowers dotted the meadows, and the grass grew green and rich and plentiful on the range.
But if the winter had been hard, the snowmelt descended from the high country in dark, churning torrents, taking out roads, drowning fields and ranges.
Life was tough everywhere, Cord knew, but it took a special kind of stick-with-it to farm or run a ranch in Montana, even with decent equipment and enough capital to make it from one season to the next. Smaller outfits went under on a regular basis, all too often taking the hard work, hope and sacrifice of several generations down with them, but a surprising number held on, somehow.
Folks out here had plenty of backbone, and they kept their complaints to themselves.
The old-timers were particularly durable; the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could ride in, wreaking their predicted havoc, and these veterans of peace and war, hardship and plenty, would swear up and down it was nothing compared to that drought or wildfire or recession way back when.
As far as these descendants of pioneers were concerned, the West in general—and Montana in particular—was no place for the timid or the easily discouraged.
And, being neither, Cord pretty much agreed.
So, no, it hadn’t been the weather that made him jittery.
As the clouds gathered, darkening from pale gray to an ominous shade of ebony over the course of the day, a prelightning charge pulsed in the air, almost audible.
And then, between one heartbeat and the next, she was there.
The specter blew in through the rear door of Sully’s place, the creak of its rusty hinges muted by a blast of thunder and, as if to ratchet up the drama a notch or two, a bolt of lightning struck just the other side of the vacant lot behind the bar, briefly illuminating the figure from behind.
Although her arrival was relatively mundane—no shimmering ectoplasm, rattling chains or harrowing moans—the effect was still creepy, in a Wes Craven kind of way.
Cord, who was holding his first decent hand of the evening, one jack short of a royal flush, instantly dropped his cards.
J.P. turned in his chair, following Cord’s gaze, and abruptly froze.
Eli, focused on his cards, took a while to shift mental gears and notice that Cord and J.P. were staring at something behind him.
Frowning, he swiveled, registered the slender haunt standing just inside the cardroom, rain lashing through the opening and pooling on the uneven floor around her feet.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
“Reba?” J.P. murmured, very quietly, like a man talking in his sleep.
J.P.’s retired
service dog, Trooper, didn’t move or make a sound.
The shadow-woman closed the door with visible effort and moved toward them, dumping a shabby backpack on the nearby floor. She stopped just inside the wavering circle of light that fell over the round table where they sat, motionless, stricken to silence. They didn’t even think to stand in the presence of a lady, normally a reflex as automatic as breathing.
Not that any of them drew a breath.
Finally, Trooper bestirred himself, stood at attention, emitting a low, uncertain sound, more whine than growl.
“At ease,” J.P. told the animal, although he didn’t look away from the thin, bedraggled girl hovering at the edge of the light.
Cord, finally over the initial shock, and plenty embarrassed by his reaction, shoved a hand through his hair and pulled himself together.
Mostly.
The girl wasn’t, couldn’t be, Reba, but the resemblance was downright uncanny. She had Reba’s coloring—caramel-brown hair and those remarkable amber eyes, her high, elegant cheekbones, too—but she was impossibly young and a few inches shorter than her look-alike.
That she was related to Reba, and closely, was a sure bet, but she was no ghost back from the grave.
Of course she wasn’t.
She’d given Cord one hell of a turn, though, and shaken J.P. and Eli up, too.
Had Reba had a sister? As Cord recalled, she hadn’t said much about her family; in fact, she’d given the impression that she didn’t have any kin at all.
Like this girl, Reba had just appeared one day, seemingly out of nowhere. Claiming to be eighteen, she’d landed a job cleaning rooms at the Painted Pony Motel, and started building herself a social life—which had consisted of hanging out with high school seniors and turning up at dances, football games and keggers when she wasn’t working.
She’d almost certainly been closer to twenty; Cord had no doubt she’d lied about her age. As far as he knew, nobody had found Reba’s preference for running with a younger crowd odd. She’d had a way of deflecting questions, delicate or otherwise, laughing them off.
Country Strong--A Novel Page 1
